Connie Brockway

by Anything For Love

  And then, far away, he heard Venice.

  “Noble! No-ble!”

  Terror and fear filled her voice. She might be in danger. She might need him.

  He started to swim.

  “Get up!” Venice shouted.

  “Uh-uh. Gotta . . . rest,” Cassius panted. He lay on his side, curled into a ball.

  She bit her lip hard, holding back the hysteria that threatened. She left him on the ground and circled Noble’s pony. Her rising panic was eclipsing her ability to think, to act. And she desperately needed to do both.

  She rummaged through Noble’s saddlebag looking for something, anything, to help her. Her hand closed around an unfamiliar outline; a pair of short cylinders fastened together in the middle. She pulled them out and immediately recognized them as binoculars. They might help.

  “We need to hurry! Noble’s out there. He might be injured! We have to find him before nightfall.”

  “Find McCaneaghy?” Cassius choked, rising to his knees.

  “Come on, let’s move.” Venice slung the binocular strap over her shoulders.

  “I fear—” Cassius took a deep breath, composing his features in a grave expression. “I fear that your Irish friend is, to be quite blunt, dead.”

  Venice’s face expressed thunderous denial. “No,” she said. “Noble is not dead. And we are going to find him.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve wasted enough time listening to you,” she said as she hurriedly untied and recoiled Noble’s rope. “Now, understand this; we are not leaving until we find Noble.”

  Cassius’s face drained of color. The slut had slept with McCaneaghy. She was packing the rope into Noble’s saddlebags, her back to him, obviously having made her pronouncement, expecting him to fall over his feet in his haste to comply

  “Your lover is dead!”

  She didn’t respond, just swung up into the saddle and kicked the pony to within a few feet of him. She looked down at him, her expression implacable. “Mr. Reed, if, after this is over, you come near me again, I shall personally see to it that you are blacklisted from every New York drawing room for the rest of your miserable life!”

  “What?” Cassius froze, horrified. “You don’t mean that! We know the same people! We belong to the same clubs! You can’t do this!” he screamed, grabbing for her. “You’re crazy. Unbalanced!”

  Venice’s boot shot out, catching Cassius square in the chest and dumping him on his rump on the ground.

  “Crazy?” She spat the word. “Maybe. But not stupid, Mr. Reed! The Utes disappear and you, who’d have trouble finding your way out of Central Park without a compass, suddenly know exactly where we are. You planned this all along! You risked our lives to get me alone with you.”

  The pony, catching the mood of its rider, danced dangerously near Cassius’s outstretched legs. He jerked them out of the way.

  “Now get moving!”

  “No.” Cassius stumbled to his feet, dusting himself off. His tone was sullen. “McCaneaghy is dead, I tell you. It’s a waste of time.”

  “He’s not dead. And we’re not leaving until we find him!” She leaned over and with the speed of an uncoiling bullwhip, snatched his cravat, pulling him up onto his toes, the choking grip tipping him off balance.

  “You’re going to look for him!” she spat. “I’ll start down here. You follow the ridge up top. We’ve wasted enough time!” She gave his neck cloth a savage yank. “Do you hear me?”

  Choking, Cassius nodded.

  Venice dropped Cassius’s neck cloth. “Start moving!”

  She spurred the pony down near the edge of the racing water and disappeared.

  She deserves to be left out here alone, Cassius told himself. At the top of the gorge, he pulled the mule to a halt. Panting, he cast another glance back over his shoulder. She deserves it for spreading her legs for the likes of him.

  He had to leave her. He had no choice.

  Still, the memory of Venice’s determined expression gnawed at Cassius. What if she got lucky? What if she made it out of these godforsaken mountains alive?

  He’d never be able to show his face in society again. He might as well be dead.

  Maybe he’d better do as she said and look around for McCaneaghy. Immediately, he dismissed the notion. They’d both likely die, in that case. No, the woman had made a stupid decision and now she would have to live—or die—with the consequences. He owed it to the world to survive.

  She’d left him no choice. No choice at all.

  Cassius tore a branch off a nearby tree. Cranking the mule’s head around, he thwacked it on the rump. The mule bolted up the trail into the trees.

  To the west, the sun found a tear in the thick clouds overhead. Purple thunderheads were mounting over the snowcapped peaks. It looked like one hell of a storm was brewing.

  Cassius grinned. He couldn’t help himself. No matter how competent Venice Leiland was, or how lucky, Cassius knew she wasn’t going to be competent, or lucky, enough.

  Chapter 16

  In half an hour there wouldn’t be enough light left to see, even with the binoculars. Wiping dust off the lenses, Venice raised them to her eyes again, sweeping the focus back and forth. She’d been over this section three times now with the same results. Nothing.

  She jumped off the rock she’d been standing atop and looked up, studying the mountains to her east. The churning blanket of clouds above had occasional breaks in it, enough so that a deep rose-colored sunset glistened above the distant peaks. If necessary, there might be something of a moon to search by tonight.

  Luck had been with her. The brunt of the storm had passed a few hours earlier, saving its fury for the more easterly range. In the far distance, she could see the veil of black rain coursing from the sky.

  She fervently hoped Cassius was under that deluge. Within an hour of beginning her search, it had become obvious he’d run off. The coward!

  She turned up the collar of her jacket. Even though the wind had died down, it was getting cooler with dusk approaching. Tonight, it would get cold. Very cold.

  Her jaw muscles knotted with determination. She would simply have to find Noble before then. She wasn’t going to give up and she refused to believe he was dead. She climbed over the rock-studded shore to where she’d tethered the pony.

  All her life she’d endured a succession of people leaving her: her mother, her uncle, nannies, governesses . . . Noble. She had gotten used to it, finally becoming so tired of mourning the losses that she had made herself stop caring.

  Not this time.

  She was going to find him. She was finished blindly accepting that whatever happened in her life was out of her control.

  She swung back into the saddle and pulled the pony’s head up, moving him down to the edge of the fast-moving river. It was clogged with debris: trees and branches, mud and leaves and sticks flowed swiftly by, hitting submerged log jams and spinning, or piling up on top of each other and creating eddies in the muddy current.

  An occasional small corpse spun past her: a marmot, some rabbits, even a hapless mule deer. Each time she had to choke down the panic and yawning hopelessness that teased the edges of her resolve.

  With an oath, she kicked her pony up into the trackless rocks, scrambling higher. She dismounted once more, tying the reins to a fallen aspen, and clambered up a steep rock outcrop for a better view of the river.

  The far shoreline was dissolving into deepening dusk.

  What would she do if she spotted Noble across the hundred-yard span of churning water? She ignored the treacherous thought as she slid off the jagged boulder, tearing her nails as she tried to slow her descent and scraping her arms in the thicket of brambles at its base.

  Leaving the pony plucking at the thin spring grasses, she started picking her way once more through litter strewn along the newly formed banks. Twice her ankles got caught and twisted in the slippery, uneven footing. Twice again she stumbled, banging her shins and her knees. She got up, ignoring t
he fatigue that sank its teeth deep into her muscles.

  She returned to the pony and mounted once more, forcing the reluctant animal onto a narrow deer trail near the river.

  Half an hour later, her hands and feet were aching with cold and damp. Her wind-scoured cheeks were burnt raw and her shirt beneath the thick wool jacket was soaked with sweat. The sun, a brilliant orange globe impaled for a brief moment on a jagged peak, disappeared beneath the horizon.

  Fresh tears traced muddy tracks down her cheeks and she dug the heels of her hands into their sockets, trying to clear her vision. She fumbled to strike a match and light the lantern she’d found amongst Noble’s gear. Tiredly, she twisted her tangled mat of hair up and shoved it beneath her hat. She picked up the lantern and held it aloft.

  The water looked like a black snake uncoiling with lethal power ar her feet. Above, the first stars glinted from between scuttling clouds.

  She was exhausted. Every step was a lead-weighted labor. Her mouth was dry and her eyes stung from squinting into the sunset and straining to see a familiar form in the river’s detritus. She didn’t stop to rest. Rest might make the crucial difference between Noble’s life and death.

  She went on. An hour more. Two.

  The sun had long since given up all claim on the day and a pale quarter moon offered only fitful illumination. Her feet, encased in cold, wet leather boots, had grown numb and she stumbled more and more often as the minutes ticked by.

  Her eyes swam with strain-induced tears. Her throat felt swollen and parched, and her arms shook when she struggled to lift the heavy binoculars to her eyes. Deep within she knew she couldn’t go on much longer. “No,” she said in answer to the hopelessness threatening her. “No.”

  She forced high the trembling arm grasping the lantern and peered into the gloom. The light swept past a dark form tangled in the shadows of a huge log jam. She heard a sound above the din of the water surging into the impromptu dam. A groan. She wheeled.

  “Noble!” she cried. “Where are you?”

  Another moan and she found him. He was just out of the water, lying on his side. One arm was twisted beneath him, the other groping for leverage as he tried to push himself up. In a trice, she was off the pony, kneeling beside him.

  Moonlight leached his long hair of color and cast a sickly pall over his face. Moving behind him, she carefully wrapped her arms around him. Linking her hands on his chest, she pulled him up, cradling him against her. He made an agonized sound deep in his throat. She answered with a sob. Slowly, she shifted him, laying him on his back.

  “Noble?”

  He didn’t answer; his breathing was shallow.

  She ran to collect the canteen and a few other supplies from his saddlebag: a blanket, a cotton shirt, and a flask of whiskey. She settled the blanket over him. Gently, she moved his head into her lap and started tearing the shirt into long strips, her worried gaze never leaving him.

  He was shivering, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. Bending close, she dabbed at the dark blood smeared across his forehead. His eyelids fluttered open and he stared at her, his gaze unfocused.

  “Well,” he finally breathed. “I guess I’m not dead.”

  She managed a quavery smile. “Why is that?”

  “ ’Cause you’re way too dirty to be an angel, and way too worried lookin’ to be a demon.”

  She couldn’t hold back her sob of relief.

  “Venice, lass,” he finally murmured, “dinna cry, love. Dinna weep.”

  Lord, she had always loved the soft timbre of his Irish accent. She’d thought she would never hear it again, had thought that time and circumstances had robbed him forever of those rich, lilting tones. For some reason that he should call her “lass” now, here . . . made her cry.

  She leaned her forehead against his, sparing a moment to stem the flow of her tears.

  She took a deep breath, hushing him. Then, carefully, she wound a strip of his ruined shirt gingerly around his head. Deftly, she examined his limbs. When she probed his left side, his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted.

  She bit her lip, making herself attend the problem at hand, tightly strapping his side as quickly as she could while he was not conscious to feel the pain.

  When she was finished, she sat back on her heels and frowned. He hadn’t come around yet. Worriedly, she felt his forehead. Cool. She frowned. No, cold. And soaked through to the bone.

  He was freezing, even under the thick blanket. His lips were drawn back and he was trembling.

  Somehow she had to get him warm. She looked around. They couldn’t stay down here, near the river, where the wind swept over the frigid water. If they were caught in another rainstorm, the river might climb another twenty feet up the canyon walls.

  She had to get Noble out of here. Helplessly, she cast about, searching for some way to lift him onto the pony. She would never be able to get him into the saddle. There was only one way.

  “Noble,” she said.

  He didn’t move.

  “Noble,” she shouted near his ear. “You have to wake up. You have to help me. We have to get you on the pony.”

  He stirred restlessly. “Help you,” he muttered.

  “Yes. We have to get you up on your pony.”

  Gently, she tapped his cheeks with her fingertips. His right hand shot out, grabbing her wrist in a bone-crunching grip. His eyes blazed up at her. She gasped and tried to pull away. Confusion replaced the enmity in his gaze.

  “Venice?” His grip loosened and fell away.

  “Yes, Noble.” She rubbed distractedly at her wrist. “You have to get up.”

  It took him a few seconds to answer, as though he needed time to make sense of her question. “Okay.”

  His big body had begun shaking again, the paroxysms wracking him. Fresh tears sprang to Venice’s eyes. With an abrupt effort, Noble pushed himself upright and sat panting, his head falling forward onto his chest.

  “Good,” she said. “That’s good, Noble.”

  Hooking her shoulder beneath his arm, she wrapped her arm around his back, trying to avoid his ribs. She squatted on her boot heels beside him. “Now, on the count of three you’re going to stand up and get on that horse.”

  “Yes, ma’am. And it’s a pony . . . ma’am.” The slightest touch of humor colored the gasped words.

  It was too much.

  “Oh, God, don’t! Don’t be all heroic. Don’t!”

  “Don’t cry, Venice.” His blue-tinted lips twisted into a pitying smile.

  “I’m not crying! Now, get up! On the count of three. One . . . two . . . three!” She strained beneath his weight, grimaced, and heaved. At the same time, Noble struggled to rise.

  Sweat beaded Noble’s face. She grabbed hold of the arm he had wrapped around her neck and pushed upward. He made it to his knees. Red-faced with the effort of supporting his weight, she panted, “Just . . . a second . . . while we . . . catch . . . our breath.” She gulped for air. “Now, almost there—Up!” He lurched to his feet and she pivoted, using his momentum to impel him toward the pony standing quietly a few feet away. He fell, careening into the saddle. A sound of pain grated from between his clenched teeth.

  “Don’t faint!” Venice hollered into his ear, grabbing for the reins so she could keep the pony from walking away while Noble was still leaning unbalanced against its side.

  “I’m not gonna faint,” Noble muttered in disgust as he groped for the pommel.

  “Good. Can you get up?”

  He eyed the saddle. “Nope.”

  Venice hadn’t gotten him all the way up only to be defeated by the four feet between the ground and the pony’s back.

  “Sorry,” he said. He leaned his forehead against the leather seat. He was far too pale. The bandage near his temple had bloomed with a black stain. “I’m real sorry Venice.”

  “Don’t you dare be sorry!” Tears blinded her and she covered her eyes. She hadn’t cried so much in a decade. “Yes, you will get up on that sadd
le!”

  She jerked her hands away from her face. “Listen. Hold on to the saddle horn, Noble McCaneaghy, ‘cause we’re going to get over to that rock over there, even if I have to tie you to the pommel and drag you.”

  He squinted his eyes, peering at the boulder she was pointing to.

  “Bloodthirsty wench,” he mumbled.

  “You don’t know the half of it, mister,” she said tightly, grasping him around the waist with one hand and holding the reins with the other.

  She clucked softly to the pony. Pricking his ears, the animal started slowly forward, Noble’s feet scuffling at its side, sometimes walking, sometimes being dragged.

  Once at the boulder, Venice pulled, pushed, and goaded Noble into taking the single step up to the top of the rock. White-faced and trembling, he silently climbed up, swaying slightly when he finally made it to the top. Tying the reins to the pommel, Venice clambered up behind the saddle, sitting on the pony’s rump, praying the animal wouldn’t take exception to the unaccustomed feel of her there. It didn’t. Leaning way over, Venice grasped the waistband of Noble’s jeans.

  “Come on, Noble. Just get your foot in the stirrup.”

  He fumbled for a minute before the toe of his boot caught. With a hiss of pain, he heaved himself up. Venice pulled. For a second he stood in the stirrup and then his long leg was over the saddle horn and he dropped into the saddle like a sack of flour. He slouched there, mouth open, panting for breath.

  “You did it!” Venice said, patting him encouragingly on the back.

  He shuddered and his head slumped forward, and Venice had the horrible impression that he was no longer conscious. Touching her heels gingerly to the pony’s flanks, she clutched Noble to her, scooting forward into the saddle until the cantle bit into her stomach. Tightly bracketing his long legs with her own, she pressed his broad back to her chest, worried he would fall from the saddle.

  “Lass.” His voice was faint. “Ya mustn’t take advantage of me in me weakened condition.”

  She bit back a burble of laughter. It felt too much like hysteria. The notion, unbidden and tantalizing, teased her; they were going to make it.