The Dove

by Kristy McCaffrey

  She decided to approach the right side of the house. The front porch didn’t seem like a good idea and the back most definitely didn’t—the horses were probably there and might signal her presence. When she reached the dwelling, the window was too high for her peek through. She considered retrieving her horse—atop him she would be tall enough—but doubted he would be quiet. Her eyes scanned for a rock or piece of wood to stand on, but she didn’t see anything large enough.

  Her stomach clenched with anxiety. Taking a deep breath, she crept to the front of the house then slowly up the steps onto the porch. To the left of the doorway a large window revealed the interior of the cabin, shielded by partially open curtains. She crouched and peeked inside. Griffin sat on the far side of the room at a wooden table. He appeared to be cleaning a gun. A woman entered and Claire strained to see her more clearly. She was pretty and young, with dark hair. Claire thought it might be Griffin’s sister Dee, her memory of the woman somewhat foggy, having exchanged words with her only once or twice in the last few years.

  “Looky here.” The voice rose from the darkness behind her.

  Claire froze as boots sounded on the steps, moving closer.

  Sandoval’s voice was unmistakable.

  She stood, instinct pushing her to run, but pain lanced her spine as he pushed a gun between her exposed shoulder blades, the barrel cold against her skin.

  With the black wig covering her blonde hair, maybe Sandoval wouldn’t recognize her. She held tightly to that thought as she raised her hands, still faced away from him. “I’m looking for Maggie Waters. She told me to come to Cimarron for work.”

  “That right?” he said from behind her. “You always slink around at night?”

  “Isn’t that what a working girl does?” She could only hope her whispered question didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

  Sandoval rammed the gun into her back and shoved her forward. She gasped, but squeezed her eyes shut in an effort not to cry out.

  “You’re spying,” he said. “For who?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” With her face pushed up against the rough board siding of the house she knew her chances of escape dwindled with each passing moment. Sandoval jerked her arm and spun her around. His fingers wrapped around her neck with a painful grip as he pushed the gun barrel against the side of her head.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his face so close that she smelled the distinct aroma of the tobacco he smoked. She swayed, remembering the last time he had been this close to her. He doesn’t recognize me. She tried to hold onto that, to quiet the frantic bone-deep fear she had of this man.

  “Peggy Ryan.” She whispered the lie, but knew it didn’t matter anymore. Sandoval might not recognize her, but odds were he would kill her anyway. “I work for Maggie.”

  “Bullshit.” He trailed a finger over her bare shoulder. She pressed closer to the wooden exterior of the house to escape the touch.

  “I’ve done every girl at the White Dove,” he continued. “I know I haven’t done you, so you lie.”

  She fought back a wave of panic as the pounding of her heart pulsated in her ears. He would blow the trigger, any second now, and her life would be over. God, how she hated him. How she hated the helplessness and the terror.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks and she struggled to pray as a sob escaped her mouth. She’d learned of God from Tia.

  His wings lift you up. The dove flies with His breath.

  She sent her mind to the clearing in the woods—to the place she’d sat when she was a girl. A dove as white as snow had come to her, as though it had known she was there, waiting.

  The dove.

  A dark blur charged out of nowhere and twisted Sandoval’s arm; Claire winced from the deafening sound as the gun discharged. She screamed. Her hands flew to cover her ears and she fell to her knees while splinters sprayed her face. Another ragged cry escaped her as a large person knocked Sandoval unconscious.

  “Are you all right?”

  All she could see was the dark outline of a man. Through the tears and the loud ringing in her ears she felt cut off from the world. Was she dreaming? It was Logan! She reached out and felt the solid strength of his hand as it grasped hers. The flesh was warm, alive; that must mean she still lived. He pulled her up to him and into his arms.

  The click of a weapon startled her. Logan spun around and shielded her body with his, aiming a gun she hadn’t even noticed at Sandoval’s motionless body. Frank Griffin stood on the porch across from them, a shotgun leveled in their direction.

  “You’re on private property, asshole,” Griffin said. “Drop it, or I’ll shoot your whore and call it self-defense.”

  “Then I’ll kill him.” Logan’s voice was quiet, calm.

  Claire worked hard to steady her breathing.

  “Who the hell are you?” Griffin asked.

  Sandoval moved. Before Claire could think to warn Logan he shoved her to the porch floor, exchanging gunfire with the Mexican, then yanked her arm and dragged her back down the stairs behind him. “Stay low,” he warned. He pulled another gun and continued to shoot as they moved to the side of the house. Pausing, he reloaded both guns, his swiftness astounding her.

  “Make for the trees.” He nodded to the cover about fifteen feet away. She moved, he fired, and soon they ran rapidly around cactus, pine trees, and prickly bushes that repeatedly scratched and burned Claire’s arms and legs. Her side ached and she thought a branch must have really scraped her good.

  She stumbled, but Logan hauled her back to her feet and continued to drag her along. She had no idea where they were and completely relied on him to find the way. When it became clear they weren’t being pursued, Logan stopped to let them catch their breath.

  The burning pierced Claire’s ribcage. Instinctively she put a hand on her right side and stared in shock when she felt moisture and it came away covered in something dark. Blood. The scratch must be worse than she thought. She raised her eyes to Logan’s and saw wildness reflected back at her. His rage frightened her as he closed the distance between them.

  “Sonofabitch, Claire. You’ve been shot!”

  She wanted to say something, but the darkness narrowed her vision. And then, there was nothing.

  Chapter Seven

  Logan caught Claire in his arms as she swooned, his mind screaming in denial. He wasn’t going to lose her. No way in hell. He lay her against his lap and yanked off his shirt, buttons flying into the dirt. He reached down between his knees and tugged a knife from his boot. Carefully, he slit the side of the black dress she wore, then cut the blood-soaked chemise underneath.

  In the darkness he tried to examine her wound. Despite the poor visibility, her ribcage appeared to be only grazed. He couldn’t locate a bullet or large wound that would indicate it had entered her body. He relaxed, but only slightly. She was losing too much blood. He took his shirt and cut several patches off the bottom then pressed them against her ribs and tied them tightly in place with the remainder of the cloth.

  He took a steadying breath, suddenly aware of the impropriety of his behavior, literally tearing Claire’s dress from her. But as he held her inert body, fear welled inside him, and a primal urge took root. He wanted much more than to claim her flesh, he wanted her—the spirit and essence that only she embodied—and he needed more time to explore the possibility of what lay between them. He wouldn’t let a damned bullet steal that chance from him.

  Stroking her forehead, he said quietly, “Claire, wake up.”

  She stirred slightly.

  “We need to get back to my horse. We’ll never make it to town otherwise. Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

  She opened her eyes. “What’s happened?”

  “You’ve been shot, but it’s a shallow wound—you’ll be fine. But we need to get out of here. If I help, can you walk?”

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice a scratchy whisper. “I’ll try.”

  She stood unsteadily and glanced down
at the makeshift bandage, then attempted to cover her semi-nakedness with her arms. Shirtless, Logan regretted that he had nothing left to offer. The black silk gown still covered the important areas and Logan hadn’t seen anything he shouldn’t. It hadn’t crossed his mind to look—he’d been too concerned about her injury.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “I only cut the side of the dress, near the wound.”

  She recovered quickly. “You’ve stopped the bleeding?”

  “For the moment.” He put an arm around her waist and held her good side against him. He moved slowly at first. A quick scan of the stars and terrain gave him their general location. He just hoped Griffin, or the person who’d fired the initial shot, wouldn’t find his horse hidden behind a clump of juniper trees a good quarter mile from the ranch house.

  “I have medical supplies back at the hotel, so don’t call for a doctor,” she said, her breathing labored.

  “Why?”

  “No reason to call more attention to ourselves. Promise me, all right?”

  “I won’t make any promises like that. Let’s just get to the hotel, then we’ll see what needs to be done.”

  When Claire’s breathing became too strained Logan lifted her, careful not to touch the wound.

  “You’ll get too tired,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” But her head rolled against his shoulder.

  With relief he found Storm right where he’d left her. Carefully, he lifted Claire into the saddle then settled behind her.

  “What about Reverend?” she asked.

  “He’ll be fine. I’ll come back for him tomorrow.”

  Logan watched their back trail as he let Storm pick her way through the wilderness. He avoided the roadway, and briefly considered not returning to the hotel; but they weren’t being followed, as of yet, so he would risk it for tonight. He needed to tend to Claire as soon as possible.

  Once they were at the hotel, Logan tied Storm off behind the establishment and quickly carried Claire around the front and entered through the lobby. Thankfully it was deserted at such a late hour. With long strides, he moved down the hallway, awkwardly retrieving the key from his shirt pocket, then unlocking the door and slipping into the room. As he laid Claire on the bed, she winced and closed her eyes. He grabbed a blanket and covered her, then quickly removed her fancy boots. She had several nasty blisters on the heels of her feet. She obviously wasn’t accustomed to wearing shoes like these.

  “In my bag, you’ll find a pouch full of sugar.” She rubbed her forehead.

  Logan rummaged through her saddlebags. “This?” he asked and held up a small rawhide sack. She nodded, her face pale.

  “You’ll need water…and more cloth,” she said, her voice ragged.

  He grabbed the water pitcher on the dresser—relieved it was full—and another one of his shirts. He wished now he’d thought to bring back a bottle of whiskey from the St. James, but at the time it would’ve only appeared he wanted to get Claire drunk and have his way with her. He was trying his damnedest to be on his best behavior with this woman. The hell with it. Decorum wasn’t keeping her safe, she’d seen to that.

  Carefully, he folded the blanket down from her shoulders and started to untie the bandage he’d put on her earlier. She glanced down at his handiwork.

  “Just cut it off me,” she said. “The dress, too.”

  “I don’t want you to accuse me of trying to get you out of your clothes.” He grabbed his knife and made quick work of the bandage. Then, he moved to what was left of her dress.

  “Louisa’s going to kill me,” she said.

  “The owner?”

  She nodded, and he crouched between the bed and the window and slit the silky material down her right side, all the while attempting to preserve her modesty.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen a naked woman before. Just get it off,” she said in irritation.

  “You picked a hell of a time to flirt with me,” he muttered, a little unnerved. He’d never stripped a woman down, except for the most obvious reasons.

  “I’m not flirting.” She pressed her lips together and stared at the ceiling. “I saw you without clothes in Texas, obviously we’re past that stage.”

  Logan hesitated. He had been naked during their first meeting, but he thought Claire hadn’t noticed beyond making certain he stayed away from her. Her memory of the incident unfurled a warmth in his belly, igniting hope that the incident was burned into her mind as much as it was in his—as much as the kiss in front of the hotel.

  He pulled her gown and chemise to her slender hips, catching a glimpse of her rose tipped breasts before he covered her with the blanket. He had never thought himself the type of man to take advantage of a woman but here he was, doing just that. His hands froze as he debated whether to remove more of the dress and her undergarments.

  “I know you prefer redheads.”

  The jealousy in her voice, slight though it was, caught him off-guard. Somehow, Claire had seen him with Red. Logan’s pulse kicked up a notch—he sure as hell couldn’t remove anymore of her clothing now, and it had nothing to do with preserving her modesty.

  Stifling the impulse to press his advantage and seduce her, Logan tucked the blanket around her shoulders and tried to maintain focus on what was really important. Her life. “I was just fishin’ for information. I don’t particularly care for redheads.” He ripped several strips from his other shirt and dipped the white cloth into the basin of water behind him on the broad windowsill. Moving the blanket just enough to view where the bullet grazed her, he made a conscious effort to keep her breast out of sight. “Can you raise your arm?”

  She did, but her face twisted with the effort. For several minutes he wiped at the caked blood until finally he saw where the skin was split, moist and bleeding anew.

  “Sprinkle the opening with the sugar,” she said.

  “I’ve never heard of this remedy.” But he opened the bag and did as she said.

  “It’ll dry the wound and help it heal faster.”

  “I still think I ought to get some whiskey so it doesn’t get infected,” he said.

  “The sugar will help with that, too.”

  “I should probably stitch you up.”

  Claire shook her head. “No. The location of the injury isn’t worth the effort.”

  “You might have a nasty scar.”

  “I’d rather leave it open to help it heal. Can you replace the dressing?”

  Forced to remove the blanket to tie a new bandage around her ribs, he came to appreciate a kind of suffering he’d never before experienced. Claire’s pale skin, narrow waist and full breasts triggered a hunger so sharp, Logan felt like a boy who’d just caught his first glimpse of a female. But he was no boy, and he was hard-pressed to believe that Claire was a woman he couldn’t live without.

  “What about the pain?” he asked, his voice edged with frustration and anger. “Do you have something you can take?” He put the blanket atop her then moved away from the bed—away from her, away from temptation.

  Her breathing rattled and echoed through the small room. “Not really. I didn’t bring all my medicines.”

  “Will you be all right for a few minutes?”

  “Why?”

  “I need to take care of Storm before she’s noticed, and I’ll get you something to dull the pain.”

  She nodded.

  He leaned over and kissed her forehead, shocked by his own behavior. The last thing he should do is touch her, but he couldn’t help himself. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured.

  The wig was history, lost somewhere during their escape, and while he was glad it was gone he knew it needed to be retrieved. If found, Claire’s identity would be jeopardized.

  “Be careful,” she whispered.

  Their eyes locked, then he left the room before he decided it would be better to stay. He made swift time getting what he needed.

  * * *

  Claire awoke. She gasped from the throbbing and burning sensation th
at shot down her side. Moving slightly, she bit her lip from the excruciating pain. Logan dozed on the chair, his shoulder propped against the wall and his legs stretched out to the end of the bed. He cradled a rifle in his arms.

  He should have just slept with me. It wasn’t as if he found me irresistible. I was completely naked and it didn’t affect him at all.

  Her disappointment served a purpose, which was to distract her from the agony of her body. In a rush of determination, she pushed herself upright, her teeth clenched as she fought back groans. The bottle of whiskey Logan had brought back last night sat perched on the nightstand next to the bed. She snatched it and took several swigs before leaning her head against the iron bed frame. The liquid burned, making her cough. A wave of nausea assaulted her. She really didn’t like to drink, but being somewhat tipsy kept the pain from holding tight to her mind, a meager blessing but certainly one to embrace.

  Logan stirred. “How’re you doing?” He stood and looked out the window while afternoon sunlight filled the room then moved toward the bed, resting the rifle against the wall.

  “Never thought I’d be drinking first thing in the morning,” she said, her eyes drawn to his unbuttoned shirt. Her gaze skimmed a nice view of his chest—covered with a patch of brown hair—and his stomach, which flexed as he moved around the bed. Warmth filled her belly. It has to be the liquor.

  “Yeah, it doesn’t give you anything to look forward to later.” He grinned. “You really slept hard and look better.”

  “I don’t feel much better. What time is it?”

  “A bit after noon.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes widened as she thought about the gunfight in the woods. “We shouldn’t stay here.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”