Cherish

by Catherine Anderson

  He gave his grizzled head a shake, as if to clear away muzziness. “You no-account, lowdown bastards! You kilt ol’ Blue!”

  Green eyes sparking with anger, his hawk nose streaming blood, Red Suspenders started to bounce about on the balls of his feet again, his hair flying, his elbows pumping, his bald pate barely clearing the shoulders of the outlaws when his feet left the ground. “Ain’t nobody gonna git away with barrelin’ into this camp, frightenin’ a lady and killin’ ol’ Blue. Not when Bartholomew Lincoln Grigsley’s around!” He danced back and forth, jutting his bearded chin at the blond who had punched him. “Come on, you greasy, no-account son’bitch! You got in a lucky punch, is all. Now come take your medicine!”

  The blond struck the little man again. This time the blow knocked Red Suspenders to the ground. He sprawled like a limp scarecrow beside Rebecca and the dead dog. Before she could quite register what had occurred, the blond sprang forward, grabbed Red Suspenders by the front of his shirt, and began to pummel his face. Knuckles smashing against flesh and bone was one of the most horrible sounds Rebecca had ever heard, and she flinched with each blow.

  The other three filthy heathens stood there, watching and laughing.

  She scrambled to her feet. “Stop it!” she cried. “Oh, dear God! Don’t do this, I beg of you! Don’t.”

  The words she spoke, so reminiscent of those she’d heard her father cry yesterday, seemed to hang in her brain like icicles. Please, I beg of you. Have mercy. Don’t do this terrible thing! These men had ignored her Papa’s petitions, just as they ignored hers now.

  Again and again, the blond smashed his fist into the little man’s face, the sickening thuds making Rebecca feel sick. Above his gray beard, Red Suspenders’s features were besmeared with blood, his green eyes glazed with pain. Then, as if that weren’t enough, the younger man let go of the poor old fellow’s shirt, reared back, and started kicking him.

  Rebecca clamped her hands to her cheeks, staring in disbelief, so frightened she could scarcely think. Then, almost as if she grew separate from her own body, she saw herself. Just standing there. Again. Wanting nothing more than to run and hide. Again. Too terrified to move. Again. Her papa had done the same, never lifting a hand to help Ma, just standing there, Bible uplifted, imploring her tormentor to stop. And the other brethren? She remembered the looks on their faces when her father had been shot—horror mingled with disbelief, their Bibles clutched over their hearts. None of them had offered to do a single thing.

  Nay! she could almost hear her papa saying. Not an eye for an eye, Rebecca. Live by violence and forever be damned. Let my brother smite me, that I may turn the other cheek! So saith the Lord.

  Was this not damnation? To be brutalized by vicious men, doing nothing to defend oneself or others, her reward to be haunted by the memories and guilt of it for the rest of her life?

  The blond kicked the little man again, and in that heartbeat of time, something inside her snapped. Her sanity, maybe? Or perhaps the constraints drilled into her by a lifetime of training. She only knew that the tight band of fear that seemed to be squeezing the breath from her chest suddenly went lax, replaced by a rage so intense it made her blind to nearly everything else.

  It was as if she were seeing everything through a telescope, her vision tunnellike and black at the edges. She threw herself at the blond.

  The impact of her body sent him staggering backward. Pressing a frontal attack, Rebecca went after him, pummeling his face, scratching at his eyes, biting him.

  “Murderer! You murdering animal!”

  Sweat ran into Race’s eyes as he sighted in along the barrel of his rifle. Damn it, he didn’t dare shoot. If he chanced it, he could accidentally hit the girl. The crazy little fool. He’d been just about to pick the ruffians off when she suddenly flew into a frenzy, attacking the blond fellow like a she-cat defending her cub.

  Now the bastards were playing with her, dodging her blows, tossing her back and forth, and putting their filthy hands all over her in the process. Every time he almost got a clear shot at one of the no-good worms, she moved in front of his target.

  Finally Race gave up and lowered the gun. It didn’t look as if he had a choice. He would have to move in closer and take on all four of them, hopefully with the element of surprise in his favor. He preferred picking them off at a distance—less risky that way—but it just wasn’t going to happen.

  Henry clasped in one hand, Race slithered forward on his belly, keeping his head down as much as possible. Only tall clumps of grass springing up here and there from the mat of green provided him with cover, and not much, at that. Cookie looked to be unconscious now, his stout body sprawled in the dirt. Race couldn’t tell at this distance how seriously the old codger might be hurt. Poor old Blue, though, he was most probably dead. Race couldn’t fault the hound for leaping to Cookie and the girl’s defense. But for all the good it had done, he wished the wrinkled mongrel had just stayed out of it.

  Shoving his thoughts aside, Race kept his gaze fixed on the men as he made his way closer. Time enough later to worry about Cookie and mourn old Blue. The same went for trying to make sense of this situation. What had Rebecca and her people been carrying that the bastards wanted so badly? Money? It was the only explanation that Race could think of.

  No matter. He’d get answers later. Right now, he had more important fish to fry, namely dispatching those murderous devils straight back to hell and saving that fool girl’s pretty little neck.

  Chapter 7

  Race crawled to within forty feet of Rebecca, but even then, he couldn’t get a clear shot at any of the plug-uglies. Evidently bored with tossing her back and forth, they began grabbing her by the shoulders to spin and shove her, their laughter vicious and mocking when they released her and she staggered like a child fresh off a swiftly turning merry-go-round. Looking dazed and terrified, she just managed to catch her balance before one of them would grab her again. The bastards. Each man took full advantage of having her in his clutches, clamping his hands over her breasts or gyrating his hips against her, before he twirled her roughly into the embrace of the next man in line.

  Fury rolled through Race in searing waves. Never had he wanted so badly to spill blood. Animals like that weren’t fit to draw breath. Only, damn it, he didn’t dare shoot. Not unless the situation got completely out of hand and he had no choice. Even with his lever-action Henry, which could jack out rounds at a mighty good clip, he feared he wouldn’t be able to drop all four men before one of them had time to hurt the girl.

  Ending the game they’d been playing, the blond fellow grabbed Rebecca from behind, clamped one arm under her breasts, and pressed the gleaming blade of a knife to the underside of her chin. For an instant, Race thought the bastard meant to slit her throat, and he damned near died on the spot. At the same time, the plug-ugly bent his head and began whispering something to Rebecca, his sun-darkened face twisting in a cruel smile. The breeze was a bit too brisk and Race too far away to hear what the man said. Spine arched, Rebecca held herself absolutely still, her head thrown back, the tendons at each side of her slender neck distended.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried, the shrill terror in her voice shivering down Race’s spine.

  The blond said something else, pressing the blade more firmly against her skin, the enthralled expression that came over his face making Race’s skin crawl. Christ, he had to get her away from the loco son of a bitch, the sooner, the better. The question was how to do it without getting her killed in the process.

  “I’m not lying!” she insisted, her voice catching on a sob. “There’s nothing in the wagon. I keep telling you that. Why won’t you believe me?”

  Where the knife dug in below her chin, a thin trickle of crimson appeared and coursed slowly down her neck. Race scrubbed sweat from his eyes, his heart pounding so hard, he could have sworn the ground was shaking.

  No longer feeling he had a choice, Race nestled the butt of his Henry against
his shoulder, drew a bead on the man, and curled his finger snugly over the trigger. His ears rang with the sound of the blood rushing through his veins. Damn. He could shoot the blond in the head, no problem. But if the bastard’s hand jerked? Then, what? Race knew the answer to that one. With that damned Arkansas toothpick held so firmly to Rebecca’s throat, one twitch of the ruffian’s hand might kill her. Race hated to take that chance. Yet how could he not? From the looks of it, the blond was going to kill her, either way. At least if Race shot him, Rebecca might have a fifty-fifty chance. If the ruffian didn’t jerk when the slug hit him. If she kept her head and took advantage of the confusion to run. If the other three men hesitated. Maybe, then, she could come through this alive.

  Race had done his share of gambling, and high-stake games had never rattled his nerves. But goddamn it, he’d never gambled with another person’s life, which was essentially what he’d be doing when he pulled the trigger.

  Time had run out, though—and so had his options.

  With the Henry braced against his shoulder, Race put slow pressure on the trigger, squeezing, squeezing—then suddenly the blond ruffian shifted, moving his head, which had been Race’s target, from one side of Rebecca’s to the other. Relaxing his trigger finger, Race watched, waiting and hoping the son of a bitch would move back into his line of fire. Instead the man drew the knife from Rebecca’s throat and grabbed her roughly by the hair. Jerking her clear off her feet, he proceeded to drag her behind him toward the cheek turners’ wagon, Rebecca’s body shielding him every step of the way.

  “You’ll by God tell me!” he yelled. “Easy or hard. It’s your choice, sweet thing! I’d just as soon do it the hard way. I ain’t played with a pretty young gal like you in a good, long spell, and I’m gonna have a real fine time.”

  She’d tell him what? Race wondered. The crazy bastards. There was nothing in that damned wagon but a bunch of quilts and some clothing.

  “No, listen to me! Please, you have to listen!” Rebecca cried, struggling to keep her feet as she was jerked along behind him. “I’m telling you, it’s not in there!”

  Race glanced at the wagon, his bewilderment increasing. Any fool could see that the damned thing was as empty as a mudsill’s pocket.

  “Let me go! You’re making a mistake. Please, just let me go!” Rebecca clutched the blond’s wrist and tried to loosen his hand from her braid. “How can I tell you what I don’t know?”

  “You say that now. But there’s no other place it can be. Plain and simple, it’s gotta be in this wagon! You know it, and I know it. And you’re gonna save us the trouble of tearin’ the damned thing apart to find it. You hear?”

  “You’re crazy!” Rebecca cried. “Crazy, do you hear? Do you think I wouldn’t tell you if it was in there? I don’t want to die!”

  With her hands now clamped to the top of her head to ease the pull on her hair and the hem of her skirt catching under her feet each time she stepped, Rebecca half-ran, half-scrambled behind him, her cries shrill and laced with panic.

  “Of course you don’t wanna die, darlin’. And that’s exactly why you’re gonna be a good girl and talk to me. Your hotshot cowboy won’t come back to save you, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Those steers of his ran every which way, and we got men out there to make sure they keep on runnin’. Some of those cows are probably halfway to Oregon by now.”

  At the rear of the wagon, which partially blocked Race’s line of fire and made taking a shot risky, the blond turned to grab her around the waist. Rebecca fought him, flailing her arms, striking at his face with her fists. But the man was by far the stronger, and he easily overpowered her, lifting her and shoving her roughly over the wagon gate, then leaping up to go inside after her.

  Race heard a thud and saw the wagon rock. He clenched his teeth, imagining the man throwing her to the floor. Rebecca screamed. The sound of a slap rang out, and Race winced. He couldn’t take much more of this without going in to get her like all possessed. Even an open-handed blow could do a lot of damage to a woman’s face, and Rebecca was more delicately made than most. Race remembered how small and birdlike her bones had felt to him when he’d checked her for fractures yesterday, how easily he’d borne her weight as he carried her. And now that lunatic was knocking her around.

  He forced himself to block out the sounds. If he meant to help her, he couldn’t afford to think about anything else, especially not about what might be happening in there. He wasn’t likely to get any second chances if he made a stupid mistake.

  Now that the blond had disappeared into the wagon with Rebecca, Race decided that using the rifle might not be his best option. The three men who’d remained outside were powwowing about something beside the wagon, completely unaware of his presence. From what little he could hear of their conversation, he decided they were arguing about where they could hide the wagon, which meant they planned to take it somewhere. He could only assume they meant to abscond with Rebecca as well.

  Race hoped he was reading them right. If the three were busy getting the wagon ready to go, fetching and hitching the oxen team, they would relax their guard, which might allow him to sneak in and quietly drop them, one at a time, without alerting the others. A knife wasn’t his choice of weapon, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t handy with one.

  A dangerous half-smile settled on Race’s mouth when two of the men left the wagon and walked toward the grazing area where the mules and oxen were tethered. He set aside his rifle, slipped his knife from its sheath, and went after them.

  Like a satanic incantation, the desperado’s voice droned on and on, holding Rebecca fast in the clutches of terror. Insanity. It was a word people used offhandedly, giving little thought to its true meaning, a word Rebecca had once used lightly herself. Now, she realized that most people had no idea what real insanity was.

  This man was insane—the mad as a hatter kind of insane that made her skin crawl when she looked into his eyes. There would be no way to save herself from him. She had accepted that. He gave every appearance of being relaxed and unguarded, but she could sense his watchfulness and knew he was only playing with her—like a cat toying with its prey, hoping she might try to bolt so he could swat her senseless and drag her back. Nevertheless, stark terror swirled in her head, urging her to run. Only the certainty that he would catch her kept her from throwing herself away from him.

  He sat slumped against the wagon wall, with her sitting between his bent knees, the base of her spine drawn firmly against the crotch of his leather britches. In a soft, singsong voice, he threatened her, giving explicit descriptions of the things he would do to her if she didn’t give him the information he sought. The stink of him—of old sweat and foul breath—filled the confines of the wagon with mugginess.

  Rebecca had already come to realize she was a sniveling coward. After yesterday, how could she not know that? But it still made her feel sick when she found herself wanting to yield to his demands. Anything to save herself, she kept thinking. What did it matter if he took the church money, as long as he spared her? Human life was priceless. Worldly treasures meant nothing in the end, so wherein lay the sense in dying for them?

  Oh, yes. She could come up with a dozen valid reasons why she should tell him what he wanted to know, and, almost mindless with fear, she nearly convinced herself to do it. Give in, a voice whispered in her mind. Don’t be a fool. Relent and save yourself.

  Only she knew it would do no good. Nothing in her life had prepared her to deal with a man like this. But instinctively she knew that even if she told him where the money was, even if, heaven help her, she led him to it and tore up the fake floor in the Petersens’ wagon herself, he would still kill her. This sort of man didn’t honor his word or keep to a bargain. He would just avail himself of her body, as had happened to her mother, making her yearn for death, perhaps even beg for it before he was finished with her. And then, without a moment’s hesitation or a shred of remorse, he would end her life, either by cutting her throat or put
ting a bullet in her brain. And afterward? The answer to that was simple. He would gather up the money and ride away, pleased as punch with himself.

  The very same money her parents had sacrificed their lives to protect…

  Since there was naught to be gained by surrendering, Rebecca sat with her spine ruler straight, enduring his taunts, which seemed all the more diabolical because he whispered them so sweetly, all the while taunting her with his knife. Tracing her features. Catching flyaway strands of her hair on the blade’s edge. Leaning forward to trail the razor-sharp point down the row of buttons on her bodice.

  “Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do?” he asked in a throaty whisper, running his tongue along the edge of her ear as he spoke. “All my life, I’ve wanted to find me a real fine swatch of calico—someone just like you—and make her all mine. You know what I mean?”

  Rebecca couldn’t have formed a reply if she tried. Her throat felt as if a noose was cinched around it. He licked the side of her neck, laughing under his breath. The hot, wet rasp of his tongue, combined with his fetid breath, made her want to retch.

  He touched the blade tip to the pulse point below her ear. “Some men—they marry a woman. Put a ring on her finger. They figure that makes her theirs. But, you know, it doesn’t. Not really. Me? I wanna put my brand on a woman—sort of like that hotshot cowboy of yours does his cows.” He pricked her with the knife, not hard enough to cut, but with enough pressure to sting. “Only instead of a branding iron, I’ll just carve my initials all over her. You wanna be my lady, sweet thing?”

  Rebecca licked her lips with a tongue as dry as dust. “I—no, I think not,” she managed to say in a thin voice.

  “Ah, you break my heart. Here I’m wantin’ to do you the honor of wearin’ my initials all over your pretty little self, and you’re turnin’ me down?” He ran the blade along her cheekbone. “They’d look right fine on that pretty face.” Trailing the knife to her bodice, he rasped the sharp edge of the blade over the tip of one breast, his breathing growing rapid when the hardening peak thrust visibly against the muslin. “Ah, now, would you look there?”