A Lady of the West (27 page)

“Then you go with her! I'll lead them away.”

Victoria gave her a stark look. “It's me they want,” she said. “It isn't Garnet; I know Garnet's horse. So it has to be Sarratt—or—or someone else who hates the Major. Now, for the love of God, hurry!” Without waiting, without allowing herself to look back, she touched her heels to poor Gypsy and rode west.

She had no hope of being able to outdistance the riders indefinitely; she only hoped to give Emma and Celia a chance to escape. Perhaps, even if Sarratt caught them, he wouldn't harm them. After all, they weren't McLains.

She rode as she'd never ridden before in her life, pushing the tired horse deeper into the barren, rocky
land. It wasn't desert, but there were no trees, no crystal-clear rivers, no ripe meadow grasses. The sun rose high, burning her back through the thin fabric of her shirtwaist. Her arms and legs ached.

Gypsy stumbled. Victoria agonized, yet she knew she'd have to give the horse a rest or risk it dying under her. She stopped and dismounted, and walked Gypsy for as long as she dared before giving the animal a small drink of water. When the horse stopped blowing so strenuously, Victoria remounted and started her flight again, but at a slower pace. The mare simply couldn't manage more.

Victoria's throat was dry and caked with dust, but she didn't dare drink any of the water herself; she might need it for Gypsy. A wave of dizziness swept her, but she grimly concentrated on her balance.

Looking behind again, she blinked in confusion. She could see only one rider, steadily gaining on her—or was it a mirage? Where were the others? Her heart stopped in sickening realization. Her ruse had failed; he'd sent the others after Emma and Celia, but was coming after her himself, as inexorable as the sun. This was Sarratt. She knew it was Sarratt.

She kicked Gypsy, but felt no responding increase in speed.

They were nearing a huge outcropping of bare red stone when Gypsy began staggering. Victoria looked behind again and saw that he was only a few minutes behind. Her horse wouldn't go any farther. She reined in and jumped to the ground, then ran into the rocks. Her boots slipped as she scrambled higher and higher, searching for a cave or a notch where she could hide. The pistol was heavy in her pocket. Dear God, if she had to she'd use it. He was alone; just one shot was all she'd need if she aimed carefully enough.

She risked a quick look around a rock. He was below her, dismounting from his horse with a powerful grace that frightened her, yet seemed dizzyingly
familiar. The lower half of his face was still hidden by the neckerchief. He lifted his head and scanned the rocks, and she jerked back out of sight.

The hot rock was scorching her hands. She stared up at the relentless sun, glowing in a sky unmarred by clouds, and wondered if this would be the last time she would see it. She was more frightened than she had ever been in her life.

“Goddamn it, stop wasting my time and come out of there.” The voice was muffled by the cloth covering his mouth, but the rage in it was plain.

Evidently he didn't think he had anything to fear from her. Victoria felt as if she had enough fear for the two of them, but somehow she steadied herself. She might lose, but not without a fight.

S
he fumbled for the pistol with shaking hands and for a frozen moment stared bemused at the glint of sunlight along the steel-blue barrel. What a strangely beautiful object, this instrument of death; it was so perfectly suited to its purpose. The only chance she had was to use it.

She held her breath, listening. When she heard a slight scraping below and to her left, she used both hands to pull the hammer back. She took two quick, deep breaths to steady herself, then she eased her head around the rock.

She saw him as he changed position, climbing to another section of rock. Her heart leaped and she fired wildly at him. The bullet chipped a little section of rock close to his head, sending the splinter flying. He dived for cover among the rocks, and she couldn't see him any longer, but she knew she hadn't hit him.

He would work his way in the direction from which the shot had been fired, and this time he knew she was armed. Victoria scrambled higher, scraping her palms on the hot rocks. A lizard stared at her with beady
eyes, then darted into the protection of a cool, dark crack. She wished she could crawl in after it.

Maybe, while he was climbing up, she could work her way down. If she could sneak around him and get back down to the horses, she could take both of the horses and leave him stranded.

She sprawled out on her stomach and, keeping a weather eye on the rocks below her for any movement, began squirming backward. The rocks tore her skirt and scraped even more skin off her palms, but she barely noticed.

She thought she might make it. The horses were in sight and she was beginning to let herself hope. Then she heard the slight scrape from behind, her only warning before rough hands grabbed her around the waist and jerked her upright, startling her so much that she couldn't even scream. The man gripped her arm so roughly that her hand went numb, and he easily relieved her of the pistol. Despairing, Victoria stared up at the handkerchief-covered face of the man who was determined to kill her.

“You damn little fool,” he said with quiet menace, tugging the handkerchief down around his neck. “Who are you trying harder to kill—me, yourself, or your horse?”

Victoria gaped up at him. The scorching sun was beating down on her bare head, and she thought perhaps she was hallucinating. But he was still holding her wrist painfully and his green eyes glittered at her from under the black brim of his hat. She hadn't thought she'd ever see those green eyes again…. “Jake?” she whispered incredulously. “I didn't know it was you—I thought—I thought you were Sarratt.”

His expression was shuttered as he looked down at her, and a long moment of silence stretched between them, so long that she felt a chill of apprehension. His eyes were grim and cold.

“I am,” he said.

* * *

He dragged her down from the rocks. “Sit down, and don't move even an inch. I'm going to take care of the horses. If you move, you'll regret it.” He spoke in a very even tone. She didn't doubt him.

She sat in the dust and watched as he unsaddled the horses, then walked both of them around for a while. The horse he'd been riding was unfamiliar to her, a detail that made her bite her lip. If he'd been riding his own horse, she would have recognized it. Would she have still run from him? If she hadn't, would it have been a mistake? He was Sarratt, he'd said, and she still didn't know what he wanted with her.

Gypsy was so tired she could barely walk. Jake—if that really was his first name—gave some of their precious water to the horses and tethered them where they could get at the few succulent plants that grew in the shade of the outcropping.

Victoria felt shattered, even more so than when Emma had told her he'd left. It was a curious difference, but then she had hurt from the loss, the betrayal of her trust. Now she was terrified that the betrayal went much deeper than that. It wasn't simply that he didn't return her regard, but that he might have used her in the broader scope of revenge. Had he simply been hoping to satisfy some of his thirst for vengeance by cuckolding the Major? What was he going to do with her now? She tried to think of what to say to him, but her mind was blank, perhaps blessedly so. All she could do was sit and watch.

Jake himself was so angry he could barely speak. Not only had she disobeyed his order to stay in the house, but she'd led the others into danger. She had run their horses into the ground and shot at him. That alone made him so angry he didn't want to approach her again until he was more in control of himself. She looked exhausted, and dazed. It was a while before he calmed down enough to walk over to her, canteen in hand. She had to be as thirsty as he was.

She didn't look up at his approach, even when he
was standing right before her with his legs braced, dusty boots nudging hers. She braced herself, but nothing happened; he continued to loom silently over her, dominating her without saying a word.

Finally she broke the silence. “It was you who attacked the ranch last night, wasn't it?”

Jake opened the canteen and shoved it into her hands. “Yes. My brother and I brought our men in and took back the ranch.” He paused, watching her carefully as he said, “McLain is dead.”

Victoria failed to react in any way because she still felt so numb. She tipped the canteen back and drank. It was refreshing, even though the water was warm.

Jake took the canteen away and drank from it himself. He recapped it and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, watching her all the while. “I said, your husband is dead.”

She didn't look at him. “I heard you.”

“Don't you care?”

“I don't mourn him, but I can't—I can't be glad anyone is dead,” she replied.

“Juana killed him. He'd raped her.”

Victoria flinched, and wondered if she had just lied. Perhaps she
was
glad that the Major was dead. He'd been a vile man. Would any living punishment have been enough?

“Ben and I control the ranch now.”

A ghost of interest stirred in her, and she lifted her head. She hadn't truly understood what he'd said before. “So your brother survived, too,” she said in a blank little voice. “I'm glad.” She looked at the horses, a slight frown knitting her forehead, and asked the question she really didn't want to hear the answer to. “Where are the others?”

“I sent them after Emma and Celia.”

“They—” She swallowed, and tried again. “They won't hurt them, will they?”

“Not if they don't try something stupid. Like shooting.”

Victoria shivered, because Emma probably would shoot.

Jake rested his boot on the rock beside her and propped his arms on his raised knee. “Why'd you change horses with Celia?”

“Gypsy couldn't keep up. I thought Celia would have a better chance of getting away if she were riding Sophie.”

He didn't say anything else, just stood there watching her. She looked at the ground; she felt so bleak inside it was almost unbearable. If anything happened to Emma or Celia, she would never forgive herself—assuming, of course, that Jake didn't kill her. But if he had been going to do so, she reasoned, he would already have done it.

She raised her head again. “What are you going to do with me?”

He smiled, not a particularly pleasant smile.
Make love to you until neither of us can walk,
he thought with a savage mixture of anger and need, born out of his worry and fear for her. The violent compulsion to mate was inborn, and he wouldn't be able to relax until she was well and truly his, until he felt her safe in his arms. For now, however, he still didn't dare touch her. Instead he said aloud, “Take you back to the ranch. After the horses rest.”

She was afraid to ask any more questions.

There were four of them. Emma saw that much when she cast a desperate look over her shoulder. Celia was faring badly on Sophie. The horse seemed to be taking pity on her inept rider and was striding as smoothly as silk, but without reaching for the great depths of speed her steely muscles possessed. As a result, the four riders were rapidly gaining on them. Emma recognized her choices with agonized clarity. She could stay with Celia or she could save herself, but she couldn't do both. For Emma, there was really no choice involved. She held the gelding so that it
matched strides with Sophie and awkwardly wrestled the rifle around. Riding sidesaddle wasn't the best position for firing a rifle and her first shot went wide.

Ben cursed and bent low over his horse's neck, asking the animal for more speed. It was tired, but with the other horses' hindquarters in sight it surged forward. Luis, beside him, did the same. Ben went for the wildcat who was shooting at them, Luis for the girl who was barely staying in the saddle.

It wasn't that easy. The dark-haired one shot again and this time the shot came uncomfortably close. The other girl somehow clung to the saddle and the big mare she was riding increased its speed. Ben angled his horse so that he came up on the right side of the one with the rifle, effectively taking himself out of her line of fire. His horse surged rhythmically beneath him, hooves pounding, lungs blowing; he pulled even with the gelding's hindquarters and his horse stretched out even more, driven by the need to get out in front. Inch by inch he drew even with the gelding.

From the corner of his eye Ben saw Luis reach out to grab the big mare's bridle. The little blonde screamed and began tearing at his hand, and the brunette tried to swing the rifle like a club, evidently not trusting her marksmanship enough to shoot with Luis so close to the girl.

Ben leaned out of the saddle and caught her around the waist, dragging her backward off of the horse as he reined in his own mount.

Emma arched and kicked, frantically trying to loosen his grip, but all she succeeded in doing was dropping the rifle. She reached backward, clawing for his face, his hair, any part of him that she could reach. Dangling in the air as she was, anchored only by his arm around her waist, she wasn't having much success, and in desperation she began hammering her heels against his leg and the horse's ribs. The animal snorted and plunged, and she heard the man curse as
they both came off the horse, landing with a thump in the dust.