Angel Creek (24 page)

“Lucas!” she screamed even as she slid from the saddle. “Lucas!” She ran up on the porch and pounded on the door with her fist.

“Here! Tillie, I'm over here.”

She turned and saw him striding up from the barn, his long legs eating up the distance. She ran down the steps and sprinted across the yard toward him, screaming the entire way. “You've got to get down to Angel Creek! They've gone crazy, they're shooting at her, trying to take the land—”

She reached him, and he grabbed her arms to halt her. His blue eyes had turned to ice. If hell had been cold, it would have looked like his eyes. “Who is it?” His fingers bit into her soft arms. She gasped for breath, and he roughly shook her. “Damn it, who is it?”

“It's Kyle,” she said, still gulping air. “Kyle Bellamy. He's desperate—the Bar B's water is almost gone.”

Lucas turned, roaring for everyone to get their rifles and saddle up. Every man within hearing ran to obey. Lucas sprinted for his own mount. Tillie ran after him, her red taffeta skirts kicking up and showing her petticoats.

“Luis Fronteras is helping her,” she yelled. “He rode into town and sent me after you, then he went back.”

Lucas gave a brief nod to show that he'd heard. The
tight sense of panic in his chest eased a little as he realized Dee wasn't facing Bellamy and his men all alone.

He swung into the saddle, and Tillie grabbed his leg. “Don't kill Kyle,” she begged frantically. “God, Lucas, please don't kill him. I love him. Please, please don't kill him, promise me.”

Lucas looked down at her, that icy look still in his eyes. “I can't make any promises,” he said. If Bellamy had harmed Dee, he wouldn't see another sunrise.

Lucas put spurs to his horse, riding hard for the pass that would get him to Angel Creek faster than any other way. Tillie stood in the yard and watched the men ride out, and tears slowly tracked down her dusty face.

D
EE CROUCHED BENEATH ONE OF THE FRONT WINDOWS.
She had discarded the shotgun in favor of the rifle, for accuracy, but she was running out of shells. She had prepared for a lot of things, but never for a seige, and that's what this was.

At least they hadn't turned the cattle. Maybe the men hadn't tried but had turned their attention to her. After all, if she were dead, then they could move the cattle in without trouble.

She didn't know how long it had been going on because one of the shots had hit her clock, and she had no idea what time it was. Late afternoon. The sun was red and low in the sky. Come dark, they would approach the cabin, and she wouldn't be able to cover all the windows. She had already blocked the bedroom door so that even if anyone crawled through the bedroom window he wouldn't be able to come up behind her without her knowledge.

She gripped the rifle as she carefully watched for someone to make a careless move and show himself. The wood stock was slippery, and she wiped her hand on her skirt, but it didn't seem to help. She looked down and saw that it wasn't sweat on her hand, but blood. Some of the flying glass had cut her arm.

She was tired, deathly tired, but she didn't dare rest for even a minute. She was thirsty but couldn't even cross the room for a drink of water.

There. A slight movement, a hint of blue. Dee carefully sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger, not even hearing the sharp crack as the rifle fired. She saw a brief commotion of movement and knew she'd hit someone.

Immediately another volley of shots struck the little cabin, gouging out long splinters of wood, ricocheting off the wood stove. She flattened herself on the floor as a bullet zinged across the room, gaining herself more cuts from the shattered glass that covered the floor. There wasn't a piece of glass left in any of the windows.

Quickly she sat up, swinging the rifle around. One man darted from cover, and she fired, sending him diving back. Damn, she'd missed him.

It would be dark soon. She had to do something, but there was nothing she could do. If she fired without seeing a target, she would waste her bullets, but if she simply waited, they would win anyway.

She wiped her bloody hands on her skirt again. God, she was bleeding all over from cuts. Her clothes were soaked.

She didn't care. She was thinking with an awful clarity. Those men were in a blood lust, and if they
didn't kill her outright, they would each take a turn raping her. And she knew she would rather die. They would not violate her body, the flesh that she had shared only with Lucas—not while she drew breath. Her instinct was to fight, and she supposed it was too late now to start going against her instincts. If she had to die, she intended to take as many of those bastards with her as she could.

She scrambled to her knees, put the rifle to her shoulder, and began firing. The rifle was a repeater, so she shot until it was empty, then hastily reloaded and began firing again. Return fire tore into the cabin.

The window frame splintered, and she fell back with a stifled scream. Her left shoulder burned like fire, and she glanced down to see a long, thin sliver of wood protruding from it. She tried to pull it out, but her fingers were too slippery to hold it. Since there was nothing she could do, she put it and the pain out of her mind.

Luis had attracted a lot of attention once Bellamy and his men had noticed they were being fired on from two positions. He had been hit twice—once a shallow burn on his left bicep that he had ignored, the second time in his right side. The wound hadn't hit any internal organs, but it had bled like a son of a bitch. He had pulled off his bandanna, pressed it over the long gouge, and resumed firing, but soon the blood was streaming down his hip and leg.

He had to have more pressure on the wound. He transferred the pistol to his left hand and pressed his right elbow hard against his side. A wave of dizziness made him shake his head in an effort to clear his
vision. If Cochran didn't get there at once, it would be too late. The woman was still shooting, but it would be dark soon, and he was losing too much blood to be able to help her.

Lucas split up his men, sending some of them to circle around behind Bellamy while he and the rest of them approached unseen down the slope, keeping the barn between them and the line of fire. Because of the large clearing around the cabin none of Bellamy's men had been able to work around to the side, and Dee was concentrating all of her fire to the front, where they were using the trees as cover. The surge of relief he felt when he heard her firing steadily made him feel weak. They were in time. Damn, what a woman!

He had to wait until his men who had flanked Bellamy had made their move, then his group began firing from the side. Bellamy didn't have a chance under the savage crossfire of the Double C men. Lucas realized that Dee was still shooting; she didn't know what was happening and was likely to kill some of his own men if she wasn't stopped. “I'm going into the cabin,” he yelled. “Keep their heads down.”

He ran toward the back stoop under the protection of a hail of bullets, but someone spied him anyway, and a bullet kicked up dust just in front of him. With all the lead flying it wasn't healthy for a man to stand and politely knock at a door; Dee would probably cut him in half with the shotgun anyway before she knew who he was. He leapt up on the back stoop and hit the door at a dead run, driving his muscled shoulder into it and sending it crashing back against the wall. Dee
was at one of the front windows, and she scrabbled clumsily around, screaming as she fired the rifle. His heart clenched in pure terror when he saw her covered in blood, but he didn't pause for even a second. He dived to the floor, rolling to the side and coming up to lunge for her. She was still screaming as she swung the rifle at his head.

“Dee!” he yelled, grabbing her. “Goddammit, it's me, Lucas!” He wrested the rifle out of her bloody hands and tossed it aside, then wrapped his arms around her.

She shrieked, trying to throw herself backward even as she pounded at his face with her fists. Her eyes were wild, the pupils shrunk to tiny pinpoints.

“Dee!” he roared again, just trying to hold her still. She was hurt—God, she was hurt, and he didn't want to cause her any more pain, but he had to calm her down. He wrestled her down to the glass-covered floor, pinning her with his heavy weight. “Dee,” he repeated, saying her name over and over. “Look at me. It's all right. I'm here, and I'll take care of you. Look at me.”

Slowly she stilled, more from exhaustion than comprehension. She was quivering from head to foot, but at least she had quit fighting him. Her wild eyes were fastened on his face as if she were trying to make sense of what was happening. He kept talking to her, his voice low and soothing, and finally she blinked as understanding dawned. “Lucas,” she murmured.

He was there. He was really there. She was conscious of relief, not so much because she was safe but because she could rest now. She was tired, so very,
very tired, and oddly cold. The pain that she had held at bay for so long finally caught up with her as she let her tired muscles relax. She heard herself make a strange moaning sound, and her body loosened into total limpness. Her head lolled on the plank flooring.

Lucas could barely breathe. She was drenched in blood, her clothing soaked, even her hair matted with it. For the first time he noticed a long sliver of wood stuck in her shoulder, and he felt sick. As gently as he could he released her and got to his feet. He kicked the furniture she had piled against the bedroom door away and jerked a blanket from the bed, shaking it to make certain it didn't have glass on it, too, then replacing it. Returning to the other room, he lifted Dee as carefully as possible and carried her to the bed.

He looked around for a lamp, but they had all been broken. He examined her as thoroughly as possible in the dim light, his heart pounding as he looked for gunshot wounds. A bullet had creased her left hipbone, and she had that wicked splinter in her shoulder, but all of her other wounds were cuts from the broken glass. She was covered with them—small cuts on her scalp and face, her neck and shoulders and arms. Taken separately, her wounds were not serious, but there were so many of them that she had lost a dangerous amount of blood. Her lips looked blue, and beneath the blood her skin had a chilling translucent quality to it.

He heard his own voice swearing low and savagely as he tried to halt the bleeding, but he wasn't aware of what he was saying. Such minor wounds, and she might yet die.

He heard booted feet crunching on the broken glass, and William Tobias appeared in the doorway. “She all right, boss?”

“No. She's lost a lot of blood. Get the wagon hitched up. We've got to get her into town.”

“That Mexican, Fronteras, caught a couple of bullets. He's lost a right smart amount of blood, too, but I reckon he'll be all right. About five of the Bar B men need burying, some more need patching up. There was about thirty of the bastards after her. We hurt 'em the most, I reckon.”

Lucas nodded, not taking his attention from Dee. “Hurry up with that wagon.”

William left to see to it.

Lucas started to remove the long splinter from her shoulder but decided to leave it. Blood was oozing around it, but if he pulled it out the wound might start bleeding heavily, and she didn't need to lose any more blood than she already had. He carefully wrapped the blanket around her and lifted her.

William pulled the wagon right up to the porch just as Lucas stepped outside with his burden. His men were standing around with their weapons trained on the Bar B men, the look on their faces saying that they wished someone would try to get away. The wounded were sprawled on the ground; the dead had been left where they lay.

“Where's Fronteras?” Lucas asked as he gently placed Dee on the wagon bed. She didn't move.

“Here.”

“Put him on the wagon, too.”

Two of his men lifted one of the wounded and laid
him on the wagon. Lucas saw the Mexican's dark eyes open. “Is she all right?” he asked huskily.

“She's hurt,” Lucas replied, his voice tight. “Fronteras, you have a place on my ranch for the rest of your life if you want it.”

Luis managed a semblance of a smile, then his eyes closed again.

“Will, get them to the doc. I'll be along in a few minutes.” Lucas stepped back. William nodded and slapped the reins against the horse's back.

Slowly Lucas turned his head to look at the Bar B men. Killing rage was bubbling in his veins, and it was cold, ice cold. Kyle Bellamy stood with his men, his head down and his arms hanging loose at his sides.

Lucas wasn't aware of moving, but suddenly Bellamy's shirt was knotted in his big fist. The man looked up, and Lucas's powerful right arm cocked back, then drove his iron-hard fist into Bellamy's face.

He had never before taken joy in fighting, but he felt savage satisfaction every time his fists thudded into Bellamy. He beat the man to the ground, then pulled him up and beat him some more. He kept seeing Dee's blood-soaked body, and he hit Bellamy even harder, feeling ribs crack as he drove his fists into the man's sides and midsection. Bellamy made no effort to fight back, merely raising his arms to try to block some of the blows. That didn't incline Lucas toward mercy.

Finally Bellamy pitched forward and lay still, and one of the Double C men caught Lucas's arm as he started for him again. “No point in it, boss,” the man said. “He can't feel a thing.”

Lucas halted and stared down at the motionless
man at his feet. His face was unrecognizable, but Lucas didn't feel the satisfaction of vengeance. His rage was so deep that even killing Bellamy wouldn't ease it.

He hadn't promised Tillie that he wouldn't kill Bellamy, but he owed her. If she hadn't ridden her heart out to reach him, Dee would have died alone in her cabin. He let his hands drop.

“What do we do with them?” one of the men asked.