Caine's Reckoning (2 page)

“Who are you?” she asked, through the chattering of her teeth.

“
Caine Allen
,
Texas
Ranger.” He’d tip his hat if he had a free hand. Though she was all but naked and covered in blood, she had an air about her that reminded a man of his manners. The introduction didn’t ease any of the turbulence he read in her eyes.

“Father Gerard asked me to come fetch you home,” he added, shrugging out of his wool-lined leather duster and wrapping it around her, drawing her into his body heat. She fit against him nicely.

“Is he dead?”

It was hard to acquaint the quavery whisper with the woman who’d faced down three grown men with nothing more than her temper and teeth. He took in the fallen man’s blank stare, the hole dead-center between his eyes and the blood pooling beneath his head. “If not, he’s doing a fair imitation.”

“Oh.”

If he hadn’t been studying the blue tinge under her skin, he would have missed the subtle tremble that ran through her and just mistaken it for another of the cold chills shaking her from head to toe. Winter was wrapping up, but spring had yet to put in an appearance and the late March wind was cold. He helped her up and forward, moving her away from the blood toward the other women. She’d fought like hell, but as soon as reaction set in, she’d be wanting the company of her own sex.

To their right, there was a series of splashes. He looked up. Tracker stood over the man in the stream.

“That the last of them?”

“Yup.” Tracker bent and grabbed the man’s arms, hauling the body out of the water.

The cold damp of the woman’s hair soaked through his shirt as she turned her head to stare at the gruesome sight. Another almost imperceptible shiver racked her frame. Caine turned his body, shielding her from the horror.

Her “Good riddance” caught him by surprise. He tipped her chin up, checking her expression. Her face was tight with strain, her pale lips drawn to a narrow, bloodless line, but she was still with him. “It is that, ma’am.”

She cautiously moved her chin off the shelf of his finger, her wary gaze locked on his as if afraid to move too fast. He guessed he couldn’t blame her for that—being kidnapped out of her bed and subjected to attempted rape probably made a woman six ways of cautious. He dropped his hand to her back, keeping her against him as the chill from her body seeped into his.

“I need to sit down.”

He just bet she did, but a good twenty feet still separated them from the women. He would take on many things without batting an eye, but a hysterical female wasn’t one of them. She stopped at a fallen tree.

“This is good.”

For such a delicate little thing, her voice had a pleasing depth and a seductive, husky rasp that made him think of dark rooms, soft whispers and hot sex. His cock, semi-hard from the battle, surged to fully erect as the soft scent of lavender teased his senses. He shifted his position so she wouldn’t notice the purely male reaction. A woman who’d just escaped rape would not welcome any sign of a man’s interest, no matter what side of the law he sat on. “No offense, Miss…?”

Instead of immediately supplying her name, she hesitated and frowned. For the space of two heartbeats she left the blank empty, then with a nearly imperceptible shrug she answered, “Desi.”

Unusual, but it suited her in a strange, boldly feminine way. “Would that be Miss or Mrs.?”

Another pause. “Miss.”

Unmarried. His luck was picking up. He motioned with his hand to the women on the opposite edge of the clearing. “I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable with the others.”

She shook her head, turned out of his arms and sank down, clutching his coat around her and repeated, “This is good.”

He let his hands slide up her back as she lowered herself, feeling her wince as she reached the log, the action no doubt compressing her ribs. “You sure you’re okay, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

Remembering the blow she’d taken, he didn’t find that short, breathless assurance comforting. He ran his right hand down her spine over the jacket, spreading his fingers wide, counting her ribs as he went, immediately locating the damaged area by her soft gasp.

“She all right?” Sam asked, strolling up to their side.

His “No” overrode her “Yes.”

Sam, damn his hide, had the gall to look amused at the contradiction. Caine pressed along her sixth rib. She twisted away. He paused. “Maybe you’d feel better with one of the women caring for you?”

She hunched her shoulders into the heavy duster and shook her head. Her chin was set in that way he already recognized meant stubborn. “I’m fine.”

He checked the other side as best he could through the coat.

“Denying what needs to be done doesn’t end the need for the doing.”

Her fingers made deep dents in the coat’s leather sleeves. “Why not?”

He shook his head at the illogic. “Because I said so.”

“I don’t hold you the final opinion on what’s so.”

He just bet she didn’t. “Now that’s a shame, because right now I’m the one calling the shots.”

Her chin came up in that way that just begged a man to make a stronger point. “For now.”

“I’m thinking if anyone’s going to do anything, it’s going to have to be you,” Sam added.

Caine threw him a questioning glance, slipping his hand under the coat and testing the extent of Desi’s tenderness with one hand while keeping her put with the other on her shoulder.

“Seems the other women don’t want to associate with—” a jerk of his thumb indicated the woman beside him “—her.”

If he hadn’t been touching Desi, he wouldn’t have felt her start.

“They got a reason for that line of thinking?” Caine asked. From what he could tell, Desi was the only one worth associating with. Any woman who could spit in the devil’s eye had his admiration.

“Apparently, she has a history of tempting men,” Sam said.

“You’re shitting me, right?” Caine glanced down. Desi didn’t look up, just shook her head, which could have been an answer either way, shivered and then tugged the coat collar higher.

“They seem mighty convinced of their notions,” Sam offered without inflection.

One glance at the sullen faces of the three women standing shoulder-to-shoulder arguing with a nonresponsive Tracker put credence to Sam’s claim. “Is that what they’re clucking about over there?”

“Yeah. About nonstop. Seem to think the more words they throw at a man the more sway they have.”

“Tracker must be in his glory.”

Sam smiled that cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “He says to tell you he’s about ready to cut out some tongues to get some peace.”

Desi jumped and cast Tracker a wary look. He couldn’t blame her. Tracker had a lethal just-give-me-a-reason attitude about him that could clear the roughest saloon with just a glance. The scar on his cheek did nothing to diminish it.

Caine smoothed the heavy mass of hair off Desi’s cheek, absorbing into his palm the trembles the shook her. The “Easy, I’ve got you” welled out of nowhere, a murmured reassurance connected to a foreign sense of possessiveness. Sam cocked a sandy eyebrow at him, a bit of amusement lightening his gaze as he pulled out his makings. He gestured to Desi with the packet.

“I get the impression this one could spout gospel and those three would label it devil worship.”

Beneath Caine’s fingers, the woman’s muscles tightened to rock hard ridges. “Jesus H. Christ.”

Sam rolled a smoke, the sharpness in the move the only indication of his disgust. “It gets better.”

It would. “What?”

He reached into his pocket for a lucifer. “They’re requesting you return them to their homes immediately.”

“That’s the plan.”

He struck the lucifer on the side of his boot. “But they don’t want her brought along.”

“What do they think I’m going to do, leave her as a treat for whoever comes calling?” Desi flinched. He caught a flash of blue as she cut him a glance from under her lashes. He took his hand out from under her coat. As she pulled the lapels closed, he stroked her back, gentling her worries. He wouldn’t leave her.

Sam lit the cigarette. “Don’t think they’d be averse to the idea.”

“Goddamn!”

“I don’t mind.” The soft statement rode his exasperation, feeding it.

“Well, I sure as he—” he caught himself in time “—heck do.”

Sam flicked the match to the ground and took a draw on his smoke. “The women claim they won’t go if she goes with them.”

“So?”

“Just checking how you feel on that.”

Beneath his hands, Desi’s bones felt as delicate as bird wings. It was hard to believe she’d fought as hard as she had or been so successful with so little, but sometimes it wasn’t the size of the dog in the fight as much as the size of the fight in the dog, and this woman had plenty of fight. He admired that. “Tell them when I say mount up, they’ll mount, or they’ll walk tied behind, but one way or another, they’ll go.”

A strident screech from one of the other women snapped his head around. From the pitch he would have assumed the camp was under immediate attack, but in reality, the only one who looked threatened was Tracker. Even from where he stood, Caine could see the anger roll off the women flanking him. The vehemence. Hands waved, fingers pointed, and then, as if it would add emphasis to their point, the women moved in.

Tracker drove the three women back with a slice of his hand and a sharp utterance Caine couldn’t make out. Turning on his heel, he stalked toward them, his long black hair fanning behind him, emphasizing his irritation. He touched the brim of his black hat in deference to Desi as he got close, his expression displaying none of the anger Caine could see simmering under his skin. “This the one the padre was concerned about?”

“Yup. Desi, this is Tracker Ochoa.”

Caine couldn’t blame Tracker for the shake of the head. It was hard to reconcile Father Gerard’s description of “a fragile flower of womanhood” with the hellion who had held off three men with nothing more than sheer grit.

“Hell of a fight you put up, ma’am.”

Desi ducked her head. Her “Thank you” was a wisp of sound as she all but disappeared into the coat. If she was hoping to dispel interest, Caine could have told her she was angling down the wrong path. The contradiction of all that fire banked behind a wall of demure shyness was the perfect recipe to raise a man’s interest. Tracker’s more so than most. For all that he was one scary son of a bitch, he was the softest man Caine had ever seen when it came to women.

Tracker jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The ladies demand to talk to—” he lifted his nose and pitched his deep baritone to a high falsetto “—whomever is in command.” The irritation in the imitation reflected Tracker’s sentiments on the matter. Whereas Desi had earned the big man’s respect, the other women had apparently stirred up nothing but disgust.

“Appears to me they’re not in a position to demand anything.”

“Give them a chance, they’ll argue that into the ground.”

Caine didn’t intend to give them any chance at all. Giving Desi’s shoulder one last reassuring squeeze, he stepped back, settled his Stetson on his head and bit back the anger that rose too swiftly these days. “Then I guess this is their lucky day. I’m available.”

Desi breathed a sigh of relief as Caine took his hands off her shoulders. He was simply too much, from the way he watched her with those intense green eyes that seemed to uncover everything she wanted hidden, to the way his chin squared beneath his generous mouth. Everything about him was raw and untamed and uncompromisingly masculine. The lines that bracketed that mouth could indicate either a tendency to frown or smile. Truth be told, she couldn’t imagine so intense a man smiling, but at the same time he didn’t have that negative feel to him that she associated with bitterness. The hat he kept pulled low over his coffee-brown hair only heightened the impression of power. Angled low over his brow, it shaded his eyes and emphasized the command set into the rugged structure of his face. He wasn’t strictly handsome, but she bet there wasn’t a woman in the territory who didn’t stop and speculate when he passed. He had a presence that just screamed danger, while at the same time that innate strength beckoned with the seductive lure of safety. Both messages were delivered with equal strength, leaving it to the imagination which trait would be the one a woman would find in her bed should she be reckless enough to extend an invitation.

Not that she would ever extend an invitation. Desi shivered. The last year had cured her of all girlish illusions to the true nature of men, and as soon as she located her sister, she was going to find at least one place in this world where she could live her life in peace.

Desi watched as Caine crossed the clearing to talk to her fellow captives, his long legs eating up the distance with amazing ease, his muscled buttocks, perfectly outlined by the straps of his chaps, flexing with every step. Nothing in the easy roll of his gait or the set of his wide shoulders indicated impatience, but he
was
impatient. She’d felt it in his touch a second before he’d stepped away. Part of her hoped he’d unleash that frustration on Mavis, who seemed to feel it was her God-given right to be judge, jury and executioner over all that came into her domain.