Cherished (27 page)

“Want me to get some, Knife?” The other man,
with a lined face and thatchy brown hair, raised one ragged
eyebrow. “One of the gals over in Fred’s place must have somethin’
like that, don’t you think?”

Knife was scowling down into Juliana’s
battered face, the long, curled eyelashes lying like velvet fringe
against her cheeks, “I’ll go—I want to see if Fred nabbed Rawdon
like he said he could. That’s one hombre I’m itching to get my
hands on.”

“But Knife—what about letting me out? After
all, you said it was a good idea ...”

Jackson turned, one hand on the doorknob.
“I’ll think on it, Dane. You think on how you almost let this
little filly slip right through your fingers.”

As the door banged behind him, Dane’s face
fell. “Aw, boys, c’mon ...”

But the scar-faced man snorted, “Shut up or
we’ll ram those keys down your throat—Sheriff!”

“Yeah ... Sheriff!” Fingering Juliana’s
dress, the other man sighed. “Sure wish we had time to have some
fun with this one. Lardy, just look at her ...”

“This is business, Clyde. Knife’d skin you if
he found out ...”

“I’m only thinkin’ out loud, Pritchard.
C’mon, help me get her into that chair. Let her sit a minute once
those smelling salts bring her round. She cain’t answer no
questions if she’s half dead.”

Through a haze of throbbing pain, Juliana
heard their words, and shuddered inwardly. Her ribs felt as though
they’d been run over by a locomotive, the splintering pain in her
head was so excruciating, she could scarcely keep from moaning; but
she fought to remain as still as possible, to put off as long as
she could the rest of the questions—and the rest of the
beating.

Why don’t they just kill me and get it
over with?
she wondered, but she knew the answer already.
Because they wanted information from her and would keep her
alive—just barely—until they had it. So what could she do? Lie.
Give them a tale that would satisfy them and pray that they
wouldn’t kill her when she was done.

But when she tried to remember the questions
so she could prepare false answers to deceive them, her mind
wavered in and out of consciousness, and she could not remember
what they wanted to know. Something about Wade and Tommy—and Cole
Rawdon.

Where is he?
The bleak question ran
through her in waves of hopelessness.
Why doesn’t he help
me?

Probably because he was far away from here by
now, no longer thinking of her, or of anything but how he would
spend his reward money. He was gone, he didn’t care....

Tears stung her eyelids but she forced them
back. A heavy, dragging weakness possessed her. Every part of her,
even her toes, hurt. She couldn’t withstand much more. Oh, why
wouldn’t they just shoot her and be done—

“Hey, she’s coming round. Her hand moved.
See?”

“Yeah.” Pritchard jerked her upright in the
chair and slapped her lightly on the cheek. “Wake up, honey, we’re
not finished with you yet.”

A moan escaped her lips. She couldn’t help
it. It was all going to begin again. The questions, the blows, the
shouts ...

“Hey, Knife’ll be real glad if we could get
her to talk by the time he gets back,” said Pritchard, the man with
the scar. He yanked Juliana’s hair, forcing her head back, and
stared down into huge green eyes that were dazed with fear.

“All right now, girlie. Where’s that hideout?
Tell us and we’ll go easy on you. We won’t let Knife cut you, will
we, Clyde?”

“Naw. Not if you tell.”

Knife
. She hadn’t thought she could
feel any more fear, but at the mention of his name, dread crawled
through her. Juliana ran her tongue over dry, bruised lips, trying
not to cry. Her throat hurt all over from the cruel pressure of
Knife’s hands.

“Water, please,” she managed to whisper.

“Unh-unh. Not till you talk, girlie. Where’s
the hideout?”

“I need water ...”

“Let me out of here,” Lucius Dane called
desperately, rattling the bars of the cell, “and I’ll make her
talk.”

Thunder crashed outside, drowning out the
men’s response, but they were angry, she could see that even
through her bleary, pain-racked eyes, angry at Lucius Dane and his
incessant nagging, angry at her for refusing to answer their
questions.

Pritchard, who smelled like onions and rancid
sweat, struck her another blow to the side of the head and bent
over her again, glaring.

“Tell us about Rawdon, then ... is he going
to make a bid for Fire Mesa?”

“Rawdon ...” Juliana croaked as her lip
started bleeding again, and both her tormentors leaned closer,
faces alight with eagerness. “Never heard of him ...”

Clyde kicked the chair out from under her,
knocking her to the floor. What was left of a scream tore from
Juliana’s throat as he lifted his foot to kick her. But the kick
never came. One moment she saw his boot coming toward her face, and
the next instant gunfire rocked the office, shot after shot, until
Juliana lost count and lay half conscious with her hands over her
head, waiting at any moment for the next blow to fall or the next
bullet to take her life.

Someone leaned over her and she flinched with
fear, but did not even have the strength to push away the strong
hands reaching down to her.

Knife. He was back. He was going to stab her
now ...

“I hope you don’t mind my shooting them,
angel, but it’s all I could think of at the moment,” Cole Rawdon
said in a hoarse voice she scarcely recognized. She opened her eyes
in hazy disbelief, peering through a mist of agony into glinting
cobalt eyes so furious, they made her gasp—then immediately she
thought,
It isn’t him. This man is covered with blood.

Grayness clouded her vision, then she felt
herself grasped in powerful arms, lifted, and the next thing she
knew, rain was pelting her face, her neck, her gown.

“Hang on, sweetheart, we’ve got to get away
from here.”

His voice. His arms around her. And cold, icy
rain. There was lightning, too, which seared her eyes. Like the
night Cole Rawdon had found her, the night he’d pulled her back
from that cliff....

“Cole ...”

“I know it’s cold, sweetheart, but we can’t
stop, not yet.”

She hadn’t been trying to say
cold
.
It was
Cole
she had murmured, unaware of where she was or
what was happening, unable to comprehend the galloping motion of
the horse, or the swiftness with which the stormy night ripped
by.

All she knew was that Cole was with her
again, holding her in his arms, keeping her on this horse, and
whether it was dream or reality, she didn’t care ... he was there
and she was safe ... safe ...

“Cole,” she whispered again, her words lost
on the wild wind. Deep within the streaming mountain gorges through
which they rode at breakneck pace, on a pinto horse as swift as the
streaks of lightning that burned the sky, with a man holding her
who was covered with almost as much blood as she, Juliana passed
out.

Sunlight caressed Juliana’s eyelids, sending
waves of golden light beneath her lashes to tease her from her
slumber. Something scratchy and vaguely familiar tickled her chin.
Murmuring, she curled sideways and felt the softness of bedding
beneath her. She opened her eyes with great reluctance, and a
little trepidation, to find herself lying on a neatly made up
feather bed, with Cole Rawdon’s saddle blanket tucked around her.
And nothing beneath. Not a stitch of clothes.

Just a bandage around her ribs.

She lurched up, then fell back with a groan
as every muscle busily reprimanded her for her foolhardiness. After
a moment she tried again, this time raising herself up carefully
and gazing about the tiny, square cabin in which she found
herself.

It was a modest one-room structure. There was
a crude fireplace on the north wall, an old dented stove beside it,
and a bench beneath the window with one small cupboard standing
open to show a meager assortment of plates and mugs. Three cane
chairs and a small roughly carved table of pine were set near the
stove and were the only other objects of furniture besides this
bed. No curtains, no rug, no ornamentation of any kind, nothing but
a broom in the corner, an ancient-looking iron kettle on top of the
stove, a wood box, and some kindling.

Where was this place? How had she come here?
She struggled for a wisp of memory, something to tell her what had
happened to her. The last thing she recalled was the men beating
her in the Plattsville jail ...

The door opened and Cole Rawdon walked in
just as she was trying to get down from the bed.

“Whoa, there, what are you trying to do?” he
demanded, sprinting forward and seizing her as her legs wobbled. He
caught her carefully in his arms and eased her back onto the bed,
scowling beneath the shadow of his hat.

“I reckon Knife Jackson and his boys didn’t
knock any sense into you after all.”

“Where are my clothes?” Juliana cried,
clutching the blanket around her. Why was she always near naked
around this man? What was he doing here? And exactly where
was
here?

“Your clothes are gone,” he told her
abruptly. “With the bloodstains, they weren’t worth saving. I’ve
got a shirt and trousers you can wear if you don’t have a hankering
for my saddle blanket.”

“Who ... took my clothes ... off me?”

“Bounty hunter. Nice fellow. Rides a pinto
horse that’s partial to yellow-haired women. Maybe you know
him.”

“How
dare
you undress me! You ...
you ...”

“Isn’t that just like a woman?” Cole mused,
pushing her back on the bed with one hand as she tried to rise and
wrench herself away from him. “You bring her to the prettiest spot
on earth and all she worries about is what she’s going to
wear.”

Juliana stared at him, speechless. For the
first time, she was able to have a clear view of his face, and
shock bolted through her at the sight of the bruises around his jaw
and left eye. Most chilling of all was the wicked cut across his
cheek, jagged and tender-looking, the tissue not yet mended and
sure to scar. “What happened to you?” she gasped, horror and
concern rising in a rush, but he merely shrugged and laughed
grimly.

“I got lassoed by part of the same outfit
that got their hands on you,” he said. His face changed, softening.
“I owe you an apology for that.”

He reached up a hand and gently touched her
cheek. Despite the softness of his touch, Juliana winced. “And for
that—and that”—he pointed to the various bruises on her bare
arms—“and that.” His finger lightly circled the marks on her neck.
She saw the remorse on his face.

Sunlight had turned her emerald eyes to
glowing gems, brilliant and incandescent in the pale, bruised face.
He thought of that split second when Fred had come at him, slicing
him with that shard of glass, and how his one thought had been for
Juliana—who would save her after he died? Then, miraculously, some
final burst of strength had rent the ropes apart, and he had been
free to fight Fred to the death with his bare fists, free to get
Juliana out of that jail. Too bad Knife Jackson was nowhere to be
found, but he had shot the other two. Dane had been behind bars,
cowering like a rabbit. Disgusted, angry as blazes, Cole had left
him to rot. He had brought Juliana here, cared for her, agonized
over the sight of each of her hurts. All of it was his fault. Cole
hadn’t ever believed he could feel such pain over another person’s
suffering, but this girl affected him like no one he had ever met.
Seeing her now, hurt and confused, made him want to enfold her in
his arms. The fact that she was naked beneath that blanket made it
even more tempting.

Easy, boy
, he told himself sternly.
Settle down and let the lady catch her breath
. But he had
to fight a powerful urge to ignore his own advice.

Juliana, for her part, couldn’t stop staring
at the gash on his face. She suddenly wanted to hold him, stroke
his hair, and comfort him as if he were a little boy. All the while
she had thought he’d abandoned her, but he had been undergoing far
worse than she. “Did Knife Jackson do that?” she whispered in
dismay.

“One of his hired thugs. It’s a long story.”
Cole shook his head. “How much do you remember?”

Juliana groped to bring back the events that
seemed so long ago. She shivered a little as she recalled the
endless questions, the fists, the black boot aimed at her face
...

“You got me out of there, didn’t you?” she
said slowly, the icy cold panic dying out of her as she looked into
his face. “I thought it was a dream ...”

“Some dream.” A muscle clenched in his
jaw.

Words floated back to Juliana: “I had to
shoot them, angel ...”

“So you did come back for me. Why?”

His eyes razored in on hers. He had cleaned
her up, washed away the blood from her bruises, bandaged her ribs,
and seen her safely tucked into bed. That had been two days ago,
and she still looked so deathly pale and drawn, filled somehow with
a haunting sadness, that he almost told her he’d always meant to
come back for her, that he never intended to leave her with Lucius
Dane. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. That would be
exposing too much of himself ... she might get the wrong idea. He
set his jaw and tried to harden his heart against the open
innocence of her face. “I went hunting for answers in Plattsville
and got bushwhacked. By the time I found out that Knife and his
boys had gone after you, it was almost too late. I got you into
that mess—I thought it was up to me to get you out.”

Obligation. That’s what had motivated him.
Some strange code of honor. She supposed she should be grateful,
but she had been hoping for something more. What, exactly, she
didn’t know, and she pushed away the silly tears that threatened
behind her eyes. Sunlight touched the scar showing clearly against
his bronzed skin, delineating the raw, dried-blood edges.