Fires of Paradise (14 page)

PART TWO

THE LOST ANGELS

DEATH VALLEY, MEXICO

Chapter 16

Lucy knew she shouldn't go.

Ten days had passed since Shoz's arrest. He had remained at the house the first few days, under guard, until he was well enough to be moved to the Paradise jail. Lucy had not gone near him; she had not dared.

She would never forget the look of hatred in his eyes after Sheriff Sanders's deputies had cuffed him—and it was directed at her.

The horse theft had provided an unpleasant and abrupt ending to the party. However, none of the out-of-town guests had been inconvenienced by it, as all had their plans to continue on afterward and were able to do so. Derek had decided that none of his guests need be detained for questioning as far as the shooting was concerned; Sanders agreed and concentrated on the local population.

Leon's departure was a relief. He left immediately after the party, as he had intended. He had been cool and distant when they parted, but Lucy had barely noticed.

Derek's stallion had finally been found. The posse had tracked the two bandits north into the Llanos Estacado and east to Abilene. Thunder had been recovered from a businessman who had bought the stallion from two men who fit the descriptions of Red Ames and Jake Holt. Most of the posse had returned to Paradise. Brett's two sons had returned to San Francisco with their families, unable to leave the D'Archand empire unattended. But Derek, Nick, Rathe, and Brett had continued on. Unable to find Red and Jake or two other men resembling them in Abilene they had just returned a few days ago.

Shoz was in jail awaiting trial. The reply to Sheriff Sanders's inquiry had come back affirmative: Shoz was wanted by the New York State authorities for escaping the state penitentiary seven years ago. He would be tried first in the Paradise County court for horse theft and maybe even murder; if found guilty, he would serve time in the Texas State lockup before being returned East to finish his sentence there.

It was so unbelievable.

Lucy knew she should not go to see him.

She had heard that he was better. He was still confined to bed, but each day he got up for fifteen minutes or so to exercise, under supervision. Doc Jones had prescribed the routine. Everyone had been waiting for Doc to give the go-ahead to move him to Odessa, where the county court sat.

Tomorrow they were taking Shoz to Odessa.

And it was her fault. There was no reason to feel guilty, but she did.

No matter how often she reminded herself that he was a felon, and that he had betrayed her grandfather by accepting employment from him and then stealing his horse—and maybe even killing a man—she felt guilty for her part in turning him in. Lucy believed in justice, of course, but she wished it had been someone other than herself who had revealed that he had been working with the thieves.

She tried not to brood. It was difficult being at the DM with all the women of the family—they were all too sensitive and too aware. Eyes. Lucy was always feeling their eyes on her. Her mother, her grandmother. Her aunt Storm. Even her aunt Jane, who was so sweet and kind, who seemed to bring sunshine into the room with her whenever she entered, gazed at her with worry. And then there was Nicole.

"What is it?" she demanded the day they'd moved Shoz to the Paradise jail. "What is wrong with you!"

The two girls were clad in knickers and tailored shirtwaists after a game of badminton. They were sipping lemonade on the back veranda. No one else was around. As usual, it was unbearably hot.

Lucy looked at Nicole. What would her dear cousin say if she knew the truth—all of it? Lucy had the insane urge to tell her everything. But she would be shocked. Lucy herself was shocked whenever she dared to dwell too precisely upon her memories and the facts. She had let an escaped convict make love to her.

"It's him. I know it's him." Nicole's voice was low. "Lucy, don't. Don't think about him. You said it to me and I'll say it to you: He is not for you!"

"Of course not," Lucy said with a weak smile. "Can you imagine me bringing someone like that home to Daddy—even if he weren't a crook?"

"No, I can't."

"It's not what you're thinking, Nicole." Lucy set her glass down. "He hates me."

"It doesn't matter," Nicole said firmly.

"You know," Lucy said, her voice shaky, "he isn't entirely responsible for what he is. He's a product of his background, his environment. Maybe his father was a drunk who beat him. My mother says—" her voice cracked "— that most of the down-and-out are born into very bad circumstances with three strikes against them."

"You're starting to sound like Grace," Nicole said with a slight smile. "Lucy, what's between you two?"

Lucy inhaled. She looked at her cousin. She looked around; they were completely alone. "He kissed me—more than once."

Nicole wasn't shocked. Instead, she sounded wistful. "I've never been kissed, not even once." Lucy stared at her gorgeous cousin in shock. "Did you like it?"

She flushed. She leaned close. "Yes, that's the worst part; I did, I really did!"

Nicole left her wistful thoughts behind. "Lucy, just forget him. If he wasn't a thief and a felon, I would ask if you loved him. But he is a very bad sort."

"Of course I don't love him! I actually dislike him immensely." At Nicole's wide-eyed surprise, she blushed again. "I can't explain it. I just wish I hadn't been the one to see him riding out of the barn; I just wish I could find out more about him, what he did in New York, and why. Maybe he was starving! Maybe it was food he stole, or maybe he was homeless, and maybe it was blankets! Nicole, maybe it was the depression that made him an outlaw."

Nicole squinted. "Lucy. The crash wasn't until ninety-three, and he was incarcerated in eighty-nine."

Joanna appeared, and Nicole adroitly changed the topic. But the subject wasn't over for Lucy, far from it. She felt compelled to go see him. She fought the compulsion for the next week. But then the family was notified that they were moving him on the morrow to Odessa. It was now or never. There was so much about him she didn't know, and she was suddenly determined to unearth the whole story. And she had been the one to put him in jail, so to speak. The least she could do was appease her conscience by checking on his health before he was transferred to the county seat. Lucy commandeered a horse and buggy, and alone, she drove to Paradise to see him.

Her parents would be furious if they knew, she thought nervously. Yet nothing could deter her now. For the outing she had dressed with care in one of her finest tailor-mades, a navy skirt and matching jacket with wide leg-o'-mutton sleeves. A straw hat shaded her flushed face, and a wicker basket was tucked by her hip—carefully packed by herself. She was bringing him his noontime meal.

Lucy cracked the whip, and the dappled mare trotted smartly into town. It was hot and humid and she was damp beneath her traveling suit. She parked the buggy right in front of the jail. There was no point in trying to hide her visit from anyone. The deputy on duty would know, of course, so the sheriff would know, and sooner or later all of Paradise would know, including her family. No matter. She would deal with that problem when it arose.

She entered the sheriff's office. A big ceiling fan circulated the thick, wet air, doing little to alleviate anyone's misery. The deputy, a tall, young man with a droopy mustache, shot to his feet. "Miss Bragg!"

"Why, hello, Fred; how are you this fine day?" She was gay.

Fred stared stunned at the basket she earned, no doubt thinking it was for him. "Why, uh, fine, Miss Bragg, and you?"

"Very well, thank you. I decided the prisoner needed a proper lunch," she continued, ignoring his surprise. "How is he?"

Fred recovered. "Real quiet. Stays in bed and doesn't say anything. You can't go in there with him, Miss Bragg." "Whyever not?"

"Well—" Fred grew redder "—he's a dangerous criminal, that's why."

"Pooh! He stole a horse, is all! Have you forgotten that this 'dangerous criminal' escorted me and my friend to Paradise when our automobile broke down? We spent half a day with him, and no harm befell us!"

"Well, yeah, but really ..."

"Fred, do I have to ask the sheriff for permission to bring the prisoner lunch and some good cheer? Are we barbarians? To treat a man not yet judged guilty in a court of law as a leper, or worse? As some crazed dog, not to be allowed human kindness and company?

"Besides—" Lucy smiled prettily "—Grandpa said it was all right." It was only a white lie, she told herself, and it was an effective one.

Fred gave in, crimson. Lucy hadn't known she had so much of her mother in her. She guessed that going to all those women's suffrage and Negro rights rallies as a child had had its influence on her. Fred pushed through the door to the prison in back.

It was just a hallway, with two cells on each side. Shoz was the only prisoner, and he was lying on his stomach, his head on his arms. He didn't move at the sound of the heavy door closing. But when Lucy followed Fred down the short corridor, her heels clicking loudly on the cement floor, Shoz turned his head to look at them. His gaze widened—and then it narrowed.

"You've got a visitor," Fred announced. He paused. "You sure you want to go in? You can just leave him his lunch if you want."

"I'm going in," Lucy said firmly. "Grandpa said—"

"Okay." Fred sighed. "You got a knife in there?"

Lucy was looking at Shoz, who hadn't taken his gaze from her. Slowly he sat up, swinging his legs to the floor.

There was such contempt on his face, she was almost ready to change her mind and run out of the jailhouse.

"A knife?" She was confused and forced her attention back to the deputy. "Oh, why, of course there is a knife."

Fred requested it, and Lucy handed him a silver dinner knife from Tiffany's. Fred unlocked the cell and let her in. "Behave yourself," he admonished Shoz.

Absolute silence greeted her.

Lucy entered, biting her lip. She was suddenly so nervous. And she was very aware of Fred standing behind her, just outside the cell. "I brought you some home cooking."

"How nice."

She fumbled with the basket. "A roasted chicken and corn muffins and—" "I'm not hungry."

She looked up. Their glances held. His seared her. "Shoz..."

"Feeling guilty?"

"I had to tell the truth!"

"The truth? Oh, you didn't tell the truth, lady, not by a long shot."

Lucy was taken aback. He would still feign innocence? Could he be innocent? No, she had been there, she knew exactly what she had seen. "Shoz, I didn't come here to argue."

"Why did you come? To gloat? The little princess happy with her revenge?" "No!"

His fists clenched. ''Go on home to your powerful daddy, princess. Just go."

"It wasn't revenge!" she cried.

"If it wasn't revenge, then why were you so quick to accuse
me?
Why the hell didn't you ask
me
what I was doing?"

"I know what I saw! You were waiting at the barn—the horse was saddled and waiting for you! I had to reveal what I knew; can't you understand?"

Shoz stared. "What you think you knew."

"What are you saying?"

A hard expression crossed his face. "Forget it."

Lucy recovered with effort. "I've brought you lunch." He laughed.

"I know you probably haven't had a decent meal," she said, sitting on the end of the cot, placing the basket on her lap. She opened it. Her heart was pounding heavily and fast. It had been a mistake to come. She was more upset than ever. She was feeling more guilty than ever. And she could feel the heat of his body, even though she had left a decent space between them. And she could feel his anger.

"Deputy or no," Shoz said, low, "I am about a second from throttling you if you don't get out of here."

Lucy froze. She believed him. He hated her, but of course, he wouldn't see her side of things. He was barely restraining himself from doing some kind of damage, no matter that he was sick. She couldn't swallow; fear choked her. He hated her. He wanted to hurt her. He would hurt her, too, if she pressed her luck. She shifted, about to rise.

And the movement made something in the basket glint.

Too late, Lucy remembered there was also a carving knife in the basket for the roast chicken. Swiftly she reached to snap shut the lid of the basket.

But he saw it, too, and he was faster.

Shoz's hand was already inside, gripping the knife. He looked at it, and then, for an instant, an endless instant, while they were both frozen in time, he looked at her—and Lucy saw the intent in his eyes.

She screamed, rising.

He was quicker, also on his feet, the basket flying across the floor and all its contents spilling. And then his arm was around her rib cage, so tight and hard, he forced all the air from her lungs in a gasp, and the knife was at her throat.

"Don't move," he snarled. "Or I'm going to slit your pretty white throat."

Chapter 17

"Don't move," Shoz repeated.

Lucy froze. Her entire body was pressed against his. His grasp was steel, his arm hurting her breasts, his breath against her ear. She could feel the tip of the knife against her throat, and she was afraid.

"Jesus," Fred gasped, gun in hand. "Let her go!" Shoz smiled. "You might be a good enough shot to hit me," he said, "and not Lucy, but I doubt it."

Lucy gave a little cry. Fred went even whiter, and Shoz jerked on Lucy to remind her to be still.

"Let me warn you," he said coolly, "I'm Apache through and through. You fire, and this blade is going right through her jugular vein."

Lucy moaned. The pressure of his arm increased, cutting off the sound and her minute attempt to struggle.

"Jesus," Fred said again, sweat dripping down his brow. Lucy pleaded with him. "Don't do it! Fred, don't, please, don't!"

Fred was unsure, and it showed.

"Drop the gun," Shoz ordered, moving forward with Lucy still in front of him, her body almost entirely shielding his. He hustled her through the cell doorway, Fred backing up until he was against the bars of the opposite cell, but still holding the gun. "Drop it!" Shoz commanded harshly. "Drop it, right here, at my feet!"

"Shit!" Fred cried.

Lucy felt the increasing pressure of the blade at her throat, then the pricking of pain, and she gasped. The knife had cut her skin, and she felt the moisture of her own blood. "Drop it," she begged. "He cut me, drop it!"

"Oh my God," Fred gasped, and he dropped the gun.

Suddenly Shoz threw Lucy aside, so hard she went stumbling to the floor, while he lunged for the gun. He was so swift, he had it pointed at Fred a scant instant later. Lucy was on her hands and knees at Shoz's feet, panting. "Hands up!" Shoz said.

Fred complied with alacrity. Lucy sat on the floor and felt her neck. There was no outpouring of blood. She wiped away the moisture—and saw nothing but sweat.

Shoz grabbed Fred, throwing him into the cell. With his gun pointed at Fred's chest, Shoz said to Lucy, "Come here."

Lucy froze.

"Come here!"

She got up, her heart pounding. He was going to lock her in the cell with Fred. He was going to lock them up and escape!

Wildly her gaze swung around, searching for a weapon or something to hit him with. Yet even as she did so, she knew it would be futile and foolish to attack him while he was watching her and waiting for her.

She came slowly, her mind desperately seeking a means of escape, a way to thwart him. No solution presented itself. With a low growl of impatience, he grabbed her arm, yanking her forward. The gun he aimed at Fred never wavered. Lucy cried out at his manhandling. He ignored her, delving into the breast pocket of her jacket. He took her handkerchief and forcefully stuffed it into Fred's mouth. Then he shoved Fred onto the bunk.

Lucy, of course, edged away, until her back made contact with the iron bars of the cell.

Shoz jammed the gun in the waistband of his jeans, grabbing the sheet from the bed and jerking it off. Swiftly he cut the linen into strips. Lucy understood—he was going to tie them up. Fred was immobilized with fear—and at Shoz's elbow anyway. Too close to do anything, but...

Lucy knew she had to act, and act now.

But how? There was nothing to hit him with. Wildly she glanced around, her gaze scanning the spilled contents of the picnic basket, the roasted chicken, a few plates, the scattered muffins and napkins. And then in the corner of the cell only four feet from her, she saw the lead crystal pitcher that she'd brought filled with lemonade. She pounced.

Shoz had already bound Fred's wrists behind his back and was rapidly wrapping a linen strip around his ankles. As hard as she could, Lucy swung the jug down on his head.

Instinct made him duck and turn before she made contact. His hand found her wrist, forcing her to release the pitcher. It hit the floor with a crash and broke. Lucy cried out in despair and pain as he forced her to her knees. "Sit!" he commanded, and turned back to Fred.

Acting on pure instinct, she leapt up and fled instead, hearing his curses behind her. She ran down the hall and threw open the door to the sheriff's office. She heard him ordering her to stop. She heard the metal clanging of the cell door being shut. She was through the sheriff's office, and she heard his footsteps behind her.

She grasped the front door, flinging it open hysterically. She opened her mouth to scream. No sound ever came out. He grabbed her from behind, hauling her back inside, slamming the door shut, and clamping his hand over her mouth. She bit him as hard as she could.

"Dammit!" he yelled, and then a strip of linen was stuffed in her mouth.

Lucy fought him every step of the way. He dragged her with him back through the office, taking Fred's rifle, which was propped up against the desk. Because he was, apparently, still injured, it was a real contest. He pulled her, while she was braking as hard as she could. They were both panting hoarsely, and sweat dripped from his brow onto her cheek.

At the door to the jail cells, he stopped, jerking her body up even closer to his, so he could snarl in her ear: "Either you start moving, or I'm going to hurt you."

Lucy moved. He propelled her and she ran. She didn't doubt for a moment that he'd hurt her; she sensed he was at the limit of his patience. They ran into the prison. Fred was hog-tied and gagged and locked in Shoz's cell. Lucy expected Shoz to throw her inside with him. She was stunned when he hauled her out the back door instead, into the shadows of the alley outside.

Wild thoughts went screaming through her mind, impossible ones. Why hadn't he left her behind, in the cell with Fred? Where was he taking her? She stumbled as they raced down the alley, away from Bragg Avenue with its steady stream of carriages, buckboards, and passersby. He held her upright. Hysterical fear filled Lucy. She realized he was going to use her as a hostage to help him escape from town. There was no other explanation, was there? A hostage ... a hostage . . . The word was imprinted on each hard beat of her heart.

But surely he would let her go as soon as he made good his escape! Wouldn't he? She looked back toward Bragg Avenue, where there were so many people going about their business, all oblivious to the drama being played out in the small, shady alley between the false-fronted buildings. If only someone would notice them!

They ran down the length of the alley until they came to the next street. They paused behind some garbage cans, waiting for a dray to pass, regaining their breath. Across from them was a smith, a metalworker, a tailor, and a German cabinetmaker. So was a horse, saddled and tied in front of the blacksmith's.

"Just my luck," Shoz said.

Lucy darted a glance at him, to see if he was being earnest or snide, but she could not tell. She understood, though. He would steal the horse, the one, single horse, so this was where they would part. From here he could escape without her. She would only slow him down; she would only be a liability. Her heart soared, and if she hadn't been gagged, she would have shouted in relief.

The dray passed. With a half smile, one hard but triumphant, Shoz darted across the street—and dragged Lucy with him. Before she knew it, he had thrown her on the bay gelding and was leaping up behind her. And then they were galloping down another alley—and out of town.

They did not slow down or stop until they had put a few hills and gorges and a good ten miles between them and

Paradise. Lucy tried to protest at first, which was no easy feat with the gag; before she could remove it, he had tied it in place. He ignored her. If they hadn't been going so fast and his grip on her hadn't been so firm, she would have tried to leap off. Her mind was in a frenzy. Why had he taken her with him? Why had he abducted her? Why?

It did not make sense. He should have left her in town. He could go faster and farther alone. He no longer needed her. Unbidden, the sarcastic words he'd hurled at her in the cell echoed in her mind: "Happy with your revenge?"

Revenge.
There was no other logical explanation. And revenge wasn't logical. It was a deed of passion. It was horrible, it was ugly, it was terrifying. He was an escaped convict, a horse thief, an accomplice to murder—or maybe even a murderer. Lucy was trembling.

An hour later he urged the lathered bay into a stream bed. They had been heading west. He jumped off, pulling Lucy down as well. She nearly collapsed in his arms.

He pushed her away from him with a hard, uncompromising expression on his face. She caught herself from falling again and looked at him. Their gazes met. He was pale beneath his bronzed skin, his soft blue shirt completely soaked and sticking to his skin. Lucy stood beside him, knee-deep in the stream, despairing and afraid to move. Yet his gaze was steady, not the gaze of a crazed killer seeking vengeance.

He didn't make any moves toward her. Her heart slowed, and some of the stiffness left her shoulders. Cautiously, her hands unsteady, Lucy reached for the gag. This was the first chance she had had to remove it since he had bound it. As she fumbled with the knot, her eyes never left him. Her heart sank when he abruptly grabbed her hands, but he only turned her around and deftly released the gag.

Lucy took great big lungfuls of air, aware of him behind her, aware, for just a moment, of his thighs brushing her buttocks before he stepped away. And then she was cupping the cool water in her hands and pouring it into her mouth. Never had she been thirstier in her life.

When she was sated, she splashed her face and looked for her kerchief to dry herself, only to remember that he had used it to gag Fred. This made her straighten slowly, stiffly, listening for him behind her. He was utterly silent— she could only hear the horse blowing softly. Lucy turned so she could look at him.

He was watering their mount, stroking the bay's sweaty neck. He lifted his gaze to catch her staring, and she abruptly turned away. Her soaking skirts were heavy around her legs, and she regretted the layers of clothing she wore. She pretended not to look at him but knew that he was filling their canteen. This moment of respite had done much to calm Lucy's shattered nerves. She had to face him sooner or later. There was a question she must ask—no matter how much she dreaded hearing his answer.

"You ready?"

She moved about awkwardly to face him, dragging her skirts with her. His tone was weary, and he was leaning against the bay's flank—as if too tired to stand upright without support.

Lucy stared. He had been shot ten days ago. How long could he keep up this pace? Would he kill himself? If he was very weak...

"Don't start thinking," he said. "Or planning."

"Where are you taking me?"

He levered himself off the horse and took her arm and the horse's reins, leading them downstream. "I advise you to shed that skirt, princess. Let's go."

He hadn't answered; instead, he was pushing her forward, into the shallower water by the bank. Still, it came to mid-calf, making it impossible to walk with her skirt and petticoats twisting around her ankles and calves. She stumbled forward, and then balked. "Please, Shoz! I have a right to know!"

He paused and leaned against the horse. "Why did you take me?" Lucy cried. "It doesn't make sense!"

"Damned if I know," he muttered. He was sure that taking her with him was going to prove to be a big mistake.

"What?"

"Let's just say you're my ticket out of here." "You're already free! Leave me here! I'll just slow you down! Please! You don't need me anymore!"

For the past half hour he had been asking himself what the hell he was doing abducting Lucy Bragg. He should have left her in Paradise, and he knew it. She would slow him down. Yet he hadn't exactly been thinking when he'd abducted her, he had been acting. With an instinct, a primitive, territorial instinct as old as time.

He saw her white face and her stricken blue eyes and told himself he was an utter jackass if he let himself feel sorry for her. There was only one person he should be thinking about, and that was himself. He was a fool. Her being a pretty piece was no reason for him to abduct her, nor was revenge, not when the stakes were so high. His life, his freedom. He should leave her here. He could probably escape the posse that was certainly being formed this very minute. If he weren't weak from the gunshot wound, he knew without a doubt that he could escape across the border. But he was weak, and he did have doubts.

"Let me go, Shoz," she was saying. "It's not too late to let me go!"

"I'm taking you with me to the border," he decided abruptly. Just in case the posse caught up with him on this side of the Rio Grande.

"The border! Mexico? You're going to Mexico?"

"I sure as hell don't mean Louisiana."

"And then you'll let me go?"

He eyed her. Her face was wet with sweat, her hair mostly up, but a few tangled knots had come down to straggle around her face. She was wet up to her armpits, her jacket open—he had to enjoy just for a moment, how her shirt clung to whatever newfangled contraption she wore beneath it. Too bad he wasn't in better shape. Too bad they were in such a rush. Too bad. Despite the betrayal, despite her lies, despite her revenge—he wouldn't mind finishing their business, and taking some of his own revenge.

But his back hurt like hell.

"Yes," he said. And knew he was more than just a fool. Not for making the promise, but for feeling regret.

"Yes!" she echoed, stumbling on her skirts for the hundredth time.

Quick as a wink, he had the carving knife in hand—and

he sliced off her skirt and petticoats at the knee.

She gasped, staring down at her white-stockinged calves and at the delicate lace ruffles of the hem of her drawers just below her knees.

"Let's go," he growled. He'd seen her legs before. Still, they were great legs.