Forbidden Fires (18 page)

He was right and she knew it. “I’m sorry, Rafe,” she said contritely, “I guess I just didn’t think.”

She lifted her hand to caress his cheek, smiling a little at the scratchy stubble that tickled her fingertips. Rafe let out a long breath as he turned his head and kissed her palm. He had been furious when he returned to camp and found her gone, furious and terrified. They were out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by endless miles of untamed country and hostile Indians. His imagination, usually none too colorful or creative, had conjured up a dozen horrible fates that might have befallen her.

“Caty, I didn’t mean to shout at you. I…” He lacked the words to tell her how he felt, and so he bent down and kissed her instead.

But Caitlyn saw the love and concern in his eyes, and her answering kiss told him she understood.

The next few days passed peacefully enough. Caitlyn stayed close to camp, ever aware of Rafe as he went about his duties. She had chosen her husband well, she thought proudly, for he was quite capable at bossing a trail drive, even though she knew he had never done it before. He owed part of his success to the fact that he wasn’t too proud to ask Scott or the other men for their opinion if he wasn’t sure about something. He took his turn as nighthawk and at riding drag, which was the worst position on the trail. No one liked riding at the end of the herd, eating dust for hours at a time.

They had been on the trail almost three weeks when they reached the North Platte River. Caitlyn felt a twinge of apprehension as she watched the cowhands drive the herd across.

Fording a river was always dangerous, even if the water was low. But on this day, the North Platte was running high and wide, Caitlyn held her breath as Scott, Nate, and Wishful urged the lead steers into the water.

The cattle plunged into the river, swimming with their heads just above the water. Caitlyn said a silent prayer that none of the steers would try to turn back. Many a cowboy had lost his life in the midst of a herd of swimming cattle that had suddenly tried to turn back the way they had come.

She felt her mouth go dry as she watched Rafe put his horse into the water, urging a few stragglers toward the far bank.

It seemed to take forever, but, at last, the entire herd was safe on the other side. Rafe had crossed the river several times and now he came back to help her across, while Scott and Nate helped Web get the chuck wagon to the other side.

Caitlyn kept her horse close to Rafe’s buckskin gelding as they forded the river. With anyone else, she would have been afraid, but not with Rafe. He would take care of her.

She was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a burst of gunfire rent the air, followed by a shower of arrows. The cattle took off in a dead run, stampeding across the broken hills. Caitlyn’s horse panicked, lost its footing in the sandy river bottom, and began floating downriver.

Rafe swore under his breath as all hell broke loose. He seemed to see everything at once, the cattle running at breakneck speed, the Indians rising up out of nowhere, and the cowhands quickly un-holstering their guns and firing at the Indians. But there was no time to worry about anything or anyone but Caitlyn, and he yanked on his horse’s reins, intending to follow her, when an arrow pierced the buckskin’s neck. The horse reared up in the water, then toppled over sideways, forcing Rafe to kick free of the saddle or be swept away under a thousand pounds of dead weight.

He cast a quick glance at the shore. All the men were out of sight except Web, who had taken cover behind the wagon and was rapid-firing a rifle in the direction of the attackers.

A bullet whistled dangerously close to Rafe’s head and he went underwater, letting the current carry him downstream after Caitlyn.

He remained underwater until he thought his lungs would burst and when he surfaced, he was far downriver. He climbed onto the riverbank, shaking the water from his eyes as he searched the riverbank on both sides, his gaze sweeping up and down. Away in the distance, he could hear the sound of gunfire and the faint shouts of the men. But here, there was only a taut silence.

He felt the short hairs prickle along the back of his neck as he drew his knife. Crouching, he studied the ground at his feet, then swore softly as he saw the trail of a shod horse veering away from the riverbank. Two other horses, both barefoot, had closed in on the shod horse almost immediately. All three sets of tracks led into the trees some twenty yards away.

His mouth set in a grim line, Rafe reached back into his memory, summoning everything that the Lakota had taught him about tracking an enemy. He stripped off his wet shirt, removed his boots and sodden socks and began to move forward, his footsteps as silent as the whisper of the clouds dancing across the sky. All thought of the cattle and the fate of the Circle C cowhands was forgotten. Only Caitlyn filled his thoughts.

He moved noiselessly, his eyes and ears straining for any sight or sound that would guide him to his woman. Occasionally, he paused, his head lifting, his nostrils testing the wind like a wolf on the scent of prey.

He had been on the trail for about forty minutes when he heard it—a faint feminine cry laced with terror.

A cold smile peeled Rafe’s lips back in a feral grin of satisfaction. His quarry was near.

Another few yards, and he came to their horses, tethered to a sturdy sapling. Going to ground, he snaked his way through the tall grass.

Caitlyn struggled wildly as two Indians wrestled her to the ground. Fear added strength to her limbs, but she was no match for two men driven by lust.

Tears of fear and frustration burned her eyes as one of the Indians yanked her riding skirt down to her knees. A brown-skinned hand passed before her eyes and she lunged forward, sinking her teeth into the man’s palm. Blood filled her mouth and she felt a fleeting moment of triumph as the brave uttered a cry of pain and jerked his hand away.

It was a small victory and accomplished nothing. She heard her shirt and chemise rip, felt a breath of cool air brush over her exposed breasts. The Indians leered down at her, their eyes hot, their paint-smeared faces like something out of a hideous nightmare.

“Oh, God, help me,” she murmured aloud, knowing in her heart that no help would come. She was lost and alone, totally at the mercy of the two savages who were tearing away the last of her undergarments.

The warrior on her left grabbed both her hands and pulled her arms over her head, while the second warrior straddled her hips. Unable to move, she closed her eyes as he began to unfasten his breechclout.

Time seemed to slow, emphasizing every movement and sound. She felt the Indian’s hands on her belly, heard a low guttural laugh as his companion urged him on. The wind rustled the leaves on the trees, cooling the sweat on her skin and she began to shiver.

Two fat tears slipped under her closed eyelids. They would rape her and kill her and she would never see Rafe again. She felt suddenly sorry for her husband. He would come looking for her, find her body, abused and scalped. Poor Rafe.

She gasped as she felt the Indian’s hands on her breasts and she was glad she was going to die. Rafe would not want her after this. No man would want a woman who had been defiled by savages.

The Indian squeezed her breast painfully and she began to weep, crying for the pain, crying because she didn’t want to die.

She heard a soft grunt, felt a sudden weight on her chest as the Indian straddling her hips fell forward.

Caitlyn’s eyes flew open and she felt her stomach churn as she saw the haft of a knife protruding from the warrior’s back. The remaining Indian released his hold on her hands and scrambled to his feet, his narrowed eyes searching the trees.

Disbelief widened Caitlyn’s eyes as she saw Rafe step into the open. He was unarmed, and Caitlyn heard the Indian behind her laugh softly as he drew a knife from his belt.

Rafe spared hardly a glance at Caitlyn, who was trying to wriggle from beneath the dead weight of the Indian sprawled across her chest. All his attention was focused on the tall Crow warrior grinning at him.

The Indian held out his left hand, gesturing for Rafe to come closer. Rafe smiled in reply, silently cursing the fact that he had lost his rifle in the river. He glanced around, hoping to find a weapon he might use, but he saw none save for a bow lying beside the dead brave, the knife in the warrior’s hand, and his own knife sticking out of the dead man’s back.

With a sigh of resignation, Rafe stepped forward, his arms outstretched, his chin tucked under.

The Crow went forward to meet the white man. Certain of an easy victory, he lashed out with his knife, slashing at the white man’s chest. Rafe jumped out of the way, trying to maneuver closer to the dead man and the blade in his back, but the Crow grinned and shook his head.

With a supreme effort of will Caitlyn managed to extricate herself from beneath the dead Indian. It took her a moment to catch her breath, and then she rolled over and scrambled to her knees, her eyes riveted on the two men circling each other only a few feet away.

The Crow’s blade had made contact with flesh and there were several shallow cuts on Rafe’s arms. And even as Caitlyn watched, the Crow opened a wicked gash in Rafe’s side while managing to avoid being entangled in Rafe’s grasp.

He needs a weapon,
she thought frantically, and cursed the fact that the Indians who had attacked her were armed with nothing but a bow and a knife.

Choking back the bile that rose in her throat, she grasped the handle of the knife lodged in the dead man’s back. Closing her eyes, she tightened her grip and jerked the blade free.

Rising to her feet, she called Rafe’s name and when he risked a glance in her direction, she tossed him the knife. Drops of blood sprayed through the air like drops of red rain.

Rafe caught the knife in mid-air, grinning broadly as his fingers curled around the handle.

The smile left the Crow’s face when he saw that his opponent was armed. The contest was no longer a game he was sure to win, but a fight in which there could only be one victor.

The Crow was a skilled fighter, agile and fearless, but Rafe had learned to fight in the back streets of New Orleans, and he used every dirty trick he had been taught.

Caitlyn watched, breathless, her hands clenched against her breasts, her heart beating erratically. It seemed as though hours had passed instead of mere minutes. Both men were sweating profusely, and bleeding from numerous minor cuts on their arms and chests. She looked at Rafe, momentarily repelled by the fury in his eyes, by the feral expression on his face. His lips were slightly parted, his eyes narrowed to slits, his whole being centered on the man glaring at him across two feet of ground.

And then her momentary revulsion was swept away by a wave of pride. He was her husband, her man, and he was fighting for her life.

The two combatants came together in a rush and when they parted, Rafe was bleeding profusely from a long gash in his lower left side. The Crow smiled triumphantly, certain the battle was won.

Rafe clenched his teeth against the searing pain in his side. He felt a sudden urge to lie down, to close his eyes and slide into oblivion. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Caitlyn, her face deathly pale and afraid, and he shook his head, fighting the urge to surrender to the darkness that seemed to hover all around. He could not pass out now. To do so would leave Caitlyn at the mercy of the Crow.

Marshalling all his strength, he advanced on the warrior. In a last desperate move, he feinted to the left, dropped into a crouch, and, pivoting on the balls of his feet, brought his knife upward in a short quick jab as the Crow lunged toward him. His knife sank into the warrior’s chest.

The Crow grunted as the ten-inch blade pierced his heart. For a moment he looked faintly surprised and then, expelling a last bream, he spiraled to the ground.

Rafe’s eyelids felt heavy, and the knife was like a lead weight in his hands. He gazed at Caitlyn, trying to smile, to reassure her, but the strength was draining from his body. He heard her cry of distress as he dropped to his knees, the knife slipping from his fingers.

Caitlyn ran to his side, more frightened than she had ever been. Rafe’s face was pale and drawn, blood covered his left side and soaked his trousers.

“Rafe. Rafe!”

With an effort, he lifted his head, his dark eyes seeking her face, and then he slid to the ground, unconscious.

Frantic, Caitlyn ran to her horse and removed the canteen from the saddle horn. Grabbing her chemise, she hurried back to Rafe’s side and began to wipe the blood from his side, then she pressed the cloth over the ugly wound, pressing hard to stop the bleeding. And all the while she sent urgent prayers to heaven, praying that God would spare her husband’s life.

And even as she prayed, the cloth under her hand was turning red with blood. So much blood. How could a man lose so much and still live? The warm smell filled her nostrils, making her stomach queasy.

She whispered his name, felt a flicker of hope as his eyelids fluttered open.

“Caty?”

“I’m here.”

“We’ve got to get out of here. Might be others…”

“Lie still.”

“No. Got to get you out of here.”

“Rafe, you’re bleeding and I can’t make it stop.”