Lorraine Heath (24 page)

Dallas clenched his jaw. “She’s my wife.”

“But they know what you look like. Besides, you’re a better shot than I am and my horse is faster. Figure I can go in there claiming to be an outlaw looking for a place to hide.” He lifted a corner of his mouth. “My face ought to convince them I’m telling the truth.”

Dallas flinched and gazed back into the canyon. “I don’t want the two of you trapped in there. I won’t start shooting until you can get your horse close to her. Use the diversion to get her on the horse and get her out of there. I’ll take care of the thieves.”

“See that you do.”

“It’ll be night soon. We need to work fast. If anything goes wrong …” Dallas’s voice trailed off.

Houston grabbed Dallas’s coat and jerked him around. “Just make sure Amelia comes first. No matter what happens, she gets out of there alive.”

Amelia had never been so terrified in her entire life. She hugged the rocky canyon wall wishing she could melt into it and disappear. If she survived, she didn’t think she would cherish her green wedding dress or its memories.

The ropes chafed her wrists, her jaw still ached. When she didn’t think anyone was looking, she’d tried to gnaw the knots loose. Her attempt had earned her a flat-handed slap and tighter knots.

She saw a man, his arms raised, walking into the canyon leading a horse. Two men sauntered behind him, rifles trained on him giving them the advantage and a false arrogance. She recognized the weathered hat, the dusty black coat, and the horse. Houston didn’t look at her or call out to her with reassurances. Perhaps he had no reassurances to give. Or perhaps he was simply biding his time. He seemed remarkably calm for a man who had just walked into a nest of vipers. She kept her gaze locked on him, watching for any small signal that would indicate he had a plan to rescue her.

“What have we got here?” the man she knew to be leader said as he came to his feet, his hand resting easily on the butt of his gun.

Houston walked farther into the camp, hoping to give Dallas sight of the two men behind him. He didn’t know how to signal to him that another man was guarding the entrance.

“He was just ridin’ in, pretty as you please, whistlin’ some song like he owned the place,” one of the men who had been tailing him said as they both stopped walking sooner than Houston would have liked. He didn’t know if Dallas could see them from his vantage point at the top of the bluff.

“I do own the place,” Houston said, trying to imitate the authority Dallas always carried in his voice. “Or at least I do when I’m lookin’ for a place to hide out for a couple of days.” He squatted, lowered his arms, and warmed his hands before the fire, praying no one could see how badly they were shaking. “I don’t mind sharin’ the place, though.”

The man he assumed was the leader narrowed his eyes. “You hidin’ from the law?”

“I’m hiding from anyone who’s looking for me.”

The man scratched his scraggly beard and chuckled. “Know that feeling. You got a name?”

“Dare.”

“Dare?” the man asked, incredulously.

Houston came slowly to his feet, used his thumb to push his hat up off his brow, and met the man’s gaze. “You got a problem with that?”

“Nah, ain’t got no problem with it at all.” He held out his hand. “I’m Colson. These here are my men.”

Ignoring the outstretched hand, Houston glanced quickly around the canyon. A makeshift corral held the stolen horses. The other horses were saddled and lightly tethered to the brush growing out of the rocks. They could be mounted in the blink of an eye and riding west a half-blink later. “You seem to have a lot more horses than you do men.”

“We collect ’em whenever fortune smiles on us. Can always find a man willing to pay for good horseflesh.”

“And the woman?”

Colson laughed knowingly. “Reckon men are willing to pay for that, too.”

“Reckon they are. Mind if I have a look-see?”

Colson rubbed his chin. “Not as long as all you do is look. She’ll be keeping me warm tonight.”

“Understood,” Houston said as he fought the urge to plow his fist into that ugly face. He damned the men for taking his revolver. Thank God, they’d left his rifle in the scabbard, although he didn’t know if it would do him much good in these close quarters. An idea came to him. He turned back to Colson, hoping the smile he gave the man looked as mean as it felt. “Mind if I have me a little innocent fun? I like to hear women scream.”

Colson narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean by innocent?”

Houston jerked his head toward Amelia. “The way she’s worked her way into that crack, I figured she ain’t given any thought as to what’s in there with her. Women hate things with tiny legs. Just thought I’d mention them to her.”

Colson squatted before the fire. “I don’t think she’s the type to scream over a little bug, but it don’t bother me none if you have your fun.”

Houston walked as calmly as he could toward the far corner of the canyon, grateful no one objected when Sorrel followed
him.
He was going to reward the horse with a whole basket of apples if they lived through this night.

Amelia had wedged herself into a large crack in the canyon wall. She carried a fresh bruise on her cheek, and it was all he could do not to turn around right then, yank his rifle out of the scabbard, and start shooting.

As he neared, he called out, “Little lady, scorpions and snakes sure do love to hide in the cool cracks.” He mouthed “scream,” and bless her heart, she did.

She released an ear-splitting scream as she catapulted out of the crack and lunged into his arms. The men surrounding them guffawed. A shot rang out.

As the thieves scrambled for cover, Houston wrapped his hands around Amelia’s waist and hoisted her into the saddle. She grabbed the horn. He mounted behind her and urged Sorrel into a gallop as a second shot ricocheted off the rocks.

“What the hell?” someone shouted.

Houston heard several more shots ring out. Particles of rock flew through the air, showering over them as they raced toward the entrance. Men hollered. Horses whinnied. All hell was breaking loose behind them, but he rode on without looking back.

He held Amelia as close as he could, using his body as a shield around her as much as possible as they tore through the mouth of the canyon. He heard a bullet whisper past his ear.

He kicked Sorrel’s sides, prodding her into a faster gallop. He saw the setting sun glint off a rifle and he kept riding. He heard the retort of more gunfire. He didn’t know how much time Dallas could buy them. He feared it wouldn’t be enough.

He felt a sharp bite in his arm. He glanced back. Three riders were galloping fast and furious from the mouth of the canyon. Leaning forward, he pulled his rifle from the scabbard. He looked back over his shoulder. The three riders were gaining on them. A horse with two riders couldn’t outrun a horse with one, no matter how fast he was.

“Take the reins!” he yelled.

Awkward as it was with her hands still bound, Amelia did as he instructed. His thighs hugging the horse, he pulled Amelia flush against him. “‘Keep riding!”

He took one last breath filled with her faint sweet scent. “I love you.”

With fluid motions, he released her, grabbed the back of the saddle, shoved hard, and propelled himself off the galloping horse, away from the pounding hooves. He hit the ground, rolled into a kneeling position, brought his rifle up, and fired.

Amelia had heard Houston’s words as though he’d whispered them in a field of flowers instead of on the open plains as they were riding hell-bent to get away. And then she had felt him leaving her … forever.

Against his wishes, she jerked back on the reins, fighting to bring the galloping horse to a staggering halt. She whirled Sorrel around just in time to see Houston shoot the second of three riders. The remaining rider fired his rifle. Houston jerked back, his arms flailing out to the side.

“No!” she cried, her heart screamed.

Another retort of gunfire filled the air, and the last rider slumped forward before tumbling from his saddle. Amelia urged Sorrel into a gallop, a litany of prayers rushing through her mind. She drew the horse to a halt where Houston had fallen. She scrambled out of the saddle and fell to her knees beside him.

Bright red blood soaked through his shirt. “No,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “No, no, no.” Ignoring the pain as the rope bit into her wrists, she ripped off a portion of her petticoat and pressed it against the wound, desperately trying to staunch the flow of crimson. The white cotton rapidly became red.

Houston opened his eye. She touched her palm to his cheek. “Don’t you die on me. I’ll never forgive you if you die on me.”

“I didn’t run,” he rasped.

“But you should have, you fool! You should have stayed with me!”

A corner of his mouth tilted up. “That would have been the easy way. You deserve better than that.”

He sank into oblivion, his breathing shallow. A shadow crossed over his face. Amelia jerked her head up as Dallas dropped to his knees, knife in hand, and began to cut away Houston’s shirt.

“Why in the hell didn’t he stay on the horse? I wasn’t that far behind—”

“He had something to prove to himself,” she said quietly, the tears coursing down her cheeks.

I
n his entire life, Dallas had never met the next moment without a plan of action, had never known what it was to feel useless, without a purpose. He sure as hell felt useless now, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

He’d gathered up the stolen horses and had left the men he and Houston had killed to the buzzards and coyotes. He hadn’t been cruel out of vengeance, but he had recognized that time was rapidly becoming his bitter enemy. The bullet had entered and exited through Houston’s shoulder, leaving a relatively clean wound, but two gaping holes through which the blood could flow. And flow it did.

As much as Dallas had hated to do it, he’d wrapped a rope around Houston to keep him from falling out of his saddle. They’d ridden through the night, keeping the horses at a slow, steady walk, their planned destination the ranch. Near dawn, when Houston’s cabin had come into view, Dallas had decided not to push his luck.

He had carried Houston, unconscious, into his log cabin and laid him as gently as he could in the bed. He’d helped Amelia clean, sew, and dress the wound, his admiration for her growing as her competent hands handled each task with efficiency. She’d grown pale, her hands had trembled from time to time, but her jaw had been clenched with determination, her eyes challenging death.

She was one hell of a woman.

When Dallas had decided he’d done all he could for the moment, he had left his brother in Amelia’s care while he’d raced to the ranch, horses in tow, to give orders to his men, sending four men in opposite directions to scour the countryside for a doctor. He’d sent another man to find Reverend Tucker, praying harder than he’d ever prayed in his life that he wouldn’t need the preacher’s services.

Austin had returned to the cabin with him. They would have taken turns relieving Amelia as she tended to Houston’s needs if she had let them. As it was, they simply sat in the shadows and worried.

It hurt. It hurt to watch his brother lying so still as though he were simply waiting for death’s arrival. It hurt to watch Amelia hovering over Houston, wiping the fevered sweat from his brow, his throat, his chest, talking to him constantly, softly, gently. Always talking to him about his horses, his dream of raising them, and how she didn’t want to be part of a dream that died.

Amelia Carson was everything Dallas had wanted in a wife. A survivor, someone with an appreciation for the South as it had been, a willingness to reach out to the future. She was full of grit, determination, and courage.

He thought he’d never forget the way she’d looked riding back for Houston: fearless, angry, terrified. Or the depth of despair he’d seen reflected in her eyes as she’d knelt beside Houston and tried to stop his blood from spilling into the earth.

Dallas rose to his feet, stretched the ache and tightness out of his back, and walked to the hearth. He took a wooden bowl off the mantel, bent down, and ladled the simmering stew out of the pot. Houston’s house was about as simple as a man could make it: a table with one chair, a bed, a wardrobe, a chest, a small table by the bed, and a stack of books. No mirrors. Not one goddamn mirror.

Straightening, he glanced over his shoulder at Austin, who was sitting on the table since Dallas had confiscated the chair. He was surprised the boy’s elbows hadn’t created holes in his thighs. He looked as though he was awaiting a hangman’s noose. “You want to check on his horses?”

Austin shot to his feet and bobbed his head. “Yes, sir.” He headed out the door.

Dallas crossed the room and knelt beside the bed. “You need to eat.”

Amelia gave him a weak smile. “I can’t get his fever to break. Where’s the doctor?”

“I sent my men to find one. It’s as hard to find a doctor as it is to find a wife.” He spooned out a bit of stew and lifted it up. “Come on. Eat for me.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then eat for him.” He tilted his head toward Houston. “‘You won’t do him any good if you get sick.”

She opened her mouth, and he shoveled in the stew. Licking her lips, she took the bowl from him. “I am hungry after all.”

He watched her eat, this woman he’d married, this woman who wasn’t fully his wife. She had been as skittish as a newborn filly on their wedding night. He’d decided to take her for a walk, hoping to help her relax. Instead, he’d lost her.

Or maybe he’d just failed to acknowledge that he’d never had her.

When he’d confronted Houston with his accusations weeks ago, he’d convinced himself that Houston had felt nothing more than lust for Amelia. He’d closed his mind to the possibility that Houston might have fallen deeply in love with Amelia.

That she might have fallen deeply in love with Houston.

He had measured their love against what he knew of love … which was nothing at all. He understood loyalty, honor, and the value of keeping one’s word.