Natchez Flame (23 page)

She wouldn’t let him see her like that again, wouldn’t let him know the terrible pain that tore through her heart. Instead she used the last of her strength to grip the saddle horn and fought to stay on the horse.

Brendan awoke to a haze of pain. His ribs ached fiercely, one of his eyes was swollen shut, and dried blood crusted over the gashes on his back and chest. His lips felt stiff and puffy, his mouth tasted like cotton, and he could barely hear for the ringing in his ears.

The bastards had really done a job on him. They’d ridden several miles from the campsite, away from Egan and Priscilla, then beat the holy hell out of him.

He shifted on the hard ground beneath him, the rough hemp rope biting into the flesh on his wrists.

“Get on your feet, Trask,” a hard-jawed, rawboned man called Mace commanded. “We wanta make Corpus by nightfall.”

Brendan grunted and worked to gain his feet. At least they hadn’t shot him, which is what he had expected. He knew when he’d taken her he was risking his life—maybe even hers. Still, the risk had been
worth it. If they hanged him tomorrow, he’d go to his grave remembering the nights he’d spent in her arms. His only regret would be leaving her to face the world with a man like Egan.

He prayed the bastard hadn’t hurt her. But knowing Egan’s tough reputation, and seeing the anger he’d tried to disguise, Brendan feared the worst. There was a leashed quality to Egan, a subtle fury that he kept carefully controlled. What had he done to Priscilla after his men had left them alone? How would he punish her?

One thing was sure. Stuart Egan would extract justice from both of them—one way or another.

She thought she would see him. Surely, she would see him—at least one more time.

Instead, most of Stuart’s men had returned to the ranch. The one called Mace and some of the others had taken Brendan on to the sheriff in Corpus Christi to await the circuit judge and stand trial, and a handful had ridden with her and Stuart, their pace a little slower in deference to her status as a woman.

Ignoring the aches and pains that had accompanied her every mile of the way, Priscilla rode in silence, her mind lost in a jumble of tortured emotions.

She had known they might be discovered—knew it, but hadn’t for a moment believed they really would. While she had been with Brendan, she wouldn’t allow herself to think of the consequences of what they had done, of what she—Mrs. Stuart Egan—had done. She loved Brendan and that was all that had mattered.

Now, even though she knew he was an outlaw—a
murderer—just as she’d once feared, she was terrified for him. Where was he? Who was caring for his injuries? What would happen once Stuart’s men reached Corpus Christi? Her heart ached for him. For what they had shared. For the plans they had made.

Dear Lord, don’t let them hang him. Whatever he’s done, don’t let him die.

Thank God Stuart had listened to her pleas for mercy and stopped the men’s cruel treatment. She wouldn’t forget the way he had conceded to her wishes, even after she had betrayed him.

After her brief time with Stuart at the ranch, seeing what a hard man he could be, she’d believed he would punish her for running away, maybe even beat her. In a way, it might have been better. As it was, she suffered her own brand of punishment—one that would not soon end.

She thought of the crime Brendan had been accused of and wondered if perhaps it had happened as he claimed. Then she remembered Barker Hennessey and the men he had killed on their journey. She remembered the haunted expression she had seen in his eyes. She’d known he’d been running from something—now she knew what it was.

Lord in heaven, how could I have fallen in love with a man like that?
Surely it was all that she had suffered, the snakebite, the shootings, being so far from home, and often so very afraid. Maybe it was the danger she had been in.

Priscilla wiped dust from her eyes with the back of a hand. Whatever the reason, for the first time her judgment had failed her, and she had made a terrible
mistake. She had fallen in love with an outlaw. She had tried to fight it, but it had happened just the same. There was nothing for it now but to put that love behind her, escape it as if it had never existed.

She sucked in a ragged breath of air, as brittle and close to breaking as a dry leaf in the wind. When Stuart had ridden into camp with his condemning words about the man she loved, something had died inside her. The determination and joy in life that had always gotten her through had gone out like a flickering flame. She cared about nothing now—especially not herself.

What does it matter?
she thought. What does any of it matter?

She should have known better than to fall in love. She should have known she would wind up once more facing the unknown.

They camped for the night and rode into Corpus Christi just two hours after dawn the next morning. The streets were as vacant as she remembered, with an eerie, depressing quality that deepened her already somber mood.

Though she tried her best not to, her eyes searched the buildings for the sheriff’s office, but she didn’t see it. Instead they rode straight to the hotel, such as it was, where Stuart obtained a large suite of rooms.

He was cordial—always so maddeningly cordial.

What was he thinking? she wondered. She guessed she would probably never know.

“As soon as we can signal a passing ship, we’ll be leaving for Galveston,” he told her. “From there we’ll go on to New Orleans and up the Mississippi to Natchez.”

Natchez.
Just the name sent a shiver down her spine.

She had once called it home, but that had been years ago, a lifetime ago, when she was only a child.

“What about … what about Brendan?” She had to ask, though she already knew the answer. “Maybe if I stayed for the trial—”

Stuart’s shoulders grew taut. “There is nothing you can do, Priscilla. The man is being tried for a crime you know nothing about.” Standing beside the
sofa in their suite, his hard glance fixed on her face. “If anything, your testimony could wind up hurting him. After all, you did see him gun down Barker Hennessey.”

“B-but I didn’t. Not really.” If only there was some way to help him. “I know it upsets you, but I owe him my life.”

Stuart’s fingers tightened on the back of the horsehair sofa. “And he was more than compensated for that help by the time he spent in your bed.”

Priscilla’s face went hot.

“We’re leaving here, Priscilla, as soon as we can find a means of transportation. The fewer people who know about you and Trask, the better off we’ll both be.”

Priscilla didn’t argue. Once more, there was nothing she could say. Confined to her room, she found the hours passed with agonizing slowness. Her mind clouded with thoughts of Brendan but she forced the thoughts away. By nightfall of the second day, a lantern on the point had signaled a ship into the harbor. First thing the following morning, they boarded a small dinghy and made their way to where the boat stood at anchor.

All the way to the ship, Priscilla stared at the shoreline. She tried not to think of the man she was leaving behind, but his handsome face constantly intruded. Still, there was nothing she could do to help him. It appeared her life had taken another unalterable course, and if she meant to survive this new course, she would have to forget him.

While Stuart saw to their cabin accommodations and made arrangements with the captain for their
passage, Priscilla stood at the rail, watching the landscape slip from view. It was nothing more than a brown speck on the horizon, smaller even than the sea gulls circling above them, when Stuart’s presence beside
her
penetrated her gloom.

“I know this has been hard for you.” He stared toward the same spot she had been watching. “If I had believed for a moment you would have been happy, I would have let you go.”

He spoke to her gently today, though at times he still seemed angry. She had hurt him by her betrayal. She had treated him unfairly and she knew it.

“You’ll never know how much I regret all the trouble I’ve caused. I wish there was some way to change things, but there isn’t. After … what’s happened … it’s hard to believe you still want me for your wife.”

Stuart’s expression turned grim. “We’re married, Priscilla. For better or worse, till death do us part. I accepted that fact when I spoke the vows—it’s you who can’t seem to believe it.”

“I trusted him,” she tried to explain, wishing she could make him understand what had happened—wishing she understood it herself. “I was alone, needing help, and he helped me.”

“You saw him kill Barker and yet you went with him.”

“He said Hennessey would have killed him if he hadn’t shot him first.”

“Barker was my most trusted employee and a very good friend. He was a tough man, but I assure you, he wasn’t a gunman. Trask knew that. He’s the kind
of man who thrives on taking advantage of others … look what he’s done to you.”

Priscilla closed her eyes against a wave of pain. Her fingers grew tighter on the rail. “You’re sure about him? There can be no mistake?”

“Mace Harding found out about Barker’s death in Galveston, and that you had left with Trask. When he arrived in Corpus Christi, he checked with the sheriff and discovered Trask was wanted in the Indian Territory. There’s no mistake, Priscilla.” His eyes searched her face. “On top of that, he’s got a reputation with the ladies. Apparently seduction is more to his liking than force, or he would have violated you somewhere along the trail.”

Priscilla’s heart squeezed tight inside her chest. Against her will, an image of the voluptuous blonde he’d left in Galveston rose up before her. She remembered one of the men on the porch of the saloon saying, “You always did have a way with the women.”

I was just another conquest. He wanted me, and he took what he wanted.

She glanced down at the hands that clutched the rail. “I’ve been such a fool,” she said softly. “Do you think you can ever forgive me?”

“I’m not a forgiving man, Priscilla. Not without reason. From now on, I’ll expect your loyalty—and your fidelity. Anything less, and you may expect to receive the full measure of my wrath.”

He was willing to continue with the marriage, even after all that had happened. She had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to. “Somehow I’ll find a way to make this up to you.”

“There are ways, my dear, I promise you. Together we’ll find them.” He stroked her hair, then cupped her cheek with his hand. “You’re my wife, Priscilla. Once you accept that fact, things will work out.”

Priscilla just nodded. A lump had risen in her throat, and she felt the sting of tears. Stuart was giving her a second chance. He had offered to set aside her scandalous behavior and continue as if nothing had happened. He was a strong, hard man, but he had been honest and, in his own way, caring.

Brendan had deceived and seduced her.

For him, she’d been willing to give up wealth, position, and security. Willing to chance losing everything she had ever wanted. And for what? An outlaw. A murderer. A man who had conned her into his bed, taken her virginity, and according to Stuart, very likely would have abandoned her.

Stuart Egan had rescued her—just as he had when Aunt Maddie had died. This time she wouldn’t forget it. Somehow she would make it up to him. She would bury her love for the treacherous gunman, bury the shame she felt whenever she thought of the way he had touched her, the way she had wantonly responded.

She would be Stuart Egan’s wife from now on. He’d have the sons he wanted, and she would earn his forgiveness. It was the only sane course of action.

Then she thought of Brendan, thought of the gallows he was facing. From the corner of her mind, his light eyes begged for understanding. Beautiful, gentle eyes. Loving eyes. Eyes that had won her trust and love.

Dear God, help me forget him.

Priscilla steeled herself and prayed that she could.

As the ship steamed toward Galveston, she forced herself to remember Barker Hennessey, to think of the women Brendan must have bedded and abandoned. By the time they reached the city, she had won the battle she fought with herself and had blocked Brendan from her thoughts almost completely.

She had suppressed her feelings and every tender moment they had shared. It was a matter of survival. When she had to, Priscilla was infinitely good at forgetting.

Brendan slumped on the cornhusk mattress, all that covered the wooden slats of the bunk in his cell. It was dark and hot in the thick-timbered building that served as a jail, with slits for windows and bars separating the two other cells, both of which were empty.

The small, run-down building sat off by itself behind the sheriff’s office—out of sight, out of mind. The circuit judge was supposed to arrive sometime this week. In the meantime, he got one meal a day—beans and potatoes and whatever else the jailer threw in—and a couple of dippers of water. His treatment was harsh, but he’d suffered far worse.

Besides, it didn’t really matter. Odds were they’d hang him.

He imagined the trial ahead of him. He had no defense, no witnesses to clear his name. Oh, there were people who had seen what happened, but they were either a damned long ways from here or not about to dispute the word of a federal marshal.