Native Cowboy (23 page)

He hung up, his chest tight. Cara wasn’t in Nacona’s house. So where the hell had he taken her?

God, please don’t let me be too late.

Knowing he didn’t have time to fall apart, he forced himself through the house, looking for clues as to where the man might have gone.

He checked the kitchen drawers, the cabinets, the desk, then looked inside the closet for clues about the man.

His blood ran cold at what he found. Pictures of each of the victims’ burial spots had been tacked inside the door. Remembering that he took a souvenir of their hair, he checked the shoebox inside and an old cigar box but found nothing. He hunted for the buffalo skinner knife but it wasn’t there, either.

Because he had it with him to use on Cara.

The realization made his head roll.

Remembering he’d woven the hair into the navel fetish pouches, he scanned the wall. His gaze fell on the bow above the man’s bed, suspicions kicking in, and he crossed the room to it, his heart stuttering at the sight of the different colored strands.

One from each of the murder victims.

Dammit. Cara’s hair would not go in there.

His cell phone jangled, a sharp sound that jarred him from the disturbing evidence that confirmed in his mind that Nacona was their man.

Agent Whitehead’s name flashed on the caller ID, and Mason stabbed the button to connect. “Please tell me you have something.”

“We’ve tracked the car to a deserted road near Devil’s Creek.”

Adrenaline surged through Mason. “I know where that is. I’m heading to my car. Text me the coordinates.”

“They’re coming to you now. I’ll try to meet you there, but it may take me a while. There was an accident up ahead, and traffic is at a complete standstill.”

Mason ran to his car, explaining about the bow as he started down the drive.

“I’ll call McRae and have him send the crime unit there. When we catch this creep, he needs to fry,” she said.

Mason mumbled agreement, then pushed the gas to the limits. Devil’s Creek was only a few miles away, but very much off the beaten path.

The fact that Nacona had taken Cara there reminded him of the words he’d written in blood and left on her pillow, and made his heart harden.

He barreled down the road, spitting gravel and dust, half on, half off the mangled road as he followed the GPS. A quick turn to the right, another dirt road, a sign for the old fishing lodge that used to cater to hunters and fishermen who wanted an escape.

It had been shut down long ago although he’d heard talk that one of the Natives was thinking of restoring it.

He wove along the narrow road, his lights shining across the desolate terrain, the occasional sound of a night creature echoing in the night. Seconds stretched into precious minutes that made him so anxious nausea swirled through him.

He had to make it to Cara in time.

He couldn’t lose her or his son tonight.

* * *

T
HE CONTRACTIONS WERE
coming one on top of the other. Cara barely had time in between them to catch her breath.

“Please, take me to the hospital,” she said. “I’ve delivered enough babies to know that anything can go wrong.”

Farr made a tsking sound. “There you go again, not trusting me.” He jerked her arm, pulling her up from the chair. “You’re going to have this baby the natural way, just as God intended.”

“Where are you taking me?” she asked as he dragged her toward the door.

“You’ll see. Your baby is part of our people. He will be brought into this world as he should be.”

Cara gritted her teeth as another pain struck her. But Nacona had no sympathy. He pushed her outside and hauled her through the woods. She doubled over, breathing through the agony, and searched the darkness as he forced her into the woods.

If Mason didn’t find her before she delivered the baby, what did Farr intend to do? Kill her and take her child?

* * *

M
ASON FLEW OVER THE
graveled road, hands sweating as he gripped the steering wheel to keep the car on the road. Dirt and gravel spewed behind him, but storm clouds rolled across the sky, the sound of thunder bursting into the night.

He prayed the rain held off. A downpour would slow him down, and every minute counted.

Swinging the vehicle to the right, he wove down the tree-snarled road, racing past woods and casting his eyes around in case Nacona had set up a watch somewhere. Five miles deep into the thicket, the old dilapidated fishing lodge came into view.

He spotted an old beat-up car to the side, and relief warred with fear. They had to be here.

He just prayed he wasn’t too late.

Pulling his gun from his holster, he parked and climbed out, scanning the perimeter. If Nacona was inside the lodge and had heard the car, he’d be waiting.

His weapon was a knife. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have a gun, as well. Only that he preferred to use the knife on his victims.

At first glance, everything seemed quiet. So quiet that his heart began to race. If he wasn’t inside, where the hell had he taken Cara?

Breath stalled in his chest as he crept forward. He inched up to the side window and glanced inside, but the room was dark. The building was a one-story structure with rooms on each side of a center welcoming area. He peeked inside each window as he went, but it appeared empty.

The creek gurgled behind the lodge, and he slipped through the back door, frowning at the sight of the decay and dirt in the abandoned rooms. Something creaked, and he hesitated to listen, then crept toward the noise.

A side room off the main lobby had been an office at one point, but there was a cot in there and a bathroom was attached.

He poked his head in, but no one was there.

But Cara’s soiled clothes were piled in the corner of the bathroom.

A choked sound caught in his throat. What had Nacona done to her?

Chapter Twenty-Two

Anger mingled with rage as Mason searched each room of the lodge. But the room where he’d found Cara’s discarded clothing was the only one with any sign that they’d been there.

Adrenaline fueling him, he forced himself to think like a detective, not a man who might have just lost the two most precious people in the world to him.

Falling back on his tracking skills, he spotted footprints leading out the door. Scuffmarks also darkened the wood flooring, an indication that someone had been dragged. Emotions thickened his throat as he imagined the scenario, but he quickly blocked them out.

He followed the prints outside, noted that they led to the right along the water through the woods. Using every tracking skill he possessed, he followed them, searching for a broken twig, leaves crunched beneath the weight of the footprints.

A torn piece of clothing. Blue.

Like the scrub suits he’d seen at Cara’s clinic.

The man’s footprints continued, Cara’s oddly varying in depth, then an occasional spot where it looked as if she might have fallen to her knees.

Was she hurt?

He flashed back to the soaked clothing, and his gut tightened. She was in labor.

Dear God...

A second later, he pulled himself back together and forged on. A few more feet and he heard voices.

Then a gut-wrenching scream of pain.

It tore at his heart, but at least Cara was still alive.

Determination heated his blood, and he ran toward the direction of the sound. He pushed aside brush and weeds, flying over rocks and broken limbs from a storm, the sound of thunder mingling with the harshness of his own breath.

Another scream, and he realized he was close. He jogged toward the sound, then halted when he spotted a teepee set up next to the river.

Cara was on her hands and knees, writhing in pain. “Please, the baby is coming.”

Nacona stood above her like some ancient war-fighting Indian, the buffalo skinner knife glinting in the dark. “Crawl in the teepee and we’ll deliver the child,” Nacona barked.

“Please don’t hurt my baby,” Cara pleaded.

Mason’s lungs volleyed for air. He couldn’t startle Nacona, or he might drive the knife into Cara and kill her and the baby.

Padding as quietly as he could, just as he’d been taught on the reservation, he crept through the brush, anguish searing him when Cara released another cry.

“The baby’s crowning,” she said through a labored breath. “Please, promise me you won’t hurt my son.”

“Don’t worry. I will raise him as my own.”

Nacona was so caught up in his evil, twisted plan that he didn’t hear him approach.

Mason raised his gun and aimed, but suddenly Nacona pivoted toward him. Holding the knife above Cara’s head, he shoved her into the teepee on her hands and knees.

Fury emboldened Mason, and he circled back to the other side to throw off Nacona. Cara cried out, then Nacona turned and scanned the woods as if he sensed he was there.

Mason lunged forward and jumped him, throwing his weight into the man. Nacona bellowed out in their Native language, and Mason knocked the knife from his hand. It skittered into the dirt a few feet away, and Nacona punched him and crawled toward it.

But Mason pressed the barrel of his gun to Nacona’s temple. “Move and I’ll shoot you, you bastard.”

Nacona looked up at him from the ground and spit. “You are a disservice to our people. My father was a staunch Comanche. He taught me to hunt and kill when I was a boy.”

“He taught you to kill women?” Mason growled.

“He taught me that Comanches looked upon their children as their most precious gift. They were supposed to be protective of their young and rarely punished them.” He spewed venom from his eyes. “The girls were taught to sew and cook and take care of their babies.”

“Dr. Winchester helps women do that,” Mason snapped.

“No, she encourages them to throw children away. When I went on my vision quest at fifteen, I saw my future. I was meant to rid the world of mothers who did not follow the ways.”

“How dare you use our culture to condone what you did,” Mason said. “You’re nothing but a common murderer.”

His eyes blazed with hate and a sickness that had obviously stolen his mind. “I was honoring our traditions. The mother—”

“Is supposed to be revered for giving birth and taking care of the family,” Mason said. “Not butchered like an animal.”

Cara cried out again, and his heart pounded. The baby was coming.

Nacona took that second to try to escape and shoved Mason. They rolled into the dirt, exchanging blow after blow. Nacona fought like a wild animal, kicking Mason in the gut and crawling toward the river.

But Mason caught him and they fought again. Nacona slugged him in the face; blood trickled down Mason’s nose. But the sound of Cara’s crying fueled his rage and adrenaline kicked in.

He flipped Nacona onto his back, then slammed the butt of the gun against his head so hard the man’s eyes rolled back in his head.

Teeth clenched, he hurriedly searched to make sure he didn’t have another weapon on him, then removed the handcuffs inside his jacket, dragged the man toward a tree and handcuffed him to one of the large sturdy branches.

A sound of pain ripped through the air, Cara’s scream, and he raced to the teepee to her.

* * *

C
ARA REMINDED HERSELF
to breathe, that other women had delivered their babies alone and survived.

But another contraction told her it was time to push, and tears spilled from her eyes. What if something went wrong? What if Nacona took her little boy and hurt him?

What if he killed her, and she never got the chance to hold him and love him and raise him?

Suddenly the flap door of the teepee moved, and she swallowed hard to keep from screaming at the man who’d kidnapped her. “Please, don’t hurt my son.”

“I won’t.” The sound of the man’s voice jarred her, and she looked up and saw Mason’s face poking through the doorway.

“Mason,” she whispered.

He fell to his knees in front of her. “I’m here, Cara, it’s going to be all right.”

“But Nacona—”

“He’s alive and handcuffed to a tree,” Mason said, although his dark tone indicated he would just as soon have killed the man.

Cara nodded, but there wasn’t time to say more. She felt as if she was ripping in two. “He’s coming now,” she said, her voice laced with panic.

“Just tell me what to do,” Mason said calmly.

His reassuring tone and soothing hand on hers sent a wave of emotion through her. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t believe we’re having a baby,” he said with a twitch of a smile.

The pain intensified. “Help me get these pants off,” she said.

Mason nodded and worked quickly to remove the garment, then she hiked her knees up. “I have to push. Can you find something clean to put under me for the baby?”

He nodded, removed his jacket then noticed a duffel bag inside the teepee.

“It’s his,” Cara said. “He might have supplies.”

Cold rage swept through Mason. The SOB had been prepared to watch Cara deliver, then what would he have done?

“Mason, hurry,” Cara whispered.

He shook himself out of the moment, raced over to the bag. Just as she’d predicted, there were towels inside, along with a baby blanket and surgical scissors.

He brought them all to Cara, then laid towels beneath her. She gripped her knees and began to push.

“I see his head,” Mason shouted.

“Good.” Cara relaxed for a moment, then braced herself again and pushed once more. Pain rocked her body, but excitement made her bear down and push again.

“His head is out,” Mason said.

“When you see his shoulders, gently take them and help him,” Cara instructed.

Mason nodded, his gaze meeting hers. Love for him overwhelmed her at the depth of feeling in his expressive eyes.

She had to get their baby here.

She bore down, gritted her teeth and gave it her best effort. Suddenly she felt her son slip from her body.

“I have him!” Mason shouted. “He’s here.”

Cara listened for a cry, and panicked when she didn’t hear it. “Turn him over and massage his chest,” she said. “Make sure he’s breathing.”