Rachel Donnelly (16 page)

Nat slashed him a murderous glare, but managed to hold his tongue.

When Holt jabbed the tip of his rifle between Hank’s shoulder blades, he clamped his thick lips shut with an angry scowl. The smell of freedom was puffing him up fast, but he was as good as harmless with his hands bound tight and a gun stuck in his back.

Nat waited until Holt reached his position by the ridge on the north side of the trail. “Now we’re going to do this nice and slow. One wrong move and my partner will blow your balls out from under you. You got that?”

Hank gave a vigorous nod in agreement. He’d seen the rabbits Holt brought back for their supper with one clean shot through their head.

“Move.” Holt’s rifle never left Hank’s back as they made their way up the steep slope. “That’s it, keep going.”

“I’m comin’ down, Billy!” Hank’s voice squeaked like a rusty wheel. “Send out the girl!”

A fair head appeared above the rocks.

“Don’t try nothin’!” Hank instructed anxiously.

His lumbering gait was so slow, Christie passed him half way. She scrambled up the rocky slope like a baby mountain goat on new legs. Nat might have smiled at the look of determination on her face had he not seen Billy Everett rise up and take aim.

Hank must have seen him too. “No!” he roared, charging toward Billy.

The loud crack of a rifle boomed in the still dry air.

An answering report came from up on the ridge.

“Get down!” Nat shouted to Christie.

But she ignored him and kept on running.

Damn!

Now he had to go after her. In her frenzied state, there was no telling where she’d end up.

As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. She ran straight for the horses, tied to a piñon at the bottom of the slope. She had one foot in the stirrup, about to steal his horse when he caught up with her.

“Hold on!” He dragged her from the animal’s back. She fought him like a hellcat until he gave her a firm shake. “Christie! Stop it! You’re alright. You’re safe now.”

She gave a great sob, then flung her arms around his neck, quivering, burying her face against his neck.

When she lifted her head, the wild terrified look in her eyes made his gut twist. He crushed her against him again, smoothing his hand over the tangled mass of honey waves tumbling over her back. “You’re fine.” He held her away from him, speaking gently but firmly, “Stay here with the horses. I have to help Holt. Do you hear me?”

She nodded.

Nat charged back up the hill with his rifle, a slow burning anger building in his chest. His blood thrummed in his ears. Hanging was too good for the Everetts — too damn slow.

At the same time Holt came skidding down the ridge, kicking up dirt and sagebrush behind him. “They’re gone.”

Nat cursed.

“They won’t get far. It’s almost dark. If we set out at first light, we’ll have them by noon.”

“Dragging her along?” Nat shook his head. “We’d never catch them. She’s in too bad a shape.”

“Hank’s hit.” Holt gave no indication that he cared one way or the other. “He’s hit real bad.”

Nat swept his hat from his head and slapped it hard against his thigh.

A day’s worth of dust floated up around him.

“You could take her to the ranch. I’ll follow them,” Holt offered. “I’ll find out which direction they’re headed, then I’ll circle back.”

Nat clamped his jaw tight, trying to present a calm front, despite the anger seething in his chest. He sucked back a roar of frustration, resisting the urge to beat his head against a rock. But what good would it do? They couldn’t take a woman with them to apprehend three outlaws. Worn out as she was, she’d be lucky to last another day.

He nodded shortly. “Find out what direction they’re headed, then meet me back at the ranch.” He set his hat back on his head with slow deliberation. They strode down in silence to Holt’s horse. When he was mounted and ready, Nat flashed him a wry smile. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Holt grinned. “I usually wait for you to do that.”

Nat watched him ride out of sight with a bitter taste in his mouth. Three years work. And all he had to show for it was a witness he didn’t want.

• • •

The bacon tasted salty and the biscuits too hard. Christie forced them down anyway. It gave her something to do, other than huddling next to the fire trying to stay warm. Besides, it was easier to eat than talk. If she started to speak about what happened, she might lose control — make a fool of herself. She’d already done that once today.

It was just as well. The closed look on Nat’s face told her he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. In fact, he’d said very little since Holt left.

After helping her up on his horse, he’d led them down the steep trail until he found a suitable spot to make camp. Even then he hadn’t bothered to question her. Perhaps he was too angry to care.

He sat across from her now, studying the red and gold flames of the fire. Every so often a spark would shoot up, spraying ash on his black trousers. Instead of flicking it away, he poked the pine logs with a stick, making the flames lick higher and higher and the sap sizzle louder.

She could guess what he was thinking, and though she was sorry, there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She hadn’t asked to be kidnapped. She hadn’t asked for any of it.

Now that she was safe, all she could think of was Uncle Will and how worried he must be. Perhaps she could telegraph him at the next stage station. She didn’t know where they were going, but she assumed they were headed toward civilization, not away from it.

The strange thing was she didn’t care. She wasn’t ready to deal with the curious stares of the citizens of Murdock, or the terrible gossip that would follow her kidnapping. Everyone knew what the Everetts were like — what they were capable of.

Her reputation was in tatters. And eventually, she’d have to face up to it. But not now — not yet.

She lifted the canteen to her lips to wash down the last of the stale biscuit. Then she gathered the grey wool blanket Nat had given her closer. It smelled of smoke and pine gum, but it held the heat from the fire and kept her warm. She rested her head on her arms and closed her eyes.

A coyote howled.

And for the first time in days, she failed to flinch.

The fire popped.

Then nothing.

Sweet nothing.

She must have slept.

Christie woke to the sound of bacon crackling. It smelled so good her mouth watered, but the warm cocoon of her blanket made her resist moving. She tried to imagine she was back home in Boston in her own bed. Soon Bess would arrive with her morning chocolate. She’d draw the drapes and the sunshine would stream in. After, Bess would lay out her clothes while they chatted about the day’s events. Perhaps they’d plan the menu for a dinner party that evening … Discuss the price of oysters.

Nat’s brusque tone cut into her fantasy. “Breakfast is ready.”

The thought of facing his anger again made her flinch. But there was no avoiding it. She uncurled her limbs, attempting to stifle an unladylike groan. A little sound slipped out just the same. Too many nights spent sleeping on the ground had left her body bruised. This morning, she felt especially stiff, after an entire night without fear interrupting her sleep.

“Good Lord,” she murmured to herself more than to him. “I must look a sight.”

“You do.”

Her cheeks went hot. She turned away. Using her fingers, she proceeded to rake the knots from her hair.

Nat shoved a plate of bacon and beans under her nose. “Here, eat. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

“Thank you.” She accepted the plate. “Thank you for everything. I mean, for rescuing me.” There, she’d said it. She’d wanted to express her gratitude last night, but his dark smoldering looks kept her silent.

He regarded her steadily, then gave an imperceptible nod.

Apparently he was still angry at the loss of his prisoner. Well, there wasn’t anything she could do about it, so he might as well get over it. She might have told him so, if not for the forbidding look on his face. “Where are we going?”

“A place where you’ll be safe.”

Safe.

Perfect.

Safe was good.

That was all she wanted — safe from the Everetts, safe from the shame of her spoiled reputation. As long as there was water to wash with and a place to lay her head, she’d be content. She needed time to think.

She nibbled on the bacon, but avoided the beans. She’d reached her bean limit two days ago when Cecil had burnt the whole skillet. To keep up her strength she’d forced them down, but she felt certain the taste of burnt beans would haunt her the rest of her life.

When she finished, she licked her fingers one at a time — another bad habit acquired from necessity. If she wasn’t careful, she’d soon be licking her plate like Billy and Cecil. She rose to her feet, shuddering at the thought.

By then Nat was mounted and ready to depart. He reached down to give her a hand up. As soon as she was seated in front of him, he clicked his tongue setting Diablo in motion.

Funny what a little sleep would do. Yesterday, the touch of his hand seemed so casual, so unimportant. But this morning, without the threat of danger, her awareness of him grew stronger and stronger.

Even the spectacular views as they descended into the foothills couldn’t distract her senses from him.

She closed her eyes, hoping to shut him out and trick her mind somewhere else. But eventually the heat of the sun and the motion of the horse made her sleepy. She must have drifted off.

She woke to the feeling of something soft against her cheek and a steady drumming sound. When she opened her eyes, she realized the softness was Nat’s buckskin coat, and the steady thump was his heart beneath her ear. She was plastered so tightly against him, she could feel his breath on her scalp.

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She sat up, squinting against the hot, blazing sun. What she saw made her blink. A crude adobe-style building stood a few yards away. It was no bigger than a shack with a rough clay roof and a narrow plank door. A few horses stood tethered to hitching posts outside. A dozen or so chickens pecked in the dirt, then clucked wildly as they scattered, racing to get out of Diablo’s way.

Her spirits sank. Was he leaving her here? This wasn’t the destination she’d had in mind. It didn’t appear very safe. Not that she could do much about it. She was at his mercy.

Oh well, if it wasn’t suitable, she’d make her way to civilization at the first opportunity. In the meantime, she’d have to make do. If she could survive the Everetts, she could survive anything.

Nat dismounted, then lifted her from Diablo’s back.

She followed him inside to discover a saloon of sorts — a crude rest stop with a few tables where you could sit down and eat. Boxes of bullets and jars of beef jerky stood on crude shelves behind a plank counter held up by crates.

Two rough looking men with thick side-whiskers lifted their heads from their plates.

Christie didn’t like the look of either of them. The bigger of the two wore a crooked leering smile. The other squinted through beady, black eyes like a snake.

She made a point not to look at them after that, staying as close as she could to Nat. He seemed not to notice the men, striding forward to speak to the old Indian woman behind the counter.

“Nat Randall.” The woman spoke in halting tones. “Back so soon? You want my venison stew?”

“Randall?” The beady-eyed man with red hair scraped back the bench he was sitting on and came to his feet. “I thought it was you.” He had the lazy speech of a southerner. “I knew we’d cross paths sooner or later.”

Nat turned to face him. “Wait outside, Christie,” he said, never taking his eyes from the man. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Christie hastened for the door, but before she could reach it a shot rang out, shaking the saloon to its rafters. When she spun round, she was met with a horrifying sight. The beady-eyed man lay contorted over the bench, covered in blood from a hole in the chest. Smoke swirled like ghosts. The bitter smell of gunpowder choked the air, making her throw her hand up over her mouth.

Nat stood at the counter, stuffing a box of bullets into the pocket of his buckskin coat. “Sorry about the mess, Susanne. This should cover it.” He tossed a few coins on the counter. “Tell Jeremy I was asking after him.” He tipped his hat, then headed for the door.

Christie stumbled out the door ahead of him, too shocked to speak. But once outside in the bright light with the heat blasting down on her face, the shock quickly turned to revulsion. “My God! You killed him! You killed that man!”

Nat sent her a hard look. “He drew first. If I hadn’t, he would have killed me.”

When Nat reached out his hand, she cringed away from him, staring back at him as though seeing him for the first time. What kind of man killed another human being without hesitation, without any remorse? He was a savage — no better than the Everetts. She remembered the pool of blood in the shack when they’d rescued Leigh — Hank’s blood.

At the time she’d thought Holt had done it, because that was what she’d wanted to believe. Now she realized it might have been either one of them.

Her insides quivered.

Her gaze darted toward the horses at the hitching post, as panic rose in her chest.

All she could think of was getting away.

But before she could take a step, Nat reached out to grab her by the arm.

She tried to jerk away, but he held her tight. “Who was he? Who was that man?”

“I’ll tell you on the way.” The cold look in Nat’s blue eyes made her tremble.

How could she trust him?

Then she remembered the other man — his sly smile, the way he’d looked her up and down. It struck her that being left behind with him might be worse. Numbly, she allowed Nat to help her up on Diablo’s back. What was the use? If she did manage to escape, where would she go? She didn’t even know where they were. These people were his friends. They wouldn’t help her.

“Who was he?” she said again, once he’d swung up behind her. “Why would he want to kill you?”

“Southern sympathizers.” He urged Diablo into a trot. “They rode with a man named William Quantrill.”