The Outlaws: Rafe (45 page)

"Then we'd better pray for her, Mr. Goodman.
 
Even the bravest soul wouldn't venture into those mountains tonight."

"You were wise to send the old man away," Chandler said after Goodman left.
 
"Have you put on the roast beef yet?"

"There's nothing left in the larder but beans and potatoes," Angela informed him.
 
"Why do you think I was going to town for supplies?"
 
She didn't mention the fact that she'd been feeding both herself and Rafe as well as sending food back with him to the cave.

Chandler's nose wrinkled in disgust.
 
"I don't need you to fix that for me."

"That was my next suggestion.
 
You're perfectly capable of cooking for yourself.
 
I'm going to my room."

"Don't you mean
our
room?"
 
He leered at her.
 
"I'll join you."

"On the other hand," Angela hastily added.
 
"I'm hungry."

"So am I.
  
Fix whatever you have on hand.
 
The lawyer interrupted my packing.
 
I'm going to return to my cabin and bring the rest of my things over here before the snow piles up any higher."

A fine dusting of snow blew inside as Chandler opened the door and stepped outside.
 
Angela stared at it a moment then went into the kitchen to fix something to eat.
 
The warm weight of the gun inside her pocket gave her a small degree of comfort as she opened a can of beans and threw together the makings for biscuits.
 
She had just taken the biscuits out of the oven when Chandler returned.

"What miserable weather," he complained, shaking the snow off his hat and dropping his bag beside the door.

"Get used to it, there's plenty more like it ahead," Angela warned.

"Let the snow fall.
 
We'll be warm and snug in our bed," Chandler said meaningfully.

Angela placed the biscuits on the table, set out a jar of jam, and dished out a plate of beans.
 
Then she sat down to enjoy her meal.

"What about me?" Chandler asked.

"You can have what's left."

Angela scraped the last of the food from her plate into her mouth.
 
With outward calm, she placed the empty plate on the sink and left the room.

"Where are you going?"

"To my room."

Chandler leaped up and headed her off.
 
"Fine, I'll go with you.
 
It's about time I learned what that cowboy found so irresistible about you.
 
You must be damn good in bed to keep him coming back."

He grasped her shoulders and pushed her through the bedroom door.
 
He followed her inside and slammed the door behind him.

"Take off your clothes."

"No."
 
Rafe, she silently implored, where are you?
 
Didn't he wonder why she and Desmond had never left the mine?

"Dammit, Angela, I'll tie you up to accomplish this if I have to.
 
It would be easier on both of us if you cooperated."

She turned her back on him and realized too late it was a mistake.
 
One never turned one's back on a snake.
 
He was on her in seconds, pinning her arms to her sides, twisting her around and wrestling her to the bed.
 
She bit his neck...hard.
 
He released her right arm and slapped her.
 
She saw stars.
 
He insinuated his knee between her legs and hiked her skirt up to her thighs.

It took Angela a moment to realize her right arm was unfettered and another to remember the gun in her pocket.
 
When Chandler lifted his hips to remove his gunbelt and unfasten his trousers, Angela reached for the gun and worked it free.
 
When Chandler pressed his naked loins against hers, she jammed cold metal into his gut and cocked the hammer.

He reared up.
 
"What the hell!"

"Move off of me," Angela hissed.

"Where did you get that gun?"

"I bought it before I left Wichita.
 
Did you think I'd travel without protection?"

He glanced longingly at his discarded gunbelt.
 
"Don't even think about it," Angela warned.
 
"Now get out of here."

He backed away from the bed.
 
"All the way out."

She rose slowly from the bed, holding the gun steady on him as she kicked his holster under the bed and prodded him through the door, all the way to the front of the house.

"Go back to your own cabin.
 
No, better yet, leave the Golden Angel.
 
You don't belong here."

"You may have the upper hand now but I'm stronger and smarter than you," Chandler blasted.
 
How long can you hold out against me?"

"As long as I have to," Angela promised.
 
"Move!"

An icy blast buffeted Chandler as he opened the door.
 
"I don't have a coat."

"You should have thought of that before you assaulted me."
 
She aimed the gun at his privates.
 
Chandler took one look at her steady hand and stepped out into the cold.
 
Angela slammed the door and shot home the bolt.

Her heart was still pounding as she lowered the gun and leaned against the door.
 
Dragging in a shaky breath, Angela realized she wouldn't be safe until every window and door was latched.
 
Fear gave her feet wings as she latched the shutters at each window and bolted the back door.
 
The cabin was plunged into darkness but for the light from the hearth.
 
She lit a lantern and took stock of her everything she had on hand.

She had enough firewood to last several days, thanks to her foraging trips into the forest.
 
She could make do with the food she had on hand, too.
 
The snowstorm raging outside had arrived too early in the season to last more than a day or two and she knew she could depend upon Mr. Goodman to bring help.
 
Had he found Rafe? she wondered.
 
Obviously not for Rafe would be here had he known she needed him.
 
She sat down to await help.
 
Somehow she would survive until Goodman returned or Rafe arrived.

Dragging himself a few inches at a time, Rafe slithered down the hillside through the driving snowstorm.
 
Pain so intense it stole his breath slowed his progress.
 
The numbing cold that ate through his clothing into his bones was the least of his worries.
 
The cold was a blessing in disguise for it dulled the pain caused by his broken leg.

What a helluva mess, he reflected as he rested against an ice-covered stump to catch his breath.
 
A broken leg was the last thing he'd expected when he'd started down the hill toward the mine.
 
He'd known something was terribly wrong when Angel and Dexter failed to leave the mine.
 
Crouched above the mine's entrance, he had waited hours for the buckboard to appear, until blowing snow obscured his view.
 
Fear for Angel brought him from his concealment and he'd started down the hillside on foot, slipping and sliding through snow and sleet.

His feet found an icy patch, sending him tumbling head over heels.
 
He'd landed hard, with his leg twisted beneath him at a strange angle, and then everything had gone black.
 
He'd awakened in excruciation pain, as certain as he was of breathing that his right leg was broken.

Crawling on his elbows, Rafe had found a sturdy tree branch and dragged it along with him until he located a spot where two young tree trunks grew close together.
 
It had taken him long painful minutes to maneuver the foot of his broken leg between the two trunks and wedge it firmly.
 
Lying flat on the ground, he had reached behind him and grasped another sturdy tree trunk.
 
Then he pulled with all his strength, until he heard the bone snap into place.
 
He remembered screaming before passing out.

When he had awakened he removed his belt and strapped his leg to the branch he'd dragged with him for that purpose.
 
It wasn't as professional as Jess would have done but it would have to do.

Rafe crawled inch by painful inch through the snow, making slow but steady progress down the hill.
 
Instinct told him that Angel needed him.
 
She was alone with two vicious men who would do anything to get what they wanted.
 
Why hadn't she and Dexter gone to town like they were supposed to?
 
The question hung ominously in the air, reminding him of Angel's vulnerability.

Dulled by pain, Rafe's mind began to drift.
 
He remembered those days after the war when he'd learned that both his brothers had survived.
 
He recalled the sadness of their father's death and the loss of their mother shortly after they had returned home for a joyous reunion.

Wind howled overheard.
 
Blasts of icy air slowly penetrated through the pain.
 
He couldn't go on.
 
He was going to freeze to death before he reached his love.
 
Come spring they'd find his bones in the hills.
 
Then he heard it.
 
The lilting melody of a hymn.
 
Angel's sweet voice floated to him through the fog of his mind.
 
Whether real or imagined, it gave him the will to go on.
 
Renewed strength flowed through him as he renewed his struggle toward the angelic voice calling to him.

Dragging his crudely splinted leg behind him, Rafe slithered down the hillside, aware of nothing but his grinding need to reach Angel.
 
His elbows were scraped raw through his jacket as he used them to propel himself.
 
Gripped in the throes of pain, Rafe focused on his goal with unswerving intensity.

Angel.

He was scarcely aware of the passage of time, it could have been hours or days when he finally reached the bottom of the hill.
 
He stopped and rested, groaning in frustration when he realized he hadn't the energy to go on.
 
Then, once again Angel's voice floated to him on a frigid wind.
 
She was singing something he recalled from his childhood.
 
The mesmerizing sweetness of her voice gave him the impetus to drag himself that extra distance to her back door.
 
Slumping in total exhaustion, Rafe stared at the insurmountable obstacle the closed door presented and feared he'd freeze to death before he could muster the strength to make himself heard.

His last thought before he passed out was that he shouldn't have dragged himself to Angel's door.
 
He didn't want Angel to be the one to find his stiff, frozen body.

Angela wouldn't allow herself to sleep.
 
She sat up in a chair by the fire with the gun in her lap.
 
Occasionally she went to the window and peered through a crack in the shutters to check on the weather.
 
The snow seemed to be diminishing though the wind was still howling down the chimney.
 
She prayed for the sun to appear tomorrow and melt the snow, opening the road to the mine would be negotiable.

Angela knew Mr. Goodman had understood her message and hoped he'd arrive soon with help.
 
Meanwhile, she felt confident she could handle Anson, she had outsmarted him so far, hadn't she?

Angela rested her head against the back of the high-backed chair and began to sing softly.
 
Singing during times of stress always soothed her.
 
She kept singing to stay awake.
 
She sang several hymns first, then a lullaby she recalled from her childhood.
 
It reminded her of happier times, when her mother sang to her at bedtime, and somehow it eased her loneliness.

Angela sang until her throat became too dry to continue.
 
She recalled the bucket of spring water she'd carried into the house earlier, before all the trouble had started, and went into the kitchen for a drink.
 
The water was sweet and cool and it soothed her throat.
 
She was about to return to the parlor and the beckoning fire when she stopped abruptly and stared at the back door.
 
A frown darkened her brow.

The door was still latched but something...something she couldn't name drew her closer.
 
Her first thought was that Anson was outside, waiting to pounce once she opened the door, but she quickly discounted that notion.
 
She doubted Anson would stand overlong in the cold without his heavy jacket.
 
No, it was something else.
 
Then she heard it.
 
A scratching sound, like fingernails scraping against wood.