Velvet Thunder (15 page)

He shook his head. “We can't do that, sugar. I think we're close to an opening in the cave. A draft was blowing in the chimney; the wind had to come from somewhere. And those bats back there . . . they have to have a way out.”

She hated admitting her weakness, but there was no help for it. “I'm terrified of water. The chances of my swimming through the sump and coming out alive on the other side are not very good. If I don't drown first, I'll die of heart seizure.”

Heath remained silent. He recognized what a painful admission that was for Stevie to make. As he weighed their options, the lantern began to flicker. He shook the lantern to get the oil flowing again, but it was no use. In spite of his efforts, the lamp went out. They were left in total darkness.

The two greatest fears of Stevie's life were confronting her. Darkness and water. She clutched the front of Heath's shirt in her fists, clinging to him like a lifeline.

He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, hoping to share his courage and strength with her. “There's no way we can backtrack now,” he whispered into her hair. “Our only hope is to swim to the other side of the sump.”

For a moment the cave was silent as a tomb. They both realized that if they didn't move on, that's exactly what it would be—their tomb.

“Lead the way. I'll follow.”

Heath squeezed her one more time, then pushed off the wall. He grasped her hand firmly and pulled her down into the sump. When the water reached chin level, the ceiling was only one inch above his head.

Stevie had to hold on to his shoulders and kick her feet in order to keep her head above water. Her feet cleared the floor by a good fifteen inches. Her heart pounded so loudly, she could barely hear as Heath spoke to her.

“It's time, sugar. I'll go first. As soon as I'm gone, take a deep breath and follow me.” In the darkness he cradled her chin in his palm. “You can do it, angel.” He kissed her gently. “I'll see you on the other side.” He still didn't go.

“Well, what're you waitin' for?” She tried to laugh, but it sounded more like a sob.

Heath plunged into the murky depths and swam, nearly expending his waning strength. Twice he tried to emerge, only to feel solid rock above his head. Just when he thought his lungs would burst from lack of oxygen, his head broke water. He surged into an air-filled cavern. Gasping for breath, he waited for Stevie. He prayed as he had never prayed before. The seconds seemed like hours.

He waited and waited.

She didn't come.

Frantic, he dove back underwater and found her floundering a few feet away. He had never been so relieved in his life. Grabbing her by the arm, he pulled her through the corridor up into the air-filled cavern.

She gasped for air, then coughed and sputtered to rid her lungs of water. Wrapping her arms around Heath's neck, she hung on for dear life. He crooned words of reassurance, praise, affection.

For a moment he closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against her sodden hair. When he opened his eyes and dropped his head back on his shoulders, thanking God silently that she was safe, he saw that they were in an underground pool. The ceiling was shaped like an arch. Early morning sunlight streamed through a small window that God and time had carved in the dome

“Thank you,” Stevie whispered against his cheek.

He smiled down at her face. The adoration he saw in her eyes made him feel ten feet tall. He seemed to soar in the heavens. The warm, wet stream of blood staining the water brought him back to earth.

He had to find a way out of there. His gaze sweeping the enclosure, he noticed a window some twenty-five feet above the pool. “Don't move,” he instructed Stevie.

Swimming over to one side, he looked for footholds, vines, anything that might help them reach the top. He squinted. Surely he was seeing things.

Treading water, Stevie watched him closely. “Is that a rope?”

“Looks like.”

A rope ladder dangled from the window to within a few inches of the surface of the water. Obviously someone had used the cave before, perhaps to cool off on a hot summer day. Silently blessing them, he tested the rope that might well save their lives. He wrapped his hands around it, lifted his feet off the floor, and bounced twice. It would hold his weight. “Come on, sugar. Let's get out of here.”

“You don't have to ask me twice.”

Once they reached the outside, Heath lay on a blanket of pine needles, totally exhausted from the climb. Stevie dropped onto her knees at his side. She flattened her palm on his forehead, then caressed his pale, drawn face. “You're burning up.”

He tried for a sexy smile. “Mmmm-hmmm.”

She opened his shirt. Taking his wet bandanna, she cleaned the wound and pressed the cloth tightly against him in a vain attempt to halt the renewed bleeding. Finished, she surveyed the surrounding territory. They were high up on a ridge.

“See anything familiar?” His voice was inordinately weak.

Purposefully, Stevie tamped down a feeling of panic. He would be all right if she kept her head and acted responsibly. “We're about three or four miles from where we left the horses.” She pointed in the direction of the cave. “If we can reach them, I have some jerky, biscuits, and coffee in my saddlebags.”

“I've got a flask of whiskey in mine.”

She smiled. “I mighta known.”

Helping him stand, she took him by the hand and started over to the side of the ridge. They had taken no more than two steps, when he collapsed.

“I'm sorry, sugar,” he muttered, coming up on his knees.

“I'll be fine after I rest a few minutes.” He was bleeding freely now. His eyes were closed, his breathing labored.

“Of course you will.”

Her whisper, sounding more like an order, elicited a soft smile from him.

She pulled his head into her lap. His smile widened. “This is just so you'll be more comfortable. Don't get any fresh ideas.”

“Your warning comes a coupla days too late.” He chuckled with the last of his strength before he fell unconscious.

Stevie ran trembling fingers through his damp hair. Guilt threatened to overwhelm her. She had coaxed him into helping her, and now it looked as if he might die because of her taste for revenge. Even if he didn't bleed to death before the day was through, he couldn't return to Adobe Wells. Neither of them could, not until he was well. He would need all his strength and quickness to fight off the men who would now be after their blood, thanks to her desire for vengeance.

Well, sitting around berating herself wasn't helping anyone. She would go after the horses, and when she returned, she would take care of him. He would get well and together they would go after the judge. If Lucky didn't make it, God forbid, she would go after the judge by herself. They had suffered too much to give up now. God help him when she found him. Dropping her gaze to Lucky, she realized she had even more reason to kill Judge Jack now than before.

Determination sculpting her visage, she made Lucky as comfortable as possible, then started off at a brisk pace in search of the horses. The way through the forest was familiar, but hard going. It was rough, dense country covered heavily with pine, spruce, piñon, cedar, aspen, and a thick crop of undergrowth.

Limbs tore at her hair, cut her cheek, and ripped the shoulder out of her buckskin shirt. She was so concerned about the wounded man she had left behind, she paid her discomfort no mind, nor did she notice the figure blocking her path.

“Howdy.”

She jumped and drew her gun. “Pepper!” she shouted at their ranch cook. “Dammit. You nearly scared me to death.” She leathered the weapon.

“Reckon if I'da been one of the judge's men, that's just what you'd be. Daid.”

She blushed at the set-down, well deserved though it was.

“Where you headed in sech a all-fired hurry?”

“Back to the cave. Did you know the judge has men working there?”

“Yep. And they ain't the first.”

“What?”

“Some fancy man, couldn't see who he was—mighta been the judge, mighta not—went in there t'other day with two old sods. He come out alone.” Without giving Stevie a chance to question him further, he narrowed his eyes. “Who was that young feller you was sneakin around with?”

Stevie wasn't surprised that Pepper knew that she and Lucky had been at the cave; he knew everything that happened at the Rocking J. “His name's Lucky Diamond. He's gonna help me with the judge.”

“Where is he?”

“He got shot. He's back a ways.”

“Won't be much help iffn he's shot,” Pepper stated flatly.

“I know. I'm takin' him up into the Sangre de Cristoes till he heals. Will you see that Pa gets word? Ask Pilar to take care of Winter till I get back. And tell her to do all she can to make Blue at home.”

“Another stray of yourn?”

“She's a saloon girl. Bear Jacobson beat her up. She's a friend.”

Pepper laughed so hard, he almost swallowed the tobacco pocketed in his cheek. “Bet that high-and-mighty Miss Smelter near 'bout busted her gusset when you brung a dove to Pilar's.”

Stevie's voice was low, flat. “Miss Smelter doesn't live at Pilar's anymore. Look, Pepper, I've gotta go. Lucky's gonna bleed to death if I don't get back to him.”

“You sure it's safe goin' off with that dude all on your lonesome?”

She avoided looking directly at him. Actually, she had thought of little else but having Lucky
all on her lonesome
since the first moment they met. Her hands trembled at the prospect even now.

When she stuffed them in her pockets to hide the tremor, her fingers brushed against the rock she found earlier. Instead of answering Pepper's leading question, she said, “We found this in the cave. Think you could get it over to Fort Union? See if they can analyze it. It might shed some light on what the judge is up to.”

He snorted. “'Course I can. What you think I am? A tuckered-out old man?”

Stevie hid her smile. “Never.” She started to leave.

“You be careful with that dude, now. Ya hear?”

She turned back and kissed his bristled cheek. “Don't worry. If he tries anything I don't like, I'll just shoot him again.”

With a backward wave she ran off toward the cave.

“That ain't what I'm a-worryin' 'bout. I'm sceered he might try doin' somethin' you'll like.”

 

 

Stevie found the horses where they had tethered them the night before. They nickered a greeting, sounding as if they were scolding her for being gone so long.

She untied her mount, then approached Lucky's stallion carefully. The powerful animal smelled his master's blood on her clothes. He reared up on his hind legs, eyes wide, ears held back.

“Whoa, boy,” she coaxed. “Don't have time for you to be finicky now. We've gotta get back.” Like most males, he responded to a woman's soft words and gentle caress.

The ride back to Heath was rather quick, the whole trip—including her conversation with Pepper—took less than two hours. To her relief and utter amazement, Heath was conscious when she returned.

Rummaging through his saddlebags, she found the flask. It was made of sterling silver, ornately decorated, the letters
HHT
engraved in the center of a ring of ivy. She rubbed her thumb over the initials, wondering what Lucky's name really was.

Noticing Stevie's look of suspicion, Heath accepted the flask. “Won it in a poker game.”

She tried for a disapproving glare. “Take a stiff drink. You're going to need it when I fish that bullet out.”

“I'm certainly looking forward to that.”

She admired his ability to tease in view of his condition. He was tough, much tougher than a mere gambler. Ransacking her own saddlebags, she withdrew the needle and thread she always carried.

Heath ran his eyes over Stevie. “What happened to you?”

Not understanding his alarm, she looked at him blankly. “What do you mean?”

He picked leaves and twigs from her hair. She turned her face toward him. Touching her cheek gently, he withdrew bloody fingers. “You're hurt.”

On cue, the cut began to sting. “It's nothing.”

He dropped his gaze to her torn shirt. “What the hell?” He tried to rise.

Pushing him down, she followed his gaze. Her cheeks flamed when she noticed the large expanse of skin showing, the shadow of cleavage that seemed to mesmerize Heath. Shrugging, she quipped, “Alter I finish sewing you up, I'll take a needle to that. But first, I'll make use of this.” Opening her palm, she revealed her bowie knife.

All thoughts of her disheveled state fled his mind. He grimaced. “I hope you're as good with that thing as I first thought.”

“Guess you'll just have to wait and see. Take another drink of whiskey and lie still. This is going to hurt like the devil.”

“You don't say.” Heath did as he was ordered. Lying deathly still, staring up into the sky, he took control of his mind, purposefully shutting out everything but the fluffy white clouds drifting by.

In his mind's eye he saw a rambunctious boy hunting with his father in the New York countryside surrounding their summer home. They were stalking a deer on the edge of a clearing. The man raised his rifle and took aim. The boy placed his hand on his father's arm.

“Let me do it, Father.”

The tall man lowered his weapon and nodded. The lad took his gun and crept stealthily along the edge of the clearing while his father watched intently. When he raised his weapon and fired, the bullet entered the deer's heart. It was dead before it hit the ground. The father walked up to his son's side, praising him for his marksmanship.

Somewhere outside of himself, Heath heard Stevie whisper a Comanche prayer, then felt the knife sink into his flesh. He twitched involuntarily as the sharp pain struck him. He didn't make a sound, just paled a bit.

The scene changed. It was night. The boy and his father sat around a campfire, eating roasted venison. The lad listened intently as his father told him stories of fighting for his country. Fighting Mexicans. Fighting Indians. Such daring deeds.

The man was Heath's father, affectionately called the general. And Heath was the impressionable young lad, thrilled at the time spent with his father . . . just the two of them. Those times, so precious and rare, made him the man he is today. They gave him the desire to be a father, a desire that was growing stronger with each passing year.

Heath wondered if he would sit around a campfire with his own son one day, telling stories of fighting for his country. Fighting Rebels. Fighting gunslingers, men like Sims and Jacobson and Carlos Garcia. One day, would his son think his deeds daring? He hoped so.

And what would the boy look like? The picture of his son that burst into his mind captivated and touched him in the region of his heart. He smiled at the dark-skinned lad who looked up at him with adoring black eyes. He pictured himself brushing back a lock of platinum hair from the boy's dusky forehead. His heart ached with love and loneliness.

When Stevie spoke, drawing Heath back to the present, it was with newly acquired awe and respect. “It's over. You didn't make a sound.” Just like an Indian, she thought proudly. She wasn't certain if she was proud of the Indian Nation's stoic legacy or of Lucky's bravery. Both, she decided.

Heath looked up into her admiring gaze, into black orbs very like the eyes of his imaginary son. “Must have been the whiskey,” he said huskily before he lost consciousness again.