Velvet Thunder (24 page)

A mile outside of town, Heath noticed four men riding hell bent for leather toward Santa Fe.

A more disreputable bunch he had never seen. They were brigands, up to no good. He'd bet his badge on it. Fearing that Jay's cover had been blown and the gang was in pursuit of him, he took Stevie and Erica into town and dropped them at Pilar's before heading over to the jail.

He would get the marshal and they would go after the men. It was time someone taught the young lawman how to go up against the opposition. And Heath was the man to do it.

Inside the jailhouse, he found Donn Pedro alone, his lower lip trembling, mumbling something about the three men who stole the marshal. A sob escaped the child's lips, but he held back the tears.

“Damn!” Heath uttered. Dropping down onto one knee, he pushed his hat back with two fingers and looked Pedro in the eye. “What's your name, son?”

“Donn Pedro.”

“Where do you live, Donn Pedro?”

Pedro settled his gaze on the floor. “Here.”

“Okay. You just stay here and don't tell anybody about this—” Heath began quietly. “And don't worry. The men who took Marshal Reno won't hurt him. I promise. I'll bring him back. Safe and sound. If you need anything while the marshal and I are gone, go to Miss Pilar's boardinghouse and ask for Stevie Johns. Do you know her?”

“Sí.” His voice was very small.

“Stevie's a friend of mine. She'll help you. Okay?”

Pedro drew himself up, trying to hide his fear. “You will help the marshal.” It sounded quite like an order. “And I will do as you say.” As an afterthought, he added, “Who are you?”

“Can you keep a secret, Donn Pedro?”

Pedro eyed Heath with a hint of indignation. Of course he could keep a secret! He nodded tersely.

Heath reached into his pocket and drew out his U.S. marshal's badge.

The child's eyes widened and darkened with respect. He stretched forth a shaky finger and touched the metal that had been warmed by its proximity to Heath's body. “I won't tell nobody,” he promised reverently. “Just bring the marshal back.” His voice quivered. “Please.”

Something broke loose inside Heath. He gathered the child in his arms. Pride stiffened Donn Pedro's back momentarily, then he caved in and accepted the comfort the big gringo freely offered.

Heath patted the child's head awkwardly. This land was too harsh and unforgiving for the weak, and this boy was weak. He was an orphan, alone in the world except for Reno. If the marshal were killed, the boy could starve to death. Pedro had to know that; Heath couldn't begin to imagine how that would make a child feel.

Well, he would do what he could for Donn Pedro. First, that meant going after the marshal. While the abductors didn't plan to kill Reno now—according to the information Jay had overheard—they might hurt him. Heath would trail them and stay close in the event that things got out of hand.

When their guard was down—when they stopped for the night—he would steal into camp and rescue the marshal. He would bring Reno back if it was the last thing he ever did.

Telling Pedro as much, he rushed back to the boardinghouse. Stevie was sitting in the rocking chair on the portico. He knew that she was waiting for him, and the knowledge warmed his heart. “I have to throw some things together. Come up with me.”

She nodded, rising from the chair.

He halted with his hand on the front door. “Where's Erica?”

“A lieutenant from the fort arrived moments after you left. Sent here by her doting papa. With an escort of twenty. They took her away.”

Heath grinned, taking Stevie's hand in his own. “There is a God.”

Smiling, she followed him up the staircase.

When they entered his room, he found his saddlebags packed with sufficient food, clothing, and ammunition for a lengthy trip. He pulled her through the doorway and closed the door firmly behind them. He tossed his hat on the bed, leaned back against the door, settled her into the cradle of his thighs, and looked down into midnight-black eyes. “You packed for me.” It wasn't a question, rather a statement of fact.

“You're going after them.”

“I have to. They've kidnapped Ted Reno. And while the kid may not be worth a spit in the river, he's still the marshal. I have to go,” he repeated. “Now. Before they get away.”

Cupping her head in one large palm, he took her lips beneath his own. He kissed her with all the love in his heart. Then his mouth brushed hers softly as he spoke. “I wish we had more time to say good-bye, sweetheart.”

The hot hardness pressing against her belly told Stevie what they would do if they had more time. More than anything, she wanted him to stay. But perhaps it was best that he leave quickly. His absence would give her time to shore up her defenses, time to convince herself that she could live in a world without him.

Frustrated longing shook her body at the thought of never being held by Heath again. Hungrily, shamelessly, she burrowed her arms beneath his leather vest and circled his waist. Silently, she cursed her own weakness.

His arms closed about her more tightly, one hand in the small of her back pressing her to him. The ensuing kiss was urgent, frantic, ravenous. It was brilliant light, vibrant heat, melding them together, mouth to mouth, heart to heart, soul to soul. Fused, he rocked her slowly against him, massaging the part of him that was trying to make him forget about outlaws, kidnappers, marshals, promises to orphans, anything, everything but Stevie. Loving her long and hard was uppermost in his mind as he fed on the passion of her kiss.

Pulling away, he tried to tell her how much he loved her, how much he would miss her. And between each vow of devotion, each declaration of need, he showered kisses on the tip of her nose, her eyelids, her cheeks and jaw, her bare, slender neck.

“Will you think about me while I'm gone?” Heath asked against her heated skin.

At a loss, she buried her face in his hair. She breathed in the scent of him, wanting his aroma, the very essence of him to be captured inside her. She held her breath. When her lungs would burst, she exhaled grudgingly.

He massaged the rise and fall of her chest. Again he asked her, “Will you think of me?”

“No.”

“No?” He pulled back and tilted her face up.

She kept her expression carefully blank. She should tell him now that there was no future for them. She knew she should. It would be easier on both of them. Quick and clean, cut him out of her life like a cancer.

But the way he was gazing at her—hopefully, lovingly, with more vulnerability in his eyes than she had ever expected to see—she couldn't bring herself to voice the words. He was not a cancer that killed, but a force that gave her life. Despite her best efforts to the contrary, a slow smile lit her face. Then his in response.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I'll miss you.” She cleared her throat and blinked against the water forming in her eyes. Small fists pounded the wide muscled wall of his chest. “But I don't want to. Damn your black heart.”

Chuckling, he captured both her hands in one of his own. His smile was so sexy, it made her want to throw him on the floor and jump on top of him, so patently self-satisfied, she wanted to break the slop jar over his head. She did neither. Instead, she whispered, “Kiss me again, you wretched man, then go catch the bad guys.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She expected a quick kiss, little more than a vigorous peck. What she received was a full frontal assault on all her senses, over her entire aching body. He employed lips, hands, body, and voice in his seduction of her. And he met with unparalleled success; she melted and pooled at his feet.

If he had to leave her indefinitely, he would give her something to think about while he was gone. He mapped her gently with his touch, his husky voice praising each part of her body, raising her desire and heart rate accordingly.

His tongue and lips were everywhere at once. On, in, and around her mouth, over her face, in her ear—she giggled, then moaned at the heady sensation—down her neck, pausing on her pulse point. He nipped it, then soothed it with the tip of his tongue. When he laved it flatly, he felt the blood surging beneath her silky skin.

He slid his knee between her thighs, and the pounding beneath his tongue increased. He raised his leg a bit higher, nestling his bulging thigh at the V in her legs. The pulse at her throat grew erratic as she ground herself against his leg. His sharp breath dissolved into a deep groan.

It was then that Heath questioned the wisdom of his actions. Stevie was writhing against him passionately, making those sounds in the back of her throat that never failed to drive him crazy. If her uninhibited response was an indication, she would think of him while he was gone . . . just as he had intended when he began his skillful seduction.

But he had gotten caught in his own net. He was so aroused that he would be lucky if he could sit his horse. He didn't even want to consider being unable to love her for days on end. What had started as a way to keep his woman enticed had ended as a means of self-torture. And Heath was no sadist. So after a kiss that was so heated it left them both momentarily stunned, he disentangled himself from her embrace and held her away from him.

It took her a few moments to regain her composure. “Wow,” she said, a little break in her voice. Her sense of humor was intact despite the fact that her whole body was screaming for release. “You sure you gotta go? So soon?”

His laugh turned into a groan when she ran a finger over his moist, puffy lips. He sucked it into his mouth as if he were an infant suckling on her breast. He groaned again at the mental picture he had drawn. “I'm sure I've gotta go . . . while I still can.”

She smiled sweetly.

“But I can barely stand the thought of leaving you behind. If it wasn't dangerous, sugar, I would take you with me.”

She sobered instantly. “You will be careful, won't you?”

He cursed himself for worrying her even as the concern in her ebony eyes thrilled him. His callused palms gently cradled her face. “Stephanie Johns, nothing in this world could keep me away from you and Winter and that new baby girl. I'll be back.” He tilted his head, suddenly intense. “I swear it on our children's lives.” He grinned. “Our present and future children's lives.”

The thick fringe of lashes that shaded her eyes flew up. She blushed instantly, helplessly. Her heart pounded in her chest. The need to bear his child was a living, breathing desire inside her. Even now she could be carrying his baby beneath her heart. She was speechless. “Dear God, please make it so,” she prayed silently.

Unaware of the desperate prayer, he said as prayerfully as she, “I love you, sugar.” Then he kissed her one last time. Long, deep, and heartbreakingly sweet.

She couldn't say the words back to him. It would be too hard to tell him good-bye later if she did.

Pretending not to notice, he told her about Pedro, retrieved his hat, hefted his saddlebag over his shoulder, and together they left the room.

“Please, be careful,” she whispered against his lips, squeezing the hand that held her own.

“I promise.” He kissed her gently, mounted his horse, and headed out of town.

The sight that would sustain him in the hard times ahead was Stevie, standing on the portico, waving to him, one arm wrapped protectively around her waist.

He left town at a full gallop, heading southwest for the Santa Fe Trail.

Soon the lush green llano gave way to bunchgrass, mesquite bushes, mounds of dust, and craggy canyons. He shifted his Stetson low over his forehead to block out the bright rays of the sun.

Squinting his eyes, he surveyed the ground beneath his horse's hooves, looking for sign. The men who had taken Marshal Reno weren't even bothering to hide their trail. Arrogant bastards, it was considerate of them to make his job so easy, he thought wryly.

A hot wind blew across the basin, kicking up weeds and dust. He pulled his bandanna over his nose and mouth against the grit and grime. When the silken material brushed his lips, his mind and heart went back to Stevie. Lord, how he hated to leave her!

Suddenly his attention was captured by four riders about two miles away. Their swiftly moving forms were silhouetted against the skyline as they disappeared into a thick copse of trees. They were the men he pursued.

He left the trail and pushed Warrior to the limit. Taking a shortcut, he managed to get ahead of them. He positioned himself several hundred yards off the beaten path. Dropping behind a clump of mesquite, he tethered his mount, then crouched out of sight, waiting.

When they came alongside him, he saw a Mexican riding a roan in the lead. The cartridges in his bandoleer glistened in the sun as he shifted in the saddle. His sombrero was pulled low, giving him a sinister look. He resembled many of the lowlife crooks that Heath had gone up against in the last two years. They were all basically cowards, most insane. Therefore, they could be unpredictable. Heath would have to watch them all closely.

The second rider held the reins of his bay mare in a gloved hand while a carelessly rolled cigarette dangled from his mouth. Unlike the others, he wore rawhide chaparreras over his denim trousers. He looked like a typical cowboy riding the range in search of strays.

The third rider, a tall young man, was the prisoner, Marshal Reno, no doubt. He was mounted atop a buckskin gelding, his feet tied to the stirrups, his hands secured behind his back. A full mop of red hair topped a face made boyish by a swarm of freckles roaming over his nose. His dirty cheeks were hollow, his back straight. He was obviously trying to hide his fear. So this was Donn Pedro's hero. Heath smiled sadly.

The fourth man, wearing a filthy wampus, rode a muscled black stallion. His face was harsh, jagged, set by a life of murder and mayhem. At a glance Heath knew he was the one to watch most closely.

After the riders passed, they turned off the trail, heading west, and descended into a canyon. Heath mounted and rode over to the rim of the canyon. He watched them snake their way down a winding path into the arroyo. Reaching the floor of the canyon, they followed a stream, single file, until they disappeared around a bend.

Keeping a distance between the men and himself, Heath pursued them through a maze of ravines that led off the first canyon. The mountaintops rose high above. The path slowly descended into a fault.

Although it was midday, the walls of the ravine closed in around Heath, casting shadows all about. The surrounding hills blocked off the wind, but the lack of sunlight made the air cool.

A strong sense of foreboding raised the hair on the back of his neck. The feeling was too strong to go unheeded. He picked up his pace.

The riders twisted and turned, following winding canals. Finally, they approached a precipitous talus slope. Heath halted Warrior with a slight tug on the reins. When the three brigands stopped and dismounted, he backed his horse around a bend, slid from the saddle, and peered around a boulder.

The Mexican untied Reno's feet and shoved him to the ground. The Marshal cried out in agony when he hit the rocky surface of the ravine. Heath released the loop around his gun.

The men ringed Ted like a pack of wolves circling a wounded fawn. Heath's mouth grew dry at the murderous looks on their faces. Acting on instinct, he ran down the path, gun drawn.

Reno begged his abductors for mercy, but to no avail. The third brigand kicked Ted in the teeth, yanked out his six-shooter, and emptied it into the young man's chest. His body jerked convulsively with the impact of each bullet.

“God no. Dear God, no,” Heath panted, throwing himself behind a boulder. He pressed his cheek against the cool rock.

Why did they kill him? Jay said Judge Jack wanted him alive. He groaned, railing against fate, against his own sense of failure. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It wasn't. How could things have gone so horribly awry?

Spurred by the need to avenge Reno, Donn Pedro, and every other poor defenseless soul the judge and his band of bastards had hurt, Heath rode back through the canyon. He came to a ravine that led off from the main channel. He followed the ravine, slipped off the trail, then waited for the killers to pass him by.

He had underestimated them the first time, but he would not be caught unawares again. If it took him forever, he would see that they paid for what they had done to Reno, more to the point for what they had done to Donn Pedro. But he had to see to the marshal's body. He couldn't just leave it lying there.

Shortly, he heard horses' pounding on the rocky terrain in the main canyon. Before long the brigands passed his hiding place. The rhythmic clacking of hooves, the creak of saddle leather, faded in the distance.

As Heath returned to the scene of the murder, Reno's buckskin gelding met him on the path. Taking the gelding's reins in his fist, he led it back to the site of the carnage.

Heath slid from his mount and approached a shallow mound of rocks. One pale, blood-smeared hand was visible beneath the mound. It almost seemed to be pointing an accusing finger at him. With a voice he scarcely recognized as his own, he told the buckskin that he had one last duty to perform for his master.

The bastards hadn't even buried Reno properly, though they had obviously been instructed to hide the body. Heath hefted the rocks and threw them aside, not even feeling the sharp edges cut into his skin, the heavy strain tearing at his muscles. He released Reno's bonds, placed his body over the gelding, and tied his hands and feet together underneath the horse's belly.

Numb now, Heath began the long journey out of the ravine. An hour before sundown he rode up to Delgado's. It consisted of several adobe buildings, all connected by portals. Stopping before the general store, he tied the horses to the hitching rail and sauntered inside, out of the late afternoon sun.

When he entered the store, the smell of leather, denim, and tobacco filled his nostrils. It was a familiar smell, a smell he always connected with the West.

A heavyset Mexican with an open, friendly face greeted him. He introduced himself as the proprietor, Ricardo Delgado. With a heavy Spanish accent he offered Heath a room.

Heath accepted, not opting to return to Adobe Wells that night. The trail would get cold if he took Reno back to town before pursuing his killers. Perhaps luck would be with him and he would find them quickly. Otherwise, he would have one helluva time picking up their trail.

His thoughts reversed. Considering how little time he had spent on his assignment in Adobe Wells, he didn't need to be distracted by a killing that might have nothing to do with Judge Jack and his bogus diamond mine, no matter what he had promised Donn Pedro.

A sense of guilt and the desire for justice reversed his thoughts again. He had to find the men who killed Ted Reno. They had to pay for their crimes. Determined, he wheeled around and left the store as quickly as he had entered.

Delgado followed him out onto the porch. He gasped when he saw Reno's bloody corpse.
“Madre Dios.
It's Marshal Reno. Who did this to him?”

“I don't know. But I intend to find out. Do you have somewhere I can leave him tonight?”

“Sí, Señor.
In the shed out back.” Delgado regarded the grisly body riddled with blue whistlers and covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. With his other hand he made the sign of the cross.

 

 

Heath placed Ted's body in the shed Delgado indicated, then followed the proprietor to the room that would be his for the night. Automatically, he washed the blood and dirt from his hands, face, and arms. He pulled a comb from his back pocket and ran it through his long black curls.

A glance in the cracked mirror told him he needed a haircut and a shave. His own mother wouldn't know him. His gaze slid down the front of his body; his clothes were filthy, but he was too weary to change.

He went down to the saloon, ordered a steak with all the trimmings, and devoured it like a pack of wolves feasting on a fallen doe, somewhat surprised at his appetite, considering the day he'd had.

His hunger sated, he tossed a coin on the table and made his way back to the general store. It was illuminated by several lanterns, as empty as it was before. Muttering appropriate but noninformative responses to Delgado's incessant questions, he purchased a new Winchester. Almost asleep on his feet, he bought a shirt to replace the bloodstained one he still wore.

The smell of liquor wafting through the door of the saloon was tempting, but the thought of a clean bed held even more appeal. If only Stevie were there to share it with him. He was truly exhausted, but he knew if she were within arm's length, he would summon sufficient strength for something more than sleep.

But she wasn't here. The ensuing depression her absence caused sapped the faint flicker of strength he had left. Sighing heavily, he made his way to his room, fell into bed, boots, filthy clothes, and all. He lapsed into a deep sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

His dreams were anything but restful. Visions of Stevie running from Judge Jack, crying out for Heath to save her, tormented him. He awoke during the night, sweaty and shaken. “Stevie,” he whispered thickly. He had to see her, to make sure she was all right. Someone else could go after Reno's killers; he was on another assignment, after all.

But he was honest enough to admit that Judge Jack and his diamond scheme weren't his main concern. His thoughts were of Stevie, his precious, beautiful, delicate, gutsy Stevie. She needed him. And more than he ever thought possible, he needed her. With thoughts of holding the woman he loved in his arms, he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning Heath awakened as the sun rose over the white peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. He washed up quickly, eager to be on his way.

Shouldering his saddlebag, his first stop was the shed. He loaded Reno's blanket-draped corpse on his horse, then led the buckskin around to the stable, where Warrior stood cropping hay.

As he saddled his mount, the animal whinnied, whether in response to Heath's stroking reassurance or the marshal's mare's proximity, Heath didn't know. Maybe the old boy was smitten with Reno's horse.

When he approached the saloon, he found three horses tied to the hitching post; a roan, a bay, and a black. He recognized the horses as those the killers had been riding. He'd hit pay dirt!

Heath tied Warrior and the buckskin to the rail, checked his Navy Colt, and slowly entered the saloon. He paused long enough for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim interior. One by one three men came into focus. But they weren't the men Heath sought.

The Mexican barkeep and two cowpunchers in range clothes glanced at Heath absently. If their appearance was an indication, the cowboys had ridden all night and were sipping whiskey before turning in at the hotel.

They looked as tired as Heath had last evening. He nodded sympathetically. They returned his wordless greeting then turned back to their drinks.

“Buenos dias,”
the barkeep greeted him.

Heath said good morning by ordering a cup of coffee. Moving to a table in the rear of the room, he sat with his back to the wall.

As the barkeep placed a cup of the steaming brew on Heath's table, the double doors of the establishment squeaked on their hinges, drawing both men's attention.

“Madre Dios.”
The words rushed from the barkeep's chest as Reno's abductors stepped into view, guns drawn, trained on the room at large.

Heath remained seated and silent; every nerve ending in his body tingled with anticipation. The cowboys halted their glasses in midair.

The Mexican desperado—obviously the leader—sauntered in first, wearing jingle-bob spurs. Their large silver rowels glistened when a ray of sunlight struck them through an open window. A bandoleer of cartridges crossed his broad chest, lending him an ominous air. A brilliantly colored sombrero was suspended behind his neck by a piece of stiff rawhide. The brace of Walker Colts, usually tied low on his stringy thighs, were aimed at the cowboys and barkeep in turn.

His partners trailed him, also wielding their weapons indiscriminately. The big man who actually pulled the trigger on Marshal Reno stepped into the room immediately behind the Mexican. With the sun at his back, his face was cast in shadows. His ruddy complexion, unkempt hair, waist-length beard, and massive shoulders and arms gave him the appearance of an orangutan. The wampus he wore made him look larger than life.

All Heath could think was that this was the bastard who had actually pulled the trigger, over and over, snuffing out the life of a man who was little more than a boy, a man who was about as threatening as a puff ball tossed in the wind.

The cowboy entered next and stepped up beside the Mexican. He had a thin, mousy face with cruel eyes. His chaparreras made the bottom half of his body look much too large for the top. He was small, wiry, and unlike his friends, harmless-looking. But Heath knew that looks could be deceiving.

The brigands backed up to the bar. They ordered whiskey and again stared at each man in the room in turn. Finally, they turned their attention toward Heath.