Always You Page 8

“Let’s take off this here rope, and then that fancy outfit you’re wearing, so’s I can see what you really look like.”

  She nodded wordlessly, her eyes downcast so he couldn’t see the venom in them. As Jethro began tugging the rope up toward her shoulders, she kept her gaze lowered.

  “Let’s see. Why, I haven’t looked at a naked woman since...”

  The rope lifted over her head. And Melora dived for the big Colt in his holster.

  She jumped back with it in one deft leap. “Don’t move, you bastard, or I’ll kill you where you stand.” She leveled it straight between his eyes.

  Jethro gaped at her; then, slowly, deep crimson rage suffused his cheeks. “You ain’t got the stomach fer it,” he snarled, and lunged at her.

  Melora fired twice. Blood spurted all over the shack as he jackknifed to the floor. She staggered back, gasping as horror rose uncontrollably. From the corners of the shack she heard the rats scurrying, and before her on that earthen floor Jethro lay in a sickening, widening pool of his own blood, bone, and flesh.

  She swallowed hard and looked away.

  Get out. A voice inside her screamed through the shock that gripped her. Get out before Lomax and Strong show up.

  Not looking down at Jethro, Melora reeled toward the door and flung it wide.

  Otis Strong stood on the threshold, his bulk filling the narrow space, his eyes glittering dark and dangerous as he barred her way.

  Chapter 7

  Melora screamed and jumped back, frantically jerking the gun up again, but before she could shoot, Cal shoved Strong into the room, and she saw that the big man was Cal’s prisoner.

  She’d never thought she’d be glad to see Cal, but relief hit her like a flood tide when she realized he had his gun digging into the other man’s broad back. There was a bloody cut on the back of his head and blood all over his shirt, but other than that, he looked fit and ready for battle. The fierce darkness in his eyes almost made Melora feel sorry for Strong. She’d never seen Cal look like that.

  “You all right?” His voice was curt. His eyes never left Strong.

  “Yes, I—I thought you were dead... that they killed you—”

  “They tried.”

  She lowered the gun, suddenly weak with relief. “Where’s Lomax?”

  “Dead.” Cal flicked a glance at the bloody form on the floor. “Nice work with Jethro.”

  Then two things happened at the same time. Cal saw Jethro’s hand twitch and spotted the small black hideaway pistol that must have come from his boot, and at the same moment Strong saw it, too.

  “Look out!” Cal shouted, and as Jethro aimed his hideaway gun at Melora, Cal fired three bullets into him. That stopped Jethro cold, but Strong took advantage of the distraction to seize Melora. Savagely he twisted the gun from her grasp and jammed her up against him as a shield. He tossed a beefy arm around her neck and pressed Jethro’s Colt against her temple.

  “Get out of my way, boy, or I’ll blow the lady’s head off.”

  Cal’s cut was bleeding again, dripping down through his chestnut hair and onto his back. He seemed oblivious of it. His eyes were fixed on the mean, triumphant face of the other man.

  “Let her go, Strong.”

  The big man sneered at him “Ha. She’s too purty to leave behind. I’m takin’ her with me. And there ain’t a damned thing you can do about it.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  For answer, Strong jammed the gun harder against her temple, and Melora cried out in pain. She saw Cal’s jaw clench.

  Her glance flew wildly from Cal to the door as Strong began edging her toward it. The barrel of the gun dug coldly into her flesh, and she felt that at any moment it would go off. He would kill her just for spite. But no, not yet, she thought wildly. He needed her until he got away from Cal.

  Her feet dragged as Strong forced her along with him, but Melora couldn’t risk resisting. At this moment she scarcely dared breathe.

  Cal watched them through narrowed eyes, yet he made no move.

  “Drop your gun, boy, and kick it over here,” Strong ordered. “Now.”

  As Melora whimpered again in pain, Cal obeyed. Strong kicked the gun out the door, sending it thudding into the weeds.

  “So long, boy.” He chuckled. “I’ll take real good care of your woman for you.”

  Then they were out in the deep purple night, and Strong was breathing hard in her ear as he propelled her toward his horse.

  But as he hoisted himself into the saddle and reached down to haul her up before him, Melora saw her opportunity and took it. She bit the filthy hand that grasped her, bit it with all her might. Strong snatched his hand away with a scream of pain.

  It was all the chance she needed. Melora leaped away and plunged toward the trees.

  Suddenly she heard a crash, and as she peered back, she saw Cal and Strong fighting on the ground.

  The gray horse shied away from the scuffle as the men rolled through the weeds, grunting, punching each other in the darkness. The night was alive with flying fists, low curses and groans, and sickening thuds. Melora crept back toward the fray, thinking of Cal, injured, thinking of how he’d forced Strong to bring him to the cabin—to rescue her. With her heart in her throat she tried to discern who was winning this fight to the death. She saw Strong atop Cal, hitting him again and again with a powerful right fist.

  Dear God, she thought on a sob, where’s the gun?

  Hurtling through the darkness she began to search, her fingers grasping and clawing through the thick, tangled weeds near the door as she listened to the awful sounds of thudding fists and grunts.

  She found it at last and lifted up Cal’s big Colt. She whirled toward the two men.

  “Strong! Stop! Stop right now or I’ll shoot!”

  But both men were so consumed by their battle that neither heeded her. Melora saw that Cal had somehow rolled free of his opponent and was now on his feet, throwing deft, savage punches, one after the other. He ducked to avoid a blow aimed at his chin and threw a vicious right that slammed into Strong’s midsection.

  The big man sank to his knees.

  “Get back, Cal! I’ve got him covered!” Melora shrieked, planting her feet apart and aiming at Strong, but Cal paid no attention to her. He followed up with two more blows, and Strong went down.

  Cal threw himself on the other man, pinning him, and rained one punishing blow after another down upon his opponent.

  Melora had never seen anyone fight like that before—with such ruthless, single-minded brutality.

  Strong was a bigger man, heavier, perhaps more experienced. But Cal, with his deft, hammerlike blows, fierce strength, and blinding agility, was by far the more ferocious and determined opponent.

  And suddenly it was over.

  Cal’s fists fell to his sides. He appeared to be carved from granite as he stared down at the man sprawled senseless beneath him.

  “Is he dead?” Melora whispered, fighting the nausea that rose in her throat.

  “No. But I reckon he won’t be bothering anyone for a while.” Matter-of-factly Cal pushed himself to his feet, glancing down one last time at the battered ox of a man crumpled in the bloodstained dust.

  Then he limped toward Melora and took the gun from her numb fingers. There were cuts and bruises on his face, and he looked weary beyond belief, but his cool green eyes were clear and steady as he holstered the pistol. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  But reaction had set in upon Melora, a reaction every bit as dizzying as one of those vicious punches. Her knees wobbled, then buckled. She sank toward the ground. Instantly Cal’s arms swooped around her, lowering her gently.

  “Did they hurt you? Tell me the truth.”

  “N-no. I’m f-fine.”

  But tears began to roll down her cheeks. His arms tightened, feeling almost like an embrace, she thought in dazed wonder. She saw concern in his eyes and quickly averted her face.

  She wouldn’t cry in front of him; she wouldn’t
! He was the one responsible for all this. If he hadn’t taken her from the Weeping Willow, none of it would have happened. Completely humiliated by her own weakness, she gulped cold night air and yanked free of his arm, struggling to her feet.

  Cal stood too, gripping her gently by the shoulders and forcing her to face him. The concern in his eyes as he tilted her chin up made her dizzy.

  “It’s all right, Melora,” he said quietly. “You can cry. You’ve been through a lot, more than any woman should ever have to go through.”

  “I’m fine, but I want to go h-home. I want to see my sister and Wyatt and—”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” she cried, and tried to break away from him, but when he caught her arm, she suddenly threw herself against him and began to sob.

  Stunned by how soft she felt nestled against him, Cal held her. The fragility of her bones beneath his hands had an unsettling effect deep inside his gut. He closed his eyes as she dropped her head against his chest and let the awful, racking sobs come.

  Her tension, her fear, her agonizing loneliness—he felt them all vibrate through her and into him, felt them seep into his chest, into his heart, and he knew in that illuminating moment the depth of her pain and of her bravery.

  A gust of wind caught at the strands of her hair and blew them up to drift like silk threads across his unshaved jaw. He sighed and smoothed the thick ribbon of curls, stroking them gently as he blamed himself for all that had happened.

  “I’m sorry, Melora. Sorry for all this. I never meant for you to get hurt.”

  She lifted her tear-streaked face and gazed up at him, her body still trembling beneath his hands like a flower in a windstorm. “Let me go,” she whispered, pleading.

  The muscles in his chest constricted. Let her go. Maybe I should.

  And then he thought, To him? To the man she plans to marry, her precious Wyatt Holden?

  He gritted his teeth. The thought of her locked like this in the arms of that black-haired, lying, murderous bastard filled him with a rage that brought ice to his eyes.

  “No,” he said aloud, so savagely she jerked her head back, studying him with wide, newly frightened eyes.

  “No, Melora,” he repeated more calmly, though his voice was tight with purpose. “You can’t go back—not yet.”

  She pushed away from him. Slowly she wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, like a child. “You came for me.” Her gaze pondered him with gradual comprehension. “You made Strong bring you to the hideout so you could find me. So you could rescue me from Jethro.”

  “Of course. You don’t think I’d leave you to him, do you?”

  “No,” she whispered, hugging her arms around herself. Misery filled her pale, lovely face, shone beneath her wet lashes. “No, you wouldn’t. Because of your plan. You need me. You weren’t ready to give up on whatever scheme you’ve embarked on just because three outlaws attacked us. Not because you cared what happened to me, only because you needed me.”

  Cal scowled. It would be so much easier if what she said were true. If he didn’t have feelings, a conscience, if he didn’t have this strange, savage need he’d discovered tonight, a need to protect her from everyone, everything... even himself.

  Let her think it’s true. It’s better for both of us.

  “You’re right, Melora. Nothing is going to make me give up my plan. Nothing is going to interfere. Now do you understand that?”

  She did. Oh, she did.

  Dawn was tinting the sky. Amber light glowed across the tops of the huge black buttes that jutted up from the prairie as Cal led her toward the horses.

  “No sense trying to get any more shut-eye now. Let’s get out of here, and we’ll stop for breakfast later. Reckon you’d better ride with me.”

  She nodded dully. What did it matter? He’d go ahead anyway, even if she argued that she needed to sleep. How she longed for sleep! Weariness tugged at her, and she yearned for the oblivion of slumber to wash away everything that had happened these past few hours and the impossible, hopeless predicament in which she found herself. But there was no respite and so far no escape.

  As the sun shot up over the mountains, Cal helped her into the saddle, mounted behind her, and off they rode.

  Chapter 8

  “A storm’s brewing—a bad one.” Cal slowed Rascal and spoke to Melora over the rising wind.

  It was several days after the attack by Strong, Lomax, and Jethro. They’d covered a lot of ground since then, but he’d barely spoken to her since they’d left the desolation of the outlaw shack.

  “Unless I miss my guess, we’re not far from a little town called Devil’s Creek,” he told her shortly, glancing ever so briefly at her weary, dust-filmed face. He quickly looked back at the sky. “We’ll spend the night there. But I’m warning you, Melora, don’t cause any trouble.”

  She nodded, dread dancing down her spine as she too scanned the sky. She hoped Cal hadn’t seen her dismay. As her horse snorted and followed Rascal along a wide rocky incline, she studied the black storm clouds, which had been growing ever more ominous these past few hours. The sun had vanished behind them sometime after noon, leaving an eerie dim greenish glow in the sky. She’d been watching that glow, and the distant lightning slashes, with trepidation.

  Cal was right; the storm looked to be a bad one. A sick all-too-familiar tightening began in her stomach.

  Ever since Melora was a little girl, she’d been afraid of storms. Pop had often said that Mama had been the same way. But it was Melora’s most hated weakness, the one she was least successful in fighting. As the clouds darkened and the wind picked up, flinging bits of dust and small stones into a stinging whirlwind, she clenched her hands on the reins and kept a worried eye on the darkening clouds.

  More than ever she wished she were home, but instead she was farther away than ever. The land had changed dramatically since the previous morning. No longer were they riding through sage and grass-carpeted plains dotted with buttes and pine-capped ridges. Since early yesterday they’d been in Black Hills country, crossing sunflower-dotted valleys lined with bur oak, galloping across wide emerald meadows, and skirting the aspen- and pine-forested hills that led to the darker line of green hills ahead. Great ponderosa pine forests loomed on these distant hills, making them appear black and forbidding, thus earning them their name, the Black Hills.

  The land was stunning here, but sharply different from the rangeland of the Weeping Willow, Melora thought with a flash of homesickness, though she couldn’t help being awed by the spectacular beauty of this huge open country, with its rocky hills, its enormous forests cresting in the distance, and its jewel-like flowers glistening in the meadows below.

  Last night they’d camped near the Belle Fourche River, less than a mile from Devils Tower, and from their little ridge had gazed in silent awe at the huge rock column, watching it glow a flaming golden red long after the sun had set. Afterward the moonlight and starlight had seemed to glisten brighter, whiter, milkier than ever when illuminating that strange giant spire that stood guard over the flatland below.

  Cal had studied it in silence, his thoughts seemingly far away. That wasn’t unusual. He’d spoken only a few dozen words to Melora since they’d ridden off from that rat-infested shack; by the very next morning he’d made it clear that whatever compassion he might have felt for her during that ordeal had been completely stamped out.

  His attitude had been brusque, distant, and aloof. In fact he’d barely glanced at her in all this time.

  But Melora’s thoughts had returned over and over to those few mesmerizing moments when he’d held her, stroking her hair. His hands had felt so gentle. So protective. And there had been concern, real concern, not cool mockery in his eyes; she was sure of it.

  An odd, fluttery sensation whirled through her when she thought of it. And what was it he’d said?

  I never meant for you to get hurt.

  But she couldn’t believe that, not really.
Maybe he hadn’t intended that she fall into Strong’s or Jethro’s clutches, maybe he hadn’t meant for her to be in danger of getting beaten or raped or murdered, but he didn’t care about her, not really, she kept reminding herself.

  If he did, he wouldn’t have kidnapped her in the first place, and he wouldn’t be subjecting her to this grueling cross-country trek, and he wouldn’t be forcing her to be away from Jinx. He’d let her go home, where she belonged, so she could marry Wyatt.

  Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d come to that shack to rescue her, to save her from Jethro. Was it only because of his stupid plan?

  Yes, she told herself, studying his tall vest-clad frame astride Rascal some ten feet ahead of her. He’s an outlaw, remember? Zeke told you that he and Ray met Cal in jail.

  Biting her lip, she wondered what crime he’d committed. And where. Remembering the savage ruthlessness with which he’d beaten Strong, she couldn’t help shivering. There was a dark, unreachable side of Cal that she knew was dangerous. He’d made it clear that he’d do whatever he had to do, no matter how pitiless, to achieve his ends.

  Yet somehow, much as she tried, she didn’t hate him—not in the fervent, desperate way she had in the beginning.

  Cal wasn’t cruel; there was no viciousness in him, at least not directed toward her. He was stubborn, and smart, and utterly dogged in this mission of his, whatever it was.

  But that was the problem. What the hell was it? Melora wondered for the thousandth time, frowning as she galloped between him and the packhorses for Devil’s Creek. Studying the back of his head, the thick brown hair touching his shirt collar as he steered Rascal toward some aspens, she wondered if it might not be time to abandon the silent treatment and try to reason with the man. To find out what made him tick and why he was so damned set on dragging her across the country, clear to the Black Hills, and possibly—from the looks of it—over the border into South Dakota.

  Because knowing what she had gleaned about Cal thus far, she now thought there had to be a reason, a damn good reason, at least in Cal’s pigheaded mind.