Читать книгу Whispers In The Dark - Bj James - Страница 11

Four

“Fool woman.”

As he began the climb himself, and even as the words erupted from his lips, Rafe knew he was wrong. What Valentina O’Hara was doing was simply natural, a part of her skill, a very significant part of her mission. If there were observers to report to the Apostles, even the most astute would see only a rider passing through. Never a dude, as she’d suggested, but an accomplished horsewoman riding for the sake of riding, feeling her oats.

No one would connect her with the camp, or Search and Rescue, for she’d left the basin by a difficult trail most would call impassable. Then, ranging widely on trailless terrain even more difficult, she’d come full circle miles from camp to begin the ride for Courtney McCallum’s life.

Rafe’s ride had been as circumventive. With Joe Collins’s help he’d made his rendezvous with Tyree, and with El Mirlo had begun the race to intersect Valentina O’Hara’s path. Tyree, who knew the country like an Indian scout, had reckoned correctly. The timing had been perfect. For now Rafe would hold back, keeping her barely in sight as she began the serious climb, weaving, dodging, picking a natural trail among red rocks.

If there were posted observers, they would see only a second rider, not as skilled, not as well mounted. A friend hoping to join her. Or better, lovers riding apart to a clandestine high desert tryst.

“Takes all kinds.” His lip curled in distaste. In another environment he might have been tempted, but not in this. This was Courtney’s life, and perhaps Jordana’s. Both held in the balance by the expertise of a cold and calculating woman.

Rate knew the type. There had been many such women in his life. Compassionless professionals to whom success was god. Who played hard and ruthlessly, as heartlessly as they worked. Users seeking success for the sake of power; and sex for the sake of gratification without the ritual of romance or entangling emotion. He’d finished with that breed, Valentina O’Hara’s sisterhood, long ago.

“But I’ll use you,” he promised as he watched her take the horse through an impossible path and disappear behind an outcropping of stone. “Whatever it takes for Courtney, I’ll do.”

Urging El Mirlo from camouflaging scrub, he guided the gelding over the path Black Jack had taken. There was no time to think, or project, or even for distaste as a difficult ride deteriorated. Together, they slipped and slid, in constant danger of falling. Climbing ever upward.

The trail was a winding channel through and over stone. A converging animal crossing, from den or burrow to watering hole and stream. Gradually, as it became as much maze as animal track, he lost sight of her. But for one who had hunted bayous and swamps, tracking the only shod quadruped to pass through a dry and dusty land in ages was not difficult. The stallion’s scramble was marked by trodden plants, dislodged pebbles and scarred stone. Rafe had only to find them.

Intent, concentration riveted, eyes and mind attuned to the discovery of the next mark of passage, Rafe drew to a startled halt as Black Jack and his rider stepped into his own path, blocking his way.

“That’s far enough, Mr. Courtenay.” Reins looped over the fingers of one hand, a forearm resting on her thigh, Valentina stared down the incline at him. “I’d be obliged if you’d be accommodating and go back now.”

“Sorry.” The empty apology tripped off his tongue out of habit. “I can’t oblige or accommodate in this. I wouldn’t if I could.”

“You can,” Valentina insisted. “We have a short window of time, every minute counts. You’ll slow me down, waste precious seconds. You have already.”

His mount stamped and snorted restlessly, eager to move again. Rafe calmed him with a touch. “It’s you who wastes time. Give it up, O’Hara, nothing will persuade me to turn back.”

Valentina’s eyes were cold beneath the brim of her Stetson. “I can do this, Mr. Courtenay. I’m going to do it. And I’ll do it better alone.”

“I expect you can, lady. I expect you will,” Rafe snapped, tiring of the debate. “But not alone. It’s my goddaughter Brown is holding hostage, and I’ll be there when you do what you must to free her.”

Valentina cut her losses. She had no time and even less desire to debate than he. “You refuse to be rational, don’t you?”

“Your idea of rationality, not mine.”

“If you can’t keep up, I won’t wait for you.” With a man the caliber of Rafe Courtenay, her threat would fall on deaf ears. But she had to try. “If you get into trouble, I’ll leave you behind without a backward glance.”

A muscle jerked in his cheek, his eyes narrowed. Deep in the brush a creature moved stealthily, eager that they move on. “I’ll keep up, O’Hara.” The guttural promise was short and grim. “And out of trouble.”

“If you’re counting on the horse to do the work for you, don’t. The Blackbird is an extraordinary animal.” She chose the English translation over Spanish. “So extraordinary Patrick McCallum should be held accountable for gelding him. Just remember, when the trail gets really rough, he’ll only be as good as his rider.”

Rafe nodded curtly. “Where you take Black Jack, I’ll take El Mirlo. That’s a promise.”

“Fine!” Valentina’s check on her temper slipped. “Do as

Wheeling Black Jack around in a tight turn, she leaned low as he responded to a touch of her heels, scrambling like a mountain goat up the ever steeper incline. She didn’t look back, and wouldn’t have in any case, but there was no need. The clash of El Mirlo’s hooves over stone sounded with the knell of a bell at her back.

Rafe Courtenay could ride, and the Spanish gelding was truly as extraordinary as the reputation he’d established. But there was much worse to come. Eventually, if the interloper kept up, out of necessity and the need for secrecy they would go to ground, covering the remainder of the route on foot.

But, though a difficult trail grew more demanding, that time had not come, and she put the fortunes of Rafe Courtenay from her mind. The terrain and Black Jack required all her thoughts, her complete concentration. Hunching lower over his great bowed neck, she clung to his mane, urging him on. The same quiet chant that calmed him in the corral, the same gentle touch that enticed him, guided him now. With his great heart he responded.

Where Valentina led, Rafe followed, and the remainder of the day’s ride was silent. Only the scrape and clatter of hooves and the creak of leather marked their passage.

Like a great ball of fire the sun burned in the sky, and the day grew hotter. Higher elevations brought no respite as dust churned and prickly brush clawed and clung. Sweat plastered her shut to shoulders and breasts, and trickled into her eyes. Valentina tugged her hat lower, blinked away the sting of salt, and rode harder.

A little girl waited.

Sparing a glance from his own tribulations, Rafe saw her hardship and her dismissal. “One tough lady,” he reminded himself when no reminder was needed. “With a heart as tough.”

The comment was the last he would make in the hours to come. All his energies were expended in keeping his mount on the hillside and himself in the saddle. Engrossed in his battle, he was hardly aware when they topped a rise and the land flattened into a plateau. As suddenly, they were surrounded by a lush stand of pine. Tall sentinels in thick, scattered ranks, keeping an eternal watch.

Through a winding avenue encompassed by uncanny silence, weary riders and wearier mounts trod over shorn grass. A fragrant carpet, grazing for deer and range cattle. Beyond the stand, one beginning as abruptly as the other ended, lay a small tract of land within a walled enclosure. A sheltered, picturesque expanse, as welcoming as the land before was inhospitable. As cloistered as it had been naked. As temperate as the trail was brutal.

Clustered along a stream meandering lazily through this sky-high canyon were small groves of oak and maple, followed by mahogany and aspen. Each offering a welcome shield from the thrust of the sun. Where the stream was quietest and the shade deepest, Valentina dismounted. Kneeling on a stone, shoulder to shoulder with Black Jack, she drank the clear, sparkling water.

Dismounting with the stiffness of grueling hours in the saddle, Rafe followed suit, grateful for the respite.

As she led her reluctant mount from the stream, Valentina was pleased when he did the same. Taking care, as she had, that his horse not not drink too much, too quickly.

“We’ll camp here for the night.” With the speed of long habit, she unbuckled the cinch, lifting saddle and blanket from Black Jack.

“There’s daylight left. Plenty of it,” Rafe interjected. “We could make a number of miles before dark.”

“There is, and we could.” The saddle lay at the base of a stone. She flung the blanket over another to dry. “But this is it for the day.”

Rafe’s first inclination was to dispute the decision. But like her or not, he’d begun to respect Valentina O’Hara. The trail was a great leveler, a great teacher, and following in her path he’d learned every move had purpose. Every decision had been a judgment call. And each a sound one.

As she gathered grass to scrub the sweat from the stallion’s back, he nodded abruptly. “All right.”

Valentina stopped in mid-stroke, surprise showing through her guarded expression. “All right? You’re agreeing, just like that?”

“Just like that.” Rafe dispatched El Mirlo’s saddle with an expertise rivaling her own. Lifting the horse’s hooves he inspected for lodged pebbles or stone bruises. Then, running his hand from withers to hock, he checked for sprains or scrapes before gathering grass himself.

Val watched him in a mingling of approval and suspicion. “No argument?”

“No.”

“No questions?”

“No questions.” Rafe halted, regarding her thoughtfully before continuing his ministrations to El Mirlo. “I expect you’ll tell me your reasons for stopping,” he murmured almost silently. “In your own good time.”

Valentina had the grace to feel ashamed. Certainly, she didn’t want him here, but his reasons for coming were compelling. And, if she was honest, she had to admit she would have done the same. He was half out of his mind with worry for the little girl and his friends, and she was heckling him.

The urge to apologize nagged at her. But apologies to this man came harder than most, so she simply sidestepped the issue by turning from him. She was still busying herself with the care of the stallion when he walked away.

“Do we risk a fire?” Rafe tossed down an armful of wood gathered as he returned from tethering his mount in the shade of an aspen.

In the waning afternoon the temperature hovered between hot and hot as hell, but nightfall would bring drastic change. At this altitude and season they would be m no danger of freezing, but they would pass an uncomfortable night denied the warmth of fire.

Driving a needle through a length of leather, Valentina finished the minor repair of a bridle before she replied. “There’s no reason we shouldn’t, and every reason we should.”

Succinct, implicit, and he understood. “You still think we’re being watched, and a cold camp would be suspicious?”

“My gut feeling is there’s no one out there. From what we learned of the Apostles, its clear they’re smug and arrogant. The type who believe they’re infallible by divine right and, by that right, destined to strike fear in the influential and the mighty.”

“Paralyzing fear.”

“Exactly. And because it wouldn’t occur to them that Patrick McCallum would dare go against their demands and conditions, we have a certain degree of liberty.”

“For a while, until we’re closer to the cabin,” Rafe interpreted. “If you’re guessing right.”

“If. There’s always one.” Laying the bridle aside, she returned the needle to a small kit and snapped it shut. “In any case, precaution is always sensible. So, to avoid suspicion, we act natural, do as casual wanderers of the desert would.”

“Make camp for the night, build a fire, cook a meal,” he added to the list.

“A quick bath in the stream.” She was rising from the stone that served as her seat. “Before the temperature drops.”

“I’ll gather more wood and start the fire,” Rafe volunteered. “When you’ve finished, I’ll take a dip, as well.”

“Right.” A glance at the sky told Valentina they hadn’t long before the sun slipped behind a mountain and the temperature slide began. Stepping to her saddlebags, she took out a towel and soap and a change of clothes. “I won’t be long.” Hesitating, she added, “Leave the meal to me. If you insist that we travel together, we might as well be fair in the division of chores.”

“Sure.” With his agreement Rafe let the matter drop.

He was gathering wood from a deadfall, keeping a cautious eye for rattlesnakes, when she crossed the clearing to the edge of the stream. There was a startled instant when he wondered if she planned to bathe within view. As she followed the curve of the tumbling stream until she was beyond his sight, he was uncertain if he was pleased or disappointed. Refusing to dwell on this strange reaction to a woman who was everything he found distasteful, he let the quest for fuel take him in an opposite direction.

Fire blazed in a stone lined pit, and coffee steamed over a small iron grill, when she reappeared.

“Better?” With casual nonchalance he fed another broken limb to the flames.

“Much.” Crouching by the fire across from him, she let its heat dry her hair. “There’s a small pool beyond the first bend. Not deep or wide enough for a swim, but perfect for a bath. A cold one.” The warning was a peace offering as she gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. “Much colder than I expected.”

“The stream must come straight out of the mountain, then moves too quickly through the canyon to catch the heat of the day.” Heavy with resin, the last limb he tossed into the pit sent up a shower of sparks as it smoldered and seethed before erupting into flames.

Valentina leaned against a boulder, folding her hands about the cup. A small smile played over her lips. “Having second thoughts?”

“Not about the bath.”

He rose from his place as she regarded him steadily over the rim of the tin cup. “About me, then? About whether or not I can do what Simon and Patrick McCallum want from me?”

“About whether anyone can do what Simon expects and Patrick needs.” Tossing the last of his coffee onto the fire, Rafe watched it dance and sizzle and rise in steam, as the cup fell from lax fingers. His eyes were dark and shadowed when his gaze met hers. “Can anyone save Courtney?”

Saying no more, he left the fire. While he gathered clothing and supplies for his bath, she saw the weight of the burden he carried. If she failed, he would see it as his failure, as well. If he returned to his friend empty handed, without the child who had been given to him at birth to protect, it could destroy him.

Her concern for his intrusion remained constant, her need to work alone never lessened, but anger vanished. She wanted to save this child. Dear God! She wanted to save them all. As she’d wanted to save the one she’d failed. Blinking back sudden pain, she turned her gaze to the fire, surrendering to damning memories of fateful hesitation and loss.

“Not this time.” She roused and muttered only to herself. “Not again.”

Desperate words drifted away, lost in the crackle of fire. The past became the present, and seconds hours as she sat, held captive by the flames, yet hardly seeing them. She wasn’t sure what drew her from her mesmerized distraction. Perhaps it was a sound, or a thought. Or a need.

“Rafe.”

He stopped at the water’s edge, but didn’t face her.

“If there’s any way, any at all, I’ll give back Jordana and Patrick’s little girl.” But first I’ll give her to you. A promise made, but left unspoken. “I’ll do my best, I give you my word.”

“If!” The word was a snarl, softly savage. “As you said, there’s always the qualification. Every bet hedged. Always the little doubt, the hesitation.”

Valentina’s face crumpled, her eyes grew somber. She’d wanted to give him some small measure of hope, instead she’d intensified his wariness and mistrust. Regret turned her voice distant. “Yes.” Her tone grew colder, more aloof, as she dealt with her failure. “Always.”

Drawn by something in her tone, something beneath the coldness, Rafe turned to look at her, seeking to understand the sound of unresolved pain. But her attention had returned to the fire, her head down, her face half-hidden by the gleaming curtain of her hair. The sky at her back etched the rim of the canyon in vermilion. A color so vivid the flames she found mesmerizing paled and faded, reminding that darkness followed light. Then would come the cold.

The sun rode the rim, sending shafts of light glancing over stone. The stream splashed and burbled, beckoning in a misty rainbow. And Valentina O’Hara stared into the fire.

He watched her, so still, so silent, wondering, as before, how she’d come to be one of Simon’s Marauders. Vowing, once more, that one day he would know, he followed the path that beckoned.

Their meal was finished. Plates and pans had been scrubbed with sand, rinsed in the stream and put away. Only the coffeepot steamed over the fire, a fragrant vapor blending with the lingering scent of bacon and beans. Range fare, the cowboy’s lot. Quick, no-nonsense, plentiful and filling.

The fire burned down, sending little spurts of flame flicking from white-hot embers. Rafe would add more wood later. Large, green logs to smolder, then burn, then smolder again through the night.

Beyond the circle of their camp the canyon was silent. Its stillness broken only now and again by the stealthy scuttle of nocturnal creatures. A summer moon sailed the sky. A perfect golden globe with a great rough face seeming so near one need only lift a hand to touch it. Leaves of the aspen shivered and quaked in the riffling breeze. Their green and gold dress, a harbinger of autumn, made more golden by the light of the moon.

A log crumbled into ash. A display of sparks and flame painted fleeting silhouettes and shadows over the tumble of stones marking the boundary of their camp. In that transient moment, Valentina’s image was sketched in red rock, somber and still. As silent as the night.

Like the night, her silence was brooding, not sullen. Pensive, not reproving. She had accepted him as another of the inescapable burdens of this brief measure of her life. As one who traversed this part of the world must accept the threat of rock slide, or rattlesnake, and cactus spine. And in the pensive brooding lurked the curious air of sadness he’d sensed beneath the arrogant assurance.

With his gloved hand, he lifted the pot from the grill, judging from the heft of it that only one cup remained. One thick, thoroughly boiled, concentrated cup. Holding the pot poised over the fire, he spoke softly. “More?”

Responding vaguely, she looked at him through eyes blinded by her thoughts, not by fire.

“More coffee?” he offered again. “One cup left.”

Her brows arched down in concentration, as if she couldn’t draw her mind from its preoccupation. “One?”

“If you dare.” A deliberate move splashed liquid against tin in a hollow rattle and a billow of bitter steam. “The devil’s own brew, by now.”

“Coffee?”

“If you wish to call it that.”

She moved her head in refusal. “No, thanks.”

Rafe smiled, but only with his lips, as he watched her. “Wise choice.”

“I haven’t always made them.”

Hesitating in the act of rising, Rafe knelt on one knee. “A common human failing.”

“To those for whom failure is an option.” Her gaze settled again on the fire, avoiding his.

Rafe’s look swept over her, his scrutiny long and hard. “But not an option for you.”

Valentina nodded her agreement.

“And not this time.”

She was unresponsive for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. When she did, it was no more than a word, born on a breath slowly exhaled. “No.”

Climbing to his feet, he waited for more. When there was nothing, he moved to the stream to rinse the pot, readying it for the morning and the last time. The next night’s camp would be cold and dry, after a longer day on a trail even more grueling. Over the simple fare of dinner, she’d given this terse explanation for a short, acclimatizing first day. And in her tone there had been no hint of mercy for man or beast, or woman, in the trek ahead.

Mercy was the last thing Rafe expected, and far from his thoughts when he knelt by the stream. As he rinsed away the dregs, fallen leaves drifted by in the froth of icy water, brilliant and beautiful in the light of the moon. But he had no time for beauty as he lifted his eyes to the mountains.

Courtney was there, trapped in a squalid shack with a madman.

So far away. So far yet to go. So little time.

And only one hope.

Valentina.

She was laying out her bedroll when he returned from the stream. In base camp he’d noted an orderliness about her, with a place for everything, and everything in its place. He saw it now, even in the wilderness. Perhaps especially in the wilderness.

He wondered, not for the first time, how much of it was her nature, how much her training. One schooled by the commander of The Black Watch would never be caught off guard, never unprepared.

“Turning in?” A rhetorical question, given the obvious, but he made no apology as he tended the fire.

“We’ll be making an early start in the morning. At first light.” She looked up from her chore. “If you’re determined to go on.”

“I’ll be ready. First light.”

In the blink of an eye something changed in a subtle altering of her expression. He thought at first it was a small nuance of relief, but when she turned briskly back to making her bed, he knew he was mistaken. He’d seen only the changing of light, a softening of her features created by the flattering glow of the fire.

“Pity,” he muttered, not certain why, then covered the sound with his own preparations for the night. He worked first with the fire, making it ready for the duration. Next was his bedroll, spread across from hers by the pit. And, as was his nature, there was a place for everything. A panther from the bayous would no more be caught unprepared or unguarded than one of The Black Watch. While he worked, according to his nature and by habit, his thoughts were of Valentina.

She’d come, accepting the burden of the impossible. There would have been no other choice for her had she been given one. But there were others who had done the same with more humanity.

Cold. With quick glancing looks, he watched her, judging her as she moved with meticulous care, emotionally uninvolved, never concerned that a child was out there. A tiny girl, frightened and in danger, was business to her. An assignment, a job to be done, no more, no less. He questioned neither her ability nor her will to succeed. Only her compassion.

“An assignment, that’s all that matters. Not that it’s a child.” Anger surged black and corrosive as he slammed the pot on a stone by the fire. “Not that it’s Courtney.”

For all he knew he could have been shouting. But when he found her looking at him, a puzzled look on her face, he knew his furious words had been an unintelligible growl. She hadn’t heard, hadn’t understood.

“It’s nothing,” he snapped with strained patience when she continued to stare. Surging to his feet, needing to distance himself from her, with a brusque gesture he parried her concern. “Go on with what you were doing. I’ve a few things to see to before I bed down El Mirlo and then myself.”

“The horse is fine.” Her eyes were narrowed, her gaze still questioning. “I saw to him and Black Jack a bit ago.”

“The gelding allows very few people near him.”

“He let me.” There was no challenge nor arrogance in her tone. A simple statement of truth.

“I should have realized he would.” Rafe had begun to realize she shared a kinship with animals that verged on magical. He’d seen the first suggestion of her skill in the corral and the charming of Black Jack. Then more on the trail as the horse responded to her touch and her voice, taxing equine strength in answer.

She shared an astonishing rapport with the horse. Yet with the human animal she kept herself apart, feeling and caring little.

“He’s set for the night, but a familiar face in a strange place wouldn’t hurt.” She offered the excuse, perceiving Rafe’s need to get away. “Nor would a bit of praise from the one he’s tried most to please.”

“You think so, do you?” Rafe’s comment was as caustic as his mood. His face was a cynical mask in the weaving play of firelight.

Valentina sat back on her heels, her knees in the dust. With her fingers linked before her, there was a calm about her as she faced the brunt of his contempt. “An observation and a suggestion.” A slight shrug, and a tendril broke free of the orderly cascade of her hair. Swaying against the smooth line of her throat, it was silky and darkly fascinating in the absence of the many hues drawn from it by the sun. “My apologies, no interference intended, I assure you.”

He had no answer for his mood, no plausible excuse, no apologies of his own. And no inclination to accept her assurance or those she offered. “I’ll see to the horse.”

Stalking into the shrouding darkness, he wondered what the hell that little skirmish was all about. Why had a simple suggestion sent him into a rage and an apology made it worse? Was it simply that he didn’t like her?

No. Like or dislike had nothing to do with it. He’d learned long ago in his years with McCallum American, then McCallum International, that liking was never a prerequisite for working successfully with one or dozens of people.

Then why, he wondered again, and was no closer to an answer when El Mirlo lifted his head, whinnying a soft greeting.

Much later, having deliberately whiled away more time than any duty or communion with his horse required, he found the camp quiet and as he’d left it. The fire burned low in a bed of embers that would ward off the chill of the small hours. The coffeepot waited for the morning. With her saddle for a pillow, his traveling companion slept the sleep of an untroubled mind.

“Worry.” The hoarse command was hardly a ripple in the calm of the camp as he scowled at her over the pale blush of the fire. “Toss. Turn. Feet. Care! Damn you, care!”

He wanted to shake her, make her hear and heed him. And he knew then he had the answer to his mood. He wanted her to feel, to become involved, to understand the desperation and face what she must do with more than dispassion. Rafe understood that she must be cool and poised, undeterred by clouding emotions. But he knew, as well, that she must care.

Courtney needed for her to care.

Rafe Courtenay needed for her to care.

Drawing a harsh breath, he shook his head wearily. He couldn’t in a million years explain to himself, any more than he could to anyone else, why he felt so strongly that caring would be the key to survival. Yet, even as he lacked the words, he was convinced that when she was balanced on that fine line between success and failure, caring could and would tip the scales in Courtney’s favor.

Was it simply that? That it was the extra dimension that made the impossible possible? Or was it more?

“Caring.” The word rang hollowly through the imperturbable peace of the canyon. With the echo of it resounding in his mind, and keenly conscious of every worn and tortured muscle, he stretched out on his bedroll. He would not bother with taking off more than his hat, for he would not sleep.

Not tonight, nor any night, until Patrick’s child was safe.

Lying with his head leant against his saddle, arms folded at the back of his neck, he stared at the sky and thought of the woman who slept within a touch of his fingertips. He puzzled over her, worried about her, and struggled to find the key to understanding. Perhaps then he could replace enmity with empathy, though he knew it was the last thing she would want from him.

Tracing patterns and paths of stars, as the world spun on its path through the night, he let himself drift. He had no idea how long he’d lain there—an hour, two, most of the night.

Perhaps it could have been nearly morning when he heard it—the sound. A ragged, nearly silent cry that made his blood run like icy sludge through his veins, and shivers scratched with ghostly claws at his spine.

There was a desperateness in the cry, and for all its softness, raw, bleeding anguish. In a frozen moment of sheer disbelief, mistrusting his perceptions, he wondered if he’d drifted into a somnolent trance, with this part of a waking dream.