Читать книгу Caine's Reckoning - Sarah McCarty - Страница 7

1858: Texas Territory

He hated the sound of a woman’s scream. Caine pulled Chaser up short. The black Appaloosa’s hoofbeats ended in cadence with Tracker’s and Sam’s horses. After fifteen years together, there was no guesswork to the men’s moves. They were a team.

The high-pitched scream came again, cutting through the cold morning air, hovering a desperate moment on the heavy mist before dropping off with eerie abruptness.

Tracker took the blade of grass he’d been chewing from between his teeth. “Looks like we’ve found them.”

“Yup.” Caine pulled his rifle from the scabbard, scouting the surrounding area. There weren’t that many areas a man could hide here in the flatlands.

Sam tipped back his hat, his blue eyes glittering like cold ice. “About the only place that offers protection is that cluster of trees yonder.”

Caine didn’t need to hear the grim edge to the statement to know what that meant. If those were true Comancheros who’d stolen the women, they’d already been spotted. The women were as good as dead, and that scream had merely been a baited invitation to a trap. However, nothing in this whole kidnapping spoke of the snake-in-the-grass intelligence Comancheros were known for. Greed, yes. The women stolen had been the youngest and prettiest, but there was a certain lack of intelligence displayed in taking the sheriff’s wife. Even if he had been out of town at the time. There were some things a smart man didn’t do, and one of them was stealing a lawman’s woman.

Tracker slid off his horse, stepped forward and squatted next to hoofprints in the mud. He flicked aside some debris and touched the base of an indentation.

“Same notched shoe?” Caine asked.

“Yup.” Beneath his hat, Tracker’s long black hair blew back from his face as he followed the trajectory of the tracks to the cluster of trees, revealing the hard ridge of scar tissue puckering the dark skin of his cheek. A scar he’d earned at the age of fifteen when he’d extracted justice for his mother from the man who’d raped her. He pointed to the copse of trees halfway up the rise. “They’re in there.”

Another scream tore through the morning calm, this time rising and falling on a ruptured, barely recognizable “No!”

“Shit.” Sam flipped the strap on his holster. “Stopping to fuck with a posse on their tail? I’ve a mind to complain to the padre. It’s a waste of time sending us out to round up this bunch when any kid in knee pants could do the job.”

Remnants of the scream echoed off the surrounding hills, raising the hairs on the back of Caine’s neck. Right along with memories he’d rather have stayed buried. “Gotta admit that much stupidity fairly begs a man to put it out of its misery.”

“That it does.” Sam checked the cylinder of his pistol, the easy nonchalance of his attitude belied by the grim smile lifting the corner of his lips. Nothing irritated Sam more than a stupid outlaw. “But seeing as they chose to bring their lawbreaking to our land, I suppose it won’t overwork us none to teach them a lesson.”

The same tug of cold intent in Sam’s smile flowed through Caine’s blood, sharpening his senses, giving a home to the anger that had festered without satisfaction for the last fifteen years. They’d fought long and hard for a place to call their own, carved two thousand acres out of these canyons with their sweat and blood. This was their home, and the only law that existed in it was the one they enforced. And on Hell’s Eight land, a body could do a lot of things, but hurt a woman and live wasn’t one of them. “I don’t suppose it will.”

Sam dropped his revolver back into his holster. “I’ll head ‘round.”

“You want the sentries, Tracker?” Caine asked, as Sam loped off, circling to keep the slight rise between him and their quarry.

Tracker stood and put his hand on the worn leather-wrapped hilt of his knife. “My pleasure.”

Silhouetted against the morning mist, he looked every bit of his reputation—a big, mean nightmare come to life. His dark gaze fixed on the copse of trees, his focus already on the battle to come. If Tracker ever allowed one of the sentries to see his expression, the implacable intent there, the man would piss his pants. Too bad Tracker never let them see his face. Caine levered a bullet into the chamber of his rifle with the snap of his wrist. He’d pay money to see that. “Then I guess that leaves the how-de-do’s up to me.”

The barest hint of a smile touched Tracker’s lips. “Enjoy yourself.”

Caine crept on his belly to the edge of the low ridge overhanging the small clearing. Tipping back his hat, he looked directly below to the small group in the hollowed-out bank in the curve of the stream. Stupid did not begin to describe this bunch.

One of the five men they were tracking held a gun loosely on three women who cowered in terror against the earthen bank. Three more outlaws were engrossed in trying to catch a blond-haired hellion knee-deep in the rushing stream, pitching curses and stones at their heads with assorted degrees of accuracy. If she’d once worn a dress, it was long gone. Her bloomers and camisole were plastered to her compact body, her small breasts and mound clearly delineated by the transparent material. The provocative display no doubt contributed to the idiocy of the men, one of whom chose that moment to rush the woman. She jerked to the side, her long hair obscuring her expression as he grabbed her arm and pulled. Instead of fighting, she went with him, planting her feet when he stumbled on the uneven stream bed, bringing her knee up hard enough to feed the guy his balls for breakfast. She should have run, but she was a fighter and clearly had a fighter’s instinct to finish the job. As the guy sank to the ground, hands clamped over his balls, she kicked out again, catching him on the chin. He went over like a felled ox, water splashing high. Out cold.

Caine raised an eyebrow as she turned on the other two, feet braced, daring them to come after her. A smile tugged past his fury. Hell, if they delayed a bit, the little spitfire might just take care of this mess for them. A barely perceptible thud to his left deepened his smile. But it wouldn’t be necessary. Tracker was nothing if not efficient and that thud was the first sentry. One down. Two more to go. Caine inched closer as the outlaws on the edge of the stream shifted position. The bigger of the two said something to the other, his heavy beard obscuring the shape of the words. In response, the smaller man pulled off his hat, revealing a thin face scraggled with beard. He slapped the hat against his thigh. Whatever the suggestion had been, the smaller man wasn’t cozying up to it.

“Just rush her for Christ sake,” the redhead guarding the other women shouted impatiently, punctuating his point with a wave of his rifle that had the women he was guarding screaming and covering their heads with their hands.

“If you want her rushed, Red, do it yourself,” Scraggle Beard hollered back. “I like my balls right where they are.”

“Do I have to do everything myself ?” Red aimed his revolver at the two men. They went absolutely still. With a flick of the muzzle, he ordered, “Get out of the way.”

The two men stepped aside, relief seeping into the set of their shoulders as Red centered the muzzle on the blond woman. “Get out of the stream.”

The blonde’s response to that flat order was a flip of her head that had her hair whipping back over her shoulder, revealing a delicately shaped face devoid of color but full of determination.

She didn’t move a foot, nor say a word, but if there was ever a combination of gestures that said go to hell, it was the lift of that small, pointed chin and the narrowing of those big eyes.

Over the rushing of the stream, Caine heard the faint click of the gun hammer locking into place. Shit.

“Now.”

Caine had never seen a more stupidly brave woman. Instead of obeying, she squared her shoulders. Courage was one thing but she was just about begging the man to pull the trigger, and for that she needed her cute little ass paddled. Caine notched the barrel of his rifle between two stones and took aim as Red straightened his arm.

The blonde narrowed her eyes and stretched her defiance out to the last possible second before, with another toss of that wet mane, she sloshed out of the stream. Water dripped in a small river as she stomped up the bank. She came to a stop three steps from Red, chin still high, shaking like she had the ague. Goddamn, if she didn’t drop with pneumonia before the day was out, they would all be lucky.

“See boys, nothing to be afraid of,” Red sneered, releasing the hammer and lowering the revolver to his side. “Just a pretty little whore displaying her goodies for our pleasure.”

The “boys” converged on the woman, grabbing her arms. If looks could kill, Red would be dead and the “boys” not far behind. The bearded man grabbed the woman’s hair, yanking her around as he ripped the chemise from her body. Her screech echoed around the clearing. With the speed of a rattler, she sank her teeth into his hand, hard enough that his holler followed hers. Scraggle Beard jerked her back. She didn’t let go, just stretched out between the two men, hanging like a crazed coon, anchored by her teeth and the grip on her arm.

“Fucking shit! Stop yanking on her before she bites my thumb clear off!”

Scraggle Beard froze. The bearded man brought his hamlike fist down on the woman’s back. Her knees buckled, but she held on. No matter how the man shook his hand, yanked and threatened, she didn’t turn him loose. Son of a bitch, she was something.

Caine adjusted his aim. “That’s right, hellcat. Keep them busy just a little bit more, just until Tracker gets those sentries.” He tightened his finger on the trigger. “Just a little bit more, and I’ll settle this for you once and for all.”

As if she heard, the woman clung to the outlaw, flopping where he shook her, getting a bit of her own back the only way she could, clearly stuck on her course of action with no real way out. If she let go she’d be helpless, if she held on, she was an easy target for his fist. The man brought his fist up a second time. Caine sighted the gun. That was one blow that wasn’t going to land.

Tracker’s signal trilled through the clearing, sharp and sweet. Followed immediately by another. Caine fired in rapid succession. Simultaneously, three shots shattered the rain of curses streaming into the clearing, followed quickly by a fourth. The men dropped, the blond woman with them. Caine leapt over the ledge and slid down the muddy slope, sending loose rocks tumbling before him. He reached her side in a few rapid strides. No way had he hit her. He’d placed his bullets precisely where he’d wanted them. So had Sam and Tracker. He’d lay money on it. All of the Hell’s Eight were known for their accuracy. That fifth shot had him worried, though. That shot hadn’t come from any of their guns.

The closer he got, the smaller the woman got. Fine bones, fine build. He stepped over the outlaw at her side, the screams and cries of the other three women no more than the buzz of insects. Blood splattered on what he could see of the little blonde’s arms, but he didn’t think it was hers. The impression of fragility increased as he cupped her shoulders through the wet mass of hair. Shit, there wasn’t anything to her beyond grit and determination. And temper, he decided as he tugged up and she snarled. She was still biting the man. “You can turn loose now, ma’am.”

There was a pause and the tension under his hand eased. He pulled. She sat back, wiped at her mouth with both hands before huddling into a ball, looking for all the world like she’d start plastering herself with mud to cover up if he didn’t present an alternative fast. Then she looked up at him and sucker-punched him with the eloquence of those big eyes. Everything she felt inside, everything left out of her remarkably composed expression, whirled in the deep blue depths—shame, anger, hope and fear.

“Who are you?” she asked, through the chattering of her teeth.

“Caine Allen, Texas Ranger.” He’d tip his hat if he had a free hand. Though she was all but naked and covered in blood, she had an air about her that reminded a man of his manners. The introduction didn’t ease any of the turbulence he read in her eyes.

“Father Gerard asked me to come fetch you home,” he added, shrugging out of his wool-lined leather duster and wrapping it around her, drawing her into his body heat. She fit against him nicely.

“Is he dead?”

It was hard to acquaint the quavery whisper with the woman who’d faced down three grown men with nothing more than her temper and teeth. He took in the fallen man’s blank stare, the hole dead-center between his eyes and the blood pooling beneath his head. “If not, he’s doing a fair imitation.”

“Oh.”

If he hadn’t been studying the blue tinge under her skin, he would have missed the subtle tremble that ran through her and just mistaken it for another of the cold chills shaking her from head to toe. Winter was wrapping up, but spring had yet to put in an appearance and the late March wind was cold. He helped her up and forward, moving her away from the blood toward the other women. She’d fought like hell, but as soon as reaction set in, she’d be wanting the company of her own sex.

To their right, there was a series of splashes. He looked up. Tracker stood over the man in the stream.

“That the last of them?”

“Yup.” Tracker bent and grabbed the man’s arms, hauling the body out of the water.

The cold damp of the woman’s hair soaked through his shirt as she turned her head to stare at the gruesome sight. Another almost imperceptible shiver racked her frame. Caine turned his body, shielding her from the horror.

Her “Good riddance” caught him by surprise. He tipped her chin up, checking her expression. Her face was tight with strain, her pale lips drawn to a narrow, bloodless line, but she was still with him. “It is that, ma’am.”

She cautiously moved her chin off the shelf of his finger, her wary gaze locked on his as if afraid to move too fast. He guessed he couldn’t blame her for that—being kidnapped out of her bed and subjected to attempted rape probably made a woman six ways of cautious. He dropped his hand to her back, keeping her against him as the chill from her body seeped into his.

“I need to sit down.”

He just bet she did, but a good twenty feet still separated them from the women. He would take on many things without batting an eye, but a hysterical female wasn’t one of them. She stopped at a fallen tree.

“This is good.”

For such a delicate little thing, her voice had a pleasing depth and a seductive, husky rasp that made him think of dark rooms, soft whispers and hot sex. His cock, semi-hard from the battle, surged to fully erect as the soft scent of lavender teased his senses. He shifted his position so she wouldn’t notice the purely male reaction. A woman who’d just escaped rape would not welcome any sign of a man’s interest, no matter what side of the law he sat on. “No offense, Miss…?”

Instead of immediately supplying her name, she hesitated and frowned. For the space of two heartbeats she left the blank empty, then with a nearly imperceptible shrug she answered, “Desi.”

Unusual, but it suited her in a strange, boldly feminine way. “Would that be Miss or Mrs.?”

Another pause. “Miss.”

Unmarried. His luck was picking up. He motioned with his hand to the women on the opposite edge of the clearing. “I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable with the others.”

She shook her head, turned out of his arms and sank down, clutching his coat around her and repeated, “This is good.”

He let his hands slide up her back as she lowered herself, feeling her wince as she reached the log, the action no doubt compressing her ribs. “You sure you’re okay, ma’am?”

“Yes.”

Remembering the blow she’d taken, he didn’t find that short, breathless assurance comforting. He ran his right hand down her spine over the jacket, spreading his fingers wide, counting her ribs as he went, immediately locating the damaged area by her soft gasp.

“She all right?” Sam asked, strolling up to their side.

His “No” overrode her “Yes.”

Sam, damn his hide, had the gall to look amused at the contradiction. Caine pressed along her sixth rib. She twisted away. He paused. “Maybe you’d feel better with one of the women caring for you?”

She hunched her shoulders into the heavy duster and shook her head. Her chin was set in that way he already recognized meant stubborn. “I’m fine.”

He checked the other side as best he could through the coat.

“Denying what needs to be done doesn’t end the need for the doing.”

Her fingers made deep dents in the coat’s leather sleeves. “Why not?”

He shook his head at the illogic. “Because I said so.”

“I don’t hold you the final opinion on what’s so.”

He just bet she didn’t. “Now that’s a shame, because right now I’m the one calling the shots.”

Her chin came up in that way that just begged a man to make a stronger point. “For now.”

“I’m thinking if anyone’s going to do anything, it’s going to have to be you,” Sam added.

Caine threw him a questioning glance, slipping his hand under the coat and testing the extent of Desi’s tenderness with one hand while keeping her put with the other on her shoulder.

“Seems the other women don’t want to associate with—” a jerk of his thumb indicated the woman beside him “—her.”

If he hadn’t been touching Desi, he wouldn’t have felt her start.

“They got a reason for that line of thinking?” Caine asked. From what he could tell, Desi was the only one worth associating with. Any woman who could spit in the devil’s eye had his admiration.

“Apparently, she has a history of tempting men,” Sam said.

“You’re shitting me, right?” Caine glanced down. Desi didn’t look up, just shook her head, which could have been an answer either way, shivered and then tugged the coat collar higher.

“They seem mighty convinced of their notions,” Sam offered without inflection.

One glance at the sullen faces of the three women standing shoulder-to-shoulder arguing with a nonresponsive Tracker put credence to Sam’s claim. “Is that what they’re clucking about over there?”

“Yeah. About nonstop. Seem to think the more words they throw at a man the more sway they have.”

“Tracker must be in his glory.”

Sam smiled that cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “He says to tell you he’s about ready to cut out some tongues to get some peace.”

Desi jumped and cast Tracker a wary look. He couldn’t blame her. Tracker had a lethal just-give-me-a-reason attitude about him that could clear the roughest saloon with just a glance. The scar on his cheek did nothing to diminish it.

Caine smoothed the heavy mass of hair off Desi’s cheek, absorbing into his palm the trembles the shook her. The “Easy, I’ve got you” welled out of nowhere, a murmured reassurance connected to a foreign sense of possessiveness. Sam cocked a sandy eyebrow at him, a bit of amusement lightening his gaze as he pulled out his makings. He gestured to Desi with the packet.

“I get the impression this one could spout gospel and those three would label it devil worship.”

Beneath Caine’s fingers, the woman’s muscles tightened to rock hard ridges. “Jesus H. Christ.”

Sam rolled a smoke, the sharpness in the move the only indication of his disgust. “It gets better.”

It would. “What?”

He reached into his pocket for a lucifer. “They’re requesting you return them to their homes immediately.”

“That’s the plan.”

He struck the lucifer on the side of his boot. “But they don’t want her brought along.”

“What do they think I’m going to do, leave her as a treat for whoever comes calling?” Desi flinched. He caught a flash of blue as she cut him a glance from under her lashes. He took his hand out from under her coat. As she pulled the lapels closed, he stroked her back, gentling her worries. He wouldn’t leave her.

Sam lit the cigarette. “Don’t think they’d be averse to the idea.”

“Goddamn!”

“I don’t mind.” The soft statement rode his exasperation, feeding it.

“Well, I sure as he—” he caught himself in time “—heck do.”

Sam flicked the match to the ground and took a draw on his smoke. “The women claim they won’t go if she goes with them.”

“So?”

“Just checking how you feel on that.”

Beneath his hands, Desi’s bones felt as delicate as bird wings. It was hard to believe she’d fought as hard as she had or been so successful with so little, but sometimes it wasn’t the size of the dog in the fight as much as the size of the fight in the dog, and this woman had plenty of fight. He admired that. “Tell them when I say mount up, they’ll mount, or they’ll walk tied behind, but one way or another, they’ll go.”

A strident screech from one of the other women snapped his head around. From the pitch he would have assumed the camp was under immediate attack, but in reality, the only one who looked threatened was Tracker. Even from where he stood, Caine could see the anger roll off the women flanking him. The vehemence. Hands waved, fingers pointed, and then, as if it would add emphasis to their point, the women moved in.

Tracker drove the three women back with a slice of his hand and a sharp utterance Caine couldn’t make out. Turning on his heel, he stalked toward them, his long black hair fanning behind him, emphasizing his irritation. He touched the brim of his black hat in deference to Desi as he got close, his expression displaying none of the anger Caine could see simmering under his skin. “This the one the padre was concerned about?”

“Yup. Desi, this is Tracker Ochoa.”

Caine couldn’t blame Tracker for the shake of the head. It was hard to reconcile Father Gerard’s description of “a fragile flower of womanhood” with the hellion who had held off three men with nothing more than sheer grit.

“Hell of a fight you put up, ma’am.”

Desi ducked her head. Her “Thank you” was a wisp of sound as she all but disappeared into the coat. If she was hoping to dispel interest, Caine could have told her she was angling down the wrong path. The contradiction of all that fire banked behind a wall of demure shyness was the perfect recipe to raise a man’s interest. Tracker’s more so than most. For all that he was one scary son of a bitch, he was the softest man Caine had ever seen when it came to women.

Tracker jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The ladies demand to talk to—” he lifted his nose and pitched his deep baritone to a high falsetto “—whomever is in command.” The irritation in the imitation reflected Tracker’s sentiments on the matter. Whereas Desi had earned the big man’s respect, the other women had apparently stirred up nothing but disgust.

“Appears to me they’re not in a position to demand anything.”

“Give them a chance, they’ll argue that into the ground.”

Caine didn’t intend to give them any chance at all. Giving Desi’s shoulder one last reassuring squeeze, he stepped back, settled his Stetson on his head and bit back the anger that rose too swiftly these days. “Then I guess this is their lucky day. I’m available.”

Desi breathed a sigh of relief as Caine took his hands off her shoulders. He was simply too much, from the way he watched her with those intense green eyes that seemed to uncover everything she wanted hidden, to the way his chin squared beneath his generous mouth. Everything about him was raw and untamed and uncompromisingly masculine. The lines that bracketed that mouth could indicate either a tendency to frown or smile. Truth be told, she couldn’t imagine so intense a man smiling, but at the same time he didn’t have that negative feel to him that she associated with bitterness. The hat he kept pulled low over his coffee-brown hair only heightened the impression of power. Angled low over his brow, it shaded his eyes and emphasized the command set into the rugged structure of his face. He wasn’t strictly handsome, but she bet there wasn’t a woman in the territory who didn’t stop and speculate when he passed. He had a presence that just screamed danger, while at the same time that innate strength beckoned with the seductive lure of safety. Both messages were delivered with equal strength, leaving it to the imagination which trait would be the one a woman would find in her bed should she be reckless enough to extend an invitation.

Not that she would ever extend an invitation. Desi shivered. The last year had cured her of all girlish illusions to the true nature of men, and as soon as she located her sister, she was going to find at least one place in this world where she could live her life in peace.

Desi watched as Caine crossed the clearing to talk to her fellow captives, his long legs eating up the distance with amazing ease, his muscled buttocks, perfectly outlined by the straps of his chaps, flexing with every step. Nothing in the easy roll of his gait or the set of his wide shoulders indicated impatience, but he was impatient. She’d felt it in his touch a second before he’d stepped away. Part of her hoped he’d unleash that frustration on Mavis, who seemed to feel it was her God-given right to be judge, jury and executioner over all that came into her domain.

Desi grabbed another fold of the coat into her fingers, the lingering warmth from Caine’s body welcome, the surge of his scent not as unpleasant as it should be, and watched as Mavis drew herself to her full height. Tall for a woman, with big bones and an hourglass figure that men admired, Mavis had presence and she was used to getting her way, in one manner or another.

Her two friends, Abigail and Sadie, stood in her shadow, as always, adding their will to hers, blindly following her lead. As one they stood, watching the big Ranger’s approach. From the expression on Mavis’s face, he was about to get an earful. The woman wanted Desi gone—had been campaigning for it for a year—and clearly saw this as a chance to obtain their goal.

Desi would have gladly granted Mavis’s wish, but there’d never been an opportunity. Until now. This was her chance. She couldn’t mess it up. A shudder came out of nowhere, a debilitating mixture of cold and panic starting in her core and radiating outward.

“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” the blond man said, the kindness in his drawl at odds with the hard implacability of his expression. “There isn’t a soul born who can tell Caine Allen what to do. Those women can fuss all they want, but when the dust settles, you’ll be riding with us.”

That was not what she needed to hear right now. “I don’t want to go back there.”

All that statement got her was a raised eyebrow from the sandy-blond man as he blew out a stream of smoke, along with a “Can’t say that I blame you” from the savagely handsome, completely terrifying Tracker.

She stood, checking the sway in her movement through sheer force of will. Between James’s efforts to starve her into compliance and the fight with the outlaws, her strength was going fast. “I need some privacy.”

Her blush wasn’t entirely faked. No matter what she’d learned to think of as normal in the last year, discussing her bodily functions was not one of them.

Tracker’s hand immediately enveloped her elbow. “This way.”

She couldn’t help her instinctive flinch. His expression went from impassive to stony with a twitch of an eyelid, but he didn’t say a word, just drew her along with him. She went, her lip between her teeth. She had an unreasonable sense that she’d hurt his feelings. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t him—the fact that he was obviously Indian, or his scars. She resented any man’s touch, but she didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. These remnants of softness left over from before had to be squashed before it killed off her last opportunity, because if she didn’t escape now, the only way out from the hell of her existence would be death. Either by her own hand or another’s. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t continue this way anymore.

Guiding her across the uneven ground as if she were the finest of ladies at a social rather than a scandalous woman naked beneath a coat, Tracker helped her over a log, steadying her on the other side, keeping her close as he took her to the copse of trees where the outlaws had tied their horses. The snorts and whickers were welcome indicators that the horses were still there. Maybe her luck was changing.

She stopped before he could guide her through the thicket at the edge. “Thank you.”

He released her elbow. “Give a holler when you’re done, and I’ll come help you back. No need for you to pick up any more bruises than you’ve already got.”

He’d been holding her elbow because he was worried she’d fall, not because he was keeping her hostage…? The realization broadsided her. Desi ducked her head, hoping Tracker would take the gesture as one of embarrassment at the subject matter rather than guilt at her assumptions. “Thank you.”

Casting one quick glance over her shoulder, she stepped through the bushes, making sure he wasn’t following. Tracker stood where she’d left him, leaning against a thin tree, tossing that ugly knife in his hands, flipping it end to end before catching it. Desi shuddered, imagining him in a rage, and ducked through the brush. She had no intention of calling for him. This was her chance, and she was taking it.