A Heart for the Taking (50 page)

As the seconds passed and he heard nothing more, he began to feel a bit silly. Whatever had awakened him had probably been nothing out of the ordinary, and he was letting his imagination run wild. At least that’s what he told himself, but he didn’t believe it. He had lived too long by his wits alone, and the gut feeling that he was experiencing now, gut feeling that something was seriously amiss, had saved his life too many times in the past for him to totally discount it now. But as more time passed and he heard nothing else, he decided that he must have been mistaken.

He was about to return to bed, somewhat disgusted with himself, when there came a furtive creak from the direction of the main staircase leading to this floor. Chance froze. He was familiar with every nuance of his surroundings, and he knew that creak. It was the sixth stair from the top. Wasting no time, he silently crossed the room to wake Fancy. He shook her slightly and whispered urgently against her ear, “Fancy, sweetheart, wake up.”

She stirred, her eyes flying open a second later as she realized that Chance was no longer at her side, that he was standing over her. She started to speak, but his fingers against her lips and his low, “Shush. Quiet,” stilled her movements instantly. Her gaze full of anxious questions, she looked up at him as he loomed over her in the shadowy murk.

Softly Chance said, “I believe that someone is in the house.
Not
someone who should be. Do you understand?”

Fancy’s breath caught and she paled. Visions of hordes of painted, screaming savages bursting through the bedroom door flashed through her brain. She swallowed painfully, but meeting Chance’s intent look, she nodded.

“Good,” he said simply, and briefly flicking a finger down her cheek, he turned away to face the source of the danger.

As Chance edged nearer the door leading to the main hall, Fancy slipped naked from the bed and frantically grabbed various articles of her clothing that were scattered haphazardly about the room—her demanding husband had been so eager to claim her last night that he had not allowed her to disrobe properly before taking her to bed and making exquisitely sweet love to her. At the moment, as she ignored undergarments and petticoats and scrambled into the simple mulberry-colored bombazine gown she had worn to dinner the previous evening, she was inordinately thankful Chance’s ardor had forced her to leave all her clothes at hand. Facing a possible Indian attack was frightful enough; facing one stark naked or in her night attire didn’t bear thinking about.

Her heart banging painfully against her ribs, Fancy glanced about for a weapon. Her gaze fell upon the musket in the corner. She hesitated. There had been talk of teaching both her and Ellen how to load and fire various weapons, but so far the promised lessons had not taken place. She bit her lip. Hadn’t someone said it was simply a matter of cocking the hammer and pulling the trigger? Deciding that if she couldn’t shoot it she could use it as a club, she snatched up the musket.

Her fingers had barely clenched around the musket barrel when she watched with growing horror as the main door to the bedroom stealthily swung inward. Unaware of anything but that ever-widening gap in the doorway, unaware of the way Chance’s body shifted imperceptibly into a menacing stance, the knife held ready for battle, she was suddenly
filled with righteous indignation. How dare some murdering heathen creep into their bedroom!

That thought had hardly crossed her mind when the intruder was fully revealed as the door finished its opening arc and she stared numbly at the fearsome apparition who stood there. The figure garbed in stained, filthy buckskins was truly a thing of nightmares, from the long greasy braided hair festooned with feathers, to the terrifying streaks of vermilion and black that had been painted on its face. A tomahawk was held in one hand and in the other was a knife, an almost identical twin to the one clasped so lethally in Chance’s hand.

That the intruder had planned to catch them asleep in their bed was apparent from his expression of dismay when he found himself confronted with two very wide-awake, armed inhabitants. There was a moment of tense silence, and then the man in the doorway smiled, nastily, and Fancy’s breath caught in her throat. Beneath the Indian disguise, she recognized that yellow-toothed grin, and a smothered gasp escaped her.
Udell Thacker.

“Well, damn me for a sinner,” Udell said almost jovially as he stepped into the room. Keeping a wary eye on the blade in Chance’s hand, he added, “You never did act like I expected you to. I do not know why I figured this time would be any different.”

Chance smiled grimly. “I do not either, my friend.” Seemingly oblivious of the fact that he was half-dressed and confronting a deadly enemy, he asked with deceptive politeness, “Might one inquire what brings you to my bedroom at this hour of the morning?”

Udell’s grin widened. “Seems thet I ain’t the only feller who would like to see your liver on a skewer.”

Chance cocked a brow. “Oh? And what might that mean?”

“Means thet I met with a feller who does not bear you any love, and we put our heads together and decided to get rid of you.” Udell snickered. “This morning’s work is going to be
a real pleasure for me—I get to kill you and my new, er, partner, is going to pay me a tidy sum of gold to do it.”

“Who would dare do such a dastardly thing?” Fancy burst out, shock and anger apparent in her pretty face.

In spite of herself, even with Chance between her and Udell, she flinched when Udell’s frankly lascivious gaze slid slowly over her slim form, the memory of her time as his captive rushing through her. Her revulsion was plain to see, and some of Udell’s satisfaction faded.

“Don’t matter,” he said nastily. “If I were you, mistress, I would worry more about myself. When I get through with you this time, you ain’t going to run off nowhere.”

“If I were you,” Chance drawled dangerously, “I would not make promises that you have no hope in hell of keeping.”

“Is thet so? And what makes you think thet I ain’t going to keep thet one?”

“Because I will kill you before you lay a hand on her,” Chance replied levelly. One part of his mind was on the situation at hand, but his racing brain was also turning over the astonishing information that someone had actually sent Udell Thacker to his home to kill him. There was only one person Chance could think of who hated him that much and who would stoop to such treachery—Jonathan.

Udell chortled merrily at Chance’s warning. “Think so?” he taunted, obviously enjoying himself.

Chance’s gaze narrowed. Something was wrong. Udell was too confident, too certain of himself—and he shouldn’t be, not having lost the element of surprise and finding himself faced with two armed individuals. So why was Udell standing there grinning at them when he should be running?

The answer exploded across his mind, but it was too late. From behind him, Chance heard a soft gasp from Fancy, followed almost immediately by Clem’s voice saying, “I will take thet musket, little lady.”

Cursing himself, Chance pivoted slightly so that, while not losing sight of Udell, he could see what was happening with Fancy. It was not a reassuring scene that met his gaze,
and he cursed himself again. Approaching from the rear, Clem had caught her by surprise and had grabbed the musket from her grasp and tossed it aside. Holding Fancy firmly captive in his massive paws, he grinned at Chance. An icy thrill of fury went through Chance at his own stupidity. He should have remembered, he thought savagely, that where Udell was, Clem wasn’t far behind. It was obvious that while he and Fancy had been occupied with Udell, Clem had entered the bedroom through the connecting doorway from Fancy’s room and had slipped up behind her. Intent as she had been on Udell, it had been easy work for Clem to disarm her, and by doing so, he had changed the situation drastically.

Fighting the feral urge to spring across the room and free his wife from Clem’s brutal grip, Chance asked, “What do you intend to do now?”

Udell grinned. “Well, I think thet it would be a good idea if we put some distance between us and here. Our business is with you two.” Magnanimously he explained, “We had planned to kill anyone who might be inclined to prevent us from finding you, but me and Clem decided not to waste time and we came directly for you two. Thet’s what we are getting paid for. And if you do not want any of your friends to die, I suggest you do
exactly
what we tell you to. It don’t matter to me how many people I kill. But you follow my orders and your own skin is the only one you have to worry about.” He grinned nastily. “And thet of your purty little wife.”

Chance ignored the provocation and nodded curtly, ideas for getting Fancy out of Clem’s grasp speeding through his brain. It looked as if there was little hope of saving himself, but there was the possibility, faint though it was, that he might be able to get Fancy free—if only he were clever enough. Despite his outward calm, Chance was frantic, knowing very well what fate Fancy would suffer if he were fool enough to allow her to be taken away by Udell and Clem. His gaze flicking swiftly over Fancy’s angry, terrified
features, he swore to himself that he would die before he would let that happen.

But Fancy had plans of her own, and they didn’t include having her husband and herself kidnapped and murdered by a pair of scoundrels like Udell and Clem. She had given up twisting in Clem’s hold. Deciding to do the only thing left to her, she suddenly bent her head and bit his wrist as hard as she could.

Clem let out a yowl and tried to jerk his hand away from her sharp little teeth, but Fancy held on like a tigress, biting even deeper. No longer holding her prisoner, Clem was actively trying to get away from her, dancing wildly about the room, beating her about the head and shoulders with his free hand and yelling for Udell to help him.

It was the opportunity that Chance had been waiting for, and like an arrow released on its lethal errand, he launched himself at Udell. Udell had been staring astonished at the bizarre sight his brother presented as Clem careened violently from one direction to another, trying desperately to free his arm from Fancy’s teeth. Before Udell had time to collect himself, Chance was slamming into him with such force and fury that the tomahawk was knocked from his hand and they fell to the floor, locked in a deadly struggle. The blades of their knives gleamed dully in the ever-growing brightness of dawn as they rolled and twisted on the floor; a chair and a small table went flying as their writhing bodies smashed into them, each man trying to find a vital opening in which to strike the telling blow. Unbearably aware of the frantic need to go to Fancy’s aid, Chance fought with a cold, deadly concentration, grimly intent on ending the fight swiftly.

They were well matched. Neither man had been able to bring his knife into position for a fatal strike, each one holding the other’s knife at bay. Icily determined, Chance sought to rip his wrist from Udell’s crushing fingers, as well as keep his own brutal grip on Udell’s knife hand. Both were breathing harshly, their eyes full of fury and hatred as they continued to thrash across the floor, each man fiercely seeking an
advantage. It came suddenly. One minute Udell’s fingers were digging into his flesh, and the next Chance’s knife hand swung free. A savage smile on his face, Chance thrust his blade deeply into Udell, driving it inward and upward, striking for the heart.

Udell groaned, stiffened, and then lay still. Chance leaped upright and twisted the knife out of Udell’s limp grasp. A deadly expression on his face, he swung around to confront Clem.

The fight between Udell and Chance had taken mere minutes, but for Fancy, valiantly hanging on to Clem by her teeth as he yowled and struck her and scrambled for escape, it had seemed to last for hours. Her heart had told her that Chance would win, but as the minutes had passed, her certainty of the outcome had wavered. All her attention had been focused on Clem and the damage she was doing to him, but suddenly the room seemed abnormally silent and she knew her fate was sealed. Any moment now she would be safe in her husband’s arms, or condemned to suffer a fate truly worse than death. She had been using both her hands to keep Clem’s wrist in contact with her teeth, and the struggle was costing her dearly. Clem was much larger and stronger, the blows he rained upon her punishing, but Fancy had grimly hung on, knowing that Chance’s life and her own depended upon it. When Clem had discovered that he could not easily dislodge her, with his free hand he had grasped a large chunk of her hair and was attempting, it felt to her, to tear her hair from her scalp.

Just as Chance’s gaze had fallen upon them, Clem suddenly managed to free his savaged wrist from Fancy’s teeth. With a muttered curse, before Chance could move, Clem jerked her head backward and hit her cruelly with his badly bitten fist. Fancy didn’t make a sound. She simply folded and slid unconscious to the floor.

Panting heavily, Clem glanced in Chance’s direction, the incipient smile of satisfaction beneath the Indian war paint instantly gone when he realized that it was Udell lying dead on the floor and not Chance Walker. For a long, ugly second
they regarded each other, Chance’s eyes a fierce, burning blue. Clem cursed and reached for his own knife, but Chance’s blade was already in the air.

Just as Chance planned, the knife sank to the hilt in Clem’s throat. There was an odd gurgle from Clem, and he sank to his knees, clawing at the weapon protruding from his throat. A moment later, like his brother, he lay dead.

Chance had little sympathy for either man. They had dared to invade his home with evil on their minds and had attacked not only him, but his woman. They had died too easily, Chance thought savagely. The dangerous flame in his eyes unabated, he stalked over to Clem and, putting his foot against the other man’s chest, jerked out the blade.

Ignoring the bodies, Chance took a deep, steadying breath and turned to Fancy. The sight of her slender form lying so still on the floor sent a spear of stark fear through him. He flew to her side and sank to one knee, laying down the knife before lifting her gently into his arms.