Dawn Comes Early (27 page)

Dear God, the Father. Send rain
. She wondered if she would ever be able to start a prayer without repeating Ruckus's refrain. Tears slid down her cheeks as she thought of him and the others. What they must think of her, taking off like that.

Once again she turned to prayer, but this time it was her words, not Ruckus's, she sent to heaven.
God, Ruckus said you care about your people. If that's true, I need your help. I really, really want to go home
.

Even as she pleaded with God, she doubted it did any good. God had deserted her long ago, just like her father. Just like her mother. Just like Luke would if she gave him the chance.

And that she would never do.

But not the ranch. The ranch would always be there for her.

On the morning of the sixth day she awoke from an uneasy sleep to the sound of the howling wind. It had blown all night long and at times she feared it would rip off the roof.

On occasion Cactus Joe peered outside but quickly slammed the door shut. Sand filtered through cracks and soon even the keys of the typewriter felt gritty.

“I need to use the privy,” she said after a couple of hours of working nonstop.

Cactus Joe made a face. “I'm not going outside in this weather.”

“And I'm not writing until you do.”

He pulled out his gun. “You'll do what I say.”

She glared at him and read aloud as she typed. “‘Cactus Joe is an ugly mean outlaw who can't even steal gold from a dead man's purse!'”

She pulled out the paper and tossed it at him. That was a far cry from how he wanted to be portrayed. Predictably, her ploy worked, for though he glared at her, hand on his gun, he relented.

“Have it your way. But you better not keep me waiting long in this weather or I'll drag you out of the privy by your hair.”

Switching the gun from his right to his left hand, he reached behind his back for the door handle. The door flew open and slammed against the wall with a bang, ripping the calendar off the wall.

Head lowered against the wind and grinding sand, Kate ducked outside before Cactus Joe could change his mind.

The wind practically knocked her off her feet, the sand nearly blinding her. She held a hand in front of her watery eyes and squinted between her fingers. It was impossible to see more than a foot in front of her. She glanced around, but Cactus Joe had vanished behind a thick cloud of churning sand.

Arms held out in front, she stumbled forward blindly and hit the ground on all fours. She tried standing, but the wind forced her to crawl on hands and knees. She could hardly breathe. Grit entered her mouth and nose and lashed at her flesh. She pulled the bandanna from around her neck and covered the lower part of her face. She still couldn't see, but at least now she could breathe without swallowing sand. The wind at her back, she lost all sense of direction. Where was Cactus Joe? Behind her? In front of her? Where for that matter was the cabin?
Please, God, help me
.

Was she crawling in circles? Was that Cactus Joe calling her? It was hard to tell over the loud whooshing sound of the wind.

If things weren't bad enough her imagination took flight and she began to imagine the worst. What if she was buried alive? What if all that was ever found of her was bleached white bones? Torn between escape and the safety of the cabin, she mindlessly and frantically crawled.

She forced herself to concentrate.
Mustn't stop. Got to keep going.
Her knees and palms stung and her eyes burned.
Right hand, left knee. Must keep going.

Time and place held no meaning. She crawled for hours, or was it minutes? She couldn't be sure. She crawled for miles, or was it only a few feet? Any moment Cactus Joe could pluck her out of the grinding sand. The thought surged through her like fire, urging her onward, ever onward.

Was that someone calling her name? Was she dreaming? Was that Brandon? And why did he sound like . . . Luke?

She moved blindly ahead, heart pounding, mouth dry as cotton.
Right hand, left knee . . . got to keep going.
Panting breathlessly, she crawled on hands and knees until she could crawl no more.

Chapter 24

L
uke set out again the instant the wind died down. Desert sandstorms generally lasted only a short time, but this one had started the day before and had blown all night.

The air still smelled of dust and the sky showed more gray than blue. Visibility was still poor, but at least he could see for a good twenty feet or more—a blessing. He narrowed his eyes to see the moving dot up ahead that was Homer.

He'd searched for days, ever since his brother first broke the news of Kate's disappearance. Even when the wind started and the sand whipped around like bits of metal, he searched. He'd checked every mine shaft, deserted cabin, and old Spanish ruin he could find and so far, nothing. Any tracks that Cactus Joe might have left had long been covered by shifting sands.

Where is she, Lord? Where is she?

Visions of her hampered his search. He imagined her in the distance waving to him, calling to him, beckoning him, and he kept chasing down ghosts. Exhaustion affected his thinking, his vision, his hearing.

The only real sleep he'd had was last night during the height of the sandstorm when visibility was zero, but even then he'd only gotten an hour or two of shut-eye. His body ached from the hours in the saddle and although he didn't normally carry a gun, he carried one now. He'd borrowed the weapon from Uncle Murphy. He hoped to God he wouldn't have to use it, but he felt better having it.

He wasn't a vengeful man, not by any means. He was more likely to turn the other cheek than fight back—except for when family was involved. For that reason he was completely unprepared for the anger—the absolute outrage—that coiled inside like a snake ready to strike. If Cactus Joe hurt a single hair on Kate's head, Luke wouldn't be responsible for his actions. God help him.

He told himself he would feel no different had someone else been kidnapped—a stranger even. He told himself that the searing pain in his chest was nothing more than natural concern he would feel for anyone. He told himself a lot of nonsense during the long hours in the saddle. Finally he had no choice but to acknowledge the corn. He felt something for Kate—some kind of hankering. Didn't know what exactly. Wasn't love. Couldn't be love. A man like him and an educated woman like her.

She didn't even belong in Cactus Patch—and certainly not on a ranch. Eventually she'd figure that out for herself. She would then go back to Boston, go back to her books and Greek philosophers. Go back where she belonged. The thought drove through him like a knife. He reined in his horse and took a moment to calm himself. Mustn't think about Kate leaving. The only thing that mattered was finding her.

Homer let out a series of short barks. Leveling his gaze toward the dog he could see no sign of a cabin or shack. Homer had probably found another prairie dog town or tortoise hole. Or perhaps a dead steer. They'd passed several already that morning, all done in by sand suffocation.

Homer's barks grew more intense, and Luke yanked his bandanna away from his mouth and whistled. Normally Homer would come running upon hearing Luke's call but not today. Instead, he continued to bark.

Spotting something ahead, Luke urged his horse into a gallop.

The odd shape turned out to be an overturned wagon probably left behind by some hapless traveler. Since Homer kept barking and wagging his tail, Luke slid off his horse to have a look, hand on the weapon by his side.

He spotted a boot beneath the partly buried wagon. Heart pounding, he quickly flipped over the wagon, not knowing what he would find until he saw a flash of blond hair.

“Kate!” He dropped to his knees and shook her.

She groaned and her lashes fluttered, and he let out a cry of relief. Praise God she was alive. Had it not been for Homer he might well have missed her. After a moment, big blue eyes peered at him from over a red bandanna and he thought never to see a more beautiful sight.

“Luke? Is that you?” She sat up, her back against a wagon wheel, and gazed at him in disbelief.

He grinned. “It's me.” Her voice was hoarse but nothing had ever sounded sweeter to his ears. At least this time she didn't call him the name of that imaginary fellow, Brandon.

He removed her bandanna and, after fetching his canteen from his saddle, dropped down on one knee to hold it to her parched lips. Though the wagon provided shade, heat rose from the desert floor.

She drank thirstily before pushing the canteen away. Homer was suddenly all over her, licking her face and hands.

“Down, boy,” Luke ordered. Homer sat, panting, his wagging tail whipping up a cloud of sand.

Luke searched Kate's face for some clue as to her condition. He still couldn't believe he found her. It was nothing short of a miracle.

“Are you all right?” he asked. Her hands and face were reddened by the sand and wind, but otherwise he could see no signs of injury.

Her mouth curved slightly. “Now I am.”

He smiled back at her and he thought his chest would burst with relief. His prayers had been answered. God was good.

“He didn't hurt you, did he?” He couldn't bear the thought of the man putting his grubby hands on her.

“No,” she whispered. “He didn't hurt me.”

“Why did he take you? I don't understand.”

“He wanted me to write the story of his life,” she said. “Somehow he found out I was a writer.”

“That's it?” he asked, astonished. “That's the reason he kidnapped you?”

She nodded. “That's it.”

Luke shook his head. “I was so worried.” Half out of his mind more like it. “The entire town has been searchin'.”

“How . . . how did you know Cactus Joe kidnapped me?”

“They found an eye patch in the saddle room.” He grinned. “From what I heard you put up quite a fight.”

“For all the good it did me.” She stared at him from pools of liquid blue. “I can't believe it's you. I thought I'd never see you or the ranch again,” she whispered. “I thought I would be buried alive. Or hopelessly lost. Or mauled by a pack of tarantulas or—”

He laughed. “I don't think tarantulas travel in packs.”

“It's not funny,” she said. “I could have been attacked by a band of javelinas.”

He shook his head. “I don't know what's worse. The things that happen to you or the things you think might happen.”

She gave him a sheepish look. “It's a writer's curse.”

“Ah, that explains it.” He poured a little water on his bandanna. “You have sand on your nose.”

She flinched when he touched her but whether from pain or something else he didn't know. She said Cactus Joe hadn't harmed her and he hoped to God that was true. The thought of her being hurt or compromised in some way filled him with horror.

Knees in the sand, he dabbed her face gently while gazing into her eyes. Now, as always, he could see sadness in their depths and he wondered what it would take to make that sadness go away.

“I don't have a very good way with words. If Michael was here he'd know what to say. I just want you to know I'm not gonna hurt you,” he said.

She studied him, a thoughtful shadow at her brow. “I'd say you have a very good way with words.”

He knew it wasn't true, but he liked that she said it. Ever so gently he ran his bandanna over her brow, nose, and cheeks in an effort to soothe her sand-burned skin and clean off the tiny grains of sand. He felt her tremble beneath his touch, but she didn't move away and for that he was grateful.

“There you go,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.

Her lashes flew up and she smiled. “Thank you.” Then all at once her eyes filled with tears. “I'm sorry . . . It's just I thought I was lost and no one would find me.”

Something tugged in his chest and a lump rose in his throat. The need to protect her was like a fire burning deep inside. “It's all right,” he said. He ran a knuckle down her damp cheek. When she offered no resistance he wrapped a protective arm around her and cradled her. “You forgot about Homer. His nose can sniff out a pretty woman anywhere.”