Desert Angel (24 page)

“Gotta get caught first,” he said conversationally. “Why, when I get home from back East, and hear tell how you and Jim Travis was found dead right here at his own line shack, I’ll be really sad. Won’t nobody know that I was involved.”

Jamie began to whimper with hunger as March led the tired horse toward the small corral beside the shack. His whimper quickly became a full-blown bawl when his demands weren’t instantly met. He was a good-natured baby, crying only when hungry or wet, but he expected immediate attention then.

“Shut that kid up, or I will.” Fred raised the rifle threateningly.

“He’s hungry. He’ll quiet down and go back to sleep as soon as I feed him.” March hurried into the shack and knelt beside Jamie. She turned her back to Fred as she opened her blouse.

“Turn around. I wanna watch him chew on you a little.”

March recognized the lust in his voice, and knew that she was helpless to protect herself should he decide to attack her. Shielding her breast as best she could with the edge of her blouse, she reluctantly turned and leaned against the wall.

Jamie nursed happily, his tiny hand kneading the soft flesh. Rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth, Fred’s eyes hungrily ate the sight of her. Framed in the doorway, with the sun at his back and the rifle hanging loosely from his hand, he appeared larger than normal, and suddenly March knew that he intended to hurt her as much as possible before he killed her. She had been instrumental in his humiliation, and he wouldn’t let her live.

“Ain’t that pretty,” he drawled sarcastically. “Don’t let the brat take it all. Ain’t never had me a taste of tit-milk, but I’m thinking I’m gonna like it.

“Sure didn’t get much from you the first time. Paid that old man fifty dollars just to bust your cherry, so I figure you owe me more. You’re a whore born, and with just a little learnin‘, you’ll take to it real good.” Leaning the rifle against the wall outside of the door, Fred slowly approached her. “I was gonna wait until later for this, but shit, why not do it now, and then again later? Get that kid off of your tit, it’s my turn.”

March hesitated, wondering frantically how to prevent him from raping her. She had no doubt that he would be brutal in his possession, deriving pleasure from her pain. A knot of fear resting just beneath her heart started to grow, threatening to suffocate her.

The bright light from the doorway suddenly dimmed, leaving the room in deep shadows. Intent on his victim, Fred was slow to react. It was only when he saw the smile flit across March’s face that he realized someone was at the door. Remembering that he had left his gun outside, he reached for the knife on his thigh.

At first March thought that Jim or possibly Breed had discovered her location, but a quick study of the new arrival showed that he was much smaller than either of the other two men.

March dislodged Jamie from her breast, and discreetly covered herself. Standing slowly, she slid along the wall so that she was no longer behind Fred. If the unknown man at the door decided to shoot, she didn’t want to be in the line of fire.

There was something about the new arrival, something familiar. The brightness at his back prevented her from seeing his face, but his stillness and the long hair ruffling in the breeze brought back a memory.

“Well hello.” March greeted the newcomer with a smile of relief when she recognized him.

A nod in her direction was his only response, as his alert gaze remained on Fred.

FIFTEEN

“You ain’t got no business here, Injun, so just turn your butt around and head back to the reservation, or I’ll have to report you to the sheriff.”

Eyes narrowing as he judged the distance to the door, Fred bounced the knife in his hand a few times, testing its weight. He was pretty good with a knife, had even won more than his share of impromptu contests with some of the men on the ranch from time to time. Of course, he was better with a rifle, but he figured he was good enough with the knife that the Indian stood little chance. The more he thought about it, the more he began to relish seeing the handle of his knife protruding from the chest of the red man.

” ‘Course, no one would blame me, if you was to die before that happened … just one more dead Injun for the buzzards to pick clean.” Fred wasn’t afraid of this Indian or any other, never had been. All of his life he’d heard the horror stories about the atrocities credited to the Indian, but he figured they were works of imagination rather than real events. The few Indians he’d been around were too stupid and too scared to attack the son of such a wealthy rancher. They knew that if they harmed him, then they would be hunted down like dogs and hung from the nearest branch.

The Indian ignored the white man’s blustering. He was like so many other white men who thought they owned the earth, who were too selfish in their demands to share with another. They were successfully destroying a way of life his people had known for centuries, were in fact killing his people in their greed.

He should have been miles away by now, but last night he’d been visited by a vision. His sleep had been restless, every night sound magnified in the silence. He couldn’t even swear that he had slept, except that in his vision the sun was bright in the sky, and he was on the horse the white man had given to him.

A wolf, old and weary from many battles, but still magnificent in his pride, had stopped in front of him. His horse had stood quietly, as the old one had paced back and forth several times, and then had leisurely turned in the opposite direction and taken several steps. He turned occasionally, as if to assure himself that his human companion was following.

Upon waking the vision was still with him. He had seen too many visions to doubt the wisdom of following this one. For some reason the old wolf had called for him to return, so he had turned away from the mountains that had been his destination, and had headed back toward the ranch he had just left. He knew that only time would explain.

At mid-morning he had seen the man and woman racing across the desert on the back of a single horse, and had been intrigued when the sun had shone on the long golden hair of the woman. It had reminded him of the white woman who only the afternoon before had filled his hunger for food, and created a hunger of a different sort. So he had followed them at a distance, staying out of sight, but never losing their trail.

Now the Indian looked briefly at March, and recognized the woman he would always think of as Giving Woman. His dark eyes narrowed at the sight of the blood on her blouse.

“You are hurt?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she replied, as she plucked at the stiff material. “It is the blood of the man who was with me and was shot by this one.”

“Get out of here, Injun,” Fred snarled. “I ain’t gonna tell you again.”

“The child is unharmed?”

“He’s fine.”

“You agreed to come with him?”

“No … he stopped my wagon, shot my friend, and forced the baby and me to come with him.”

Satisfied that the woman and child were all right, he turned his attention to Fred. “I will take Giving Woman and her child back to her man.”

“Giving Woman! That’s a hoot! You sure did name her right. Promise her anything and she’ll give everything,” Fred smirked.

He turned the knife so that the tip was held between two fingers. “But you ain’t taking them nowhere. Maybe you didn’t hear me right, Injun, so I’ll tell you one more time, real slow-like so that you can understand. Get … out… of … here! This ain’t none of your business, and I don’t want to see your ugly face again.”

He was a warrior, with scars on both body and soul, who had followed his war chief into many battles. He was prepared when Fred threw the knife. It lodged with a sharp
twang
of sound in the doorframe beside the Indian’s head.

But Fred never saw it sink into the wood. The sound of the rifle reverberated around the tiny cabin, startling Jamie and making him scream in fright. March watched Fred clutch his chest, as the blood poured between his fingers. His lips moved, but whatever he had been trying to say was lost forever, as he crumbled into a heap on the floor.

“Come.” The Indian motioned to March.

Stepping carefully around Fred’s body, she wondered briefly if she were becoming a bitter woman. She felt no regret that he was dead, only that he hadn’t died a little slower.

“I can wait here,” she said when she reached the Indian. “Surely the sound of the rifle will draw someone’s attention.”

“No, there is danger here for you alone.”

With an ease learned so long ago that it was a faded memory, the Indian swung onto the horse and held his hand out to her.

“Wait, I need to get the baby’s things.”

“Give me the little one, I will hold him.

Without concern for Jamie’s safety, March handed him to the Indian and stepped around Fred’s body to retrieve the bundle of towels. She returned outside and was pulled onto the back of the horse.

When Jamie was secured between their bodies, the Indian turned the horse. With a battle whoop that sent a chill of apprehension down March’s back, he dug his heels into the animal’s side.

In a matter of minutes, March realized that they weren’t heading toward the ranch. In fact, she was appalled to discover that she no longer knew exactly in which direction the ranch was located.

“Aren’t we going the wrong way?” she asked, pushing the hair out of her face.

When he didn’t answer, she decided that he hadn’t heard her, even though a little niggling of fear told her that he had. She could find no reason for the twisting, turning route. Several times he circled back on his own trail, and once she thought she saw the roof of the line shack.

Finally, when she began to think he had lost all sense of direction, he turned toward the mountains in the distance. Several times March tried to talk to him but when he remained quiet, she finally grew silent.

She didn’t know what he was planning, but as the afternoon waned she began to wonder if she had traded one kidnapper for another … had gone from the clinging coils of the rattlesnake to the clamping jaws of the wolf. For there was no doubt, of the two men, this one was by far the most dangerous.

But while she had constantly been aware of a gnawing sense of fear while with Fred, she felt security with the Indian. Something, perhaps his gentleness when handling Jamie, reassured her that he didn’t intend to harm her.

Nor, she began to think, did he intend to return her to the ranch.

Just before sunset, when March knew she couldn’t stay on the horse much longer, he stopped at a small creek. Swinging his leg over the horse’s neck, he gracefully slid to the ground. Without a word, he held his hands up for the baby. March handed Jamie down to him and watched as he was cradled securely in confident arms. Gurgling in a language only he understood, Jamie reached for the bright-colored beads resting on the man’s chest.

March looked down, way down, and knew her dismount from the horse would in no way resemble his graceful descent. She’d be lucky if she didn’t land on her face. Her legs were numb from the knees down, and were riddled with pain from the knees up.

“Come.” Shifting Jamie, he held up his free hand, waiting for her to dismount.

“I don’t think I can. My feet are gone.”

A smile broke his sober countenance. “They are still at the end of your legs,” he replied with a chuckle. “Come, Giving Woman, I won’t let you fall too far.”

“How reassuring.” March wrinkled her nose in distaste. “It would have been much more confidence-inspiring if you hadn’t added the ‘too far’ part of that statement.”

“The ground is soft.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, swinging her leg painfully over the horse. “You aren’t the one who’s about to land on your bottom.”

“Your son is waiting. Surely the mother of this fine warrior isn’t afraid of falling.”

“No, I’m not afraid of falling. It’s the landing that has me bothered.”

Leaning over slightly, March placed her hands on his shoulders. There was no other way to do it, she decided, but to slide off and hope for the best.

As she made the final move, a strong arm came around her back. When her feet touched the ground, March bit back a moan of agony as pain shot up to her hips. He held her until she was sure her legs would support her.

Walking like an old woman — or someone who had been on a horse for hours — March waddled toward the tiny stream. It was only a couple of inches deep; kneeling carefully, she scooped some onto her face. The water was tepid after the heat of the day, but felt wonderfully refreshing on the tender skin of her face and neck.

The Indian waited patiently with a fretting Jamie in his arms, until she climbed back to her feet.

“The little warrior is hungry,” he commented as he handed the child to her.

“That is nothing unusual. This boy was born hungry and hasn’t filled up yet.”

He led the horse to the water as March looked around for someplace private to nurse Jamie. She just wasn’t accustomed to baring her breast to someone else’s gaze, but the only place that offered her any kind of shelter was a towering saguaro cactus.

As Jamie grew more strident in his demand and the Indian continued to ignore her, March realized that she had no choice. Turning her back, she reluctantly opened her bloodstained shirt. As she knew it would, the baby’s cry ceased the minute his lips closed greedily around her nipple.