Lake of Fire (42 page)

“Hank.” For the moment, she gave up on the obsidian. “I’ve never given you any ideas.” She tried to maintain a reasonable tone.

With a suddenness that shocked her, his lips
mashed hers. His tongue twisted against her teeth, as he tried to insinuate it inside her mouth.

She pulled away and he lost his hold. “Hank, no.”

He was big enough to do whatever he wanted to her.

Dragging her back into his arms, he pleaded, “Laura, let me show you how it can be for us.” He bent to kiss the place where the high collar of her blouse met bare skin, then loosened the clasp that bound her hair.

So much for her plans of managing him into answering questions. “You know I don’t want this.”

Gripping her shoulders, he propelled her toward the Chinese screen and the black-covered bed.

She shoved his hands away. “I said, no!” The cabin door looked far away. “I’m leaving.”

“Stay,” Hank whispered. He took her glass and set it with his on the table beside the bed. His breath came fast against her ear. “Since the first night I saw you,” he whispered hoarsely, “even in men’s clothes …”

“Let me go!”

She pushed at him, hard. He overpowered her and threw her onto her back on the bed. Her breath whooshed out.

Hank straddled her. His hungry eyes took in her mussed hair and her breasts beneath the blouse’s soft white ruffles.

Up until this, she’d thought he was enough of a gentleman to heed her refusal. Now, he appeared wild in the lamplight, his blond hair in disarray …

He looked like his brother.

Tugging at her blouse, he scattered pearl buttons,
then tore at the delicate ribbons of her camisole. The silk ripped.

“I saw you come out of the barn with Cord this morning,” Hank said thickly, “with straw in your beautiful hair.”

Forrest had been no fool, saying what a prize his daughter would be.

Hank’s blood surged, as he pressed Laura down on his bed. Though she struggled beneath him, he clamped his thighs more tightly. She might pretend not to want it, but he’d seen how the morning light illuminated the flush of a woman who’d been more than satisfied.

Tonight, it was his turn.

He folded back the silk and exposed her delicate breast. The sight set Hank to comparing her with other women he’d had. Those conquests, delightful as they had been, paled in comparison to the exquisite challenge of Laura Fielding. She produced a heat that exceeded any he’d felt before. No matter whether she wore her boy’s clothing, emerald silk, or this evening’s plain skirt and shirtwaist … if she danced divinely in his arms or raised her arms willingly to another man, he had to make her his.

“Laura,” he gasped, “just let me …”

She got a hand free and jabbed the side of his neck with her nails. The sharp pain sent him into a rage.

“You little whore.” He’d thought she knew the game. “You’ll let him, but …”

She slashed up again and raked his cheek, coming close to his eyes.

Forrest Fielding had told Hank about Laura’s willful ways. And that it took a firm hand to deal with her.

Hank dodged her attempt to knee him in the groin and fumbled with the buttons of his flannel trousers. Grabbing one of Laura’s wrists, he collected the other and pinned both hands on the bed above her head.

C
ord listened to Yellowstone Lake lap at the pilings beneath the pier. He should be long away from here, but …

Early this afternoon, after Laura and Constance had run from him in opposite directions, he’d struck off toward the stable to calm Dante through the latest storm. He’d not gotten halfway there before Captain Feddors blocked his path, his hand on the grip of his

Colt.

Cord tried to look around without being obvious. They were alone in the driving rain.

“Heard you’ve been found out. No more thinkin’ you’ll buy the hotel and throw your weight around here.”

Cord attempted to sidestep and was blocked again.

“No more sniffin’ round those women from Chicago.” Feddors spit tobacco juice over the tops of Cord’s boots.

Rage nearly blinded him. All he wanted was to get his hands around this asshole’s neck and squeeze until he saw his eyes go opaque.

That was what the captain longed for, waiting with his gun at the ready.

“Guess that old Injun took off to save his hide.” Feddors tried another tack. “Yer uncle.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Mebbe you oughta take a message and follow him.”

If this was a contest in illiterate speech, Cord decided he’d win. “Reckon I oughta.”

“You don’t, and you’ll wish you had,” Feddors finished. He pulled his weapon and gestured with it for Cord to get on with his getting on.

He headed toward the stable, arriving soaked and dripping. As soon as the rain let up, he saddled Dante and rode him around to the front of the hotel. Then he cleared out his room.

It only took a few minutes. His good black suit, a couple of white shirts, charcoal slacks, denims, and blue cotton shirts … all went into his leather saddlebag.

When everything was in, he stood for a moment with a nagging sense of leaving something behind. Checking his bureau drawers and the shaving stand turned up nothing.

In conspicuous view of anyone who might be taking note, he checked out, and loaded his saddlebag, his small pack, and his sealed rifle. Then he’d ridden into the woods, left Dante tied to a tree, and circled back
on foot.

Looking for Laura.

She might have been the one who told Hank, but something in her stricken expression when he’d accused her on the porch had him risking his life to be sure, hiding out at the base of the bluff where the pier met the water. After full dark, he’d risk looking in the dining room and lobby windows and decide if the coast was clear to go inside.

He shook his head. Feddors might have ordered his men to be on the lookout. The only one Cord believed he could trust not to turn him in was Larry Nevers … but even that wasn’t a given. Larry had stood by and let Cord rescue White Bird.

Perhaps the answer lay in Laura visiting her father in the infirmary. If he lay in wait in the trees along the path, he’d be able to see if she went there, hopefully alone.

He peeped out from under the pier. A couple walked along the edge of the Grand Loop above, the woman’s arm through the man’s.

Cord waited until they passed, then looked again. Seeing no one, he started up the steep bank toward the road. When he was halfway to the top, he thought he heard something off toward Hank’s steamboat. Reaching the bank above, he saw a glow in one cabin window.

The steamboat rocked, and a wash of wave slapped the dock. Cord turned toward the infirmary.

A scream split the night, raising the hairs on his
arms and the back of his neck. On instinct, his hand went to the horn-handled hunting knife he’d strapped to his belt after the encounter with Feddors.

Another scream, this one choked off in the middle. Between the dark curtains of the steamboat’s cabin, a shaft of yellow lamplight penetrated the darkness. There was no other sign of light or life in the marina.

Cord ran to the stairs, down them, and along the dock. There was no outer door to the lighted cabin, and the portal to the passenger cabin was locked. He rattled the knob and another cry came from inside.

He butted his shoulder against the water-swollen wood and bounced off. Moving to the curtained window with its tantalizing wedge of light, he found the sash lifted. Raising it higher, he parted the velvet drapes.

On the opposite side of the opulent cabin, half-hidden behind an elaborate Chinese screen, a man and woman lay entwined on the rumpled bed. Hank was recognizable by his thin shoulders and blond hair. He was coatless, his starched white shirt half off, pulled down over one arm. His round white buttocks were bare, his suit pants around his knees.

Sandalwood incense played a light note. The woman’s dark hair spread over brocade pillows shot with gilt thread.

Cord felt a twinge in his groin. He hesitated, wondering if he had imagined the frightened tenor of the scream, or whether it had merely been exuberant love play.

“No, damn you!” The woman beat her fists against
Hank’s chest and heaved her body beneath his.

Cord put together the voice and the small ravaged face. “Laura!”

He leaped through the window and knocked over the dinner cart. Silver covers clattered and bounced. Lavender china shattered.

Staggering, Cord stumbled over a champagne cooler. It tipped and the bottle landed on its side. Effervescent gold pooled on the carpet.

Hank rolled off Laura and leaped up. His pants hobbled him; his thin penis shriveled. Laura pulled her skirt down, but the torn sides of her blouse hung open.

Cord crouched and kept his weight on the balls of his feet, hoping to God Hank didn’t have a tiny derringer secreted somewhere.

Hank curled his thin lips into a sneer. Silver flashed in the dimly lit room as he pulled a stiletto from a sheath on his calf.

Reaching for his knife, Cord shouted, “Get out of here, Laura!”

Hank thrust forward.

Cord leaped aside, but the blade’s tip slit his sleeve. Laura scrambled off the bed and ran toward the door.

Cord circled warily, then swiveled and kicked up between Hank’s legs.

Hank managed to grab Cord’s foot. Both men went down, swearing.

Cord landed on his face and heard the clatter of his knife on the deck beyond the Oriental carpet.

He strained to reach it.

Hank flung himself onto his back. Expecting the sharp pain of the stiletto between his shoulder blades, Cord rolled and twisted in Hank’s grasp.

Hank emerged on top, straddling Cord’s thighs with long legs. He raised his blade.

Cord intercepted the knife hand on the descending stroke.

The stiletto slashed his forearm. His muscles trembled as he worked through the pain and strained to hold the knife away from his chest.

Hank smiled.

Cord brought his free hand up in a slashing blow. Hank fell back with a scream, his nose dripping blood. His hands came up to clutch his face, and he lost his grip on the knife handle.

Snatching the weapon, Cord reversed their positions, pinning Hank to the carpet. Both men gasped for breath.

With the stiletto in his hand, Cord lowered it until the tip of the blade rested a quarter inch from Hank’s bare chest, just above his heart.

Hank’s bloody hands dropped to his sides and he watched, breathing shallowly so as not to contact the steel.

“As you and others have so succinctly pointed out,” Cord said softly, “I am a savage.” He let the blade touch flesh. Hank’s chest rose. A spot of blood appeared. “Easy,” Cord cautioned. “I wouldn’t want you to
hurt yourself.”

He barely raised the blade off skin. “You see, if anyone is going to hurt you for what you were doing to Laura …” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “I’d like for it to be me.”

“What in the name of God is going on?” growled a deep voice.

Norman Hagen lifted Cord off Hank with strong hands and dropped him onto the deck. “I was having a cigarette by the water …”

Hank curled into a fetal position, his arms and legs protruding awkwardly. He held his hands over his rapidly swelling face.

Cord half-crawled to the nearby bed, still holding the knife. His cheekbone throbbed where he’d impacted the deck, right on the cut Constance had inflicted with the gemstone. He pulled himself up to sit on the edge, feeling himself start to shake while the pulse-pounding rush of the fight ebbed.

Laura stood just inside the door beneath a bronze lantern. She held her torn blouse together at the neck with one slender hand, her lamp-lit taffy hair spilling over her shoulders in tangled waves.

Hank groaned and pushed himself up on trembling arms. His knife-thin nose canted to the side and dripped blood on the fine carpet. “This savage,” he told Norman, pointing dramatically, “came through the window while I was entertaining Laura Fielding and attacked me.”

Norman’s sharp eyes took in the remains of dinner
and the champagne bottle, lying on its side with a few precious inches of liquid still inside. Two glasses, half-full, sat on a table beside the bed. Norman raised his blond brows at Laura.

Hank looked quickly at Cord. “You saw her. She was begging for it.”

“I screamed bloody murder,” Laura said flatly. She spoke to Cord, her eyes enormous in the lamplight.

“Look what he did.” Hank brushed back his hair that had fallen over his bruised and swollen face. “My nose is broken.”

Cord grimaced and rolled his own bloody sleeve back to reveal the stab wound in his muscular forearm. “If I’d lost the fight, I’d be lying on your deck in a pool of blood.”

“That’s enough.” Norman took Cord by his uninjured arm and pointed him toward the doorway. “I’ll walk with you back to the hotel so everyone can calm down.”

Cord looked for Laura, but she was gone.