Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings (2 page)

“I'm not for hire.”

“But I really need you—”

“You really need to go home!”

“I can pay you well.”

He was startled when he suddenly grasped her arms, drawing her against him. “You can pay me well? Well enough? Well, let me tell you how I'd want to be paid. You. I'd want you, Mrs. Dylan, just the same way old Matt here wanted you.”

She jerked away from him, her emerald eyes liquid as she stared at him. She should be sufficiently outraged, furious, he thought. And she'd walk away, thinking about her beautiful, marble flesh being mauled by a … half-breed.

“And what if I were willing to pay?” she whispered.

“What?”

“What if I were willing to pay?” she demanded defiantly.

“We're not talking about a one-shot deal here, lady!” he said roughly. “We're talking about whenever and wherever I choose. Think about it—I may not be worth my price!”

Her eyes, emerald ice, surveyed him once again. “It's damned sure you're not worth that price,” she assured him. She started for the door at last. She swung around to face him. “You're good, but not that good!” she told him, that same ice in her eyes, the challenge more than he could resist.

“Oh, lady,” he said softly, “you just don't know how good.”

He felt the green fire of her eyes warming him, awakening him, and—damn her—exciting him.

No, he wouldn't fall for this kind of woman, not now. There was still a raw, gaping, bleeding hole inside of him where his heart should have been. There were things he had to do, and he could not—would not—get involved. …

“Good day, sir!” Mrs. Dylan said, then turned and left as regally as she had come.

The dying sun touched her hair. And she seemed to leave in a blaze of fire, Blade thought, resisting the urge to smile.

Chapter Two

T
here were two reasons Blade determined to follow the stagecoach. He'd set the trash brothers—Matt, Jed and Petey—on their horses and promised them dire consequences if they were ever to meet up with him again, but there was still the possibility that the men would go after the stage, for revenge if nothing else. He'd had to get them out of the saloon, though, since he couldn't rightly leave them for old Jeeter.

But even if the outlaws didn't follow the stagecoach, it was heading right through a corner of Apache territory. Mescalero Apaches were a people fed up with the land already taken from them and determined to give little quarter to the white populace, which had often dealt mercilessly with them. If the whites called them savage, so much the better to the Mescaleros.

He stayed behind, though, at a good distance. And for the first few hours, he began to wonder what he was doing. The stagecoach was going to go through the wilderness just fine. The brothers from the inn wouldn't have been patient enough to follow prey this long. His only fear now was the Mescaleros, and so far, it seemed, they were being quiet. With the war over, forts were popping up all over the place, and all the trails were being heavily traveled by the military, sometimes hundreds of men in U.S. cavalry blue. Perhaps the Mescaleros were keeping their distance because of the increasing number of reinforcements. At any time now, the military bugle could be heard, calling fighting men into action.

He was being a fool. He should turn around and head back. One look at this woman was enough to know that she was pulling him along by nether parts of his body, and, in truth, he wanted no part of it.

Yet he kept riding.… At least, Blade justified, she was going in the same direction he wanted to go.

By nightfall, they would be coming up on Jackson Prairie, one of the small towns that had sprung up in the past ten years. It was thriving nicely enough. It had come under Indian attack once in that time, but a cavalry fort was only a twenty minute ride away, which had given the residents courage to hold their own. They had repelled the Indians before the bugler and the cavalry had arrived, tenaciously shooting their rifles from their bedroom windows. Jackson Prairie, it seemed, was new and wild and reckless, but here to stay. There were good wells, which tapped into a fine water supply, and against the dry dust bowl of much of the land around it, it was a welcome haven. Even before the war, the land around Jackson Prairie had begun going for fair prices. It was good, wide open space, perfect for cattle grazing.

Once the stagecoach reached Jackson Prairie, there wouldn't be any need for him to follow. Jackson Prairie wouldn't be a bad place to spend the night, Blade thought. A little whiskey, a good bath at the boardinghouse and a game of cards. And women to be had for the asking.

Strange, but the thought suddenly didn't seem to do too much for Blade, unless the woman was a tall, slim, elegantly dressed Easterner.…

Mrs. Dylan had already offered herself, more or less, he recalled. But somehow, with her, that just made him angry. It wasn't her vocation, and she hadn't suddenly been smitten with him.… So what would make her so determined to make it in the West that she would so quickly make such an offer to him?

The answer eluded Blade. And even as he sought it, he realized that he had ceased to pay attention to the stage, now just a speck on the horizon.

There were buttes surrounding the valley. And looking up, to his right and left, Blade could see horsemen on those buttes.

Apaches. Mescaleros. Five riders to the south, another three to the north. His only hope was that their weapons might be old and outdated, that what rifles they had weren't repeating ones. He spurred his horse, leaning now, pulling out his Colt. If he could reach the stage before the Indians could …

But he couldn't. The driver saw the threat coming and set his whip to his team. The stage began to race wildly, careening down the rutted trail through the wilderness. The guard was up on one knee from his position on the box, firing at the Indians, who were converging on the stage.

The Indians were nearly naked. Some were in leather leggings and vests, their bronze arms gleaming, ink black hair waving, bare flesh covered with paint. Some wore only breech-clouts, and more of their muscled, gleaming flesh was apparent.

As Blade raced in behind the war party, one Apache fell from his horse, caught by a shot from the stage guard's rifle. Blade fired with his Colt, bringing down a lagging rider. Then, as he spurred his bay gelding to greater speed, he saw another rifle appear, from the window of the stage.

She was firing. The very elegant and beautiful Mrs. Dylan was firing from the stage window. She hit one of the Apaches in the shoulder and the man shrieked out in pain and fury, flying from his mount onto the dirt of the trail. Within seconds, Blade's fine bay was leaping over the fallen man.

He could hear the stage driver shouting to the horses. “Get up, get up!” The whip cracked in the air. The remaining five Apaches were closing in, Blade close on their heels. He aimed and fired again. Missed. Fired, and took one of the men from the rear.

He felt a bullet whiz by his ear and he ducked lower against the bay.

Suddenly, Blade heard a grinding sound. He was just taking aim again when he realized that the treacherous trail and reckless speed were causing the stagecoach to capsize. The vehicle was wavering, rocking … crashing down hard upon its side. The horses, jerked back in the fall, screamed and whinnied, tripping over the harness and themselves. The driver flew wide, the guard flew farther. The Apaches, four now, ignored them, converging on the compartment.

On the woman.

No fire rang out from the compartment. Was she dead? Blade wondered, and his heart seemed to slam hard against his chest. Damn her, she should never have been here!

Another bullet seemed to chip at the flesh on Blade's cheek, it came so close. He instantly returned the fire. An Apache made a clean fall into the dust. His three companions hurried on, one wrenching at the door to the passenger compartment, the other pausing upon the downed structure to aim his rifle at Blade.

Blade leapt from his horse, diving into the dirt just in time to miss the shot. The Apache stalked, his knife gleaming. The muscled warrior slammed against him like a living wall of brick, and they tumbled in the dirt. Blade found himself on his back, the Apache straddled over him, hatred in his black eyes, cold fury constricting his hard features. The Apache's knife glittered right over his eyes, coming closer and closer.

Blade gripped the Apache's wrist, knowing that he fought for his life, that the Mescalero would offer him no mercy. Their eyes met. For aeons, it seemed, they were suspended in time and space, neither able to best the other. From the corner of Blade's eye, he could see that the other survivor of the attacking war party had wrenched open the door.

And found the woman. The one the driver had called Mrs. Dylan.

She was unconscious, and that was why she had stopped fighting. Unconscious, or dead.

Her hair had come free from the knot at her nape. It hung down from her lolling head like a waving sheet of pure golden fire. The Apache was about to take her with him.

And she would disappear forever.…

He gritted his teeth, straining harder against his enemy. Black eyes met black eyes. Then, with a tremendous burst of energy, Blade shoved against the man, flipping him. Their positions were changed, but the Apache still held the knife, wickedly long, sharp silver, flashing in the afternoon sunlight. Blade stared at it, tightening his grip upon the Apache's wrist. The warrior suddenly cried out. The knife fell.

Blade used his fist then, hard against the Apache's chin. His enemy went limp. Blade leapt up, catching the last Indian just as he was about to mount his horse.

Mrs. Dylan came to just then. Immense emerald eyes opening to see the painted man carrying her away. She let out a wild shriek, her arms flying, nails raking. The Apache threw her down as she drew his blood, then the flat of his hand connected hard with her cheek. She cried out and started to rise again, true alarm blazing in her eyes.

But Blade caught the man's shoulder just then, swinging him around.

The Apache was good. He caught Blade in the jaw before Blade could duck. For a moment, Blade saw stars. Then he saw that the Apache meant to take the advantage, and he quickly countered with a fierce blow to the Apache's gut. The man started to double. Blade joined his fists together and brought them down on the Apache's nape. The Indian fell with a whish of air and a grunt. Blade rubbed his knuckle for a minute, looking at the fallen brave. Then he stared over to where she lay, arms pushing up against the dirt. Breathing hard, she stared at him.

What was she thinking? One bronzed savage for another? he wondered. She was the one who had propositioned
him.

He reached out a hand to her. She accepted it, rising gracefully. “I told you to go home,” he said.

Her chin was high. “And if you had accepted my offer, you could have been making some gain for what you just did for free.”

“Go home.”

“I'm trying to go home.”

“Go back East.”

“I have nothing back East.”

“Well, what do you have here? You nearly had yourself a whole tribe of Mescalero Apaches! What good would that have done you?”

Her emerald eyes surveyed him with a level cool. “But it didn't happen. You came back.”

“Yes, that's right. And you've already agreed that you might be a fitting payment for me, so maybe it wouldn't make much difference to you if a dozen or so Apaches were to demand their own payment.”

Her hand lashed out to strike him. But he was quick, ready for anything she might do, and his fingers were winding around her wrist before she could touch his flesh. He wanted to shake her. Shake her until she understood what an idiot she was; she was a rose on a barren landscape, a delicate flower trying to root in stone.

He wanted her to know just what she was willing to offer. No, he wanted her, period. Right then and there, on the dust of the plain, hard and fast. He would show her how raw and wild the world could be. How savage. How damned cruel, and savage.…

“Thank the Lord above us!” The dry cackle sounded before Blade could say or do a thing. It was the stage driver, picking his way over the shivering, frightened horses and harness to reach him and Mrs. Dylan. “It's you again. I'm telling you, young fellow, you deserve some kind of commendation! Gold, my man, gold! Something to set you up fine in the West. The investors in this company will surely be willing to pay something, I'm right damned sure of it—oh, pardon for the language, Mrs. Dylan, I do beg your pardon.”

“Oh, I imagine Mrs. Dylan can deal with a little rough language, old-timer,” Blade said dryly. “She seems to deal well enough with just about everything else.”

Her emerald eyes were locked with Blade's black ones. She didn't say a word for the longest time, just stared at him. Then she turned to the driver. “Shorty, what will we do now? Can the stage be righted? What about the horses?”

“We'll have to get them up and see how they fared,” Shorty said.

The guard, his broken rifle dangling uselessly from his hands, was standing by the lead horses. He threw his rifle aside with disgust and reached down, running his hands over the haunches of the first horse. “This fellow seems to be in one piece. We just need to get them up carefully. They're sure to be all bruised up and frightened. Can't let them panic again or they'll strangle us and themselves in the harness. You've done us fair and fine so far, sir,” he said, tipping his hat to Blade, “if you wouldn't mind giving us a few more minutes of your time …”

Shorty snorted. “What about these fellows?” He indicated the Apaches. “Some of them just might come to—madder than a hive of bees!”

“You deal with them, Shorty. Tie 'em up if'n you don't want to shoot them. I need this young buck—” The guard broke off, wincing at the term he had used for Blade. Buck. Indian. Like the Apaches on the ground.