Montana Wildfire (46 page)

"Shit. I figured you'd say that, but can't blame a guy for trying, can you?" The man sighed heavily. Jake heard the damp leaves shuffle, and knew the man had shifted his weight. "Tell you what, breed. I'm sporting What say I give you one last chance to pull that knife?"

"Nope."

"No?"

"No."

"Well, guess that settles it then."

Jake tensed, readying himself for when the gun wavered. It was a short wait. The second he felt it shift, he pounced.

The intruder had been expecting such a move and his big body reacted faster than Jake had hoped. The man dodged to the side. Jake lunged in pursuit, his aim not completely off. He felt the fatty waist give, and heard a nice, satisfying grunt of surprise.

Unfortunately, the intruder's surprise burned off quickly. Too damn quickly, Jake thought, as he watched the big man pivot and start to fall backward. Jake didn't see the trunk-like arm lift, didn't see the gun spin expertly in his hand so the meaty fingers were gripping the barrel instead of the butt... until it was too late.

Hand and gun arched down with lightning speed. Jake lifted his arms to deflect the blow, but he wasn't quick enough.

He heard the thump of metal hitting bone a split-second before thunder exploded in the base of his skull. A wave of white pain radiated outward from that core, spreading through his head and slicing down his spine. The earth swam dizzily. Darkness edged his vision, but he blinked it away, fighting desperately to retain consciousness.

A groan—his?—rumbled in his ears. The strength drained from his arms and legs. His eyes rolled back; he seemed to have no control over it. The pounding in his head faded as he felt himself crumple onto the snow-dampened ground.

Everything went black.

"A lady is quietly, elegantly resourceful," Amanda muttered as, for the third time in as many minutes, she leaned to the side and studied the snow-dusted ground from her place in the saddle. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she was positive that, whatever it was, she'd know it when she saw it. Of course, there was always the chance that she was wrong.

An icy breeze snuck beneath her hood. Shivering, Amanda pulled the cloak about her and nudged the mare on in what she hoped was still an eastward course. Of course, there was no way to be sure of that, since thick clouds blotted out the sun. She refused to consider the possibility that she'd set out from Junction three hours ago... heading in the wrong direction.

Then again, she couldn't not consider it, could she? What if she had? What if she was traveling
away
from Roger instead of
toward
him? What if...

"A lady never curses aloud, no matter what the provocation." She thought of Jake's seemingly constant, always imaginative swears. Then she thought of the way he'd left her. Her voice lowered, her jaw tightened. "No matter how badly she might wish to curse a blue streak, she
does not
do it."

The thin layer of snow covering the ground made the land wet and slippery. The jostling of the horse aggravated her aching body. The rhythmic clump of hooves, crunching through the snow, was the only sound to reach her ears.

The sounds going on
inside
her head were something else again. Her thoughts were loud and chaotic, much like the rumble of a brewing thunderstorm. Though it may waver, the focus of her concentration returned again and again to the arrogant half-breed who'd had the gall to desert her when she needed him most.

"A lady never, never,
never
strikes a gentleman." Amanda's lips twitched with a humorless smile. Since Jake had proved—no,
admitted—
to being no gentleman, that particular rule did not apply. Surely under the circumstance even Miss Henry would understand a temporary slip from grace...

Because the next time she set eyes on Jake Chandler's hard copper jaw, Amanda intended to slap him hard enough to make her palm sting, and his head reel. With each snowy mile that passed by her, her anger and sense of betrayal grew. Repeated instructions as to the benefits of turning the other cheek faded, overridden by the sharp sting of fury. In this instance only, Amanda was willing to overlook her lessons. Because if ever a man deserved a good hard slap, that man was Jake Chandler. And she fully intended—
needed—
to see that he got it.

But first she would have to find him.

And before she could do that, there was the problem of finding Roger Thornton Bannister III.

Her breath misted the air when she sighed and again glanced down and to the left. So sure had she been that she would see nothing out of the ordinary down there, that she almost missed seeing the faint hoof-prints embedded in the newly fallen snow.

With a jerk of surprise, she reined the mare in. The horse tossed its head and snorted, protesting the pressure to its sensitive mouth. Mumbling a quick apology, Amanda dismounted.

Heart racing, she crouched and ran her fingertips lightly over one of the indentations in the snow. Her smile was wide and proud. "Well, I'll be damned." She gulped, but continued to smile broadly. "Ooops."

While Jake hadn't taught her much during their time together, by constantly watching him, she'd inadvertently learned enough to get by. Many nights of watching him taught her how to light a campfire without matches, and watching the way Jake constantly glanced at the sky had taught her a bit about how to use the sun as a gauge for direction. And, by glancing at the ground whenever he did, she'd learned how to recognize clear hoof-prints when she saw them.

While not exactly clear, these were definitely hoof-prints!

Amanda frowned. Yes, they were hoof-prints, all right. No doubt about it. But
whose?
There was no way to tell. Jake might know how to differentiate between one horse's tracks and another's; Amanda had yet to learn that. Nor was she sure how one went about deciding how old the prints were. Unless...

She lifted her head and stared thoughtfully at the breeze-tossed snowflakes dancing from the sky. One golden brow slanted as she again glanced down at the ground. She smiled. Could it truly be that simple?

What wouldn't be as simple was following the prints through before they were obliterated by either the snow or the breeze. While it was still only flurrying, the flakes were starting to accumulate. The breeze occasionally gusted into a bitter cold wind. If she didn't hurry, she would lose all sight of the tracks. And once lost, she knew she would never be lucky enough to pick them up again!

A heartbeat later she was back in the saddle. In two, she was moving. Unless she missed her guess—and a guess was really all it was—the kidnapper was still hours ahead of her. Only if her luck held would she find him by nightfall.

With a bit
more
luck, by this time tomorrow she would have Roger Thornton Bannister III back. Amanda thought it a sorry state of events to think the prospect of having to endure that little monster's company again actually excited her.

"Christ, Henry, I swear there are times you're so stupid I start wondering if I'm really related to you." Tom Rafferty glared at his brother. He had to leash in his anger when all Henry did was grin, shrug, and continue securing the rope that held his "prize" to a thick tree trunk. "You listening, Henry?
Henry!"

The big man glanced up, his brown eyes as narrow and vague as his expression. His thick fingers continued tying complicated knots at the breed's wrist as he drawled, "I heard you fine, Tom. I'm just ignoring you."

"Then you're a fool. What the hell were you thinking to bring him back here? We got enough trouble, yet you gotta bring us
more?"

"Nope. I wasn't thinking that." Henry rocked back on his heels and shrugged. "I was thinking I'd rather he'd pulled his knife on me, and I was wondering why he didn't.
That's
what I was thinking. Why?"

Tom grunted and dragged his narrow palm down his stubbled jaw. He shook his head, eyeing his brother sadly. "It was a rhetorical question, Henry. Don't you know anything? You don't have to answer a rhetorical question."

"Huh?"

"Never mind." Tom jerked his chin at the unconscious man now bound to the tree. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Haven't decided. But don't worry, I'll think of something fun."

"That's what I was afraid of," Tom grumbled. His brown eyes narrowed, and his gaze shifted to the boy who slept soundly, huddled beneath a dirty, threadbare blanket. As far as he was concerned, putting up with the brat day in and day out was about all the "fun" he could handle.

Only the top of the kid's head was exposed, and that was dusted with snow. Beneath the melting flakes, the once shiny blond curls were dark and matted and badly in need of washing. Tom didn't need to look beneath the blanket to know the rest of the kid could use a good scrub, too. There was no help for it. They couldn't let the brat bathe by himself because he might try to escape, and neither Rafferty was willing to do the chore himself. It would be too big a temptation to keep the kid's head under water, if only to shut his arrogant little mouth for a bit. It went without saying that they wouldn't get a plugged nickel for toting a dead body into Pony, tempting though the idea was.

Tom turned his attention back to their second captive. As if they didn't have enough problems, Henry up and brought this breed back to camp with him. God only knows why! And what, Tom wondered, were they supposed to do with the guy now?

Well, there really wasn't much of a choice. They'd have to kill him. If they let the breed go, they'd risk him being able to describe them. Not that anyone was likely to believe a breed, of course, but there was a chance someone might. That was too big a risk to take, especially when they were so damn close to Pony, so damn close to ransoming the brat and getting their money.

Nothing
was going to stand in the way of that!

There was only one problem as far as Tom Rafferty could see. Even unconscious and hog-tied to a tree, that breed looked wild and savage and vengeful. Relentless. And that knife Henry had showed him before looked downright dangerous.

Tom fingered the lock of long, scraggly brown hair resting against his shoulder. If given half a chance, that breed would lift their scalps without a second's pause. He shivered, and his hand dropped limply to his side. "Tonight," he told Henry, who was skinning the rabbits he'd caught for supper, and doing it with his normal, unnatural glee. "If you don't take care of that breed tonight, Henry, I will."

Henry didn't glance up. "No rush, Tom. We're still two days ride from Pony. Think of all the fun we could have in two days."

"And
you
think about all the teeth I'm going to knock down your throat if you don't do what you're told. Tonight, Henry. I mean it."

Henry pouted. Eventually, grudgingly, he nodded. "All right, all right. But it won't be as good, I tell you. Won't be
near
as good."

"Maybe. Then again, it'll be worse if he gets loose. He saw you, Henry, and as soon as he wakes up, he's going to see me. He can describe us, for Christ's sake!"

"So what? Who's he going to tell, Tom? And even if he did, who'd believe a breed anyway?"

"Maybe nobody. But it's a chance I won't take." Again, Tom fingered the greasy hair that fringed his shoulder. Again, he suppressed a shudder—but just barely. "Not only that, but... shit, Henry, the guy's a
breed.
He'd track us to hell and back."

Henry scowled. "You think he can track that good? I don't. We've been covering our prints all along, and no one's found us yet."

"Yet," Tom agreed. "Then again, who's looking?" Henry opened his mouth to answer, but Tom overrode him. "She don't count. That prissy little thing would get lost following her
own
trail. In fact, I figure she got lost right off, and probably gave up days ago. Trust me, Henry, this fella wouldn't give up so easy, and if he wanted to find us, he would. I don't know how I know it, I just do. Hunting and scalping and tracking are in their blood. Injun's are born with it, like copper skin and savage tempers. Like you said, we're two days out of Pony. We
don't
want to screw things up now."

"All right, all right. I said I'd do it tonight, Tom," Henry said, and turned his attention back to the rabbits he was skinning with the knife he'd taken off the breed. It was a nice, big knife; it felt real good in his big, capable hand. He turned it this way and that, admiring the way the carved hilt warmed to his palm, the way the muted sunlight glinted off the long, thick, razorsharp blade.

Mesmerized, he wondered if it would cut through copper skin as easily as it cut through the rabbit's hide. Well, he'd know soon enough. Tom said it had to be done tonight, and Henry was starting to think that maybe that wasn't such a bad idea after all. He was curious to see if a breed's blood was red. He'd heard it was so, but he was curious. He wanted to see for himself. Tonight, he would.

Lord, was this exciting! This was
fun.