Swept Away (22 page)

“I know that voice.” Luke worked over the tracks with equal parts speed and care. “I haven’t heard it since I was
seventeen. That’s Flint Greer. Get out of here, Ruthy, and make it fast.”

It didn’t suit her but she could see no other choice so she hurried away, hoping they hadn’t put off this final move against Greer until it was too late.

Simon Bullard hung limp over the saddle, waiting for a chance to strike. He looked at the boulders where they were stopping and saw the perfect weapon if he could only get his hands on it.

Flexing his tightly bound wrists to fight off numbness, he coiled his muscles like a rattler ready to strike. He’d been waiting for his chance for a day and a half. The Ranger was a mighty careful man.

As the big man dismounted, back turned, Simon kicked the blue roan mustang he was draped over, hard in the flank. The horse reared and jerked at the reins tied to the Ranger’s saddle. The Ranger’s black stallion pranced sideways, snorted, and threw its head.

“Easy, boy.” The Ranger moved fast to calm the mustang as it wheeled. The roan’s rein snapped, setting it free. The Ranger’s horse lashed out iron-shod hooves and reared, ripping its reins out of the Ranger’s hands. The stallion took off running. Leaping for the reins of Simon’s horse, the Ranger finally came close enough. Simon lifted his hands and brought them down hard on the Ranger’s head, knocking the big man to his knees. Throwing himself to the ground, Simon grabbed a rock he’d already spotted, small enough to fit in his bound hands, large enough to crush a skull.

He reared up and swung with every ounce of strength
he possessed and smashed the Ranger in the head. He got a powerful blow in, but the rock went tumbling out of his bound hands. With a grunt of pain the Ranger slumped forward, stunned but not unconscious. Not dead like Simon had hoped. The Ranger shoved himself to his hands and knees.

With Simon bound hand and foot, the Ranger only had to get space between them to put a stop to this and regain the upper hand. Simon couldn’t let that happen.

There was a knife in the Ranger’s scabbard, and Simon crawled clumsily forward, grabbed the knife, and stabbed the Ranger in the back.

“You low-down sidewinder!” The Ranger rolled sideways, the movement tearing the knife from Simon’s hand. Stumbling to his feet, the Ranger staggered away from Simon, out of his reach. Then the Ranger fell again. Blood flowed from his head and back. Simon took savage pleasure in the sight.

To finish this, Simon crawled to where the knife had landed, snagged it, and slashed at the leather strips binding his hands.

With his hands free, Simon hacked at the ties on his feet. The Ranger got to his knees and staggered toward the nearest boulder, clawing for his gun. The man wore a pair of Colts. If he got his wits to working, it’d be knife against gun. Simon didn’t like those odds.

His feet now free, Simon stood and nearly fell. His legs weren’t working after being bound tight for a day and a half. On unsteady feet he dove after the Ranger, who dragged his gun from his holster. Simon landed on his stomach, wheeled his body around, and kicked the six-shooter out of the Ranger’s grasp.

The man went for his other gun and Simon stomped on his hand. Their eyes met. The big Ranger, blood pouring out of him, disarmed, met Simon’s eyes and a chill of fear rushed down Simon’s spine. Why would he feel fear when he was in control and the Ranger was seconds from death?

Because Simon saw a brave man, an honest man, a lawman.

A better man.

And Simon hated it.

To dispel the uncomfortable sizzle of fear, Simon raised the knife so the Ranger could see death coming. Enjoying the victory, enjoying knowing justice and courage, law and honesty were going to lose.

A sudden motion turned Simon’s head to see the Ranger’s stallion charging. A shrill whistle cut through the afternoon breeze. Simon threw himself behind the boulder the Ranger had tried to get to for shelter. The stallion wheeled and came at Simon again. Simon scrambled up the rocks. The horse stopped, standing guard over his master, bugling a challenge. The Ranger caught the reins and wrapped them around his wrist, his last act before he slumped to the ground unconscious. Maybe dead.

Simon could stab the horse, and he was so enraged he almost did it just to deal out pain. But no simple stab wound would put down a horse. Stuck on his perch, Simon looked at the mustang he’d been riding, spooked away, now standing at a distance and watching the fight.

The Ranger had passed out. He lay with his life’s blood pouring from him, dying, Simon was sure. But there was no way for Simon to plunge one last certain blow into the man’s heart. Even the guns Simon had knocked out of the Ranger’s hand were within reach of the black’s heels. Simon couldn’t get them.

Furious, he looked from the Ranger to the roan mustang and decided he’d done enough. Scrambling around on the boulders, he put a lot of yards between himself and that black demon. When there was enough space, Simon stepped out of cover. The stallion took a step as if to charge, but he was stopped by his reins hooked to the Ranger’s wrist.

With a smug smile, Simon said, “You outsmarted yourself, Ranger. You’ve got your horse to protect you, but you’ve stopped him from getting me.”

There was no response from the Ranger.

Simon caught the mustang and threw himself on the saddle, only now really feeling the pain in his wrists and legs. How had he ended up in custody anyway? He couldn’t remember much except getting Lana to the doctor.

Simon’s mount reared and fought the grip on the reins and only then did Simon realize he was holding the horse with cutting force. He relaxed.

With one frustrated look back, Simon saw the horse nuzzling the Ranger. There was a rifle in a scabbard on the horse’s saddle, and the Ranger was bristling with weapons. Two Colts and one more knife. Simon was lucky he’d been able to hang on to the knife he’d stolen.

Giving up on the weapons, Simon turned his horse and spurred it toward Broken Wheel. He been gone most of two days and would be that long getting back. Greer would be mad, but it weren’t nuthin’ on how mad Lana was gonna be. He kicked the horse harder, as if hurting the brute could make the time Simon had been away vanish.

Greer was gonna threaten to fire him.

Lana was going to threaten to kill him.

With a cruel smile, Simon admitted he didn’t mind that.
It was one of the things that had kept him bound to her. As long as she didn’t complain too loud when she failed.

“Ma, I got a note.” Paul slipped into the room.

Since Greer had begun complaining of being shorthanded, he’d taken to working long hours. He was gone before Glynna woke and came home after dark—usually. Glynna knew better than to relax.

“A note?” Glynna’s ribs were still very tender, but they’d stopped the worst of their aching. Her arm was out of its sling now, though it remained sore as blue blazes and she had to favor it. At least she could move it a little now, as the swelling had gone down. “Let me see.” She reached for the note with her good arm, the left one. Unfolding it, she saw a name that had only been whispered since she’d come to town.

Stone. It was signed by Luke Stone. The man who had kept Greer so close to home for the last two months. She suspected Luke’s threatened homecoming had spurred the beating Glynna had been dealt, because Greer was furious and, worse yet, scared. He’d taken it out on her. And now this mystery man, this whispered name, had contacted her.

She read quickly. It gave her equal parts terror and hope. Folding the note, she said, “Follow me, children.”

They went to the closet under the stairs, and she found exactly what Luke had said would be there.

The back door slammed open. Glynna quickly, silently, closed the closet door. “Get upstairs.”

“I’m not going.” Paul’s face twisted with hate.

Glynna thought of the note and was terrified Flint would see it. “Take this, tear it into tiny pieces, and swallow it if you hear him coming.” She thrust the paper at her son.
Paul then realized the danger and grabbed the note. Shoving Janet ahead of him, the two ran for the stairs.

Glynna limped to the kitchen. She clutched at her chest. She was feeling somewhat better, but Flint liked to see her hurting, so she moved as if she were in agony.

He strode toward her, meeting her as she stepped into the kitchen. “Where’s my dinner?”

If the food was ready, he complained it was bad. If the food wasn’t ready, he complained it was late. He always had some complaint, some reason she deserved what he did to her.

She’d even believed it at first, though her first husband had always remarked on what a good cook she was, so she knew the food was decent. She did have a tendency to overcook things, but who wanted something raw? And who minded a bit of scorch on a potato?

But no lack of skill in the kitchen justified the things Flint said, the foul names he called her. And she shouldn’t have put up with it for even a moment. She always wondered if she’d stood up to him right from the first, would things have been different?

She’d never know.

“I have leftover roast from last night. There’s bread on the shelf, baked this morning. I can try and get you a sandwich, but I’m moving slow. My right arm won’t work.”

“Get away from that bread. I’ll do it. I’ll be here all day if I wait for you.”

Glynna felt a surge of relief as he confined himself to insults. She moved to the table and sat down.

For better or for worse.

Those vows covered a lot of territory.

In sickness and in health.

Well, a cracked rib equaled sickness, so it was like the
parson was gunning for her, guessing at her complaints and making her vow to endure.

Glynna refused to believe, even after taking vows, that God wanted her here, trapped, hurt, her children being twisted by fear and hate.

The vows a wife took had to be matched somehow by the husband. She’d read a lot of the Bible, but she hadn’t found the exact spot that talked about how a marriage worked.

Maybe someday, when she’d read the Good Book all through, she’d find chapter and verse. She knew God well enough after years of prayer that she believed He’d give His blessing to her escape.

She sure wasn’t going to wait until she found the right Bible passage before leaving.

“Sit down, Flint.” She knew what he expected of her. A polite lady. Polished. He’d never heard of the recklessness of her life or he wouldn’t have married her. Why had she been so stupid as to not tell him everything right from the first? Because he’d seemed nice. She hadn’t wanted to discourage him. She’d been desperate to leave Arkansas.

Flint came to the table with a sandwich that was two slices of bread cut as thin as he could manage. The roast beef he’d filled it with had been chopped roughly before it went in between the bread.

“Where are you working today?”

“I changed the man delivering milk and eggs so you’ve lost the man you’re flaunting yourself with.”

Glynna frowned. She hadn’t expected that, since she hadn’t seen anyone for a long time. “I’ve stayed in my room all week. I’ve never even spoken to anyone who came to the door.” She asked, “Who is the hired man you’re speaking of?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know his name is Marty.” Flint slammed a fist on the table.

Glynna jumped.

“I know he’s got notions about you and you’re leading him on.”

She braced herself for Flint to turn that fist on her. He was working himself up to a temper.

“You talked about hiring a Marty a while back. Didn’t you say he’s just a boy?” Glynna barely knew the men who worked here. Flint was so jealous, she avoided all of them to not give Flint a reason to strike her or punish them.

“I didn’t like the way he acted when he brought supplies. I know you talked with him, batted your eyes at him. I’d fire him right now if we weren’t so shorthanded. And he ain’t no boy. He’s old enough to want a pretty woman. I’ve got someone new to do the chores you’re too lazy to do. An old man whose head won’t be turned when you swing your skirts.”

“Let anyone you want bring in supplies.” It was all Glynna could do not to snort. Pretty? Bent over like an old woman? “I don’t remember ever speaking to the boy.” She did actually. She’d been in the kitchen twice when the boy came in. Both times he’d looked at her and seen her pain.