The Enchantment (21 page)

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and blackness consumed him. With an agonized groan he pitched face-first into the dirt.

Emma heard footsteps coming toward her. She screamed, strained desperately to see through the velvet darkness that wreathed the campsite.

Nothing.

Panic seized her. She started to scramble backward, seeking the anonymous blackness beyond the fire's feeble glow. Halfway there, she stopped.

Larence had helped her when she was in trouble. Damn. She almost wished he hadn't. Now she had to think about someone besides herself. It had never been one of her strengths. . . .

She crawled shakily to her knees and worked her way around to where Larence lay facedown. Beside him was a thick chunk of wood smeared with blood. She shuddered at the sight. Someone was out there, in the darkness. Watching them. Waiting. Someone who wanted to hurt them—and knew how.

"Larence?" She winced at the loudness of her whisper and nervously glanced around.

He didn't move. Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to run for her life, but for once, she stayed.

Hesitantly, she tested the dark smear on the back of his head. Slick, warm blood oozed over her fingers.

Nausea gurgled in her stomach and throat.

She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the urge to vomit. The sharp, metallic taste of bile flooded her mouth and made her gag. Clamping a shaking hand against her roiling midsection, she waited for the nausea to pass, then forced herself to do what needed to be done.

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She untied the kerchief from around his throat and pressed it to his wound.

A low, moaning sound came from his throat.

"Thank God," she breathed. "Larence?"

She heard something then. A butterfly-soft movement; more a gentle whirring of air than a human noise.

Suddenly a pair of moccasined feet appeared in front of her. She gasped. Her hand flew instinctively to her throat.

"Larence," she hissed.

A rifle appeared. Emma swallowed hard, staring at the gun's sleek metal barrel. A big, brown hand curled around the wooden handle and lifted. Cold steel pressed against her throat.

"Get up, woman."

Her mouth went so dry, she couldn't speak. If she could have, she'd have pleaded, or cried, or done something. Anything except what she was doing—which was sitting like a frozen lump. But it felt as if her legs had turned to cold marble, and her throat to dust. Her blood was pumping so fast, it thundered in her ears.

A hand reached out of the darkness and grabbed her. Cold, merciless fingers coiled around the fleshy part of her arm and yanked her to her feet. She bit back a yelp of pain and stumbled into a man's naked chest. A big, round shell sliced into her cheek. Warm streaks of blood slid down her throat.

"Lookup."

Emma thought about refusing, but didn't dare. Hesitantly, trying to swallow her fear, she did as she was told. And looked into the slitted, pit-dark eyes of the Indian from Albuquerque. Ka-Neek.

"Larence!"

Ka-Neek dragged her away from the fire. She stum-

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bled along beside him, tripping and being wrenched to her feet like a reluctant child.

"Lare-"

He jerked her against his side. She rammed into his stone-hard body and gasped at the pain.

At Tashee, he stopped. She fell against the burro's familiar side with a momentary sense of relief. His painful hold on her arm eased. Then, in a blur of motion, she found herself sitting on Tashee's back, with her wrists bound and tied to the wooden saddle horn.

Emma tried to wiggle free. Her feeble attempts brought a low, dangerous chuckle. "Get off and I'll shoot you."

She didn't doubt him. In fact, she got the distinct impression that he wanted her to run. . . .

"Go ahead and yell," he said in a too-quiet voice that sent icy rivulets of fear down her stiffened spine. His eyes added: Give me a reason to shoot you. A hawk screeched overhead, and the sound grated down Emma's stiffened spine.

Screwing up her courage, she said in a single breath, ' 'My partner . . . please, he needs ..."

Ka-Neek grabbed Tashee's reins and pulled. After a short, reluctant bracing of her feet, the little burro gave in, and plodded toward the magnificent paint standing alongside Diablo. The Indian vaulted onto the animal's back and they were off.

Walking. Somehow that was the most frightening thing of all. They were walking. Not galloping, not cantering, not even trotting. It was as if Ka-Neek wanted to be followed. Or knew they wouldn't be.

The thought brought the sting of tears to Emma's eyes. She squeezed her fingers around the wooden X, THE ENCHANTMENT

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feeling the warm slickness of Larence's blood in her palm.

Please, God, she prayed, take care of him. . . .

She had no prayer for herself. God had never once listened to her prayers, and she didn't expect Him to hear her now.

She was, as always, on her own.

A dull thudding ricocheted through Larence's head. Each hammer-stroke brought a stab of pain cracking through his skull. He frowned, tasting something metallic. Groggily, with a shaking hand, he raked the hair off his face. Something slid off the back of his head and plopped in a cloud of dust in front of his nose.

He tried to focus on the thing and couldn't. It was a bloodred blur.

The thudding intensified; the pain trebled.

Damn neighbors, he thought distractedly. Who was hammering at this hour of the morning?

Memory jerked him upright. At the sudden movement, his head spun. Nausea boiled in the pit of his empty, roiling stomach. He clutched his midsection and scanned the campsite. He was alone.

Emmaline. Someone had taken Emmaline.

Terror, colder and more debilitating than any he'd ever known, suffocated him. His mind went chillingly blank. He stared at the little scrap of red that had fallen off his head, transfixed, unable to move. Harsh spurts of breath shot past his lips.

"Calm down, Larence. Think."'

He forced his breathing to slow down, and gradually his nausea subsided. The scrap of red turned into his bandanna, haphazardly folded. His fingers reached out, grazing the sticky, still warm smear of blood.

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She had tended his wound.

He went weak with relief. She was alive. But where?

He crammed the bandanna into his jeans pocket and lurched unsteadily to his feet. Nausea hit again, harder, thicker. He battled it, clutching his stomach and concentrating on each breath as he made his shambling, hunched-over way to Diablo and the mule.

"It's up to you, boy," he whispered to Diablo, thankful now that he'd never gotten around to unpacking for the night.

Diablo whickered in understanding as Larence grabbed the pack mule's lead line, wrapped it around the saddle horn, and climbed awkwardly into Diablo's saddle.

"Okay, boy," he said, wheezing from the exertion, "find her."

Diablo took off at a ground-gobbling extended trot. Larence's fingers tightened around the horn, turning white with the effort it took to hold on. Strands of hemp from the twisted lead rope poked his flesh. He swallowed thickly, trying to block the pain hammering behind his eyes.

It was useless. With each pounding hoofbeat, Larence landed hard on the seat. Pain burned through his body and stabbed behind his eyes. Vomit inched up his throat.

Diablo stumbled, throwing Larence forward. His midsection rammed into the horn, and the battle was lost. He just had time to lean sideways as his sickness splatted on the dark desert floor.

When the nausea passed, he felt better. Stronger. The pain behind his eyes melted into a manageable headache.

Not that it mattered. He'd endure whatever pain he

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had to. Nothing would stop him from saving Emmaline. Nothing.

He tightened his hold on the horn and hung on.

Two bone-shattering hours later, Larence finally caught up with them. He'd heard the unmistakable sounds of two moving animals for more than an hour, but now, finally, he could see them. Two slow-moving black specks in the eerie, occasional half-light of a setting sliver of moon.

The duo ahead of him stopped at the base of a huge, shadowy mesa.

Larence reined Diablo to a stop about fifty yards away from them. Hidden from view by the night and a grove of dwarf pinon trees, he dismounted as soundlessly as possible and hobbled the two animals.

Retrieving his specially fitted Acromatic Spy Glass from his saddlebag, he limped silently toward the grove's last tree.

Something snapped under his heel and he froze. Every muscle in his body spasmed taut. The harsh, ragged tenor of his breathing scored the silence.

After a few moments, he forced himself to relax. His fingers unfurled. No one had heard. He dropped noiselessly to his knees on the cool dirt and lay down. Bringing his elbows up in front of him, he lifted the cold rim of the spyglass to his eyes and turned it toward the campsite up ahead. The kidnapper was hunkered down, doing something with his hands. In seconds, a bright fire flickered to life, bathing the man in pale golden light.

Thick ropes of silky black hair concealed the enemy's face, swung gently against the huge, squared muscles

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of his bare chest. Shadows cavorted on his downcast face, giving the man a sinister, evil countenance.

Larence felt a flash of fear at seeing his adversary, but conquered it quickly. He wouldn't do Emmaline any good if he was afraid. . . .

You won't do her any good anyway, came his grandmother's taunting voice. This situation requires a real man, not a half-broken excuse for a hero.

No, he mouthed determinedly. He could save her. Would save her. But how?

Formulate a plan. Yes, that was it. He needed a plan of action, a way to save her. But what? This wasn't exactly the sort of situation Harvard had trained him for. Nothing in his ivory-towered life had prepared him to assume the role of romantic hero. . . .

Suddenly he remembered Diamond Dick. There was a kidnapping scene in the hero's latest dime novel.

Certainly that would give some inspiration. Larence scrambled to his feet and limped quietly to Diablo, searching through the saddlebags for Diamond Dick's Deadly Deeds. Finding it at last, he squatted behind a dwarf pinon and lit a match, flipping through the warped, yellowed pages for the kidnapping scene.

He found it quickly and started reading.

Black Bart listened to the soft, muffled sounds of the woman's whimperings. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. Tonight was going to be fun, he thought. Just like the old days.

He lurched drunkenly to his feet and tottered across the shadowy campsite toward the woman he'd taken a few hours back.

"Git up," he said hoarsely.

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She huddled into an even tighter ball and shook her head. "Please, don't..."

He yanked her to her feet and pressed his hunting knife to her throat. Her quickly indrawn breath made the ache between his legs grow stronger. He slid the blade under the top button and cut the threads. The button slid down her chest and plopped to the dirt. ' 'What you doin', Bart?"

Bart heard Diamond Dick's voice and froze. He shoved the woman away from him and spun around. '

'You got no bizness here, Dick."

Dick didn 't move. ' 'You got my woman. I want her back. "

' 'Dick!" she screamed, running toward him. Just as she reached Dick, Bart cocked his gun and pointed it at her. "Shut her up, Dick, else I will. That caterwaulin 'II bring the law fer sure. "

' 'Kill him!" she screamed, clinging to Dick's arm. "Kill him!"

Dick shut her up with a kiss. When it was over, he pulled back slowly, whispering, ' 'Count to three and drop to the ground. "

The second she hit the ground, Dick fired. His bullet drilled Black Bart between the eyes, and the desperado thudded to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Larence closed the book. It would work, he thought. He could act like Emmaline was his woman and demand her return. He could even offer money if he had to. They had a little left.

All he had to do was act dangerous. And hope the Indian didn't drop him with a single bullet.

* * *

j98 Kristin Hannah

Emma saw the lone man before Ka-Neek did. At first her heart lurched upward in hope, then it spiraled into

her feet. It was Larence. Larence come to save her.

God help them both.

Larence set his face in a killer's remorseless expression. At least, it felt remorseless; he couldn't be sure.

His eyes were narrowed, almost slitted. His mouth was drawn into a thin line. He tried to dredge up a frown, but couldn't do it without feeling like an idiot.

Not an idiot. A dangerous killer. A man you didn 't want to tangle with.

He hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, letting his fingers splay loosely across the blue denim of his jeans, and started toward the small circle of firelight up ahead. The shotgun felt foreign and useless wedged beneath his armpit. He wished fleetingly that he had a pair of pearl-handled Colts instead. Just for looks.

He stepped into an indentation in the ground. His ankle twisted hard, and pain ricocheted up his shin. He bit his lower lip to stifle a gasp. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

Wiping the moisture from his lower lip with the back of his hand, he forced himself to keep going. But he couldn't help thinking that he didn't need a damn pistol. He needed a healthy leg.

Every step reminded him of the limp that marred his image and made him look frail and weak. Diamond Dick hadn't limped a day in his life—not even when

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that Comanchero had knifed him in the thigh. Dick had walked all the way to Ogalala that day, and not a single step had been off balance.

Larence fought the tide of self-pity he'd always despised. As a child, he'd prayed every night to wake up healthy and whole, without the damaged leg that kept him cooped up in the darkness of his grandmother's house. Even as an adult, he'd occasionally wished for a respite from the pain and embarrassment of his disability. But never, not in all the long, lonely nights when he'd writhed in agony, had he wished to be whole and healthy as fervently, as desperately, as he wished it now.