Velvet Thunder (20 page)

Heath's lusty plan for a night of unbridled passion was not to be.

Late that afternoon they heard voices coming from a clearing in the distance. Cautiously, they moved toward the sound. They dismounted and tethered their horses.

“Stay here,” he whispered to Stevie. When she looked as if she would object, he kissed her soundly. “I'll be right back.”

Slipping silently through the woods, he came upon three men and a woman grouped around an open fire. The woman was cooking. She limped back and forth from a large Conestoga wagon to the fire around which the men reclined. It appeared that her ankle was injured. Tears streaked her face; her clothes—of obvious quality—were tattered and filthy. It was apparent that she was being held captive. Heath imagined that beneath all that dirt she was probably very young and quite lovely.

A whinny from the edge of camp gained his attention. It came from a painted pony milling about a large remuda. No doubt these were the horses stolen from Black Coyote's camp.

He swung his gaze back to the thieves. Two of them were comancheros, Mexican banditos dressed like Indians. In Heath's estimation, they were the lowest form of life on the face of the earth.

The oldest man, in his sixties, was dressed in a homespun shirt. His black breeches, faded and shiny with age, were held up by frayed suspenders. Sweat stains ringed his underarms and formed a triangle down his chest and between his shoulder blades. A disreputable red rag was tied around his forehead, holding his thin gray hair off his face. A moth-eaten eagle feather hung at a precarious angle, secured by his tattered headband.

The youngest man wore buckskin breeches and a printed shirt. His eyes had a slightly dull cast, as if he didn't have all his horses harnessed, intellectually speaking. If possible, he was even filthier than the old man. Heath could smell their unwashed bodies from twenty feet away.

The third man was an Indian. Large, swarthy, from the Northeast, Heath surmised, probably a Delaware. He stood off to one side, mesmerized by the fire. He was the single most savage-looking man Heath had seen west of the Mississippi. He was virtually naked, dressed in only a low-slung breechcloth and knee-high moccasins. Practically every weapon known to the American Indian hung from his body. But it was the string of scalps dangling from his bare, bronze waist that gave Heath pause.

As if feeling Heath's eyes upon him, he dropped his hand to the lethal knife in a sheath at his side. His predatory stance radiated danger, making Heath regret that Stevie was so close by.

The thought of Stevie caused Heath to return his gaze to the young woman. Even though she was in pain, she moved methodically, as if in a trance . . . or under the influence of drugs. Her hair, oily and drab, hung limp on her narrow shoulders. He felt a mixture of rage and pity at the sight she presented. Rage at her captors, pity for the girl.

He very nearly jumped out of his skin when Stevie touched his sleeve. Worry for her safety made his tone unusually sharp. “I thought I told you to stay put.”

“I was worried about you.” She lowered her eyes.

He angled her head toward him and murmured an apology against her lips. “I'm sorry I snapped. Give me a kiss and we'll get outta here”

“Now, ain't that touchin'?” a high-pitched voice sounded from behind them.

Stevie and Heath spun around. A teenage boy who bore a marked resemblance to the young man in camp held a rifle on them.

“Hey, Pa. Look what I found.” He grinned like a jackass eating briars, revealing the decayed snags he no doubt called teeth. Roughly, he prodded Heath with the point of his rifle. He drew back a moccasined foot to kick Stevie.

Heath's next words forestalled him. “Touch her and die.”

The look in Heath's eyes and his menacing tone convinced the kid. He lowered his foot without touching Stevie. “Move!”

Slowly, Heath helped Stevie to her feet. They stepped out into the open. His chest swelled with pride when she squared her shoulders and walked forward briskly. He had always considered her an exceptional woman, but never more so than now. As his sister Ann would say, the girl's got starch in her drawers.

The comancheros grabbed their guns and leveled them on the intruders. The half-naked Indian squeezed the hilt of his knife more tightly. The captive girl stared blankly at the couple entering camp.

“Hello.” Heath's tone was deceptively cheerful. “Smelled your cook fire and thought you could spare some food.”

“The hell you say,” the old man growled with a hint of a Spanish accent. He aimed his rifle straight at Heath's heart. “That why you was layin' on the ground spyin' at us?” He cocked the trigger.

“Hold on there, friend. We don't mean any harm. Sorry if we bothered you. My wife and I will just be on our way.”

“A moment please . . .” the Indian began in a sophisticated voice colored by a light French accent. It sounded so at odds with his appearance that Stevie whipped her head in his direction.

He returned her stare with undisguised lust. “I apologize for my uncivilized friend,
chérie.”
When he snapped his fingers, the old man lowered his gun; the younger men did the same. “Come,” the Indian continued. “You are welcome among us.”

Heath hated the man with every fiber of his being. He tightened his arm around Stevie's waist.

“Don't you dare let that naked ape touch me,” she whispered for Heath's ears only.

He smiled and moved his hand closer to his Colt. “Wouldn't think of it.”

The Indian noted Stevie's reluctance and Heath's protective stance. Rage deepened his color, but his tone remained pleasant. He pointed to the pot of food bubbling over the cook fire. “Help yourself,
chérie.”

Biding their time, Heath and Stevie each filled a tin plate with food and sat close together by the fire. The Indian filled tin cups from a blue metal pot. The air hummed with tension as he offered the coffee to Heath and Stevie, his eyes lingering on Stevie overlong.

When they had pushed the food around their plates for a sufficient time, Heath said, “Appreciate your hospitality. But we should be getting settled for the night.”

Noting their still-full plates, the Indian challenged, “Not hungry? Won't you at least drink your coffee?”

A muscle twitched in Heath's jaw as the only sign of his displeasure. Who in hell was this savage? He acted as if he were receiving a peer of the realm in Queen Victoria's parlor. “Certainly.” His lips barely moved as he spoke. He blew on the hot brew, then took a sip. Stevie followed his lead and drained her cup.

“Now we really must leave.” The steel surety of Heath's voice was unmistakable. He grasped Stevie's hand as the world began to spin before his eyes, slowly at first, then faster and faster. He shook his head to clear his vision, to no avail. The hideous mask of his host's smiling face faded in and out. The sky changed places with the ground.

“Heath,” Stevie groaned, slumping against him.

Heath was furious at himself for falling for such an amateurish stunt as having his coffee drugged. “You bastard.” He leveled his Colt on the Indian. The weapon felt as if it weighed a ton in his hand. “One move and I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!” He waved his gun in the direction of the other men. “Tell ‘em to drop their weapons or so help me God I'll blow your head off.” When the men complied, he instructed the Indian to gather the guns. “Throw 'em in the back of the wagon.”

He wrapped his arms around Stevie's waist and dragged her away from camp. Calling upon his waning strength, he hoisted her over his shoulder. He hated leaving the captive behind. But he feared he had only a few minutes of consciousness left. Silently, he vowed to return for her later, after Stevie was safe.

The world whirled around him like a top as he moved swiftly away from camp. He fought for control. Waves of nausea buffeted him; bile rose in his throat. He cast about for a place to hide, tumbled headlong into a gully, spilling Stevie onto the ground. Quickly, he gathered her against him and staggered on.

Finally, he came upon a small cave where a mountain lion had birthed her young earlier in the spring. Hoping that the den was empty, he backed into it. Luck was with them; it was uninhabited.

He moved deeper inside and laid Stevie on the ground. Returning to the opening, he piled dead branches, rendering the interior completely invisible from outside.

He could hear the comancheros searching in the distance. Fortunately, the sun had fallen. With a little luck they wouldn't pick up their trail in the dark. But he knew they would search again at daylight. Tomorrow would just have to take care of itself. For now, he whispered a prayer for Stevie's safety. Then, falling down beside her, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her cheek. Shadows of the evening crept across the land as he lost consciousness.

When the morning wakened, a steady rain was falling outside the cave.

Stevie stirred in Heath's embrace.

“Are you all right, sugar?”

She moaned. “A little groggy. What happened?” She looked around her. “How did we get here?”

His smile was soft as dew. “You passed out. I dragged your lovely little hide in here. Which means that I saved your life. And I intend to be paid handsomely for my efforts.”

She leaned back on his shoulder, blessing him with an innocent smile. “What's the current cost of rescuing a damsel in distress?”

He trailed a finger over her parted lips. “I'll let you know when I have time to collect. We need to get out of here and put as many miles between us and our hosts of last evening as possible.”

She had almost forgotten the danger that threatened. Reality intruding, she glanced toward the entrance as if a heinous monster lurked beyond. “You don't think they're gone?”

“I highly doubt it, sugar.”

She frowned, appearing more exasperated than frightened. “Couldn't you have lied to me and said they were in Texas by now?”

He chuckled and squeezed her till she squeaked. “I'm sure they're gone. No doubt they're in Texas by now. South Texas. Maybe even Mexico.”

“From your mouth to God's ear.”

He hopped up. “My sentiments exactly.” Grinning, he pulled her to her feet. He stood there, gazing down into her shadowed face, thinking how incredibly beautiful she was. His fingers twined in her hair, smoothing the platinum strands over her shoulders. A fist took hold of his heart and simply refused to let go.

Reluctantly, she prodded him. “Heath, don't you think we'd better go?”

He stared a moment longer, then, shaking off the spell she had unwittingly cast about him, he nodded. “I guess we should.”

He removed the branches from the opening of the den and looked outside. The rain was only a light mist now. He listened intently but heard nothing save the rain caressing the leaves strewn about the forest floor. Taking Stevie's hand, he led her out of the cave into a heavy fog hanging low to the ground. The earth's gray cloak made it virtually impossible to see more than fifty feet in any direction.

“I can't see my hand in front of my face,” Stevie observed. “They could be close by and we wouldn't know it.”

The eternal optimist, Heath responded, “True, but the fog conceals us too.”

Carefully, he led her down into a gully. They followed the gully to where their horses had been tethered. The animals were gone. Hand in hand they headed north, walking briskly through the thicket. When they approached an open field, the fog lifted partially. The next wooded area was half a mile away.

“Damn, why couldn't it last a little longer?” he asked rhetorically, turning worried eyes on Stevie. “Hon, crossing here is gonna be dangerous. But we don't have any choice. Just keep low and stay close behind me.”

She nodded.

They moved out into the open, crouching low in the tall grass. When they reached the woods without incident, they breathed a sigh of relief. But their sense of well-being was premature. A strong arm reached from behind a tree and circled Stevie's waist, jerking her back into the bony chest of the older of the two men.

Heath was on him in an instant. Grabbing him by the shoulder, he wheeled Stevie's abductor around and slammed his fist into his face. “Run, honey.”

“No,” she cried.

“Run, dammit. I'll catch up.”

She shrieked then fell silent.

The sound of flesh striking flesh drowned out two sets of pounding footfalls as Heath put considerable weight behind his punch, sending the man down with a ground-shuddering thud. Young and wiry, he regained his footing, faced Heath with a knife in his dirty hand, and waved it back and forth.

Feinting to the left, Heath seized his opponent's wrist, pivoted, and gave a sharp twist. The bone broke with a loud snap. Howling, the man flipped over onto his back.

Satisfied that the man posed no further threat, Heath looked about for Stevie. A trail of broken branches led down into an arroyo that flowed with a swift-moving stream. He followed the arroyo at breakneck speed.

He hadn't traveled more than three hundred feet when he came upon the old man and his youngest son fighting over Stevie. Each holding one of her outstretched arms, they beat each other about the face, pulling on her as if she were a wishbone.

A red haze clouded Heath's eyes. He ran into them like a steam locomotive. Stevie flew in one direction, her assailants in the other.

Scrambling to their feet, the old man and his son dove for Heath simultaneously. Heath struck the old man in the jaw, then turned and smashed his fist into the boy's solar plexus. The boy hit the forest floor like a fallen tree, but the old man remained standing.

A bullet whizzed past Heath's head. Diving to the ground, he drew his Navy and shot the old man point-blank, the bullet piercing his heart, killing him instantly.

Stevie rushed into his arms. He hugged her quickly. “We have to keep moving, sweetheart.” He led her down the arroyo for several hundred yards, where the narrow stream widened. White water rushed over protruding rocks. A mist hovered over the stream, creating a rainbow. It was a peaceful scene, deceptively peaceful.

They headed north, picking their way over boulders and slippery rocks. Heath searched for an exit from the arroyo, but its high banks hemmed them in. Tension mounted. One false step and they would perish in the rapids.

Suddenly, the Indian attacked from the high bank. The force of his fall knocked Heath and Stevie to the ground. Gaining his feet, Heath pushed Stevie behind him.

The Indian held his knife high in the air, slowly turning it, reflecting rays of sunlight, blinding Heath. A cruel smile on his lips caused the hair on the back of Stevie's neck to stand on end.

“This time you will not escape. The woman will be mine. After I gut you like a fallen deer.”

Instinctively, Heath reached for his gun but found an empty holster.

“It's over there,” Stevie called. The Navy lay close to the Indian's feet, partially hidden in a mound of leaves. She made a move toward it.

“No, little one. You will not help the white man. Your place is with me. With your own kind.”

“I'm not your kind, you filthy snake. Your kind slinks around on the ground, eating the dust of decent men.”

The vehemence in her voice distracted the Indian momentarily. Heath reached down, slipped his hunting knife from the sheaf tied to his ankle and held it behind his back. He angled his body, concealing the weapon from his attacker. “The woman has a point,” he taunted.

The Indian's face clouded with rage. He rushed Heath, his head held high, rage making him reckless.

Heath took careful aim and threw his weapon with deadly accuracy. The blade sank into the Indian's neck, severing his jugular vein.

The man stopped in mid-stride, a look of horror in his eyes. He dropped his knife and slowly sank to the ground, his blood an ever-widening crimson circle. His eyes stared sightless into the towering treetops above him.

Quickly, Heath retrieved his gun and led Stevie away from the stream. Climbing into an open field, they found the Conestoga beneath a spreading oak. Four mules were hitched to the wagon, while the horses, including Heath and Stevie's, grazed nearby.

The captive's feet and hands were tied to the front wheels of the wagon. She would be crushed by its weight if the mules moved. No longer under the influence of drugs, she held the reins tightly between her teeth.

The comancheros' intent was obvious. If they were killed searching for Heath and Stevie, they didn't want the girl to live. She would eventually weaken, release the mules, and suffer a cruel, painful death.

Heath cut the ropes and helped the young woman to her feet. She fell against him, sobbing. “It's all right now,” he soothed. Glancing at Stevie apologetically, he awkwardly patted the girl's back.

Stevie's eyes were riveted to where the girl's lily-white hands clutched Heath's shirtfront. The sight was symbolic. Her hands were delicate, pale, needy, gentle, all part of something Stevie would never be—a white woman. Was that what Heath really wanted? No. He said he wanted her. But was it what he really needed?

Stevie hated herself for the intense feeling of resentment and jealousy that overwhelmed her then. To see any woman, especially a white woman, in Heath's arms, made her physically sick. She turned away lest they see the tears shimmering in her eyes.

Never let 'em see ya cry.
Jeff's words of warning chanted in her mind like a mantra. He had always told her that as long as the townspeople didn't know they were hurting her with their rejection, they didn't have any power over her.

But Heath wasn't just anybody. He had great power over her—power she had given him by professing her love. She would have to disabuse him of that notion even if she had to lie. Then he would be free to find a wife like the helpless ninny hanging on to him like moss on a tree.

How would she live the rest of her life without him? Knowing that he was married to someone else, holding someone else in the night. Doing all the beautiful things he had done to her body—doing them to someone else. It was almost more than she could bear. She wasn't given to martyrdom.

But she was strong. She would do what had to be done just as she always had. No matter how badly it hurt, she would do what was right for herself, but more to the point, what was best for Heath.

Wasn't that what true love was all about? Caring for someone enough to set them free—free to find love and happiness with another? Stevie sincerely hoped she was woman enough to do that, for above all she wanted Heath to be happy.

Maybe the Indian was right. She should stick with her own kind just as Heath must remain with his.

Finally, the girl regained her composure. She didn't release her hold on Heath, however. Moving closer, she gazed up into his face adoringly. “How can I ever repay you for saving me?”

He extricated himself from her grasp and stepped back, leaving a good six inches of space and propriety between them. “Miss Johns and I were glad to help, Miss . . .”

“Hughes. Erica Hughes.” She offered her hand.

Bemused at the formal gesture, he bowed over it. When she dipped into a light curtsy, he barely hid a chuckle. He looked toward Stevie, expecting to find her grinning and rolling her eyes at Erica's foolishness. Her back was facing them. There was something about her rigid stance that gave him pause. “Honey,” he said softly, trying to gain Stevie's attention.

Stevie spun around, thinking that the endearment was meant for Erica. She found Heath looking at her, confusion knitting his brow. Embarrassed, she cleared her throat. “Shouldn't we be going?” She looked Erica full in the face for the first time. She was younger than Stevie had thought . . . and more lovely. “Would you show me where the food is? And our saddlebags,” she requested quietly.

The girl couldn't seem to take her eyes off Heath. Somehow, she managed. “Come this way” was her flat order to Stevie.

Stevie followed Erica to the rear of the wagon and retrieved the supplies. Meanwhile, Heath saddled an extra mount.

Stevie approached him, struggling under the weight of the supplies that filled her arms. Erica trailed her, hands empty.

Heath frowned. “Here, sweetheart, let me take that.” He secured the bags to the mounts, then caressed Stevie's cheek lightly. “You okay?”

She nodded and mounted, not accepting his hand-up.

Walking away, he released the mules hitched to the wagon. With a slap on the rear they gained their freedom. He returned to the women and found Erica still standing beside her horse, waiting for assistance. “Are you strong enough to ride, Miss Hughes?”

She lifted a delicate hand to her forehead. “I suppose I haven't any choice. Mother told Father I wasn't strong enough to make this journey alone. That a girl as pretty as me was fair game for unscrupulous men. But Father was so concerned about his duty to the army, he just wouldn't listen.”

Where had all that come from? Suppressing the need to glance heavenward for divine intervention, he lifted her into the saddle. “Well, ladies, let's put this place behind us.”

Without a word Stevie took the lead, providing Heath and Erica a good view of her horse's behind.

The ride was taxing that day. Erica was understandably weak. They stopped often to allow her to rest. Her strength returned as the day wore on,

And that's when her whining began. At first Heath shrugged off her incessant complaints as the result of being so young, having been through such a harrowing experience, and being a tad spoiled.

Mentally making excuses for her, he was the soul of comfort, assuring her that he would see that she reached her parents at Fort Bascomb safely at the earliest possible moment—a promise he intended to keep if only for his own sanity—that everything would be all right, that she would forget her experience as soon as she met the handsome, unattached officers at the fort.

As the day wore on, her complaints began to grate on his nerves. How could one woman find so much to her disliking? he wondered, amazed. She groused about the heat, the food, lukewarm water, dirty clothes, stringy hair, unsightly calluses, broken nails, lack of suitable gentlemen callers—as if she expected to find Casanova beneath the next toadstool—and a dozen other things.

She complained most vehemently that it had been ages since she'd had a bath. Heath wanted to offer to bathe her in the stream, but didn't trust himself not to drown the girl, especially when she started railing against the filthy Indians. For a moment he regretted rescuing her.