Only Love

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Lookee here, Clim. Darcy was right about this ol’ boy hotfooting it back here if n he heard shots.”

  Clim turned aside and spat a brown stream of tobacco juice.

  “And here you thought Darcy was just trying to cut me out of my rightful turn in that little widow’s saddle,” Clim added.

  Rage and something more gripped Whip, a feeling as though his guts had been cut out and were falling away, leaving him cold all the way to his soul.

  “Whoever touches Shannon is a dead man walking,” Whip said.

  Floyd’s smile revealed sharp, uneven teeth.

  “Right fine sentiments,” Floyd said mockingly, “but you ain’t in no position to be making no brags. Drop that long gun, boy. And that bullwhip, too.”

  Whip obeyed, but his gray eyes never stopped measuring the distances between himself and Floyd’s drawn gun and Clim’s holstered weapon.

  “You see a knife, Clim?”

  “Nah. ‘Sides, no thick-chested West Virginia boy can hold a candle to me in a knife fight.”

  “Walk,” Floyd said to Whip, gesturing with his bandaged wrist toward the meadow. “You try to get away and I’ll kill you quick as a rabbit.”

  Whip didn’t doubt it.

  “Give the signal,” Floyd said to Clim.

  Clim whistled shrilly, three short blasts of sound followed by silence.

  After a few moments, a whistle answered.

  “Move it, boy,” Floyd said to Whip. “They’re waiting for us, and Beau ain’t a waiting kind of man.”

  When Whip moved forward it was with a peculiar, gliding grace. His weight was always poised on the balls of his feet, ready to jump or lash out in any direction at the first sign of carelessness from his captors. He held his hands oddly, just away from his sides, his fingers slightly curved as though in relaxation.

  “Told ya,” Floyd said to Clim after a few steps.

  “Told me what?”

  “This here ol’ boy ain’t much account without his bullwhip and rifle. He’s as heedful as a welltrained hound.”

  Clim grunted. “Damn big hound. Even bigger than the one Beau shot. We’d of had that gal if’n that cur hadn’t jumped Darcy when he grabbed her.”

  Hope stabbed through Whip. It sounded like Shannon might have gotten away.

  “Don’t git yer water hot,” Floyd said to Clim. “Beau ain’t much on talkin’ lately, but he can still track slick as sin. He’ll get the widow ‘fore she gets too far. Hell, ain’t no place for her to go to anyways.”

  Clim eyed the big man walking in front of him. Despite Whip’s surrender, the coiled ease of his stride made Clim nervous.

  “Why don’t you just shoot him and get done with it?” Clim asked.

  “Beau,” Floyd said succinctly. “He’s got a bone to pick with this ol’ boy. You want to be the one to tell Beau he can’t have no fun ‘cause you done gone and killed him?”

  Whatever Clim said was too guttural to understand.

  Whip walked from the shadows of the trees into the full sunlight of the meadow.

  To the girl hiding and catching her breath after a reckless scramble down through Silent John’s bolthole to the cave and from there into the cabin, Whip’s appearance was dream and nightmare combined.

  It can’t be Whip! He rode away.

  Seeing Whip captive to the Culpeppers wrenched Shannon’s mind away from her fear for Prettyface, forcing her to concentrate on saving herself, for only then could she save Whip.

  Still unable to believe that Whip had come back, Shannon leaned forward and peered through the ill-fitting shutters again.

  There was no mistake. Sunlight flashed on hair as pale as corn silk. Sunlight outlined clean, powerful limbs and wide shoulders. And sunlight showed that Whip’s hands were empty of weapons.

  Nor did the bullwhip lie in quiet coils on his shoulder.

  Shannon bit her lip against a hunger to cry out to Whip, to tell him that he wasn’t alone, that she would help him. But crying out would be as foolish as walking barefoot through a campfire.

  Quickly Shannon turned away from the shutters, went to the front door, and lifted the shotgun down from its pegs. As she reached to open the door, she heard a voice call from just beyond her cabin.

  “Told ya you’d get him!”

  “Yah. Easy as shootin’ a hen on a nest,” called someone from the meadow.

  Heart beating wildly, Shannon shifted the shotgun and lowered the heavy bar into place across the door. She tiptoed back to the shutter and peered out again.

  Whip was walking across the meadow toward the cabin. Behind him rode two men on mules. Another man stood ten feet from the cabin door, watching the three men approach. The ripped state of the nearest man’s clothes—and the bloody marks on his face and arms—told Shannon that this was the Culpepper who had grabbed her, only to go down beneath Prettyface’s attack.

  Shannon’s hands tightened on the shotgun as she thought of her loyal dog. Then she forced herself to think of here and now, and the danger to Whip and herself.

  There was no time to claw her way back out the bolthole and down the mountainside to surprise the Culpeppers. Whatever she did would have to be done from here.

  And soon.

  I could open the cabin door, aim at the man closest to me, and let fly with both barrels of buckshot.

  Frowning, Shannon thought about it. She would certainly take one man out of the fight that way, but it would leave Whip still captive to the other Culpeppers, who would likely shoot him out of hand before she could reload her own shotgun.

  Then there was the fourth Culpepper to worry about. He had to be around somewhere. Probably he was still in the forest trying to figure out which way she had gone. If he heard shots, he would come on the run.

  Maybe I only need one barrel on the closest Culpepper. Then I could fire the second barrel at the other two.

  After a moment Shannon decided that was her best bet. She would wait until the other two Culpeppers were within range, and then she would tell them to let Whip go. If it came to shooting, surely Whip would have enough sense to drop to the ground. Knowing his quickness and size, he probably would take a Culpepper down with him.

  White-knuckled, Shannon stood by the shutters and watched her front yard with the intensity of a cat at a mouse hole, counting each step Whip and his captors took toward the cabin. If she were really lucky, Whip would manage to separate himself from the group somehow. That way she wouldn’t have to worry about wounding him when the buckshot spread out in its characteristic deadly pattern after it left the barrel.

  Slowly, carefully, moving by fractions of inches, Shannon opened the shutters enough to rest the shotgun on the windowsill. She cocked the hammer on one barrel, settled her finger lightly around one of the two triggers, and waited, watching the man who held a gun on Whip.

  “Any sign of the gal?” dim asked, dismounting.

  Darcy shook his head. “She took off into the forest.”

  Beneath Whip’s predatory readiness, relief spread through him, warming the soul-deep cold that had begun when he thought of Shannon’s fate at the hands of the Culpeppers.

  “But we’ll get her, just like we got her damned hound,” Darcy added. “Beau’s tracking her now.”

  “Looks more like Prettyface got you,” Whip said. “Chewed you up and spit you right out. No hound likes the taste of skunk.”

  Darcy shifted his cud of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other and measured Whip for a grave.

  “It was the last thing that damned hound did,” Floyd said. “Beau shot him.”

  “I should have killed Beau back at Holler Creek,” Whip said. “Live and learn. Or in your case, boys, live and die ignorant.”

  Darcy spat a stream of tobacco juice onto Whip’s boots.

  Whip just looked at him and wondered what kind of insults it would take to distract Floyd long enough for Whip to grab his six-gun. Then Whip would feed the gun to Darcy. Sideways.

  “What do we do n
ow?” Floyd asked.

  “Wait for Beau.”

  “I need whiskey. Goddam wrist is paining me something fierce,” Floyd muttered, eyeing his right arm in disgust. “Every time my mule takes a step it feels like somebody’s a-hammerin’ on my arm.”

  Whip smiled. “It doesn’t look too good, Floyd. All those red streaks. And the smell. Lord above. I’m surprised you can stand it.”

  Darcy and Floyd ignored Whip.

  “You’ll have to wait,” Darcy said to Floyd. “Beau’s got the tanglefoot with him.”

  Behind Whip, Floyd’s mule shifted and stamped its right foreleg, dislodging a deerfly.

  “Goddam,” Floyd groaned. “Hurts.”

  “Then get down and quit your bellyaching,” Darcy said. “I’m still bleeding from that damned hound and you don’t hear me whining, do ya?”

  A saddle creaked as Floyd prepared to dismount.

  Adrenaline went through Whip. It was the moment he had been waiting for. From the corner of his eye he could see Floyd’s shadow sliding along the ground as he moved.

  He was still holding the six-gun in his left hand, keeping the barrel trained on Whip. Floyd’s natural grip was right-handed. As he dismounted the barrel of the six-gun wavered from its target. It was just for an instant, but an instant was all that Whip had been waiting for.

  In a blur of motion, Whip spun around and simultaneously kicked outward. His boot connected with Floyd’s injured wrist. Floyd made an odd sound and forgot all about the six-gun. Pain knocked him senseless.

  Whip struck the gun from Floyd’s loose fingers and whirled around again. The side of Whip’s left hand connected with Darcy’s neck.

  The sound of the impact was lost in Clim’s bellow of rage. He drew a long knife and lunged for Whip’s back.

  But Whip was no longer there. He spun aside so suddenly that Clim went staggering past Whip, off-balance, knife slicing uselessly at air. A flashing movement of Whip’s hands added to Clim’s forward momentum.

  Clim went head over heels and landed flat on his back. When he rolled to his feet and lunged again, Whip slipped the knife attack as he had before, grabbed Clim on the way by, and launched him headfirst into the side of the cabin. Clim hit with a force that shook the logs…and then he slid down onto the ground and lay very still.

  Just as Whip bent over to check Clim, Shannon screamed from inside the cabin. Her high cry was cut off by the thunder of a shotgun blast.

  The window was closer to Whip than the door. He kicked the partially open shutters aside as he vaulted over the windowsill, counting on surprise to help him against whatever he found inside.

  Shannon spun toward him, her face pale and her hand frantically cocking the shotgun.

  “Easy, honey girl. It’s just me.”

  Shannon made a small sound and stood, swaying, her eyes huge in her bloodless face.

  “I—” she said. Her voice broke. “A Culpepper—the cave—he—”

  Whip saw the open cupboard door behind Shannon. A man’s boots stuck out into the room, toes up. There was blood on them.

  Shannon started to turn back toward the cupboard. Before she could finish turning, Whip took the shotgun from her hands and stepped between her and the fallen man, blocking her view.

  “You did what you had to,” Whip said gently. “I’ll take care of it now. You go outside and make sure that Floyd doesn’t get into mischief.”

  “F-Floyd?”

  “The one with the bandaged wrist.”

  “What about the other t-two?”

  “I don’t think they’ll be much trouble,” Whip said neutrally. He handed Shannon the shotgun again. “Go on, honey girl. I’ll be out real soon to collect their weapons.”

  Whip unbarred the front door and watched closely as Shannon walked by him. Her eyes were too dark and her skin was much too pale, but her hands were steady on the shotgun. She kept walking until she was in a place where she could watch all three Culpeppers at once.

  “You’ll do, Shannon Conner Smith,” Whip said beneath his breath. “You’ve got real sand.”

  Whip turned and went to the cupboard. He lit the lantern and held it above Beau Culpepper. After a single look Whip blew the lantern out and went to Shannon.

  “Is he dead?” she asked starkly.

  “Yes.”

  Shannon closed her eyes for an instant. A tremor ripped through her, but her grip on the shotgun didn’t loosen.

  “He had a knife in one hand,” Whip said, “and a six-gun in the other. Don’t feel bad for him. He’s had it coming for a long, long time. It’s just too bad you had to be the one to deliver it.”

  Shannon took a steadying breath. “Prettyface—”

  She could say no more.

  “I’ll look for him,” Whip said. “But first, I’d better see to these boys.”

  To Whip’s surprise, Clim was still alive, but only barely. Darcy hadn’t been so lucky. Floyd was already coming back to his senses, moaning and complaining every breath of the way.

  Talking softly, Whip went to one of the mules. The animal eyed him warily but made no attempt to flee; obviously the Culpeppers had trained their mounts not to be upset by a little gunfire and blood. With a few quick motions, Whip untied the blanket roll behind a saddle.

  “I’ve never seen a man fight like you did,” Shannon said, watching Whip and remembering his flashing, always unexpected movements. “Did you learn that in West Virginia?”

  “China.”

  With one hand Whip removed Darcy’s weapons. With the other, he shook out a blanket and covered the dead man. Then Whip turned to the other Culpeppers.

  “The Chinese have tricks that make what I did look like child’s play,” Whip added.

  Shannon made a disbelieving sound.

  “It’s true,” Whip said. “The man who taught me didn’t come up to my breastbone and weighed less than you. But he could lay me out like a fish for filleting in about five seconds flat. Damnedest wrestling tricks you ever saw.”

  While Whip spoke, he stripped away guns and knives from the fallen men, retrieved his own bullwhip, and put it on his shoulder. Then he bound Clim’s wrists and knees together with rawhide thongs. He did the same for Floyd, ignoring the groans.

  “Where did they jump you?” Whip asked Shannon as he stood up.

  “Halfway between here and the big stump on the far side of the meadow.”

  Whip went to Shannon, tilted her chin up with his hand, kissed her lips lightly, and released her.

  “You keep an eye on things here,” he said. “I’ll bring Prettyface back to you.”

  For a moment Shannon looked at Whip with haunted blue eyes. Then she nodded and turned back to watching Culpeppers.

  Whip swung up onto a mule and headed out into the meadow. When he neared the place Shannon had described, he began quartering the tall grass and wildflowers. It didn’t take him long to find the big hound.

  Cursing under his breath, Whip looked down at Prettyface. Bloody cloth was still gripped in his jaws. A shallow scarlet groove went across his skull, just above the glazed, half-open eyes. Another wound left a bright strip of blood across his brindle chest. A third bullet had clipped his haunch.

  Blood welled slowly from the wounds.

  Whip made a startled sound and dismounted in a single rushing movement. An instant later he was kneeling by Prettyface’s side. The hound’s flank rose and fell slightly, steadily, as much a proof of life as the fact that his wounds still bled.

  “You’re a tough son, aren’t you?” Whip said in a low voice.

  Gently, thoroughly, he went over the big brindle body. Prettyface flinched once and made a high sound.

  “Easy there,” Whip said soothingly. “Looks like you got kicked pretty good, and you’re bleeding in three or four places, and knocked sillier than a squirrel from that crease on your skull, but you’re young and strong. You’ll live to play with your mistress in the flowers again.”

  Before Prettyface could regain his senses compl
etely. Whip eased the big hound into his arms, stood up, and grabbed the mule’s rein. The dog whined, but made no other protest as he was carreid across the meadow to the cabin with the mule Following along behind.

  The first thing Whip saw as he approached the cabin was a big stranger standing off to one side of the yard, watching him with eyes the color of gunmetal.

  Damnation, Whip thought grimly. I sure to God hope that man’s name isn’t Culpepper.

  “Shannon?” Whip called.

  “If you mean the girl with the shotgun, she’s inside the cabin, fixing to ventilate my spine if I do something foolish.”

  Whip looked past the man to the window. Sure enough, the barrel of the shotgun was poked through the window, plainly tracking the stranger’s every breath.

  Prudently, Whip stepped to the side.

  The dark-haired stranger nodded slightly, understanding Whip’s move. If the shotgun went off, Whip wouldn’t be in the way of any stray buckshot.

  “Take care of your hound,” the man said, looking at Prettyface with sympathy. “I’ll keep.”

  Then the man’s eyes changed, becoming as hard as flint when he glanced at the three Culpeppers on the ground.

  Whip knelt and lowered Prettyface gently to the grass. As whip stood again, the long lash dropped from his shoulder. The butt of the bullwhip came into his left hand as though summoned. Leather coils seethed and rippled restlessly at his feet.

  “Come on out, Shannon,” Whip said clearly. “Prettyface is cut up some, but he’ll live.”

  The shotgun barrel vanished from the window. The cabin door opened and banged shut as Shannon ran out, hope and fear clear in her face.

  “Prettyface?” she asked huskily.

  “Right behind me. Watch that shotgun, now.”

  Shannon didn’t bother to answer Whip. She had already uncocked the shotgun and was kneeling by her dog, making soft, happy noises.

  Whip never took his eyes off the tall, long-boned stranger whose riding cape, trousers, and boots had once been part of a Confederate uniform.

  “You know these boys?” Whip asked.

  “Culpeppers, from the look of their mules.”

  “Friends of yours?”