Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  “You can try, big brother,” Seth said, swinging his leg over his horse’s neck and ripping his Stetson off to send it sailing away from him. Like a cat, Seth landed lightly on his feet, already unbuckling his low-slung six-shooter from his right hip. “Come on. I’ve been wanting this day for a long time.”

  “Have you? Well, here it is. Hope you like it.” Jack took the two steps to the ground in a single leap and grabbed Seth by his shirtfront, flinging him in a half-circle that had him stumbling to the hard-packed dirt of the gravelly yard.

  In a flash, Jack—bigger and more muscled than his younger brother—jerked Seth upright and punched him in the jaw with a powerful right hook. Seth grunted and reeled backward, but kept his feet, recovered with a shake of his head, and came in a driving tackle at Jack. Crouched and ready for him, Jack sidestepped his brother’s charge and sent another right to Seth’s belly, which doubled him over and had him gagging. Reflexively Seth clutched at Jack’s arm, but Jack jerked himself free, his heart pounding with anger and hatred, his fists balled and ready.

  But as if he’d never been hit, and with a mighty grunt of effort, Seth suddenly came up, his hands fisted together into one pile-driving weapon, and caught Jack under his chin. Crying out, Jack flew backward, landing on his butt, jarring his spine. Stunned by the blow, unable to move, Jack saw Seth reeling around with the force of his own effort, saw his brother’s knees buckle. Good, was Jack’s one thought. He shook his head, tried to clear his vision, tried to get up. But his equilibrium wouldn’t return. Nor would his arms support him. He fell back onto his elbows, tried to draw up a knee but couldn’t.

  Through the red haze of his pain, he looked down at his blood-covered shirt. And more blood spattered onto it as he watched in dread and fascination. Where’s that coming from? a functioning part of his mind wanted to know. But he didn’t get the chance to find out because just then a shadow fell across him. Jack, still dazed and fearing he was losing his grip on consciousness, looked up. Only to see Seth standing over him … with a gun in his hand, which pointed at Jack’s chest.

  Breathing erratically, Jack stared up at Seth. “So … this is”—he drew in a sharp breath—“this is … how it’ll end, huh, Seth? You”—another breath around the pain exploding through his head—“going to shoot me?” Talking cost him. Jack closed his eyes, heard Seth pulling the trigger hammer back on his pistol.

  And heard Seth say, almost pleasantly, “I suppose so, big brother. Say hello to Pa when you get to hell.”

  The next sound Jack heard … the last sound he heard … was a gun firing. And the world went black.

  * * *

  “That was the warning shot, mister. Now drop that gun and step away from your brother. He’s passed out. You don’t shoot a man when he’s down.”

  Seth Daltry had spun toward her when she fired on him before he could kill his brother. Even now he was crouched into position and had his Colt aimed at her. Then a slow grin split his lips as he relaxed his stance. “Well, will you lookee here? Angel Devlin. You sure you want to come between blood kin like this, girl?”

  Angel didn’t even blink. “Blood kin or no, you aren’t going to shoot him. Not before I can kill you.” She got her words out, even as another part of her mind dealt with the fact that he knew her. But that wasn’t so strange because more men knew her on sight, thanks to her mother’s reputation, than Angel could ever count. But until this moment, when she’d heard all she needed to as she stood in the shadowed doorway behind Jack, she’d not known of the existence of Seth Daltry. But that was neither here nor there. What was important was facing him down now.

  “Cat got your tongue, Miss Devlin? That’d be a shame, because if you’re anything like your ma, you got a real nice tongue. And you’ll know what to do with it.”

  A blazing anger mixed with outrage had Angel grimacing, almost snarling. Her entire body stiffened, her finger squeezed reflexively around the trigger, but she stopped herself from shooting and called out, “The only reason you aren’t dead where you stand, Seth Daltry, is because I think your brother deserves the honor of killing you, should that fine day come.”

  Now he laughed outright. But it had a crazy kind of sound to it that stood the hair up on Angel’s arms. “You’re probably right,” he called out, as cheerful as if he’d just accepted an invitation to dinner. Then he looked her up and down, saying, “Since you’re not going to shoot me, why don’t you put down that rifle and let me come pay my respects to my pa?”

  “Like hell I will,” Angel assured him. “But I do want you to drop your gun.” She waited. But all Seth did was grin—as handsome and blue-eyed as the devil himself—and shake his head no. Damn. Angel’s gut tightened. But she knew what she had to do. “Suit yourself. But should you change your mind, just call out.”

  With that, she swung the rifle down and to her left until it pointed to the ground directly in front of the verandah’s steps. Immediately, she began firing, employing a smooth back-and-forward motion of the trigger guard. Bullets, dust, and noise skipped across the hard ground, lancing a path right to Seth Daltry’s feet. Silently Angel kept count of the number of times she fired.

  Only when Seth jumped back and yelled out did she raise the Winchester, pointing its noisy end at his chest, and say, “That was seven. Plus the one warning shot, which makes eight. By my count, I’ve got eight more shots. So … are you feeling lucky? Or are you figuring on dropping that pistol?”

  Red faced and sweating, Seth Daltry threw his pistol down and jerked his hands up over his head. “You’re a crazy bitch. Crazy!”

  She nodded and drawled, “I’ll add your name to the list of folks who’ve already agreed with you. Now get your mangy horse and your hat and clear out of here. Leave the gun.”

  “Like hell I will—”

  Angel lowered the Winchester, aimed, worked the trigger guard, and fired, hitting the ground right between Seth’s legs. He yelped and jumped back, this time nearly losing his balance. “I said leave the gun,” Angel reminded him. “And I also said clear out. I meant that, too.”

  Without taking one step toward her, Seth Daltry exploded with anger, kicking at the ground and balling his fists up, one of which he shook at her. Angel remained outwardly impassive but, inside, her heart lurched and lunged about her chest, as if it were no longer anchored in place.

  “I’m leaving. But only for now,” Seth called out. “I’ll be back, little lady. And when I am, you better watch yourself. Because I’ll do worse than kill you. Worse. You mark my words.”

  Angel swallowed, nearly choking on the dryness in her mouth and the tightness in her throat. She believed every word he said. She’d just made a powerful enemy. As Seth jerked around, stalking toward his hat and his horse, Angel spared a glance for Jack. He still lay on the ground, not moving. Was he dead? But she didn’t get to decide how she felt about that possibility because at that same second, the sound of a horse’s high-pitched whinny captured her attention.

  Facing his horse, an enraged Seth Daltry had grabbed the animal’s reins and was jerking them, trying to get his mount to stand still. But in the process, all he accomplished was scaring the fool critter to death as the loose ends of the leather thongs whipped this way and that, striking the frantic animal’s chest. It tried to rear and got itself purposely whipped this time. Angel’s lips firmed in anger. She stepped forward, her fingers tightening around the Winchester.

  “Stop it!” she cried out, even knowing he couldn’t hear her, not over the horse’s bellows. With everything inside her, she wanted to help the big, terrified animal. But couldn’t, not unless she meant to shoot Seth Daltry or put herself within his vengeful range. She wasn’t prepared to do either of those things. Not today. Not that she’d mind shooting him. But she didn’t much fancy the notion of telling Jack Daltry, if he was alive, that another of his kin was dead. And once again, she’d be the only person around.

  Finally, and mercifully, Seth got the quivering animal to stand still long enough t
o mount it. As he settled himself in the saddle and again fought the lathered horse, Angel dragged a deep breath into her constricted lungs and, teeth gritted, tried to stare the man down.

  As Seth Daltry turned his horse to face Angel, he yelled a warning. “Until the next time, Angel Devlin. Until the next time.”

  With that, he gave a war whoop like a Comanche’s and dug his spurs into his horse’s sides, turning it and racing away from the Circle D, away toward the low rolling hills of the prairie.

  Angel’s knees gave out. She sank to a sitting position on the verandah, her legs hanging off it, the Winchester standing upended between her legs, her forehead resting atop her hands, which were clutched around its barrel. Only then did she realize there were tears coursing down her cheeks.

  Eight

  A moan from Jack finally made Angel raise her head from atop her hands. Moving the rifle out of her line of vision, she swiped one-handed at her tears and peered out into the yard. He was moving his legs and trying to sit up or turn over, she couldn’t tell which. But instantly, she was on her feet and laying the Winchester on the worn wood flooring of the porch. Then she took the two steps as one and ran over to him. The sight of so much blood running over the man’s neck and chest stopped her cold. She couldn’t help but recall finding Wallace Daltry the same way. “Jesus,” she whispered.

  Beside Jack now, Angel dropped to her knees and folded her legs under her. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Just hold real—”

  With a startled gasp, Jack Daltry jerked, grabbing her wrist and twisting it sideways. Angel cried out and hit at him, even as he rolled on top of her, his other hand to her throat. Crushed under him, pinned and helpless, she lay there stunned, staring up at him. In less than a few seconds, his expression changed from a snarl to shocked surprise. “Angel. What the—”

  Now that he knew it was her, and not his brother, Angel let her feelings be known. “Get off me.”

  “What?” he said. But then he looked down at himself … atop her. And jerked up and away from her. He followed that with a gasp as he stared at her chest. “You’re bleeding,” he yelped. Then he gripped her arm, helping her to sit up. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”

  Angel wrenched her arm out of his grasp. “I’m sure He’s right glad to hear that. And will take it into account, come Judgment Day.”

  Jack smoothed her hair out of her face, saying, “What?”

  Angel batted his hand away. “Nothing.” Then she pointed to his blood-soaked shirt. “You’re the one bleeding. Not me. I think it’s coming from your chin.”

  “My chin?” he repeated, sounding dazed, as he looked down at his shirt and held it out with a hand. “Damn. I am.” He rubbed his chin, checked his hand, and saw what Angel did. A thick red smear. Then he captured her gaze, mouthing, “Seth.” His eyes narrowed. He rolled to his feet but instantly bent over at his waist, clasping his knees with his hands and hanging his head down between his shoulders. “Whew. I’m dizzy.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Angel came to her feet and gripped his arm, felt his warm, hard muscles quivering. “It’s okay. He’s gone.” But about the last thing she needed right now, in case his brother did decide to show up again, was Jack passing out on her this far away from the Winchester. “Why don’t we make our way over to the verandah so you can sit down?”

  “All right,” he agreed, as docile as a lamb. He then surprised her by putting an arm around her shoulders, which all but forced her to encircle his waist with one of hers and put her other against his chest. Under her hand, his heart beat steady and strong. And felt reassuring. But he was pale and sweaty. So Angel allowed him to lean heavily on her as she walked him across the yard and even held on to him as he—very gingerly—sat himself on the porch’s edge. Once he was settled, she tugged his jaw up, telling him, “Raise your chin. Let me see that cut.”

  But Jack captured her wrist, forcing her to look into his eyes. “It’s okay. Where’s Seth?”

  Angel wanted nothing more than to look away, but didn’t dare. “I told you. He left.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. His mouth worked. “Seth doesn’t just leave, Angel.”

  Angel huffed out her breath. There was no sense in telling him about his brother’s warning. It was probably just an empty threat, anyway. And even if it wasn’t, it was her problem, not Jack’s. And so she just said, “Well, he did this time.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “You just don’t stop, do you?” Angel’s rising temper had her looking away. Taking his silence as his intention to out-wait her, she turned back to him, ready to tell him what had happened. But her breath caught, her attention captured by the incredible blue of his eyes. In the space of a glance, she found herself riveted by the powerful effect his strong masculine features had on her. With a desperation born of reluctant awareness, she tried to shake off her reaction by focusing on how he looked now … dust covered, beat up, and bleeding. And on keeping her voice from betraying her confused emotions when she asked, “So what’s the last thing you remember?”

  His eyes narrowed, his expression hardened. “Seth standing over me with his gun in his hand. But what I want to know from you is how you stopped him. I know you did because Seth wouldn’t stop himself.”

  She should have expected that he’d know his brother. Again, Angel contemplated him, focusing this time on the world of hurt that must lie hidden behind his matter-of-fact words. More of a reason not to add to his worries, she decided, saying, “What happened, meaning what I did or didn’t do, doesn’t matter. The important thing is he did leave. And what matters is … you’re alive.”

  His eyebrows winged up. “It matters to you that I’m still alive?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just supposed your own hide meant something to you.” Then she yanked her arm, tried to pull her wrist out of his grip. “Are we going through life joined like this, cowboy? Or are you going to let me go?”

  Jack started to say something to her, but apparently thought better of it, closing his mouth instead and staring solemnly at her. Angel felt certain the air around them thickened. She edged her chin up and glared, lest he get some funny notion about kissing her again. But all he did was release her and say, “I’ll let you go. Because I don’t think anyone can hold you, Angel. Not for long.”

  “You got that right,” came her instant retort as she lowered her arm. But her sharp words belied what she felt inside. What he’d just said hurt her. His words emphasized how far removed she was from him, from everyone. Until now—until she had met Wallace Daltry and his son Jack—she’d always thought of being alone as being free. But now she knew the truth. It meant … being alone. With no one to care.

  Always before, that had been her badge of independence. No one cared for her, and she cared for no one. Only now did she clearly see how wrong that was. How empty that was. But, given her life, she feared it was too late to do anything about it. So why was she still standing here, she had to ask herself, as she watched Jack watching her. She needed to move away from him. But the truth was, he wasn’t the one stopping her. She was.

  She was too interested in watching his gaze rove slowly over her face. As if he searched a locked treasure chest for its key. Or for a hidden opening, some undiscovered way to unlock it. Maybe she’d been wrong about what he felt for her. When Angel suddenly swayed toward him—and caught herself—panic overtook her. Had she meant to kiss him? What was wrong with her? Her heartbeat thumped, her mouth felt dry.

  This was wrong. She had to get away from here. She had to. If she didn’t, he’d make her … care, dammit. No. She’d leave right now. Just turn around and go. Forget everything. The Circle D was his. The money, the cattle, his crazy danged brother and his threats. Everything. All of it. They were his headaches. Not hers. She didn’t need a home. Couldn’t miss what she’d never had. She’d just saddle that roan she’d ridden in on and skedaddle it out of here. Now. This minute.

  Thus spurred, Angel stepped back, fisting her hands. Her p
alms were sweaty, a part of her mind noted. “I’ve changed my mind, Jack Daltry. It’s all yours. Everything. I’ll be leaving now.”

  His eyebrows veeing over his nose, Jack bolted to his feet. “What? You can’t leave.”

  And that was exactly what she needed for him to do. To dare her, to tell her she couldn’t do something. “Watch me,” she said, turning on her heel.

  Behind her, he grabbed her arm and spun her around. All she could see, looking up at him, was the dried blood starting at his chin and coating his neck and shirtfront. “Why are you leaving? What happened? Did Seth lay a hand on—”

  “No.” Angel now looked pointedly at Jack’s hand on her and then raised her head until she met his angry eyes. “He didn’t touch me. If he had, he’d be dead. Or I would.” And then she waited. He released her. “Smart,” she assured him, as she again turned away from him and stalked toward the barn, speaking to him over her shoulder. “I’ll be taking only what I brought with me. And that’d be my horse and the clothes on my back.”

  “Those are my clothes on your back, Angel Devlin.”

  Angel stopped, her eyes popping open wide as she stared straight ahead and absorbed his words. Then she looked down at herself. At his shirt and his denims. Damn. She spun around, jamming her hands to her waist as she stared into those glaring blue Daltry eyes of his. “You can’t spare these?”

  He slowly shook his head no—and meant it, she could tell. Angel bit at her bottom lip, felt her chin jut out. “Fine,” she spat out. “Keep your danged duds.”

  In a towering anger that had her acting outside the bounds of cool reason and her normally overweaning modesty—perhaps a backlash response to her mother’s constant baring of her body—Angel yanked and tugged on the chambray shirt’s tail, trying in vain to free it from the tightly belted denims.