Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Boots’s and Lou’s mouths popped open, their expressions crumpling. But Angel was already on her way to the door. Suddenly her arm was grabbed and she was spun around, her hair tangling around her face and shoulders. Boots had a hold of her. “No. You cain’t just hightail it out there. If he … got Jack, he can get you. You cain’t do no good if you’re—”

  “Let go, Boots.” Angel jerked her arm free, yanked the kitchen door open, and spewed out her words to the older man. “If Jack’s dead, then I may as well be, too. Stay here and cover me, you hear?”

  It was Lou who answered. “I do.” With that, he sprinted over to the open window and aimed Wallace Daltry’s Winchester out it. He cocked the rifle and then pivoted to face Angel, his expression hardened. “Go on. I got you.”

  Sudden tears blurred Angel’s vision. She blinked them back, didn’t have time for them. Jack could be bleeding to death, her heart and mind screamed. Get out there. She turned to Boots. “Watch out this door here. And don’t you come outside. Either one of you.”

  And then, she was outside herself, bounding off the landing and running as low to the muddy ground as she could, but all too soon out in the open, away from the sheltering bulk of the main house. A chicken or two squawked, flew up as Angel slinked by, startling her as much as she had them. Her back heated by the day’s sudden sunshine, and her Colt clutched in her sweat-slippery palm … all she could think was, I’ll kill him … I’ll kill him … I’ll kill him.

  Even so, even as she flew for the barn, for the corral next to it, she expected to be taken down at any moment by another shot. But none rang out. She knew she was in range, wondered why Seth didn’t end her life right now. And then, alive, unharmed, she was at the barn, all but colliding with its lumbering wooden side. Her back to it, her right hand smoothing over the weathered boards with each step of hers, her left hand raised, the Colt clutched in it, Angel slouched along the building’s length, past its open main doors, half expecting to be grabbed.

  But she wasn’t and then, her breath catching, she reached its edge. Her limbs leaded with fear, she peeked around the corner. And sucked in a breath. Jack was gone. Buffalo was there, unharmed. Jack’s Stetson lay trampled in the churned-up ground. But Jack was gone. There was no blood. She frowned, not knowing what to make of this—

  She was grabbed from behind. Her gun flew from her grip. Wrenching fright slammed through her as a big, rough hand clamped down over her mouth. An iron-banded arm encircled her waist as she was hauled up against a warm and solid wall. A man’s chest. Her scream died in her lungs, her limbs went rigid. Her eyes felt as if they’d pop out of their sockets. And then she was being dragged backward … back and back.

  Into the barn, she suddenly realized. Into its covering darkness. To her death. Why don’t Boots and Lou fire? was her mind’s anguished scream.

  But she was no more than inside the hay- and manure-scented building, when a tense whispering filled her ear. “Shhh, Angel, it’s me. Jack. What the hell do you think you’re doing out here? Trying to get us both killed?”

  The fight bled from Angel. She collapsed back against him, whimpering. He was alive. Then he released her, turning her to face him and grabbing her into his embrace. “Damn, you scared me,” he spat out, his voice still low. Quickly he kissed the top of her head and then held her out at arm’s length, running his gaze over her, as if checking her for wounds. “You all right? Yeah? I about passed out when I saw you scoot by these doors. Jesus, Angel!”

  “I thought you were shot,” she cried out, her vision filled with the blessed sight of him.

  Jack clamped his hand back over her mouth. “Shhh. I fell down to make Seth think he’d got me.” She nodded. He removed his hand from her mouth, his gaze flitting all around them, taking in everything, assessing, ordering. Then he looked down at her. “It worked, too. He’s closing in somewhere out there right now. I think he’s alone. But he’ll be here any second. And will you look at who’s out here with me?”

  He meant her. And he wasn’t happy about it, either. But she didn’t care as she stared up at him, her heart pounding with relief and with love for him. “This is the only place I can be right now, Jack. With you.”

  Jack chuckled, shook his head and cupped her chin, pulling her to him for a quick kiss. “I’m glad you feel that way. Because you’re stuck now.”

  As if to prove it, another shot rang out, startling them both into stiffening and jerking around, making for the large, airy entrance formed by the open barn doors. Jack pushed Angel behind him as, his bare back to the thick wall, he peered out. “That sounded like it came from the house.”

  “Lou and Boots are in the kitchen,” Angel told him. “They probably saw something.”

  “Or someone. Come on.” With that, Jack turned around, tugging her hand, trying to pull her along with him into the barn’s interior.

  Angel resisted. “Wait. My gun. It’s outside.”

  Jack stared down at her, as if having trouble deciphering what she’d said. Then, it clicked. “Shit. Okay, stay here.” Before she could protest, or divine his intentions, Jack let go of her and, staying low, dove around the door, flitting around to his right and out of sight. Left standing there, and stiff with fright—he seemed so much more vulnerable without a shirt on—Angel’s mouth opened—Bullets flew, pinging into the wooden walls, forcing her to dive for the safety of a hay bale. Shaking to the bone, peeking over its top, Angel cursed that damned Jack Daltry for being so stupid as to—

  Scrambling crablike on all fours, and covered with mud, Jack zipped back around the doorway, Angel’s gun in his hand, his blue eyes wide. A grin appeared on his sweating face as he spotted her. Rolling over and over—bullets still flying and pinging into the ground no more than mere inches from him—and collecting hay bits atop the mud daubing his torso, looking somewhat like a plucked and breaded chicken, Jack reached Angel and held the Colt out to her.

  “Here,” he said, winking at her as he came up into a crouch, his weight on the balls of his booted feet. Then, sounding like a ten-year-old boy, he proudly told her, “There’s more than one out there. But they all missed me.”

  “Give me that.” Angel snatched her weapon from him, glaring at him—even though she realized he was putting on a show so she wouldn’t be so scared. “Well, I won’t miss you, Jack Daltry,” she assured him. “If you ever do something that stupid again, I’ll—”

  “Shoot my ass, I know. Right now, you’d have to get in line, sweetheart.” He finally sobered, saying, “There’re about three or four men out there, I’d guess, wanting to do the same thing.” The words no more than out of his mouth, Jack hauled Angel up by her arm and ran with her down the barn’s center aisle, away from the gunfire outside.

  If he had a specific destination or location in mind, he didn’t stop to tell her. She had no choice but to keep up or be dragged. But this time, she held tightly to her gun. Almost to the end of the long aisle … Angel finally realized he was making for the ladder that led up to the hayloft. But Angel was somewhat behind Jack, her vision blocked by his tall, muscled frame, and she slammed into his bare back when he stopped suddenly.

  Huffing out her breath and her shock—he was like hitting a tree trunk, one she had no effect on—Angel had no time even to regain her equilibrium before Jack grabbed her by her shirt and shoved her brutally into an empty stall.

  Turned loose by him, her mouth opening with her shock, Angel windmilled her arms, slipping and sliding on the hay and slamming shoulder first against the narrow enclosure’s side wall. Losing her grip on her gun, having no idea where it landed, she bounced off, her feet came out from under her, and she lost her balance, only to land spread-eagled on her belly. The impact took her air. She lay there—stunned and blinking and staring at … a horse stall. All by herself.

  Where was Jack? And why had he shoved her in here? Angel rolled over onto her back, jackknifing to a sitting position and pulling long pieces of hay out of her hair, pieces that poked against her f
ace, irritated her eyes. And then … she heard them talking, yelling. Outside the stall. Jack and Seth. Her heart stopped beating, or seemed to. She froze, her blood chilled. Seth. She couldn’t move, couldn’t seem to hear them now, what with the roaring in her ears. Then … she had another horrible thought. Where was her gun?

  She needed her gun. Slowly, quietly, on her knees and shoving her hair back, her heart tripping over its own successive beats, Angel moved around the stall, patting down the hay … hunting for her weapon, waiting only for a chance to help Jack. And to kill Seth.

  Twenty

  Jack was of two minds right now. One part of his brain remained alert to the danger facing him. His younger brother. This part saw Seth’s twisted grin, listened to him telling him how much he hated him, and all the reasons why. This part had Jack flexing his fingers over his holster, had him pronouncing himself ready to kill his brother. Or ready to die himself, was more like it, since Seth had the drop on him, had his gun pointed at Jack’s heart. But it didn’t matter about himself. Just Angel.

  That other part of his brain, at the back of his mind, said he’d saved her by shoving her into that stall before Seth had seen her. Damn Seth, anyway, for slipping in through that side window. But thank God he’d seen Seth coming through it, had seen him land on his feet and turn around, a split second before Seth saw them. But his taking that moment to push her out of view, to save her, had given Seth time to turn around, his gun already out, and he’d had that extra second to spot Jack and freeze him in place with his pointed weapon. Well, so be it. If his life was the price for saving hers, then he could die happy.

  Now if only she’d have enough sense to figure out why he’d sent her flying like that. That part, about her having sense, he didn’t doubt. But the sense to stay put? He feared she wouldn’t, once she heard Seth’s voice. Being the scrapper that he knew she was, he expected her at any moment to pop up in that stall and start firing away at anything that moved.

  That’s what he needed right now, this other part of his brain commented. More to worry about. And with Seth right in front of him and getting more belligerent, Jack knew he couldn’t even afford to look in her direction. All he could do was trust to the Almighty that she’d keep her head down, and stay out of the way.

  “You don’t have much to say for yourself, big brother,” Seth snapped.

  That drew Jack’s full attention, his thoughts no longer divided, his hearing now attuned to the continuing gun battle outside the barn. He spared a thought for Boots and Lou, thankful for their loyalty and their skill with guns.

  “What’s to say, Seth? Either you’re going to kill me. Or I’m going to kill you. Besides, you’re the one doing all the talking, dredging up all that old, tired crap between us. You’re also the one with the drop on me. So, my question is … what’re you waiting on? If it was the other way around, you worthless turd, you’d already be dead. So, go ahead. Do what you came here to do. Get it over with.”

  Seth cocked his head, narrowing his eyes. “Is that so? I’d already be dead, huh? You think I can’t outdraw you in a gunfight? Like hell.” Seth holstered his gun, spread his legs, settled his weight. “A fair fight, Jack. Me and you. It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?”

  “Only because you’ve wanted it. I never did, Seth. Well, not until now. Not until Pa. And Angel—”

  “Whew-wee … Angel. Now there’s a fine piece, huh, big brother? I had me a good time there.”

  A muscle jumped in Jack’s jaw. His hands fisted, he started for Seth. “You little son of a—”

  Seth pulled and cocked his pistol. “Uh-uh, big brother. Stay put. I’m not through with you yet.”

  Jack stopped, clenched his teeth, ready to jump for Seth anyway, ready to beat the life out of him with his bare hands. But how could he? Seth would shoot him before he took two steps. And if Jack got himself killed, how long would it be before Seth went after Angel again? So, forced to control himself, to stay put and put up with Seth’s mouth, Jack said, “Fine. I’m more than glad to play your game, Seth. I’ll face you. More than glad. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Brave words, words he meant, but Jack felt the sweat pop out on his upper lip as he watched his brother again holster his gun. Jack had never outdrawn Seth. Never. In all their mock battles growing up, once Seth got to be of gun-toting age, he’d proven himself a natural quick-draw, always beating Jack. And Jack had no reason to believe that that had changed. Which meant that Seth was just toying with him … like always.

  Jack also knew Seth well enough to know he’d not kill him with the first shot. Where was the fun in that? No, Seth would hit his gun arm first, disable him … then shoot a leg … maybe his other arm … his shoulder, and so on, until he was on the ground, shot up and bloody, and there was only one bullet left. And that last one, Jack knew, Seth would put either in his victim’s heart, or his head. Fine. Anything. As long as he could somehow first make sure Angel would forever be safe from Seth.

  Just then, Seth shifted his gaze to Jack’s left … and grinned, saying, “Well, will you look what we have here? Afternoon, Miss Devlin. Nice to see you up and around … although I like you better on your back.”

  Jack stiffened, turned to stone. The blood left his head, rushing to pool at his feet, staggering him. No! He jerked to his left, his heart now pounding. Sure enough, there stood his worst nightmare. Angel. Her gun drawn, her right hand holding her left one steady as she faced Seth. Blinking, sober to a point beyond grim, she acknowledged Jack not at all, her concentration focused completely on his brother.

  “Afternoon, Seth,” she finally gritted out. “On my back, huh? You know, that’s one position I’d like to see you in, too. Only there’d be a bullet in your heart. And you’d be dead.”

  “Why, you little bitch,” Seth snarled, his face a contorted mask of evil. “Don’t think I mind killing you. Remember, the first woman I killed was my own mother.” With that, Seth drew his gun and swung its muzzle in Angel’s direction.

  “No!” Jack screamed, the word welling up from his soul.

  With that one word, time slowed … made Jack feel as if he were swimming against syrupy molasses, each movement heavy and forced. He reached for his gun … Seth’s gun barked fire … Angel’s returned it … Seth clutched his left arm, spun slowly around, blood seeping out from between his fingers … Jack pulled his gun out, aimed at Seth, fired—and missed when his brother spun as Angel fell to the ground, limp, pale, a spreading patch of bright red seeping over her chest.

  “No!” Jack screamed again, seeing her drop, horrified, dying himself. This time, his yell sped up time, moving them through it as if they were atop racing horses. He rounded on his brother, walking toward him, firing, emptying his gun, hardly aiming, just shooting. But Seth—hit more than once, even doubled over and bleeding—fired back. But still, Jack kept coming. He felt the sting and the thud of being hit himself … in his shoulder, his arm.

  But a blessed numbness insulated him. And rage kept him strong, kept him firing … until his brother lay on his back, on the barn floor, gut-shot, heart-shot, bleeding … and dead.

  Angel called that one, was Jack’s first thought as, grim, hating, he stood over his brother and stared down at him. He was almost afraid to turn to her, afraid to see her lying there. But he had no tears, no remorse, for his brother. Maybe later they’d come. Maybe for the little boy Seth had been, the one who used to tag after him, who had so many questions, so many fears. But for the cruel man Seth had become? No. Seth had made his choices. He’d had loving folks who cared about him. But he’d cared for no one in return. And for him, for that man, Jack felt nothing. But relief for his passing.

  On an impulse, Jack threw his empty gun down beside Seth, as much as to say it was finally over. And wondered why he didn’t feel his own wounds. He guessed he was beyond feeling at the moment. No doubt, the pain would come later. Already his wounds stung. But he could tell they were only superficial. Right now, he just didn’t care. Not about hims
elf. Not about his brother.

  Only about Angel. And if Seth had taken the life of one woman in all the world that he, Jack Eugene Daltry, could or would ever love … well, then, he hoped there was a gun lying hereabouts with another bullet in it. All he needed was one.

  With that thought anchoring him, Jack decided he was ready to face what lay behind him. Aware now of the quiet outside—so that battle was done, too, one way or the other—Jack raised his head, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath, steeling himself for what he had to do. And that was to see to Angel. He had to face it. Had to face her. Jack lowered his head, and feeling wooden, turned to her … his angel.

  And froze with what he saw. She was still lying there … but propped up now on her uninjured arm, on her elbow, one knee bent, her black hair fanned out around her, her dark eyes clear, her shirtfront bloodstained. She’d apparently been silently watching him. “Is he dead?” she asked. “Or did you just run out of bullets, cowboy?”

  Jack’s heart soared, a watery laugh escaped him. He ran a hand over his mouth, and grinned at her. “Both. He’s dead. And I ran out of bullets.”

  Angel nodded, her black eyes liquid, caring, hurting. “Yeah, I saw that. You okay?”

  Knowing she referred to his brother’s death, Jack nodded in return. He wanted so much to go to her. But he couldn’t seem to get his feet moving, felt as if he’d grown roots where he stood. And so, all he did was say, “I thought you were dead.”

  “I thought I was, too.” Then she edged her chin up, indicating his wounds. “You’re bleeding, cowboy.”

  Cowboy. Jack looked at his bleeding arm, at his shoulder. “Just nicked me. I’ll live. Too ornery to die.” Then he pointed at her. “So are you.”

  She blinked, grimaced. “What? Ornery? Or bleeding?”

  “Both.” Jack chuckled at this conversation. It wasn’t anything he ever could have imagined. And yet, he’d never lived through anything more real.