by Pam Crooks
With a few long strides, he left the cantina. Ramon followed, and the room emptied of the remaining bandeleros.
“Quinn, please.” Hannah stood before him, her gaze peering up into his. She spoke his name like a lover in the night, coaxing him to see her point of view. “I know what I’m doing. I wouldn’t have suggested blowing the pass shut if I didn’t think I could do it. Or that it would work.”
“It’s dangerous, Hannah. You could be killed.”
He thought of all that could go wrong, of the innumerable factors beyond their control. And he thought of her in her brown habit, protected behind the cinderblock walls of the convent.
It was where she belonged. Safe among the Sisters. Not blowing up a mountain pass in the middle of the night.
“I want you with me, of course.” She touched his cheek, trailed her fingertips down to his jaw, conning him to her way of thinking. “You’ll be right there at my side.”
His defenses crumpled beneath the effect of her touch.
“Damned right I will,” he muttered, agreeing to her plan and hardly realizing it. “Someone’s got to keep you from blowing your fool head off.”
A light smile touched her lips, victorious in its guile. “Afterward, we’ll head for Amarillo. We’ll ride all night.”
“Yes.” He was powerless to resist her con game, to make his own rules when she was so adept at winning with hers.
She stepped back. The smile, the persuasiveness, faded from her face. In their stead, a serious acceptance of what lay ahead.
“I’ll meet you at the corral in a few minutes,” she said. “There are some things I must do before we go.”
He nodded, watching her leave, and encountered Sophia’s dark stare upon him, reproving and cunning in its intensity.
She’d not left with the others, and her stare troubled him. But before he could question her, she pivoted and was gone.
Chapter 13
It seemed to Hannah a lifetime had passed since she’d crawled on her belly through the brush to spy on Frank Briggs.
In actuality, it had only been a few hours. Long enough for the sun to disappear and drape a heavy blanket of darkness over the Territory. And long enough for the warden, his guard and Roger Fenwick to lay out their plan of action.
Neither she nor Quinn nor Tomas had any idea what that plan was. They were too far away to hear what the three men were saying, but Hannah knew that whatever they discussed over a scant campfire engrossed them, that they were armed to the teeth, and that they listened and watched the mouth of the pass with arduous diligence.
She expected little else. She signaled to Quinn and Tomas, and they half-scooted, half-slid down the steep hill, staying under the protective cover of the shrubs.
“Give me the black powder, Tomas,” she ordered in a whisper.
He delved into the wooden box, retrieved fourteen cartridges, and handed them to her. Hannah gave eight to Quinn and stuffed the remaining six inside her coat. She reached for a spool wound with jute.
The Mexican leader glanced over his shoulder and into the valley. “Sophia and the others are already at the church. Padre Reyes prays with them that this will work and we will escape tonight.”
“It’ll work,” she said crisply.
Hannah intended to say a string of her own prayers when this was over. Prayers of thanksgiving and forgiveness. For now, though, the job ahead claimed all her attention. Resolutely, she cut a length of fuse from the spool.
“We will be waiting at the bottom of the hill.” Tension shimmered from Tomas. “Work quickly, Hannah. The fuses will not burn long.” With that, he disappeared into the darkness.
Quinn set a tin can of mud beside her.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” he said with a growl.
“You forget I was taught by the best,” she answered and stuffed the jute into her pocket.
“I’ve got to be crazy to let you go through with this.”
“Briggs has forced us into it. We have no choice.” She reached for the tin of mud, tucked the can into the crook of her elbow and rose.
He rose with her. When she would have ascended the hill, he grasped her by the elbow and halted her.
“Hannah,” he said roughly.
She strained to define his shadowed features in the darkness of the night. She knew his worry, his concern, and felt it as her own.
“If something goes wrong, if you’re killed--,” he said, the words terse.
Her fingers lifted to his mouth and pressed gently to their grim line.
“We cannot think of it,” she whispered.
“I can think of nothing else, damn it.”
She winced at the ferocity in his tone. “If we survive this, Quinn, I’ll never touch black powder again. I swear it.” Guiltily, the avowals from her past returned, promises she’d made never to do the con games and illicit tricks her father instilled in her. She dismissed the guilt, as she’d done so many times of late. “But tonight, I have to. You know that.”
Precious seconds ticked by. She sensed his inward battle, his struggle to accept her assurances.
On a muttered oath, he turned to the steep wall of the hill she planned to blow apart.
“Tell me what I need to do,” he said.
The powder cartridges were left over from the mining heyday of drilling and blasting. Hannah was certain they’d rip through the dirt and rock like butter.
She understood explosives, thanks to Pa. Together, they’d opened numerous iron bank safes, using a sophisticated air pump to insert sticks of dynamite into the crevices around the door.
Now, she and Quinn scraped holes into the packed earth, aided only by the blade of Fenwick’s knife.
She had no time to think of the irony of it. They worked quickly, quietly, arranging three narrow cavities, spaced several feet apart, into a crude triangle, then making four more at the outside top, sides and bottom.
She reached into her coat pocket, withdrew three cartridges and wedged them into the holes of the triangle, their fuses hanging like tails on rats. Quinn did the same with four of his. Hannah secured the cartridges in their holes with mud.
They repeated the process on the opposite hill. Hannah stepped back, and pulled the length of jute from inside her coat. She listened for Frank Briggs, for some sign they’d aroused his suspicions, but the night was still. The air carried no sound.
Her heart thundered within her breast. The time had come.
“Ready?” Quinn asked.
She drew in a breath. “Ready.”
He struck a match. The twisted strands of jute surrounded a core of powder. A layer of twine, then another of waterproof tape, covered the jute. Hannah dipped one end into the flame , and the powder spit it back.
Back at the camp, she had timed the burnings of several of the fuses she’d removed from the cartridges and knew each one burned at a uniform rate. She painstakingly figured the amount of jute she’d need and just how long it would be before it reached the black powder and exploded.
Hannah put her thumb and forefinger on the estimated length. That little spot would save her life--and Quinn’s.
Careful to light them in sequence, the center cartridges first, then the outside ones, Hannah hastily touched the dangling fuses with the hissing jute. After counting seven, she scrambled to the adjacent hill and started all over again.
The tiny flame gobbled up the spitter fuse. The heat grew stronger against her fingertip.
“Hurry, Hannah.” Quinn kept his steady eye on the rapidly descending flame.
Only moments from now, the first cartridge would explode.
Only a few more fuses left.
She forced herself to keep her hand steady, to keep the red glow true. She prayed none of the fuses would fizzle out, or worse, burn too fast and detonate too quickly.
The heat singed her finger, and she lit the last one.
Quinn pulled her from the wall of the hill with such force, she dropped the spent fuse and fell into
him. They lost their footing and hurtled to the steep ground, their bodies rolling and rolling over the jutting rocks and spiny brush.
BOOM!
The earth rattled and shook.
BOOM!
Quinn grabbed Hannah, and . . ..
BOOM!
. . . shielded her with the breadth of his body.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The cartridges discharged with deafening force, hurling a shower of debris over them.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Hannah hung on to Quinn and kept counting.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
It seemed the earth would split in two. He held her tighter.
Thirteen. Fourteen.
And, then . . . nothing.
His head lifted; she twisted beneath him to stare at the narrow trail.
It was gone.
The trail was totally, blissfully gone.
The acrid smell of black powder lay heavy in the air. A fog of dust and debris stung Hannah’s eyes and wrenched a cough from her throat. She scuttled out from beneath Quinn.
The explosions had blasted huge cavities into the jagged mountainside and dumped the rubble into the pass.
Filling it. Destroying it.
Elation swelled inside Hannah. She turned to Quinn and flung her arms about his neck.
“We did it!” she cried. “We did it!”
He laughed , a deep-throated sound rich from victory. He clasped her to him, lifted her high and swung her around.
“You did it!” he said. “Damn, woman, you’re amazing!”
Horses’ hooves intruded into their celebration. Smiling broadly, his teeth gleaming against his skin and the dark night, Tomas waved his sombrero in joyous greeting. Ramon rode with him, the reins to a pair of horses, Fenwick’s fine-blooded geldings, in his hand.
“Frank Briggs has received the surprise of his life tonight, eh?” Tomas said.
Quinn grinned. “One that knocked him clear back on his ass.”
“We must hurry to the church,” Ramon said. He tossed a glance toward the battered mountainside, as if he expected the warden and his two cohorts to burst through any minute.
“Si,” Tomas conceded. “Sophia will want to know we are all safe.”
The church had been their agreed-upon meeting place. If the black powder explosions proved successful, it would be the church from which the bandeleros--and Quinn and Hannah--would part company. If the explosions failed, Sophia planned to order her men into a decisive, albeit bloody, confrontation with the warden.
Sophia couldn’t wait to get there, not to have Padre Reyes pray over them in thanks, but to collect their few provisions and ride with Quinn from the Huertas’ hideout.
The leave the New Mexico Territory.
To head for Amarillo. At last.
Hardly realizing her plans didn’t include thoughts of the convent, Hannah accepted the reins Ramon offered her, his expression filled with a new respect. Quinn mounted, too. She followed his gaze as he stole a final look into the demolished pass.
It was dark, imposing.
And silent.
The mission church held a regal position overlooking the town ruins. A plain white cross hung above the doors. Above that, a statue of St. Francis of Assisi nestled inside a niche carved into the adobe. Still another cross perched on the uppermost point of the roof.
A faint light spilled out from the narrow windows. Miguel watched for them between rough-hewn double doors. At the sight of the four riders, two of whom yipped elatedly in Mex, he rushed forward, a lantern in his hand.
“We are victorious, Miguel!” Tomas exclaimed, sliding from the saddle before his horse came to a full stop. “We have shown Frank Briggs we are smarter than he is.”
“Si, Tomas.” Miguel’s face creased with a snaggle-toothed grin. “My ears are still ringing.”
“Where is Sophia?”
“Inside, waiting and praying.”
Tomas pushed back his sombrero and strode into the vestibule, his bootsoles clomping against the scarred wooden floor. Inside, two more bandeleros spread wide the doors, leading into the main body of the church.
Ramon dismounted and indicated Quinn and Hannah should follow him.
Impatience cut through Quinn. He didn’t want the delay. Amarillo called to him too loudly to tarry now, when the terms of their bargain with the Huertas had been met.
He glanced at Hannah. “For whatever reason they want us here, it’d best not take long.”
She nodded, a slight frown puckering her browns, and dismounted. Quinn took her elbow, and they entered the church. Sophia knelt at a front pew, her obsidian head bowed, but at her husband’s arrival, she rose quickly and embraced him. They spoke together, their tones hushed, then turned to wait for Quinn and Hannah to join them.
With all the solemnity of a congregation preparing for Mass to begin, the rest of the Huertas’ men waited, too, their dark faces impassive.
Hannah’s step faltered. Suspicion curled through Quinn. Ramon prodded them forward until they reached the end of the aisle.
A bright-striped robozo hugged Sophia’s shoulders. Her long braid hung over one shoulder, its end brushing the swell of her belly.
“You have used the black powder to close the pass,” she said quietly. “This you do for us.”
“And for ourselves,” Quinn said. He had no need of her gratitude. “Briggs chases us, too.”
“Si. Of course, I know that. But blowing the pass was dangerous. You could have been killed.”
Quinn said nothing, his silence his agreement.
“You have given us valuable time to make an escape. Por Dios, even if it is only a single day, it is time we would not have had if the warden attacked us with the Federales at his side.” Her solemn gaze settled on Hannah. “It is a great skill you have with the black powder, Hannah.”
Like Quinn, she made no reply, but her scrutiny swept the gathering of the bandeleros, the altar, and the closed door of the sacristy.
Sophia’s presence dominated the little church. Regal and haughty, she held the attention of everyone present.
“You lied to us, Senor Landry, when you called Hannah your wife.”
Every muscle, every sense, every instinct in his body leapt inside him.
“A man fights to survive any way he can. My concern was for Hannah.” He inclined his head, the gesture mocking, careless. “My apologies if we’ve offended you.”
“Do not apologize.” She shrugged. “It does not matter. I would have done the same.” She considered him coolly. “I think, in truth, you would like to be married to her, eh?”
Behind her, Miguel lit candles on the plain altar, one by one.
Quinn’s breath hitched. Her statement, its intent, stunned him.
Hannah’s glance jerked from Miguel to her. “Sophia, it cannot be.”
“I have the power to do many things, Hannah.”
“You don’t understand.” A faint panic, stronger with every word she spoke, filled Hannah’s voice.
“I understand the worry and the longing in your eyes when Senor Landry is not with you,” the Mexican woman said simply. “I see how you look at him when he is.” Her dark head swiveled to Quinn. “And I see the passion in Senor Landry when he kissed us to prove to us you are his.”
Hannah’s fingers flew to her mouth in shocked reaction. Quinn’s narrowed gaze slammed into Sophia’s.
“You twist the terms of our bargain,” he said. “You make new rules to replace the old ones.”
“I give you a gift. Nothing more.”
“A gift!” Hannah exclaimed.
“For all you have done to help us escape Frank Briggs.” Her full mouth curved. “And because I think it is what you want, deep in your heart.”
“We want nothing more than to leave this place,” Hannah said. “To leave all of you.”
Sophia inclined her head slightly, as if she understood Hannah’s protests but had no intention of heeding them.
“Long
ago, I learned how to know what is best for my husband and my men. I make decisions for their welfare. I do the same for you.”
Quinn’s mind worked through their options.
The consequences of refusing.
The benefits of agreeing.
His heart thundered inside him. Every pulsating beat intensified an unexpected appeal at the prospect of being married to Hannah, if only for a short time.
The tension dwindled from him.
“This is the last condition of our agreement, Sophia.” he said. “We go through with this, then we leave. No holds barred.”
She exchanged a glance with Tomas. “We lose valuable time talking. Si. We agree.”
Eyes wide, Hannah spun toward him, giving the Huertas her back in an attempt for privacy.
“Quinn.” She swallowed. “I can’t go through with this. I’ve taken vows.”
“Temporary vows.”
“The padre will make me say different ones.”
“He’s performing a wedding ceremony, Hannah.” Annoyance flicked through him that she’d not grasped the opportunity as quickly as he did. He restrained from swearing while on the holy altar. “Would you rather he said your eulogy instead?”
She paled. And swallowed again.
Quinn wanted to take her into his arms, assure her they were doing the right thing, coax her into yet another con game to save their lives.
To make their escape.
But her troubled expression told him she realized all that.
She tilted her head back and studied him, as if to assure herself he truly meant to go through with Sophia’s plan.
That he wanted to be married to her.
She must have read the smoldering truth in his eyes, in the words he couldn’t say here and now.
“We have no choice, do we?” she whispered.
“No,” he said.
Her lashes lowered, accepting that truth, and she faced Sophia again.
“You win, of course,” she said. “Though I fear you make a mockery of a blessed institution, Quinn and I will allow you to marry us.”
Sophia nodded, her expression satisfied. “It pleases me you accept my gift without too much resistance.”
She retrieved a bouquet of wild columbine from the seat of her pew and pressed it into Hannah’s hands, then slipped a ring into Quinn’s palm.