It was Jeb who’d come to talk to her now. He cut the cord around her wrists, walked away and came back carrying two tin plates heaped with beans. He handed one to her, pulled a spoon from his pocket and offered it to her. Then he squatted beside her and ate, using the blade of the knife he pulled from his belt.
Ravenous despite the terror, Annabel tucked into her portion. The meal was surprisingly good, spiced with chili peppers and herbs.
Jeb gave her reassuring look. “Girl, we don’t mean to harm you. You must have a rich daddy or a rich husband. If you let us know the address, we’ll send them a note. They’ll pay the ransom, and we’ll let you go. You have my word on it.”
Annabel’s brain kicked into motion.
“Ransom?” she said in a startled tone. “The five hundred dollars was from my sister. All her savings, to buy us a share in the bakery. She won’t pay you a ransom. She’ll kill me with her own bare hands when she learns I’ve lost the money.”
Jeb stared at her. “You’re not rich?”
“Rich?” Annabel gave a snort and put the tin plate down. She pushed up the sleeves of her green velvet jacket and stuck out her hands, turning them this way and that. “Look at these hands. Full of scrapes and calluses. Are they a rich woman’s hands?”
Jeb looked at her hands but did not reply. Annabel stuck out her feet. “Look at these boots. Boys’ riding boots bought secondhand. Are they a rich woman’s boots? Is my battered hat a rich woman’s hat?”
Frowning now, Jeb got up and walked over to Credo. The short, squat man was making coffee by the bonfire, the rowels on his spurs rattling every time he moved. The two men held a muttered conference. Jeb kept his voice too low to carry, but Annabel could hear some of Credo’s words. “Sell her...south of the border...pay well for virgins...”
Her appetite vanished, yet it was important to keep up her strength, so Annabel kept spooning the spicy beans into her mouth and chewing. Beneath the brim of her hat, she watched Jeb amble over. With the sinking sun, deep shadows filled the east-facing canyon, but she could see the troubled frown on his face.
“Girl,” he said as he sank to his haunches and picked up his plate of beans. “Have you ever had a man?”
“Man?” She pretended to be dimwitted. “I had a father before he died.”
Credo swaggered up to them, raked a glance over her. “You a virgin?”
Annabel put her nose in the air and spoke in a haughty tone. “I am eighteen years old and unmarried. What else could I be?”
She could see a flash of disappointment on Credo’s swarthy face. He gave a reluctant nod and moved away again. Annabel released her trapped breath. It had worked. Being a virgin added to her value as merchandise, and for the time being Credo was prepared to let her stay that way.
Darkness descended soon after they’d finished their meal. The air turned cool. A quick burst of rain fell, for only a minute or two, but enough to soak Annabel’s velvet jacket and make her shiver with the chill. The terror inside her flexed its claws. The heavy drops would have wiped out the trail, making it impossible for Clay to find her. No longer could she expect him to come and rescue her. Perhaps it had been a mistake to fool the bandits about the prospect of a ransom.
Jeb got up again, went to the bonfire and argued with Credo. Annabel sensed trouble brewing between the pair. She calculated the odds in her mind. If Jeb killed Credo, she’d go free. If Credo killed Jeb, she might be left unharmed until she’d been sold into slavery in Mexico—it depended on how much influence Nunez had on Credo. If the silent young man with silver studs on his trousers got his way, she’d be raped before Jeb had finished twitching in the throes of death.
* * *
The darkness was solid now, not even a single star in sight. The clouds held the threat of rain, like a thrifty man unwilling to part with his wealth. A few distant flashes of lightning and a rumble of thunder broke the night quiet, but the storm was far away.
Clay eased to his feet. Slowly, letting the horses get used to his smell so they wouldn’t raise an alarm, transferring his weight carefully from foot to foot to avoid making a sound, he edged toward the canyon entrance.
The young Mexican guarding the horses was a heavy smoker. Every now and then, the flare of a match cut the darkness. At other times, Clay could use the orange tip of the burning cigarette to guide him.
He reached the stone pillar, melted like a ghost against the rock and waited. The young Mexican threw the spent cigarette down to the dirt and ground it out with the toe of his boot. Clay waited, his eyes riveted on the darkness. Usually, it took the man a couple of minutes to light up again.
A match flared. Clay watched as the man cupped the flame with his hand and dipped his head to hold the cigarette to the flame. His cheeks hollowed as he puffed. The light fell on his short beard and neatly trimmed moustache.
While the man had his attention on his smoke, Clay darted closer. He’d left his rifle behind and carried the knife in his right hand. Halting like a shadow behind the Mexican, Clay waited until the man straightened and took a deep drag from the burning cigarette, then removed it from his mouth to exhale.
Like an uncoiling snake, Clay pounced. He pressed his left hand against the man’s mouth and used his right hand to slice across the man’s throat. The Mexican emitted a faint gurgle, but Clay covered the sound by scraping his boots against the ground.
Warm blood poured over Clay’s arm. The cloying, metallic scent made nausea rise in his throat, but he conquered the feeling. In utter stillness, he waited until the man went limp, and then he quietly lowered the body to the ground. The horses were shifting restlessly, alerted by the smells of death and danger.
“Nunez?” Jeb called out.
Clay lowered his voice and called back. “De nada. Solo un culebra.” Nothing. Only a snake.
The Mexican had a habit of talking with a cigarette in his mouth, which made his voice slurred, not too difficult to imitate.
Silent on his feet, Clay retreated ten yards, then faced the entrance, raised his voice and called out, “Hello, there in the camp. May I come to the fire?” He dropped his voice to the sullen growl. “Boss, puede pasar?”
“Tell Nunez to check him for weapons,” Jeb ordered Credo.
Credo repeated the order in Spanish.
“I have a Walker Colt snapped into a holster,” Clay shouted back. “No rifle.”
“Come in with your hands held high,” Jeb replied.
Clay walked into the camp, hands raised in the air. It was down to Annabel now. If she didn’t hold her nerve, they would both die. He stepped up to the bonfire, lowered his hands and held them to the flames to warm them. “My horse went lame almost two miles back. Have been walking ever since.”
“We hear no gunshot.” Credo was covering him with a pistol and watching him through narrowed eyes.
“Didn’t shoot him,” Clay replied. “Bandaged the lame foot. Reckon I’ll walk back in the morning and see if it’s any better.” He kept his hands to the fire but took care not to stare at the flames, for the bright light would blind him for a minute or two in the darkness. He spoke to Jeb over his shoulder. “You wouldn’t have a spare horse to sell?”
“Sorry, stranger. No spare horses.”
“Shame,” Clay said. “But if you have coffee, it was worth the walk anyway.”
Jeb hesitated, jerked his chin at Credo. The shorter man knocked a tin cup empty against a stone and poured from the pot. Instead of handing the cup to Clay, he set it on a stone by the fire and stepped back. Both men had their guns out, at least one of them covering Clay at any time.
Clay sat on the ground, took a sip of coffee, nodded his approval. He racked his brain for how to get them talking about the girl. The horses were getting restless about the presence of death. He couldn’t waste time, in case one of the men decided to go and check
on Nunez.
In the end he decided he had to take a chance and open the conversation himself. “I had to walk slowly in the dark, not to trip, and I heard your voices. You know how sound carries in the desert. You were talking about a girl for sale. If you tell me where she is, I might ride over and take a look, provided my horse is up to it.”
“You want a girl?” Credo asked.
“Not for me. But I know people who pay well.”
Credo swaggered, sending the rowels on his spurs jangling. Ignoring Jeb’s warning frown, he went on, his Mexican accent thickening. “Thees one is especial. A virgin.”
“How much?” Clay asked.
“Credo, shut up,” Jeb warned.
Credo spun around. “We sell now. It ees too slow riding with the girl. And Nunez...he ruin the goods if we not stop him.” He turned back to Clay. “One thousand dollars.”
Clay whistled. “That’s a steep price for a girl.”
He glanced over to where Annabel huddled beneath a blanket, beyond the glow of the fire. After the men had fed her, they had tied her hands again and had left her alone.
“All right if I take a look?” Clay asked.
“Sí,” Credo said. “You look. One thousand dollar.”
Clay finished his coffee, got up and stretched his feet, appearing to be in no hurry. He walked over to Annabel. She was watching him with wide, frightened eyes. Her face was pale, her hair disheveled, her hat dangling down her back by its string, but he could see no cuts or bruises.
As he lifted away the blanket, he paused for a fraction of a second to curl his hand over her shoulder, his touch delivering comfort and reassurance. Then he grabbed her by the rawhide cord that tied her wrists together, hauled her to her feet and pulled her to the light of the bonfire.
“She ain’t a blonde,” he complained. “No dark-haired woman is worth a thousand dollars. She’s no different from the Mex women.”
“She’s a virgin,” Jeb said, no longer reluctant to do business.
“So what?” Clay threw back. “How do I know it’s true? By the time I’ve checked for myself she won’t be one no longer. Five hundred is the most I’ll pay for a dark-haired girl, even one that looks as unspoiled as this one.”
He could see a notch of worry appear between Annabel’s brows and understood she was trying to figure out if he had the money or if he was bluffing.
“Eight hundred,” Jeb countered.
Clay pretended to consider the offer, circling Annabel, lifting up her hair, rubbing a strand with his fingers to feel the texture. He lowered his arm down by his side and kicked a pebble with his feet, making a noise to cover the sound as he unsnapped the flap on his holster to free up his gun.
He came to a halt between Annabel and the fire, his back to the flames, his body casting her in shadows. He turned his head to address his words to Jeb. “Do you mind if I untie her wrists? The way her arms are now, I can’t see what she’s got beneath that jacket. Looks a bit on the scrawny side to me.”
Jeb nodded. “Go ahead.”
Slowly, keeping his motion casual, Clay reached down to his boot and pulled out his knife. After he’d killed Nunez he had wiped the blade clean, and the shiny steel glinted in the orange light of the bonfire.
He jerked Annabel’s bound hands upward, stepped close to her and spoke in a voice that was no louder than a rustle of the night breeze. “When I cut you free, grab my gun and spin me around, using me as a shield. Point at Credo. Don’t shoot until I tell you.”
Annabel’s chin dipped in the tiniest of nods. With the tip of the knife, Clay snapped the cord around her wrists. He made a show of nudging her arms aside to get a better look at her breasts, a motion that served to position Annabel’s left hand near the gun in the holster at his hip.
He could feel the gun slide out. With her other hand, Annabel grabbed his arm, spun him a quarter turn and darted around him to hide behind his back. “Don’t move,” she yelled, pointing the gun over the top of his shoulder. “Stay back.”
Clay lifted his hands, still holding the knife. “Don’t shoot,” he called out to the men. “I’ll deal with the hellcat.”
Jeb and Credo crouched, guns at the ready. Clay tensed his muscles against the impact of a bullet. He inched forward. The bonfire was to his left, Jeb directly behind the fire and Credo in front of it.
“Now,” Clay roared. He took a leap forward and aimed a kick at the fire, scattering the firewood. At the same time, he let his arms swing, hurling the knife at Jeb. By his right, Annabel fired the big Walker Colt, too close to his ear. The noise boomed in Clay’s head. He could hear nothing but the thundering echo of it. A fraction of a second later he felt the scrape of a bullet at the top of his shoulder.
On the ground, the burning timber hissed against the earth, still damp from the burst of rain. The flames flickered, sending shadows leaping. The last image before the light faded remained imprinted on Clay’s consciousness.
Jeb, falling to the ground, knife in his heart. And Credo, up on his feet, the barrel of his gun spitting flame. Then there was nothing but darkness, eased only by the glow of orange coals on the ground, like the eyes of the devil peering up from hell.
“Annabel,” he roared. “Give me the gun.”
He could not hear his own voice, only the ringing in his ears. A small hand fumbled at his shoulder, slid down his arm. He felt the heavy Walker Colt pressed into his palm. He adjusted his grip on the handle and moved in the darkness to push Annabel behind him.
“I can’t hear you,” he yelled. “How many times did you shoot?”
She tapped his shoulder once.
“Get down.” He could not tell if he was shouting or speaking too quietly.
Annabel gave his shoulder a quick series of taps, like a head shaking. He felt the current of air as she hurried away. The burning coals moved on the ground. For a moment, Clay thought he was becoming disoriented, but then he realized Annabel was kicking the coals back into a heap.
The campfire flickered into flame. From the corner of his eye Clay could see Annabel crouching to add more wood into the fire. He surveyed the darkness around them, saw no movement. Annabel came to stand in front of him. Her lips were moving.
He shook his head, pointed at his ear. “Can’t hear.”
She nodded, held up one finger, jabbed it against her heart. She held up two fingers, jabbed her forefinger against her head.
“Dead?” Clay said. “You shot Credo?”
Annabel shook her head and spread her hands wide, palms up, looking baffled. Then she held up three fingers, her brows lifted in question. What happened to the third man? Clay held up three fingers, slashed his hand across his throat. Annabel’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, merely stepped into him. Clay wrapped his arms around her and hauled her to his chest and held her tight.
He could have lost her. The thought filled him with an aching emptiness that felt worse than the neglect of his childhood, worse than all those lonely years in the orphanage, worse than the combined deaths of everyone he’d ever loved.
There were things to do, but he didn’t want to let go of Annabel just yet, didn’t want to break the contact that reassured him she was safe. Lowering his head, he kissed her, hard and deep. Emotions buffeted him, frightening in their intensity—relief and something else, something so bold and powerful he found it impossible to deal with now, with death all around them.
Clay lifted his head and cupped Annabel’s face between his hands and studied her features in the flickering light of the fire. Looking at her filled him with a strange new awe that had something timeless and solemn about it, but figuring out what it meant had to wait. With regret he eased their bodies apart.
“Sit by the fire,” he told her. “I’ll look around.”
He could still hear nothing but ringing in his ears. Th
e lack of sound surrounded him with an eerie sense of isolation. He picked up a stick of wood, held it to the fire until the tip blazed and he could hold it up like a torch.
He checked Jeb first, retrieved his knife and wiped the blade clean on the dead man’s shirt. Next, he inspected Credo. A neat hole punctured the man’s forehead, just as Annabel had indicated. The bullet she’d fired from his Colt had grazed the man’s shoulder, a minor injury but enough to spoil Credo’s aim as he fired at them.
The bullet that killed Credo must have come from Wolfson’s gun. Where was the man? Clay straightened on his feet, lifted the torch high to illuminate the darkness. “Wolfson!” he yelled, his voice muffled inside his head. “It’s okay to come out now.”
Annabel tugged at his sleeve. Clay turned around. Her lips were moving, her brows lifted in concern, and he could guess her question. The thoughts he’d suppressed earlier crowded into his mind. What was Wolfson to her? What power did the man have that made her so afraid to admit the connection between them? And was that power something that could come between them, destroy their partnership?
“Yeah,” he replied. “The fancy gent rode along. He must have shot Credo and taken a hit. We need to find him, see if there’s anything we can do for him.” He held up the torch to shine the light on Annabel. “Will you be all right on your own while I search for him?”
Her eyes were full of fear, her face deathly pale. Instead of replying, she reached up and grabbed the torch from him. Rushing around in the darkness, she searched the ground for an injured man.
As Clay stood by and watched, something hard and unyielding settled in the pit of his belly. Time after time, Annabel had told him she didn’t know Wolfson, but her panic was not for a stranger.
He hadn’t had a chance to tell her that the preacher in Hillsboro had gone off for a tour of the mining camps, to raise funds for building a church. They would have to wait for his return before they could be married. Just as well, Clay thought as he heard Annabel calling out in the darkness. He couldn’t make out the name, but he could tell it was something other than Wolfson.
From Runaway to Pregnant Bride Page 19