Miracle Jones

by Nancy Bush

  She raised the knife overhead, her hand taut and shaking.

  “Then we’ll get you out of here,” he added, pulling back to smile at her through warm, seductive eyes.

  But it was too late. The knife was already arcing downward. Less than a heartbeat later, Miracle plunged it with devastating thoroughness into the smooth, hard muscles of his back.

  Chapter Two

  “Oh, my God!” she cried aloud in horrified disbelief.

  The instant the knife entered his back, Harrison stiffened and bit back a rasp of pain. Miracle’s hand was sweaty on the handle. It went limp, her arm flopping to the hay. Harrison slumped against her, gasping. The lantern sent a beam of light onto the knife, driven to its hilt into his back, and glinted off it mockingly in front of Miracle’s tortured gaze.

  She may have killed him!

  “Harrison,” she whispered in a trembling voice, a catch in her throat.

  He didn’t respond, but she could feel the reassuring beat of his heart against her chest. He was still alive! She hastily thanked the Christian God she believed in – and a few of the Chinook gods for good measure – then called on every ounce of courage she possessed to grab the hilt of the knife once more. Closing her eyes, she yanked it out.

  The husky cry of pain he emitted scraped along Miracle’s already frayed nerves. She touched the wound automatically, checking it. Blood welled stickily around her fingers.

  In that instant she realized she’d worsened her own situation. She couldn’t escape and leave him here. She had to take him with her, try to save him, but how?

  Grinding her teeth together, she silently cursed herself. But was it her fault that she’d assumed the worst? Blasted all, the man had paid for her, hadn’t he?

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” she said desperately, more to bolster her own resolve than in any hopes he might actually hear.

  “You stabbed me,” he mumbled thickly. “You had a knife.”

  Miracle’s pulse leapt. He could talk! “I – didn’t know you were –” she cut herself off. There would be time later for explanations. “We must leave,” she said urgently.

  “Go,” he said.

  “Not without you.”

  She wriggled from beneath him, hurting inside at the groan that escaped his lips. Scrambling to her feet, she glanced around the small room. There was no way out! She ran to the door, testing it. It moved about an inch when she pushed against it, but it was latched by a hook. Downstairs, the sounds had quieted. But upstairs, in the grain room next to hers, she heard the unmistakable sounds of a man taking his pleasure.

  She shuddered and bit down on her lower lip, frowning in thought.

  Harrison rolled to his side. In her frantic state it took her several moments to realize she saw the butt of a gun sticking out above his belt buckle. She ran back to him, crouching at his side.

  “You have a gun!” she said excitedly.

  His answer was a grunt.

  “I need it!” She reached for it and yelped in surprise when his left hand grabbed her wrist with hard strength.

  He squinted at her. “Whad’re you gonna do with it?”

  “Get us out of here.”

  She grabbed the butt of the gun, sliding it carefully into her grasp. It was a small pearl-handled revolver. Miracle checked to see if it was loaded. She had no idea whether she would actually be able to shoot someone if she had to, but this was no time to be faint-hearted.

  “Can you get to your feet?” she asked swiftly.

  “Yes.”

  His voice was quiet, tense. He didn’t move for several moments; she could tell he was gathering his strength.

  “Let me help,” she said, sliding an arm around his back. His skin was warm beneath his shirt, too warm, almost feverish. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip. Miracle had never felt so guilty in her life.

  “Okay,” he said through his teeth. Then, with a lurch and a groan that was torn from the depths of his soul, he staggered to his feet, leaning on Miracle heavily for support. Anxiously, she led him toward the door.

  It was arduous going, each step taking its own toll. His breath rasped harshly in her ear. Miracle swallowed. It seemed they moved with painstaking slowness. Her nerves were screaming to hurry. When they finally reached the door, Miracle glanced back – and saw both her knife and the smaller one he’d used to saw through her bonds lying on the rumpled blanket.

  He leaned his right shoulder against the wall, panting, his eyes closed. Throwing him an anxious look, Miracle swept back for the knives; a gun was fine, but she’d learned well the advisability of having extra weapons.

  “Here,” she said, slipping the smaller knife into his pocket. Refusing to look at her own bloodstained weapon, she shoved it into a pocket of her skirt, then lifted the revolver with both hands, aiming at the door.

  “You plannin’ to shoot that lock off?”

  She glanced at him. His eyes were slits. Nodding, she swallowed against a throat that felt filled with sand. She was angry and alarmed to see how badly her hands shook. Why, why, could she feel so calm and cool in her mind, yet her body shook like a newborn lamb?

  “Hand it to me.”

  She glanced at him in dismay. “The gun?”

  He nodded, lifting his left hand for her to give it to him. Miracle hesitated.

  “Do it,” he ordered through his teeth, and this time she turned the butt of the revolver his way.

  She had barely stumbled backward when he fired. The explosion rang in Miracle’s ears. Shards of wood flew like arrows. Cordite filled the air. Miracle’s arms flew upward to protect her face, but now she waved away the smoke. The lock had broken off, taking a sizable chunk of wood with it.

  Screams of fear sounded from the other room.

  Harrison didn’t wait. He heaved himself through the choking, stirred-up dust and out the door. Miracle scrambled behind, coughing, and they both stepped into a narrow hallway, empty save for the sounds of a woman shrieking, men cursing, and stumbling, rapid footsteps.

  A ladder was the only means to the first floor.

  Miracle’s eyes glanced anxiously at Harrison’s set face. His pallor was ashen. There was no way he could make it down; she was certain of that.

  “I’ll go for help,” she said.

  He ignored her, walking in measured steps to the ladder. With an immense effort of will that awed Miracle, he positioned himself to start down. In that moment she saw the effects of her knife wound. His cotton shirt was stained through, dark red on his back in a blood-soaked circle. Nausea filled the back of her throat. How he could still move was a mystery.

  He caught her eye and must have read her horror. “Come on,” he told her furiously, then took the first few rungs.

  She felt lightheaded and had to shake herself to keep going. There was noise everywhere: pounding feet, hoarse shouts of confusion, women’s screams. Miracle tucked her skirts in one hand and slung a booted foot over the top rung.

  A cry below sounded, then a crash. Miracle glanced down, her pulse stampeding through her veins. Harrison had fallen the last few feet!

  She scrambled down after him, her perspiring palms missing the last few rungs so she tumbled down beside him. “Harrison! Harrison!”

  “Help me up,” he gritted through white lips.

  It was then that she smelled the pungent odor of smoke. Real smoke. Not from gunfire but from burning wood. Miracle’s eyes widened with terror as she swung her gaze from one cobweb-shrouded corner of the barn to another. In front of her was a table, turned over as if someone had shoved it out of his way. Barrels lay tipped on their sides. One, apparently full of beer, dripped steadily from a hole in its side. Not a soul was in sight. Everyone was either upstairs or gone.

  Miracle’s heart beat hard. The scent of smoke grew stronger, stinging her nose. Though there was no evidence of fire, there soon would be. She was certain someone had set fire to the barn deliberately!

  “Hellfire and damnation!” she ground out.
Don’t I have enough to worry about, Lord?

  She reached for Harrison, half pulling, half dragging him to his feet. Her arms went around his back, her fingers warm and sticky with blood.

  A voice shouted from outside. Miracle could only catch several phases, but it was enough to make her freeze with terror. “…the sheriff… the roof’s going… they’ll all be dead… hell to pay for killing Danner…”

  Instinct took over. Taking his weight as best she could, Miracle fought back a surge of panic and aimed for the main door. A bright flash of brilliant light shot in front of her eyes as an enflamed rafter crashed to the floor. Flurries of sparks singed Miracle’s hair, burning in bright spots through her clothes.

  Harrison muttered and swore. They’d reached the door, and he struggled to stand. Miracle’s hands groped for the handle and she yanked with all her strength, pulling the door inward. Black smoke billowed around her, burning her eyes. She held her arm to her mouth, fighting to see. Figures of men stood beyond the screen of smoke, silent sentinels to the devastation in front of them, immobile and uncaring, to Miracle’s way of thinking.

  Tightening her grip around Harrison’s waist, she felt him close his arms around her. Swiftly, she pulled him outside. Sensing secrecy was needed, Miracle held her breath and guided him into the densest shroud of the smoke, praying they wouldn’t die from smoke inhalation in their bid for escape.

  She snorted to herself. Wasn’t it just like her blasted luck to near murder the one man who cared enough to save her?

  ¤ ¤ ¤

  “You see somebody there?” The dark-haired man closest to the raging fire demanded sharply, his hand reaching automatically for the Colt .45 his men had stolen from the peddler’s wagon.

  Brody Stephenson, the man Miracle knew as Gruff Voice, squinted against the stinging smoke. His eyes watered, and his nose burned. “Nah.”

  “I doan’ see no one,” offered Jeb. “They’ll all be dead.”

  “I saw something,” the dark-haired man said. With cruel intent he lifted the Colt and fired all six bullets into the black, shifting curtain of smoke.

  “Sheriff’s gonna be here for sure,” Jeb said nervously. “We gotta go.”

  “Not until I’m sure it’s burned to the ground,” the dark-haired man bit out.

  The sound of the fire was a wild roar which rose to the mountains like a last dying scream. Heat blasted at the men, forcing them backward.

  “Mebbe we shouldn’t’a burned it,” Brody muttered fearfully.

  The dark-haired man rewarded this observation with a slam of his gun butt against Brody’s temple, crumpling the larger man into an ungainly heap.

  “Pick him up,” he ordered Jeb, and stepped into the darker shadows, away from the blast furnace heat, his eyes narrowed against the smoke. He was going to wait until the place was ash. There could be no one left alive who might recognize either him or his men.

  Jeb dragged Brody to one side, swearing all the way. “Too bad we couldn’t’a kept one of them women.”

  The dark-haired man scowled. “We would have had to gotten rid of her later,” he disagreed, though in truth the taste of danger always stirred his passion, and he would have liked to relieve himself with one of the whores – or better yet, the black-haired witch that Jeb had moaned about ever since he and Brody had captured her.

  His gaze centered on the attic rooms, now only flaming posts reaching for the sky like a praying woman, where Jeb and Brody had sent the woman to be used. Too late now. She was dead. But they’d received fat payment for her.

  “What about Garrett?” He asked Jeb in sudden anger, his thoughts never even touching on the bushy-eyebrowed man Jeb had killed; he’d been forgotten before he hit the ground.

  “We’ll catch up with him in Rock Springs.”

  “He’ll remember you.”

  “Nah. He was goin’ under. Jes’ had a bit too much to drink.” Jeb’s teeth flashed in an evil grin.

  Beyond, the sound of thundering hoofbeats approached. The dark-haired man helped Jeb pull Brody into the underbrush, then they settled back to wait, guns cocked in case any of the lawmen decided to do too thorough of a job searching.

  Pain had dulled Harrison’s mind. He couldn’t think. Half of him wanted to run like hell; the other half wanted to surrender to a nameless peace that seemed to reach out to him like a beckoning child.

  There was something pushing him, however, urgently directing him. Smoke filled his nostrils and left its burned taste on his tongue. Each movement was like stinging nettles, and he sensed it signified something much worse.

  He tried to lie down but was unable to. Something was impelling his feet ever forward. It made him furious, and he swore aloud. His right arm throbbed. Gainsborough, you bastard, he thought incoherently, remembering the man who’d nearly cost him his right arm.

  He smelled pine trees and felt the cool wind. Where the hell was he? He had a vague sense of passing time, but he couldn’t remember where and when and what he was doing. This realization was more frightening than the pain which he’d now accepted as a companion.

  “Stop!” he yelled, then was shocked at the sound of his own voice.

  “We can’t stop,” a feminine voice responded urgently. “Not yet. They’re shooting at us! Keep moving. We’re almost there.”

  Almost there… He didn’t know where they were going. Didn’t care. All that mattered was that they were almost there. The scent of smoke lingered in his nostrils, but it began to fade. He stumbled and heard the crunch of dried grass. Each footstep jarred.

  Twenty paces later his legs went numb, and he slipped down, down, down, to the waiting arms of the beckoning child in his dreams.

  Miracle nearly fell over when Harrison sank into unconsciousness. Her arms ached from his weight, her knees buckled. She tumbled down to the ground with him rather than let him fall.

  Then she glanced around her in fear. They weren’t far enough into the woods. Someone could find them. The men waiting along the periphery of the fire had shot at them, for God’s sake!

  She shook her head. Survival was all she could think of. It had taken her an hour to get Harrison this far away, an hour of the most painstaking, anxious moments of her life. Imagination clawed at her brain, waking her worst fears. She was sure Jeb was alive and after her. His stained teeth were imprinted on her mind. It was fear of being caught again that kept her going, tapping the limits of her strengths.

  But now Harrison was unconscious. She could no longer carry him. For the longest moment she lay beside him, utterly still, hearing the night sounds close in around her: the hoot of an owl, the scurrying feet of some night creature, the throaty chorus of frogs.

  It was the frogs that convinced her water was nearby. Now that she listened, she could hear something. Not the gurgle of the stream, more a soft lapping. She was surprised. They must be much farther from the road than she suspected.

  Gently, Miracle pulled herself away from Harrison. She climbed to her feet and listened. Yes, somewhere nearby was water. With growing anticipation, she glanced around her. She’d been trying to move parallel to the Rock Springs road, and now she reckoned they weren’t all that far from the spot where she’d been kidnapped. Could she dare hope the wagon would still be there?

  Thoughts of the wagon reminded her of Uncle Horace, and she shut her mind down. She had too much to worry about. Later, much later, she could examine that particular fear. For now she had to find safety for herself and the man who’d tried to rescue her.

  Grasping him beneath his arms, she muttered, “This is going to hurt,” to her unconscious companion. Straining, she pulled him further into the underbrush.

  He moaned and thrashed, but Miracle persevered. By the time she reached a small clearing hidden beneath a canopy of cedar boughs, she was drenched with sweat. She was near exhaustion herself, but she had no time to rest.

  Dropping to her knees, she listened to his heartbeat. It was still steady and strong. The thrust of her knife had obviousl
y missed vital tissue.

  Thank you, Lord, for this small favor, she prayed sardonically.

  The scent of smoke was still heavy in the air. The barn was still burning. Leaning against the bole of a tree, Miracle felt a treacherous languor creep over her. Not now. Not yet. Later. This man needed her, and she needed the elixirs in her wagon to help him.

  Shaking herself awake, she breathed deeply, then slipped out of the one petticoat she wore. She didn’t have time to bind his wound. Instead, she slipped the material beneath his blood-soaked shirt in an attempt to keep the area clean. The fact that he didn’t fight her ministrations scared her. Even unconscious, he’d moaned and slapped at her hands until now.

  “Don’t you dare die!” she told him angrily.

  He lay on his side, his head lolled back. She needed a blanket, and elixirs, and herbs to help him. There was only one course of action to take. Though it scared her to leave him, she headed back toward the road, hoping her wagon was still where it had been left.

  As soon as she was within earshot of the road, she heard the distant sound of pounding hoofbeats. From the barn, or to it? Spurred into action, she swept back into the deep underbrush.

  The muffled gallop on the dirt track raced past Miracle in the direction of the barn. The sheriff? she wondered with a squeeze of her heart. She had no faith in the law – especially now that she’d stabbed a white man.

  Miracle had no choice but to wait until it was safe. Time passed. She thought about her quest to find her father. She would be lucky now to come through this adventure alive. What a fool she’d been to disregard the warnings about this stretch of road! Because of her, and her urgent need to get to Rock Springs and find out if the rumors that her father lived there were true, she’d put the lives of Harrison and Uncle Horace in jeopardy!

  Noise carried easily in the night air, and eventually she realized all was silent and had been for some time. Climbing to her feet, Miracle distractedly brushed dead, dry grass from her hair. She wanted to walk on the road, but knew better than to tempt fate. Instead she crept through the underbrush, her ears alert for every sound, her own movements magnified till she was sure she sounded like a charging herd of elephants. She bit back a curse that would have singed Aunt Emily’s ears as a branch clawed into her hair. Blast it all. Would she ever get there?