But he couldn’t. The driver saw the threat coming and set his whip to his team. The stage began to race wildly, careening down the rutted trail through the wilderness. The guard was up on one knee from his position on the box, firing at the Indians, who were converging on the stage.
The Indians were nearly naked. Some were in leather leggings and vests, their bronze arms gleaming, ink black hair waving, bare flesh covered with paint. Some wore only breech-clouts, and more of their muscled, gleaming flesh was apparent.
As Blade raced in behind the war party, one Apache fell from his horse, caught by a shot from the stage guard’s rifle. Blade fired with his Colt, bringing down a lagging rider. Then, as he spurred his bay gelding to greater speed, he saw another rifle appear, from the window of the stage.
She was firing. The very elegant and beautiful Mrs. Dylan was firing from the stage window. She hit one of the Apaches in the shoulder and the man shrieked out in pain and fury, flying from his mount onto the dirt of the trail. Within seconds, Blade’s fine bay was leaping over the fallen man.
He could hear the stage driver shouting to the horses. “Get up, get up!” The whip cracked in the air. The remaining five Apaches were closing in, Blade close on their heels. He aimed and fired again. Missed. Fired, and took one of the men from the rear.
He felt a bullet whiz by his ear and he ducked lower against the bay.
Suddenly, Blade heard a grinding sound. He was just taking aim again when he realized that the treacherous trail and reckless speed were causing the stagecoach to capsize. The vehicle was wavering, rocking … crashing down hard upon its side. The horses, jerked back in the fall, screamed and whinnied, tripping over the harness and themselves. The driver flew wide, the guard flew farther. The Apaches, four now, ignored them, converging on the compartment.
On the woman.
No fire rang out from the compartment. Was she dead? Blade wondered, and his heart seemed to slam hard against his chest. Damn her, she should never have been here!
Another bullet seemed to chip at the flesh on Blade’s cheek, it came so close. He instantly returned the fire. An Apache made a clean fall into the dust. His three companions hurried on, one wrenching at the door to the passenger compartment, the other pausing upon the downed structure to aim his rifle at Blade.
Blade leapt from his horse, diving into the dirt just in time to miss the shot. The Apache stalked, his knife gleaming. The muscled warrior slammed against him like a living wall of brick, and they tumbled in the dirt. Blade found himself on his back, the Apache straddled over him, hatred in his black eyes, cold fury constricting his hard features. The Apache’s knife glittered right over his eyes, coming closer and closer.
Blade gripped the Apache’s wrist, knowing that he fought for his life, that the Mescalero would offer him no mercy. Their eyes met. For aeons, it seemed, they were suspended in time and space, neither able to best the other. From the corner of Blade’s eye, he could see that the other survivor of the attacking war party had wrenched open the door.
And found the woman. The one the driver had called Mrs. Dylan.
She was unconscious, and that was why she had stopped fighting. Unconscious, or dead.
Her hair had come free from the knot at her nape. It hung down from her lolling head like a waving sheet of pure golden fire. The Apache was about to take her with him.
And she would disappear forever.…
He gritted his teeth, straining harder against his enemy. Black eyes met black eyes. Then, with a tremendous burst of energy, Blade shoved against the man, flipping him. Their positions were changed, but the Apache still held the knife, wickedly long, sharp silver, flashing in the afternoon sunlight. Blade stared at it, tightening his grip upon the Apache’s wrist. The warrior suddenly cried out. The knife fell.
Blade used his fist then, hard against the Apache’s chin. His enemy went limp. Blade leapt up, catching the last Indian just as he was about to mount his horse.
Mrs. Dylan came to just then. Immense emerald eyes opening to see the painted man carrying her away. She let out a wild shriek, her arms flying, nails raking. The Apache threw her down as she drew his blood, then the flat of his hand connected hard with her cheek. She cried out and started to rise again, true alarm blazing in her eyes.
But Blade caught the man’s shoulder just then, swinging him around.
The Apache was good. He caught Blade in the jaw before Blade could duck. For a moment, Blade saw stars. Then he saw that the Apache meant to take the advantage, and he quickly countered with a fierce blow to the Apache’s gut. The man started to double. Blade joined his fists together and brought them down on the Apache’s nape. The Indian fell with a whish of air and a grunt. Blade rubbed his knuckle for a minute, looking at the fallen brave. Then he stared over to where she lay, arms pushing up against the dirt. Breathing hard, she stared at him.
What was she thinking? One bronzed savage for another? he wondered. She was the one who had propositioned him.
He reached out a hand to her. She accepted it, rising gracefully. “I told you to go home,” he said.
Her chin was high. “And if you had accepted my offer, you could have been making some gain for what you just did for free.”
“Go home.”
“I’m trying to go home.”
“Go back East.”
“I have nothing back East.”
“Well, what do you have here? You nearly had yourself a whole tribe of Mescalero Apaches! What good would that have done you?”
Her emerald eyes surveyed him with a level cool. “But it didn’t happen. You came back.”
“Yes, that’s right. And you’ve already agreed that you might be a fitting payment for me, so maybe it wouldn’t make much difference to you if a dozen or so Apaches were to demand their own payment.”
Her hand lashed out to strike him. But he was quick, ready for anything she might do, and his fingers were winding around her wrist before she could touch his flesh. He wanted to shake her. Shake her until she understood what an idiot she was; she was a rose on a barren landscape, a delicate flower trying to root in stone.
He wanted her to know just what she was willing to offer. No, he wanted her, period. Right then and there, on the dust of the plain, hard and fast. He would show her how raw and wild the world could be. How savage. How damned cruel, and savage.…
“Thank the Lord above us!” The dry cackle sounded before Blade could say or do a thing. It was the stage driver, picking his way over the shivering, frightened horses and harness to reach him and Mrs. Dylan. “It’s you again. I’m telling you, young fellow, you deserve some kind of commendation! Gold, my man, gold! Something to set you up fine in the West. The investors in this company will surely be willing to pay something, I’m right damned sure of it—oh, pardon for the language, Mrs. Dylan, I do beg your pardon.”
“Oh, I imagine Mrs. Dylan can deal with a little rough language, old-timer,” Blade said dryly. “She seems to deal well enough with just about everything else.”
Her emerald eyes were locked with Blade’s black ones. She didn’t say a word for the longest time, just stared at him. Then she turned to the driver. “Shorty, what will we do now? Can the stage be righted? What about the horses?”
“We’ll have to get them up and see how they fared,” Shorty said.
The guard, his broken rifle dangling uselessly from his hands, was standing by the lead horses. He threw his rifle aside with disgust and reached down, running his hands over the haunches of the first horse. “This fellow seems to be in one piece. We just need to get them up carefully. They’re sure to be all bruised up and frightened. Can’t let them panic again or they’ll strangle us and themselves in the harness. You’ve done us fair and fine so far, sir,” he said, tipping his hat to Blade, “if you wouldn’t mind giving us a few more minutes of your time …”
Shorty snorted. “What about these fellows?” He indicated the Apaches. “Some of them just might come to—madder than a hive of bees!
”
“You deal with them, Shorty. Tie ’em up if’n you don’t want to shoot them. I need this young buck—” The guard broke off, wincing at the term he had used for Blade. Buck. Indian. Like the Apaches on the ground.
Blade smiled, walking toward the guard and the horses. “Sioux,” he said briefly. “My mother is Oglala. She’s gone now, but I still miss the family. I go back whenever I can. There’s nothing like a good scalping raid to get the juices flowing, you know?”
He stepped past the man, placed one hand on the lead horse’s nose and one on the harness. He whispered softly to the horse. “Easy.…”
With a simple pull, the animal was up. The other horses followed suit, one screaming with pain. Blade walked around to the animal, running his hand over the sweating flank.
“Broken,” he told the guard. “You’re going to have to put this one down, and reharness the others.”
By that time, Shorty—with the elite Mrs. Dylan’s help—had tied up the Apaches. Blade was surprised they hadn’t just shot the Indians. The white men seemed to find the Apaches and Comanches the most savage of the Plains Indians—well, along with Paiutes, maybe, since they believed in human sacrifice, with or without white men around. Many white people didn’t think that they were shooting people, they just acted as though they were putting down animals—just the way they were going to have to put down the horse.
But Shorty didn’t seem to be that kind. He was still grinning. Blade might have given the stage guard a turn with his talk about scalping parties, but he could see that Shorty knew it had just been talk. Shorty seemed to know that whether or not Blade was dressed like a white man, he had no intention of ever pretending to be anything but what he was—a half-breed, one damned proud of the breed part of the term. Blade admired his mother’s people, loved his grandfather and loved their way of life—the hunting, the fishing, the warmth in the tepee in the cold of the night.…
But he couldn’t go back right now. He had lived in the white man’s world with his father, and had seen too much. He had seen his father killed, along with the others. His Sioux grandfather would understand, as other men might not, that there were things he had to do. Or he could never go back.
“It’s going to take some time to get this harness back in shape,” Shorty said, scratching his head. He looked at Blade. “Think you could take Mrs. Dylan on in for us, sir?”
Blade smiled, lowering his head, conscious of the fact that Shorty was an all right old fellow. “I—”
“I don’t mind waiting,” Mrs. Dylan said flatly, chin high. She was oblivious to the trail dust on her cheeks and gown and unaware of the elegant mantle her hair created, streaming down her back. “There’s a rock over there—”
“And every Indian in the territory might be out in two minutes, once they see the gleam of your hair,” Blade warned her coolly. “They’re enterprising fellows. Even if they’re not interested themselves, they do a lot of trading with the Comancheros. White slavery. It’s a booming business.”
She gritted her teeth and flashed him a heated gaze. “I’ve come this far—”
“Mrs. Dylan, ma’am, it would be a fine favor to both Sam and myself if you would be so good as to ride on into town with this gentleman,” Shorty said.
“This gentleman?” she inquired sweetly, staring at Blade.
Blade grinned, staring in turn. “Renegade, half-breed. Do them the favor, Mrs. Dylan. You’re dangerous. You’re going to get these nice old men killed.”
She inhaled, blinking briefly, then she turned to Shorty. “I’ll ride on in with—” she broke off, arching a brow at Blade. “With—?”
“McKenna, Mrs. Dylan,” Blade chimed in. “My name is McKenna.”
Her brow remained arched, as if she wasn’t convinced he could really have a name like McKenna. “I’ll ride in with Mr. McKenna,” she told Shorty.
“We’ll have your things in just as soon as can be, Mrs. Dylan,” Shorty assured her. “Just go on into the Jackson Prairie boardinghouse. Mrs. Peabody will see to your needs. And we’ll be there mighty soon, I swear it.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said. She turned to Blade. He strode over to his bay and waited for her to join him. She hesitated at the horse. He wondered if she wouldn’t leap right up, but if she was going to do so, she was certainly taking her time. Without further ado, he set his hands on her waist and hiked her up on his bay.
It felt good to hold her so, Blade thought. Good to feel her beneath his touch. She was elegantly slim, but he could feel the curves of her hips and the heat that burned through her.… He leapt up behind her, arms encircling her as he took the reins.
Her back went very stiff against his chest. She could feel him, too. He was damned sure of it. She was so very much aware of him behind her, touching her.
“Is this a long ride, McKenna?” she demanded.
“You want it to be a short one, is that it, Mrs. Dylan?”
“Well, it seems that the sooner we are out of one another’s company—”
“What happened to ‘thank you’?”
“What?”
“What happened to ‘thank you’?” Blade repeated. “I did just save your life. Or, at the very least, your freedom and virtue. The last doesn’t seem to mean a great deal to you, but surely the first of those does!”
She twisted in the saddle. For a moment he saw the green fire in her eyes. She was itching to slap him. Hard. Gouge into his eyes, probably.
“Don’t even think about it,” he warned her softly, and leaned very close to her earlobe, breathing in the sweet scent of her, feeling again the miraculous warmth of her. “You want a fast ride, Mrs. Dylan? You’ve got one!”
And he spurred his bay.
The fine, faithful horse took off in a staggering leap, and the three of them began to race against the plain, against the dying day, for Jackson Prairie.
Chapter Three
Blade’s horse barely slowed its gait as they came into Jackson Prairie, racing through the roads on the outskirts, slowing to a trot only when they reached the one big street that slashed through the town—Main Street by name. Most everything was right there. There was a bank—the First Savings and Loan of Jackson Prairie—and there were numerous shops, including Harvey’s Barber and Mercantile Shop, and Mrs. Havover’s Domestications. There was a dentist’s shop, Dr. Weatherly Dayton, M.D., a tailor, a cooper, and more. There were two blacksmiths, and there was plenty of trade for both of them, and their shops were in either direction off Main Street, one being on South Street, and one being on North Street.
Mrs. Peabody’s boardinghouse was dead center on Main Street, directly across from the Jackson Prairie Bar and Saloon. Blade reined in on Mallory, his big bay, right in front of the boardinghouse, slipping off the horse’s back quickly and reaching up for Mrs. Dylan.
Her hair was exquisitely windblown, completely freed from its dignified knot, a wild mane of fire and gold all around her. Her eyes seemed brighter still against it, furious with the recklessness of his wild ride, he imagined, and yet meeting his eyes with that challenge that never faltered. He had his hands around her waist so there was little she could do but set hers upon his shoulders as he lifted her down. She was close, so close, sliding against the length of his body. His jaw locked and then his whole damned body seemed to lock. And since she wasn’t wearing more than one thin petticoat, she must have felt the rock hardness of his body, just as he felt each sweet curve and nuance of hers. He suddenly wanted to throw her from him—simply because he was so very loath to let her go.
She opened her mouth as if she were about to say something to him, but just then the door to the establishment, which was up two steps to the wooden sidewalk, suddenly opened, and they swung around together.
Mrs. Peabody stood there, surely having heard them ride up. She was a portly lady with very round blue eyes and silver hair and a quick, easy smile. “Good evening,” she told them pleasantly, looking them both up and down. “Why, it’s Mr. McKenna,�
� she murmured, smiling.
Blade didn’t come into many towns, and he didn’t give his name out often. But if there was any place he’d managed to feel that he belonged in the last few harsh years, it had been here. It was the closest thing he’d known to home—since his own had been burned to the ground. There were few people he really liked, fewer still he really trusted. Mrs. Peabody was one of the even fewer still that he liked and trusted.
“Evening, ma’am,” he told her, then realized that he was still holding the golden-haired Mrs. Dylan by the waist.
And Mrs. Dylan was still holding him by the shoulders.
Her hands snatched suddenly free from him.
“Is this Mrs. McKenna, sir?” Mrs. Peabody asked. “Will there be one room needed for the night, or two?”
“Two!” Mrs. Dylan said swiftly, smoothing down her crumpled blouse, then the wild mane of her hair. She took two steps away from Blade, meeting Mrs. Peabody’s kindly gaze. “I’m Jessica Dylan, Mrs. Peabody. I’ll be staying a few days, if you’ve got room.”
“Why of course, Miss Dylan—”
“Mrs. Dylan,” Blade corrected politely. He decided to enlighten Mrs. Peabody. “There was some trouble with Mrs. Dylan’s stage.”
“Apaches!” Mrs. Peabody exclaimed, holding her heart.
“Yes, but it turned out all right.”
“Mr. McKenna is very resourceful,” Jessica Dylan said, and it sounded as though she were trying to speak while grating her teeth all the while.
“Mrs. Dylan isn’t bad herself—with her fists or a rifle,” Blade said pleasantly.
“Well, that’s wonderful, young woman, just wonderful!” Mrs. Peabody applauded. “You come right on up here, Mrs. Dylan, and we’ll get you squared away. I’ll put you in the blue room and have a tub of hot water brought in right away so that you can bathe off the prairie dust and tension!” She came down the steps and slipped a matronly arm around the younger woman’s shoulders, sniffing over her shoulder to Blade as if he was somehow responsible for the things that men did in general. He lowered his head, grinning, and followed as Mrs. Peabody led Jessica Dylan up the steps and into the foyer.
Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings Page 2