by Jill Gregory
With a nod to Meg, he got to his feet and started toward the double doors. But Ginger grabbed his arm, clinging to him, all of her desperation to win him back welling up in her once more.
“Hey, honey, where are you going? I thought we were headed over to the hotel.”
“Sorry, Ginger, this can’t wait.” He disengaged himself from her clutching hands, and strode from the brightly lit saloon into the gray calm of the threatening dust storm, leaving Ginger open-mouthed and indignant, her outraged shriek drowned in the din as the music blared on and the miners and cowboys yelled for more whisky.
Chapter Seventeen
Bryony clung frantically to Shadow’s reins as the mustang whipped around a curve in the mountain path. His hooves pounded as he raced past huge boulders and scrub brush, oblivious of the swiftly rising, whistling wind that engulfed them.
Her hat had blown off, leaving her head unprotected against the whirling dust, but she paid no heed. Her ears strained for the sounds of pursuit and she thought she caught a horse’s neigh from below, farther down the mountain, and even more alarmingly, the drumming of galloping hooves.
It seemed to her that the sounds were not as close as they’d been at first, so perhaps she and Shadow had gained some distance from the Indians. Unfortunately, she immediately realized that the fainter sounds might be due to the wind that muffled everything as it tore past, hurling clouds of swirling dust and sand down from the mountain. A little sob rose in her throat. How could she possibly hope to escape? The going was bound to get rougher as she climbed farther up the mountain, and in the end, the Apaches would catch her. What then?
She shuddered in realization of her probable fate, and a horrible chilling terror turned her body to ice. But she couldn’t give up trying to save herself, however futile the attempt, and she bent low over Shadow’s billowing mane, letting it brush her tear-streaked face as she desperately urged the mustang stallion on.
He virtually flew along the mountain path, his mighty hooves remarkably sure-footed on the treacherous terrain. Bryony knew that if she’d been riding any other mount, her pursuers would have probably caught her already, and she blessed the horse that carried her so swiftly. Even still, she knew that she couldn’t ride forever—it was only a matter of time before the Indians overtook her.
Even if she tried to hide somewhere on the mountain, the Apaches were skilled trackers and would find her with ease. Terrified, she buried her face in Shadow’s mane. She almost envied Shorty his quick, relatively painless death, for she feared that her own fate would be far more hideous...
Suddenly, an ominous rattling sound pierced the thick air and before she could react, Shadow reared up, panic-stricken, his forelegs raking the air.
With a scream, Bryony slid helplessly from the saddle. Shadow bolted up the slope, crazed by the nearness of his long-time enemy, whose rattle he’d instantly recognized. As she lay sprawled on her side, watching the horse disappear around a narrow bend in the mountain, Bryony, too, saw and recognized the dreaded rattlesnake that had so terrified her black horse.
It was a diamondback. The most dangerous of all rattlers.
Her eyes widened with fright as the enormous southwestern killer bared its fangs in preparation to strike, its long, spiny body a full five feet in length as it rose up less than three yards from where she’d fallen. Its thin, forked tongue flicked in and out in frenzied excitement.
It was ready to strike.
There was no time to scream, even to think. Her hand flew to her hip and yanked out the derringer. She fired, the shot ringing out just as the snake lunged forward. An instant later, the rattler collapsed in a writhing heap only paces away, its tongue still moving.
Its spiny body shuddered, and then went still.
Unbelievingly, Bryony stared at the snake’s limp form. It took a full minute before she realized that she’d killed it.
She had no time to recover from the shock. Horses’ hooves thundered from below, and she knew that her pursuers were close. Stumbling to her feet, she gave a soft moan as pain shot through her ankle. She’d twisted it when she fell from her horse, and when she tried to step upon it, the throbbing pain was almost unbearable.
She could no longer flee, even by running. She was trapped, helpless, and at the mercy of her attackers. Fresh terror bubbled up within her, and with it, hopelessness.
Then her gaze fell upon an opening in the rocky wall of the mountain. It was only a crevice, a small, thin indentation beneath a slight outcropping of rock, but it was nevertheless a place to hide. She began to crawl toward it, her heart hammering, her fingers clawing the gritty, swirling dust, her hands scraped by sharp-edged stones and pebbles as she dragged herself across the path to the edge of the mountain wall.
The opening was very slight; but she flattened herself on her stomach and tried to squeeze beneath the rocky lip into the narrow crevice.
The dust storm might help, she realized, with a faint, desperate gleam of hope—for it would make her trail difficult to follow. Already, as she lay tense and unmoving beneath the overhanging rock, she saw that her tracks had been erased by the blowing wind. Unfortunately, however, the dust was whirling into her hiding place, stinging her face and choking her.
Somehow, in that tiny space, she managed to tug her neckerchief over her mouth and nose to protect her face. Whatever happened, she must try to see what was going on. Try to see a way to save herself.
She didn’t have long to wait. The thunder of hooves rose over the wind, and then two horses thundered into view.
To her horror, the horses halted a scant twenty feet from her.
Two large, buckskinned riders dismounted quickly to bend over the lifeless form of the rattlesnake, their feathered headdresses trailing down their broad backs.
Cringing in her hiding place, Bryony hardly dared to breathe. Her heart was thudding so loudly she was certain it would betray her. The Indians were not facing her as they examined the dead rattler, but she knew that if they were to turn their heads ever so slightly in her direction...
Then she received a heart-stopping shock.
“Looks fresh killed, don’t it?” one of the figures asked in English, in a voice she recognized instantly. “It probably spooked her horse and she shot it. That how you figure it?”
It was all she could do to keep from gasping aloud. She’d have recognized that thick, harsh voice anywhere.
Zeke Murdock.
Her fingers dug into the hard ground. Her flesh crawled.
Murdock and the other man both straightened, leaving only their boots in view. Bryony could scarcely believe her ears. All of this time she’d believed her pursuers to be Indians—renegade Apaches out for blood.
And now she discovered that they were white men. Zeke Murdock and...
Who else?
She found out soon enough. Rusty Jessup’s voice replied disgustedly, “Yep, sounds right to me. She can’t have gotten far. Mebbe we can still catch her.”
They mounted their horses once again, and Bryony found it more difficult to hear them.
The whistling wind drowned out some of their words, but she strained desperately to catch what they were saying. Frightened as she was, one question drummed in her head.
Why? Why did they hate her so much that they’d hunt her down like an animal?
“This gawdamned dust is gettin’ real bad,” Murdock growled.
Though Bryony couldn’t see his face, she pictured it vividly enough: the shock of gold hair, those gloating blue eyes, thick, sneering lips. This brawny, barrel-chested man had kidnapped her off the stagecoach and auctioned her off to the highest bidder in Gilly’s.
She’d rather die than be at his mercy ever again.
Closing her eyes tightly against the blinding dust, she listened tensely to his muffled words.
“I say we turn back,” he muttered. “We ain’t goin’ to find no tracks with all this dust blowin’ around, and I don’t aim to get caught up here in a thunderstorm or flash fl
ood—which looks mighty possible. That sky’s gettin’ darker every damned minute!”
“But we got orders to kill the girl!” Jessup argued. “She could blow our whole operation sky-high if she—”
His next words were swept away by a sudden raging gust of wind. When Bryony heard him again, he was shouting above the increasing roar of the storm.
“And besides,” Jessup yelled, “she saw us shoot Buchanan. We gotta finish her off!”
“She can’t identify us, Jessup!” Murdock exploded. “Come on, let’s get out of here before those storm clouds burst wide open. We killed her foreman, and I reckon we’ve given her a mighty good scare. If this don’t chase her out of town, nothin’ will! Anyway, the storm’ll probably kill her, even if we don’t. The boss’ll be satisfied, so why in hell should we get ourselves soaked to the skin? Damn it, this here dust is bad enough. I can’t see more’n five damned feet in front of my eyes. Let’s go!”
Rusty Jessup’s reply was lost in the wind, but he must have assented, for the two horses turned about and disappeared in the direction from which they’d come.
Bryony lay shaking in her pitiful hiding place for several moments, unable to move. Every muscle in her body trembled, and tears rolled down her face. She still had no idea why Zeke Murdock and Rusty Jessup were trying to kill her, but the knowledge that they were in league together, that someone had hired them to see to her death, was chilling. She wanted to stay hidden beneath the rocky ledge forever, away from the terrors of the outside world.
But the stinging dust was worsening, making it difficult to breathe. She couldn’t remain here much longer if she wanted to live. Somehow she had to find shelter from the ferocity of the storm. She couldn’t afford to think about Murdock and Jessup now. She couldn’t waste whatever energy she had left wondering who’d hired them—and why.
So she crawled wearily from her hiding place, shielding her face with her arms, yet still the tiny black particles bit right through her neckerchief.
She drew in her breath when she saw the ominous blackness of the sky. Thick, immense clouds of dust spun everywhere, driven by a howling wind that whipped at her hair and face, almost blowing her over. A jagged flash of lightning illuminated the inky sky for a bare instant, revealing that the thunderstorm was coming in fast.
Despairingly she glanced about, not knowing which way to turn. Shorty had once told her that the mountains were filled with natural caves. If she could only find one of them, it might provide some shelter...
Bending over almost double from the blistering force of the wind, she began to climb the uneven trail, limping in anguish as she was forced to put weight on her throbbing ankle. Buffeted by powerful gusts, enveloped by a frenzied whirlwind of dust and sand and tumbleweed, her progress was agonizingly slow. When at last she fought her way around a narrow, twisting bend in the mountain, she scanned the towering rock face looming over her. There was no sign of a cave, only thick, unbroken, solid rock.
With a sob of despair, she bowed her head once again and struggled on.
Bryony had no idea how long she labored, fighting the pain in her ankle and the blinding dust, while the wind wailed in her ears, driving her nearly mad with its savagery. She felt her strength slipping away as her search continued, and once, glancing back, she realized that she hadn’t come very far after all.
Desperation rose in her, and then a sudden, violent gust sent her to her knees on the rocky trail. She huddled there, weeping, too weak to continue. If only the dreadful pain in her ankle would go away and this hideous noise would stop hurting her ears. If only the dust wouldn’t keep flailing against her flesh like tiny sharpened needles.
She tried to get to her feet, but failed. The wind seemed to rush even more fiercely about her spent form, and slowly, a great blackness rose up before her eyes, engulfing her in a deep, silent void.
She lay unconscious on the mountain path, while all around her great dark clouds of dust billowed and swarmed like maddened insects.
Bryony came back to consciousness with a low moan on her lips. Slowly, she became aware that strong hands were touching her, turning her. Her eyes fluttered open and through a swirling haze she saw that a man was bending over her, shielding her body from the storm with his own.
He wore a dark bandana across his face and a sombrero low over his forehead, but she immediately recognized the broad-shouldered physique and the piercing light blue eyes, and a cry of thankfulness sprang to her lips.
“Please. Help... me,” she gasped, and though her words were muffled by the neckerchief she still wore over her mouth, Jim Logan nodded.
His strong hands tightened on her slender form, and then he lifted her easily in his arms, and, heedless of the powerful wind that had knocked her to her knees, he settled her not ungently in the saddle of the big chestnut stallion, and then swung up behind her.
Neighing unhappily as the forces of nature assailed him, Pecos moved laboriously up the trail. Bryony leaned in exhaustion against Logan, grateful for the warmth and protection of his body.
She never knew whether it was minutes or hours later that Pecos picked his way down a steep, half-hidden incline against the northern face of the mountain, coming to a halt before a yawning gap in the jagged stone wall. The dark opening was directly beneath an overhanging cliff, and carved into the sheer rock face of the mountain.
A cave.
Its entrance was of mammoth proportions, and the interior loomed black and ominous.
As Logan reined his horse to a halt and dismounted, Bryony felt the first drops of rain strike her face, and a boom of thunder split the sky. She gave a start as Logan’s powerful arms eased her from the saddle and carried her into the cave, with Pecos following them nervously to the brink of the towering, jagged opening.
Moments later, Bryony found herself lying quite comfortably on a thick, heavy blanket near a small fire. Her head rested on a saddle bag.
And Texas Jim Logan was kneeling beside her.
Several yards away, she saw Pecos tethered to a boulder within the mouth of the cave, safely out of reach of the wild torrent of rain streaming down the mountainside. Thunder cracked, lightning flashed vivid silver-blue streaks across the leaden sky, and Bryony’s wide green gaze returned to rest on the face of her rescuer.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and found her throat dry and hoarse.
“Don’t try to talk. Drink this.”
As he raised his canteen to her lips, Bryony protested, remembering the last time he’d given her whisky instead of water. But he ignored her feeble cry and held the canteen to her mouth, nearly pouring the whisky down her throat.
“You’ll do as you’re told for once,” he muttered, but there was no anger in his voice. There was something else. It may have been respect.
“It’s time someone took charge of you, little tenderfoot, for your own damned good.”
But his voice was gentle. And a glint of amusement darkened his eyes. “Good thing you’re not in any condition to argue with me right now. Maybe you’ll keep quiet for awhile and stay still for once. I’ll give you a damp cloth to clean your face, and then rustle up some grub. After that we’re going to have a little talk—and this time, Bryony, you’re going to listen to me. You’ll listen good and hard.”
“Oh... will I? Even though... I have no interest... in anything you have to say?”
The whisky was soothing her parched throat and reviving some of her strength. And her stubbornness.
She pushed herself up to a sitting position, shakily wondering why she’d been so glad to see him on the mountain just a short while ago.
The feeling of relief had been monumental then, but now she told herself that she’d have been overjoyed to see anyone who would help her find shelter from the storm.
Texas Jim Logan had nothing personally to do with it. In fact, she thought, I’d rather be shut up in this cave with a mountain lion than with this man who persists in telling me what to do.
In silence, she wat
ched him stride to the cave entrance and soak a clean neckerchief in the streaming rain. When he returned to her side, he handed the wet cloth to her, then folded his arms across his broad chest as he leaned against the wall of the cave.
“Wonder what your friends in St. Louis would think if they could see you now, little tenderfoot?” He grinned. “Covered with grime, your pretty clothes all filthy and caked with dust? I reckon they’d be shocked out of their fancy skins.”
“As if I care a fig for that.” But she had to hide a smile as she lifted the cloth and began to wipe the gritty dust from her face and hands.
Ignoring Jim Logan, she untied the ribbon still tangled in her hair, and shook her head, sending the thick black curls spilling over her shoulders and down her back.
She knew she looked a filthy mess, but what did it matter? She didn’t care a whit how she looked in the presence of this man. If he thought her dirty or unattractive, so much the better, she told herself.
Seated on the cave floor only a few feet away, Logan regarded her in mingled frustration and rage. Damn it, even now, after her ordeal, she looked as alluring as ever. The flickering firelight played softly about her delicate features, accentuating the patrician lines of her sculptured cheekbones, the soft curve of her lips. It even caught the glow in her lovely green eyes.
His gut clenched. There was a sensual, earthy quality about her as she sat on the floor of the cave, her hair tumbling loose about her shoulders, her breasts straining against the tight-fitting plum-colored shirt she wore with her jeans and boots.
He couldn’t tear his gaze away.
He wanted her, damn it. He wanted her with a powerful, single-minded desire that was all the more torturous because it was impossible to fulfill.
“I believe you mentioned something about food?”
When her cool tone broke into his thoughts, he felt almost relieved. He took command of his emotions, and regarded her with every appearance of nonchalance.
“Sure I did, but I reckon I changed my mind. First, we need to talk. Then we see about the grub. I’ve got a hunk of beef jerky in my saddlebag, and some biscuits, like we had that other night in the desert. You remember that night, Bryony?’’