by Cindy Nord
Confident he’d resolved the nagging bullshit regarding Alma and his feelings toward her, he started to pull away, put much needed distance between them. Then, she shifted closer.
Dillon tightened his hold, and made the mistake of glancing down.
Moonlight slid over the woman, sending shimmers into the wisps of hair that framed her face, lingering in a silent beckon upon her lips. He stared at her as the truth of her beauty burned the breath from his lungs.
Against his better judgment, he leaned closer, inhaling her woman-soft essence. Christ, he loved her scent. Roses. A strained smile pulled at the corner of his lips. He inhaled again…one more time…knowing she would never know.
Dillon leaned back, his muscles relaxing. His eyes drifted closed again. He was damn well going to have to find someone to help blow off the steam when he returned to Fort Lowell.
If even for a short while. On an unsteady breath, he shoved the need to touch her tresses into the black hole he called his heart, alongside the other unrequited desires that would never see the light of day.
Chapter Ten
Noon the following day, the Concord rolled to a stop. Alma peered out the window, pleased they were in a meadow surrounded by pines. A clear-running creek cut through the middle.
“Water break,” the guard yelled, doffing his hat. He smiled at Alma. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to stretch your legs, ma’am.” He propped the butt of his weapon on his hip, then ambled toward the team to help the driver. Alma sent a silent prayer heavenward, thankful for the break from the bone-rattling ride. God only knew what the driver and guard endured seated on the wooden bench above.
After studying her a moment, Dillon shoved the door open and stepped down. Turning, he extended his left hand toward Alma. She scanned his face. His features were tense, his eyes exhausted. Again, she wished things had started out differently between them. She tucked her closed parasol under her arm, smiled, and then slipped her palm into his.
He squeezed her fingers, and a tingle of awareness shimmied up her arm.
The closest passenger behind her stirred, while the other man awoke from his nap and stretched.
On a steadying breath, Alma nodded at them, then with Dillon’s help exited the coach. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be right back.” He headed toward the creek. Disappointment laced through her at how quickly he’d rushed off. They’d yet to say a word about her crying episode last night, or the fact that he’d held her all night in his arms while she slumbered. Thank goodness the other passengers had slept outside.
Alma studied her escort as he strode away, his lean hips moving with steady purpose. Dillon Reed was a man who knew where he was headed, and that certainly wasn’t to her. Nor could it be. Kiss or no kiss, she was engaged. Why should she even ponder his thoughts when her own life was so well planned? She was happy, wasn’t she? Of course she was. The man she was to wed awaited her. A man who had never yet stolen a kiss in the moonlight with her. She sighed. No, thank goodness Lord Green was nothing like Dillon Reed who possessed irritating hard-set ways and a living off the land mentality.
Silly thoughts. Be gone.
Refusing to dwell on Dillon or the conflicted sensations he made her feel, she swooshed opened her parasol and took in her surroundings. A large stand of cottonwoods spread a silver-leafed canopy over the creek, the rush of wind casting their leaves into a vibrant flutter.
Alma inhaled deeply. A hint of rain tainted the high mountain air. She frowned at the rain-swollen clouds as the sun fought a losing battle to penetrate their churning fury…paltry streams of light played hit or miss with the towering peaks.
In the distance, Dillon dropped to a knee beside the boulder-strewn creek. He withdrew a tin cup from beneath his shirt, then leaned forward and scooped water into his mug. His jacket strained across his shoulders. Another sigh slipped from Alma. Her noticing of his build, his body, seemingly continuous now. And then, the scout straightened, sauntered back to her and held out the cup. “Here, Princess. This’ll chase away the dust.”
Warmth swept Alma’s cheeks at his rough and tumble kindness. She smiled and slipped her fingers around the battered metal.
Princess.
She rather liked his lofty moniker.
“I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” And she really did appreciate him. More with each passing day. The kiss withstanding, somehow their animosity upon first meeting had shifted into a tolerating kind of friendship.
Suddenly, gunshots shattered the stillness.
Birds perched in a row of scrub pines twenty yards away scattered. Behind her, the driver and the guard crumpled to the ground, and the stagecoach jerked as the team of mules panicked and lunged.
A scream built in Alma’s throat as she stared in disbelief at their blood oozing onto the sun-bleached soil. Air whooshed from her chest as Dillon slammed her to the ground, and then shielded his body atop hers.
The click of his chambering a round echoed in her ear. “Don’t move,” he growled.
She trembled. “Wh-What’s happening?”
“Bandits.” He scrambled to his knees, caught her upper arms, and shoved her beneath the belly of the coach.
The lower edge of the Concord knocked her hat askew, pulling her hair as she landed hard on her hip. Alma’s head banged against the under beam as she rolled to a stop. Tears flooded her eyes from the pain.
“Stay down,” Dillon snarled as he dove in beside her, a hail of bullets pelting the ground in his wake.
A bullet sunk a hand’s length from her head.
Alma screamed.
Dillon climbed between her and the shooters.
Lead ricocheted against the tin cup near the wheel. Above her, more bullets slammed into the stagecoach, sending a sunburst of bright yellow splinters raining to the ground. With a shriek, she curled against Dillon. From the corner of her eye, she spied the lifeless forms of the men beneath the mules. Terror swept her, and she fought to breath.
Shots thumped above her.
Two separate, pain-filled gasps echoed from within the Concord.
Silence. Oh God…the wild-haired traveler and the sleeping ruffian!
Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t scream.
Thunder rumbled. Wind, cold and raw with the scent of rain, whipped dirt against her face. With a snap, her distant parasol tipped end-over-end across the clearing and then disappeared into the forest.
Alma squinted, trying to block out the nightmare unfolding around her.
Additional gunfire shattered the air.
Mules snorted, tugging harder against their leather traces. Wheels groaned as the stagecoach creaked forward several more inches.
No. No. No.
Alma wrapped her hands around a spoke of the closest wheel in a futile attempt to stop the movement. The mules lunged again, jerking the wood from her grasp. God, no! Her entire body shaking, Alma pressed herself closer to the scout. “D-Dillon!”
“Don’t move! There’s more than one of them hiding in the trees across the creek.”
Through blurred eyes, she stared across the field. “Ho-How do you know?”
“Different sound for each shot.”
Another spew of bullets sent puffs of dust around them. She yelped.
Dillon laid his revolver across his bent arm and stared down the barrel.
“Wh-What are you doing?”
“Aiming. Got only six shots, and these bastards are at least thirty yards out. I can’t see them, so I need to see their weapons discharge. Cover your ears.”
Another round of bullets ripped into the ground before Dillon. Dirt sprayed his face. He didn’t flinch. Alma bit her lip to stifle another scream and obeyed, lifting her hands to palm her ears.
Dillon squeezed the trigger. A hard blast shattered the air. He fired again.
From the scrubby pines, Alma heard a faint cry.
Dillon fired another round.
Another man yelled.
The stench of gunpowder melde
d with her fear. Heart pounding, Alma scoured the sunbaked land and the brush beyond. Empty.
Where are they?
Cocking his head several degrees, Dillon fired twice.
Seconds ticked past before additional shots erupted from the tree line.
Again, Dillon fired. Yet, this time only a click sounded. “Goddamnit. I’m empty, and my other cylinders are in my saddlebags in the coach.” He shot a frantic glance around the area, then looked toward the mules. The guard’s rifle lay on the ground near the man’s body. “I’ve got to get to that weapon,” Dillon rasped.
Fear tore through her. “Y-you can’t go out there. You’ll be killed.”
He shifted, then slid over the top of her, pausing as his full weight pressed down upon her. He leaned closer, his breath hot against the back of her neck. “It’s the only chance I’ve got to save you.”
Tears burned her eyes as his weight eased off. Using his elbows, Dillon shuffled on his belly to the front of the coach, and then climbed to his feet between the mules.
The animals brayed and shifted, sidestepping and kicking up more dust.
Heart pounding, Alma stared at Dillon’s boots as he moved between the terrified beasts. With each step, his spurs chinked against the stony ground. She dared not blink for fear of losing sight of him.
Two paces.
Four.
Dillon closed his hand around the wooden stock of the weapon.
Elation flooded through her. Oh, my God. Yes! Now, come back. Come back!
He started to retrace his steps.
Shots erupted from the tree line. With a high-pitched squeal, the mule standing between Dillon and the bandits buckled to the ground.
Another shot.
And Dillon grunted, collapsing to his knees.
Shock coalesced into a hard twist inside her chest. “D-Dillon?”
His eyes filled with pain and regret riveted on her. “I’m so s-sorry, Princess.” He crumpled into the dirt.
Nooooooo! Scalding tears blurred her eyes as hysteria welled in her throat. “Do-Don’t…you dare leave me.” Sobbing, she reached out, her fingers tugging the edge of his black duster. “Get up!” she pleaded in a frantic whisper. “Pl-Please. Don’t leave me.”
He lay unmoving as his blood oozed beneath him, turning the ground into a sickening scarlet smear.
A snapping sound in the distance grabbed her attention.
Alma whirled to peer between the wheel spokes.
Clutching rifles, two men stepped from the brush. They splashed through the shallow creek and headed straight toward her. Blood seeped down one’s shirtfront.
“No. Oh god. No!” She scoured the meadow and the trees with rising panic. There was nowhere she could run. Bile rose to her throat. She knew how to sew, how to dance, how to read and write in four languages, and she knew how to maintain the most beautiful rose garden in all of Boston. But she didn’t know how to survive one single minute in the wilds of Colorado without Dillon Reed.
Alma glared at the approaching men, then gasped. She’d seen these murderers before.
On the train!
“We’ll toss the bodies into the coach, then push everything down the mountainside,” the taller man said to his partner, his gaze never leaving hers as they neared. “No one will ever find a trace.”
The other nodded. “Simon’s expected at Fort Hays any day now. We’ll need to let ‘im know.”
Another hard kick of adrenalin raced through Alma. Simon? Who’s Simon?
“After we get settled in,” the first man continued, “one of us will have to go telegraph him where we’re holed up. And tell him to bring our money.”
They halted paces away.
She stared at their boots, at the drops of blood plopping across the scuffed leather of the smaller man’s. He stepped over the dead mule and kicked the side of Dillon’s body. “You bastard. Thought you could kill me, did you?”
His partner laughed. “Well, he got pretty damn close with you, and he did kill Sam sight unseen.” He squatted on the opposite side of the wheel hub. A patch of filthy black hair lay in hanks over his thin shoulders, and a thin, wiry beard covered his face. He leveled his gaze on Alma. Weather-beaten features split open to reveal a tattered grin. “Now, you come on out from under that carriage, Miss Talmadge. We’ve got bigger plans for you.”
Chapter Eleven
Pain rolled through Dillon as he struggled against the torment that sunk in with unrelenting persistence. Finally, his mind acquiesced. Consciousness returned. He gasped for breath. He'd been shot. That much he remembered.
Alma!
He lifted his head. Agony slammed him. Hell. Gritting his teeth, he scanned his surroundings. He lay at a cockeyed angle on the side of a ravine, his body lodged against a boulder. To his left, the stagecoach driver and the guard lay in a twisted heap. Beyond that, the shattered remains of the Concord and the two lifeless bodies of the male passengers were draped over the rock-strewn incline.
No sign of Alma.
He grimaced. The bastards thought to hide the bodies, and then ride off with her. They should’ve made sure I was dead.
Gritting his teeth, Dillon shoved himself up. He remained conscious, barely.
Just breathe.
In. And out.
Much needed strength poured through his veins as he battled the damning call of Satan.
I’m not dead yet, you diabolical sonofabitch.
He pushed to his knees. The rapid thump of his heartbeat echoed in his ears. On an unsteady breath, he eased back to sit on his heels, then peered down at his shirtfront. The entire left side of blue cambric was stiff with blood from collar to cuff. He frowned. From the amount lost, the wound was serious.
If he didn’t move soon, he’d die.
If he went to find her, he’d probably die.
Hell. My destiny’s all carved out for me.
Dillon grabbed for the jagged edge of the Concord and staggered to his feet. Wood creaked, and the door fell from his grasp. He wobbled. Through sheer will, he kept his balance.
A deep roll of thunder echoed in the distance.
He glanced up. Storm clouds swirled above the canopy of pines. Rain would wash away any hope he’d have of tracking Alma’s captors. He must find her while he still had his wits. Sucking another breath through clenched teeth, he leaned over, and jammed his hand beneath the broken wood of the stagecoach seat.
His saddlebags were gone.
Another rumble of thunder echoed…this time closer. Again, he scanned the debris around him. Alma’s traveling case was also gone.
Sonofabitch!
His jaw tightened as he stared at the empty harnesses trailing from the coach’s broken brace. The bandits had turned the team loose before pushing the stagecoach, filled with bodies, over the edge. Guess I’m the lucky one.
He cut his gaze upward. Or not. He still had to get up there.
Legs trembling, Dillon straightened, steadying himself. He waited while another wave of blackness passed, then he pursed his lips and whistled.
Another ten seconds ticked into oblivion.
A rustling noise sounded near the top of the rim. A pewter-grey head with long ears poking straight up peered over the side. Nostrils flared as the mule brayed.
Thank God!
The beast had been born to serve the coach line – he would not have wandered far. The witless bastards who’d turned the team loose were obviously ignorant of that fact, or believing everyone dead, hadn’t cared. Their stupidity is my redemption. And he’d be sure to tell them so just before he killed them.
His gaze narrowed on the ravine’s rock-strewn slope.
But first, he had to climb out of this damn pit.
Chapter Twelve
Dillon shook his head to clear the dizziness, and flexed his fingers, numb now. The hardest part of the last hour hadn’t been climbing out of the ravine or even working his way atop the mule. The biggest challenge was staying astride the bulky beast without a saddle o
r reins as he tracked his way back to the where the stagecoach had been attacked.
Clues of Alma’s abduction were everywhere. They’d headed north. Into the mountains. He slid from the mule, his eyes narrowing. Her knitted purse and ribboned hat lay on the stream bank. An ache bloomed in his chest. He jammed the pieces into his coat pocket, wafting the illusive smell of roses upward. Her scent.
Wooziness returned as did the taste of her soft, sweet lips. Damn his weakness.
Move it…you’re running out of time.
He scanned the edge of the meadow. No sign of Alma’s silly parasol. She must’ve insisted they get it. His gut tightened as rage burned through his blood. If they’ve harmed a single hair on her head…
They were dead men regardless.
Dillon turned and stumbled to the mule, both his body and his heart in torment. Remounting, he turned the beast and headed north across the ridgeline. Signs indicated the riders were climbing higher into the mountains. He settled his gaze on a fifteen-foot, cut-leaf mahogany a few yards ahead. Taping the mule’s flank, he angled toward the tree.
Leaves rustled as Dillon pulled the closest limb to his nose. A slight break at the end emitted a pungent, earthy smell. Too high for a mule deer to reach, the splinter likely due to a rider’s shoulder brushing past.
He searched the ground around the tree. This specific wood was used to make arrow shafts, but the damage wasn’t caused by Indians. Their signs of passing were never this easy to follow. Nor were the sneaky bastards ever this reckless. No, the damage had been made by an unconcerned rider who left behind a clear path of travel with little thought to anyone tracking him.
A half-hearted smile lifted his lips as he released the branch. And from the freshness of the tracks, each depression still crumbling around the edges, they’d passed not too long ago. Another roll of thunder echoed to his south. Careless or not, he must hurry.
He scanned the rock-strewn corridor for signs of riders. Bruised blades of grass. Dislodged sticks. Overturned leaves. The impressions in the earth indicated several horses. That much he already knew. He glanced over his shoulder. The fast-approaching storm clouds smothered the sun. Damn, he needed to see the shadow across the depressions to discover which direction they’d ridden.