by Cindy Nord
An upended rock near a cluster of evergreens caught his eye. A fresh gash in a north-to-south pattern had been caused by metal scraping the moss-covered stone.
Shod horses.
Relief swamped him. He rewove his fingers through the mule’s stiff mane. Tapping the animal’s flanks, he turned to the right. The colonel’s only niece waited for him to save her. And save her he would, if it was the last damn thing he did.
Thirty minutes later, a whisper of words swirled in the wind.
Voices?
Hope igniting, he halted the mule and listened.
The rustle of junipers and hawkweed filled the void. Spots swam before his eyes. Maybe he was hallucinating. His shoulder hurt like hell, and with the amount of blood staining his shirt, he was surprised he had any life left in him. He started to turn, then the skin on the back of his neck tightened.
“I said—”
A howl of wind severed the murmurings.
There! Definitely voices.
Dillon slid from the mule, and stumbled behind the closest boulder. Pulse racing, he scanned the hillock, his gaze pausing on a small opening just behind a cluster of Lodgepole pines.
A cave.
Shivers inundated him, but he ignored his body’s trembling. Easing around an outcropping of rocks, he splashed into a stream. His gaze never left the opening as he took a knee and scooped a handful of water into his mouth.
Focus on the task at hand.
Refreshed by the cold slide of water down his throat, he edged closer.
***
Alma tried to move, but rope twisted around her wrists cut into her skin and held her tight. The angle at which her arms were tied behind her made her shoulders ache. All ten fingers tingled. Worse, the pounding headache from a blow to the back of her skull still throbbed. She lay on her side on a dirt floor in what looked like a small cave. With a sob building in her throat, she shifted her shoulder to try and relieve the discomfort. Refusing to give in to her fears, she pressed her lips together.
Flickering flames from a nearby campfire cast an orange glow over the area. Her eyes adjusted to the fading light. She glared at the two men deep in conversation near a pile of supplies. One man taller, the other small-framed.
Why have they abducted me?
She’d not yet been molested, so perhaps that wasn’t their intention.
Then for money.
That made sense. These hooligans and their Simon want to blackmail father. In his line of business, no doubt he has many enemies.
Thoughts of ransom demands, days spent with these monsters, and father’s fear for her safety raced through Alma’s mind as she noticed several packsaddles, blankets, and canned goods stacked against the far rock wall. Shadows played hide and seek with the supplies, but she could make out the word peaches on a few cans near the top of the heap. She swallowed hard, fighting back her fear. There was enough food to settle in for a long duration…unless they intended to kill her. She tamped back another rush of tears.
Be strong.
She squeezed her eyes tight as sorrow drove deep into her heart.
He died trying to save me.
Memories of Dillon’s embrace, his masculine scent, the scintillating desire born after his illicit kiss, all brought another rush of pain. The scuff of boots echoed from across the cave floor.
Alma feigned sleep.
“Looks like she’s still out cold,” a man’s voice nearby stated.
She struggled hard to suppress another shudder.
“I told you not to hit her so hard.”
“She’ll be all right,” he drawled with a brogue. “Didn’t hurt her looks none.” She’d heard just such Irish accents many times while visiting father at his Boston wharf. “You know, Zeke…we can have our way with the wench and no one’ll be the wiser.”
God no!
“I said we ain’t touching ‘er ‘til we get our money, you got that?”
“How the hell will he know if we poke her a time or two?” His coarse laugh settled over Alma and sent another terrified hitch to her heartbeat. “‘Sides, how do we even know he’ll come all the way out here, anyway?”
“He’ll be here. And if you go near her, I’ll kill you myself. You got that? Simon wants her alive and untouched. You heard what he told us in Washington.”
As they moved away from her, Alma released a slow breath.
“Now go get the rest of the gear off the horses,” one of the men said. “And grab some more wood for the fire.”
Simon? Whoever he was, he was behind her abduction. As hard as she tried, no one she knew bore that name.
***
With shuffling footsteps, Dillon crept near the cave’s entrance. Four horses stood tied to a makeshift picket line. The bandits had Alma inside. He cursed beneath his breath.
The odds were against him.
Another wave of blackness nearly drove him to his knees. He fought back a groan as he inched toward the horses. Hope rose as he spotted his saddlebags slung over the closest gelding. Thank God. Several steps later, he sagged against the animal, resting his forehead against cool leather. Exhausted, he shook, chills gripping him.
Move or Alma’s dead!
On an unsteady inhale, he shoved aside his weakness and rummaged inside his saddlebags. His fingers closed around the Bowie knife, his wicked companion during all those hellish years before Colonel Talmadge.
My odds just improved.
Hunkering down near a large juniper, he unsheathed the knife. He’d greet these cold-blooded killers on their own terms, and let his ten-inch blade do the talking.
Seconds later, crunching footsteps resonated over rocky soil. A man stepped into view, favoring a wounded arm, his shirt bloodstained.
A wry grin twisted Dillon’s lips. He’d hit one of the sonsofbitches after all. Gripping the Bowie’s handle, he angled himself behind the man. As the bandit turned, Dillon wrapped his arm around the bastard’s neck and squeezed.
“You should’ve checked the dead,” he hissed. A split-second later, he pulled his knife across the man’s throat as he released his grip. The bandit gasped, then went limp. Dillon dropped the dead-weight to the ground.
One down.
He wobbled to a knee and caught several breaths. As he straightened, the click of a cocking revolver echoed behind him.
Bloody Hell.
“Stop right there, mister,” a gruff voice ordered.
Dillon pulled his lips thin. Slowly, he turned to face the new arrival. Pointing a Colt, the man held the advantage, but one he immediately lost for having failed to shoot when he had his chance. With nimble precision, Dillon flipped the Bowie through the air.
The blade buried to the hilt in the center of the man’s chest.
Shock widened the bandit’s eyes. And then, on a groan, he fell face-forward to the ground. Dillon’s vision blurred as he retrieved his knife. With a curse, he swiped the blade across the dead man’s shirt, then slipped the Bowie into his boot. A quick glance assured him no one else followed them. He tugged the Colt from the dead man’s grip, and spun the cylinder to check the ammunition. Fully loaded. Good. Dillon eased up to the rocky entrance and peered inside.
A quick sweep told him only one person, hands and feet bound, lay huddled upon the ground near the fire. Anger stormed through his veins. His gaze narrowed. “Alma?”
She pushed to her hands, then shifted upward to her knees.
“D-Dillon?” Shock filled her voice. “But, I thought you…” She twisted around and stared at him full-on, her expression incredulous. Tears pooled in the incredible blue of her eyes as her surprise slowly magnified into joy. A smile lifted her lips, and sent a breath-stealing jolt through Dillon. “Oh my God, y-you’re alive!”
“Barely,” he said, pushing the word through gritted teeth as he stumbled into the darkened interior.
***
Simon Bell refilled his glass from a bottle near his elbow, then lifted the whiskey to his lips. He paused as the door to Kell
y’s Saloon swung open. Through the swirling cigar smoke a couple of soldiers from the nearby fort ambled in, heading toward the bar. Behind them, several civilians followed.
He grimaced. None were the men he’d hired.
Four days had passed since he’d reached the end of the rail line at Hays City. But the expected news of Alma’s successful abduction had yet to arrive.
No telegram.
No letter.
No men.
His anger built. If he didn’t receive word by tomorrow morning, he would head to Tucson to complete the task himself.
The scrape of a fork on a metal plate drew his attention to the whore seated across from him. He’d bought her for the night from the best brothel in town. The train’s porter, when asked, had directed Simon to the establishment near the brand new courthouse in the center of town. With a broad smile, the servant had assured him the proprietor, a Mrs. Em Bowen, guaranteed her girls disease-free. Not that it mattered to Simon. He would never sink himself inside one of them, clean or not.
The plinking notes of an out-of-tune piano underscored the irritation building in his veins as he stared at the wench stuffing forkfuls of food into her mouth. In between bites, she wiped her lips with the back of her grimy hand.
Disgust curdled through him. He’d seen this behavior before in a myriad bars back east - whores who’d followed down a doomed path, increasing desperation their only acquaintance. He always chose the small-framed ones. The ones with the darkest hair.
The ones who most resembled his mother.
He bought them a meal and stared at them the entire night, amused he could control the women without a word. And this one in particular, younger than most and more anxious, had dressed up for her evening trade. Her well-worn, burgundy corset atop the soiled camisole had seen far better days. Sweat stains dampened her armpits. She’d piled her limp tresses atop her head, and an old bruise graced the side of her face, fading into yellow at her hairline.
The consequences of your ungodly profession.
He smiled, and she offered an apprehensive nod in return, her nervousness churning Simon’s gut. The girl’s fate was inevitable. He could not let what happened to his beloved mother happen to this wretched little soul.
His purpose in life, to save the creatures from a depraved existence, drove him forward.
From outside, shouting and gunshots met his ears as the miscreants of Hays City rolled onto Main Street. Right on time. He chuckled, then took another sip of his whiskey. Though the rowdier crowds had been driven further south to Dodge, the local law would still be busy curtailing their remaining dregs of society.
The cheap-glass earrings dangling from the woman’s earlobes caught the light from an overhead oil lamp and glinted toward Simon. At one time, she might’ve been a comely wench.
Like mother, before disease…and Talmadge…destroyed her.
Oh yes, killing this pathetic whore would be easy.
Chapter Thirteen
“Thank you for coming, Sir.” Colonel Talmadge motioned for the two middle-aged Englishmen to enter. Lord Henry Smyth Green, the Earl of Locknor, eased onto the serviceable chair opposite him. Even in the heat of the desert, Alma’s betrothed looked cool and collected. Behind him, appearing just the opposite, slumped a profusely sweating, Edgar Clarkson. The earl’s steward placed a hand upon the back of the chair and drew in several deep breaths.
Swerving around to face his aide, Lord Green snapped, “For Christ’s sake, man. Stand up. You’re nothing but a withered mess.”
Clarkson rammed his shoulders back, sucked in another gulp of air, and up righted.
“That’s more like it,” the earl said, nodding. “Remember yourself, and your overall reason for being here.”
“Yes, my Lord. My deepest apologies, but the heat wears me down, something fierce.”
“I don’t want excuses, just do as I say.”
As the earl turned back, Thaddeus did not miss the scowl that darkened the servant’s face.
The nobleman dropped his riding gloves onto the desk, tugged on his blue-brocaded vest, and spoke in a clipped English tongue that was as crisp as his appearance. “Please accept my apologies for all this, Colonel. And thank you for taking my meeting. Have you heard any news of my fiancée?”
A month had passed since the aristocrat’s arrival at the fort, an official government letter of introduction in his hand. Other than possessing such an unctuous attitude, Thaddeus still couldn’t peg why he loathed the bastard.
“As a matter of fact, I do have an update.” Thaddeus straightened in his chair, pushing aside the idiotic feeling of inadequacy that arose each time he found himself around this popinjay. “I received a telegram from my scout several days ago. They’d just reached Fort Hays. And from there, they’d caught a Concord south.”
The earl swept imaginary lint from his coat sleeve, his lips pulling taut beneath a wispy moustache. “How long before Miss Talmadge arrives?”
“Well,” Thaddeus leaned back in the chair and folded his hands over his midsection. Compared to the pencil-thin man sitting opposite him, he looked like some ponderous, ill-kempt buffalo. “The trip from Fort Hays should take a good two weeks. Baring no complications.”
“Complications?” The dark-haired Englishman leaned forward and draped an arm over his knee covered in buff-colored wool. His brows furrowed. “Surely you don’t expect them to meet foul play?”
Thaddeus inhaled, his impatience with this blowhard mounting. “They’re traveling from fort to fort as they make their way south, but the route is tried and true. There shouldn’t be too much of a problem. She’ll be uncomfortable, of course, but she’ll survive.” He neglected to inform the man about the dangerously long stretch between Fort Hays and Santa Fe. “Oh, and bored. She will most assuredly be bored since there’s little to see or do for a finely bred lady.”
Alma’s fiancé had arrived at Fort Lowell by way of San Francisco, so he was unfamiliar with the terrain she now traveled. Wisely, Talmadge left out the travelogue of issues that concerned even a seasoned traveler: raging rivers, grueling weather, mountains, and deadly deserts. Redskins and wildlife alike. Again, he felt a wave of relief knowing Dillon had received his warning about possible trouble.
The nobleman ran his fingers around the brim of his brown-felt top hat. “And you’re sure Indians will not be a problem?”
“Well,” Talmadge said, “The stage line’ll clip the corners of the Mescalero and Coyotero Apache reservations in New Mexico, so there’s always a threat. But, the military force in that region has full-control over the renegades, unlike the continued uprisings we’re experiencing here.” The Colonel shuddered at the thought of what Indians might do to his young niece if they captured her. “Nevertheless, Alma is traveling with my best man. So you can relax. Dillon Reed will see to her safety.”
The earl arched a fawn-colored eyebrow. “And you’re quite sure of this man?”
“I’m confident of him.” Talmadge omitted the part about Dillon being like a son to him after he took the wild lad under his wing years before.
“But he’s not military, right? Only a scout.”
“Yes. But Dillon Reed is much more than merely a scout…he aids the U.S. Army in many other valuable ways.” Thaddeus fought to contain a grimace as their gazes locked. “And I trust him implicitly.”
Lord Green’s pale-blue eyes narrowed as he gave an impatient huff. “Can he be trusted with my fiancée?” He leaned forward, tapping the desk with his manicured finger. “That is my concern, Colonel. After all, he is a man.”
Talmadge contained the laugh that bubbled up in his chest. What a haughty sonofabitch you are, Lord Green. “I’d trust my own daughter with Dillon Reed.” Thaddeus sighed, curling his fingers through the porcelain handle of his coffee cup. “You needn’t worry. Reed is a man of integrity with zero tolerance for anything or anyone that gets in the way of his duty.”
“Although I am uncomfortable with these arrangements, I shall tr
ust your judgment.”
What an ass.
The shrill call of a bugle blared through the open window. Thaddeus shifted his gaze to the aide, then on to the mantel clock. Time for afternoon review. Thank God. Anything to get these annoying dolts out of my office. Chinking bridles echoed beyond the open windows announcing the formations of his cavalry. Kicked up by their many horses, an acrid smell of dust drifted over him. He stood, then leaned forward. “Have no fear. Reed will see that Alma gets here.”
The Englishman nodded, rising to his feet. His aide, shoved aside the chair to make an easier exit for the earl. For the time being, Thaddeus decided to keep the troublesome details of his brother’s telegram to himself. He saw no good reason to worry them further.
***
Emotion swept Alma as Dillon sliced through the rope, freeing her from her bindings. Until his arrival, moments before, she’d thought herself doomed.
His gaze lifted, melding to hers. “Are you all right?” he asked. The rueful intensity darkening his eyes sent shivers up her arms.
Alma took a breath to steady her pounding heart. Joyful at his sudden reappearance, she rubbed her wrists. “Yes,” she said, focusing on the blood that stained his shirtfront. “But...what about you?”
“I’ve felt better.” His curse filled the chamber as he stumbled back and slumped against the cave wall. He gave a sharp hiss.
She scrambled to his side, concern stealing away her prior elation.
With shaking fingers, Dillon unbuttoned his shirt, then shrugged his shoulders and slid out of the garment.
On edge, she stared at his bare chest, the hard plane and muscle, the faded scars. A smattering of hair darkened his skin, traveling downward in a thicker path to disappear beneath the waistband of his denims.