The crew were caught by surprise, but not so much that they didn’t react. Predictably, they spurred their horses on, whooping with certain victory, their pistols spurting flame and lead. At such dead-on range, Jessica, Ki and Daryl should have been riddled, but in firing from speeding horses into night shadows, the crew’s aim proved inaccurate. Bullets ricocheted off the boulders and whistled past their bodies uncomfortably close, one searing along Daryl’s ribs in a long gash. But they continued their suicidal charge, figuring their only chance was to somehow break through the line of gunmen and return to the plateau.
And then the herd came lumbering around the curve.
The gorge abruptly erupted in howling, rattling confusion, the Block-Two-Dot crew shouting in shock and fear, trying to check their horses and spin them about. Some went down as their horses slipped and fell on the shale. Others windmilled arms and hats in a vain attempt to stop the front. Still others, the really stupid ones, turned their fire from the three riders to the crowding steers beyond.
The cattle spooked. Lowing and snorting, they began picking up speed, and as one would stumble or drop with a bullet, the other would leap the barrier and stream on even faster. More gunfire peppered the advancing herd as the crew splintered frenziedly, a few retreating, most of them still attempting to stave off the stampede.
A panic-triggered slug caught Ki’s horse in its breastbone. The bay reared with the impact, causing Ki to lurch half out of his saddle, his balance lost. Frantically he grabbed for the saddlehorn, missing it, and started falling headfirst as the horse folded beneath him.
He wriggled clear. Jolting agony jarred through him as he struck the ground, the bay tumbling on its side, its hooves slashing close to his face.
“Ki!” Jessica pivoted her horse toward him, heedless of the oncoming stampede. The curly-horned leader dashed bellowing past her, other steers thronging right behind, and it was almost more than Jessica could do to maneuver her horse out of their path. Daryl, spotting her, swung his buckskin in an arc to intercept her, as the rush of steers surged perilously around him in an increasing tide.
They saw Ki rise, then begin bobbing and weaving in a desperate effort to reach the boulders at the nearest side of the trail. “Leave me!” they heard him cry as he dove among the swelling torrent of hoofs and horns. “Save yourselves—or we’ll all die!”
Jessica ignored his plea and made a last convulsive try, struggling against the flow of crazed cattle to save him. But that shoving melee flung her back as easily as a baby. She reeled, tilting far off balance, and the flinty tip of a longhorn snagged her jacket, tearing through it and her shirt, gouging a burning furrow diagonally across her side and back. She would have lost control, had not Daryl swerved alongside and grabbed the cheekstrap of her horse’s bridle, pulling the animal around in line with the maddened herd.
“No!” Eyes wide, face chalky white, Jessica fought to stop him. “Let me go, Daryl, we can’t leave Ki—”
“Dammit, we have no choice!”
They were swept along shoulder to shoulder with the steers, shoulder to shoulder with sudden death, but at least they were going in the right direction. The Block-Two-Dot crew was not. Men fell, horses tripped, and the stampede crushed them in its relentless pressure, trampling and slashing them under sharp hooves. The agonized cries of the injured and dying were faint in the overwhelming, thunderous maelstrom.
And the avalanche of beef rolled implacably on toward the plateau, moonlight glinting on tossing backs and piercing horns. Carried along in the hemming current, Jessie and Daryl could hear the bellowing of frightened animals and the pounding of hooves drumming the stony trail. This was no place for a poor rider, or for a coward.
The gorge widened into the short stretch of canyon, and from the canyon the herd funneled out, spreading across the plateau. Daryl angled for a narrow crevice at one side of the canyon mouth, Jessica followed, slumped in her saddle. The herd kept plummeting past in a swirl of dust and horns and hooves, not a dozen yards from the spot where they hid.
Eventually the drag drained through, the rustlers behind them yelling and cursing as they tried to stem the runaway, paying no attention to the narrow crevice. Watching them, Daryl commented disgustedly, “They’ll never turn them. By morning, my cows will be scattered from hell to breakfast out there in the brakes.”
“We’ve got to go back,” Jessica said dully.
“We can’t.”
“We can’t leave Ki!”
“We have to.” Daryl turned, leaning across to wrap a comforting arm around her, being careful not to press her bleeding wound. “Listen, Jessie, I know how you feel, but you’ve got to understand. Maybe half the gang chasing us wasn’t skinned or stomped, and they’re still back there, sorer than kerosened snakes. We couldn’t go looking for Ki, or stop to help him if we found him.”
“But he could be hurt, or... dead.”
“If he’s dead, he’s dead, and getting ourselves shot won’t make him alive. If he’s hurt, he’s got a better chance of living by lying low, staying put, instead of us drawing attention to him.”
“Tomorrow ...”
“Sure, Jessie, tomorrow. We’ll come back for him tomorrow, but right now, tonight, it’s more important to take care of you.”
Chapter 9
They rode in silence through the murky hills, hearing the bawling of cattle and the shouting of rustlers receding behind them.
Jessica hunched despondently in the saddle. Daryl was beside her and a bit ahead, leading the way back to the Spraddled M. As they dipped down across a fingerling valley, he noticed on the right a craggy outcropping. Bluestem grass appeared to be growing in foot-high tufts there, an indication of a spring or brook. He pulled alongside Jessica, gesturing, and angled toward the boulders. She headed after him, the horses speeding up as they smelled water.
The outcropping proved to encircle a small patch of bottom, with a thin trickle of water oozing from the ground. A few small animals fled as they approached, but otherwise the area seemed deserted. They dismounted, stiff and exhausted, and knelt in the grass, cupping their hands to drink. The horses lapped thirstily.
“Well, we lost them this time,” Jessica said with irony.
“We better have. The horses are too tired for any more fancy prancing. We should give them a short breather.”
She nodded wearily. “No argument from me.”
Leaving the saddles on, they picketed the horses by the water and went to the outcropping, where the grass was dryer. Jessica sucked in her breath, grimacing from pain, as she slowly sat down. Frowning, Daryl hunkered beside her and tentatively touched her back.
“Bend forward a tad,” he said. “If you can.”
She leaned over, biting her lip to stifle a moan, feeling him gently peel away the ripped fabric that was stuck to her coagulating blood. The long gash opened up again, a line of warm moistness seeping out and rivuleting down her back.
“Doesn’t look too deep,” Daryl said, still frowning with concern. “My guess is, with a cleaning and bandaging and a good smear of ointment, your cut should heal up right fine.”
She tried to make light of it. “Nary a scar, doctor?”
“Probably not, if we treat it right soon. I ain’t any doc, though; I’m just going by how I tend my cows.”
Shortly they were up and riding again, across the range of wooded slopes, stony ridges, and brushy draws. Jessica fell to following Daryl again, more than willing to let him find their way through. He did, competently. And as fatigued and aching as she was, Jessica made sure to memorize the route he took.
When they cleared the hills and entered his ranch yard, the buildings dozed dark and still, appearing abandoned, as if the rustlers had not only made off with a small bunch of Spraddled M stock, but with all the hands as well.
Inside the house, Daryl lit a glass stand lamp and ushered Jessica into the kitchen. “Stay here,” he said, and then made two trips outside, one for wood with which to stoke the cast-iron Du
chess stove, and the other for water to fill the washtub he placed on the stove’s burners. While the water was heating, he hauled out a heavy tin bathtub, and placed it near the stove.
“This ain’t the height of modesty,” he said, beginning to redden around the ears. “But I reckon it’ll just have to do.”
“I’ll manage nicely, thank you,” Jessica replied, managing to keep a serious expression. She trailed him into an adjacent bedroom, saying, “Bad as it was, we learned a lot tonight.”
“Sure did.” His back was to her as he ransacked a tall wardrobe. “Now, I know I’ve got a clean towel in here somewheres.”
“We learned that Ryker wants a big chunk of Wyoming for no good reason, and that in order to get it, he’s resorting to rustling.”
“The one don’t mean the other. Ah, here’re a couple.”
“Yes, it does. When we ran into those steers—your steers—they were being herded toward the Block-Two-Dot, weren’t they?”
“Yeah, along that rocky gorge. No wonder Deputy Oakes could never find no tracks,” Daryl said, as they returned to the kitchen. “I’ll use this one for freshenin‘. Here, you take the bigger one.”
The bigger towel was the size of a child’s blanket. Jessica refolded it and laid it on the kitchen table, continuing, “And I’ll bet you anything that the men who were herding them are the same men we saw earlier—that first bunch who rode into the Block-Two-Dot yard, and then rode off again with some of the bunkhouse crew.”
“Okay, so supposing there is a connection. But why? Ryker don’t need more stock; he already owns more’n his range can handle.”
“Daryl, Ryker isn’t a rancher like the rest of you, struggling to make ends meet, hoping to build a future. He’s a crook, tied in with a whole ring of bigger crooks who’ll stop at nothing to gain control of that block of land we saw on that map. It follows like night follows day that he’s using the rustlers to cripple you ranchers, as a wedge to buy you up for nickels and force you off your property.”
Daryl brooded for a moment, then stepped closer, searching her eyes. “Jessie, you’d best leave Eucher Butte as soon as you can.”
“Leave? I don’t want to leave, I want to stay.”
“I want you to stay too, of course, but you must leave, for your own sake. I won’t have you dying for a fight that isn’t yours.”
“This is my fight, Daryl. More than you know.”
“You’ve already done as much as any man could. More!” He gripped her tenderly by the shoulders. “But if you’re right, and in my gut I know you are, then Ryker and these other crooks won’t stop at nothing. They sure won’t stop at brutalizing or killing a woman.”
“And what about ... about Ki?” she asked, faltering, a lump gathering in her throat. “We made it our fight when we came in answer to Mrs. Waldemar’s letter, and now that Ki is missing, I won’t rest—I cannot rest—until I finish the fight we started together.”
Daryl heard her sob, as she pressed her cheek against his chest. It seemed so natural for her to melt in his arms, as natural as lowering his face to kiss her, the pressure of her body like an eager promise. Shaken and chagrined, Daryl released her, taking a step backwards. “F-forgive me, Jessica, I didn’t mean to be forward.”
Jessica looked as though she weren’t paying the slightest attention to his apology. She placed the open palm of one hand flat against his cheek. “You need a shave,” she said, stroking upward against the stubble. “When I rub down, it’s smooth, and when I rub up, you’re all whiskers.”
Daryl shivered, speechless from her caress, staring at her affectionate smile. There were rents in her clothes, and one sleeve of her plaid shirt was almost torn away. Bloodstains and scratches marred her smooth, tanned face and delicate hands, and her long hair, tangled and hatless, gleamed like the hue of fireweed honey where the glowing fire from the stove reflected against it. She was a lovely thing, and Daryl battled hard to retain his control.
“The, ah, the water is warm,” he finally managed, blushing to his hairline. “We ... I mean, you can have a nice bath now.”
Hastily he poured the steaming water into the plunge-tub, leaving a little in the washtub for his own use. He tossed her a cake of soap, grabbed another and his towel, and fled with the washtub into the front room. “Soak as long as you like,” he called.
“I will,” she replied lightly, shedding her clothes in a pool on the kitchen floor. “But Daryl...I expect you to shave.”
A throat-clearing sounded from the other room, causing her to broaden her smile as she eased naked into the bath water. She washed carefully, thoroughly, wanting to be squeaky clean in case anything developed—which, considering Daryl’s flustered behavior, was not entirely impossible.
She was not in the habit of seducing men, although occasionally she enjoyed a bit of coy flirting; it was a pleasing game, and it gratified her to know she could arouse the stuffiest, most virtuous of males on a basic, primitive level. Nor was she a promiscuous wanton, the victim of some insatiable sex drive. It was simply that Jessica Starbuck was not a prude or a hypocrite; she was pure woman, proud of her femininity, and she relished the sensation of being attractive to those few men she found desirable.
And Lord, Daryl Melville was desirable! She had thought so ever since their first meeting, and thinking of him now caused her taut breasts to tingle, her rosy nipples to harden involuntarily. Daryl possessed a rare allure that seemed to captivate and fascinate her, to bore to the very essence of her sensual nature. The easy grace of his motions, the strong muscles flexing along his thighs and chest, the hard bas relief of his loins in his pants ...
Whoops! Jessica straightened in the tub, chastising herself. It was one thing to admire him, or even to desire him; it was quite another to get herself worked into a frazzle.
She stepped out of the tub, dripping water and trying to wrap the large towel around her. “Are you decent, Daryl?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t peek. I’m having trouble with this towel of yours.” She sauntered into the front room, the towel perversely slipping and unraveling, no matter how she tried to hold it closed.
Daryl ignored her warning, naturally. He was standing in front of the fireplace, shaving by the reflection of the large mantelpiece mirror. He was barefoot and shirtless, wearing only his trousers, and Jessica could see the muscular power of his naked torso as he stroked his cheek with a straight razor.
She also saw him nearly slice an ear off, when he took a look at her, bare-breasted. Hastily, Jessica struggled to raise the hem of the towel back over her bosom. Which she managed to do, but at the cost of one edge of the towel behind her parting like an errant stage curtain and fully, if briefly, exposing her firm buttocks and lithely tapering thighs.
The razor dropped to the floor.
Jessica retreated, scampering. “I said not to peek!”
“I didn’t see a thing, Jessie. Honest!” There was a pause, then Daryl asked, “Was there something you wanted?”
“Well, you told me my cut needs ointment and bandages, and I can’t very well reach all the way around my back and do it, can I?”
“Oh.” There was another pause, longer and somehow more profound. Then, nervously: “I, ah, I’ll do it. You go get arranged on my bed, and I’ll be in as soon’s I finish here.”
In the bedroom, Jessica stretched out on her stomach on the iron-framed single bed, and very carefully made sure the towel was draped properly over her from the waist down. Mentally she kicked herself, flaming with embarrassment, for that impromptu strip-tease with the towel had been truly accidental, and not like her at all.
Daryl entered, clearing his throat a lot, and put a roll of adhesive tape, some gauze bandages, scissors, and a tin of ointment on the bedside table. He sat down, balancing on the edge of the bed with all the caution of a man expecting the mattress to explode.
“Just consider me one of your cows,” Jessica said, hoping to relax him, her face buried in the covers. “I’ll m
oo, if it’ll help.”
With a tight chuckle, Daryl opened the tin and began to spread the ointment hesitantly along her wound. It burned like a branding iron.
“My god, Daryl, what is that stuff? Acid?”
“Arnicated carbolic salve,” he answered, pausing to quote the label: “‘The best in the world for burns, flesh injuries, boils, eczema, chilblains, piles, ulcers, and fever sores.’” He started smoothing it on again, assuring her, “Dad swears by it for his salt rheum and ringworm. Don’t worry, it’ll smart for just a minute, and then it’ll just feel nice warm.”
Jessica lay still, skeptically waiting for the salve to stop burning and start warming. Amazingly it did, the warmth penetrating while Daryl continued rubbing gingerly with his fingers. He leaned over her back, so close that she could feel his breath against her flesh and smell the fragrance of his masculine body ... and gradually, against her will, she sensed budding tendrils of pleasure beginning to curl deep down in her belly and loins and gently clenching buttocks.
“Jessie...?”
“Mm?”
“Remember Ryker’s cellar? His chains and whips?”
“Mm.”
“Does that kind of thing ... do girls go for that?”
“A few, maybe. Me, I’m strictly a soft touch.”
Daryl touched her softly. Massaging, kneading, his hands eased from where the wound started high on one side, down along her spine to the dimple of flesh just above the crevice of her tensing buttocks. His fingers explored very slowly, almost fearfully, and she could hear his breath deepening, his pulse quickening. And she could feel her own lungs sucking in air, her blood racing with a fire that flamed through her flesh and goaded her to reckless abandon.
She turned over. A slight twinge of self-consciousness stole through her as she sat up facing him, seeing his eyes roaming heatedly over her naked, thrusting breasts. “You’ll make some lucky girl a real fine husband,” she teased in a throbbing voice.
His own voice was husky, choking. “I—I’m sorry, Jessie. That’s twice now that I’ve ... I don’t know what’s come over me.”
Lone Star 01 Page 10