And she had to go. She stumbled off toward a clump of bushes. She walked like an old woman, hunched over and slow, every muscle in her body screaming in protest.
“Whar you going?” Otis yelled.
“Nature calls.”
“Don’t go far. Lots of critters out there. Some of them ain’t very friendly.”
Critters? Her stomach knotted, and she kept a watchful eye out for anything that moved. She shuffled off behind the bushes until she was out of sight and took care of her personal needs. When she returned, a campfire burned, and an enticing smell of coffee filled the air. She lowered herself onto a log he’d pulled up close to the fire. Slowly she eased her sore legs out in front of her. Every bone and joint cried out for mercy. She grabbed the coffee pot and poured herself a cup of the steaming liquid, then handed the pot to Otis. He poured a half cup of coffee, then pulled a flask from his pocket and generously flavored his coffee with an amber liquid. Whiskey! He held it out to her, but she shook her head.
An uneasy feeling settled over her like a heavy cloak. Something in the way Otis looked at her, sized her up was a better way to say it, made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She’d keep her rifle close—just in case. And she’d hide her money—just in case.
He handed her a plate of food. More beans. Yuk, yuk. “Thanks, Otis.” She pasted a smile on her face.
“Plenty more whar that came from.”
“I think this will be enough.”
“Tell me, Miss Devereaux, how come you’re going to Deadwood?”
“Personal business.”
“Must be important ’cuz it’s a long miserable trip to the Dakotas.” He lifted a bushy eyebrow in question.
She chose not to answer, hoping he’d get the hint that she didn’t want to discuss the subject.
But he ignored it. “You running from the law?”
“What?” She straightened her back and sent him her haughtiest stare. “Of course not. Why do you ask that?”
“’Cuz you’re dressed like a man and hiding your hair under a hat. You ain’t wanted to stop in no town. It’s like you don’t want nobody to know who you are.”
“It’s just more practical,” she retorted. “That’s all.”
“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say. Don’t matter none to me.” His gaze fell to the fire. He picked up a piece of wood and stirred the burning embers. “I figure you got family in Deadwood.”
Tired of his questions and taken aback that he’d guessed right, she jumped to her feet. “I’m going to turn in now. I’m exhausted.” She pivoted and marched away. After retrieving her bedroll, she placed it some distance from the campfire. She didn’t want to be close to Otis, not so much because he smelled bad, but because she didn’t trust him. The further they got from civilization, the more brazen he became. And the more he drank. She crawled into her bedroll, then placed her rifle beside her and angled her body so she could watch Otis. He still sat by the fire, but he now drank straight from a whiskey bottle. The howl of a wild animal suddenly pierced the air, sending shivers chasing down her spine. Otis didn’t even seem to hear it.
That lonely, wild sound brought memories crashing down around her. For a moment, she was a child again. In her mind’s eye, she could see a wagon lumbering across a prairie much like the one that spread before her. Three people sat on the wagon seat. Her mother and father and her in between them. They were laughing and holding hands.
Her parents had been happy together. At least for a while. What had happened to drive them apart? Why had her father deserted her mother? Why had he not married her? Jake Plummer had a lot of questions to answer.
Despite her resolve to stay awake, her eyelids grew heavy. Exhaustion overcame her, and she drifted off into sleep.
She dreamed again. But this time it wasn’t about Evan Montgomery. She was with her parents, and her mother was crying. “No, Jake. I won’t go. I’m not going to leave you.”
While her father insisted, “You have to, my darling. Take Angel and get out of here. Before he comes back.”
And she’d cried because her mother had cried. Then they were running across the prairie, and her mother was screaming at her. “Run, Angel, run. Whatever happens, don’t stop. Just keep running.”
And she’d run until her lungs burned, until her legs felt as heavy as lead, and she fell to the ground. Her mother had scooped her up and kept running. Then there had been horses and riders, loud yells and curses and gunshots. She had squeezed her eyes shut and buried her face in her mother’s bosom.
Only once had she dared to open her eyes. And she’d seen him, the man who’d haunted her dreams for many long years. He’d had a gun pointed at her mother. With his bloodshot eyes and drool-covered lips, his evil face had been etched into her memory.
When she awoke the next morning, she trembled with the remembered terror of that moment. She’d had the same dream before when she first went to live on the Delta Princess, but it had eventually gone away. Now it was back.
But why? Why now? What did it mean?
A headache pounded at her temples. A feeling that something was wrong nagged at her. Then it struck her. The camp was quiet. Too quiet. She rolled out of her bedroll and pushed herself to her feet. Otis was gone, as well as the pack mule, and all her supplies, including most of the food. Her clothing littered the camp.
Tears threatened to come, but she choked them back. She was all alone and miles from anywhere. Thank God she’d hidden her money in her boot. Otherwise, Otis would have taken it too and she’d be penniless. What a fool she’d been to think she could do this alone. She had no doubt that she could follow the maps. Her grandfather had sailed the seven seas before settling down as a riverboat captain, and he’d taught her to navigate by the stars. She’d grown up on the river, and other wharf rats like herself had taught her how to shoot and fish.
But it was all the other things that made her question herself. Like taking care of her horse, the wild animals, including the two-legged kind, and the threat of...Indians.
She weighed her options. She could turn around and go back to St. Louis, certainly the most logical thing to do, or she could go on and find her father and ask all those questions she wanted to ask. All these years, she’d wondered why her father had deserted her and her mother. Julia Devereaux had died before Angel was old enough to ask about her father, and Grandpapa would never speak of him. Now she had an opportunity to find out why. She had to go on. It was something she had to do.
Her mind made up, she picked up her clothing and packed it in her saddlebags. She salvaged what supplies she could. At least Otis had left the coffee pot and the coffee, and she still had a full canteen of water.
A half hour later, she climbed aboard Royal Flush, got her bearings and headed northwest. The prairie stretched endlessly before her, undulating and swirling like a river. The prairie was indeed like the mighty Mississippi, beautiful one moment and treacherous the next.
The sun’s rays beat down on her, sucking the energy from her body. Rivulets of perspiration trickled down her neck and between her breasts. She slowed her horse, then angled in the saddle and pulled a bandana from her saddlebag. She tied it around her already sunburned neck and pulled her hat further down on her head. She didn’t stop for lunch, just forged steadily ahead, always watching for strangers. She made camp early that night in a small wash.
A wolf howled from somewhere out in the darkness. Her gut tightened into knots, robbing her of her appetite. Was there only one? Or more? Waiting to attack her when she went to sleep? She told herself there was nothing to fear. She hobbled her horse in a patch of grass and then, with her rifle across her lap, settled down with her back against an embankment where she could see anyone, or anything, approaching. Every noise sent her pulse racing, her finger tightening around the trigger. The night sky glittered with stars, and she studied them as Grandpapa had taught her and determined her route. She dozed off before dawn only to awaken to Royal Flush nuzzling her face. She looped
her arms around the animal’s neck and grinned to herself. She’d survived the night.
The next day was the same. Endless hours across an endless prairie. Only a small amount of water sloshed in her canteen. She could survive without food, but she couldn’t make it without water. That night, she slept better, more because of exhaustion than lack of fear.
The next day repeated the previous one, with one exception. A thorn had lodged in the back of her hand the day before and it now festered. Her efforts to remove it proved fruitless.
And she had even less water.
Finally, exhausted and parched, she reached a small stream. The sight of the water brought tears to Angel’s eyes and a prayer of thanks to her lips. After setting up camp, she bathed, the clear water cooling her heated skin. She cleaned the wound on her hand and tried again to extract the thorn, but it was too deep. She put some of Eleeza’s healing herbs on it and bandaged it.
After a meager supper of beans, she lay down under a canopy of stars. Bright pinpricks of light winked in a vast ebony sky. She felt more relaxed and sure of herself than she’d felt in a long time. After all, she’d survived five days out here alone, and the dream, no, the nightmare, had not returned.
The night breeze wafted over her, carrying the sounds of the night. Small critters skittered in the bushes while a whippoorwill sang its melody. Nearby, an owl hooted softly. She glanced up in the trees and saw a white owl. A smile turned the corners of her mouth up. Eleeza always said the owl was a wise bird, and it certainly looked so tonight. She stared at the creature, and it blinked rapidly at her. Then it hooted again. Even when the whippoorwill flew away, the owl stayed. It fluttered closer, its wings lifted, and it came nearer and nearer. This didn’t seem the typical behavior of a wild creature. Unexpectedly, the old Cajun woman’s words floated through her mind. “All God’s creatures got spirits, and them spirits can talk to us people if’n they want to. Most times they don’t want to, but they can.” Was the owl a spirit trying to tell her something? Trying to warn her? Was someone out there? Otis? A shiver of alarm snaked down her spine.
Her instincts told her something was amiss. She jumped up and quickly banked the fire, then rolled up one of her blankets and stuffed it under another. On one end, she placed her hat. In the darkness, it should look like she was asleep. She grabbed her rifle, hid behind a clump of bushes and waited.
Near dawn, sudden movement caught her attention. A man moved stealthily toward the campfire. She shook her head to banish her fatigue. She crept forward, keeping the man in her rifle sights. He knelt down beside her bed and jerked the blanket off the dummy. At that moment, she jumped to her feet and aimed her rifle at him. “Get your hands up, you polecat, or I’ll shoot.”
The man whirled toward her, his hand dropping to his holster. As he pulled his gun, she fired. The rifle recoiled in her hands, knocking her backward. The man slumped to the ground and didn’t move. After regaining her footing, she stooped low and moved closer until she stood over him.
A wave of guilt washed over her. Nausea rose in her throat, and she thought she was going to be sick. She’d never even shot at a person before, much less killed one. But when some rattlesnake sneaks up on you in the middle of the night, a body didn’t have much choice.
A crimson stain spread over the back of his shirt. With trembling hands, she rolled the man over. A gasp tore from her lips. It was Evan Montgomery. She screamed, but no sound came from her mouth. She forced herself to calm down, then checked for a pulse and found a faint one. “Thank God, you’re alive.”
She sucked in a steadying breath, then examined his shoulder. With her lips set in a grimace, she probed the gaping hole. Her searching fingers could not find the hard lump of bullet. She turned him over and looked for an exit wound. Thankfully, the bullet had gone straight through his shoulder.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Now, while he was unconscious, she had to cauterize the bleeding flesh. She took her knife and cut his bloody shirt from his body. One of her shirts would have to do for bandages. After fetching water from the stream, she cleansed the area, then applied pressure with a clean cloth to stanch the flow of blood.
When she’d done that, she sat back on her heels to catch her breath. She stared down at his half-clad body. Her gaze took in his aquiline nose, granite jaw, huge arms and legs like tree trunks, and broad, muscular chest with its dark mat of curly hair that extended below his belt. A quiver in the most private part of her body shook her to her very core.
Annoyed that her mind had drifted there, she shook her head to clear her thoughts, relegating them to a corner of her mind—she’d examine them later. She placed the tip of her knife in the hot coals and waited until it glowed brightly. Even though she’d watched Eleeza do this many times on the river men who’d gotten drunk and then knifed or shot, she’d never done it herself. As she picked up the knife, her hand shook. Then, before she lost her nerve, she applied the tip to the wound.
His body jerked, his face twisted into a mask of pain, and an ungodly cry burst from his lips. The smell of his burning flesh sickened her. She held him down as best she could. Finally, his big body relaxed as he once again sank into blessed unconsciousness. Quickly, she applied some salve to his shoulder, bandaged it with another clean cloth and then covered him with a blanket.
She made more coffee and gulped down a cup. The strong brew held back her fatigue. She sat and leaned against the trunk of a tree and watched him. Even in his weakened condition, his strength would be greater than hers. Somehow, before he roused, she had to tie him up.
He was out for hours. The moment he stirred, she jumped to her feet. She grabbed her rope and bound his hands and feet. She shivered at the thought of his rage when he finally gained consciousness. This man reminded her of a bulldog who’d gotten something in his jaw and wouldn’t let go.
And she was it.
Any other man would have given up finding her by now, but not Evan Montgomery. She’d made a fool of him twice before and now again. He probably planned to exact a horrible revenge on her.
****
His shoulder hurt like hell. Burning pain seeped in Evan’s unconsciousness and jerked him awake. He blinked rapidly. Where in tarnation was he? And what was he doing on the ground? And why did his shoulder hurt like he’d been shot?
Shot? Then he remembered sneaking up on Angel’s camp, and someone yelling at him and shooting at him. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. He glanced down and saw his hands were tied—and so were his feet. He shoved himself to a seated position. What the hell—?
Then he saw her. Seated, her back against a tree, rifle across her lap, she stared at him with those striking green eyes. Her beautiful lips quirked in a self-satisfied smile. She’d bested him again, and this time she’d shot him. He groaned aloud.
“Are you in pain?” Her soft voice showed concern.
That wasn’t what he had groaned about, but he nodded.
“Good.” She wagged her finger at him. “That’s what you get for trying to sneak up on me.”
“But you...you shot me.” He still couldn’t believe he’d let himself get caught red-handed. Again.
“Had I known it was you, I would have taken better aim.” She stood up and swiped at the seat of her britches.
He pointed to his bandaged shoulder. “Who did this?”
“Do you see anyone else?” She rolled her eyes skyward as if saying he was addle-brained for not seeing the obvious.
“Your many talents continue to amaze me, Mademoiselle Devereaux. Back in New Orleans, you evidently paid thugs to kill me, yet today you bandage the wound you inflicted.
“I didn’t pay them to kill you, merely to rescue me. Besides, how was I to know who you were? I saw a man sneaking up to my camp and thought he was up to no good. Turns out I was right. Tell me, Mr. Montgomery, how long do you plan to dog my tracks?”
“Until I get satisfaction.”
“Then maybe I should shoot you again,” she retorted. “That way I’ll get
the satisfaction.”
He grinned. “You may be a liar and a thief, but you’re not a killer. If you were, I’d be dead right now.”
“I can change.”
He laughed, then sobered as he realized he’d not yet told her about her father. Seeing as how she had him hog-tied and a gun aimed at his mid-section, maybe this wasn’t the best time to broach the subject. Somehow he had to turn the tables on her and escape. “Listen, you know there’s a warrant out for your arrest?”
She didn’t look surprised—or scared. “I figured as much.”
“I’ll let you go if you return my money.”
She made a most unladylike noise. “Hah. You’ll let me go? You’re the one tied up, not me, and like I’ve already said, I didn’t take your money.”
He shifted to a more comfortable position. Immediately she tensed, her finger tightening on the trigger. “Easy, easy. Just trying to get comfortable. Thanks to you, I’ve got a broken rib and a bullet hole in me.”
A look of...guilt...or uncertainty flickered in her eyes.
“I’d sure feel a lot better if you’d untie me.”
“In a pig’s eye.”
“I’d take it into consideration...later.”
Her mouth tugged down into a frown.
“All right, if you won’t do that, at least let me have a drink of water. I’m feeling weak.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. She knelt by the fire, picked up a cup and filled it with water from her canteen. Evan watched her. Even dressed in the ill-fitting clothes, her womanly curves tantalized him. She walked over to him and held the cup to his lips. Her nearness sent his pulse racing. She was so close he could see the thick line of eyelashes, the tiny freckles across the bridge of her nose, the curve of her mouth, the slim column of her neck and the pulse point at the hollow of her throat. Desire hit him as hard, if not harder, than her bullet had struck him.
She lowered the cup. To his surprise, he saw his own desire mirrored in her eyes. She leaned closer, one hand pressed against his bare chest. With her tongue, she traced the outline of his lips, nipped the bottom one, then kissed him. A kiss that took his breath away and left him wanting more. “What was that for? Not that I’m complaining,” he added hurriedly.
Gambling on Love Page 6