“What’s your name?” Claire asked.
“Catalina Isabella Anna Maria Borghese d'Agostino.”
Claire blinked. That was a mouthful. What was that? Italian?
“Santo cielo!” Catalina abruptly exclaimed, glaring at the floor. “Those are Drew’s clothings! What are you doing with them?” She took two steps forward, raised the revolver again, and narrowed her eyes like daggers. “What have you done with him, you…bad lady?”
Bad lady? That was certainly the pot calling the kettle black.
“Nothing!” she said. “And stop calling me names.”
The woman’s eyes flashed in threat. “If you’ve done anything to him…”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then why do you have his clothings?”
The truth was too difficult to explain. “He…forgot them.”
“You are a liar.”
“Don’t call me—”
She shook her head. “Drew would not forget his clothings.”
“He was in a hurry.”
“A hurry?”
“He was running away.”
Catalina made a tiny gasp, and the revolver faltered in her grip. “Running away?” She gulped. “What means this—running away?”
Claire narrowed her gaze at Catalina, beginning to understand. The woman wasn’t just a lady of the evening looking for her patron. She was in love with Drew.
“He wasn’t running away from you,” she clarified.
Catalina tried unsuccessfully to hide her relief. “Of course not,” she said, lowering the forty-five. “He would be a fool to do so.” She nodded to the cuff around Claire’s wrist, and her brow creased as she moved forward in concern. “Who did that to you? Not Drew?”
“No.”
Catalina looked her in the eye. “You cannot get free?”
Claire swallowed. It was a mistake to let an opponent know you were helpless. Any good gunslinger knew that.
But something in Catalina’s eyes made Claire trust her. In fact, she suddenly realized the woman might prove to be an ally. After all, they were in similar predicaments. They both wanted to find the Two-Sons.
“No, I can’t,” she admitted. “But maybe you can help me. Maybe we can help each other.”
Catalina hesitated. “Why should I help you? You took Drew away from me.”
“I did not…that is…it was his idea to…” Claire sighed. This was her fault. “All right, I did talk him into coming. But I didn’t think there would be trouble. I only wanted him to help Chase.”
“Chase. His brother?”
“Yes. I’m Chase’s woman,” she said, though she wondered if that was still true. “My name is Claire.” She would have offered her hand, but it was cuffed to the prison bars. “Claire Parker.”
“Claire Parker.” She gave Claire another swift perusal, arching a brow. “The rancher’s…little girl?”
“Yes.” Claire wondered how she knew that. But there was no time for chitchat. The men could be halfway down the canyon by now. “Do you think you can get me out of these?”
Catalina rushed forward without hesitation to examine the shackles, sucking in a sharp breath when she saw Claire’s wrist. “You are hurt.”
“It’s nothing.” It wasn’t nothing. It stung like the dickens. But that was the least of her worries.
She had to get the cuffs off. She’d already tried squeezing out of them. Picking the lock wasn’t an option. The nail was nowhere to be found. And the only thing worse than shooting off your hand was having someone else shoot it off. At any rate, the Italian lady didn’t seem like she could be trusted with that revolver.
“We need something long and sharp,” Catalina said.
She stared at the woman, nonplussed. Did everyone but Claire know how to pick a lock?
Before she could explain that there wasn’t anything else long and sharp in the jailer’s office, Catalina slipped a hairpin from her bun, which brought the black curls tumbling down over her shoulders.
While Catalina worked on the lock, Claire filled her in on the whole story—Chase kidnapping her, the trek through the canyon, falling in love, and their unfortunate discovery.
Catalina was not so forthcoming about her own history, but Claire suspected such a woman’s narrative was not for the faint of heart.
It took several minutes and a lot of what Claire guessed was Italian cussing. But finally the lock clicked open, and Claire was free.
Claire gave Catalina a spontaneous hug of triumph. Then Catalina retrieved the revolver, and the two women hurried off to rescue their half-breed heroes.
Drew felt naked without his forty-five. He’d have gladly traded his drawers for his Colt. This wasn’t the first time his poker skills had been called into question, and he’d found a six-shooter went a long way toward convincing sore losers that they’d been beaten fair and square.
He wondered what was taking Chase so long. He sure hoped Calamity hadn’t gotten the instructions mixed up. Luckily, the jailer still hadn’t spotted him hiding in the manzanitas, but the man must have sensed his quarry was near, because he wasn’t in any hurry to leave the spot.
“I know you’re here somewheres,” the jailer called. “I don’t know how you got outta my jail, but you’re sure as shoot goin’ back in.”
The man had a revolver—a Remington, from what he could make out, which wasn't quite as accurate as a Colt. But a bullet was a bullet. From the way he was holding the thing, he hadn’t fired it much, which could be good. Drew didn’t know how many extra rounds the man had, but he’d only be able to get off six shots before he needed to reload.
He wondered how trigger-happy the man was.
Slowly, Drew picked up a fallen pine cone and, when the jailer had his back turned, lobbed it across the clearing.
The man whipped around at the sound and fired, blasting a couple of leaves off of a manzanita.
That answered his question.
Maybe it would be best to empty the man’s weapon before Chase arrived. Besides, the gunfire would help his brother locate him.
Drew picked up a rock and hurled it in the opposite direction.
Again, the jailer whirled and got off a shot. It zinged off a tree trunk.
A few seconds later, he tossed out another rock, and the man let a bullet fly.
Drew grinned. This was going to be child’s play.
Chase heard gunfire. He grimaced. Was that Drew’s weapon or the jailer’s?
He didn’t care for guns. They were a white man’s weapon. He preferred a well-made bow and arrows. But at the moment, he would have given anything for a good rifle.
He heard another shot and headed toward the sound, picking up his pace. He might be unarmed, but if the jailer had so much as parted his brother’s hair with a bullet, he’d tear the man limb from limb with his bare hands.
At the third shot, he cast caution aside and went barreling through the brush.
The fourth shot whizzed past his shoulder.
By the meager moonlight, he spied the jailer in the middle of the clearing ahead. His revolver was pointed at Chase.
“Come outta there!” the man shouted.
Chase froze. He didn't think the man could see him in the shadows. But he was aiming at him, and he might get lucky with his next shot.
“Get outta there before I plug you full o’ lead!”
The man took aim with his revolver, and suddenly Chase heard a familiar eerie moan floating through the trees.
The jailer whirled, trying to find the source of the sound.
Just then Drew streaked past at the far edge of the clearing, long enough for the jailer to catch a glimpse of him before firing off his next shot.
Chase shook his head. They’d never played the two-spirit game with live ammunition before. This was crazy.
But he couldn’t abandon his brother. So he played his part, making an identical moan and showing his face just long enough for the jailer to see him before he tore off through the trees.
The last bullet followed close behind him as he ran.
While the man was frantically reloading, Drew moaned again and limped past at the south side of the clearing. Immediately afterward, Chase echoed him at the north side.
The jailer yelped in surprise.
Drew rustled the bushes, his head seeming to float above them, then ducked down.
Chase followed in a perfect imitation from the opposite side.
When the jailer started whimpering and fumbling with his bullets, Chase had to admit that two-spirit was a pretty good ruse.
This time, Drew slipped behind the jailer, close enough for the man to feel the breeze of his passing. When the man spun in surprise, turning his back, Chase ran close behind him, brushing his vest with the tips of his fingers.
The poor jailer didn’t know which way to look.
Drew lurched straight toward him this time, which made the man scramble backward with a shriek.
The jailer turned to flee, only to find himself face to face with Chase.
Skidding to a halt and dropping his gun in panic, the man bolted sideways and hightailed it out of the clearing as if he were being pursued by a ghost…which was exactly the idea of the two-spirit game.
Chase couldn’t help but chuckle after the jailer was safely gone. “Never fails.”
Drew came out of the bushes. He had a tired smile, but then he’d been busy dodging bullets for the last several minutes. “Remember the last time we played that?”
Chase nodded. “It was for those two young Yurok girls who were visiting.”
Drew sniffed. “Sure scared them.”
Chase shook his head. “Scared them enough to earn us a whipping from their father.”
“He should have been grateful,” Drew said with a lazy wink. “One of those girls was tryin’ to get me to share her blanket.”
Chase laughed and wrapped a companionable arm around his brother’s shoulder. Drew was dripping with sweat. He must have been running pretty hard.
“Go on now. Git.” Drew pulled away and gestured roughly down the trail. “I don’t think the jailer’s gonna make trouble. Go grab your girl and skedaddle.”
His girl. He liked the sound of that.
“What do you think of her?” he asked Drew.
“Who? Calamity?” Drew wiped his brow with the back of one shaky forearm.
Chase narrowed his eyes in concern. Drew looked awfully pale. “Are you all right?”
Drew smirked. “Sure. Right as rain.” He took one staggering step. “I just…” Then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he suddenly went limp.
Chase lunged forward, catching his brother in his arms and lowering him carefully to the ground. What he saw made his heart stop.
Drew had been shot. He was bleeding from his side.
“No, no, no, no, no,” he murmured in anxious denial, crouching beside Drew and examining the wound. He couldn’t tell how bad it was, but the bullet had struck him below the ribs, and there was a hell of a lot of blood.
“Lin-miwhxiy!” he bit out.
Why had his brother insisted on playing this foolish game? Damn Drew! He was always flirting with danger and risking his life.
And where was his forty-five? He never went anywhere without it. This was a bad omen.
Chase had to get help. As risky as it was, he had to go back to Paradise. He had to find a doctor.
But first he had to keep Drew from bleeding to death.
The sharp crack of a gunshot made Claire and Catalina freeze in their tracks, though not for long.
“Hurry!” Claire told Catalina, whose full skirts kept snagging on the manzanitas.
They increased their speed, pausing again when they heard a second shot.
“This way!” Catalina said, heading toward the noise.
Claire’s heart was pumping hard now, not only from the run, but from fear. Catalina had Drew’s revolver, which meant neither of the brothers had a weapon. So the shots had to be coming from the jailer’s gun.
What if Chase had been shot? What if the jailer had killed him?
The third shot sounded closer and deadlier. But Claire tried to take courage in the probability that if Chase were dead, the jailer wouldn’t still be firing.
That didn’t stop the sharp jab of her heart against her ribs when she heard the fourth shot.
Claire caught Catalina’s arm and nodded at the Colt. “Have you ever fired one of those?”
“No,” Catalina admitted. “But if Drew is in danger—”
“Give it to me.”
The fifth and sixth shots rang out, very loud this time, and Catalina handed her the revolver.
“That’s six,” Claire whispered to Catalina. “He’s out of bullets. Now’s our chance.”
They crept forward. Claire had a fierce grip on the gun, but her hand was trembling. Unlike Catalina, she’d fired a forty-five before. She’d plugged many a tin can full of lead. But she’d never shot a man. She hoped she had the courage to do it, if it came to that.
“Wait!” Catalina said under her breath.
Something was thrashing toward them through the underbrush. Catalina grabbed Claire’s arm and pulled her out of way just in time.
The jailer still bumped her arm as he passed, squeaking in surprise.
“Spooks!” he cried as he barreled by, his eyes as wide as saucers. “There’s spooks in the woods!”
And then he disappeared as fast as a runaway horse.
Claire lowered the gun and looked at Catalina. “What do you suppose that was all a-”
“Drew.” Catalina had a faraway look in her eyes, as though she’d seen something Claire could not.
Then she abruptly pushed past Claire and hurtled along the path the jailer had come.
Claire tried to keep up, but Catalina was so intent on where she was going—whipping aside branches and ducking under trees—that when she stopped all at once, Claire collided with her.
Catalina spit out a long string of Italian words. Claire didn’t know what they meant, but there was no mistaking the woman’s rage.
“You!” Catalina bellowed.
Claire peered around Catalina. To her immense relief, not a dozen feet away was Chase, alive and, by all appearances, unharmed. But he was hunkering down beside his brother, looking up at Catalina in surprise.
“What did you do?” Catalina cried, rushing forward at Chase. “What did you do to my Drew?”
Before Chase could answer or even blink, the woman plowed her fist into his nose. He fell off of his haunches and went sprawling in the leaves.
Claire gasped and leveled the forty-five at Catalina. “Get away from him!”
But Catalina only had eyes for Drew. He was lying on the ground, silent, and a thin trail of blood was streaming from his chest.
Claire lowered the gun in quaking hands.
Chase was already recovering from the punch. He gave his head a shake and levered up onto his elbows.
“Chase didn’t do this,” Claire told Catalina, as sure of that as she was sure of her own name. “Chase wouldn’t hurt him.”
“Oh, Drew,” Catalina wailed, sinking down to take Drew’s hand, holding it to her breast. “Do not leave me, mio caro. Do not leave me. You promised, Drew.”
Drew stirred slightly, and he murmured, “Cat?”
“You promised. Remember? You promised to buy me tonight.”
Claire blushed, certain she shouldn’t be hearing such things.
“Sure,” Drew croaked, trying to get up.
Chase rushed to his side. “Don’t try to move,” he told Drew, grimacing as fresh blood seeped from the wound. Then he gave Catalina a quick perusal. “Your petticoats, quick.” He wiggled his fingers in demand. “Give me your petticoats.”
“What!” Catalina’s eyes widened as she looked ready to give him a second punch.
“To stop the bleeding,” he explained.
She hesitated only an instant before she stood and began pulling out yards and yard
s of petticoats from beneath her scarlet dress.
Chase immediately began to apply them to Drew’s wound, and Claire came to help.
Together, they managed to stanch the flow of blood and bind his wound. Then Chase hefted his brother up in his arms, and they began the tense hike back to Paradise.
Chapter 22
Samuel slugged back the last swallow of his morning coffee and chewed up the grounds.
He didn’t trust the sheriff. The man liked to shoot off his mouth more than he liked to shoot his gun. So Samuel figured he’d best get into town early to nip the gossip in the bud and make sure people didn’t start asking questions about the man the sheriff had arrested.
He also felt he owed it to Claire to make sure Yoema’s grandson wasn’t unjustly accused. While Samuel might want to see the half-breed behind bars for taking off with his daughter, he was pretty sure he wasn’t a cheat at cards. Samuel had seen enough of the young man to know that if Chase Wolf was going to shoot you, it wouldn’t be in the back. Campbell drank a bit, so maybe he’d mixed him up with someone else.
Claire hadn’t come downstairs yet, but Samuel had given the maids instructions not to disturb her. She’d been through an ordeal, and she probably needed the extra rest. Besides, he was sure once she found out where he was headed, she’d insist on tagging along, and the town jail was no place for a lady.
So he rode into Paradise quietly just as the sun started peeking over his shoulder.
It looked like the sheriff had beat him to the jail. There were two horses secured outside—Campbell’s and the jailer’s. Samuel dismounted, tied up his own horse, and pushed open the jail door.
“And you’re sure you weren’t drinkin’ last night?” the sheriff was asking the jailer.
“Not a drop,” the jailer said.
“Maybe he bought you off then,” the sheriff suggested, “offered you half the winnin’s if you let him out?”
“What? No!”
Native Wolf Page 24