The Fires of Paradise

by Brenda Joyce

“It wasn’t revenge!” she cried.

  “If it wasn’t revenge, then why were you so quick to accuse me? Why the hell didn’t you ask me what I was doing?”

  “I know what I saw! You were waiting at the barn—the horse was saddled and waiting for you! I had to reveal what I knew; can’t you understand?”

  Shoz stared. “What you think you knew.”

  “What are you saying?”

  A hard expression crossed his face. “Forget it.”

  Lucy recovered with effort. “I’ve brought you lunch.” He laughed.

  “I know you probably haven’t had a decent meal,” she said, sitting on the end of the cot, placing the basket on her lap. She opened it. Her heart was pounding heavily and fast. It had been a mistake to come. She was more upset than ever. She was feeling more guilty than ever. And she could feel the heat of his body, even though she had left a decent space between them. And she could feel his anger.

  “Deputy or no,” Shoz said, low, “I am about a second from throttling you if you don’t get out of here.”

  Lucy froze. She believed him. He hated her, but of course, he wouldn’t see her side of things. He was barely restraining himself from doing some kind of damage, no matter that he was sick. She couldn’t swallow; fear choked her. He hated her. He wanted to hurt her. He would hurt her, too, if she pressed her luck. She shifted, about to rise.

  And the movement made something in the basket glint.

  Too late, Lucy remembered there was also a carving knife in the basket for the roast chicken. Swiftly she reached to snap shut the lid of the basket.

  But he saw it, too, and he was faster.

  Shoz’s hand was already inside, gripping the knife. He looked at it, and then, for an instant, an endless instant, while they were both frozen in time, he looked at her—and Lucy saw the intent in his eyes.

  She screamed, rising.

  He was quicker, also on his feet, the basket flying across the floor and all its contents spilling. And then his arm was around her rib cage, so tight and hard, he forced all the air from her lungs in a gasp, and the knife was at her throat.

  “Don’t move,” he snarled. “Or I’m going to slit your pretty white throat.”

  17

  “Don’t move,” Shoz repeated.

  Lucy froze. Her entire body was pressed against his. His grasp was steel, his arm hurting her breasts, his breath against her ear. She could feet the tip of the knife against her throat, and she was afraid.

  “Jesus,” Fred gasped, gun in hand. “Let her go!”

  Shoz smiled. “You might be a good enough shot to hit me,” he said, “and not Lucy, but I doubt it.”

  Lucy gave a little cry. Fred went even whiter, and Shoz jerked on Lucy to remind her to be still.

  “Let me warn you,” he said coolly, “I’m Apache through and through. You fire, and this blade is going right through her jugular vein.”

  Lucy moaned. The pressure of his arm increased, cutting off the sound and her minute attempt to struggle.

  “Jesus,” Fred said again, sweat dripping down his brow.

  Lucy pleaded with him. “Don’t do it! Fred, don’t, please, don’t!”

  Fred was unsure, and it showed.

  “Drop the gun,” Shoz ordered, moving forward with Lucy still in front of him, her body almost entirely shielding his. He hustled her through the cell doorway, Fred backing up until he was against the bars of the opposite cell, but still holding the gun. “Drop it!” Shoz commanded harshly. “Drop it, right here, at my feet!”

  “Shit!” Fred cried.

  Lucy felt the increasing pressure of the blade at her throat, then the pricking of pain, and she gasped. The knife had cut her skin, and she felt the moisture of her own blood. “Drop it,” she begged. “He cut me, drop it!”

  “Oh my God,” Fred gasped, and he dropped the gun.

  Suddenly Shoz threw Lucy aside, so hard she went stumbling to the floor, while he lunged for the gun. He was so swift, he had it pointed at Fred a scant instant later. Lucy was on her hands and knees at Shoz’s feet, panting. “Hands up!” Shoz said.

  Fred complied with alacrity. Lucy sat on the floor and felt her neck. There was no outpouring of blood. She wiped away the moisture—and saw nothing but sweat.

  Shoz grabbed Fred, throwing him into the cell. With his gun pointed at Fred’s chest, Shoz said to Lucy, “Come here.”

  Lucy froze.

  “Come here!”

  She got up, her heart pounding. He was going to lock her in the cell with Fred. He was going to lock them up and escape!

  Wildly her gaze swung around, searching for a weapon or something to hit him with. Yet even as she did so, she knew it would be futile and foolish to attack him while he was watching her and waiting for her.

  She came slowly, her mind desperately seeking a means of escape, a way to thwart him. No solution presented itself. With a low growl of impatience, he grabbed her arm, yanking her forward. The gun he aimed at Fred never wavered. Lucy cried out at his manhandling. He ignored her, delving into the breast pocket of her jacket. He took her handkerchief and forcefully stuffed it into Fred’s mouth. Then he shoved Fred onto the bunk.

  Lucy, of course, edged away, until her back made contact with the iron bars of the cell.

  Shoz jammed the gun in the waistband of his jeans, grabbing the sheet from the bed and jerking it off. Swiftly he cut the linen into strips. Lucy understood—he was going to tie them up. Fred was immobilized with fear—and at Shoz’s elbow anyway. Too close to do anything, but …

  Lucy knew she had to act, and act now.

  But how? There was nothing to hit him with. Wildly she glanced around, her gaze scanning the spilled contents of the picnic basket, the roasted chicken, a few plates, the scattered muffins and napkins. And then in the corner of the cell only four feet from her, she saw the lead crystal pitcher that she’d brought filled with lemonade. She pounced.

  Shoz had already bound Fred’s wrists behind his back and was rapidly wrapping a linen strip around his ankles. As hard as she could, Lucy swung the jug down on his head.

  Instinct made him duck and turn before she made contact. His hand found her wrist, forcing her to release the pitcher. It hit the floor with a crash and broke. Lucy cried out in despair and pain as he forced her to her knees. “Sit!” he commanded, and turned back to Fred.

  Acting on pure instinct, she leapt up and fled instead, hearing his curses behind her. She ran down the hall and threw open the door to the sheriff’s office. She heard him ordering her to stop. She heard the metal clanging of the cell door being shut. She was through the sheriff’s office, and she heard his footsteps behind her.

  She grasped the front door, flinging it open hysterically. She opened her mouth to scream. No sound ever came out. He grabbed her from behind, hauling her back inside, slamming the door shut, and clamping his hand over her mouth. She bit him as hard as she could.

  “Dammit!” he yelled, and then a strip of linen was stuffed in her mouth.

  Lucy fought him every step of the way. He dragged her with him back through the office, taking Fred’s rifle, which was propped up against the desk. Because he was, apparently, still injured, it was a real contest. He pulled her, while she was braking as hard as she could. They were both panting hoarsely, and sweat dripped from his brow onto her cheek.

  At the door to the jail cells, he stopped, jerking her body up even closer to his, so he could snarl in her ear. “Either you start moving, or I’m going to hurt you.”

  Lucy moved. He propelled her and she ran. She didn’t doubt for a moment that he’d hurt her; she sensed he was at the limit of his patience. They ran into the prison. Fred was hog-tied and gagged and locked in Shoz’s cell. Lucy expected Shoz to throw her inside with him. She was stunned when he hauled her out the back door instead, into the shadows of the alley outside.

  Wild thoughts went screaming through her mind, impossible ones. Why hadn’t he left her behind, in the cell with Fred? Where was he taking h
er? She stumbled as they raced down the alley, away from Bragg Avenue with its steady stream of carriages, buckboards, and passersby. He held her upright. Hysterical fear filled Lucy. She realized he was going to use her as a hostage to help him escape from town. There was no other explanation, was there? A hostage … a hostage … The word was imprinted on each hard beat of her heart.

  But surely he would let her go as soon as he made good his escape! Wouldn’t he? She looked back toward Bragg Avenue, where there were so many people going about their business, all oblivious to the drama being played out in the small, shady alley between the false-fronted buildings. If only someone would notice them!

  They ran down the length of the alley until they came to the next street. They paused behind some garbage cans, waiting for a dray to pass, regaining their breath. Across from them was a smith, a metalworker, a tailor, and a German cabinetmaker. So was a horse, saddled and tied in front of the blacksmith’s.

  “Just my luck,” Shoz said.

  Lucy darted a glance at him, to see if he was being earnest or snide, but she could not tell. She understood, though. He would steal the horse, the one, single horse, so this was where they would part. From here he could escape without her. She would only slow him down; she would only be a liability. Her heart soared, and if she hadn’t been gagged, she would have shouted in relief.

  The dray passed. With a half smile, one hard but triumphant, Shoz darted across the street—and dragged Lucy with him. Before she knew it, he had thrown her on the bay gelding and was leaping up behind her. And then they were galloping down another alley—and out of town.

  They did not slow down or stop until they had put a few hills and gorges and a good ten miles between them and Paradise. Lucy tried to protest at first, which was no easy feat with the gag; before she could remove it, he had tied it in place. He ignored her. If they hadn’t been going so fast and his grip on her hadn’t been so firm, she would have tried to leap off. Her mind was in a frenzy. Why had he taken her with him? Why had he abducted her? Why?

  It did not make sense. He should have left her in town. He could go faster and farther alone. He no longer needed her. Unbidden, the sarcastic words he’d hurled at her in the cell echoed in her mind: “Happy with your revenge?”

  Revenge. There was no other logical explanation. And revenge wasn’t logical. It was a deed of passion. It was horrible, it was ugly, it was terrifying. He was an escaped convict, a horse thief, an accomplice to murder—or maybe even a murderer. Lucy was trembling.

  An hour later he urged the lathered bay into a stream bed. They had been heading west. He jumped off, pulling Lucy down as well. She nearly collapsed in his arms.

  He pushed her away from him with a hard, uncompromising expression on his face. She caught herself from falling again and looked at him. Their gazes met. He was pale beneath his bronzed skin, his soft blue shirt completely soaked and sticking to his skin. Lucy stood beside him, knee-deep in the stream, despairing and afraid to move. Yet his gaze was steady, not the gaze of a crazed killer seeking vengeance.

  He didn’t make any moves toward her. Her heart slowed, and some of the stiffness left her shoulders. Cautiously, her hands unsteady, Lucy reached for the gag. This was the first chance she had had to remove it since he had bound it. As she fumbled with the knot, her eyes never left him. Her heart sank when he abruptly grabbed her hands, but he only turned her around and deftly released the gag.

  Lucy took great big lungfuls of air, aware of him behind her, aware, for just a moment, of his thighs brushing her buttocks before he stepped away. And then she was cupping the cool water in her hands and pouring it into her mouth. Never had she been thirstier in her life.

  When she was sated, she splashed her face and looked for her kerchief to dry herself, only to remember that he had used it to gag Fred. This made her straighten slowly, stiffly, listening for him behind her. He was utterly silent—she could only hear the horse blowing softly. Lucy turned so she could look at him.

  He was watering their mount, stroking the bay’s sweaty neck. He lifted his gaze to catch her staring, and she abruptly turned away. Her soaking skirts were heavy around her legs, and she regretted the layers of clothing she wore. She pretended not to look at him but knew that he was filling their canteen. This moment of respite had done much to calm Lucy’s shattered nerves. She had to face him sooner or later. There was a question she must ask—no matter how much she dreaded hearing his answer.

  “You ready?”

  She moved about awkwardly to face him, dragging her skirts with her. His tone was weary, and he was leaning against the bay’s flank—as if too tired to stand upright without support.

  Lucy stared. He had been shot ten days ago. How long could he keep up this pace? Would he kill himself? If he was very weak …

  “Don’t start thinking,” he said. “Or planning.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  He levered himself off the horse and took her arm and the horse’s reins, leading them downstream. “I advise you to shed that skirt, princess. Let’s go.”

  He hadn’t answered; instead, he was pushing her forward, into the shallower water by the bank. Still, it came to mid-calf, making it impossible to walk with her skirt and petticoats twisting around her ankles and calves. She stumbled forward, and then balked. “Please, Shoz! I have a right to know!”

  He paused and leaned against the horse. “Why did you take me?” Lucy cried. “It doesn’t make sense!”

  “Damned if I know,” be muttered. He was sure that taking her with him was going to prove to be a big mistake.

  “What?”

  “Let’s just say you’re my ticket out of here.”

  “You’re already free! Leave me here! I’ll just slow you down! Please! You don’t need me anymore!”

  For the past half hour he had been asking himself what the hell he was doing abducting Lucy Bragg. He should have left her in Paradise, and he knew it. She would slow him down. Yet he hadn’t exactly been thinking when he’d abducted her, he had been acting. With an instinct, a primitive, territorial instinct as old as time.

  He saw her white face and her stricken blue eyes and told himself he was an utter jackass if he let himself feel sorry for her. There was only one person he should be thinking about, and that was himself. He was a fool. Her being a pretty piece was no reason for him to abduct her, nor was revenge, not when the stakes were so high. His life, his freedom. He should leave her here. He could probably escape the posse that was certainly being formed this very minute. If he weren’t weak from the gunshot wound, he knew without a doubt that he could escape across the border. But he was weak, and he did have doubts.

  “Let me go, Shoz,” she was saying. “It’s not too late to let me go!”

  “I’m taking you with me to the border,” he decided abruptly. Just in case the posse caught up with him on this side of the Rio Grande.

  “The border! Mexico? You’re going to Mexico?”

  “I sure as hell don’t mean Louisiana.”

  “And then you’ll let me go?”

  He eyed her. Her face was wet with sweat, her hair mostly up, but a few tangled knots had come down to straggle around her face. She was wet up to her armpits, her jacket open—he had to enjoy just for a moment, how her shirt clung to whatever newfangled contraption she wore beneath it. Too bad he wasn’t in better shape. Too bad they were in such a rush. Too bad. Despite the betrayal, despite her lies, despite her revenge—he wouldn’t mind finishing their business, and taking some of his own revenge.

  But his back hurt like hell.

  “Yes,” he said. And knew he was more than just a fool. Not for making the promise, but for feeling regret.

  “Yes!” she echoed, stumbling on her skirts for the hundredth time.

  Quick as a wink, he had the carving knife in hand—and he sliced off her skirt and petticoats at the knee.

  She gasped, staring down at her white-stockinged calves and at the delicate lace ruffles of the hem
of her drawers just below her knees.

  “Let’s go,” he growled. He’d seen her legs before. Still, they were great legs.

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide and stunned.

  “Just walk,” he said, pushing her on.

  She walked.

  And his mind was made up. He would keep her until they got to Mexico and had crossed the border. She would be his insurance, his ticket to freedom. And then he would get rid of her. Send her home, or to the nearest town. But until then, she would keep the Braggs and half the Texas militia from stretching his neck. She would be a bargaining chip if they managed to catch him.

  He hoped.

  Her safety, for his freedom.

  18

  They hadn’t stopped to rest, not once.

  Since they had left the stream bed hours ago, they had trekked across rock flats and through narrow desert gorges. The going had been so rough for a while that they had both walked, Shoz pushing on ahead of Lucy, leading the horse, Lucy stumbling after him. Now, hours later, it was twilight. They were both astride the horse, and had been for some time, heading south through an endless stretch of sage-studded desert. For the first time, Lucy glimpsed a stand of saguaro.

  She felt anew the welling of despair. They had been traveling since midmorning; surely the posse chasing them would never catch them now. They were far from Paradise, far from the ranch. The Mexican border must be very close. And when they crossed it? Would he really leave her? And what about tonight? Were they ever going to stop?

  She couldn’t go on. She just couldn’t. Her body was bruised; every part of it ached. She knew that if she did dismount, she would barely be able to walk. “Shoz! We have to stop—I can’t continue another moment like this! I need a rest!”

  “Soon.”

  Lucy gripped the pommel, hard. She had exercised the utmost self-discipline and until now hadn’t asked him to stop, not once. But now her pride was in shreds. She was hot and sweaty, sticky and oh so dirty, but mostly, she was exhausted and she desperately wanted to rest. On impulse, she suddenly threw her leg over the pommel and slid to the ground.