The Fires of Paradise

by Brenda Joyce

  How was she going to survive him?

  He had overslept, despite his firm intention not to. After making his way out of the cave, Shoz paused in the sunlight, calculating that it would soon be nine. They had lost three or four hours already, and he wasn’t pleased.

  He carefully scrambled down the rock slope, then jumped off a boulder onto a deer trail. He followed that to the edge of a cliff, and there he raised field glasses to his eyes.

  There was no movement south of them, nor east, just the tortured, twisted terrain of the arid mountain landscape. He gazed west, toward Casitas, and made out the sleepy village—nothing unusual there. The mountain they were crossing blocked his view of the north.

  Nimbly, easily, he left the cliff, following the scrappy trail west until it veered sharply upward. He left it to cut across a granite rock face. A moment later he stepped between two massive boulders to peer down on the trail below, the trail he and Lucy had taken from Casitas—the one where he had left the three corpses.

  He froze. Just for an instant, and then his heart thundered in his ears. Below him the posse milled. Half of the men were on foot, inspecting his handiwork and looking for his sign. He instantly recognized his boss, Derek Bragg, and Lucy’s father, Rathe. He watched for only a moment more, and then he slid away and hurried back to the cave.

  They had to move, and they had to move fast. He could not rely on the Bragg’s being unable to discover where he’d left the trail, but he was sure, if they did find the spot, it wouldn’t be within the next hour or so. He was too skilled, he’d eluded too many pursuers. But that didn’t cut down on his need for haste. Every second counted, and while an hour from now, he might be an hour, or more, ahead of the law, right now he was practically sitting in their lap.

  And then it flashed through his mind—now he could free her.

  Now was the propitious moment to leave Lucy Bragg behind, within shouting distance of her family. There was no excuse not to leave her behind.

  Yet his cunning mind found more than one. If he left her behind, ungagged, her shouts would bring the Braggs—and he wouldn’t have the head start crucial for his escape. If he left her behind gagged and tied, or didn’t tell her her family was so close, she might never find them—and would eventually succumb to the fate this barren, harsh land dealt to green intruders.

  And even if he could immediately figure out a way of freeing her and gaining a head start, the law was too close for comfort, closer than they’d ever been before—even closer than that time in Corpus Christi, because now they were practically in his own backyard. How did he dare relinquish his best bargaining chip, just in case he failed to elude his pursuers? Because there was no way he would ever go to prison again.

  In his mind he continued to roll the dice, and the same number kept showing up—and Lucy’s freedom wasn’t it.

  He burst into the cave. She was sitting where she’d slept, and she glanced at him. He began tacking their mounts, efficiently, quickly, but without apparent haste. “Get up,” he said, keeping his voice dispassionate. “We’ve overslept and we’re leaving.”

  Lucy got to her feet and a low moan escaped her. He looked at her sharply, pulling a cinch tight, and saw tears in her eyes. She was hobbling. “What’s wrong with your feet?”

  “I think I have blisters.”

  They didn’t have time for this. Knifelike fear pierced his gut, but he pushed it away. “Later, Lucy.”

  She jerked her gaze to his. “What is it?”

  “We’re getting out of here,” he said, leading the horses forward. He grabbed her arm and brought her with him.

  “Is someone out there?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that more bandits had pursued them, but he didn’t. Their glances met and held, hers wide and vulnerable, his dark and shadowy. He couldn’t lie to her. “You want me to hang, Lucy?” he asked very softly.

  Her mouth opened, but the reply wasn’t immediate. “No.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Lucy bit her lip, her heart pounding madly. They stepped out into the bright, hot sunlight. The law was back there, and she knew it.

  She should scream, shout for help, alert them to their presence. So why didn’t she?

  She stared at Shoz, who was leading the horses along a very narrow, barely discernible animal trail. He was a bastard, but she didn’t want him to hang.

  He hadn’t hurt her; how could she hurt him?

  His hands last night, healing her, had been very gentle.

  Lucy swept all thoughts away, especially such inappropriate ones, and stumbled after him. She only prayed she wouldn’t regret her decision.

  “Take off your shoes.”

  It was an order. They had stopped for the night after another endless day. The first half of it had been spent mostly on foot, climbing with the horses up impossibly steep, narrow, rocky trails, descending down equally impossible slopes squeezing through nearly impassable passes. Then they had cut onto a well-used deer trail, and they had ridden hard and fast, up, always up, higher and higher into the Sierras. Now they had made camp by a stream of mountain run-off, and Lucy sat tiredly by their saddles, unable to move.

  She was also unable to protest when, after she did not respond, he took off her shoes for her. “Jesus!”

  Lucy held back a whimper, and almost afraid to look, she did. Her feet were a sorry sight, covered with the raw spots of broken blisters and a few new swollen ones, too. She lifted her gaze and found Shoz staring at her, with surprise and compassion.

  “You never said a damn word,” he said.

  “Would you have stopped?”

  He frowned and helped her to the stream. Lucy let him clean her feet. “No shoes tomorrow,” he said afterward, declining to answer. “We’ll wrap your feet in cloth. Give me one of your petticoats.”

  She looked at him.

  “I want to wash it. You want to wrap your feet in filthy linen?”

  She turned her back on him, blushing even though he’d seen much more than her petticoats, more than any man should ever see. She tugged down one of the slips from beneath her skirt and handed it to him. He left her without a word.

  Like the night before, his hands were gentle when he cleaned her feet, and it was incongruous with the hard, roughman he was, Lucy reflected. Was it possible that there was more to Shoz than the mean, mocking facade he presented?

  Lucy was uncomfortable with her thoughts, and she found herself staring at him. They hadn’t made a fire, but they ate stale bread and tinned meat. He seemed to concentrate very hard on the tin of beef in front of him. Lucy tore her gaze away. But she was like the foolish moth, he the flame. She looked at him again. What desperado cleaned and cared for a woman’s blistered feet? It didn’t make sense.

  “Why didn’t you scream, Lucy?” he asked suddenly, his glance sharp and penetrating.

  Lucy was taken by surprise. She wanted to look away, but he held her gaze and wouldn’t let it go. “I believed you when you said you would let me go once you are safe.”

  He didn’t make a smart, sassy retort. He just stared. “Why didn’t you shout for help, Lucy?”

  He would not let her off the hook. Obviously if she had screamed, she would be free now, if all had gone in her favor. She fidgeted uncomfortably.

  “Why!”

  “All right!” she shot back. “You are a mean bastard, but you don’t deserve to die! You may be a horse thief, but I’m sure you’re not a murderer.” She instantly thought about the bandits he had chased away last night—or killed. But that had been self-defense.

  “I’m not a murderer,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “I’m also not a damn horse thief.”

  Lucy stared down at her food. He still insisted that he was innocent, but she knew positively what she had seen. She didn’t want to talk about it; it was too upsetting.

  He made a sound of disgust and got to his feet. He disappeared into the night. Lucy was left with a sky full of stars and a raw ache in her heart.


  24

  Death Valley.

  It was dry and hot deep in the bowels of the constricted valley. They had spent the last two days crossing an arid desert mountain range. The trails they had followed had been narrow and rocky and very dangerous, ascending steep inclines, again and again. At times they had attained dizzying heights. Too often, one slip would be anyone’s last, into deep, bottomless gorges that snaked alongside them, granite cliffs soaring over them on the other side. The morning of their third day began their descent. It had taken hours, and it had been equally treacherous, slippery, and rocky. The going was dusty and got worse as the altitude lessened. It had been hot up in the mountains when they were trapped between giant cliffs that blocked any breeze and sucked in the heat, but at other times, on an open mountainside, it had been warm and even pleasant. Now it was hot, hotter than Texas, hotter than anywhere Lucy had ever been.

  She had the feeling they had descended deeper than any human being had a right to, and it was eerie. It was like being funneled into a pit, or into the guts of the earth, with no way out. Lucy glanced up at the high, sheer rock walls looming over the valley, dominating it completely, so high and so overpowering that she couldn’t see their tops or the sky. Of course, that was only because they were riding so close to the cliffs, she told herself hastily. She wasn’t reassured.

  She wondered at the valley’s awful, ominous name. Death Valley. It wasn’t so different from parts of Texas, was it? Just hotter. Stunted, gnarled brush, brittle sage, and hot, hot white sand dominated it—and those damn towering walls. But maybe that was it. Maybe it was the walls, locking you in, forever, trapping those who entered, killing them … She dared to glance at Shoz.

  He heard her exhalation and twisted in the saddle to look back at her. He must have sensed her unease, or read it in her eyes, because he pulled up to wait for her to come abreast. “I get a funny feeling every time I return here,” he said.

  “You do?” She was nearly panting.

  “Like this is my damn grave.” He glanced at the towering walls.

  That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “That’s silly.”

  “You’re right. I think there’s a feeling everyone gets when they come down here, and it has something to do with the valley’s elevation. We’re below sea level.”

  Her eyes widened. So they were in the very pits of the earth, in its very depths. So it was a place no human being had a right to be …

  “Don’t look so frightened; it’s not like we’ve died and gone to hell.” His lips twisted at a private, and bitter, joke.

  “But it’s unnatural,” Lucy said, looking around uneasily. No wonder the valley was so still, so lifeless. There weren’t even any trees. No wonder it was called Death Valley. How could anything live here? Or anyone?

  He didn’t respond. They rode on in silence. Lucy was relieved when they left the proximity of those threatening walls and she found that she could, indeed, see the sky.

  Relieved, she let her thoughts turn again, as they had done so often, to her captor. He was riding ahead of her, easily, as if the kind of journey they had made had been merely an outing in the park. His resilience and power amazed her. She herself was a weary, aching wreck.

  Last night, their second after leaving Casitas, he had wanted to make love to her. He hadn’t said so, and he hadn’t suggested it. But Lucy had sensed it from the moment they had dismounted to make their camp. She had felt his eyes on her, repeatedly. And when she had caught his gaze, his had been keen and interested.

  Lucy had not been interested. Not very much, anyway, and not because of the hurt she had felt after they had made love outside of Casitas. Time, the eternal healer, had made those feelings start to fade. And she had learned her lesson, yet that wasn’t it, either. Of course, one sensual look like the one he had given her made her insides flutter. Yet nothing, at that moment, could compete with her aching body and its need for rest. She only wanted to collapse on the ground and nurse her sore feet and her bruised body. When she stretched out her legs, the scabs broke, again, and she groaned.

  He’d fixed their meal in silence while she dozed, not really sleeping. She could feel his eyes, hot, boring into her; she could feel his need, his desire. It was tangible, taut, like a wire stretched between them. He was compelling, his sexual magnetism so strong, it reached out to her across the space of their camp while she lay aching and half-asleep.

  He had the decency not to approach her, except to hand her the plate of food he’d prepared. Yet after she’d eaten, she dreamed that he held her while she slept, touching her arm, her waist, stroking her hip, her breast, and it was erotic. It was also very real.

  This morning, remembering, Lucy had been grateful for his consideration. Yet refreshed after a good night’s sleep, she just might have been the tiniest bit disappointed. She was certainly surprised. Knowing Shoz, she would have expected him to have no consideration at all and at least to try and seduce her, mocking her in the process. But he hadn’t. Maybe she didn’t know him as well as she thought she did. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted her as much as she thought he had. Both thoughts were disturbing.

  Lucy was diverted from her reflections when she thought she distinguished man-made shapes ahead. She blinked. Was she seeing things, or were there Mexican-style adobe buildings ahead? Was there a village there? As they came closer, she saw with relief and joy that there was a group of buildings. She could make out numerous corrals, and slightly set apart, one larger house that most definitely ressembled a ranch house.

  They rode past a wide, flat river. A few groups of stubby trees graced its path intermittently. The sight of the creek, the few trees, and the grassy banks was uplifting. Lucy actually smiled.

  A group of sturdy young women was doing laundry. Youngsters were racing around, playing and teasing one another, while toddlers sat near their mothers, making pies in the sand. The women paused, shading their eyes to watch them pass, expressionlessly. They were all Mexican, dark-skinned and dark-haired, wearing loose, soft white blouses and plainly colored skirts. All their chatter had ceased. Even the children had stopped their games to halt and stare silently. Lucy stared back curiously. She called to Shoz, riding ahead of her. “Is this a village?”

  “You might say that.”

  His answer annoyed her. She also sensed, for the first time in days, that she was no longer the focus of his attention. That was annoying, too, and perversely, she said, “Is this a ranch?”

  This time he did glance at her, and laughed. “No.”

  She hadn’t thought so. This was either a village, long since lost and forgotten deep in the Sierra Madres, where Shoz holed up, or it was a hideout. But if it was a hideout, why were there so many women and children there?

  The big house was placed near the wide, flat river, and was graced with several taller, nearly lush trees and the welcome shade they provided. It was like stumbling unexpectedly upon an oasis in the middle of an African desert. The house was immensely inviting, although there was nothing outstanding about it—except its location in this godforsaken place. It was one level of rectangular yellowish adobe, the roof wood. A corral was not too far from it, a few fine-looking horses within. On the other side of the corral were a dozen other smaller houses, sheds and shacks.

  Just as Shoz halted in front of the house and dismounted there was a screech and a woman in vibrant colors rushed out, flew across the few paces separating them, and launched herself right into Shoz’s arms.

  Lucy was shocked.

  He let her cling and jabber breathlessly. She spoke a heavily accented English. “Where have you been, querido! It has been so long! We feared you were—oh! I dare not say! Caro mio, what happened? Are you all right?” She was actually clutching his face.

  Lucy was shocked. All the time that he had been chasing her, he had a woman, this woman, here, waiting for him! She was frozen in the most rigid and furious disbelief that had ever gripped her in her entire life.

  The woman was shorter than
she was She had a thick mass of tight black curls that came to her shoulder blades. Lucy thought it looked like a bird’s nest. She couldn’t see her face The woman was clad in a shocking orange blouse, short-sleeved, which she wore off both shoulders The material was thin and filmy and hung to full breasts. She wore a black and silver woven belt to accentuate a very tiny waist. She wore an even more shocking pink skirt, over what had to be another skirt, this one turquiose. On one arm was a dozen silver bangles, and when she turned slightly, Lucy saw one large hoop earring.

  She looked like a whore, Lucy cried inwardly. And then she saw her face.

  Something inside her seemed to die. She was the most exotic creature Lucy had ever seen. Her face was a perfect heart shape, her skin dark gold, her eyes big and black, long lashed and very seductive. Her cheekbones were high, her nose straight and proud. Her mouth was perfectly shaped and enhanced with red rouge. The woman stared back at her, just as stunned.

  “Who is this!” she screamed. And a string of Spanish followed.

  Even though the woman looked like a veritable gypsy, was undoubtedly a whore—his whore—and had no breeding, even though Lucy could not possibly stoop to compare herself to this woman, she had no doubt that she looked atrocious while this woman was so unbearably beautiful. Lucy was suddenly so tired, overwhelmingly so. She slid off the horse.

  “Shut up, Carmen.”

  Carmen stopped her frenetic flow of verbiage.

  Shoz took her chin in his hand. “She is my hostage.”

  Carmen stood angrily, eyeing Shoz and eyeing Lucy, her bountiful bosom heaving. “Damn you!”

  “Has it been too long?” Shoz asked very softly. “Have you forgotten your English? She is my hostage.”

  Carmen beat a hasty retreat, but a moment later, she was back in his arms, crooning, pressing against him. “Caro mio, what can I do? What do you need? Want? Tell me, darling.” She stroked his face.