Cherished

by Jill Gregory

  She felt her knees wobble as he took yet another step toward her. Good Lord, she was going to have to kill him after all. Her stomach churned as if it were stuffed full of greasy rags. Her hands were so clammy she feared she’d drop the gun, and then where would she be? Juliana was waging a tremendous struggle within herself, and splinters of tension pierced her skull.

  “You’re willing to risk your life on that?” she cried frantically.

  Cool eyes mocked her. “No risk involved. You’re too damned chicken to shoot.”

  She gritted her teeth. How she hated this man. He was within three feet of her now.

  “Stop!” she yelled, sick with desperation.

  “Go ahead, pull the trigger.”

  She willed herself to do it. He deserved to die. He was a killer. He was going to keep her from Wade and Tommy, he was going to hand her over to John Breen. She could have her freedom back. She could have the horses and the supplies and provisions, enough to last her until she found a town and got her bearings.

  It would be so easy—Cole Rawdon would be dead, like Cash Hogan and his two horrible companions. For an instant the memory of those bloodied corpses swam into her mind’s eye, and she shut her eyes to block it out. The thought that this gun could do such a thing to Cole Rawdon filled her with revulsion. The next instant she opened her eyes and saw him right before her, less than a foot from the barrel of the gun.

  He made no move to take it from her. He stood perfectly still, daring her, challenging her, mocking her.

  The pistol was pointed at his chest, but her hand was shaking so hard, she realized she was in danger of shooting him in the shoulder or the neck or the stomach instead of the heart. It didn’t matter, she told herself. It would stop him. She could get away.

  Shoot, she told herself. Shoot him anywhere. It’ll stop him. Do it. Now, before it’s too late.

  She took a deep breath, and tried to squeeze the trigger, but something inside her kept her hand frozen, the fingers refusing to function as she wished.

  “No!” Juliana shrieked in sheer frustration as Cole Rawdon at last reached out one hand and twisted the gun from her lifeless grasp. He tossed it down on the ground, never taking his gaze from her as Juliana, white-faced, backed up until she reached a boulder and then sank down upon it.

  “Don’t ever draw a gun on anyone unless you’re prepared to use it,” Rawdon said. “And make sure if you do that the safety catch is released and that the gun is loaded.”

  It was then that she noticed his calm, amused smile.

  “L-loaded?”

  “With bullets.” He grinned.

  Slowly, the meaning of his words and of his amusement dawned upon her. Juliana went stock-still. Her lips felt numb. “You mean ...”

  “I was pretty sure you wouldn’t go through with it, but for insurance I emptied both Colts before you woke up this morning. I’m afraid I’ve got all the bullets, Miss Montgomery.”

  She didn’t know how she had the strength to do it, but she flung herself off that rock and straight at him, as if she were a bullet herself. Flailing her arms at his chest, his face, she screamed, “I wish I had killed you! You’re despicable! You don’t deserve to live!”

  Her fingers clawed at his eyes, his cheeks.

  “Maybe not,” he muttered as he grabbed her flailing arms and pinned them to her sides. “But I found out what I wanted to know. You’re no killer.”

  “I wish I was! I wish to heaven I’d shot you!” Her eyes blazed at him like jade set afire. Rawdon almost lost himself in the glow.

  “I’ll put in a good word for you to Sheriff Rivers when we reach Plattsville today. Maybe he’ll give you an extra nice little cell.”

  “Cell?” His words stunned her enough to make her stop struggling and stare at him instead.

  “Yeah. I figured it’s time for us to say adiós. The sooner the better, right? I’m turning you in to Rivers. He’ll see you get to Denver for trial eventually, but you might have to sit in the Plattsville jail for a while until he can arrange transportation.”

  Jail. She’d be in jail—by tonight?

  “Anything will be better than having to endure your company!” Juliana choked. But she was in shock and more upset than she would show. The thought of jail terrified her. But at least it would be better than being the prisoner of this man with his unpredictable moods and cruel jokes, she told herself. Suddenly, she wanted to cry.

  He had left that gun there to test her—or maybe to torment her into thinking freedom was at hand, but all the time he had known that whatever way she chose, it would be useless, and he would be the victor.

  Juliana hated him with a passion that vibrated through her like a thunderbolt. She hated him almost as much as she hated John Breen. She’d like to see them both dead, she vowed to herself as tears welled in her eyes. And the more gruesome the manner, the better.

  How ironic that here in the wide-open spaces of Arizona she was far less free than she had ever been back in straitlaced St. Louis. By tonight, she wouldn’t even have the open skies and endless mountains to comfort her but would be trapped in the filthy confines of a two-bit town jail.

  She dropped her head so he couldn’t see the tears gathering on her lashes and heard him say, “We’ve wasted enough time here. Let’s ride.”

  He gathered up his guns, reloaded them, and went on with his preparations.

  Juliana readied herself with slow, trancelike movements, dreading what lay ahead. At least she’d be free of Cole Rawdon come evening. That was the one thing to which she could look forward.

  But for some reason, that prospect did nothing to lessen her sense of foreboding and deepening gloom.

  Years of solitary living and a learned distrust of every other human he encountered had bred in Cole the ability to hide his thoughts and his motives, to suppress his feelings and keep them under rigid control. He knew all too well that he would never have survived the years in the orphanage if he hadn’t. And only when he’d let his guard down enough to trust Jess Burrows and Liza White had he nearly lost his life. So the lesson had been doubly learned. Now, as he covered the traces of their camp and watered the horses, he struggled against his feelings regarding Juliana Montgomery. This woman was as combustible as dynamite. Trouble was, he wanted her, even though he knew better. She had knocked him off balance with her beauty, with something courageous and indomitable in her spirit, with the unpredictable quirks of her behavior, but when he’d touched her, kissed her, and held her in the circle of his arms, something even more confounding had happened. He wasn’t sure what that was, and he didn’t want to know. What he had to do, Cole told himself as he obliterated all traces of their campfire and of the camp itself, was to get his balance back. To think calmly and clearly about Juliana Montgomery. Which meant keeping as far from her as he could get until he had a chance to sort her story out.

  Something wasn’t right about this business. Though Cole had never broken his rule concerning prisoners before, never discussed the guilt or innocence of anyone he captured, never paid attention to their protestations of innocence, he found himself intensely curious about what had happened between Juliana and John Breen. Either she was a damned good con artist and liar and thief or she was ... what? Some kind of victim.

  He didn’t exactly believe what she said about John Breen, but he couldn’t completely discount it either. Yet, he had no reason to believe a word she said. Her actions ever since he had snatched her away from Hogan and his men had caused him nothing but trouble—and her words were as full of deceit as a tonic peddler’s guarantee. So why this nagging feeling that something was wrong? Why the doubt?

  Because he wanted to believe her, Cole realized in disgust. That’s why he had tested her with the gun. Even though he’d had every reason to believe she wouldn’t shoot him, based on her distaste for blood and killing, he’d had to know. Liza had fooled him, fooled him well, proving that he wasn’t proof against a woman’s wiles. Hell, no man was. So he had played that trick o
n her, something she probably thought of as cruel, pointless, but Cole had needed to know if she could kill him to get what she was after. Now he had his answer. Trouble was, it led him to a whole lot of other questions, questions as prickly as a cactus.

  Rivers was a good man, though, and Cole intended to have a lengthy talk with him about Juliana Montgomery, John Breen, and this whole stinking business before the day was out. He ignored her as best he could while he tied his pack onto Arrow’s saddle. Yet he was all too aware of Juliana’s every movement.

  Part of him wanted to kiss her again so badly it hurt, but the other part wanted to cleanse her memory, taste, and scent from his mind. The farther he kept from her, the easier that would be to do, so he helped her mount Cash Hogan’s bay and kept his face closed and impassive when she glanced at him.

  It would be a relief to turn her over to Hank Rivers, to not have to meet those deep, expressive eyes again, and keep from drowning in them. Cole reckoned they’d reach Plattsville by suppertime and that over a good meal in the Peterson Hotel, with Juliana safe in jail, he and Hank could talk things over.

  13

  Sheriff Lucius Dane spit a gob of tobacco juice out the open window of his office, chuckling when it landed on the skirt hem of old Mrs. Wiggins, the doctor’s wife, who happened to be passing by.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he sang out cheerily, his broken-toothed grin widening when she scowled at him. He slammed the window shut and laughed. The old hag looked as ferocious as a coyote, he thought gleefully. But she wouldn’t dare open her mouth.

  He saw the pair of strangers heading into town from the direction of Bone Creek, and his grin faded like daylight before the first stars. Pushing the strawlike gray hair out of his eyes, he edged closer to the window to better appraise them, but from this distance all he could see was that they were a man and a woman, and their horses looked tired. But he couldn’t let it go at that. As sheriff of Plattsville, it was his duty to keep the town clear of troublemakers and those who would get in Mr. McCray’s way. Naturally, he didn’t want to tangle with any real outlaws or gunmen. Keeping the shopkeepers, ranchers, and merchants who didn’t like what was happening in Plattsville quiet was much more in his line. If McCray wanted someone to deal with a professional gunman who was skilled at his business, he’d have to call in Jackson and his boys.

  From the look of the pair riding into town, Lucius Dane thought with a grimace, Jackson would have his hands full. They were definitely not some banker and his wife back from a Sunday social.

  He swore under his breath as the couple drew nearer, wondering if they were just passing through. He had a feeling this wasn’t going to be one of his better days.

  The man was tall and tough-looking—with a dark, savage face, Lucius thought. Not a desperado, his demeanor was too cold and sort of dignified for that, and he didn’t have that air of furtiveness most wanted men carried around with them. A gunfighter, probably, and if Lucius guessed right, a good one. The woman, worn and bedraggled-looking in a gown that had seen better days, was still a damned sight prettier than any woman Lucius Dane had ever seen. She had an amazing cloud of golden blond hair and a figure that made his mouth water.

  When Lucius realized they were headed straight for the center of town, he felt sweat dribbling down his armpits. If it was the woman alone, he’d have been more than eager, but that ruggedly grim hombre wasn’t one he’d like to tangle with, especially not knowing if the business bringing the stranger to Plattsville branded him friend or foe.

  He sighed aloud with relief when several of Jackson’s boys appeared suddenly from the saloon, peered at the newcomers, and lined up alongside the boardwalk to head them off. In a moment, Jackson himself strode from the Long Arm, eyeing with surly appraisal the man who’d just ridden into town.

  Lucius Dane leaned against the dirt-streaked window of his office and watched.

  * * *

  Juliana shuddered in the saddle as the bay trotted into Plattsville beneath a queerly yellow-gray sky. Another storm was brewing, and soon rain would come slashing down from the Rim, but that wasn’t the reason for the chills that darted over her now. Neither was the fact that she was bone-tired from the past excruciating hours on horseback, with only one brief rest all day. The cause of her dread was this place, Plattsville, and the people in it. An air of fear and gloom hung over the town, with its boarded-up storefront windows, empty streets, and its eerie silence. The few men and women she saw hurrying about their business wore glum, anxious expressions on their faces, and did not speak to one another. No children played in the shady glade across from the newspaper office, no dogs lounged under porch chairs, nor were there any young, smiling faces in sight. Instead, several swarthy-looking men had come out of a saloon and were staring at her and Rawdon. They were men who looked even more evil and murderous than Cash Hogan, Luke, and Bo, something she had thought would be impossible.

  What kind of a place had Cole brought her to?

  Her stomach muscles twisted deep within. How could he abandon her in a town like this?

  Rawdon could almost smell the fear in the air as he rode past the blacksmith’s shop and the stables and sent Arrow trotting toward the sheriff’s office in the center of town. He didn’t know exactly what was wrong here, but he had a feeling he was going to find out fast.

  When he saw the reception party coming out of the saloon, a hard glint entered his eyes. He wondered what the hell was the matter with Rivers, letting vermin like that into the town? He didn’t know any of the men personally, but their type was easily recognizable to him. Hired guns and bullies, second-rate, the kind that wouldn’t be particular about who they killed or why. When he saw Knife Jackson come out of the Long Arm, he sucked in his breath. Jackson he knew.

  Cole rode on, keeping the corners of his eyes fixed on the big man with the tar-black eyes who was fond of carving an X with a bowie knife on the foreheads of the men he killed.

  “It’s been a long time, Rawdon.” Jackson planted his big hands on the hitching post in front of the sheriff’s office as Cole swung down from the saddle. In his holster was a Walker Colt, and stuck inside his right boot, Cole knew, was a razor-sharp bowie knife that he could whip out in a flash.

  “Say, Rawdon.” Jackson grinned. “You ever catch up with the Hardin boys?”

  “Someone knifed them down by Blue Creek before I could get them, Jackson. Any idea who that might be?”

  “Nope. But I think it’s a damned shame. They died without saying where the money from the bank job was hid, didn’t they?” The tar-black eyes shone beneath shaggy brows. If not for the pockmarks and scars on his face, he might have been a handsome man. “All that cash, just plumb disappeared.”

  “Your brand was on them.”

  “My brand?” Jackson slapped his thigh. “No, you don’t say! Wal, someone’s trying to frame me!”

  The men on either side of him broke into loud guffaws. One of them spat into the street, inches from Cole’s booted foot.

  “Just a word of advice,” Cole remarked as he helped Juliana down from the bay. There was no sense beating around the bush with a man like Jackson. “Get in my way one more time and I’ll kill you.”

  A silence gripped all the men. Jackson’s face worked convulsively as he struggled with a sudden flood of rage, and Juliana’s stomach flipped over and back as she waited for him to draw on Cole. But Jackson must have known he was no match for the bounty hunter in a fair gunfight. He swallowed back his fury, glared with those black eyes of his, and said in a raspy tone, “Maybe I’ll be the one to kill you someday, Rawdon.”

  “Not unless you learn to shoot straight, Jackson.” Cole took Juliana’s arm and started for the sheriff’s door, but Jackson stepped into his path.

  “Who’s your ladyfriend, Rawdon? Ain’t you going to introduce me?”

  He reached out toward Juliana, as if to grasp her shoulder, or maybe her hair, but instantly Cole blocked him, his eyes hard as agates. “Don’t touch her, Jackson,” he s
aid quietly. “Not one finger. Or I’ll blow holes in you till there’s nothing left for the undertaker to stick into the ground.”

  “Hey,” one of the other men growled suddenly, swinging forward with his teeth bared like a wolf’s. “You can’t talk to him like that. Knife, you going to take that? Who the hell does he think he is?”

  Through the thunderous pounding in her ears, Juliana heard someone say, “That’s Cole Rawdon, you durned fool. Shut up.”

  Cole pulled her along with him, and the men stepped back, out of his path. No one touched her, or spoke, but she could feel their stares upon her, and she sensed their hostility. But they wouldn’t make a move—because they were scared of Cole. Scared of his name, his reputation, as well as the assured and deadly way he carried himself —as if he could shoot down any or all of them with no apparent effort or concern. She was glad of his hand upon her arm, of his tall, lean form beside her, especially as they passed the glaring figure of the man called Jackson.

  Before she knew it, she was past them all, past the rocker and the spittoon outside the sheriff’s door, and inside the low-ceilinged little office, Cole still holding her arm. It was dim inside, for the windows were so filthy, only a smattering of light could penetrate from outside, and no one had bothered to light the kerosene lamp. Juliana took a deep breath and nearly choked on the cigar fumes and the stench of human sweat.

  Lucius Dane pretended not to have heard the commotion outside and even ignored the creak of the knob as his door swung inward. He refrained from looking up until the pair was actually in his office, then greeted them with raised brows and his most solemn, professional lawman’s stare, the one he had practiced in front of the mirror for hours after he’d won his first local election five years ago. It hadn’t been the first time he’d bought votes to win an election, and most likely it wouldn’t be the last, but that election had taught him the value of looking the part. The sheriff’s badge and a Navy .45 helped, but the cold-eyed Dane stare worked wonders on doubtful, weak-kneed citizens who got a little too curious about a man’s background at a time when it wasn’t convenient to answer questions.