by Jill Gregory
She awoke, sobbing in terror. The dream fell away like a curtain, and it was dawn. She was in John Breen’s camp in the middle of nowhere. Mueller was gobbling greasy strips of meat and hardtack, John Breen was sipping a cup of coffee. And watching her.
Juliana passed a trembling hand across her red-rimmed eyes. After a moment she tried to sit up, and groaned.
Breen came to her. He stood for a moment, saying nothing, then knelt down beside her and lifted her to a sitting position. He handed her a plate of meat and a biscuit, and set a steaming cup of coffee down beside her.
“We’re leaving pronto, so you’d better eat what you can. Won’t be stopping again until nightfall.”
And they didn’t.
By then, she was almost past caring what happened to her. She couldn’t think of anything but the racking pain in every muscle in her body, of unending thirst and gnawing hunger. Even supper huddled alongside Breen and Mueller over a glowing campfire left her feeling empty and sick. The food was keeping her alive, just barely, but she felt as if she were dead already, for these men hated her, and she knew that it was only a matter of time before they reached their destination and her real punishment at the hands of John Breen would begin.
The next few days were a blur. At last, the torturous journey ended. John Breen pulled his lathered horse to a halt and Juliana forced her eyes to focus on the windswept ridge upon which she found herself. It was a barren shelf of land jutting beneath a still higher escarpment that extended out over the desert like a giant crab’s claw. Prickly pear, juniper and piñóns grew here. She looked out, squinting, and saw mountains in the distance, cloaked in ponderosa pine. Nearer at hand were a series of buttes and flat-topped mesas, dun-colored in the haze of the day. A kangaroo rat squealed, dodging from behind a rock to spook Mueller’s horse. Then there was silence. The place seemed to Juliana to shimmer with some blazing evil. Her scalp tightened as Breen dismounted and helped her down. The sun-baked earth was hard, unyielding beneath her feet. A lizard sunned itself in the dirt, and from somewhere far above came the cry of a vulture. Even the sun in the blazing azure sky seemed a living thing, alive with menace.
Now what happens? she wondered as the men made camp and she sank onto the hard ground, her limbs lifeless. How will Cole or Wade or Tommy ever find me here? It’s the end of the world—or so it seems. A place as forlorn, as isolated and full of desolation as the moon.
Suddenly, the realization reached her that she would never leave this spot alive.
John Breen would do whatever he wanted with her here, for as long as he wanted, and then he would kill her. She knew it as clearly as if she could read his mind.
Glancing over at her suddenly, he grinned, that officious stretching of his mouth across his teeth that she had come to despise.
“How do you like this place, honey?”
Juliana stiffened as he strode toward her, reached down and dragged her to her feet. He began unknotting her bonds.
“Might as well make yourself at home. We’re going to be here a while. There’s a stream back there, behind the rocks. Maybe we’ll have a bath together this afternoon. You sure could use one, and so could I.”
“Why are you doing this?” She heard herself asking the question, her own voice sounding half-dead already in her ears. When he didn’t answer, she rushed on with an agonized urgency to know.
“Why didn’t you go out and find a woman who did want you? Just tell me why.”
Suddenly, his eyes, more brilliant even than the sun, sharpened on her face with frightening intensity.
“Because I chose you,” he said and hauled her into his arms, close against his chest. “From that first moment, when I saw you in that ballroom, beautiful as a goddess from some ancient Greek myth, I knew that I wanted you. And what John Breen wants, he gets.” He kissed the top of her head, ignoring the way she tried to flinch from him. His hand came up to cup her breast, his thumb stroking its crest beneath the bedraggled organdy gown.
“And it all started right here, Juliana—at least, not far from here. With that kid. I killed him and stole the gold for myself and that’s how it all began.”
What was he saying? Distraught by the way he was touching her, the possessive hold of his hand upon her breast, she could scarcely make sense of his words.
She kicked him then with all her strength and jumped back, and surprisingly he released her. She faced him, breathing hard, biting her lip, for she half expected him to strike her, but instead he was staring almost through her, speaking in a low rushing tone that reminded her of a brook that could not be stopped from spilling over a falls.
“I wanted to bring you here. To this spot. So close to where it all began. Maybe then you’ll understand me, and why you could never get away from me. Because I always get what I’m after. You know why? Because I’m smarter than other folks—and I’ll do anything, whatever it takes, to get what I want. That’s the difference, sweet Juliana, between those of us who win in this life and those poor damned losers like Edward Tobias and Line McCray and that ugly piece of scum back there in that cabin, the man Bart killed on my orders.”
Skunk. He was talking about Skunk.
“I wanted you to find him. I wanted you good and scared when I got my hands on you—I remember how much violence upsets you. You see, I’ve got to teach you a lesson, Juliana, a lesson about you and me. You”—and he leaned down closer to her, letting his eyes rake every inch of her slender form—“are what I want—and I will kill you before I let any other man touch you.” An ominous silence followed, in which she could hear the uneven rasp of his breathing. “Did Cole Rawdon touch you, Juliana?”
Watching his eyes, gold-flecked marbles set deep within his tanned face, and seeing the tension creased in his forehead, she didn’t have to think about her answer.
“No,” she said firmly, staring him down.
With a flash of anger she added, “But he never hurt me or frightened me the way you have.”
“You called out to him in your sleep.”
Startled, Juliana let this remark hang in the air. She moistened her lips with her tongue, waiting.
“I think I’m going to have to kill Mr. Cole Rawdon,” he said quietly, a thoughtful expression forming across his features. “As part of your lesson.”
“No!” Juliana sparked to life at this. Blood drummed in her temples, and she felt her fingers curling into fists. “There’s no reason for that. He didn’t touch me—he was bringing me back to Denver for the reward ...”
“But he took you out of the Plattsville jail. Killed two men doing it.”
“He didn’t trust Sheriff Dane,” she explained desperately. “He thought Dane would keep the reward for himself.”
“You’re lying.” Breen’s lips stretched out, not in a smile this time but in a snarl, reminding her of the bear that had trapped her in the tree. “You wouldn’t be trying to protect him so much if he was planning to turn you in. Besides, I know he’s somehow mixed up with those brothers of yours.”
“No, he isn’t,” Juliana began, frantic now, her heart seeming to freeze in her chest, but her words were interrupted by Bart Mueller, calling to Breen from the rocks of the escarpment.
“Rider in the distance, boss. Maybe more than one—just a speck, really, but they’re kicking up trail dust—can’t see how many.”
“Indians?” Breen snapped.
Mueller shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Maybe. You’d best have a look.”
Cole, Juliana thought with a leap of hope, but immediately fear gripped her. If it was him, and perhaps Wade and Tommy with him, Breen and Mueller would kill them—they would watch the riders’ approach and lead them into a trap. She felt panic rising in her, clogging her throat. If she could get away, sneak away and warn them—or at least distract Breen and Mueller so that they lost the advantage ...
She had to try. For the moment neither Breen nor Mueller was watching her. Both were perched on top of the escarpment, shielding their eyes with the
ir hands, peering far into the distance.
There was no time to think or to plan. Move.
Juliana ran.
She darted across the clearing, toward a tumble of rocks behind the ridge, not knowing what lay beyond them. Her feet flew across the hard-packed dust, making a soft, scraping sound. If she could only reach cover, if she could get behind the rocks before they spotted her missing, she might be able to keep ahead of them, losing them among the broken boulders of the foothills ...
But she heard a shout even before she reached the first jutting stones.
“Get her, damn it,” John Breen yelled, and glancing back, she saw that both men were clambering down from the escarpment, sprinting toward her, their faces harsh with determination.
She ran faster.
Shots rang out. She scrabbled over the shallow jumble of rocks and found herself at the foot of a sloping, chaparral-covered butte that stretched beyond the escarpment, winding its rocky trail all the way to the stream John Breen had mentioned. There was cover ahead, if she could only reach it. Manzanita, piñóns, and the yellow-orange flowers of the agave loomed ahead amid the jutting rocks and natural ledges. She stumbled forward, catching her foot in a weed, but she managed to stay upright, pulling it free with a gasp. She kept going, her heartbeat a locomotive, her cheeks puffed out with the exertion of running. She knew full blast the terror an animal must feel when it was being hunted.
She reached the rocks and began a frantic climb, her gaze darting desperately about for a place to hide. Nowhere. They could pick her off on this trail like a fly on a wall.
As terror bubbled within her, she saw the opening, a tiny, jutting space beneath an overhanging oak, and stooping, she staggered in, fighting for breath. She found herself in a miniature cave, a natural enclosed shelf, not much bigger than a shed, surrounded on three sides by granite rock. She backed against the wall, feeling its hard burning surface press into her back. Dizzy, she tried to catch her breath, wondering how long it would take them to find her. Were they coming? Had they somehow lost her on the trail?
She didn’t dare peek out from her meager shelter to see.
She heard the sound of boots on rock, hard, scuffling. Pebbles clattering aside. The soft rustle of trampled leaves and brush. One of them was coming.
Juliana fought back panic. She had seen the fury on John Breen’s face when he saw her running away. She still remembered the sharp whack of his hand across her cheek. He would do more than strike her this time. He might even kill her.
She edged backward, and her foot struck something. A stone. No, a rock. Twice the size of her hand, with sharp, grainy edges. She reached down with trembling fingers and clutched it.
Her palms were slippery; it nearly tumbled from her grasp. But she closed her hand about it tightly and held it. If she had to ... she would ...
She had to think of Cole. And of Wade and Tommy. She had to get to them, warn them away from this place—and if she had to kill whoever was out there, then she would.
She swallowed back the terror and took deep breaths. The cave smelled of rotting leaves. It was damp. Something small and brown scurried past her feet and out into the sunlight. Juliana shifted ever so carefully, positioning herself so that she was standing a little to the side of the opening, so that she could see whoever came in before they saw her ...
The scrape of a boot sounded just inches away. She could hear breathing, a man’s heavy, irregular breathing.
She heard a raspy intake of breath. Juliana wanted to scream. She bit down on her lip so hard, it started to bleed, and she squeezed the precious rock tighter.
Suddenly, Bart Mueller’s dark head and broad shoulders poked through the low opening, and he was staring straight up at her as she stood trapped.
There was no time to think, to hesitate even an instant. She swung her arm downward with all her strength.
What she saw after that made the nausea swirl and rise within her. She closed her eyes and choked it back, clutching the wall for support. The rock clattered from her hands.
Bart Mueller was dead. He had to be. When she could bring herself to open her eyes once more and look down, she knew with sickening certainty that he was as dead as a man could get.
She was shaking all over. Would her feet move? she wondered weakly. She had to get out of here. There were no other sounds from the trail, but she knew John Breen wouldn’t be far off. He was no doubt searching another area, but even now he could be moving closer.
She forced herself to reach down and pick up Mueller’s gun, which had fallen from his hand when she hit him. She checked the cartridge, her fingers trembling. Empty. The gun was useless. She let it fall.
Then she stepped over Mueller’s body, over the stream of blood running from the gash in his scalp, and out into the open once again. No sign of Breen. Maybe, just maybe she could get away. Maybe she could get to Cole in time to warn him ...
She heard a sound and, spinning, saw John Breen less than twenty feet from her, crouched beside a thicket of manzanita, one hand leaning against the reddish bark, the other drawing his gun.
He was staring straight at her.
“Stop right there, you bitch, or I’ll shoot you where you stand,” he yelled, his usually smug face for once a fiery red.
Juliana froze for an instant, poised in motionless silhouette on the overgrown trail. She knew Breen was just furious enough to shoot. But she wouldn’t stand and be captured like a mouse too frightened to flee the murderous claws of a cat.
She whirled and began to run, zigzagging up the trail, grabbing at branches with her hands, struggling for toeholds as the slope steepened and the rocks tumbled away beneath her feet. Her palms and fingers were bloody and scratched, a branch scraped her cheek, but she stumbled on, her pace only quickening as a shot thundered past her, the bullet slamming into rock only inches from her head.
She ducked sideways, and staggered onto a lip of rock surrounded by a steep limestone wall. It was a little crest, another shelf of stone amid the piñóns and juniper.
A dead end.
She was out of breath. She could run no farther. But she had to. She couldn’t give up, she had to keep going until she was dead and could fight no more. She struggled to draw a breath, her hands on her tortured chest, and then suddenly, the sound of a gunshot kept her pinned like an insect to the spot.
John Breen scrambled and jumped his way to the ledge, his pearl-handled Colt aimed all the while at her heart. “Now you’ve asked for it, you bitch,” he cried, his voice hoarse, as he cornered her beneath the cloudless blue sky.
His face was flushed a horrid purple.
“Mueller,” he shouted, but Juliana, suddenly overcome with rage at this man who had tormented her for so long, shook her head.
“He won’t answer you. He’s dead.”
Incredulity crossed his face, “You killed him?”
“I wish it had been you instead,” Juliana whispered.
“You’re going to wish like hell it had been, honey.”
Juliana’s hands were on the huge slab of rock embedded in the slope behind her. The rock was hot, burning her flesh. The sun beat down mercilessly upon her head. She wheezed out a breath, keeping her chin high. So it had come to this. Well, then she would die. Maybe she would suffer first, but then it would be over. She would not beg. She would not give him the satisfaction of watching her plead for her life.
“I would have married you, Juliana, and you’d have been looked on by the world as a queen—the esteemed wife of one of the world’s richest men. But no, you had to ruin everything. So now I will take from you what should have been mine long ago. What would have been mine beginning with our honeymoon night. I will savor it to the fullest, and then I will kill you and be rid of you forever.”
In his eyes she saw a feverish lust, and she realized with a queasy little skip of the heart what he intended to do.
“Just shoot me,” she cried, her voice ringing with fury. “Your touching me would be worse th
an any death ...”
“He’s not going to shoot you or touch you ever again, Juliana,” said Cole Rawdon from a rocky peak almost directly above.
She swung her head at the same moment John Breen did toward that cool, beautifully steady voice.
Cole’s tall form stood poised beside a desert willow, his Colt .45 clasped in his hand, pointed at Breen. Juliana thought she was dreaming. The riders Mueller had seen in the distance—they couldn’t have reached this spot so quickly.
But he was here. He had come.
“Drop your gun, Breen,” Cole ordered, his voice cutting as sharp as a bowie knife through the hot air. “You can’t win this one. Drop it now.”
Breen squinted upward into the sun, trying to make out the other man’s face. His own features were twisted with fury, then slowly they smoothed themselves out as he made a tremendous effort to regain control of the situation.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Rawdon. Drop that gun.”
Breen craned his neck yet again, trying to get a better look at the man above him, but the sun was too bright in his eyes. “I’ll make a deal with you, Rawdon—” he began, but Cole interrupted him.
“A bullet goes between your eyes on the count of three if that gun isn’t down and out of reach by then. I’m counting, Breen.”
Reluctantly, the older man let his weapon slide free. Juliana, surprised by her own agility, scooped it up without thinking. Then Cole began making his way down the slope with surefooted grace.
Breen’s voice echoed strangely in Cole’s mind. The rocks played tricks, and the fact that he had tracked Juliana to this spot so close to where Jess Burrows had tried to kill him must be having an effect on him. Seeing that escarpment where he and Liza had camped that last time had brought back the queerest sensations. Peculiar. Peculiar, too, that Breen had brought Juliana to this damnable place.
He searched her face as he jumped down the last stretch of the slope and landed on the lip of rock where she was rooted, the gun clamped between her trembling hands.