by Nan Ryan
His hand was steady when he pressed the searing iron against her wound. The sizzling sound and immediate stench of burning flesh was almost as big a jolt to Kane as the he art-wrenching cry from an unconscious Natalie.
The poker slipped to the floor from his now sweating hand, and he said raggedly, "Sweetheart, forgive me, forgive me."
Impulsively, he bent his dark head and placed a gentle kiss on Natalie's white face, straightened, and saw that there was blood on her cheek. The taste of blood was strong in his mouth; he had bitten his lip. It was his blood staining her cool face.
Kane gently washed her face and took Natalie back to the bed. He put no clean nightshirt on his patient. He left her naked from the waist up and pulled the warm covers up only to her hips.
He spun around and immediately went about building up the fire. Tossing more pinon logs onto the already blazing inferno, he spoke aloud as he worked. "It's all right, Natalie," he said in low, calm tones, as though she could hear him, "I'll keep the room warm so you'll not get a chill. If I leave the wound uncovered, it will heal much faster. It needs air; that's why I didn't bandage it. That's why I'm leaving the nightshirt in the drawer."
The fire snapped and leapt and burned brightly, hotly. Kane, perspiration gleaming on his bare chest and shoulders, crossed the warm room to Natalie. He stood above her, intense blue eyes upon the small, seared imperfection on Natalie's lovely, slender back. She looked so vulnerable, so tiny, lying there in the middle of his big bed.
So helpless. So dependent. So innocent.
Kane whirled away. He stalked directly to the half-full whiskey bottle and, eschewing a glass, turned it up to his lips and took a long, fiery pull. He wiped his mouth on a gleaming forearm and set the bottle aside.
And he went back to his patient.
She lay unmoving, and time and time again Kane leaned close to place fingers directly in front of her parted lips, assuring himself she still breathed. More than once he found his hand strayed, almost of its own volition, to the strawberry-gold hair fanned out on his pillow. Like a child stroking a newborn kitten, Kane silently marveled at the silky texture of the luxurious tresses spilling through his fingers.
Hours passed.
Night had fallen. The winds had risen. The snows continued, blowing in eddying torrents from the snow-lightened night sky. Kane lit the lamps, stoked the fire, and returned to his vigil at the bed.
It was nearing midnight when, still seated stiffly on a chair beside Natalie, he heard a loud, determined knocking on the front door. Tired muscles tensing, Kane instantly pulled the sheet up to Natalie's shoulders, rose, drew a rifle from the rack, pulled back the bolt to throw a lead bullet into the chamber, and went to the door.
"Who is it?" he called through the closed wooden door, and stood to one side of the portal, rifle raised, alert blue eyes narrowed. "Open the door, Scarback. Is the shaman, Tahomah," came the Ute's gruff voice from outside.
Kane set the rifle down and swiftly swung open the door. The old Indian came in out of the storm, his ugly face shiny wet and creased with worry, his long gray hair beaded with ice. In his gnarled hand he carried his black medicine bag.
"How is she?" he asked gravely.
Kane stared incredulously at the old man. "How did you know, Chief?"
Tahomah ignored the question. His flat black eyes went immediately to the pale young woman in Kane's bed. He lumbered across the room to stand above her. Kane followed.
"Chief, she was shot," Kane hastily explained. "I took out the bullet. It wouldn't stop bleeding, I had to cauterize the wound."
Tahomah solemnly nodded. He dropped the medicine bag onto the chair and pulled the sheet midway down Natalie's bare back. Kane watched the somber black eyes flicker with… hate? Fear? He wasn't sure.
"Leave me, Scarback," Tahomah ordered, turning to Kane.
Kane didn't question the old chief. He backed away, found his discarded shirt, jerked it over his head, and left the cabin. Outside, he reached for the bridle of the Ute's paint pony and, ducking his head against the wet, blowing snow, tramped upward to the small stables, leading the paint. At the wooden corral gate, Natalie's horse, Blaze, stood shivering, still saddled.
"Come on, boy." Kane patted the big mount's cold muzzle and took hold of the trailing reins. "How about a few oats and a warm stall?" Blaze nickered gratefully and willingly followed the stranger out of the storm and into the shelter. Kane unsaddled both beasts, rubbed them down, and fed them, all the while ignoring the audible protests of his own stallion, Satan. Satan finally calmed; Kane did not. Nervously he paced the drafty barn, and when he thought he had surely killed enough time, he trudged back to the cabin.
Cautiously, he stepped inside. The shaman looked over his shoulder from his cross-armed perch upon the chair, and said in a low, commanding voice, "You may enter. I am finished."
Kane gratefully came forward. "Thanks, Tahomah."
The shaman opened his square hand. In his palm the golden disc of Natalie's necklace lay gleaming in the firelight. "All of this is my fault." He stared down at the shiny metal. "Nothing but death will come from—" He stopped speaking, laid the lavaliere back on the table. "I have placed a poultice made of herbs and alum on the wound. Do not wash away for twelve hours." His obsidian gaze lifted to Kane's. He saw the worry in Kane's brooding blue eyes.
The Indian rose and motioned Kane away from the bed.
Kane brought down a new bottle of bourbon and two glasses. He filled both, slid one across the table to the old Ute, and said in a deep, low voice, "I was sleeping in my chair early this afternoon. The sound of a shot awakened me. I ran outside and saw Natalie's stallion, riderless. She lay in the snow, shot in the back." Kane's brown fingers gripped the heavy glass. "I didn't see who did it." His eyes leveled on Tahomah. "The shot was meant for me, Chief."
"I know," said Tahomah. He drank, and held out the empty glass for more. "Have you found it yet?"
Kane knew he meant the gold. "Yes."
The Indian stiffened. "Scarback, no white man will take it out and live."
Kane made no reply. Tahomah said no more on the subject. The two men spent the long, snowy night drinking, talking, caring for Natalie. Daybreak at last tinted the sky and a weary Tahomah rose to leave. He walked to the bed, briefly touched the gold necklace, then leaned down and placed a fatherly kiss upon Natalie's smooth, pale brow.
Tahomah murmured to her in his native tongue, but Kane understood the language. The chief said, "I will not see you again on this earth, chosen-daughter. Good-bye, Fire-in-the-Snow." His blunt fingers went to the crown of fiery hair. He touched the gleaming red tresses in wonder, just as Kane had done earlier. When his hand dropped away and he straightened, Kane saw the tears glistening in the old man's black eyes and quickly lowered his own.
Kane felt a cold fear possess him. The Indian was telling Natalie good-bye. Did the ancient shaman actually believe she was going to die? "I'll take care of her, Chief," Kane said, seeking to reassure the sad old man. "Don't worry, she'll make it."
Tahomah lumbered to the door, paused, and turned to face Kane. His black eyes settled on the shiny panther's claw resting at the base of the other man's dark throat. He put a gnarled hand on Kane's shoulder and gripped it affectionately for a moment, though he remained silent.
Kane said, "Thank you for coming, Chief. Your strong medicine will help to heal Natalie."
Tahomah's hand fell away from Kane's shoulder. Suddenly he smiled. And he said, "Love is the best healer of all."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
While Natalie Vallance lay unconscious in Kane Covington's remote cabin high on the silvery-white slopes of Promontory Point, an exhausted, travel-weary man checked into a fine hotel on the other side of the Continental Divide.
It was near five in the afternoon when, stiff, tired, chilled to the bone, Ashlin Blackmore, blood curls failing over his high forehead, gray cashmere cloak whipping about his shim form, strode through the heavy glass-and-brass doors of the n
ewly opened opulent Hotel Tremont, his presence causing an immediate stir in the crowded lobby.
All eyes turned to him. Just as he had planned.
Grandly he strode to the marble reception desk, while behind him, two uniformed bellmen struggled with his many leather valises. Speaking in clear Oxford tones, so that all of the curious might hear, Lord Blackmore told the beaming, bowing desk clerk of his horrendous trip over the storm-ravaged Rockies.
"I say, it was truly frightening." Ashlin took the proffered pen and, with a flourish, signed the guest register. "We left Cloudcastle at one o'clock sharp yesterday afternoon." He laid the pen down. "Twenty-eight hours of bumping and hurling along through a blizzard!" He could almost hear the inaudible sighs from the scattered crowd in the tall-ceilinged lobby.
"I'm terribly sorry your journey was so arduous, Lord Blackmore," sympathized the thin, sallow desk clerk. "Your suite is waiting; shall we have your dinner sent right up?" He smiled up at the taller man and his thin, black mustache gave a little twitch.
"No." Ashlin's voice was low, yet it carried throughout the room. "I'll be having dinner with the boys." He smiled then, and whirled about. It was unnecessary to identify "the boys." Everyone who was anyone in the Colorado Territory knew that "the boys" were Denver's elite, the illustrious entrepreneurs of the West, the newsmakers of the day, the possessors of the vast fortunes in Denver's golden noontide of prosperity.
The boys were Haw Tabor and John Evans and Dave Moffatt and a handful of others whose every move was watched and commented upon by the admiring citizens of the booming mountain metropolis. They were men who were envied and gossiped about and kowtowed to. They were smart and rich and handsome. Fun-loving and adventurous and urbane.
And they were impressed by nobility.
Ashlin closed the suites heavy door behind the departing bellmen. He crossed the large sitting room to the bedchamber, where floor-to-ceding windows were hung with burgundy cut velvet and ivory Irish lace. A massive carved bedstead stood across the carpeted room. An elaborate chandelier hung suspended from the high frescoed ceiling. A cheerful fire blazed merrily in the marble fireplace.
Ashlin sighed wearily. He had no time to relax. He went at once to the hot bath that had been drawn for him in the giant marble tub. In moments he was leaving his suite once more, slightly light-headed and pleasantly exhilarated, adrenaline pumping from lack of sleep—and from the sure knowledge that Kane Covington was no longer among the living.
Ashlin, the life of the gathering, held court at the head of a long, damask-draped table in the hotel dining room. Before him sat a long-stemmed glass of bubbling Dorn Perignon champagne, a large china plate of oysters on the half shell, a silver basket of crackers, lemon wedges, pats of butter, and a tall pepper cruet.
He ate sparingly, but he drank thirstily and laughed and talked and enthralled the all-male gathering with great case and charm. His bright, winning smile stayed firmly in place even when Dave Moffatt leaned close and said above the din of loud male voices, "Ashlin, are you aware that a Colonel James Dunn has been making inquiries about you?"
Ashlin, brown eyes shining, absently twirled the delicate stem of his fluted champagne glass in long pale fingers. "Oh?" he said in even tones, "I don't recall meeting a Colonel Dunn." He shook his blond head thoughtfully. "Who is the gentleman, Dave?"
Moffatt lifted his elegantly suited shoulders in a shrug. "I met the man a time or two. He's a territorial official, Ashlin. I'm not certain what his interest is in you. It seems…"
Ashlin had a very good idea what Dunn's interest was. He recalled Colonel Dunn's being one of the witnesses to Kane Covington's deed to Promontory Point. The two men were acquainted. Likely as not they had kept in touch. Covington wanted Dunn checking up on him. Ashlin was sure of it. The suspicious, meddling southern bastard's death had come none too soon.
Ashlin took a drink of icy champagne. The relaxed posture of his slim body belied the unease within as he said levelly, "I suppose I shall only begin worrying when I no longer elicit interest, eh, Dave?"
At meal's end a noted Denver photographer appeared as if by accident. It was no accident. Ashlin had planned it down to the moment the talented man was to make his entrance. Despite much good-natured complaining and grumbling about "not wanting to be photographed," Ashlin's coddled cronies were soon posing themselves and smiling brilliantly for posterity. And in the very middle of them all, positioned so that every eye would fall quite naturally upon him, stood Lord Blackmore.
The photographer had hardly packed away his paraphernalia before Ashlin yawned, raised a slender hand to his mouth, and said regretfully, "Chaps, I really must be going to my bed."
"No! The party's just beginning," came the collective protests. But Lord Blackmore turned a deaf ear. He had what he had come here to secure. An ironclad alibi. Recorded on film. He had paid the photographer handsomely to return at once to his studios and do whatever was necessary to prepare the tintype as quickly as possible. And when it was ready, he was not only to have a courier speed a copy up to the Blackmore hotel suite, a copy was also to go to the newspaper offices of the Denver Post in time for its next edition.
Head throbbing dully, shoulders and back aching, Ashlin climbed the broad stairs to his suite. Inside he immediately caught the scent of expensive French perfume and felt his exhaustion falling away.
A small, satisfied smile began to play at his lips as he crossed to the bedroom. He paused in the portal, a hip leaning against the carved frame.
A beautiful, bare-bosomed prostitute smiled at him from the depths of the big bed. As requested, her long, dark hair had been carefully plaited, the ends tied with bright gold ribbons. Naked and laughing, she crawled out of the bed, crossed the room, knelt down before him, and said teasingly, "How may I serve you, milord?"
Ashlin pushed away from the door frame. Slim hands going to the fly buttons of his tight trousers, he said huskily, "Stay on your knees."
Natalie struggled to emerge from the depths of darkness. Eyelids fluttering weakly, finally she managed to lift them. Strange shapes and images swam before her clouded vision and she had no idea where she was.
The dim, dark outline of a man appeared. Framed in leaping fiery flames, he sat unmoving, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped, as though unaware he was afire. Natalie screamed as loud as she could, and pushed herself up.
Kane, dozing in a chair before the fire, heard Natalie softly whimper. He was up in an instant and at her side. She continued to softly sob and thrash about restlessly, attempting to turn over onto her back. Kane captured her Bailing hands and held them.
"Don't, sweetheart," he said softly. "No."
Natalie's nightmares and terrors continued and she kept struggling. Kane held her down for more than an hour. Still she fought to rise, so finally Kane took two silk neckerchiefs from a bureau drawer and gently, loosely tied her wrists to the shiny cylinders of his bed's brass headboard.
"I had to do it, sweetheart," he soothed, checking to make sure the soft silk restraints were not too tight. Natalie continued her endeavor to free herself, while Kane looked on helplessly, murmuring to her, "Rest now, sweetheart. I'm here. I'm here."
Natalie fought frantically against the curtain of darkness engulfing her. Through slitted eyes she discerned a shape above her. She tried to move and realized to her horror that she was tied down. Outrage penetrated the deep fog she was in, and she lifted her head off the pillow. A man swam almost into focus. He looked for all the world like Kane Covington! But that could not be. It couldn't, because this man kept calling her sweetheart. Kane Covington would never in a million years call her sweetheart.
"There, sweetheart. Yes." Kane gave a great sigh of relief when at last Natalie calmed down and slept peacefully. But that peace was to be short-lived. By dark she was running a fever. Her face was flushed and burning while her small, perfect teeth chattered and her slender body shook with hard chills.
Kane built up the fire and pulled the soft fur counter
pane up to her shoulders. Still she shook and jerked piteously at her silk manacles, trying impotently to free her arms so that she might curl up and get warm.
Kane sat beside her and watched helplessly while she suffered. Natalie was freezing to death in the hot, stuffy room. She shook, she pulled; she whimpered; she froze. And Kane could stand it no longer. He took off his boots, stood and stripped off his shirt. His hands went to his belt buckle and he sent the buckskins to the floor. Bending over her, he gently untied both her wrists. And Kane got into bed with her.
Carefully tucking her slender arms between their bodies, he placed her on her side, facing him. With one long arm beneath her, the other hand holding her naked shoulder so that she would not turn onto her back and bump the healing wound, he kept her warm. Unknowing, Natalie snuggled gratefully to him, seeking his body heat.
Kane felt the heart inside his naked chest beat erratically when Natalie, squirming innocently closer, burrowed her hot face in the curve of his neck and shoulder and slipped a small hand around his back to draw him nearer.
While the sick woman in his arms lay shivering and shaking against him, Kane, perspiring profusely, held her to him throughout the long winter's night and fought the waves of unforgivable desire heating his blood. When he felt her hand rubbing against the hair of his chest, he ground his teeth. And when that hand moved and he could feel her bare, soft breasts pressing against him, he groaned aloud.
Desire rushed unbidden through his long, lean frame and his face rushed hotly beneath the darkness of his completion. He could not stop the hardening of his body and silently cursed himself for his weakness. Wondering how any man could be low enough to feel such unbridled lust for a sick, helpless female, he lay in agony, suffering far worse than the woman in his arms.
"It's all right, sweetheart," he assured her, "even I'm not that big a bastard. You're safe. You're safe, sweetheart."