“Fire at the stable! Baker! Sound the alarm! Reggie. Ross. Time to go.” Bowen launched himself out the front door without waiting to see who would follow.
Flames engulfed the stable, their amber claws tearing at the doorframe, pungent smoke filling the air. Ross joined Bowen, leaning over and grabbing his knees; Reggie followed suit a moment later, breathless from running. Bowen quickly surveyed their situation, barking orders to man the pump and start drawing water. Straggling soldiers appeared, drawn by the smoke, the light, and the cries of the horses.
“Where’s Alex?” Reggie asked. “He must be inside.”
Bowen’s eyes searched the crowd as he removed his dress coat and grabbed a bucket to douse it in. “I’m going in.”
Ignoring protests, he threw the soaked coat over his head. In the barn, smoke curled and smothered; he slunk along the floor, his eyes stinging and throat burning. There was no sign of Alex as flames reached up wood-framed walls, ate hay bales, and threatened to jump to the stalls next. Horses cried out in panic, punctuating the roar of the swirling flames.
Bowen released the latch and slid back the wooden brace-bar; the stall doors swung open. Freed, a stampede headed into the night. Save for one terrified horse backing deeper into its stall. Its nostrils flared, eyes orange with reflected firelight as it reared up with outstretched hooves threatening to knock Bowen down and out. He lunged out of the way, getting to the side of the animal. He covered its terrified eyes with his sodden jacket and sent the bay out of the stable.
Heat blasted his face. Bowen cringed as the shirt against his arms began to char and smoke. He released two more horses before Reggie took over freeing the remaining animals from the doomed structure.
Outside, Bowen coughed and wiped at his stinging, watering eyes. Now that he was out in the night air, he shrugged free of his smoldering shirt. He raked a hand through his hair and across his face, palm slick with soot and sweat. The barn was a total loss. Even the bucket brigade came to a complete stop. The crowd watched in horror as the structure burned to a hollow shell.
He coughed heavily, leaning on the fence post as Reggie staggered over to him. “We got the rest of the horses out safely. They ran off, but I sent Johnston and his men to round them up. Alex was...”
“You found him? Alive?”
“Yeah. Over by the tack room. He’s got a lump the size of Texas over his ear.”
Bowen stood with clenched fists and scanned the crowd. It seemed like the whole fort had turned out to view the conflagration: enlisted, officers, women, and children milled around to view the scene. Some were crying. Some were praying. Dolly and Mara were toting buckets and giving ladles full of water to the men who had tried to fight the fire.
“Any sign of...anyone else in there?”
Reggie hesitated before he grabbed Bowen’s arm with one hand and proffered a small offering in the other. “Cap, we found these...”
Bowen looked at what Reggie held; his heart skipped a beat. RuthAnne’s hair combs reflected the flickering orange light.
With a flash, he remembered the way they had sparkled in the lantern’s glow as they waltzed. He’d imagined taking the combs gently from her hair, allowing that tumble of gold to spill through his fingers. He even allowed himself to envision her reaction. Her mouth would have parted into a slight smile; her full, red lips would have spoken his name. Her eyes would have closed in a wave of love and passion...
Now, those same combs were broken and smoke-stained, their fragments glittering dully in his hands.
“She’s not in there. I’d know if she were.” Bowen clenched his teeth. He hated the quiver of emotion that punctuated his words.
“Bow, you have to realize...” Reggie gestured to the conflagration behind them, painting all who stood around orange in its powerful glow.
“She can’t be dead. I won’t allow it.” He lunged toward the inferno, its very heat making his skin seem to crisp on his bones. Reggie and Ross both grabbed him, holding him back.
“Bowen, you’re talking crazy,” Ross said. “We can’t know for sure, of course, until it burns itself out. We’ll have to wait and sift through the wreckage.”
Bowen caught sight of Josie. Her pink dress stained and dusty, she passed the beads of her rosary rapidly through her fingers. Her eyes were full of sorrow and compassion as she met his gaze.
He turned away before he gave in to the loss. Murder filled his voice. “That’s what that thievin’ coward wants us to do. To sit and wait while he takes her...”
Bowen eyed Charley as he wandered the crowd, the man towering a head taller than everyone else. The Yavapai strode bare-chested as always, save for his uniform coat unbuttoned in the night air. The crowd parted to let him through.
Bowen watched Charley wrinkle his nose at the fire in disgust, cocking his head to the side as he stepped through the opening crowd and into the scene. Charley knelt, inspecting the ground in front of the tack room wall, nodding, speaking the strange native dialect to himself; his words rose over the cacophony of destruction and panic.
Reggie’s pleading for Bowen to be realistic fell on deaf ears. Bowen joined Charley on his path toward the burning stable. The fire cast shadows and light over him. The hot wind made his unrestrained black hair fly around his broad shoulders. The backdrop of flames seemed to set him aglow. The Indian knelt, searching the ground with his eyes. With a grunt, he picked up a handful of dirt and faced Bowen fully, letting the soil fall through his fingers. Charley set loose a battle cry, his howl like a coyote, making the crowd jump where they stood.
“Tell me,” Bowen pleaded. Grief and rage threatened to tear him in two.
Charley grunted. “There were three out here. Your man, found there.” He gestured to the stable yard. “He’s alive.”
“Barely.” Reggie’s voice was ragged from shouting.
“The other two. A man. A woman. There was a struggle at the stable doors. He left you something? Something to make you think she was inside?” Charley’s deep voice questioned, interrupted by the crashing of timbers and crackling flames inside the shell of the building.
“Her hair combs...”
Charley nodded, obviously pleased with himself. “One wagon. One horse. Your woman went with him. Unwillingly. But alive. At least, when they left. All of this...” He waved at the devastation behind them. “...to distract.”
“Where did they go? You can’t track them at night. We’ll have to wait until morning.” Ross’ voice was full of frustration but edged with hope.
“East. Tracks point to the eastern road.”
“They went back to the mountains. To his hideout...” A saber of fury slid into Bowen’s gut. “If he took the wagon, they’ll have to go the main road. We might even be able to get there ahead of them. Come on.”
Chapter 39
RuthAnne’s shoulders ached as she struggled against her bonds. The black velvet sky gave way to countless stars, winking and cold above, silent witnesses to her abduction.
Her beautiful black dress was torn and filthy; its low back had left her skin rubbed raw. Her body ached from the constant shudder of the wood wheels of the buckboard against the rocky road. It seemed like hours since she had been attacked, bound, and tossed aside like a sack of potatoes.
She heard the strain of leather harnesses and the squeak of the springs under the driver’s bench. Marcus’ back was toward her as he slapped the reins again over the dappled gray workhorse. The animal grunted as it submitted to the command and surged forward.
RuthAnne struggled to get her bearings as she lay bound in the bottom of the wagon. She could see nothing but the slatted sides and the starlight above. They were going up on the mountain road. How would Bowen ever find her now? He didn’t know where to come looking! Or if she were even alive...
She prayed silently as she wriggled her hands against the ropes. Marcus had spared no mercy when he bound her. RuthAnne gritted her teeth as fibers cut into her flesh; pain radiated from her hands. The constan
t rubbing made her skin raw enough to bleed. Tears of fear coursed down her cheeks. Her head swam. If she didn’t do something, she’d pass out for certain.
Think, RuthAnne!
In her mind’s eye, she saw flashes of the last time she and Mara had been in El Tejano’s hideout. His horrible mask, with vacant eyes and bloody grin; his eerie words, all or nothing, sealing their fate; the abject terror of knowing what he planned on doing to her. To Mara. Fleeing in the dark. The gunshots. Mara bleeding. Bowen.
She turned her thoughts to Bowen. How he’d held her close as they’d danced, completely unashamed of their growing affection for each other. He’d looked at her with love in his eyes and held her in his arms like something to cherish. His kiss lingered on her lips, resonated in her soul. He was her future. She had never known real love before this. Her sweet, deluded Evan once had grand dreams and plans, but even those had been a lie. He had died staring down a gun in the streets of Kansas City, following the lure of riches. Of an easier path. Something she had never understood.
Could greed alone have driven a man like Marcus to such lengths? The desire to prove himself as powerful beyond the abilities of his domineering mother? To prove he was more of a man than his lecherous father? He’s turned from a mere thief into a murderer. He’s gone mad, and, Lord, if I ever needed Your protection, it is now.
“The Lord helps those who help themselves, Ruthie...” She could almost hear Bowen’s deep, gravelly voice whispering in her ear.
Thoughts of him lifted her from her terror and fed her resolve. His laugh. His glowering look of disapproval. His touch. Things she might never see or feel or say to him. This is what El Tejano was stealing now; their future together, which had been so clear earlier this evening, now but a prayer rising to the heavens.
Anger brewed in her belly. She started working at the ropes again, biting her lip, turning her injured fists in slow but constant circles. The cording was growing slack, stretching with the motion and sticky lubrication of her weeping wounds. Perhaps her own blood would prove to her advantage. RuthAnne prayed silently as she continued to work the bindings, kicking and twisting in the back of the wagon.
Chapter 40
RuthAnne ceased her struggles as the wagon drew to a stop. Marcus’ back was still to her as he sat on the driver’s bench, a ghostly black figure haloed by the pale sliver of moonlight as it crested the ridge. He turned to her, his stare reminding her of an animal stalking its prey. He reeked of sour whiskey and sweat and seemed satisfied that she had given up her fight.
“We’re back where all this started, RuthAnne. I told you that you were going to die in that cave. I didn’t lie, now, did I?” He leapt easily over the driver’s seat and into the wagon’s bed beside her, checking her over. RuthAnne sucked in her breath and stretched her wrists as far apart as possible while he tugged at her bindings. Pain shot to her shoulders as she kept the ropes tight. She’d managed to loosen them, though the act had abraded her skin enough to draw blood; she’d be darned if he discovered her, no matter how bad it hurt. She battled the urge to scream, knowing they were in the middle of nowhere now. He spoke without whispering, showing his confidence that there was no help around for miles.
“This is where they did all of that hard work to clear the road. Nothing but rocks on every side. Very hard to track anyone here. So many footprints, so little soil to leave them in.” His lips curled into a wicked smile as he grabbed her roughly by the arm and hauled her out of the wagon.
Her dress tore on a splinter of wood. Someone would see it eventually when the horse found its way back, and they would know she survived the fire, if not the abduction. That at least was a modicum of relief. Maybe they’d find her out here yet.
“Let’s get this old girl out of here...might buy us some extra time if anyone is crazy enough to think you’re still alive.” Removing RuthAnne’s ankle bindings, his hand traveled to her calf, cupping it with warm, despicable fingers. His hand traveled further to her knee; she kicked at him, and his grip tightened painfully before he released her.
He slapped the draft animal on the hindquarters, sending it up the winding road. RuthAnne stumbled on the loose rocks as she watched the wagon disappear around the bend.
“Don’t get your hopes up.” Marcus sneered, pushing her in front of him. “There’s nowhere to turn around until it reaches the other side of the mountain.”
They trudged uphill. Silver starlight painted the manzanita bushes black, their leaves a ghostly gray. Their thorny branches reached like lost souls into the heavens. Tore like demons into her bare legs. She was bleeding. He continued to push her uphill, deeper into unfamiliar territory.
“Where are we going?” she demanded after a long while. Her slippers shredded against the rock. Her beautiful dress now slashed to ribbons. He smugly pushed her to rest on an outcropping of rock. Below, there was a scattering of lights. In the crystal clear desert night, she made out the tiny town that was Tucson. The lights of the fort looked much closer.
“Somewhere Captain Shepherd’s quite familiar with.” He sat down heavily, taking in the expansive view.
RuthAnne felt small, keeping as still as possible at his side.
“You know, I’ve known him since I was a boy. He was a new lieutenant in the army back then. Thought my father was a great man. Can you imagine? Anyone thinking Edgar Carington was great?” His laugh was hollow. “There was a group of men who made a lot of promises to important people, mainly those who were running the rail lines westward. The plan was to keep the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe rolling through the West. If the rail lines were able to dip down into Tucson, the people would come. The city would grow. But the Apaches had other ideas. No one wants to be butchered by a band of Indians, and they were only too happy to provide, waging all out war on the territories.
“The cavalry couldn’t promise safety. But there were people who had a lot of money invested in getting the railroad into Tucson. So, they enlisted some helpful citizens to speed things up a bit.”
“The people responsible for Camp Grant?” RuthAnne guessed. She knew the stories of the massacre still haunted Bowen. That incident had defined him as a man, and as a soldier, but it had also stolen his faith.
Marcus waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “Indians killing Indians. All they did was provide incentive. They were visionaries. Of which my father played a great role. Unfortunately for him, things didn’t go as planned. Because of a certain soldier who refused to look the other way, there was too much attention paid to the slaughter.”
“Bowen...”
“Yes, your Captain Shepherd was the only one in his patrol who refused to report back as directed. He dragged the reputations of Tucson’s finest through the mud. He was willing to take them to trial to pay for their actions. At the risk of his military career. At the risk of his very life. Well, fortunately for Tucson’s finest, they managed to find a sympathetic judge. They barely saw the inside of a courtroom. It didn’t matter. Shepherd had already done enough damage in the newspapers. The rail line executives changed their minds and turned the lines north, through Flagstaff. Tucson remains the fair-haired stepchild, waiting last in line. It’ll be years before the train reaches these parts.”
Her heart stopped as he unsheathed his Bowie knife and idly inspected its shining blade.
“So, as the story goes, men like my father were shamed but left to their business as usual. Such travesties have a way of being smoothed over by time, but some have difficulty paying for their sins. They turn to liquor. Gambling. Women...or all three. Mother can’t stomach it anymore. It was her plan for me to be promoted around the ranks. Her idea for me to become a general eventually. I suppose that’s a military wife’s idea of the ultimate accomplishment. Father will never make it. He’s too weak. So, she placed all of that hope into her only son.” His laugh was bitter, his voice wistful as he went on.
“I was simply biding my time at my last assignment until my time was up, pushing papers at the supply offi
ces and trying to figure out how to escape this curse of a military son. With so much untamed wilderness, a man can make a mark for himself out here, if only he has some seed money...”
RuthAnne held her breath as she listened to him baring his soul. He meant to kill her for sure.
He turned, focusing his attention on her. “I saw how many shipments never made it to their destinations. Payrolls and supplies stolen by bandits or Indians and written off as a loss.”
“So, you stole from people who had nothing...it’s morally reprehensible.”
“Who said I had morals?” He winked. Clearly, Marcus Carington had no conscience at all. “I knew what was coming over the mountains and when. Planning a furlough home to see the old man a few times a year was easy enough. No one seemed to notice that is when El Tejano did his best work...It was a simple plan, really. One I’d been managing quite handily. Evan thought it was brilliant.”
“Evan?” An icicle dug its way into her heart.
“Evan and I were in the war together.” Marcus flexed his long fingers, reaching one to trace the line of RuthAnne’s jaw. She shuddered in revulsion.
“He told me in a letter that he married himself a sweet little thing. Young. Innocent. A talented seamstress who would work her fingers to the bone to keep him an honest man. But Evan Newcomb and honest didn’t go together. When the request came through for uniforms to Fort Lowell, an order large enough to outfit an entire brigade, I knew just the man to fill it. A word to my father, and the deal was set. All Evan had to do was promise to enclose a few extra items in the bargain.”
“Extra...you mean smuggling?”
“Opium to sell to the weak fools who’ll buy it. Dynamite, guns, and ammunition—the tools of my trade. I knew the times and locations to strike. We were to split the profits and make thousands. He would close up shop, and we’d do it again in a different city under a different name. But then Evan threatened me. My business. Said he wanted to go straight. That you all could make it on your own.” He spat into the dirt.
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