Sanders laughed aloud and spurred his horse. "Odds have a funny way of adjustin', Smith," he called over his shoulder. "Just when you least expect it."
Chapter 8
I was wrong, he's not human.
Grace's exhausted gaze shifted to the man riding solo ahead of her and Brew. A dark silhouette against the orangish glow of the sinking sun, he drove them relentlessly, pressing them beyond what Grace had thought humanly possible. Despite the pain she knew he was in, despite the fresh stain of blood she could see clearly glistening through his duster, he hadn't allowed them a moment's rest since they'd left the cave. Even now, with the town of Brownsville and, beyond that, the high military walls of Fort Brown in sight, he refused to stop even for a moment. Instead, he kept moving, forgoing the busy main road to skirt the edge of town to the north.
The man was a machine.
She glanced up at him.
Except when he was holding you—came the thought unbidden—touching you, nearly kissing you. Not a thing about that felt like a machine.
She'd thought of that near-kiss for the rest of the day. It had, in fact, gotten her through some rather awful moments today. Like the way he'd looked at her—when he'd deigned to meet her eyes—as if he'd rather eat chokeweed than let it happen again. As if it had all been some kind of an unfortunate misunderstanding.
But once, just once, she'd caught him watching her. And for a second, before he'd erased the flicker of it in his eyes and looked away, she'd seen it again. That look. That lonely, hungry look that said she'd misunderstood nothing.
That it mattered to her seemed preposterous. He was not at all what she wanted in a man: arrogant, self-centered, a loner with secrets darker than his midnight hair. What woman in her right mind would find such qualities attractive? None she knew.
Except, perhaps, Lorna Lee Goodnight.
Grace sighed. Lorna Lee wouldn't have puckered up her lips and prayed he'd kiss her the way she had. Lorna would have pulled him close and tasted him the way she'd longed to. Lorna Lee was bold where Grace was timid, sure where she was uncertain.
Yet she found herself fascinated by the man. It was altogether puzzling and downright disturbing. And an undeniable breech the unreproachable Miss Eustasia Beauregard would set her straight on in a flat minute if she were here.
Just as, she supposed, her brother Luke would.
Luke.
In a strange way, Reese reminded her of him. Not in looks. Luke's hair was lighter than Donovan's; his face, more classically handsome; and his six-foot frame would almost seem small by comparison to the man riding ahead of her. But in temperament, they were cut from similar cloth, with stubbornly independent streaks that more often than not got them into trouble. Now she prayed the sort of trouble Luke had found this time would not be his last.
Freedom lay just across the span of river sparkling in the distance. Matamoros, Brownsville's Mexican twin, sat just across the water.
The border.
Sanders couldn't chase them there. Donovan had told them that. Yet, inexplicably, he was leading them away from the waterfront and his old friend Gil Lambert.
Grace watched longingly as the grassy riverfront crowded with its back-paddle wheelers and the thatched roofed jacales that lined the busy main road to town receded into the fading light behind them. Never in her life had the prospect of curling up under the shelter of a primitive hut seemed more appealing to her than it did just now. But that was not to be. Donovan was headed somewhere—God only knew where—with the instincts of a homing pigeon. She only prayed he'd stop before she fell off the horse.
Grace clung to Brew. He'd borne the pace well, but she could feel his exhaustion in the slump of his chest, the wheeze of his breathing. He'd had coughing fits on and off all day, and they'd grown worse each time. He needed rest and he needed it soon. And while she was mentally cataloguing complaints, her burning legs deserved mention, as did her aching back and her bottom, which had gone completely numb miles ago. She nudged their horse up to within a few feet of Donovan.
"Mr. Donovan," she called, trying to rein in her irritation, "if I'm not mistaken, that was Brownsville we just passed, was it not?"
He didn't slow. He didn't so much as look her way. All he said was, "Aye."
She stared at his back, incredulous. "Then where on God's green earth are we going?"
"Through the back door."
She chewed on that for a minute. "Why?"
"I'm not in the mood for company."
"You mean Sanders? But the posse is behind us, not ahead. We've not seen hide nor hair of them since we left the cave. Surely no one in Brownsville would recognize us. Would they?"
Reese lifted his canteen, uncorked it, and slid a heated look at her. "One of the first rules of survival, Miss Turner. Never assume anything."
Her first glimpse of his face shamed her for mentally complaining about her numb bottom and her aching limbs. His jaw was set in a grim line, as if it took all his energy to concentrate on the simple task of lifting the canteen to his mouth. His skin had the brittle flush of fever and he guzzled the water, drinking as if he'd been dying of thirst. Then, with a sigh of relief, he upended the canteen over his head, soaking his long hair and the back of his shirt. Grace watched, fascinated at the way it clung to the strong expanse of his back like a second skin.
She nudged the horse up even with his. Before he could stop her, she reached out and pressed the backs of her fingers to his forehead. Reese jerked away from her touch, but not before the fever stung her with heat.
"You need a doctor."
He caught her hand roughly, and his eyes burned into hers with a fierceness that frightened her. "No doctor. That's the first place they'll look." His hot, damp fingers bit into her wrist and Grace flinched. "Understand? No doctor."
"That's foolish. Without one, it may not matter if they find us or not. You'll be dead."
"I've lived through worse."
"Brew needs a doctor, too," she added in a small voice.
Reese looked at the drooping head of the old man and saw she was telling the truth. Brewster McDodd was asleep in the saddle. He was old and sick, and had no business riding to hell and back on some fool's mission.
"Ah, that's great, just great." Reese shook his head tiredly, releasing her wrist. He dragged a hand across the sweat gathering on the dark stubble above his lip.
"It's not his fault," Grace told him.
"Oh? Whose fault is it?" he demanded in a low voice. "And whose idea was this whole idiotic scheme in the first place?" He pinned her with an accusatory look. "I'd wager it wasn't his. He's too reasonable."
"And I'm not?"
"Princess, no one would ever accuse you of being that."
She inhaled sharply at the insult. "I'm as reasonable as the next person!"
He winced, pressing his hand to his side. "Don't make me laugh. It hurts too much."
She pressed her lips together, staring straight ahead. "If you think I would have chosen, ever even dreamed five weeks ago that I'd be on my way to Mexico, on the run from the law to try to get my only brother out of a hostile prison with no one but Brewster and... and—"
He lifted an eyebrow, waiting.
"—and a felon like you, well, you're sorely mistaken."
"Felon, eh?" His voice cracked with the effort not to bellow. "Well, pardon me all to pieces, but if anyone had told me I'd be riding with Joan of Arc on some suicidal mission of mercy, I might just have forgone a pleasant night of drinking at the cantina that night and found a good pillow to bury my head under. Because God knows, I've had bloody little sleep since I met you!"
"You ain't the only one," Brew interrupted grumpily, straightening and glaring at the two of them. "Lord 'a mercy, why don't you two just yell an' get it over with. All this whisperin's giving me a headache!"
Grace stared at Brew in chagrin. She turned on Reese. "Now see what you did?"
"What I did?" He gave Brew a disbelieving look. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is
she always like this?"
"Like what?" she demanded.
"You mean opinionated?" Brew interjected dryly.
"Aye."
"Bullheaded?"
"That, too."
"Ever since I knowed her."
"Brew!"
Donovan smiled thinly and rubbed his forehead.
"Well, you are," Brew reminded her. "And while we're on the subject, I don't need a doctor. I'm just dog-tired, is all."
"Much as I hate to, I'd have t' agree with her," Reese said slowly. "You're not in any shape to be making this trip, old man." None of us are, he thought grimly, realizing the effort a simple argument with Grace Turner had cost him. The blasted woman.... She could get a rise out of him faster than anyone he'd ever met.
Lifting his hat off his head, Brew wiped his brow. "I'll keep up my end. Don't you worry none." A damp cough rattled through him as if to make a liar out of him. When it ended, he rested his weight against the saddle horn, breathing hard. "Ain't that the river back there? I thought we was a-goin' to a friend o' yourn—that Gil feller—who has a boat."
"I changed my mind," Reese answered, tugging his hat down closer over his eyes. "It's too dangerous there now, too many people. We're going to try another place first."
"Try?" Grace repeated with a frown.
"If we're lucky, they won't slam the door in my face." Reese gave the reins of his horse a slap, urging the gelding into an easy lope.
He hadn't seen Evie and James Richardson for three years. Not since he and Gil Lambert had run cotton by boat around the Union blockades during the war. The war had a way of allowing people to overlook a man's personal history. Now that was over and he wasn't sure of the reception he'd get from James or his wife. They ran a respectable livery operation in Brownsville now. He could hardly blame them if they turned him away once they learned the trouble he was in.
In the distance, the town's silhouette seemed to waver in the dying light. Reese blinked twice, trying to clear his vision. He needed rest, he told himself, swaying in the saddle. It was a bed he was craving. That and a long, hard drink of whiskey, not necessarily in that order.
They rode north, skirting the edge of town, then took a serpentine route through the northernmost streets, blending their tracks with those of dozens of others. The roads were still busy, and besides the usual variety of pedestrians and freight wagons, they passed their share of uniformed soldiers from the nearby Fort Brown. Reese tugged his hat down low and met no man's eye.
Darkness had blanketed the town by the time they reached the elegant two-story brick house. Grace thought she'd never been so happy to see a place in her life, with its solid-looking roof, long green shutters bracketing the glass windows, and the cheery glow of light spilling through ornate black grillwork.
As they drew close to the yard, the back door opened and a man carrying a rope-handled pail stepped out onto the porch. He looked to be in his early thirties, with a carefully trimmed beard the same color as the thinning brown hair on his head. With a practiced motion, the man heaved the water from the bucket with a splash onto the ground beyond the crescent of light that spilled from within. He started to turn back, but the big gray horse made a whuffling snort, stopping the man short.
"Who's there?" he called squinting into the darkness.
"James?" Donovan responded in a gravelly voice.
James walked tentatively toward them, trying to make them out in the shifting moonlight. "Who is it?" he repeated, on his guard now.
"It's me, James. Reese Donovan."
James halted in his tracks, surprise etched on his face. It was a kind face, Grace thought. A friend's face.
"Good God. Reese—"
Donovan pulled his horse to a stop. Brew did the same.
"James?" A woman called from the doorway. "Is someone out there? Who is it?"
"It's Reese, Evie," he answered. "Reese Donovan."
Grace heard the woman's indrawn breath as Jim reached Donovan's horse.
"Reese," the man repeated as if he couldn't believe it. "By God, man, we heard y'all had headed west to California." He extended a welcoming hand.
"No, though I guess I should've." Donovan reached for the hand with excruciating slowness. "Sorry. I'm sorry for this, James," he said, his words slurring, "but there was nowhere else."
James gripped his hand with a frown. "Sorry for what? Is somethin' wrong, Reese? What's goin' on? You look terrible."
Donovan mumbled something unintelligible in reply.
Grace saw it coming. She cried out and reached for him, but too late. His eyes rolled back and he slumped sideways out of the saddle into the arms of his old friend.
* * *
Evie Richardson took Grace's elbow, leading her out of the door of the small room where James had carried Donovan. Grace resisted, her gaze riveted to the man sprawled limply across the brass bed. In the lamplight, his still face bore the unhealthy flush of fever, and he hadn't stirred once since James had caught him in his arms outside. Nor did he so much as move as his friend cut the bloody shirt off of him with a pair of shears.
Don't let him die. Please, God, don't let him die.
The litany repeated itself over and over in her mind as she stood swaying from exhaustion and emotion.
He'd been strong for them all day, getting them here—to safety. For now, they didn't have to look over their shoulders for the men who were chasing them. It had cost each of them, she thought, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, but most of all him. Perhaps it had killed him.
"Miss... I'm sorry, what was your name, dear?" Evie prompted softly in a voice that brought to mind magnolia blossoms and cool mint juleps.
With her smooth, toffee-colored hair, kind gray eyes, and starched calico wrapper, she looked every bit the lady that Grace did not in her raggedy clothes. For the first time, she felt self-conscious.
"It's Grace," she said at last, tugging together the edges of her coat. "Please call me Grace."
"An' you can call me Evie. Perhaps it'd be best if you and I go downstairs and let my husband—"
"No, please, let me stay with him."
James pulled away the blood-soaked bandages to reveal what was underneath and cursed softly.
Grace's stomach roiled at the sight of the infection there. A halo of swelling redness fanned out from the dark hole in his side. She leaned a hand against the bedside table. Dear God.
"How'd this happen?" James asked quietly.
Her fingernails bit into the palm of her hand. "He was shot yesterday. It's a long story."
"Has Cass finished putting up the horses, Evie?" James asked, not looking up.
Palefaced, the woman stood with four fingers pressed against her lips. "I don't think I heard him come in."
"Reese needs more help than we can give him," he said. "Hurry on out to the barn and send Cass over town for Doc Kennedy, quick as he can. Tell him—"
"Wait." Grace broke away from the woman. "He said no doctors. He said it's the first place they'll go."
James stilled and frowned up at her. "They?"
Grace swallowed hard, afraid to tell them. Afraid not to. Tears crowded her eyes, making the sharp edges of things blur.
"Exactly what kind of trouble has Reese gotten himself into?"
Her throat felt tight. So tight she couldn't breathe. She could see the accusation in James's eyes. It was her fault. All of it! "It's bad. In fact, it's just awful."
"I can see that," James allowed, glancing at Reese's festering wound.
"There's a posse after him. After us."
"A posse," Evie echoed. A tremor that hadn't been there moments before now sounded in Evie's voice and her face had gone pale. "Dear Lord, for what?"
Tears that she'd been holding back erupted out of the corners of her eyes. "Well, I... oh, it's a long r-ridiculous story. It's all my f-fault that he was going to h-hang and... and all I've done is argue with him. He's done everything h-he said he would. I was the one who started it all." She
snorted involuntarily and clamped a hand to her mouth. "And now Donovan is paying for it!"
The Richardsons exchanged looks.
"No," Donovan croaked beside James. "'S not true."
"Donovan!" Grace moved beside James and Donovan met her worried expression with heavy-lidded eyes.
"Reese." James clamped a hand over Donovan's arm, a mixture of relief and concern evident in his voice. "My God, man, this is a helluva way to get a free bed for the night."
Pressing his head back against the soft pillows, Donovan said, "You know me. Never was much in the way o' manners." He slid a puzzling, almost fond look at Grace, pausing on each of her features as if cataloguing them into his memory. "Don't let her tell you it was all her fault," he said at last. "You know me better. She's a bit of a storyteller, this one. But she's all right."
Grace steepled her fingers over her mouth, choked back a sob. "Oh! There, you see? He's out of his mind with fever. He doesn't even know what he's saying!"
Donovan rolled his eyes. "Ach!"
Evie put a hand on Grace's arm. "I think he does, dear."
"No, you don't understand. He's being nice to me! He's n-never been nice to me before!"
That odd comment raised both the Richardsons' eyebrows and they turned back to the man on the bed.
Now Grace knew he was dying. His shoulders shook as he pressed his lips together and clutched his side in pain.
"She's harmless," Donovan confided weakly, "if you lock her in a room... with no sharp objects, or... spittoons to trip over."
No sharp objects! Grace sniffed louder, knowing she'd been insulted. She glanced at the Richardsons. James was smiling. Well, she consoled herself, at least that sounded more like the old Donovan.
Evie patted Grace's hand and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, a mock reprimand in her eyes for Donovan. "There, there, dear, you needn't worry," she murmured. "There are no spittoons in this house. Nor locks on our doors."
James poured water into a porcelain cup from a handpainted pitcher beside the bed. He slid a hand beneath Donovan's head and made him drink. A sip was all he managed. The effort to talk had drained him. His face was a grayish pale, his eyes glittering with heat.
The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) Page 11