Still, as the beast howled in the darkness beyond, Lorna Lee found herself sorely tempted to wake him. She stopped short. Danger had never cowed her. This time, she vowed, would be no different. She had something to prove to the arrogant gunslinger who'd dragged her into his heated embrace as if he'd owned her, and tonight, she meant to—
A slithery pink tail fell across the page.
"Aaaaaa-ahhk!"
Journal, pen, and inkwell launched into the air, followed closely by a ball of gray fur standing on end. Four tiny legs splayed sideways at ninety-degree angles to the hurtling form.
"Wha—!" Reese exploded from the far end of the bed, just in time to catch the blind thrash of Grace's broom handle hard across his forearm. It landed with a dull thwack!
As pain ricocheted up his arm, he dove for the weapon, wrestling Grace against the wall, pinning her arms on either side of her head.
At the same moment, Brewster lurched from his chair and staggered groggily sideways. "What in the devil—?"
"Aaaaa-aak!" she shrieked again. "Get it off meee!"
"Ow!" Donovan shouted at Grace as her foot connected with his unguarded shin bone. "What the devil's the matter with you?"
Brew grabbed a fistful of his shirt. "Donovan, I warned you about touchin' her—"
"Oh, for crying out loud! She's hysterical!"
"I kin see tha—"
Grace rocked her head against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut. "R-ra-raaat!"
Reese stared at her, ink dripping off his shoulder. "What?"
"Rat! There was a... rat on the bed!" A graphic shudder of disgust spoke volumes about her experience.
Brewster let go of Reese and dragged a hand across the fresh stubble on his chin. "Ah, well, a rat. She never could abide rats and that's a fact. It's a fobee."
Reese looked up at him. "A fobee?"
"Y' know. When somethin' scares the bejeebers outta somebody." Brew winked conspiratorially.
"Yeah." Letting loose of her arms, Reese scanned the destroyed bedclothes. "No rat. See? Look for yourself. It's gone." And if it valued its life, it had jumped ship by now.
She looked hesitatingly, then, seeing nothing, shut her eyes. "Ohhh, thank God. I think I hit it."
"No." Donovan sighed, rubbing the darkening bruise on his arm. "The rat you missed."
She gasped in horror, seeing the truth. "I hit you? Oh, Reese, I'm so sorry." She pulled his arm toward her for a closer inspection. "Oh, look what I did." She sucked in another breath at the sight of the ink still dripping down his arm. "My ink!"
"My shirt," he mumbled, pulling the black-stained chambray cloth away from his skin.
She grabbed for the overturned inkwell and held it up to the light. "Oh, no! It's nearly gone! What'll I write with?"
"Blood?" Donovan suggested under his breath.
Grace lunged for the notebook three feet away. A great black blob of ink obscured the writing on half the page. Worse, it had soaked through, and she tried to peel the sheaves of paper apart, but at least ten were hopelessly stuck together. "Oh! Oh, no!"
Reese leaned forward, looking. "It's not too bad. Only a few pages."
"Only a few pages!" she repeated incredulously. "Only a few pages!" She looked on the verge of tears.
Reese looked up at Brew helplessly. The old man coughed with a shake of his head and settled back down in his chair.
Reese frowned back at Grace. "Were they important?"
"Important?"
Was there an echo in this room?
"Of course they were important," she said, tears teetering on the edges of her lashes.
"Well," Reese suggested, "just write them again."
She looked at him as if he'd grown horns. "That's how much you know. Write them again! As if it's so easy!" She sniffed. "I can't rewrite them word for word from memory. It doesn't work that way."
He didn't know how it worked. Though he could both read and write, he'd never had much use for the latter, beyond signing his name to a piece of paper when he had to. More than that had always seemed to him a waste of time. He leaned back against the grainsack, his side starting to ache. "What is it you're writing?"
She slammed the journal shut.
"What is it? A diary?" He tipped his head sideways to try to read it.
She shook her head, spreading her palm protectively across it.
"Am I in it?"
"It's not a diary. It's a..."
"A what?"
She examined a scratch on the brown leather cover. "You'll laugh."
"No, I won't," he promised, holding up his palm.
"It's a book." She blushed crimson.
"A book."
"Yes. At least it's going to be."
"You mean," he asked with a frown, "you're writing a book? Not," he said, praying it wasn't true, "one of those little books you're always going on about?"
"Oh, no." She looked up at him through a sweep of lashes. "Those are true-life adventures. I'm writing fiction."
"Fiction?"
"Made-up stories. You know."
He couldn't help it. He laughed.
"Oh!" Grace pounded the bed with her fist. "I knew you'd laugh at me!"
"No, no, wait." He forced his mouth into a solemn line.
She glared at him. "It's because I'm a woman, isn't it? Well, isn't that just like a man? Thinking that men are the only human beings with brains or imaginations, or... or..."
Brew pulled his hat down over his face, and sank down in his chair, muttering something about Reese having really opened a can of worms now.
"Wait a minute," Reese said. "I—"
"Well, it just so happens, Mr. I-Know-Everything Donovan, that men weren't the only ones present when the good Lord handed out imaginations. There are several, actually, dozens of female authors—the Bronte sisters, Jane—"
"Grace," Reese interrupted.
"—Austen, George Sand—also known Amandine Dupin, who just happens to be a French baronne. There's Mary Shelley, and, well, I could go on."
"Grace!"
"And I'll have you know that someday, I mean to be published right along beside them no matter what anybody—"
"Grace!"
"What?" she snapped.
"I think it's fine you're writing a book."
She blinked as if she hadn't heard him. "You do?"
"Yes."
"Then why did you laugh at me?"
There was a lifetime of hurt behind those words, and he wondered who else had laughed at Grace Turner in her short, interesting life. He'd laughed because she truly believed those silly dime novels were fact, even after all they'd been through. Ace Lawler, for God's sake! But he wouldn't enlighten her today. He couldn't bear to strip all her illusions away when he'd already done such a job on her pride.
If there was a rat in this room, it was him.
"Look, I wasn't laughing at you. I mean, a writer." He made a noise of admiration with his tongue. "That's really something. Most writing I've ever done was t' sign my name to a piece of paper. And that, only when I had to."
She raised a wary eyebrow.
"No, I wasn't laughing at you," he went on. "I was just wondering what that imagination of yours could come up with that would be more farfetched than what we've been through the last few days. I mean, what idiot would believe a slip of a girl and an old geezer could break a man with a name like 'Melvin' out of jail and elude a whole posse long enough to make it clean over the border in—more or less—one piece?"
Brew shoved the brim of his hat back, taking exception to the handle "old geezer." Against her will, the corners of Grace's mouth twitched. It was more words strung together than she'd ever heard coming from the recalcitrant gunslinger's mouth and she supposed that in itself was some sort of victory.
"We did all right, didn't we?" she said at last.
Reese grinned. "Aye. So what d'ya say, Drucilla? Can we have a truce?"
Hiding her smile, she pulled her knees up to her chin and hugged her arms around
them, her dress covering her legs like a tent. She traced an imaginary circle on the blanket with her finger. "Well, maybe. Only if you buy me a new bottle of ink in Bagdad—Melvin."
"You drive a hard bargain but—"he held out his hand—"done."
His callused hand enveloped hers and for a brief moment, his thumb stroked the sensitive skin between her thumb and forefinger. It took only that small touch to remind her of the more intimate touches they'd shared just hours ago. His eyes darkened as if he were remembering, too.
She pulled her hand away lest Brew see it as well. "How long do you think it will take us in Bagdad to find transportation to mainland Mexico?" she asked.
"Not long, I hope," Donovan answered. "From all appearances, it's little more than a fishing village now. But from what I hear, those who've gotten out of smuggling cotton and into running guns to Juarez for the U.S. government use it as an exchange point. If we're lucky, we might catch a ride as far as Tampico with one of them."
"Gunrunners?" Brew repeated with a frown.
Donovan slid a cool look at him. "Or maybe you'd prefer to wait a month or so for respectable transport. Sanders ought to have a good bead on us by then."
"Now, you know I didn't mean—"
"Nobody said it was going to be a Sunday school picnic, old man," Donovan said sharply. "You want to get to Mexico, those are the kinds of connections I've got." He leaned back against the sack of grain. "If you'd wanted a list of references, you should have asked."
"I ain't got no quarrel with yer references, son. Don't go gettin' yer longjohns all wadded up. I reckon we'll take what we kin get an' be glad of it."
"Of course we will," Grace agreed. "After all, it can hardly be worse than what we've already been through."
Beside her, Brew sat up straight as if someone had stuck him with a cactus needle. Reese looked at him questioningly.
"Don't get too cocky yet," Brew warned.
"What is it?" Reese asked.
"Kick me if I'm wrong, but don't the sun come up in the east?"
As one, they turned toward the rosy light spilling through the shuttered window. Dawn had broken, slanting into the cabin in what should have been a westerly direction.
"Shit." Reese dove for the window, trying the shutters, which were tightly blocked from the outside with a thick board.
Brew tried the small door cautiously with the same dismal results. Reese groped under the bed for the gunbelt he'd removed from his hips before lying down. The sidearm was gone, as were all their other weapons.
The two men exchanged grim looks.
"What's happening?" Grace asked. "Are we—?"
"Screwed," Reese finished succinctly, pounding a fist against the tattered newspapered wall. "St. John double-crossed us. He turned around in the night and now he's heading back upriver. He's no doubt going to deliver us right into Sanders's hands like well-crated lambs for the slaughter." He let loose a string of blue oaths.
Outside, the steady, watery rush of the current against the boat's hull took on a new significance. From somewhere above them came the cry of circling seabirds.
"If anyone's to blame," Brew said, lowering himself into the chair, "it's me, fer hookin' up with St. John in the first place."
Reese sat on the cot, cradling his head in his hands. "By the time we got there, every man, woman, and child on the waterfront knew Sanders was looking for us and how much he would pay to get us. No doubt, considerably more than we forked over."
"Well, we can't just sit here and let him take us!" Grace exclaimed. "We have to do something!"
Reese slid a look up at her, then glanced out the slatted window. Somewhere to his right he could hear the deckhand's long pole scraping against the side of the boat. St. John poled the river on the other side, a fat cigar dangling from his lips, a sidearm visible at his waist and Reese's own rifle propped nearby. He was fighting the current, working his way to the north shore. Reese followed the captain's gaze to a stand of cottonwoods that grew thick around a deep inlet in the river. A lone, saddled horse stood waiting in the shelter of that grove of trees—waiting for a rider who would relay their position back to Sanders's men in Brownsville.
He should have known. It had been too easy. Too clean. A bead of sweat slid down along his ribs. If he could only get to that rifle before St. John made a holey curtain out of him, and if he could stop them before they made the shore, and if pigs could fly...
What a week.
Scanning the room for something, anything he could use, his gaze fell to the keg beside Brew's chair with the words Bansom And Bansom, Two-Penny Nails stenciled on the side in black letters. The gears in his mind started to turn.
He shoved Grace to the floor with one hand. "Get down and stay down," he ordered.
"But I can hel—"
"Don't argue and whatever you do, don't get up. Understand?"
She nodded, wide-eyed with fear.
"Brew, give me a hand with this keg. We've got one chance and one chance only." The two men grunted, lifting the heavy container.
"What do you want me to do?" Brew asked breathlessly.
Reese paused, looking Brew in the eye. "Old man, when the shooting starts, duck. There's only room for one of us out there."
Brew scowled with disbelief. "Like hell I wi—"
Cutting him off with a fierce look that brooked no argument, Reese said, "I'm the one they want. You stay with Grace. You're all she's got. If this doesn't work, maybe you can talk your way out of this with Sanders."
They both knew that was a lie.
Brew nodded. "Be careful out there, son."
Cradling the hogshead between them, Reese aimed it at the window. "Ready?" he asked. The old man nodded.
"All right then—on three. One, two—"
* * *
Lyle St. John whirled at the sound of splintering wood in time to see a keg of nails sail across the Lizzie's deck, followed closely by the arching blur of Donovan's body as he dove after the keg through the shattered window. The keg flew past St. John like a cannonball and plunged off the side of the deck with a tremendous splash.
He cursed loudly, hauling upward on the long pole, which he'd only just shoved downward to its full length into the sandy river bottom. At the same moment, Donovan rolled between a pair of net-draped crates on the deck halfway between him and Tom Oakes, the deckhand.
St. John swore, then cursed himself as well for underestimating the man's resourcefulness. He should have known the cabin wouldn't hold him. One hundred more yards and he would have had him!
Tom Oakes, with his shock of strawberry red hair, peeked around the far end of the square cabin, his drawn gun tilted up near his face. "What was that?"
Dropping the long pole on the deck, St. John yanked his gun out of his holster then pointed it at the pair of crates. "That was our blushing bridegroom, 'Melvin.' Or is the name Reese Donovan?" he shouted, calming the thud of his heart. He smiled. They had him. There was nowhere for the bastard to go. And as he aimed his gun in that direction, he knew Donovan must know it, too.
Lyle squinted into the morning sun. There was only one condition Ephram Sanders had placed on the money he'd promised for Donovan's capture: He wanted him alive.
"He's unarmed, Tom. But be careful."
"You sure about that?" came Donovan's voice from between the crates. "Maybe you missed something when you skulked into the cabin this morning."
Lyle's blood froze and he looked accusingly at Tom, who shook his head.
"I cleaned 'em out, Lyle," the younger man said. "I swear. He's bluffin'."
"Maybe I am and maybe I'm not," Donovan said. "You won't know until you get to me, will you?"
With a curse, Lyle realized that he was on the brink of losing every dime of reward money he'd been counting on to save what had been a dismal season. But dying himself for that crazy lawman's personal vendetta wasn't in Lyle's grand scheme. No, if the bastard was armed, he'd shoot first and think about money later. And if that happened, the oth
er two would have to meet a similar fate. One couldn't be too careful these days along the river.
He waved the gun at Tom, instructing him wordlessly to start toward the crates. He edged toward them himself with his gun aimed and ready. Unmanned, the boat spun slowly around, drifting back with the current toward the center of the river.
Inside the cabin, Grace lifted her cheek from the dirty floor, listening. She could hear the creak of wood as St. John and his lackey moved toward Donovan. And who did he think he was fooling, telling them he was armed? It was only a matter of seconds before they found him out and killed him. She started to move but felt Brew's hand on her arm.
"Stay where ya are, Missy," Brew ordered.
She closed her hand over his gnarled one. "And let Reese die?" she whispered urgently. "Brew, we have to help him. They'll kill him!"
"He ain't a fool. He knows what he's doin'."
"Sacrificing himself, you mean? Because that's what it amounts to." Her words were a ragged whisper. Still, Brew held her arm. "We're all going to die here, don't you understand that? Do you think they'll stop with Reese? Our only chance is to help him."
"With what? We got nothin'!"
Grace got to her hands and knees and frantically scanned the tiny cabin. They'd taken their guns, but there must be something she could use as a weapon.
When she saw it, a slow smile spread across her face. It wasn't much, but maybe it would work.
Crouched in the netting, Reese flattened himself against the crates. He wasn't a praying sort of man, but if ever there'd been a more appropriate moment for such a thing, he couldn't remember it. His timing would have to be perfect and even if it was, there was no guarantee he wouldn't get caught in the crossfire. He had to count on that moment of reaction, the moment that would get him clear and put St. John and Tom Oakes in direct opposition. It was a thin plan. Very thin. In fact, it had about as much chance of working as this flat-bottomed boat would against ocean swells. But it was all he had.
He could hear their worn heels against the planking. Closer, closer. He tried to slow his breathing. The ache in his side was a distraction he tried to put out of his mind. But another distraction took its place. It seemed wholly inappropriate that Grace Turner should choose this moment to fill his thoughts, but then he'd come to expect the unexpected from her. In his mind's eye, she was laughing, quoting Ned What's-His-Name and touching his face with those soft hands of hers, kissing him.
The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) Page 16