by Bobbi Smith
"That's what I was trying to tell you early on. Life out here isn't fiction. Sometimes it's harsh and cruel and ugly."
"I know that now, but even so, I won't write that in my stories. My stories have to have happy endings. I won't even think about writing them unless they do."
He turned serious as his gaze caught and held hers in the night. "What about our story, Sheri? Will we have a happy ending?"
Sheri gazed up at him and lifted one hand to caress his cheek. "Oh, yes. We're going to live happily ever after."
"I hope you're right."
"I am." She sighed as she pulled him down to her. "In fact, I can think of the scene I want to happen next. . . ."
"You can?" he asked with a devilish chuckle. "What scene is that?"
"It's the scene where Brand makes love to the heroine out in the open under the stars."
"Do you think that's a good idea?"
"I think it's a wonderful idea. . . ." she whispered as she kissed him hungrily.
"I do, too," he agreed, losing himself in the beauty of her embrace.
It was a long time later that they finally slept, sated and smiling in each other's arms.
Chapter Nineteen
Brand, the Half-Breed Scout, or Trail of the Renegade
Savage Protector
The troopers returned late the next day. Brand was safe and unhurt, and the renegades had all been killed. Things would be safe now in the Territory for a little while.
As soon as Brand had had the chance to clean up, he sought out Mercy to see how she was and to learn about Rachel.
"She's running a terribly high fever, and she's been asking for you," she told him. "Would you want me to go with you to the hospital? The doctor might let you in to see her."
"Yes. I want to make sure she's all right."
Brand hadn't been able to get Rachel out of his thoughts the whole time he'd been fighting the renegades. Every time he'd remembered the warrior attacking her that night, he had battled harder against them. Rachel was a beautiful, spirited woman, and he hoped she recovered soon. He wanted her to be safe and well. . . .
Hancock was in a vile mood. He grew angrier and more desperate as the days passed and no word came from the posse. He wanted the fugitives dead . . . both of them.
He had been pleased to hear that the reporter and the Cleaver woman had gone back to town the day before. They were thorns in his side that he didn't need. He just wanted to maintain a normal demeanor as he waited anxiously for word of Brand's fate. The rain had slowed the posse down, but now that the weather had been clear for several days, he kept expecting to see Philip and his scouts riding back into McDowell at any time. Each hour that they didn't, he grew more and more tense. The longer it took, the more concerned he became. He didn't like this. He didn't like this at all.
O'Toole knew Brand and Sheri were close. He just wasn't sure how close. He didn't know quite how he was so certain . . . a feeling, a sixth sense that told him they were near. But he knew, and he had to be prepared. He sat on his horse, his gaze scanning the horizon searching for some sign of Brand. He had to be the one to find his friend. That was the only way he could ensure Brand's safety.
Far above O'Toole, Brand hunkered down behind a boulder with Sheri by his side, watching all that transpired below. He had deliberately doubled back to confuse them, and now he waited and watched as they sought the right trail to follow. They were good. There was no doubt about that. Brand had expected the posse to give up. He had not anticipated that O'Toole, Long, and several scouts from the fort would join in the effort, but it made sense. How better to catch them? And who better to order that they lead the posse than Hancock, the real murderer?
Brand glanced over at Sheri and gave her a slight nod of approval. She had impressed him more than he'd ever thought possible over the last few days. She had been tough on their first run from the Apache, but she had been even better this time. Never once had she uttered a complaint or sought to rest more than was necessary. If anything, her readiness to keep on the move kept him going. But this was the critical moment. If they could get behind their pursuers and head back the way the posse had come, they could pick up a good half day's lead on them, and that would give them time to rest their horses.
A shout went out from below, and Brand turned his attention back to O'Toole. One of the scouts had signaled for them to head farther down the canyon, and that was just what Brand had been hoping for. He watched with grim satisfaction as they headed in the opposite direction from where Brand and Sheri were in hiding. Sheri shot him a wide, victorious smile, and he smiled back. He didn't want to tell her it was just a temporary reprieve. There was no reason to dull her happiness. There was little enough of that.
They remained hidden where they were, watching and waiting until the posse had disappeared from sight. Only then did they dare to move out.
"How long do you think it will take them to discover they went the wrong way?" Sheri asked once she was sure it was safe to talk.
"A long time, I hope. But they're good. They're real good. The best we can hope for is a few hours."
"Then we'd better hurry." She kneed her horse to a quicker pace.
They had ridden for almost half an hour when they heard it. Gunfire erupted. Volleys of shots and the echoing sounds of men's screams.
Brand reined in and stared back the way they'd come.
"What is it?" Sheri asked, terrified.
Brand listened, trying to judge the guns in use, trying to understand what had happened. But in his gut, he knew what had happened. Turning back as he'd done had been the most important thing he'd done in all their days of running, for by turning back when he had, he'd avoided running head-on into a raiding party of Apache.
"Apache," he said, his tone flat.
"They're attacking the posse?"
He nodded tightly, torn. It took him only an instant to make his decision. "I've got to go help them."
"No! They'll shoot you on sight!"
"If I don't go, they may all be killed! I can!t leave them to be slaughtered. Not if I can help!"
"But Brandthose are the same men who want to see you hang."
"I know, but some of them are my friends. I have to help them. You stay here. You have the revolver?"
"Yes."
"Then I want you to ride up there." He indicated a locale with a good view of the area that would be impossible to attack with ease. "And stay there. I'm going to help O'Toole."
"I want to come with you!"
"No! Stay where I know you'll be safe. I'll be better able to fight if I know that you're out of harm's way."
"But . . ."
"Promise me," he said darkly, his gaze boring into hers as he sought her word.
"All right. I'll stay here."
The look on her face was so distraught at the thought that she might lose him that he wheeled his horse around close to hers and pulled her to him for a fast kiss.
"I'll be back," he vowed. With that, he drew his rifle from its scabbard and raced back the way they'd come, heading toward the sound of the fighting.
Sheri watched him for only a minute, then did as she'd been told. Carefully guiding her horse up the treacherous hillside, she sought safety in the rocks above. She would wait for him. He had promised he would come back to her. She believed him.
Dismounting, and then hobbling her horse the way Brand had taught her to, she settled in to await his return. As the sound of the fighting continued to echo through the mountains, she said a fervent prayer that he would be safe.
O'Toole and Philip were pinned down close together, covering each other as best they could. At least three men of the posse had been shot, and one they knew for sure was dead.
"Where the hell did they come from?" Philip asked,
furious that they'd been caught unaware.
"Hell is exactly it," O'Toole answered, returning fire with the renegades who had them pinned down.
"How many do you see? I can pinpoint five,
but that's just on this side."
"There are at least four more over here, and they've got the high ground."
"Where's Sheriff Warren?"
"He's pinned down to your left about a hundred yards."
Philip paused in his firing to reload. "How did we walk right into this one?"
"Remind me to ask one of the scouts when we get out of here," O'Toole said sarcastically, wondering how they'd missed the signs of the raiding party. He ducked down and muttered an expletive when a shot came too close.
Philip responded to the shot with a round of his own, but he was driven back behind the boulder when a warrior high above fired again. "I think we're in trouble."
"I always did think you were one helluva smart officer," O'Toole growled, firing carefully, picking his shots so as not to waste ammunition.
More shots rang out, and they heard another of the posse cry out in pain. The hail of bullets from the Indians continued, and the posse was helpless to do more than stay under cover.
"We've got to do something. We can't just sit here and wait for them to slaughter us!" Philip was angry and determined not to die this way.
"We need to get someone up above."
"I don't know how we're going to do that if we're all pinned down!" O'Toole snapped. The plan was good, but executing it was impossible.
"There's got to be some way. . . ."
The sun beat down unmercifully as the raiding party continued its assault. They had already scared off the white men's horses and were now taking pleasure in picking off their helpless victims one by one. Their confidence was great. They had won. It was just a matter of time before the whites were all dead.
Brand left his horse a distance back and crept undetected above the scene of the ambush. With great care, he took his time, selecting the best spot from which to fire on the attackers. When he had counted them and knew their hiding places, he began shooting, making every shot count.
The first shot that rang out brought a scream from one of the Apache and startled the pinned-down posse.
"What the hell. . . ?"
"It's Brand!" O'Toole shouted, catching a glimpse of him high above. "There's your man up on top, lieutenant. We got 'em now!"
Brand's position was perfect, and the renegades began to scatter. As they ran from their positions, the posse below began to shoot at them. Screams of fury erupted from the Indians as they fled.
O'Toole had shifted his position and was getting ready to shoot at one of the braves running past him when he took a bullet in the arm. He fell heavily and struggled to get up. Brand saw him go down and felt a wave of fury go through him. With cold, deadly precision, he picked off the fleeing braves. When it was all over, only three of the Apache had made it to their horses.
When all was quiet and they knew it was safe, Philip ran to O'Toole.
"Where are you wounded, sergeant?"
"Just in the arm," he groaned. "I'll be all right once we get back to the fort. Signal Brand. Let him know that it's over."
Philip stood up and raised his hand. Brand saw the gesture and rushed to climb down the rocks to see if he could help O'Toole. He had seen him go down, but he hadn't seen him get back up. He was filled with a terrible dread that his friend was mortally wounded.
"He's coming down here," Philip told O'Toole in amazement. "If that had been me, I would have run again."
"Brand's a special kind of man, lieutenant," O'Toole said quietly as he braced himself against the rocks and watched his friend come toward him.
"Ain't that the half-breed?" one of the posse yelled, lifting his weapon to fire.
Philip turned on him, his own revolver aimed at the man's chest. "That 'half-breed' just saved your miserable life. Put the damned gun down or I'll shoot you on the spot."
O'Toole couldn't believe what he was hearing, but he heartily agreed with the sentiment. The man from town turned gray at the threat and quickly did as he was told.
"Sheriff Warren, Brand's coming down! He just saved all our miserable hides, so tell your men to hold their fire."
The sheriff quickly did as he was told, and they turned their attention to tending to the wounded.
Brand was carrying his rifle at the ready, but when he saw that they were welcoming him, he relaxed a bit and went straight to O'Toole.
''O'Toole?" He dropped down beside him on one knee.
"You're a sight for sore eyes," the sergeant told him, relieved that Brand was uninjured.
"You hurt bad?" Brand asked, keeping an eye on Philip, who was coming toward them.
"I'll be fine. A couple of the men from town are shot up pretty bad, though."
Brand nodded.
"Brand?"
He looked over at the officer, skeptical of what he was about to say.
"We appreciate your coming to our aid. Thanks."
His thanks surprised Brand, and he only nodded again.
"And Brand?"
Their eyes met.
"Where's Sheri?"
"I left her back up the trail. She's waiting there for me."
"You know we have to take you in, don't you?" Philip said, his revolver aimed at Brand. "I don't want to do this, but I've got no choice. Not until we can prove you're innocent."
"Lieutenant!" O'Toole protested, furious with the man.
"He's accused of murder and breaking out of jail. We are bound to take him in. It'll go better for you if you just come with us without a fight."
Brand thought about running again. He thought about fighting his way out of there. He thought about Sheri. "All right, but give me your word that Sheri will not be charged with any crime."
"I can't do that."
"I can." Sheriff Warren spoke up from where he was doctoring one of his men.
Across the distance, the sheriff's gaze met Brand's in silent understanding.
"Let's get the horses and head for the fort. These men need attention. I don't think they can make it all the way to town."
Brand helped treat O'Toole's wound. When the men returned with the horses, they were ready to ride. It would be slow going, but they would make it.
Brand was eager to return to Sheri. He could just imagine how anxious she was, especially since the shooting had stopped. It was the longest ride of his life, for he worried that something might have happened to her while he'd been gone.
Philip had taken his weapons, but had not bothered to bind him. He rode next to Brand on the trek.
"You're a contradiction, Brand." At the scout's look, Philip went on, "You're accused of cold-blooded murder, yet you rode back into the middle of an ambush to save the very men who were hunting you down. You don't find that kind of self-sacrifice in most men."
"I didn't kill Hale, Lieutenant," Brand said stiffly.
"I'm coming to believe you," Philip answered, looking at him with respect.
"I just don't know how to prove it," Brand went on. "Do you remember anything unusual that happened that night after you got me out of the saloon?"
"Colonel Hancock left before I did. I stayed around and had a few more drinks. The strangest thing I remember is that when I got back to the hotel, I knocked on the colonel's door and there was no answer. Then later, when I was falling asleep, I heard him come in. I have no idea where he was during those hours we weren't together, and I left before he got up the next morning, so I didn't get the chance to ask him."
"It all fits. I just can't prove anything."
"What fits?"
"Hancock told me when he came to see me in jail that he knew I wasn't guilty, but he said I wouldn't be able to prove it." Brand smiled tightly. "He knew he had me even then."
"That was before I remembered what happened that night," Philip put in. "He's going to have some explaining to do once we get back. It will be interesting to see what he has to say for himself."
Sheriff Warren had been riding nearby, listening to their conversation. "You know, what you just said reminded me of something. . . ."
The two men looked
at him quickly, wondering if he knew anything that could help them.
"That day when the colonel came to the jail to see Brand, I spoke with him first. The way he talked about the time you spent at the saloon, he made it sound like the two of you left the bar and returned to your hotel together." He was speaking to Philip as he explained.
Philip's eyes narrowed at this news. He had served with the colonel for some time now. He respected and admired him. The thought that his commander might have done something so deliberately savage was deeply troubling. It didn't fit with the man he knew. "It seems our colonel has quite a few things to straighten out when we get back."
"But we still can't prove anything." Sheriff Warren was still worried.
"We will," Philip said with confidence, looking over at Brand and seeing a friend now instead of a half-breed scout.
Sheri had kept her word to Brand. It hadn't been easy. There had been any number of times when she'd wanted to get on her horse and chase after him, but she'd controlled the urge. She had promised to stay, and she did.
Her nerves were stretched taut. The sounds of the gun battle had seemed to go on forever, and then suddenly they had stopped. The silence that followed had seemed deafening, and Sheri had been left wanting to scream in frustration. She wanted to know where Brand was and that he was safe. Her heart ached with the knowledge that he might be wounded somewhere, needing her. Desperate for something to keep her busy, she had dragged out a few pieces of paper and a pencil and had started writing. She knew it was crazy to be writing in the middle of the real wild West with Indians and posses having a shootout nearby, but it was the only way to save her sanity. Without her story right then, she would have gone mad. It was far easier to lose herself in Rachel and Brand's story than it was to deal with the reality that the real Brand might be in trouble.
Sheri wrote furiously. Pages flowed from her thoughts. Pages of worry and heartbreak, of longing and of love. She wrote a heart-wrenching scene in which Rachel had to make the most important decision of her life. If Sheri had written the scene a month before, sitting at her desk at home, it would have been sterileone-dimensional characters walking through the plot line. This scene was so real, it brought tears to her eyes when she reread it. She was smiling a watery smile when she finished.