Rides a Hero sb-2

by Heather Graham

"I have been quiet! Now get the hell off me!"

  In a flash, his hand landed on her mouth, and he was near her again, so near that this time the warm whisper of his breath touched her cheek, and sent hot, rippling sensations seeping throughout the very length of her. He was tense, so tense that she wondered if she really knew the man at all, and she was suddenly afraid.

  "I have been fighting blue bellies a long, long time, and you are the worst of them. Now, I am not going to wind up in prison or swinging from a rope at the end of this because of you. I do swear it. Shut up, Shannon—"

  "Don't you threaten me!"

  "Threaten! I'll act, and you know it!"

  She didn't realize until it pulled and hurt that he had a grip upon her hair. She clenched her teeth, swallowed and tried to nod. Even for Malachi, this was strange behavior.

  It was the war, she decided; he had finally gone insane.

  "I'll be quiet!" she mouthed.

  "Do so, Shannon, I'm warning you."

  She nodded again.

  He seemed to realize that he was hurting her. He stared at his hand where he gripped her hair, and he dropped it as if it were a golden fire that truly burned. He sat back again, then watched her.

  "No sudden movement, no screams."

  "No sudden movement," she repeated in a solemn promise. "No screams."

  Seeming satisfied at last, he rose, finding his plumed cavalry hat on the floor nearby and dusting it off upon his thigh. He swept it low before her, and Shannon curiously caught her breath.

  He was a charismatic man, a tall and arresting one. She knew he rode with elegance and finesse, as if he had been born to it. It sometimes seemed that he embodied some spirit of chivalry, something of a certain gallantry that had belonged to a sector of the deceased, prewar South. He had grace, and he had courage, she did not deny him those. He would never think of personal safety if something threatened someone he loved. He was loyal and devoted to his brother, and to her sister, Kristin.

  He also seemed to have gone quite mad, and she needed desperately to escape him at the first opportunity. She didn't know whether to be terrified or furious.

  "Miss McCahy," he murmured, reaching for her hand. "Please accept my hand. I admit, my manners were poor…"

  It was too much. He had wrestled her to the ground twice, threatened her, bullied her and acted as if he belonged in an asylum. Now he was acting like the last of the cavaliers. She wanted no part of him; she had to escape.

  She stared at his hand, creeping away on her elbows and haunches. "You must be completely out of your mind," she told him flatly. Then she leaped to her feet and spun around to run.

  "Damn you!"

  The oath left him in a fury. This time, when he caught her and dragged her back, he did not throw her to the floor. He curved one hand over her mouth and brought her flush against his chest with the other, his fingers taut beneath her breast. He whispered against her ear.

  "Shannon, I am tired, I am bone tired. It has been my belief since I first had the pleasure of your acquaintance that a switch in the barnyard would have done you a world of good. Now, I am going to ask you one more time to behave, and then I am going to take action against you, as I see fit."

  Rage and humiliation boiled inside her. "Malachi Slater, don't you ever talk to me like that, ever!"

  "Don't push it."

  She brought her heel against his leg with a vengeance. It wouldn't do much damage against his boot, she thought regretfully, but it did incite him further.

  She gasped as he swung her around to face him, locking her against his body, his arms around her, her fingers laced tightly through his and held taut at the small of her back, as if they were involved in a close and desperate waltz. She opened her mouth to protest, but something in his eyes silenced her, and she stared at him in stony silence instead.

  So much for dignity. So much for pride. She did manage to lift her chin.

  "Shannon, behave," he said, then paused, watching her. Then he said with a trace of amazement, "You really meant to kill me!"

  She inhaled, and exhaled, and tried to count. She tried to stop the trembling in her body, and the thunder in her heart. She was going to speak softly, and with bold, sheer reason. She could not stand being this close to him. She despised her vulnerability, and she hated the shivers that seized her and the way her blood seemed to heat and steam and sizzle throughout her. She hated the hardness of his body, like warm, living rock that she could lean against, when he was every inch the enemy.

  "You would have!" he repeated. "You would have shot me. I wonder, did you or did you not know who I was?"

  "Malachi, I'd love to shoot you. In both kneecaps, then right between the eyes. But you are Cole's brother, and because of that fact alone, I would never seek to take your miserable life. Besides, you lost, Malachi. I won." She paused, savoring the words. "The war, Malachi. I am the victor, and you, sir, are the loser."

  He grinned, slowly, and shook his head. He leaned closer so that his eyes streaked blue fire straight into hers. His lips were almost against hers, the hair of his mustache teased her flesh, and she felt his words with every nerve of her body. "Never, Shannon. You'll never, never be the victor over me."

  "You've already lost."

  "We've yet to play the game."

  "Malachi, you're hurting me!"

  "You were trying to kill me."

  "I was not! Every deserter and drunk and cutthroat and thief across the country thinks that this is playtime. I didn't know who you were! It's your fault. You should have come straight to the house. You shouldn't have been skulking around in the stables. I wouldn't have come out here if—" She broke off, frowning. "You Reb bastard!" she hissed. "You knew that it was me! You knew that it was me, but you jumped me anyway."

  "You were wandering around with a Colt. I know what you are capable of doing with one, Miss McCahy."

  "You could have called out—"

  "Hell, ma'am, now how did I know that you wouldn't have been damned pleased to use the thing against me, and with such a good excuse."

  She smiled, savagely gritting her teeth, trying to elude his hold. He would not release her. "Pity I don't have it now. I could be tempted."

  "But you don't have it, do you? My point exactly."

  "Malachi Slater—"

  "Stop, Shannon. I told you. I'm exhausted. I'm bleeding and starving and exhausted and—"

  "Bleeding?" Shannon interrupted, and then she wondered irritably why she cared. "Why didn't you come straight to the house?"

  He twisted his jaw, watching her suspiciously. ' 'I thought there might be a Yank patrol there."

  "You saw that it was me—"

  "Yes. But I didn't quite take the chance that you wouldn't just be thrilled to tears, little darlin', to turn me over to a patrol."

  "Why, Captain Slater, you sound as if you believe I hate you."

  "Miss McCahy, I am just fully aware that the sisterly love you offer to my brother does not extend to me. So you see, Shannon, at first I had to take care that you did not shoot me with pleasure, then I had to assure myself that you did not have a pack of blue-belly friends awaiting me in the house."

  "My brother is a blue belly, you will recall," Shannon told him acidly.

  "I said a patrol, and that's what I meant."

  "A Yank patrol?" Startled, Shannon quit struggling and spoke curiously. "Why? Matthew isn't even back yet. Why would there be a Yank patrol at the house?"

  He stiffened, his hold easing on her a bit. "You mean…you haven't heard?"

  "Heard what?"

  He stared at her for a moment longer and pulled her even closer.

  "Swear to me, Shannon, that you're on the level. That you're not going to scream, or ran, or try to shoot me again."

  "If I had meant to shoot you, Malachi Slater, believe me, you'd be dead right now."

  "Shannon, I'm going to let you go. If you scream or move or cause me another problem, I promise, you will live to regret it with all of your sweet he
art. Do you understand?''

  "There is no bloody patrol at the house!" she told him. Then she lowered her eyes and sighed. "I swear it, Malachi. You're safe for the moment."

  Then she gasped, suddenly realizing that Cole's behavior had been a bit strange that afternoon. A friend of his had stopped by, and after that Cole had mentioned very casually that he might have to leave for a day or two to find a hiding place. Just in case, he had assured them. Just in case of trouble. Had Cole known something? It was his nature to be quiet and not alarmist. And he would have played any danger down for fear that Kristin would insist on accompanying him. He would just slip away, and then hurry back once he knew he could keep her safe…

  "What?" Malachi demanded sharply.

  "There's no patrol. It's just that…an old friend of Cole's stopped by today. And then Cole began to act strangely. Perhaps he does know something he's not telling us." Her heart felt as if it were sinking. Perhaps Cole was already gone. He could have slipped away already, looking for a place to take them. He had wanted to head to Texas before, but he wouldn't leave them for that length of time, Shannon knew. If he had gone off, it would be just for a few days, to find a hiding place deeper into Missouri.

  Malachi tilted his head, watching her curiously, but he seemed to believe her. He released her and turned aside. With an uncanny agility in the darkness, he went to the door and found the lantern that hung there and lit it, bringing the flame down low.

  And Shannon saw that Malachi was in worse shape than she had at first imagined.

  His coat was indeed tattered, his braid frayed. He was very lean, and his handsome features were taut with fatigue. A deep crimson bloodstain marred his trousers high on the inner left thigh.

  "You've been hit!" she cried, alarmed. "Oh, my God, I did hit you in the hay—"

  He shook his head impatiently, sinking down upon one of the bales of hay. "You didn't hit me. A Union sentry hit me when I passed through Kentucky." He paused, and a gray cloud of memory touched his eyes as he stared into the shadows at nothing. "I could have taken them down," he mused, "but it didn't seem to make any sense. I thought that I could outrun them. They were just kids. They couldn't have been more than seventeen. More killing just didn't seem to make much sense."

  None of it was making sense. He must have been in terrible pain, and yet he made his spectacular leap from the loft despite his injury. He must have been desperate indeed.

  Curious, Shannon moved carefully over to him. "Malachi, the war is over. Why were they—"

  "You really don't know?"

  "Know what?" she demanded, exasperated.

  "It isn't over. It isn't over at all." He hesitated. "Cole went into Kansas, you know. He killed the man who killed his wife."

  Shannon nodded. "I know," she said stiffly. Malachi kept staring at her. "So?" she asked. "Cole knows that he's going to have to leave Missouri for a while. When Matthew comes home, Cole and Kristin will head for Texas."

  Malachi leaned against the hay. He winced, and she thought that his leg must be hurting him very badly for him to display even a hint of pain. "Cole can't wait for Matthew to come home. He hasn't got the time. They've got wanted posters up on him. You see, the man he killed has a brother. And the brother seems to own half the property in Kansas. He virtually controls his part of the state. Anyway, he's calling Cole a murderer. He wants him brought in, dead or alive. And he's got enough influence—and money—to see that things are done his way."

  Shannon felt weak. She wasn't terribly sure that she could stand. She staggered. She couldn't believe it. Cole had fought long and hard for a chance. He had battled a million demons, and now he had found his peace. He had Kristin and the baby, and with them the promise that there could be a normal life.

  And now he was branded outlaw—and murderer.

  "He's going to have to head out and hide, Shannon, right away," Malachi said softly. "They'll know to come for him here."

  She nodded, thinking that this was what Cole had heard earlier. He had quite possibly left already. But in a second, she was going to go back to the house to check. She would at least have to tell Kristin that the world of peace and happiness that she had just discovered was being blown to bits by the thunder of revenge.

  "Why—why were they shooting at you? You weren't in Kansas with Cole,'' Shannon said.

  Malachi grinned, a lopsided, caustic grin. "Why, darlin', I'm the man's brother. A Slater. According to the powers that be, I ran with Quantrill, and I butchered half the population of Kansas."

  "But you were never with Quantrill. You were always regular cavalry," Shannon said.

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence. I didn't think that you would rush to my defense."

  "I wouldn't," Shannon said coolly. "Facts are facts."

  Malachi shrugged, leaning wearily back again. "Well, it doesn't matter much anyway. You go on up to the house and get Cole. We'll ride out tonight. You seen Jamie?"

  Shannon was sorry to have to shake her head. She liked Jamie. He was always calm and quiet. The peacemaker of the three brothers, she thought. The Slaters were close; she could understand that. She and Kristin were close. Too many times, Kristin had been all that she had had left.

  Too many times…

  In the days after Robert had died, she had wanted to die herself. She had lain there without eating, without speaking, without the will to move. Kristin had been there. Kristin had given her the desire to survive again.

  She lowered her head, almost smiling. Malachi had even helped her then. It had been unwitting, of course. He had never allowed her the peace of silence, or the chance to dwell in self-pity. Since she'd met him he'd been demanding, a true thorn in her side. But his very arrogance and his endless determination to treat her like a wayward child had brought out her fury, and with that her passion to live.

  "I'm sorry. I haven't seen Jamie," she told him softly.

  "Well," Malachi said softly to the lamp. "Jamie is no fool. He'll lay low. He'll find us."

  His words were a lie, Shannon thought. He was worried sick. She didn't say so, though, for there was nothing that either of them could do.

  "You were in the same company," she said. "Why aren't you together?"

  "Jamie set out a day or two before I did. He wanted to stop by to see some old friends who had lost a son." He gritted his teeth. "We've got to run. He'll know how to lie low."

  "You're not running anywhere, not the way that you are," Shannon told him. She couldn't bear seeing the blood on his leg. She didn't know why. Most of the time she thought that not even the Comanches could think up a cruel enough death for Malachi. But tonight the sight of his blood disturbed her.

  "What do you mean?" he asked her warily.

  "Your leg."

  "I can find a doc south of here to take out the ball—"

  "The ball is still in it?" Shannon said.

  He stiffened as he held his breath for several seconds, watching her. "Yeah, the ball is still in it."

  Shannon whirled around and headed for the tack room. They kept some rudimentary surgical supplies there; it was a necessary precaution on a cattle ranch.

  "Shannon!" he called to her. "What do you think you're doing?"

  "I'll be right back."

  She found the surgical box in the lower left hand drawer of the desk. She paused. They had no morphine; nothing for pain. Nobody did, not in Missouri. Not in most of the South.

  She pulled open the next drawer and found a bottle of Kentucky whiskey. It would have to do.

  Then, as she came out of the tack room, she paused, wondering why she was thinking of doing this for Malachi Slater.

  Maybe she didn't hate him so much.

  No…she hated him. He was Cole's brother, and if his leg wasn't fixed up, he might slow Cole down. That was it, surely.

  She swept back to his side and kneeled down. She opened up the box and found a pair of scissors. She needed to slit his pants and find the extent of the wound.

  "What do you think y
ou're doing?" he asked her harshly.

  "I'm going to cut your pants."

  "If you think that I'm going to let you anywhere close—"

  "The wound is in your thigh, you fool. Here.'' She handed him the whiskey. "Drink some of this."

  He didn't hesitate to swallow a good shot of the whiskey. He closed his eyes, wincing when he was done. "That was good. It was an inestimable piece of kindness from a Yank to a Reb. Now forget it, I'll find—"

  "Sit still, Malachi, and quit whining."

  "I'll be damned if I'm whining. Shannon! Shannon, stop!"

  He clenched his teeth, but when he went to grip her wrists, he was too late. He hesitated. She already had the shears snipping at his pants, and to make a move might have been dangerous. He inhaled sharply.

  She paused and met his eyes. She smiled sweetly. "Sit back now, Captain Slater. Relax."

  "You move carefully there, Miss McCahy, or I swear, I'll make you sorry this very night!"

  "Why, Captain Slater, I would take great care with those silly threats of yours at this particular moment."

  He caught her arm and her eyes once again. "Shannon, I don't make silly threats. Just promises."

  "You aren't in any position to make… promises, not at this moment, captain."

  "Shannon—"

  "Trust me, Malachi."

  "The way I would a black widow, Shannon."

  She smiled and stared at his fingers, which were still locked around her arm. She looked at him again. His eyes

  remained clear and deep and blue upon hers. Slowly, he eased his fingers, releasing her.

  She felt him inhale as she carefully snipped at the bloodstained wool. Seconds later, she pulled the material away from the wound. She could see the ball. It was sunk in just far enough that a man wouldn't be able to remove it himself. One swift slice with a scalpel and a quick foray with the forceps and it would be gone. Then she could douse it with some of the liquor and bind it, and his chances of a clean recovery would be very good indeed.

  "Take another swig of the whiskey," she told him, staring at the wound because she didn't dare look into his eyes. "I'll just get the scalpel—"

  His hand landed hard upon her wrist, and her eyes were drawn to his. "I don't trust you with a scalpel, Shannon."