by Warner, Kaki
Somewhere out there Jessica waited. He had to go. He had to find her.
“Consuelo said to put this on.” Red held out a jar of salve.
Brady scooped a gob, smeared it over the cuts on his chest and wrists, then reached for his boots. Pain shot across his shoulders, up his neck, and suddenly everything tilted.
Red shoved him back upright and held him there until Brady got his boots on. Then he handed him a shirt. By the time Brady fumbled through the buttons, the cuts had reopened and the shirt stuck to him. He pulled on the jacket then reached for the gunbelt and Colt.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Red asked.
Brady ground his teeth as he worked at the buckle. His hands wouldn’t work. His eyes wouldn’t work. Everything jumped around so bad he couldn’t get the holes lined up. He took a breath and tried again. Finally it hooked. He stood shivering, his mind spinning.
“Maybe you should wait for your brothers.”
He blinked at Red, wondering why there were two of him, why his head hurt so bad, why he was still so dizzy he could hardly balance. Touching his head where Sancho hit him, he felt a hard, sticky knot the size of a quail egg.
Buck led a skittish bay past the burning barn. It took Brady three tries to get his foot in the stirrup and pull himself into the saddle. “He took her to the cave.” He reined the nervous horse toward the moon-tipped silhouette of Blue Mesa. “Send my brothers there.”
“ESTAMOSCERCA.”
Jessica scarcely heard him over the ringing in her ears, her mind so sluggish she had to look at everything twice before it made sense. She was surprised to see they had left the rolling flats of the valley behind and now rode into a shadowed canyon. Trees loomed darkly ahead, crowded against sheer walls that rose hundreds of feet into the starlit sky.
The horse slowed to splash its way across a rocky creek bed. As it scrambled up the other side, the upward angle threw her back against the man riding behind her. With a shudder, she jerked upright, clutching the horse’s sweaty mane in nerveless fingers.
She tried to pull her scattered thoughts together, but the pain in her temple was so intense every plodding step the horse took felt like a hammer blow inside her head. Sancho had hit her. She remembered he wanted her to get on the horse but she’d fought him because—
Oh God, Brady . . .
She clamped her eyes shut as images flooded her mind. Was he still in there? Burning? Dying? Dead? Slumping over the horse’s withers, she retched but nothing came out.
Stay alive—I’ll come for you.
Clinging to that hope, she pushed herself upright and tried to bring her fear under control.
The horse moved silently across a thick carpet of pine needles as they climbed deeper into the canyon. Trees closed overhead, shutting out the faint glow of the moon. The scent of pine mingled with the stench of smoke and sweat and blood that came from the man behind her.
Why had he taken her? If it was just to kill her, why hadn’t he already done it? If not . . . if he intended to force her . . . God, she couldn’t endure that again.
The trail grew steeper. She leaned forward, brushing her forehead against the horse’s neck rather than let her back touch the man behind her. And still they climbed. The horse labored, its sides pumping. Its neck grew foamy with sweat.
How could Brady find them? How would he know where Sancho had taken her?
“Estamos aquí.” They stopped.
She looked around as Sancho dismounted. They were in a small clearing ringed by tall trees and boulders. A steep slope rose on one side. From the other came the gurgle of a stream. The air smelled of old camp smoke and garbage and urine.
Sancho yanked her from the saddle. When her legs started to buckle, he jerked her upright.
“Don’t touch me,” she ground out, pushing at his hand.
He let her go and turned to strip the weary horse. While he was distracted, she looked back the way they’d come, wondering if she could find her way in the dark. She had seen the bloodstained tear in his trousers where she had stabbed him when he had attacked Elena. He probably couldn’t go far or run as fast as she. If she could get a head start and maybe hide until—
His hand clamped over her arm. “Vámonos,” he snarled and started up the slope, pulling her after him.
There was no path, just a dusty track of rocks and brush that seemed to go on forever, heading nowhere. Twice she fell. He didn’t slow, but dragged her after him until she struggled back upright. She lost her slippers. Sharp rocks lacerated the soles of her feet. Blood trickled from a cut on her shin and her scraped knees burned with every step.
When they reached the top, she was panting with pain and terror, her feet on fire and her shoulder throbbing from being yanked along. Lifting her head, she saw huge boulders framing a yawning blackness. She knew then that he had taken her to his cave hideout.
Hope sparked in her mind. Brady would know that. He would find her. If he was still alive.
Sancho pushed her ahead of him into the opening. She stumbled, blinded by the dark. Terror clutched at her throat as she gulped in musty air that carried a sickly sweet smell, like the memory of decay.
A match flared. A moment later, he walked toward her with a smoking lantern in his hand. Grabbing her arm again, he pulled her toward the back. As they moved deeper, a heaviness closed around her, awakening that fear of confinement, of being tied and smothered. She clenched her teeth to keep from screaming, knowing if she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop.
They came to an opening in the back wall. He ducked inside and yanked her after him. She didn’t know to bend and struck her head on the rocky ceiling. She stumbled, but he jerked her along, muttering in Spanish under his breath. Water dripped onto her back as she followed him at a crouch. The rocky floor felt slimy under her bare feet. A sharp turn, a few more yards, then the tunnel opened into another, taller cavern. He set the lantern on a rocky shelf then shoved her toward the back corner.
She tripped on her robe and fell to her knees. Too exhausted to rise, she crawled over to the rocky wall and slumped against it, watching as he paced the small cavern.
He limped. She was right; the wound she gave him still bothered him. She wished it had festered and killed him. She wished she had stabbed him in the heart instead.
Lamplight cast wavering shadows along the walls. Shivering as the cold seeped from the rocks into her body, she pulled the tattered robe tightly around her and watched him pace back and forth, muttering, his voice whispering off the rocks, rustling across her nerves like spiders on the march. He seemed to be struggling with himself, with some decision. The way he glanced at her every few steps told her it had to do with her.
Her teeth began to chatter, whether from the cold or fear, she didn’t know. The only thing that kept her sane was the knowledge that Brady would come. He said he would and he always kept his promises.
Be alive . . . please be alive to come for me.
She tried to picture Adrian’s face, his perfect little hands. Instead she saw flames, Brady twisting in the ropes—and her despair was so intense it sucked all hope from her mind.
Weeping, she dropped her head onto her crossed arms. God let him be alive.
The muttering and pacing stopped.
She looked up.
Sancho crouched against the far wall, watching her with the feral intensity of a predator watching its prey. He rocked back and forth, his long hair swinging in front of his face. Through the matted tangles she saw the glitter of eyes so black they seemed without pupils, without depth or mercy. The eyes of insanity.
Her heart drummed frantically against the walls of her chest. She tried to calm it, reaching out with her mind for hope, a prayer, a plan, anything to keep her from splintering to pieces.
Stay alive—I’ll come for you.
He stopped rocking. His gaze moved over her. She watched his tongue flick out to wet his lips, and a whimper of terror swelled in her throat. A new tension moved through the air.
She felt it, and like a caged beast turning from the prod even though there was no place to run, she crawled blindly along the wall toward a shadowed corner.
Then suddenly he was on her, his hands around her neck. “Whore!” he shrieked, lifting her up and pinning her to the wall.
She clawed at his eyes. He jerked back. She kicked, trying to hit his injured leg. He kneed her in the hip. She thrashed and flailed in helpless terror, a high-pitched cry tearing from her throat.
“Ellos están muertos. Dead! All but you, Maria. Why?” Still gripping her throat, he slammed her again and again against the wall. “How many times do I kill you before you die?”
“I-I’m not M-Maria,” she whimpered, ears ringing, the pain in her head so intense she could hardly speak. “I’m Je-Jessica.”
Something moved behind his eyes—a shadow there then gone, replaced by a look of such unbridled fury she thought he would end it then, tighten his grip on her throat until it was over.
Then as suddenly as it came, the fury left him. His grip loosened. As Jessica gulped in air, his gaze drifted over her face. He smiled, a slow, crafty smile that showed gaps in his broken teeth. “His whore . . . now mine.”
That look. Oh God oh God.
With his free hand he yanked open her robe. “Do you spread your legs for him, puta? Does he touch you like this?” Grabbing her breast, he twisted until she cried out. He moved his hand to her crotch and thrust at her with his fingers. “Does he put his fingers into you?”
Sobbing with terror, she tried to push him away, close her legs against his prying hand.
“Do you like it rough, puta?” He ground his pelvis against hers.
“D-Don’t—no—please God . . .” The rank smell of him filled her nostrils, sent bile surging in her throat. His breath was a hot blast against her face as he fumbled to open his trousers. She felt him press his body against her and something in her mind shattered. Everything went silent and still. She felt herself slipping away, drifting beyond the pain and terror.
She wanted to give in to it. She wanted to fall into nothingness. She wanted to die.
Fight. Stay alive—I’ll come for you.
Like a hand pulling her from drowning waters, Brady’s voice called her back. Gasping and choking, she fought her way out of the darkness. With a scream of outrage, she launched herself at Sancho, clawing at his face, his eyes, yanking at his hair.
Caught off-balance, he stumbled back, hands up to ward her off.
She drove her knee into his groin.
He doubled over.
Screaming and cursing, she kicked again and again, her bare foot ineffective until it landed against his injured leg.
He buckled and fell backward.
She raced across the cave, frantically searching for a weapon—a rock, a stick—anything to use against him. She saw the lantern and snatched it from the shelf. She heard him move up behind her and whirled, swinging the lantern as hard as she could.
A crack—then a shower of kerosene and glass as the lamp exploded against the side of his face. Flames engulfed his head. He screamed, batting at his face, his hair, his shirt. Then suddenly he was a human torch lurching blindly, arms flailing, his inhuman shrieks ricocheting off the rocky walls.
In mindless horror, she scrambled into the tunnel.
BRADY HEARD SCREAMS AS HE CHARGED UP THE ROCKY SLOPE. He had heard agony like that only one other time in his life—the day Sam died. Hearing those blood-chilling wails now and knowing Jessica was in there sent such a wave of terror through him he almost lost his footing. Heart pounding, he raced through the arched entrance just as something sailed out of the darkness and slammed into him.
He stumbled back, raising an arm to knock it aside, then froze when he recognized the voice and the body pressed against his. “Jessica?” he choked out, his arms locking around her, so weak with relief his legs threatened to give way.
She clung to him, shaking and crying. “Y-You’re a-alive, you’re alive.” Her arms were so tight around his neck he could hardly breathe.
The shrieking from the back of the cave stopped.
Trying desperately to stay focused, he pulled back and trapped her face in his trembling hands to keep her still. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head, her teeth chattering so hard she could hardly speak. “I th-thought you were d-dead—I thought he—”
“Shhh . . . it’s over.” He kissed her, kissed her again, then again, wanting to pull her inside him so he could keep her with him and safe forever. “I’m here. It’s over.” With shaking fingers he wiped red smears from her face, hoping it was his blood, not hers. “You’re safe now.”
She saw his bloody fingers and recoiled. “You’re bleeding! Your cuts.”
From the darkness came a noise—part whimper, part cry—a sound no human should make.
Jessica threw herself against him. “He’s still alive! How can he still be alive?”
Thrusting her behind him, Brady scanned the darkness at the back of the cave. He caught a whiff of something rank and sickeningly familiar, but saw no movement. “Where is he?”
“I h-hit him with the lantern and—and he started burning and—”
Voices behind them, then Hank and Jack ran through the entrance, panting, guns drawn.
Quickly Brady told them what happened and that Sancho was still alive in the back of the cave. “Hank, stay with Jessica. You wouldn’t fit in the tunnel. Jack, come with me.” Spotting a lantern by the entrance, he lit it and headed toward the back of the cave, Jack trailing behind.
“What’s that smell?” Jack asked as they ducked into the tunnel opening.
“Sancho.”
“Jesus, did she burn him?”
The stink grew stronger the deeper they went, almost making Brady gag. Wishing he had a kerchief to pull over his mouth and nose, he crawled through the tunnel into the inner cavern. As soon as he had headroom, he straightened and held the lantern high. It was a grisly sight.
“Damn,” Jack muttered, his voice muffled behind his hand. He looked around, then nodded toward the broken lantern. “She must have hit him with that.”
Thank God this time she fought.
“Fried him good, didn’t she?”
“She was fighting for her life, Jack.”
“I’m not complaining. Saves us a bullet.”
Holding his shirttail over his nose and mouth, Brady bent over Sancho’s twisted, smoking body to see if he was still alive.
He was. Barely. His face looked melted. His lips were gone, his teeth showing in a ghoulish grimace. His seeping eyes were open but Brady couldn’t tell if they saw anything. He was breathing but appeared to be unconscious.
Suddenly all the fury that had eaten away at him for twenty years uncoiled in Brady’s mind. He reached for his pistol. “I’ve got you now, you sonofabitch.” Drawing the Colt, he thumbed the hammer back and pointed the barrel at Sancho’s head.
But he couldn’t pull the trigger.
His hand started to shake. Gritting his teeth, he squeezed the pistol grip so hard his swollen knuckles turned white. Still, he couldn’t pull the trigger. It was as if he had turned to stone, his mind shouting orders but his body unable to move.
Sancho made a garbled sound, his scorched body jerking with spasms.
Slowly the rage faded, leaving a sour taste in Brady’s mouth and an ache behind his eyes. This was what he wanted, he reminded himself.
A long, agonizing death was what Sancho deserved. Shutting his mind to the tortured breathing, he eased the hammer down and reholstered the pistol.
“You’re not going to shoot him?” Jack asked.
“Let him suffer.” For Sam. For Jessica and Ru and all the others. He turned to his brother. “You and Hank take Jessica to the ranch. Sancho set the barn on fire. It could spread to the house.”
“What about you? You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“Send someone for Doc. He can tend to me when I get back.”
Suddenly Brady felt so weary he was light-headed. Every muscle ached. The cuts on his chest throbbed and his throat still burned from all the smoke he’d inhaled. Moving to the other side of the cave, he slumped down against the wall where the air was less rank. Mindful of his lacerated wrists and swollen hands, he rested his folded arms on his upraised knees and leaned back. “I’ll wait. This shouldn’t take long.” After twenty years and more death and destruction than he wanted to contemplate, it was fitting he and Sancho should spend these last hours together.
Jack left.
Silence, except for the rasp of Sancho’s breathing. Brady watched his struggle and thought of all the people this smoldering ruin of a man had hurt. And for what? A piece of land?
It sickened him.
Maybe Jessica was right. Maybe he should walk away. Start over somewhere else.
As soon as that thought popped into his mind, all the reasons it would never work shouted it down. And the one that kept resounding in his head the loudest was the one hardest to overlook: Without the ranch, who was he? What would he do if he started over? How would he live the years he had left? A man needed something to hold on to. Something bigger than himself. If he couldn’t build something lasting and worthwhile, what was all the struggle for?
“Was it worth it, Sancho?” he asked wearily.
Sancho had no answer.
Brady didn’t either. He just wanted it over.
Time passed, measured by the slow dimming of the lamp and the gradual stiffening in Brady’s battered body. He tried to rest but couldn’t, plagued by a steady march of memories. He realized that with Sancho dead, he would never know who killed Maria and Don Ramon. In his mind he saw his father’s slack face, his haunted eyes begging for understanding, and it came to him that he no longer cared about his father’s guilt. His own lack of forgiveness troubled him more. It shamed him that he had let his father die without giving him that at least.
So many wasted years, so many mistakes. There had to have been a better way.
Wearily he dropped his head into his crossed arms, wishing he could start over, do things different. But what? This was what he was, what his life was all about—struggling to dig out an existence in a land that didn’t want to be conquered, fighting for just one more day, one more chance, hoping tomorrow would be better. If he walked away from the ranch, he’d be walking away from himself.