Carole Howey - Sheik's Glory

by Carole Howey

  He asked no pity, offered no apology. He merely stated fact. Missy found herself respecting his sense of family loyalty even while deploring his misguided judgment. He had erred out of love, not out of meanness or avarice. She loved him all the more for it.

  "And what now, Flynn?" she asked softly, stroking his lightly stubbled cheek. "Madeleine and Seamus came here to protect their interests. They apparently expect you to continue doing what you've done in the past: sending her money to keep her quiet about Antoinette and the other business. It will certainly ruin Seamus if it comes out. The C-Bar-C can make us a fine living, but you know it can't support Madeleine's excesses for very long."

  Flynn crooked one arm behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

  "I can't worry about Seamus or Madeleine anymore," he said with a hardness that made Missy think he was mentally addressing at least one of the two people he mentioned. "My life means something to me now, and I've been carrying them and their ugliness on my back long enough. It's time for Seamus to grow up, to find his own way out of the mess he's made, if he can. I'm bowing out of his problems. And Madeleine's."

  Missy considered his declaration.

  "Will they let you?"

  "They won't have a choice."

  It was a naive assumption, but Missy suspected Flynn knew that. She sensed his remark was more bluff than substance, like a fearful child whistling in the dark. Aware of a desire to take that child in her arms, or at least to light way, she nestled her cheek against his shoulder.

  "Whatever comes of it, I'm with you," she whispered, dreading what she might be promising him, knowing she would not have it otherwise. "You know that, don't you?"

  His caress resumed, and she saw a grin tug at his mouth but not his eyes.

  "I know, sweetheart. And I love you for it. But let's not talk of that tonight," he wound up in a gentle, cajoling tone, his fingers finding hers and locking with them. "I have other things on my mind."

  Missy was not fooled by his honeyed attempt, as delicious as it was, to change the subject: he meant to shield her from whatever ugliness resulted with Madeleine, Antoinette, and Seamus; she felt it. It was going to take extra prudence on her part to watch him and make sure he attempted nothing on his own, particularly in his weakened state. It had taken her years to find the love he gave so freely; she was not about to allow Seamus or Madeleine or anyone, not even Flynn himself, however unwitting, to jeopardize it.

  "You're hurt, remember?" Missy tried her best not to reveal her dark thoughts to him. "Mmm." He nuzzled her throat. "I'm trying to forget. Help me?"

  With his lips working their cunning magic, Missy quickly realized it would be difficult for her to remember as much as her own name. They were together, though alone. There was no need for her to fear Madeleine and Seamus or their treacherous designs for now. There was no need for her to fear anything tonight but the loss of her sense and her sanity as Flynn began to make love to her again in the sweet, quiet refuge of their room.

  To Missy's surprise, Flynn rolled on top of her.

  "Your ribs!" she cried, searching his intense features for signs of distress.

  "My ribs be damned," he growled, taking her in with a long, heated look. "I want you, Mrs. Muldaur. Now be quiet and kiss me."

  Missy tried very hard to be mindful of his injuries, but his teasing and coaxing was too much to bear and she let herself go with a primitive ecstasy she would never have guessed she possessed, rocking and thrusting, dancing supine to Flynn's sweet music. Voices joined the music as she climaxed, sweet, childlike voices crying out in joy, echoing her triumph.

  Joy. Then wonder.

  Then terror.

  Flynn was very still above her. She knew he was listening, too. She opened her eyes and saw the room alight in a pale, flickering glow for which the small lamp on the nightstand alone could not be responsible.

  She heard the voices again. They were real. They were outside, and they were not at all childlike.

  There was a pounding on their door.

  "Mr. Flynn!" It was Micah on the other side. "Miss! The stable's on fire! Come quick!"

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  A dry month. No wind, thank God, or the rest of the buildings, including the house, would be in danger as well. But there are animals in the stable, including the two remaining mares in foal, and they have to be gotten out before we can even begin to fight the blaze. And the pump is sluggish this time of year. . . .

  All these thoughts ran through Missy's mind as fast as light through a prism as she sat up in bed, leaving no space for terror until the very last. Lives will be lost before the end of this night. Human as well as animal.

  Flynn was on his feet, bent over like a willow tree. He fought his way into his clothing, swearing lustily. Missy, unable to move, watched him misbutton his pants.

  ''I'd tell you to stay here, but I know better." Hopping, he shot her a jaundiced look as he shoved his bare feet into his boots. "Just stay away from the stable; take care of the animals we bring out. Or pump water. Whatever you do, don't go near the fire!"

  He cupped her face in his big, splayed hand and pressed a hard kiss to her mouth, as if that were the only thing he'd need to sustain him through the crisis. She heard him limping and cursing down the hallway before she even made it out of the bed.

  She stumbled to her armoire on legs weak from lovemaking. She threw on a shirt, trousers, and her work shoes and was outside minutes after Flynn, but he had already blended into the fury of activity surrounding the very promising bonfire that was the C-Bar-C stable.

  The crackle and hiss of the blaze nearly drowned out the hoarse, anxious shouts of the men and the clamor of the terrified horses inside. The hungry cries of the infant Jedediah Flynn Micah, left alone safe in the house, could be heard in between them, a plaintive, innocent obligato to the grotesque symphony. The baby's mother, with Mrs. Fedderman's energetic assistance, pumped water into the trough to fight the blaze, seemingly oblivious to her son's entreaty. Both women wore identical expressions of grim horror, their eyes fixed on the stable as they applied themselves to their task. The limitless energy of terror surged through Missy at the desperate panorama before her.

  Missy did not remember being burned out of her home as an infant near the war's end, but the stories her father told her as a child had left a formidable impression. The South smelled of smoke, he'd told her many times, with a bleak, faraway look in his gray eyes. One could walk for miles and see nothing more than an inch or two of burnt stubble sticking up out of the ground, animal carcasses and the maddening, incessant buzzing of flies. There were no flies tonight not even mosquitoes, thanks to the smoke but the memory of her father's stories came to life before her on her own ranch, and she trembled with dread. How had this happened? What would happen next?

  There was only a sliver of a moon, and the screen of black, acrid smoke rising from the blaze was already obscuring whatever insignificant light it might have offered. The only illumination to the hideous scene came from the burning stable itself, where the glow of flames flickered in the windows and in the seams of the walls. It was by that light that Missy saw the silhouettes of Flynn, Micah, Rich, and the others, darting like foolhardy moths to the bright flame when common sense should have warned them to stay away. The stench was sickening.

  "Here!" Rich, coughing, black-faced from soot, emerged from the veil of smoke. He trotted up to Missy leading a horse by the bridle. When she took the lead from him, he yanked his kerchief from the restive animal's eyes and turned without pause, heading back toward the growing inferno. She wanted to urge him to be careful, but by the time the words came together in her brain, he was gone again into the fiery mouth of the stable.

  Missy scanned the animal whose lead she held. It was Flynn's favorite mare, she realized, a dapple gray. The animal was unhurt, as far as Missy's cursory inspection could tell, but she was coughing and snorting from the smoke. Missy pulled the confused, terrified mare toward the far pen, where half a dozen
other rescued horses milled nervously in the darkness.

  Were her valued brood mares among them, Sheik's two remaining dams, Glory and Artemis? Surely Micah would have seen to them first, unless it was already too late. . . . Missy shuddered. She could not even consider that possibility. She surveyed the pen. It was too dark to see for sure, but she did not think the mares were present. Besides, if Glory were here, she was certain that Gideon would be as well, tending the mare diligently.

  Gideon!

  Trying to stay her renewed panic, Missy counted heads in the chaos. Lucy and Mrs. Fedderman remained at the pump, twin machines. Jim was lugging buckets full of water to douse the smoking walls; Missy, surveying the flaming stable, could not help thinking his valiant efforts puny and hopeless. She counted one, two, three tall, lean silhouettes dark against the hot orange flames, either leading animals out or braving the intense heat to go back inside: Flynn, Micah, and Rich.

  But no shorter, wiry scarecrow of animation that would be the boy who had adopted Glory as his own.

  "Where's Gideon?" She asked the question of herself, but the whisper in her throat told her she'd voiced it.

  "I haven't seen him," Lucy reported, her voice sharp with strain. "You don't think he . . ." She trailed off.

  Dread filling her, Missy realized where the boy had gone.

  She shoved Jim away from the trough.

  "Missy, what the"

  She ignored the man's splintered protest and stepped into the water, boots and all. The disturbed surface reflected the bright flames shooting from the loft door, white-gold against the glimmering blackness.

  She crouched down and soaked herself as if she were undergoing a hasty baptism. The water was cold. It brought her back to herself and it made her clothing cling to her like a cumbersome second skin. It would not protect her against the suffocating smoke, but at least it offered some defense against burns.

  "Give me your kerchief, Jim! Quick!"

  Gideon was in the stable. There was no time to lose. She snatched the proffered article away from the man and soaked that as well before she climbed out of the

  trough. Jim glanced at the stable, then back at her.

  "You ain't goin' in there!" Jim declared, grabbing her arm. "Flynn told me not to let you, no matter what"

  Missy wrenched her arm away from Jim's desperate, viselike hold and would have punched him besides but for her own realization that she couldn't spare even one able-bodied hand if she wanted to save every horse and human life possible.

  "Gideon's missing," she told the distressed man tersely. "He's probably in there with Glory. I'm going after him." She broke away and ran toward the heat of the burning stable. "Tell Flynn you tried to stop me!" she shouted over her shoulder.

  The inferno was worst near the front door, as if the fire nursed a calculated, malicious desire to prevent those inside from escaping. The heat pressed Missy even as she fought her way down the corridor, and her clothing steamed. The smell of smoke was thicker inside and it stung her eyes until she was blinded by tears.

  This was a mistake. She wanted to turn back, to suck in a fresh draft of night air.

  To live.

  But how could she leave Gideon here in hell to be burned to death for the sake of Glory?

  She gagged and bent over double. Another horse brushed by on her right, knocking her sideways. Whoever was leading it probably could not see her, she realized as she rolled on the floor. Through the smoke and brightness, she could scarcely see, herself.

  How would she find her way out again?

  She pressed her panic down and took a tentative breath; there was more air near the floor, but even so it was not totally free of the noxious, deadly smoke. She lay still for a moment swallowing a few breaths. She tried to get her bearings.

  Glory and Artemis were stabled near the rear doors, she knew. If she'd thought about it, she'd have gone around, but it was too late now. She was inside, and time was precious. She crawled along the dirt floor hoping not to be trampled, but there was less likelihood of that now: it sounded as if most of the horses were gone.

  Why hadn't they gotten Glory and Artemis out?

  Something was wrong, Missy realized, crawling her way back. First of all, the fire itself: how had it started? There had been no trace of heat lightning, and now that she was inside, she could see that the fire burned in patches rather than being centered in any one place. Besides making the blaze more difficult to fight, it was exceedingly odd. The hands, she knew, were careful to the point of obsession about smoking anywhere near the buildings, except, of course, for the bunkhouse. And Gideon hadn't been seen smoking in days.

  Perhaps he'd been waiting for the right time, when everyone's attention was on other matters. Perhaps now he was trying to perform some desperate act of heroism beyond the means of a 12-year-old boy to try to atone for his carelessness.

  Please, God, Missy prayed, dragging herself further along the dirt floor, below the cloud of smoke. I forgive him anything. Only please let him be all right!

  Behind her, a burning beam crashed where her legs had been a moment earlier. That way out was blocked, she realized, scrambling further. No matter; she'd be closer to the back entrance once she gained Glory's stall. She could only hope it was not also obstructed. A burning stable was a fitting pyre for her, she guessed, but she had no intention of surrendering to death before her time.

  The smoke and flames seemed less intense as she approached the rear stalls, as though the fire had not thought that avenue worth exploring yet. Encouraged, Missy got to her feet, keeping her head low. The sounds of men and horses had diminished. Now there was only the crackling and steady hiss of the flames.

  "Gideon!"

  She tried to shout, but her throat was scorched and she managed only a croak. Pointless in any event, she figured: if Gideon were in there, there was no question that he was with Glory. If he were not, she was merely wasting her strength.

  Flynn will come in after you.

  That realization prompted her into action: the longer she was in the burning building, the greater the possibility that Flynn would discover what she'd done, and that he would risk his life by following her. And the longer the stable burned, the greater the danger of the roof collapsing on all of them. At a stumbling run, she gained the next to last stall, the one where Glory was kept. The door was open. Missy looked inside.

  It was dark, there being no open flame there yet, but she could see that Glory was gone. There was no sign of Gideon either. Tails of pale gray smoke rose from the piles of fresh hay on the floor, piles threaded with gleaming orange. The stall was about to become part of the conflagration, but apparently neither Gideon nor the mare were in any danger from it. Missy was unsure whether she was relieved, terrified, or annoyed. She would not feel completely easy, though, until she saw the boy for herself, safe outside.

  Another timber crashed nearby as she turned to make her escape, sending a spray of sparks toward her. She brought her arm up to shield her eyes, but too late: the burn was quick and intense and she dropped to her knees, blinded, too overcome to cry out.

  She tried to calm herself. A moment, she thought, rubbing her fists into her burning, tearing eyes. This will pass. It must. I will see again. She was only a few feet from the door, but there were flames licking at that exit already, she knew. Unless she could see, she might just as easily head the wrong way and crawl right back into the heart of the fire.

  She took a breath, hoping to steady herself, but instead of the cleaner air she expected, she got a noseful of the unmistakable odor of kerosene.

  As the import of this discovery sank in, she heard the door creak and felt a cool draft on her burning cheeks.

  "Damn it!" It was Flynn's voice.

  No, it wasn't.

  Seamus?

  But he had left, tipsy, after the wedding party had broken up! He did not sound tipsy now. He sounded angry. She opened her eyes. They protested with a stinging, tearing flood.

  "Get in th
ere, you four-legged bitch!"

  It was Seamus, sure enough. He was black-faced and scowling, but not at Missy. Indeed, he seemed not even to realize that she was there. He was leading a skittish Glory not out of but into the stable, and the pregnant mare, despite being blindfolded, was protesting strenuously. Glory was the recipient of his harsh words and bizarre treatment. He applied a switch to her flank and she skittered into her stall to avoid it.