She nudged the edge of her reticule with the toe of her shoe. Desperate to do something to help Conner, she slid to the edge of the seat, and, keeping an eye on Dillion, who was closest to her, she leaned over to pick it up. Cringing at Billy Jack’s taunts of what he was going to do to Conner, she tried yanking the drawstring open with one hand.
“Don’t get any ideas of using that tiny peashooter, Miss Jarvis. You’ll end up hurt.”
“How did you know?”
“Mrs. Dobbs told the boss she found it in your room. Best hand it over to me.”
“Like hell I will!”
“Then toss your fancy bag in the back of the buckboard. That way you won’t hurt anyone, and no one hurts you.”
Belinda swore under her breath. Dillion faced away from her as if she were no longer a threat. The string was tangled and she left it on the seat. Still watching Dillion, she eased the pole brake forward. She offered a quick prayer that Dillion paid no attention to her now.
Billy Jack swung the wide loop of his rope back and forth. His voice had taken on a singsong quality as he taunted Conner in a mixture of liquid Spanish, English and another, guttural language. In horror, Belinda listened to his regretful indecisiveness of whether to hang Conner or drag him behind his horse.
She knew Conner had to make a move soon. Her timing had to be perfect to get away. This time she would obey him.
Nerves stretched tight with tension, Conner watched Billy Jack’s eyes. He closed out the sound of his voice. He knew firsthand what skilled hands and a rope could do. But he watched his eyes, for that is where he’d have his clue to Billy Jack’s move on him.
Saddle leather creaked with a shift of Dacus’s body at Conner’s side. The three men were avidly watching and listening to the half-breed as he continued to toy with the rope.
Within the cradle of his arms holding the rifle, Conner tightened his finger on the trigger. Shooting was no longer a choice. He had to cling to the hope that Belinda whipped those horses the moment he fired, or had the sense to duck beneath the seat so she wouldn’t get shot.
He wanted to warn her to be ready. Wanted to kiss her lips for luck. Wanted to take time back and wish her safe at his home.
Billy Jack stopped talking.
His gaze locked with Conner’s.
A second later, Conner dropped to the ground, rolled over and fired.
When the shots exploded from Conner’s rifle, Belinda slapped the reins against the horses’ backs, better prepared this time for the sudden lurch as the horses raced out of the clearing.
Dacus slumped forward. He grabbed his mount’s neck to keep himself in the saddle. He screamed when Conner’s second bullet ripped into the same shoulder the first bullet had grazed.
“Get that bastard and kill him,” Dacus yelled. He didn’t give a damn about the boss’s orders to wait. He’d find a way to make this unexpected chance to get Kincaid and the woman work for him. “Go after her,” he ordered Webb and Dillion.
They took off at flat-out runs to chase the runaway buckboard.
That left Conner and the crazy Billy Jack.
Chapter Fifteen
Conner fired at Billy Jack, but he moved in the saddle like water flowing over rock, spurring his horse to circle behind Conner. The ever-threatening rope still swung at his side.
Without the buckboard in the way, Conner had freedom to dodge the first throw of the rope.
Dacus let loose a string of curses, charging his horse at Conner.
Conner fired again, missed Dacus and levered another bullet into the chamber. He darted one way, then spun and ran to avoid the rope and Dacus’s repeated charging.
Safety waited for Conner if he could back up to the massive cottonwood trees. Billy Jack’s rope would tangle in the branches if he attempted to lasso him.
Dacus was shrewd. He had already figured out what Conner attempted to do. He kept his cutting horse on a short rein. The animal had won him plenty of gold dollars on payday because of the horse’s ability to wheel and turn right on one of those shiny gold pieces. The animal’s sharp maneuvers kept Conner from gaining the trees.
Conner didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up. He tried to block his worry about Belinda. The image of her wouldn’t leave him.
The momentary distraction allowed Dacus to come up behind him and land a vicious kick to Conner’s lower back. Conner spun around to fire again. The repeating rifle was empty.
The ramrod charged him again. Conner used the rifle like a club. He landed a solid blow on Dacus’s good arm. The whir of the rope warned him. Conner ducked and dropped to one knee, ripping off the rope that Billy Jack had thrown before the breed could pull it taut.
Dacus’s showy paint barreled into Conner, knocking him off balance. The ramrod grabbed for the rifle. Conner released the gun. Despite his leather gloves, Dacus cried out when his hand closed over the hot metal of the barrel.
Occupied with Dacus, Conner was left vulnerable. It was all Billy Jack needed. He rode in close, his throw short, but he and Dacus had Conner squeezed between their horses.
Dacus slammed the rifle butt into Conner’s shoulder. Billy Jack kicked his boot free of the stirrup. He backed his horse up a few steps and used the sharply pointed rowel end of the spur in a raking motion across Conner’s bare belly.
Conner grabbed for the boot. Dacus hit him again with the rifle, sending Conner to his knees.
Their muttered swearing came to Conner from a distance. His vision blurred. His breath labored from pain. He brought up a hand covered with blood…his blood.
The whirring sound of the rope warned Conner. He struggled to his feet, swaying as pain spread from the blows he’d taken and the long bleeding furrow that marked him. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he still saw a double of Billy Jack riding toward him. Conner ducked to the side. The bite of the rope settling around his body, locking his arms at his sides, told him he’d made the wrong move.
“Ride him, hombre,” Dacus muttered. He swayed in the saddle cradling his doubly wounded arm. “Ride the bastard to hell and gone. When you finish him off, meet me back at the ranch.”
Those were the last words Conner heard. The rope tightened and his feet flew out from under him. Conner hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud. The breath was knocked from him. He barely managed to get his hands around the rope.
Billy Jack, shouting a wild Apache yell, set his wicked spurs against the horse’s sides. The animal reared, whinnying at the pain, then bolted, dragging Conner behind his flying hooves.
Conner’s world shriveled to one of pain.
Belinda barely kept her seat. The horses had taken the bits between their teeth, racing along the uneven ground with jarring results. Flecks of sweat flew from the horses and hit her repeatedly.
Behind her still thundered the sounds of pursuit. She had prayed that the two horsemen would give up the chase.
She tried not to let panic take hold, but fear of what was happening to Conner, once the echoes of firing faded, brought a stomach-clenching terror to the surface.
Wind whipped her hair. She tasted bile. She could not summon a clear thought when she desperately needed to form a plan.
Every bump of the wheels threatened to topple her from her precarious position. She heard someone shouting at her, but could not make sense of the words. Racing along at neck-breaking speed, she racked her memory for the map she had copied faithfully, diligently recording every painstaking detail.
But even as she recalled a rough idea of the layout of Kincaid property abutting Riverton’s, the landmarks, if there were any, passed by her in a blur. She had no clue to where she was.
She was lost, hopelessly lost, in a barren land filled with rocks and brush that threatened to overturn the buckboard with every passing second.
But you are not lost. All you have to do is slow the horses, let them catch up with you. Dillion promised he would not let them hurt you.
No!
They will take you back
to where Conner is.
I cannot trust him. Not anyone. But the devil’s nagging battered her resolve.
She could not summon hope of rescue. Nor could she scream. There was not enough moisture in her mouth or parched throat.
And she knew there was no one to hear her.
Suddenly she saw that both Dillion and Webb rode on either side of the buckboard. They were keeping pace with her, but they used the long ends of their reins as whips to spur the horses to greater speed than her team.
Trapped, she felt a silent scream well up. She had no experience to draw upon to help her. All she could do was cling to her determination not to be caught by them.
Conner, she knew, would never forgive her.
If he still lived…
Dillion pulled ahead of the buckboard’s bed, leaning out to the side from his saddle. He tried to grab the reins from her.
Belinda’s arms, shoulders and back burned painfully from the effort she made to saw back on the reins to turn the team into the path of Dillion’s horse. He would have to veer away to avoid a headlong spill.
She felt her team’s maddened pace slowing. And with it, her strength ebbed. She willed the horses to hurry and complete the turn. Conner’s warning of what they would do to her drummed in her mind.
A loud crack sounded.
Belinda’s first thought was a shot. The next moment she understood it had come from the buckboard. The rear wheel hit a sizable rock. She slid sideways on the seat, slammed against the backrest. The reins ripped free of her grip. Pain seared her palms. She scrambled to hang on to the seat, anything she could grab. Her tangled hair blinded her. The cracked wheel hit another rock and shattered, tilting the buckboard. Thrown off balance, Belinda found the breath to scream. The team gamely dragged the buckboard. Belinda fell forward and hit her head. She lost her grip, felt herself sliding but could not stop her fall.
Webb had cut off the buckboard’s team, slowing their pace, when he saw it was too late. The woman tumbled out of the seat and lay sprawled on the ground. Dillion was already off his horse, running toward her when Webb yelled at him.
“Leave her!”
“She might not be dead.” Dillion had stopped to stare in disbelief as Webb rode to where he stood. “You’re crazy if you think I’m gonna leave her for the buzzards.”
“Think about saving your own skin. The Kincaids’ll come looking for them. This ain’t the way it was planned, but the result is the same.”
“What the hell are you jawing about, Webb?”
“This is what the boss wanted. Her dead, and Kincaid blamed for it. Let’s get back. I need to tell Dacus what happened. We’ll come back an’ dump Kincaid near her.”
“Riverton wanted her dead?”
“That’s what I said. I don’t draw wages to ask questions. Mount up, boy. We’re goin’ back.”
“I ain’t leaving—”
“Then I’ll send you to push grass up from the other side.” Webb reinforced his threat with his drawn gun. “Don’t make me shoot you, boy. Orders are orders. You don’t like ’em, pack your war bag an’ draw your wages. There’s plenty more who’ll ride for Riverton.”
Dillion eyed the gun, then looked up into Webb’s eyes. He had no doubt the man would shoot him where he stood.
“Calm down, Webb. Just calm down. I ain’t aiming to get myself killed. I’ll ride with you.” He threw a last, regretful look at where Belinda lay so still. “Don’t make a lick of sense to me,” he muttered, grabbing hold of his reins. The horse danced around in a half circle while he managed to get his boot in the stirrup. “I could’ve sworn the boss wanted to marry the lady.”
So could I. Belinda’s thought remained just that. She lay still, eyes closed, stunned from her fall. Listening to them ride away, she knew she should move. But the shock of hearing that Charles wanted her dead left her numb with a chilling fear. Why? Her death gained him nothing. Only Albert would benefit…Albert?
Could Albert and Charles conspire to kill her?
“Conner.” His name escaped her lips as a moan, and a plea. He had tried to warn her about Charles. She turned to her side, wincing as a sharply pointed rock dug into her hip. She felt a mass of aching bruises and pain. Move. But when Belinda opened her eyes, the sky swirled above her.
You will not panic. You will not faint. This will pass. The sane voice of reason helped steady her. She rested, waiting, and hid from the pain messages her body sent, hid from the terrifying thoughts of what had happened to Conner.
“I will not die,” she whispered. “Albert and Charles will pay. I swear they will.”
Brave words. They were all she had. Her money meant nothing in a land where lizards and snakes reigned. Her social position would not help her stand and find Conner.
A dark well drew her toward it. Belinda fought not to give in to the siren’s call. She had to rouse herself. She had to move.
Time ceased. She thought she heard Conner calling her. Impossible. They were going to kill Conner.
Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed. Some preacher had read the words from his Bible. Conner knew it wasn’t man who had shed Billy Jack’s blood, but his horse. Blessings for him. The animal bled from his heaving sides where the rowels had cut his hide one time too many. Conner still wasn’t sure how or when the horse had thrown the half-breed. But he would never forget hearing the man’s neck snap when he fell.
As soon as he could breathe without pain, he’d say a prayer. And then he’d get rid of the rope around him.
He assessed the damage to his body. Nauseated, giddy from loss of blood, every twitch of his body had him believing there wasn’t a bone that hadn’t been splintered in the minutes he’d been dragged behind the horse.
Pain intensified. It interfered with his thinking clearly. Conner dragged his head up. A wavering vision of the roan, standing quietly, watching him, dived in and out. Pain smothered thought.
“Belinda.” Her name fell from his lips, plea and moan. He tried to focus on her, knowing he had to help her.
He forced himself to his knees, an appalling feat of will, for the crushing agony tore at his mind and a black oblivion whispered enticingly to give in. He yanked the rope off, swallowing a scream. He called Belinda’s name again, a frantic sense of panic evoking another cry to her, for her, Conner no longer knew. With unknown dread, her name hovered in the pain-racked corner of his mind.
“Got to get…” Save your strength.
Panting, he held himself on his knees, his head down, drawing in great labored gasps of air, absently watching the blood dripping from his chest and belly. He shook his head to clear his vision and forced himself to think.
The Lord watched over fools. He’d also blessed him with a horse and, if he could crawl, he’d have Billy Jack’s gun.
Conner grunted deep in his throat. The pain swamped him. He compelled himself to move. He had to find Belinda. But he remained on all fours, swaying back and forth, then rocking when agony hit in a fresh wave. He clenched his teeth against the shock.
Time had no meaning. He didn’t know how long he stayed that way before he found the energy to crawl. Spasms dragged along nerve ends, forcing him to stop until he controlled the shuddering.
He had to stop thinking about pain. He had to. Drawing his mind to Belinda, to the time before the attack, and keeping his thoughts firmly on his eager, generous lover, Conner forgot the sweat that poured profusely as his body fought shock and his formidable strength of will held off the darkness.
His progress was measured in the inches he crawled. He could see a looming boulder, his goal, his means to stand.
Move or you’ll die right here. Just move. Again. And yet again.
When Conner’s strength was about to quit, guilt, battering to be free, rushed to fill his mind and spurred his effort to stand.
Guilt over lingering with Belinda. If he hadn’t encouraged her they would have been at the ranch…she safe, and him still curious. Too high a price, tha
t damn curiosity.
As guilt quit aiding him, he opened his mind to the shame that hid there. He’d let them beat him. He’d let them take an innocent woman. Hell of a lawman. Hell of a man, a devil’s voice goaded. Quit and they win.
Where was she? What had they done to her?
That spoiled Eastern darling. Disobeying his order. Telling him she couldn’t leave him. Damn her! Damn her!
Conner thought he blacked out. He came to, smelling fear. His own.
“Belinda.” Her name was a weak cry. His heart beat so thunderously he could taste the drumming in his mouth. The sound filled his ears. He called every spirit he could recall from Indian tales, he prayed to God and nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt the warm, questing breath of the horse touch his shoulder. He turned to the animal, grabbing hold of the bridle, inching along until he clung to the saddle horn. The canteen butted his chest.
He struggled to force his fingers to uncap the canteen. Warm water dribbled down his throat, dripping on his chest, but he tasted life, better than brandy, more than quenching his thirst. The simple act of drinking water lent him hope that he was going to survive this and get on the horse to find Belinda.
His hand closing over the rifle stock jutting from the leather scabbard on the other side of the saddle sent a fresh burst of strength into him.
He’d find Belinda, then they’d pay with their lives for hurting her.
He felt cold as he hauled himself into the saddle, a chilled-to-the-marrow cold that filled him with icy rage. He drew out the rifle, resting it across his thighs, not knowing if he’d be able to lift and fire it. Conner tangled his free hand into the long mane. As he did so, a boiling tide of anger rose, building in momentum to a violence he had never before experienced.
His family joked about his legendary temper and what happened when he lost it. No one, starting with Riverton and ending with every man he’d hired, would be laughing when he was done.
Once a Lawman Page 15