Desert Captive (Doc Beck Westerns Book 4)

by Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer

  Desert Captive

  Doc Beck Westerns Book 4

  Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer

  Contents

  Free Novel

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Author’s Note

  Also by Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer

  About the Author

  ***Get a free novel***

  It’s 1892, Indian Territory. A war is brewing in the Choctaw Nation as two political parties fight out issues of old and new ways. Caught in the middle is eighteen-year-old Ruth Ann Teller, a Choctaw who doesn’t want to see her family harmed.

  In a small but booming pre-statehood town, her brother owns a controversial newspaper, the Choctaw Tribune. Ruth Ann wants to help spread the word about critical issues but there is danger for a female reporter on all fronts—socially, politically, even physically.

  * * *

  Get The Executions (Choctaw Tribune Series Book One) free when you join my VIP reader newsletter here.

  Prologue

  The sun sagged in the western sky, signaling the end of the day. Tiny blossoms quivered in the fresh green grass of the hillside as Laramie Jones rode his horse Slate at a steady clip. Slate churned the greens and blues and pinks together beneath his pounding hooves.

  Laramie leaned forward in the saddle as his horse labored up the steep hill. When he and the big gray were on a mission like this, they wouldn’t stop until they saw it through to the end, even if night caught them out in the cold.

  Laramie and Slate topped the ridge. The horse was quicker than him, angling to the right by instinct. Laramie looked that direction and saw, there, trotting down the other side of the hill, was the rogue steer they’d chased for half an hour. The steer was heading into the rocky country at the base of Wyoming’s Medicine Bow Mountains.

  Laramie let Slate lope after the steer, both of them feeling the urgency. Even the horse had sense enough to know the rocky foothills was no place for a critter at sunset. This fool steer didn’t know Laramie was chasing after him for his own good, to steer him back before he ran himself off a cliff.

  The steer vanished among the rocks at the base of the hill, a valley before the next hill started.

  Reaching the base, Laramie guided the big gray onto a trail leading out of the green pastureland and into pure rocks. Fool, fool steer. Why didn’t it know better than to run from good forage into the scraps of the world?

  The scenario reminded Laramie of the prodigal son that Jesus told about in the Bible of a young man who abandoned all the comforts of home and ended up eating from pig troughs.

  There were life lessons like that, everywhere a body looked, if they were paying attention.

  Laramie pulled the big gray to a halt next to a wither’s high boulder. He held his breath and listened. There was a crash to his left, followed by the braying of an animal in distress.

  Slate’s head turned that direction and Laramie eased off the reins to let the horse meander through the rocks. Laramie spotted the steer in a ravine ahead, legs folded beneath it, briars tangled in its horns. Looked like the steer slid into the ravine when trying to navigate the narrow ledge above.

  Laramie swung down from the big gray, unhooking his lariat rope. He went to the edge of the ravine and the steer started thrashing with three of its legs. Laramie could see from the distance of thirty feet that the steer’s right hind leg was broken.

  Laramie sighed and returned to his gray, stroking the faithful horse on the neck. Slate was aging, same as him, but they were both still in the prime of life. Laramie was just passed his 40th birthday and the gray stood at half that age.

  This wasn’t their first failed mission, and they knew how to handle defeat. Still, it never got easy.

  Laramie rehung his lariat and withdrew his Henry rifle from the scabbard. He paused, sighing deep. With a comforting squeeze of the gray’s crest through his leather glove, Laramie went to the edge of the ravine and looked down at the steer. Its eyes were wild with rebellion.

  “Sorry about this.”

  Laramie shouldered the rifle, took careful aim, and squeezed off a round. The pain-filled braying stopped.

  This mission was over, but more work was waiting for Laramie and the big gray.

  They were halfway back to the spring round-up camp, topping the third hill on the trip, when Laramie saw a lone figure cutting across the wide valley below, chaps flying as he rode hard.

  It was Steve Bowers, one of Laramie’s top hands.

  As foreman of the McKinnon Ranch, Laramie Jones couldn’t always go off chasing steers, but he was still a ranch hand, and he had good men like Steve to see that all ran right when he was absent.

  But something bad had happened by the look on Steve’s face—something Steve had left the round-up for, something he had to tell Laramie or die trying.

  Laramie pulled to a stop to wait for Steve at the top of the hill. The news would tell him which way he needed to ride—Centennial Ridge, which was the closest town to the 50,000 acre McKinnon Ranch, or for the round up camp, or for the main house where Doctor Robert T. McKinnon lived.

  Steve’s horse puffed as he topped the hill and halted in front of Laramie. Steve took a deep breath and let it out, but no words came. Laramie tried not to think of who got hurt or even killed.

  For all the rush, the words now seemed stuck in Steve’s throat. He kept staring Laramie straight in the eyes, wordless.

  This news was going to put to shame losing that fool steer in the brush.

  Laramie spoke, his voice low and calm like always when one of his men had that panicky look in their eyes.

  “What happened?” Laramie shifted in the saddle to better face Steve. “Something wrong with Doctor McKinnon?”

  Steve settled himself then, gripping the reins with both leather gloved hands. He slowly shook his head and swallowed. “No, but it’s bad, Boss. It’s Miss Rebekah.”

  Steve’s tongue got stuck again, and it was just as well. Laramie felt all his senses leaving him.

  Steve took a steadying breath. “Doctor McKinnon got word that something happened to her. He sent for you to get to the house right away.”

  Laramie didn’t wait for his senses to come back. He turned the big gray horse and charged down the hill, Steve chasing after him.

  Nothing could stop Laramie in this mission.

  When Laramie came over the rise above the ranch house, he slowed Slate enough to begin cooling the big gray off. Dried lather from the hard ride flaked off Slate’s dappled neck in the cool spring evening.

  It was dark now, but a light shined from the open front door of the main house. The two-story mansion sat on the hill opposite of Laramie, and the light cast the outline of a stout, round figure standing on the porch.

  It was too far away to make out anything other than the black silhouette, but Laramie knew it was Doctor Robert T. McKinnon. The ranch owner was waiting for him, hands sunk deep in his trouser pockets.

  In the valley between Laramie and the house lay the barn, corrals, and the bunkhouse where the McKinnon ranch hands lived. Laramie Jones had been foreman of the ranch the past two years. It was only a short time before that when he’d gone to work at the ranch—on Doctor Rebekah LaRoche’s recommendation.

  Laramie loped down to the road that ran between the
bunkhouse and barn, then up the section of road that led in front of the house. The nearby windmill that pumped water for the tank close to the house creaked in a slow turn.

  It was the only sound Laramie heard as he came out of the saddle before the gray stopped. Laramie tossed the reins at Steve who caught them and kept the horses moving to cool them down.

  Laramie’s boots crunched on the gravel pathway that led to the house. He’d been right. Doctor McKinnon stood on the porch, watching for him, face drawn in a solemn frown.

  The retired doctor was a portly, distinguished man with fine silver hair and a face chiseled from a lifetime of adventures—some good, some tragic. His skin was permanently tanned from years of hard work in the sun.

  This evening, Doctor McKinnon was dressed in his usual white shirt, black string tie, and brown leather vest. But Laramie had never seen that kind of look in his eyes. One of fear and grief.

  Now in the doctor’s calm presence, Laramie felt himself coming undone. A fear he’d not known in years clawed at his insides.

  “What happened, Doc?” Laramie swept off his hat and gripped it. “Is she dead?”

  The doctor shook his head and turned to enter the house. Laramie was right behind him, closing the door. The fire in the parlor to the left of the foyer had died down, leaving the house with a chill. Laramie felt the cold in his bones like it was dead winter.

  The doctor picked up a telegram from the entry table. Without a word, Doctor McKinnon offered it to Laramie, who took it and read the halting message aloud, “To Doctor Robert McKinnon, Centennial Ridge, Wyoming. Doc Beck kidnapped. Suspect Sancho Guerra. Will pursue. Cannot cross Mexican border. Thad Biggins, sheriff of Hagan.”

  Laramie read the telegram again, sure his eyes were playing a trick on him. “Kidnapped by Sancho Guerra?” He looked up to meet Doctor McKinnon’s eyes. “I thought that bandit took off for Mexico after his gang was wiped out? And what was Miss Rebekah doing still in Hagan? I thought she was on her way home.”

  “So did I.” Doctor McKinnon spoke for the first time, his normally deep voice cracked with the strain of speaking. He reached for the telegram and Laramie realized it was shaking in his own hands. Laramie hadn’t shook like that in years.

  He let Doctor McKinnon have the telegram, then dropped his hand to rest on his holstered six-gun anchored on his right side.

  Laramie let his thoughts come out as words. “That Sheriff Biggins mentioned he couldn’t follow the bandit over the border. Sounds like that’s where he thinks Guerra is headed with Becka.”

  Doctor McKinnon said nothing, and that said it all.

  Laramie settled his hat down on his head, pulling it down tight in the front.

  “I’ll ride for her, Doc,” Laramie said. “We’ll get her back safe and sound, Lord willing.”

  He was sure the doctor’s eyes watered but his voice, deep as Jacob’s well, was steady. “It’s dangerous, Laramie. I talked to Marshall Thorp when he brought the telegram out from Centennial Ridge. He told me Sancho Guerra’s hideout in Mexico is a fortified valley that’s been a hell-hole of bandits for decades. The Rurales have never been able to penetrate it, though they’ve tried for years. Once Rebekah is in there…”

  Doctor McKinnon held Laramie’s gaze, offering him a warning of what lay ahead. “We have to hope and pray that Sheriff Thad Biggins and his posse are able to catch up with them before they cross the border.”

  Laramie licked his dry lips. “If not, you’ll have to get a new foreman. I’m not coming back without her.”

  Doctor McKinnon was still for several seconds, then held out his hand to Laramie.

  Laramie shook it firmly, turned, and left. He’d take his big gray horse on the first train south.

  This might be the last mission he and Slate went on. But they couldn’t fail like they did with the steer. Not this time.

  Chapter 1

  Traces of dawn speckled the vast Chihuahuan Desert with light, but did nothing to warm the air. Rebekah’s teeth chattered as she kept her knees clamped against the horse’s side to keep from falling off again.

  She’d ridden with no hands when she was younger, but in her navy skirt and hands tied behind her back, it was almost impossible to stay upright in the saddle. Especially on the roadless desert terrain.

  Her hair had come apart in the night, and hung stringy around her shoulders. It was so filled with dust and cockleburs, she wondered if it would have to be cut off.

  Of course, that was the least of Rebekah’s concerns. But it was better than dwelling on thoughts of whatever lay ahead.

  Her horse, a stunning sorrel, was being led by Edgardo Guerra. This young man who defended her at the mission was the one who tossed her unwillingly into the saddle like a sack of grain.

  They picked up a trot now and Rebekah stifled a gasp when she felt herself tilting. She pressed down hard in the stirrup and righted herself, her strength nearly gone after riding all night.

  Edgardo glanced back at her, frowning, then faced forward again. He kept their horses in a straight line behind his father as Sancho Guerra led the way through the Chihuahuan Desert.

  They had galloped part of the night, but the fourth time unseated Rebekah. Now Sancho Guerra set a steady pattern. Walk awhile. Trot. Walk. Trot.

  Trotting was the worst. Rebekah had trouble finding her rhythm as they moved over the desert floor. Her horse stumbled more than once, but her sore shoulder from the fall motivated her to stay alert and in the saddle the best she could.

  How long would the ride last? What lay at the end? If Jimmy were there, he’d quip something about being so scared he couldn’t spit. But he wasn’t there, thankfully.

  Rebekah recalled their playful dinnertime conversation—could it possibly have been only twelve hours ago?—when she asked him when his birthday was. To her surprise, he didn’t know. She urged him to pick a date, and they would celebrate it as his birthday from then on.

  He was excited about the idea and went into a plethora of milestone dates he could pick; everything from the signing of the Declaration of Independence or Texas’ secession from Mexico, to the day he met Rebekah. On that, he didn’t know if he could wait a whole year for his first birthday party.

  His litany of possibilities was daunting, and Rebekah finally told him she was going to retire to read for the evening. Jimmy said Sheriff Thad Biggins asked him to help tear down the scaffolding from the gallows where Pinto Diaz was hanged that morning. The town needed to put that business to rest.

  Pinto Diaz’s trial for Deputy Wallace’s murder had been swift but not rushed. Rebekah pronounced Pinto Diaz’s neck broken before treating two town patients that day. The dinner with Jimmy was a time to unwind and begin preparing herself mentally to return to Wyoming.

  She should have left long before.

  Instead, Rebekah found herself alone in her quarters when footsteps alerted her moments before the forced entry Sancho and Edgardo Guerra made into her quarters.

  It would’ve been at least two hours before anyone knew she was missing, even if Jimmy stopped by her quarters that evening to bid her good night after tearing down the gallows.

  Rebekah made sure there was evidence that it was Sancho Guerra who abducted her. In the struggle, she managed to break off a silver medallion from his vest and dropped it to the floor. Jimmy was observant. He would find it and know, then immediately alert Sheriff Biggins.

  But Sancho Guerra knew this desert well and double-backed often. He had escaped across the border more than once in his illustrious career.

  Rebekah was shocked he had risked capture just to exact revenge on her. But there he was, doing just that.

  The sun now began its ascent into the sky, turning the New Mexican sky blue and the earth around her red. Rebekah knew they were moving south through the Chihuahuan Desert, toward the Mexican border. Once they crossed it, there was no hope.

  The walk/trot pattern continued through the morning as the sun not only warmed the desert but turned it hot. R
ebekah swallowed, her mouth dry from breathing heavy and the heat. Neither Sancho nor Edgardo had taken a drink that she’d seen. They were born of the desert.

  Around noon, Sancho held up one hand, halting his little caravan. When the movement beneath her stopped, Rebekah could feel every tremble and pain in her body.

  But it was a relief to not be moving. She wasn’t sure if she could hold on when they resumed.

  Sancho swung his bay horse around and spoke quietly to his son. Edgardo nodded. Rebekah sensed there had been a shift in their relationship far from what she witnessed in the mission. Edgardo appeared fully dedicated to his father.

  Edgardo handed his father the reins to Rebekah’s horse and rolled his own horse back, spurring him into an instant gallop. He shot past Rebekah without a look.

  Sancho tugged on her horse’s reins to move the sorrel toward him. He looped her reins around the horn of his saddle and unhooked his canteen, looking at Rebekah with a hint of a smile.

  Rebekah had never imagined what the anticipation of cool water could be. But she kept her face masked, determined not to show her fear and need.

  Sancho Guerra took his time uncorking the canteen. He kept his eyes on her as he put the rim to his mouth, tilting it upward. He took a long, slow drink. Rebekah didn’t want to watch the thin stream of precious water drip from the corner of his lips, but she couldn’t break her gaze away from it.

  Sancho slowly lowered the canteen and smiled. He spoke in English, his voice smooth with hardly a trace of malice. “Sister Rebekah, you are thirsty, no?”

  Rebekah tried to swallow, but her throat was dried out. She didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge his taunting question. She was too dried out and scared to even spit.