But she didn’t run. Not his Jessie. She held that little derringer pressed tight against the base of Wade’s skull. From the look on her face, she was fully prepared to pull the trigger.
She might be forced to, God help them all, because from the look on his cousin’s face, Wade wasn’t about to stop now.
And he wasn’t, Wade vowed. Not when he had everything, for once, right in his grasp. Disbelief held him motionless. This couldn’t be happening. He had it all planned! He would kill Blake and claim the woman, and he’d have everything! For once in his life, he would have it all!
So he’d bumbled his earlier tries. He couldn’t miss this time. Couldn’t. It was too easy. Nothing could go wrong now. Nothing could stand in his way.
She didn’t understand. That was it. She just didn’t understand how much better off she’d be with him. “You don’t mean that, darlin’,” he wheedled. “Why, you heard my uncle. Blake’s nothing more than a half-breed Apache. Bastard son of the most blood-thirsty renegade on earth. I’ll be doing you a favor, getting rid of him. You can see that, can’t you, little darlin’?”
“You forget who you’re talking to, Mr. Sinclair. My mother is the adopted daughter of Cochise. That makes Geronimo’s chief, Naiche, my uncle. My sister and one of my brothers are half-breed Apaches. And yes, my husband is the half-breed son of the most cunning warrior the world has ever known. I find a certain amount of comfort in that. Perhaps Blake has even inherited some of Geronimo’s protection. You do know, don’t you, that God promised Geronimo years ago that he would never be killed by a bullet. Judging by your many unsuccessful attempts on Blake’s life, I’d say there’s more than a fair chance Blake inherited some of his father’s power. Either that, or you are incredibly inept.”
Something cold and clammy seized Wade’s guts, like dead, icy fingers. She was making fun of him, laughing at him! And she still had the gun pressed against him where his flesh tried to shrink away from cold steel.
But then hell, what did a woman know about guns? The damn thing probably wasn’t even loaded.
Yet she’d known enough to cock it. He remembered the way the sound had shivered down his spine. And he remembered other things, too, about Jessica Colton.
This was the same woman who’d come after him with a derringer on the train, the one who’d shot a hunk out of his ear. The same woman who had drawn a six-shooter and backed down an Army general in San Antonio. Oh, he’d seen it, all right, from his hiding place behind a row of shrubs. He’d seen murder in her eyes that night. If she wore that same look now…
Desperate, suddenly unsure of himself and seeing everything he’d worked for slip through his fingers, Wade howled in protest. He ducked and swung backward with his arm and caught her on the side of the head with his gun barrel. She went down with a cry. Her pistol, no bigger than a pea shooter, clattered over the rocky ground and fired harmlessly into the trunk of a stunted cedar tree.
Blake saw it happen as if in slow motion. Over the roaring in his ears he heard her cry out. Saw the barrel of Wade’s Smith and Wesson strike her temple. Saw her fly sideways and slam into the boulder. Saw her fall to the sharp rocks littering the ground. Saw her lie there, her eyes closed, blood trickling from a cut over one eye.
Another howl rent the air, this one of sheer, killing rage, from Blake. Before Wade could swing his gun arm forward and aim, Blake was on him. He forgot about the gun, about the ledge less than two feet away. Forgot that he and this man shared some of the same blood through a common grandfather. Forgot everything but the sight of Jessie’s blood on her deathly pale face.
He wrapped his hands around Wade’s throat and squeezed. “You’re a dead man, you son of a bitch.”
For an instant, looking into Blake’s eyes, Wade almost believed it. For just a flash, he felt is own mortality, felt it slipping away. Felt everything slipping away.
No! he thought frantically. It couldn’t end this way. He was supposed to live; Blake was supposed to die.
With a sudden burst of desperate strength, he brought his arms up between Blake’s and thrust outward, breaking Blake’s stranglehold on his throat. He raised the gun—it was time to finish it.
Blake saw the move and lashed out, knocking Wade’s arm up in the air. The pistol went flying. It bounced off the boulder and landed somewhere near the ledge at their feet.
With his other fist Blake landed a blow to Wade’s jaw. Wade took it, reeled slightly, then delivered a blow of his own to Blake’s gut. Blake’s breath whooshed out.
Wade lunged and they went down, all arms and legs and swinging fists.
Jessie came to to the meaty sound of a fist striking flesh. With a cry, she pushed herself up. A sharp pain stabbed through her head; dark spots danced before her eyes. She tried instinctively to lower her head to her knees. Hysterical laughter threatened to erupt when she realized she couldn’t reach her knees—the baby was in the way.
The baby! Was he all right? She cradled her bulging abdomen in both arms, hoping, praying. She moved slowly, cautiously, waiting for a twinge or pain to tell her something was wrong, but nothing happened. Everything—except her head—felt normal. She closed her eyes briefly. Thank you, God.
At a sharp curse, her eyes flew open.
They were pummelling each other with fists and boots, knees and elbows. Jessie’s heart tried to hammer its way out of her chest. Blood streamed from one corner of Blake’s mouth. The sleeve of his shirt was ripped open, revealing a raw scrape where rock and gravel had torn at his flesh.
Every blow Wade landed felt like a blow to her own body. To keep from crying out and distracting Blake, she bit her lower lip. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth.
Wade, with the extra muscles in his shoulders, might have been the stronger, but Blake was faster, landing two blows to every one of Wade’s. Then Wade slammed his fist into Blake’s throat, stunning him. While Blake tried to draw a breath, Wade scrambled up and swung his boot at Blake’s head.
Barely ducking in time, Blake took the blow on his shoulder. Then he lunged and grabbed Wade by the ankle and jerked. Wade came down hard on his back, and Blake was on him, straddling him, choking him.
Jessie saw the look of murder in Blake’s eyes as he wrapped his hands around Wade’s throat. Wade landed blow after blow on every square inch of Blake he could reach—his head, face, shoulders, ribs. Blake was oblivious. He just kept squeezing and squeezing until Wade’s blows slowed, until Wade’s face turned dark. Blake was going to kill him.
She should let him. God knew, Wade Sinclair deserved to die for all the times he’d tried to kill Blake. For murdering Sergeant Tipplemire. But killing his own cousin would haunt Blake for the rest of his life. He would find a way to blame himself. Jessie couldn’t let that happen. She called out to him, but he didn’t hear her.
Using the boulder for leverage, she pulled herself to her feet and swayed there a moment until the world quit spinning. “Blake, stop,” she cried.
Blake thought he heard her voice, but couldn’t be sure over the roaring in his ears. Beneath him Wade bucked, trying to throw off Blake’s weight. Blake squeezed his hands tighter. “You’re dead. Do you hear me, Wade? You’re a dead man.”
Suddenly Jessie’s face loomed next to his as she knelt in the dirt beside him. “Blake, no!”
“Get back, Jessie. He hit you. I’m going to kill him.”
Jessie’s chest tightened. Not for all the times Wade had tried to kill him, not for the murder of Sergeant Tipplemire, for Blake’s court martial. Not for Wade’s shooting him in the head once, in the arm later. Not for any of those reasons was he trying to kill his own cousin.
It was for her. Because Wade had struck her.
And she couldn’t let him do it.
She put her hand on his arm and felt the bulging strain of his muscles. “Blake, no. He’s not worth it. He’s not worth what it will do to you. Let him go.”
Wade’s face turned purple; his eyes bulged; his mouth tried futilely to draw in
air, like a fish out of water.
“Blake, please.”
Beneath her fingers, she felt a quiver race through Blake’s muscles. Then finally, slowly, he eased his grip on Wade’s throat.
As Wade lay dazed, gasping for air, Blake rolled off him and into Jessie’s arms. She held him tight and shuddered with relief. He was safe. Thank God he was safe.
Blake gripped her hard and buried his face against her hair. “Oh, God, honey, he hit you. He hurt you. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She stroked his hair, his back, his arms. “I’m fine.”
Blake stiffened, then pulled sharply away and held her by the shoulders. “The baby?”
“We’re both fine,” she assured him.
A movement near the ledge behind Blake caught Jessie’s eye. Wade was up, reaching for his gun, turning, turning, raising his arm…
Jessie screamed and tried to thrust Blake out of the way.
One glance over his shoulder told Blake what was happening. Ice settled in his gut. He’d lost his own gun during the fight. It lay twenty feet away, at the base of the boulder where Jessie had lain. Too far to reach before Wade pulled the trigger.
Jessie’s pistol lay ten feet in the opposite direction. Still too far. Too damn far. And if he let go of her and tried for it anyway, he’d be leaving her open to Wade’s shot.
In her eyes, he saw the knowledge. She knew it was too late. More than eight months pregnant, she couldn’t hope to scramble out of the way, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t even try. Not if it meant leaving her to take the bullet meant for him.
“Jessie…”
“I love you, Blake Renard. I love you.”
Behind him, Wade cocked his revolver and laughed.
Slowly, trying not to make any sudden moves that might have Wade pulling the trigger, Blake rose to his feet and pulled Jessie with him. “Can you run?” he whispered for her ears alone.
“No!” She clutched his arms, desperation and denial in her eyes. Those great, gray eyes, darker just now than the thunderheads piling up above them, eyes a man would die for. “I won’t leave—”
“Turn around, Jessie, and keep me between you and him, and run. For God’s sake, go!”
Her face distorted with pain, she took a step back, still clinging to his arms.
“Do it, Jessie. Run.”
She wouldn’t make it. She knew that. But she would try. For him, for their child, she would try. Maybe when he thought he needn’t worry about her he would find a way to save himself. Lord knew, she wouldn’t be able to help him. To reach either of their guns, she would have to expose herself to Wade. Blake wouldn’t allow that. Not her Blake. He would rush to protect her, and Wade would kill him.
With her eyes locked on his, she took another step back. Her vision blurred. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Jessie,” came his harsh response. “More than my life, I love you.”
She couldn’t hold back the cry that escaped her. Another step, and she stumbled over a rock and nearly fell.
Blake flinched, reaching instinctively to help her before stopping himself. A gust of wind buffeted the hilltop, swirling through the rocks and stunted trees, tearing her hair loose from it’s braid. He was glad, suddenly, for the wind. If this was to be his last sight on earth, he wanted it to be of her long golden hair blowing free in the wind.
God, but he loved her. “Go, Jessie,” he mouthed silently.
“That’s right, sister,” Wade taunted. “Stay right behind him like that. That way, if the bullet hits him just right, it might go right through him and hit you. Think of it. Two dead bodies with only one bullet.”
Blake lost control. Through a haze of red, he roared his rage and whirled toward his cousin.
Gunfire exploded into the sudden, windless silence.
Blake stumbled. Jessie screamed.
And Wade, his eyes and mouth open wide in surprise, glanced down at the extra buttonhole that had just appeared on the front of his shirt. He looked up again, beyond Blake and Jessie, and muttered, “Damn. Why?” Then he staggered back one step, two, and disappeared over the ledge.
A second later, they heard him hit bottom. If he wasn’t dead when he landed, the instant drone of dozens of deadly rattles told them he soon would be.
“Blake?” Jessie stumbled toward him, her arms outstretched. He caught her and held her upright, for her knees were shaking so badly she couldn’t stand on her own. “What…what happened? How…Who…?”
“Why?”
She followed his gaze over her shoulder and gasped. With his rheumy eyes downcast and his hands shaking, Lucien Renard holstered his revolver. When he raised his gaze, his bloodshot, watery eyes were filled with hate. His voice grated against the surrounding rocks. “I didn’t do it for you, boy.”
“I’m not your boy,” Blake bit out over a rumble of thunder.
“No, you’re not mine. You never were.” Then Lucien’s shoulders slumped and his face seemed to fall into layers of miserable folds. “But you are my Sarah’s son. I couldn’t just…You’re Sarah’s son.” That seemed to say it all, for him, at least. He turned away and rounded the boulder. A moment later, steel-shod hooves struck stone as Lucien rode away.
Blake and Jessie were halfway down the hill, determined to beat the storm home, when the pain hit her. The force of it would have sent her to her knees if Blake hadn’t caught her with an arm around her shoulders.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Jessie! What is it?”
She dug her fingers into his arm and held on, gasping against the giant pain twisting her insides.
“Jessie!”
“The…baby,” she managed.
Blake felt the blood leave his face. “No,” he cried above the roar of the wind and the boom of the thunder. “It’s too soon.”
Slowly, slowly, her pain eased. She looked up at him through windblown hair and offered a shaky smile—the best she was capable of at the moment. “Apparently he doesn’t think so.”
The fear he’d felt on the hill, when he’d known he was going to die, was nothing compared to the terror that gripped him now. It was too soon for the baby to come. Three weeks too soon. Women died in childbirth all the time. His own mother…
Stop it, damn you. He had to forget all that. Jessie needed him. She didn’t need some panicked fool shaking in his boots, she needed calm strength and a helping hand. And a strong arm, he thought.
“All right. If it’s time, it’s time.” He bent down and reached one arm around the backs of her knees. “Put your arm around my shoulder. I’m going to pick you up.”
“I’m too heavy,” she protested. “You can’t carry me all the way back to the house. It’s at least half a mile.”
Ignoring her protest, he lifted her gently in his arms. “You and the baby together don’t weight enough to wind me, Jessie girl. Just hold on. I’ll get you home.”
He started off down the slope, one eye on the roiling clouds. The smell of rain was heavy in the air now. He hoped like hell the storm held off a little longer. Just a little longer, please.
And with every step he took, he prayed. Please, God, don’t let me lose her. Not now, after all we’ve been through. Please, God, don’t let me lose her.
“Put me down, Blake. I’m too heavy.”
“You are not.”
“Then why are the veins in your neck bulging?”
The breath he’d been about to exhale came out as a gust of laughter. “All right, so you’re getting heavy. This is still faster.”
“It won’t be if you collapse. I can walk.”
“Jesus, Jess, you’d argue with a fence post.” His voice came out harsher than he’d intended, but worry for her was gnawing in his gut like a giant rat. He made an effort to soften his tone. “I’m not going to collapse.”
Her arm tightened around his neck. “I know.” She buried her face against his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I…it’s just…oh, Blake, I was so scared.”
“I kno
w, honey, I know.” He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head and lengthened his stride. “But you’re okay now. You’ll be fine.”
“Not for me, you dolt.” She balled her fist and hit him in the chest. “For you! I thought he’d shot y—”
The next wrenching pain cut her off in mid-word. He wanted to stop, to let her lie down and rest until it passed. He wanted to take it into himself and bear it for her so she wouldn’t hurt. He could do none of those things, least of all stop. He could see the wall of rain coming across the meadow. They weren’t going to make it to the house in time.
And they didn’t. As the fierce pain released its grip on her, the rain hit. One minute they were dry, the next, drenched. One minute the house was there, twenty yards ahead, the next, it had disappeared behind a solid wall of water.
Blake leaned over as far as he could, futilely trying to shield Jessie even a little. It did no good. By the time he stumbled beneath the thatched roof that leaked like a sieve and maneuvered the door open, Jessie was racked by shivers and her skin felt like ice.
He kicked the door shut behind him. The sudden quiet, after the torrent of wind-driven rain, seemed to throb around them.
“C-cold,” Jessie managed between chattering teeth.
“I know, honey. Here.”
He tried to place her on the rocking chair, but she wouldn’t let go of him. “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “Stay with me.”
“I’m just going to start a fire. We’ve got to get you warm and dry.” He had to pry her arms from around his neck, and it damn near killed him to do it.
Before he started the fire, he grabbed the quilt off the end of the sofa and wrapped it tight around her shoulders. Once the fire was going in the fireplace, he started one in the stove and put that morning’s coffee on to heat. He had to warm Jessie up fast. The fire would warm her skin; the coffee was for the inside.
From the chair where he’d left her, he heard her sharp gasp. Goddammit, the pains were coming too fast. He rushed to her side and knelt. “Here. Squeeze my hands. Hard. Harder.”
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