Apache-Colton Series

by Janis Reams Hudson

  “So we’ll look nice for you males. Do I hear water dripping?”

  “Yeah,” he said, distracted by what he was doing. A bullet had creased a two-inch furrow along her ribs about three inches above her waist, near her side. The wound wasn’t deep, thank God, but Pace thought it a sacrilege that anyone should mar skin so otherwise flawless. “There’s a pool at the back of the cave.”

  The wound was littered with bits and pieces of fabric from her blouse and camisole. “I’m going to have to clean this out.” He didn’t want to. God help him, he didn’t want to cause her more pain, but there was no other way. “It’s going to hurt.”

  “Just do it and get it over with.”

  He gave her bare shoulder a squeeze of encouragement that was more like a caress. “That’s my girl.”

  “Pace,” she called breathlessly as he retrieved his saddlebags.

  He rushed back and knelt before her. “What it is?” Her eyes were closed.

  “I’m not a girl anymore.”

  Something cold and slimy crawled through Pace’s gut. He fought to keep his voice from shaking with rage. “What are you saying? Did that bastard—”

  Jo’s eyes flew open. “Who, Juerta?”

  “I’ll kill him.” Now his hands were shaking. He clenched them into fists so she wouldn’t see. “As soon as I get you home, I’ll come back and slice him apart inch by inch.”

  Joanna’s gaze was riveted on Pace. She’d never seen such hate and violence in a man’s eyes before, not even in Pace’s, and she knew he had a temper hotter than the fires of hell. She’d never seen much of his temper herself—he usually kept it well banked. But the stories she’d overheard…

  Having been called a torch-head herself by her younger brothers—and not for the color of her hair—Joanna held no fear of Pace’s temper. She understood firsthand how the internal pressure could build and build until it simply had to explode. That Pace should reach the verge of exploding over an imagined wrong to her made her smile. “That’s the sweetest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”

  Pace drew back sharply. “What, that I’m going to dismember a man?”

  “It’s the thought that counts. He deserves that and more, but not for what you’re thinking.”

  “He didn’t…” How to put this delicately, Pace thought. “Force himself on you?”

  Her smile gone, she met his gaze squarely. “No, he didn’t rape me.”

  Pace studied her closely. The deep shadows in her eyes worried him. She wasn’t telling the entire truth. Maybe nothing even resembling the truth. “Then why did you say you weren’t a girl anymore?”

  Her eyes slid shut. “Just that I’ve grown up. I’m not a little girl anymore, Pace, I’m a grown woman.”

  He remembered the feel of her breasts pressed against his back, the teasing glimpse of them as he’d unbuttoned her camisole, and fought off another shudder, this one having nothing to do with anger. “Good.” Deciding to save the rest of his questions for later, he pulled the pint bottle from his saddlebag. “Then I won’t have to feel guilty for giving you a swig of this.”

  She looked up and frowned. “Are you going to use any of it on my side?”

  “I am.”

  She swallowed nervously. Pace didn’t blame her. It was going to burn like holy hell.

  “Then give it here,” she said weakly.

  With one hand cupping her head to raise her so she could drink, he tipped the bottle to her lips.

  At the first swallow, she wheezed and gasped, then winced as she jarred her wound. “Good God!”

  “Watch your language, girl.”

  With tears of fire streaming from her eyes, she glared at him. “You watch yours, old man. I told you, I’m not a girl. Give me another drink.”

  “One more. I want you relaxed, not drunk.”

  She got down two full swallows before he could tip the bottle away from her lips. “If you’re going to go jabbing around in that hole in my hide, I’d rather be unconscious.”

  Pace held the bottle toward the fire and checked the content level. There was barely enough left. “You mean you’d rather drink all of this so I won’t have any left to clean your wound with.”

  Her eyes slid shut. “That, too.”

  “Well, as your brothers would say, no go, JoJo.”

  “Oh, please,” she complained. “Not you, too.” Her words were already slurred.

  Pace watched the tightness around her eyes ease as the whiskey did its work. When her breathing evened out, he pulled his knife from the sheathe on his belt and splashed whiskey over the blade. While it was still wet, he held the blade to the fire. The whiskey exploded into flame before it burned away. It took a few minutes for the steel to cool.

  Wishing for better light, then giving the wish up as futile, Pace again knelt at her back. His stomach knotted in dread. God, he didn’t want to hurt her. He’d rather cut off his own hand than cause her pain. But the wound had to be cleaned and bandaged. He had no choice. Clenching his jaw, he set to work with the tip of his blade, picking threads and tiny pieces of fabric from the open flesh of Jo’s wound.

  At the first touch of knife to flesh, she flinched. Fresh blood pooled and ran down her back. Pace rested his left hand on her smooth, bare shoulder, hoping to soothe her.

  Joanna felt his tough, callused hand against her skin and concentrated on his warmth, his strength, to block out the pain. No man had ever touched her skin before, other than her face or hands.

  The cool, damp air of the cave teased her skin. Pace’s touch warmed her. The wound in her side hurt; Pace’s hand on her shoulder eased her. Memories of the past few days, Juerta, her escape, threatened to overwhelm her with terror. The sound of Pace’s voice steadied her.

  “Easy,” he said softly. “I know it hurts, but you have to hold still. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  It took Pace several minutes before he was satisfied that he’d gotten everything. She didn’t move or make a sound the whole time.

  Reaching back into his saddlebags again, he drew out his spare shirt, grateful that it was clean. He tore a strip off the tail, wet it from the canteen, and cleaned the skin around the wound, grinding his teeth the entire time, because he knew he was hurting her.

  Now he had to hurt her worse, but it couldn’t be helped. Whiskey would cut down the chances of infection. She was going to shriek to high heaven when he poured it over her raw flesh. The sound would echo through the cave and spill out into the hills. If Juerta had doubled back and was in the area…

  Using his teeth and the fingers of his right hand, he loosened the lacing of his left wristband. “Jo?” He nudged the thick leather band against her lips. “Put this between your teeth and bite down.”

  Without opening her eyes, she did as he instructed.

  “Now hold my hand and squeeze.”

  Her fingers, cold and trembling, gripped his.

  Without giving her anymore time to dread what was coming, he held his breath and splashed whiskey directly into the open wound.

  She nearly broke his fingers as her whole body stiffened, but a sharp hiss and low moan were the only sounds she made. Then she went limp.

  Hoping she had passed out, Pace wasted no time cutting more strips from his clean shirt. He folded one strip into a pad and pressed it firmly over the wound. Joanna groaned. He wrapped another strip around her waist to hold the pad in place.

  With the bandage secure, he pulled the blanket over her shoulder, then sat back on his heels and allowed the shaking to come. It was a luxury, but one he couldn’t indulge in for long. Throughout the entire ordeal, Buck had been standing patiently.

  To an Apache, a horse was a tool, nothing more. A means of transportation to be ridden until it dropped, then used for food to give a warrior the strength to run on foot. Pace did not share that view.

  The horse might be a tool, but to Pace, a loyal animal who would literally run itself to death simply because a man asked it of him deserved good care and a certain amo
unt of return loyalty. Buck had given more than should have been asked of him this day and didn’t deserve to be left standing sweaty and untended. Had it not been for Jo’s wound, Pace would have long since stripped him of the saddle and rubbed him down. He got up and did so now.

  While he worked Buck over, checked his hooves, felt for any heat or swelling on his legs, Pace entertained himself with visions of what he would do to Juerta when he got Jo home and came back.

  The man would die. Even if Jo had told the truth and Juerta had not raped her, the bastard had to die. It only remained to decide the method, and how long Pace would drag out El Carnicero’s agony. Remembering the stories around Apache camp fires in his youth, the stories his young ears were not supposed to have heard, Pace smiled grimly. The possibilities were endless. The man known as The Butcher would get what he deserved for hurting Jo.

  Pace finished rubbing down the buckskin with a piece of old gunnysack, then lit a torch and led him to the pool at the back of the cave. It was only about fifty feet beyond the fire, but starting at thirty feet, the ground sloped just enough so that he couldn’t see where he was stepping. He would prefer not to end up knee deep in water before he realized it.

  While at the pool he refilled the canteen. Then, because the fire was visible from the pool, he looped the reins over the horse’s neck and left him to make his own way back.

  Near the fire, Pace knelt beside Joanna. Even with her wound taken care of, she was still a mess. Her face was pale, but her cheeks were flushed. He pressed his palm to her brow. It felt warm, but not too warm. If she had a fever, it was slight. Maybe the flush was from the heat of the fire, or perhaps sunburn.

  While he watched, a tear seeped from the corner of one eye and burned his heart. He fought the shocking urge to bend down and sip it away with his lips. Shaken by the strong impulse, he wiped the tear away gently with his thumb. Jesus, she was Matt’s daughter. He had no business having ideas like that about her.

  He had no business loosening her clothes further to bathe the dried blood from her skin either, but he couldn’t leave her so soiled. With another piece of his shirt damped from the canteen, he first wiped the dust from her face. As a child, she’d been adorable. As a woman, she was beautiful.

  Despite the flush of heat in her cheeks, the contrast between his dark hand and her fairness was vivid. Her skin was as pale as cream, as soft and smooth as a rose petal. He wiped at a smudge high on her cheek, only to realize it wasn’t dirt. It was a bruise.

  Damn that bastard.

  As gently as he could, Pace removed her boots, hoping to make her more comfortable. He bathed her neck and shoulders above the blanket and found more bruises.

  Wet, green rawhide, he thought, envisioning it wrapped tight around Juerta’s forehead. Staked out in the sun, the pain would be excruciating as the rawhide shrank and tightened. It would cut into the skin, and still it would shrink and tighten until the pain was maddening.

  Then he would loosen it. No sense letting the bastard off easy.

  As he bathed her waist and hip beneath her loosened skirt and drawers, he forced himself to concentrate on removing the dried blood rather than on the stirring contrast between her milk-white skin and his darkness. He shouldn’t notice how soft she was, how smooth and silky. When he caught himself caressing instead of washing, he jerked his hands away.

  The skirt and drawers fell down, revealing a series of fingertip-sized bruises across her buttocks.

  Eyelids. While the bastard was still staked out in the sun, at high noon, Pace would slice off his eyelids. And, on principle, his hands. Both of them.

  Beneath his touch, Joanna shivered. The small fire was burning down and the air in the cave was chilly. Working as carefully as he could to keep from disturbing her, he pulled her clothing back in place and tucked the blanket snugly beneath her chin and over her back and shoulder.

  Her hair glowed like a flaming halo in the remaining light, standing out like a firefly on a summer evening. “Rest easy, little firefly. You’re safe now.”

  Joanna didn’t know for sure, but she thought maybe the throbbing pain in her head was worse than the burning ache in her side. It didn’t seem worth the effort to figure it out. She was cold. Curling her knees toward her chest in an effort to get warm proved a mistake, however. She hissed as the muscles of her inner thighs and backside shrieked in pain and vied with her head and her side for first place.

  If it was a contest, her shoulders and back announced their eligibility when she tugged the blanket higher.

  She hurt everywhere, she realized, even her feet, and couldn’t remember why. Maybe she was dreaming, because she could swear her eyes were open, but there was nothing there but blackness. Absolutely nothing.

  When she blinked and realized her eyes were open, and that she couldn’t see even a glimmer of light, nor her hand in front of her face, a flash of panic streaked through her.

  Juerta. Was she still in her cell? Had he come to her during the night as he’d threatened and taken by force what she would have saved for the man she would chose as her husband? Was that why every muscle in her body hurt?

  Dear God, please, no.

  A sound intruded. Joanna stiffened. What—It sounded like…a horse grinding its teeth.

  It came back to her then, everything, in one swift flash. Her escape, Pace’s rescue, the long ride double on the buckskin. That’s what she was hearing—the buckskin. The chill in the air, the sound of water dripping into water…she was in the cave.

  So why couldn’t she see? “Pace?” she called softly. Her heart pounded rapidly before she realized that the chill meant the fire must have gone out. Of course she wouldn’t be able to see. Why didn’t he answer? “Pace?”

  He wasn’t there. She could feel it now; except for the horse, she was alone in the cave. Another surge of panic rose. The pressing, impenetrable darkness unlike any dark she’d ever experienced threatened to choke her. She fought for breath, for calm, and after a moment, was able to breathe with something close to normalcy.

  Then she got mad. How dare Pace leave her in a freezing cave with absolutely no light, no fire. When she got her hands on him, she was going to twist his ear.

  As before, he made no sound when he approached, but she saw the faint glow of light that told her he’d lit a torch to find his way back down the tunnel to this cavernous room.

  At least, she hoped it was him.

  What if it wasn’t? What if he’d gone out and stumbled into Juerta and—

  With yet another swell of panic and a curse that would have earned her father’s displeasure, she patted the bedroll and ground around her, feeling for anything she could use as a weapon. She found nothing but sand.

  The light in the tunnel was coming closer.

  Her gun. Where had he left her gun? Biting back a groan of pain as her head, her side, and all her muscles protested, she forced herself to her hands and knees and moved cautiously toward where she thought the fire had been.

  She’d thought right. Her hand landed in a pile of soft, cold ashes. Feeling around, she realized Pace had pulled sticks and twigs from the fire deliberately to let it die.

  Bracing herself, she reached farther, to the other side of the ashes, searching, searching, as her heart thundered and the light came nearer.

  Her fingers brushed against something. Leaning, stretching, ignoring the burning pain in her side, she grasped what felt like a belt. Her gunbelt!

  At the same instant that the light burst into the cavern, Joanna slid the pistol free of the holster, rolled to her back, and with her arms outstretched, the gun held in both hands, she took aim.

  It wasn’t the cocking of the gun or that the .45 was aimed at his chest that froze Pace in his tracks at the mouth of the cavern room. It was the woman.

  Chest heaving in relief, Joanna closed her eyes and lowered the gun. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

  For as long as he lived, Pace would never forget that first, startling sight of he
r stretched out on the sandy floor of the cave, surrounded by total darkness, naked from the waist up save for the blouse and camisole hanging off one arm, one hip gleaming as her skirt and drawers sagged where he’d left them unfastened, her hair, her skin catching the light from his torch and throwing it back, making her look like some wanton virgin stretched out on a sacrificial altar and glowing as if from her own internal light.

  Next to that, it was hard to get worked up over her squared jaw, her narrowed eyes, and the barrel of her .45 aiming at his chest.

  She’d been right. She had grown up. The person behind that gun was definitely all woman. And she was cold.

  He shouldn’t be noticing. If she could read his mind she would raise that gun again and pull the trigger. Or tie him to the buckskin’s tail and drag him all the way home. Through every clump of cactus she could find.

  “What are you staring at?” she demanded. “I could have shot you, dammit.”

  With a jerk as if she had shot him, he realized he was staring at her cold-puckered nipples. The torch had burned down and was threatening to singe his fingers.

  “You,” he managed through a throat and mouth gone as dry as the Chihuahua desert. “What are you doing out of bed?” He used the last of the flame from his torch to relight the fire.

  Joanna lay on her back and placed a forearm across her eyes. “I’m out of bed,” she said with a snarl, “because some fool jackass didn’t wake me up to tell me he was leaving me alone in total darkness, no fire for light or warmth, no weapon, and didn’t announce that it was him sneaking down the tunnel toward me.”

  “Sneaking?” he protested. “With a lit torch in my hand? What do you take me for, an idiot?”

  “A jackass,” she corrected.

  As she struggled to rise, Pace debated with himself. Part of him warned against touching her. She was too soft, too nearly naked. Too unexpectedly a woman instead of the girl he’d known. She was his stepbrother’s daughter. His sister’s stepdaughter. She was family, yet he suffered a sudden, sharp yearning to touch her in very unfamily-like ways.