Angel Creek

by Linda Howard

  Luis reined his horse off to the side, his lean, dark face taut with anger and his hand on his pistol butt. He didn’t know what the hell had gotten into Bellamy, but he didn’t intend to make war on a lone woman.

  He was good with a pistol, but not good enough to take on twenty men in a blood lust. For a split second he considered killing Bellamy, then realized that wouldn’t stop it. He didn’t have a lot of time to get help before the sons of bitches either killed the woman or overran her cabin and raped her; he’d seen enough blood lust to know that it wouldn’t make any difference to them which it was.

  The cattle were stampeding wildly, panicked by the gunfire, maddened by the smell of water. A thick cloud of dust billowed over everything, cutting visibility. Luis went with the cattle, yelling to agitate them even more, then finally broke free to turn his horse toward Prosper.

  He rode the animal hard even in the heat, and it was white with lather by the time he reined it to a halt in front of the marshal’s office. He jumped down, his booted feet thudding on the sidewalk as he shoved the door open. The office was empty.

  The most logical place to look was the saloon. If the marshal wasn’t there, someone would likely know his whereabouts.

  But the marshal was nowhere in sight when he entered the saloon. “Where’s Marshal Cobb?” he asked of anyone in the saloon.

  “Don’t rightly know,” a man said. Luis recognized him as a shopkeeper.

  “I thought I heard he’s visitin’ his daughter up Denver way for a few days,” another said. “You got trouble?”

  “Bellamy’s trying to run his cattle into the Swann woman’s valley,” Luis said curtly. “There’s shooting going on, and it’ll be either a raping or a killing if it isn’t stopped.”

  Everyone in the saloon was silent. Luis looked around at the men, but none of them were jumping to help. “Since the marshal’s gone, are any of you willing to help that woman?”

  Eyes shifted away. For the most part the men in the saloon at that time of day were townsfolk, merchants and clerks. They hadn’t cleaned their weapons in years. If a bunch of rowdy cowhands had gone wild, they weren’t going to stick their noses into it, at least as long as it stayed out of town. It wasn’t like Dee Swann was a friend or anything; she always kept to herself.

  Ranchers would have had weapons handy and been willing to help, but there weren’t any ranchers in the saloon. They were too busy during the day doing what they could to keep their cattle alive. Luis turned away in disgust, his dark eyes going cold.

  “Wait,” Tillie said, hurrying toward him. She stepped out on the sidewalk, her hand on his arm. She looked pale. “Lucas Cochran on the Double C will help.”

  “She doesn’t have that kind of time,” Luis said harshly.

  Tillie’s brown eyes were huge and anguished. “Then you go back and help her, and I’ll ride to the Double C.”

  Luis gave a brief nod, already turning away. “You’d better hurry.”

  He cut overland, pushing his tired horse hard and coming in from the side. He could still hear gunfire, which meant that the woman was holding her own. Despite his grimness his mouth twisted in a grin. She must be a real hellcat. A woman like that deserved all the help she could get.

  He left his horse and worked his way the last hundred yards on foot, choosing a thick stand of trees for cover. Bellamy and his men had pretty well settled in their own cover and were taking their time squeezing off shots at the cabin. Some kept trying to work their way around and catch her from behind, but the cabin was in a large clear area, and there wasn’t a lot of cover for them to use. The woman was a good shot. She was using a rifle now and was moving from window to window.

  Luis considered his strategy. He didn’t care about keeping either his identity or his position hidden; his only objective was to help the Swann woman prevent them from overrunning her cabin, or maybe turning the cattle back onto her land. It might even help if Bellamy’s men knew he was helping her; though he had lived a calm life in Colorado, his skill with a pistol was well known. It might make some of them reconsider if they knew he was waiting for them.

  Time was both their ally and their enemy. If he and the woman could hold off long enough, the Double C men would be able to get there. If aid didn’t arrive by nightfall, then Bellamy’s men would be able to reach the cabin undetected.

  With that in mind, he cooly began choosing his targets. His purpose wasn’t to keep them pinned down, but to rebalance the odds in his favor as much as he could. If a man was dead or severely wounded, then you didn’t have to worry about him even in the dark. His mouth moved into a thin, cold smile. Hell, he’d spent enough time in Colorado anyway.

  Tillie didn’t take the time to change into riding clothes or to ask permission to borrow the nearest horse. By the time Luis was galloping out of town in one direction she was galloping in the other. Her garish short skirt made it possible for her to ride astride, though her legs were bared from the knee down. She glimpsed several shocked faces as she raced out of town but didn’t spare a thought for the picture she made.

  Her heart was pounding as hard as the horse’s hooves on the packed earth. Oh, Kyle! she thought. Why had he done it? She would have lent him the money; no one would ever have known, and he could have kept his ranch, kept his dream of being a prosperous, respected rancher. Now he had attacked Dee Swann, and the townspeople would never forget, never accept him. It didn’t matter that he had done it out of desperation; he would be condemned. And if Lucas Cochran didn’t get there before Dee was raped or murdered, Kyle would be hanged.

  The saddle leather rubbed raw patches on the insides of her tender thighs, but she didn’t dare slow down, not when every minute counted. It would take Lucas a long time to get to Angel Creek anyway, maybe too long. At least Dee had Fronteras helping her now—unless they were both killed.

  The horse began to tire. Panic welled up in her, but she refrained from kicking the poor beast. If she killed it by running it too hard in this heat, she would never reach the Double C in time. But the urge to hurry beat within her like bird wings until her head echoed with the refrain, Hurry, before it’s too late. Too late for Dee, too late for Kyle . . . too late for herself.

  Then she saw the ranch buildings. The Double C ranch house was two-storied, with a white-columned porch wrapped all the way around it. She didn’t pull on the reins until she reached it, and the exhausted horse stumbled clumsily.

  “Lucas!” she screamed even as she slid from the saddle. “Lucas!” She ran up on the porch and pounded on the door with her fist.

  “Here! Tillie, I’m over here.”

  She turned and saw him striding up from the barn, his long legs eating up the distance. She ran down the steps and sprinted across the yard toward him, screaming the entire way. “You’ve got to get down to Angel Creek! They’ve gone crazy, they’re shooting at her, trying to take the land—”

  She reached him, and he grabbed her arms to halt her. His blue eyes had turned to ice. If hell had been cold, it would have looked like his eyes. “Who is it?” His fingers bit into her soft arms. She gasped for breath, and he roughly shook her. “Damn it, who is it?”

  “It’s Kyle,” she said, still gulping air. “Kyle Bellamy. He’s desperate—the Bar B’s water is almost gone.”

  Lucas turned, roaring for everyone to get their rifles and saddle up. Every man within hearing ran to obey. Lucas sprinted for his own mount. Tillie ran after him, her red taffeta skirts kicking up and showing her petticoats.

  “Luis Fronteras is helping her,” she yelled. “He rode into town and sent me after you, then he went back.”

  Lucas gave a brief nod to show that he’d heard. The tight sense of panic in his chest eased a little as he realized Dee wasn’t facing Bellamy and his men all alone.

  He swung into the saddle, and Tillie grabbed his leg. “Don’t kill Kyle,” she begged frantically. “God, Lucas, please don’t kill him. I love him. Please, please don’t kill him, promise me.”

 
; Lucas looked down at her, that icy look still in his eyes. “I can’t make any promises,” he said. If Bellamy had harmed Dee, he wouldn’t see another sunrise.

  Lucas put spurs to his horse, riding hard for the pass that would get him to Angel Creek faster than any other way. Tillie stood in the yard and watched the men ride out, and tears slowly tracked down her dusty face.

  15

  DEE CROUCHED BENEATH ONE OF THE FRONT WINDOWS. She had discarded the shotgun in favor of the rifle, for accuracy, but she was running out of shells. She had prepared for a lot of things, but never for a seige, and that’s what this was.

  At least they hadn’t turned the cattle. Maybe the men hadn’t tried but had turned their attention to her. After all, if she were dead, then they could move the cattle in without trouble.

  She didn’t know how long it had been going on because one of the shots had hit her clock, and she had no idea what time it was. Late afternoon. The sun was red and low in the sky. Come dark, they would approach the cabin, and she wouldn’t be able to cover all the windows. She had already blocked the bedroom door so that even if anyone crawled through the bedroom window he wouldn’t be able to come up behind her without her knowledge.

  She gripped the rifle as she carefully watched for someone to make a careless move and show himself. The wood stock was slippery, and she wiped her hand on her skirt, but it didn’t seem to help. She looked down and saw that it wasn’t sweat on her hand, but blood. Some of the flying glass had cut her arm.

  She was tired, deathly tired, but she didn’t dare rest for even a minute. She was thirsty but couldn’t even cross the room for a drink of water.

  There. A slight movement, a hint of blue. Dee carefully sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger, not even hearing the sharp crack as the rifle fired. She saw a brief commotion of movement and knew she’d hit someone.

  Immediately another volley of shots struck the little cabin, gouging out long splinters of wood, ricocheting off the wood stove. She flattened herself on the floor as a bullet zinged across the room, gaining herself more cuts from the shattered glass that covered the floor. There wasn’t a piece of glass left in any of the windows.

  Quickly she sat up, swinging the rifle around. One man darted from cover, and she fired, sending him diving back. Damn, she’d missed him.

  It would be dark soon. She had to do something, but there was nothing she could do. If she fired without seeing a target, she would waste her bullets, but if she simply waited, they would win anyway.

  She wiped her bloody hands on her skirt again. God, she was bleeding all over from cuts. Her clothes were soaked.

  She didn’t care. She was thinking with an awful clarity. Those men were in a blood lust, and if they didn’t kill her outright, they would each take a turn raping her. And she knew she would rather die. They would not violate her body, the flesh that she had shared only with Lucas—not while she drew breath. Her instinct was to fight, and she supposed it was too late now to start going against her instincts. If she had to die, she intended to take as many of those bastards with her as she could.

  She scrambled to her knees, put the rifle to her shoulder, and began firing. The rifle was a repeater, so she shot until it was empty, then hastily reloaded and began firing again. Return fire tore into the cabin.

  The window frame splintered, and she fell back with a stifled scream. Her left shoulder burned like fire, and she glanced down to see a long, thin sliver of wood protruding from it. She tried to pull it out, but her fingers were too slippery to hold it. Since there was nothing she could do, she put it and the pain out of her mind.

  Luis had attracted a lot of attention once Bellamy and his men had noticed they were being fired on from two positions. He had been hit twice—once a shallow burn on his left bicep that he had ignored, the second time in his right side. The wound hadn’t hit any internal organs, but it had bled like a son of a bitch. He had pulled off his bandanna, pressed it over the long gouge, and resumed firing, but soon the blood was streaming down his hip and leg.

  He had to have more pressure on the wound. He transferred the pistol to his left hand and pressed his right elbow hard against his side. A wave of dizziness made him shake his head in an effort to clear his vision. If Cochran didn’t get there at once, it would be too late. The woman was still shooting, but it would be dark soon, and he was losing too much blood to be able to help her.

  Lucas split up his men, sending some of them to circle around behind Bellamy while he and the rest of them approached unseen down the slope, keeping the barn between them and the line of fire. Because of the large clearing around the cabin none of Bellamy’s men had been able to work around to the side, and Dee was concentrating all of her fire to the front, where they were using the trees as cover. The surge of relief he felt when he heard her firing steadily made him feel weak. They were in time. Damn, what a woman!

  He had to wait until his men who had flanked Bellamy had made their move, then his group began firing from the side. Bellamy didn’t have a chance under the savage crossfire of the Double C men. Lucas realized that Dee was still shooting; she didn’t know what was happening and was likely to kill some of his own men if she wasn’t stopped. “I’m going into the cabin,” he yelled. “Keep their heads down.”

  He ran toward the back stoop under the protection of a hail of bullets, but someone spied him anyway, and a bullet kicked up dust just in front of him. With all the lead flying it wasn’t healthy for a man to stand and politely knock at a door; Dee would probably cut him in half with the shotgun anyway before she knew who he was. He leapt up on the back stoop and hit the door at a dead run, driving his muscled shoulder into it and sending it crashing back against the wall. Dee was at one of the front windows, and she scrabbled clumsily around, screaming as she fired the rifle. His heart clenched in pure terror when he saw her covered in blood, but he didn’t pause for even a second. He dived to the floor, rolling to the side and coming up to lunge for her. She was still screaming as she swung the rifle at his head.

  “Dee!” he yelled, grabbing her. “Goddammit, it’s me, Lucas!” He wrested the rifle out of her bloody hands and tossed it aside, then wrapped his arms around her.

  She shrieked, trying to throw herself backward even as she pounded at his face with her fists. Her eyes were wild, the pupils shrunk to tiny pinpoints.

  “Dee!” he roared again, just trying to hold her still. She was hurt—God, she was hurt, and he didn’t want to cause her any more pain, but he had to calm her down. He wrestled her down to the glass-covered floor, pinning her with his heavy weight. “Dee,” he repeated, saying her name over and over. “Look at me. It’s all right. I’m here, and I’ll take care of you. Look at me.”

  Slowly she stilled, more from exhaustion than comprehension. She was quivering from head to foot, but at least she had quit fighting him. Her wild eyes were fastened on his face as if she were trying to make sense of what was happening. He kept talking to her, his voice low and soothing, and finally she blinked as understanding dawned. “Lucas,” she murmured.

  He was there. He was really there. She was conscious of relief, not so much because she was safe but because she could rest now. She was tired, so very, very tired, and oddly cold. The pain that she had held at bay for so long finally caught up with her as she let her tired muscles relax. She heard herself make a strange moaning sound, and her body loosened into total limpness. Her head lolled on the plank flooring.

  Lucas could barely breathe. She was drenched in blood, her clothing soaked, even her hair matted with it. For the first time he noticed a long sliver of wood stuck in her shoulder, and he felt sick. As gently as he could he released her and got to his feet. He kicked the furniture she had piled against the bedroom door away and jerked a blanket from the bed, shaking it to make certain it didn’t have glass on it, too, then replacing it. Returning to the other room, he lifted Dee as carefully as possible and carried her to the bed.

  He looked around for a lamp, but
they had all been broken. He examined her as thoroughly as possible in the dim light, his heart pounding as he looked for gunshot wounds. A bullet had creased her left hipbone, and she had that wicked splinter in her shoulder, but all of her other wounds were cuts from the broken glass. She was covered with them—small cuts on her scalp and face, her neck and shoulders and arms. Taken separately, her wounds were not serious, but there were so many of them that she had lost a dangerous amount of blood. Her lips looked blue, and beneath the blood her skin had a chilling translucent quality to it.

  He heard his own voice swearing low and savagely as he tried to halt the bleeding, but he wasn’t aware of what he was saying. Such minor wounds, and she might yet die.

  He heard booted feet crunching on the broken glass, and William Tobias appeared in the doorway. “She all right, boss?”

  “No. She’s lost a lot of blood. Get the wagon hitched up. We’ve got to get her into town.”

  “That Mexican, Fronteras, caught a couple of bullets. He’s lost a right smart amount of blood, too, but I reckon he’ll be all right. About five of the Bar B men need burying, some more need patching up. There was about thirty of the bastards after her. We hurt ’em the most, I reckon.”

  Lucas nodded, not taking his attention from Dee. “Hurry up with that wagon.”

  William left to see to it.

  Lucas started to remove the long splinter from her shoulder but decided to leave it. Blood was oozing around it, but if he pulled it out the wound might start bleeding heavily, and she didn’t need to lose any more blood than she already had. He carefully wrapped the blanket around her and lifted her.

  William pulled the wagon right up to the porch just as Lucas stepped outside with his burden. His men were standing around with their weapons trained on the Bar B men, the look on their faces saying that they wished someone would try to get away. The wounded were sprawled on the ground; the dead had been left where they lay.