All I Need Is You (18 page)

C
asey awoke to find herself belly-down over a saddle on a horse that was pounding away at the ground and causing a piercing pain to streak through her temples. Her first thought was that Damian could at least have held her upright on his lap rather than in this ignoble position. She started to tell him so when she noticed the leg next to her wasn’t his—at least the boot wasn’t.

She had shot John Wescot. She wasn’t positive, but she thought she’d shot Pete Drummond as well. Did that mean it was Bucky, the last of that threesome, who was carting her off? But why? If he’d found her, why hadn’t he just finished the job they’d been hired for?

And if it’s any consolation to you, Bucky didn’t feel too good about takin’ the job, seein’ as how we got to know you and you’re such a young un
.

She recalled those words now and took comfort in them. Bucky didn’t want to kill her. He was taking her away so he wouldn’t have to—
if
it was Bucky and not Jed Paisley or one of his boys.

But what would be Bucky’s alternative? Just let her go? She doubted it. He’d accepted the job, even if he hadn’t liked it. She couldn’t imagine what he intended to do instead. For that matter, how should she deal with him? Be outraged? Blister his ears for trying to kill her? Appeal to his guilty conscience? That might backfire on her.

The pain stabbed at her head again, reminding her how serious the situation still was. She refrained from trying to feel the wound to determine how bad it was. She didn’t want Bucky to know she was awake yet. But it couldn’t be that bad, since she had all her thoughts about her…

That was it! She could play dumb, pretend the wound had damaged her memory. He’d have no reason not to let her go, then, if she had no memory of him, Culthers, or anything else. She’d be solving his dilemma for him. That is, if he was smart enough to figure that out for himself, which she certainly hoped would be the case, since she couldn’t help him do that if she didn’t know why she’d been shot.

Now, if he’d just get to wherever he was taking her before she lost the contents of her belly all over his boot…

From her upside-down position, it looked as though they were headed to a farm, though not one that was currently being worked, but had probably been bought cheaply from a farmer who’d given up and moved on. A nice place for someone like Bucky to call home—that is, if he wasn’t wanted by the law. He might even have shared it with his two deceased buddies. The
house itself was certainly big enough for three to live comfortably.

He didn’t even check to see if she was awake before he dismounted and hefted her over his shoulder to carry her inside the house. It was all she could do to keep from grunting as her belly met his bony shoulder. And then she was dumped, quite literally, on the floor. Maybe she’d been harboring false hope. He’d carried his lack of concern for her condition a bit too far, but it did give her an excuse to wake up—groaning.

Her eyes fluttered open to see it was indeed Bucky Alcott hunkered down next to her, peering at the blood seeping through the bandana still tied around her head. “Who are you?”

“Don’t be pullin’ my leg, Kid. You know me well enough from the other night.”

“You are mistaken, mister. I’ve never set eyes on you before.”

“Now look here, boy, I’m not stu—”

“Boy?” She mustered an offended tone for her interruption. “What do you mean,
boy
? Are you blind? I’m a woman, as if you didn’t know.”

He squinted his eyes at her, then shot to his feet and velled, “Hell’s fire and damnation, a woman! Then what in tarnation are you doing in them clothes, lookin’ like a fresh-off-the-farm fifteener?”

She glanced down at herself, but all she noticed was the blood, and her surprise was natural and made her forget for a moment the role she was playing. “I’m dying, aren’t I? With this much blood—”

His snort cut her off. “Don’t think that blood is all yours.”

She recalled herself in time to play dumb again. “Whose, then?”

“Beats me,” he lied. “It’s what you were wearing when I found you.”

Was he making a joke? She chose to think not, and got back to what she
was
actually wearing, saying with a frown, “As for these manly-looking clothes, I don’t rightly know why I would be wearing them, to tell you the truth. I suppose because I’ve been doing a lot of riding. I wear jeans on the range, I’m sure of that.”

“You say that like you
ain’t
sure.”

Her frown got deeper. “Well, I’m not exactly. I seem to be having a little trouble recalling some things. Have I been given some kind of medication? Is that why my memories are suddenly so fuzzy? And why the devil does my head feel like it’s on fire?”

He coughed. “I—ah—think you got yourself shot in the head, missy.”

“I did what?! Who would dare!”

“Now, don’t be flyin’ off the handle. Fact is, you oughta be dead. ‘Nuther fact is, I shoulda done the killin’. But with both John and Pete—”

She was immensely disappointed that he’d admitted that. Obviously, he hadn’t yet figured out the benefits of her memory loss. But she continued to play dumb. “
You
shot me?”

“No, I didn’t,” he said in a low grumble. “But like I said, I shoulda.”

“Why? What could I possibly have done to you to warrant something so outrageous as—”

“You didn’t do nothin’ to me. It were just a job I got paid for. Nothin’ personal, you understand.”

My, how friends did tend to have the exact same philosophies to ease their consciences. “Then you still intend to kill me? Is that what you’re saying?”

“You’d be dead already if that were my intent. I brought you here to talk you into stayin’ away from Culthers so I won’t have to kill you.”

“Who is Culthers?”

“Who? It’s a—never mind. If you don’t know, all the better.”

Finally
he was figuring it out. She was beginning to wonder…

“Do
you
know who I am?” she asked him. “I can’t even manage to recall where I come from. Damn, but this is so frustrating!”

He didn’t look very sympathetic, in fact looked downright glad to hear it. “I noticed the K.C. brand on your horse. That’s a ranch over in East Texas. Might be, you could ask around if anyone knows you there.”

She was amazed that he knew of the K.C. Ranch this far west. Thinking of the brand was actually nice detective work on his part. And for him to even mention it meant he
was
letting her go.

“That’s an excellent idea. I never would have thought of it. But—just where is this ranch?”

“Over Waco way, I think. Never been that way myself, just heard tell of it ’cause it’s a big un. Easiest just to take the train east.”

“There’s a train near here?”

“Oh, yes, and I’ll be glad to put you on it,” he assured her.

“How kind of you,” she replied. “But shouldn’t I see a doctor first?”

“Well, I dunno. Let me have a look-see at that head of yours.”

He had pulled off the bandana before he had her permission and was lifting her hair out of the way—hair that had gotten stuck already. The new pain brought tears to her eyes, but she gritted her teeth and let him poke around for a minute.

“It could use a stitch or two, I suppose,” he said. “Want me to fetch a needle?”

“It’s actually that deep?”

“Well, no, but stitchin’ never hurts.”

Like hell it didn’t. “I’ll pass, thanks. But maybe some water to clean it up? And my saddlebags—I ought to have a change of clothes in them, don’t you think?”

He was very cooperative, all things considered. And he did take her into Sanderson, straight to the train depot, where he bought her a ticket himself. She was hoping they’d have to wait for the train so she’d have time to figure out what she should do next, but no such luck; they were just in time for him to escort her right onto it. Why did she get the feeling she was being run out of town?

He left her with this parting advice: “If, that is,
when
your memory comes back, missy, do us both a favor and forget why you came to this part of the state. Be a shame if I still had to kill you.”

It would also be a shame if
she
had to kill
him
.
In a roundabout way he’d saved her life—by deciding to spare it. But she
would
be back. Her job wasn’t nearly done here. She’d just try to avoid Bucky, was all.

I
t had been days since he’d seen Casey. Damian had very quickly reached the point where if someone even looked at him wrong, he’d probably take the man’s head off. He was completely frustrated in his inability to discover what had happened to Casey. It had taken him a day and a thorough search of Sanderson to finally realize that she might not have gotten up and left under her own steam. That last ambusher could have found her and carried her off.

Why
,
though?
was the agonizing question that had run through his mind that entire sleepless first night. Had she walked off? Had she seen the gunman leaving and tried to follow him? Or had he followed her? Clearly both had left, since he’d found only his own horse around the area.

He’d quickly gone back to Sanderson and fetched the sheriff later that day. But the horse tracks had been impossible to follow: They crossed too many other tracks, ending that avenue of pursuit.

The sheriff claimed not to know either of the
dead men, and he flat out denied having any idea who the third man might be. Damian didn’t know whether to believe him or not, though the man hedged enough for Damian to lean toward the “not.” Yet there wasn’t much he could do about that without any proof.

But that left him with only one alternative, to confront whoever had hired the ambushers. And he didn’t doubt that the gunmen had been bought. Curruthers.

Within a day and a half he returned to Culthers, not bothering to stop for sleep. His pinto wasn’t very appreciative, nor was his body, but he was too worried about Casey to be concerned with comfort.

He arrived in the middle of the night and went straight to the boardinghouse that Casey had stayed in, not because he thought she might be there, but because he figured the schoolteacher probably wouldn’t be on Jack’s payroll. A hotel clerk, in his opinion, was far less trustworthy.

Unfortunately, the landlady was difficult to rouse, nor was she very anxious to let him in at that hour. He had to give her a quick explanation of the events of the past few days before she would agree to offer him a room. Luckily, she detested Jack Curruthers.

Much as Damian wanted to immediately search out Curruthers or one of his buddies, he was about dead to the world and simply had to get a little sleep first. But he asked to be wakened at dawn, and the landlady obliged him. She also gave him the names of all the men who she knew worked for Jack, and the address of at
least one, which was where Damian headed first.

He found Elroy Bencher still in bed at that early hour, and fast asleep, which had made getting into his house simple. The man actually left his doors unlocked and most of his windows open. And he was alone, fortunately. Damian didn’t want to be scaring any women with what he was about to do—which was to beat the man senseless if he didn’t get the answers he needed.

The landlady had failed to mention, though, how big Elroy was, and Damian hadn’t really noticed when he’d last seen him, his full concentration having been on Jack at the time. But he noticed now, when he put the cold barrel of his rifle against Elroy’s cheek before nudging him awake and the man sat up bare-chested and growling.

“Don’t move too much, Elroy,” Damian warned. “Or you might find your head traveling to the other side of the room without you.”

Elroy squinted up at him. The sun was just barely rising, and the bedroom, located on the west side of the house, wasn’t receiving much of its light yet, so his question was understandable.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Does the name Damian Rutledge sound familiar? I tried to arrest your boss, remember?”

“Oh, you,” Elroy grunted. “Didn’t expect you to be stupid enough to come back here.”

“And I didn’t expect you and your friends to be stupid enough to try and prevent me from returning. Sort of admits to guilt, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elroy said belligerently.

“Sure you do,” Damian disagreed. “But if I have to spell it out, I will. I’m talking about the three men you sent to attack me and the kid on our way back here. Two of them are dead, by the way.”

He noticed the tensing of those thick muscles at his added remark. And as far as he was concerned, that was all the confirmation of guilt he needed. But Elroy was determined to play dumb.

“You’re crazy. Some no-account saddle-bums attack you and you blame it on Mr. Curruthers? Like he cares where you go or what you do? He’s got nothing to fear from you, Rutledge. He’s not the man you were looking for.”

“No? Well, that’s a moot point at the moment, because oddly enough, Elroy, all I want from you are the names of those men and where they lived. It’s the one who’s still alive that I want.”

Elroy snorted. “Can’t help you there, and wouldn’t if I could. And you got your nerve, breaking into my house. We got laws in this town, you know.”

“Do you? The sheriff in Jack’s pocket, too?”

“Just get the hell outta here before I get annoyed,” Elroy growled at him. “I ain’t got no answers for you one way or the other.”

“I disagree,” Damian replied calmly. “And you
will
tell me what I want to know—one way or the other.”

“Yeah?” Elroy smirked now. “And just how are you going to make me? You shoot off that rifle, you’ll have the sheriff here arresting you,
U.S. marshal or not. So how do you plan to make me tell you, little man?”

Damian knew he was being deliberately goaded. Elroy was just itching to take him on; he could see it in his eyes. And although it had been many a year since he had enjoyed a good fistfight, one in which he didn’t have to worry about breaking someone’s nose, there was the possibility he might not win this one. But what the hell.
He’d
been itching to pound out his frustrations on someone, and at least Elroy Bencher promised a good fight, not one that would be over after just one good punch.

Damian stood his rifle against the table next to the bed and said, “Well, let’s start with this, shall we?”

Amazing how his fist always managed to connect, but Elroy’s nose was as susceptible as most were—breaking with one single punch. The big man howled, blood dripping onto his bare chest. In the next instant, he tried to bring Damian down by launching himself toward him. Not very wise, starting from a sitting position. Damian merely stepped back and Elroy’s large frame ended up sprawled on the floor at his feet.

He should have kicked him while he was down, he really should have, but Damian’s sense of fairness wouldn’t let him. However, allowing Elroy to get to his feet was one of the bigger mistakes of his life. The man’s fists were like solid steel hammers, and he had an incredible amount of strength backing each punch he landed. And he immediately started landing them far too frequently.

Damian managed to stay upright by dint of
will, despite the pounding he was taking. And he was still getting the occasional punch in, though they didn’t seem to be doing much damage. A long fight? He was beginning to think it would never end. But then he got lucky…

A single punch managed to crack not one but two of Elroy’s ribs on his right side, causing him to gasp with pain. From that point on, the man protected that side with his right arm. And either the pain was also affecting his left-handed blows, or he simply had a weak left-hand punch to begin with.

In a few more minutes, Elroy was back on the floor, and this time Damian wouldn’t have hesitated to do some kicking, principles or no principles.

“Unless you want my foot coming down on those broken ribs, you’ll give me the names I want.”

Elroy did.