Authors: Christine Michels
* * *
By nightfall, Samson still had not put in an appearance, and she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of coming here. Had her arrival just alerted Telford to the possibility of Samson being in the area? She had no way of knowing.
Finally, with worry preying on her mind, she lay down on the first real bed she'd seen in more days than she cared to count, and tried to sleep. Surprisingly, sleep came quite easily, although she supposed she should have expected that. She continued to be plagued by that strange bone-deep weariness that had begun to afflict her while she was caring for Samson.
It was still pitch-dark when a sharp sound woke her. She sat bolt upright in bed. For an instant she stared into the dense blackness in confusion, trying to identify the noise, and then she realized it was Poopsy barking and snarling with a viciousness Delilah had never heard nor expected from her.
Somebody was in the room! That was the only explanation.
Slowly, carefully, as she tried to see in the dense blackness, Delilah reached one hand beneath her pillow for her derringer. She didn't usually sleep with it, but after meeting Telford and his men in town she'd wanted a little extra reassurance, and had placed it there on impulse while she was getting ready for bed. The precaution proved useless, however, for a hard, calloused hand closed over her mouth while strong fingers jerked her roughly out of bed before she could grasp the weapon.
"Scream, and I'll kill you," a disembodied voice warned out of the darkness. "You got that?"
With her heart pounding in her throat like an Indian tom-tom, Delilah could only nod.
"Good," he said, drawing the word out. "Now light the lamp and shut that goddamn dog up before I shoot it.” As though to suit action to words, she heard him draw his pistol.
Delilah did as she was told, although she had to pick Poopsy up and cuddle her to get her to quiet, and even then the little dog continued to growl. When Delilah turned to face her intruder, she understood why.
The man in her room was Telford's foreman, Casey, and he looked meaner than a rattlesnake. His eyes raked her nightgown clad form with an insolence that was familiar to her, that panicked her. For she'd seen it before—in the eyes of Jacob Sterne. His calculated leer was designed to terrorize. And she refused to let him know how well it worked.
"Where's lover boy?" he asked in a snide voice.
Delilah didn't bother pretending she didn't know who he meant. "If you mean Samson," she said, "I have no idea."
"Sure you don't.” His raked over her once more. "Too bad you're wastin' a body like that on a creep like Towers," he said. "Maybe I should show you how it can be with a real man."
Delilah met his gaze head-on, and clamped her lips shut, refusing to be drawn. Still smirking, he lifted a hand and traced a terrorizing finger down the curve of her cheek until he reached her chin. His action set Poopsy off again, and he lifted his hand as though to grab her, but Delilah turned so that his grasp grazed her shoulder instead. With narrowed eyes she gave him a hard stare and said one word in a tone barely above a whisper, "Don't!"
He eyed her for a second. "Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?"
Delilah looked pointedly at his left shoulder which still moved a little stiffly and then, with all the Southern sugar of which she was capable, said, "Why, sir, I am a lady. I am merely reminding you, being the big strong man that you are, that hurting defenseless little animals is the trait of a bully. Or a coward."
His hand shot out to grip her throat, and Delilah knew she'd gone too far. Damn her Irish ancestors. Her daddy had told her on more than one occasion that she had to learn to rein in her very Irish tendency toward irony. "Listen bitch," Casey ground out from between clenched teeth. "There ain't nobody that's ever called me a coward and lived, so I sure hope that's not what you were tryin' to say."
Delilah shook her head and tried to look innocent. "Of course not, Mr. Casey," she gasped out past the constriction of his hand. "I would never dream of insulting—"
"Shut up!"
Delilah clamped her lips shut.
"Now look," he ground out as he released her throat. "Towers was seen in town just after noon today. He stopped at the saloon, had a drink, and rode out again. Two hours later you showed up. Now, do you really expect me to believe that you don't know where he is?"
Delilah's eyes widened at that piece of information. So, Samson was here. But where? "Yes, I do," she said. "Because it's the truth."
Casey narrowed his eyes. "Okay. If that's the way you want it. Get dressed. You're coming with me."
"What! Oh, no. I don't think that's a good idea."
"Did I give you the impression that you had a choice? Because if I did I must be losin' my touch.” He smiled and then barked. "Move it!"
Discretion being the better part of valor, Delilah cautiously sidled toward the dressing screen in the corner of the room. She set Poopsy down at her feet and ordered her to stay while she dressed.
* * *
Two hours later, Telford escorted her, with Poopsy in her arms, up the steps of his home as though she'd been invited for dinner. She jerked her arm from his grasp. "Why am I here?" she asked coldly, not taken in by his solicitous attitude.
"Why you're bait, my dear. I thought a smart lady like you would have figured that out by now."
"Bait!" Delilah echoed. "Do you honestly think Samson is going to come after me?"
"Yep. I do."
"You're crazy!"
Telford's eyes took on an extra layer of ice. "I'd watch it if I were you, my dear. I can always have you killed with your lover."
"But, it's simply not going to work," Delilah protested. "After the way I betrayed him, the man doesn't trust me. He'll never believe that I'm not in on any trap you have devised."
"Well now, I sure hope that's not the case," Telford said. “’Cause if he doesn't show up, you're gonna wish he had. After all, you're the reason for him getting away the last time. Not to mention the pain you caused me in the process. Yessir, I just might enjoy taking a little payment for my suffering out of your hide.” He ran a finger over her collarbone. "And such pretty hide it is too."
~~~* * *~~~
Samson stared down at the Cross T ranch in an agony of indecision. He had known that Delilah would follow him—the damnable woman had refused to listen to reason—but, short of tying her up and leaving her, he hadn't known what to do about it. He had assumed that she'd be safer alone than with him. Having been betrayed once by her, Telford should have realized that Samson would not have confided his plans to her. And her solitary arrival in Cedar Crossing alone should have enforced that perception. So what was going on?
For a moment, he entertained the thought that Delilah was, once again, siding with Telford. But he really didn't think that was the case. From the way she'd yanked away from Telford's grasp, she didn't look any too happy to be there.
Frowning thoughtfully, Samson considered the situation. His own strategy in showing up in town and then disappearing had been to get Telford's men combing the hills for him. He'd planned to taunt them with his presence occasionally, facing them one by one until Telford, finally lacking his army, would be forced to confront him man to man. Perhaps Telford's abduction of Delilah was the reverse side of the same strategy. Perhaps her presence was designed as a taunt for Samson. Bait to draw him in.
What he didn't understand was
why
Telford thought such a strategy would work. Samson wasn't even certain himself how he felt about it. After all, he still wasn't one hundred percent sure where Delilah's loyalties lay, except perhaps with herself and her sister.
Then again, he was reasonably certain that she was carrying his child.
Could he allow a woman he had feelings for—although those feelings refused to be defined at the moment—to remain in possible danger? He grimaced. No, probably not. Could he allow the woman who apparently carried his child to remain in potential peril? No, definitely not. So, he guessed that left him with only one course of action: He had to rescue her.
"Damn!" he swore beneath his breath. He sure as hell wished he was the type of man who could walk away because this time he had the feeling that Delilah Sinclair just might get him killed.
He watched the ranch closely for two days, learning the movements of Telford's men. From what he could discern, Delilah appeared to be well-treated during that time. She certainly looked as beautiful as ever.
Finally, Samson felt confident enough to move in. It was near midnight on a night that was cursed with a clear sky and bright moonlight. He pulled Goliath up in a clump of bushes as near to the ranch buildings as he thought he dared go on horseback, and then continued on foot. At the near end of the house, he could see Delilah's silhouette pacing back and forth in the room she'd been given. At the opposite end, the silhouette of another woman made an occasional appearance in the window as well. He didn't know who she might be, for he'd never seen her outside the house. Possibly Telford's wife; the man was said to be married.
Although there were a number of men patrolling the perimeters of the ranch, there were only three guards near the house—two that made periodic circuits of the immediate grounds, and one that simply lounged on the porch leaning on his rifle and smoking cigarettes. Samson watched the men circling the house. His plan was to move in as soon as they'd passed Delilah's window, and break her out before they came around again.
It sounded simple. He just hoped it would be. That blamed dog of Delilah's was an unknown element. If it barked . . .
Once away from the house, they had to avoid the other guards. He planned to spirit Delilah off the ranch by following a path that would primarily keep them in the shadows. That meant, however, that he'd have to take the guard near the barn, and the guard near the chicken coop, out of commission on his way in. And that blamed ramrod, Casey, was a wild card: he seemed to roam where and when he willed, following no particular pattern. Still, Samson doubted that the situation would ever improve from his point of view, so he might as well get it done.
* * *
Delilah thoughtfully chewed a fingernail as she paced the room that had become her prison, her steps soundless on the thick Turkish carpet that blanketed the floor. In the two days she'd been on the Cross-T ranch, she'd learned a lot about Paul Telford, about his passions, ruthlessness and arrogance. His only real passion was gambling which, had he been an honest gambler, Delilah might have been able to turn to her advantage. The problem was that he was not honest, and he didn't care a fig how he won, as long as he did. He liked to brag that he was a more accomplished gambler than most professional gamblers, and that he had, in fact, won his ranch in a poker game.
And as for Telford's ruthlessness, well. . . The man's poor wife, Melissa Telford, a pale blonde wraith of a woman whom Delilah had caught a glimpse of, had descended into laudanum addiction to escape his tyranny in the only way she could. Or so the cook had said in a whisper when queried by Delilah. Mrs. Telford would certainly be of no help to her.
Telford's arrogance was his belief that everyone else, lacking his ruthlessness and immoral nature, was somehow inferior to himself. He showed respect for no one, treated his employees like dirt, though he paid them well, and assumed that money could buy anything or anyone. Including Delilah as his mistress.
In just two days, Delilah had come to despise him.
But that didn't help her escape. And escape she must, for Telford's sexual advances were becoming more and more bold. The fact that he carried the only key to her room worried her.
At just that moment, Poopsy growled deep in her throat, and Delilah's gaze flew to the door. But she didn't hear or see anything. Looking back at the little dog, she noted that Poopsy's attention was, in fact, focused on the window. What the . . . ? Could it be Samson? she thought in a moment of almost breathless hope. She'd almost given up on him. Then she remembered the way Casey had been looking at her earlier. Oh-oh!
She looked around for something with which to defend herself if need be, but came up empty. Then she remembered the lady's hat on the upper shelf in the armoire. Rushing across the room, she quietly opened the armoire door, removed the hat, and examined it. Yes! The hat pin was still attached. Upon extracting the eight-inch-long makeshift weapon, she positioned herself next to the window and waited, watching Poopsy as the little dog continued to growl quietly. Delilah didn't know how whoever it was planned to get the window open, because she'd already tried that and had come to the conclusion that it had either been painted or nailed shut. But if they managed to get it open, she fully intended to take advantage of it.
A moment later, the window broke as an arm wrapped in the protection of some black fabric plunged through it in a short, controlled jab. Delilah jumped, startled by the explosion of noise in the dense silence, although in reality the sound created by the breaking glass as it landed on the thick carpet was little louder than the tinkling of wind chime.
Well, shoot! Why hadn't she thought of breaking it?