Dangerous Men (Flynn Family Saga Book 2) (12 page)

“About an hour ago.”  Frank stirred
the scrambled eggs in his old iron skillet.

Maggie walked to the edge of the
circle of wagons and stared out toward the north.  The rain started again.  The
wind gusted, and she shivered.

Near dawn, Flynn rode into camp and
vaulted from Horatio's back right in front of Sam.  “There’s a crossing, but we’d
better hurry.”

Sam nodded.  “Ben, Maggie, help
them harness up.  We’re going to have to move fast.”

Maggie nodded.  She and Ben walked
down the line getting the folks ready to roll.  They traveled until it was
dark, and then they camped for the night.  Maggie ate supper at Frank’s cook
fire.  Flynn sat across the fire from her and stared into his mug.  He had been
silent and withdrawn ever since the dance.

She bit her lip and looked away.

After supper, Maggie groomed her
horses as usual.  Then, she walked back to Sam’s wagon.  She waited until the
camp was quiet.  Then, she went back to the picket line.

Flynn was there, grooming Horatio.

Maggie stepped forward.

He turned with his pistol drawn. 
His hand shook slightly as he replaced it in the holster.  “I’m sorry, Magpie.” 
He turned back to Horatio.

“Flynn, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” she said softly.

Flynn chuckled briefly.  Slowly, he
turned to face her.  “It’s the nightmares, Magpie.  They’re getting worse. 
They used to stop when I was out here, but now—”

“Now you dream about the Lonnegans.”

He opened his mouth and shut it. 
He nodded.

Maggie hesitated.  “Flynn, are you
too old for stories?”

“Am I what?”

Her face felt hot.  “Well, when I
have nightmares, you tell me stories, and it helps.”

Flynn stared at her a long time
before speaking.  “Maggie Anders, where did you come from?”

Slowly, Maggie smiled.  “Well, I
was born in Manhattan...”

Flynn laughed.  His laughter faded
slowly.  He touched her cheek.  “Thank you, Magpie.  It’s worth a try.”  He
yawned.  “It’s going to be rough couple of days.”

Maggie nodded.  She followed him to
his bedroll.  He had rigged a tarp to keep the rain off, and the bedroll was
dry.  Flynn took off his hat and lay down.  He scowled at her.  “If you tell
anyone about this, I’ll shoot you.”

Maggie grinned.  “I won’t.  I
promise.  Now close your eyes.”

Flynn obeyed.

Maggie sat down next to him.  “Once
upon a time, there was a red-haired knight...”

Flynn smiled, and her voice
caught.  He opened his eyes.  “Well, don’t stop there.”

Maggie cleared her throat.  “Once
upon a time, there was red-haired knight.  He didn’t know it, but he was really
the king’s son who had been kidnapped by gypsies when he was a boy.”

Flynn sighed and the lines eased
out of his face.

Maggie kept speaking until his
breathing was deep and even.  Then, she covered him with a blanket and went
back to her own bedroll.  She lay awake a long time, listening to the rain
pound on the canvas tarp.

*  *  *

Two days later, they came to the
ford.  Even here, the river rushed by at a frightening speed, but at least the
riverbed was a mixture of gravel and boulders.  They lost two wagons before
they reached the other side.  Flynn and Ben rode back into the river to
retrieve as many of the settler’s belongings as they could.  Flynn dove under
the black water, and Maggie held her own breath until he came up again.  He
handed Ben a crate.

Ben started toward the western
shore—and slipped.  He disappeared under the rushing water.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Maggie shut her eyes a moment.  She
saw Emma’s face.  She saw Jessica sitting on her father’s lap.  She saw Billy’s
blue eyes, young and vulnerable.  Maggie opened her eyes, stripped off her
slicker, and dove into the water.  She swam to the place where Ben had fallen
and dove under the water, grateful that her grandfather had taught her how to
swim.

Ben lay face down under the water. 
He didn’t move when she grabbed his arm.  Panic stung her, but she put her arm
around his neck and lifted his head out of the water.  Strong hands took him
from her grasp.  She turned and saw Flynn, his hair plastered to his skull. 
Together, they pulled Ben to the shore.  Sam helped them drag him up the bank
to the fire.  Maggie rolled Ben onto his side until he vomited the water he had
swallowed.  He coughed and opened his eyes.  “Maggie?”

She nodded.

Slowly, he grinned.  “And here I
thought I’d been rescued by a mermaid.”

Maggie grinned back and punched his
shoulder.

Ben tried to stand and grimaced.

Maggie felt his leg.  She turned to
Sam.  “It’s broken.  I need splints and strong linen.

Sam nodded.  He ran back to the
supply wagon.

While he was gone, Maggie slit open
Ben’s pants legs.  She breathed a sigh of relief.  The skin was intact.  “You’re
lucky, Ben.  It’s a simple fracture.”

“Lucky, hell.  It
hurts
,
Maggie.”

“I know.”  She handed him a small
vial.  “Just a sip, Ben.”

Ben nodded and took a sip.  He made
a face.  “That tastes worse than Frank’s coffee.”

Sam returned with the slats and the
linen.  Maggie cut strips and placed the slats on either side of Ben’s leg.  “This
is going to hurt, Ben.”

Ben nodded.  Sweat beaded on his
forehead.

“Hold him steady, Papa.”

Sam nodded and held Ben’s thigh
still.

Maggie drew a deep breath and
pulled.

Ben cried out in pain.

Maggie bit her lip.  She felt along
the leg and nodded.  “Now, hold the slats in place.”

Sam pressed the slats against Ben’s
legs.  Maggie wrapped the linen around them.  Frank and Sam carried Ben into
the back of Sam’s wagon.  Maggie gave him a little more laudanum.  Then, she
climbed out of the wagon.  Sam followed her.  “How bad is it, Maggie.”

She sighed.  “Breaks are always
bad, Papa, but this could have been a lot worse.  If he stays off of it, it
should heal just fine.”

Sam sighed and squeezed her
shoulder.

Kate wrapped her in a blanket, and
Frank put a cup of hot chocolate in her hands.  She sipped the hot, sweet
liquid gratefully.  She looked at Flynn.

His wet shirt was almost
transparent.  She felt the blood rise to her face and looked away.

Flynn laughed softly.  “Good night,
Magpie.”

She heard him walk away, and in the
morning, he was gone again.

*  *  *

The days passed, and Flynn did not
return.  Every night, Maggie went to the edge of the circle of light and looked
out at the darkness.  On the tenth day, Sam followed her.  They stood side by
side in the darkness.  Sam shook his head.  “Where in tarnation is he?”

“Do you want me to look for him,
Papa?”

Sam turned to her and shook his
head.  “Not alone.  And with Ben laid up, I can’t send anyone with you.”

Maggie nodded.  She looked out into
the darkness one last time.  Then, she sighed and came back to her bedroll. 
She lay awake a long time.  When she finally slept, she dreamed that she
trailed eight outlaws across the badlands.  They had Lucy, and Maggie had to
reach them before they raped her.  But she was on foot, and they had horses,
and no matter how fast she ran, they kept getting further and further away.

Maggie woke with a start.  The
eastern sky was a pale gray.  She rubbed her face with her palms and went to
the picket line.  Patches whickered softly when he saw her.  She scratched him
between the ears and gave him a sugar lump.  That made her think of Flynn, and fear
knotted in her belly.  She went back to the supply wagon.  She took a pair of
saddlebags and two canteens filled with water.  She filled the saddlebags with
dried beef and hardtack.  She went back and saddled Patches.

“Where do you think you’re going,
Magpie?”

Maggie turned and faced her
father.  “He’s in trouble, Papa.”

Slowly, Sam nodded.  “I think you’re
right.”  He sighed.  “All right.  But come back safe, Maggie.”

“I will, Papa.”  She turned and
hugged him tightly.

Sam held her a long time.  Finally,
he stepped back.  “And bring that guldurned Flynn back safe, too.”

Maggie laughed.  “I will, Papa.” 
She hugged him one more time.  Then, she mounted Patches and rode away.

*  *  *

Maggie rode for two days.  At
first, Flynn’s trail was clear.

Then, it rained.

Maggie and Patches huddled under a
clump of cottonwoods.  Maggie wore her slicker.  She wondered where Flynn was
and if he was getting wet.  Patches shivered next to her under his blanket. 
Finally, the rain stopped.  The half moon shone brightly on the Green River. 
Maggie mounted Patches and turned him toward the last place she had seen
Horatio’s hoof prints.  She scanned the ground, but there was no sign of Flynn’s
trail.  She bit her lip.  She shut her eyes and tried to remember the map.  She
saw the Green River winding across the plain.  She saw the wood in which she
had taken shelter.  And then, she saw the valley that Flynn had shown her
once.  She nodded and turned Patches back toward the river.  She followed it
for five miles while the sun rose.  The earth of the trail was soft and muddy,
and the swollen river rushed past in full flood.  Patches danced nervously. 
Maggie turned him away from the river.  They rode on the grassy border beside
the trail, where the ground was firmer.

At sunset, she stopped and
unsaddled Patches.  She ate hardtack and longed for Frank’s stew.  She leaned
against a tree and slept.  At dawn, she saddled Patches and rode on again.

Near noon, she heard voices on the
trail ahead, harsh and coarse, like the voices of the men who came to the
saloon in Manhattan.  Maggie shuddered.  She dismounted Patches and led him
into a stand of cottonwoods.  She tethered him to one of the trees and crept
silently toward the edge of the clearing.  Her heart pounded, and every muscle
was tense.

The first thing she noticed was
Scout.  He was tethered with the other horses. 

Then, she saw Flynn.  He lay
spread-eagled in the center of the clearing.  Rawhide thongs cut cruelly into
his wrists and ankles.  His chest was bare, and his skin was burned red from
the sun.  A short, skinny little man stood over him, grinning.  Four of his
front teeth were missing.  “Thirsty?”

“Go to hell, Nick!”  Flynn
struggled against his bonds.

The man called Nick dripped water
on Flynn’s sunburned chest.  Flynn winced.

Rage seared through Maggie, so
powerful that it frightened her.  Her hand went to her knife without thought. 
Hatred welled up in the back of her throat like bile.  She wanted to hurt Nick
Vaughn.

She wanted to kill him.

Suddenly, she smelled pipe tobacco
and peppermint. 
That’s not our way, Maggie-my-girl
.

She heard her grandfather’s voice
as clearly as if he stood behind her.  Maggie turned and looked, even though
she knew he couldn’t be there.  She had buried James next to his beloved wife
Tess three years earlier.

But she knew that his spirit had
touched her as surely as she knew that Patches stood in front of her, calmly
cropping grass as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Maggie took a deep, shaking
breath.  She looked down at the blade, gleaming in the sunlight.  And she
knew
. 
She knew she couldn’t kill those men in cold blood, as much as she wanted to.

“Oh, grandfather,” she whispered
softly.  “What am I going to do?”

Only the sound of the river
answered her.

*  *  *

Flynn glared up at Nick Vaughn.

Nick smiled at Flynn.  “Thirsty?”

He was.  It had been two days since
he’d had a taste of water, and the sound of the river tormented him.  But he
wasn’t about to let Nick Vaughn know that.  “Go to hell, Nick.”  He tried to
spit, but his mouth was too dry.

“Don’t waste good water, Nick.”  The
tallest of the outlaws lounged against a tree stump.

Nick Vaughn laughed.  He dripped
water from his canteen on Flynn’s chest.  Flynn winced as the cold water struck
his burned skin.  He struggled against the rawhide thongs, which only cut
deeper into his wrists and ankles.  He couldn’t bear being helpless.  He shut
his eyes and clenched his teeth and tried to think.

A booted foot struck his ribs, and
he grunted in pain.  He opened his eyes.  Tiny Vaughn stood beside him,
grinning.  Tiny was over seven feet tall and weighed nearly as much as Kate's
spinet.  He kicked Flynn again.

Flynn felt a rib snap.  He clamped
his jaw shut against the cry of pain that filled his throat.

The hours crawled by.  Finally, the
sun went down.  The night air was cold, and Flynn shivered.  He heard footsteps
and opened his eyes, but he could only see the stars above him.  He tensed,
waiting for the next assault.

But it never came.  Instead, a
small figure knelt beside him and cut his bonds swiftly.

Flynn blinked.  “Maggie?”

She nodded.  “Can you stand?”

“I don’t know.”  He tried to stand
up, but his legs wouldn’t hold him.  Maggie handed Flynn his pistol.  Flynn’s
throat tightened as he wrapped his fingers around the familiar weapon.  Maggie
chafed his legs with her strong hands.  As the circulation returned, Flynn
grimaced in pain.  She squeezed his hand once and continued to rub life back
into his legs.  He caught a flicker of movement behind her.  “Maggie!”

Maggie and Flynn fired at the same
instant.  Nick fell backward, clutching his chest.  More shots rang out, and
when the smoke cleared, the other three outlaws lay sprawled on the ground as
well.

Flynn drew a deep breath.  “Are you
hit?”

Maggie shook her head.  “You?”

Flynn shook his head.

Maggie holstered her pistol with a
shaking hand.  She walked toward the horses and brought Scout back.

Flynn was searching the bodies.

Maggie bit her lip.  “Flynn?  What
are you doing?”

He stood up with something small
and rectangular in his hand.  “The notebook, Maggie.  With the names of the
dead.”

“Oh.”  Maggie shut her eyes a
moment.  She opened them again.  “Oh.”

Flynn mounted Scout stiffly.  Then,
he took his left foot out of the stirrup and held out his hand to Maggie.  She
took his hand and swung up behind him.  She reached for Horatio’s reins.

“Where did you leave Patches?”  His
voice sounded very loud in the silence that followed the gunshots.

“In the trees by the river.”

Flynn nodded once.  He turned
Scout, who walked slowly toward the trees.  Maggie slid off Scout’s back as
soon as they reached Patches.  She took one of the canteens from her saddle
horn and handed it to Flynn.  He took a sip and handed it back.

Maggie shook her head.  “Keep it.”

He nodded.  “Let’s get out of here.”

Maggie nodded back.  She mounted
Patches and, slowly, they rode away.

Waves of dizziness washed over
Flynn from time to time.  When he swayed in the saddle, Maggie steadied him. 
He took small sips of water, and finally, Maggie handed him a strip of dried
beef.  He chewed it slowly and washed it down with a little more water.  After
he had eaten, the dizziness stopped.

When they had gone about a mile,
Maggie reined in Patches.  She slid off his back and knelt by the side of the
river and vomited.

A dozen feelings scrabbled around
in his chest, like squirrels chasing each other around a tree.

Guilt won the race.

Flynn dismounted.  He knelt beside
her and held her braids back from her face.  When she stopped throwing up, he
handed her the canteen.  Maggie took a sip and wiped her mouth with a trembling
hand.

“Are you all right?”  His throat
was tight, and not just from lack of water.

Maggie nodded.

Flynn opened his mouth and shut
it.  He could tell from her face that she was not all right.  He drew a deep
breath.  “We only took care of four of them Maggie.  The other four could be
out there somewhere.  We need to keep moving.”

She tilted her chin up.  “Not until
I treat your wounds.”

Flynn smiled in spite of
everything.  He had learned not to argue with her when she tilted her chin up
like that.  “All right.”

Maggie took a jar of salve from her
saddlebags.  She cleaned the blood from his skin and rubbed the salve into his
chest.  At first, he tensed, but as the salve numbed his sunburn, he sighed. 
Maggie probed his ribs, and his breath hissed.  She frowned.  “How many times
have your ribs been broken?”

He shrugged.  “I stopped counting.”

Maggie’s jaw tightened, but she
said nothing.  She wrapped his ribs tightly, easing the pain.

Flynn took a clean shirt from his
saddlebags and pulled it on.  His hands shook as he tried to fasten it.  Maggie
helped him with the buttons.  He should have felt humiliated, having a girl
rescue him and dress him.  Instead, he felt comforted.

The feeling surprised him.

He turned away and mounted Scout. 
It felt good to have his old friend back.  Scout’s coat was matted, and he was
too thin.  Flynn’s hands itched to groom him.  He squeezed gently with his
knees, and the stallion moved forward.  They rode until Maggie swayed in the
saddle.  Flynn touched her shoulder.  “Let’s make camp.”

She nodded.  Her face was bone
white in the moonlight.  “There’s a stand of pines not far from here.”  She led
the way to the copse and dismounted.  Her hands shook as she unsaddled Patches.