Firestorm (29 page)

That was how Diego found her, fiercely clinging to anger, resolved to head out and ride all day. She glared at him. “We have to put as much distance between Los Cierros and us as possible, Diego. I'm almost certain that bastard will come after us, not because he loves me but because I am his possession, I belong to him—or so he thinks.” She gave a short laugh.

Diego was elated. He grabbed her shoulders, spinning her around before she could mount, refusing to release her. “
Cara
, thank God! I was afraid you would waste away from self-pity.”

She raised her chin, her face hard, almost ugly. “One day I will make him pay,” she said softly, causing a chill to run up and down Diego's spine. “But for now I just have to get away from him. He is stronger than me—I need the protection of my family.” She leaped astride Demon. “Let him
dare
to try anything around my father and my
brothers! They'll be only too glad to carve him into bits and pieces, Apache-style!”

Diego's pulse began to pound. He imagined her with a knife, straddling Brett, her husband begging for mercy. The fantasy changed irrepressibly until she was straddling him, the knife at his throat, while he was naked and aroused, being forced to do her will. He sucked in his breath and hurried to his horse.

Storm rode hard all day, and Diego found himself pressed to keep up with her, and irritated because of it. There was no way Brett could be closer than several hours behind them, maybe a lot more. Already they were halfway to San Diego. Tonight they would arrive at Sophia's abandoned hacienda. There was no need to push so hard. He wanted to conserve his strength for when they arrived at the rancho.

“I don't want to stay there,” Storm told him firmly when they had pulled up at the turnoff.

He was stunned, but recovered. “
Cara
, a bath, a bed. Don't be foolish.”

She looked at him. “You go, Diego. The ranch is eight miles west of here. Eight miles. We're going south. I'm not stepping one foot in another direction.” She urged her horse forward.

Angry, Diego caught up with her and grabbed her elbow. “Don't be an idiot,” he shouted. “We need rest, food. It's still several days to San Diego. Brett is far behind us, have no fear.”

“How do you know that?” she asked sharply. “I know Brett. He might be ten miles behind us.”

Diego smiled. “Sophia would not be so quick to let him out of her bed,
cara
.”

Storm inhaled sharply, then twisted away so he couldn't see her face. “I'm not turning off. You don't have to come with me.”

Diego had no intention of letting her go without him,
but he certainly had no intention of riding with her to Texas. He spurred his horse forward, thinking. He would probably have to hurt her, beat her into submission, tie her up. He grew hard as various images flooded his mind.

They stopped a short time later as the sun set. “We won't make a fire,” Storm told him, slapping Demon's rump as she laid down his saddle. She kicked her bedroll so it rolled out, then stretched, leisurely, arching her back. When she saw Diego's hungry gaze, she instantly stopped, suddenly concerned. Her mind flew back to the attraction he had shown for her when they had first met, during those first days at the hacienda, and she grew uneasy. She looked at him again.

He smiled. His eyes were hot. He stepped toward her, and instinctively, Storm stepped back. Nervously alert, she said, “Why have you come, Diego? I was so stunned when we left, I can't remember any of it.”

“How could I not come to your aid?” he said, his voice rasping. “How could any man not come to your aid?” Then, as if sensing her wariness, he turned from her, going to his horse. “I will see you as far as the stage in San Diego,” he said, his tone neutral, his back to her.

Everyone knew about the new stage which traveled from St. Louis to San Diego, the Butterfield Overland Mail, scheduled to start operating that summer. “Is it running?” she asked eagerly. She hadn't thought far ahead, but she knew she didn't relish the idea of riding alone through hundreds of miles of Apache-infested territory. If she made it, her father would certainly kill her for trying.

“I believe it started operating several weeks ago.”

They ate jerky in silence. Diego was still sitting up, not looking at her, when Storm crawled beneath her bedroll. She did not undress, but she did take off her six-shooter, which she placed carefully near at hand. She wasn't thinking of Diego as she did this but of her husband.

She had trouble falling asleep. Brett. Anger softened,
hurt reared. It was impossible, but if she had a choice, what she wouldn't give to be held in his arms right now. She forced her tears away. She didn't love him. She was terribly attracted to him, but that was all. He was a bastard, truly—and then she almost laughed. He was a bastard in every sense of the word.

But she kept remembering how hurt he had looked when she wouldn't tell him she was happy. How his warm expression had become cold and guarded. She started to think about the little boy growing up with a prostitute for a mother who had no time or love to give him, a poor, ragged dirty boy who lived on the streets stealing and begging to survive. Then she found herself imagining what it would be like to be sent abruptly to the hacienda, to be suddenly surrounded by all those selfish, grasping people, to grow up with the don, knowing you were only a bastard son. She felt a flood of sorrow for Brett, all of which she resolutely denied.

She dreamed of Brett. She dreamed they were together, and although she knew him for what he was, although her mind said no, her body throbbed beneath his touch. It was so real—hands on her breasts, teasing her nipples into tautness. Even his kisses were real. And then there was something funny, something that shouldn't be there—it tickled. She smiled, then dreamed Brett had found her, was making love to her, and she moaned. “No.”

Storm woke and for an instant thought her dream had come true, that Brett had crawled into the bedroll with her. A hard male body covered hers, throbbing with urgency; warm lips and hands teased her flesh. Then the hair of a mustache tickled her neck, and understanding flashed. She arched in protest, her hands going to Diego's shoulders to force him off. “No!”

One hand grasped her braid, holding her head still, and his mouth came down hard on hers. She thought she would vomit. She twisted, tearing herself away only by nearly
pulling her own hair from her scalp, screaming in fury. “Get off!”

“
Dios, por Dios!
” His hands found her breasts, squeezing. Storm felt him jabbing between her thighs with his member, and was shocked to realize he had pulled her pants down. Instantly she relaxed. His hold tightened, then he shoved up her shirt. While she feigned submission, her right hand moved over the ground searching for the butt of her Colt. It wasn't there.

Horror, then fury, seized her. He had moved one groping hand to toy with her privates, and Storm's knee came up, along with both hands, simultaneously. Her knee caught his rib cage, forcing out a whoosh of air, while her closed fists pounded glancing blows at his cheekbones. For a second he was immobile.

She used that instant, her nails coming up to claw viciously at his face even as he moved again, reaching for her wrists. He caught one, missed the other. Five nails brutally raked open his flesh from temple to jaw. He roared, twisting her arm behind her back so hard that she thought he would break it.

He grabbed her other wrist, imprisoning it, but almost immediately Storm's head was up, her teeth bared viciously, and she was biting into his neck, drawing blood. She refused to let go. He screamed, rolling off. Storm jumped up, stumbling over the buckskins entwined around her ankles. Pulling up her pants, she looked around frantically. Where was her gun?

She heard him, threw a glance over her shoulder, saw him coming after her, bleeding and frenzied with rage. Storm saw the rifle. She bent, grabbed it, heard and felt him coming as she whirled and cocked it in the same motion. He was lunging; she fired. At such close range death was instantaneous. Eyes wide, he reeled and fell over on his back.

She stepped backward, her own eyes huge. She couldn't
stop staring at what had been Diego. She began trembling violently. “Dear God!”

Storm stumbled backward, feeling bile rising, unable to take her eyes off the man she had just killed. What have I done? she thought frantically. I've shot an unarmed man—oh, God!

The rifle dropped from her shaking hands, and she turned and vomited, falling to her knees. The heaves finally stopped. What to do? She couldn't think. Not just any man, Brett's cousin—she had killed Brett's cousin. But he'd been trying to rape her. Maybe he would have stopped. That didn't matter! She should have wounded him—she hadn't meant to do this!

I'm a murderer, she thought.

The sound of the horses snorting and moving restlessly brought her back to her senses. She didn't want to hang. She wanted to go home. At that word, a sob tore through her. She had to get home! She would have to hide the body, no—bury it.

It wasn't easy touching him, much less getting him on Demon. She pulled and tugged and managed to lift him, sweat pouring from her face, her hands covered with sticky blood. She didn't bother tying him to her stallion. She sent the other horse running, then led Demon farther off the road, into the hills, until they were swallowed by darkness.

After what seemed like hours she found a partial crevice that would serve. She meant to slide Diego's body into it; she wound up dumping him in. She tried to move the rocks that formed the wall of the crevice to cover him, but they wouldn't budge. She pushed and strained—they had looked so loose—and tears streamed down her face. She finally gave up, cursing, dumped several handfuls of stones over his body, then pulled brush to cover him.

She knew it wouldn't work. By sunrise the buzzards
would find him, and then a sheriff would come. She had to find enough stones to hide the evidence.

Wiping away the tears, she spent the next few hours gathering rocks by torchlight until the body was thoroughly covered. She didn't realize she had been at it all night until the sky paled to gray. And then a thought struck her.

She had no money.

She needed money for the stage.

She looked at the stones that covered Diego's body.

On her hands and knees, tearing her skin and nails, she uncovered Diego and rifled his pockets. She found a hundred dollars and change. By the time he was re-covered, the sun's position told her it was close to seven.

She sat on her haunches, exhausted, forcing herself to survey the grave. If people rode past here, she doubted they would bother to inspect the site unless they were specifically looking for a buried man.

She stood, sighing, and took her canteen from Demon to drink. By chance, she looked down at herself and almost screamed in frustration. Her shirt was stiff and stained with blood—lots of blood. It seemed that this morning was going to be endless, and every second she delayed, Brett could be getting closer. She held back a hysterical sob. She had to pull herself together.

She found a stream and bathed without taking off her clothes. Most of the blood came out, but the stain was still evident. To her eye, there was no mistaking what it was. As she wearily mounted Demon, she tried to think of what she would say if anyone commented on it. She couldn't come up with anything; all she kept seeing in her mind's eye was Diego after the first moment of impact, before he slammed backward onto the ground. God, would she ever forget?

But gradually the horrible image receded to the back of her mind. Weariness came to the fore, and Storm fought
to stay astride, to keep going, willing herself onward, not daring to stop and rest. Now that she was alone, she kept off the main road, paralleling it, riding along the mountain ridge as the Apaches did, making it easier to see her enemy. Her enemy. Brett.

That night she slept, too tired to eat, barely managing to untack and feed Demon. The next day she was fully refreshed, ravenous, and as she ate the last of her jerky she debated the wisdom of making a fire and taking the time to hunt. She decided against both and pushed on.

It was hard. She passed a homestead and was desperate to ride in and buy a loaf of bread, anything—but she didn't dare. She wasn't going to leave a trail for Brett. That night she took the chance and made a small fire and roasted a squirrel. But even though her hunger was assuaged, she didn't sleep dreamlessly. Images of Brett haunted her. She was in his arms, then she was suddenly standing aside and watching him take a naked Sophia into his arms. Just when she thought her heart would break all over again, Diego would appear, urging her to run, but Storm screamed and shot him…

She rode into San Diego the next day at noon. The stage east had just left. She bought a ticket, took a hotel room, and settled down to wait.

Home!

Storm pulled up a lathered Demon. She had made it; she was finally here, finally home. Below her from where she sat Demon on a rise, the many timbered barns and buildings of the D&M sprawled before her in the valley, brownish now under summer's insistent onslaught. Oak and juniper rustled in a dry breeze, horses and prized bulls filled the corrals, smoke rose lazily from the half-dozen chimneys of the two bunkhouses, the kitchens, and main house. And beyond all that, dotting the valley and the hills, longhorns grazed, speckling the panorama black and brown and beige.

Storm urged Demon into a gallop. It was about three weeks since she had run away, but it had been an endless three weeks, fraught with anxiety. She had been so certain Brett would catch her. Maybe he hadn't even tried. She ignored the slight tug of dismay that thought brought, because she would never forgive him for taking Sophia to his bed. No, it didn't matter anymore; she was safe now. The worst part of the trip had been killing Diego; after that there had been no problems, not even with Indians—it was a miracle.

She had already pushed Demon hard, but not to his limit, especially since the pace of the stage he had been tied to had been an easy one. It was early evening, and
with growing excitement Storm knew everyone would be home soon. She urged the stallion into a gallop and raced down the hill, past the barns and corrals, her heart beating wildly. She was off the horse before he had come to a full stop, her long legs eating up the distance, propelled by momentum as she ran into the house, shouting for her parents. “Ma! Pa! Ma!”

She headed straight for the stairs, not sure whether they were in their bedroom, changing, or already in the drawing room, awaiting dinner. She was halfway up when her father called her from below.

She stopped, turning, and tears sprang to her eyes. He looked stunned, then his face lit with pleasure, and she flew into his arms, clinging to him. She started crying, like a child.

“Storm, are you all right? What's happened? Sweetheart, what?”

She lifted her face to meet his worried golden eyes, and then she saw her mother, and she wrenched away, throwing herself at Miranda, hunching over so she could bury her face in her mother's neck. She started sobbing, quite hysterically. Her mother held her and stroked her hair.

“Storm's crying,” Rathe said in complete bewilderment, coming in to stand next to his brother in the foyer.

“Shut up,” Nick said tersely, grabbing his arm.

“What is she doing here?” Rathe asked.

“Darling, it's all right now,” Miranda soothed, using a mother's particularly maternal tone, rocking her daughter, who was a head taller than she. “Come on, we'll go upstairs, and you'll tell me all about it.”

Storm realized how she must look, how she was behaving, and pulled away, wiping her eyes. When she looked around and saw how stricken her father was, and that both her brothers looked exactly the same, she realized she was frightening them terribly. “I'm all right…” she started, sniffing.

“Where's your husband?” Derek asked quietly. His tone was firm, authoritative, a tone that willed an answer.

The words poured out of their own accord. “I've run away, Pa. Brett's a whoring bastard and I hate him. And—oh, God, I killed a man!”

Absolute silence greeted this statement, and Storm wished she could take it all back, not because she wanted to hide anything, but because she needed to explain rationally. Her father had that look, grim and awful, like he might kill someone—and so did her brothers. She ran to her father.

“It was self-defense,” she babbled. “He tried to rape me. But he was Brett's cousin! I thought he was helping me run away from Brett. Pa, you have to help me get a divorce!”

Her father blinked in dismay, then took her arm, guiding her to her mother. He managed a smile that didn't reach his golden eyes. “Go on upstairs, honey, with your mother. After you've bathed and eaten, we'll talk.” He looked at the boys. “Aren't you two busy with something?”

Nick's strong jaw was clenched, his hard, worried gaze on his sister, but he turned away first. Rathe ran to Storm, throwing one arm around her. “What did he do to make you run away?” he asked grimly, his blue eyes flashing.

His concern made her eyes misty again, and she couldn't speak.

“Rathe,” her father said curtly, and he strode away, giving Storm one last, measuring look.

With her mother's arm around her, Storm went upstairs. The moment of elation at being home was gone. She didn't know why she didn't feel full with happiness—instead, depression was wrenching her heart like a clamp. She kept thinking of Brett.

 

Finally, Brett thought.

His blood was pounding wildly. How long had it been
since he'd begun chasing her? Six weeks? If he found her down there—and he was sure he would—she would be with her parents. He would kill her. If Diego was with her, he would kill him, too. If Diego had touched her, he would kill them both. God, he couldn't wait to get his hands on that little savage!

Pray to God she was there, unharmed.

He moved his horse carefully down the rocky slope toward the cluster of ranch buildings below. It was late, dusk. He could have stayed in town after bathing and shaving, maybe even eased himself with a whore. The problem was, he thought angrily, Storm had bewitched him, as the past six weeks had shown; he had refused, without the slightest interest, the few sluts who had offered their charms to him at the various towns through which he passed. All he could think of was Storm, with a kind of dread-filled panic. She had to be here. She had to be all right.

Then he would strangle her.

He knew she had taken the stage, just a day before he had arrived in San Diego. At the stage station the clerk had grinned lewdly when he'd described her, adding, “Who could miss that? Big ones straining that shirt, out to here…” Before the man had raised his hands to indicate the size, Brett had grabbed him by the throat and slammed him repeatedly against the wall, until he realized he was taking out all his frustration on this innocent bystander. He had dropped him, then, demanding his ticket and asking if Storm was traveling alone. As far as the clerk had known she was, indeed, traveling by herself.

That was when all his troubles had begun. The stage had been in operation only a few weeks, and it was three days late returning to San Diego. Then, just out of Fort Yuma, they had been attacked by Pawnees. At the Mariposa Springs way station they had lost a wheel. On the far
side of Apache Pass, they had been attacked by Apaches, and in El Paso the driver had been killed in a gunfight. All in all, there had been thirteen days of delays. Brett hadn't seen Storm in almost six weeks, six long, agonizing, celibate weeks, and he felt like a starving man.

His heart was pounding hard, unbearably. How could he talk sense into her when all he wanted to do was hold her and reassure himself that she was real, not some wonderful fantasy he had dreamed up? He would never let her out of his sight again. He wanted to feel the full, warm, alive length of her against him. He wanted to stroke her, hold her, feel her, tell her he'd been sick without her, that he loved her.

He'd fully accepted his love for her the day she had left him. It had been an awful, heart-stopping realization. One that came a day too late. He hadn't wanted to love her. He hadn't wanted to need her, not like this, so desperately that the thought of losing her made him feel like a frightened boy. He didn't want to want Storm's love.

He kept remembering how she had held and comforted him when she'd thought he was grieving over the deaths of his little half brother and sister. Then he kept remembering how he'd once been a hungry boy waiting desperately for a sign from his mother that
she
cared—a sign that never came. And the awful hurt, if he let it rise. The same scenario repeated with his father…No, he didn't want to want Storm's love, but God help him, it was too late.

He raised his hand to pound on the door, but voices drifting from an open window halted him. Rich male voices, and then a feminine one, not Storm's. He strained to hear as a man made a comment, and a jumble of warm male laughter reached his ears, laced with Storm's rich trill. His blood surged, his heart leaped. His fist smashed down on the door, once, twice, three times.

Kill her? Hah! He couldn't wait to get his hands on her!

The door opened, and Brett blinked. The boy standing
there was Storm's height but a few years younger than she was, his face the image of Derek Bragg's without the roughness of maturity. A beautiful boy, with Storm's coloring. He smiled, and Brett's heart turned over because it was her smile.

“Howdy.” Rathe grinned. “What can I do for you?”

Brett was looking past him, but all he saw was a narrow, pine-floored foyer and a large, carefully wrought oak staircase. He met the boy's bright blue gaze. “I've come for my wife,” he said levelly. “Storm.”

Rathe stiffened, all amiability vanishing. Brett saw it and tensed, too. Hadn't he expected this? Hadn't he known she would malign him to her family? “Where is she?” he heard himself ask coolly.

“You can leave now,” Rathe said tersely, moving to block Brett's path with his body. “Before I carve you up—with pleasure.”

“Don't make this difficult, boy,” Brett said grimly. It was obvious the boy was itching for a fight. Beating up her brother was all he needed to further ingratiate himself with Storm. Brett pushed past him into the foyer.

“Hey, Rathe, who is it?” came a male voice.

Brett's gaze met a tall, dark-haired youth entering the foyer from a hallway. Rathe said, “It's
him
, Storm's husband. You want the honors, or shall I?”

Shit, Brett thought.

Nick advanced with a predatory stride. Brett fleetingly thought that the tall youth looked half Indian, but that was as far as he got because a knife appeared in the boy's hand, then at Brett's throat. Nick's eyes were dark and cold. Brett almost laughed, the situation was so ludicrous. But, hell, he had never seen a knife appear so quickly in his life. Now he knew where
she
had learned to wield one.

“I want the honors,” Nick said softly, his breath warming Brett's cheek.

“Drop it,” Derek commanded. Nobody had heard him
enter, but all three pairs of eyes went to the tall, golden-haired man standing by the stairs. He didn't have to repeat the order. Only a second slipped by—albeit a long second—and then Nick's knife disappeared. Brett stepped past the boys, his gaze on Derek.

He saw the blow coming, but too late. He himself was slightly taller than Derek, but Derek was built like a lumberjack, thick with muscle. Brett managed to turn his face just in the nick of time, and the blow glanced off his jaw, not breaking it but possibly dislocating it. Brett slammed backward, into the wall.

“For my little girl, you sonuvabitch,” Derek gritted, pouncing on him again.

Brett's head was reeling. A wave of pain shook him, but instinctively he was already straightening, with Derek half pulling him up. He realized the man wanted to beat him up, if not kill him. What had Storm told him? he thought, and then another massive blow took him in the stomach, making him gasp and double over.

“Fight,” Derek said, waiting, tensed.

Brett came upright. His eyes blazed furiously, and he wanted to hit back, badly. “No,” he said. “I can't fight you, dammit.”

“Coward,” Derek taunted.

Brett clenched his fists.

“Coward,” Derek said again, this time softly. He swung, but Brett was already moving sideways, one arm coming up to block the blow, and with all his strength, he jammed his fist in an undercut to the man's jaw. There was a cracking sound, but Derek's head moved back only slightly. Their eyes met. Derek smiled grimly. “Good,” he muttered, just before landing a blow on Brett's cheek, barely missing his eye.

Brett grabbed him, throwing him backward against the stairs. They grappled, too close to exchange blows now.

“No!” Storm screamed. “No! Pa! Stop! You'll kill him!”

Brett's heart careened at the sound of her voice, but when he realized she was pleading for him, he felt anger and disgust. His lack of attention caused Derek to get a knee up and into his stomach. Brett grunted but wouldn't release his hold, and they rolled off the two steps and onto the floor with a thud.

“Derek Bragg, stop it this instant!” Miranda's voice cut through everything.

Miraculously, Brett thought, the man who was now on top of him relaxed, and an instant later was on his feet, helping Brett to his own feet. Derek was panting, his gaze on his wife. “Miranda…”

“What is wrong with you?” she said fiercely.

Brett barely saw the tiny, angry, sable-haired woman. He was looking at Storm, his beautiful Storm. She was standing very still, her blue eyes huge, her lips parted, quivering. Brett forgot everyone and everything else. He moved to her. She didn't back away. Her gaze locked with his.

“Storm.” It was a husky whisper. Her mouth parted as if she would speak, but no sound came out. She swallowed. His hands found her shoulders, closing over flesh and muscle and bone, and he pulled her against him. She came. For an instant she remained stiff, her face barely touching his chest. He tightened his hold, crushing her to him, and she relaxed, a sound like a moan coming from deep in her throat.

“I should kill you,” he said huskily. “God, you could have been killed, dammit, Storm. Why couldn't you trust me?”

She shuddered and he felt wetness seeping through his shirt and knew it was her tears. “I didn't think you were coming,” she whispered. “I thought you were letting me go.”

“Never,” he said fiercely, pressing her closer, stroking her hair, his mouth finding the flesh of her temple. “Never! God…I…” He suddenly wrenched her away, his eyes blazing. “Where is Diego? Is he here? If he's here, I'm going to kill him.” He grasped her chin as her eyes widened. “Has he touched you? Dammit! Answer me!”