Kate Wingo - Western Fire 01 (5 page)

Not about to let Ned Sykes take one hair from her sister’s head, Mercy bit down on the sweaty hand still pressed against her mouth
.

“Hell, fire, and damnation!
” her captor yelped. “The lil’ she-cat done took a hunk out of my hand!”

Lifting her feet off the ground, Mercy unceremoniously threw her captor off balance. As the two of them fell to the porch floor, she nimbly rolled away before he could grab hold of her again. Taking advantage of what she knew would be a short-lived freedom, she ran down the porch steps toward her sister, hoping to create a diversion.

“That man was taking unforgivable liberties!” she accused, her words meant to deflect Sykes’ attention from Prudence.

“
Is that so?”

Mercy nodded
vigorously, encouraged by the gleam of interest in the gang leader’s eyes.

“Well, goddamn if I’m going to stand by while one of my men takes those kind
s of liberties with a lady.” Sykes resheathed his knife, Pru’s punishment having been put to the wayside. “Particularly since it’s my right as commander to have the first go at all the spoils of war.” He motioned to the baby-faced bushwhacker who Mercy had caught pilfering her mother’s possessions. “Mooney, take the younger gal back behind the house and keep a close watch on her.”

As Prudence was led away, Sykes
removed a pistol from his gun belt.

“
Please!
Don’t hurt me,” Mercy begged. There was little doubt in her mind that she was about to be shot in cold blood.

Ignoring her plea, Sykes grabbed the back of her neck. Slowly, he raised his pistol, butting the gun barrel against her
mouth.

“Wrap you lips around the end of that,” he ordered, tightening the hold on her neck. “I want to see if you’re up to the job.”

Mercy shook her head, refusing to let the fiend toy with her like a cornered mouse. Closing her eyes, she began to recite aloud the Twenty-Third Psalm, certain her death was imminent. She’d gotten no further than ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want’ when her recitation was cut short by a deep, manly voice.

“All right, you’ve had your fun, Sykes. Let her go.”

Dear God in heaven! I recognize that voice!

Mercy’s eyes flew open, hit with an unexpected burst of joyful relief. Like a fearless archangel, his broad shoulders mantled with the morning sun, Spencer McCabe purposely st
rode through the crowd of men.

“Mister McCabe! Thank God, you’ve come to rescue me!”

At hearing that, one of the bushwhackers theatrically placed the back of his hand over his forehead. “Oh, save me! Save me from the bad men!” he warbled in a high-pitched falsetto.

Still holding the pistol to her mouth, Sykes
glared at Spencer, an angry scowl on his face. “Them’s mighty insubordinate words to be using with your superior officer.”

“In case, you’ve forgotten, I don’t take orders from you,” Spence
r answered, his eyes pointedly staring at the pistol that was still butted against Mercy’s trembling lips. “Besides, I already beat you to the draw.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

In no apparent hurry to reply, Spencer reached into his vest pocket, removing a thin cigar. With practiced ease, he bit off the end, spitting it onto the ground before finally deigning to answer. “It just so happens that when I was riding through here last week scouting for Yankees, I found me one.” Nonchalantly, Spencer struck a match against the porch railing. “Isn’t that right, Mercy?”

Stunned, all she could manage was a jerky nod of the head.
Could it actually be true?
Surely, Spencer McCabe wasn’t
really
a bushwhacker. And if he was, then why was he trying to protect her? Dazed, Mercy watched as Spencer’s brother Dewey pushed his way to the fore.

“It’s true, Ned. Me and Spence was here a week ago
. And Spence, he must have loved her up something good ‘cause when we left, she sent him on his way with a big piece of chocolate cake.”

“Sounds like that ain’t the only piece he come away with,” someone jested
crudely.

Calmly smoking his cigar, Spence
r ignored the bevy of lewd remarks that followed in the wake of his brother’s announcement. Although he appeared not to have a care in the world, Mercy noticed that his right hand hovered dangerously close to his holstered revolver.

Evidently, she
wasn’t the only one to notice. With the flat of his hand, Sykes unexpectedly shoved her toward Spencer.

“I didn’t realize this here lil’ Yankee gal had already been taken into southern custody. You inclined to sharin’ her?” Sykes asked, licking his lips as he openly eyed
Mercy’s bosom.

“Nope, can’t say that I am.”

“Guess the two of you will be wantin’ some time alone, huh?”

To Mercy’s
red-faced embarrassment, Spencer gave Sykes a knowing wink. “Yeah, I’ve been hankering for another piece of that chocolate cake.” That said, he tossed his cigar to the ground before cuffing a hand around her elbow.

As she was led a
way from the crowd, Mercy was tempted to slap the smirk off of Spencer McCabe’s handsome face. Instead, she clamped her lips together, holding her ire in check as Spencer dragged her across the farmyard.

“Unhand me!” she cried once they were out of earshot, unsuccessfully trying to pull
herself free from his grasp. “I have to go back to the house! My mother’s upstairs.”

“Dewey
will keep an eye on her.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me to know that my mother will be ill-treated by an acquaintance rather than a total stranger?”

“Dewey’s not like the rest of them.”

“But you are, aren’t you?” Spence
r didn’t as much as glance at her, his disdain further enraging her. “We invited you into our home and gladly shared our supper table with you. And
this
is how you repay us.”

At hearing that, Spence
r came to an abrupt halt, swinging her around to face him. “Spare me the sermon, Miss Hibbert. Before I left, I told you to clear out of Marion County. None of this would have happened if you’d taken heed of my advice.”

“Oh? So
all of this is my fault, is it?” Mercy shot him a disparaging glance. If it was within her power, she would’ve cast Spencer McCabe into the fiery pits of hell. Right there on the spot. “You are the one who led these vile men here, not I.”

“What do you want from me, an apology?” His lips twisted into a sneer. Gone the charming rogue, the southern snake charmer of the
prior visit. “In case you’re interested, sweetheart, I led these ‘vile’ men here in order to save your Yankee ass. Since this farm is being used as Ned’s headquarters, you and your family should be relatively safe.”

“‘Relatively safe?’ You, sir, are an evil and godless man!” Mercy hissed, utt
erly appalled by his insolence.

“And I’m warning you to keep a close watch on that uppity tongue of yours
. Otherwise I might be forced to behave like a ‘vile’ man.”

“I can defend myself against the likes of you.”

“So I noticed. Just what the hell do you think ol’ Ned was planning to do back there?”

“Being the despicable outlaw that he is, I suspect
that he was planning to shoot me.”

“Yeah, he would have eventually gotten around to that
. But not before he jammed something else into that pretty little mouth of yours.”

“How dare you!” Incensed, Mercy raised an arm to strike
Spencer across the face. Only to have her wrist captured in a bone-jarring grasp.

“Don’t push me, girl
. Or I might just give you what you deserve.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

Too late, Mercy realized her mistake. Quick as summer lightning, Spencer released her wrist. Grabbing her around the waist, he yanked her against him.

“Do you really want to find out?” he husked, his arms tightening across her backside, smashing her breasts against his
chest.

Mercy’s breath caught in her throat, her heart beating out of control. Frightened and confused, she’d never known that a man’s body could be so hard
. So unyielding.

“
Please
. . . let me go,” she pleaded, her voice little more than a strained whisper.

To her surprise, Spence
r obeyed without argument, taking the unasked measure of stepping away from her. Even more surprising was the way that his chest rose and fell, his breath, like hers, coming in deep, uneven measures. The thought came to her that despite his cruel taunts, there was still some shred of manly decency left to Spencer McCabe. And for that she was grateful. Particularly since her fate, and that of her family, now hinged on whether this taciturn, menacing man would continue to defend them against his fellow bushwhackers.

“Just feed ‘em when they’re hungry and stay out of their way the rest of the time. If you do that, you stand a chance of coming out of this alive,” Spence
r rasped just before he strode toward the house.

“Dewey has assured me that Mister Sykes does not intend to harm us.”

“
Mister
Sykes is a demon from hell who would not hesitate to shoot any or all of us.” Exhausted from her day’s labor, Mercy wiped a dress sleeve across her beaded brow. Turning away from her sister Prudence, she proceeded to stack the supper plates in the cupboard.

“Dewey says that
—”

“Lest you forget, Dewey McCabe is a Missouri bushwhacker,” Mercy
interjected, spitting out the word ‘bushwhacker’ as though it was poisonous venom. “And as such, his word counts for naught.”

Prudence’s lower lip stubbornly protruded. “If it weren’t for Dewey and his brother, we would both be dead. And you know it!”

“I know no such thing.”

“But I thought Spencer said that he
would keep us safe from harm.”

“Mister McCabe merely said that if we comply with his demands, we stand a chance of not being killed.”

Over the course of that interminably long day, Mercy had repeatedly reflected on Spencer McCabe’s enigmatic warning.
‘Just feed ‘em when they’re hungry and stay out of their way the rest of the time. If you do that, you stand a chance of coming out of this alive.’

With
each bowl of stew she’d ladled out, each loaf of bread she’d kneaded, Mercy had been bitterly reminded that her family’s survival depended on keeping a gang of cutthroats happy.

Happy
? Humph!
She’d see them all in hell before she so much as looked one of them in the eye.

“From all the bold talk
that was earlier bandied about, I’ve ascertained that Ned Sykes is planning to set fire to every farm in the county,” Mercy informed her sister in a lowered voice.

Pru’s eyes widened
with fear. “But if they burn our house down, what will we do? Where will we go?”

“Since they intend to use our farm as their base camp, this may be the only house spared once the vandals return to Missouri. And given that Spencer McCabe led these evil men here, we have him to thank for all of this. Assuming thanks can be given for so barbarous a
deed.” Angered by the futility of their predicament, Mercy banged her fist on the kitchen table, wishing there was some way to warn their friends and neighbors of the impending danger about to befall them.

That she owed her life to a devil-hearted bushwhacker left a foul taste in her mouth. That she was forced to playact at being his ‘woman’ caused her to inwardly seethe
. Particularly since the fiend was playing the situation for all it was worth, having gone so far as to bring her a bundle of his dirty clothes.

Knowing better than to voice a complaint,
Mercy had darned his socks and mended his shirts. She’d even washed out his dirty linen, humiliated to have performed so intimate a chore for a man she barely knew. No doubt he’d have her shining his boots and shaving his face before this nightmare finally came to an end.

With the last of the supper plates secured in the cupboard, Prudence turned to her, an expectant look on her face. “What do you propose we do now?”

Mercy untied her food-stained apron, hanging it on a wooden peg. “I’ll bring in the laundry while there’s still a bit of daylight left. I suggest that you and Gabriel retire for night.”

Unable to
quell her forlorn thoughts, Mercy stepped through the back door and walked across the yard to where Spencer’s laundry hung on the line. In the shadowed glow of twilight, she spied a crowd of men lounging about, some playing cards, most drinking whiskey, and a few having already spread their bedrolls for the night.

“Now is that any way to treat a fella, passin’ him by without
even givin’ him a nod of the head?”

At hearing that unexpected overture,
Mercy stopped in her tracks. From out of the shadows stepped the youthful bushwhacker who’d earlier ransacked her mother’s personal belongings. If she recalled correctly, the boy answered to the ridiculous name of Kid Mooney.

“Good evening,”
Mercy muttered as she attempted to sidestep around him. When the young bushwhacker grabbed her by the upper arm, forcing her to a halt, she furtively searched the yard.

“If you’re lookin’ for Spence, he ain’t around.” The youth stepped closer. “Besides, I can give you a whole lot better lovin’ than he can.”

Given his age, Kid Mooney’s boastful claim came as something of a surprise. Dressed entirely in black, his baggy trousers were stuffed into knee-high boots. On top of his head he sported a felt hat with a squirrel tail tacked to the brim with a silver star. Except for the pair of Colt revolvers holstered around his thin waist, young Mooney gave every appearance of being a boy playing at being a man.

With a
forceful yank, Mercy managed to pull her arm free of his grasp. “I have to take down the laundry while there’s still a bit of daylight left.”

“You think jes because I ain’t sixt
een, I ain’t man enough for you, huh?” Again, Kid Mooney stepped in front of Mercy, blocking her path. “Hell, I’ve killed me a heap more men than Spence McCabe. Done shot me two Yankee farmers today already.”

Bold words meant to impress her, they instead sent a cold chill down
Mercy’s spine. Given the heinous nature of his crimes, she knew that the bragging, smiling boy was a soulless murderer. Cut from the same cloth as the men who last year killed her father.

If not Kid Mooney, then someone just like him put a gun to
my beloved father’s head before gleefully pulling the trigger.

As that image heartbreakingly congealed in her mind’s eye,
Mercy felt her self-control ebb away . . . until all that was left was the memory of the most horrific and painful day of her life.

“You killed my father,” she hissed in a low voice. “You and all the evil bushwhackers like you.”

“You got no right to talk to me like that. I ain’t the one who killed your daddy.” Mooney palmed a pistol butt, the smile vanishing from his face. “Course that ain’t sayin’ that I wouldn’t have killed him if I’d had me the chance, him being an abolitionist and all.”

The youth’s
cruel taunt uncorked a day’s worth of bottled rage. Without thinking, Mercy lunged at him, her nails scraping both his cheeks. Raising a black-clad arm, Mooney brutally shoved her to the ground.

“That ought to teach you some respect,” he snickered as she struggled to her feet. “Spence don’t know how to keep a lil jayhawkin’ bitch like you in line. But I know.” Mooney balled his hand into a fist
. But before he could land a punch, his arm was forcefully wretched behind his head.

“Lay another hand on her and I’ll kill you,” a deep voice rumbled.

“This ain’t gonna sit right with Ned.”

“In case you haven’t notic
ed, I answer to no man.”

Admittedly relieved
, Mercy watched as Spencer stepped out of the shadows, having pinned Mooney’s arm to the back of his head. Seizing her chance, she hurled herself at the youthful killer, her mind still flooded with the horrific images of the bushwhackers who’d murdered her father. This time, she used her fists, hitting Mooney as hard as she could.

“Goddamn it, Spence! Get the crazy bitch off me!”

Those were the last words Mercy heard before she was unexpectedly lifted off her feet and swung in the air, landing square against Spencer’s backside. Treating her much like he would a sack of potatoes, he lugged her across the yard and down the hill toward the creek that ran behind the house.

At hearing the raucous laughter left in their wake,
Mercy pounded her fists against Spencer’s broad back, calling him every unthinkable name that she could summon to mind.

Listening to Mercy
Hibbert’s furious harangue, Spence gritted his teeth.

What the scornful Miss Hibbert needed was a lesson in keeping her mouth shut and her fists to herself. While he might be young, the last person she should provok
e was Kid Mooney. Hell, in the last six months alone, the little bastard had killed more than a dozen men. And nothing said Mooney would draw the line at pulling the trigger on a woman.

Damn Mercy Hibbert and her holier-
than-thou temper anyway.

When they reached the creek bank, Spence hefted Mercy off
of his shoulder and set her down. No sooner did her feet touch the ground than she tried to run past him. Knowing that she’d only meet with trouble if she made good her escape, he grabbed her arm to anchor her in place.

“Let me go!” Mercy cried
out, her blue eyes gleaming with a wild, unnatural light. “He killed Papa!”

Intuiting
that she intended to mete out the same punishment to him that she’d given to Mooney, Spence lashed an arm around Mercy’s waist, trapping both of her arms between their two bodies. Hellcat that she was, she continued to struggle, refusing to acknowledge that he had nearly a foot and a good eighty pound advantage.

“
Turn me loose! He killed Papa!”

Spence held steady, trying his best to ignore the steady stream of kicks to his shins.
He figured it was best to let her fury run its course. Hopefully, she’d wear herself out in short order.

Just as he figured, exhaustion soon took its toll, Mercy
’s body going limp in his arms.

Reluctant to turn her loose, Spence held her longer than
need be. While he’d like to lay Mercy Hibbert down on a bed of grass and get better acquainted, Spence knew full well
that
particular pleasure was not to be his. Just because he rode with some of the meanest outlaws this side of the Mississippi, it didn’t mean that he’d stoop so low as to prey upon a lone woman. No matter how tempting.

And it was damn tempt
ing.

Although, what harm could come from one little kiss?
Hell, she’d probably enjoy it. Hadn’t come across a woman yet who didn’t.

Acting on what he considered
an inspired idea, Spence slipped a hand under Mercy’s chin and slowly angled her head upward. Looking into her eyes, he smiled.

Like taking candy from a sleeping baby
, he mused when she offered no resistance. Tilting his head to one side, Spence angled his mouth over her soft, full lips and—

All of a sudden,
Mercy stiffened in his arms, pushing against his chest with both hands.

Damn, but she sure
knew how to spoil a man’s fun.

“You were there when they killed Papa, weren’t you?”

Spence blinked, still chaffing from the derailed kiss. “Honest, honey, I wasn’t there,” he affirmed, hoping Mercy would let it go.

“You were
, too! I saw you laughing when he fell to the ground.”

The raw pain in her voice tugged at
Spence’s heart. Wrapping a hand around each of her upper arms, he gave her a gentle shake. “Mercy, listen to me. I had nothing to do with killing your father.”

“I don’t believe you! The fact that you ride with Ned Sykes means
—”

“Nothing.”

The sheen instantly cleared from Mercy Hibbert’s eyes, lucidity returning. “But you are a bushwhacker, are you not?”

“I’m not in it for the killing or the plunder, if that’s what you mean.”

“If not that, then what, pray tell?”

“I’ve got my reasons,” he muttered, releasing his hold on her. Then, knowing what was coming next, he added, “And it doesn’t concern you. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

Christ, he didn’t need to explain himself to some little Yankee gal. He knew he kept company with the devil. But he had a damn good reason for doing so. The best reason that a man could have. He was in it for vengeance. Pure and simple. Luther Maddox, the Dark Angel, was holed up somewhere in Kansas, and he aimed to hunt him down. Riding with Ned and his gang was simply a means to an end. Nothing more.

“Listen, all I do is scout for Sykes. I don’t ask about his business and he doesn’t ask about mine. It’s just a job.”

“And it doesn’t bother you to know that your
employer
is a cold-blooded killer?” Mercy glared at Spence, leveling her accusation with clenched fists.

So, the lady wanted a fight, did she? Well if that’s how she wanted it, he’d be only too happy to oblige her.

“I bet you’ve never once pondered
why
Ned and the rest of ‘em are so determined to make war on the good folks of Kansas.”

“Being Southerners from Missouri, they hate the fact that Kansas entered the Union
a free state,” Mercy promptly retorted.

“Think again, sugar. Most of those fellas back at
your farmhouse don’t give a damn about slavery or states’ rights. Missouri farm boys, that’s what they are. Nothing but Missouri farm boys who back in ‘57 and ‘58 were forced to stand by and watch while jayhawkers like John Brown and that butcher the Dark Angel brutally gunned down their fathers and older brothers. And believe you me, those two bastards didn’t much care whether the southern men they killed were proslavery or not.”