Authors: Connie Mason
Suddenly the Winchester exploded in Will’s hand and the lock on the strongbox shattered. Immediately he was on his knees flinging the lid open, revealing a score or more of heavy sacks neatly stacked inside.
“You know what to do,” Sam told Will, fearing to turn his eyes from the man whose aura of reckless disdain prompted caution. While Will stashed sacks of gold coins in his saddlebags, Sam studied Colt from beneath thick, black lashes. He was the kind of man who stood out easily in any crowd. Tall and slim, he moved with an inbred self-assurance. His eyes were deep and tawny, and flashing with fury. There was a brooding quality about him that projected power and ruthlessness.
His skin was taut and bronze, but weathered by the Texas sun and wind and etched by tiny lines around his eyes and mouth. A magnificent mane of tawny sun-streaked hair swept away from his temples and fell below the collar of his buckskin jacket in back. Those distinctive, golden eyes were framed by startlingly luxurious dark lashes and brows. His mouth was full to the point of sensuality.
He was large but lean, with wide shoulders, a strong chest, and big hands. He had the look and stance of a gunslinger or drifter whose livelihood depended on his wits and his gun. Sam prayed the day would never come when they would face each other on equal terms.
‘It’s done, Sam,” Will called, jerking Sam to attention.
Sam. Colt silently filed the name in his brain.
“Vamoose out of here, Will,” Sam ordered.
“But, Sam—”
“Go! Don’t argue, just leave. I’ll be right behind you. You know the plan.”
Reluctantly, Will mounted, swung his horse around, and dug his heels in the animal’s sleek flanks, sparing a fleeting, silent glance in Sam’s direction before riding off into the wooded hills. Colt was confident his mustang, Thunder, was faster than the nag under Will and could easily overtake them.
Still covering Colt with the six-shooter, Sam slowly backed up to where Colt’s horse was tethered behind the stage with a leading line, loosed the reins, and delivered a hearty slap to his rump, sending him flying into the woods with a snort of protest. Then he leaped astride his own mount, wheeled, and pounded after Will and the purloined gold.
One corner of Colt’s full lips curved upwards in a sneer as he watched Sam ride off. While the other men scrabbled in the brush for their weapons, Colt puckered his mouth and loosed a piercing whistle that brought Thunder to his side as if by magic. Someone handed him his gunbelt seconds before he hurtled into the saddle and kneed Thunder forward.
“Find those sons of bitches, mister,” the driver rasped, shooting a stream of dirty brown tobacco juice into the wet ground. “Mr. Logan will have my hide if the gold don’t arrive. I’m too old to find another job.”
Sam heard the shrill whistle but thought little of it, too consumed with the need to follow Will to safety. At least Will had a good start, Sam thought, bending low to escape the wind-driven branches lashing out at horse and rider. The rain was coming down faster now, but Sam kept the grueling pace, certain that the tawny-eyed man would find a way to follow. He did not appear the kind who gave up easily.
Trailing closer behind than Sam realized, Colt drew his Winchester from the saddle holster and rested it on his lap. With the back of one hand he swiped the rain from his eyes and peered into the gloom ahead. Thunder’s sturdy legs stretched out to their limit and Colt knew he couldn’t be far behind the bandit.
Then suddenly Colt spied the rider several yards ahead, head bent low over his horse’s damp neck. “We’ve got them now, Thunder,” Colt laughed, relishing the chase.
Sam heard Colt’s mocking laughter and realized with a plummeting heart that he was closing in. The first shot Colt squeezed off whizzed harmlessly past Sam’s head. Panicking, Sam grew incautious, straightening up and turning to peer over a shoulder. Colt’s carefully aimed second shot sent the bandit hurtling to the ground. Shooting the enemy was something Colt did well.
He’d returned home from the war with the smell of gunpowder in his nose and fighting in his blood. Still, he would have been happy on the family ranch if he hadn’t found both his parents dead in an Indian raid, his twelve-year-old sister missing, and the homestead north of San Antonio a pile of ashes and rubble. For two years he’d searched for Laura but failed to find the tribe of Comanches that had stolen her. After that he knocked around Texas hiring out his gun, bounty hunting, and killing Indians, whom he hated with a passion. Then a few weeks ago he’d met an old acquaintance from the Mexican War, Captain Rip Ford of the Texas Rangers.
Resdess, trained for nothing but using his gun, and proficient in his trade, Colt had found Rip in a small border town noted for fierce brawls, pliant prostitutes, and violent killings. He was familiar with the Rangers from his Mexican War days when they fought valiently alongside the army. Not only did those revered and fearless men carry messages, they trail-blazed routes for the army to follow and scouted enemy positions. They ruthlessly gunned down the enemy but refused to be controlled by the army, whose generals called them “lawless men.”
So relentless were the Texas Rangers that the Mexicans believed them to be only half civilized. It was no wonder they’d earned the name “Los Tejanos Diablos,” the Texas devils. The Mexican War made them famous; their deeds became legends. Yet they were disbanded after the war and were not called back into force until just this year, 1858. Colt met Captain Ford shortly after the Rangers were recalled to handle the desperate Indian situation. It took little persuasion to talk a footloose, cynical, bored, and hardened Colt into signing on for a six-month enlistment.
Approaching the fallen bandit cautiously, Colt dismounted, his gun ready in case of a trap. But he could see at a glance that Sam was beyond pretense. Blood stained his jacket and seeped into the ground beneath him. He was lying on his stomach, his face in the mud, and Colt carelessly flipped him over with the toe of his boot. He looked dead, but Colt, wanting to be damn certain, bent an ear to Sam’s chest.
“Christ!” He reared up as if shot, tearing the hat from Sam’s head with one hand while exploring the bandit’s chest with the other. A rich abundance of thick, black hair spilled from beneath the battered felt hat and fanned out in wet strands on the mud. “I’ve shot a goddamn woman!”
When Colt put his ear to Sam’s chest, soft breasts pillowed his cheek. He’d had intimate knowledge of too many women, enjoyed their naked charms far too often not to recognize Sam’s femininity. He cursed himself roundly for not realizing immediately that the youthful bandit was a woman. Those huge violet eyes fringed with long, thick lashes should have been a dead giveaway. He had let some whoring bitch make a damn fool of him. “Colt” Colter, a man feared for his swift trigger finger and quick temper, had been tricked by a female barely out of her teens, by the look of her.
Suddenly the sight of blood gushing from the gaping wound jolted Colt into action. She was alive—and, strangely, he didn’t want this woman to die. For some unaccountable reason her courage and daring intrigued him. Ripping the kerchief from her face, he opened her shirt and pressed the kerchief to the wound just inches above her left breast. Any lower and she would be dead now. A low moan escaped her lips as he stood above her, studying her delicate features.
Sam opened her eyes to find a dark figure standing silhouetted against the storm-lit sky, his stetson pulled low on his forehead. His shirt was unbuttoned down his dark chest, and his tight buckskin trousers molded thickly muscled thighs. One word escaped her parched lips as he bent to lift her from the wet ground. “Will?”
“I don’t know who Will is, lady, unless he’s your pardner,” Colt ground out. “But you’re both in a heap of trouble.”
“Wh…where are you taking me?” she asked shakily.
“I don’t know. How far to Karlsburg?”
“Ten miles.” The way she said it made it seem like hundreds, so weak was her voice. Colt doubted she’d withstand the long ride to town, bleeding as she was.
“Then we’d best get goin’. You need a doctor. Pronto.” She gasped in agony and paled when he swung her into his arms.
“Take me home,” Sam begged, her violet eyes hazy with pain. “Please take me home.” Large tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Jail is the only place you’re goin’, lady,” Colt insisted, deliberately hardening his heart. He had knocked around too long to be moved by a woman’s tears. Yet the suffering of this woman touched him in a way he’d never thought possible. Was he getting soft in his old age?
“Not jail,” Sam gasped, shuddering at the thought. How strange, she reflected dazedly, but when she’d planned this holdup she’d never considered that either she or Will might end up hurt—or in jail.
“Christ! If you don’t get help soon, lady, you’ll bleed to death and then it won’t matter where I take you,” Colt muttered.
“Home,” Sam repeated weakly, slowly slipping into a world of darkness.
“Where is home?” Colt heard himself asking. What in the hell had gotten into him? he chided himself, allowing a woman to interfere with his job. Captain Ford’s orders were to get the Crowder gang out of Karlsburg, not to cater to the whims of an outlaw. Yet he wasn’t entirely convinced this woman was a part of the gang he’d been sent to investigate. Perhaps this holdup was an isolated incident having nothing to do with the Crowders. He certainly intended to find out But regardless, the girl and her accomplice belonged behind bars, and it was his job to see that they got there.
“Five miles due west,” Sam faltered, mustering the remnants of her strength. “Circle H Ranch … on … on the creek. Please take …”
Whatever she started to say died in her throat as her head lolled sideways onto Colt’s broad chest. Spitting out a stream of expletives, Colt lifted her atop Thunder while he carefully mounted behind her. If they were but five miles from her home, her horse would eventually make its own way back. Setting Thunder in a westerly direction, Colt concentrated on the wounded woman in his arms, alarmed by the copious amount of blood seeping through the makeshift bandage he had applied. She’d be damn lucky to reach home alive, he thought, kneeing Thunder into a faster gait.
Reaching behind him, Colt retrieved his raingear and spread it over him and the girl, who had begun to shiver from shock and exposure. “I don’t know why you did this, lady.” Colt shook his head disgustedly. “Or why your boyfriend left you and took off with the money. But if you live, you’ve got a hell of a lot of explainin’ to do. And somehow I don’t think the townspeople of Karlsburg will understand your need to rob stagecoaches or terrorize pregnant women.”
The ranch looked deserted when Colt rode into the yard. Only a few scraggly chickens greeted their arrival. No cowboys were about performing their duties, and from the looks of things, none had been employed in some time. He wondered what or who he’d find in the house. Did the girl have parents? Or a guardian? If so, they were certainly lax in exercising their authority.
The house was the usual log structure one expected to see in this section of Texas but much larger than most. Colt reckoned that at one time this spread must have been quite prosperous. But now everything looked badly neglected and in need of repair. The outside of the house was peeling, and large chunks of mud caulking had disintegrated into fine dust.
Colt dismounted awkwardly, still supporting Sam’s unconscious form, and carefully negotiated the three steps to the wide front porch. Kicking the door open, he entered the house and found himself facing the business end of an old-fashioned muzzle-loading shotgun held in the trembling hands of an aging Mexican.
“What have you done to Senorita Samantha?” the old man demanded.
Samantha. So that was her name. “Your Senorita Samantha has been wounded. Did you know she held up the stagecoach along with an accomplice? A large amount of gold intended for the bank in Karlsburg is missin’.”
“Madre mia!
I never thought she would go so far.”
“Who are you?” Colt asked.
“Sanchez. I am the only one left on the Circle H.”
“Well, Sanchez, if you have fond feelin’s for this young bandit, put down that gun and show me where to take her and I’ll attempt to save her life. She’s already lost more blood than she can spare.”
The weapon in Sanchez’s hands wavered, then shifted to point to a hallway, leading, Colt assumed, to the bedrooms. “First door on the right, Senor. What can I do to help?”
“Have you ever taken out a bullet, Sanchez?” Colt threw over his shoulder as he carried Sam inside the obviously feminine room and placed her in the center of the bed.
“Many times, Senor,” Sanchez allowed, “but not since I have grown too old and crippled to hold a knife.” He followed Colt into the bedroom and held his hands out for inspection. Besides being misshapen by arthritis, they were shaking so badly it was obvious he would be of little help.
“Then bring boilin’ water. Plenty of it. And a basin, and towels, whiskey and soap. I shot her, so I reckon it’s up to me to save her.”
“You shot Senorita Sam?” Sanchez gasped, swinging the gun around to point it at Colt.
“Put that damn thing down and follow orders. If you kill me, who will remove the bullet? There’s no time to go to Karlsburg for a doctor. The water, Sanchez, hurry. And don’t forget a needle and thread.”
Coming to a decision, Sanchez leaned the gun against the door, nodded to Colt, and scurried out the door in the shuffling gait of a man in pain. Immediately Colt turned his attention to the mud-splattered girl lying pale and motionless on the bed.