Captive Bride (12 page)

A harbinger of doom?

Davy was in danger—she just knew it. She grabbed the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders, then pulled a chair next to the window. There’d be no more sleep for her this night.

An hour later, Abby shoved herself to her feet. Perhaps a cup of hot tea would send her back to sleep’s oblivion. She opened the door and walked down the hallway to the stairway. Her father’s bedroom door stood ajar. She glanced in—empty. Was he still nursing the whiskey bottle? Had she hurt him that bad? But what about her happiness? Didn’t she deserve to love, and be loved?

At the foot of the stairs, she paused. Silence greeted her. With a sigh of relief she headed for the kitchen. As she heated water, a loud pounding sounded at the front door.

“Sam, open up. It’s me, Philip.” The knocking continued.

Abby ran to the door and jerked it open. Philip stood there in the rain. Water dripped from his hair and his clothing. A wild look in his eyes made her step back. “Philip, what’s wrong?”

“Abby? Is it really you? I didn’t know you were back. Thank God you’re safe.” He leaned forward and embraced her. “I’ve prayed for your safe return. My prayers have been answered.”

To her surprise, Philip’s touch repulsed her. She broke away. “What’s wrong? Why are you here and in the middle of a storm?”

He didn’t seem to notice her withdrawal.

“I need to see your father.”

He tried to step into the house, but she blocked his way. “You’re dripping wet. Let me get you a towel.”

“I need to see your father now.” His voice rose to a shrill note.

“Abby,” her father’s voice sounded behind her, “get him a towel.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Come in the study, Philip.”

As the two men disappeared down the shadowy hallway, Abby found a towel and hurried back to the study. When she walked into the room, the men stopped talking. Philip stood by the mantel, and she handed the towel to him.

“Thank you.”

“What’s the matter? Why are you here—like this?” The wild expression in his eyes told her this wasn’t the man she knew.

Philip glanced at her father, then back at her. “I need to talk to your father in private, Abby. Why don’t you go to your room?”

“What? How dare you! This is my home, and you can’t give me orders.” His audacity left a bad taste in her mouth. Had she married him, would her life have been a long battle of wills? Of taking orders?

“Well, I can,” her father said and glared at her. “Leave us alone. Now. This is men’s talk.”

“No, I won’t. This is about me—and Davy. I have a right to know.” Abby stomped her foot.

“Davy? You know your kidnapper by his first name?” Philip screamed.

“Did you have anything to do with John Larson’s death?” She grabbed his arm. “You went out to his ranch and fought with him. Did you kill him?”

He shoved her hand aside. “You think I’m a murderer? I don’t believe what you’re saying. What did that half-breed do to you? How did he turn you against me?”

“Abigail,” her father stood and waved his hand at her, “go to your room this instant.”

Her father’s face was beet red, his eyes bulging from their sockets. He looked as if he may have a heart attack at any minute. She took a deep breath to gain her composure, then left the room.

As she ran up the stairs, the door shut behind her. But two could play this game. Little did they know one could hear everything that went on in the study from the upstairs spare bedroom. She’d discovered that early on and had eavesdropped many times. She dashed into the room and hurried to the fireplace. Voices came up the chimney as clear as a bell. Fingers of fear curled around her heart and squeezed. She was afraid of what she might hear but couldn’t pull herself away.

Her father’s voice came first. “This has gone far enough, Philip. I never meant for it to go this far.”

“Well, you started it, Sam. You wanted the Larson ranch, had to have it because of the railroad. I just delivered it.”

“Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”

Abby clasped her hand over her mouth to keep her scream bottled up. She slumped to her knees and clutched her hand to her heart. Her worst fear had been realized. Her father and the man she thought she loved were both involved.

“Well, I didn’t kill anyone,” Philip whined. “Larson was alive when I sent him home with the Injun, who, by the way, paid me a visit tonight. I thought the crazy old fool was going to kill me.”

So that’s what sent you out in the storm. Fear.

“And,” Philip continued, “he’s headed after Larson’s kid. Said he knows the half-breed is hiding out in Coyote Canyon, so I sent the Rangers there. Hopefully, they will solve all our problems.”

His words sent chills racing down Abby’s spine. Davy was in danger—grave danger. She had to warn him—but how? Could she make it in time? She sent up a silent prayer that the weather would delay the Rangers long enough for her to find Davy and for him to leave the country. Could she even find Coyote Canyon? She’d heard of the place but had never been there. She’d heard it was sacred to the Comanches. Well, she’d find it—or die trying.

She dashed to her room and pulled her nightgown off. After a quick search, she found an old pair of pants and shirt. She slipped them on, then her boots and grabbed a jacket. A dilapidated hat completed her outfit. Now she needed a weapon. She didn’t dare go downstairs to look for one. Hopefully, there would be one in the barn.

Within minutes, she opened the window and crawled onto the roof. The wind slammed into her, and she braced herself. As she inched her way toward the swaying branches of the giant oak at the corner of the house, a torrential blast of rain soaked her to the skin. She’d slipped out of the house this way many times before, but never in such horrid weather.

As Abby climbed onto the branch, another gust of wind had her clutching the wet wood with a death grip. Her fingers couldn’t grasp hold. She slipped several feet down to the next limb. The jagged branches tore at her clothing—and her skin. She gasped as the skin on her arm ripped.

Finally, she was on the ground. A quick scan of the area showed all the ranch hands were in the bunkhouse. She crept along the side of the house until the barn came into view. It too appeared deserted. She swept her hair up under her hat and pulled her coat collar up around her neck. Hopefully, if anyone saw her, she’d be taken for one of the men. She took a deep breath, then made a dash through the mud for the barn.

Her horse Paint neighed at her from the back stall. As Abby neared the beautiful black and white mare, the animal pranced excitedly. Since Abby had been gone for the last few days, no one had exercised the horse, and she was ready to run.

Abby grabbed her gear from the tack room. In a matter of minutes, she had Paint saddled. She searched the area and found a rifle and ammunition. With shaking fingers, she jammed the rifle into the boot. She grabbed a slicker from a peg on the wall and shrugged into it. With a prayer on her lips, she rode from the barn. As a flash of lightning sent spidery fingers of light across the dark sky, she shivered violently. Had she bitten off more than she could chew? Well, her safety didn’t matter—Davy was in danger.

Two hours later, she knew she was in trouble. She was cold—and lost. The rain had not let up. Besides that, she hadn’t seen any familiar landmarks in quite some time. Ahead, a rock overhang afforded a modicum of protection from the storm. With a relieved sigh, she steered Paint under the protective ledge, dismounted and led the mare out of the slashing rain. Her hands shook as she unsaddled the animal, then wiped her down with leaves and moss.

After the horse was settled, Abby searched her saddlebag and almost cried when she found matches. Ten minutes later, a fire flickered in the dim cavern. She crouched beside the flames and soon the trembling stopped. She dried her bedroll by the fire, then lay on the ground, using her saddle as her pillow. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but sleep would not come.

But the tears did.

How long she hovered in a sea of despair Abby didn’t know, but she must have drifted off to sleep. Nearby sounds jerked her from her slumber, and she reached for the rifle. She scanned the area but could see nothing. The rain had stopped. Overhead, a full moon hung in an ebony sky while stars winked down at her.

Abby got up and walked out from beneath the ledge. Her body ached in places that had never hurt before. She stretched, her muscles groaning in protest. She climbed on a nearby boulder and studied the heavens. Thank God her father had taught her to read the stars and find her way by them.

She waited until a couple of hours before dawn before leaving the safety of her shelter. Overhead, the North Star led the way to Coyote Canyon.

****

The morning sun crowned the mountains as Davy stared down the cliff at Coyote Canyon, land the Comanche considered sacred. Why would Silver Feather choose such a location for this confrontation? It was as if he had a sacred mission.

But why?

He shrugged. The reasons didn’t matter. If Silver Feather was responsible for John Larson’s death, the gods would have to save him. Davy pulled his gun from its holster and checked his ammunition. Silver Feather would probably prefer a more personal weapon, like a knife, but Davy would be ready.

Movement below. He shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare. From out of the shadows, a man appeared. He glanced up at the cliffs. Again, Davy had the distinct impression that the wily old warrior knew of his presence.

Davy straightened to his full height and stared down at his enemy. If Silver Feather could read minds, as some believed, Davy wanted him to know he was not afraid, and he would fight to the death to avenge his father. He uttered a prayer to the Great Spirit, then climbed over the top of the cliff and made his way down the jagged terrain.

As he approached, the smell of sagebrush assaulted his nostrils. Ahead, a circle of stones was laid out, a fire burning behind it. Ancient paintings lined the stone wall by the fire. The beating of a drum sounded in Davy’s ears. He looked around but saw nothing. Then a low chant echoed around the walls. Was it the spirits of his ancestors? Or spirits Silver Feather had summoned to help him take his revenge?

Then he stood before his enemy.

Silver Feather’s inscrutable face revealed nothing, not even animosity. His dark eyes were like those of a serpent…watching…and waiting. Clad only in a breach clout and moccasins, the Indian did not look like a man in his forties. His torso rippled with muscles while his arms were like tree trunks. Many scars lined his chest. He was armed only with a knife. When he saw Davy looking at the scars, a low grunt escaped the warrior’s lips. “A gift from our white friends.”

Davy unbuckled his gun belt, then let it slide to the ground. He took his hat off, shrugged out of his shirt and tossed them beside the gun belt. Then he met Silver Feather’s hard gaze.

“So you have come, Running Wolf.”

Davy nodded. “How did you know I was there? In Winston’s office?”

“I smelled you,” an evil laugh erupted from the man’s throat, “smelled your fear and your lust for blood.”

Although the warrior’s eyes revealed nothing, his voice reeked of hatred.

“Maybe you smelled your own death,” Davy challenged. He acknowledged to himself he did have the blood lust—he yearned, wanted, longed to plunge his blade into Silver Feather’s body, to kill the man who’d taken his father from him.

“Ayee, the pup barks loudly.” Silver Feather jerked the knife from the sheath at his waist.

Davy pulled his. Everything disappeared but the man before him. “Did you kill my father?”

The Indian nodded. A smirk touched his lips.

“Why? Did Winston pay you to do it?”

“Winston is a fool. He paid me to find the paper.”

“Then why?”

“I killed John Larson because many years ago he stole from me and dishonored me before my people. They laughed at me, and I swore vengeance. It has been a long time coming.”

“What did he steal from you?”

“Dawn Little Sky.”

“What? My mother?” Davy couldn’t believe his ears. Even though his mother had told him that once Silver Feather wanted her hand, why had the man waited so long to act on it?

“Yes. Dawn Little Sky was promised to me. She was to be my woman, my wife, but your father stole her from me, and the warriors laughed at me. I still hear their words in my sleep.” Silver Feather’s knuckles whitened as he clenched the knife in his hands.

“That was many years ago,” Davy said.

“The shame still burns brightly.” Silver Feather slid his finger along the knife blade. A ribbon of red appeared. “And when I have taken your life, I will take Dawn Little Sky as my woman.”

Davy forced himself to reveal no emotion. He shook his head and taunted, “She will not have you. She would rather die.”

“That will be her choice.” The Indian moved slowly toward Davy. “The time for talking is done.”

With those words, Silver Feather stepped into the circle of stones. Davy followed. The warrior lunged toward him. Davy stepped to one side, then struck his enemy on the back, sending him face down in the dirt. Silver Feather scrambled to his feet, wiped his mouth and spat. Davy circled to his left. Silver Feather’s dark, hate-filled eyes never left his face. He chose his next words carefully, trying to goad his enemy into making a mistake. “And now John Larson’s son will also steal from you. I will steal your life, and my mother will spit on your grave.”

His words had the desired effect. The Indian screamed and rushed at Davy, knocking him to the ground. Silver Feather fell on top of him and raised his knife. Davy grabbed the man’s wrists. The Indian’s strength surprised him. With a muttered curse, Davy berated himself for underestimating his opponent. The knife came closer and closer. Davy summoned all his strength, threw the warrior to the side and rolled to his feet.

“The pup does have some bite,” Silver Feather said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

A taunting grin played over Davy’s mouth. “Enough to take your life.”

“We shall see.” Silver Feather switched his knife back and forth from one hand to the other. “The game is over. Soon your blood will soak into the desert sand, and I will claim Dawn Little Sky.”