Charlotte Boyett-Compo- WayWard Wind

By

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author

Prologue

Arming sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his striped shirt, the prisoner looked about him as his fellow inmates toiled in the hot sun. A few of them had passed out and had been dragged to the relative shade of the high stone walls that surrounded the territorial penitentiary. He laid his pick ax down and raised his hand.

"Harper!" came the begrudging acknowledgment.

The shackles around his ankles chaffed in the blistering heat, weighing him down, keeping him from moving freely, but he needed a drink of water from the bucket. His head was aching unmercifully as he shambled over under the watchful eye of the armed guard.

"Hurry it up, Harper!" the guard snarled, caressing his rifle as though it were a willing woman.

The water was hot, but it was wet and as he lifted the dipper to his parched lips he saw buzzards flying above his head. He deliberately let some of the water fall down his chin to help cool him.

"That's enough. Get your sorry ass back to work!" the guard shouted and took a menacing step toward the prisoner.

Falling back into line, he stooped over to pick up the pick ax, the pain in his back like sharp talons dragging down his lacerated flesh. The heavy cotton of his striped prison garb had stuck to his back in just the length of time it took him to bend over and straightening up was hell. He grit his teeth and wearily raised the pick ax, stabbing it into the rocky soil, wishing he was driving it into the face of the bastard who put him in this ninth circle of damnation.

A Negro down the line started chanting a work song and others around him joined in. He's too tired, too angry to add his voice to the others though he'd been told the singing helped to blot out the tedious, backbreaking work.

He would never know who started the fight or why the bull guarding his section of workers turned away, hurrying toward the melee, leaving him and four other men unguarded. All he heard was one of the others hissing at him, waving an arm at him, telling him to run.

"Make tracks, boy!" someone said and hobbled though he was, he lit out along with two others, scrambling toward the river and the marshes beyond, the chain between the leg bands of his shackles biting into his ankles.

Shots were fired, but the bullets hadn't come their way. The three of them were hightailing it as fast as they could, ducking in among the tall rushes at the river's edge, wading into the murky waters of the river. It was tough walking in the silt and tougher still striving to swim with ankle shackles weighing down your feet, but the men were determined and were soon halfway across the water before the first rifle shot came from the guard tower, taking one of them down beneath the churning waves.

Swimming faster than he ever had before, ignoring the burning pain ripping across his back as his movement tore open lashes that had partially healed, the prisoner didn't have time to see if the other man plowing through the water was going to make it to the opposite bank. He was kicking furiously with his bound legs--flailing them in tandem with one another like the tail of a fish cutting through a stream. Dimly, he heard shouting, bullets streaking into the water near his head, heard the dogs barking, and knew the bulls would be after him as soon as they took to their horses. His only thought was to reach the other side, to run, to hide, to get away.

Freedom was a few strokes away and though his back was on fire and his strength was flagging, he made one last desperate heave toward the banks of the river.

If they caught him, he'd be sent to Leavenworth. There was no doubt in his mind about that. As bad as the prison was in Missouri, it might be worse in Kansas though he'd heard they didn't use the cat-'o-nine in there. After having spent more than his share of torturous nights in the frigidly cold dark cells in the winter and then baking in those same cells in the furnace of summer for infractions he could no longer remember having committed, he didn't want to think of what they might do to him in Kansas.

He would rather die than be taken back to the penitentiary.

Once on the other side, he collapsed for only a minute or two on the shore to gain his breath then he was stumbling to his feet, shuffling along as fast as his shackles would allow, making for the roadway and beyond to either freedom or an early grave.

Uppermost in his mind was the face of the man who had condemned him to the last five years of living death and he made a vow to himself—he would either die before he allowed them to drag him back to prison or he'd find Jonas Dalton and exact the revenge that had been building in his gut for those five, horrible years.

Chapter One

Sloan Harper watched the rolling cloud of dust thrown up by the stagecoach as it rumbled over the open plains. His gloved hands were crossed over the saddle horn as he flexed his thighs to hold in check the high-spirited roan stallion upon which he sat. He moved his right hand to the deadly six-shooter strapped to his thigh and caressed the pearl handle. A brutal smile tugged at his lightly whiskered cheeks then he pulled on the reins, turning his mount to maneuver it down the small rise and to the place he'd picked to waylay the stage.

He'd been waiting years for this, he thought. Endless nights of lying on a dirty, thin mattress filled with cornhusks tossed over a bed-rack of iron with his back torn apart and bleeding, his wrists shackle-bruised and oozing pus had given him plenty of time to plan his revenge on the man responsible for the hell into which Harper had been thrown. Nothing less than an exacting vengeance would do even if he forfeited his life in the process.

With his black Stetson shielding his steely eyes from the blistering sun, he gently kicked the horse into a slow gallop to gain the ambush point before the stagecoach. His black duster flapped in the wind behind his legs and his silver spurs flashed as he kept the heels of his dusty boots down. He rode easily, his mind on his objective, a muscle jumping in his sun-darkened jaw as he contemplated the terrible thing he planned to do. When he reached his destination, he reined in the stallion and threw a long leg over the horse's head and slid to the ground, his spurs jingling as he landed. Tying the horse to a piece of deadwood, he pulled his rifle from its leather scabbard, worked the lever and stepped out onto the roadway over which the coach would soon be traveling, knowing the vehicle would have to slow significantly to take the sharp turn that skirted the boulders of the rocky canyon. With the rifle up and pointed, legs spread wide in a deadly stance, he waited for the rumbling, jangling, squeaking stage to approach. As soon as the two men appeared sitting high on the wooden seats, he fired a warning shot and cocked the rifle again.

"Whoa!" he heard the driver shout as he began sawing on the reins to stop the coach's horse, saw the man riding shotgun start to lift his weapon. Harper fired again and the shotgun went flying out of the other man's hands which then immediately went up in the air in surrender.

"Don't shoot!" the man beside the driver yelled. "We ain't carrying no gold!"

"It isn't gold I'm after. Throw down your side arms!" Harper ordered, his rifle trained on the driver and the two men promptly obeyed. "Now, climb down."

Getting to the ground, the two men held their hands above their head as they stepped away from the coach at Harper's command. "On the ground," he told them and with alacrity the driver and his companion dropped to the dirt.

Keeping an eye on the driver and the other man, Harper walked to the stage's door and flung the door open. "Out!" he barked, stepping back, rifle pointed at the door.

The first one out of the stage was a peddler in a loud plaid suit topped off by a ridiculous bow tie, his jowls wobbling as he hurried off to one side, his hands up. "I'm not armed," the peddler assured him with a slippery smile.

Harper ignored the man. His eyes were thin slits of malice beneath the brim of his Stetson. "Don't make me have to come in there after you," he told the other person in the coach. "Get the hell out. Now!"

The other occupant was an older woman who came down the dusty steps, her reticule clutched tightly in her trembling hand. Her face was deathly pale, her lips quivering. "I'm not carrying any valuables, sir," she told him. "I've no jewelry, but I do have a few dollars. If ...."

"Shut the hell up. I've no need of your fucking money," Harper snarled at her and had the satisfaction of seeing her blush furiously at his vulgar words. He swung the rifle toward the peddler a couple of times, letting her know he wanted her to move away from the coach.

The woman gave Harper a worried look then joined the peddler, her knuckles white on the reticule.

"Are you Jacob Dalton's daughter?" Harper demanded, sweeping an insulting glance down her portly frame.

The woman flinched. "Y--yes. Why? Did my father send you to ...?"

"You," Harper snapped, switching his gaze to the peddler. “Come here.”

The peddler looked as though he was about to piss on himself, but he hurried over, his lips trembling.

Harper snaked a hand into the inside pocket of his duster and withdrew an envelope. “Give this to the driver.”

“Y…yes, sir!” the peddler said and caught the envelope flicked his way.

"Now back inside," Harper ordered.

The overweight man hesitated with the envelope clutched against his chest. "What of the lady?" he asked.

"You didn't help her out," Harper replied. "You aren't helping her back in." The rifle lifted a bit. "Now, get your fat ass back in the stage!"

Scrambling back to the coach, the peddler spared his traveling companion an apologetic look before handing the driver the envelope and climbing back into the stage. Settling down on the seat, he looked out the window, staring hopelessly at the woman. "I'm sorry, Miss Dalton," he said.

"You two," Harper called out to the driver and his assistant. "Back on the stage and see that letter gets to the man it’s addressed to."

The two men pushed up from the ground. The driver cast the woman a worried look. "What about the lady? We can't just leave her here."

"You can and you will," Harper told them.

"W--what are you gonna do with her?" the driver asked.

Harper didn't answer. His eyes narrowed dangerously, his finger tensed on the rifle's trigger, and the driver made haste to climb back up to his seat, his companion scurrying up the other side. He stood where he was until the stage was set into motion and the horses were picking up speed before he shifted his stony glower to the woman.

"Come here," he ordered. When she remained where she was, his lip and nose crinkled with annoyance. "I know you're not hard of hearing. You'd best do as I tell you."

She lifted her chin, finding a bit of backbone as she stood there shaking from head to toe. "What are your intentions, sir?" she asked, her voice trembling almost as violently as her body.

A cold, hateful smile pulled Harper's taut lips. He was staring at her with such hatred, such venom the air around them was snapping with tension.

"Don't make me tell you twice, woman," he said in that lethally low voice that bore just a trace of an accent. "I can be a real mean son of a bitch when I'm pissed."

Her ample bosom heaving with fright, she shuffled toward him, the hem of her expensive gown dragging in the sand. Knuckles whiter still as she gripped her reticule, she couldn't take her eyes from his shadowed face beneath the brim of the Stetson for she'd seen the ravage of a wavering scar that bisected his lean right jaw. When she was within striking range, he shot out a hand and gripped her pudgy arm, yanking her with him as he started behind the boulder from which he'd appeared.

"You're hurting me," she protested as he tugged her along.

"Good," he snapped.

She spied his horse, but saw no other means of travel. She knew she'd be riding with him and horses frightened her. Her stomach did a funny little plummet and she dug in her heels, making him stagger.

Harper twisted around, his lips skinned back from his teeth. "Woman, I told you that you don't want to piss me off." He jerked her arm and she nearly lost her balance as she stumbled behind him.

"I don't ride," she said. "I ...."

He didn't give her a chance to finish for he spun her around, grabbed her around the waist, and hoisted her into the saddle, half-laughing when she fumbled to grip the saddle horn for dear life, striving not to tumble off the other side of the saddle.

"Oh, Lord!" she whispered. "Oh, Lord!"

She was perched there with her skirt hiked up to her knees, her prim little white stockings looking odd against the darkness of the saddle's fender. She was a good foot shorter than him and her feet didn't reach the stirrups and when he swung up behind her, lacing her into the fortress of his arms, he had to nudge her legs out of the way to thrust his boots into the stirrups.

"How the hell much do you weigh, woman?" he snorted as he leaned forward to take the reins.

He felt her stiffen in his arms and sit forward so her back wasn't touching his chest, but when he kicked his mount into motion, she was thrown against him, and when he tightened his hold, she had no choice but to rest against him. The rocking motion of the horse brought her rump into contact with the spread V of his legs and he wasn't expecting the reaction his body gave to the situation. Getting an erection irritated the hell out of him and made his upper lip curl with disgust. The bitch in his arms was Dalton's old maid daughter, the rancher's most treasured possession, the apple of her father's eye, and just knowing she had the bastard's blood running through her veins was enough to make Harper want to slit her throat and leave her to bleed out.

But he had other plans for this woman and those plans would take them across the border and into the Mexican hills where a posse would never find them. She would be entirely at his mercy, under his control he thought as he let the stallion run full-out back the way the stage had come, backtracking, leading anyone who might try to track him far off course.