Just Her Type (23 page)

“Are you all right, Mackenzie?” he asked quietly.

“Just worried.”

“Don't worry. We'll find them. Probably meet them on their way back.”

“I hope so. I …”

“Stop! Put them up!” Shadows exploded from beneath the trees.

She watched Horace raise his empty hands in answer to a snarled order and tightened her hold on the reins. If the horse bolted, the men might shoot them.

A dozen men surrounded them. Their dusky eyes glistened between their low hat brims and the kerchiefs raised to conceal their faces. Her fingers itched to reach for the knife in her belt. She did not move, knowing she could be slain before she drew it.

One rider edged his horse closer. With a laugh, he tipped her bonnet back off her head. “You picked a bad night to come riding, Mackenzie. And with the sheriff, too! What would your tenderfoot lover think?”

“We're looking for Douglas.”

He leaned forward and put a gloved hand on her fingers. When she flinched, he growled, “What's wrong, Mackenzie? Don't you want our help?”

If her heart was not pounding in her ears, she might have been able to identify the man by his voice. Another shiver slipped along her spine. The men knew that. Either they were confident of their power or had nothing to lose. “You're probably busy.”

When the closest man laughed, she looked at Horace. She screamed a warning as a shadow moved. A rifle butt struck the sheriff's skull with a sharp thud. A hand clamped over her mouth, filling it with pungent leather.

Her captor tried to lift her off her horse. She twisted her foot in the stirrup. He shouted for help. Viciously she jammed her elbow into his gut. His grip loosened as he groaned.

Shouting, she plied her hand to her horse's flank. The men fell away before her. “Go!” she shrieked. “Go!”

Her bonnet bounced off. Risking a look at the sky, she groaned as she realized she was riding farther from Bentonville. South and west, she guessed. There must be a homesteader's cabin on the edge of Rutherford's spread. Someone—anyone—to help her.

A crash of hoofbeats warned that pursuit was closing. She reached for her knife. Keeping it close to the horse's side, she glanced back to see a horse less than a length behind her. Again she shouted, but her horse was going as fast as it could.

An arm reached for her. She slashed outward. Blood ran along her arm. Not her blood, her pursuer's. Shrieks and curses mixed as her horse leaped forward again. She did not know how long the horse could keep up this pace.

A gunshot sounded behind her. She ducked against the horse's neck. The hard bone beneath the mane struck her chin. She moaned, then gasped. The men fired again. The shots went over her head. They did not want to kill her. They wanted to scare her. It was too late. She already was terrified.

A shot came from her right. Her horse reared. It screeched, then collapsed, throwing her. She jumped to her feet. She stared at the thrashing beast, then whirled away.

“I'd stop if I were you.” The order came from the same direction as the last gunshot. “One more step, Mackenzie, and I'll put the next bullet in you.”

Knowing she had no choice, she halted. Pain ran along her arm, but she ignored it. From the trees in front of her, a rider rode out. A shaft of moonlight washed over him, and he appeared a mile high. Light twinkled off the gun in his hand. Smoke still spit from the barrel. This man had shot her horse out from beneath her.

Several men dismounted and closed the circle around her. Reaching for her knife, she gasped. It was gone! She saw it glittering on the road. Before she could react, her arm was grasped.

“Lost your little knife, Mackenzie?” the man jeered. The same man who had shot her horse. Nodding toward another cowboy, he laughed. “He's going to be very, very angry at you for a very, very long time for sticking him.”

“Leave me alone!”

Cruel laughter edged his voice. “Didn't we tell you that we wanted to help you find your son?”

“I don't want your help!”

“But we want to help you. We can take you to him.”

“Is he alive?” she whispered.

“Was the last time we checked on him.” He chuckled as he pressed his gun against her chest. When she flinched, he laughed again. “Are you going to be a good girl, Mackenzie?”

“You must be stupid to ask a question like that!” She must not show her fear. Her one slip had brought the gun against her.

“I'm smart enough to know how a pretty lady like you makes every man among us think of delaying before we take you to the boss.”

Mackenzie fought her panic as she recalled Lacey's empty face after being beaten and raped. “You wouldn't dare! Are you going to risk me being able to name you at your trial?”

“We could blindfold you, and you'd have no way to identify us.” He held up a strip of material. “Just you and us on the high range. That'd give you something to write about in your rag.” Roughly he wound his fingers in her tangled hair.

“You'll hang!” she retorted, but her bravado was cracking.

His laugh grated on her ears. She was spun so her back was to him. He bound her eyes and did the same to her hands. She screamed when she was lifted onto a horse. Strong arms pinned her to a hard body, but she could not guess who held her. Someone shouted, and she bounced back against her captor as the horse took off at a gallop. Were they taking her to their boss? Who was he?

More pain etched along her arms. As they continued in silence, she tried to guess where they were going. She could not recall in what direction the wind had been blowing, and the air always smelled of pine.

When they slowed, an eternity later, she heard a door open on squeaky hinges. As she was dropped onto a hard surface, she heard another thump and knew Horace had been tossed onto the floor as uncaringly as she had been. Was he still unconscious? Was he alive?

Footsteps and the crash of a door were followed by the sound of a heavy bar being dropped into place. She did not allow herself the comforting delusion of believing she could escape easily. Any man who dared to abduct the town's sheriff would know the high price of letting them get away.

Her nose told her they had been put in a barn. She rose to her feet, took two steps, and fell face first into a prickly pile of hay. Dust tickled her nose. Sneezing, she rolled onto her back. She moaned as she managed to sit. Leaning again toward where she guessed Horace was lying, she called his name.

“Ma?”

At hearing the thready sound, she responded, “Douglas? Where are you?”

She turned when she heard scratching sounds to her right. A slender body bumped against her. Douglas was alive!

“Douglas? Can you see?”

“No. I've been blindfolded since I was brought here. You must be, too.”

“Yes. My hands are tied. Horace is here, but they hit him pretty hard on the head.”

“I figured there were two of you when I heard two bumps. Where is Luke?”

“I don't know. Have you seen him?”

“I haven't seen him since I left this morning.”

“He's searching for you.”

“They couldn't have found him. He's not here.”

Luke would not have surrendered. If the ambush party had encountered him, they might have been forced to … “Can you untie me?”

“I doubt it. They have me hog-tied so tight I lost all feeling in my hands an hour or two ago. Old Jimmy's men did too good—”

“What did you say?”

“Old Jimmy. It's what my friends call Rutherford. Jamison's his first name, but that's too fancy.”

Mackenzie sagged against the hay. Too late she had the answer. “Jim” Rutherford must still want something from them. Then he would silence them for good in a way which would keep him from being a suspect. A way as horrible as what Cameron and Lacey had suffered.

When the door opened, Mackenzie knew her turn had come. More than two hours had passed since Douglas, shrieking and cursing, had been dragged out of the barn. Horace had been taken away an hour before. Neither had come back. She must do all she could to see that Douglas remained alive. It would be much easier to trade her life for his if Luke's child did not sleep beneath her heart. She could not let Rutherford discover that.

“Ready, honey?”

The rough voice filled the barn. When she did not answer, she was jerked to her feet. She gasped as she was flipped over a man's shoulder. Each step sent his bones into her stomach until she feared she would be ill. With her nose inches from his back, she could tell only that they went outside and into another building. It was not the same one, for it smelled of food and soap.

More gently than she had expected, she was placed on her feet. She swayed. She felt a light pressure on her tangled hair, and the bandanna fell away. It fluttered to the floor, sliced apart. Glancing over her shoulder, she met the cold eyes of a wind-hardened man she did not know. That surprised her, for she thought she knew all the cowpokes around Bentonville. He motioned toward a wide doorway to her left.

When she hesitated, her arm was grasped, and she was propelled toward a pair of settees in front of a huge fireplace. Dampening her lips, she faced the dapper man she knew must be waiting for her.

“Untie her!” A fierce smile tilted Rutherford's lips as he gazed at her with narrowed eyes. He was dressed more casually than she had ever seen him, but his denims looked as if he was wearing them for the first time.

When the rope was cut away, she rubbed one arm, then the other as the burly cowpoke was ordered out of the room. That Rutherford wanted privacy suited her. She had a few things she intended to tell him before printing them in the
Bugle
.

Looking about the room, she saw it was as grand as Rutherford had boasted. Unlike the furniture in Aaron O'Grady's home, here each piece was arranged with beauty in mind. Cabriolet legs beneath petit-point cushions seemed more suited to a city than a rough ranch.

“Good morning,” Rutherford said coolly.

Glancing toward the window, Mackenzie saw the eastern horizon held a hint of dawn. “Tell me where my son is.”

“Mrs. McCraven, forgive my lack of hospitality. As raw as your throat sounds, you must be very thirsty.”

“I am,” she admitted uneasily.

He gestured for her to sit. When she lowered herself to the very edge of the chair, he snapped his fingers. Taking a glass of wine from the tray held out to him, he offered it to her. “Why that charming shock? Didn't you say we cattlemen live like feudal lords?” He spread his hands wide. “See for yourself.”

“Where is my son?”

He selected another glass and sipped slowly. “Drink, Mrs. McCraven. I find it distasteful to drink alone.”

“Where is Douglas?”

“Ah, I see I must satisfy your maternal curiosity. I assure you, he hasn't been harmed.” He ran a finger along the top of his goblet. “We wouldn't want him to come to a tragic end like his father and grandfather, would we?”

“Threatening children is the act of a coward!”

He smiled coldly. “I repeat that young Douglas is in no danger. In fact, with a little proper education, I'm sure I can convince him that working on the Lazy Bar R ranch is what he wants to do for the rest of his life.”

“My son won't work for the man who murdered his father!”

“Tsk-tsk,” he chided with a chuckle. “Now who's threatening? You would be wise, Mrs. McCraven, to remember your present circumstances.”

Forcing aside her rage, she took a deep breath. “Why don't you tell me what you want?”

“That's better.” He flicked invisible dust from his fancy boots. “Unlike McCraven and your father, you know when to surrender. That should prevent your having to suffer what they did.”

“And what the Langhornes did?”

His face twisted with hate. “Mention that harlot again, and I'll order your brat shot!”

Mackenzie drew back in horror. He was insane!

“She could have been my wife,” he snarled, “but she wanted Bradfield. I took care of her. You may rest assured I'll take care of him, too.”

She clenched the glass. Rutherford did not have Luke. If Luke was careful, he might survive this. “I understand.”

“Now you wish to know what I want. I want control of the
Bugle.
”

She laughed. Putting down her glass, she rose. “The
Bugle
is ashes. More of your work?”

“Use your head, Mrs. McCraven. I want the newspaper intact. You can't blame Connolly's sloppy work on me.” Standing, he put out a hand. “You aren't going anywhere without your son. You know that, and so do I.”

“You can use Douglas to make me toe the line, but not Horace Roosevelt.”

He scowled. “If I were you, Mrs. McCraven, I wouldn't worry so much about someone else's fate. You haven't given me your answer.”

“I have.”

“Then perhaps I missed it.”

Folding her arms across her torn shirt, she smiled. “You didn't miss it. You asked for control of the
Bugle
, and I told you the idea was absurd. You may have intimidated half the county with your money, Mr. Rutherford, but neither
The Bentonville Bugle
nor Mackenzie Smith McCraven is for sale.”

“Perhaps you don't understand my conditions for this deal.” Again he snapped his fingers.

His men appeared on either side of her. When she stumbled backward, she bumped into Rutherford. His laugh sliced through her as he shoved her toward his men. One caught her.

“Don't make me hurt you,” murmured Rutherford. Taking her chin in his hand, he forced her head back so she looked up into his satisfied smile. “Why don't you agree now to what you must agree to eventually, Mackenzie?”

She flinched at his sudden use of her given name. As much as anything else, it warned her that Jamison Rutherford had put aside any pretense of being a gentleman.

“I've given you my answer,” she asserted. “Why don't
you
accept now what you must accept eventually? You will never have the
Bugle
!”