Nan Ryan (43 page)

Mollie was hardly aware that she was atop a
galloping horse, tightly enclosed in the Kid’s muscular arms. Only vaguely conscious of her cheek being crushed to his chest, of his repellent scent and maniacal laughter. She had not yet considered what horrors were in store for her in the days and nights ahead. She hadn’t given a thought to her promise to marry this evil man she despised and feared.

There was only one thing on her mind. Only one man on her mind.

Lew.

Had she saved him or only managed to prolong his agony? How far was it back to Flagstaff Spring? Could he walk that distance? Could he even walk? Was he so badly wounded that he would die without a doctor? Was he lying unconscious with the cold night closing in?

Oh, dear God, please let him live! Don’t let him die because of me. His life is all that matters. Nothing else. Please, God, let him live. Let him live. Let him live
. Those words became a litany, desperately repeated over and over in her mind.

“I’ve never seen you so quiet, darlin’.” The Kid’s voice broke into her reverie and Mollie, looking up at him, realized that they were no longer riding.

She was now on the ground, but didn’t remember how she got there. The Kid stood before her, tall and menacing, a dangerous light shining in his eyes.

“I’m very tired,” Mollie said, and unconsciously took a step back. He followed.

“Sure you are, honey.” He laid a possessive hand on her shoulder. “The boys are building a fire. As soon as we’ve had supper, we’ll both get some rest.” Moving closer, he added with a sly grin, “Together.”

Mollie shuddered.

“It’s grown cold,” she said, hurriedly turning away. Hugging herself, she walked over to the campfire and dropped to her knees before its warmth. Again the Kid followed and sat down beside her. Throughout the evening meal his eyes were riveted on Mollie, a slightly satanic stare that chilled her very soul. When he set his empty plate aside and took hers, she stiffened.

But to her relief, he didn’t make a move when he said, “Go on. Bedtime. Get some rest.”

Like a reprieved prisoner, she felt a great weight momentarily lifted from her tired shoulders. “Yes, I … thanks.”

Mollie rose and, without looking at the Kid or the six Mexicans around the fire, turned and walked away.

Low talking and laughter accompanied her and when she heard the Kid confidently brag, “Yes, isn’t she. And it all belongs to me,” she clenched her fists and told herself she would figure some way out of all this horror. Seconds later, he made a statement that brought catcalls and laughter from his men. “All of you stay where you are for the next hour.
Comprende?”

Mollie’s heart stood still as the Kid came up close behind her. In agony she waited until he caught her roughly to him. He crushed her against his powerful body and forced her head back over his arm.

Fear and disgust spurring her, Mollie shoved on his chest. And when his big hand swept across the curve of her breast, she snarled, “Don’t!”

The Kid laughed. “Why, honey, in a few days we’ll be married and—”

“I know, and you promised you would wait.”

“I did? I don’t remember making any such promise. All I said was—”

“You said it would be a proper wedding with the church and the priest and all.” She glared at him and squirmed within his arms, hunching her shoulders in a vain attempt to shield herself from his unwanted touch.

“I know, but why can’t we—”

“No! Absolutely not!” She said it as forcefully as she could and wrenched herself free. “The very idea! Out here in the wilds and your men within hearing distance! I refuse, do you hear me? Keep your hands off me until we get to San Carlos where we can be alone!” Her violent eyes glittered and the attitude of her slender body as she took up an arrogant, hands-on-hips stance, belied her anxiety.

Excited by her nearness and charmed by her indomitable spirit, the Kid grinned and said, “Honey, no woman’s ever talked to me the way you do.” He pulled her back to him, leaned down and rubbed his bearded face against hers, almost suffocating her. “I’ll wait if you insist, but it’s not going to be easy.” He set her back a little.

“I know,” she replied, forcing herself to finally smile at him. “It won’t be easy for me either.” She swallowed and continued, “but think what a wedding night we’ll have.” She lowered her lashes flirtatiously.

The Kid trembled. “Darlin’,” he said, that satanic light back in his eyes, “it
will
be memorable, I promise you that. We’ll make love for hours. I’ll do things to you that—”

“I know,” she cut him off, not wanting to hear more. “Now, please, I need sleep.” She rudely pushed him away.

The Kid fought the strong desire to ignore her wishes and go ahead and take her right then and there. But Mollie, showing him her back, crawled in between the blankets. The Kid stretched out beside her, so close his breathing was loud and offensive in her ears and his body heat assaulted her.

But Mollie was thinking only of Lew. Sick with worry, she thought about him through that long sleepless night. A night filled with a kind of agony she’d never before experienced.

In and out of consciousness throughout the long, chilly night, Lew wasn’t sure if the riders were real or only an illusion when, at daybreak, they appeared on the south rim.

But when he saw Chief Red Sunset’s classic profile against the dawn sky, Lew, staggering to his feet, waved madly with his good arm.

“Singing Boy,” boomed the chief, dismounting, coming to Lew. “Are you badly hurt? Where is Sunshine Hair?” he asked in Spanish.

While the chief unstrapped his medicine bundle from his belt and went about removing the bullet from Lew’s left shoulder, Lew told him what had happened. Chafing under the chief’s slow, thorough ministrations, Lew said he had to leave at once for San Carlos. The chief’s braves—a dozen of them—stood listening and shaking their heads.

His black eyes fierce, Chief Red Sunset said, “We, too, are hunting the Texas Kid. We were told he was headed east.”

“He was,” Lew said, pushing the chief’s hands away, impatient to be off. “He was coming after us. Now he’s turned back south. When they reach San Carlos, Sunshine Hair will become his wife. I must go at once.”

Staying Lew with one big hand, the chief lifted his other and motioned to one of his companions. The slim man came forward, crouched down on his heels, and Lew saw that he was not Apache, but Mexican.

“Gilberto Lopez,” Chief Red Sunset introduced him. “The husband of my sister, Desert Flower.”

“When we find them,” said the unsmiling Mexican without preamble, “I want the Kid.” His dark eyes were even more fierce than the chief’s.

The chief explained. “The Kid and his men rode into Magdalena, Mexico, and took Desert Flower from the street. For five days they held her.” Teeth clenching, his eyes closed.

“She’s not …?” Lew began.

“She lives,” said Gilberto Lopez simply. “But the gringo dog who used her will not!”

“Agreed,” said Lew, adjusting the newly tied sling on his left arm. “I’ll kill him as soon as Sunshine Hair is safe.”

“No!” said Gilberto passionately, “The Texas Kid is mine!”

“Let me have him first for a few minutes,
amigo,”
said Lew. The Mexican nodded. “Sí. But I want him alive,
comprende!?”

“Comprende
. Let’s ride.”

The church bells tolled.

Straight-up noon in San Carlos. Mollie’s wedding day. Outside the white adobe mission, past the plaza on the town’s outskirts, the Kid’s men, lounging lazily in the hot Arizona sun, stood guard. Inside the mission, the nervous bridegroom waited at the altar with the Mexican padre.

When the bells stopped ringing, Mollie, pale and beautiful in a long flowing gown of snowy white lace, took the longest walk of her life. Down the aisle to the waiting arms of the Texas Kid.

Mollie moved forward in a daze of despair, unshed tears shining in her sad violet eyes, her heart breaking. Praying that a merciful God would strike her dead, she reached the altar and shuddered when the Kid leaned close and kissed her cheek.

The little, black-robed padre cleared his throat, lifted his Bible, and began to speak. While his voice rose and fell and candles flickered in their holders and incense sweetened the still air, Mollie met her inevitable doom.

“Do you, Mollie Louise Rogers, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?” asked the padre.

“I …” she drew a shallow, painful breath, “I … do.”

The Kid beamed when the padre turned to him. In a voice sure and strong, he repeated his vows, promising to “love and cherish this woman until death do us part.”

The ceremony was almost ended. The groom, eager to get his hands on his bride, was only half listening when the padre said, “Do any here object to this union? If so, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“I object,” came a cold, determined voice from the back of the church and three startled people turned quickly to see a lone man—silhouetted against the fierce sunlight—standing in the open church door, his left arm in a sling, his booted feet apart.

“Holy Mary …” uttered the padre and dropped his bible.

“What the goddamned hell?” blurted the stunned Kid.

“Lew,” breathed Mollie, as the Maya fortune-teller’s prediction flashed through her mind:
two men, two weddings, and on the same day
. “Lew,” she shouted as the Kid, reality dawning, swiftly drew his guns.

Mollie lunged at the Kid, knocking one Colt from his hand just as it cleared the holster. It clattered to the floor, discharging as it struck stone. Quickly the Kid fired the other, missing Lew by inches. Lew calmly drew, took quick aim, and squeezed the trigger, shooting the Kid’s smoking gun from his hand. The Kid yelped in pain and terror.

“Step away from him, Mollie,” Lew said evenly, his finger caressing the raised revolver’s trigger.

“Mollie! My gun. Toss it to me,” shouted the Kid, his eyes on the tall man now striding determinedly down the aisle. Under his breath, the Kid muttered, “Where the hell are my raiders?” Then frantically, “My gun, damn you, Mollie. Hurry!”

Mollie swooped down, snatched up the pistol and, trembling with emotion, gripped it with both hands, raised it, and pointed it straight at the Kid.

“Don’t do it, sweetheart,” Lew cautioned in that soft, low voice, his eyes riveted to the Kid. “You and the padre go on into the vestry. But see that the padre doesn’t leave, Mollie. We’ll need him.”

“Yes! Yes, Lew,” Mollie said, laughing and crying at once. “Yes, my darling, yes.”

“Yes?” echoed the Kid dumbly, his eyes nervously darting back and forth between Lew and Mollie. “Shoot the bastard, Mollie! What are you waiting for?” There was a growing edge of panic in his voice. “Mollie, honey, help me. Hatton’s going to kill me!”

But Mollie was already leading the frightened padre toward the back door as Lew slowly, surely advanced on the terrified Kid.

“Look here, Hatton,” the Kid said, lifting his hands high, “can’t we settle this? The girl doesn’t mean anything to me. You want her? Take her and I’ll—”

“It’s you I want, Kid.” Lew moved closer, his face hard, his eyes murderous.

“Me?” The Kid’s voice had lifted an octave. “I … I haven’t done anything. I haven’t touched her. Ask her, just ask her.” He smiled nervously, hopefully.

“This goes back to before Mollie.”

The Kid swallowed hard. “I tell you, Hatton, I haven’t done anything! Not a thing. Surely you can’t hold your old man’s death against me.” He laughed uneasily and shook his head. “After all, it was war. You must have killed a few men yourself back then. Hell, we all did, on both sides.” He again swallowed convulsively as Lew’s cold stare went to his lobeless ear. The Kid’s fingers automatically went to that ear.

“Let’s step outside, Kid,” said Lew, his icy stare returning to the Kid’s fear-paled face.

“Hatton, this can be settled right here. There’s—”

“No, it can’t. I will not desecrate this holy place with the blood of a rapist and murderer.”

At the word
rapist
, the Kid’s jaw went slack and he began to shake.

“Move it,” Lew commanded, and the petrified Kid reluctantly walked up the aisle.

Which woman? Which rape?
His troubled mind raced as he reached the open church door and stepped, blinking, out into the sunlight. Expectantly, he looked around, searching the small plaza, the empty street.

“Lose something?” asked Lew, his voice as calm and cold as ever. “If it’s your boys you’re hunting, you won’t find them.”

The Kid’s head whipped around. “They’ll kill you, Hatton! All I have to do is give the command.” He wanted to believe that it was true. Hoped it was true. Surely, any second now one of his men would put a well-aimed bullet through Hatton’s heart.

“Ever spend any time around the Apache?” asked Lew, conversationally. “Nobody quieter than an Apache. He can sneak right up on a man and slit his throat before you could blink your eyes.”

The Kid felt a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his gut. But he tried to sound confident when he said, “Hasn’t been any Apaches around here for—”

“You’re wrong, Kid. Dead wrong. There’s an even dozen Apaches in San Carlos right now, entertaining your boys.”

“You’re bluffing, Hatton,” said the Kid, fighting his paralyzing terror.

“Am I? Call them. Invite them to join us.”

The Kid swallowed twice and shouted anxiously, “Cuchillo! José! Roberto!” He continued to call to his absent men, his voice echoing through the quiet street. Louder and Louder he shouted, near tears, pleading, begging for help.

No answer.

“You won’t get away with it,” the Kid said, trying a different tack. “The marshal will—”

“—thank me for cleaning up his town. Eight to five says you’ve been bragging ever since you got here how the law’s afraid to bother you.”

The Kid stumbled and almost fell. It was true. From the minute they had ridden into San Carlos, he’d had his men put out the word that anybody—including the marshal and his deputy—who gave them any trouble would end up in the cemetery beside the old mission.

“It’s you and me, Kid,” taunted Lew. “Stop walking when you reach that stand of cottonwoods just beyond the cemetery.”