Outlaw Hearts (16 page)

“That's right,” Jake warned, still pointing the gun. “I
could
have. You give me any trouble and the next one goes right between your eyes! Now let's go next door, and I'll decide whether or not you live or die!”

“Shit,” one of the others whispered. Both men backed farther away. Nemus came out from behind the counter, his hair still full of flour. “You're a goddamn crazy man,” he grumbled, leading Jake outside. Others were heading toward the post, and Nemus shouted to them. “Stay back! This sonofabitch will kill me if you make trouble!”

Jake turned his gun on them, watching them carefully as he followed Nemus next door. “All of you stay out of this and mind your own business and you'll live,” he told them. “I've got no quarrel with you.”

Only one of them was armed. Jake looked back at Nemus, but his side vision did not miss the armed man's movement as he went for his gun. Instantly Jake turned and fired before the man had a chance to pull his own weapon. The loud crack of his gun made Nemus jump with fright, thinking at first he must have been plugged in the back. Jake's victim made no sound as his body lurched backward. A hole in his chest spurted blood for a few seconds, before his body stopped twitching.

“I'm gettin' out of here,” one of the others yelled. He turned and ran for his horse. The two men from inside the trading post hurried over to see to the one who had been shot, and Jake followed Nemus into the sod hut. He immediately curled his nose at the smell of smoke and filth and urine, and he felt as though someone were tearing his heart from his chest when he heard a whimpering sound come from a small cot in the corner.

He herded Nemus to a chair, making the man sit down and remove a rawhide string belt from his pants. Jake used the belt to tie the man's wrists tightly behind him and to one of the back rungs of the chair. The towel Nemus had held to his wounded cheek fell to the floor. “I'll bleed to death,” the man protested.

“You break my heart,” Jake answered, jerking the rawhide as tightly as possible. He holstered his revolver then and went to the cot, bending over Miranda, drawing in his breath in a gasp at the sight of her. If not for the honey-blond hair, he would hardly know it was her. Even the hair looked different, it was so stringy from sweat and filth.

“Randy?” She whispered something, but he couldn't understand her. A tear slipped out of one eye, and he wiped at it gently. “It's me, Jake. I'm right here, and I won't leave you.”

“Jake?” she whimpered. She opened her eyes, but he had a feeling she couldn't really see him. Her tears came harder then. “It's…not true. Leave me…alone…don't…touch me.”

Jake frowned, pulling the blanket away from her to see that the cot was soiled and she was naked. She had urinated, and Nemus had not cleaned her up. “No,” she whimpered. “Please…don't…”

In all the horror he had seen his father inflict on others, Jake had never known such fury, except during the incident between his father and Santana. There was no damn reason for her to be lying here naked other than to allow Nemus and the others to get a good look at her whenever they wanted, probably more than a look. He spotted dirty fingerprints around her breasts, and his anger was so intense that he thought he might black out. He covered her again and pulled the blanket away from her feet to see that her left foot was badly swollen and discolored. A cut in the form of an X was scabbed over, and he could still see fang marks near the cut. He touched the foot lightly, and Miranda groaned and shuddered.

Jake looked at Nemus and the fury in his eyes made the man begin to sweat. “Who lanced the bite?”

“One of them traders with Jennings. He sucked out the venom, enough that she lived, anyway.”

“It's infected. Have you done anything to try to stop the infection?”

The man shrugged, blood still running down his jaw and neck from where Jake's bullet had grazed him. “What the hell can you do?”

Jake left her and walked over to Nemus, whipping out his revolver and setting it against the man's throat. “You sonofabitch! There's
plenty
you could do! But all you found time for was giving her a good
feel
! What the hell else did you do, Nemus?”

The man swallowed and trembled. “N…n…nothin'. I swear. I ain't that bad, mister. But, hell, she was burnin' up with fever. I had to get her clothes off, don't you know?”

Jake stood up. Unable to control his rage a moment longer, he brought the barrel of the gun down hard across the unwounded side of the Nemus's face, opening another deep gash. Nemus's body tumbled backward from the blow, chair and all, and the man cried out when the back of the chair smashed into his arms. The awkward position made the fall even more painful.

“Goddamn it, untie me, Turner! Let me up from here!”

Jake cocked his gun and placed the end of the barrel against the man's ear. “You're fucking lucky I don't blow your brains out, Nemus, but I can promise you I
will
if that woman dies! I'm taking her out of here and I'm going to try to save her. If she dies on me, I'll be coming
back
! You can
bet
on it! I've killed enough men that it won't bother me in the least to let you die slowly, the way you're letting that poor woman die!” He raised a booted foot and brought it down hard between Nemus's legs. The man screamed, but because he was tied to the chair he could do little to help his position or find any comfort.

Jake moved to a window to check on the other three men. They stood just outside the cabin with rifles in their hands. He broke out a window and cocked his revolver. “Put those guns down or they'll just go down with you when you fall from my bullets,” he warned. “One of you has already died. Why add any more to the list?”

“What did you do to Jack?” one of them asked.

“He'll live. The rest of you get me that buckboard over there by the corral. Hitch it up to my two horses and put all the supplies from the horses into the wagon, along with Mrs. Hayes's trunk. Who owns the wagon and harness?”

They looked at each other. One started to raise his rifle, and Jake fired. The man grunted and fell, a hole in his head. Before he hit the ground and before the other two could react, Jake had fired again, deliberately grazing the arm of the second man, just enough to frighten him but not do much damage. The man yelled and dropped his rifle, grabbing his arm.

“Don't either of you move!” Jake commanded, “or you're dead! Now drop that other rifle,” he ordered the third man. “I don't aim to kill either of you if you do what I say. Now, I asked you a minute ago who owns that wagon out there?”

“Nemus owns the wagon,” the wounded one answered.

“Good. In that case I don't have to pay for it. If he gets out of this with nothing more than a good beating and sacrificing a wagon, he'll be goddamn lucky! Now go hitch my horses to the wagon like I said in the first place!” He left the window and quickly went to the door, opening it and stepping out, still pointing the revolver. “Do what I ask and you'll live. Get going!”

The one called Stanton hesitated. “Who the hell are you, mister? Really?”

“None of your damn business. Just get that wagon ready!”

The two men turned and walked toward the wagon, and Jake closed the cabin door. He hurried back to Miranda. Nemus lay groaning, now on his side, the chair still braced to his back with his arms wrapped behind it. Jake paid him no attention as he leaned over Miranda again. “Randy? Don't be afraid. I'm taking you out of here. Everything is going to be all right.”

“Hurts bad,” she wept. “Please don't…touch me again. Let me…die.”

He grasped her face, pressing his big hands to either side of it reassuringly. “Randy, it's Jake. Nobody is going to touch you like that again. Do you hear me? It's Jake.” She was so hot that the palms of his hands were wet within seconds after touching her. He wondered if she was beyond saving, wondered how he was going to live with himself if she died, knowing none of this might have happened if he had come with her when she asked. One thing was certain: if she died, Jack Nemus and the two men outside would also have to die. Then he would find Jennings and make the reverend pay for abandoning her. Maybe then he would just let himself be caught and hanged. There wouldn't be anything left to live for anyway.

In her own delirium, Miranda struggled to think straight. She was so sick. She had never known such pain. She was aware that strange men had been taking care of her, if it could be called that. She had vague, foggy memories of being naked, of men leering at her, touching her in private places. Her foot and leg hurt so bad, but no one seemed to be doing anything about it. She was sure she was dying and wondered why God didn't let it happen quickly. The way she felt was certainly much worse than death. How she would welcome the blessed release if death claimed her.

Hot, so hot, so much pain. The slightest movement sent excruciating agony from her foot through her whole body. She could remember the sound of the rattlesnake, remember the feel of the bite. She had cloudy memories of the Jenningses leaving her somewhere, with some man who said he would take care of her. She groaned at the memory of the man taking off her clothes, rubbing his hands over her body. She had begged him to stop touching her, to help her somehow. She had even asked him once to kill her.

Now here was a man close to her saying he was Jake. Jake Harkner? That wasn't possible. Surely she was hallucinating, probably on the brink of death. She hated the thought of dying alone out here where no one knew her. Would the wolves dig up her grave and eat her flesh? Would Wesley ever know what had happened to her? And Jake. He would never know either. Oh, the pain, the awful pain.

Someone was wrapping the blanket tighter around her now, picking her up. Oh, it hurt so much to be moved! She screamed in protest, and again came the familiar voice. “It's going to be all right, Randy. I'm taking you out of here and I'm going to help you.” She rested her head against a strong shoulder, opened her eyes to see traces of a scar on his neck, another small scar on his left jaw. Jake? It couldn't be. If only she could think more clearly. Right now all she could think about was the awful pain. She wanted to talk, but all she could do was cry with the pain, cry in desolation. She had promised herself she would not cry over being left alone, but the pain was too much, especially when strange men were touching her, looking at her. Where was her Winchester? If she could just find her rifle, or her pistol, she could shoot them and make them stop touching her.

Someone was laying her down again. Was that bright sunshine? Fresh air? It smelled good. She had smelled nothing but sweat and urine for days. “Hang on a little longer, Randy,” someone was telling her. It was a familiar voice. Jake? No, she told herself again, it couldn't be. She heard a horse whinny, tried to determine where she was, whether or not she was in a bed. She felt movement then, was vaguely aware she must be in a wagon, going somewhere. But where? Was she being taken out for burial? Was this what it was like to be dead? Surely not. Surely with death the pain would go away, but it hurt worse than ever because she was being moved around.

Everything after that happened as though in a strange dream. She had no conception of time, how long she rode in the wagon, where she was when someone lifted her down and laid her on soft blankets in green grass. She felt a light breeze. Someone drew her hair back and tied it at her neck, away from her face. “We'll wash your hair later,” a man's voice said.

She slipped into a restless sleep. For how long she wasn't sure, but when she awoke she was vaguely aware of a fire nearby. She felt herself being bathed then, gloried in the feel of the warm, wet rag, the smell of soap. It felt so good to be clean, and for some reason she didn't mind that whoever was washing her saw her nakedness. Why didn't it matter? He was so gentle. He slipped something over her head…a gown! Finally she had something to cover herself. She reveled in the feel of the soft flannel.

“I've got to reopen the wound, Randy,” the man told her. “It's going to hurt worse than anything you've ever known, but I've got to drain the infection and get something on it to help it heal, or you're going to lose your foot. I'll try to find some of your pa's laudanum to help kill the pain.” He was leaning close now. “I'm sorry, Randy. It's all I can do. I hate like hell to bring you even more pain.”

She opened her eyes, finally able to focus them a little. Jake? It looked like his face, but it seemed too impossible. He had ridden off over a week before she had even left Kansas City. How could he be here? “Jake?” she whispered. “Is it really you?”

“It's me. You're going to be all right, Randy. I won't leave you for a minute now until I get you to Nevada.”

She stared at him, trying to believe he was real.

“I'd like to find that sonofabitch Preacher Jennings and blow him away for what he did, leaving you alone with those bastards at that trading post!”

Jake! Such language! She almost felt like laughing. Who else would talk like that? And it was his face she saw hovering over her, his dark, handsome, familiar face. Fever and tears mixed with joy overwhelmed her. She said his name over and over, trying to convince herself she was not dreaming. He drew her into his arms and she sat up slightly and wrapped her own around his neck. Somehow he had found her, but how? And why? It didn't matter for now. It only mattered that he was here. Jake Harkner had found her and he said he'd take her to Nevada.

“Don't let them touch me again,” she sobbed. “Those men…”

“Hush, Randy. They won't touch you again. You have my word.”

His cheek was resting against her own, and it was comforting. “It hurts so bad, Jake. I've never known…such pain.”

“I know. Once I drain it, it's going to feel a lot better.”