Savage Heat (10 page)

The horror of realization finally dawning, Martay felt her entire body become paralyzed with fear as her eyes flew up and locked with his. He stared down at her.

And those eyes—those cold, mean, killer-black eyes—were unmistakably those of a fierce, untamed savage!

9

T
he force of his black, unblinking eyes was so strong, Martay was unable to move or even to scream. That powerful, hypnotic gaze held hers as though she were a helpless bird charmed by a deadly snake. And for several tension-filled minutes the pair remained transfixed: he standing above, tall and dominant and frightening; she lying below, small and powerless and afraid, all the while those black, fathomless eyes snaring the green, pleading ones.

It was he who finally broke the spell, lowering his eyes briefly, setting her free. And releasing himself as well.

With those compelling eyes no longer locked with hers, Martay felt the invisible bonds fall away. She flew into action immediately. Rising to her knees, she began to scream at the top of her lungs. She screamed and screamed, her heart pounding with fear, tears pouring down her cheeks.

Her captor, continuing to stand just as he had since the first moment she’d opened her eyes, calmly watched her. Moccasined feet apart, he remained in that casually arrogant stance, crossing his long arms over his chest, waiting. Waiting for her to calm down.

Cowering there on the bed, her face bloodred, her golden hair a wild, tousled mane spilling about her shaking shoulders, Martay continued to scream until, tired of hearing the unpleasant sound, the dark man said, in a voice soft, yet deadly cold, “That’s enough.”

She screamed all the louder and shook her head violently, like a thwarted child throwing a temper tantrum. A muscle flexed in his lean jaw and he took a step forward. Her eyes grew wilder and, fearing for her life, Martay instinctively sprang forward to meet him.

With a swiftness that surprised him, she scrambled from the bed and came at him with claws bared, lashing out to scratch his face, her eyes those of a cornered animal. But she was no match for him. Before sharp nails touched smooth brown skin, his long fingers had captured her fragile wrists.

Standing so close she could feel his warm breath on her face, he said, “If you won’t behave, I’ll have to tie your hands.”

Outrage now mixing with her fear, Martay glared up at him and wrenched free of his grasp. She whirled about and raced for the door. He got there before her, turned, and blocked her path. Trapped, terrified, Martay doubled up her fists and began pounding on his hard chest, sobbing loudly.

He stood flat-footed and absorbed the blows, knowing it was useless to try to reason with her. It was too soon. She was far too upset and frightened. It was best he allow her to tire herself.

When she continued to pound on him and to kick his shins, the toes of her satin slippers banging the sharp bones again and again, his respect for her spirit grew. He wondered if she would ever give out. She looked as fragile as a leaf in the wind, but she fought like a fearless warrior woman.

Crying and tossing her head, her breasts rising and falling with exertion, she continued her attempt to beat him senseless.

Afraid that she was too stubborn for her own good, that she would continue to fight until she passed out from exhaustion, he decided to end it. Effortlessly he caught her flailing left hand and spun her about so that he was standing behind her. Holding her wrist in a viselike grip, he brought a long arm around her shoulders and jerked her back against his tall frame.

Martay’s right hand was still free. She wasted no time raising it to hit at his head. A glancing blow connected with his right ear and brought a buzzing he knew would be with him for several minutes. Hearing his sharp intake of air and knowing she’d stunned him, Martay tried again.

This time it didn’t work.

She’d never know how he managed, but instantly she found both her arms quickly pinned to her body and his wrapped tightly around her. She squirmed and screamed and threatened, and finally, so weary she could no longer struggle, sagged limply back against him. Weak, her face hot and shiny with tears and with perspiration, she stood there panting for breath, a feeling of deep despair invading her very soul.

Frightened as she was, she could no longer fight. She couldn’t even remain standing without his support. She had no choice but to lean on him. Coughing with sobs, she let her head tiredly fall back on his shoulder. Screams no longer tore from her raw throat; she was too weary even to scream. Salty tears beginning to dry on her hot face, Martay stood there trembling in the enveloping arms of a wild, dangerous redskin.

She could feel, beneath her back, the powerful pounding of his heart. His scent, that smell of clean masculine sweat and hot skin, was strong in the air. The tall, lean body was touching her all too familiarly from chest to toes, his flat abdomen and long, hard thighs pressing her bottom and the backs of her legs so closely, she could feel the leashed power emanating from him, the muscle and bone straining against his taut flesh. Worse, a dark muscular forearm was pressing her breasts as his arm crossed her chest and he gripped her shoulder to hold her immobile.

There was no longer any sound in the too-warm room save her rapid, nervous breathing and his slow rhythmic breaths. Strangely calm at last, Martay was willing to rest for a time; he was too. As they rested, dawn broke over the mountains, spreading fingers of gray pervading light over the rugged terrain and stealing in through the broken windows of their shelter.

It was during that quiet interlude that Martay grasped the curious fact that the powerful Indian holding her had spoken to her in English. At least that was in her favor. She could communicate with him. She could offer him money; he would know its value. Probably he was one of the reservation Indians out looking for … what? A white woman?

A violent shudder went through her. He was going to rape her! He would rape her and kill her! Dear God, no. No!

Martay jumped when her captor, in a low, casual voice, said just above her ear, “I’m going to take my hands away. Don’t try anything foolish. I’m not a patient man.” And all of a sudden those binding, sinewy arms dropped from her and she was free to step away from the constant heat and close intimacy of his tall frame. She did immediately, and felt the floor coming up to meet her.

She was hauled up into his arms before she completely crumpled. The sudden movement had left her dizzy, and she felt as though she might faint. Reluctantly allowing her forehead to fall onto his chest, she tried desperately to gather her wits, to renew her spent energy.

Feeling that even to lift her head was more than she could manage, Martay proudly did just that. She looked again into those cold black eyes and foolishly spoke exactly what was on her mind. “You’re going to rape me and then kill me, I know you are, you filthy beast!”

His black eyes narrowed. “A Sioux warrior does not make war on women and children.”

“Then put me down this instant and let me go!” she demanded weakly.

“You’ll be gone in twenty-four hours,” he said noncommittally as he looked directly into her eyes.

More terrified of his intense gaze than of the strong arms that bound her, Martay lowered her eyes to the level of his dark throat, noting the strong pulse throbbing there beneath the sweat-slick bronzed skin. “Why have you captured me? What do you intend to do with me? How did you get me? I don’t … I …”

He gave no answers to her barrage of questions. Instead, he carried her to the cot and sat her down, then took a seat beside her. Martay shook her head in confusion, trying to recall what had happened.

The last thing she remembered was standing alone on the back veranda at the Darlington party. Waiting for Larry Berton to bring her punch. How did she get from there to here? And just where was here? How could a wild Indian have snatched her right from that moonlit veranda? Hugging her arms to her ribs, she tried to stop the trembling of her cold, tired body. And she tried to recall exactly what had happened.

And through her mind flashed the memory of all those premonitions she’d had for the past several weeks. That feeling that someone was watching her, that something bad was about to happen to her.

“What do you want with me?” she asked, her voice faltering.

He said nothing.

Martay turned and looked again at the chisel-faced man sitting beside her. Silently he drew a cigar from inside his saddlebags and lit it, slowly puffing it to life.

In a voice gone high and shrill, she said, “Why me? Why have you brought me here?” No reply. Total silence. He didn’t bother to look at her. Angrily, she said, “Answer me, damn you!”

The dark head did not turn. Staring straight ahead, he pulled smoke deep down into his lungs, then leisurely released it. Finally, he spoke. “It doesn’t matter. This time tomorrow you won’t be here.”

Martay swallowed hard.

All day and all night alone in the wilds with a forceful, hostile Indian! What might happen in that length of time? True, he spoke perfect English and he had bragged that Sioux warriors didn’t make war on women, but could she believe him? No. Her father said the Sioux were the meanest of all the Plains Indians, that they raided and robbed and killed for the sport of it. You couldn’t trust them as far as you could throw them. They were sneaky and dangerous.

“Please”—she heard her weak voice take on a begging tone—“please let me go and I’ll never tell anyone about this.” He made no reply, just leaned back against the wall, stretched his long legs out before him, and smoked quietly, his hooded eyes fixed on some point across the room.

“I have money.” She tried another tack. “I’m quite rich; very rich in fact. I own gold mines all over northern California and Nevada. You’ll have more money than you’ve ever seen in your life if you’ll release me.”

His black eyes came back to her. “I don’t want money.”

“But you must. Everyone wants money.” She shoved her tangled hair from her eyes and pointed out, “With money you could buy all kinds of pretty things at the trading post.” She thought she detected a look of interest. His lips seemed to soften and stretch into a near smile. Triumphant, she hurried on, explaining excitedly, “Yes, you could buy lots of colorful fabric and jewelry and beads. Take presents back to all your brothers on the reservation.” She smiled at him. “Why, with enough gifts, you could probably buy any squaw you chose.”

The smile left his lips and Martay’s heart stopped when his mouth thinned into a tight line and his black eyes turned icy. He said, his anger barely controlled, “In the language of the Sioux there is no such word as squaw. That’s a white man’s word.” He put the cigar back between his even white teeth. Looking again at the stationary spot, he added, “Nor do Sioux maidens spread their legs for a few trinkets.” He ground down viciously on the cigar. “That custom, it seems to me, also belongs to the white race.”

Incensed, Martay quickly replied, “How dare you suggest that a white girl would … they most certainly do not … I would never …” Her voice trailed away. Her face had gone deathly white and her slender body jerked with anger and anxiety.

He sensed she was near hysterics again. Hoping to avoid any further physical outbursts, he rose to his feet and tossed the smoked-down cigar out the door. Standing before her, he said, “Lie down and rest. You look pale and tired.”

Knowing suddenly that if this strange, cold savage didn’t let her go right now, this very minute, she would never again be free, Martay impulsively reached out and grabbed his shirtfront. Wadding it in her hand, she drew him down to her until their faces were mere inches apart. “Please,” she pleaded, her eyes filling again with tears, “please.”

She felt a small measure of hope flood through her as those fierce black eyes softened for one fleeting instant, but that instant passed and she was looking once again into fathomless depths of harsh, cold obsidian.

“Rest now,” he said, pulling her clutching fingers free of his soft elkskin shirt and gently easing her down on the cot. He took the satin slippers from her feet and set them on the floor beneath the cot. Pulling a blanket up over her, he tucked it in around her shoulders and said, “You’ll be free in twenty-four hours.”

Telegrams flew.

Within eight hours of her abduction from the Darlington party, Martay Kidd was the focus of a massive manhunt that covered the whole state of Colorado.

When General William Kidd’s eastbound train pulled into the Bethune station shortly after eight o’clock in the morning, he was given the shocking news. He immediately detrained, climbed into the saddle, and headed back to Denver, stopping only for fresh mounts along the route.

By mid-morning, the hills and canyons around Denver were swarming with blue-coated cavalrymen. The commanding officer at Fort Collins had sent half the garrison in search of the missing woman. When General Kidd arrived in the city and was apprised of the situation, he angrily fired off a message ordering all the remaining cavalry, save a skeleton crew of twenty, out of the fort and into the mountains to look for his daughter.

Told that Major Berton had led a detail into the high country within hours of Martay’s abduction, the worried general slammed a fist down on the table and swore, “I’ll have Berton’s hide for this! Goddamnit all, he’ll be court-martialed and hanged for his negligence if my daughter is harmed!” He turned and grabbed at the nearest blue blouse he saw. “Find her, soldier! We’ve got to find my sweet child!” His green eyes swam with tears.

“We will, sir.”

“We’ve got to find her. We’ve got to,” murmured a weary, heartsick Major Lawrence Berton as he rode up a steep evergreen forested shoulder of the towering Rockies at mid-afternoon.

“We will, Major,” comforted a middle-aged leathery-faced captain riding knee to knee with the younger man. “We’ll find her.”

Major Lawrence Berton wanted desperately to believe the captain. But a chill ran through him despite the heat of the day and the circles of sweat soaking his blue blouse. He had a terrifying premonition that he would never again see the beautiful golden-haired Martay Kidd.