Velvet Thunder (22 page)

“There's only one other thing that would make this a perfect day for me,” Rachel said.

“And what is that?”

“Kill the marshal.” She spoke so dispassionately, she might have been asking him to step on a roach.

Jack's smile faded. “Reno's only a boy. Why do you want him dead? Surely not for that little altercation outside.”

“I think he recognized me.”

“How?”

“After you left Chicago, I embezzled two thousand dollars from that bank and got my face on a wanted poster.” She didn't have to tell him about the other wanted posters on Rachel Jackson or the blond, green-eyed marshal who was hunting her as if she were a mad dog on the loose.

Jack shook his head. “I never kill lawmen unless I have to. It tends to encourage other lawmen to snoop around. And Reno's such a coward. He's just what I need here. As long as he's on the job, no competent lawman can come in and spoil my plans.”

Rachel leaned against the sill, her hands knotted in her lap. “I'll go along with whatever you think's best. But if he blows the whistle on me, we could have U.S. marshals swarming all over the place.”

Jack ran his fingers slowly along both sides of his mustache. Finally, he met her eye, his expression calm. “Don't worry about Reno. I'll have Sims and Jacobson give him a good scare. He'll be drunk for six months when they get through with him. By the time he sobers up, we'll be gone.”

Rachel nodded. Fortunately, Elias Colt Jack was not her only ally in Adobe Wells. She would see Reno dead; she had come too far to let some tinhorn send her back to prison, much too far.

Unaware of her dire musings, the eavesdropper beneath the window heaved a sigh of relief, thinking at least the local law was safe. But Layard Shackelford was another matter. The geologist's life was in his hands.

If only he could reach him in time . . .

 

 

Ted entered his office. It was just as he had left it several days before. Donn Pedro was a good caretaker. He smiled at the thought.

The office was actually quite plain, furnished with a decrepit wooden desk and swivel chair. A splintered bench was pushed up against the front wall. The single crumbling jail cell was hidden in the back, behind a scarred door, an iron cot and porcelain slop jar in the corner of the cell.

Reno flopped into his chair and drummed his fingers across the desk, thinking. Donn Pedro came through the door.

The child was lame, just one more of life's throwaways. Reno had found him fighting stray dogs for scraps in the trash dump behind the town eatery. Knowing what it meant to have your pride insulted, Ted didn't offer the boy charity. Instead, he had gotten him a job at the stage office and allowed him to sleep in the jail in exchange for running errands. Reno was the only family the boy had. And Donn Pedro was completely devoted to him. The rest of the town might laugh at him, but he was Donn Pedro's hero.

“Buenos dias, Señor
Reno.”

“Buenos dias,
Pedro.”

The child's eyes sparkled when Reno spoke to him. He was clutching a packet of mail in his dirty fist.

When Ted looked into Pedro's worshipful gaze, his chest expanded with a measure of pride. Smiling, he took the mail. “
Gracias
, Pedro.” He mussed the child's hair, studying him with feigned solemnity. “You look like a man who could use a licorice whip.” He handed him a penny.

“Gracias, Señor
Marshal.” As fast as he was able, the child shuffled out the door, heading for Dowling's General Store.

Reno opened the packet and found a stack of wanted posters. Casually, as he thumbed through them, he leaned his chair against the wall, thoughts of Rachel teasing his mind. He almost tipped over when Rachel's likeness stared up at him from the third placard from the top.

“Rachel Baker,” he read silently. “Wanted. Dead or alive. For embezzling $2,000 from the First State Bank of Chicago.” He whistled through his teeth, then continued. “Aka Rachel Jackson. Wanted for murdering two guards during an escape from Arkansas Territorial Prison. Reward $1,000.” He slammed the poster down on his desk. “Well, I'll be damned!”

 

 

The long day behind him, Ted carefully placed the wanted poster of Rachel in his desk drawer and headed back to the boardinghouse. As he passed the Golden Nugget, a harsh voice ordered him to halt.

On the boardwalk, Sims planted his feet and glared down at Reno. His hand blurred; his gun spat fire. A barrage of bullets plunged into the mud surrounding Ted's feet. Reno danced and screamed in alarm, expecting to feel the burning pain of hot lead.

“You damn sissy cur,” Sims spat out, sending more gunfire in Ted's direction.

Ted's bladder emptied itself involuntarily, saturating his clothes with warm liquid. When he raised his head, his tearful gaze collided with Pedro's. “Don't,” Reno shouted.

But it was too late. The child dove for Sims's legs. The brigand backhanded him, sending his small, broken body into the sucking mud.

Laughing harshly, Sims returned to the saloon.

Tears blurred his vision, but slipping and stumbling, Ted made his way to Donn Pedro. Kneeling, he gathered the boy against his chest. When he reached his office, he threw open the door, fell on the floor, and, still holding the child, sobbed quietly until he was claimed by a numbing sleep.

Pedro came awake slowly. Rising, he took a moth-eaten blanket from the back cell and reverently covered Reno's body. Then he curled up close to the man who was and always would be his hero.

No matter what.

Heath was wholly unaware of just how unique Stevie was. Among the Comanches, she was considered a healer. Whenever she touched someone who was ill, the powerful medicine would overtake her, flow through her fingers, soothing pain, spreading well-being. It was a mystical gift, wholly spiritual. She had not been with her mother's people long enough to learn their healing ways, how to employ the curatives of plants and herbs. All she had were her hands and the power the Great Spirit had imparted to her.

Even now, as she rubbed her flat palms over the maiden's belly, the girl's pain subsided. A warmth tingled inside Gentle Fawn, beginning in her stomach and spreading to her heart and mind. She breathed a Comanche prayer of thanksgiving for Stevie's gift.

“What's your name?” Stevie asked in Comanche.

“Gentle Fawn.”

Stevie sucked in her breath. This was Black Coyote's wife and she hadn't recognized her. Her cousin's wife was so frail and thin. A life of danger and depravation had ravaged the beauty she once possessed. “Gentle Fawn, it is Yo-oh-hobt Pa-pi, Yellow Hair.”

Just then Gentle Fawn felt the cruel fingers of another contraction. When it passed, she raised black, tortured eyes to Stevie. “Please save my baby,” she whispered with her waning strength. “And raise him as your own.”

“I'll save him. But he will have his
pia
to raise him,” Stevie soothed, rubbing Gentle Fawn's stomach, easing her through another contraction.

There was so much Stevie wanted to ask. Why was Gentle Fawn out here alone? Where was Black Coyote? How long had she been bleeding so profusely? She settled for “How long have you been in labor?”

Gentle Fawn did not possess the strength to answer.

Heath stood riveted, unable to look away. The power surrounding Stevie was almost visible. She eased Gentle Fawn's pain with the touch of her fingertips. And her spirit soothed the girl's fear and despair as surely as her hands relieved the pain.

It was almost a spiritual experience, as if he were a part of Stevie, as if his love for her made him an active participant in the unnatural phenomenon he was witnessing. He was mesmerized and overwhelmed by this woman he loved more than life itself.

“What are y'all doing?”

The mystical spell was broken by Erica's nasal whine.

Stevie stiffened. For the first time since Heath entered the clearing, she lifted her gaze to him. “Get her out of here.”

Their eyes met and held. “Don't you need me?” he asked.

Stevie regarded him for what seemed like forever. She had known he was there all along. And she had known he was participating in the healing process. It had been as if they were one. The power flowing through her fingers had never been so great. Heath had made her feel as if she could accomplish anything, as if they could accomplish anything, together.

But as she looked at him now, standing so tall and glorious in the waning light, with the small white woman pulling on his arm . . .

She wanted to shout, “No, I don't need you.” But she couldn't bring herself to lie. So she said, “Just get her out of here.”

Hurt, anger, and fear of a future without Stevie gripped Heath's heart. Wheeling around, he grabbed Erica by the arm and shoved her ahead of him. “Let's go. You can help make camp.”

“But I'm tired. Let her do it. Why's she fiddlin' with that squaw anyway? She's just a dirty old Indian. It'd be better if her whelp died. And her along with it.”

Heath jerked her to a halt and spun her around. “You say another word like that, just one more word, and I swear to God, I'll turn you over my knee and wallop the daylights out of you,” he growled down into her face.

She spat, sputtered, and dredged up crocodile tears. “You wouldn't dare. Why, I've never been spanked in my life.”

“That, madam, is abundantly clear. Now, come along. I'll start a fire and you'll cook while Stevie takes care of Gentle Fawn.”

When the enraged marshal and the petulant belle arrived back at the horses, Erica stamped her foot and crossed her arms over her chest. “I will not put up with such abominable treatment.”

Heath didn't trust himself to speak. Frustrated, he unsaddled the horses and gave each a vigorous rubdown. He hobbled them and turned them loose to graze.

Erica remained where he left her. The look she gave him when he returned would cook an egg in its shell. She was obstinately mute.

Thank God! “If you don't like our company, you are welcome to leave at any time,” he threw over his shoulder as he headed back toward Stevie and Gentle Fawn.

The sound of Stevie keening, as her ancestors had done for generations, almost brought Heath to his knees. Never had he heard anything that moved him so. It floated on the wind. Mingled with the shrill cry of an infant, it wrapped around his heart and squeezed painfully.

He hastened his step, his long stride devouring the ground that separated him and Stevie. If he didn't touch her soon, his heart would burst, of that he was convinced.

When he reached the clearing, he found what he expected. Stevie, kneeling at the side of the still maiden, holding a blood-smeared baby in her arms. The life's blood from the mother had stained Stevie's platinum braid. A silver-gold rope tinged with crimson, it rested against the infant's glistening black head.

“Sweetheart,” he said, hurrying to her side. He drew her and the baby into the shelter of his arms. “Gentle Fawn?”

“
Suvate
, it is finished,” was all she said.

“The baby?”

“It's a girl.”

Sitting beside Gentle Fawn's still, lifeless form, he rocked Stevie and the baby back and forth. Stevie's tears soaked the front of his shirt, warming his skin as the feel of her in his arms warmed his heart. He was unaware that he had dropped his hand to the infant's head.

But Stevie was quite aware of his action. She knew she should resist his comfort, draw into herself, but she needed him so much.

Settling her closer, Heath dropped his gaze. “What will happen to her?”

“I'll raise her with Winter. What did you expect?”

“Just that.” He smiled down at her, caressing the baby's head. “She's so small.”

When the child made a weak attempt to cry, a feeling of protectiveness slammed into his gut. The sight of the tiny scrap of life nestled trustingly against his body and Stevie's gave rise to a wave of love such as Heath had never experienced. It was the kind of intense feeling he had for Stevie, almost as strong, but different, the kind of love he imagined his father felt for his sisters, the kind of love that would make a man lay down his life for his child gladly, without a moment's hesitation.

Heath knew that he would kill for this Comanche baby. If anyone anywhere dared to hurt her, he would not be responsible for his actions. Retribution would be swift and sure . . . and harsh. And he had absolutely no idea why he felt this way. Emotions were like that, he supposed. They just sneaked up on you and you were powerless to do anything but feel.

He was unable to speak for a long time, so moved was he. Finally, he dropped a kiss on Stevie's brow. “Sweetheart, let me take you and the baby back to camp. Then I'll see to Gentle Fawn.”

Tears started to streak down her cheeks again. “We can't even give her a proper burial.” She leaned forward and kissed the still, peaceful form of Gentle Fawn.

Heath gathered her back against him.

“Oh, Heath, she was so beautiful. I remember when she and Black Coyote first married. She was so happy. And now her life's over.”

The question uppermost in Heath's mind had to be asked. “What about the others? Her husband? Did she say?”

“The village was attacked. Everyone's dead. All the women. All the children. Black Coyote. Everyone.” She wasn't prepared to tell him that she knew the identity of the men who had committed these atrocities. She would keep that information to herself. And somehow she would make them pay.

If Heath knew their identity, he would be obliged to turn them in. The murdering thieves would probably be given a reward for ridding the West of a bunch of filthy savages, she thought bitterly.

Her voice dropped to an agonized whisper. “Why? Why did they have to kill them?” She turned a tortured gaze on Heath.

His heart clenched at the pain in her eyes. He was unprepared for the sound of her harsh laughter.

“You know something? I've lived my whole life ashamed of what the Comanches have done to whites. But white men are no better. Not one bit. They're . . . they're worse.” She buried her face in the baby's hair. “I hate them,” she cried brokenly. “I hate them all. If there was a Comanche village nearby, I would go to it. I would live there . . . like an Indian . . . and never go back to Adobe Wells. Never. I would raid with the warriors. Kill the whites. I would kill them. I would kill them all.” She dissolved into silent tears. The only sign of her distress was her shaking shoulders.

“Shhh, sweetheart. It's okay.” He crooned nonsensical messages. He knew she didn't really mean what she said. For a moment he had been taken aback by her expressed hatred for whites, fearing that she would blame him for what his people—if indeed whites were responsible for the raid on Gentle Fawn's village—had done. But she was grief-stricken. She didn't hate all white men.

Dear God, he hoped she didn't.

When Stevie and Heath finally returned to camp, Stevie was inordinately subdued from exhaustion, physical and emotional. The baby lay listlessly in her arms, weak from lack of nourishment and the strain of a difficult birth.

“She's hungry.” Stevie's voice was completely devoid of emotion.

Heath eased her down on the pallet he had placed close to the fire. He noticed for the first time that Stevie held a square, flat pouch. The pitiful mewling of the hungry child drew his attention away from the soft leather bag. “I don't have much experience with babies, but . . . can she drink sugar water? Until we reach Adobe Wells tomorrow?”

Stevie nodded, never taking her eyes from the baby's face. After her earlier outburst, she had grown almost as listless as the babe.

She was a far cry from the fiery hellion who had taken shots at him from Mustang Mesa. And it scared Heath spitless. “I'll get it.” Worried about both Stevie and the baby, he didn't notice Erica approach, didn't see the hatred and disgust on her face as she glared down at them.

She motioned to the buckskin sack. “What's that?”

Stevie didn't answer, just clutched the baby closer to her body.

“It gonna live?” Erica asked in a low voice, gesturing toward the baby.

Heath didn't hear the question, but Stevie did. Still, she didn't respond.

“Did the squaw die?” Erica prodded.

Stevie looked up at the girl, violence blazing in her ebony eyes. She nodded tersely.

Erica tossed her head and huffed, “Too bad the brat didn't.”

Stevie placed the baby and Gentle Fawn's pouch on the blanket gently. With a low growl emanating from her throat, she gathered her legs beneath her and lunged for Erica, claws bared. The words she shrieked in Comanche were unintelligible to Erica, but the message was crystal-clear.

The catfight was over almost as soon as it began. Dropping the cup of sugar water on the ground, Heath ran over to the women and grabbed Stevie around the waist. Holding her tight against his chest, he whispered into her ear, “Don't, sweetheart.”

Stevie jerked around and stared at him, bewildered. She was crushed that he would protect Erica, a spoiled, selfish girl who could wish an innocent baby dead simply because she was an Indian.

Heath had not heard Erica's horrible words, but he had no doubt that she deserved any abuse she got. His intention was not to spare Erica as Stevie supposed, but to protect the woman he loved. Stevie was part Indian. Erica was the daughter of a white Army officer. The society they lived in would not allow an Indian to attack a white woman no matter the provocation. The fact sickened him, but it was a fact nonetheless.

Erica regarded Stevie as if she were a bug to be squashed. Pinning her gaze on Heath, she questioned, “She some kind of Indian lover or something?”

Stevie jerked free of Heath's hold and bent to pick up the child. “No. I'm not an Indian lover. I'm an Indian.” She turned her back on the two white people in camp and went about the business of seeing to the Indian baby—her own kind.

“What did you say to her?” Heath growled low when Stevie was out of earshot.

Erica tossed her hair behind her shoulders and regarded him petulantly. “Nothing. Just that it was too bad the brat didn't die with the squaw.”