First Class Male Page 8

  Okay, she’d had better afternoons. Callie felt the stolen horse beneath her circle around and around, fighting his bit as if he wanted nothing more than to get back to his nice safe home (she completely agreed with him on that one). But the rough, brute of an outlaw holding her clamped against his chest, yanking on the reins so hard, the animal’s knees went weak.

  Apparently not happy with that, the outlaw resorted to whipping the ends of the reins viciously against the horse’s side until the creature took off in abject fright, barreling down the dusty stretch of road, around a corner. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire grew distant, then faint until she had to strain to hear it. Until she heard nothing at all.

  They were out of town now, racing through the wild country, made up of rough bluffs and mountains looming over head. The hot dusty wind blew against her face, the sun smarted her eyes as they kept tearing up. She was worried about Mason. She’d caught a few glimpses of him chasing her through town. She’d witnessed his concentrated, mighty will as he’d tried to save her, he really did, but circumstances had conspired against him. Now he was caught in a gun battle, and he could be getting shot at any second. All on account of her.

  A sob caught in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut against the dizzying whirl of the ground whizzing by so fast. The poor horse was running with all his might up the sloping land and into the shadow of a bluff. What about Mason? Would he be okay? She remembered how furiously those outlaws had been shooting in his direction. Her chest pinched with concern for him, for the man she’d never gotten to kiss.

  And she wanted his kiss more than anything. Ever. It was the only thing she wanted before she died—because she knew she was going to die. The beefy arms that clamped around her meant business. He had no mercy. She’d been innocently dead-heading Mariel’s roses for her, trying to help out with a few chores, and this outlaw had grabbed her. His cold mocking laughter still rang in her ears along with his deadly threat. Stop kicking me or I’ll kill you right here on the street.

  Remembering, ice spilled into her veins, making her blood thick. Her heart thudded slow and uneven in her ears. Death was going to be her fate, she knew it. What were the chances Mason could find her now? Terrified, she opened her eyes, she saw crisp, sun-baked Montana terrain, the rolling slopes, a few scrabbles of bunchgrass and windflowers, a scrawny pine, tumbleweeds blowing in the wind.

  None, she thought. She had no chance at all. There was no one around, no one coming to save her. It was just her and the outlaw. She held back a sob, tried to think. Well, at least she wasn’t unconscious like last time. She wasn’t roped like a pig for slaughter either. The outlaw was busy keeping the horse under control, he only had an arm clamped across her chest and a hold on one of her wrists. Otherwise she was free.

  Well, she wasn’t going to go quietly. Her jaw clenched with determination, with anger. She hadn’t asked for this. In fact, she’d done nothing to deserve this. If she didn’t fight now, then she’d never get another chance.

  But how? She eyed the man holding her. He was huge, a big bear of a guy. And she recognized him—he was Red Bandana from the train. Hmm, she’d never fought a man before, but maybe she didn’t need to overpower him, just to stun him so she could escape. And wouldn’t his overly big, hooked nose make a fine target? Plus, she’d heard a man’s, uh, danglies were quite sensitive to pain. Surely hitting them had to be part of her fight plan. So, fist—-no, elbow, to the nose. Hard punch to the privies, leap off the horse and run.

  Then what? Well, she considered, glancing around. She could hide behind an outcropping of big boulders or race down the dip of the hill, but she couldn’t outrun the horse. She bit her lip, further pondering her plan. Perhaps she would need to get him off the horse instead...yes, that sounded like a better option, but a much more involved one.

  “Lew.” A graying, weathered man on horseback came into sight on the rise above them, rifle slung against the crook of his arm, binoculars in hand. He reined his horse to a stop. His sharp gaze focused in on Callie and he leered, as if he were undressing her in his head. “Well, now, look what you got for us. Tonight’s entertainment.”

  “She’s not just a fun time,” Lew answered. “That marshal, the one that killed Lyle, is sweet on her. Think how that do-gooder is going to feel knowing what we’re gonna do to her. Brings a smile to your face, don’t it?”

  “It sure does. Say, are you hit?”

  “Just nicked.” Lew huffed angrily, yanking back on the horse’s reins so hard the animal screamed in pain and sat down on his haunches, bringing them to an instant stop. The arm clamping Callie loosened.

  She considered implementing her plan, but the second gunman posed a problem. A tricky problem. Since she didn’t want to be his evening’s entertainment, she’d need a way to escape or beat him up too.

  “Get down.” Lew gave her a shove. She landed knees first, in the dirt and rocks, the impact rattling through her. She clamped her mouth tight to keep in the cry of pain. Pebbles poked her knee caps, broke her skin. She tried to stand but he smacked her in the back of the head.

  “Did I say you could get up?” he growled viciously.

  A smart-mouthed retort burned on her tongue, ready to be hurled at him, but what if he hit her harder for saying it? What if he gagged her? No, she thought, clamping her mouth shut tight. She would need as much freedom as possible if she had a chance of escaping.

  Keep your head down, Callie. She squared her shoulders, fighting her fear. Look docile and submissive. Don’t say a word.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Lew snorted in derision, dismounted and landed beside her. “Women, you just have to know how to handle ‘em. Little Missy, you won’t be giving me any trouble now, will you? Try it, and I’ll make you wish you were dead. And wish it, and wish it.”

  She heard the smile in his voice, the threat that seemed to bring him so much pleasure, and she shivered. She couldn’t blink back the tears fast enough. Those scared, vulnerable tears spilled over her lashes and rolled down her cheeks one by one.

  “That’s what I thought.” He grabbed her by the throat, wrapping his filthy, brutish hands around her like a vise and clamping tight. She couldn’t breathe, her lungs spasmed, her body jerked. Air, she needed air. Desperate, she reached up to try and claw her way free, but he released her suddenly, giving her a shove, laughing heartily.

  “Lew, stop playing with her. Get her up on one of the fresh horses.” The old outlaw sounded irritated as he held the binoculars up to his eyes. “Looks like our men didn’t hold off that marshal for long. He’s riding fast, just leaving town now.”

  Mason! Callie gulped, relieved he was okay after that intense gunfight, elated that he was coming for her, but—he would be riding into more gunfire. Maybe if she could sneak off while the two outlaws were talking—

  “Well, that blasted marshal is smarter than we thought.” Lew grabbed Callie around the waist and carried her around the huge boulder.

  “And a better shot,” the old man added dryly.

  Her plans defeated, Callie felt herself swinging through the air again, skirts tumbling upward enough to expose her, landing with a stomach-jarring whomp on Lew’s bear-like shoulder. The summer air breezed against the back of her bare knees and thighs as she bobbed long, wondering what her chances were for escape now. That window seemed to be slamming shut.

  More outlaws and fresh horses stood in a large, protected hollow of land, a dip in the hillside. One of them must have been keeping watch too, for he was swatting dirt off the front of his denim legs, gun in hand.

  “Lew,” he said. “We’re ready to ride. That lawman isn’t far behind.”

  “He’ll get lost up in the bluffs. Keep ahead of him, we’ll be all right.” Lew hefted her off his shoulder, laying her across a saddle like she was a sack of potatoes.

  Callie scrambled upright, noticing there were five men now, five armed and violent looking men. She didn’t have a chance, she thought, her heart sinking. It felt as if the light
drained from the sky. She couldn’t fight them all and win, there was no possible way. And all those eyes on her would make it really tough to sneak off and escape. Worse, she realized the horse she was sitting on didn’t have a bridle. It was tied to one of the other saddled horses.

  “Oh, I am mighty glad you got her back. Sweet little virgin like that.” The man with the dusty denims came up to her horse, hooked his fingers under the hem of her dress and lifted, getting a look at her bare calves. “Ooh-ee, I can’t wait to get at that.”

  “Stop that.” She slapped his hand, pushed her dress down into place. It happened so fast, it surprised her and it stunned the men.

  Dusty Denims laughed, amused. He winked. “Good, I like ‘em feisty,” he said, strolling off to mount up. “I get to smack ‘em around that way.”

  The other men laughed darkly, for it was no joke.

  Callie gulped, feeling her skin crawl. She swung her leg over the saddle horn, careful to arrange her skirts so the least amount of bare leg would show. The horse beneath her stood obediently as the outlaws mounted up. Remembering the gelding she’d ridden up on, she glanced over her shoulder. He was on his knees in the dirt, head down, sides heaving, mouth bleeding, his dark coat white with lather. He’d been ridden too hard, treated too badly, he looked defeated. She hoped that after he’d rested, he’d turn around and go home to his stable, where his owner could care for him.

  “Let’s ride,” Lew ordered from the back of his horse, pulling his red bandana over his face.

  “I’ll stay behind and deal with that marshal.” The fifth man stayed put, boots planted. “I’ll take care of him. It’ll be my pleasure.”

  “Give him hope first, then kill him good, for me.” Lew winked before sending his horse into a fast run.

  Hope. Callie’s stomach went cold at that word, not understanding what the outlaw must mean. She gripped the saddle horn, as the horse bolted beneath her, moving from a bouncy, rough gait into a smooth, fast run. It was dizzying, but she held on, slipping first right on the saddle and then to the left. Her feet didn’t reach the stirrups. Her dress hem caught in the wind, breezing up. She unwound one hand from the leather horn to tuck her hem firmly beneath her legs. The terrain was rocky and steep, the sun blazing. She couldn’t stop worrying about Mason. She couldn’t stop caring for him.

  When she glanced over her shoulder she caught sight of the distant town—just tiny against the vast rolling bluffs and valleys of the Montana high plains. She squinted at the faint smudge of what had to be a horse and rider—a sole horse and rider—on one sloping road. That had to be Mason. Men were riding behind him, so he wasn’t alone, but they weren’t close enough to help him when trouble came. Fear skidded through her, knowing that other outlaw was lying in wait for Mason, waiting to kill him the instant he was in range.

  Tears scorched the backs of her eyelids. She hated being helpless. She hated that she couldn’t intervene in some way, she couldn’t save Mason the way he was trying to save her. She blinked hard, realizing she no longer cared about saving herself—he was what mattered. He was riding into a trap because of her, and she had to warn him. She’d do whatever she had to, even if it meant being killed. She had to save him.

  The panic and fear faded and in that moment, she knew what to do. She thought of her sisters—her dear, beloved sisters. Sweet Dee, with her charm and adorable cheer. Bubbly Abby, who radiated life and joy and love. Beautiful Maggie, who was gentle and caring, loving everyone she met. And of course, Emma, sensible, practical, fiercely independent, with a kind heart.

  She would miss them. All of them. So, so much. She blinked the tears from her eyes, willing them back, tamping them down. She squared her shoulders, ready. Honestly, her only regret was that Mason hadn’t kissed her full on the mouth, really kissed her, until her toes curled and her body sang. She really could have loved that man, if she’d gotten the chance. Affection for him strengthened her, blazing with power as mighty as the sun.

  Sure now, at peace with what she had to do, she glanced at the outlaws—all ahead of her on the narrow trail that followed along the face of a steep bluff. They were concentrating on the ride, on pushing the horses fast along the dangerous trail. Little pebbles slipped off the edge of the path and rolled down the long, steep fall.

  Without a sound, she lifted her leg over the saddle horn, put her feet together and slipped off. She landed on the narrow edge of the trail, took a step and the heels of her shoes dug into the slope, gravity pulling at her. It wasn’t a sheer fall, just a steep slope, and she cut diagonally across it, heading for the stubby cover of some spindly pines and a prominence of rock.

  Gravity pulled at her, trying to hurl her down, pull her over, send her somersaulting straight to the canyon floor, maybe a hundred feet down. She adjusted her balance, leaning back in her shoes, grabbing a scrubby bush for support. Icy fear crawled over her at the canyon floor far below, but she glued her gaze on the nearby trees, her destination. Behind her, finally realizing she was gone, men’s shouts erupted, gunfire rang, bullets whizzed by her ear and her shoulder, digging into the slope in front of her, kicking up bits of rock and dirt.

  She felt the sting of the rock fragments hitting her. She blinked through the small haze of dust and dirt, surprised she wasn’t hurt or on the ground, falling helplessly, or dead. She really had expected to be dead. Determined, she kept going, ignoring the spate of bullets peppering the ground around her, the sting of something slicing along the outer curve of her ankle.

  Just keep shooting, guys, she thought, running, stumbling, her skirts tangling around her ankles, tripping her. Terror choked her, gasped in her breath, kicked in her veins, but the men were making enough noise that Mason could hear. He would be warned there was trouble ahead. That was all that mattered.

  There she is. A scrap of deep blue against the amber and tawny slope. Mason frowned. Did she think she could outrun those bullets?

  He wheeled Indigo off the road, onto rocky terrain, dropping the reins to position his rifle, guiding the animal with his knees. The gelding obeyed instantly, charging up the dangerous slope without hesitation. Pulse thrumming, sweat gathering on the back of his neck, Mason peered down the length of the barrel, searching for his shot.

  Three men, one stayed astride on the trail, a revolver in each hand, lackadaisically firing off shots at the ground where Callie ran, while the other two were rounding her up. One behind, the other racing down the trail to get ahead of her, trying to cut her off. Maybe he could even the odds for her. He touched Indigo with his heels, counterbalancing his weight in the saddle as the horse skidded to a stop.

  Just one shot, he thought, that’s all it would take to help her escape. He lined up the iron sights dead center on the gunman’s chest, finger on the trigger, breathing out, ready to fire—

  A single gunshot boomed from nearby, the bullet digging into the slope ahead of him.

  “Take that shot, Marshal, and you’ll be a dead man,” a voice called out, sardonic and amused. “It’d be a real shame too, seeing as how you can’t rescue her if you’re dead.”

  Mason didn’t take his finger off the trigger. He squeezed, felt the kickback slam into his shoulder and kneed Indigo to move. A moving target was a whole lot harder to hit. As the gelding scrambled backward, Mason saw the outlaw on the trail up ahead tumble from his horse and hit the ground. But Callie? He searched the slope but there was no sign of her.

  Worry ate at him. One bullet, then two, whizzed by him, close enough to slice through the side of his shirt, tearing the fabric. He swung his rifle to the left and up, searching for the wide-brimmed hat hunkered down behind a protective shield of big rocks searching for the gunman. There that bastard was. Mason pumped the lever, squeezed the trigger, willed the bullet to hit.

  Bingo. The hat went flying, but was it a good hit? Mason didn’t know. He galloped Indigo down the trail, cutting across the slope, driving for cover. The boulders were small, not optimal, but tall and wide enough to protect him and Indig
o. Gunfire followed him in. Apparently it hadn’t been a kill shot, the now hatless outlaw was at it again. Judging by the flurry of bullets, he sounded a little pissed.

  Well, that made two of them. Mason hunkered down behind the rock, taking a second to look around. There was Callie. His chest punched with relief, although it looked like Lew Folsom had her, dragging her by her braid up the slope. The gang leader stepped over his fallen comrade like he was a rock on the road and tossed Callie onto one of the horses. Mason grimaced, swore, cursed, wanted nothing more than to be able to get to her, but there was no way. No possible way. The outlaws rode out of sight, taking her with them.

  Mason hung his head. Fury filled him like a volcano, bubbling hot lava of anger roiling around inside him, ready to blow. He heard the clomp of horses, of bridles jingling—his men had arrived.

  “Marshal!” The hatless outlaw shouted from behind his rock. He was outnumbered, and the arriving lawmen were just out of his range, moving off the road, taking cover, moving forward cautiously. “I got a message for you.”

  “Then let me hear it.” He eased around the rock, squinting down the rifle barrel gleaming blue in the sun. “Or are you afraid to stick out your neck?”

  “We got your girl. You got our men.” The outlaw’s shout sounded a tad farther away. He was on the move.

  Not going to work, Mason thought, glancing over his shoulder. Sure enough, there were Clint and Deeks on foot, on the other side of the road, in better range. Moving in to flank him.

  Mason gave them a nod, knowing he could count on his men. He squinted up the slope, guessing where the outlaw would be. “Do you want a trade?”

  “Tonight, sundown.” The answer came from above, moving, breathless. Maybe he’d been hit by that bullet after all. “You bring our men to Black Wolf Bluff. We’ll make the trade, then.”

  “I want her unharmed.” Mason stepped out into the blazing sun, in full view. He wanted the outlaw to know he meant business. He planted his feet, raised his rifle, aimed where he suspected the outlaw would be. “If she’s hurt in any way, then we mow down your men.”