The Devil She Knows (3 page)

“In that case, I'll loan her my old Henry.”

“Thank you, Kenly.” Gareth was genuinely touched. He didn't have an extra gun to give Portia. But Baylor and Kenly could afford more gear, since they traveled with an experienced pack-horse.

“The last shot's for her, of course, should we be caught by Apaches.” Baylor's deep voice was as soft as the wind singing over a cemetery.

“No matter which of us administers the coup de grace,” Gareth agreed. No man wished that any woman he cared about—or even a female he loathed—should be taken alive by those savages. Mercy dictated a clean death, even if dealt by loved ones.

Without need for further words, the three men and one dog moved to make their final preparations. Daylight was fading faster than their chances of seeing Tucson while they were still alive.

Three days later

P
ortia squirmed forward along the dusty ledge another half inch. Her heart drummed in her ears far louder than her boots shuffling against the hard rocks or her oversized shirt rubbing her skin. Her skin was the same reddish brown as the pebbles around them and her once-black hat now sagged into the murky shadows.

Gareth's hand locked onto her wrist and squeezed.

She immediately froze, her head hugging the ground to avoid any unfriendly notice.

A heartbeat later, his fingers glided back to grip his rifle again.

She relaxed slowly, letting her muscles ease her body into the ground until she was part of Mother Earth and completely invisible to any watchers.

But deep inside, her heart was rapturously caroling Beethoven's
Ode to Joy
. Perfectly rolling through every complicated harmony just as well as she'd arrived in position.

She, Portia Townsend, could sneak up a mountainside in Indian country better than most men. Gareth Lowell had first taught her how when she was twelve, so they could go fishing together on San Francisco Bay during the winter. He'd said she'd never crawl through mud to go fishing. He'd underestimated her hunger to spend time with him, not that she'd told him that, of course. Even then, she'd understood a lady didn't tell the object of her affections everything.

One day she'd lay this close to Gareth in their marriage bed. After she grew up enough so he could respectably pay his attentions to her, of course. She'd known ever since she first saw him that he was hers alone.

He had to feel the same way because he was always willing to take her about with him, whenever he visited Uncle William's house. Orphaned as he was and cursed with wanderlust, it was the only place he could call home.

Plus, he'd never walked out with any young ladies so she needn't fear any rivals. Not that other hussies didn't try to catch his eye.

He had black hair and silver-blue eyes set amid hard-edged angles and planes that could change into laughter at a moment's notice or lock into implacable silences. He was clean-limbed and corded with a muscle like a warhorse, not an effete poet such as her classmates swooned over. He was her boon companion, even if they rarely told each other many secrets.

Gareth's sleeve brushed her shoulder, bringing the rich scents of sweat and man and horse. But he said nothing, his attention totally fixed on the scene below and his rifle at his hand.

Portia hummed softly, almost drunk with intimacy.

She schooled her features into more sober lineaments. She should pay some heed to where they'd halt for dinner, instead of celebrating days adventuring with Gareth amid only the mild chaperonage provided by the former soldiers.

“How's Tornado?” Baylor asked softly from her other side.

“Guarding the horses as you ordered,” Portia answered in a matching hoarse whisper. She doubted they could be heard from a yard away. “He'll sound the alarm if he spots anyone.”

Baylor huffed his acceptance without looking at her, his attention entirely focused on the crags around them.

Portia allowed herself to shift a little closer to Gareth as a reward for doing so well. She'd obeyed his commands and stayed with the animals until she was sure they were settled. She'd even counted off the minutes, as he'd commanded, until she came forward to join the men, despite her dancing pulse.

Now she felt free to cautiously raise her head and see the first place where she'd have a long drink of water. Perhaps even wash her face, if Gareth would let them take some extra time to rest the horses.

The sun was setting in a violent haze of red and gold, sending purple and lavender shadows bursting across the mountains to her left. A box canyon spread below them, its steep walls permitting easy entry only from the north. Golden sands spilled across its broad base, while a few patches of silvery gray grass and trees bore witness to buried water.

They were lying on the southern cliff edge, in a hollow between giant boulders. The foothills' jagged shadows crept across the little basin like a natural cloak, changing men and rocks into the same shifting panorama. Few hunters, if any, could have spotted any prey there.

Portia strained up onto her elbows, eager to see more of what lay ahead. Gareth had always found the best vantage points for watching their pursuers blunder past during their adventures.

A single thick plume of smoke lurched up to the sky from the ranch house in the center.

Two figures writhed on the ground on opposite sides of the empty paddock. Their hands and feet had been tied down to stakes but their bellies were still free to flail about—except for the flaming torch driven through a loop of each man's intestines. Their outlines were brittle and ragged, charred from the fire which had taken their clothes and skin.

Portia drew breath to vent the scream ripping out her heart.

“Hush!” Gareth clamped his hand over her mouth faster than steel could strike sparks from flint. “It's a trap.”

The scream faded but the horror remained branded into her very bones.

“But…” She shook her head but he tightened his grip.

A trap? It couldn't be; nobody was down there except for those pitiful beings.

Her stomach lurched and she jolted into Gareth's grasp once again. His silver eyes watched her, luminous as moonlight amid features harsher than a sword. A softer emotion flickered there briefly before his mouth twisted and settled back into its stern line.

One of the victims was whimpering, a broken little sound like a shattered violin.

Portia lay still, her heartbeat running faster than any sanity. Mother had been burned alive, her blackened skin tearing away anywhere and everywhere Portia touched her…

“Will you be quiet?” Gareth's tone was more powerful for its blade-like stillness.

She nodded, ancient panic seeping into her bones despite the sun-baked rocks, and he silently released her.

“But the Apaches must be long gone,” she argued, trying not to look, or listen, or—dear God in heaven—smell anything from down below.

“This is a fresh attack, ma'am,” Baylor said softly from her other side. “It'd be just like those savages to leave a few braves behind to kill anybody who comes riding in, whether for water or to help.”

“More than one place to put an ambush,” agreed Kenly.

“It shouldn't take too long to put the strongest man on my horse and the other one—”

“We're arguing about how many Indians are near us, Portia, not
if
they are here.”

Stubbornness fired deep in her blood, the same fierce independence which had kept her going through all the bitter years in boarding school. Even if Gareth wouldn't listen to her, this time, as he had on all their previous adventures, she had to continue arguing for the correct course of action.

“Besides, ma'am, they're so close to death that they likely wouldn't last the journey.” Baylor's voice, unlike Gareth's, was very gentle.

Even the best doctors couldn't help patients who'd been burned, except to give them laudanum until they slept their way into Death's arms.

She clenched her fists. There was one more deed they could do.

“We have enough water for the horses to reach Tucson,” Baylor mused.

“Plus one extra canteen,” Gareth agreed.

To take care of the fragile flower known as woman. Portia made up her mind.

“Or we can grant them a merciful end to their misery,” she stated firmly.

“Portia, didn't you hear what I said?” Gareth lightly shook her by the shoulder. “There are Apaches here. Gunshots would surely summon them.”

“You could use your knife,” she suggested.

“I will not go down there and tell them we're here. Besides, leaving would cut down on your protection,” he retorted.

“Ma'am, he's right.” Kenly inserted himself into the argument.

Tornado growled softly in the distance.

“If those two were in any shape to talk,” Baylor's voice was hoarser than the dust would account for, “they'd be the first to argue against risking your safety, ma'am. Above all else, we must keep you well.”

Kenly silently rolled away, followed an instant later by Baylor. Only Gareth and she could help those two piteous wretches.

“I will shoot them myself.” Her stomach lurched but she ignored it, together with any maidenly qualms which seemed to be making her pulse flutter like a frantic goose. She'd worry later about how to make Gareth once again amenable to her every suggestion. “We're far enough away that the Apaches won't know exactly where the bullets came from.”

She gathered her feet under her, determined to get the hideous deed over with while she still had the nerve.

Tornado growled again, closer and a little louder.

“Portia, dammit!” Gareth lunged for her.

She yanked away and stood up in a patch of shadow behind them, ready to fetch her rifle from the horses.

One step—and she was in full sunlight again.

Second step—Something slammed into her head, simultaneously fiery hot, sharp, and unbearably solid. Stars somersaulted behind her eyes, bringing velvety blackness.

She collapsed, unconscious before she hit the dirt.

Tucson, the next night

T
he house's big wooden door was as solid as its walls. Carved and reinforced with metal straps, it proudly proclaimed it could withstand as many sieges as the stucco bricks beside it. Golden light spilled from high barred windows, promising rest and safety within one of Tucson's finest neighborhoods.

Portia cast it a sour look but said nothing, granting it no more conversation than she'd offered her escort since the previous night. Finding herself lashed to a horse had inspired no friendliness in her bosom.

She'd been politer to Baylor and Kenly. They and Tornado had said goodbye a few minutes ago, off to become Donovan & Sons' latest employees. Their honest concern for her health had been far different from Gareth's high-handed superiority.

“How's your head?” Gareth asked, standing on the doorstep where he and Portia awaited an answer to his knock.

“I'm feeling entirely well, thank you,” she stated firmly, in the same tones her stepmother used to discuss another woman's clothing or anything else of no interest at all.

As if she'd have told the brute anything different about her health, since he was the one who'd caused all the problems.

She sniffed loudly and refused to readjust her hat, despite the headache lurking at her temples. It would have served him right if she'd needed a massive bandage to hold back her bloodstained locks. She'd have liked to see him explain that away.

He cast a long, sweeping glance over her to measure her health as if she were a cow.

“What are you looking for?” she challenged. “You already checked my head this morning and didn't find a knot—after you untied me from the horse.”
And ungagged me.

“Your eyes are clear,” he remarked. He took a step closer and her hands immediately came up, balled into fists and ready to fight, in the move he'd taught her years ago. Something distant and dark flashed through his eyes, half hidden in his hat's shadows.

“Thank you.” She all but spat the words at him. To think she'd dreamed of one day hearing him praise her eyes' beauty.

She'd never wear his watch again, lest she carry another instrument for him to measure her by.

“And you still seem to have your wits about you, judging by how you can string words together.”

She gaped at him, totally at a loss for words. How much thinking did it take to realize the man you loved didn't care—no, didn't give a
damn
about you? Proven when he hit you on the head with his Colt!

She started to throw a punch at that infuriating, handsome, all-too-memorable mouth.

Unfortunately, the door swung open first.

“Lowell? Sweet Jesus, you made good time!” Uncle William started to embrace his old friend. But Gareth sidestepped slightly and light from inside poured over Portia in a welcoming flood. Suddenly she wasn't dusty and chafed in her leather breeches and creased bandanna on a rutted street hundreds of miles from anywhere she knew.

She was a breath away from home.

Uncle William froze then leaped onto the threshold and swept her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung, shaking, as if she were a little girl once again, back when she was always safe with her favorite uncle.

“Sweet Mother Mary,” he muttered. They held onto each other for what seemed like an infinity, while her body ignored the contrast between itself and fresh clothing and clean skin, before he carried her inside.

“Viola, sweetheart,” he crooned, “look what Lowell brought you for a birthday present.”

He set Portia down carefully on a polished tile floor, covered with brilliant rugs. Soft white plaster walls reflected the golden lamps swinging from the ceiling and the fire crackling in a curved fireplace, until the large room seemed an oasis of warmth and love. Leather chairs and overstuffed sofas offered tempting places to rest.

But none of that mattered, next to the woman struggling to her feet.

“Portia, my love.” Her mother's younger sister held out her arms, soft shawls falling toward the floor like autumn leaves at winter's first touch.

“Aunt Viola.” Hot speech regarding Gareth's unjust treatment, rehearsed a thousand times over during the past day, died on Portia's lips.

Aunt Viola had never been hale and hearty like Aunt Rosalind, someone capable of playing tennis for hours. But her elfin beauty had always glowed with an inner joy, which made most men call her a beauty. Portia had always considered her healthy, although not extremely strong after her second son Brian was born.

But now? She could barely stand unaided and her skin was gray, more ashen than rose-petal. Dear Lord, she looked as if she was still close to death, yet the miscarriage had occurred almost a month ago.

Uncle William lightly squeezed Portia's shoulders.

She shook him off. She didn't need the warning to make sure she'd put her best beloved aunt first, in every way. She dropped her hat onto the nearest table and ran forward.

“Dearest, dearest aunt.”

They hugged each other, scalding tears of joy blending on their cheeks.

Portia started to wrap herself closer, the way she'd always done but alarm rippled across her skin, edging her back. Aunt Viola was so very thin, far thinner than usual.

Portia shifted her grip slightly and held herself a little more cautiously, careful to keep her arms in a cradle rather than crush. She would keep the little hellions called her cousins out of harm's way, while she was here. That would give Aunt Viola time to rest and heal.

Aunt Viola stroked Portia's hair. Despite all her best resolutions, Portia leaned into the maternal reassurance.

Delicate fingers smoothed the lingering sore spot on her scalp. Portia yelped and flinched away.

“What happened to your head, dear? Did you take a fall?” Aunt Viola questioned. “Do we need to send for the doctor?”

Portia gritted her teeth, unable to form a polite answer.

“I'm sorry but I'm afraid I hit her, ma'am,” Gareth answered.

“Why?” Uncle William shot the question at him like a cannonball.

“We stopped for water at Rio Perdido.”

“Rio Perdido?” Aunt Viola sank back into her chair. “The final watering hole?”

“Yes. It was—” Portia started to interrupt.

“Yes, ma'am.” Gareth's deeper voice drowned out hers. “The Apaches had arrived first, destroyed the ranch, and laid a trap.”

“And?” Uncle William's expression was remote and contained, rather than furious. Portia wanted to box their ears for only paying attention to the professional fighter's story. Well, professional teamster and courier, which in Arizona was essentially the same thing.

“Portia was about to draw fire down upon us,” Gareth announced.

Draw down fire?
Portia desperately looked for something, anything to throw at him and shatter his appalling calm.

Did he have to describe her as if she was an idiotic child? How many times had they gone adventuring together over the past four years? How many times had he told her that a man couldn't ride or shoot any better than she had?

If doing all that wasn't good enough to capture his, his damn attention, then it would serve him right if she went back East and became the most beautiful girl in New York. He'd know what he'd missed when he saw dozens of men begging for her attention.

“Knocking her out with the butt of my Colt—” Gareth continued.

“Was the fastest way to silence her.” Her beloved uncle nodded in agreement.

“Uncle William!” Portia exploded and swung to face her kin. Couldn't she trust even him to stand up for her? Good heavens, if she stayed here, she'd probably be lectured on how badly she'd behaved at Rio Perdido.

Or required to be polite to Gareth, on the many occasions he frequented their house.

Disgust twisted her belly and her mouth for an instant.

“Does your head still hurt very badly, dear?” Aunt Viola asked softly.

“Just a small ache,” Portia replied brusquely, more concerned with other matters. “But—”

“I'll have a room prepared for you here, Lowell,” Uncle William announced, riding over Portia's voice.

She flung back her head involuntarily. Horror washed across her face before she could guard her expression again. How long did she have to be near her old playmate?

True, she had to remain until Aunt Viola was healthy again.

But after that? He was not someone who visited any place very often. Yet if he saw anyone regularly, it was William and Viola Donovan, who'd always treated him as a son.

Faugh!

Aunt Viola speared first Portia then Gareth with a searching glance but said nothing.

“No need, sir. I have to ride out immediately to Fort Lowell.”

“At this hour?” protested the lady of the house, her Southern sense of hospitality obviously outraged. “Surely we can give you something to eat.”

Portia sank into the closest chair, wishing she had a fan to shield herself. For the first time, she recognized the advantages of ladylike clothing as a prop to hide behind, rather than boys' clothing which left every emotion on display. Such as gagging at the mention of sharing a meal with an arrogant jackass.

“They promised an escort back to Rio Perdido, if we can leave before dawn.” One of Gareth's shoulders lifted, then fell. “We'll probably arrive while at least one of the settlers is still alive.”

“Thank you, Gareth.” Aunt Viola limped over to him and kissed his forehead. He patted her back but said nothing more, his countenance offering little hope or gentleness.

“I'll have the cook pack a decent meal for you,” Uncle William promised.

Gareth's eyes met Portia's. For a moment, something flickered in their depths. It was surely not an apology since he held himself too straight.

She inclined her head. If nothing else, she was grateful he'd bury those poor charred beasts once called men.

But she couldn't forgive him for proving exactly what category he placed her in. No man christened his beloved with the butt of his Colt.

No, she'd look elsewhere for her true love.