Adrienne deWolfe (53 page)

She forced her chin higher. She hoped her defiance would hide the tremor in her arms, as the weight of the .32 began taking its toll. "You are in no position to be threatening me, Hannibal."

His lip curled. "You know, for a live dictionary, you ain't too smart."

She wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but it didn't matter. She listened intently for the sound of hooves behind her, praying that Merrilee could handle such a large horse.

"It's like I always said," Dukker went on, his grating words distracting her. "When a woman starts filling her head with ideas, she disturbs the natural order of things. That's why a woman needs a husband, to put her back in her place. But your old man mustn't have been much good with his fists, 'cause you're the snootiest bitch I ever did meet, except maybe for little Miss Cockteaser."

Merrilee, please hurry. Please find Danny and ride...

" 'Course, there's other ways to put a woman in her place." Dukker began advancing again. His glazed gaze ran down her breasts and hips as if she were a piece of beefsteak sizzling on his plate.

"That's far enough, Hannibal."

"Yeah? So stop me."

He tossed the whiskey aside. At the tinkling crash, she flinched, her heart catapulting to her throat. For a moment, one chilling, numbing moment, her eyes locked with his. She could read his intent there as clearly as a sentence in a book.

"Can't shoot me, can ya?" His bowed legs stumped faster, closing the yards between them with alarming speed.

Dear God.
She pulled back the trigger. Or rather, she tried. In panic, she dropped her eyes to the unfamiliar weapon to see what was wrong. That's when a fist lashed out, striking the gun from her hand.

"Told ya you were stupid."

She yelped. Another fist lashed out, colliding with her jaw.

"You never took off your safety."

Pain slammed next into her shoulder. She staggered, trying to duck and escape, but he caught hold of her fallen hair and spun her back for more.

"Pa!
Stop it, Pa! Don't hit her like Ma!"

Suddenly pebbles were pelting her, and Dukker roared a curse. She reeled blindly away from the hail of stones even as Dukker's blows ceased.

"You little bastard!"

Danny had circled behind them, she realized dimly, and was now flinging every rock he could find at his father. To her horror, she saw Dukker draw his gun.

"No!" She lunged for Dukker's arm, and the revolver fired with a bone-jarring reverberation that rattled every tooth in her head. He tried to shake her off, but she managed to hold on, kicking and clawing and ramming a knee into his groin. He howled, doubling over. The gun dropped and skittered across the ground. She gave frantic chase, but it slid over the cliff.

"Mama!"

Skidding dangerously close to the edge, Rorie caught her balance, whirling in time to see Merrilee run for the .32.

"Merrilee, no!"

The child had reached the revolver. Merrilee, who had never even stepped on an ant in her short life, was aiming and trying to fire. Dukker saw her, too, and he cursed, limping toward her.

"Dukker!"

Rorie scrambled after him. She grabbed the jagged neck of the whiskey bottle even as Merrilee figured out how to unhook the safety. The hammer clicked and fire spat. The bullet zinged wildly off a rock, and the recoil slammed Merrilee into a boulder.

She crumpled, lying still.

Rorie's cry was lost in the echo as the explosion repeated again and again. Danny ran to Merrilee, and Rorie caught up with the hobbling lawman. Slashing at his back, his neck, his gun arm, she was desperate to distract him from the children and the .32. He rounded on her with a snarl.

The heavens chose that moment to rip open. Rain sheeted down, pounding her face and hands like tiny hammers.

"Bitch!"

The glass grew slippery, too hard to hold. She had to get to the gun, but Dukker stood between it and her, and she had no choice but to run. She could hear him panting, his boots scrabbling ominously over the rubble behind her. She stumbled on her clinging skirts, praying for a miracle, praying for the life she held inside her. The cliff was narrow and jagged at this end; she tried to veer back the way she had come.

That's when he tackled her, and they crashed into the uprooted juniper.

* * *

Wes reined in hard. Water poured off his hat brim. Rain rolled down his upturned collar, despite the protection of his slicker. He hardly noticed. Something was wrong. Dread was like a thousand needles stabbing at his gut.

"What's the matter?" Creed shouted over an earth-shaking crack of thunder.

Wes gazed to the east, toward Ramble Creek. They'd had no luck finding Danny or his tracks, and they'd decided to circle back to the house in the hopes that Cord and Zack had fared better.

"I was just remembering..."

Monsters. Nightmarish creatures with buzzard wings. They descended from the cliff during thunderstorms to hurt Miss Rorie.

"...the Jenkins's puppy," Wes shouted.

"What are you talking about?"

"The children found Danny with it at Ramble Creek."

"I told you, Rawlins, Danny didn't steal—"

"I don't give a damn whether he did nor not! But Danny has been to the cliff before, and he might have gone there again!"

Wes wheeled Two-Step, every nerve in his body firing. He couldn't have said what made him so god-awful certain he'd find Danny at Ramble Creek. He couldn't have explained why he was giving a child's nightmare far more credence than it deserved. All he knew was that he heard a voice, an urgent whisper, begging him to hurry, before it was too late.

Creed thought he was an idiot to ride a mile and a half out of their way, and the boy minced few words in telling Wes so. Still, Wes noticed that Creed kept his horse racing neck and neck with Two-Step. He noticed, too, that Creed looked uncommonly wan in the drenching gloom.

The storm raged around them in all its elemental fury. But the risk Wes courted with each crackling blaze of light paled in his mind when compared to the mortal peril that might lie ahead for Danny. Wes squinted, trying to pick out landmarks through the opaque veil of water. There was the meadow, the fringe of woodland; now came the rocky rise, the tumbled boulders. He glimpsed the split in the cliff and the winding black ribbon of darkness that led to the cave below. Beyond it, tilting precariously over an eroding shelf of limestone, he spied the uprooted juniper.

A frenzied flailing grabbed his attention next. It looked as if two people were wrestling. They fell into the brittle branches, rolling dangerously close to the lip of the cliff. Wes had an impression of wet skirts and tawny hair; a flapping duster and muddy boots, then lightning slashed out of the heavens. It struck the tree's browning canopy, igniting it like tinder. The man screeched, rearing back, his coattails bursting into flame. The woman screamed, kicking frantically to rip her skirts free of the evergreen.

"Pa!"

"Rorie!"

Two-Step leaped forward even as Creed raced to extinguish his father's coat.

"Rorie, hang on!"

Wes's shouts were lost in the ominous cracking of wood. The rotted tree split, listing under her weight. He watched in horror, helpless to do anything more than spur Two-Step faster, as Rorie slid over the cliff edge in a hail of twigs and stones.

"No!"

He hit the ground running, his heart slamming into his ribs.

"Rorie!" He skidded to the lip, shouting again and again. He could see her rolling down the slope, banging against a bush or two, before she finally came to rest on a shelf about fifteen feet down. Limp and motionless, she sprawled a bare arm's length from the final plunge to the creek, a good fifty feet below.

"Dear God." He fought back a rush of panic. "Rope. I need rope."

He ran to Two-Step, wrenched open his saddlebag, and started to drag out his rope.

"Rawlins!" It was Creed's voice.

Wes spun, his right hand dropping to his .45. Creed was fighting his father now, rather than helping him. They were grappling over Creed's revolver, and Dukker, far heavier than his son, was about to roll on top of the boy and club his head with a rock.

"Creed!" From out of nowhere, Danny appeared, flinging himself at his father's back. The impact threw Dukker sideways. Creed's revolver went off.

Wes cursed. He couldn't tell if either boy had been hit, but he could hear Dukker bellowing like a wounded bull.

His heart in his throat, he ran to circle them, his clear shot foiled by the windmill of arms and legs.

"Drop the gun, Dukker!"

Dukker ignored him. Or maybe he hadn't heard. Lighting splintered and thunder cracked, making everything about Dukker's murderous intent more macabre. Danny yelped, rolling from the tangle. Creed slumped, and his father raised the gunbutt for another blow. Wes gritted his teeth and fired.

The bullet should have dropped Dukker. At the very least, it should have slowed him. But Dukker was maniacal. His shoulder blackening with blood, he staggered to his feet. Wes could see the bastard meant to kill somebody, and he called to Dukker again, reluctant to gun the man down in front of Danny's terrified eyes.

"Drop the goddamned .45!"

"You ain't taking me alive, Ranger!"

Dukker raised his weapon, and Wes fired again. This time, the bullet struck the lawman's knee, and he shrieked, buckling. His gun skittered into a crevice.

Wes bounded forward, grabbing the older man's collar and landing a cracking blow to his jaw. At last Dukker's head lolled, and he sagged.

Wes flopped the moaning lawman over. "I'm taking you alive all right," he ground out, snapping manacles around Dukker's wrists. "I'm even going to see you get medical help for those wounds, 'cause I want you to be healthy—perfectly healthy, you bastard—when you hang. Danny!"

The boy jumped.

Wes found Creed's pulse and released a ragged breath. "See to your brother."

Wes sprinted back to Two-Step. He couldn't waste time feeling relief, pity, or anything else related to a Dukker. He had to get Rorie. He had to carry her up the cliff.

Dragging the rest of the rope from his saddlebag, he wrapped one end around the pommel. He worried the rawhide might not be long enough to tie Rorie to his back and haul her up the fifteen-foot slope. To make matters worse, Two-Step wasn't a cowpony; he'd never been trained to lean back on his haunches and keep a rope taut under a load. Wes prayed fervently. He needed help. Or a miracle.

Two-Step pranced, choosing one helluva time to live up to his name. Wes had to grab the brute's head, dragging him back toward the fizzling fire. Wes cursed, and Two-Step neighed, his eyes rolling in mutiny.

Suddenly, Merrilee appeared at Wes's side. She placed a hand on the gelding's neck.

"Nice pony."

The cantankerous beast instantly subdued. Wes gaped at the child. He couldn't imagine what she was doing on a cliff in the worst storm of the summer, but he didn't have time to ask. He squatted, grabbing her shoulders.

"Merrilee, honey, I need your help."

"Is Miss Rorie hurt?"

"I don't know, sweetheart. But you have to talk to Two-Step. You have to make him stand here, and keep this rope real tight while I go down the hill. Then you have to make him back up when I tell you, so he can pull me and Miss Rorie up the hill. Do you think you can do that?"

She nodded, water dripping from her nose and chin. Her immeasurable calm helped Wes get a grip on his own. He draped his slicker over her. Then, twisting the rawhide around his waist, he began the slippery descent.

* * *

Rorie was having the most amazing dream. She was sitting on a cloud, eating pastries and drinking tea with an angel. Only the angel wasn't the blue-eyed, golden-haired cherub variety. This angel was copper-skinned with great doelike eyes, raven-black braids, and a white buckskin dress. In fact, she looked very much like Merrilee, except that the angel was perhaps fifteen years older.

Rorie couldn't remember much of what she and the angel discussed, although she did recall something about heaven and magnolia trees, green-eyed lawmen with devilish smiles, and red-haired babies.

"A child's love is a sacred trust, and yet she gives it freely," the angel told her. "The true measure of motherhood is not whether you can bear a child, but rather, how selflessly you can love her."

Rorie smiled—until all the implications of the angel's words began to make her wonder. Why would a heavenly messenger tell her such a thing?

Something wasn't right. In fact, something was dreadfully wrong. She ached in every fiber of her body. She felt bruised and battered and cold and wet. Her back was being jabbed by a dozen rock-hard lumps.

Her eyes flew open with a start. Dear God, had she lost her baby?

"Rorie, don't move!"

She froze at the urgency in that voice.

"Wes?" She coughed on the rainwater that rolled down her throat.

"I'm coming, sweetheart. Hold on. Just don't move. You're right on the edge."