Captive Heart (5 page)

Chapter 8

“Miss Madsen,” Thayne yelled over the blaze roaring behind him and the screams from below. Wincing, he leaned over the root cellar, his hand groping blindly in the dark. A second later, her slender fingers grasped his arm. Relief, followed by caustic pain in his shoulder, washed over him as he leaned back to pull her out.

Her eyes were tearing, and she coughed as her waist came level with the floor. He let go, and she crawled out on her own.

“Keep low,” he shouted over the roar of the flames. Smoke filled his lungs as he waved his good hand toward what used to be the door, and she followed him on hands and knees from the cabin. Once outside, he staggered to his feet, glanced to see that she was still behind him, then made a path away from the soddie, walking as far as he could before finally collapsing on the grass.

“Mr. Kendrich, are you dead?” she cried, dropping beside him, her hand held over him tentatively.

Thayne opened one pain-filled eye. “Not yet. But working on it.”

“Please don’t,” she begged. Her eyes grew large as she looked him over, taking in the gash on his forehead and the blood seeping through his shirt. “You’re shot.”

“Reckon so,” Thayne grumbled. “A blind man coulda hit me. Hard to miss when you’re shooting down a three-foot-wide shaft.” He reached his good hand up and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“They shot you in the
well
?” Emmalyne looked over her shoulder toward the burning cabin.

“Yeah.” Thayne grimaced as he moved his arm, his fingers still fumbling with the first button.

She turned back to him. “But however did you get out? I heard the shots. Then they started the fire. I thought you were . . .” Her voice trailed off. After several seconds, his shaking fingers had managed to free only one button, and he looked to Miss Madsen for help. “I’ve got to stop the bleeding, or I
will
die.”

She nodded and swallowed in one motion but made no move to assist.

“Miss Madsen,” he said gently. “I could really use your help about now.”

She looked past him and remained sitting perfectly still, hands clasped in her lap to the point of white knuckles. Thayne wondered how she made even her eyeballs freeze like that. He recognized the signs of shock setting in and knew they’d both be in real trouble if she went there. Perhaps he could get her riled up again.

“Miss Madsen? If it’s your intent for me to die, then do me the favor of using that pistol.” He nodded toward the gun in the grass beside her. “You seem like a merciful sort, and there’s no sense in dragging things out.”

She didn’t respond.

“Miss Madsen,” he said sharply, reaching for the canteen strapped around her neck. “Will you—”

“Emmalyne,” she whispered.

“
What?”
Thayne’s brow wrinkled as he tried to decipher what she’d said.

“My name is Emmalyne.” Her voice quavered. “You’ve saved me twice now. I suppose you can know my name.”

He scowled. “That’s
four
times if you count the corset and train.”

She shook her head. “I don’t.”

“Be that as it may, you owe me one.” Thayne let his hand drop as he looked into her eyes. “So you gonna shoot me or save me?”

She hesitated, biting her lip in indecision. “I’m not so good at saving people.”

Thayne saw her eyes glazing over again. “I’ll tell you exactly what to do.” He reached for her hand and placed it on his chest. “Get this shirt off, and we’ll see how bad things are. If we’re lucky, the bullets went clean through.”

“And if they didn’t?”

“One problem at a time.” He didn’t want to explore that possibility yet. “Just take off the shirt.”

She pursed her lips and bent her head to the task. Thayne noticed her hands trembled more than his had as she began with the buttons where he’d left off. He closed his eyes, knowing he didn’t dare sleep, knowing he couldn’t with his shoulder throbbing as it was. If only he had some whiskey.

“Now what?”

He opened his eyes and looked up into her face, pale behind smudges of dirt and ash.

“Pull the cloth back. Real slow now on my left here.” He braced himself for the torture, but her fingertips were gentle against his skin, taking great care as she peeled the fabric from his chest and shoulder.

Her sudden intake of breath startled him.

“That bad, huh?” He lifted his head, trying to get a better look at himself.

“You were hit twice—in nearly the same place. And the skin is . . . is practically peeled off your shoulders—and back.”

“That’d be from scooting myself up out of the well. Are the holes clean?” Thayne lowered his head back to the ground, cursing the nausea and light-headedness assaulting him. He’d seen and dressed worse wounds before, so what was the problem?

“Clean as in . . .”

“Did the bullets go through?”

“I don’t know. How do I tell?” she asked anxiously.

“If you can’t see it, you’ll have to feel inside with your finger.” Thayne reached for her hand, feeling the nail at the tip of her index finger. “Take care. That’s pretty sharp.”

Emmalyne pulled her hand back. “Oh no. I couldn’t do that. I—”

“You
have
to,” Thayne insisted. “If you don’t . . . If infection sets in, I’m a goner, and then you’re left alone out here, alone to deal with men like the Martin gang.”

A look of horror crossed her face, and Thayne wasn’t certain if it was the thought of touching him or the thought of facing the Martins that upset her more. Finally, she gave a little nod and her hand reached toward him.

“All right, Mr. Kendrich.” Her finger found the first hole.

“Thayne,” he gasped. “Name’s Thayne in case ya need it for my tombstone.” He felt her fingers reach muscle. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he was gone.

* * *

Emmalyne poured water over the last strip of her petticoat, then wrung it out over the grass beside Mr. Kendrich—Thayne—she reminded herself. Not that she thought she’d need his name for a tombstone. He was still unconscious, but his breathing remained deep and even, and she was nearly finished dressing both wounds. He’d been fortunate. One bullet had passed clean through. The other had lingered near the surface and was easily removed. She’d been able to discover that in one long, horrifying minute as she’d pushed her finger through his flesh. Sometimes slow and gentle wasn’t the best.

Applying the cloth to his second wound, she leaned back on her heels and watched a minute to see if blood would seep through. It didn’t, and she sighed in relief. Her entire petticoat was used up, and she wasn’t certain which article of clothing she’d have had to sacrifice next. As it was, she was already eyeing her jacket, thinking the wool would make a nice strong sling as soon as Mr. Kendrich was ready to travel again.

And when will that be?
she wondered. Looking back at the charred remains of the soddie, she longed for shelter of some sort against the approaching night. There would be none. No food, either, though water was ample, thanks to his bravery in the well. She’d hardly dared believe his tale when she’d heard him talking to the Martin outlaws, but when she’d dipped the bucket an hour past, it had brought up clean, clear water. Thinking of it now and hearing her stomach grumble, she picked up the canteen and took a long drink. The water soothed her raw throat but did little to ease her hunger. Was it only this morning Mr. Kendrich had fed her that delicious wild game? So much had happened in the hours since that it seemed as if days had passed.

Emmalyne fervently hoped days wouldn’t pass before Mr. Kendrich returned to his usual bossy self. Even the prospect of being traded to Indians seemed better than indefinite days of starvation out on the prairie. Placing her palm across his brow, she checked for fever and felt reassured that he had none. She sat beside him and drew her knees up to her chest, watching as the sun sank lower on the horizon.

A coyote howled somewhere in the distance, and Emmalyne shuddered. Dark was coming on strong now. Scooting closer to Mr. Kendrich, she curled herself in a ball on her side and fell into an uneasy sleep with one hand on the gun.

Chapter 9

The morning sun was already beating down on them when Emmalyne finally opened her eyes. She struggled to sit up, her arm numb from acting as a pillow much of the night. Shifting her weight, she turned to Mr. Kendrich, who was lying completely still—in the exact same position she’d left him last night. Her own pulse quickened as she placed her hand to his chest. She was relieved to feel the slow, steady beat of his heart.

Keeping her hand on his skin a moment longer than necessary, she took comfort in his presence. Before yesterday, she’d never seen a man without his shirt on. Now, curiosity held her riveted. A variety of scars—large and small—spread over his muscled arms and chest, indications of a hard life.
He is an outlaw,
she reminded herself.
Though nothing like those men who were here yesterday.
She studied Thayne’s face and was surprised to see worry and pain etched there, even as he slept.
Who are you? Not a cold, heartless man as I first believed.
A shudder of fear rippled through her as she realized how easy it would have been for him to simply hand her over to the Martin brothers. Instead, he’d handed her his only gun and faced them unarmed, risking his own life.
What kind of an outlaw does that?
She didn’t know and was not inclined to find out.
He’s still dangerous,
she reminded herself.
He’s the reason I’m stuck out here.

Gently touching the rust-colored strips of fabric covering his wounds, Emmalyne was pleased to find the blood dry. She was not pleased a moment later when her stomach grumbled and she felt the gnawing ache of hunger. With a groan, she stood and stretched her sore muscles.
Now what?

Yesterday’s “rest” hadn’t really been a day of rest at all—what with the Martin gang, the fire, and Mr. Kendrich’s gunshot wounds. As Emmalyne carried the empty bucket to the well, she realized she felt more physically and emotionally drained than she’d felt in her entire life.

In a strange sort of way, neither feeling was wholly unwelcome. Wasn’t this what she’d wanted? To have an adventure? To do something with her life? To have purpose—other than being a banker’s sweet, docile bride?

Water sloshed down the front of Emmalyne’s skirt as she hauled the pail up from the well and lugged it back. The past few days definitely qualified as adventurous. But purpose? Certainly it wasn’t her purpose in life to be traded to an Indian tribe. And now was her chance to do something about that.

She stopped beside Mr. Kendrich, stooping to take the strip of petticoat from his forehead. The cloth felt dry—warm even. Emmalyne touched his brow. Hot. Enough for concern? She didn’t know.

Lines of worry creased her face as she brought her fingers to her lips, thinking. Fever or not, Mr. Kendrich needed care beyond that which she could give. Perhaps she could leave him and go for help. He’d said she could make it to Sidney in one day.

She rose slowly and stood, looking down on him. Leaving was the smart thing to do. Alone like this, she was no good to him. They had no shelter, food, or medicine. Stark reality dictated she should definitely go.
So why do I feel so guilty?
She bit her nail in indecision.

Because I’m leaving as much for myself as to help him.
“And just what is wrong with that?” Emmalyne said aloud. “The man kidnapped me. Why shouldn’t I try to get away?” With those words, she turned resolutely from the sorry sight of Mr. Kendrich sprawled helplessly in the dirt.

She would go. She would find the railroad line, and she would find Sidney. Once there, she could send someone back to help Mr. Kendrich while she stayed in town and sent a telegraph to Sterling. Surely her teaching position hadn’t already been filled. She’d ask the school board to wire her money for another ticket, and she could pay them back from her salary. Most likely, her trunk had already made it safely there. The lines of worry eased as she thought of such a happy possibility.

Dipping the cloth in the water, Emmalyne wrung it out and placed it across Mr. Kendrich’s brow. He didn’t move—didn’t even stir. Guilt tore at her. How could she leave him? How could she not? He’d saved her twice. She owed him one more. She would pay her debt by getting help.

Turning her back to the sun, she looked west over the prairie. Could she find Sidney on her own? Doubts crept into her mind. But if someone had asked her last week if she could dig a bullet out of a man’s shoulder, she would certainly have said no.

And somehow she’d done that.

Somehow she would make it to Sidney—and get them both out of this mess.

Emmalyne filled the canteen, picked up the pistol, and looked longingly at her jacket, balled up beneath Mr. Kendrich’s head. She supposed she’d better leave it to provide what comfort it could, though the thought of walking into town without it, in her dirty shirtwaist—with no corset beneath—was appalling. She tried not to think of the embarrassment, reasoning instead that it would likely be dark by the time she arrived.

Looking around one last time, she made certain the bucket of water was within his reach.

She took a step backward, nearly crushing his worn hat. She picked it up, holding it thoughtfully. It was filthy to be sure, but . . . With a grimace she plunked it on her head. The hat might save her from further sunburn and maybe keep her going a little longer. She glanced down one more time.

“Good-bye, Mr. Kendri—” Her voice caught. “Good-bye, Thayne.”

* * *

Using his good arm, Thayne lifted the pail, purposely dumping half the water down the front of his shirt. It brought immediate, though short-lived, relief, and he savored the moment before starting out after Emmalyne Madsen.

“Fool woman,” he muttered under his breath as he felt for his hat and remembered it was gone. What he didn’t remember was when he’d lost it—before he jumped into the well or when he’d rescued her in the fire—but he knew without its protection he was in for a long, hot walk. He already felt unnaturally warm, and letting the sun beat down on his head all day was going to do nothing to improve his situation. He eyed Emmalyne’s crumpled wool jacket, still lying on the ground. She must have put it under his head last night after he’d passed out.

Thayne frowned, disgusted with himself for such unmanly behavior over a couple of little gunshot wounds. As if to prove he was stronger than that, he rotated his injured shoulder, gritting his teeth through the pain then cursing when he saw the bright red stain of fresh blood appear. Maybe it
was
worse than he’d realized. He only hoped Miss Madsen had been successful in getting the bullets out.

Doing his best to ignore his shoulder, he bent and picked up the jacket, dipping it in the bucket. When it was good and wet, he tossed it over his head, arranging it so the sleeves hung down on either side of his face, over his ears. The wet wool smelled awful, and he didn’t want to think about the humiliation he’d feel walking into town looking like this. He’d be sure to lose the makeshift hat before then. But for now, while following a foolish woman across the hot Nebraska prairie, it would have to do.

Thayne walked to the well, filled the bucket once more, dumped half of it again, then sliced some of the rope from the broken windlass. He was grateful he still had his knife, though he felt close to naked with his holster hanging empty around his waist. Looping the rope around the handle and over his good shoulder, he rigged a way to make carrying the pail a bit easier. Apparently, Miss Madsen had seen fit to take not only his pistol but the canteen as well. He told himself it was good she had. Those two things might just keep her alive. He’d be considerably upset if he found her any other way. She’d been far too much trouble to go off and die on him now. He just hoped he could get to her before anything or anyone else did.

With great strides, he started off in the direction she’d gone—made evident by the prints of her sorry boots in the dirt between the prairie grasses. Flat as the land was, he didn’t think it would take him too long to catch up with her. He might be injured, but he’d bet he could still move twice as fast as she could. Thayne glanced at the sky, guessing it to be around ten in the morning. If he hurried, he might make Sidney before nightfall. He decided going into town was probably best. He’d get some money from the bank there, and they could get a good meal, a decent night’s sleep, and some supplies. Then—somehow—he’d have to convince her to continue with him to the Hills tomorrow.

Only problem was, while he was convincing her and arranging everything, how would he get Miss Madsen to keep her mouth shut? No one in Sidney really knew him. If she cried outlaw and pointed a finger his way, there was no one who could vouch for his character. Thayne began walking faster, counting his steps into seconds, adding up the minutes, watching the sun as it caught up with him and came to rest directly overhead.

Noon. He stopped for another drink, careful this time not to break open the wound on his shoulder when he lifted the pail. His thirst satisfied, he started walking again. The rail line ought to be close now, and he’d bet his gun—if he had it—she was following the track west.

An hour later, his hunch proved right when he spotted a lone figure pathetically bobbing up and down beside the rail. At first he didn’t think it was her but some half-drunk cowboy slogging along. After all, he didn’t know too many women who wore a hat like that—like
his
. He blinked rapidly and pushed the jacket sleeve out of his line of vision as he looked again. The straggler wore a dark brown
skirt.

“She stole my hat,” Thayne said, his temper rising. Here he was, a fool wearing wet wool on his head. Thayne yanked the jacket from his head, slapping it against his thigh.

She’d taken his gun, his hat, and his canteen. He’d saved her twice, and she’d not only left him for dead but robbed him as well. He’d prove to her right now that he wasn’t dead. In fact, he suddenly felt better than he had all day. The sun could take it out of you, but it could also do a lot toward healing a man—as could the knowledge that he’d soon be in possession of his hat and pistol again. Lengthening his strides, Thayne marched toward the figure, closing the distance between them.

Less than a hundred yards off, he heard her bloodcurdling scream, and she dropped from sight, disappearing in the tall grass growing beside the track.