Montana Wildfire (47 page)

"I said
tonight
, Henry. Christ, the way you're going at it, it'll take a
week
for you to kill that breed off."

"Will not. And I won't rush. Pa always said if a man's to do a job, he should take his time and do it right. I aim to do this Injun up right."

"Yeah, but..."

The voices faded in Amanda's ears, overridden by the loud, erratic slamming of her heart. Her breath sawed in and out, stinging her lungs. The pistol she clutched to her chest felt cold and solid... and so damn useless! Her fingers were trembling too badly for her to shoot with any degree of accuracy even if she knew how to, which she didn't.

She had found them. Dear God, she'd done it! She didn't know how, didn't really care. The fact was, she'd done it. That was the good news. The bad news was, there wasn't one kidnapper, there were two. The very bad news was, they had Jake—
what was he doing here?—
and the situation didn't look promising.

Amanda stifled a hysterical hiccup in her throat when she realized her fingers weren't the only things trembling. Her
entire body
was shaking like a leaf! The quivers started on the inside—cold and gnawing in the pit of her stomach—and worked their way out with alarming speed. Each word that passed between the two men chipped at what little courage she'd been able to muster. Now, after less than ten minutes of listening, her bravado was slipping, dominated by her fear for Jake, for herself, and for Roger Thornton Bannister III, whom she'd caught only brief glimpses of so far.

Sweat beaded on her upper lip and brow. Beneath her cloak and dress she felt her linen chemise cling damply to her skin. Her blood surged through her veins like ice water. The feelings were not caused by the chilly breeze that steamed the breath in front of her face. No, no, they were caused by fright—sharp and cutting and more intense than anything she'd felt in her life.

The gritty bark of a thick Ponderosa pine bit into her back as she molded herself up hard against it. Her knees felt watery and weak, and they were threatening to buckle. Sheer force of will kept her erect. That, and knowing that if she collapsed now, there would be no one to save Jake. No one to get Roger away from those two crazy men.

Roger. The surge of guilt came out of nowhere; it hit Amanda like a fist to the jaw. The boy was now tied to a tree on the border of the clearing, where the circle of firelight barely reached. She'd spotted him accidentally, while trying to discern the safest route down the hill, a way to approach the kidnappers' camp unnoticed.

What she'd found instead was an unconscious Roger Thornton Bannister III. The child was barely recognizable; Amanda had had to look twice, closely, to be sure it was him. Even now she remembered how worn and haggard Roger had looked. His small body had looked noticeably thinner as it slumped against the tree he'd been bound to. A gag, as filthy as the child it was tied to, had been secured around his mouth.

Until that moment Amanda hadn't been overly concerned about how Roger had fared with his kidnappers. And then the firelight had touched his dirty, tear-streaked face... and the sight had cut her like a knife. In that split second she'd taken a quick, critical look at herself, and she was ashamed with what she'd seen. Dear God, when had she become so cold? So uncaring? When had money begun to mean so much to her?

It was a difficult thing to admit, even to herself, but the salary Edward Bannister was going to pay her was the only reason Amanda had searched for Roger with such a vengeance. Oh, yes, she'd been concerned about the boy's safety—but not
overly
concerned. She'd been more concerned with whether or not Edward Bannister would still pay her in full should she deliver a child who sported a few bruises.

Her indifference toward Roger was totally selfish. It didn't matter that the boy was a monster. It didn't matter that he'd taken pleasure in aggravating her at every turn. He was a
child,
for God's sake! Spoiled and willful and obstinate beyond reason, yes, but a child all the same. There was no excuse for her callousness. Shame was only one of the emotions warring inside of her, but it was the strongest.

Henry Rafferty's voice drifted up to her again. His tone was low, whiny, laced with the beginning of anger. His words cut into Amanda's thoughts like a knife slicing through butter.

"One more piece, Tom. Just another inch or two. Hell, he isn't really even bleeding yet."

"And how much skin do you plan to slice off him before he
really
bleeds, Henry? That's my question."

Though she was too far away to see it, Amanda could
feel
the pout tugging at Henry's lower lip. It took little effort for her to remember the way his brown eyes would go all big and mopey and pleading. In the two months Henry Rafferty had acted as her and Roger's guard—that traitorous bastard!—she'd glimpsed a like expression on Henry's face often. Months ago, that expression had frightened her. Now, the mere thought of it terrified her.

Of the two, Amanda deemed Henry the one to watch out for. Though she'd only glimpsed Tom Rafferty from a distance, it was obvious Henry surpassed his brother in size and strength. As far as intelligence went, it seemed an even split. Of course, she had only Tom's voice to go by, but sometimes that was enough. There was something in the man's timbre and word choice that hinted at a little more than surface intelligence. Henry Rafferty was another matter all together. While he was adept at hiding the internal workings of his mind behind a bland expression, the craziness was there in his eyes if one looked close. More than once in the past Amanda had seen it, and rationalized it away. She was regretting that oversight now.

Down in the clearing, a glint of firelight flashed off steel. "Jake," Amanda whispered, and felt a cold shiver course down her spine. "Oh, God."

The hatred she'd nursed since waking up to find Jake gone evaporated. He hadn't left her, at least not permanently, the way she'd feared. Instead, for his own reasons, he'd set out to find Roger alone. She knew that now, and the knowledge would have delighted Amanda were she not so afraid Henry Rafferty would kill Jake before she had the chance to apologize to him for all the horrible things she'd been thinking since that morning.

And what if Henry does kill Jake before I can get down there? Or, worse, what if by some miracle of God I do get down there... and still fail to save him?

Yes, Amanda, what then?

Her heart convulsed when she thought of facing a day—an hour, a
minute—
without Jacob Blackhawk Chandler in it. All the things she wanted to say to him but hadn't been able to—would
never
be able to—clogged in her too tight, too dry throat. If Henry killed Jake, she would never have the chance to tell him how much he meant to her, how much she loved him. Her thoughts spiraled. He had to live. He
had
to! She refused to even
think
of the possibility that he wouldn't. It hurt too badly.

Where all else had failed,
that
thought inspired a genuine drop of bravery to trickle through her veins. Amanda fed on it, drew strength from its bolstering warmth. Anger. The fledgling emotion surged through her. It felt good and safe and much more comforting than her original panic. She was going to need every ounce of courage she possessed in order to save Jake and Roger. This time, dammit, she was going to be brave and do what needed to be done. No matter what, she would
not
let her cowardly streak hold her back. She couldn't. Because if she did, if she faltered, Jake would die, and possibly Roger as well. The thought of money never once crossed her mind.

She peeked cautiously around the tree trunk. The Raffertys had set up camp at the bottom of a thickly wooded hill. That was both good and bad. The good part was, the trees would act as a shield, covering her presence as she worked her way down to the camp. The bad part was, the trees hid all but Jake's moccasined feet from view. Damn. Amanda would have given anything at that moment to feast her eyes on Jake. She wanted,
needed,
to see him, if only to prove to herself that he was still alive. The need was strong and hot inside her. It prompted her into action.

Jake hadn't taught her how to walk with pantherlike silence and agility. Instead, Amanda had watched him on more than one occasion and, bored on the days he'd ignored her, she'd practiced while she was alone. Her interest was paying off. By walking lightly on the balls of her feet instead of the heels, by testing the ground before trusting her weight to it, and by avoiding clumps of leaves and broken twigs, she was able to move from one shadowy tree trunk to the next in relative silence.

Although it felt like hours, it really took only two short minutes for her to reach a tree that was only three tree trunks behind Tom Rafferty's lanky back. Her heart was pounding and her breaths were shallow and strained, erratically fogging the air in front of her face. Her trembling had resumed with force. This time Amanda found the strength to light the surge of cowardice bubbling up inside of her. She
had
to fight it. Jake's life was at stake... as was Roger's and her own.

Her gaze fixed on Henry Rafferty. The big man was hunkered down beside Jake's hip, facing his captor. Henry's broad back hid most of Jake from view, but that was all right, Amanda could see enough. In fact, if her churning stomach and suddenly light head were anything to go by, she saw too much.

Jake's left arm was fully extended. Rope was knotted around his left wrist, securing it to a nearby tree trunk. As she watched, Jake's fingers curled around the rope in a white-knuckled grip. She felt him tense. Or maybe she was the one who stiffened. Henry moved, and did something that his body, thankfully, blocked her from seeing. Amanda winced when she heard Jake's muffled grunt of pain.

"Well, I'll be damned."

Twigs snapped as Tom Rafferty moved closer to his brother. Hands on hips, he peered over Henry's shoulder. "What?"

"It
is
red!"

"What the hell color did you think it'd be, Henry?"

"Shit, I don't know. Black maybe. Like his Injun soul." Henry paused and glanced up at his brother. The movement gave Amanda an unobstructed view of Henry's scowl; the sight did nothing to fortify her courage. "You don't suppose it's the white in him that makes it red, do you, Tom? Do you?"

Tom mumbled an answer that Amanda's heart, throbbing in her ears, prohibited her from hearing. She leaned weakly against the tree trunk that concealed her and tried her best not to gag or cry; though she wanted badly to do both. They could be talking about only one thing: the color of Jake Chandler's blood. Pain sliced through her; she wondered if the emotional agony she felt was worse than the physical agony Jake must be experiencing.

They'd cut him. Dear God in heaven, they'd cut Jake!

Amanda drew in a shaky breath and tried to still her panic. She'd always sensed that Henry was insane. Hadn't she said as much to the lawyer in Boston? The lawyer, desperate to get rid of Roger, hadn't listened to a word, and he'd eventually convinced Amanda that her imagination was playing tricks on her. But now the proof of Henry Rafferty's derangement scared her senseless.

"Time's up, Henry. You've had your fun. Now, get the rest over with and do it quick. Best kill him while the kid's passed-out. Bannister won't pay us squat if we bring him a kid who's raving and carrying on about you skinning a breed."

"Aw, Tom—"

"Shut your damn trap and do it!"

"All right, all right." Henry's whiny, petulant tone said what his words did not—that he would rather have tortured "the breed" for a while longer yet.

Though her hands were shaking badly, and her knees felt weaker than sun-melted butter, Amanda knew that if she was going to act, she had to do it now. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she stepped from behind the tree. Slowly, she extended her arms and locked her elbows. The gun, clenched tightly in her fists, never wavered from Tom Rafferty's lanky back.

In three steps, she was close enough to feel his heat, smell his rancid odor. Another step and she was close enough to shove the barrel of the revolver between his bony shoulder blades.

Tom Rafferty tensed. Amanda grimaced as she watched the grimy fringe of hair scrape his collar as his chin came up. It took effort to keep her hands steady, but she did it. Thoughts of what would happen if she
didn't
made sure of that.

Tom started to turn toward her, but the ominous
click
the revolver made as she yanked the hammer back with her thumb convinced him not to. "I—ahem—I think you'd better hold off a bit after all, Henry," he said, his voice high and oddly nervous.

"But you just said—"

"I know what I said.
Now
I'm saying to wait." The barrel of the pistol grinding into his spine forced Tom to add, "And put the knife down, too."

"Dammit all,
I
—
"

"Just do it, Henry!"

A foul curse and a crunch of leaves said Henry had obeyed. Thank God! Quite honestly, Amanda didn't know what she would have done if he hadn't. Luckily, she was saved having to find out. Swallowing a sigh of relief, she told herself not to get too excited. Not yet. She'd prevented Jake's immediate death, but that was
all
she'd done. The crisis was far from over.

Out of the two Rafferty brothers, she deemed Henry the most dangerous. He was bigger, stronger, more insane. Therefore, it was Henry she addressed when she said calmly, precisely, "I want you sitting down in front of a tree by the time I count to five, Henry Rafferty. No second chances. One..."

The additional voice shocked Henry. His spine stiffened, and his head whipped around. His eyes narrowed, squinting into the shadows behind his brother's back. His gaze fixed on Amanda, and his brown eyes shimmered first with shock, then with fury. "And what if I don't?"

In an act of confidence she didn't feel, she tilted her chin and returned his glare. "I'll shoot your brother. Two..."