Nan Ryan (18 page)

But she stopped crying.

For an instant she stayed poised just as she was, kneeling astride him. A hand lifted in the air, her knees viciously grasping his trim waist, her heart racing so fast her breasts rose and fell rapidly, straining against the low purple bodice.

Then every bone in her body seemed to go limp. She sat wearily back down on him, her bottom settling on his groin and hips. Her knees lost their tenacious grip, fell slack against his ribs. Her spine became limber; she drooped helplessly forward. And put up no struggle when the Indian gently drew her down to him. Her elbows touched the blanket beneath him; her hands came to rest on his biceps. Her fingers curled naturally around the hard, solid muscle.

His hand cupped the back of her head. He gently pressed her face down on his left shoulder and swept the dark, tangled hair from her red-rimmed eyes and back off her face, the wide silver bracelet flashing on his wrist. Diane sighed heavily and allowed herself to sag fully down on him. Her slender body still jerked slightly with involuntary tremors, so she didn’t object when she felt his strong but gentle hands skimming soothingly down her bare upper arms and over her back. His firm fingertips tenderly stroked her back, curiously comforting.

Totally wrung out, Diane felt any traces of lingering tenseness being expertly rubbed away by his gentle, unhurried hands. Her temple touching his smooth tanned jaw, Diane closed her stinging eyes and willingly gave herself up to a few needed moments of total relaxation.

She inhaled deeply and was struck again by the clean masculine scent of the savage. He smelled as if he’d just stepped from his bath, all scrubbed and fresh and sunwanned. Diane sighed softly when she felt the Redman’s fingers cautiously sweep aside her long, tangled hair and go to work on the knotted muscles in her neck.

She moaned softly as he dexterously took away the kinks and knots. His fingers, which had been so temperate on her back, were now strong, determined to expel all traces of tenseness. It seemed to Diane that she had never been quite so relaxed in her life. She didn’t know how that could possibly be, but it was a fact So she let herself appreciate the tranquillity of the moment, a precious interlude without thought or fear.

The savage seemed as content as she to lie there beneath her, unmoving, posing no immediate threat. Perhaps in every ongoing life-or-death struggle a truce is called from time to time so that both sides can recoup. She’d gladly recoup while she could. She’d lie here and rest up for the fierce skirmishes ahead.

The pair continued to lie quietly in the deep shadows under the cliff. The Indian stretched out on his back, the woman draped astride him, her knees hugging his sides, hands slipping down to clutch his ribs.

It wasn’t long before what had started out to be a restful, relaxing respite became something else altogether.

At first Diane was only vaguely aware of her compromising position. Soon she became vitally aware. Her head rested on the savage’s bare shoulder; her lips were a scant inch from his bruised throat. Her breasts, spilling from the low bodice of her dress, were flattened against the solid wall of his naked chest. She was astride his body, one knee on each side of him. Somewhere in their struggles her skirt had come up, and one of her knees and part of her thigh were totally bare.

Flesh touched flesh.

Worse—far worse—her buttocks and open thighs were pressing intimately against his pelvis and groin.

The sight of his slipping loincloth flashed through her mind, and Diane didn’t have to wonder if the tiny piece of leather had come entirely off. She knew. Nothing was between them except the slithery satin of her underpants.

Horrified, Diane could feel the fierce heat of him rising against her, pressing the slick satin against that most sensitive of spots. And she could feel that awakened feminine flesh swelling, throbbing for him.

She lay completely still, hardly daring to breathe. Ashamed and frightened by what was happening to her, she felt her nipples tighten and press insistently against the Indian’s hot, smooth chest. She suddenly became aware of his hands. The last time she recalled feeling them, they were compassionately massaging her shoulders. They no longer were. They were clasping her rib cage tightly, and the bronzed thumbs were urgently pressing the sides of her breasts.

From beneath veiled lashes, Diane watched the Redman slowly swallow, saw the muscles of his throat slide beneath the bruised skin. She heard his ragged intake of air, felt his rapid, heavy heartbeat against her breasts.

All at once the Indian, with amazing speed and agility, rolled Diane over onto her back and was lying atop her. His harshly handsome face loomed just above. Hot pinpoints of light glittered from the dark, scary eyes boring down on her. His cruel lips, hardened with passion or hatred or both, hovered inches from her own.

Diane fully expected to feel that brutal mouth cover hers in a kiss of fierce savagery. Torn between wanting it and fearing it, she turned her face away and felt the tickle of his silver-streaked hair brush her cheek. His hands quickly clasped her head on either side, and he forced her to look directly at him.

Terrified of the animal possession she knew was coming, Diane lay helpless beneath the naked savage, her frightened gaze riveted to his face. In agony she looked into those hot black eyes, unable to turn away because his hands held her in a tight, viselike grip.

She could feel the sexual power radiating from him, sensed the dangerous, aggressive passion consuming him. His breath was ragged and warm against her face. His body was so fiery it burned right through her clothes.

Yet he hesitated.

Diane stared into those burning black eyes and wondered if this was part of her torture. Did he want her to lie here helpless while he gave her time to dread his brutal violation of her body? Was this his way of prolonging the torment? Was he so canny and sadistic that he wanted to draw out the violent, degrading rape for as long as possible?

While Diane stared fearfully up at the dark mask of his face, his eyes suddenly blinked as though he were coming out of some kind of deep trance, and his face became human again. Still, she tensed with dread when his hands released their tight grip on her head.

Her breath came out in a strangled rush when his hand moved down between their bodies. She waited to hear the tear of fabric as he ripped her dress away.

It was she who blinked when he rose to his knees astride her. The dark hand that had so worried her was modestly holding the loose loincloth in place over his groin.

He rose to his feet, stood there astride her, and casually tied the leather string atop his right hip. Then without so much as a parting glance, he stepped over her and ducked out into the bright sunlight.

Diane sat up, terribly shaken and tremendously relieved.

And totally baffled.

“Signal Boz to stop the train! Get me my guns! Wire the governor!” A distraught Colonel Buck Buchannan shouted the orders as soon as Texas Kate told him the news.

Texas Kate had awakened that morning to find Diane missing from their compartment. Sensing trouble, she hurriedly dressed and made her way to the Colonel’s coach, asking everyone she met if anyone had seen Diane. Nobody had.

As she approached the open door of the Colonel’s quarters, Texas Kate heard loud, excited voices. She paused, listened, and learned that the Redman of the Rockies had escaped during the night.

Texas Kate felt her heart hammer against her ribs. She knew at once that the savage had taken Diane from the train.

Kate rushed into the crowded coach, and all conversation stopped as she shouted that Diane was missing!

“… and after the governor’s been wired,” the Colonel now bellowed, “have someone contact the authorities and—”

“Wait,” said the Cherokee Kid, interrupting, “if we bring in the governor and the law, adverse publicity will cripple advance ticket sales and enable Pawnee Bill to cash in on our troubles.”

“Damnation, Kid, that savage has my only granddaughter! Do you expect me to—”

“Colonel, I’ll go after her. I’ll take the Leatherwood brothers. We’ll leave right now while the trail’s still hot.”

“I’ll go with you,” said the Colonel, shaking his white head decisively.

“Buck, you can’t,” his worried wife, standing at his elbow, quickly cautioned. “You can’t ride far with that lame leg. You’d only hold the boys up, and every minute counts.”

“Mrs. Buchannan’s right,” said the Kid. “We’ll have to ride hard to make up for their head start. I’ll get her back for you, Colonel. I swear it.” He paused then, appeared suddenly self-conscious, and added softly, “I won’t let that savage harm her. Sir, I’m in love with Diane.” He lowered his head, looked as if he were on the brink of tears.

Touched, the Colonel gripped his shoulder. “Go get her, son!”

Chapter 17

The Indian struggled to awaken. He thrashed restlessly about, fighting to emerge from a nightmare’s numbing horror. His head tossed from side to side and he muttered unintelligible words. His bronzed face and bare chest were covered with a sheen of perspiration. His eyes rolled rapidly beneath the closed lids.

After several agonizing minutes of flailing about, at last he broke the bonds of sleep, bolting upright in his bed, his black eyes open wide with panic. His breath came in painful, labored gasps. His heart thundered in his naked chest. He looked anxiously around and took a small measure of reassurance from the familiar surroundings.

But a sense of deep foreboding lingered.

Ancient Eyes swung his feet to the floor. He sat on his bunk, both hands clutching the narrow mattress, commanding his racing heart to slow its beat. Telling himself he’d had a terrible nightmare, a bad dream. It meant nothing, nothing at all. A dream already growing fuzzy, half forgotten.

Even as the old chieftain reasoned with himself, his mood didn’t lighten. Something was wrong. He could feel it. The disturbing nightmare was a harbinger of real peril. And now, wide-awake, he could hear the Spirits of the Afterworld whispering of some catastrophe.

Ancient Eyes turned, leaned across his bunk, and jerked up the window shade. He looked out, then shook his head worriedly, his white hair swinging forward into his dark, wrinkled face. Always he awakened before dawn lit the eastern skies. Had for years. Not this morning. The new day was already bathed in bright white light.

The Ute labored up from his bunk. Disregarding a nagging pain in his chest, he poured water into a basin and hurriedly washed up. Quickly he dressed. By the time he had donned a blue chambray shirt and denim trousers, he was again covered with perspiration.

His dark forebodings grew stronger.

Ancient Eyes didn’t proceed directly to the dining car as was his custom. He wanted no breakfast this morning. He was mildly nauseated, probably a case of indigestion.

Besides, there was someplace he
had
to go, something he had to do. He had to see for himself.

The key to the cage was missing from its carved box. Had Little Buck been successful in her daring act?

Ancient Eyes started through the cars, heading toward the train’s rear. As he made his way steadily but slowly back, the gloom that hung over him deepened. He glanced out at the countryside rolling past the windows and frowned as the sun abruptly went behind a cloud. Suddenly it was dark, and in that darkness all his fears were magnified.

It was an omen.

An evil omen.

The sun itself was frightened. It was hiding behind the clouds, afraid to come out.

Ancient Eyes was frightened, too. And curiously tired. He had just gotten out of bed and had slept hours longer than usual, yet he couldn’t recall being quite so tired ever before. His legs were so weak and heavy he could barely lift them. The annoying nausea was growing worse, and he was perspiring profusely. At the same time he felt as though he were chilled to the bone.

A young Mexican charro brushed past the old Indian. Ancient Eyes caught his sleeve, pulled him back. “Tell me, Arto,” he said, “what is it? Something has happened?”

The slim Mexican hunched his shoulders, rolled his brown eyes, and said,
“Dios
, Ancient Eyes, have you not heard? The Redman of the Rockies get loose! He kidnap the Colonel’s granddaughter!”

The charro hurried on his way. The old chief sagged against a compartment door. His broad hand went up to clutch at his aching chest The pain was now almost unbearable. He felt as if he might black out. But Ancient Eyes laboriously steadied himself, turned, and anxiously started making his way toward the front of the train.

All his fault. It was his fault. He alone was responsible. He would go at once to the Colonel and admit it. Tell him everything. Start at the beginning with the day they found the Redman and how the Kid and the Leatherwoods had beaten the defenseless Indian. Tell how he himself had foolishly showed the kindhearted Little Buck where he kept the key to the Redman’s cage.

Ancient Eyes manfully ignored his worsening pain, his growing weakness. He knew now that he was seriously sick, but that made no difference. If this was to be the day of his death, he
had
to clear his guilty conscience. He had proved unworthy of the trust placed in him. He had to confess his unforgivable failings to his old white brother before he passed on to the Great Mystery.