Nevada Nights (20 page)

The sound of muffled gunshots startled Cameron. Getting stiffly to her feet, she pulled on the buckskin jacket she had been using as a blanket.

The storm had blown eastward, the thunder now just an occasional rumble in the distance. The rain had gentled to a fine mist. By daylight the parched, dry earth would show no signs of this infrequent rainfall.

Climbing to the ridge, Cameron strained to see where the gunshots might have come from. There was no sign of life at the mine entrance.

She guessed that it would be several hours before dawn. The storm clouds had passed, but the sky was still midnight blue. A sliver of moon cast only a pale light.

Taking her chances, she crawled down the ridge, then, crouching in the shadow of some rocks, debated whether or not to try running the distance to the mine entrance.

A horse approached. She shrank back into the shadows.

Alex emerged from the mine carrying a torch. Plunging it into a mound of dirt to extinguish it, he called out, "Did you pay them off like I told you?"

Jarret, astride the horse, laughed. "Just like you said."

"Where’d you dump ’em?"

"Down the shaft."

"Good. Let’s go."

Alex mounted his horse, and the two of them rode off in the direction of the McCormick house.

Cameron waited long minutes, until the sound of their horses’ hoofbeats faded. Then, running across the open space, she picked up the torch Alex had discarded, lit it, and hurried inside the mine. Even though she had light to show her the way, she had to fight back the feelings of terror that threatened to engulf her. Moving quickly, she found the metal bin, loaded with rocks and stones. Choosing a small rock that would fit in her saddlebag, she hurried back outside. Extinguishing the torch, she ran to her horse and, elated by the success of her mission, headed toward home.

On the way, she puzzled the words she had heard spoken by her stepbrothers. What had Jarret dumped down a shaft? And what were the gunshots that had disturbed her sleep? She hadn’t actually been asleep; just dozing. But awake or asleep, she knew the sound of gunshots. It hadn’t been thunder. Colt had told her that they were using drifters to dig in the mine, then disposing of their bodies in deserted mine shafts. She shivered, then dismissed the thought as too horrible. Even monsters like Alex and Jarret couldn’t do such a brutal thing. But what else would explain the shots she had heard? Had someone been shooting at Jarret? He hadn’t seemed upset by anything. In fact, he had laughed. Cameron shivered. The sound of Jarret’s laughter always set her teeth on edge.

At the house, she dismounted and walked her horse to the stable. Removing the rock from the saddlebag, she dropped it into a hole beside the barn and covered it lightly with straw. Tomorrow she would find out what was being mined on her property.

As she made her way to the house, Cameron stretched happily. Despite the sleep she had missed this night and the terror of that darkened mine, she had managed to accomplish a great deal. A smile curved her lips. She deserved to sleep late and relax in a warm bath.

"Out enjoying a moonlight ride, little sister?"

Her head shot up. Alex leaned against the side of the house. His arms were folded across his chest. One foot was crossed over the other. He seemed inordinately pleased with himself.

"Yes. I—couldn’t sleep."

"That’s too bad. What you need is a good man in your bed."

Her throat went dry. Something in Alex’s tone sent ice along her spine.

"I’ve got just the thing for you." He grinned. "My brother, Jarret."

Cameron swung her head in time to see Jarret’s hand reaching out for her. He caught at the lapel of the buckskin jacket, ripping it open. She twisted away from him, leaving him holding an empty wrap.

He tossed it angrily to the ground, then watched, laughing, as she nearly ran into Alex’s arms. Dodging at the last second, her hat flew from her head, allowing the wild tangle of hair to drift down about her face and shoulders.

With an agility that astounded them, she broke into a run. The front door. If she made it that far, someone might hear her.

She was halfway there when a hand shot out, catching a handful of hair, snapping her head back. Tears sprang to her eyes at the searing pain.

Jarret’s fingers grabbed at the collar of her shirt, nearly choking her.

"Whose clothes are these, Cameron? Did you steal them off some poor old drifter?"

With a chuckle, he ripped the shirt from her, leaving it hanging in tatters from her sleeves. With no effort, he pulled it from her wrists and dropped it to the ground. Beneath the boy’s shirt, she wore a chemise of softest cotton lawn. With narrow straps over her shoulders, an insert of white lace barely covered her breasts.

Jarret caught her by the arms, his rough fingers pressing painfully into the soft flesh. "There now, that’s better. You’re starting to look like a woman."

Behind her, Alex laughed.

"Hold her while I get these off her," Jarret called to his brother.

Alex’s hands were rough as he pinned her against him. One hand fondled her breast, sending a spasm of shock through her.

Jarret’s fingers fumbled with the waist of the faded britches. With a tug, they slipped to the ground, revealing brief lace bloomers.

Jarret sucked in his breath as he stood back to stare at her. Even in the semi-darkness, her creamy skin and the delicate white undergarments were a vision of loveliness.

"Now, little nun, my brother is going to show you what you’ve been missing all these years." Alex’s voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "And when he’s through, you’re going to agree to marry him." He caught her chin in his hand and lowered his face to hers. "Do you know why you’re going to marry him?"

Her eyes narrowed. She tried to jerk her face away, but he tightened his grip until she nearly cried out from the pain.

"Because he’ll leave his brand on you, little nun. You won’t be a high and mighty, holier-than-thou little virgin any more." His eyes stared into hers, seeing the fear lurking there. "You’ll have a choice. You can be his wife, or you can be Jarret’s little slut. Either way, no good man will want to have anything to do with you after this."

He shoved her backward, into his brother’s waiting arms. "Show her what a woman’s good for, Jarret."

Two muscular arms came around her, pinning her firmly to him. He lowered his head and pressed his moist mouth over hers. Cameron tried to cry out, but his mouth covered her cries.

She struggled and managed to get a hand free. Frantically she pounded on his shoulder, then his head and face. With no effort, he caught the offending hand and pinned it between them, then drew her against him and again bent his mouth to hers.

As he raised his head, she cried out, hoping someone in the house would hear. Instantly, his hand covered her mouth to stifle any more attempts to cry for help. Lifting her as easily as if she were a child, he began carrying her to a dry spot beneath the tree.

In the darkness, she heard Alex’s jeering laughter. "Have fun, you two. I’d stay and watch, but I’ve put in a long night. I think I’ll turn in."

Jarret dropped Cameron roughly in a mound of grass, then knelt, straddling her. Her flailing arms and legs seemed to do no more damage to him than the wings of a bird. Laughing, he tossed back his head, as if enjoying her useless battle.

She tried a new tactic. Going completely limp, Cameron waited until Jarret bent to touch a hand to her face. With all her strength, she brought both fists to his nose. With a roar of pain, he straightened for a moment, covering his nose with his hand. When the hand came away warm with blood, he slapped her so hard it snapped her head to one side.

With a cry of pain, Cameron writhed and twisted, trying desperately to break free from the brute who held her fast.

Grabbing both sides of her face, he brought his mouth down hard on hers. Rough hands caught the delicate straps of her chemise and tore it in two. Then his hands were at her bared breasts, fondling, pressing, hurting as she had never been hurt before.

Through a haze of pain, she heard the muted sounds of a scuffle. Turning, Jarret saw two men silhouetted in the near-darkness. Leaping from Cameron, he ran to help his brother.

Scurrying to the barn, Cameron picked up a shovel and ran back to join in the fight. Spotting Jarret’s muscular frame about to attack the man holding Alex, she swung the shovel as hard as she could. Caught off guard, Jarret fell to one knee with a grunt of pain.

Alex went reeling from a blow, and her rescuer turned his attention to Jarret, who was beginning to stand.

Before the man could hit him, Jarret was lunging forward, knocking him into the trunk of a tree. Realizing the man was stunned, Cameron came to his rescue, swinging the shovel at Jarret’s head. He ducked, but she swung a second time, hitting him squarely in the stomach. He doubled over, trying to catch his breath.

Alex, springing to Jarret’s side, made a grab for the offending shovel, barely missing it. Cameron stepped back, ready to swing again. Just then, at the base of the tree, Jarret made a dive for the man, who was coming to his feet.

"Watch out!" she called.

The man turned, ducked, then landed a solid blow to Jarret’s face. Hearing a low moan, Cameron glanced toward the scuffle. In that split second, Alex caught the shovel in her hand and pulled it viciously away. Unarmed, Cameron faced him.

"You little bitch!" Alex swung his hand, catching her on the side of the head, sending her reeling. As she fell, her head hit a rock. Pain skyrocketed through her brain. Little splinters of brilliant light flashed before her eyes. Then there was only darkness.

*  *  *

Cameron drifted on a haze of pain. Keeping her eyes tightly closed, she lay still, wondering if she had died.

Was this what death felt like? Was it always so painful? She shifted slightly, and a fire raged through her brain. She seemed to hurt everywhere.

She knew she must be somewhere in the grass, but her mind couldn’t grasp just where. Instead, it was playing tricks on her. She felt as if she were lying between cool sheets. With the fingers of her right hand, she touched her thigh. Her skin felt hot, feverish. Moving slowly, her fingers brushed her waist, her rib, her breast. All were intact. Inching higher beneath the covers, she felt her collarbone, then her throat. As her fingers poked from the blanket to touch her face, something caught and held them.

A hand. With a little sob of terror, she jerked away, recalling Jarret’s rough hands on her. She felt the sudden stab of pain. Wincing, she felt something cool on her fevered forehead. A cool cloth. For a brief moment, she tensed. Then, against her will, she began to drift again. It was better this way. The throbbing in her head seemed less torturous. She let go and drifted further.

Something, or someone, was trying to bring her back. She resisted. "Let me go. Let me alone. I want to sleep. I don’t want to wake up."

Someone was talking. It seemed to be her voice. The words were slurred, mumbled, nearly incoherent. It didn’t matter. She had no intention of waiting for a response. She wanted to sleep.

Something cool was held to her lips. She sipped, murmured, drifted.

Jarret! His hands were on her. Hurting her. Soiling her. Degrading her. She pushed them away, kicking, biting, moaning. But he was stronger. He pinned her arms at her sides and held her fast. He was tearing her clothes from her. She had to fight him. Had to. Jarret’s wife. No! Jarret’s little slut. She cried out. A hand pressed softly over her lips, stilling her cries. Her breath came faster, nearly choking her. She would fight him with the last ounce of strength left in her. She would never submit. Never. She suffered the cool touch of his hands, too exhausted to fight him further. Her hands stilled. The agonized expression on her face disappeared, replaced by fitful sleep.

*  *  *

A raw, gnawing pain woke her. She cried out. Instantly, a warm hand touched her cheek. She flinched, turning her face away. The hand remained, stroking her forehead, her cheek, her throat.

Tensing, she allowed the touch to continue. Although she kept her eyes tightly shut, she knew this wasn’t Jarret’s hand. The touch was too gentle.

She sighed. A hand lifted her head slightly. Pain, sharp, white hot, shot through her brain. Cool water touched her lips. She sipped, paused, sipped again, then closed her lips tightly against more. Her head was gently replaced on the soft pillow.

She was in a bed. She felt cool and clean. There was the aroma of soap and water and the sharper tang of disinfectant.

Clouds seemed to drift through her mind. Layers of soft, murky clouds. She thought about opening her eyes, but it was too much effort. It was simpler to lie here, her eyes tightly shut, listening to the sound of crickets. It must still be nighttime. The room was dark. She sensed that without opening her eyes. Someone moved soundlessly about from time to time. A cool hand touched her forehead often.

With her hand, she again explored her body. Hesitantly, she moved along her thigh, her waist, her rib, her breast, as if to assure they were still there. They hadn’t been violated. They hadn’t been amputated. Then her hand went motionless as a new awareness pierced her sleep-drugged mind. She was naked. She hadn’t dreamed it. Her clothes had been ripped from her.

Slowly, tentatively, her hand poked from beneath the covers. She touched her face, then moved to the back of her head. A sudden twinge caused her to gasp. Immediately, a hand grasped hers. She began to jerk away, but another hand closed over hers, pressing it between two large hands.

With her other hand, she caught at it. Her fingertips traced a wrist. Encircling it, like a bracelet, was a large, knotted scar. She sighed and breathed a name.

"Michael. Oh, Michael. You’ve come to me." Blissfully, dreamlessly, she slept.