Savage Thunder (2 page)

“Wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seein’ it with my own eyes,” someone said next to him.

The whir and slap of the whip resumed, but no one was paying much attention to it now except the recipient and the wielder.

“I still don’t believe it,” a voice grumbled behind Colt. “It ain’t possible he’s still on his feet.”

“What’d you expect? He’s only half human, you know. It’s the other half that’s still standing.”

Ramsay tuned out their voices, concentrating on lashing only the raw wounds now. He was furious that he hadn’t broken the Injun yet, and his anger was affecting his aim. The bastard couldn’t do this to him. He couldn’t die without making a sound.

Ramsay was so angry he didn’t hear the riders who came tearing around the side of the house, but the others did. They turned to see Chase and Jessica Summers and about twenty of their cowhands descending on them.

If Ramsay heard them, he must have assumed they were some of Callan’s men coming in off the range, for he still didn’t pause. He was in the process of drawing back his arm for another slash when Jessie Summers palmed her gun and fired.

The bullet that was aimed to shatter Ramsay’s skull flew over his head instead, Summers having hit his wife’s arm up into the air at the last second when he saw her intent. But that shot was like a signal, every Rocky Valley man drawing a rifle or revolver upon hearing it. The Callan hands didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even breathe.

Walter Callan began to realize he might have made a serious mistake. Not that he didn’t want the breed
dead, but maybe he shouldn’t have gone about it so publicly.

Ramsay Pratt stared in horror at the barrage of weaponry aimed mostly in his direction. A whip wasn’t worth a damn against so many, even his bullwhip. He carefully lowered his arm until the blood-soaked leather was like a red snake curled about his feet.

“You bastard!” Jessie Summers was shouting, but she was shouting at her husband. “Why’d you stop me? Why?!”

Before he could answer, she had slid from her horse and run forward, pushing men out of her way who still didn’t dare move on their own, and none too gently. She was in a towering rage. In all her twenty-five years she had never been killing mad like this. Not her father, her mother, or her husband, all of whom she had been at odds with at one time or another, had ever made her lose control like this. If Chase hadn’t stopped her, she would have emptied her gun into Callan’s men, and saved the last bullet for him.

But when she reached Thunder and saw close up the actual damage that whip had done, the fury drained right out of her. She doubled over with a keening moan that ended abruptly as she emptied her stomach in the blood-splattered yard.

Chase was there before she finished, putting his arms around her. But he was staring at Thunder and feeling kind of queasy himself. He had come to think of the man as a friend, though Colt was closer to Jessie. She loved him like a brother. They had shared
a special relationship for more than half their lives. Colt had always been there for her when she needed a friend, and Jessie was going to blame herself for not getting here in time. And Chase had a strong feeling they were too late. If the shock didn’t kill Colt, the loss of blood would.

“Nooo!” Jessie was crying now as she raised up and looked at Thunder again. “Oh, God, oh, God! Do something, Chase!”

“I’ve already sent a man for the doctor.”

“That’ll take too long. Do something now. You have to do something now. Stop the bleeding—oh, God, why isn’t he cut loose yet?”

It wasn’t really a question. Jessie wasn’t aware of what she was saying just then. Almost in a trance, she walked around the post. That was better. He looked all right from the front—except for the paleness of his skin, the deathly stillness of him, his shallow breathing. She was afraid to touch him. She wanted to take him in her arms, but didn’t dare. Any touch was going to hurt him. Any movement was going to be excruciating.

“Oh, God, White Thunder, what have they done to you?”

It was said in a tearful whisper. Colt heard her. He knew she was there in front of him, but he didn’t open his eyes. If he saw the pain etched on her face, he would lose the slim thread of control he had left. As it was, he was terrified she was going to touch him, and yet he needed her tenderness, needed it desperately.

“Don’t…cry…”

“No, no, I won’t,” she assured him as the tears continued to pour down her cheeks. “But don’t try to talk, okay? I’ll take care of everything. I’ll even kill Callan for you.”

Was she trying to make him laugh? He’d made the same offer to her once, only the man he would have killed for her was now the husband she loved with all her heart.

“Don’t…kill…anyone.”

“Shhh, all right, all right, anything you say, but don’t talk anymore.” And then, “Dammit, Chase, hurry up with those ropes! We’ve got to stop the bleeding.”

Colt didn’t move his arms when they were freed. Chase stood in front of him now. His voice was gentle as he explained, “Jessie, honey, that whip was trailed through the dirt time and again. His back is going to have to be cleaned first if infection isn’t to kill him.”

There was a heavy silence. Colt would have tensed if he wasn’t already holding himself so rigid.

“Do it, Chase,” Jessie said quietly.

“Christ, Jessie—”

“You have to,” she insisted.

The three knew each other well enough that both men understood she wasn’t talking about cleaning wounds or even moving him yet. Colt’s body almost sighed with relief. It was about time she had thought of something sensible.

“We’ll need a mattress first, and a couple men to hold him so he doesn’t fall.”

Jessie was in her element, issuing orders, but when she sent two men into the house for a mattress, Walter
Callan recollected whose property they were on and stepped in front of the door to block their way.

“You ain’t wastin’ one of my mattresses on that dirty…”

He didn’t finish. Jessie had whirled around at the sound of his objection, and he now had her full attention, and every bit of the fury she had felt earlier. She mounted the porch steps, and before anyone realized her intent, she had hefted the gun from one of the men Callan was blocking. Chase wasn’t there to take it away this time. No one else would dare try.

“You ever been shot before, Callan?” she said conversationally as she motioned the two men into the house and casually caressed the barrel of the old Colt .44 Dragoon. “There are parts on the body that can be shot off that won’t bleed too seriously, but will sure hurt like hell. A toe, for instance, or a finger…or what makes a man a man. How many bullets do you think it would take to shoot off an inch at a time? Three, maybe? Not even that many? Would that equal your own savagery, do you think?”

“You’re crazy,” Walter said in a horrified whisper.

His hand had gone to his gun in a protective gesture. Jessie did nothing to stop him, just stared at his hand, hoping he would draw the gun. He saw that hope in her eyes and slowly took his hand away.

“Coward,” she hissed, done playing with him. “Pack your gear and be gone by sundown, Callan, you and your men. Ignore my warning and I’ll make your life a living hell. There won’t be anywhere in the territory you can hide from my vengeance.”

He wasn’t expecting that. “You got no call—”

“The hell I don’t!”

He looked beseechingly to her husband. “Summers, can’t you control your wife?”

“I already did you one favor, you son of a bitch,” Chase shouted up at him. “I kept her from blowing your head off. Whatever else she has a mind to do is the least of what you deserve, so don’t press it. It’s lucky for you one of your men who overheard what you were planning is a drinking buddy of my foreman. And it’s damn lucky for you he didn’t have to ride all the way to the Rocky Valley, but found us out on the range. But that’s where your luck runs out. What you did here is the lowest kind of savagery, fit only for animals.”

“I had every right,” Walter protested. “He defiled my daughter.”

“That cold bitch you got for a daughter encouraged him,” Jessie spat, moving to the side as the mattress was pushed out the door. A wagon had already been confiscated from the barn. “All I got left to say to you is, if he dies, you die, Callan. You better do some powerful praying on your way out of the territory.”

“The sheriff will hear about this.”

“Oh, I hope you’re that stupid, I really do. If I didn’t suspect you’d get no more than a slap on the wrist, I’d turn you in myself. Go against me and I’ll take the law into my own hands, I swear to God I will. I ought to anyway,” Jessie ended with a measure of self-disgust as she turned away.

“Shit,” Walter grumbled behind her. “He’s only a damn half-breed.”

Jessie swung around, her turquoise eyes blazing. “You bastard! You lowlife, worthless bastard! That’s my brother you nearly killed! Say one more word to me and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes!”

She gave him two seconds to see if he would call her on this last warning, then turned away to return to Colt. His eyes were open. They stared at each other a long moment.

“You…knew?”

“Not always. Did you know?”

“When I…left.”

She put a finger to his lips very gently. “I’m surprised she told you at all. I had always wondered about the affinity I felt for you, but not for your sister or brothers. I finally asked your mother right out. She wouldn’t answer. It couldn’t have been something she would have wanted to admit, that her oldest daughter wasn’t the only one to bear my father a child. But that she wouldn’t deny it was answer enough for me, especially since I so wanted it to be true.”

“Jessie, don’t you think this conversation ought to wait for a better time?” Chase said.

She nodded and let her finger trail away in a loving caress across Colt’s cheek. It was the signal for the two men standing behind him to step forward and grasp his arms. Colt closed his eyes again when Chase moved directly in front of him.

“Sorry, my friend.”

“Don’t be an ass, Chase,” Jessie said matter-of-factly, earning an I’ll-get-you-later-for-that-crack glance from her husband, which she typically ig
nored. “It’s the only thing he’ll have to be grateful for on this hellish day. Get it over with.”

Chase did, drawing back his fist and letting fly with it toward Colt’s jaw.

Cheshire, England, 1878

V
anessa Britten ignored the embroidery in her lap and watched the duchess complete another circle of the room. She wouldn’t exactly call it pacing the floorboards. She doubted the girl was even aware that she was wearing a path in the fine Eastern carpet.

Who would have thought the duchess would even care about the little tragedy taking place upstairs. Vanessa certainly hadn’t thought it was possible when she had accepted the position as companion to the nineteen-year-old duchess just last month. It was such a common thing, young girls wedding older lords for their wealth and titles. And Jocelyn Fleming had latched onto one of the best catches, Edward Fleming, sixth Duke of Eaton, in his late middle years and already ailing when they wed last year.

But it didn’t take long for Vanessa to change her opinion of the young Duchess of Eaton. Oh, she had certainly been destitute when the duke had proposed to her. Her father had owned a stud farm in Devonshire, one of the finest in England, if Jocelyn could be believed. But like a great many of his contempo
raries, he was a man who had a detrimental fondness for gambling, and when he died, he was so in debt that Jocelyn was left without a farthing. Edward Fleming had literally saved the poor girl from what was considered the worst of the worst for a gently reared lady—seeking employment.

Vanessa could only have said “Good show” to such a feat. She loved success stories, wasn’t the type to begrudge another a little good fortune or a lot, as in the duchess’s case. But Jocelyn Fleming wasn’t the fortune huntress she had first assumed her to be.

Vanessa had lived too many years in London, where her peers were a cold-blooded lot, out for anything and everything they could get. Jocelyn wouldn’t know how to be cold-blooded if she tried. She was too naive by half, too open and trusting, too innocent to be believed. And yet she really was exactly what she seemed. The most amazing thing about her was that she really loved the man who was at this moment upstairs dying.

Vanessa had been hired for this very contingency. The duke had taken many unusual precautions over the past months, selling unentailed properties, transferring money out of the country, buying the essentials needed for traveling. He had taken care of all the necessary details. The only thing Jocelyn and her rather large entourage needed to do was leave. Even the packing was already done.

Vanessa had been quite skeptical of the reasons for this foresight on the duke’s part until she met his distant relations, the “vultures,” as he called them, who were waiting to descend on his estate and pick it apart.

If ever a fellow could be termed avaricious and on the hard side of ruthless, it was Maurice Fleming, present heir to the dukedom. Edward had no immediate family. Maurice was a mere cousin, once removed, whom the duke could not tolerate to be even in the same room with. But Maurice had a large family of in-laws to support, as well as a mother and four sisters, and to say he had been avidly awaiting Edward’s demise would be putting it mildly. He also had spies in Fleming Hall keeping him apprised of Edward’s condition, and the moment the duke was pronounced dead, the knocker would undoubtedly sound at the front door.

Poor Jocelyn was in the middle of what could only be termed a family feud of long standing. Edward’s relations had done their best to convince him not to wed her. Failing that, they had made certain threats, not in Edward’s hearing, but he had nonetheless learned of them. He was not just being overprotective in all the preparations he had made for his young wife’s future.

Vanessa would be the first to agree now that it would be folly to remain in England to tempt the fates. The new duke was not going to sit by idly while the bulk of the Fleming estate flew out of his reach. He would do everything within his power to get it back, and in his position as the new Duke of Eaton, his power was going to be immense. But Edward was bound and determined that Maurice and his greedy family should have nothing of his that was not entailed, that it should all belong to Jocelyn for her loyalty and selfless devotion to him.

If anyone needed Vanessa’s advice and guidance, this young girl with the teary eyes did. Jocelyn didn’t want to leave England and all that was familiar to her. She had been arguing with her husband since he first suggested it, to no avail. She was like a child in that respect, fearing the unknown. She couldn’t grasp the danger to herself if she stayed and fell under Maurice’s control. Vanessa could. Good Lord, it didn’t bear thinking of. Jocelyn might be the duchess, soon to be the duchess dowager, for Maurice had a wife who would be the new Duchess of Eaton, but Jocelyn’s title would give her no protection at all if Maurice managed to get his hands on her.

“Your Grace?” The housekeeper appeared hesitantly in the doorway, the queen’s own physician at her side. “Your Grace?”

It took one more “Your Grace” before Jocelyn could be called back from her gloomy thoughts to the present. Vanessa could see that she had still held hope, however small. But one look at the physician’s expression and that hope died a final death.

“How long?” Jocelyn asked in a tiny voice.

“Tonight, Your Grace,” the old physician replied. “I’m sorry. We knew it was only a matter of time…” His voice trailed off.

“May I see him now?”

“Certainly. He is asking for you.”

Jocelyn nodded and squared her shoulders. If she had learned anything from her husband this past year, it was poise and a certain self-confidence that came from a position of importance. She wouldn’t cry, not in front of the servants. But once alone…

He was only fifty-five years old. His brown hair had been sparsely peppered with gray four years ago, when Jocelyn had first met him. He had come to Devonshire to purchase a hunter from her father. She had recommended a less showy mount, and Edward had taken her advice over her father’s trainer’s. The hunter she had favored had more heart, more stamina. Edward wasn’t sorry.

He came back the next year for a pair of racers. Again he bought only on her recommendation. She was terribly flattered. She knew horses, had been raised with them, but no one would take her seriously because of her tender age. Edward Fleming, though, had been impressed with her knowledge and confidence. The Thoroughbreds she had sold him had since earned him a great deal of money. Again he wasn’t sorry. And somehow, they became friends, despite the vast difference in their ages.

He came immediately when he learned of her father’s death. He made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. It was not a salacious offer. He already knew he was dying. The physicians had given him only a few more months to live. What he wanted was a companion, a friend, someone who might care and shed a tear or two at his passing. He had friends, but no one close to him.

He was fond of saying she had given him a reason to live a bit longer. Jocelyn liked to think that was so. She was so grateful for the extra months she had been granted with him; he was everything to her, father, brother, mentor, friend, hero, everything except lover,
but that could not be helped. He had been incapable of making love to a woman for many years before he even met her. But being an innocent bride of eighteen, she didn’t know what she was missing, and so had no regrets that there was an area of their relationship she wasn’t able to explore. She would have been more than willing, but didn’t feel cheated. She simply loved Edward for everything else he was to her.

She sometimes felt she had been born when she met him. Her mother had died before Jocelyn had any real memories of her. Her father spent most of his time in London. Occasionally when he came home he might notice her, but she never felt a closeness to him. Hers had been a lonely, isolated life in the country, her only true interest the horses her father bred. Edward had opened up a whole new world to her, of sports, and socials, and women friends, of fancy clothes, and luxuries she never dreamed of. Now she was about to embark on another new life, but without him to guide her. God, how was she going to face it without him?

Jocelyn adjusted her breathing to the smell of sickness as she entered the state bedroom. She would not use a scented kerchief to mask the unpleasant odors. She could not do that to him.

He was lying prone in the huge bed in the center of the enormous room, to make his own breathing easier. She saw him watching her as she approached, his gray eyes dull, nearly lifeless already, the skin sunken beneath them, and so deathly pale. It brought tears to her eyes to see him like this, when up until only a few weeks ago he had still been reasonably
active, a few weeks before that, hale and hearty, or so he had made her believe—while all along he had been making plans and arrangements for her, knowing his time was coming to an end.

“Don’t look so sad, my dear.”

Even his voice didn’t sound the same anymore. God, how was she going to say good-bye to him without breaking down?

She reached for his hand lying on top of the velvet cover and brought it to her lips. When she took it away, a smile remained for his benefit, but it lasted only a second.

“That’s cheating,” she admonished herself and him. “I am sad. I can’t help it, Eddie.”

A little of the humor that was so much a part of him returned to his eyes at the name no one else had ever dared to call him, even in childhood. “You were always deplorably honest. It’s one of the things I most admired about you.”

“And I thought it was my excellent horse sense—about horses, that is.”

“That too.” His own attempt at a smile also failed.

“Are you in pain?” she asked hesitantly.

“Nothing I’m not used to by now.”

“Didn’t the physician give you—”

“For later, my dear. I wanted to remain lucid to say my good-byes.”

“Oh, God!”

“Now, none of that.” He tried to sound stern but had never been able to be stern with her. “Please, Jocelyn. I can’t bear to see you cry.”

She turned her head away to wipe at the tears, but
when she looked back at him, they came rushing down her cheeks again. “I’m sorry, but it just hurts so much, Eddie. I wasn’t supposed to love you, not like this,” she said baldly.

A remark like that would have made him laugh even a few days ago. “I know.”

“You told me two months, and I thought—I thought I wouldn’t get that attached to you in such a short time. I wanted to make your last months comfortable, to make you happy if I could, because you were doing so much for me. But I wasn’t going to get so close that it was going to hurt when…It didn’t matter, did it?” A wry smile crossed her lips and then was gone. “Before those two months were up, I already cared too much. Oh, Eddie, can’t you give us a little more time? You fooled the doctors before. You can do it again, can’t you?”

How he longed to say yes. He didn’t want to give up this life, not when happiness had come so late to it. But he had never deceived her, and wouldn’t now. He had been selfish to marry her when there were so many other ways he could have helped her instead. But it was done, and he couldn’t really regret the time he had had with her, short as it was, even though it was causing her this grief now. He had wanted someone to care, and she did. He just hadn’t realized his own heart would ache because of it, now that he must leave her.

He squeezed her hand in answer to her plea. Seeing her shoulders sag, he knew she understood. He sighed, closing his eyes, but only for a moment.
Looking at her had always given him so much pleasure, and he needed that right now.

She was incredibly beautiful, though she would be the first to scoff if he said so, and rightly so, since her looks were not in the least fashionable. Her coloring was too flamboyant for the ton, her red hair too bright, like a bursting flame, her lime-green eyes too unusual in their paleness, and much too expressive. If Jocelyn didn’t like you, her eyes said so, for she was too honest for her own good and didn’t know the first thing about duplicity. Nor did she conform with other redheads, as there wasn’t a single freckle on her flawless ivory skin, skin so pale it was nearly translucent.

Her features were more acceptable, a small oval face graced with gently arching brows, a nose small and straight, a soft, delicate mouth. There was a stubborn lift to her chin, though it was not indicative of temperament, at least not that Edward was aware of. The only stubbornness he had ever been treated to was her objection to leaving England, but in that she had finally given in.

As for the rest of her, well, even he had to admit her figure could have been a bit fuller. She was a touch over average in height, though still several inches shorter than his own medium frame. She had always been an active girl, even more so once she came to Fleming Hall, which would account for the narrow slimness of her shape. And she had lost weight this past month in her worry over him, so that her clothes no longer fitted her properly. Not that she cared. She was not a vain girl by any means. She
accepted what she had to work with and did not go to great lengths to improve on it.

Edward, in his folly, had found himself extremely jealous of her, at any rate, and so was glad that other men did not find her as lovely as he did. And since his attachment to her was not sexual, her lack of figure was not at issue.

“Have I told you how grateful I am you agreed to be my duchess?”

“A hundred times, at least.”

He squeezed her hand again. She barely felt it.

“Are you and the countess packed?”

“Eddie, don’t—”

“We have to talk about it, my dear. You must leave immediately, even if it’s the middle of the night.”

“It’s not right.”

He knew what she referred to. “Funerals are depressing things, Jocelyn. No purpose can be served by your attending mine, other than to ruin all I’ve done to see you safe. Promise me?”

She nodded, if reluctantly. He was making it so real, her imminent departure. She had tried not to think of it, as if ignoring it could keep him with her longer. That wasn’t possible anymore.

“I sent a copy of your will to Maurice.” On seeing her widened eyes, he explained. “I hope it will stay his hand from anything drastic. I am also hoping that once he realizes you’ve left the country, he will let the matter go and be satisfied with the entailed properties that will come to him. Eaton is rich enough to support him and his large family.” She didn’t need to stay for the reading of the will, since he had al
ready transferred everything else he owned to her name.