The Bad Luck Wedding Dress (25 page)

She whipped her knee up and crunched his nose.

“Goddamn!” he shouted, as blood burst forth, raining down upon her.

He brought his hand up to cradle the injury and backed away from the bed as she kicked again, aiming for the knife. She missed.

With a roar of rage, he lifted the weapon, then rammed it downward. Jenny rolled, and the knife plunged into the mattress. She hit the floor, then scrambled to her feet. Her heart pounded mercilessly as she dashed toward the door, her mind racing. All she could think of was to get away.

She was halfway through the door when he caught her.

“You stupid bitch,” he growled, wrapping his fist around her hair and dragging her back inside. “I’d have made this easy on you. Quick and painless.”

Her scalp was in agony as he flung her back onto the bed. He’d abandoned the knife for a Colt revolver, and the cold hard metal seemed to burn her skin as he placed the barrel against her cheek.

He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Not any longer. I’ll make you hurt. I’ll make you hurt bad.”

Jenny waited, breathing hard, an awful anticipation seeming to freeze time as he loomed above her. She thought of her mother and father, of Emma, Maribeth, and Katrina. She thought of Trace.

Dear Lord, she didn’t want to die
.

Despite the gun, she moved. She rolled off the bed and fell hard against the floor, half-expecting to feel the bite of a bullet. Like an animal pursued, she reacted instinctively and rolled into the darkness beneath the bed.

His curse was ugly as he dropped to his knees. His bloodstained hand swept beneath the bed and reached for her. She recoiled as if it were a snake. Fear had its claws in her chest and she silently screamed for help.
Trace!

She startled at his unexpected shriek. Frank Bailey yanked his arm from beneath the bed, howling and cursing in pain-laden agony. Jenny stared transfixed as his knees disappeared when he jumped to his feet. Something fell to the floor beside his boot. One, two, three, she counted. His boot lifted then stomped.
Thud. Thud. Thud
. Still, he continued to scream.

The distinctive smell billowed outward in an invisible cloud. Vinegar. Oh, Lord. Recognition hit her like a blow. People in West Texas called them vinegarroons. Twice the size of common scorpions, venom from that type of scorpion could kill a man.

Or a woman.

Her thoughts came like bullets. Her father had taught her about poisonous plants and animals indigenous to Texas. What did she remember about vinegarroon scorpions? Had he disturbed a nest? They usually traveled in pairs. She’d seen three, hadn’t she? Was one lifting his tail to sting her even now? She lay still as a corpse, waiting.

A loud thud sounded as Frank fell to the floor moaning. Her heart pounded; she knew she needed to move. Please, Lord. She rolled from beneath the bed, anticipating a sting, her fear even worse than when expecting a bullet.

Nothing. She’d made it.

And Frank Bailey was in no position to hurt her. His screams had subsided and now he breathed small, pitiful whimpers.

Her arms still bound behind her, she wondered what she should do. “On fire,” he moaned, his words slurred.

She licked her lips. Three vinegarroon stings. He’d die without help. He might die anyway.

He’d intended to rape her. Kill her. Was she actually going to help him?

Mud packs would help draw the poison.

It took precious time and a number of attempts, but finally she managed to position his knife so that it would cut the rope around her wrists. Blood seeped from the nick on her hand as she bent over him and touched first his nose, then his upper lip. “Mr. Bailey? Frank? Can you feel this? Does your face feel numb?” If not she might still have time to help him. Numbness was one of the early symptoms of vinegarroon scorpion stings.

He didn’t reply but simply looked at her with fearful, pain-glazed eyes.

Jenny grabbed a skillet by the handle on the way out the door. The creek ran some thirty yards to the east, and she raced toward it, ignoring the bite of sharp rocks and grass burrs that punctured the soles of her slippers. She dropped to her knees beside the water. Sinking her fingers into the slimy cold mud of the creek bed, she scooped up handfuls and soon filled the skillet. She returned to the cabin at a run.

MOONLIGHT CAST eerie shadows in the darkness of the rolling, wooded land south and east of town. Trace heard a distant howl of a coyote and thought of times not long ago when a man had cause to question the source of such a sound.

He’d heard the stories repeated in his saloon, tales of when the Comanche had lashed the frontier like a whip. He’d listened as men spoke of nights like this one spent huddled in cabins made of logs. No light, no fire, no sleep—just a mother’s clammy hand over the mouth if a child tried to complain. And always, the awareness that the screech owl’s quaver could be your killer’s call.

Trace thought of Comanche and settlers and screech owls and coyotes because he couldn’t bear to think about Jenny. Dawn was half a night away. Would she be alive to see it?

He’d been on his horse for what seemed like forever, riding first to the Lucky Lady ranch house. A silent, thorough, and disappointing search pointed him toward his next destination. With a Comanche moon lighting the way, he’d started for the old homestead cabin. He should have reached it by now. With every minute that passed, his unease grew. What if he’d missed it in the dark? What if she wasn’t even there? What if—

Trace reined in his horse. There, off to the right some hundred yards away, a light shone a welcome beacon in the cold, West Texas night. He released a breath as he turned his mount toward the glow. This had to be the place.

Please be here, Jenny. Be here and be all right
.

Deciding it prudent to approach the rest of the way on foot, he slid from Ranger’s back and tethered him to the trunk of a nearby elm. He walked quickly and quietly toward the light, anxiety heightening the tension inside him.

Built in the dog-trot style so common to the area, the cabin comprised two rooms separated by an open walkway, all contained beneath one roof. Light flickered in the window of the room on the left. The east wall of the cabin was solid without window or door, so Trace approached from that side. He rested his hand against the rough-hewn logs, standing stock still as he listened.

Not anything. Not a single sound.

Then, ever so faintly, he heard it. A whimper.

Jenny
. His hand went automatically to his hip, reaching for the gun that wasn’t there—a gun he had not worn since the night he shot his wife. He swore a silent curse. The vow he’d made never to kill again was as much a part of him as his love for his daughters. Yet the sound coming from inside the cabin made him question his pledge for the first time in years.

Could he kill again?

God, he didn’t want to find out.

But he had to save Jenny.

Easing around the corner to the front of the cabin, Trace listened intently. Something about the tenor of the whimper struck him funny. The noise was pitiful, like a puppy repeatedly kicked by his master, but it was too deep- throated to be his wife.

Trace’s heartbeat quickened. Maybe she’d won. Maybe she’d turned the tables on Bailey, and he was the whiner. If any woman could do it, Jenny would be the one.

Carefully, Trace slid along the wall to the window, then inched forward, positioning himself to peer into the cabin. The stench of vomit assaulted him.

Frank Bailey lay on the floor, his body jerking with convulsions. Jenny sat beside him, her ball gown in tatters. One hand clasped Bailey’s, the other gently stroked his brow. Tears poured down her face.

“Jenny?” Trace stepped inside, his knees as weak as double-steeped tea. “Jenny, honey, are you all right? Are you hurt?”

She lifted a pale complexion and haunted eyes in his direction. “I couldn’t help him. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Venom, Trace thought, his gaze sweeping the scene, lingering on the mud packs on Bailey’s arm. “Snake bite?”

“Vinegaroon. Three of them.”

Trace muttered a curse and went to his wife. Placing his hands on her upper arms, he thought to help her to her feet. “Come here, sweetheart. I’ll take care of this.”

“No. He’s barely breathing. He’s almost…” She couldn’t bring herself to doom him with a word. “I don’t think it will be much longer.”

He resisted the desire to rip her away from the dying man and sat beside her, casting a dispassionate look on the sonofabitch soon to arrive at a well-deserved end, to Trace’s way of thinking. God, this had been one hell of a night.

“Who is with the girls?”

Trace hesitated, not wanting to explain the entire story. “I arranged for Mrs. Wilson to come over.”

They sat without speaking for almost five minutes before Frank Bailey’s body convulsed again. It went on and on and on, and then grew still. Unnaturally still. Or perhaps, Trace thought, the most natural stillness of all. Jenny cried softly, rocking her body back and forth.

“Hush that, now,” Trace said, weariness and relief adding a gruff note to his voice. “He doesn’t deserve your tears.” Hell, the man had kidnapped her and God knows what else. Her gown was tattered and stained. Trace had a knot of fear the size of a rock in his gut at the idea of what evils Frank Bailey might have played upon her in the past few hours.

Trace blamed himself. He’d relaxed his guard where the Baileys were concerned, believing the foolishness of the Bad Luck Wedding Dress had been finally put to bed. Instead, they’d hit hard and meaner than ever. The question remained just how mean.

Standing, he forced her to rise along with him. “Let’s go get you washed up, sweetheart.”

Jenny allowed him to lead her to the creek. She remained unusually passive while he removed her tattered gown and dipped her muddy hands into the cold creek water. She started shaking, whether from an inner or outer chill he couldn’t say.

He wrapped first his coat and then his arms around her. Hugging her tight, he spoke softly in her ear. “Can you tell me what happened, baby?’

He felt her chest expand as she drew a deep breath. “He came to the house. I thought it was Mrs. Wilson.” She fell silent and a long minute passed before she spoke again. “He said he had to kill me, but I think he intended to … hurt me first.”

Trace’s stomach clenched. “Did he touch you?”

The minute before she spoke was one of the longest he’d ever lived. Her voice was weak, vulnerable, as she answered. “No. I broke his nose.”

A sigh of relief whooshed from Trace’s mouth. He closed his eyes momentarily as tension drained from his limbs. His Jenny was a fighter, thank God. She proved it time and again. He pressed a kiss against her temple. “You need to get some rest, honey, and I do too. Can you handle sleeping in the cabin? I’ll, um, clean it up a bit first, of course.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I want to go home.”

Trace gently stroked her hair. “Not tonight. It’s too far. It wouldn’t be safe.”

“Outside, then.”

She burrowed against him and his arms clasped her tighter. It felt so right, holding her like this. Like a homecoming. And he’d been so damned afraid. “It won’t be near as comfortable outside. It’ll be cold.”

“You’ll keep me warm. And safe.”

Safe
. Trace’s eyes closed and his head fell back. She knew the truth about him, knew what he’d done to Constance. Despite his having failed to protect her from Frank Bailey, she trusted him to keep her safe.
Why, Jenny? Why do you believe in me when I don’t believe in myself?

It was as if she had heard him. “I love you, Trace. I love you.”

This time, the words did not pound him like hailstones. This time they sounded a warm, gentle rain that seeped into his skin and nourished his soul. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face toward his. He brushed her lips softly with his. A fleeting contact. Once. Twice. A whisper of a touch. Then his mouth fused with hers.

Tenderly, he touched and tasted. His lips moved with velvet pressure. Offering, not demanding. Accepting what she proffered in return. With gentle passion, Trace told her with his kiss what he could not say with words.

Even to himself.

A CAMPFIRE flickered, burning logs filling the air with aromatic smoke. Jenny lay spooned against her husband, wrapped in his arms and sandwiched between the blankets and mattress he’d pulled from the cabin’s bed. Weariness tugged at her body; her eyes gritty as she stared at the starry sky.

She couldn’t sleep. By all appearances, neither could Trace.

Beneath the shelter of a stand of hardwoods, he’d built a fire and fixed their bed before excusing himself to deal with Frank Bailey’s body. Upon his return they’d shared food from his saddlebags and water from his canteen. Then he’d banked the fire and stretched out beside her. His body remained taut and tense.

Jenny’s heart filled with yearning. Despite her fatigue, she wanted him. She wanted to lose herself in the pleasure of his lovemaking. To drive away the demons of this night with the promise of tomorrow, even if that promise was all pretense.

Or was it? She thought of the kiss they had shared. In the weeks since their marriage, they had kissed countless times, yet something about this kiss had been different. Special.

She wanted—no she needed—to test it again.

She gently brushed her fingers up and down his forearm. Over and over; featherlight touches. Working up her nerve to try more. Instinct drove her during this, her first attempt to initiate their lovemaking.

His erection pushed against her bottom. Her pulse raced. Slowly, she wiggled her hips.

“God, Jenny.”

His voice sounded rough as burlap. She turned in his arms, faced him, then lifted a finger to touch the velvet fullness of his lower lip. He groaned, nipped at her finger, then drew it into his mouth and sucked it. Flames raced through Jenny’s blood. “Make love with me, Trace.”

In the shadowed light, his eyes blazed as hot as the campfire. “I care for you, Jenny,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. “God knows I want you, more than I’ve ever wanted another woman. But I can’t tell you the words you want to hear.”