Wild Is the Night (22 page)

“I want you to rinse them and get the mud off. When they’re clean, we’ll put them on the back of the horse and then return.”

“But—” Amanda glanced up at the startlingly blue sky. “The cumulonimbus! It’s going to rain—”

“Amanda,” Luke gritted, his patience snapping. “Wash the damned clothes.”

Swallowing hard, she nodded, then sat down at the river bank. Sometimes, it just didn’t pay to have a mind.

Even a very good one.

“You see ‘em, Butch?”

The outlaw shook his head, then scanned the open prairie. Damn, normally he could see for miles, but a wind had kicked up and with it, the dust. His vision was cut off from almost everything, except for the dirt directly around him and the silver ribbon of a river snaking through the soft green grass.

“Let’s try down by the water. Least we can keep our course if this damned wind keeps up.”

Damien nodded, unable to see much himself. It was as if that damned girl, had some kind of power. Then he grinned as he reined up his horse. Even if she did, it wouldn’t be enough to help her.

Nothing would.

It not only rained, it poured. Amanda felt a single plop on her nose, then stared in disbelief as the sky seemed to open and buckets of hail and rain splattered the dry prairie.

“Get up here!” Luke’s voice cut through the deluge, and Amanda had a fleeting vision of him rushing for the horse in the sheeting rain, then hoisting her up into the saddle where she’d placed his clean clothes. He kicked the horse into a gallop, then started across the plain, keeping one arm wrapped tightly around Amanda.

She was freezing. Pop Finnegan had warned them that the weather on the trail could be treacherous, and she had to agree he was right. Unwillingly, she snuggled closer into Luke’s arms, seeking protection from an unbelievable rainfall, and from the hail that was the size of crabapples. Chill seeped through her clothes and she sneezed, wondering why she had ever left Boston, why she had thought it necessary to take her editor’s advice and head out on this horrible journey. She was experiencing life all right, and it was far more real than she ever thought possible.

“Jesus.” She heard Luke’s indrawn breath as the horse stumbled in a prairie hole, then slowed to a painful walk. Amanda could feel the uneven gait of the animal as it tried desperately not to fall. Mud oozed from the newly soaked ground, making terrible sucking noises, and the horse tottered.

“We’ve got to stop before this horse goes lame,” Luke called to her. “Christ! A goddamned hail storm.”

Amanda hardly noticed his language, or that fact that his fury had returned two-fold. All she cared about was getting dry and warm again. Visions of Mrs. Pincus’ boardinghouse floated before her and she thought of her thick down quilts, the warm fires that made even a New England house comfortable, good lights, lots of books…

Amanda could have cried. She tried to reason her feelings out philosophically, but she discovered that logic was related to comfort. She couldn’t recall a single quote that would have helped at a time like this, and she was certain that even Milton never spent a day out on the prairie scrubbing clothes or being doused by hail and rain.

“There! I see a house!” Amanda cried. In the distance, she could make out the dim outline of a roof, and the grey column of a chimney. She turned to Luke, then froze as a familiar sound echoed in her ear, much like corn popping in a grate.

“Oh no, not again—” Amanda gasped as Luke whipped out his Colt, then quickly reined up the horse. The animal reared, throwing its sleek head back in the rain as the gunfire rang out—from nowhere, it seemed.

“Jesus!” Luke urged the horse forward, toward the house that Amanda had spotted. He fired behind him, but the rain effectively hid anyone from his sight.

“We’re almost there!” Amanda cried, losing her breath as the shots rang out. Luke lurched forward as if pushed.

“Luke?” She paled as he nearly fell from the horse, just as they reached the house.

He didn’t respond.

“Git ‘em, Butch?”

Butch grunted, crawling from behind a clump of laurel, hail pounding the ground around him. Wiping his face with his neck cloth, he grinned, his scar curling.

“That wasn’t no bobcat. I hit him all right.”

“Old Haskwell’ll be damned happy to hear this.” Damien smirked. “Might even pay extra.”

Butch grunted. “Let’s finish them off and get the hell out of here. I don’t like the looks of this damned rain.”

“You ain’t gettin’ like them Indians, afraid of a little bad weather? This hail don’t mean a thing.”

“Maybe not. But just the same, I’ll be glad to be back in Abilene, with a whiskey and a woman,” Butch said.

Damien cocked his gun and grinned. “With this reward money, you’ll get more than that, Butch. Much more.”

Amanda barely slid from the soaking wet saddle as Luke tumbled forward, his body heavy and clumsy. Thankfully, he was still conscious enough to respond to her anxious motions as she helped him to the hut. His legs dragged across the prairie grass, and Amanda thought he would fall when she struggled with the door and he had to stand unaided. She pried the rustic panel open a minute later, just in time to see him collapse to the floor.

“Luke!” She ran toward him, but the fall seemed to have jarred his senses and he got painfully to his feet, then managed to walk the distance to a beat-up chair that waited beside an empty grate. Blood streaked across his forehead in a nasty looking wound, which he absently wiped with his sleeve. He sank into the seat, then opened his eyes and stared at Amanda as if suddenly recollecting what had happened.

“Are you all right?” she whispered.

“No,” Luke answered, then quietly passed out.

Chapter
  
14
  

Amanda didn’t know what was more terrifying: the sound of the hail pounding on the roof, the unconscious groan that Luke made, or the absence of gunfire outside. Somewhere, somehow, they had found her. Instinctively she knew that, and like a hunted animal at bay, found herself very close to freezing in sheer terror.

Her eyes went back to Luke. He still lay slumped in the chair, taking a bullet that was meant for her. Pain welled up inside of her and a hot mist stung her eyes. She had lied to herself that day, about her feelings for him. This man, for whatever reason, meant something to her. And now…

Stop it,
she told herself furiously.
You won’t do either yourself or him any good.
Bringing a chilled fist to her mouth, she forced herself to think.

Luke needed her. This was not the time for emotionalism, but for action. She tried to recall what her books said to do at a time like this, but school had never taken gunmen and outlaws into account. Remembering the basics, she pulled at his coat. The saturated buckskin came off with a few rough tugs, and she laid the coat on the floor. Next, she eased him down, making his head level with his feet, hoping that his blood circulation would improve. She then wiped away the blood and examined his wound.

It didn’t look great. Amanda choked when she saw the red gash on his forehead. Fighting back nausea, she ripped off part of his shirt sleeve and tied a makeshift bandage around his head, hoping to stem the blood flow until help could arrive. Surely, the Reverend and his men would look for them—

Gunfire blasted through the open window and Amanda sobbed, her throat aching with terror and suppressed tears. She fumbled for Luke’s gun, her fingers cold and numb from the rain. Stumbling to the window, she tried to keep her nerve. Dear God, instead of learning Socrates, why hadn’t she learned how to survive?

The renewed barrage of fire made her shake uncontrollably. Balancing her hands on the sill, she closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. The heavy Colt blasted, shooting out at the faceless enemy through the grey curtain of rain. Amanda couldn’t help the tears that fell, nor the fear that overwhelmed her. She hadn’t counted on experiencing this much life, nor had she counted on losing it so quickly. Amazingly, the only thing that she regretted was Luke. As she fumbled with the bullets, grateful that she’d watched him and knew how to reload, she found herself wishing that things had been different. That before she died, she had fought with him less, told him the things she’d told her journal, told him that she—

That she loved him. Tears stung, but she wiped at her eyes, then repositioned herself at the window. Dear God, why, out of all of life’s lessons, did she have to learn this one so late? She fired again, wishing for a miracle, knowing the Odds against escape were very low. She was a woman alone, inexperienced with a gun, fighting off vicious outlaws. She couldn’t do it forever. Even now she could hear their gunfire returning, the ground rumbling…

Amanda sat straight up, the smoking gun in her hand. The rumbling continued, louder this time, echoing over the pounding rattle of the hail. Panic built in her heart, threatening to explode as she recognized the noise.

Stampede.

If there was one word that would strike terror in the heart of any cowboy, that was it. Amanda had written about the phenomenon many times, had even heard stories about it, but had never witnessed it first hand.

Until today.

The thunder grew louder and Amanda sank to the floor in desperation. There was nothing for her to do, nowhere to go. The hopelessness of the situation was appalling, but there was no escaping facts. A strange calm came to her as she realized that her fate was out of her hands. Closing her eyes, she forgot science, forgot physics, forgot everything except a primitive need to make contact with another person. With Luke.

Amanda rose to her feet, and returned to his side. His color looked better, and when she checked the head bandage, she was grateful that the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Her fingers touched his face, marveling at the rough texture and the visible veins like the roots of a tough oak tree.

“Luke,” she whispered as the stampede grew louder. She needed to be with him, to feel the warmth of his hands as she closed them within her own. She had been such a fool. She thought of the night in the Harvey house when he’d wanted to make love to her, and now she wished that they had. She wanted the memory, wanted to close her eyes and keep it—the way she’d kept a smooth black stone in her pocket as a child, a charm to take out and reappreciate.

“Luke, I—”

His eyelids flickered and Amanda’s breath caught. The cattle grew closer; she could hear their hooves pounding the ground, tearing everything that got in their way. The hail rattled and the rain tore at the shack. The wind made a ghastly echo through the room and Amanda crossed her arms, hugging herself, drained of all emotion. Something snapped, and she thought she heard a cry, but then the cattle were all around her. She brought her hands to her ears, unable to bear the earsplitting noise. The earth rumbled beneath her and the cabin shook as if from an earthquake. Amanda fully expected it to come down around her at any moment. The door, battered by the rushing Herefords, crashed in and she screamed….

The cattle passed by, black rushing shapes that came out of her worst nightmare. They ran past the door and around the shack walls, bolting toward nowhere in sheer, uncontrollable terror. Amanda couldn’t look at them—an apocalyptic vision come to life. Hundreds of cattle ran by, the dreams of the religious families destroyed as the beasts rushed blindly over the prairie. Their numbers gradually lessened, until they trickled down to a few remaining Herefords. Slowly, the noise died and the ground stopped trembling. The rain fell, but lighter, and the hail eased until all that remained were tiny balls of ice rolling like marbles across the battered prairie.