Scrambling over rocks and boulders, Abby made her way to a shelf of rock overlooking the shadowed cliffs below. Shading her eyes from the glare of sun, she saw a doe just disappearing behind a boulder. And further on, almost invisible against the buff sandstone, stood a buck, his head lifted for any sign of trouble.
Abby thought of the signal Rourke had arranged. Two shots. But if she were to fire now, the deer would scatter. If there really was a herd hidden among these rocks, they would be gone before Rourke could get here. She would be much wiser to stay concealed until she was close enough to kill the buck. She might even get a second shot off at the doe.
As she crawled closer, she wished Rourke was here with her. Together, they could make a real hunt of this. Besides, she thought, grunting with pain as she pulled herself across the sharp, pointed edge of a rock, it would be exciting to share the adventure with Rourke. She liked the way his eyes looked when he did something satisfying. Like the time Will Montgomery had offered his hand to Rourke, and Rourke had accepted. There had been an unusual light in Rourke’s gray eyes that had brought a lump to her throat. Since then, she had seen Rourke and Will talking together, sharing a steaming cup of coffee and a smoke. Whatever tension had been between them was gone. They had formed a bond. One that the likes of Flint Barrows would never be able to break.
Abby took refuge behind a boulder and watched as the buck lowered its head to snatch at a clump of dried grass. While he was momentarily distracted, she raised the rifle to her shoulder and took aim. The buck swiveled his head in her direction and wheeled, as if to flee. His action puzzled Abby. He couldn’t possibly have seen her. She was completely hidden by the boulder. Maybe it was her scent, although she had made certain to stay downwind of him. Realizing she was about to lose the game she had stalked so carefully, she stood up and without taking the time to aim, fired. As she was about to fire a second time, she was yanked roughly from behind.
The rifle she was holding fell from her hands, clattering to the rocks below. An arm was clamped firmly around her throat, lifting her off her feet. As the grip tightened, she felt the breath being slowly squeezed from her lungs. Though she clawed and fought against the restraint, she couldn’t budge it. Within seconds she felt light-headed. Without the strength left to fight, her hands dropped limply to her sides. She heard a strange buzzing in her ears, and spots floated before her eyes. Just as she thought she was losing consciousness, the grip at her throat loosened. As she dropped to her feet, she feared her trembling legs wouldn’t be able to support her. She sucked air into her straining lungs. Rough hands caught her by the shoulders and spun her around. And Abby found herself staring into the leering face of Flint Barrows.
“Well, look what I just found. A pretty little peach just ripe for picking.”
Abby froze. This wasn’t possible. Flint Barrows should be miles from here, driving his wagon.
“Surprised?” Flint’s lips curled in a chilling smile. “I told you someday I’d make you pay.” His smile grew. “Today’s my lucky day.”
His grip tightened on her shoulders until she nearly cried out in pain. Then he dragged her against him and brought his mouth to hers.
“Now it’s your turn to see what it feels like to kiss a man, Miss High-and-Mighty Market.”
She twisted her head, avoiding his kiss. Grabbing her by the hair, he pulled her head back so hard tears sprang to her eyes. Then with a laugh he covered her mouth with his. She gagged at the stench of stale whiskey on his breath.
“That’s just the beginning,” he said, still clutching her by the hair so she couldn’t pull away. “There’s lots more fun to come.”
With one hand, he reached for the top button of her shirt. As Abby tried to jerk away, he caught at her neckline and gave a fierce tug, ripping the shirt from her. It fell away, still connected at each cuff. Abby gave a gasp of shock and pushed furiously against his chest, breaking free. When she tried to run, she lost her footing on the slippery rocks and plummeted downward. She landed with a thud on a flat boulder. All the breath was knocked from her. Behind her, she could hear Flint scrambling to catch her. Loose pebbles and the sharp edges of rocks left her bruised and bleeding. Still she struggled to get her footing. As she tumbled forward, she spotted the gleam of her rifle at the bottom of the gorge. She had to reach it. It was her only chance. Sliding, standing, tripping, falling, she struggled to reach the rifle. Her foot wedged between two rocks. Ignoring the stab of pain, she forced herself forward, leaving her boot lodged between the rocks. At last crawling, she reached out a hand and felt the warmth of the rifle butt in her hand. Her fingers closed around it. Pain seared her hand. She stared in disbelief as Flint’s booted foot crashed down, smashing the fine bones of her fingers as he pinned her hand to the hard ground.
“So you like to play rough.” He kicked the rifle aside, then bent and hauled her to her feet. “Then you and I are going to have ourselves a real good time.”
Abby’s breath was coming in short gasps. She was unable to stop him as he ripped the remaining ragged cloth from her wrists. Then, pulling her arms painfully behind her back, he held them in a viselike grip with one hand, while with his other he untied the rope at her waist that secured her britches. She kicked him as hard as she could. In return he slapped her across the face, causing her head to snap to one side from the impact. Tears scalded her eyes, and she blinked them back. There was no time for tears. She was fighting for her life.
With a tug, Flint pulled her britches down around her ankles, tripping her. She fell to the rocky ground and Flint fell on top of her, wrestling her clothes from her. When at last she lay, bruised, battered, wearing only a thin white chemise, he straddled her, pinning her arms above her head, and allowed his gaze to burn over her.
“Skinny. Not nearly as round as your little sister. But you’re definitely a woman. And a scrapper. I like that in a woman. A good fight gets the blood heated.”
Abby heard his words through a haze of pain. Blood oozed from a jagged cut on her shoulder. Her arms and legs were crisscrossed with cuts and scratches, many of them bleeding profusely. Her cheek still bore the imprint of his hand where he’d slapped her. And her ankle throbbed. Waves of pain radiated from her shattered hand being held firmly in his. But none of this pain could erase the overriding fear that had settled in the pit of her stomach.
With a terrible ripping sound, Flint tore the chemise from her and flung it aside. She struggled, but he held her still while he studied the high firm breasts, heaving with unconcealed panic. His gaze moved lower, to the milk-white flesh of her stomach, now spattered with her blood, then lower still.
“Now,” Flint said, fumbling to unfasten his pants, “I’m going to show you what you were made for.”
“No.” With one last burst of strength, Abby brought her knee smashing into his groin.
With a howl of pain, he doubled over. Abby struggled to roll free, but his hand snaked out, catching her roughly by the arm, pulling her back down. His other hand curled into a fist that caught her on the side of her head. Pain crashed through her. She fell back, moaning softly.
“And now Miss Abby Market, the game has just begun.”
She closed her eyes, unwilling to face her tormenter. He had already beaten her and rendered her defenseless. The pain and humiliation he had planned for her now would be his ultimate triumph.
“You got that wrong, Barrows. The game is over.”
Through the mist that seemed to cloud her mind, Abby recognized Rourke’s voice. She knew that in the whole world she’d never heard anything so wonderful. Her eyes fluttered open. He was standing with his feet spread far apart, a gun aimed at Flint Barrows. He looked even taller and stronger than she remembered. Or was her imagination playing tricks on her?
“Rourke.” She tried to say his name, but the only sound she made was a croak.
And then she had to fight to hold on to the last thin thread of consciousness.
Chapter Thirteen
As Flint levere
d himself above Abby, he felt the cold steel of Rourke’s Spencer eight-shot pressed against his temple. The click of the hammer being pulled back seemed to reverberate through his brain. He froze.
Lifting his hands, he said, “You can’t shoot an unarmed man.”
“Can’t I?”
Abby had to blink to be certain it was Rourke’s voice. His image swam in front of her. There was an icy thread of steel to his tone she’d never heard before.
As he struggled to pull up his pants, Flint was jerked roughly from her and thrown against a boulder. He swallowed, causing his Adam’s apple to bob up and down in his throat.
As Rourke brought the gun up to his chest, Flint’s words came out in a rush. “This was all her doing. She called me over here. Said she had something to show me. Then she started kissing me and taking off her clothes.” Flint gave a nervous, hysterical laugh. “You know what women are like, Rourke. What’s a man supposed to do?”
Rourke’s eyes were the color of lead. His voice was low, seething with barely controlled fury. “And in the heat of passion she inflicted those cuts and bruises on herself too.”
Flint fell silent, keeping his gaze riveted on the gun in Rourke’s hand. He knew he was beaten. And he knew that Rourke was itching to pull the trigger.
“Scared, Barrows?” Rourke wouldn’t allow himself to look at Abby yet. If he did, he’d drop the gun and kill this animal with his bare hands. It would give him the greatest of pleasure to watch the life slowly ebb from Flint Barrows. He would like nothing better than to smash that ugly face into a rock. He pressed the gun to Flint’s temple and felt his fury rising.
Abby moaned softly. Rourke turned. God. She was naked and covered with blood.
“Start running, Barrows.” His commanding tone sent a shiver of fear along Flint’s spine. “And don’t ever stop. If you cross my path, you’re a dead man.”
Without waiting for Flint’s reply, Rourke holstered his gun and dropped to his knees beside Abby. Behind him he could hear Barrows scrambling over rocks in his eagerness to put as much distance between himself and them as possible.
Taking off his shirt, Rourke wrapped it around her and gathered her into his arms, drawing her close to him.
“Oh Rourke.”
At her breathless words, he felt his heart contract. “Shh. Don’t talk yet, Abby.”
He felt the trembling that she couldn’t stop. Shock. Her skin was as cold as ice. Laying her gently in the warm sand, he went to his horse and removed his bedroll from behind the saddle. Making her a bed in the shade of a rock, he carried her to it and gently wrapped her in his blanket.
“Don’t leave me, Rourke.”
He heard the edge of panic in her voice. “I won’t Abby. Not for one minute.”
Her voice seemed to fade. “The train?”
“Don’t worry about the wagon train. If they pass us, we’ll catch up to them later.”
She clung to his hand, and he marveled at her strength. Even after all this, she was able to grip him with the strength of a she-bear. Gradually he felt her fingers go slack. Her breathing slowed. She fell into a disturbed, restless sleep.
The shadows lengthened, and Rourke tossed another branch on the fire. When the water was warm, he dipped his handkerchief into it and began the task of washing the blood from Abby’s bruised and battered body.
Caught in a twilight of fear and pain, she fought him, thrashing out, guarding herself from his intimate touch. He understood her confusion and wished he didn’t have to be the cause of any more discomfort. In her mind, she was still fighting Flint.
“Hold still, Abby. I have to wash that shoulder. The cut is deep.”
Her eyes blinked open, and Abby realized she wasn’t dreaming.
“Rourke.” Her voice was low, breathless. “It’s you. I thought...” She ran a tongue over her split lip.
“I know, Abby.” He dipped a cloth in the warm water and wrung it out.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning you up. This is going to hurt.”
The only disinfectant he had was the whiskey. He heard her suck in her breath as he poured a liberal amount on the wound.
“Sorry. I wish I didn’t have to hurt you.”
She lay very still as he pulled the blanket back over her shoulder. When he touched a finger to her ankle, she let out a hiss of pain.
“It’s badly swollen. Might be broken.” He looked up. “What happened to your boot?”
She licked dry, cracked lips. “I lost it back in some boulders. Flint was chasing me. I . . . was trying to get to my rifle.”
He felt the tremors she couldn’t hide. Instantly he was bending over her, drawing her close against him. “He’s gone, Abby. You’re safe. And he’s never going to come near you again.”
Abby lay very still, trying to believe him, trying to absorb some of his strength.
“Here.” Rourke held the whiskey to her lips. “Drink.”
She shook her head.
“Drink it. It’ll help stop the shaking. And it just might ease a little of the pain as well.”
Abby felt the first fiery drops of liquid all the way to her toes. She coughed. Tears stung her eyes. Rourke waited, then held the whiskey to her lips again. After several more sips she pushed it away. It was then that he saw her hand. The knuckles were flattened, the fingers bloody and bruised.
“My God. Your hand looks like it’s been crushed.”
She glanced down. The pain had become a dull, throbbing ache. “It was crushed. Beneath Flint’s foot.”
Rourke tested the broken bones, then made small splints from a tree branch. Using her torn shirt for strips of cloth, he tied each delicate finger, then the wrist.
“Looks like you won’t be holding a rifle for a few weeks.”
Abby thought about her family, expecting her to provide for them. She would have to bargain with some of the other men to do their chores in exchange for meat.
Rourke saw the worry etched in her eyes and cursed the men who were the cause of it. Her father, demanding more of her than she was able to give. Flint Barrows, determined to take what he wanted, not caring about the beautiful creature he might destroy in the process.
While Rourke finished bathing her wounds, she lay still, listening to the hiss and snap of the fire. His touch was gentle. Surprisingly gentle. The sky was a cloak of black velvet. The stars looked close enough to touch. But in the east a thick blanket of clouds obscured the sky. Already she could taste the rain in the air.
“How did you find me, Rourke?”
“I heard your shot. When I didn’t hear a second one, I got worried and came running.”
He didn’t bother to tell her about those minutes of panic, when he’d found Flint’s horse tethered near hers. Scrambling up rocks, sliding down gulleys, he’d known a moment of sheer terror, thinking he was too late. He believed the shot he’d heard had come from Flint’s gun, killing her. And then, seeing Flint over her, he’d felt relief mingled with an almost overpowering urge to kill.
“If you hadn’t come ...” She started to cry, softly at first, embarrassed by the tears that coursed down her cheeks. Once started, the tears flowed faster, until she was racked with sobs.
Rourke held her quietly, letting her cry out all the fear and pain. And when he felt her struggling to still the tears, he wiped them tenderly with his thumbs.
“Looks like you put up a pretty good fight.”
“Not good enough.” She sniffed, and he handed her his handkerchief.
“It’s over, Abby.”
She blew her nose. Her horse stomped and whinnied in the night air, and he saw her go rigid with fear.
It wasn’t over for her yet, he realized. It may be a long time before it was over for her. He felt a fierce protectiveness well up inside him. Tucking the blanket up around her chin, he brushed a strand of hair from her eyes.
“Sleep now, Abby. I’ll keep watch.”
He saw her lids flutter, then close. Poor thing. She was
exhausted. He glanced at the whiskey and thought about taking a drink. The night air had grown chill, and she was using his only blanket.
Tossing another branch on the fire, he checked his gun and rifle, then leaned back against a boulder. He didn’t need the whiskey or the blanket. She was safe. That thought was enough to keep him warm all night.
Pain tore through her shoulder and Abby moaned softly. A hand reached for her and she jerked back, then went rigid. He was back. He’d waited until she was asleep and vulnerable, and then he’d come back to finish what he’d started.
“No.” Rolling to one side, she evaded his touch, but still he tried to grab her. Thrashing, twisting, she was determined to fight him to her last breath. As his hand caught at her shoulder she drew her hand back and tried to make a fist. Her fingers wouldn’t obey her command. She became aware of awkward splints holding her fingers in a stiff, inflexible position.
“Don’t touch me.” She sat bolt upright and opened her eyes.
By the light of the fire she studied the shadowy figure kneeling beside her.
“Rourke.” He heard the relief in her voice. “I thought...”
“I know.” He touched a hand to her forehead and saw her flinch. Would she ever again trust a man’s touch? “Your fever’s broken. I was worried. You’ve been fighting demons for hours.”
At the sound of thunder Abby glanced up at the night sky. “Are we going to join the wagon train?”
“Not until tomorrow. You shouldn’t risk riding until you’re stronger.” As she opened her mouth to protest he added, “Besides, we’d never beat this storm now. We’ll sit it out under these rocks.”
Abby didn’t argue with him. She was too exhausted to think about mounting her horse and riding out of here. She ached everywhere. Her body was one large mass of bruises.
“Hungry?”
Until he asked, Abby hadn’t even been aware of the aroma of meat roasting. “Where did you find any food?”