Always You (9 page)

“A storm’s brewing—a bad one.” Cal slowed Rascal and spoke to Melora over the rising wind.

It was several days after the attack by Strong, Lomax, and Jethro. They’d covered a lot of ground since then, but he’d barely spoken to her since they’d left the desolation of the outlaw shack.

“Unless I miss my guess, we’re not far from a little town called Devil’s Creek,” he told her shortly, glancing ever so briefly at her weary, dust-filmed face. He quickly looked back at the sky. “We’ll spend the night there. But I’m warning you, Melora, don’t cause any trouble.”

She nodded, dread dancing down her spine as she too scanned the sky. She hoped Cal hadn’t seen her dismay. As her horse snorted and followed Rascal along a wide rocky incline, she studied the black storm clouds, which had been growing ever more ominous these past few hours. The sun had vanished behind them sometime after noon, leaving an eerie dim greenish glow in the sky. She’d been watching that glow, and the distant lightning slashes, with trepidation.

Cal was right; the storm looked to be a bad one. A sick all-too-familiar tightening began in her stomach.

Ever since Melora was a little girl, she’d been afraid of storms. Pop had often said that Mama had been the same way. But it was Melora’s most hated weakness, the one she was least successful in fighting. As the clouds darkened and the wind picked up, flinging bits of dust and small stones into a stinging whirlwind, she clenched her hands on the reins and kept a worried eye on the darkening clouds.

More than ever she wished she were home, but instead she was farther away than ever. The land had changed dramatically since the previous morning. No longer were they riding through sage and grass-carpeted plains dotted with buttes and pine-capped ridges. Since early yesterday they’d been in Black Hills country, crossing sunflower-dotted valleys lined with bur oak, galloping across wide emerald meadows, and skirting the aspen- and pine-forested hills that led to the darker line of green hills ahead. Great ponderosa pine forests loomed on these distant hills, making them appear black and forbidding, thus earning them their name, the Black Hills.

The land was stunning here, but sharply different from the rangeland of the Weeping Willow, Melora thought with a flash of homesickness, though she couldn’t help being awed by the spectacular beauty of this huge open country, with its rocky hills, its enormous forests cresting in the distance, and its jewel-like flowers glistening in the meadows below.

Last night they’d camped near the Belle Fourche River, less than a mile from Devils Tower, and from their little ridge had gazed in silent awe at the huge rock column, watching it glow a flaming golden red long after the sun had set. Afterward the moonlight and starlight had seemed to glisten brighter, whiter, milkier than ever when illuminating that strange giant spire that stood guard over the flatland below.

Cal had studied it in silence, his thoughts seemingly far away. That wasn’t unusual. He’d spoken only a few dozen words to Melora since they’d ridden off from that rat-infested shack; by the very next morning he’d made it clear that whatever compassion he might have felt for her during that ordeal had been completely stamped out.

His attitude had been brusque, distant, and aloof. In fact he’d barely glanced at her in all this time.

But Melora’s thoughts had returned over and over to those few mesmerizing moments when he’d held her, stroking her hair. His hands had felt so gentle. So protective. And there had been concern, real concern, not cool mockery in his eyes; she was sure of it.

An odd, fluttery sensation whirled through her when she thought of it. And what was it he’d said?

I never meant for you to get hurt.

But she couldn’t believe that, not really. Maybe he hadn’t intended that she fall into Strong’s or Jethro’s clutches, maybe he hadn’t meant for her to be in danger of getting beaten or raped or murdered, but he
didn’t
care about her, not really, she kept reminding herself.

If he did, he wouldn’t have kidnapped her in the first place, and he wouldn’t be subjecting her to this grueling cross-country trek, and he wouldn’t be forcing her to be away from Jinx. He’d let her go home, where she belonged, so she could marry Wyatt.

Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d come to that shack to rescue her, to save her from Jethro. Was it only because of his stupid plan?

Yes,
she told herself, studying his tall vest-clad frame astride Rascal some ten feet ahead of her.
He’s an outlaw, remember? Zeke told you that he and Ray met Cal in jail.

Biting her lip, she wondered what crime he’d committed. And where. Remembering the savage ruthlessness with which he’d beaten Strong, she couldn’t help shivering. There was a dark, unreachable side of Cal that she knew was dangerous. He’d made it clear that he’d do whatever he had to do, no matter how pitiless, to achieve his ends.

Yet somehow, much as she tried, she didn’t hate him—not in the fervent, desperate way she had in the beginning.

Cal wasn’t cruel; there was no viciousness in him, at least not directed toward her. He was stubborn, and smart, and utterly dogged in this mission of his, whatever it was.

But that was the problem. What the hell was it?
Melora wondered for the thousandth time, frowning as she galloped between him and the packhorses for Devil’s Creek. Studying the back of his head, the thick brown hair touching his shirt collar as he steered Rascal toward some aspens, she wondered if it might not be time to abandon the silent treatment and try to reason with the man. To find out what made him tick and why he was so damned set on dragging her across the country, clear to the Black Hills, and possibly—from the looks of it—over the border into South Dakota.

Because knowing what she had gleaned about Cal thus far, she now thought there had to be a reason, a damn good reason, at least in Cal’s pigheaded mind.

Instead of trying to escape, maybe she’d try to figure out what it was.

And then she had no more time to explore this idea because Cal turned again to speak to her.

“Devil’s Creek is a rough little town, but it’s got one halfway decent hotel. We’ll be able to pick up some supplies in the morning, and then, if the weather clears, we’ll head out to the cabin.”

“Cabin?”

“Where you’ll be staying for a while.”

She drew in a breath as she realized he hadn’t said, “Where
we’ll
be staying for a while.” Did he mean to leave her at this cabin
alone
?

Melora had a vision of herself tied up in some filthy, godforsaken shack like the one Jethro had taken her to while Cal went off to carry out heaven knew what plan against Wyatt.

“No! No, Cal. This is it!” she exploded, pulling her mount to a halt. “I’m not going one more step until you tell me exactly what you’re up to.”

Cal circled back and studied her, his expression grim.

“This isn’t the time to cause trouble, Melora.” As if to punctuate his words, the wind gusted then, swirling dirt and tumbleweeds around them and biting into her skin with a sting like gnats. “This town I’m taking you to, Devil’s Creek, it’s not nearly as civilized and law-abiding as what you’re used to in Rawhide. If you’re smart, you’ll keep quiet, you won’t talk to anyone, you won’t stir up any trouble. There’s no law within thirty miles of the place,” he warned, his eyes narrowed. “It’s filled with men like our friends Strong and Lomax—and Jethro. No one there’s going to listen or believe a word if you start blabbering out some foolish story about being kidnapped...”

“It’s not foolish, damn you. It’s the truth!”

“But no one’s going to care. Or stick their neck out to help you. Savvy?”

“Perfectly,” she snapped. Her chin thrust out. “I’m not stupid.”

“Then prove it,” he said roughly. “Come on.”

“No.” Melora’s lower lip came out in a pout. “I won’t go on—not another step—until you—oh, damn you, Cal, what are you doing?”

He seized her without any further ado and yanked her off her horse and into the saddle before him. He slid one lean arm tightly around her waist as his other hand grasped her horse’s reins.

“If you think I’m going to waste time arguing with you, Princess, you’re wrong.”

He spurred Rascal to a gallop, and they thundered through the aspens, even as the first few sprinkles of rain began.

Fuming, Melora bit back all the stinging retorts that sprang to her lips. What good would they do? Cal was too infuriating, too bullheaded, too arrogant and mulish ever to listen to reason.

She hated him anew, suddenly and passionately, her frustration and rage boiling to the surface all over again.

Worse than everything else, she was blisteringly aware of the intimate pressure of his arm around her waist, of his long, taut calves against hers. His closeness, the strength of him, the musky male scent and proximity of him created a tingling sensation everywhere their bodies touched. It caused her heart to speed up like a locomotive, and her cheeks to flame with heat.

Damn you, Cal.

* * *

The town of Devil’s Creek was every bit as ominous-looking as Cal had described. It consisted of nothing more than a few false front buildings, most of them saloons or brothels with broken shutters or boarded-up windows. As she and Cal rode down the street, squint-eyed men lounging against storefront walls and hitching posts viewed them with suspicion and glinting interest. Suddenly, as those intent, wolfish gazes scrutinized her, Melora found herself very glad of Cal’s solid presence.

And why not?
she told herself, fighting against this sensation.
He has a gun and you don’t. If you were armed as he is, you wouldn’t worry a whit over any of them.

But a small voice inside her whispered that she would. There was something raw and decaying about Devil’s Creek, a sense of lawlessness, of cruelty and violence that permeated the dusty streets and even the tumbleweeds blowing through the alleys. It creaked in the broken wooden boardwalk and in the partially hinged shutters that banged in the wind. She found herself unconsciously leaning back in the saddle, brushing against Cal’s tall frame, reassuring herself that he was there and she was not alone.

They stopped before a crumbling two-story building that looked as if it had never seen better days. WICKE’S HOTEL read the yellowed sign overhead.

When they walked inside, Melora surveyed her surroundings in dismayed silence. Dirt encrusted the lobby’s peeling green walls; the steps were uncarpeted; the dining room to the right looked dingy and uninviting.

She could just imagine the dampness of the bed linens, the shabbiness of the rooms.
But it’s better than sleeping outside in the storm,
she reminded herself uneasily as thunder roared outside.

A huge, scowling clerk with the shoulders of a small mountain squashed a fly on the counter with his fist before handing Cal a key.

“Room two-oh-three,” he barked. “That’ll be two dollars. Pay in advance.”

Cal peeled off the bills and thrust them at the man, whose menacing demeanor lightened a bit as Cal met his stare with steel-edged calm.

“Enjoy your stay in Devil’s Creek,” the clerk added sourly when they started up the stairs. Just then a thick-necked cowboy in soiled buckskins, black leather vest, and a plaid bandanna hurtled down the steps two at a time, nearly crashing into Melora. Cal yanked her out of the way just in time. He seized the man’s arm as the bruiser went past and hauled him up short.

“Ought to be more careful, mister. You almost knocked down my wife.”

“So?”

“So I think you should apologize to her.”

The cowboy gave a short laugh. He looked as if he were about to sneer something unpleasant, but suddenly he actually peered into Cal’s lean, hard face, and whatever he saw in those icy green eyes made him think better of it. He cleared his throat, then threw a milder glance Melora’s way.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

“That’s better.” Cal released him in disgust and took Melora’s arm, escorting her up the remainder of the steps.

“I thought you said we should keep our mouths shut and not look for any trouble,” she remarked the moment they were locked into the tiny, dank-smelling room.

Cal shrugged, amusement flickering briefly in his inscrutable face. “I said
you
should keep quiet,” he pointed out, flashing a glance about the grimy, dimly lit premises. “I’ve never been able to keep out of trouble much myself.”

“Me either. Look at me now.”

“Must I?” he drawled, hooking his thumbs in his gun belt as he studied her from beneath the wide brim of his hat. Some devil made him bait her. “You’re not nearly the illustrious creature you were when I nabbed you out of your bedroom in your pretty little nightdress.”

Mouth agape, Melora whirled to face him beside the narrow bed. Her cheeks flamed a bright poppy as she balled her hands into fists.

Yes, her once-lovely green velvet habit was now soiled and disheveled, the beautiful lace sadly torn and limp, and her cravat coated with travel dust. Yes, she felt vile and filthy and smelly and as unattractive as a bale of hay, but what Cal seemed to have forgotten was that it was all his fault. Now he had the gall to add insult to injury by reminding her of just how scruffy she looked!

“You did this to me, you mangy outlaw... you kidnapper! You and your disgusting friends, you’ve reduced me to a—a hag, a filthy hag. Before I met you, for your information, half the men in Rawhide had proposed to me or were planning to do it. They fell all over me—before I met Wyatt, that is,” she added hastily, coloring an even deeper shade of red. “And by rights, at this very moment, I ought to be on my honeymoon, in a sumptuous, opulent,
beautiful
hotel suite with my beloved
husband,
sharing a bed and—and other things with him—”

“If it’s a honeymoon you want, Princess,” he shot back, eyebrows raised, “I reckon I can try to oblige. After all, I told the clerk at the desk we were married.”

“If you so much as touch me, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” he demanded. For some reason Cal couldn’t fathom, he stalked over to her, placed his hand beneath her adorable, stubborn little chin, and tilted it up.