Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance) (10 page)

“I’m ready,” she said.

He closed his eyes. An ashen pallor lay like gray dust on his tanned skin. Lifting his hand, he scrubbed away the beads of sweat dotting his forehead. Then, he nodded. “Go ahead.”

Angel pulled in a breath, held it, and very slowly lifted her hand and inserted the tip of her index finger between the blackened edges of the bullet hole beneath his collarbone.

He hissed through his teeth.

She stopped.

“Go on,” he said.

She pressed deeper, sinking her finger in his pulsing flesh nearly to her knuckle, until she touched the flattened lead fragment that had done the damage.

Rane lifted the bottle of whiskey nested in the sand between his sprawled legs and poured a copious drink down his throat. He swallowed and sucked in a harsh breath. “Can you feel it?”

“Yes.”

“Try to move it.”

A new rush of sweat erupted on Angel’s skin. She closed her eyes for a moment, willing back the returning wave of sickness that rolled through her stomach.

She backed off by scant fractions, until her fingernail scraped lead. Bearing down, she tried to loosen the embedded slug. It didn’t budge.

She pulled away from him and sat back on her heels. “I think it’s lodged in the bone.”

For several beats of silence, he stared into space, his jaw bunching and unclenching. Rivulets of sweat seeped down his naked torso, mixing with the blood that continued to leak from his wound. Her probing had started a fresh flow.

She folded a strip of petticoat and attempted to staunch the bleeding.

He flinched away. “Don’t waste good cloth. We’re not finished yet.”

Dread sped Angel’s heart. “What do you mean?”

In answer, he leaned forward, hitched up his trouser leg and slipped his hand inside the haft of his boot. Secreted within, a slender sheath sewn into the leather held the knife she’d seen him use on occasion. He pulled it free and sat back. Deftly, he flipped the knife and caught the flat edge of the blade. He extended the handle to her. “I want you to dig it out.”

Angel stared at the lethally honed steel gleaming in the sunlight. She recoiled and shook her head. “No. I won’t do it.”

“There’s no one else,” he said evenly.

Then she made the mistake of looking into his eyes. Into the dark, fathomless depths that always threatened to draw her in with promises beyond her understanding.

For one fleeting instant, he allowed her a glimpse of his pain. A sympathetic ache gripped her. He was entrusting her with his life.

With her heart rising like a wild, fluttering bird in her throat, Angel took the knife from his hand. She looked at the blade. It was much too wide. She would have to cut him more to get to the bullet.

“I’m not a doctor, Rane. What if I cut an artery? You’ll bleed to death.”

“Bleeding to death would be easy compared to what will happen if the slug doesn’t come out.” He gave her a wan smile. “You may have inherited your mother’s beauty, Angel, but I know for a fact you have your father’s nerve.” He handed her the bottle of whiskey. “Here. Douse the blade and just get it over with.”

While she worked, Angel tried not to look at him. Tried not to notice that his hand curled into a white-knuckled fist bearing down on the sand. Tried not to see the corded tendons standing out in his neck or the way his flat stomach caved and jerked each time she applied pressure with the knife. But through it all, he didn’t utter a sound.

Fresh blood streamed down his breast. It oozed over the knife blade and dripped from her hands, which had grown slick with it. The raw smell filled her nostrils until she could almost taste it. At last, the flattened lead loosened and slid down the blade on a red tide and dropped to the sand.

Angel withdrew the knife and sat back, breathing hard. Blessedly, all the tension had drained from Rane’s body. With a wobbly hand, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a fortifying swallow. “
Gracias, mi ángel.”

She padded the wound with linen and bound it as best she could to stop the bleeding. But it was an awkward binding since the bullet had struck midway between his neck and arm, just under the collarbone.

Then she washed him with cool water from the pool, trying to ignore his small moans of pleasure. A glance at the half-empty whiskey bottle confirmed her suspicion that he was a little drunk.

His shirt was ruined, but there was no help for it. It was all they had. She helped him slip his arms into the sleeves and buttoned it for him. As quietly as possible, she sneaked away, into the concealment of the rocks. Away from his sight, she fell to her hands and knees and retched.

****

Rane sat propped in the shade, feeling whiskey-mellow, with his hat tipped low over his forehead. Watching Angel as she stood beside the waterhole, finger-combing her long, silver-blond hair almost made him forget about the dull throb that radiated from shoulder to fingertips with each beat of his heart.

Though her movements were quick and efficient, she looked relaxed. Her brow had smoothed from the constant worry furrow she had worn earlier. She lifted her arms and gathered the hair at the crown of her head, fashioning a braid, stretching the shirt taut against the graceful arch of her back.

Through the dingy muslin, the glaring sunlight behind her clearly defined the size and shape of her breasts. He slowly balled and unclenched his fingers. Pure imagination nestled her silken flesh within his palms. He pulled in a long, deliberate breath and held it, prolonging the muzzy warmth slowly seeping through his veins.

She shifted, and his attention lowered to her slender, curving hips. To her rounded little bottom straining against the seat of the trousers he’d forced her to wear.

He smiled and settled lower against the rock, shuttering his gaze until her image blurred. In his mind’s eye, she turned and looked at him, curving her full lips in a seductive simper. With slow, tantalizing steps, she crossed the space that separated them and straddled his lap with her long legs. Leaning forward, she pressed her palms against the front of his trousers. He held his breath and waited. With deft, practiced fingers she flipped open his first button.

Rane heard himself groan and opened his eyes. Beside the pool, Angel squatted on her heels as she filled a canteen. And she watched him.

“Are you all right?”

¡Mierda!
He must have actually groaned aloud. And how did he answer? No, he was not all right. He was in pain. Not only did his shoulder hurt like a sonofabitch, his little fantasy had turned him so hard, he was afraid he would shatter if he moved.

“I’m fine,” he croaked.

She went back to filling the canteen.

Arch had been right. He’d let his brains fall down in his pecker.

Earlier, on the other side of the ridge he’d lost focus. Her passionate response to him had ignited something so powerful and all consuming he’d let Buck and Arch walk right up and get the drop on him. Lack of control had never been a problem before. Never. So, why now?

He wanted her, that’s why. He wanted her so badly, he was growing accustomed to the perpetual ache in his balls.

And he could have had her, right there on the side of the ridge—if Buck and Arch hadn’t intruded. Problem was, the thought of taking her in the heat of anger didn’t sit well.

Angel was one hell of a woman. Today, his admiration for her had made the leap up to respect.

He wanted her, with a slow, sizzling burn that had been robbing his sleep at night. But he wanted her willing.

Each time their eyes met or they touched, flames ignited in his groin. He knew the lure of forbidden fruit and figured one hot, sweaty bout of sex would cure what ailed him. But he would never force her.

Keeping her with him against her will was another matter. There was no going back now. He was still her only hope of reaching Clayton Station safe and whole. She was still his best bet for wringing what he wanted out of Lundy. But each time he thought about turning her over to that bastard, his conscience gnawed at him like a starving dog on a marrowy bone.

Too late for regrets. The devil himself had dealt this hand. Rane didn’t have the option of tossing in his cards. He had to play it through.

He braced his back against the rock and put his feet under him. A wave of dizziness staggered him back a step. He sat on the rock and waited while the scenery around him, which had turned out of kilter, righted again.

No more whiskey. Dull, sluggish reflexes were the last things he needed. “Time to go,” he said.

Angel’s head snapped up, surprise on her face. “Now?” She looked at the horizon. “There’s not much daylight left.”

“This waterhole’s not safe.”

The furrow was back in her brow. She stood, suddenly tense. The apprehension he saw in her face was more like it. After what happened earlier, maybe she wouldn’t be so eager to call out the next time they crossed paths with strangers. Maybe she was beginning to realize he truly was the lesser of two evils.

Angel plundered the dead men’s packs, but found little more than starvation rations. A few strips of dried meat, canned tomatoes, and yet another bottle of whiskey.

While she filled canteens, Rane pulled loose cinch straps and bridles. The exertion had fresh sweat popping out on his body. Each jar sent new shocks of pain shooting through his shoulder. Dizziness rolled over him in waves. He set the extra pair of horses free. Besides having water, dried looking clumps of grama grass dotted the area. The horses would survive until someone found them.

Rane only wished he could feel as certain about the fate that awaited him and Angel. By the time he climbed into his own saddle, fighting to stay upright and oriented was all he could manage.

This physical weakness worried him because he knew there were more two-bit guns, like Buck and Arch, out there watching and waiting to make their play to take Angel away from him.

When the next challenge came, would he be ready?

****

The narrow stream running through the center of the gully gleamed like a silver snake in the moonlight. Angel waited while Rane angled his horse down the side of the steep cutbank and attained the level, sandy bottom. Then she followed, trusting the horse to find its way down the crumbling earthen bank. Looping her reins, she slid wearily from the saddle and allowed her horse to amble to the water.

The moon rode high in the sky, casting every rock and cactus into sharp relief. All evening they had ridden due west, toward a line of low-lying hills in the distance.

How far were they from the border? Though they had ridden straight at them all evening, the distant hills didn’t appear any closer. The fact that Rane had steered them west, rather than southwest, since leaving the ill-fated waterhole bothered her. She figured he was trying to avoid any chance meetings, but the course he’d set didn’t take her any closer to home.

All evening she’d followed behind him, conscious of the droop and sway of his broad shoulders. He sat his saddle like a boneless heap, a drastic change from the masterful rider he’d been earlier that day. Blood loss had weakened him, and she could only imagine how excruciating the jarring ride must have been.

His knees dipped when he touched solid ground. Unsteady, he held onto the saddle.

The clothes on Angel’s body still felt damp with sweat. Chill night air sent a shiver trickling over her skin.

“Do we camp here?” she asked.

“Yes. We’ll move on in the morning.”

His voice sounded weak and breathy. She doubted he would be able to go any farther, not until he rested and healed a bit. Would a few hours sleep be enough?

The brown and white paint horse still sucked up water from the stream. Angel unlashed the saddlebags and bedroll and tossed them onto the sandbank, away from the water. Her arms felt weighted. She wanted nothing more than to stretch out between the thin covers and close her eyes.

“What about the horses?” Under normal circumstances, she would never leave a horse saddled for such a long period. To do so was nothing short of cruel. But these weren’t normal circumstances. “Should I pull off the saddles?”

He didn’t answer.

Angel turned. The big black stood several yards away and Rane no longer clung to the saddle. A quick glance showed her he wasn’t hunkered beside the stream. She skirted the stallion’s hindquarters, taking care to stay out of hoof-striking range, until she reached the off side. She nearly stumbled right over Rane’s prone body, lying facedown on the sand.

Chapter Seven

Rane lay in the deep shadows nearly beneath the stallion’s hoofs. The sight halted Angel so quickly she nearly tripped on her own momentum. For each second he didn’t move her pulse accelerated a frantic beat.

The black shifted nervously. She’d always heard a horse would avoid stepping on a fallen rider, but this was no time to test the theory.

Moving quickly, she wrapped her hand around the horse’s cheek strap. The big brute tossed his head and tried to shy away from her. “Whoa, boy. Easy. You know me,” she crooned.

With a firm grip, she led him to a scrubby bush growing from the side of the gully and secured his reins to a branch.

Hurrying back to Rane, Angel dropped to her knees. He lay so still. Was he unconscious, or was he... Her heart rioted. No, he couldn’t be dead.

Breath rasped from his parted lips.

A relieved whimper lodged in her throat. She laid her hand against his back. Heat scalded her palm right through his shirt. Fever. He was burning up with it.

Dread swirled through her mind like a black fog. She wrapped both hands around his uninjured shoulder and turned him to his back.

“Rane. Can you hear me?”

His inky lashes fluttered. He curled in on himself and clutched his arms against his chest. “C-cold.” His teeth chattered so that she barely understood him.

Infection. One dire reality conjured others: gangrene, blood poisoning, amputation. Death. She had to help him. But she wasn’t sure how to go about it. Bed. Quilts. A hot warming pan. Those were the usual treatments for chills. She and Rane were far from those comforts. Could she make do with what they had?

She left him lying on the damp sand near the water’s edge and gathered both their bedrolls. One pad and blanket she spread right against the base of the gully wall. The other she laid aside to cover him. She chose a spot where a thick cluster of creosote bushes grew from the top of the bank and leaned inward, forming a living canopy. It would help keep off the falling dew. She only hoped a snake or some other creature didn’t choose the leaning brush as an access down into the ravine.

When she returned to him, Rane still lay with his arms clutched against his chest. She leaned down and placed cool fingers against his feverish cheek.

“Rane. Listen to me. You have to stand.”

His lashes flickered again, and she found herself looking into his glazed, moon-silvered eyes. If he saw her, he gave no sign.

“Can you stand up?”

His lids drifted closed again. Still, he didn’t respond. Seconds passed, and she started to shake him when he rallied. Dropping his arms from his chest, he levered himself halfway up on his elbows. She slipped her arm across his back and braced him.

Angel’s breath labored as she struggled to pull Rane upright. For a man who was always so agile on his feet, he’d suddenly turned into a load of dead weight.

She propped him up with her hands to steady him, then wrapped her arm around his waist and steered him to the waiting pallet.

His chest rose and fell in a faster cadence by the time he lay flat on his back on the bedding. Skimming down his length, Angel’s attention caught on the bulky gunbelt strapped around his hips. According to the dime novels, men such as he often “doctored” their weapons by filing the firing mechanism to a hair trigger. If he rolled onto the gun in his sleep, would it discharge?

Why risk it? She knelt beside him and worked loose the knot in the slender leather string tied just above his knee. The heavy buckle lay snug against his trousers, nestled just above the rounded bulge that betrayed his manhood. She reached for it, and his hand clamped over hers with surprising strength.

“No.”

Her gaze jumped to his face. Through the narrowed slits of his eyes, he watched her.

“I just want to move it. How can you rest with a gun wedged under your hip?”

“Much better than I could without it.”

She sat back on her heels. “Fine. Keep it.”

Slowly, his long fingers relaxed and fell away from hers. He looked like he’d fallen asleep. She waited another moment, then pulled the cover to his chin and stood.

While she settled the horses for the night, a plan began to take shape in her mind. Here was the opportunity she’d waited for. All she had to do was get on the mare and ride away.

They must be close to the border. If she continued due west, she’d find the Rio Grande. Once she made it to the river, she felt certain she could elude capture. The many cutbanks and more abundant vegetation would provide cover to hide her. All she had to do was follow the river south, until she reached Clayton Station and home.

It was a sound plan. But each time she glanced at Rane’s still form lying beneath the bedroll padding, pressure gathered in a tighter grip around her heart.

How could she leave him? He was defenseless, maybe even dying.

For several long minutes, Angel stood perfectly still beneath the moonlight. She closed her eyes, drawing in deep, cleansing breaths and listened to the horses’ soft snuffles, the constant chirp of crickets in the surrounding brush. A few feet away, the whispered rush of the stream. The loneliness of this wild, remote place bore down on her like tangible grief carried in the low moan of the wind.

With purpose, she turned and walked to the saddlebags slung behind the saddle on the stallion’s back, speaking softly all the while so the rank creature wouldn’t spook. She knew exactly what she was looking for. Lifting the flap on the right hand bag, she dipped inside and pulled out Buck Sweeney’s six-shooter.

When she lifted it free, the sheer weight of the weapon dropped her hand to hip level. It had been a long time since she’d held a gun but, like riding, the knowledge had been ingrained during her youth. Her fingers trembled against the cold metal when she opened the loading gate and checked the cylinder. Four bullets and one spent cartridge. It would do.

Rane lay as she’d left him, still shivering beneath the cover. Angel sat on the sand and placed the revolver next to her, prepared to keep a vigil through the long night.

After only a few minutes of inactivity, the chill air penetrated her thin shirt. She wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees and hugged them to her chest. A fire would have been welcome, but the flames and smoke would serve as a beacon to anyone out there. Better to shiver in the dark.