Frontier Woman (15 page)

Creed’s arguments had raised terrifying doubts in her mind. Was she really a puppet on a string, dancing to Rip’s bidding? Was she being manipulated, reaching out for Rip’s approval, like a recalcitrant mule following a carrot held out before it on a long stick?

She’d always considered herself the soul of independence, blithely doing what she wanted to do.

But wasn’t everything she wanted to do also something
Rip wanted her to do?

So what if it was? Was that so bad? Had he ever forced her to do anything that made her feel uncomfortable or unhappy?

What about Amber Kuykendall’s ninth birthday party?

Oh, God. No. Rip would never have let her become a . . .

The tiny seed planted on Amber Kuykendall’s birthday had grown over the years, watered by snide comments and sly glances. Despite that one insidious weed, she’d flowered into a happy, contented person because she was exactly what her father wanted her to be. She’d learned her lessons well, and she’d truly been her father’s son. Now, after seventeen years, he’d changed his mind. He wanted a daughter he could marry off to a rich
hacendado
. Cricket knew if she became Cruz Guerrero’s wife now, Felicia’s prophecy would very likely come true.

She would be a freak.

The gelding stumbled from fatigue and almost fell. Cricket reined the exhausted animal to a stop. The beast’s head hung low, his billowing nostrils causing tiny dust storms in the red dirt. His muscles trembled so he seemed almost to be shivering. A foamy lather lay in ridges along his neck and shoulders. The barrel chest heaved to bring air to tortured lungs.

Cricket’s own chest heaved just as mightily, as though she’d been the one running, and not the horse. The sharp aroma of hot sweat and leather rose almost like steam, so Cricket couldn’t help but breathe it. She slipped from the saddle and her legs buckled under her, sending her crumpling to her knees on the ground. Her face fell forward into her hands. How many times had she pleased Rip and denied herself, only to discover it wasn’t enough? It was never going to be enough. Now Rip planned to change all the rules and force her back into a role she’d rejected her whole life at his insistence.

She began to tremble all over. The trembling became a shiver, the shiver a tremor, until her whole body was like an earthquake, shifting and grating and tearing asunder all the beliefs she’d held in her heart. And from the yawning abyss the howling of furies threatened to erupt. She tried to strangle the sound, tried to keep it contained within flesh and bone, but the pain and pressure built and built until finally a keening wail tore loose from somewhere deep inside her and rose pitiably on the clear, clean air.

Agonized groans began deep in her belly and wrenched their way through her chest and out her contorted mouth. No cleansing tears came to blur reality and wash it away. Dry-eyed, she faced the past and feared the future. She thrust her fist into her mouth, biting down hard to stem the wails, damning her weakness, her inability to keep the truth at bay. She fought against the hysterical pressure in her chest, unable to choke back the sobs which exploded each time in gut-wrenching groans of pain. At last, tears began dripping in hot hellpaths down her cheeks.

She couldn’t stop the cries of anguish. Couldn’t stop the trembling of her body. Couldn’t stop the pain. She began to rock back and forth, back and forth, gripping herself across the belly with her arms as though her insides might fly out if she didn’t hold them tight.

A cold nose poked against her wet cheek, and she grabbed at the comfort Rogue offered, digging her hands deep into the wolf’s fur and smothering her sobs against his warm body.

The wolf lay down before her and raised his head to the big, blue Texas sky, wailing mournfully, unsure of the cause of Cricket’s distress but fully sharing it.

Creed heard the lone wolf’s ululating cry, a prairie song of grief, and wondered at its ability to move him. It was uncanny how the howl captured all the isolation a man felt in this land. The wolf’s lament spoke not of birth and hope, but of death and the inevitable end to dreams. He didn’t put much faith in dreams coming true, and it had saved him a load of heartache. Not Cricket, though. She’d let Rip’s dream become her own . . . and it was a dream doomed to failure.

Had there ever been a time in his life when he’d trusted his father with the same unequivocal certainty that Cricket trusted Rip? Maybe, once, a long time ago he had. Nobody should put his life that fully in another’s hands, Creed thought. It was too much of a temptation, too much of a burden for a mere mortal. And despite the way he acted, Rip was only human. Cricket was headed for a fall, all right. He wished to God there were some way he could save her all that pain. But he knew that wasn’t possible. Growing hurt. Nothing was ever going to change that.

The howl came again, a sad, solitary sound. And then its echo, equally lonesome.

Creed gave in to the feeling and mourned with the wolf.

Chapter 11

CRICKET SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER THAN TO start walking in her dazed state, with no thought to where she was or where she was going. And if she was going to wander around like that on foot, leading the exhausted gelding, she should at least have kept Rogue by her side. Of course, she thought as she registered the identity of the two men who’d suddenly appeared before her, it was useless to worry about should-haves now. But she hoped her blunder didn’t turn out to be a deadly mistake.

“We meet again,
chiquita
.”

“I get her first.”

Cricket looked from Clemencio to Oscar and back to Clemencio again, noting the equally lascivious grins on both faces. Seeing them on their Spanish ponies before her was a shock, but it was the sight of the dozen other grizzle-faced bandidos arrayed around them that stood her neck hairs on end. Still, there was nothing like a crisis to bring out the best in Cricket.

“The first person to touch me gets a bullet in the gut,” she said, a Paterson appearing miraculously in her hand. “So, come to me,” she taunted Oscar. “I’m waiting for you.”

A rumble of surprised expletives traveled through the motley group when her challenge was translated, but no one moved. After all, a
puta
and a
pistola
were a dangerous combination.

Cricket knew it was only a matter of time before they figured out there were fourteen of them and one of her, even if she did have a gun in her hand. They wouldn’t expect her to be an accurate shot, even though she was. From the looks of them, they’d run if she started shooting. But if they didn’t run . . .

“Alejandro, talk some sense into the bitch,” Oscar demanded.

Oscar recognized his mistake as soon as he’d made it. Though the band of outlaws had no formal leader, there was a pecking order, and a banty rooster had presumed upon the cock-o’-the-walk. Oscar willed himself to disappear when the man he’d addressed turned his imperious stare down on him. However, once Oscar’s submission was clear, the Mexican cock directed his attention to the tall young woman before him.

“Hey,
puta
, put away the gun, and we’ll talk,” his gravel-rough voice cajoled.

Cricket slowly shifted her focus from Oscar and Clemencio to the man called Alejandro. He sat tall in the saddle and gave an impression of insolent superiority. He was dressed like a vaquero in a wool shirt overlaid by a vibrantly striped poncho and leather
calzoneras
covering buckskin breeches. As he gestured, a wide silver bracelet flashed in the sunlight. His huge sombrero put his entire face in shadow, making his eyes two dark, fiery hellholes. A bushy mustache covered his upper lip, while the lower lip curved downward disdainfully. He held his broad shoulders ramrod straight, unyielding, and Cricket thought,
This man will show no
mercy.

“We have nothing to say to each other,” she said.

“If you put down the gun, my man won’t have to hurt you. He’s right behind you.”

It was an old trick, Rip had warned, to threaten another enemy behind you. When you turned around, the enemy in front made his move. Cricket mentally thanked Rip for the lesson, and fearlessly faced the merciless Mexican.

“I’ll take my chances,” she said.

The Mexican shrugged, then nodded.

A tingle of fear raced up Cricket’s spine. She dropped and rolled to the left as the Mexican behind her whipped his gun barrel down where her head had been. She came to her feet running, dodging between the cactus and the sagebrush.

The bandidos came racing after her, like hounds after a hare, their howls of glee ringing through the air.

Cricket cursed Rip as she ran. Another lesson gone awry. It seemed this was a day full of disillusionment. She would be overrun if she stopped to aim her gun, so she didn’t waste the time trying. She was fast, but her endurance was no match for the Spanish ponies.

Cricket had no doubt of her fate once she was caught, so while she ran, she considered whether she should save the last bullet in her Paterson for herself. The thought that Jarrett Creed couldn’t be far behind her decided the matter.

This was a time to be reckless.

She spent all five bullets, wounding three Mexicans, before the man called Alejandro lassoed her arms and shoulders with his horsehair
reata
and dragged her to the ground. The man’s cruelty was confirmed when, rather than loosening the rope when he reached her, he yanked her upright and wound several more tight loops around her body. When her arms were pinned to her sides from shoulder to waist, he forced her up behind him on his pony.

“The
puta
’s shots will have revealed our whereabouts to the Rangers chasing us. Ride!” he commanded.

The two wounded Mexicans who could manage by themselves mounted their horses. The third was pulled up behind a friend. The mood of the bandits was vicious, and Cricket was thankful their revenge had to be postponed. All too soon, she thought, the time would come when they would vent their rage upon her body. Unless she could escape. Or someone rescued her.

At first Cricket believed Alejandro was referring to Creed when he mentioned the Mexicans were being chased by Rangers. Then she realized he’d referred to more than one Ranger. She couldn’t help the surge of hope that bounced from edge to edge inside her, despite the fact she was now clearly a prisoner of the bandits. Having wounded three of them, she was in serious trouble if the Rangers didn’t ride to the rescue. But it was not for nothing the Mexicans had labeled the Rangers
Los Diablos Tejanos
. She was counting on the Texas Devils to arrive in the nick of time.

As late afternoon wore on into evening, Cricket refused to allow despair to overwhelm her. If the band of Rangers chasing the bandits wasn’t right behind them, surely Jarrett Creed was. And one Ranger could whip at least a dozen bandidos. Couldn’t he?

They rode without stopping until they couldn’t see to ride anymore. Cricket’s whole body ached. She wasn’t sure which bruises were the result of the bronc riding at the
días
de toros
, which were compliments of Oscar and Clemencio, and which she owed to Alejandro, but she vowed that if she got out of this alive, she would try to take things a little easier for a while.

Cricket’s heart lost a beat when she realized the Mexicans were stopping. Alejandro helped her to dismount and released her from the coils of his
reata
, while the other Mexicans tethered their horses and then dropped exhausted to the ground nearby. By the time she stood unfettered before their glittering gazes, her racing heart threatened to force its way out her throat which, fortunately, was far too constricted to allow it such an easy escape.

Clemencio rose and took a step toward her but was brought up short when Alejandro announced, “We stop only until the moon is up. Meanwhile, the
puta
stays with me.”

Cricket might have been relieved, except as Alejandro spoke, his hand punishingly gripped her neck and his callused fingertips probed the quicksilver pulse at her throat. Cricket turned her head away from Alejandro’s wool poncho, which smelled of horse and rancid male sweat, but couldn’t dodge the sexual heat which emanated from a body coiled in readiness for wild animal thrusting.

Cricket shuddered. Even the hope of a respite from rape died when Alejandro brought his mouth to her ear and murmured too low for the others to hear, “You want me, eh,
puta
? Every bit of me,
sí?
”

Both Cricket and Alejandro had been oblivious to the rest of the Mexicans, but their muted grumbling found voice when one of them demanded, “You must share the
puta
. She belongs to all of us!” His cry was joined by several others, as the Mexicans left their horses and surrounded the couple. It appeared Alejandro might have to relinquish his prize when a series of gunshots erupted in the darkness. An equal number of Mexicans at the edge of the circle fell where they stood.

“Los Diablos Tejanos!”

The shouted warning that the Rangers had found them sent the bandits scurrying for their horses. In the melee that ensued, Cricket tore from Alejandro’s grasp and raced toward where Valor was hobbled.

“Cricket!”

There was no mistaking that commanding Tennessee voice, yet Cricket ignored it and kept on running. She was not leaving without her money and her horse.

“Dammit, Brava, get over here,” Creed shouted.

Cricket ignored him, but several of the Mexicans did not. Creed found himself the focus of heavy gunfire and had to concentrate on sliding away on his belly to a safer spot.

Meanwhile, Cricket reached Valor at about the same time as Clemencio, who blocked her avenue of escape. The Mexican grinned before he reached out confidently for her with his right arm. Cricket was in no mood for games. She curved her foot deftly behind his ankle as she ducked under his arm, then shoved as hard as she could at his chest with both hands.

Clemencio gave a howl as he lost his balance and toppled over backwards. She grabbed her gun from his hand as he fell and pointed it at him.

“Don’t bother getting up,” she warned, “or I’ll put a bullet hole right between your eyes.”

She quickly checked her saddlebag, and from the chink of coins inside, determined that her
días de toros
purse was where she’d left it. Then, giving the Mexican one last warning to “Stay right where you are, if you want to live,” she mounted Valor and headed back toward where she’d last heard Creed.

“I’ll see you at Three Oaks,” she yelled, as she galloped past him at a speed horrifyingly dangerous in the darkness.

The Mexicans were in full rout, too fearful of
Los Diablos Tejanos
to stop long enough to ascertain there was only one Ranger shooting at them. However, both Alejandro and Clemencio noted the direction of Cricket’s escape and soon were on the trail behind her.

Creed slipped away to his chestnut and was after them in moments. He was furious with Cricket and at the same time frightened for her. What if her horse stumbled and fell? What if the Mexicans decided to stop her with a bullet? He kicked his chestnut into a faster gallop, praying the animal could see better in the dark than he could. Soon he perceived one of the Mexicans in front of him. He feared to shoot in the dark, not knowing how close Cricket might be.

Cricket could hear the pounding hooves of the horses that followed. She could feel Valor tiring and knew that unless she could come up with a plan, the bandidos would recapture her, and she’d have to endure the embarrassment of being rescued by Creed all over again. She remembered they’d passed a deep arroyo not long before they’d stopped, and she strained her eyes to find it again in the dark. There it was! She brought Valor to a sliding stop, threw the reins around his neck, grabbed her saddlebag and canteen, and then slapped him on the haunch, ordering, “Go!”

The stallion snorted once and then flipped his tail and broke into a gallop. Cricket slipped into the arroyo near the trail and waited with bated breath for the enemies who followed. She saw Alejandro fly by, followed closely by Clemencio, and then Creed. She started to shout to Creed, but realized she would likely be heard by Clemencio and Alejandro, as well.

Cricket settled down to wait. When Creed had disposed of Clemencio and Alejandro he would head for Three Oaks, expecting to find her there ahead of him. She smiled, thinking of his consternation when he discovered she wasn’t there. She sighed and closed her eyes to rest for a moment before she recalled her horse and headed home.

Cricket awoke disoriented. The moon had risen fully in the sky, providing a blue-white light that revealed the world in shapes, rather than colors. She was surprised by the quiet. She told herself she had nothing to be frightened of. The bandidos were long gone, and there was nothing she needed to fear in the dark. But she’d never been more aware of being alone. Absolutely alone.

She fought her creeping uneasiness by standing up and stretching the stiffness out of her arms and legs. Her right hand had that awful dead feeling because she’d lain on it, and it tingled unpleasantly as the blood flooded back through its leaden weight.

She whistled for Valor, but her horse didn’t appear. She wondered how long she’d been asleep. Well, she could walk home, if she had to.

The warm water in her canteen quenched her thirst, but it wasn’t very refreshing. She poured some out, dabbed it on her eyes, and felt a little better. She pulled the canteen strap over her head and arranged it on one shoulder while she settled the saddlebag on the other. There was nothing to fear in the dark, she repeated, as she began walking. Nothing at all. In fact, she was probably safer traveling in the dark. She only wished it wasn’t quite so far to Three Oaks.

Cricket had been traveling for some time when she saw the campfire in the distance. At this point, she would’ve welcomed any form of company, and she sought out the warmth and light of that faraway fire the way a rattler sought out a sunbaked rock in autumn. She had no doubt the travelers would share their campfire. How good a cup of coffee would taste! It was only as she got closer and made out the three figures hunched around the flickering light that Rip’s lessons on using caution with strangers came back to her.