Murphy's Law (The Bounty Hunter Series - Book 1) (5 page)

The sure strides of the horse easily traveled over the desert terrain, dodging scrubby bushes and cacti. He knew this land. Echo prayed the animal would bring them to safety. Somewhere out here there had to be his owner, people who cared for all the animals.

But where? And would they help Murphy and her?

***

Murphy hung onto to Echo, moving with her fluid motions on the back of the horse. She was a natural. This was the one thing she’d missed most of all these last two years. The one thing she ached for and couldn’t have.

Now he sensed a calm and a self-assurance come over her. One that was absent since her accident.

He also knew how jarring this had to be to her head, how quickly her headaches could come in an instant and dog her for days. Banned from any jolting activity, even her self-defense classes, she’d been handled with kid gloves until now.

That and regaining muscle and her energy kept her sidelined for far too long for her taste. Now, because of him, she was smack in the middle of a very dangerous man bent on revenge and righting a whole lot of wrongs. And they said hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. He thought hell had no fury like a man wronged, a man involuntarily parted from his millions.

Anyone who had been a part of it would pay and pay dearly.

It was just a matter of time. Murphy should have prepared better for it. Too late.

The stocky, sturdy horse wasn’t the quickest, but he was surefooted and had an amazing ability to skirt the pitfalls and keep them upright. That, Murphy would give to him.

It had to be an hour later Echo had eased him back to a trot to rest him and with the sun creeping along the horizon, when he heard the engine gaining on them from behind. It was miles away, but, in this desolate land, the sound carried.

Echo must have heard; she stiffened, and then dropped a hand to touch his in a brief, intimate touch. She nudged the horse back into a canter.

The more distance they could get between them and their pursuers the better.

But could they outrun them?

***

Echo sensed the weariness of the horse. He was old and most likely not used to carrying people any longer. She didn’t dare push the animal harder or faster. Back to a half walk, half trot, they plodded along at a steady pace.

A small dot came into view on the horizon. The short, squat building seemed like a mirage.

“There. Looks like a camp cabin.”

“Water?” she asked, feeling the layer of dust coating her mouth and throat.

“Supplies, too.”

The horse sped up, somehow knowing there was an end in sight. With each step closer, Echo worried more about stopping. How long did they have? How long before they were found?

They drew nearer.

“No movement, no horse, no one in sight,” Murphy said, assessing the layout.

Relief shot through her. For a few minutes they were safe. She slowed the horse and brought him to a halt. In front of the old, sun-worn shack, Echo patted the sweaty animal. “Good, boy.” To Murphy, she said, “Slide down and I’ll hold him here until you check it out.”

Murphy eased down. But he cursed when he landed on the ground. She watched him limp to the cabin, and then pry the door open. He peeked in before going all the way into the small space. He was gone for several long minutes, rustling through a crate she suspected from the noise. “Coast is clear,” he said when he came back out.

“Water, food, supplies?” she asked.

“I even found this.” He held up a knife—a survivor knife, if she wasn’t mistaken.

For a brief moment, she caught his gaze. He must have known what she was thinking; he said, “Don’t do it, Echo.”

“Sorry, Murph.” The horse pranced and Echo directed him in circles, kicking up dust and making certain his hooves blurred any tracks. She kicked the horse’s sides, praying he could hold out even longer. The horse obeyed, leading her east.

“Echo! Damn it!” Murphy called.

Perspiration slid down her forehead and plopped onto her lashes. Her eyes burned. She blinked, but she didn’t dare take her hand off of the horse’s mane. Dust rose, mixing with the sweat. She could barely breathe.

Nearly twenty minutes later, she saw the cloud of dust coming toward her over a small hill.

Her stomach dropped to her knees.

“Fuck!” Murphy cursed as he watched her ride away. A wave of helplessness swept over him, just like when he watched her lying comatose for months in the hospital bed.

“I should have never picked the damn handcuffs.”

He gritted his teeth and turned away. The small, stark cabin stood in the early morning sun.

His leg burned as he hobbled to the tiny porch and back to the open door. The musty air hit him once again; the cracks between the wooden planks let streams of light in. Tiny motes of particles danced in the early morning sunlight rising in the east.

The place looked like someone had been there recently; the rations were stocked and the canteens he found were filled. The camping gear was neat and tidy. The three bedrolls were stacked in the corner. A thin layer of grime coated the surface. They couldn’t have left that long ago. Would they be back soon?

Brushing that disquieting thought aside, he sipped from the canteen, the water warm but welcome.

A pang of guilt poked him when he thought Echo needed to drink some, too.

He found the jerky in a glass mason jar and soon began to gnaw on an end. He stuffed his pockets with broken pieces and soothed himself with the idea of giving some to Echo when she came back.

His heart jerked in his chest.

If she came back.

***

The first-aid supplies were packed in one of the stacked crates. He busted them out and made short work of grabbing what he needed. Over the years, he’d suffered enough wounds to know he could make do with the rolls of gauze and tape, but they wouldn’t hold out for long. He needed a doctor. Murphy doubted he’d find one anytime soon.

The silence ended. An engine, most likely from a truck, sliced through the stillness.

A cold dread settled in his gut.

“Echo,” he whispered. “Did they find her?”

With his senses fully alert, he relied on years of honed instincts. He dumped the first-aid supplies in the crate and fitted the lid back in place.

Going to the door, he gazed in all directions. Nothing.

The constant buzz of the engine pulsed in his ears.

Murphy limped across the porch and took the single step to the ground. He dragged his hurt leg behind him as he made tracks on the ground. The knife he stuffed in his boot called to him. After all, it was called a survival knife.

Halting for a moment, he grabbed for it. He didn’t stop to think it through. He just acted. With the metal tip, he pierced the wound on his leg. White-hot pain shot through his thigh. “Motherfucker,” he cursed. Fresh blood dripped down his leg and hit the ground.

He kept walking, leaving a light trail of blood in his wake. When he came to a bunch of scrubby bushes, he zigzagged and left more blood in his wake. Finally, he tightened the belt around the makeshift rag, stopping the flow of blood.

Swallowing hard, he doubled back, carefully walking backwards. He took a few steps, and then brushed his boot over the footprints, erasing them.

The sound of the motor grew near. He heard a second one. Jerking his head up, he gazed off into the distance. A cloud of dust appeared.

Whoever it was would arrive in just a few minutes.

***

Echo’s head bounced as the truck darted over the dry land. The buffoon steered recklessly around cacti and bushes.

The fringes of another headache bit through her like a hot poker.

She cursed being caught. The horse, tired and scared, had reared back when the buffoon had careened toward them. Echo’s body still ached all over from the nasty tumble. She hoped the horse was all right, having stumbled to its feet as Echo looked back one last time.

“Bitch,” the buffoon muttered. He reached out and smacked her across her face, catching the edge of her lip.

The metallic taste of blood made her stomach roll. Her cheek stung. She hissed. In the back of her mind, she imagined the damage she would do to him once they stopped. Her hands may be tied tight with rope now, but she still could kick.

“Where is he? God damn it!”

“Hey, dumbass,” the sheriff yelled from the back seat of the four door truck, hitting him in the back of the head. “Don’t ever hit a lady.”

“What the fuck you do that for?” the buffoon wailed, rubbing the spot. “She’s costing us. The sooner we find Murphy, the sooner we get the money.”

“You ever think he’s gonna just lead us to the loot? Hell, he’ll be so fucking pissed off once he sees what you did to his wife.”

Wife
. She may have lost focus, the fuzziness in her brain taking over prime real estate again, but she’d definitely heard the word. Her stomach dropped.

Murphy and her?

She fought for sanity. Thoughts spilled. Her body reacted whenever she was near him. Her senses were heightened. His, too, if she gauged it right. Murphy’s stare, hot and longing, nearly undid her every time she dared to meet it. Now, it fell into place. Echo didn’t have to remember him to know they had something once. But marriage?

The men’s bickering voices blended. To ward off the approaching splitting headache, she tried to block them out. Snatches of words came to her.

“Fuck him—”

“Mastermind…”

“Hidden...”

“Gold...”

Her mind screeched to a halt.
Gold.
A slice of memory snaked through her like a whip, fast and sharp. The shiny bars flashed before her. Piled in neat layers, she did remember standing over it in awe. And Murphy was right there standing beside her.

He was in on it. She was, too.

The migraine took over, stealing away the insight in an instant and leaving a dark, shadowy gray in its place.

It was lost. But not forgotten.

There was going to be hell to pay. The only decision was who would be first.

The buffoon jammed on the brake. The truck slid to a stop outside the little outpost. Echo grabbed for the dashboard.

“Dumbass! Whatta trying to do, kill us?”

“Shut up, already,” he whined.

Before she could grab the door handle, the sheriff was there flinging the door open. He dragged her out of the truck. “You’re my little insurance policy,” he sneered.

She stumbled, but he caught her and pulled her to her feet. Every little atrocity added up.

As they rounded the truck, the buffoon met them. “I got us covered.” He pulled out his gun.

The sheriff snorted. “He’s not armed.” He jerked to her. “Is he?” His hand squeezed tighter.

“You’re the brains of this operation. You tell me,” she bit out.

“You are a bitch.”

“Takes one to know one,” she countered.
Now where had that come from?
Storm.

Tugging her by her bound hands, he pulled her to the side of the shack. “You, go around to the door.”

“Me? What if he jumps me?”

The sheriff pulled out his Glock from his holster. “I’ll cover you.”

It took all of two minutes for the buffoon to yell all clear. Echo’s heart jumped in her throat. Where was Murphy? The man beside her cursed.

“Find him! God damn it!” He shoved her to walk in front of him.

Echo tripped, but righted herself. The blurred edges of her vision scared her. But she kept looking in front of her, stepping up on the porch, and then she stood in the doorway of the shack.

“There’s blood.” The sheriff’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Follow it.”

She sensed something, but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. When she turned back to go out, she saw a speck of something fall from the ceiling. Maybe it was another part of the migraine. But she turned back, making sure she looked straight at the spot. Another speck dripped. Echo sucked in a sharp breath.

 It was blood.

That could only mean one thing: Murphy was up there on the roof.

The sheriff stood on the edge of the porch, shouting instructions to the buffoon, who scampered out in the dirt.

“There’s a trail.”

“He got that far? No fucking way!”

She waited, holding her breath. In the distance, she heard the buffoon’s muttered shouts. If she judged correctly, he’d gone about fifty yards out.

Time stood still.

Somewhere deep inside, she dug up her training. She sprang up and off her back leg, lifted her other foot and kicked out, striking the sheriff behind his knees. Contact. He swore as he went down. His gun dislodged from his hand. “Murphy! Now!” she hollered.

Echo jumped on the sheriff; her knee landed in the middle of his back. He bellowed like a wounded cow. In the back of her mind, she heard the footsteps above her. Murphy. He dropped to the ground. Something heavy thudded beside him.

“Fuck! The knife,” Murphy shouted.

“Forget it. The truck,” she ordered. Reaching low, she grabbed the sheriff’s gun from the dirt.

“What the fuck is going on?!” the buffoon yelled.

Scrambling to her feet, she kicked the sheriff in his balls. He screamed, and then curled in a fetal position. His hands covered his nuts now. His cursing sliced the air.

“Echo, let’s go!” Murphy called out.

A streak of black slashed across her vision. She shook her head, trying to shake away the line. It worked.

With her bound hands, she gripped the gun, running. The first shot whizzed by her head. Automatically, she turned and began shooting.

“Motherfucker!” the buffoon cried out. “You shot me, bitch!”

The truck engine fired. She raced the last few steps to the driver’s side. Murphy was there. She shoved him aside and got behind the steering wheel.

“Give me the gun,” he said. “Can you drive?”

“No, but I’m going to. Use your hands to steer.”

“Use your feet. Floor it!” He sat with his bloody thigh pressed against her.