The Dancer (6 page)

Elena rose to her feet. As she tried to walk away from the cot, she stumbled. Without thinking, he caught her.

"My feet are numb from the rope," she said, trying to pull free of his grasp. His grip tightened. He couldn't let her go. Wouldn't.

He watched the pupils of her eyes dilate as she looked at him, saw the pulse at her throat begin to throb rapidly, heard her catch her breath. However much she'd lied to him about other things, he could tell being in his arms affected her as intensely as it did him.

"Damn you to hell," he muttered as he bent his head to kiss her.

Chapter Four

With Davis holding her close, Elena felt safe for the first time since Mike Dugald had appeared in the Bothwick house. When Davis’ lips touched hers, his kiss warmed her through and through and she gave up all pretense of resistance, flinging her arms around his neck.

As his kiss deepened and his hands molded her to him, she melted against him. Was this the feeling that drew Benicia to lie with Mike? No, surely not, she was certain no one in the world had ever experienced the pleasure Davis’ caresses brought her. His touch blotted out the past, the bad times between them. She forgot the terror of being tied and abandoned, forgot the ache of her chafed wrists.

Her blood sand in her ears, the world receded, all other sounds seeming far away and unimportant…the caw of a crow, the whinny of a horse…

Davis suddenly wrenched away from her, flinging her backwards onto the cot, spinning to face the door, hand on his pistol.

“Draw and you’re a dead man.” Mike’s voice, flat and deadly. “Keep your hands in the air.”

Elena sat up, staring at Mike who stood in the open doorway with his gun pointed at Davis. Neither Benicia nor Patrick were in sight.

“Sorry to interrupt the touching reunion,” Mike said, advancing into the room. Davis said nothing, his hands lifted shoulder high. Elena hugged herself, cold with dread. Mike was going to kill Davis, she could see death in his eyes, hear it in his voice. And she could do nothing to stop him.

She must find a way.

How? With what? Her fingers touched the ropes Mike had bound her with, his reata, now cut into pieces. There was nothing else within reach. Even if the rope had been whole, it was worthless to her, she’d never tossed a lasso. Though she had learned how to tie one. For all the good that might do her.

Think! she urged herself, sliding the longest length of rope behind her back and coiling it as she watched the two men. Her gaze fell on the empty cradle, with its four posts for draping mosquito netting, on the floor at the foot of the cot.

“You think you’re better’n anyone else,” Mike snarled at Davis. “Just ‘cause your daddy had money. Ain’t your hard work and luck made that money, ever think of that? What God-given right did a shit like you have to kill my brother?”

Mike’s been drinking again, she thought, hearing him slur his words. That didn’t make him any less dangerous. As he raved at Davis, slowly and carefully, moving an inch at a time, Elena shifted her position on the cot until she was able to slip the tiny lasso she’d made at the end of the rope over one of the head posts of the cradle, drawing it taut.

She rose to her feet, the hand holding the other end of the rope concealed, she hoped, in a fold of her gown. Mike shut up abruptly, shifting his gaze to her.

“Get back on the cot!” he ordered.

“Please,” she begged as she staggered widely around Davis. “I’m sick, I need air.” She did her best to gag convincingly. The cradle shifted slightly behind her and she knew she’d reached the end of the rope. She was terrified Mike would shoot her but she couldn’t stop now.

Mike turned the gun on her. “You heard what I….”

“I’m going to faint!” she cried, crumpling to the floor. As she fell, she swung the rope in an arc. The cradle tipped, skidding across the floor mats toward Mike. A gun cracked. Twice. Davis yelled. There was a loud thud.

Elena lifted her head, surprised she wasn’t shot. Both men were on the floor, pummeling one another. She gasped as she saw blood staining Davis’ shirt. He’d been hit! Mike’s gun, she saw, lay on one of the mats, within reach of the struggling men. She leaped to her feet and grabbed it. Having never fired a gun in her life, she did the only thing she could think of. she flung it out the door.

Turning to look at the men, she tried to think of a way to help Davis, but when she saw Mike pinned beneath him and the bloody mess Davis was making of Mike’s face with his fists, she decided maybe he didn’t need her assistance. His hands closed around Mike’s throat, squeezing, and she watched Mike gasp for breath and go limp. A few minutes more and Mike would be dead.

“Stop! You’re killing him!” Elena cried.

Davis, his lips drawn back in a wolfish grimace, paid no heed. Elena watched helplessly, horrified at what she was seeing, wondering if even a man as crazy as Mike deserved to die.

A shot rang out.

Davis blinked, his hands falling away from Mike’s throat as he twisted to look behind him.

Benicia stood in the doorway, Patrick held in her left arm. In her right hand, she held a gun, pointed at the ceiling. “You!” She shifted the gun until it was aimed at Davis. “Leave my man alone or I’ll kill you.” Without taking her eyes off him, she said, “Elena, you tell him in English, so he understands.”

“I speak Spanish.” The words grated from Davis’ throat. “I’ll do as you say.” He got up from Mike’s limp body, standing with an effort.

Elena was alarmed to see his shirt now dripped blood. “You’ve been shot!” she cried.

“Take him away,” Benicia ordered her. “Now. The baby as well.” She thrust Patrick at Elena. “Go!”

“I’d like my pistol.” Davis told Benicia, pointing to the forty-five under the cot. Elena stared in surprise. She’d had no idea Davis had pulled his gun.

Benicia glanced at Elena. “You know nothing of guns or you wouldn’t have thrown this one to me. You pick up his gun and walk outside, you and the baby. When you reach the horses, I’ll let him follow you. Leave Tia Juana. Leave Mexico.”

Mike hadn’t moved. Elena, as she bent to retrieve Davis’ gun, noticed blood discoloring the mat underneath him and remembered the two shots she’d heard after she’d dropped to the floor. Had Davis’ bullet struck Mike? Was he dead? Frightened at what she’d seen, fearing Benicia might change her mind and kill them if Mike was dead, Elena grabbed the gun and, carrying the baby, rushed from the casita, running for the horses tethered in the stable.

Hearing Black Knight stomping outside the stable wall, she hurried to him, thrust the gun into a saddle bag, untied him and brought the stallion inside the stable. Untying Bella, she climbed on the mounting block and, holding Patrick under one arm, hoisted herself onto the palomino. There she waited, praying Benicia would let Davis leave.

When she saw Davis walking slowly toward the stable, she let out her pent-up breath in a sigh of relief, only to tense again when she saw how carefully he moved. He was hurt and bleeding. How could he ride?

Without looking her way, he went directly to Black Knight and painfully hoisted himself into the saddle. Saying nothing, he urged the stallion into a walk with his heels and headed not for the road, but for the field in back of the casita. Elena, hoping he wasn’t dazed into confusion from loss of blood, followed on Bella. She didn’t know where he was going; she’d have to trust him.

To her dismay, Davis slumped lower and lower in the saddle as they rode, going God knew where but toward a stench that she thought had to be one of the worst she’d ever smelled. Her only comfort was that Patrick slept peacefully against her shoulder, minding neither the jouncing ride nor the awful smell.

By the time they reached the source of the stink--a pig farm. Davis was swaying with every step Black Knight took. Elena rode close and lifted the reins from Davis’ lax fingers to lead the stallion.

“Hold on, Davis!” she urged him as a man came running from a nearby house.

“Madre de Dios!” the man exclaimed, coming up to them and peering at Davis. “What has happened to you, my friend?”

Hearing his words, Elena knew they’d reached their destination. Elena tossed Black Knight’s reins to the man. “He’s been shot,” she said. “Please help him.”

An hour later, Elena sat in the bed of a wagon cuddling Patrick as Diego Alviso convinced the two mules hitched to the wagon that they wanted to travel north. Next to her. On a blanket over a bed of straw, lay Davis, eyes closed, his face white and drawn. A second baby, his bright dark eyes watching Elena, rested on her lap.

Diego’s wife had controlled the bleeding by binding a cloth tightly about Davis’ chest. The bullet, she’d said, had gone in and out again. If he didn’t start coughing up blood, he’d recover. One way or the other, it was best to take him to his friend in San Diego. Diego’s wife solved the problem of Patrick as well.

“San Diego, Mateo Amato,” Davis had said, only half-aware of his surroundings. “My friend, Mateo.”

His words had convinced Elena they must travel on.

By this time she was so accustomed to the smell pervading the farm that it didn’t matter the wagon was ordinarily used to transport pigs. Nothing mattered except getting Davis safely to San Diego. Black Knight, tethered to the rear of the wagon, rolled his eyes, resenting being forced to trot along in its wake.

The dark-eyed baby’s mother, a mestizo girl named Felicia Fernando who looked scarcely old enough to bear a child, rode Bella. Felicia was to provide milk for Patrick until he was reunited with his mother.

Once convinced they should begin moving, the mules set a steady pace, the wagon jouncing over the rough road, each bump jolting through Elena and increasing her worry over Davis. Would the jolting ride make the bleeding start again? Despite her apprehension, she was so exhausted that after a time she settled into a daze, broken only when Patrick began to wail.

Felicia slowed Bella until she was rode beside the wagon next to Elena. She held out her arms and Elena leaned over to hand her the squalling Patrick. By the time the girl finished nursing him, her own baby, Antonio, had begun to cry.

Eyeing the girl’s slenderness, Elena asked, “Do you have enough milk for two?”

Felicia’s smile transformed her dark, rather sullen face. “Muy mucho,” she said, handing back Patrick and taking Antonio to her breast.

“Patrick,” Davis muttered, opening his eyes. “Where’s Patrick?”

“The baby’s fine,” Elena assured him. “He’s right here.”

Davis raised his head to look toward her and, as she shifted Patrick so he could see the baby, the slanting rays of the setting sun touched Patrick’s head.

Davis’ eyes widened. “Red,” he muttered. “He’s got red hair.” His bewildered gaze fastened on Elena but she said nothing. She could hardly deny the color of Patrick’s hair.

“Rory’s,” Davis said after a moment. “He’s Rory’s. No, I don’t believe it. That’s mean Meg….” He broke off.

Elena maintained her silence. She’d kept Meg’s secret until now, it wasn’t up to her to admit the truth.

“The red hair doesn’t prove anything,” Davis said finally, as though arguing with himself. “What’d you do, convince Dugald it was his brother’s kid because of the red hair?”

“I told you what happened,” she reminded him. “How Mike sneaked in and took Patrick.”

He scowled. “I didn’t believe it then. I don’t now.”

Elena held Patrick closer. Much as his words hurt her, she wouldn’t defend herself further. If he couldn’t trust her, he could go to the devil.

Davis scowled at her. “Admit it, you started Dugald on this plan to abduct Patrick, then got scared when you couldn’t control the bastard. He’s crazy as a locoed cow.”

She refused to answer him. Determined as he was to believe ill of her, what was the use?

The wagon lurched onto a much rougher road, forcing her to grasp for the side. Davis grunted with pain.

“Pardon,” Diego called to them. “I’m taking a short cut. Probably we’d have no trouble at the border but why take the chance?”

Elena braced herself, protecting Patrick against the worst of the jouncing. She could do nothing for Davis. A part of her wanted to think he deserved the punishment but Senora Alviso’s words about coughing up blood came back to trouble her. What would happen if he did? No matter what he thought of her, she didn’t wish him dead.

Would this ride never be over?

Davis didn’t speak again, even when Diego pulled onto a better road and the jolting lessened. Felicia kept her baby with her on Bella and Patrick slept. Elena could not. Between glances at Davis to make certain he was still alive, her thoughts bubbled and simmered like the La Brea tar pits.

Davis had rescued her, he’d held her close and kissed her but it meant nothing. Not to him. He mistrusted her, he’d come for Patrick, not for her. He didn’t love her, he never would. She’d tried to hate him but one tender moment in his arms had dissolved her hatred.