The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (41 page)

Reese pulled Grace into the shadow of a building."You remember what you're supposed to do?" he asked her.

"Yes," she said with assurance. Then added, "I think so."

"All right. Remember, don't say a word. Let me do the talking."

She gulped, terror working its way up her throat. "And if they ask me something?"

"You're a deaf mute."

"Right. Deaf and mute."

They exchanged looks and Reese tried not to laugh.

"Oh," she said, "I'm not sure I can do it."

"Neither am I. If they ask you a direct question, act like you haven't the foggiest idea what they're saying. Got that?"

She nodded.

"And for God's sake, keep your head down."

They passed the smitten guard unnoticed. The second man watched the soldier with obvious envy as Magdalena brushed herself up against him. Reese glanced at the clock in the nearby tower. Eleven-forty-five. Fifteen minutes to locate the prisoners and accomplish their task. They approached the arched doorway and the guard lowered his gun, barring their way.

"Parent"
the man ordered.

Reese stopped as he was told and looked the man in the eye. In Spanish, he said, "We have business here, my son."

The unshaven guard squinted at him. "You are not one of the friars. I have not seen you here before."

Reese dipped his head subserviently, his hand tucked deep inside his sleeve near the grip of his gun. "We have come to administer the last rites to the condemned prisoners," he explained. "It is a task the brothers here have given over to Father Ignacio and me."

The guard peered at Grace, trying to see beneath her hood. She dipped her head, blocking his view. "I do not know," the guard mumbled, glancing at his friend, who was fully engaged in a teasing conversation with Magdalena now.

"I should ask my superior." He opened his mouth to shout.

"It is only the souls of the men here we are after, my son," Reese said quickly, stopping him. "Nothing more."

With a final suspicious look at Grace, he stepped aside and said, "All right. Go."

Reese heard Grace let out a breath and they started toward the door.

"Wait!" the guard called, stopping them midstep. Reese grabbed her arm and they turned back to the guard. "You—show me your hands," he ordered Grace, whose hands were tucked inside her sleeves, holding the knives.

Grace didn't move.

"I said—" the guard began.

"He cannot hear you," Reese interrupted. "He is deaf and he doesn't speak."

"He's dumb, too? What good will he be for last rites?" he demanded with a frown.

"God hears every man's prayers, my son," Reese intoned solemnly. "Even the silent ones. Father Ignacio will hold the holy water for me." Reese took Grace by the elbows and urged her resisting hands out into the open. To his relief, nothing but the flask of water dangled from her fingers. "See?"

With a final look, the guard said, "All right, go on."

Reese grinned behind his cowled hood. "Bless you, my son."

It took three tries to find the room holding the prisoners. A modest chapel had been cleared of pews and in their place, pallets were placed in rigid rows on the floor. With little ventilation, the room was stiflingly hot. It stank of sweat and blood and unwashed bodies. They were questioned by yet another guard, who seemed less interested in their intent than the food that had just been delivered to him. As he tucked the napkin beneath his chin and began to eat, Reese and Grace entered the high-ceilinged room and walked slowly, piously among the prisoners.

"Knives only to the ones that stand a chance of defending themselves," he whispered.

And to the others,
she thought,
death.
How could she choose? And what if Luke was one of them?

Grace bit her lip at the sound of moans from some of the more obviously wounded men. Little medical attention had been paid any of them. They'd been criminally neglected, even under terms of war.

Her eyes searched the faces, desperately looking for Luke's. At least forty men languished here, God knows for how long. Conditions were deplorable, and the smell was worse. The man on the nearest pallet groaned. His arm was gone at the elbow, the stump haphazardly covered in bloody bandages. Grace wavered slightly, suddenly afraid she might faint. She felt Reese's strong hand on her arm.

"Stay with me, lass. Don't faint on me now. Look for your brother."

Reese knelt beside the badly injured man.

"Padre," he said, groaning. "Am I dying?"

Dipping his fingers in the holy water, Reese drew a sign of the cross on the man's forehead.
"In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,"
he said aloud, recalling the words of the priests of his youth in Ireland. Then he murmured in Spanish, "Be ready, my friend. We've come for you."

Grace slipped him a small knife from the folds of her robe. The man's hand closed around hers with a desperate sort of hope. She made the sign of the cross as she stood and followed Reese to the next man. They repeated the process over and over as she surreptitiously searched for Luke. Where was he? Dear God, what if he wasn't even here? Her heart pounded with growing fear as she carefully used the small knife to slice through the ropes binding a prisoner's hands.

The guard watched them disinterestedly from the other side of the room. Grace rose and knelt beside the next man, whose back was to them, and held out the holy water for Reese. The poor man's dark hair was covered with dried blood and what she could see of his cheek was swollen and bruised. He barely moved when Reese knelt in front of him. On first glance, she'd known he wasn't Luke. He was too thin, his skin, too swarthy.

But when Reese's hand stopped midway to the man's forehead and he looked up at her with an intensity different than she'd seen before, she trained her gaze on the man once again. What she'd taken at first as swarthiness was in fact weeks of grime, and the hair beneath the mat of blood, she realized now, was fairer than the others. A sick feeling welled up inside her.

She touched the man's shoulder. "Luke?"

Slowly, he rolled onto his back, toward her. His blue eyes, unfocused and swollen, regarded her without recognition. His handsome face was battered, and if she hadn't seen his eyes, she wouldn't have known him.

"Luke," she whispered. "Oh, Luke." She pushed the hood back away from her face. "It's me. Grace."

Luke blinked twice. "Grace?"

She nodded, pressing her fingertips against her lips to kill the sob that nearly escaped her.

"Hey, brat," he croaked with an odd smile, "what happened to your hair?"

A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her throat. She touched his bruised cheek then took his hand in hers. "Oh, Luke."

It took a moment for his eyes to really focus, until he realized that the woman in front of him was made of flesh and blood, not dreams. When he did, he elbowed up off the pallet with a start. "Grace!" he said again. "Girl, what are you doin' here?"

"I got your letter. I came as fast as I could. This is Reese Donovan. He's come to help you, too."

"Oh, no. You shouldn't be here." Falling back against the dirty blanket, he told her, "They're gonna kill us all."

"Not today, they're not," Reese told him. "Not if we can help it."

"Get her out of here."

"I'm not leaving you. You have no idea what I've been through to get here," she whispered, leaning closer. "Besides, believe it or not, I'm getting pretty good at this sort of thing."

Reese grinned at Luke in confirmation. "She's right."

The church bell of
la Iglesia de San Francisco
began to toll.
Dong. Dong. Dong.

Luke grabbed Reese's sleeve and pulled him closer. "Donovan, don't let anything happen to my sister. Promise me. If it's between her and me..." His words trailed off, but the implication was clear.

"I'll do my best," Reese promised him. The bells of the church continued to mark the passing seconds. Two other uniformed soldiers walked in the room just as the first guard stood, craning his head curiously in their direction. "Can you walk, Turner?"

He swallowed hard, a look of angry determination in his eyes. "Just point me toward the door."

The second guard started toward them with a frown of suspicion. Reese cursed low. Dipping his fingers into the holy water, he told Luke, "Don't say a word."

Grace pulled the hood down, hiding her face. She could smell the fat cigar that dangled from the guard's fingers as he drew closer. She pressed a knuckle against the base of her nose. Close now, she could smell not only his cigar but his unwashed body as well. In jeering Spanish, he spoke to Reese—something about Luke. Reese answered him solemnly, without looking up. The guard laughed.

Dong. Dong.

"In nomine Patri, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,"
Reese murmured, ignoring the man. He drew a cross of moisture across Luke's forehead.

Dong.

The tickle started at the back of her nose and worked its way forward. Please, she pleaded silently. Not now!

The guard stepped closer until his cigar was practically in her face. He spoke again to Reese, gesturing at Luke with that disgusting piece of rolled tobacco. Grace tried to hold her breath, but there was no stopping it now.

"A-ah-ah-chooo!"

The sneeze was undisguisedly female, and the guard stopped midsentence to stare at the top of Grace's hood-covered head. Reese's hand slid covertly into the sleeve of his robe and found the grip of his Colt. He tightened his fingers around it.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

As if time had slowed to a crawl, the guard grabbed the hood of her robe and yanked it backward. She looked up at him like a rabbit caught in lantern light.

The guard's eyes widened with dawning realization.
"Es un engano! Es una mujer!"

The words
trick
and
woman
whirled in Reese's mind as he straightened, meeting the stricken gaze of the guard.

Peripherally, he heard the whisper of leather against metal as the guard's pistol slid from its holster, and the odd rumble of voices in the background as the other two guards shouted warnings out the door. There was no time to withdraw his gun from his sleeve. The guard's weapon swung toward him with steely violence. Reese shoved Grace to the floor and tightened his finger on the trigger of his own gun.

The explosion ripped a hole in the fabric of Reese's loose sleeve and tossed the guard backward like a huge rag doll. His gun sailed across the floor in a flat spin only to a stop near a man lying on a pallet. The prisoner leapt for the weapon as if it were a chunk of gold.

Like a portent of things to come, the last bell tolled twelve.

An explosion rocked the building and shouting erupted from without. Smoke, dust, and confusion spilled into the chapel. A burst of gunfire accompanied the sound of running feet in the hallway beyond. The prisoners lurched to their feet in a chaotic wave, surging toward the guards who'd been their tormentors with shouts of
"Libertad!"
and "
Viva Mexico!"
Brandishing the knives Grace had smuggled to them, they overpowered the soldiers before they could defend themselves.

Pushing back the hood on his robe, Reese shouted at Grace. Another explosion rocked the monastery, sending shards of plaster and dust raining down from the ceiling. Reese grabbed Luke's arm and hauled him to his feet. The wounded man groaned and stumbled forward, nearly falling. Grace caught his other arm and draped it across her shoulders.

"Let's get out of here!" Reese shouted and lurched forward toward the door they'd come in.

"No!" Luke said. "Not that way. Too many soldiers!" He pointed toward a door hidden in the rich paneled wall. "There—I think it leads to outside. I've seen the officers use it."

Reese and Grace dragged Luke that way and pounded on the panel, searching for the hidden latch. Luke reached out and touched one spot, and the door sprang open. They squeezed through it, followed by half a dozen others who crowded down the narrow corridor that led to a stairwell. Luke, whose strength was shaky at best, eyed the steep stairs with trepidation.

Tearing off his clerical robes, Reese tossed them aside. "I'll carry you."

"No," Luke argued, cradling his side. "They broke my ribs. Just help me."

Luke was Reese's equal in height, but his weeks of captivity had left him gaunt and spare. Reese steadied Luke against his left side as they started down the stairwell. A soldier appeared at the bottom, with a gun pointed at them.

Straight-arming Grace backward behind him, Reese dodged to the right with Luke and fired at the man. He missed. The soldier fired, hitting one of the rebels behind them. The man cried out and fell, nearly tumbling into Reese and Luke. Reese fired again, the bullet savaging the soldier's leg. The man clutched his thigh and ducked backward, vanishing from sight.

With a curse, Reese eased down the stairs, and beckoned the others to follow, slowly. Gunfire and shouting punctuated the air. Behind them, they could hear the confused rush of humanity as the rebel forces descended upon the infrastructure. The acrid smell of cordite and death swirled in the stifling air. Leaning Luke against the wall at the bottom of the stairwell, Reese pressed his back against the near wall, his gun close to his chest, ready.