River to Cross, A (3 page)

Jake winced. The news hit him like a kick in the chest.

Lloyd Madison had been his friend. Now Lloyd was dead and his beautiful sister kidnapped.

A helpless anger welled up inside him.

The warning had come too late.

Her hands were shaking again.
Elizabeth gripped the reins of the little horse they’d put her on and fought another wave of exhaustion. She looked up at the cloudless hot sky and silently prayed for strength again. Over and over during the day she asked Jesus to get her out of this, but so far she’d had no answer or any sign of one.

For the third straight day she’d ridden with the Mexicans across open desert flatland. Like the day before, today was baking hot, the sun burning the air, drying her mouth, making it hard to breathe. The scenery had changed. The flatland was turning hilly now. They went through canyons, squeezed between mountains towering above them.

Here and there, shafts of sunlight wove through the tall pines overhead. She tried to concentrate, to memorize where she was, but the uniforms, the guns, the hard-eyed stares of the soldiers alongside turned her insides to jelly.

She forced herself to be calm. She and Lloyd had decided only that morning to go early to the courthouse. Which meant these men didn’t know who she was. And would it help her or hurt her when they found out she was Lloyd’s sister and who her father was?

They’d known from the minute they walked in who Lloyd was. And they’d killed him.

The hours dragged, and she would have fallen off the horse twice if the major alongside hadn’t watched her. She’d never liked horses. Secretly she was afraid of them.

She’d grown up in a big house with servants. Living in Washington with private carriages and horse-drawn streetcars in town, she had no need to ride a horse. In fact, she knew so little about horses she used to laugh and say she could hardly tell the front end of one from the back end. But three days on horseback with Mexican soldiers, who rode like Indians, proved how little she knew. Her back end ached up to her neck, and both knees throbbed.

The uncertainty of not knowing where they were taking her pressed in on her. She’d thought she was handling it rather well until, with no warning, her hands started to shake uncontrollably.

At first, they expected her to cook. She hurt so much she could hardly stand, and sitting was out of the question. When she told them she didn’t know how to cook over a fire, they didn’t believe her, shoved a sack of rice at her and pointed to the fire.

The major brought her a pail of water. She blinked at him. When he shrugged, she dumped the sack of rice into the water and hung it over the fire. She lay down on her stomach under a tree to keep an eye on it and fell asleep. Later, clouds of steam rose. Great clouds of steam.

Elizabeth lay curled up under a tree, her eyes closed.

For the third time in as many minutes, Captain Jake Nelson raised the field glasses to his eyes.

“She shouldn’t do that,” he muttered. “Leaves her too vulnerable to the Mexican soldiers.”

So far they hadn’t really hurt her. They’d jerked her around a couple of times and pushed her, but nothing too serious. Yet.

“How many men, Jake?” Gus asked him.

Jake lowered the glasses. “Still six soldiers and the major. He seems able to control them so far. If they were going to kill her, I think they would have done so by now. Taking her back to Diego—which seems the best guess to where they’re going—slows them down.” He raised the glasses again and stiffened.

“Uh-oh.”

“What’s happening?”

“One of them kicked her and woke her up. They look like they’re arguing. He just slapped her.”

Jake shook his head and gave a dry chuckle with no humor in it. “She has no idea of the danger she’s in. She just hauled off and slapped him back. He looks surprised.”

He passed the glasses to the other two men. “If they hurt her now, we’re too far away to help. Let’s get her out of there tonight. Pack up. It’ll take us a while to get to her.”

Elizabeth jumped up, grabbed a long stick, and stirred the rice. She couldn’t stir fast enough. No one could, she thought. Chunky white foam sputtered and frothed, pouring over the rim, coursing down the sides of the bucket like a waterfall. The fire hissed. With a ladle she skimmed off rice into another pot, then another. And another. Nothing helped, and they had no more pots anyway. The pail of rice kept growing and hissing and boiling over. The ground was burning.

The major stomped over. With a disgusted look he threw a pail of water at it.

The fire sputtered out.

Nobody would talk to her.

They ate cold beans and tortillas that night.

At bedtime, wrapped in a blanket, she forced herself to stay awake until the soldiers were asleep. They were all hungry and mad at her. She dreaded nightfall, never knowing when one of them would creep over to her in the middle of the night. So far, orders from the major had kept them away, but she suspected time was growing short in that department.

Today had been especially worrisome. Two of the soldiers watched everything she did, smiling and making hand signals to each other. Not a good sign.

Each night they tied her wrists and ankles so she couldn’t escape when they were sleeping. Not very likely, she thought. Seven of them and one of her, but the major had gone off that night. That bothered her. With him gone, they could be anywhere. Once it was dark, she couldn’t keep track of where the men were.

She tried to roll over, but with her hands tied behind her back, she was uncomfortable. They were in a small clearing with trees all around, and the night was noisy with crickets and owl hoots. A wolf called in the distance, raising the hair on her arms. Close by, another answered. She shuddered and wriggled deeper under the blanket.

The night weighed heavy on her eyelids. With a shaky sigh she closed her eyes.

Shortly after three o’clock that morning, something warned her awake.

Was it one of the Mexicans or was it the wolf?

Her mouth went dry.

Rigid, she slitted her eyes open. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted as a dark shadow loomed over her.

For a moment she forgot how to breathe.

It was a man with a knife. He was absolutely silent and as black as the night.

He wore all black—shirt, pants, gloves. A black hood covered his head, leaving only an oval of face exposed. Even that was blackened. All she saw were the whites of eyes and teeth. He looked like a skull.

A scream forced up from her chest. A heavy palm clamped her mouth and pinned her head to the ground. Elizabeth, fighting for her life, struggled against his hands, writhing, arching, flailing her tied-together legs. She jerked her head to pull away, but strong fingers gripped her face.

“Don’t scream,” a voice hissed in her ear.

Mouth wide open under his hand, she heaved her body sideways and felt his thumb pop into her mouth. Elizabeth clamped her teeth on it.

He snatched his thumb out and reared back. “Blast it, woman, you bit me!” a surprised Texas accent growled. Squatting alongside, he hauled her up into a sitting position.

Deep chuckles came from the darkness.

“All right, you two, you think it’s so funny, get over here and help me untie her. Just keep away from her mouth. She’s vicious!”

Two other dark forms appeared and went down on their knees beside her. Like him, they also wore black, their faces as black as his. Both of them were grinning.

“Who . . . what are you?” Elizabeth asked, her voice trembling.

The one she bit glared down at her. “I’m Captain Jake Nelson; these two are Sergeant Fred Barkley and Sergeant Gus Dukker. We’re Frontier Battalion Rangers. We’re taking you home, unless you bite one of us again.”

“I’m sorry I bit you. I’ve never seen anyone painted black like that. I didn’t know what you were.”

The hard lines in his face didn’t soften a bit. “We wear black as a night disguise. It’s used by all the military.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. “Didn’t mean to frighten you. Don’t move. I’m going to cut you loose.”

The knife at her back slit through the ropes as if they were paper. She tried not to think how sharp it must be.

“How many men here tonight?” he asked.

“Six.”

“We counted seven this afternoon.”

“The major was here, but he left early. He said he’d be back before daylight.”

“Then we got them all. We killed six.”

Her eyes widened. “You killed six men? I didn’t hear a thing.”

A corner of his mouth dug in, a black dent in a black cheek. “You weren’t supposed to. When they talked, did they ever mention Diego—General Manuel Diego?”

“Several times. They were to meet him in San Jose.”

He swore softly. “I thought so.”

He threw her blanket aside. “Good, you’re dressed. Let’s put a little distance between us and this place. Then, soon as it’s light, you’ll put on the boys’ clothes we brought. Three men and a woman might raise questions. Four men are less likely to.”

He stood, pulled her up alongside, then started across the clearing in long strides toward the horses. She broke into a stumbling run to keep up with him, but her feet had been tied together for hours and felt clumsy. Trying to hurry, one foot caught the back of her ankle and pitched her forward. He shot his arms out and grabbed her around the waist, behind the knees.

Without missing a stride, he lifted her against him. “You all right?” He gave off an air of confidence and strength.

She nodded. “I’m sorry.” With a tired sigh she leaned her head against him. Under her cheek she felt the bunch and pull of heavy chest muscles. For the first time in three days, she realized, she felt safe.

Which made no sense. These men were Texas Rangers and had just killed six Mexican soldiers without a sound.

Outlaws were terrified of them.

Why wasn’t she?

When they’d reached a group of horses and mules, the captain shifted her higher in his arms. “One leg on each side of the saddle,” he said, and sat her on a dark horse she recognized as belonging to the Mexicans. He handed her the reins.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t ride very well,” she said.

“I noticed.”

Her chin lifted. “I grew up in Washington and never had to ride. And if I did, I certainly wouldn’t ride like this, straddled across a horse. It’s not ladylike.”

“No, but it’s the only sensible way to ride a horse, male or female. And when we get you in some decent riding clothes, it’s going to save your life.”

She smiled. “Just when did you notice my riding ability—or the lack thereof?”