Chapter 22
Abbie’s feet ached almost as much as her back, and she thanked the Goddess she ditched the bustle in her early Perdition days.
Sweat pooled in her pits and other unmentionable places despite the lack of proper underwear.
If she ever got out of this, she was never wearing another dress as long as she lived.
The restrictions put women at a disadvantage.
All along the way, Bart huffed and puffed in a surprisingly good impression of the Big Bad Wolf, but she put it down to his girth.
The man was built like a Sherman tank, with meaty fists to match.
About five minutes into their trek, he holstered his weapon, relying on his hands to push her when she slowed.
She was faster than he was, so she put down the pinches and shoves to basic cruelty.
It was too much to hope he’d keel over from a heart attack in this infernal desert.
Glancing up, she noticed the canyon walls narrowing, providing more shelter in the mid-morning sun.
“Stop here,” Bart ordered.
Because she needed the rest, she saw no reason to rebel. At least not yet.
He uncapped his canteen and guzzled water, then replaced the lid.
“I don’t get any?” she asked, already guessing his game.
A sly smile curled his mouth. “You gotta work for your rewards, gal. What are ya willing to offer?”
“Fuck off.”
Her head snapped back under the force of his open-hand slap. The burn was instant, creating a fiery throbbing in her cheek. Inside her mouth, the metallic taste of blood indicated she’d cut the flesh on her molars.
“You’ll show me respect, or I’ll beat it into ya!” he shouted into her face.
With deliberate slowness, she wiped his spittle away, grimaced at the fluid on her palm, and casually rubbed it on her dress’s skirt. “Well, that was disgusting.”
His rage flared, turning his already ruddy complexion an apoplectic red.
“Simmer down, Barty Boy, or you’re likely to have a stroke. Fantastic for me, but a horrible outcome for you,” she taunted.
He grabbed a fistful of her hair before she could dodge away. Abbie had to hand it to him; the man possessed rabbit-fast reflexes.
“You got a death wish, girl?” he demanded, shaking her hard enough to jar her bones from their sockets.
Clearly she did, but she remained silent.
“You’ll get no water for your insolence. Now, get movin’.”
The hard nudge sent her to her hands and knees. She hissed from the pain of the rocks on her tender skin.
“You look good down there. Maybe I’ll throw them skirts over your head and show you what a real man can do.”
As difficult as the movement was, she scrambled up to her feet, tripping over the hem and righting herself again.
“Real man? Oh, Barty Boy, don’t kid yourself,” she scoffed. “Odds are you got nothing but a broken candy stick where your cock should be.”
She anticipated the charge, dancing to the side and sticking her leg out. What she hadn’t counted on was her good fortune.
His large frame worked against him, propelling him toward the stony outcrop.
His footing was precarious, and the momentum too great.
The sickening sight of his head wound shouldn’t have gratified her as much as it did, but after all the abuses she’d suffered by men, she couldn’t drum up the concern.
He lay unmoving.
Abbie didn’t love the idea of checking for a pulse, but his sightless eyes told the tale. Bartholomew Mercer had met his demise at the hand—or rather booted foot—of a woman.
She slumped down onto her knees and offered up a prayer of thanks, then waited another minute to make sure he wasn’t playing possum. His chest showed no signs of breathing, so she threw a rock.
Nothing.
No flinching of any kind.
With a heavy dose of caution, she inched forward and flicked his nose.
Not even a blink.
She punched him between the eyes before placing two fingers against his neck.
Still dead. Good.
Satisfied, she unbuckled his gun belt, withdrew the knife from his waistband, and dragged the strap of the canteen down his fleshy arm. The first sip was pure heaven despite the tinny taste. She allowed herself another swallow before capping it. If she didn’t ration her water, she’d die.
After looping the strap over her shoulder, she rose and kicked Bart in the face.
“Rot in hell, motherfucker!”
Vicious, yes, but she doubted she was the first person the pig fucker had assaulted.
It took her a solid second to register the dust in the canyon seemed thicker. Right before she turned, an ugly foreboding washed over her. She froze, her reaction similar to a wild animal’s as a hunter took aim. Goosebumps accompanied the rising hair on the back of her neck.
“Bloodthirsty. I love it,” approved a deep voice.
A horse blew out its breath, confirming she had company. With a sense of the inevitable, she spun toward the canyon’s opening.
Seven men on horses spanned the trail’s width, identities hidden in shadow.
Lifting the pistol, she drew back the hammer.
“Can’t get us all, woman,” a different guy’s voice taunted menacingly, as if trying to invoke fear.
“Maybe not, but I can hit a few of you,” she retorted.
His chuckle was akin to an evil spirit slithering across her soul.
“Green, fetch her to me,” another man ordered.
Saints alive, this was all too familiar. Was this particular stretch of land cursed? She only needed to look up and see Stands-in-Shadow’s horror for it to be a shitshow homecoming. Although, to be honest, she’d welcome a friendly face.
As “Green” drew closer, a sunbeam revealed Gus’s tortured visage. As his mount galloped nearer, their gazes locked, and in his lived apology. Participating in their games went against every fiber of his being, and if he was with the motley crew, it wasn’t willingly.
“It’s okay, Gus,” she said softly as he reached her.
He swung down, using his body to block the others who progressed at a leisurely pace. “I’m gonna swing you up in the saddle, Miss Mary, and you’re gonna ride out of the canyon, then straight east. Ya got it?”
“I don’t know—”
“What’s taking so long, boy?” snapped the obvious leader.
“Just helpin’ her up, Mr. Hastings,” Gus called over his shoulder. When he looked at her, his doleful eyes held a warning. “Don’t run full out, but keep him at a trot—“
A pistol’s report cut him off, and for one heart-stopping moment, she thought maybe they hadn’t shot him. But the light faded from his eyes, and with his last, gasping breath, he said, “I’m sorry I failed ya.”
Acting on instinct, she lunged for the reins, but the contrary beast side-stepped, leaving her exposed.
Blindly, she fired in the group’s direction, grunting her satisfaction as they split up.
Wasting precious seconds, she bent to claim Gus’s revolver, then dashed for his horse.
The perverse creature bucked and reared, screeching as bullets flew their way.
Pumped full of adrenaline, she failed to initially notice the burning in her thigh, but as she spun to flee, her leg gave out.
Abbie refused to go down without a fight.
Rolling onto her back, she leveled the pistol at the man striding toward her.
The warning in his moss-green eyes gave her pause.
Squatting, he ripped the gun from her hand.
“Play along, Fire Cat,” he murmured. Raising his voice, he said, “I’m claiming her as mine.”
“What?” hollered the unkempt outlaw arriving behind him. “Ain’t no call to keep a woman to yerself, Royal!” His outrage was almost laughable. “Tell him, Silas. Me and the boys want a turn.”
“I said, she’s mine,” Royal snarled, standing and delivering a vicious kick to the man’s balls.
Jennings dropped. Gray-faced, he cupped his sack and curled into himself.
In a tone cold enough to freeze Abbie’s bones, Royal added, “Don’t ever question me again, Jennings, or next time I cut them off.”
When he glanced down, her heart stopped. His were the eyes of a stone-cold killer. They softened only slightly as he reached for her. After hauling her up and into his arms, he strode straight for a nearby crack in the canyon wall.
“I have people who are coming for me,” she bluffed. His skeptical expression prompted her to add, “Ones you don’t want to cross.”
“Is that right?” he drawled. “Can you feel me quaking in my boots, Fire Cat?”
“A little,” she replied with a bravery she didn’t feel.
His grin revealed surprisingly straight, white teeth that made him downright handsome. But she wasn’t fool enough to associate a good-looking guy with a great personality.
The remainder of his gang meandered into the cavern, leading their horses along with Royal’s and Gus’s.
Even knowing panic would cloud her mind and judgment, she couldn’t suppress it.
“I can’t tell you why, but it’s important you stay calm,” he said in a low voice. “These men fear me almost as much as my brother, love. You’re safe enough unless he or Morcant gets it into their heads to claim you.”
“And if they do?” She hated the tremble in her voice.
He met her worried gaze, and she imagined she saw compassion.
“It won’t get that far. Morcant hasn’t shown interest in women other than to instill fear.
” He cast a glance at the vampire-looking dickhead with the dead eyes, then looked at the guy stripping a bedroll from his saddle.
They shared a nod. “Silas won’t fight me on this.
I never take part in their games, so he’ll consider you fair payment for my loyalty. ”
She shivered, drawing his notice.
“Are you cold?”
“A little.” She grimaced. “I think it’s shock setting in. I was shot in the fray.”
Royal stilled, glancing down at her body and finally noticing the blood soaking her clothing. He laid her gently on the ground and eased her skirt up her injured leg, but only a few inches higher than her wound, preserving her modesty. She could’ve kissed him for his thoughtfulness.
He swore.
“Yeah, no kidding,” she replied faintly, fearing unconsciousness. Goddess only knew what this band of outlaws would do to her.
“Please, don’t let me black out,” she prayed, as if the deities gave a crap about her, which they didn’t.
“Sleep if you’ve a mind to,” he said.
“As if.”
He frowned. “You’re safe. You’re mine, and no one touches what’s mine.”
Abbie’s lids grew too heavy to keep open. “Why do men keep saying that to me?”
“Maybe because they recognize your indomitable spirit and want a piece of it for themselves?” he suggested lightly.
“Sure, that’s it,” she replied dryly.
“What’s your name, Fire Cat?”
“Abigail. Abbie.”
“Well, Abigail-Abbie, I need to remove that bullet. And I won’t lie. It’ll be painful as hell.”
She opened her eye and met his concerned gaze. Pointing to her face, she said, “Not sure anything could be as bad as this was.”
“Who hurt you?” His question held demand, as if it truly mattered to him.
“They’re long dead.”
“Names?” he gritted.
“Harlan Green and his sidekick, Eustace,” she revealed on a tired sigh. “Must sleep. Don’t let them rape me.”
“Rest, Fire Cat. I’ll treat your leg and watch over you,” he assured her.
“You’d make an excellent Guardian,” she murmured as blackness descended.
As Royal plotted the best course to save the woman’s leg, he shoved down his rage. Jennings had thought nothing of firing at her, then deciding to assault her further as she bled out, the horse’s ass!
Under Royal’s direction, Frank and Wendall built a fire out of sight of the entrance, where the rock funneled up into a natural chimney. Though it was only midafternoon, they would need the heat come sundown, and based on Abbie’s blood flow, Royal suspected he’d have to cauterize her wound.
“Put pressure here,” he instructed, applying his own over Frank’s hands to show the amount needed. “Don’t let up.”
“Yessir, Royal.”
“Bring me a soap, a cloth, and a cup,” he called out to Wendall. The idiot walked like he was an old-timer on his deathbed. “Move!” he shouted, about two seconds from gifting the pokey fucker with a swift kick to his backside.
As soon as Wendall brought him the items, Royal dipped the cup in the grotto water, wet his hands, then handed it off to him. “Give me the soap and refill this.”
After gaining a small measure of lather, he nodded at Wendall. “Slowly pour that and rinse all the soap off.”
Satisfied he was as clean as he’d get, he elbowed Frank out of the way and stuck his finger into the bullet hole, feeling around for the lead. His relief was profound when he found it lodged in the meat of her muscle, and not the bone.
“Frank, wash and heat your blade. Wendall, fetch the whiskey.”
“Whisky? You ain’t—”
Royal’s glare promised death.
“Sure, I’ll fetch it fer ya, Royal.”
“And get a needle and thread. Be quick about it.”
In their line of work, one of them always needed stitches.
It only made sense to keep the necessities handy.
He didn’t allow himself to falter when they returned, and he poured the alcohol into the opening, then used more on the knife.
After the sizzling stopped, he eased the end into the muscle, getting underneath the ball. Next, he gave it back to Frank.
“Heat it again. Make it red.” To Wendall, he said, “Thread the needle.”
If there was one thing Wendall did well, it was sewing.
Using the booze, Royal doused his tools and began stitching the muscle. As soon as he was finished, he gestured to Frank.
“Give the knife to me.” Once in hand, he said, “Press the sides of the wound together, but keep your fingers out of the way.”
Abbie woke, screaming, the instant he seared her flesh.
On her wrist, an ornate silver bracelet lit up, drawing gasps from Frank and Wendall.
Shit! Why hadn’t he guessed she was a witch?