Chapter 3 #4
The scar was livid on his hand, the T emblazoned there forever.
She sucked in her breath, suddenly overwhelmed by an emotion she didn’t understand.
It wasn’t pity. No one could ever pity the man standing in front of her; he wouldn’t allow it.
The emotion was something more like compassion, and resentment of what had been done to him, no matter what he had done.
She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be marked like that. She forced her gaze up and met his eyes. They were blazing now, and she wished for the emptiness again. She had never seen such violent emotions—raw fury and blinding pain.
Words would mean nothing. Less than nothing. They would be insulting. She knew that, so she remained silent. She didn’t think she could speak, even if there was something to say. She was too stunned by the enormity of her own reactions—to him, to the brand.
She couldn’t look at him, either, for he would see those reactions, and she couldn’t allow that. He would hate them, but he would use them in some way. He would use anything to get back at her father. She understood that too.
She was aware of his putting the glove back on, aware of the other two men looking on. She wanted to step toward the older one, but she realized it would do no good. Rafferty Tyler was obviously the leader; the others might have sympathy, but that was as far as it would go.
“What do you want with me?” she asked in a whisper.
“I want nothing from you,” he said, “except for you to do what you’re told until I’m finished here.”
“Finished with what?”
“Destroying Jack Randall,” he answered flatly. He turned away from her. “You’d better be getting back, Clint,” he said to the man who had been so silent.
“You sure about keeping her here?”
“I’m sure we can’t let her go now, unless you both want to end up in prison. And, believe me, you don’t want that.”
Clint hesitated, and Shea wanted to run over to him and beg him to take her away. But then he nodded.
Tyler’s mouth went up in a cynical smile. “She’ll be safe enough. I have no interest in any spawn of Jack Randall, even after ten years in prison.”
“I still don’t believe it,” Clint said. “I traced him back thirty years. No indication of a child.”
“But there was a wife?”
“For a short time.”
“See a resemblance to Randall?”
Clint turned to her, and Shea suddenly felt like a horse being very carefully inspected. “Could be. The eyes are similar. But the hair is lighter.” He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know.”
Tyler also shrugged. “It really doesn’t make any difference. Now she’s seen you two, we can’t let her go.”
“I’ll try to get back in a couple of days,” Clint said, and Shea’s mouth went dry. She felt safer with Clint here. She felt safer with Ben, even. She might even feel safer with the Devil.
Rafferty Tyler turned to her. He took off his bandanna, and before she realized what was happening, he’d pulled her hands behind her and tied them. “Go in the cabin. The door’s open.”
Shea stood still. She would be horsewhipped before she’d do anything he told her, particularly when he did it with such assurance that she would comply.
Pride wouldn’t allow it. Stark fear wouldn’t permit it.
She still held a shadow of hope that the other two might object, might take her back with them after all.
She turned to Ben. “You can’t leave me here.”
He looked uncomfortable, then shrugged. “He said he won’t hurt you. He won’t.”
“Please.” She’d never begged before, not for herself. She hated doing it, particularly in front of her captor.
Ben dropped his glance and turned away from her. She appealed to Clint, looking at him with a plea in her eyes.
He merely shook his head, and Shea reluctantly looked back to Rafferty Tyler, who was eyeing her speculatively. “Go inside,” he said again.
“No.”
“Then I’ll take you.” He picked her up in his arms, and she felt the hard strength in them.
Heat darted through her again. She smelled the sweat mixed with soap and leather, she heard the beat of his heart, the swift intake of his breath when their bodies met.
He cursed, and then he was moving swiftly toward the cabin.
He kicked the door open and strode to the bed, dumping her rather than setting her down.
“Stay here, dammit,” he said, scowling. “I’m not going to play games with you.”
He disappeared out the door, slamming it shut, and she struggled to sit up on the bed. She instantly knew why he had tied her hands. There were guns all over the place. On a table, lying against the wall.
She tried to loosen the bonds but couldn’t. She stood and looked around. There was a fireplace with a kettle hanging over ashes. A table littered with books. Several boxes stacked in the corner. The bed, little more than a cot, was neatly made up, unlike the rest of the interior.
A knife. Look for a knife. She could tuck it away someplace and use it later. After the other two men were gone.
Her eyes carefully went over every surface of the cabin. There was a cabinet up on a wall, but she couldn’t reach it with her bound hands. Frustrated, she moved to the table, looking at the books. Shakespeare. Dickens. Hawthorne. Thoreau. Surprising selection for a thief.
She heard the sound of hoofbeats and with a sinking heart realized that Clint or Ben, maybe both, had gone. She moved quickly back to the cot and sat down. Heart in her throat, she waited.
She heard the door start to open and felt a sudden chill, a cold wind blowing away the safe fabric of her life.