Savage Thunder by Johanna Lindsey
“You look mighty familiar, breed. Did you give me trouble before, maybe when I was too liquored up to remember?” And then he shouted, “Answer me, you bastard!” and let that whip slice through the air again.
“No,” Jocelyn gasped when it struck Colt again, and she started forward, only to be held back by a firm hand on her shoulder.
“Stay out of it, boy. He’s only a breed.”
She lost her reason then. She didn’t understand any of this, the prejudice that could make a man say that, the apathy that could let the rest of them just stand there and watch instead of doing something to stop such cruelty. Most of all, she didn’t understand what was wrong with Colt that he could remain silent and take it. She couldn’t.
She turned on the fellow gripping her shoulder and lifted his gun before he realized that was her intent. It was a long-barreled, unwieldy thing. She had to support it on her forearm, but even then she didn’t think she’d have much luck with it. Handguns were not her area of expertise.
The bear didn’t know that, however. “Strike him again, sir, and I shall have to shoot you.”
More people moved out of the way, those behind her now and those behind the bear. She’d gotten his attention, if nothing else, and it was most definitely unnerving. She spared a quick glance at Colt, but blast the man, even now that she’d interfered, he remained unmoving. Did he honestly think she could get them out of this by herself?
“Were you talkin’ to me, boy?” the bear asked her. “I hope you ain’t that stupid.”
She gave a little start when he snapped the whip back to his side. The menace of it was palpable, the message clear. If she didn’t put the gun down, he’d use it on her.
Her hands began to sweat. It took her two tries to cock the revolver. The sound of it was horribly loud in the deathly silence of the room. And all it did was get the bear angry at her, so much so that he didn’t seem to care that she had a gun aimed at him.
“You little shit,” he growled. “Back off, or I’ll slice you to ribbons!”
“Whyn’t you back off, Pratt?” someone called out. “He’s just a baby.”
“You want some too?” was the bear’s answer.
“Ain’t you showed off enough for one day, Pratt?” This from the other side of the room.
Jocelyn began to take heart, until she realized the man was becoming enraged that he didn’t have total support from the room, and he turned that rage on her. “Damn your hide, drop it or use it!”
He gave her no choice, for he was drawing back his arm in preparation of sending that lash in her direction. She pulled the trigger—then froze in utter horror. Nothing had happened. She’d confiscated a gun that wasn’t loaded!
The savage exultation on Pratt’s face told its own story. For her audacity in challenging him, she was going to bleed now, and feel excruciating pain in the process. That knowledge paralyzed her with such fear that she couldn’t even scream when she saw the coil of the whip coming at her, much less move out of the way.
The sound of the crack was worse than the bite, in fact—Jocelyn felt nothing. Her heart might have stopped beating, but she felt no pain. And then she smelled the smoke, saw Pratt crash slowly to the floor, and knew someone had saved her, that it was gunfire she’d heard, rather than the whip.
That she didn’t automatically assume Colt had come to her rescue this time was understandable, since he’d let things go so far. Yet it was his gun that was still trailing a small stream of smoke, and his eyes she met as she sagged in relief—then almost immediately began to seethe.
But her sudden anger was under perfect control. She slowly turned and handed her useless gun back to its owner, then calmly walked out of the saloon. She was never going to speak to Colt Thunder again. For whatever diabolical reason he had refrained from doing anything until the last possible moment, and she suspected it was just to teach her a lesson, he’d allowed her to be frightened half to death, and she wouldn’t forgive him for that.
Chapter Forty-two
Colt watched the duchess walk out of the saloon, but made no move to follow her. He couldn’t just then. He felt weak as a baby. His heart was still slamming against his ribs, his skin still clammy with cold sweat. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, and he wasn’t sure what did happen.
He’d noticed Ramsay Pratt looking at him in the mirror, recognized him, and felt such primitive satisfaction he nearly let out a war whoop. So many times he’d imagined coming across the man again, imagined calling him out and emptying his gun into him, not to kill him but to cripple him. He didn’t want him dead. He wanted Pratt to live with the same kind of bitterness and pain that had been a part of his own life ever since they last crossed paths.
He’d deliberately let the man get worked up by not answering him. He’d wanted him good and mad, mad enough to break out that whip of his. But when he got what he wanted and started to turn around to face the bastard, he found that he couldn’t. It was as if his body had just clicked off when he saw that whip, as if the part of his mind that controlled it had decided not to participate in another confrontation with the whip-wielder, as if he were afraid to go through that experience again.
Even when Ramsay had lashed him, he’d been unable to break out of the trancelike stupor that gripped him. Not that there was any pain to help him out of it. With so much damaged tissue and nerves, hot coals could be set on his back and he wouldn’t be likely to feel them. He didn’t know even now if Ramsay had done any damage this time. He wouldn’t know until he could see his back for himself.
But if it was fear that had paralyzed him without his conscious knowledge, it had been stark terror that he’d felt when the duchess had been threatened and he still couldn’t move; stark terror that had brought the sweat and debilitation when he thought she’d be hurt. It was only when he saw the whip actually raised against her that the rage had exploded in his head and given him back his mobility.
He watched as Pratt’s body was hauled out of the saloon. There were a few comments, but none directed at him. Most of the patrons went back to doing what they’d been doing before the violence began. It was a typical reaction when violence was more or less an everyday occurrence.
Colt felt nothing, no regret, no satisfaction, no emotion at all for the man he’d just killed. It was that look of utter contempt he’d had from the duchess just before she walked out that disturbed him. He didn’t have to wonder why he’d received it. And what was he supposed to tell her? That he’d been afraid without conscious awareness of it? That he’d wanted to keep her out of it, had tried, but just couldn’t move? Couldn’t move? She’d really buy that, wouldn’t she?
He returned to the station yard and that fancy railroad car she’d acquired so easily. The duchess was there, but locked in the sleeping compartment. Colt debated for about a minute whether to pound on the door, then decided against it. This just might be for the best. He’d be losing a few days with her, but he had to give her up anyway, so what did that really matter?
He gathered up his gear and headed for the door. He’d buy a ticket for the passenger car and let the conductor inform the duchess where he’d be. There was no reason for them to even see each other again until they arrived in Cheyenne. But on his way out one of the mirrors caught his eye and he remembered his back. He dropped his gear and yanked off his shirt to have a quick look-see. Pratt must have lost his touch over the years, Colt decided. He couldn’t detect a single mark.
“Dear God in heaven!”
He swung around, reaching for his gun. “What?!” But he knew from the expression on her face. Pity he couldn’t take at the best of times, and from her not at all.
Jocelyn dropped the rifle out of her hand to cover her mouth. She was going to be sick. She’d seen enough violence in the past hour, but this, the result of violence, done to him—to him! She ran for the lavatory.
Colt threw his shirt to the floor with a vicious curse and ran after her, jerking her around before she reached the
She swallowed the bile in her throat, shaking her head. The tears were already starting. She didn’t know why he was so angry. She couldn’t help the emotion tearing up her insides.
When he saw the tears, he snarled, “Don’t!” but her wail drowned him out as she threw her arms around his neck. He tried to break her hold, but couldn’t without hurting her. And she wasn’t letting go, was clinging so tightly she nearly choked him.
“Ah, shit,” he said after a moment and carried her to the nearest chair, where he sat down to cradle her in his lap. “You’ve got no business doing this to me, woman. What the hell are you crying for anyway? I told you it was nothing.”
“You call…that…nothing?” she sobbed into his shoulder.
“Nothing to you. It happened a long time ago. Do you think it still hurts or something? I assure you it doesn’t.”
“But it did!” she cried even louder. “You can’t tell me it didn’t! Oh, God, your poor back!”
He stiffened. He couldn’t help it. “Listen to me, Duchess, and listen well. A warrior can’t accept pity. He’d rather be dead.”
She leaned back then, somewhat surprised. “But I don’t pity you.”
“Then what’s all this crying about?”
“It’s the pain you must have felt. I—I can’t bear to think of you suffering like that.”
He shook his head at her. “You’re not looking at it from the proper perspective, woman. It was a whipping meant to kill me. There aren’t many men who could have survived it, but I did. The scars represent triumph over my enemies. I defeated them by living.”
“If you’re proud of those scars, like you are of these”—her fingers brushed against the puckered skin over one nipple, making him jerk—“then why have you hid them from me? And you have, haven’t you?”
She recalled now the times they had both been completely without clothes while making love, and every time she had reached for his back, he had stopped her by taking her hands and holding them over her head or at her sides. She also recalled the time she had told him she ought to have him horsewhipped. Dear God, how insensitive! But she hadn’t known.
“I didn’t say I was proud of them, Duchess. But remember your reaction to these,” he said bitterly as he pressed her hands to his nipples, “and your reaction just now, and you have your answer. These bring forth disgust. My back makes women puke.”
“Do you know why?” she asked with some heat. “Because you did one set yourself, deliberately inflicting self-torture, and you’re proud of it. But someone else did the other, mutilating this magnificent body, and that’s an atrocity beyond description. Who did that to you, Colt?”
He wasn’t sure if he’d just been scolded or complimented. “You just watched him die.”
It took her a moment to grasp that, but then the color drained from her face. “Oh, God, no wonder you couldn’t move when you saw him! I couldn’t move myself when I thought he was going to hit me, and I didn’t know what it would feel like. But you knew…oh, God,” she groaned and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck again, as if by doing so she could take the memory away for him. “You knew exactly what it would feel like if he struck you…and he did! You had to relive that nightmare—”
“Cut it out, Duchess,” he said gruffly. “You’re making it out to be worse than it was. I felt nothing. It takes live nerves to feel pain, and I’ve got few of those left.”
“Oh, God!” She started crying again.
“Now what?”
But she shook her head, aware that he wouldn’t want to hear her say that was worse. Only he knew what she was thinking. And he knew what she was doing, trying to smother him with the soothing only a female could offer. She’d have his head at her breast if he’d let her, and trouble was, the thought was too tempting by half.
He had to get her mind on something else, and spotting the rifle she’d dropped on the floor, he asked, “Where were you heading with that rifle?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t hear you come in,” she sniffled. “It had finally occurred to me that you might have had more difficulty at the saloon after I left.”
“And so you were going back to save me?”
“Something like that.”
She expected him to laugh. Instead she felt his hand in her hair pulling her head back so he could kiss her. And she didn’t wonder about the almost desperate quality of that kiss, for it could have been more on her part than his. Their time together was running out, and they both knew it.
Chapter Forty-three
There was a light swirling of snow outside the windows of the private car as the train rolled into the Cheyenne depot. After spending nearly a year in the warm Mediterranean countries before sailing to America, Jocelyn had not seen snow in a very long time.
“Is the weather too severe here for horses, do you think?” she asked as she let the curtain fall back into place.
Colt was shrugging into his coat. “Wild horses have lived here for hundreds of years, Duchess. You think folks can get along without their horses?”
She smiled a little self-consciously. She’d told Vanessa she meant to locate her stud farm here, but that decision had been impulsive, influenced by the man casually preparing to leave the train—and her. If she had no other reason to live in this territory, perhaps another part of the country would be better for raising her Thoroughbreds.
“But would you breed horses here?” she asked him.
“I intend to, with that little filly you owe me. If you’re worried if she’ll survive, don’t be. The weather is actually ideal for animals, the summers not too hot, the winters not too cold.”
“It was my own stock I was concerned with. Didn’t I mention that I am considering staying here?”
“For God’s sake, why?”
She turned away from his expression of horror, a lump rising in her throat. It hurt, it really did, and she was about to tell him not to worry about it, that if she did choose the Wyoming Territory for her farm, she’d make sure it was far away from him.
But he came up behind her, placing a hand on each shoulder to tell her, “Forget I said that. What you do now is your own concern, since my job’s over.”
But how in the hell was he going to get through each day knowing she was close? Colt wondered. He had thought she’d do whatever it was she had come here for, then take the train back East. He could forget about her then. But if she didn’t leave…
She shrugged his hands away, but he’d felt her stiffness before she did. “I can’t imagine why I keep forgetting how eager you are to end our association. If you’ll just take me to a hotel, you can be on your way. I’ll have your fee delivered to your sister’s ranch as soon as it arrives.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Yes, I—”
“No…you won’t, Duchess.”
Jocelyn’s lips clamped together. He’d done this to her once before, only then she had merely wanted to talk to him. Now she wasn’t so intimidated by that implacable expression. She was also allowing her temper to push aside her hurt. So he wouldn’t wait? So he wanted all ties with her broken immediately? After the week they had just spent together, she had thought she had begun to understand him a little better. She had even begun to hope…
“If you’re worried that I’ll deliver the money, I won’t. I assure you, you won’t have to see me again. But I certainly haven’t carried that kind of money in my valise. If you can’t wait until my wagons arrive, I suppose I can wire my closest bank and have the money transferred—what is it now?” she demanded when he kept shaking his head.
“You try and pay me that money and I’ll burn it. I never wanted the damn money and you know it. You just have that filly delivered when she’s ready to be parted from her mama, and we’ll be square.”
“So you stuck with a job you hated for nothing?
“No.”
She glared at him. “You’re determined to make me feel guilty for taking advantage of you, aren’t you? But I’ll have to disappoint you. If I feel anything, it’s certainly not guilt.”
With that she swiped up her valise and marched out the door. Colt gritted his teeth, angry enough to spit. His saddlebags were still in the bed compartment, or he’d have been right behind her. Damned women. Was she trying to make him feel guilty for not taking her money? All he wanted was to get away from her before he did something stupid, like tell her how he felt about her. He could just imagine her reaction to that. She’d run like hell—if she didn’t laugh first.
He recalled what she’d said about visiting that saloon, that she’d never have the opportunity again because once her people rejoined her, she couldn’t be so bold. The same thing applied to him and he knew it. She might be willing to share his blankets as long as they were alone and no one else knew about it, but some of her people were bound to be here waiting for her. She’d be appalled if they found out she’d taken her half-breed guide for a lover. If she had a bee under her bonnet now, it was likely because he’d reminded her it was over before she could dismiss him. That was when she had gotten all stiff and huffy.
Slamming out of the private car, Colt had to run to catch up with the duchess. She should have gone directly to the stock car so they could retrieve the horses first, but instead she was moving briskly into town. He had half a mind to just let her go. She was safe enough now. But worrying about her had become a habit. Until he was sure her people had arrived ahead of them by train and he could turn her over to them, he was still stuck with her.
Jocelyn was too angry to notice where she was going, who she was passing, or anything else about Cheyenne, Wyoming. She felt—used. Good Lord, had this past week just been his way of getting even with her? He had felt used by her, and now he’d made sure she felt the same. What a low, despicable thing to do. But what else could she think? Just this morning he had made wild, passionate love to her, had held her tenderly in his arms afterward. Now he couldn’t wait to part company, to never see her again. Never? Oh, God, she’d never see him again, never know his touch again. How could she bear it?