His legs were getting weak. So was his vision. The fire had worked its way up to explode inside his brain. He didn’t know how he was still standing, how he was keeping his facial muscles from twitching spasmodically. He had thought he had experienced the ultimate in pain during the Sun Dance ceremony, but that was child’s play next to this. And Jenny hadn’t closed her eyes or looked away yet. But then she couldn’t see his back from up on the porch. Not that it would matter. And it no longer mattered that he keep eye contact with her. It wasn’t working to block out the pain.
Walter Callan signaled Ramsay to stop a moment when Colt’s eyes closed and his head dropped back on his shoulders. “You still alive, boy?”
Colt made no response. The screams were there, in his head, in his throat, just waiting to escape if he opened his mouth. He’d bite his tongue off before he let them out. And it wasn’t the fierce pride of the Indian that had decided he would make no sound. The Indian respected the white man who could face death with courage. He didn’t expect any such respect from these men for his courage. His silence was for his own sake, his own self-respect.
But the silence around him had been broken by Callan’s question. There were exclamations of amazement that he was still on his feet, a debate on whether it was possible to faint without keeling over, a suggestion that a bucket of water be fetched to dump over him, just in case he really had fainted. At that point he opened his eyes, still cognizant enough to know that water touching any part of his mangled back would send him over the edge of control. It was harder to lift his head, but he managed that too.
“Wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seein’ it with my own eyes,” someone said next to him.
The whir and slap of the whip resumed, but no one was paying much attention to it now except the recipient and the wielder.
“I still don’t believe it,” a voice grumbled behind Colt. “It ain’t possible he’s still on his feet.”
“What’d you expect? He’s only half human, you know. It’s the other half that’s still standing.”
Ramsay tuned out their voices, concentrating on lashing only the raw wounds now. He was furious that he hadn’t broken the Injun yet, and his anger was affecting his aim. The bastard couldn’t do this to him. He couldn’t die without making a sound.
Ramsay was so angry he didn’t hear the riders who came tearing around the side of the house, but the others did. They turned to see Chase and Jessica Summers and about twenty of their cowhands descending on them.
If Ramsay heard them, he must have assumed they were some of Callan’s men coming in off the range, for he still didn’t pause. He was in the process of drawing back his arm for another slash when Jessie Summers palmed her gun and fired.
The bullet that was aimed to shatter Ramsay’s skull flew over his head instead, Summers having hit his wife’s arm up into the air at the last second when he saw her intent. But that shot was like a signal, every Rocky Valley man drawing a rifle or revolver upon hearing it. The Callan hands didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even breathe.
Walter Callan began to realize he might have made a serious mistake. Not that he didn’t want the breed dead, but maybe he shouldn’t have gone about it so publicly.
Ramsay Pratt stared in horror at the barrage of weaponry aimed mostly in his direction. A whip wasn’t worth a damn against so many, even his bullwhip. He carefully lowered his arm until the blood-soaked leather was like a red snake curled about his feet.
“You bastard!” Jessie Summers was shouting, but she was shouting at her husband. “Why’d you stop me? Why?!”
Before he could answer, she had slid from her horse and run forward, pushing men out of her way who still didn’t dare move on their own, and none too gently. She was in a towering rage. In all her twenty-five years she had never been killing mad like this. Not her father, her mother, or her husband, all of whom she had been at odds with at one time or another, had ever made her lose control like this. If Chase hadn’t stopped her, she would have emptied her gun into Callan’s men, and saved the last bullet for him.
But when she reached Thunder and saw close up the actual damage that whip had done, the fury drained right out of her. She doubled over with a keening moan that ended abruptly as she emptied her stomach in the blood-splattered yard.
Chase was there before she finished, putting his arms around her. But he was staring at Thunder and feeling kind of queasy himself. He had come to think of the man as a friend, though Colt was closer to Jessie. She loved him like a brother. They had shared a special relationship for more than half their lives. Colt had always been there for her when she needed a friend, and Jessie was going to blame herself for not getting here in time. And Chase had a strong feeling they were too late. If the shock didn’t kill Colt, the loss of blood would.
“Nooo!” Jessie was crying now as she raised up and looked at Thunder again. “Oh, God, oh, God! Do something, Chase!”
“I’ve already sent a man for the doctor.”
“That’ll take too long. Do something now. You have to do something now. Stop the bleeding—oh, God, why isn’t he cut loose yet?”
It wasn’t really a question. Jessie wasn’t aware of what she was saying just then. Almost in a trance, she walked around the post. That was better. He looked all right from the front—except for the paleness of his skin, the deathly stillness of him, his shallow breathing. She was afraid to touch him. She wanted to take him in her arms, but didn’t dare. Any touch was going to hurt him. Any movement was going to be excruciating.
“Oh, God, White Thunder, what have they done to you?”
It was said in a tearful whisper. Colt heard her. He knew she was there in front of him, but he didn’t open his eyes. If he saw the pain etched on her face, he would lose the slim thread of control he had left. As it was, he was terrified she was going to touch him, and yet he needed her tenderness, needed it desperately.
“Don’t…cry…”
“No, no, I won’t,” she assured him as the tears continued to pour down her cheeks. “But don’t try to talk, okay? I’ll take care of everything. I’ll even kill Callan for you.”
Was she trying to make him laugh? He’d made the same offer to her once, only the man he would have killed for her was now the husband she loved with all her heart.
“Don’t…kill…anyone.”
“Shhh, all right, all right, anything you say, but don’t talk anymore.” And then, “Dammit, Chase, hurry up with those ropes! We’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
Colt didn’t move his arms when they were freed. Chase stood in front of him now. His voice was gentle as he explained, “Jessie, honey, that whip was trailed through the dirt time and again. His back is going to have to be cleaned first if infection isn’t to kill him.”
There was a heavy silence. Colt would have tensed if he wasn’t already holding himself so rigid.
“Do it, Chase,” Jessie said quietly.
“Christ, Jessie—”
“You have to,” she insisted.
The three knew each other well enough that both men understood she wasn’t talking about cleaning wounds or even moving him yet. Colt’s body almost sighed with relief. It was about time she had thought of something sensible.
“We’ll need a mattress first, and a couple men to hold him so he doesn’t fall.”
Jessie was in her element, issuing orders, but when she sent two men into the house for a mattress, Walter Callan recollected whose property they were on and stepped in front of the door to block their way.
“You ain’t wastin’ one of my mattresses on that dirty…”
He didn’t finish. Jessie had whirled around at the sound of his objection, and he now had her full attention, and every bit of the fury she had felt earlier. She mounted the porch steps, and before anyone realized her intent, she had hefted the gun from one of the men Callan was blocking. Chase wasn’t there to take it away this time. No one else would dare try.
“You ever been shot before, Callan?”
she said conversationally as she motioned the two men into the house and casually caressed the barrel of the old Colt .44 Dragoon. “There are parts on the body that can be shot off that won’t bleed too seriously, but will sure hurt like hell. A toe, for instance, or a finger…or what makes a man a man. How many bullets do you think it would take to shoot off an inch at a time? Three, maybe? Not even that many? Would that equal your own savagery, do you think?”
“You’re crazy,” Walter said in a horrified whisper.
His hand had gone to his gun in a protective gesture. Jessie did nothing to stop him, just stared at his hand, hoping he would draw the gun. He saw that hope in her eyes and slowly took his hand away.
“Coward,” she hissed, done playing with him. “Pack your gear and be gone by sundown, Callan, you and your men. Ignore my warning and I’ll make your life a living hell. There won’t be anywhere in the territory you can hide from my vengeance.”
He wasn’t expecting that. “You got no call—”
“The hell I don’t!”
He looked beseechingly to her husband. “Summers, can’t you control your wife?”
“I already did you one favor, you son of a bitch,” Chase shouted up at him. “I kept her from blowing your head off. Whatever else she has a mind to do is the least of what you deserve, so don’t press it. It’s lucky for you one of your men who overheard what you were planning is a drinking buddy of my foreman. And it’s damn lucky for you he didn’t have to ride all the way to the Rocky Valley, but found us out on the range. But that’s where your luck runs out. What you did here is the lowest kind of savagery, fit only for animals.”
“I had every right,” Walter protested. “He defiled my daughter.”
“That cold bitch you got for a daughter encouraged him,” Jessie spat, moving to the side as the mattress was pushed out the door. A wagon had already been confiscated from the barn. “All I got left to say to you is, if he dies, you die, Callan. You better do some powerful praying on your way out of the territory.”
“The sheriff will hear about this.”
“Oh, I hope you’re that stupid, I really do. If I didn’t suspect you’d get no more than a slap on the wrist, I’d turn you in myself. Go against me and I’ll take the law into my own hands, I swear to God I will. I ought to anyway,” Jessie ended with a measure of self-disgust as she turned away.
“Shit,” Walter grumbled behind her. “He’s only a damn half-breed.”
Jessie swung around, her turquoise eyes blazing. “You bastard! You lowlife, worthless bastard! That’s my brother you nearly killed! Say one more word to me and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes!”
She gave him two seconds to see if he would call her on this last warning, then turned away to return to Colt. His eyes were open. They stared at each other a long moment.
“You…knew?”
“Not always. Did you know?”
“When I…left.”
She put a finger to his lips very gently. “I’m surprised she told you at all. I had always wondered about the affinity I felt for you, but not for your sister or brothers. I finally asked your mother right out. She wouldn’t answer. It couldn’t have been something she would have wanted to admit, that her oldest daughter wasn’t the only one to bear my father a child. But that she wouldn’t deny it was answer enough for me, especially since I so wanted it to be true.”
“Jessie, don’t you think this conversation ought to wait for a better time?” Chase said.
She nodded and let her finger trail away in a loving caress across Colt’s cheek. It was the signal for the two men standing behind him to step forward and grasp his arms. Colt closed his eyes again when Chase moved directly in front of him.
“Sorry, my friend.”
“Don’t be an ass, Chase,” Jessie said matter-of-factly, earning an I’ll-get-you-later-for-that-crack glance from her husband, which she typically ignored. “It’s the only thing he’ll have to be grateful for on this hellish day. Get it over with.”
Chase did, drawing back his fist and letting fly with it toward Colt’s jaw.
Chapter Two
Cheshire, England, 1878
Vanessa Britten ignored the embroidery in her lap and watched the duchess complete another circle of the room. She wouldn’t exactly call it pacing the floorboards. She doubted the girl was even aware that she was wearing a path in the fine Eastern carpet.
Who would have thought the duchess would even care about the little tragedy taking place upstairs. Vanessa certainly hadn’t thought it was possible when she had accepted the position as companion to the nineteen-year-old duchess just last month. It was such a common thing, young girls wedding older lords for their wealth and titles. And Jocelyn Fleming had latched onto one of the best catches, Edward Fleming, sixth Duke of Eaton, in his late middle years and already ailing when they wed last year.
But it didn’t take long for Vanessa to change her opinion of the young Duchess of Eaton. Oh, she had certainly been destitute when the duke had proposed to her. Her father had owned a stud farm in Devonshire, one of the finest in England, if Jocelyn could be believed. But like a great many of his contemporaries, he was a man who had a detrimental fondness for gambling, and when he died, he was so in debt that Jocelyn was left without a farthing. Edward Fleming had literally saved the poor girl from what was considered the worst of the worst for a gently reared lady—seeking employment.
Vanessa could only have said “Good show” to such a feat. She loved success stories, wasn’t the type to begrudge another a little good fortune or a lot, as in the duchess’s case. But Jocelyn Fleming wasn’t the fortune huntress she had first assumed her to be.
Vanessa had lived too many years in London, where her peers were a cold-blooded lot, out for anything and everything they could get. Jocelyn wouldn’t know how to be cold-blooded if she tried. She was too naive by half, too open and trusting, too innocent to be believed. And yet she really was exactly what she seemed. The most amazing thing about her was that she really loved the man who was at this moment upstairs dying.
Vanessa had been hired for this very contingency. The duke had taken many unusual precautions over the past months, selling unentailed properties, transferring money out of the country, buying the essentials needed for traveling. He had taken care of all the necessary details. The only thing Jocelyn and her rather large entourage needed to do was leave. Even the packing was already done.
Vanessa had been quite skeptical of the reasons for this foresight on the duke’s part until she met his distant relations, the “vultures,” as he called them, who were waiting to descend on his estate and pick it apart.
If ever a fellow could be termed avaricious and on the hard side of ruthless, it was Maurice Fleming, present heir to the dukedom. Edward had no immediate family. Maurice was a mere cousin, once removed, whom the duke could not tolerate to be even in the same room with. But Maurice had a large family of in-laws to support, as well as a mother and four sisters, and to say he had been avidly awaiting Edward’s demise would be putting it mildly. He also had spies in Fleming Hall keeping him apprised of Edward’s condition, and the moment the duke was pronounced dead, the knocker would undoubtedly sound at the front door.
Poor Jocelyn was in the middle of what could only be termed a family feud of long standing. Edward’s relations had done their best to convince him not to wed her. Failing that, they had made certain threats, not in Edward’s hearing, but he had nonetheless learned of them. He was not just being overprotective in all the preparations he had made for his young wife’s future.
Vanessa would be the first to agree now that it would be folly to remain in England to tempt the fates. The new duke was not going to sit by idly while the bulk of the Fleming estate flew out of his reach. He would do everything within his power to get it back, and in his position as the new Duke of Eaton, his power was going to be immense. But Edward was bound and determined that Maurice and his greedy family should have nothing of his that was not enta
iled, that it should all belong to Jocelyn for her loyalty and selfless devotion to him.
If anyone needed Vanessa’s advice and guidance, this young girl with the teary eyes did. Jocelyn didn’t want to leave England and all that was familiar to her. She had been arguing with her husband since he first suggested it, to no avail. She was like a child in that respect, fearing the unknown. She couldn’t grasp the danger to herself if she stayed and fell under Maurice’s control. Vanessa could. Good Lord, it didn’t bear thinking of. Jocelyn might be the duchess, soon to be the duchess dowager, for Maurice had a wife who would be the new Duchess of Eaton, but Jocelyn’s title would give her no protection at all if Maurice managed to get his hands on her.
“Your Grace?” The housekeeper appeared hesitantly in the doorway, the queen’s own physician at her side. “Your Grace?”
It took one more “Your Grace” before Jocelyn could be called back from her gloomy thoughts to the present. Vanessa could see that she had still held hope, however small. But one look at the physician’s expression and that hope died a final death.
“How long?” Jocelyn asked in a tiny voice.
“Tonight, Your Grace,” the old physician replied. “I’m sorry. We knew it was only a matter of time…” His voice trailed off.
“May I see him now?”
“Certainly. He is asking for you.”
Jocelyn nodded and squared her shoulders. If she had learned anything from her husband this past year, it was poise and a certain self-confidence that came from a position of importance. She wouldn’t cry, not in front of the servants. But once alone…
He was only fifty-five years old. His brown hair had been sparsely peppered with gray four years ago, when Jocelyn had first met him. He had come to Devonshire to purchase a hunter from her father. She had recommended a less showy mount, and Edward had taken her advice over her father’s trainer’s. The hunter she had favored had more heart, more stamina. Edward wasn’t sorry.