Sarah McCarty - Luke's Cut

The wagon lurched through a rut. Her gorge rose. Heat, motion and now anxiety combining to make disaster imminent.

“Senorita?”

Clutching her stomach, she waved the vaquero’s concern away. She wouldn’t be sick. She wouldn’t. “I’m fine.”

He frowned at her, drawing his rifle from its scabbard. “You have nothing to worry about. Senor Luke would not allow you to be captured.” He settled the rifle across his saddle. “And neither would I.”

What could he do? He was just one man. So was Luke. And that rifle didn’t look big enough to take on the hordes of Comanche that could even now be charging toward them. Unbidden, one passage from her favorite author’s latest novel leaped to the forefront of her mind: “The Comanche came out of nowhere like a mist rising from the ground, enveloping everything in their path.”

There was a whole lot of ground out there.

No. For him to say it was just some Indians did nothing to reassure her, even if he’d clearly been trying to. She took a breath to steady her nerves. Hot air filled her lungs. Cold sweat beaded her brow as the persistent nausea surged along with fear. She whispered soothing nothings to Glory as if the steady old horse was the one in danger of an attack of the vapors.

The man frowned at her.

“You do not need to be afraid of the Indians, senorita. You are well guarded.”

She took another steadying breath, fighting dizziness. If they could just stop for a minute, her stomach might settle. Her request was met with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry, but we cannot stop.”

Of course not.

“But you are safe, senorita.” He gestured to his chest. “With me, Stefano.” He broadened the gesture to include everyone. “And if I should fall, there are the men of Rancho Montoya and Hell’s Eight.” He tipped his hat. “You are very safe.”

Was she? They had fifteen riders, plus Luke, Ed, Tia and herself. Hardly an army. And she didn’t even have a gun. Good heavens. Why didn’t she have a gun? The wagon hit a rut. The horizon tilted. Or was it the wagon? Her stomach lodged in her throat. She recognized the cold clammy feeling for what it was. Holding her hand over her mouth, she imagined Indians pouring over the little hill, swarming them, intent on driving them off their land. It was too easy to imagine their wild cries. Blast Dane Savage and his gift for description! She could see them as if they were real, dangerous men on horseback, armed with guns and bows, feral smiles on their painted faces... Intent on revenge.

Oh dear God.

“Senorita?”

The voice echoed around the periphery of her consciousness. The wagon bucked and swayed over a series of bumps. Her vision clouded. Nausea rose as hard as fear. In an obscure part of her consciousness, she realized she was about to faint. She reached out. Found nothing.

The last thing she heard was the shout of her name.

It sounded amazingly exasperated for a Comanche war cry.

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