Pam Crooks - The Mercenary's Kiss

“No-o!” she screamed. She lunged toward Ramon, her fists pounding against his thigh. “Give him back to me. Give him back!”

As if he were a trophy to show off to his men, Ramon turned and held Nicky up high, out of her reach. The resemblance—the thick wavy hair, the black eyes and golden skin—could not be denied.

A moment of stunned silence passed through the revolutionaries.

“Ramon, the gringa speaks the truth. There is no money.” The rebel who had been searching the wagon poked his head out the door.

“I have found something more valuable, Diego.” Ramon settled Nicky in front of him and slid an arm around his waist. “My son.”

“No-o!” Elena screamed.

“Armando!” Ramon snapped. “See that the wagon cannot give us chase.”

“He’s mine!” She lunged toward him, her arms tugging at Ramon’s thigh as she tried to pull him from the saddle. “Nicky is mine!”

“Ramon, she is the child’s mother,” Armando frowned. Clearly, he didn’t approve.

“You can’t take him from me!” Elena pulled on Ramon’s thigh again, this time with a Herculean strength dredged from deep inside her. He jerked sideways, almost losing his seat. With a savage epithet, he regained it again and kicked out. The toe of his boot slammed into Elena’s temple. She staggered backward from the blow.

“Ma-ma-ma!” Nicky shrieked, his fear and panic rising to match hers. His arms strained toward her. “Ma-ma-ma!”

“Nicky! Oh, God! Nicky!” Frantic, Elena catapulted toward Ramon yet again, her hands reaching to grab her son, but in a blinding flash, the butt of his rifle swung toward her.

Pain exploded in her head.

She crumpled and everything went black.

J eb had one hell of a hangover.

A night with too much whiskey and too little sleep had left him paying the price for his indiscretions. The journey from Laredo north to San Antonio wasn’t helping his affliction any, but Creed had been insistent.

They had a train to catch.

Taking a shortcut through the woodlands lining the Nueces River helped. At least the trees shaded the sun, and the air was cooler. Quiet. Jeb was in no mood to be civil to anyone who happened to come his way.

Even Creed knew to keep his mouth shut. Not that he was in any better shape than Jeb. Years of friendship kept them suffering in companionable silence.

The river looked inviting, though, and Jeb craved a smoke. Their mounts needed rest and drink. He figured they could spare the time, and Creed acknowledged his gesture to pull up with a curt nod.

After dismounting, Jeb stretched muscles tight from too many hours in the saddle, then led his horse to the bank. He removed his hat and raked a hand through his hair. He’d have to get a haircut when he got to San Antonio. A shave and a good, long bath. After being out of the country so long, he’d have to learn how to act in polite society all over again.

He squatted at the river’s edge and caught a glimpse of his reflection on the glistening surface. He refused to speculate on what the General would say if he saw Jeb now—hungover, bleary-eyed and looking barely civilized.

The General wouldn’t approve. But then, he never approved of anything Jeb did.

Jeb splashed cold water over his face and scrubbed all thought of his father from his mind. Cupping his hands, he poured water over his head. The liquid felt good against his scalp and helped ease the steady throb in his temple.

Creed hunkered beside him and handed him a rolled cigarette, then lit one for himself. Jeb drew in deep on the tobacco and squinted an eye toward the treetops. The silence enveloped him. The peace.

He felt the rumble of horses’ hooves moments before he heard them. Creed twisted, searching for riders. Jeb saw them first, just beyond the woods.

He reached for the Colt strapped to his thigh and leapt to his feet, all in one swift motion. Instinct warned a group of men riding as hard as this one was either looking for trouble—or running from it.

He slipped behind a sycamore tree for cover and heard Creed do the same. Back pressed against the trunk, weapon raised, Jeb glanced over at him. His grim expression mirrored Jeb’s unease.

Jeb gauged fifty, maybe sixty yards separated them from the riders. Mexicans, heavily armed. A dozen of them, led by one man. Jeb glimpsed a flash of red, but the trees and distance marred a clearer view, and he couldn’t see what the leader held in front of him.

“What do you make of ’em?” Creed asked in a low voice.

“Damned if I know,” he muttered.

One look this way would reveal the horses Jeb and Creed had had no time to hide, but none of the Mexicans bothered. Within moments, they were gone, leaving behind only a cloud of dust in their wake and a bevy of unanswered questions.

Questions Jeb had no intention of answering.

“Could be those Mexican revolutionaries the lieutenant colonel was telling us about last night,” Creed said, returning his weapon to its holster.

“Maybe.”

But Jeb didn’t want to think about Kingston or what he needed. He hadn’t wanted to think of it last night, and he didn’t want to think of it now. He strode toward his mount.

“Whatever those men are up to doesn’t concern us anymore, Creed,” he said firmly. Unable to help it, he looked across the woodlands to the path that had fallen silent. “They’re heading south.” His mouth curved, cold and determined. “And we’re heading north.”

To San Antonio. To a new beginning.

And nothing was going to keep him from either one.

At the sight of the overturned medicine wagon wedged between the trees, Jeb drew his horse up abruptly.

Creed reined in beside him. “An ambush?”

“Looks like it.”

The team had been cut from their harnesses and set free. Jeb spied them drinking at the river. He removed his Colt from the holster, just in case, but it seemed whoever had attacked the wagon had left.

“I’ll check the rig,” Creed said. Weapon drawn, he crept toward it and inspected the interior, then gestured that no one was inside.

Still, the stark silence troubled Jeb. He urged his horse closer, saw a woman lying on the ground and half-hidden among the tree’s shadows. Dread rolled through him.

A gray-haired man lay a short distance away. Jeb took in the crimson stain on his shoulder, the contorted leg. The man moaned, appeared to fade in and out of consciousness. Creed rode toward him and dismounted.

Jeb sheathed the Colt, his attention on the woman again. He slid from the saddle and knelt beside her to check for a pulse.

She was still alive. Blood oozed from an angry gash on her forehead. The wound appeared fresh, and he figured her assailant hadn’t been gone long. Minutes, most likely.

The band of armed Mexicans had been riding hard from this direction. Jeb studied the wagon. It wouldn’t have been easy to overturn a rig that size. But a dozen men on horses could do it. Easy.

He suspected these were the men Lieutenant Colonel Kingston told him about, revolutionaries so ruthless even the President of the United States was concerned. And Jeb suspected, too, they were hightailing it home, to the relative security of their own country against possible retaliation from this one.

He ran a grim glance down the length of the woman. Her blouse was partially unbuttoned, revealing the creamy flesh of a breast, but her clothing wasn’t dirty or torn, and he made a cautious guess the band hadn’t added rape to their abuses.

He slipped an arm beneath her shoulders, but she whimpered, and he halted. Her head lolled toward him. In the filtered sunlight, he noticed the swelling from a purpling bruise on her cheekbone.

She’d put up a fight against whoever hit her, and a compassion he didn’t often feel stirred inside him.