Silken Thunder

  “Come down here,” Wes called to Anna, making no effort to lower his voice.

  “Are you mad? Papa’s in the next room. He’ll hear — ”

  “I don’t care. If you don’t come down, I’m coming in after you.”

  Anna wasted no more time trying to reason with him. She could see it would do no good. Why had Wesley come here, risking discovery like this? Was he drunk? She pulled the back door open. He was there.

  Before she could say a word, he thrust her back against the doorjamb and crushed his mouth down on hers. Unprepared for his assault, still she knew a thrill of sheer pleasure. There was no taste of whiskey in his mouth, just the familiar hot sweetness she always tasted when he kissed her. Every part of her body was telling her to cling, but reason warned of the danger.

  Twisting against him, she pulled back and gasped, “What are you doing?”

  “I want you, Anna,” he said. “I want you now.” He pulled her outside and away from the building. He was a different man tonight, all civilized restraints had dropped away somehow.

  “This isn’t the way to your house,” she protested, fear and excitement mingling in her voice.

  He led her quickly toward the woods. “It would take too much time to get to my house. You’re mine, Anna. And when I want you, I’ll take you. … ”

  Silken Thunder

  Chapter 1

  1873, Territory of Colorado

  Oh, God, Sloan was dying.

  Brianne’s hands clenched slowly until her nails cut half circles into her palm. Just yesterday he’d smiled at her and spoken of their future together. She’d been so sure he was on his way to recovery. But in the night he’d grown steadily worse, and at one point had gone into convulsions. Frantic to help him, she’d jammed a stick into his mouth and held him while his powerful muscles twitched and jerked. The seizure had lasted only a few minutes, but it had seemed a lifetime to her.

  Now he was unconscious, mumbling incoherently and thrashing about. She’d never been so scared in her life. She’d never felt so helpless in her life.

  Damn Dan Cummings. She should have killed him when she had the chance. By the time she’d been able to get to the tent city, he and his men had beaten Sloan almost senseless. That had been early Sunday morning. She’d set fire to the whole place and gotten Sloan out of there. Their ride of escape had been grueling for both of them and, in addition, torturously painful for Sloan.

  It had been late that afternoon when she’d come across this box canyon inside the butte. It had offered what she’d been searching for — concealment and shelter. At that time she’d believed that Sloan needed only to rest. Now she knew he needed much more. He was gravely ill and suffering terribly. She had to help him. But how?

  Only she stood between Sloan and death, but, dear Lord, she knew so little about nursing. Rising Star, her aunt, had taught her the rudiments of herbal medicine, but how could she find the necessary herbs here in Colorado, in territory that was unfamiliar? Only with luck. And hers seemed to have run out. Or with time. And she had precious little.

  Sloan moaned and threw out his arm, hitting her across the chest. She gasped at the pain of the blow, but didn’t recoil. She placed his arm at his side and bent forward to touch his forehead. He was on fire.

  The need for more water was desperate. At the far end of the meadow there was a creek of fresh, clear water that meandered through a stand of willows and cottonwoods. She had their horses picketed there, and by now they needed tending. But could she leave Sloan alone for the length of time it would take her to collect the water, see to the horses, and return? If he got to thrashing about, he might injure himself even more. On the other hand, she reasoned, if she didn’t get water into him and on him to lower his fever, he was going to die.

  How could she leave him?

  How could she not?

  She bent close to his ear. “Sloan, I’m going down to the meadow. I’ll try not to be gone long, but you’ve got to stay still.”

  His head turned toward the sound of her voice, but his eyes remained closed and his mutterings unintelligible.

  “I love you, Sloan,” she said, but the tears and fears that were clogging her throat broke her words into soft, disjointed pieces.

  Their shelter was a shallow cave carved into the side of the box canyon about twenty-five feet above a meadowed floor. A shelf edged the cave’s mouth and curved downward to the meadow.

  Brianne followed the path, surprised to find her legs so leaden. Putting one foot in front of the other was suddenly a major chore. When her rifle slipped from her hand, clattered to the rocky ledge, and then slid off to fall some twenty feet to the ground below, she was forced to stop and lean against the canyon’s wall.

  A shroud of weariness clung to her like a soggy cloak, weighing her down. She shook her head and took several deep breaths, trying to chase away the dull-witted numbness she was feeling. She couldn’t allow herself to falter. More from instinct than from thought, one hand dropped to the butt of the gun that was resting in its holster on her hip. She was all too aware that she had to be constantly on guard. All her senses were telling her that menace was not far away.

  Once on the floor of the canyon, she retrieved the rifle. Frightened that it might have been damaged, she looked it over, then levered a bullet through the chamber. It was a relief to find that it still worked.

  As she crossed the meadow, trying her best to hurry, the natural beauty of the riotously blooming wild- flowers and the long grasses escaped her. Instead, she took wary note of the deeply carved arroyos and the huge rocks and boulders that would make excellent cover for Cummings and his men if — no, when … no, if — they managed to discover where she and Sloan were hiding.

  The horses seemed to be in good shape. Impatient to get back to Sloan, she watered them quickly and moved them to a new grazing area. Then she filled the two canteens and half ran back to the cave.

  She heard birds chirping as they fluttered from tree to tree, and the soft rustling of the wind as it stirred through the grass, and the scurrying of small, unseen animals as they darted out of her way. The creek babbled as it meandered through the canyon. There was life and movement all around, but she felt only death and an ominous stillness.

  Never had she been so alone. Her family had always surrounded her, protected her, loved her. And even now she knew they were trying to get to her.

  But this was Tuesday and their help was still days away. By the time they arrived, it might very well be too late.

  She was halfway up the path that led to the cave when the full force of what she was thinking hit her. She could depend on no one but herself! She felt a smothering moment of blind panic. No. … She couldn’t do this. … She couldn't save the man in the cave, so terribly hurt and ill. She couldn’t protect them both from the men searching for them with such deadly intensity. Not alone.

  Lord, what was she thinking? There was no question that she would have to do it. There was no one else. She had to pull herself together. From somewhere deep inside she was going to have to find a well of courage and strength that she'd never had to tap before. She prayed she could find it.

  She skidded to a stop, and her eyes widened in horror. “God, Sloan, what are you doing?”

  He was standing up just inside the cave, swaying unsteadily. Pain and confusion glazed his eyes, but when she called his name, he took a step toward her. Instinctively she jumped to help him, but she wasn’t quick enough. He fell, striking his head against a rock, and what seemed like a river of blood came gushing out.

  “Oh, God.” Fear rose like bile in her throat. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't be … but he was lying so still, his head at such an odd angle.

  She scrambled to him and groped for a pulse at his n
eck. It seemed like an eternity before she managed to make out a faint beat and she went weak with relief. “Sloan, I need you to be all right,” she whispered. “Please wake up now.” She was only vaguely aware of the tears that had begun to stream down her face. “You've got to wake up, or I’m not going to be able to help you.” She reached a trembling hand to his forehead and her fingers came away wet with blood. Then she saw that his blood had already stained a spot on the ground.

  Flying into action, she rummaged through the contents of their two saddlebags and came out with a rag Sloan used to clean his guns. The cloth was filthy, and she tossed it aside. Without another thought she reached down and withdrew the knife she kept sheathed in her boot. Lifting the hem of one leg of her riding skirt as much as it would allow, she cut clear around the leg of the pantalets, then made a long downward slit. Soon she was folding a large, clean white piece of material into a pad and pressing it against his wound.

  When she had stemmed the bleeding as best she could, she threw a glance over her shoulder at the makeshift bed she had put together from pine needles and leaves. She gauged he was lying about two feet away from it. Somehow she had to get him back there.

  She positioned herself above his head, grasped his arms, and pulled. She couldn’t even budge him. His body was dead weight. She dug her boot heels into the ground and tried again. An aching crept into her back, but she kept at it until she had moved him an inch, then two, then three.

  The movement and pulling on his arms brought him around, and he groaned. “No!”

  The pain was thick and an unendurable agony. He was swimming through its thickness, using all his might, but it seemed to be no use. He couldn’t break free of the fiery waves. They were endless. And the sun was making it so much worse. He remembered how hot that West Texas desert had been, but it had never hurt like this. This was like being cooked alive.

  Leaning over him, Brianne stroked his face. The heat of his skin nearly scorched her fingers. Dear God, she was causing him even more pain, but what else could she do?

  Her heart felt as if it were breaking. She brushed at the wetness on her face. The need to make him understand what she was trying to do was very important. “I know I’m hurting you, Sloan, but I’ve got to get you back into the cave.”

  “No,” he said, this time quieter.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “I’m so sorry.” Her tears broke free again, but she took hold of his arms. She’d managed to move him only another inch or so when he began fighting her. As weak as he was, he still remained a powerful man by anyone’s standards.

  At first she could only try to keep him from hurting himself and her. “Sloan, stop. It’s Brianne. Stop.”

  But he couldn’t hear her. His eyes were wild and he was mumbling words that were unconnected and muddled.

  She was aching and sore. Every time his hand connected with some part of her body, he inflicted a new bruise, but it was nothing to the inner pain she was suffering. She couldn’t seem to make him understand who she was and what he was doing. His delirium had taken him beyond her reach.

  Her chest hurt with the exertion of her efforts, and her throat was tight with anguish. Tears overflowed her eyes, and she had no energy to arrest them. “Sloan,” she cried, “please … don’t do this.”

  Someone was calling to him. A woman. Her voice sounded familiar, but he didn’t know who she was. All he knew was that she was hurting him, and he wanted her to stop. Every time she moved him, a searing agony twisted in his gut, and waves of violent pain exploded in his head. She was torturing him, and he had to make her leave him alone.

  At first she didn’t realize it when the signs came that his strength was ebbing. But when she did, she began to seize every opportunity she could to use the motion of his wildly flailing limbs to propel his body toward the pallet. Sweat broke out over her, moistened her skin, and in some places seeped through the cloth of her blouse to dampen it. Her arms hurt. The muscles in her legs trembled and burned.

  Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, his strength gave out, and she used the last bit of her energy to roll him over onto the bed. She collapsed beside him, panting, out of breath, with an ache vibrating up and down every bone in her body.

  That she’d been able to get him onto the bed was a miracle, and she knew she wouldn't be able to do it again. She had to take measures to make sure nothing like that would happen again, now, before he came around again. She pushed upright, then put her feet beneath her and tried to stand. But her legs folded beneath her, and she fell back down. She was simply too exhausted, and her legs wouldn’t hold her weight.

  Closing her eyes, she lay perfectly still, willing away the tremors that were racking the muscles in her arms and legs. Her body was telling her that she desperately needed to rest. But her mind was telling her that she wouldn’t be able to fight Sloan again, either physically or mentally.

  With horror she realized what she was going to have to do.

  She rolled over and, using her elbows, dragged herself to the saddlebags. She found what she was looking for with no problem — a coil of rope.

  Crawling back to Sloan, she fought against the fresh flood of tears that came up out of her, wrenching her heart and her body with their strength. Dear sweet heaven, this was a nightmare. She didn’t want to do this to him. At the same time she knew she had no choice.

  Kneeling beside him, she managed to get his wrists together and loop a length of rope around them, but her hands were clumsy when she attempted the knot. Silently she cursed herself. The task was taking far longer than it should. She tried again, this time managing to get the rope knotted.

  Suddenly Sloan yanked against the rope.

  With a gasp she turned to look at him, and what she saw nearly stopped her heart. His face was contorted with anguish. Even in his unconscious state he was trying to pull away from her and the rope. He was like that wolf she had so long ago tried to befriend, with the same deep-seated, primitive fear of being trapped and powerless.

  He was lashing out in earnest now. Frantically she fought to hold him down while she secured the rope around his ankles. His foot landed a blow to her body, then another, but she stayed beside him, working with the rope while trying to duck the punishment of his feet. At last she had him tied up.

  She collapsed beside him. Exhaustion pulled at her, doing its best to suck her down into a world of oblivion and deep peace, but she was afraid to let go. She had to try to get Sloan’s fever down, and she had to be constantly alert for Cummings and his men.

  And, dear Lord, what if Sloan died while she slept? As she lay beside him, she could feel the heat of his fever. What if she woke to find him still and cold? Going to sleep would be like deserting him, and she couldn’t do that.

  She fought with all her might to stay awake, but in the end she lost the battle and sleep claimed her.

  * * *

  “Cally, damn you … why did you do it to me?”

  Sloan’s screams brought her to full wakefulness with fear pounding through her veins. She grabbed for her gun, but a quick scan of the cave showed her no intruders. Confused, she took more careful note of her surroundings. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep, but it was now night. The fire had burnt down, and the air in the cave had turned damp and cold. A light rain was falling out in the box canyon.

  She swiveled around to Sloan. It took only a slight caress of his face to tell her that his fever had climbed even higher during the few hours she’d slept.

  “Cally … why … why … ” His voice trailed off. Emotion had choked his voice.

  What was he saying? She knelt beside him, barely able to see his face. “Sloan, it’s me, Brianne.”

  “Cally … ”

  He was calling her by another woman’s name. Something that felt like barbed wire twisted in her heart. She knew only too well that he was delirious. But … the knowledge didn’t make it any easier for her to bear.

  She cupped his face and tried to make him look at her. “It�
��s Brianne, Sloan. It’s me.”

  His eyes focused on her, or so it seemed to her in the dark.

  “David?” he asked softly.

  “No,” she sobbed, crying so hard that her lungs were beginning to hurt. Where were all the tears coming from, she wondered. “Sloan, I’m Brianne. Can’t you see me?”

  “David,” he said even more softly.

  David's face was so close. With his blond hair and blue eyes he looked so much like their mother. God, but it had been so long since he'd seen him. He felt an incredible happiness come over him. “I've been so lonely without you,” he said to David.

  She rocked back on her heels and pressed the palms of her hands hard against her eyes. She had to get hold of herself. A weariness that went all the way to her bones slowed her actions, but she crawled over to the fire and built it back up, thinking that in the morning she would have to collect more aspen leaves and wood. Glancing around for the two canteens, she saw them and her rifle out on the ledge. Then she remembered. When she’d walked into the cave and seen Sloan standing up, she had dropped everything.

  Levering herself to her feet, she was glad to discover that at least now her legs seemed willing to support her weight. She retrieved her rifle first, checked it, then carefully propped it against the cave’s wall, within easy reach.

  When she turned her attention to the canteens, she let out a gasp of despair. One was full, the other empty, its cap unscrewed and its contents pooled around it.

  She rubbed her forehead with a trembling hand and tried to remain calm as she thought the matter through. She was going to need much more water than the one full canteen. It seemed she had no other alternative. She was going to have to go back down to the creek for more.

  She knelt beside Sloan. “I’ve got to go get some more water, but I’ll be as quick as I can. I promise.” She knew he couldn't hear her, of course, but somehow talking to him made her feel better. By the fire’s light she could make out the awful bruises and cuts on his face and the way his dark hair lay in disorder around his head. She loved him so much, she thought as she pressed her lips to the dry heat of his forehead.