Johanna Lindsey - Savage Thunder

She didn't watch as he slowly slid off his horse and hit the ground, but kept her eyes on his killer, who showed no emotion at all over what he'd just done. She also didn't notice that his companion was nearly as shocked as she was, or that the green velvet of her riding habit was spotted with blood. All she could do was stare at the man, aware that she was at his mercy, aware that he had none. Perhaps he was Longnose after all.

He wasn't John Longnose, of course he wasn't. She'd heard him speak in a Western drawl, after all. And his talkative, grinning companion kept referring to him as Angel, as well as alluding to the boss, who was undoubtedly Longnose. But Miles Dryden's killer might as well have been the Englishman, for that was whom he was taking her to.

They had been riding for several hours before the numbness began to wear off and Jocelyn's mind had started functioning again. Naturally enough, she was rather horrified at first to find herself sitting on his horse, in front of him, his arms caging her on both sides. But after another hour or so of listening to Saunders' busy chatter and Angel's noncommittal grunts in reply, she was less frightened, at least of these two.

Saunders was just a kid, anyway, whose grinning countenance made him seem harmless. And as long as Angel was behind her where she couldn't see him, his hard, cruel features couldn't disturb her. But not for a moment did she forget where she was going and what was awaiting her when she got there.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling, knowing you were going to die. The only reason it hadn't turned her into a gibbering idiot was her natural optimism. Until she breathed her last breath, there was hope that something would happen to save her. She could escape, fight back, be rescued. Her rifle was gone, but she wasn't completely weaponless. On her person were numerous long hairpins excellent for poking out eyes, two very hard boots, and ten sharp nails. And she had the past to bolster her courage, the many times Longnose had been foiled before.

Regardless of all that optimism, though, it still took her a while to garner the nerve to address the man behind her. When she did, it was with the most per-tinent question first. "How long do I have?"

"For what?"

"To live."

"I wouldn't worry about it," he replied offhand-edly in a slow drawl.

Jocelyn was rendered momentarily speechless after that, but gritted her teeth in pique. "I'm not."

"Then why ask?"

"So I'll know when to toss you off this horse and make my escape, of course," she retorted testily.

He laughed, surprising her. "You're all right, lady. But I already figured you had to be something special to get a favor asked of me."

"You're doing this as a favor?" she nearly choked out.

"The pay's good too."

What could she say to that? The man was obviously without conscience. Or was the debt he owed so great that the favor asked of him in return couldn't be re-fused? For some reason, though, she felt the man couldn't be coerced into doing something he didn't want to do, not for any reason. So indeed, he had to be plainly unconscionable.

That was a discouraging thought that kept her silent for a while. After all, the man represented one of her hopes. He was the stronger, more dangerous of her escort to Longnose. If he could be talked out of turn-ing her over to the Englishman, and talked into taking her back to her people instead, she didn't think Saun-ders could stop him. But how did she reach someone who told her not to worry about the time she had left to live, who was escorting her to her death as a favor, for God's sake? The answer refused to come to her, unless.

"You do know that the Englishman means to kill me, don't you?"

"He hasn't made a secret of it."

So much for thinking he might not know what he was escorting her to. "Do you know why?"

"What's it matter?"

"Nothing to you, obviously."

She heard him laugh again, and again gritted her teeth, but this time to stop herself from calling him every vile, loathsome name she could think of. Un-conscionable? Inhuman was more like it. And they called the Indians the savages in this part of the country.

"Since you're such a veritable font of informa-tion," she began again in a tight voice, "would you mind telling me how Longnose got to Miles Dry-den?"

"Who's Longnose?"

"The Englishman."

"So that's his name." He sounded surprised. "No wonder he didn't want it known."

Jocelyn made a sound of exasperation. "I haven't the faintest notion what the man's blasted name is, nor do you, obviously, but what the devil does that matter? I asked you how he got to Dryden. You re-member him? The man you killed today?"

"So she has a temper, too."

It was a statement, not a question, so she threw one right back at him, "He understands English."

Another chuckle greeted that dry retort. She really was amusing him for some reason, while he was frus-trating her to the point of screaming. But she absolutely refused to rant or rave, no more than she would beg or cry, none of which would accomplish anything, she was sure.

"Dryden?" she prompted once more.

"Why do you want to know?"

"He was suspected of many things, but not once of being one of your little band of miscreants. After all, he wasn't the usual sort of riffraff that Longnose hires… no offense intended."

"No, of course not."

She ignored the interruption, though she was pleased to note his thick skin was pierceable. "He was merely a harmless fortune hunter, not a mur-derer," she pointed out.

"Old Dewane, he seemed to think otherwise, which was why he approached your harmless fortune hunter when he recognized him, before he even cleared it with the boss. And seems he was right on the nose, since your harmless fortune hunter came through for us, didn't he?"

"Was this before or after he'd been invited to join our group?"

"After. We caught up with you in Silver City, the morning after you got there. Dewane and his brother were checking out your hotel to see if there was any way to get to you when he spotted Dryden talking to your lady friend in the lobby. The rest you can figure out for yourself."

And she could, not that any of if really mattered except to satisfy her curiosity. You had to have op-portunity to learn from your mistakes, and these men were determined to see that she didn't have any more opportunities, of any kind. Or were they — truly de-termined, that is? Was their loyalty unshakable, or could it be bought?

She decided not to wait to find out. "I can pay you more than the Englishman."

"I know."

"I'm talking about a fortune." There was no answer. "You don't care?"

"No."

"How can you say that?" she demanded incredu-lously. "You just killed a man for money."

"You talk too much."

"Well, you did, so money must mean something to you."

"Not much."

"Then why did you kill him?"

"You talk too much," he repeated.

"And you not enough!" she retorted.

"Look, lady, it was like this. The man deserved to die. He turned you over to us, didn't he?"

"He didn't know for what purpose."

"Don't kid yourself," he told her in disgust. "He was told you wouldn't be around to point the finger at him afterward. He merely tried his own scheme first — one, I might add, he's made into a profession."

"What do you mean?"

"According to Dewane, he was a card cheat who'd been run out of just about every town west of the Missouri before he changed his career to marrying old widows for their money, then getting rid of them when the money ran out."

"Divorcing them, you mean?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Now will you shut up?"

Her jaw was getting sore from so much teeth grind-ing. "If you don't care for my conversation, sir, you can put me back on my own horse."

"Nice try, lady," was all he said to that.

She did finally fall silent. She wished they had let Sir George go, as they had Miles' horse. She hated to think what would happen to him if her luck actually did desert her this time. She almost asked Angel if he would keep Sir George, but decided he would make no better owner for the magnificent stallion than Longnose would.

Saunders, who had been riding a short distance ahead of them, eager to get where they were going, topped a small rise and let out a shout. Instantly, Jocelyn’s blood turned cold, suspecting what she would find on the other side of that rise. She wasn't wrong. There was a steeper drop, enough to conceal the six men in the process of setting up a camp — until now.

Saunders' shout had stopped them at the various tasks they had been doing, so that when Angel topped the rise, they were all looking up in that direction, and every eye was riveted on his prize.

Involuntarily, Jocelyn leaned back into Angel's chest. Thoughts of escape weren't very bolstering at the moment; weren't very conceivable either. All she could do was wonder in what manner Longnose meant to kill her. Would he just shoot her to get it over with quickly, or would he want her to suffer a while first?

She saw him right off. He stood apart from the others, tall, slim, ramrod straight, both hands resting on a silver-handled cane. He obviously hadn't been involved with the camp setup as the others were, an activity likely too menial for his tastes. His clothes also stood him apart from the others. He was wearing not only a dove-gray three-piece suit, but a stylish overcoat of worsted wool as well. He was also a good ten years older than any of his companions, somewhere in his early forties, she would guess.