The Mercenary's Kiss. Pam Crooks

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СКАЧАТЬ gaze sharpened over her.

      Her defiance died.

      “Let me see the child, señorita.”

      Raw fear clawed through her and stole her ability to speak, to provide a logical reason why she kept her baby hidden beneath a blanket.

      Ramon drew closer. Elena’s pulse pounded. She eased away from him toward the far edge of the wagon’s seat.

      “You know what will happen if you disobey me, señorita, do you not?”

      Her foot found the step that would help her get down. She’d run from him. As fast and as hard as she could.

      “Elena. Oh, God, honey.” Still sprawled on the ground, too badly wounded to help, Pop sobbed her name, his anguish as real as hers.

      But she ignored him.

      Instead, she moved away from the wagon. And toward the woods. One step at a time.

      Armando turned his mount as if to give chase. Ramon spoke sharply in Spanish, and he halted.

      Ramon himself rode toward her, his horse’s gait slow. Lazy. Calculated.

      “I want to see this child you keep from me.” His voice held a suspicious edge.

      “No.” She shook her head, her panic rising in leaps and bounds. “No, no.”

      Abruptly she turned, but too soon he was there, in front of her, his horse blocking her path. She pivoted and darted into the trees. Nicky squirmed and wiggled against her, and Elena shifted her grasp, her concentration momentarily broken in her need to hold him better. She stumbled over the splintered branches scattered over the ground.

      By the time she righted herself, Ramon loomed in front of her again. Lightning quick, he yanked the blanket from Nicky’s head.

      Nicky blinked up at him.

      Ramon stared downward.

      “Por Dios.” His glance dragged to Elena. “You were an innocent—the child’s age—he looks like—”

      Elena cried out and spun around, but Ramon swore viciously and grabbed Nicky by the back of his shirt, plucking him from her arms with more force than Elena could fight without hurting her son in the process.

      “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.

       Chapter Three

       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 СКАЧАТЬ