Son of a Gun. Joanna Wayne

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       “You don’t want to do this,” she said.

       “Sure I do, mujerzuela.”

       She shook her head at the cruel taunt. “I’m not a slut. Please, I’m a mother. Let me be. I paid my money.”

       “I’ll let you be when I’m done with you. Do as I say and I won’t hurt you or the baby. Cause trouble and you both die here. Now, put the baby down and spread your legs.”

       It was foolish to try to fight him. It would get her hurt or killed. Then the monster Caudillo would have won without even being here.

       She was still standing when Julio put his hand beneath her skirt and trailed his hand along her thigh, inching closer to her intimate areas. Emma’s insides rebelled and her instincts took over. Her knee flew up and caught him in the crotch. He yelped and staggered backward. She swung at him and her fingernails dug into the flesh below his left eye, leaving two bloody trails.

       He muttered curses and recovered his balance, slapping her so hard her brain seemed to rattle in her skull. Belle began to wail. If Emma didn’t stop now, the baby would surely get hurt.

       She was about to give in when she spotted the sharp blade of a knife he grasped with his right hand.

       “Please, no. The baby needs me.”

       He spit in her direction, the spittle falling short and landing near her feet. “Should I cut your pretty throat or just shred your face so that you never tempt another man again?”

       “Please. Mercy. Please.”

       He dabbed at the blood on his face with the dirty cuff of his sleeve and then swung at her. The knife slashed her left arm a few inches above the elbow, barely missing Belle.

       Julio swung again, but this time he missed completely and lost his balance when the blade connected with nothing but air.

       Bracing herself with her left arm against the side of the trailer, she got in a quick kick that struck him in the back of the knee. He fell facedown onto the hard, filthy floor.

       Emma scurried to jump out the back door. Expecting to hear Julio’s footsteps behind her or the sound of a gunshot, she didn’t look back until she reached the cover of trees and brush at the side of the narrow dirt road where they were parked. To her amazement, there was no sign of Julio.

       She shuddered at the icy sting of the wind in her face and the feel of warm blood running down her arm. Working quickly, she tightened the rebozo around the wound, hoping the pressure would slow the bleeding.

       Belle started to cry. Emma fought back her own tears of fear and frustration. She had had no idea which way she should go, but she stumbled ahead, vaguely aware of the snowflakes sifting through the canopy of pine needles and melting against her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around Belle and held her close in a futile effort to keep her warm.

       Finally, she stepped into a clearing and spied a stretch of barbed-wire fencing. Relief pumped a reviving surge of adrenaline though her veins. If there was a fence, civilization couldn’t be that far away. Her pace quickened with her pulse.

       Careful not to let the barbs touch Belle’s tender skin, Emma stretched the top wire so that she could maneuver through the fence and step into the tree-dotted pasture.

       Something rustled in the grass behind her, and Emma took off running, terrified that Julio might be mere steps behind her. She didn’t stop running until she was panting for breath and her legs felt like they were about to give way and send her slamming to the ground.

       Her heart still pounding, she fell against the trunk of a towering pine tree. Belle began to fret, and her fussing quickly escalated to a wail.

       With her back against the scratchy bark of the tree trunk, Emma slowly sank to the ground. Her fingers searched and found the pacifier nestled in the deep folds of her rebozo. She poked the nipple into Belle’s mouth. This time Belled quickly locked her lips around it. But in in a few short minutes, she spit it out.

       Belle began to wail again. Emma closed her eyes and pictured herself in a comfortable rocker, cuddling Belle while the hungry infant fed on nourishing formula. Heat from logs blazing in a stone fireplace warmed them both, so real she could smell the odor of burning wood.

       The sound of galloping hooves penetrated her consciousness. She opened her eyes and jerked to attention, but there was no horse in sight.

       Like the fire and the rocker, it was only her imagination. No one would be out riding after dark on a night like this. No hero was going to come to her rescue.

       She forced herself back to her feet. If she fell asleep with only illusions of comfort, the helpless infant in her arms might die before morning from the cold if not from hunger.

      * * *

      THE WIND WAS PUNISHING even though the old leather work jacket Damien had taken from the tack room protected him from the worst of the cold.

       He’d ridden hard, letting King go full speed across the familiar trails just the way the steed loved it. Fortunately, the ride had given Damien a chance to lower his aggravation level and ease his suspicions.

       This wasn’t like the disagreements he used to have with his dad. Riding hard wouldn’t negate the questions. The answers would have to come from his mother. No doubt she’d be able to explain everything. And most likely he’d overreacted and none of it would have anything to do with him.

       Sisters might easily decide to give their sons identical names if they’d given birth on the exact same day. One thing he knew for certain: his mother would never have willingly shut her sister’s son out of her life. Either that son was dead or his father had kept Carolina away from her nephew.

       Unless Damien’s mother harbored family secrets so terrifying and depraved that she’d kept them hidden all these years. …

       The thought of his mother with deep, dark secrets was so inconceivable it was almost laughable. Honesty was practically synonymous with the name Carolina Lambert in their part of their country. So was charity and friendship.

       The snow fell harder, huge flakes that were beginning to cover the winter feed grass. In some parts of the country, the first snowfall of the season was a rite of passage into winter. In Dallas, they sometimes went years without a decent snowfall. This one just might be it, though it wouldn’t stay on the ground long. Warmer weather was forecasted to arrive in a couple of days.

       He turned King back toward the ranch, letting him choose his own pace, until Damien spotted a young buck drinking from Beaver Creek. He reined in King and admired the stately deer. It looked totally at ease with the weather, though the wind wailed through the pine needles like a tomcat. Or like a baby.

       Too much like a baby.

       Damien’s senses sharpened. He stretched in the saddle and spotted a woman, her shoulders stooped, trudging along in the opposite direction. He quickly caught up with her. When she turned around, he noticed that all she had for warmth was a shawl wrapped around her and the wailing infant she cuddled close to her chest.

       What the devil was she doing out here with a baby on a night like this? Damien scanned the area for trouble as he climbed from the saddle.

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