The Mercenary's Kiss. Pam Crooks

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      But the days passed, and slowly she healed. Pop’s devastation from her attack ran deep, but he loved her unequivocally, and the rest of the medicine show troupe—the only real family she’d ever known—surrounded her with overwhelming warmth and support. From them, the people who loved her most, she drew courage and went on.

      The hate eventually died, buried beneath the hope and anticipation that unexpectedly grew in its stead. She began to realize the baby growing inside her was her own, and no one could ever change that. Perhaps it was God’s way of helping her survive the ordeal; she thanked Him every day for giving her Nicky.

      “Ma-ma-ma.”

      After finishing his cracker, he patted her chest and plucked at the buttons of her blouse. He didn’t nurse much these days, and the thought that he’d be fully weaned soon saddened her. Another sign of how fast he was growing and that he didn’t need her as much. Pop handed her a baby blanket and Nicky’s favorite stuffed horse from the basket tucked beneath the seat; she cuddled her son close, and he began to nurse.

      He lifted his hand and curled his fingers around her thumb. Elena pressed her lips to the warm skin, shades darker than her own, then gently brushed the wavy hair away from his temple—hair thick and gleaming black.

      Like his.

      The differences between mother and son were striking. Nicky was as dark as Elena was fair. Someday he’d question her about it, and she’d have to tell him the truth. Until he was old enough to understand the circumstances surrounding his heritage, however, she wouldn’t dwell on them.

      Instead, she marveled at what a handsome little boy he was in his red shirt and denim dungarees. As if he knew what she was thinking, he grinned up at her as he suckled, and she laughed at his impishness.

      “Elena, honey.”

      At the seriousness in her father’s voice, she darted a quick glance toward him. He stared over his shoulder at something that clearly alarmed him.

      “Looks like we got trouble.” He pulled his Winchester from behind the driver’s seat and laid it on his lap. “Hang on to Nicky. I’m going to try to outrun ’em.”

      “Outrun who?” Her gaze clawed through the woodlands. “Why?”

      And then she saw them. A group of a dozen or so heavily armed Mexicans. They were everywhere in the trees behind them—and gaining fast.

      “Hee-yah!” Pop yelled, and slapped the reins against the team’s backs.

      The wagon lurched forward and picked up speed. Elena held Nicky in a death grip with one arm and clutched the edge of her seat with the other. The sound of horses’ hooves pounded in her ears, but nothing matched the terror thundering inside her heart.

      She and Pop had heard of these men. Fierce revolutionaries who thought nothing of robbing innocent Americans of their money and then killing them for their trouble—ordinary citizens who had little to do with their cause but who found themselves helpless against their ruthless tactics.

      The rebels followed no pattern. They killed at whim, whether it was a train or a stagecoach, large or small.

      Oh, God. Pop’s medicine wagon would make easy pickings.

      The rig careened wildly as the team sped over the narrow, rutted path, and Elena braced her feet to keep from toppling over the edge.

      “Pop!” she gasped. “Slow down! We’ll upset if you don’t.”

      “I can’t let them get us, Lennie!” he said tersely.

      Elena heard his desperation, and her fear increased tenfold. Pop wasn’t a fighter, and while she knew how to handle a gun, she’d never shot at a living thing in her life.

      “They’re closing in on us,” Pop said.

      The men were close enough now she could see the gleaming rows of bullets in their ammunition belts.

      He did all he could to handle the team as they lunged and lurched between the trees. Elena ducked to keep from being struck by low branches; she held Nicky so tight he squealed in complaint.

      Suddenly a group of the revolutionaries broke away and formed a blockade in the road ahead of them. A formidable row of ruthless men, fanned out and impenetrable with their rifles cocked and leveled right at them.

      “Pop! Stop! You have to stop!” she cried.

      To crash through the wall of men and horses was unthinkable, and her father swore in frustration. He yanked hard on the reins, and the team reared, their shrill screams piercing the air.

      One of the men barked an order, and the revolutionaries took up position on both sides of the wagon. Elena’s focus locked on him, and the blood froze in her veins.

      Two years had passed, but she recognized the wavy-haired Mexican as if it were only yesterday.

      “It’s him!” she whispered in horror.

      She knew what he was capable of, and if she did anything, anything, she had to keep him from seeing Nicky.

      She averted her head and frantically covered him with his blanket. Every inch of him. And though he had long since lost interest in nursing and wanted only to sit up now that the wagon had stopped, she kept him tight against her, pressing his face to her bosom to muffle his protests.

      As if the past two years had fallen away for him, too, Pop snarled and whipped out the Winchester.

      “You son of a bitch!” he bellowed, and cocked the rifle.

      But the leader was too quick. A shot exploded. Pop jerked and toppled from the wagon seat with a sickening thud.

      Elena screamed. She bolted toward the edge of the rig, her free arm reaching for him though he was sprawled on the ground, too far to touch. Blood bloomed on his shoulder and stained the fabric of his suit coat. She cried out his name on an anguished sob. Ashen-faced, Pop gripped his leg, twisted at an unnatural angle.

      “Get into the back, Elena! Now!” he grated through clenched teeth.

      He wanted to spare her from seeing what would happen to him next, she knew, and the wagon’s interior would help her protect Nicky.

      But Elena wouldn’t leave Pop. She couldn’t. And she’d be a fool to think the men would let her out of their sight if she tried.

      “You should have killed him for his insolence, Ramon,” one of the men grunted, dismounting and taking the rifle, which had skidded out of Pop’s reach.

      “There is still time for that, eh, Armando?”

      The male voices swirled around Elena. Ramon had controlled her once, left her hurting and humiliated, as helpless then as Pop was now. A fury unlike anything she had ever experienced before erupted inside her, and she spun back toward the Mexican.

      “Leave us alone, damn you!” she snapped.

      He dragged his glance from the side of the wagon, as if he only now had taken the time to see the colorful lettering proclaiming “Doc Charlie’s Medicine Show” СКАЧАТЬ