Secrets Vol 2 Read online

  The taste of dust rode on heated air, and she scowled at the desolate landscape as it rolled by the window. Her mind churned, tossing up the problems that plagued her. She was angry with everything, but in particular with her father. Just because he returned to the fort to find a few crates of rifles gone, that was no reason to make her leave for Paris on the next stage.

  If only her father knew the whole story.

  Her fiance expected a virgin on their wedding night, and she wasn't one. Anymore. When he found out, she was certain he would toss her out on her noble ear. Of course, she didn't give a hoot about an annulment. She didn't want to marry him in the first place. However, she did care that all of Paris would know the reason.

  Now, what was she going to do?

  She drummed her nails across the leather seat. Well, her phantom lover could always appear on his dark stallion, brandishing his sword as if he were Prince Charming, and whisk her away to Paradise...

  Raine groaned and folded her arms across her chest. All right, so that wasn't going to happen.

  Outside, the hot sun beat down, while inside the air smelled stale and rancid. She had enough dust in her lungs to stuff a mattress. The fat man across from her, sitting next to his wife, snored like a freight train. If he didn't shut his mouth soon, she was going to stuff her lace hanky in it!

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  Weary from the arduous trip, she slumped against the hard seat and covered her nose with her hanky. She narrowed her eyes and scrunched up her face. That fat man had exactly one more minute to stop snoring!

  Raine took a breath that should have calmed her. She looked over at her escort and found him swabbing his sunburned neck with a wrinkled white handkerchief. Afraid an armed patrol would draw unwanted attention her father had assigned only Philippe, his personal attache, to escort her. Philippe's orders were simple. He was to put her aboard the ship to France and remain at the dock until the ship sailed.

  The sound of gunshots in the distance jolted Raine back to the present. The stagecoach bounced and lurched, tossing the passengers around in their seats. Philippe's face turned red and he gasped for breath. Raine sighed inwardly. Some escort.

  She heard the stage driver slap his reins and yell, "Getup!" When the horses surged forward, the force of it threw Raine into Philippe. She could see the tight strain of Philippe's jaw. She supposed he had good reason to be afraid. After all, her father would hold him responsible for her safety, and there was rapid gunfire exploding outside the coach.

  The other woman was screaming herself hoarse, and, although her fat husband tried to calm her, she wouldn't stop. He had definitely stopped snoring though. She smoothed the front of her gown, she sat up, and leaned across Philippe to peer out of the window. Raine recoiled in horror at the sight of a man on horseback, riding so close to the coach. Averting her gaze, she tried to block out the thunder of hooves.

  Being held up was a common occurrence in this war-torn country, but never in her wildest dreams had she imagined it would happen to her. She'd heard stories about what they did to women—.

  Nothing to fear, she reminded herself, these bandits only wanted money. But if they wanted anything else, or tried to harm any of them, she would fight with everything she had at her disposal.

  The stagecoach hit a pot hole and left the ground. The woman

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  across from Raine screamed louder. When they came back to earth, Raine scrambled to her seat. Sliding her hand into the secret pocket sewn into the folds of her skirt, she touched the welcoming cold steel of the small bejeweled dagger. She curled her fingers around its handle.

  With her other hand, she clutched her reticule closer to her, so that if she needed to, she could reach the derringer her father had insisted she carry. The gun made her feel safe. Though she would have preferred to have the six-shooter, a soldier at the fort had taught her to use on the sly. She could also use a rifle quite well, but since she had neither at her disposal, the derringer would have to do.

  Finally the sound of gunshots slowed, but so did the stagecoach. Raine's escort turned to face her, and she saw that he was sweating profusely. Philippe would really have to calm down. They couldn't afford to let the bandoleros know they feared them. She hissed through her teeth in frustration and poked the Frenchman in his arm to get his attention.

  "Look at you," she cried in French. "For the love of God, wipe your brow and at least try to act like you are in control."

  Bug-eyed and breathless, Philippe managed to pull a handkerchief from his suit pocket. He attempted to dab his brow before stammering, "I am sorry, mademoiselle, but I am sure we are being held up by bandits!"

  Raine rolled her eyes. She was so exasperated with the man, she thought she would swear, but ladies never swore—not aloud, anyway—unless...they had a damn good reason.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, of course we are being held up. Any fool would know that! Does that mean you have to act like a buffoon? Pull yourself together, monsieur."

  Raine sighed. She liked the young man well enough, but she might as well have made the trip alone for all the good he was. When she got to France, she would write her father and inform him of the poor choice he'd made for an escort.

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  To the south, three men rode their Spanish mustangs out of Sinforosa Canyon. A slight breeze played, but it brought no relief from the sweltering heat. Miguel Chavez's sun-darkened face and forearms glistened with a sweat in the late afternoon sun.

  Miguel pulled back on his reins and knocked the dust from his hat. "Mother of God, this heat is going to kill me," he said in Spanish. He lifted his arm to wipe the sweat from his face, then with a practiced hand set the hat back on his head.

  The oldest revolutionary shoved his hand through a head full of dark hair that curled like watch springs. "We have just delivered two dozen crates of stolen rifles to a group of revolutionaries—of questionable character," he said, "and you are worried about the heat killing you?"

  Miguel almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but suddenly the earth rumbled beneath them, followed by a series of rapid gunfire. Out of the dust appeared a stagecoach surrounded by a group of bandoleros. Surging ahead of the coach, two bandoleros grabbed the horses' reins and forced the stagecoach to come to a blinding halt.

  Automatically, Miguel checked the load of his Winchester and felt for the black whip around his saddle horn. He heard the high-pitched screams of women. His first instinct was to ride to their aid. Even at this distance, he could see the driver was dead, or would be soon. The women on board were at the bandoleros' mercy, and with those Mexicans, there would be none.

  As much as he wanted to help, Miguel felt his sense of duty outweighing his sense of instinct. More revolutionaries were waiting for rifles. He and his men needed to get back to Copper Canyon. They didn't need any more delays. If they failed to make the next gun run on time, many more lives could be at risk than the few on that stage.

  "Time to take cover, mis amigos," he said. Miguel jerked sharply on the reins, turned his horse around, and spurred him into a gallop.

  His men had already pulled the revolvers they kept strapped to their hips, and without hesitation they slapped their reins. As if by

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  magic, horses and riders seemed to vanish in the smoky dust. Damn blood-sucking thieves! Miguel kept a close eye on the bandoleros.

  ******************

  The stagecoach rocked on its wheels, the woman across from Raine screamed again. Outside, a bandit fired three times in the air to get the passengers' attention.

  As if they didn't already have it.

  The stage door was jerked open and a bandit aimed his gun inside. He smiled, showing yellow teeth. A dirty serape covered his shoulders and a battered sombrero hung over his back. It occurred to Raine that this Mexican would not be seriously injured if he were held under a water pump for half an hour.

  "Su dinero, por favor,” he said to every
one as he waved his pistol. Then he reached over the woman across from Raine and snatched her husband's watch. The wife gasped and nearly had an attack of the vapors.

  Two seconds later, the bandit grabbed the arm of the fat man and pulled him out of the coach. The wife screamed, as usual, and he tugged on her arm until she too tumbled out. They disappeared.

  "Your money, or your life," the bandit snapped in English, his gaze sweeping Raine and her escort.

  Philippe looked like a rifle had just tired three inches from his ear.

  Raine grimaced, but she got an idea. Although she knew the other bandits were still around, by stroke of luck, one door was now open and unguarded. Her lips turned up the slightest bit.

  'Ahora!" the bandit yelled.

  Raine stiffened. So, he was becoming impatient. Now, indeed! Very well, she'd give him what was in her purse, if he insisted. With a thin smile, she opened her reticule and reached inside. Her derringer might only have one shot, but it would do well enough at close range. The revolver was in her hand when she heard Philippe's deep sigh, but obviously he anticipated something other than what she meant to do.

  Her fingers tightened around the derringer. While they still con-

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  cealed her hand within the purse, she eased back the hammer with her thumb. Finally, she raised her eyes to those of the bandit and gave him her most endearing smile. One that any man would have thought was special, only for him.

  "I am sorry to have kept you waiting," Raine apologized in Spanish, which appeared to have pleased the bandit, if his relaxed posture was any indication.

  Raine quickly withdrew her hand and pointed the derringer at his chest. 'Baja la pistola!"

  She was quite pleased with herself when she saw the bandit's eyes widened in disbelief. However, her optimism dropped considerably when his initial shock wore off and instead of dropping the _gun as she'd ordered, he threw back his head and laughed.

  “Mon Dieu, mademoiselle. Non!" Philippe broke in. So much for hiding their nationality. At least one person took her seriously, although the wrong one!

  'Oui," she replied, not taking her eyes or the gun off the dark-skinned man in front of her.

  Philippe fainted.

  The bandit gave her an unpleasant grin, which she was sure was because he knew now that she was French. With an icy tone and in rapid Spanish he yelled at her. Raine understood about half of what he said, but that was enough. He meant to rape her — or beat her — or both, and he wanted her to put down the gun. Was he insane? Not on her life! Her back straightened as she spoke. "No!"

  Her matter-of-fact tone threw the bandit into a rage. Raine forced herself to smile and then moved the gun a little from side to side, showing she was serious.

  "Put the gun down!"

  Instead of doing as she had said, the bandit stayed right where he was.

  Well, come ahead Raine thought, and we will see who gets hurt.

  "You are crazy," he said, reaching for her gun.

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  That was what he thought, the devil's spawn! Raine squeezed the trigger and the derringer exploded.

  All too aware that she had no time to reload her pistol for a second shot, Raine wasn't going to wait to see if she'd killed the bandit. When he clutched his chest and staggered backward, she did not need any more encouragement. She lifted her skirts and bolted through the open door of the stage.

  She hit the ground running as hard as she could. Having been raised an only child of privilege, she wasn't exactly what one would describe as a good runner, especially on unfamiliar turf. She had gone about twenty feet when she tripped and hit the hard, dusty ground with a loud oomph. "Oh, no!" She let out a muffled scream of frustration just as a series of rapid shots came too close.

  Her mouth was as dry as the dust on which she, lay, when she raised her aching head off a rock. After tossing her hair away from her face, she saw an ugly lizard with beady eyes staring her; right in the face. More scared of her than she was of him, it darted away... before she could scream. With a shiver, she crossed herself.

  The rocky ground had torn her skirts and the skin off her palms, which were bleeding. Her entire body hurt like the devil. She'd have to worry about her aches and pains later; she knew she had to get out of there fast.

  She was terrified of moving, but what else could she do? Being caught by these bandits was not a thought she wanted to entertain. Especially now, since she had just put a bullet in one of them. She refused to give in to her rising fear. If she didn't get moving while she still had a head start, she knew she would leave this savage country alive. She could only hope a moving target would be harder to hit.

  She wished she had thought of all this before she decided to pull her derringer and jump from a stage in the middle of God-knew-where. Now she wasn't at all sure it was the wisest thing to do. Thankfully, her knife was still in the pocket of her skirt, and if her luck held, the bandits might not come after her until they'd seen about their friend.

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  Scanning the area, she saw a group of large boulders not far ahead. Some distance beyond that stood a small copse of trees. Maybe she could make it that far. At least, it was a possibility. Of course, the bandits could shoot her before she took another step.

  She allowed herself to hope.

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  Chapter Three

  Shielded by yucca and mesquite, Miguel gripped the rifle across his saddle with an iron grip. At first sight of the woman's face, he stiffened and swore under his breath,

  "No." For the smallest moment he hesitated, not able to believe the woman who had jumped from the stage in a flurry of skirts was Raine LeFleur. He knew it was. He also knew that he should let those stinking bandits kill her; let her die as his mother and sister had died, fighting rape, while his father was forced to watch until the French had cut his throat.

  He closed his eyes, but he couldn't stop the memories of Raine that surfaced in his mind. His sex swelled even now, and pushed against the confinement of his pants. For a moment, the desert faded and he was there again, climbing through the window of the fort, his hungry gaze fixed as her pale fingertips brushed against the tangle of dark curls that surrounded her sex and then concentrate on the one burning spot between her legs. Next time his tongue would exert that pressure over the spot of heat in her groin—darting back and forth across her erect bud.

  Miguel wanted her. Not for revenge against her father and the soldiers that had come to the hacienda and massacred his family— taken what had been Chavez land for a hundred years. No. He just wanted her...always available.

  Sudden shouts and curses erupted around the stage, the sound of Pistol shots boomed and the crack of rifle fire vibrated through the air and seized Miauel back to reality. He saw Raine scramble to her feet.

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  She wouldn't get far.

  Miguel turned to his men, and spoke in the sign language his Indian mother had taught him. He counted the number of bandits on his fingers and put the four fingers across one finger of the other hand, to indicate a man on horseback.

  "Cover me."

  Again, reckless gunfire erupted from around the stage. Miguel's gaze flew back to Raine. She ran, long masses of dark hair streaming behind her. In the next instant, a bandit spotted her and gave chase. Miguel's gut twisted. The bandit on horseback was gaining on Raine, fast. When he caught up with her, he would kill her, or worse. Unwelcome memories came flooding back as he watched her run for her life.

  With an effort that caused him pain and made his muscles tense beneath the dark trail clothes, he closed his mind against the vivid images. As though driven by muses—or the devil—he spurred his Blaze to a full gallop.

  Raine could hear the thunder of hoofbeats behind her, and panic rose like bile in her throat. She ran so hard that she was taking air in fast gulps. The muscles in her legs burned and she knew they would give out at any moment. Dear God, what could she do? As tea
rs streamed down her cheeks; she looked back, sweeping the hair from her eyes.

  Any second the horse and rider would catch up with her. Nausea twisted her stomach and she stumbled, but somehow managed to regain her footing. Tears blurred her vision. The rider's shouts and wild yells sounded so close; she imagined the horse's breath on the back of her neck.

  In a twinkling, he scooped her off the ground and threw her into the saddle in front of him. Raine screamed, "Nooo!"

  Unable to stop herself, Raine peered out from behind her screen of hair to see the cruel promise in the bandit's eyes. He horrified her with a wolfish smile that made her feel unclean.

  Out of her mind with fear and desperate to free herself, she beat

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  on her captor's chest and hacked at his face with her fingernails. The bandit howled and brought a broad, dirty hand to his bleeding face before raising it high. The blow fell with a resounding whack on Raine's face, causing her to let out a painful scream as her head jerked back from the force of the blow.

  Then rocks stung Raine's legs and she heard a deep voice from behind say, "Do not move." It was her only warning before a strong arm encircled her waist and roughly swung her up into another saddle, in front of a different man. She let out a strangled scream; she couldn't imagine how one bandit was any better than another.

  Instead of being grateful for just having been rescued from the torments of hell, Raine wrestled like a lassoed wildcat. Then she jabbed him hard in the ribs with her elbow, and almost got away, very nearly taking them both to their deaths.

  Raine heard a curse that burned her ears, then, "You will not do that again!" She squirmed to retrieve her knife from the pocket of her skirt.

  The bandit swore in Spanish as he reached down to recover the rein he'd lost while tangling with her. When his hand locked on the back of Raine's jacket bodice, she yelped.