When Lightning Strikes Page 4

"Don't." The word was barely above a whisper. "I have a ... thing about that."

  Suddenly she looked young and afraid and infinitely vulnerable. He knew he shouldn't respond, shouldn't let himself respond. He should just press the gun against her breast and repeat his threat. But there was something about her, something compelling and ... familiar.

  Almost against his will, he moved toward her, watching as his shadow engulfed her. "Okay." Even as he said the word, he couldn't believe he was going to be so stupid. This woman was dangerous, possibly deadly, and the last thing he ought to feel for her was compassion. He ought to tie her up, gag her, and set her loose in the desert somewhere to die. That would be the smart thing.

  You're an idiot, Killian. He backed away from her, away from those damn eyes that held both vulnerability and violence. "I won't tie your hands as long as you

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  keep up. But if you lag for a second, I'm gonna change my mind."

  Her breath exhaled in a sharp gust. She laughed. It was a brittle, forced sound. "A second? Not very chivalrous of you."

  "And another thing ..."

  "Yeah?"

  "If you talk . . . I'm gonna gag you."

  "Oh, yeah?" She stared up at him, lifted one thick black eyebrow. The strand of vulnerability in her gaze snapped, left behind a coolness that made Killian wonder if he'd imagined her moment of weakness. "You know, Killian, I just made up my mind about something."

  "What's that?"

  "I'm going to kill you earlier in the book. You're a real jerk."

  He sighed. She was back to being crazy. "Get on the damn horse."

  He watched her walk over to the roan and climb into the saddle. Reaching forward, she plucked up the reins and drew them into her lap. Then she turned slightly and looked down at him. "Don't run, okay?" The request came out slowly, reluctantly, as if she hated to ask him for something. "I only rode a few times in Girl Scout camp. I'm no John Wayne."

  "Don't run?" He echoed the ridiculous request. "This is a getaway." He strode to his horse and vaulted into the saddle. Leaning sideways, he grabbed hold of her reins and wound them around his saddle horn, drawing her mount close. "Hold on to the saddle horn." Before she could mouth off anymore, he kicked his horse hard and they were off, galloping across the empty, endless desert in a cloud of dust.

  He heard her scream, saw her scramble to get situ-

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  ated. Her fingers curled around the leather horn in a death grip, her back hunched forward, her feet flailing in the stirrups.

  There was a moment of blessed silence, and then came the curses. She muttered them at first, angry, unladylike words. Gradually she built up steam, until, after ten minutes of riding, she was shouting expletives at the top of her lungs.

  He'd been a fool not to gag her.

  "Shit," he shouted.

  Lainie cast a disgusted look at the man beside her. He was leaning over in his saddle, staring at the ground. His craggy, beard-stubbled face was drawn into an ominous frown, almost frightening in its intensity.

  But she wasn't afraid. Hell, no, she wasn't afraid. He might be physically imposing, even threatening, but it didn't matter. He wasn't real. His gun wasn't real, his bullets weren't real, his threat wasn't real. In ten minutes she was going to wake up and this whole experience would be transferred to a few pages of honest emotion in her book. It was one good thing about this dream. Before, when she was writing, she'd thought of Killian as a one-dimensional outlaw with a cold heart. A villain whose sole purpose was to make the hero appear stronger, smarter, quicker. Now, she saw Killian in a whole new light.

  He was a real asshole.

  But he didn't tie her hands.

  In that instant she'd seen a spark of compassion that was completely unexpected, a character trait she hadn't given him. She knew there was no understanding in John Killian. There was only violence and selfishness and self-reliance. She ought to know.

  And yet, there'd been no mistaking the compassion

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  she saw in his eyes. For a second�just a heartbeat� he'd seemed like someone else entirely, someone she didn't know at all.

  "That's impossible," she hissed, bouncing hard on the leather seat. "He's exactly who you created. What else could he be?"

  He reined his horse to a walk. Then he leaned over again, and stared down at the rust-colored dirt.

  Lainie's mount immediately slowed. She clung to the saddle horn, teeth rattling in her head, as her horse's gait melted into a bone-jarring trot.

  "Shit," he said again.

  Lainie frowned, making a mental note to work harder on Killian's dialogue. All he ever said was shit and shut up. Neither of which was particularly pleasant�even for a villain.

  She tried to give him a disdainful look, but it was hard to look disdainful when you were thumping along in a saddle like a sack of rocks. "I hope you aren't attempting to convey information to me in some limited prehistoric code."

  He glanced over at her, his thick, winged black eyebrows drawn into an imposing frown. "Why the hell would I want to talk to you?"

  "I can't imagine. By all means, keep yelling 'shit' at the ground."

  "The black is limping."

  "The black what?"

  His gaze raked her. It was a look so full of contempt that she felt suddenly chilled. "My horse."

  "Boy, that was a stretch."

  "What?"

  "Naming your horse. What'd it take you�ten, twelve days to come up with that one?"

  "Shut up."

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  She sighed. "I've got to work harder on your dialogue. You sound like something out of Quest for Fire."

  Ignoring her, he brought the black to a halt and dismounted. Bending over, he gently lifted the stallion's foreleg.

  Lainie peered down at the hoof. "We've been running for an hour. He's probably just tired."

  Killian threw her a disgusted look. He pulled a hoof-pick out of his saddlebag and began picking rocks and dirt from the horse's hoof. "Uh-huh."

  Lainie glanced around. They were in the middle of a long stretch of plain flanked by sheer taupe canyon walls. To their right, a muddy, slow-moving river wound in and out of colorful cottonwood stands. A grass of sorts�it looked like the first greening growth of a Chia Pet�dotted the sandy brown soil. Overhead, the sky was an endless robin's-egg blue uncluttered by clouds.

  It wasn't at all as she'd envisioned it. The heat was stronger, more invasive, and the land had a raw, tormented beauty she hadn't anticipated. Here beside this ageless tower of stone, she felt very small and insignificant and ... alone.

  The moment's vulnerability pissed her off. She straightened her shoulders and brushed the hair from her eyes. Her expensive salon mousse was starting to wilt. Beside her, Killian removed his saddle from the black's broad back.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded.

  He gave her another scornful look. "Dancing."

  Chalk one up for the he-man. "Let me rephrase that. Why are you doing that?"

  "He's lame."

  Lainie got a sick feeling in her stomach. "You're not going to shoot him, are you?"

  

  This time he didn't even glance her way. "I'd rather shoot you." He threw the saddle behind him. It landed at the base of a short pine tree. Wordlessly he reached for his reins and tied the horse to the same tree.

  Then he turned and walked toward her. He moved with a feline, predatory grace, his hips gliding in a thoroughly masculine way. The thudding heat of his footsteps seemed threatening in the desert's quiet.

  She realized suddenly what it meant to be larger than life. She'd created this man, invented him from the vast resources of her own imagination, and part of him was what she'd envisioned, but part of him was .. . more.

  She watched him, noticing the deep furrows that lined his forehead and the network of lines that pulled at the flesh around his eyes. He seemed older than was possible�he should have been twenty-eight, with a face lined only by hours beneath a hot sun. But t
he man moving toward her was at least forty, maybe forty-five, with a face that had been ravaged by life's cruelties. There was a restless hunger in him she'd never once imagined, a raw masculinity that somehow frightened her.

  She frowned. She hadn't given him all those lines, she was certain of it. She'd given him his size, surely, but not the hard, sinewy leanness that seemed just below the surface. She saw it in his eyes, in the way he moved, in the way he always held his hands near his gun belt.

  "Like what you see, lady?"

  She bristled at having been caught staring. It was stupid, surely, but a normal human reaction. Everyone knew it was rude to stare ... even, apparently, fictional characters. "As a matter of fact, I don't. I thought you'd be more ..."

  "More what?"

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  She frowned, unsure exactly. "I don't know. More evil and less ... rude."

  He reached up and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling hard. She wobbled and fell, sliding down the bumpy leather side of the saddle. The wooden stirrup conked her in the side of her head. "Ouch ... shit."

  "Nice language," he grunted.

  "Good elocution," she shot back.

  He kept his hold viselike and strode toward a huge tree. She stumbled along beside him, wrenching her hand with every step.

  "Damn it, let me go."

  At the tree, he came to an abrupt stop and spun her around. The world slid sideways. Lainie literally saw stars before the horizon slowly righted itself. "Goddamn it," she sputtered, bringing her fist up and drawing back to punch him.

  He looked at her puny fist and laughed. "Gonna blacken my eye, are you?"

  "I just might."

  "Believe me, lady, your mouth has already inflicted more damage than your fist ever could."

  She pointedly eyed his crotch. "That depends on where I land my punch."

  He laughed, and it was a surprisingly rich, compelling sound. "If you touch me there, it won't be to inflict pain."

  "Don't flatter yourself. I wouldn't touch you . . . there if it were the last there on earth."

  He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the dirty, balled-up red bandanna he'd worn in the robbery.

  She eyed the scrap of fabric suspiciously. "What are you going to do with that?"

  He didn't respond, but she saw the answer in his eyes. She drew in a sharp breath. "You wouldn't da�"

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  He shoved the rag in her mouth and tied it tightly behind her head.

  She glared up at him through narrowed eyes. Fury exploded in her chest. Her heartbeat sped up, her breathing quickened.

  He drew back, grinning. "I like you better already."

  Lainie punched him, a hard-knuckled jab right in the eye. Then she brought her knee up and rammed it in his crotch.

  His breath exhaled in a grunting, cursing rush. He clutched his eye and bent over, gasping.

  She felt a blistering sense of vindication. She hoped his eye blackened. And his dick.

  That's what you get for comin' after me, pal.

  Suddenly he looked at her. His eyes were cold and dark, and filled with a seething power that chilled her to the bone. "So," he hissed softly, "that's the way you want to play this."

  Lainie swallowed hard. A teeny weeny spark of fear slipped into her righteous anger. She felt�crazily�as if this wasn't just a dream, and she hadn't just punched a figment of her imagination. She backed up, shaking her head. The gag kept her horribly silent.

  He leapt at her, grabbed her wrist, and spun her around, dragging her toward the horses. She kicked, she screamed into the gag, she tried to wrench away. None of it seemed to affect him in the least. He tightened his grip and moved faster.

  At the horses, he pinned her to his body and fished a length of rope from his saddlebags. Then he dragged her, still kicking and screaming soundlessly, to a spot beside the pine and shoved her down. Rocks and pebbles bit into her backside. She gave a tiny, muffled yelp of pain and tried to scurry away from him, but he was too fast.

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  He rammed her wrists together, circling them in an unforgiving band, bruising, pinching. She wiggled and tried to scream. When none of that worked, she glared at him.

  "It won't be long. I'm just gonna walk on down to that ranch and see if I can buy another couple of horses."

  She screamed into the rag. It came out as a muffled, pathetic little squeak.

  He paused, glanced at her. One eyebrow winged upward tauntingly. "Did you say something?"

  She glared at him.

  In a single, practiced motion, he brought her hands to her ankjes and quickly bound her hands and ankles. She squirmed and wiggled to get free, but her balance was tenuous. She tipped slightly and fell, landing sprawled on her side like a bound steer.

  He bent over, his upside-down face peering at her. "Was that how you wanted to wait for me?"

  Screw you.

  He grinned. "Wait, let me guess what you said. Did it start with an F ... end with a M?" He waited a second for her answer, then laughed again, a rich, rumbling sound that made her want to rip his eyes out.

  "Here you go." Gently he righted her. Then he straightened. "I'll be right back. No more than fifteen minutes. Just�" he smiled broadly�"keep quiet."

  Lainie stared, watching him walk away from her. For a few precious heartbeats, she felt an almost violent anger. She thought about all the things she was going to do to him, how she was going to make him pay for treating her this way.

  She'd kill him with hot wax in chapter one. She'd draw and quarter him ... slowly. She'd ...

  She looked up and he was gone.

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  She was alone.

  The towering cinnamon gold walls seemed to close in on her, squeezing the air from her lungs. Heat hit her hard in the face, brought a sheen of sweat to her forehead and throat. Somewhere a hawk cried, its sound a keening, desperate wail in the emptiness.

  Her anger collapsed, caved in on itself and left her with nothing. Fear took its place, surging through her body, moving like ice through her trussed arms and legs. A vile, bitter taste invaded her mouth. For a horrifying moment she thought she was going to be ill.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, but it was a mistake. Memories came at her hard; disgusting, despicable images pulsed through her mind, spearing through her courage like tiny, poison-tipped arrows until she couldn't breathe. They came at her from all sides; the murmured drone of lowered voices, the shuffling thud of heavy footsteps, the jangling of keys. Hands reached for her, forced her onto a cold vinyl bed. Leather straps closed around her wrists, bit into her tender flesh; a key chinked into place.

  She opened her eyes, tried to banish the pictures from her mind, but she didn't have the strength.

  She bowed her head. Please, God, let me wake up now. I don't want this nightmare. Not . . . tied up. Please, God ...

  But there was no answer from above, no easing of the burden, no shifting of the images. She closed her eyes again and curled into a small, shaking ball, trying not to care.

  After a while, the darkness came for her. She slipped into a place inside herself, an almost catatonic quiet that welcomed her with comforting, familiar arms.

  And the dream ceased to matter.

  Chapter Four

  r

  Killian approached the farmhouse warily, his hands at his gun belt. His every sense was focused on the silence around him.

  He was in a small canyon, a place that looked as if it had been scooped into existence by God's own hand. Twisting, upthrust walls of multihued rock curled protectively around the valley, creating a haven safe from the fierce desert winds. Tucked into the corner was a squat, flat-roofed cabin, fenced by sagging strands of barbed wire and gnarled posts. Behind it, eight good-sized horses were clustered together against the coming night.

  Killian moved slowly across the sandy yard and opened the slatted-wood gate. Tired hinges squealed at his touch; the sound melted into the melancholy whisper of the wind and disappeared.

  He went to the
front door and knocked. The aged wood groaned.

  Footsteps thudded behind the door. The wooden knob rattled, turned.

  Unconsciously Killian straightened. His right hand glided downward slowly; his fingertips brushed the pistol's metal grip.

  The door swung open. In the opening stood a short, stoop-shouldered man with a flowing gray beard and

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  eyes like chips of granite. It was the face of a man who'd lived all his life in the harshness of a desert climate, chiseled and creased and darkened by the sun's unforgiving glare. His eyes narrowed suspiciously, raked Killian from head to foot. "Whaddaya want?"

  Killian stood still. "I need two horses."

  The man spat; a huge, spiraling gob of tobacco hit the dusty earth beside Killian's left boot and immediately disappeared into the moisture-deprived soil. His gaze flicked over Killian's guns, then moved up. "Uh-huh. On the run, are you?"

  "That's a question best not asked, old man."

  The man smiled, revealing a set of broken, tobacco-stained teeth. "You got my best interests at heart, do ya, stranger?"

  "Something like that."

  "Uh-huh." The man spat again, then cleared his throat with a phlegmy, hacking sound. "Were you thinkin' on stealin' 'em or buyin' 'em?"

  Killian eyed the old man, watching him, weighing him, waiting for a stupid move. "That depends on you."

  The man gave a throaty, loose laugh and started coughing again. "You ain't the first outlaw to stop by here. Butch and Elza were by once ... oh, back in eighty-nine. After the Telluride job."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah. I sold Cassidy a horse for sixty bucks." He shook his head and tugged on his beard. "He was a hell of a nice guy, that Cassidy."

  "I'm not that nice."

  The man looked up sharply, for the first time really looking at Killian's eyes. His rotten-toothed smile slowly faded into a frown.

  Killian reached into his pocket and pulled out two

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  wrinkled twenty-dollar bills. "I'll give you forty bucks for two horses."

  "That ain't near enough."

  Killian reached for his gun, slid one finger into the cold curl of the trigger. "I think it is."

  The man's wide-eyed gaze fixed on the gun. He licked his fleshy lips and glanced behind Killian. His thoughts were obvious; Killian had seen them a thousand times. That first useless, groping reach for help. The realization of what it meant to be faced by a man who lived outside the law.

  The old man wet his lips again and swallowed convulsively. His gnarled, liver-spotted fingers convulsed. He shot a nervous glance inside his cabin.