AFTER TALBOT LEFT her cabin, Jacy lost her taste for the whiskey. His appearance had somehow quelled her loneliness and fear, and she no longer felt the need to numb herself.
Having found most men querulous and undependable at best, she didn’t like feeling dependent, but she sensed in Talbot a maturity based on a wry melancholy that went deeper than Dave’s death. No doubt his experiences in the War and his wandering in Mexico had seasoned him, and Jacy thought that, given time, she would find a sensitive, passionate man.
Regretting that she’d jumped the gun about his relationship with Suzanne Magnusson, she yearned to have his masculine arms around her now, to curl her naked body against his and sleep for a million years.
Lost in reverie, she’d scrubbed two iron skillets and several plates before it dawned on her that horses were nickering outside. She jumped, startled, splashing soapy water on the floor, and reached for her rifle. She moved quickly to the window and saw a man creeping along the barn, holding a rifle out before him.
She ran to the front door and opened it.
“Oh!” she screamed.
Another, bigger man stood before her, nearly filling the doorway. He wore a sheepskin coat and a tan hat, and was holding a rifle level with her belly. When Jacy tried to bring
her own carbine up to shoot him, he grabbed it.
She fought but his power was too great, and finally he jerked the rifle from her hands, throwing her to the floor. She jumped to her feet and went at him with her fists, but she could have been punching a brick wall for all the damage she did.
Casually, the man pushed her back into the kitchen. It wasn’t much of a shove, but there was enough force in the man’s arm that she fell backward, bouncing her head off the floor.
“Son of a bitch!” Jacy lay there a moment, stunned, then rose to her elbows.
The man took two steps into the cabin. He had a big slab of a face with cold eyes and an anvil jaw, the deep lines above his cheeks epitomizing belligerence. He had a pure, raw, gladiatorial demeanor, and Jacy knew she was face-to-face with one of Magnusson’s firebrands.
“Where’s Talbot?” he said with a growl.
“Who?” She’d been so certain they’d be coming for her, to extract payment for the part she’d played in the roadhouse debacle, that she wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.
“Mark Talbot,” he repeated, louder this time. “We know he’s been here. We tracked him from his cabin.”
Jacy climbed to her feet and put her hands on the counter behind her, cutting her eyes around for a weapon—a knife, a fork, anything.
“Don’t even think about it,” he said, reading her mind. “You don’t think I’d shoot a woman?”
“What do you want with Mark?”
A smaller, baby-faced man stepped into the cabin behind the big man. He had to take a long step to get around the big man’s muscle-bound girth. When he did, Jacy saw the grinning, pendulous-lipped features of Randall Magnusson, whom she’d seen occasionally before—in dry-goods stores
and roadhouses. Once he’d pulled his horse up to hers as she stopped for water at Big John Creek. Openly staring at her breasts, he’d asked if she wanted to go to a dance sometime and she’d told him to go diddle himself.
“Well, lookee here—if ain’t Miss Smart Mouth herself,” he said, giving her the twice-over with his shiny blue eyes.
“You two can just get the fuck out of my cabin,” Jacy said, hating the fear that made her voice tremble.
Randall turned his head to look around the cabin, then slid his cold eyes back to Jacy, the infuriating grin still there. “You all alone here, Miss Smart Mouth?”
“What’s it look like?” the big man answered for her. To Jacy he said again, “Where’d Talbot go?”
“What’s it to you?”
Randall laughed. He was standing between the big man and Jacy, sweeping Jacy with his eyes. “Ol’ Rag here’s got a score with Talbot. See that ear of his—the one with the bandage on it? That’s Talbot’s work.” Randall laughed. “Yes, sir, he sure did show Rag and my pa what was what and who was who up at the big house last night.” He laughed some more. There was no real mirth in it, but not for his lack of trying.
“Shut up,” the big man, Rag, said. To Jacy again: “Twelve of my men were ambushed last night, and I think he was part of it. Where is he?”
“He wasn’t part of it,” Jacy said defiantly. “I was part of it.”
Rag studied her cynically through slitted eyes. “Very funny. Where is he?”
“How should I know?”
“I just told you, we tracked him here, and from here, his tracks lead south. Now where’s he going? You tell me, you sassy little bitch, or so help me—”
“Rag,” Randall chided, his eyes remaining on Jacy. “That’s no way to talk to a girl. You have to charm a woman into giving up her secrets.”
“You’re a real lady’s man, Randall. Stay out of this,” Rag ordered, taking a step toward Jacy.
Eyes afire, Randall wheeled and lifted his heels to bark into the big man’s face, “Shut up! Just shut up, you hear? The great King Magnusson is not here, so I’m giving the orders, you understand? I’m in charge!”
Jacy turned her fearful, angry gaze to young Magnusson. Trying to steady her voice she said, “Be a man, Randall, and get out of here.”
“I don’t like how the girls around here talk to men. I’m thinkin’ you need to be taught a lesson, like that Rinski bitch.”
Jacy studied him, her anger growing keen. She inhaled sharply and swallowed. “You’re the one … you’re the little boy who shot Jack Thorn in his bed and savaged Mattie.”
Randall laughed, then said good-naturedly, “There goes that mouth of yours again.” His voice turned hard and his grin faded. “I don’t like being talked to like that.”
He reached out suddenly and grabbed her by the hair. Jacy cursed and lifted her arms to defend herself. Randall jerked her around by the hair, thrust her against the big man called Rag.
“Hold her good and tight, Rag. I’m gonna teach Miss Smart Mouth to show some respect to her gentleman callers.”
“We don’t have time for this, Randall,” Rag said without heat.
He was enjoying taunting the girl, watching the fear and anger in her eyes, feeling her tremble in his arms. It aroused him. He knew they needed to catch up with Talbot, but he couldn’t tear himself away. He wondered what Randall. was going to do, how far he would go.
Randall produced a butcher knife from a shelf. He held it up before his face, inspecting it, tested his thumb on the edge. “Ouch,” he said. “Sharp. Look at that.” He held up his hand to show Jacy the bead of blood on his thumb.
Jacy struggled but could not free her arms from the big man’s grasp. Randall stepped forward, thrusting the knife to within four inches of her face. Heart pounding, Jacy turned her head to the side, recoiling against the big man’s chest.
“Where did Talbot go?” Randall asked calmly.
Her voice was small but fervid. “Go fuck yourself.”
Randall lowered the blade to Jacy’s neck, held the blade against her throat. He lifted his eyes to hers, smiled. “Where’s Talbot?”
Jacy swallowed, fighting the urge to beg for her life. She was not going to beg these savages for anything. She’d rather die.
Still, she felt as though her heart would explode from the fear. She kept seeing Mattie Rinski in the rocking chair. “I told you to go fuck yourself,” she said, breathless.
Randall lowered the blade to her chest, pressed it flatly against her breasts, and with a sudden flick of his wrist sliced a button from her cotton shirt. “Anytime you’re ready to tell us where Talbot went, I’ll stop,” he said matter-of-factly.
He flicked another button from her shirt, then another. Jacy heard the big man breathing in her ear, felt his hands grow warm and sweaty against her wrists. She cursed. Another button hit the floor. Then two more and the shirt fell open, exposing her undershirt and a fair amount of cleavage.
Randall stepped back and inspected her breasts straining the thin, washworn fabric. He pressed the knife point against her left nipple. Jacy sobbed again. Tears rolled down her face.
“Are you going to tell us where Talbot went now, or do I have to keep going?”
“Go fuck … go fuck …” she said through the sobs that came freely now. She hung limp in the big man’s hands, her head hanging to her chest, hair down around her face.
Randall grabbed the neck of her undershirt and began cutting and tearing.
“No!” Jacy screamed, feeling something give way within her. “No!”
Just then a floorboard squeaked and another man appeared in the open doorway—a tall, thin man with a casual air. He had a long, angular face and thin lips between which a long black cigar poked. His features were distinctly Latin, but his eyes were impossibly blue.
The eyes held Jacy’s for a moment, and it was like having your gaze held and the air sucked out of your lungs by the sudden appearance of the devil himself.
“Come hither, my gringo amigos,” he said. “We don’t have time to play with little girls. Talbot’s tracks are clear.”
Then he turned away, giving his back to the kitchen. He stood on the porch, puffing his cigar, and looking across the ranchyard.
Randall cursed, staring at Jacy with animalistic desire. “This one on your list, José?”
“What, the girl? No. Just her hired man. I don’t shoot girls, I fuck them. But I don’t have time to fuck that one, so let’s go, amigos, before you piss me off.”
“This one’s being smart. She won’t tell us where Talbot went.”
“I know where Talbot went,” the Mexican said casually. He left the porch, and Jacy watched him walk across the ranchyard, mount a tall, black horse, and rein it south out of the yard.
Rag opened his hands and Jacy slumped to the floor, pulling her shirt closed, bringing her knees to her chest.
“Come on,” Rag said, turning for the door.
Randall cursed. He prodded Jacy with his boot. “Hey?” he said. “We’ll be back for more.”
Jacy turned her head and stared at the floor, crying softly and holding her arms over her breasts.
The big man turned on the porch and said, “If we happen to miss Talbot and he circles back, let him know we burned his cabin.” He laughed fiercely. “That should slow him down.”