Outlaw Hearts(54)

The two men turned and walked toward the wagon, and Jake closed the cabin door. He hurried back to Miranda. Nemus lay groaning, now on his side, the chair still braced to his back with his arms wrapped behind it. Jake paid him no attention as he leaned over Miranda again. “Randy? Don’t be afraid. I’m taking you out of here. Everything is going to be all right.”

“Hurts bad,” she wept. “Please don’t…touch me again. Let me…die.”

He grasped her face, pressing his big hands to either side of it reassuringly. “Randy, it’s Jake. Nobody is going to touch you like that again. Do you hear me? It’s Jake.” She was so hot that the palms of his hands were wet within seconds after touching her. He wondered if she was beyond saving, wondered how he was going to live with himself if she died, knowing none of this might have happened if he had come with her when she asked. One thing was certain: if she died, Jack Nemus and the two men outside would also have to die. Then he would find Jennings and make the reverend pay for abandoning her. Maybe then he would just let himself be caught and hanged. There wouldn’t be anything left to live for anyway.

In her own delirium, Miranda struggled to think straight. She was so sick. She had never known such pain. She was aware that strange men had been taking care of her, if it could be called that. She had vague, foggy memories of being naked, of men leering at her, touching her in private places. Her foot and leg hurt so bad, but no one seemed to be doing anything about it. She was sure she was dying and wondered why God didn’t let it happen quickly. The way she felt was certainly much worse than death. How she would welcome the blessed release if death claimed her.

Hot, so hot, so much pain. The slightest movement sent excruciating agony from her foot through her whole body. She could remember the sound of the rattlesnake, remember the feel of the bite. She had cloudy memories of the Jenningses leaving her somewhere, with some man who said he would take care of her. She groaned at the memory of the man taking off her clothes, rubbing his hands over her body. She had begged him to stop touching her, to help her somehow. She had even asked him once to kill her.

Now here was a man close to her saying he was Jake. Jake Harkner? That wasn’t possible. Surely she was hallucinating, probably on the brink of death. She hated the thought of dying alone out here where no one knew her. Would the wolves dig up her grave and eat her flesh? Would Wesley ever know what had happened to her? And Jake. He would never know either. Oh, the pain, the awful pain.

Someone was wrapping the blanket tighter around her now, picking her up. Oh, it hurt so much to be moved! She screamed in protest, and again came the familiar voice. “It’s going to be all right, Randy. I’m taking you out of here and I’m going to help you.” She rested her head against a strong shoulder, opened her eyes to see traces of a scar on his neck, another small scar on his left jaw. Jake? It couldn’t be. If only she could think more clearly. Right now all she could think about was the awful pain. She wanted to talk, but all she could do was cry with the pain, cry in desolation. She had promised herself she would not cry over being left alone, but the pain was too much, especially when strange men were touching her, looking at her. Where was her Winchester? If she could just find her rifle, or her pistol, she could shoot them and make them stop touching her.

Someone was laying her down again. Was that bright sunshine? Fresh air? It smelled good. She had smelled nothing but sweat and urine for days. “Hang on a little longer, Randy,” someone was telling her. It was a familiar voice. Jake? No, she told herself again, it couldn’t be. She heard a horse whinny, tried to determine where she was, whether or not she was in a bed. She felt movement then, was vaguely aware she must be in a wagon, going somewhere. But where? Was she being taken out for burial? Was this what it was like to be dead? Surely not. Surely with death the pain would go away, but it hurt worse than ever because she was being moved around.

Everything after that happened as though in a strange dream. She had no conception of time, how long she rode in the wagon, where she was when someone lifted her down and laid her on soft blankets in green grass. She felt a light breeze. Someone drew her hair back and tied it at her neck, away from her face. “We’ll wash your hair later,” a man’s voice said.

She slipped into a restless sleep. For how long she wasn’t sure, but when she awoke she was vaguely aware of a fire nearby. She felt herself being bathed then, gloried in the feel of the warm, wet rag, the smell of soap. It felt so good to be clean, and for some reason she didn’t mind that whoever was washing her saw her nakedness. Why didn’t it matter? He was so gentle. He slipped something over her head…a gown! Finally she had something to cover herself. She reveled in the feel of the soft flannel.