Home To Texas - Ransom My Heart Part 13

He held the suitcase in his right hand, held it as high as he could manage, hoping that it might provide protection against a body shot. He had the gun in his left hand and kept his back bent so low that the run was awkward. He could hear Samantha struggling up the slope to his left. He saw the bullet hit the ground at his feet an eternity before he heard the shot. The shooter was leading him, like a good hunter, and he was only a little off.

The boulders had seemed a lot closer from the shelter of the overturned n to make this journey, and then to him enough to attempt the climb out of the ravine that demanded of her.

He had time to wonder if she was over the top yet the bullet slammed into the case. It knocked him t ground, maybe because of the awkward position he w maybe because it was that powerful. The case went ning out of his hand as he fell to his left, driven side by the impact. He was crawling almost before he h ground, but another shot kicked dirt in his face befc was finally behind the rocks.

He turned, leaning back against them, trying to catc breath. He became aware again of the pain in his shoi It was amazing how much a rush of adrenaline could: you forget, he thought. He raised his eyes, and then prayer of thanks when he found that the side of the that led out of the ravine was empty. Samantha had it over the top. At least she was safe. For the time anyway.

So was he, as long as he stayed put. The problem however, that staying put was a luxury they couldn't a He had dropped the suitcase, and he needed to reco and then follow the route Samantha had taken up the There would be no one to provide a distraction fe climb.

He turned, edging carefully to look around the without exposing himself to the shooter on the hi] could see the suitcase. It had slid maybe ten feet dov slope, and it might as well have been ten miles. He co reach it without leaving the shelter of the pile of roe] Half a million dollars. Half of the ransom needed Amanda's release.

"Chase?"

Samantha's voice came from above him, and he lc up and was thankful when he couldn't see her.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I'm all right."

"I thought... When I heard the noise, I thought you'd been hit."

"They got the bag. I dropped it. I think it's too far out to try to reach."

"But..." she began, and he could guess what she was thinking. Amanda's ransom. He had to reach it. But she didn't say that.

"What now?" she asked instead.

d.a.m.ned if I know, Chase thought.

"You need to go. Just take that bag and run. Find a place to--" "Not without you."

He didn't know how to respond to that. He wished he could believe it meant what he wanted it to, but logically he knew it was just a demand for his a.s.sistance in getting the money to San Miguel. The best man for the job. The hired help. She just wanted him to do what he'd contracted for.

"I'm going to try for the bag," he said.

"Chase," she called again.

"It isn't important. You said they'd take less. You said they were amateurs."

It was a possibility. He moved again to where he could see the suitcase. Too far. Way too far. If he was going to be a target, he wanted to be moving up and over. Trying for the top of the rise behind him instead of back in the direction he'd come from. And then they could see just how good a negotiator he really was, he thought, with half a ransom to work with.

"Throw me the gun," she suggested.

"I'll cover you while you come up."

He wondered if she could hit the broadside of a barn and then realized it wouldn't matter. There was no visible target.

If she could just get off a couple of rounds in the general direction of anybody moving on the opposite ridge, he might have a chance. Probably about the same chance as he had now, he thought. Somewhere between null and zero.

"It's coming up," he agreed.

Here goes nothing, he thought, hefting the weight of the gun in his right hand. If he didn't get it over tile top, he could try to pick it up on the way over. It really didn't make a h.e.l.l of a lot of difference, not considering the accuracy of the shots that had been fired at them. If the shooter could hit a tire and a jug of water, he wasn't going to miss a target the size of Chase McCullar.

This wasn't the way he would have picked to die, but then not many people got their wish when it came to that.

At least he'd seen Samantha again. Had talked to her. Spent a few hours with her. Somehow thinking about that didn't help. He remembered what he'd been thinking on the way down here. The idea that after this was all over, he'd try to make it right with her. Only now it seemed there wouldn't be a chance of doing that. So many chances wasted.

He threw the gun as hard as he could. It wasn't his best throw because he was sitting down, but the revolver sailed upward in an arc and beyond his line of sight. Behind the top, he prayed. Just get over the top.

He heard it hit and thought he could even hear Samantha moving to it; "Got it," she called.

"I'm ready when you are."

"Just keep scanning above the road. Fire at anything that moves, but keep your head down."

"I thought you were the one they wanted," she said, and unbelieving, he heard the hint of amus.e.m.e.nt in her voice.

"They wouldn't bother with me. That's what you told me when I had to climb."

"I lied," he said and heard her laugh.

"The money's what they want," she said.

"Maybe they'll let you go since we're leaving the suitcase behind."

"Are you trying to psych me up, Samantha?"

"I'm trying to get you up the d.a.m.n slope. What are you waiting for? An invitation?"

Yeah, he thought. That would be real nice. Not the kind he knew she meant. The kind she had made before. That night. The night he'd made love to her. Another fantasy.

He looked up the slope to where her voice was coming from. That was the reality. Making that climb and all the while expecting a bullet to slam into his spine or the back of his head. And then it would all be over. No more chances. No more dreams. Just bleeding to death in a nameless ravine somewhere on the backside of Mexico.

He thought briefly about telling her. Telling her how he felt. Just laying it all out there. And then if he got blown away... Then there would be nothing left but more regrets.

More pain, maybe. Telling her he loved her wouldn't make anything about their situation better.

"Okay, sweetheart," he said instead.

"When I count to three."

"You sure you can count that high, McCullar?" she teased, her voice sounding relaxed, amused at the kids' game he was playing.

"One," he said, easing his body upward a little, trying to get his legs under him for the push without exposing his head.

"Two."

I love you, Samantha Kincaid. I've always loved you, and I guess I always will. For as long as I live.

"Three," he said, too softly, trying to speak around the lump in his throat. It wouldn't matter, of course. She would hear the sound of his scramble. The s.h.i.+fting of the rocks he dislodged. She would know he was on the way.

He pushed off, using all his strength, the muscles of his legs seeming to explode with power, propelling him upward under the influence of the adrenaline that surged through him.

Samantha, he thought again, even as he heard the first bullet impacting into the earth beside him.

Chapter Seven.

He could hear the cough of the revolver Samantha was firing above him echoing intermittently with the higher-pitched sound of the rifle behind him, that noise reaching him a fraction of a second after each hit. Zigzagging up the incline, the toes of his boots and his fingers digging hard into the s.h.i.+fting earth, he lost count of those impacts. He expected at any moment to feel a bullet slam into his body instead of heating it strike nearby.

It didn't happen. Not from any lack of effort on the part of the shooter, he acknowledged, as the spurts of dust kicked up by the shots kept pace with his progress. Maybe it was because Samantha's fire distracted the rifleman just enough to put his eye off. Or maybe because Chase was giving it all he had, scaling the rock-strewn rise like a terrified cat going up a tree.

He felt something tug sharply at his vest as he dived over the top. He slid down the other side on his stomach for a couple of feet before he could stop his momentum, his hands clawing at the dirt and stones. Last shot, he realized.

The last shot had come close enough to touch the leather vest he wore.

He lay against the unpleasant roughness of the down-slope, panting, willing his heart to slow before it burst out of his chest. He wasn't dead, he gradually began to realize with a sense of awe. Reaching the top alive wasn't something he had had any right to expect when he'd started that climb. He shouldn't have made it, and he had no explanation for why he had. No logical explanation.

Except maybe some unfinished business, he thought, as he listened to Samantha edging carefully across the loose rocks to where he lay.

"Chase?" she whispered, leaning close enough that he could smell her. The same sweetly seductive scent of her body that night, the fragrance released in response now to the heat and excitement. Unfinished business.

"I'm okay," he said. He raised his head just off the ground, turning his face so he could see her. There was a smudge of dirt across her chin and a film of moisture on her upper lip and under the small curls that feathered around her temples and forehead. She had never been more beautiful. He thought about telling her, but he knew that that, too, would have to wait.

"We need to go," he said, but like after the wreck, the effort to move seemed beyond him. He had expended every last ounce of strength to make it over the top, and his shoulder was a burning agony. His success was just a reprieve, he knew, a few minutes of safety; but still he couldn't seem to work up the energy to do anything but lie here.

"I know," she said. Almost tentatively, she put her palm on his right shoulder and then moved it gently over the shoulder blade, a small comforting circle.

"Do you know you've got a bullet hole in your vest?" she asked, still making that caressing movement with her hand.

"Last shot," he said. He put his head back down on his forearm, fighting the fear he hadn't had time to think about on the way up. Not after he'd started, at least. Close. He'd come so d.a.m.n close to dying before he'd had a chance to make anything right.

"Come on," she said.

"We have to get out of here."

"The suitcase?"

"I'll get it."

He listened as she crawled across the short s.p.a.ce, the sound of her jeans-covered knees slithering upward against the roughness. He listened to the noises made by the small rocks that tumbled down the slope toward him. Maybe by the time she got back, he'd be able to move.

"Okay," she said.

He rolled over, feeling whatever was wrong with his shoulder burn again, like somebody had pointed a blowtorch at his body and again, ignoring it. He sat up and pushed down the slope a few more feet, sliding on his b.u.t.t until he thought he was far enough down to be hidden if he stood.

Which was a lot harder to accomplish, as weak as his knees suddenly seemed to be, than he had expected. By the time he'd managed it, Samantha was beside him, his gun in one hand and the suitcase in the other.

"You sure you're all right?" she asked, real concern in her voice.

"I banged up my shoulder in the wreck. It's okay. Just sore." She nodded, eyes still searching his face.

"I can carry that," he said, reaching to take the suitcase from her.

"What about the gun?"

"We might as well put it up. Hopefully there won't be anybody close enough to shoot at for a while." He took the .38 out of her hand and slipped it back into the holster.

His eyes scanned the terrain in front of them and he realized perhaps for the first time what they faced. The mountains of the Sierra del Carmen stretched before them.

Somewhere within those high canyons and rock faces were the kidnappers who were holding Amanda. And behind them was someone who knew they were carrying the rest of the ransom. Someone who was very willing to kill them to get his hands on it.

"Which way?" Samantha asked, her gaze focused on the same hostile and forbidding territory he was surveying.

He turned to look at her and realized that she really expected him to know. He sure hated to have to disillusion her.

"d.a.m.ned if I know," he said, allowing himself to smile at her.

"I'm just making this up as we go along."

Her eyes widened involuntarily, but she didn't show any other reaction.

"I guess maybe Sam should have taken bids," she said after a moment, surprisingly returning the smile.

The best man for the job, he thought, but for some reason it didn't hurt this time. It didn't make him feel inadequate.

He knew that hadn't been her intent.

"If we get out of this," he said, "I'll give Sam a discount."

She laughed.

"Don't even offer, because I promise you he'll take you up on it. Even if you manage to get us all home safe and sound, he'll probably take it. He didn't get to be Sam Kincaid for nothing."

He could feel the warmth of her laughter curling deep inside, down where the icy fear of death was beginning to thaw. All the way down to his gut, That eyetooth was still just a touch crooked. Her mouth spread a little too wide when she laughed. The dusting of freckles was still visible beneath the layer of real dust.

"That way," he said, nodding toward what he thought was northwest, the direction the rough little trail they'd been following had taken on the map. He didn't wait for her, but instead began the half-sliding descent down the back of the ridge that was the only thing between them and the guy with the rifle.

CHASE FOUND THE TINAJA in the floor of a narrow rock arroyo at midafternoon. They had moved more slowly as the day progressed, resting frequently in whatever shade the outcroppings provided, but the need to replenish the fluid their bodies were losing was becoming urgent.

The pothole wasn't deep, but the water trapped in it from the runoff of the last rain was sweet and cool. He watched Samantha drink, her movements still feminine and graceful somehow, despite the long hours of thirst and exertion, and then he forced his eyes away, back to the direction from which they'd come. Trying to see if there was anyone following.

Trying to decide what he'd done wrong. He must have done something wrong because they hadn't come across anything that looked, like civilization. No camp, no village, and no kidnappers.