Whispers In The Dark

With a hand at Patrick’s wrist, Rafe stopped the anguish of a man torn between two loves. “You see to Jordana, I’ll do what’s needed to bring Courtney home.”

“You can’t.” The answer came quickly, flatly. “There are circumstances and conditions you don’t understand. For once, Rafe, even you can’t do the impossible. But Simon has someone who can, someone he’s sending. Our last resort.” Patrick turned again to the window, stared again, blindly, into the darkness. But in his mind there were barren, ragged peaks shrouded by the night. “Our one chance. Our only hope.”

“Then I’ll help Simon’s man bring her home,” Rafe promised.

Though Patrick spoke of hope, there had never been such melancholy in his voice. Not when he was thirteen, deserted by his faithless mother, failed by his grieving father and consigned to exile in a strange school, in a strange country. Lost and alone among a strange people, he had not been like this. Not even the ultimate death of his father wreaked such suffering upon him. Silently Rafe vowed he would take away the pain, and give back the hope—along with the littlest McCallum.

“Three days, Patrick,” he murmured hoarsely. “I promise.”

“You won’t do anything irrational?” What Patrick left unspoken was his wish that if the impossible were truly that, if one tragedy, or two, were inevitable, there needn’t be a third.

“No more than you would.” A crooked grin lifted the corner of Rafe’s mouth, but left his eyes unchanged. As Patrick had been before his marriage, the Creole was an accomplished sportsman and adventurer. There was little he hadn’t tried, little he hadn’t dared. When time and McCallum International permitted, his idea of relaxing was to battle the elements in one form or another. This time, in a life or death struggle, the stakes would be higher—a life other than his own.

“I promise to do no more and no less than you would, my friend,” Rafe mused softly. “In the same circumstance.”

For a moment their eyes met and held. Patrick nodded, slowly, grimly, and on that understanding returned to his seat.

Less than a quarter hour later, strategy outlined, each lurid detail and fact branded on his mind, Rafe left Patrick. In the next three days, while the Scot fought for the life of his wife, the Creole would go to the mountains, to fight in his stead.

Rafe Courtenay would go to do battle for the life of the beloved daughter of his chosen brother. For his own namesake. For his godchild.

For Courtney...the love of his warrior’s heart.

Three

The scene that greeted Rafe was alien, a surreal backdrop from a science fiction movie. Glaring yellow lights, falling on red rock and flying dust, lent an eerie sense of otherworldliness to the camp and its cluster of trucks and tents hunkered in the stark, rocky basin. He could, he thought, just as easily be looking down on the landscape of Mars as the high desert of Arizona.

When he dropped to the ground, waving the hovering helicopter bearing the logo of McCallum International back into the night sky, he knew no place had ever been more real. Nothing he’d ever done as important

“Mr. Courtenay, sir.” The shout of the young man, who addressed him from the edge of a boil of orange fog, could barely be heard above the whine of the chopper’s engine.

Ducking, small backpack in hand, Rafe dashed from the whipping lash of the revving rotors. As he approached, the young ranger smiled briefly and took the bag from him. “Glad you could make it, sir.”

His handshake was firm, his uniform amazingly neatly pressed into smooth surfaces and sharp creases. Only his face was rumpled from lack of sleep. The tag clipped to the breast pocket of his shirt confirmed he was Joe Collins, a second before he introduced himself.

“I’ve been assigned to serve as your liaison, to familiarize you with the camp and procure whatever else you feel you need,” he continued as he escorted Rafe to his tent. As they passed by, busy people, dressed as Joe was dressed, with faces as strained and harried, acknowledged the newcomer. With only a nod or wave of greeting they returned to the work that engrossed them.

“As you will see, sir,” Joe said as he stopped by one in a line of smaller tents, “we have an excellent Search and Rescue team. But this is a little beyond our field of expertise.”

The last was said apologetically. Rafe responded succinctly, “This is a little beyond anyone’s field of expertise, Ranger Collins.”

“Yes, sir. Thank God.”

“Indeed,” Rafe agreed as he scanned the camp again, noting the propitious arrangement, the equipment, including detailed maps spread over a bevy of tables near a powerful radio. Parked at one side were a half dozen all-terrain vehicles that had seen hard and recent use. Opposite, and set a little apart, was a small remuda. He slanted a questioning look at his guide. “Horses?”

“Yes, sir. A good portion of the terrain we’ve covered is accessible only by horseback. Some of it too bad even for them. Even in relays.” Setting down the bag, he shrugged, a move at odds with his perfect posture. “The gun who was brought in thinks at least part of what we walked and climbed can be crossed by a horse. A particular horse. A stallion trucked in just before you arrived.”

“What horse would that be?” Interest stirred, Rafe waited for his answer.

“Black Jack, from The Broken Spur.”

Feeling the first real frisson of encouragement since he’d seen the desolation around him, Rafe nodded his approval. Black Jack was a magnificent creature of no little reputation among horsemen and breeders such as Patrick. The stallion had made news by accomplishing the unthinkable more than once, and only a rider of incomparable skill could handle him. “If this gun, as you call him, knows his stuff as well as he knows his horses, maybe we have a chance to make this work.”

“Maybe.” The answer was noncommittal, but the look Joe Collins shot at Rafe was edged with surprise.

“You were right about your Search and Rescue team. From what Patrick told me nothing has been left undone. But now there is one more thing I’ll required.” Taking a pen and small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, Rafe scribbled a name and telephone number. “Call this number, ask for Tyree.” Tearing the page from the notebook he handed it to Collins. “Tell him I need El Mirlo immediately, then give him specific directions to the camp.”

“Yes, sir.” Collins jumped to attention, Rafe half expected he would salute. “El Mirlo. The Blackbird.” There was awe in the younger man’s tone as he translated the Spanish name of the horse nearly as distinguished as Blackjack. “I’ll see to it right away.”

“One more thing before you go.” Scanning the task force, Rafe detained the ranger with those few short words before he could race away. “The gun, where is he?”

Joe Collins gave him the same odd look he had before, a light flush staining his cheeks. “She, sir,” he managed at last, as if he weren’t sure how his answer would be received. Taking a fold of papers from a hip pocket he offered them to Rafe. “I was instructed to give you this, a dossier explaining who she is.”

Halting in the act of slipping the notebook back in his jacket, Rafe took the papers from him, tucking them away, as well, without a glance. His narrow look swept over the ranger, pinning him in place. “She?”

“Yes, sir.” Another uneasy shrug. “We thought you knew.”

“Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Courtenay?”

Rafe’s turn was slow, measured, the gaze that only seconds ago had held the ranger in place, swept over the woman who stood a half dozen paces away. And though there was no reason to think he’d ever seen her before, nor any woman resembling her, he was struck by a strong sense of déjà vu. A sensation to be explored later, rather than now, as he turned his undeterred regard on her.

Instead of the common uniform, she was in civilian dress. Boots, jeans, Western shirt, the customary Stetson. He noted she wore a holstered Colt belted at her hip, and no spurs on her boots.

“You move very quietly,” he observed softly as he finished his perusal.

“What you mean is I move very quietly, for a woman.” There was no rancor in her voice. One look warned she had little time or patience with petty angers.

“What I meant,” Rafe replied patiently, “is what I said. You move very quietly, for anyone.”

A slight bow afforded him the point. “Should I say thank you?”

“You don’t strike me as a woman who would waste her breath on false platitudes.”

She chuckled quietly, the humor genuine, giving him another point. “Just how do I strike you, Mr. Courtenay?”

Rafe was not surprised that she knew him. The camp as a whole had been informed by Patrick that he was coming, and what he would expect. “That would require some thought and consideration.”

The laugh again, low, smoky. In the right place, the right circumstance, a little sexy. “Of course,” she agreed. “But you’re a quick study, aren’t you, Mr.—”

“Rafe. From you, I prefer Rafe.”

“If you like.” By her manner she told him his name was of so little consequence at the moment, she would call him George, if he liked. “Now, Rafe.” She moved a step closer. “About that quick study.”

Letting her feel the weight of his scrutiny, he took her measure slowly, with a piercing thoroughness. Another woman might have flinched or blushed, facing such total invasion of her person. But not this one. He liked that, found it challenging, as he drew his study out more than was needed. After a long, long moment, in which Joe Collins’s gaping attention bounced like a racket ball between them, Rafe’s gaze returned to settle on her face.

“All done?” She stood with her hands at her hips, her feet apart, her chin jutted an unmistakable fraction.

“For now.” A cryptic answer, drawing little reaction. She was a cool one.

Her head tilted a bit, a brow lifted. “Well?”

“Do you want the particulars?”

“However you like it, Mr. Courtenay.”

“Rafe,” he reminded.

“Rafe,” she parroted in droll concession.

Silence fell like a gauntlet. Joe Collins stared and waited. Rafe was first to react. “All right,” he mused, tugging the tie he hadn’t taken time to remove down another notch. “The particulars, as I see them. You’re five-five, without the boots, and weigh, maybe, one fifteen with them. Shoulder-length hair. Dark brown, if not black, maybe with a hint of red in sunlight. On a bet, a little unruly at times. Tied, at the moment, with whatever was handy. On the trail, I suspect it will be tucked under the Stetson.”

He waited for the slight acknowledging bow of her head then resumed a concise cataloging of her features. “Oval face, high cheekbones. Fine-textured skin, a tint that suggests it tans easily and rarely bums. A nose with a slight deviation. From a break, I would surmise. Brows, arched and fine, dark as night.

“Your eyes...” He paused only to draw a breath. “In this garish light I can’t say, but too dark for blue or gray, too pale for true brown. Possibly the color of old sherry?” It was a question that begged no answer as he moved on to finer, surer points. “A belligerent chin that telegraphs your moods, and a mouth made for smiling.”

In a short pause in the tabulation, there was a clash of gazes. One chin angled another inch. Neither man nor woman smiled.

With a restrained quirk of his lips Rafe returned to his commentary. “As Simon would expect and demand, you’re obviously in good physical condition. A little slender. Yet, I would wager, strong for your size. You’ve a trim figure, a little boyish for my taste, but appealing.”

Dragging in another, slower breath, his unwavering gaze probing the shadows cast by the Stetson, he murmured, “And no matter how you dress down, no man in his right mind would ever forget you’re a woman.” The quirk became a small smile playing over his face. “Shall I go on, Miss...?”

“O’Hara,” Joe Collins interjected, flustered that in his preoccupation he’d been remiss in common courtesy. “Valentina,” he finished lamely. Both their names has been buzzed through the camp. She’d had the advantage of learning of Rafe Courtenay from camp gossip and speculation.

“O’Hara,” Rafe mused aloud over the name. It suited her to be Irish. It suited very well. “Shall I go on, then, Miss O’Hara?”

“By all means,” she responded with the first hint of strained grace. “Perhaps you’d like to look at my teeth, to judge my age.”

Rafe allowed himself a chuckle. “No need. Your face and body say you’re twenty-two. You’re eyes say thirty-two, thirty-three. I put my trust in the eyes.”

“Touché.” Another point for this man who had become her quiet adversary. “An excellent guess. I’m thirty-three.”

Turning, moving toward the tent she’d just left, she stopped at a table set before it. Carefully, she lifted a cloth covering a dismantled rifle. The oiled barrel was gleaming ebony under the yellow lights; the polished stock, warm mahogany. The tool of a perilous trade, and well cared for.

Her fingers trailed familiarly over burnished wood, curled briefly around the trigger, then lifted from it. Dropping the cloth over the weapon again, she faced him once more as abruptly as she’d turned away. “You disappoint me, Mr. Courtenay.”

“How so, Miss O’Hara?” They were back to formalities, the fencing was over, the gloves were off. “Disappointing you is the last thing I’d want to do.”

Valentina laughed. There was wry amusement in its inflection, and in her demeanor. “What you’ve described any eye or any mirror could tell. I expected better from you. More insight. More depth.”

“Perhaps I choose to keep my deeper perceptions to myself.”

“What? No detailed questioning of the logistics? No reservations about my skill? No sly wondering if I can really make the shot to free Patrick McCallum’s daughter?”

“I don’t need to question, or wonder. I have no reservations. Not about the logistics or your skill, O’Hara. Because I know Patrick McCallum, I know every alternate avenue has been closed, leaving only the one recourse. I repeat, because I know Patrick, I understand and trust there’s no other way to save his daughter but to put her life in the hands of one person. Because I know Simon McKinzie, because you are his choice, I know you’re the best, the only one, for the job.

“I don’t need your credentials.” Quietly, he reiterated his point, closing the subject. “That this is Patrick’s decision, and you are Simon’s choice, is enough.”

“Except that you plan one small change.”

“Yes. I’m going with you.” She did not react, and he felt no surprise that she would have drawn this conclusion from the bit of conversation she’d overheard. In his mind the reasoning was only logical. “I go in Patrick’s stead, for Courtney and Jordana. And for myself.”

“You’re mistaken,” Valentina contradicted flatly. “No one goes. I ride alone. I work alone.”

“Not this time.”

“This time above all.” Dismissing Rafe, forestalling any protest he might lodge, without a glance, she walked past him. Pausing briefly by the ranger, she murmured, “Joey, the call to Tyree won’t be necessary. Mr. Courtenay won’t be needing El Mirlo.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Joe Collins didn’t speak again, nor did Rafe, while each watched her take the path to the separate corral that cordoned the stallion.

As she approached the temporary fence, the skittish Black Jack, renowned for both his sure feet and savage temperament, snorted and danced away. From his place Rafe could hear, but not distinguish, the words of her singsong croon as she sought to calm and entice the stallion to her.

Rearing, hooves flashing at the air, the horse squealed his displeasure at unfamiliar surroundings and strange people. Valentina did not flinch, her quiet tone did not change. Black Jack raced the length of the back fence. He pawed the dust and tossed his rippling mane. Ears flattened, nostrils flaring, he paced, he pranced, he ignored the woman.

In response, her tone rose a degree. Assuring, calming, it floated across the clearing. “Having a little temper tantrum, are you? I’m not sure I blame you. I wouldn’t like to be cooped up in a strange place, with strange people, any more than you do. But it doesn’t have to be that way. It isn’t that way. I’m here...and we’ve met before.”

The stallion quieted, stared away from the hand she extended. Her song dropped again to a low murmur, her hand was steady. Black Jack snorted, his ears flicked, his head turned to her. He took a tentative step, paused, snorted again, and took another. Stretching out his neck, he nibbled curiously at her fingers. His velvet muzzle roamed over her gently curling hand and nudged at her arm. Quivering, he stood as she stroked him. Then, with a low wicker, he moved, crowding the fence to snuffle at her cheek.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Rafe muttered in an undertone.

“Yes, sir.” Joe Collins exhaled a long held breath. “Me, too.”

And, in that moment, it all clicked into place. Rafe understood the sense of familiarity. He’d never met Valentina O’Hara, but he’d seen her face many times. It had been years since she’d been an Olympian, sweeping the gold in her fields of choice. First with her skill with a rifle, then with her riding. The name he’d forgotten had been on every tongue, for no woman before her had accomplished as much. And none since.

For a time she was the darling of the media, a household word, the season’s wonder. Then, electing not to cash in on her fame, shunning a fortune in endorsements and advertising, she had, quite simply, dropped out of sight.

She’d been nineteen then, Rafe remembered as he watched her. Intrigued, he wondered where she’d been for the past fourteen years? What had she done? How had her path crossed with Simon’s? Why? When?

He had no answers. Perhaps he would find some of them in the dossier given to him by Joe Collins. Some, he suspected, not all. Not the answers that really mattered. But, he vowed, he would have them, before this was done.

“Make the call, Joe,” he said abruptly. “Tell Tyree to meet me at sunup. Not here, but at the wash a half mile north of the basin. Tell him the old map in Patrick’s study identifies it as the Hacker homestead.”

He had given the order without looking away from the stallion and the woman. Now he turned his face to the sky. “It will be dawn soon. I need to be briefed, and there’s a lot of planning left to do before first light.”

“Yes, sir,” Joe put in smartly. With a quick salute, eager to make amends for the blunder in introductions, he launched into the task.

Rafe watched the ranger till he was out of sight before he turned again to the corral. Concern etched his face, uneased by the sureness and rapport established between the stallion and the woman. She was a champion, an expert rider, a phenomenal shot, and one of Simon’s chosen.

But would it be enough?

“Can anyone do this? God help you, lady, can you?” Wheeling about, he stalked to the tent that was his. Catching back the flap that covered the entrance, he paused, his gaze drawn again to her.

“Sunup, O’Hara,” he pledged grimly. “And, like it or not, you and your new pet stallion will have company on the trail and the mountain. Then we’ll see.”

His grip on the flap was hard and desperate. “God help us both, we’ll see.”

“The shack is here.” In the weak, first light of dawn, augmented by the yellow glow of lanterns, Richard Trent, Commander of Search and Rescue Operations, tapped his pointer against a map mounted on a stand. “The only possible trail is here, and it’s virtually as inaccessible as the rest of the ground. We could make short work of this by helicopter. That is, if we dared. Which we don’t. These people, who call themselves Apostles for a New Day, are certifiable nuts. The unstable fringe of an unstable fringe, each a little crazier than the last. The one thing we can count on is that they do what they promise.”

Taking the pointer from the map, he held it before him, his grip threatening to snap it. “If they say the little girl will be killed at the first hint of intrusion, she will be.”

“You’re certain there’s only one person guarding her?” Until now Valentina had been content to stand a little apart, listening, asking no questions. “I’ll be lucky to get one shot. Two would be asking for a miracle.”

“Dead certain. One man. That much we’ve proven from surveillance. His name is Edmund Brown.” Laying aside the pointer, the commander tipped back the brim of his hat. “But don’t derive too much relief from the fact that he’s alone. Next to Father Tomorrow, Brother Brown is the most sadistic in their cult. Before he found religion he collected a string of convictions and arrests on a number of charges, ranging from attempted murder to petty theft.

“He was always skating on the edge of insanity. We have reason to believe the association with the Apostles finally tipped the scales.”

Valentina left her place. Threading through the gathered group, she made her way to the front. Arms folded, eyes narrowed, she studied the exquisitely detailed and graphic map. She was knowledgeable about the land in general, but not specifically. “This peak,” with a short cut nail she tapped the spot as she addressed the commander, “it has the best vantage point?”

“For the distance you would require, yes.”

“What sort of cover does it offer?”

“Some scrub, but mostly rock.”

“If he should see me?” She turned an unwavering gaze on the commander.

Richard Trent did not hesitate. “He’ll kill the girl and then himself.”

Valentina’s sigh signaled her understanding of the gravity of the challenge she faced. “Then I’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t see me.”

Rafe, who had been as content to listen, listened acutely to Valentina’s responses. A map and a woman had done what a thousand words couldn’t do. For until now, despite his quick study of the circumstance and Patrick’s own maps, he hadn’t fully comprehended the monstrous complications that tent the word impossible to the desperate gamble.

If they were to succeed, the key was this woman. Courtney’s life was literally in Valentina O’Hara’s hands.

The hands of an unlikely assassin.

And Rafe Courtenay would be by her side every step of the way.

Under the watchful eyes of the camp, Valentina led Black Jack from the corral. With her gear stored in bulging saddlebags, a bedroll snapped at the back of the saddle, a Winchester and its case strapped to the front, her preparations were complete.

She was ready to ride.

“Val.” Richard Trent approached her cautiously. He, as much as the rest of the camp, was astonished at her control over the stallion. But he didn’t trust it would last through any startling moves. When she halted and stood looking up at him, her impatience evident, he embarked on his last-minute warning. “Remember, this man is worse than dangerous.”

“I think you’ve suitably impressed that on me, Richard.”

“Don’t try to outthink him. And don’t even begin to think you can outguess him. In a pressure situation, he won’t know from one minute to the next what he’ll do himself.”

Valentina stirred restively, anxious to have done with this. Now that there was enough light to see the trail, it was time for talk to end and action to begin. “You sound like Simon.”

“There are worse people to emulate.”

“Certainly,” she agreed. “There are.” Swinging into the saddle, she looked down at Trent. “Don’t worry, he taught me well. I wouldn’t be here if there was anyone better.”

In the watching crowd, someone coughed. Black Jack jumped and backed away, fighting the reins and Valentina. Leaning over his neck, riding light in the saddle, she stroked him, soothing him with whispered words only he could hear. In a matter of seconds the stallion was quiet again.

“Damn horse,” Richard Trent groused. “He’ll kill you before you ever get to the shack.”

“No, he won’t,” Valentina replied as she overheard the comment she was not meant to hear. “We’ll be fine when it’s just the two of us.”