Luke's Cut. Sarah McCarty

      He didn’t take his attention off Luke and Zach. “Nothing to worry about, senorita, I’m sure. Likely Lobo just spotted some Indians passing by.”

      “Indians!”

      Terror flashed along her nerves. A shiver chased cold comprehension as every story she’d ever read in those lurid novels about the West—and she’d read more than her share—raced through her mind. Capture. Scalping. Unmentionable acts.

      The wagon lurched through a rut. Her gorge rose. Heat, motion and now anxiety combining to make disaster imminent.

      “Senorita?”

      Clutching her stomach, she waved the vaquero’s concern away. She wouldn’t be sick. She wouldn’t. “I’m fine.”

      He frowned at her, drawing his rifle from its scabbard. “You have nothing to worry about. Senor Luke would not allow you to be captured.” He settled the rifle across his saddle. “And neither would I.”

      What could he do? He was just one man. So was Luke. And that rifle didn’t look big enough to take on the hordes of Comanche that could even now be charging toward them. Unbidden, one passage from her favorite author’s latest novel leaped to the forefront of her mind: “The Comanche came out of nowhere like a mist rising from the ground, enveloping everything in their path.”

      There was a whole lot of ground out there.

      No. For him to say it was just some Indians did nothing to reassure her, even if he’d clearly been trying to. She took a breath to steady her nerves. Hot air filled her lungs. Cold sweat beaded her brow as the persistent nausea surged along with fear. She whispered soothing nothings to Glory as if the steady old horse was the one in danger of an attack of the vapors.

      The man frowned at her.

      “You do not need to be afraid of the Indians, senorita. You are well guarded.”

      She took another steadying breath, fighting dizziness. If they could just stop for a minute, her stomach might settle. Her request was met with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry, but we cannot stop.”

      Of course not.

      “But you are safe, senorita.” He gestured to his chest. “With me, Stefano.” He broadened the gesture to include everyone. “And if I should fall, there are the men of Rancho Montoya and Hell’s Eight.” He tipped his hat. “You are very safe.”

      Was she? They had fifteen riders, plus Luke, Ed, Tia and herself. Hardly an army. And she didn’t even have a gun. Good heavens. Why didn’t she have a gun? The wagon hit a rut. The horizon tilted. Or was it the wagon? Her stomach lodged in her throat. She recognized the cold clammy feeling for what it was. Holding her hand over her mouth, she imagined Indians pouring over the little hill, swarming them, intent on driving them off their land. It was too easy to imagine their wild cries. Blast Dane Savage and his gift for description! She could see them as if they were real, dangerous men on horseback, armed with guns and bows, feral smiles on their painted faces... Intent on revenge.

      Oh dear God.

      “Senorita?”

      The voice echoed around the periphery of her consciousness. The wagon bucked and swayed over a series of bumps. Her vision clouded. Nausea rose as hard as fear. In an obscure part of her consciousness, she realized she was about to faint. She reached out. Found nothing.

      The last thing she heard was the shout of her name.

      It sounded amazingly exasperated for a Comanche war cry.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      “SENORITA!”

      Stefano’s cry jerked Luke around in the saddle. Chico, bored with standing still, pranced right along with the shift in weight, which worked out just fine as what Luke saw chilled his blood. Glory was still plodding along, every step bordering on hipshot, but the wagon seat that should’ve been sporting the bane of his existence was empty. What the hell had she done now?

      “Goddammit, Josie!”

      Zach shook his head. “That woman is not made for this country.”

      Lobo nodded. “Then it is just as well the Comanche are intent on moving and not war.”

      Luke grunted and sent Chico trotting back to Josie’s wagon.

      Behind him he heard Zach order Lobo to keep an eye on the tribe.

      Kicking Chico into a canter, he raced back down the line. Tia and Ed turned as he passed, and saw what he saw. Ed’s curse and Tia’s gasp trailed in his wake. By the time he got to Josie’s wagon, Stefano was off his horse and climbing into the front seat. Luke pulled back on the reins. Sitting back on his haunches, Chico slid to a stop just short of Stefano’s buckskin. Momentum propelling him forward, Luke jumped off. His boots hit the dirt in time with Stefano’s next curse.

      “Back off, Stefano.”

      Stefano turned and stepped back, hands raised. “Whatever you say, Luke. You’re the man with the gun.”

      Luke looked down. Shit, he was. Damn. Luke took his hand off his revolver. The wagon creaked and sagged as he stepped up. Josie didn’t move from where she lay crumpled on the floorboards, her torso twisted to the left, one arm stretched out to the right. Toward him. “What happened?” he asked Stefano.

      “She collapsed.”

      He could see that. “Why?”

      “Do you want me to guess?”

      “No.” He wanted an answer. Josie was lying there so still, her breathing shallower than normal. Her face was pale but she was perspiring heavily. Reaching down, he slid his hand behind her. Her back was soaked.

      “What is wrong with her, mi hijo?” Tia asked, coming alongside.

      The hard bone of a stiff corset bruised his fingertips. Why the hell was she wearing a corset out here? Was she crazy?

      “Might be the heat got to her.”

      Tia crossed herself. “That is not good.”

      No it wasn’t.

      Tia shook the water jug hanging on the side of the wagon. Liquid sloshed. She clucked her tongue. “The pobrecita. The water is untouched. She forgot to drink.”

      And he’d forgotten to remind her. “Damn.”

      “So we are back to heat,” Stefano concluded.

      Heat and carelessness. Luke checked the pulse in her throat. Her skin was smooth and hot under his fingers. Her pulse was steady but fast. This was his fault. He’d been too busy sparking her temper to pay attention to what Josie had been doing—or what she hadn’t. Not drinking enough water was a typical tenderfoot mistake. He knew it as well as he knew his name. There was no excuse for his negligence. He touched her cheek, which was beginning to show a hint of sunburn. She deserved better.

      Tia clucked her tongue. “I should have checked on her.”

      “Who would think she would not drink?” Stefano sighed.

      Tia shook her head. “Apparently none of us.”

      For sure, it’d been a long time since an Easterner had landed at Hell’s Eight. Josie’s lashes fluttered.

      “Josie,” he called sharply. She didn’t respond. He tried again, grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her lightly. “Wake up, woman.”

      “Here, mi hijo.” Tia handed him a wet handkerchief.

      “Thank you.” He wiped Josie’s face carefully. Her skin was so pale, so delicate. As he wiped, a light dusting of freckles appeared.

      How the hell had he missed that she had freckles? Looking down at the cloth, he got his answer. She’d put