Give My All to Jessie (Third in Outlaw Series)

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Jeremiah knew he had nearly killed the horse when he finally brought it to a stop outside Delilah's cabin but the last thing he was worried about was the flea-ridden beast beneath him.

Delilah was in trouble. He could feel it in his bones.

The cabin was silent. It was a terrible silence. Jeremiah would have rather ridden in and heard screams than this ear shattering nothingness.

There were no horses hitched to the porch but Jeremiah had been an outlaw a long time and he knew that the man had probably but his horse in the barn so anyone passing by wouldn't realize he was even there.

Jeremiah pulled his gun and bounded up the porch steps. He threw the door open and saw Delilah laying in a pale, motionless heap beside the fireplace. No one else was inside. Everything was trashed. Furniture had been overturned, knick knacks shattered, and every blanket from Delilah's hope chest had been tossed carelessly to the floor.

Jeremiah's heart seemed to stop beating and his hands trembled as he holstered his gun. Several revelations smacked headfirst into him at once. One, he loved that woman who may or may not be dead on the floor. Two, if the woman was dead, Jeremiah would be a broken man. Three, he had been one hell of a monster.

How many men had come back to their homes to find their wives raped and beaten, their belongings destroyed, simply because Jeremiah had wanted what they'd had? Jeremiah looked at Delilah's torn blue dress, her pale face and his stomach rolled.

Barely managing to swallow his breakfast back down, Jeremiah crossed the floor to her and dropped to his knee. Relief filled him, nearly causing him to cry out, when he felt her breath against his fingertips. He ran his hands through her hair and felt the welt. His fingertips were red with blood when he looked at them.

Jeremiah's heart seemed to be tearing apart right in his chest. No one had told him the crazy could be so damned painful. "Delilah?" he croaked. "Delilah, honey, you gotta wake up now...."

A sound at the back of the cabin had Jeremiah leaping to his feet and reaching for his revolver. "Pull it and I'll shoot her," a man warned, stepping in through the back door with his gun drawn and pointed toward Delilah.

Jeremiah's hand stilled over his gun. "Hawkins?" he gasped, recognizing the heavy-set Indian that he and Langley had been at camp with so long ago. Jeremiah had known the man for as long as he could remember. Hawkins had done this to Delilah?

Shame filled Jeremiah. He wondered if Marston felt the same bone-deep shame when he thought about his own past. What had ever made Jeremiah think that the things they had done were okay?

"Jeremiah? Well, hell, I didn't recognize you! You look different," Hawkins noted, lowering his gun and smiling.

Jeremiah nodded. His voice was cold when he asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Having some fun!" Hawkins boasted. "She's got money hid somewhere, a whole bunch of it and I intend to find it. If you want a first go at the bitch, go ahead..."

"First go?" Jeremiah whispered around the lump in his throat. "You haven't...?"

"Naw," Hawkins shrugged. "She's a bit old and fat for my tastes but I figured I might as well ride it before I kill it. Problem was, the old bat fought back and fought back hard.

Jeremiah felt his chest swell with pride for his woman when he took note of the claw marks on Hawkins' cheek, the blood on his lip and the bloody tear on his shirt sleeve.