Rescuing Cain (Christmas Rescue Series Book 2)

  RESCUING CAIN

  CHRISTMAS RESCUE SERIES

  Margaret Tanner

  Contents:

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  Author Links

  About the Author

  Other Books from this Author

  RESCUING CAIN

  CHRISTMAS RESCUE SERIES

  Copyright © 2019 Margaret Tanner

  Thank you for downloading this e-book. It remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the author and publisher. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed. If you enjoy this book, then please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy.

  This story is a work of fiction, and to enhance the story, some literary license has been taken regarding setting and geography. All characters are a figment of the author’s imagination.

  Acknowledgements: Many thanks to my author friends, Susan Horsnell and Cheryl Wright, for all their help and support.

  To my loyal readers: Thank you so much for your support. You can’t know how much I appreciate it.

  Cover Artist: Virginia McKevitt

  CHAPTER ONE

  1870’s - Wyoming.

  He wasn’t going to make it into Laramie. His horse was exhausted and so was he. So close and yet so far. Never in his wildest dreams did he expect to ever return here. Nearly three years he had spent in the Wyoming Territorial Prison in Laramie for a crime he did not commit. He hated the place with its twelve feet high fence and guard towers set at intervals along the wall, making it virtually impossible to escape.

  “I’m sorry.” He patted the gelding’s sweat stained neck. “No warm stable for you tonight, Jupiter and no comfortable hotel bed for you, Cain Kilkenny.” He gave a low chuckle, wondering how he could. It was no laughing matter. If he didn’t find shelter soon, they could both die out here. God forsaken place that it was. They hadn’t passed a town in hours.

  Cold squally gusts swirled around them and the grey sky hung so heavily with cloud the mountains were obliterated. He couldn’t decide which was worse, being caught out on the open plain or in this tree studded area. In some sections the land was so heavily treed a horse would be hard pressed to pass by. He could smell the astringent scent of pine needles. The terrain afforded good protection if he had the energy to build himself a rough shelter. The pain stabbing into his left shoulder and the way it had stiffened up made it virtually useless. Thank goodness it wasn’t his gun hand.

  How in tarnation had he let the Oliver gang get the drop on him four days ago? Well, at least two of the brothers were dead, which left two to go. He would kill them and any varmints who rode with them, if it was the last thing he ever did. Four years he had been tracking them, crisscrossing the west waiting for his chance to pay them back for what they had done.

  The pain of his loss still corroded his insides, played on his mind, but it was hatred and the chance of revenge, which gave him the strength to keep on going. It was easy for do-gooders to say forgive and forget when they hadn’t lost what he had. Forgiveness was written throughout the good book he knew, having listened to his mother reading it to him every night before bed when he was a child. It was too late now he had lost his faith in mankind and in God.

  His soul was black, his heart filled with hatred, and he didn’t care if Satan waited to collect him once his time on earth was done. He loved no-one and no-one loved him. His only close friend was Jupiter, his good and faithful stead. They had traveled hundreds of miles together, kept each other company on the trail.

  He huddled deeper into his duster. His shoulder throbbed, a dull grinding ache seeming to come from deep within the bone. It was cold. He would have dismounted and walked Jupiter but doubted he could stay on his feet. If he perished Jupiter probably would also.

  He sniffed the air and smelled smoke. Did it come from a campfire or a house? As far as he could tell there was nothing out here, except hills, trees and wild animals. Could it be the Oliver gang? From where he had been hiding, waiting his chance to get a clear shot at one of the brothers, he had overhead the gang planning a robbery in Laramie within the next few weeks to coincide with a large shipment of cash being delivered to the bank. Easy pickings George Oliver had said, while his brothers laughed and congratulated themselves for being clever enough to have a spy working in the bank who fed them the information.

  So intent was he on finding out more about the robbery he had let his guard down and one of the men had opened fire on him. He had managed to mount Jupiter and ride away, but not before catching a bullet in the shoulder.

  With a sigh Skye set aside the lace collar she had been crocheting as Lochie’s barking intensified.

  “What’s wrong with that dog?” Grandpa asked in Gaelic.

  “I don’t know.” She answered him in English.

  Since his accident, her grandfather had lost most of his English, reverting to his boyhood language of Gaelic, which was spoken on the Isle of Skye where he was born. He could understand English so she often wondered whether he couldn’t speak English or chose not to. Having been born in Texas from a Scottish mother and a Texan father, her Gaelic wasn’t particularly strong.

  Finally, she couldn’t stand the dog’s barking any longer. “I’ll go out and see what’s going on.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will, it’s probably only a jack rabbit, no-one ever comes here.” She only wished they did sometimes. She brushed irritably at wayward tendrils of hair which always seemed to escape from the plait she mostly wore.

  She glanced at the Winchester fastened to the wall by wooden brackets and left it there. Mid-afternoon, no-one would be outside.

  Stepping out on to the porch she called out. “Be quiet, Lochie.” The dog kept up his his frantic barking as he jumped around a sweat stained horse. A man wearing a black Stetson and duster, slumped in the saddle.

  “Down, boy.” She patted his head and the barking turned into a growl. “Good dog.” As well as being grandpa’s eyes when he was out and about on their small spread, he was a good guard dog. Nothing came close to the cabin without him letting them know about it.

  Before her eyes the rider slowly toppled from the horse. She couldn’t hope to catch him, the best she could do was guide him to the ground where he landed on his back. What kind of man would ride his horse so hard? A desperate man.

  She dropped down beside him. He was youngish, perhaps thirty or so. His jaw and cheeks were covered in black stubble. His pants and vest were black like his Stetson and boots, his shirt dark blue.

  “What happened to you?”

  His only answer was a loud groan. Her eyes alighted on the twin Colts he wore. Quickly she relieved him of them and shoved them in the pockets of her apron. A Winchester was in a scabbard on the saddle and the horse was far enough away that he couldn’t reach it. Who should she help first the man or his horse?

  “Grandpa,” she called out. If he could help her get the man inside, she could unsaddle the horse. The chestnut was a fine animal even though it was dusty and streaked with sweat.

  “Grandpa,” she yelled louder. “Can you help me get this man into the cabin. He’s collapsed.”

  Her grandfather appeared. “He might be
dangerous.”

  “Not in this state. We need to get him inside so I can see what’s wrong with him.”

  She watched her grandfather ease himself off the porch. “Straight ahead, only a few paces. Put your hands out and I’ll take them when you reach me.”

  Slowly he stepped toward her. It broke her heart to see this once proud old highlander reduced to a shell of a man who was completely blind in one eye and had very little vision in the other.

  Her young hands connected with his old, wrinkled ones. “Try and see if you can help me lift him, maybe if we took an arm each. Mister, can you hear me?”

  He groaned.

  “You have to help us. We can’t get you off the ground and into the cabin on our own.”

  He was tall and slim, hopefully not a dead weight. She tapped him on the chest. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll count to three then I’ll grab one arm and grandpa the other, but you need to help us.”

  “My horse?” His voice was low, husky, not uncouth.

  “We’ll attend to him once we get you inside. Grab an arm, grandpa. One, two, three.”

  The stranger cursed as they pulled him into a sitting position. Perspiration broke out on his forehead before trickling down his cheeks, leaving dirty track marks on his skin.

  “Now, again. One, two, three.” They pulled, while he dug his heels into the ground to lever himself up. Once on his feet he swayed like a drunken man. She put one of her arms around his neck, grandpa did the same and they half carried, half dragged the man inside.

  “We’ll put him on the sofa so I can see if he’s wounded.”

  “He’s probably been shot,” grandpa said.

  As they lowered the man on to the sofa he said. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “No, save your life.”

  “See to my horse first. Get him out of sight.”

  “Why? Is someone after you?”

  “Might be.”

  “What evil are you darkening my door with?”

  “English, grandpa, I don’t think he can speak Gaelic.”

  “No. He doesn’t look like a Scotsman,” the old man said.

  “Probably isn’t. There aren’t many Scottish folks living out here.” As she spoke, she unbuttoned the man’s duster then his vest. A damp patch could be seen near his shoulder, blood most probably. “He’s been shot.”

  “Varmints got the jump on me. Whiskey.”

  “No,” she said. “Water.”

  His eyes flickered open, even though they were glazed with pain, they were a startling cornflower blue, a stark contrast to his dark hair and beard stubble.

  “I’ll get him a drink, lass, you check his shoulder. I wouldn’t see much.” Grandpa gave a chuckle.

  “Well, you can see well enough to find where I hid that bottle of Scotch whiskey Mack gave you last time he was here.”

  “Smell.”

  “Through the glass?”

  “Good Scotch whiskey, I can smell it a mile away.”

  She was tempted to cut the stranger’s shirt and vest away to get better access to the wound. The blood had congealed, but some of her grandfather’s frugality had rubbed off on her because she didn’t want to destroy good clothing.

  Pulling the vest and shirt down over his shoulder, she inspected the wound, which was swollen and red, obviously infected. How long ago had he been shot?

  Grandpa returned with a bowl of water and a cloth. “If he can’t sit up, he can’t drink,” he said. “We’ll soak the cloth and he can suck the moisture out.”

  What a good idea, he surprised her sometimes, on occasion he was quite lucid, like she remembered he used to be before an explosion had taken his sight and her father’s life.

  The stranger opened his mouth and sucked greedily on the cloth. She dunked it several times in the bowl before his thirst was quenched. With a sigh, he closed his eyes.

  Skye stepped over to the kettle on the stove. It was always kept ready to make a pot of tea at short notice. She poured the liquid into a dish and tossed in a handful of salt. Hot salty water had been grandpa’s cure for infected sores and cuts, and it always seemed to work. Hopefully it would do the same for this stranger.

  Underneath the grime, he would be a handsome man in a rugged sort of way. What was she thinking? At best he was a gunslinger, at worst, an outlaw on the run. Was it the law he was running from?

  Stop thinking this way Skye Lonsdale. At this moment he’s injured and in dire need of help, and the Lord wouldn’t send him their way if he meant them harm.

  By the time she got back to him with the hot water, cloth, bandages and everything else she thought she might need, grandpa had managed to remove the man’s vest and shirt. His bare chest was well muscled and covered with a light smattering of dark body hair.

  The wound was oozing what she thought was a mixture of blood and pus. Gently she cleaned it, hoping the bullet hadn’t gone in deep, otherwise she would have difficulty digging it out. She couldn’t find any exit wound, obviously it was still embedded in his flesh.

  She tapped him on the face. “Wake up.”

  He groaned.

  “Wake up.”

  “Too tired.”

  As his voice wasn’t uncouth, it gave her hope that he was a decent, God-fearing man who had been caught up in something bad, not of his own making.

  Grandpa rested his knee on the man’s chest as she maneuvered the end of a leather strap into his mouth, before dipping the knife in the salty water. Gritting her teeth, she dug into his flesh. He twitched, would almost have catapulted off the sofa had he not been held down.

  “Lie still, I’m trying to get the bullet out.” She pushed in a little deeper, and the tip of the knife hit something hard, hopefully the bullet. She forced it to the surface so she could grab it with tweezers and pull it out. It must have lodged in a bone, otherwise it would probably have gone straight through, in which case he might have bled to death.

  Working quickly, she cleaned the wound out. The stranger made no sound now, he had obviously lost consciousness. Better for him that way. She dunked a pair of tweezers into the salty water and used them to grab hold of the slug and pull it out. She sewed the open wound up using her lace making thread.

  Slathering salve over the wound and the reddened skin around it, she bandaged his upper arm and shoulder and sat back on her haunches to survey her handiwork. There was nothing more she could do except pray the infection didn’t spread. It would take hours to ride into the nearest town and bring a doctor back. The stranger would have to take his chances on God, and her limited nursing skills.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Cain woke up feeling as if he had been run over by a herd of stampeding buffalo. Every part of his body ached. His mouth was dry as a dust bowl. Trying to move his left arm caused such excruciating pain in his shoulder he groaned loudly. His eyelids felt as if they were stuck fast. Never, even after a night long drinking session, had his head throbbed so badly. Where was he?

  Finally, his eyelids slowly creaked open enough for him to glance around. By the looks of the log walls he was lying in a cabin, in a soft bed covered by a sheet. Clay or dirt must have been rammed into the gaps as no breeze came through.

  An elusive scent of lavender infused his nostrils, well he thought it was lavender, definitely some kind of flowery perfume, although not the sickly, cloying stuff the saloon gals wore. Gentle, subtle, soothing and sweet. He must be going crazy thinking like this.

  White lace curtains covered the center of the window and panels of tartan hung on either end. A tartan shawl was draped over a chair in front of the dresser. This was a woman’s bedroom, he was sure of it, with his limited knowledge of such things.

  He tried to sit up and his head spun, stars danced before his eyes. They were so bright he had to close his eyes lest their brightness blinded him. The Oliver gang, the filthy varmints, had crept up on him. He had been able to m
ount Jupiter and gallop off. He was almost out of range when a bullet had slammed into in his shoulder; the force of it almost unseating him.

  “You’re awake?” a soft female voice intruded into his jumbled thoughts.

  “Sort of. Where am I?”

  Cool fingers caressed his forehead, the scent of lavender curled enticingly around his senses and he realized he was in this gal’s bedroom. “You’ve been very ill, cowboy. What’s your name?”

  “Cain Kilkenny.” There was not a flicker of awareness. Rightly or wrongly, his name brought fear and loathing to many people.

  “Pleased to meet you, Cain Kilkenny, I’m Skye Lonsdale, and my grandfather is Hugh McLeod.”

  “Howdy. I couldn’t have a drink, could I?”

  “Yes, I’ll get you some water.”

  “Whiskey?” he asked hopefully. He could down a bottle of it right now and it wouldn’t even hit the sides of his throat.

  “No, only water for you at the moment.” She gave a soft laugh. “Once you get stronger grandpa might let you have a glass of his whiskey.”

  “Your husband?”

  “I don’t have a husband, there’s only grandpa and me here.”

  It was foolish telling a stranger this, he could be a murderer for all she knew. Not that he would hurt her, she had saved his life after all, in any case he never ill-treated women. He had many faults and that wasn’t one of them. Any man who hurt a woman was a polecat to his way of thinking.

  You wouldn’t have any Laudanum you could give me? The pain is nearly killing me.”

  “Sorry, I used it all up over the last three days.”

  “Three days?”

  “Yes, your wound was infected when you got here and the poison had started to get into your blood stream. You’ve had a raging fever and been delirious. We nearly lost you a couple of times.”

  He grabbed her hand. “What did I say?”

  “Apart from cursing, nothing which made any sense to us.”

  “Sorry. “He let go her hand. “My horse?”