“I don’t care about any jewels,” Luke said, speaking in Spanish. From the corner of his eye he could see the girl wrestling with the ties that bound her. “Just the girl.”
“You want to die for the sake of this skinny bitch?” The man dragged his breeches up with one hand and glanced around the clearing.
Luke knew what he was thinking. One horse. One man. Excellent odds.
This man was older, tougher, meaner than Luke. And Luke’s other pistol was in his saddlebag. But Luke didn’t move. Standing between the man and the girl, he braced himself.
“So be it.” The deserter dropped the spent pistol and produced a vicious-looking knife. He bared broken yellow teeth in a mirthless smile and hurled himself at Luke in a rush.
The blade flashed in the sunlight, and Luke respondedinstinctively, arching back. It missed him by a hairsbreadth.
Luke kicked the side of the man’s knee hard as he passed. It should have broken the bastard’s leg. It didn’t.
He stumbled, staggered sideways, and slashed at Luke with the knife again.
Luke scooped a handful of dust, threw it in the man’s face, and dived, chopping at the man’s throat.Hechokedandstabbed the knife toward Luke’s face.
Luke smashed his fist down on the man’s wrist and grappled fiercely for control of the knife. They swayed, locked in desperate battle. The glittering blade inched toward Luke’s throat. Luke forced it back, straining every sinew, the bones of his wrist feeling as though they would crack. The man’s face was inches from his. He stank. His breath was hot and fetid.
Abruptly the deserter’s grip loosened, as if he were beaten, then he gave a sudden twist and strove to thrust the blade in. Luke, alert to the trick, dropped his hip in an old wrestling move, threw his enemy off balance, and shoved back, hard.
In an instant it was all over: the knife slid in, neat as butter.
The man gasped and sagged slowly to the ground, spewing obscenities. His eyes were incredulous, disbelieving, even as the light faded from them. His body curled protectivelyaround the blade, his own blade, lodged deeply in his gut.
Luke stepped away, his lungs burning. He watched for a moment, then turned his back on the dying man.
The girl saw him turn toward her, and wrestled more frantically than ever with her bindings. She was all dust and rags and nakedness, bony spine and skinny, scraped ribs.
“Don’t be afraid,” Luke said in Spanish. “No one will hurt you now,señorita.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder, turning furious, terrified eyes on him, tearing at her bindings, even though they must be cutting into her flesh. Luke’s heart twistedinhischest. She was barely out of childhood.
“Stop it, little one. You’re only hurting yourself more.” Luke pulled off his coat and dropped it over her nakedness. She hesitated, her golden eyes defiant and wary.
“That’s right,” Luke said gently. “I won’t hurt you.” He squatted down, pulled out his knife, and reached for her feet. Instantly her bound hands rose in desperate, defensive claws, their nails broken and bloody.
“Hush,niña. Don’t be frightened,” Luke said in the kind of voice he used on a skittish horse. “I’m just going to cutyou free.”
Her eyes flickered sideways, and he saw a bloodied rock lying beside her. He smiled. “So that’s how you smashed that brute’s nose. Clever girl. Now let’s get you free.” With calm, deliberate movements he cut the rags that tied her feet.
“Now, for your hands.” Hesitantly she held them out to him, and he cut through the strip of cloth that bound her.
She wriggled into his coat, pulling it over her nakedness.
Her body was thin, unformed, and childish. Beneath the dust her skin was marred with darkening bruises, scrapes, cuts, and smears of bright, fresh blood. Her barely there breasts, her belly, and her thighs were scraped and smeared with blood.
Luke’s heart clenched. Had he arrived too late?
She scrambled to her feet. Gripping the bloodied rock in a grubby fist, she buttoned his coat one-handed, her gaze darting between the still figure of her erstwhile attacker and Luke.
“He’s dead,” Luke said quietly. “I killed him. You are safe now,niña. It’s all over.”
Her eyes were huge and golden, like a fierce little hawk; one side of her face was badly bruised and starting to swell. Her lips were split and still welling with slow blood.
She was heartbreakingly young, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. The same age as his youngest sister, Molly. But there was a world of difference between his happy, sheltered little sister and this fierce, battered scrap.
Luke’s throat burned. War was no place for little girls.
