Wyoming Tough - Diana Palmer [75]
She rode a few more yards, dismounted and searched off the path again. But, again, she found nothing. She repeated the exercise, over and over again, fearful that she might get careless and miss him. She could get help when it turned light, but that might be too late…!
She went down the path to a turn in the road, dismounted and walked through the underbrush. The glow of the flashlight began to give off a dull yellow light. She’d forgotten to change the batteries! She shook it and hit it, hoping the impact might prop it up for a few more precious minutes, but it didn’t. Even as she watched, the light began to fade.
“Oh, damn!” she wailed to herself. “And I haven’t got any spare batteries. Of all the stupid things to do!”
There was a sound. She stopped. She listened. Rain was getting louder on the leaves, but there was some muffled sound. Her heart soared.
“MALLORY!” SHE CALLED. Damn Joe, she wasn’t going to let Mal die because she was afraid to raise her voice.
The muffled sound came again, louder, to her right.
She broke through the bushes wildly, blindly, not caring if they tore her skin, if they ruined her clothing, if they broke bones. She trampled over dead limbs, through patchy weeds, toward a thicket where tall pine trees were growing.
“Mallory!” she called again.
“Here.” His voice was muffled and bone-tired and heavy.
She pushed away some brush that had been piled up around a tree. And there was Mallory. Bareheaded, pale, tied to the tree with his arms behind him, sitting. He was soaking wet. His face was bruised. He looked worn to the bone. But when he saw Morie, his eyes were so brilliant with feeling that she caught her breath.
She managed to untie the bandanna that Joe had used to gag him with.
He coughed. “Got anything to drink?” he asked huskily. “Haven’t had water for a day and a half….”
“No,” she groaned. “I’m so sorry!” She thought with anguish of the thermos of coffee she’d given Joe Bascomb.
“I’ll get you loose,” she choked out. She got around the tree and tried to untie the bonds, but the nylon rope was wet and it wouldn’t budge.
“Pocketknife. Left pocket.”
She dug in his pocket for it, her face close to his as she worked.
His dry mouth brushed across her cheek. “Beautiful, brave girl,” he whispered. “So…proud of you.”
Tears ran down her cheeks with the rain. She bent and put her mouth against his, hard. “I love you,” she whispered. “I don’t care about the past.”
He managed a smile. “I love you, too, baby.”
Her heart soared. “You do?” she exclaimed. “Oh, Mal!” She bent and kissed him again with helpless longing.
“I’m not complaining. But think you might cut me loose anytime soon?” he murmured. “My hands have gone to sleep.”
“Oh, dear!”
She ran around the tree, opened the knife and went to work on the bonds. His hands were white. The circulation ran back into them when he was free and he groaned at the pain.
“Can you stand up?” she asked, concerned.
He tried and slumped back down. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Legs gone to sleep, too.”
He was obviously suffering from exposure and God knows what other sort of injuries that Joe had inflicted on him.
“I’ll get help,” she said at once, and pulled out her cell phone.
Lights flashed around her as men came forward. “Miss Brannt?” someone called.
She gasped. “Yes!”
A tall, dark-haired man came into view. He was wearing jeans and a buckskin jacket. He had long black hair in a ponytail and a grim expression. “I’m Ty Harding. I work for Dane Lassiter.”
“Hiya, Harding,” Mallory managed. “Good to see you on the job.”
“I can outtrack any of these feds,” he teased the other two men, “so I volunteered to help search for you. Hey, Jameson, can you bring a Jeep up here?”
“Sure. Be right back.”
There were running footsteps.
Harding knelt beside him. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to ride a horse back,” he guessed.
“Probably not,” Mallory agreed hoarsely. “Have you got any water?”
“I have,” one of the feds said, and tossed a