Whispers In The Dark. Bj James
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for the first time in his concern, that tomorrow had become today, Rafe said nothing.
“We know where Courtney’s being held.”
Patrick’s wooden statement shattered Rafe’s calm demeanor as nothing else. “What the hell? You know where she is? How?”
“The Apostles made no effort to cover their tracks. Their trail was so obvious, it was thought to be a ruse in the beginning. Then it became apparent they wanted us to know, and to understand how impossible rescue would be.”
“Where is she, Patrick?” Rafe asked directly, his tone calm but savage.
“The men who took Courtney were tracked into the high desert north of Sedona by a specially trained unit of rangers called in by the governor. At some point she was handed over to one man, who took her the rest of the way to a mountain. Hell!” Patrick slammed a fist on the table. “It’s worse than a mountain. It’s a monstrous aberration among aberrations. A spike of land as barren as the devil’s own, and no one can climb it without being seen.”
The trilling burr of Scotland was thick in Patrick’s diatribe, recalling the lush and craggy highlands of his homeland. A land he loved only a bit more than the land he decried in the extremity of distress. “The surrounding terrain and the old miner’s shack at its peak constitute a veritable fortress.” The growling trill grew more pronounced. “A natural, impregnable stronghold.”
“You were intended to believe rescue is impossible, but is it? Is anything truly impregnable? There’s always a way, and we’ll find it, Patrick. There lies our hope.”
“Maybe.”
The Scot turned stiffly toward the door of the softly lit suite, and something in his manner told the man who knew him so well that way had already been found. Rafe waited, biding his time.
“Maybe there is a way.” Patrick’s head moved from side to side, bemused, dejected. “But I can’t leave Jordana. If she’s aware at all and I’m not here, she’ll know something terrible is wrong. The stress might be all that’s needed to...”
With a hand at Patrick’s wrist, Rafe stopped the anguish of a man torn between two loves. “You see to Jordana, I’ll do what’s needed to bring Courtney home.”
“You can’t.” The answer came quickly, flatly. “There are circumstances and conditions you don’t understand. For once, Rafe, even you can’t do the impossible. But Simon has someone who can, someone he’s sending. Our last resort.” Patrick turned again to the window, stared again, blindly, into the darkness. But in his mind there were barren, ragged peaks shrouded by the night. “Our one chance. Our only hope.”
“Then I’ll help Simon’s man bring her home,” Rafe promised.
Though Patrick spoke of hope, there had never been such melancholy in his voice. Not when he was thirteen, deserted by his faithless mother, failed by his grieving father and consigned to exile in a strange school, in a strange country. Lost and alone among a strange people, he had not been like this. Not even the ultimate death of his father wreaked such suffering upon him. Silently Rafe vowed he would take away the pain, and give back the hope—along with the littlest McCallum.
“Three days, Patrick,” he murmured hoarsely. “I promise.”
“You won’t do anything irrational?” What Patrick left unspoken was his wish that if the impossible were truly that, if one tragedy, or two, were inevitable, there needn’t be a third.
“No more than you would.” A crooked grin lifted the corner of Rafe’s mouth, but left his eyes unchanged. As Patrick had been before his marriage, the Creole was an accomplished sportsman and adventurer. There was little he hadn’t tried, little he hadn’t dared. When time and McCallum International permitted, his idea of relaxing was to battle the elements in one form or another. This time, in a life or death struggle, the stakes would be higher—a life other than his own.
“I promise to do no more and no less than you would, my friend,” Rafe mused softly. “In the same circumstance.”
For a moment their eyes met and held. Patrick nodded, slowly, grimly, and on that understanding returned to his seat.
Less than a quarter hour later, strategy outlined, each lurid detail and fact branded on his mind, Rafe left Patrick. In the next three days, while the Scot fought for the life of his wife, the Creole would go to the mountains, to fight in his stead.
Rafe Courtenay would go to do battle for the life of the beloved daughter of his chosen brother. For his own namesake. For his godchild.
For Courtney...the love of his warrior’s heart.
Three
The scene that greeted Rafe was alien, a surreal backdrop from a science fiction movie. Glaring yellow lights, falling on red rock and flying dust, lent an eerie sense of otherworldliness to the camp and its cluster of trucks and tents hunkered in the stark, rocky basin. He could, he thought, just as easily be looking down on the landscape of Mars as the high desert of Arizona.
When he dropped to the ground, waving the hovering helicopter bearing the logo of McCallum International back into the night sky, he knew no place had ever been more real. Nothing he’d ever done as important
“Mr. Courtenay, sir.” The shout of the young man, who addressed him from the edge of a boil of orange fog, could barely be heard above the whine of the chopper’s engine.
Ducking, small backpack in hand, Rafe dashed from the whipping lash of the revving rotors. As he approached, the young ranger smiled briefly and took the bag from him. “Glad you could make it, sir.”
His handshake was firm, his uniform amazingly neatly pressed into smooth surfaces and sharp creases. Only his face was rumpled from lack of sleep. The tag clipped to the breast pocket of his shirt confirmed he was Joe Collins, a second before he introduced himself.
“I’ve been assigned to serve as your liaison, to familiarize you with the camp and procure whatever else you feel you need,” he continued as he escorted Rafe to his tent. As they passed by, busy people, dressed as Joe was dressed, with faces as strained and harried, acknowledged the newcomer. With only a nod or wave of greeting they returned to the work that engrossed them.
“As you will see, sir,” Joe said as he stopped by one in a line of smaller tents, “we have an excellent Search and Rescue team. But this is a little beyond our field of expertise.”
The last was said apologetically. Rafe responded succinctly, “This is a little beyond anyone’s field of expertise, Ranger Collins.”
“Yes, sir. Thank God.”
“Indeed,” Rafe agreed as he scanned the camp again, noting the propitious arrangement, the equipment, including detailed maps spread over a bevy of tables near a powerful radio. Parked at one side were a half dozen all-terrain vehicles that had seen hard and recent use. Opposite, and set a little apart, was a small remuda. He slanted a questioning look at his guide. “Horses?”
“Yes, sir. A good portion of the terrain we’ve covered is accessible only by horseback. Some of it too bad even for them. Even in relays.” Setting down the bag, he shrugged, a move at odds with his perfect posture. “The gun who was brought in thinks at least part of what we walked and climbed can be crossed by a horse. A particular horse. A stallion trucked in just before you arrived.”
“What horse would that be?” Interest stirred, Rafe waited for his answer.
“Black Jack, from The Broken Spur.”
Feeling the first real frisson of encouragement since he’d seen the desolation around him, Rafe nodded his approval. Black Jack was a magnificent creature of no little reputation among horsemen and breeders such as Patrick. The stallion had made news by accomplishing the unthinkable more than once, and only a rider of incomparable skill could handle him. “If this gun, as you call him, knows his stuff as well as he knows his horses, maybe we have a