Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings Read Free Page A

remaining five Apaches were closing in, Blade close on their heels. He aimed and fired again. Missed. Fired, and took one of the men from the rear.
    He felt a bullet whiz by his ear and he ducked lower against the bay.
    Suddenly, Blade heard a grinding sound. He was just taking aim again when he realized that the treacherous trail and reckless speed were causing the stagecoach to capsize. The vehicle was wavering, rocking … crashing down hard upon its side. The horses, jerked back in the fall, screamed and whinnied, tripping over the harness and themselves. The driver flew wide, the guard flew farther. The Apaches, four now, ignored them, converging on the compartment.
    On the woman.
    No fire rang out from the compartment. Was she dead? Blade wondered, and his heart seemed to slam hard against his chest. Damn her, she should never have been here!
    Another bullet seemed to chip at the flesh on Blade’s cheek, it came so close. He instantly returned the fire. An Apache made a clean fall into the dust. His three companions hurried on, one wrenching at the door to the passenger compartment, the other pausing upon the downed structure to aim his rifle at Blade.
    Blade leapt from his horse, diving into the dirt just in time to miss the shot. The Apache stalked, his knife gleaming. The muscled warrior slammed against him like a living wall of brick, and they tumbled in the dirt. Blade found himself on his back, the Apache straddled over him, hatred in his black eyes, cold fury constricting his hard features. The Apache’s knife glittered right over his eyes, coming closer and closer.
    Blade gripped the Apache’s wrist, knowing that he fought for his life, that the Mescalero would offer him no mercy. Their eyes met. For aeons, it seemed, they were suspended in time and space, neither able to best the other. From the corner of Blade’s eye, he could see that the other survivor of the attacking war party had wrenched open the door.
    And found the woman. The one the driver had called Mrs. Dylan.
    She was unconscious, and that was why she had stopped fighting. Unconscious, or dead.
    Her hair had come free from the knot at her nape. It hung down from her lolling head like a waving sheet of pure golden fire. The Apache was about to take her with him.
    And she would disappear forever.…
    He gritted his teeth, straining harder against his enemy. Black eyes met black eyes. Then, with a tremendous burst of energy, Blade shoved against the man, flipping him. Their positions were changed, but the Apache still held the knife, wickedly long, sharp silver, flashing in the afternoon sunlight. Blade stared at it, tightening his grip upon the Apache’s wrist. The warrior suddenly cried out. The knife fell.
    Blade used his fist then, hard against the Apache’s chin. His enemy went limp. Blade leapt up, catching the last Indian just as he was about to mount his horse.
    Mrs. Dylan came to just then. Immense emerald eyes opening to see the painted man carrying her away. She let out a wild shriek, her arms flying, nails raking. The Apache threw her down as she drew his blood, then the flat of his hand connected hard with her cheek. She cried out and started to rise again, true alarm blazing in her eyes.
    But Blade caught the man’s shoulder just then, swinging him around.
    The Apache was good. He caught Blade in the jaw before Blade could duck. For a moment, Blade saw stars. Then he saw that the Apache meant to take the advantage, and he quickly countered with a fierce blow to the Apache’s gut. The man started to double. Blade joined his fists together and brought them down on the Apache’s nape. The Indian fell with a whish of air and a grunt. Blade rubbed his knuckle for a minute, looking at the fallen brave. Then he stared over to where she lay, arms pushing up against the dirt. Breathing hard, she stared at him.
    What was she thinking? One bronzed savage for another? he wondered. She was the one who had