W
ell
, you could have bowled me over with a feather that day,” Preacher was saying.
Nearly two more had passed since they parted company. Two days of hell, of waiting. Trace had watched for the old man every hour from a nearby ridge. Finally he’d spotted the buckboard leaving the Lazy C, likely to pick up supplies, and Trace met his friend at a small, unseen grove just off the trail.
“What I don’t get is why you didn’t claim that mustang on the spot. Couldn’t you prove he was yours?” Preacher fussed.
“I could’ve proven it. Diablo’s hooves and shoes are notched.”
“Then, why?”
“It wasn’t the right time,” Trace said. “Comstock wasn’t packing, unless you want to call that meanlooking blacksnake on the pommel of his saddle a weapon. A coward’s weapon. I’ll bet he knows how to use it, too. But that foreman of his was. If I’d drawn on Comstock—and it would have come to that if I’d claimed back Diablo, believe me—who knows how
many other riders would have drilled me from behind? You, too. He and a couple of boys were on the porch watching my every move as I rode out. I’ve no doubt they saw and heard it all.”
“You don’t make no sense, Ord,” Preacher opined, lifting his dusty slouch hat to scratch his head. “Ever since we first met, you’ve been braying about getting that black devil stallion back. Well, you get the chance, you’ve got proof that he’s yours, the poor animal was being abused something terrible and—cool as you please—you tip your hat and walk away. I take back what I said about you having a short fuse, but I still think you’ve been chewing on locoweed.”
“That
woman
stole my horse,” said Trace. “I need to find out if she’s in cahoots with this outfit or a victim of it. Then I can do something.”
“If Comstock don’t kill that mustang first,” the old man said. “That horse recognized you, Trace. I see that now. That’s why he acted like he did.”
“Don’t you think that tears me up inside?” Trace’s anger burned hot. “Do you have any idea what it took for me to turn my back and leave him there? If that gal is part of this gang, it’s one thing. If she’s here against her will, it’s another. She was running from something, remember? If she’s still alive, I have no idea what she’s told Comstock, and I could get her hurt or killed. That’s why I need you there. You have to find out the situation.”
“You ain’t going to cotton to a lot of what’s going on,” the old man said darkly.
“Spit it out!”
The old man gave him a sad smile. “I knew you’d be champing at the bit, but I couldn’t get out here no quicker
without rousing suspicion. You see, they ain’t exactly welcomed me into the fold with open arms. They like my cooking well enough. I never was worried about that. But they ain’t giving me rein to move free about the place. They keep me pretty close to the bunkhouse and the cook shack, and they’re generally a tight-lipped bunch.”
“How many riders?” Trace asked.
“Ten that I’ve seen, but I gather there are more. Some out on the range never come in—leastwise, they haven’t since I’ve been there.”
“What about the girl?” Trace urged.
The old man hedged. “You ain’t going to like what I have to say.”
Trace snapped. “Don’t mess with me, old-timer. Is she there or not?”
Preacher frowned. “I didn’t see no womenfolk at all, and I didn’t hear no mention of any, neither. Nobody was saying much around me. A couple of times, when the wind was blowing just right, I thought I heard a woman’s voice up to the main house. Once I might’ve heard crying. Another time it sounded like a man and woman arguing. Tried once to get up there, to see for myself. Made it to the back porch on the excuse I was wondering if they had a Dutch oven. Comstock comes out and chases me off. Even so, I spotted a shadow inside. A female shadow.”
“Was it her?” Trace asked through clenched teeth.
“I’m getting there,” the old man shot back. “I kept my eyes and ears open after that. Didn’t see the woman again, but listened real good to what them riders was saying. There’s a woman on the place all right, a woman named Mae. But…”
“But
what,
old man?” Trace prompted.
“Here’s the part you ain’t going to like. She’s Comstock’s wife.”
Trace took a step backward. His mind reeled to the ring on her finger and what she’d said when he asked her name, how she’d stumbled over her answer. But why was she running through the canyon on foot like a mad, wild thing when she had a whole herd of horses at her command? Something wasn’t right here. Mae hadn’t been headed southwest to the Lazy C when she lit out; she’d been headed east. Those riders had caught up and turned her back toward the mountains. Back toward the Lazy C.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of Comstock changing his mind about me?” he asked.
“After the stunt with that horse?” The old man loosed a guttural chuckle. “Not likely.”
“I was trying to settle Diablo down,” Trace snapped.
“I know,
I
ain’t holding it against you. I’m just saying you spoilt your chances of getting hired on, is all. Man seems none too trustful to begin with, and you’re someone that horse respects. Set Comstock’s hackles up.”
“When are you coming into town again?”
Preacher shrugged. “Not for a week, maybe two.”
“Doubt I can wait that long.” Trace shook his head. “Riders are coming and going every day from the Lazy C. I’ll be spotted sooner or later.” He pointed to the northwest. “See that ridge?”
Preacher nodded.
“There’s a little grove with a stream running through it. I’ll camp there and keep watch from up top during the day. See if you can’t get in good with the ranch’s
wranglers. Drink and play cards with them, find out what’s going on. I need proof before I send for the ranchers who hired me, or for the marshal up north; the circuit judge is likely on Comstock’s payroll. And…keep your eyes open for Mae. Something’s not right here.” After a moment Trace asked, “Is Diablo all right?”
“He ain’t happy. That Comstock is running him into the ground. He’s all cut up from whippings. Truth to tell, I’ve been trying to figure a way to set him loose. I would, too, except I didn’t want to get caught before I found out something to help you.”
“Don’t—not yet. Leave Diablo to me. But before it’s done I’m going to give that hombre a taste of his own bullwhip. You can count on that.”
That night, Trace slept in the cul-de-sac. All day he’d haunted the ridge above, and at dusk he rode Duchess down the rocky trail of ragged steps to the outcropping of red rock where he’d hidden his gear and burro. It was the perfect seclusion, being tucked behind trees and far enough from the trail to risk a small campfire.
The air was sweet and clean, blowing down from the mountain peaks that still showed snow on their caps. Sage colored the distant foothills. New grass swayed in the breeze, and the stream ran cold and full from the melted snow from above. Spring was in full swing, but Trace couldn’t enjoy it.
Early the next morning, he watched hawks and eagles sail on the wind, and he caught a glimpse of deer, elk, and once he could have sworn he saw a great black bear. He set snares for rabbits and kept himself busy. It was that or his temper would get the better of him and he’d
charge, guns blasting, into the Lazy C Ranch. He usually was a patient man, but this waiting was awful.
The following day he rode to the Outpost. No one in the town seemed to know of anyone named Ahern. His casual questions met with stony stares, closed mouths, minimal answers. He assumed this was because it was a company town, and everyone was heedful that the company was Jared Comstock. Buying supplies, Trace made a lot of noise to spread the word that he was heading back to canyon country, searching for wild mustangs; then he rode out in that direction, inviting many curious stares. He left late in the day, which allowed him to double back under the cover of twilight and return unseen to his campsite.
Trace chafed to take action. This waiting wasn’t getting him anyplace. It was all he could do not to immediately ride to the Lazy C, reclaim his horse and get to the bottom of the mystery of Mae. If she was Jared’s wife, then so be it. He’d take his horse, ride away, and never spare her another thought. He’d find proof of Comstock’s rustling, send for the ranchers who’d hired him, and tell them to fetch a U.S. marshal.
But he couldn’t get that haunting face out of his mind. He knew animals well, and guessed people weren’t much different. He’d seen fear in Mae’s brown eyes. Something pretty bad had pushed her to run away in the middle of the night, with no gun, food, or proper clothing, and to become willing to risk being shot as a horse thief.
He hoped Preacher was being careful. The old man was smart but often talked too much. One slip, and Jared would be all over him. This was Trace’s job. He
was used to working alone, which had the benefit that he didn’t have to worry about others. This time, if anything happened to Preacher it would be his fault.
“One more day, Duchess,” he said, patting the sorrel’s neck as he made his final evening check before turning in. “Then I’ve got to make some sort of move.”
Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of motion: a horse and rider traveling at a gallop, as if the devil were on their heels. Not eastward toward the Outpost, though. And it didn’t ride like Preacher.
His heart leapt. Was it Diablo? He didn’t hesitate. He mounted Duchess and spurred her down the sloping trail through fallen rocks, finally breaking free into the grove below. Running his horse flat out at twilight was hazardous when he didn’t know the land, and he prayed she didn’t find a prairie dog hole. He leaned forward in his saddle, steering the mare to intercept the other rider.
Diablo ran like the wind. That had Trace worried. He had always said there was no match for his stallion. Of course, that had been before Diablo was abused by Jared Comstock. He had to give Duchess her due; she ran with her full heart. And she was gaining.
Trace grimaced. Could his mustang be so altered, or had he misjudged the sorrel beneath him? To ride a horse, you could either break or gentle him. He’d witnessed both methods. Gentled, Diablo had kept his spirit. He had a feeling Jared Comstock would break a horse, grinding him down until he lost all fight. But if Comstock had ruined his horse, Trace was going to kill him.
As Duchess pulled within range, Trace put two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle—a command
he’d taught the horse to obey, a summons that had always worked in the past. This time, though there was a slight hesitation to the horse’s gait, Diablo’s rider slapped the end of his reins like a whip and once more the stallion sped ahead.
Trace leaned low over Duchess’s lathered neck, driving her to her limit. Once more the mare nearly closed the distance. There was no moon; twilight was quickly shifting to full darkness. As his eyes adjusted, however, the rider came into focus and Trace loosed a string of oaths. Without hesitation, he ripped the lasso from his pommel, whirled it over his head, and threw it, the circle dropping over the mustang’s long, muscular neck.
Diablo went wild, the encircling rope nearly pulling Trace from the saddle. Both horses almost stumbled and fell. The mustang’s screams filled the night, reminding Trace of the first time he’d brought the horse down. Certainly, Diablo’s rider was having a hard time keeping astride. What could be driving them to such acts of painful desperation?
“Hold, you black imp of Satan!” Trace commanded, winding the rope around his saddle horn to keep Diablo from pulling it out of his hand. The stallion puffed visible breath from flared nostrils, tossed his head, mane flying. He did not slow his flight, however.
Trace reeled in the horse until he could reach out and pull Diablo’s rider out of the saddle and across his lap. He growled, staring into the face that had haunted his dreams. “Bitch. I ought to wring your pretty neck. You’ve got a lot of answering to do.”
D
espite
her struggling, which was about as wild as the stallion’s, Trace held Mae fast. And, like when he’d gentled the stallion the first time, he allowed her to get the fight out of her system.
It wasn’t easy. His blood ran hot because of the horse. Diablo has been abused, nearly driven mad, all because of Mae’s selfish actions. Trace was having a hard time reining in his fury. Nonetheless, he gritted his teeth and allowed her to fight. But then holding her became harder for other reasons.
The feel of her in his arms, the heat of her body so close to his, plus that wiggling around on his lap, began a fiery ache in his loins. That sexual need was fed by his anger. Diablo’s misuse made him heartsick, made him want to lash out in punishment, but the rest of him wanted to throw Mae down and worship her like a goddess. Such a terrible mix of emotions riddled him that he scarcely dared trust what he might do next.
“Quit that!” he snapped, shaking her. “I’m not going to hurt you, but you’re going to hurt yourself, maybe us
both, if you don’t stop struggling. Your damn willfulness has already cost my stallion. That wound in your shoulder is too new to stand this strain. You’re going to open it again.”
“Let go!” the woman raged.
“Enough! It’s me, Trace Ord. You stole my horse, remember? I can’t say he’s fared well because of it.”
She whimpered, and her blows softened, shifting to two stiffarms that kept him at a distance.
“That’s better,” he said. “This is your fault. You wouldn’t be having these troubles if you’d confided in me when I asked you, instead of sneaking off with my horse in the dead of night. You proud of what happened to Diablo? Do you even give a damn?”
“I never harmed your horse,” she sobbed.
“No, you just stole him for your rustler friend,” he retorted. “I’m going to use that damn bullwhip on him. Bet on it, lady.”
“I wouldn’t harm any horse,” she defended.
“Your actions caused my horse to suffer. He’s near mad from the treatment. But we’ll get to that. Like I said at our last meeting, you’ve got some explaining to do. Now, I’m going to put you down. If you run, I’ll only catch you, so don’t waste the effort. Run and I’ll lasso you like I would a heifer.”
Trace slid her to the ground and swung out of his saddle, but his feet had scarcely hit dirt before she bolted. Quickly tying both horses to a dead cactus, Trace gave chase. His long-legged stride ate up the distance, and finally he grabbed her. They crashed to the ground with a hard thud, damn near knocking the air from his lungs as he bore the brunt of their fall. He rolled until he had
her pinned under him. She still struggled, but the fight was almost out of her.
“Don’t you…get it, you hellcat…?” he panted. “You’re no match for me. Don’t make me hog-tie you. I will if I have to. I’m fed up to the gills with this nonsense.”
“Let me go!” she almost wailed.
“Where? Where will you go? There’s nothing for miles except the Outpost. You really want to go there? You sure as hell aren’t taking my horse again. You’re loco if you think you can go wandering around the territory on foot. You won’t last a day before something bites you or somebody catches you…or worse. So stop acting like a fool and actually think for a change.”
She seemed to crumble. She fought tears, but he saw several drop from her lashes, streaking down her dusty checks. “I won’t go back!” she snapped. “You can’t make me go back. I saw you out at the ranch. I
saw
you. You’re in league with them! I didn’t recognize you at first, without the beard, and your hair is shorter, but then I heard your voice and I knew. You were with that old cook. You may as well kill me here and now if you’re planning on taking me back to the Lazy C!”
Trace almost laughed, though he saw nothing funny in the situation. “
Now
she talks. I told you, I’m not going to hurt you, and Trace Ord never goes back on his word, even if some half-crazy, horse-thieving female drives him toward it. Now then, settle down. My camp is back up the trail in a grove. I’ll take you there, and then you can tell me what the Sam Hill’s going on.”
“Not near the Outpost!” she cried.
“No, nowhere near. But I’m not giving you a choice,
Mae. I’ll let you up, and then we’re going back to the horses. Afterward, I will take you to my camp. You have a lot of explaining to do.”
He eased off her, stood, and took her hand to pull her to her feet. Mae offered no resistance. Slapping at the dust on her clothes, she walked beside Trace to where Diablo and Duchess stood tied. Mae quickly reached for the mustang’s bridle.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Trace growled, grabbing her wrist. “My mother didn’t raise a foolish child. You’re going to ride before me on Duchess. The only place you’ll get your hands on that black devil stallion of mine again is your dreams.”
As promised, he rode them back to his campsite. He paused before stepping down from Duchess to draw a deep breath. With her practically sitting on his lap, the trip back had been torture. Each step the horse took shifted Mae, creating friction against his groin. He held her close, his hand on her belly. There was no other choice; give her an inch and she’d run again.
“Good thing my mama raised me to be a gentleman,” he said under his breath.
Mae turned. “Beg pardon?”
“I was commenting that you’re lucky my mama raised me to respect female folk. Now, here is how things go. I am going to step down off Duchess. Making my poor departed mama happy, I will offer you my hand in a genteel fashion. You, like a lady—no matter how hard that comes to you—will accept it, and you will climb down without trying to steal Duchess and run off. You try anything of the sort and I will run you down and truss you up. You can lie on the ground like a calf
ready for branding while we have our discussion. Understand?”
She nodded.
“Despite your clear lack of concern about their condition, you are going to help me water these horses and rub them down. Then I will brew us some coffee and we will talk. So help me, Mae, don’t run. You really don’t want to push me that far again.”
She surprised him by obeying. They cared for the horses and she sat watching him with big eyes while he built up the fire and fixed the coffee. He wasn’t trying to delay the confrontation, but after he saw the condition of Diablo he figured he’d better get a good grip on his temper before dealing with her. He could barely stand to look at Diablo, tearing up whenever he saw the whip marks in the horse’s hide.
Pouring water into a cup, he added herbs for the ointment he would brew for the stallion. Stirring the mixture, he glanced at Mae. She sat on a fallen log, both hands wrapped around her tin cup as if she were holding on for her life. How pale she looked in the firelight—like a ghost, except for the golden sunset of her hair shimmering in the firelight. Wavy and long, it was tamed at the nape of her slender neck by a thin bow.
Damn her! Mae wasn’t going to get away this time, not until he’d gotten to the bottom of what the hell was going on.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked. “I don’t dare add to the fire or I risk us being seen. If you’re cold, take one of the blankets.”
She shook her head. “I’m not cold.”
“The old cook I rode in with?” Trace set the cup next to the fire to warm. “Is he still there?”
“Yes,” she said.
“He’s all right, then?”
She nodded. “I nearly died of fright that day,” she confessed. “When Jared rode up on your horse, I…Why didn’t you claim him?”
“He’s your husband,” Trace accused, ignoring her question.
“Yes, but that’s not…that’s not important.”
“What a fool thing to say. Maybe you don’t think so, but I’d say it’s mighty important.” Trace’s temper rose again. “He was one of the riders who caught up with you by the stream?”
Mae stared, her tin cup raised to drink. “How did you—?”
“I tracked you.” Trace reached into his pocket and produced the kerchief he’d fashioned into a sling for her, stained dark with her blood. “Four riders in all. One of them handled you pretty roughly by the look of this. You didn’t seem eager to go with them. You mind explaining?”
Mae stared at the bandana. Tears once more welled in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. She looked away, and Trace returned the bloodied kerchief to his pocket.
“You followed me to the Lazy C?” she asked.
“No. I followed your tracks ’til it got too dark to see. I was forced to return to camp. That’s where I met up with Preacher. Next morning, we set out to pick up your trail, but the sandstorm wiped it out. I was headed for the Lazy C in the first place, so Preacher came on to the
Outpost and then the ranch. I had no idea that’s where you were, ’til I saw Comstock ride up.”
“On Diablo. And you didn’t even try to claim him,” she said again. “Why?”
“It would’ve been clear to a blind man that you were running from something. That being the case, I had no idea what you might have told Comstock to explain Diablo. I had to know how you figured into the goings-on at the Lazy C before I acted. I didn’t want to get you into trouble—if you were innocent.”
“Innocent of what?” Her eyes snapped up from the tin cup to pin him. “Don’t talk to me of innocence! What was your business at the Lazy C? According to what you just said, you were headed there before we ever met. There’s only one kind of man that looks for work at the Lazy C, and innocence is not one of that sort’s characteristics.”
“I think it best you answer my questions first. You level with me, and then, if I’m satisfied with what you’ve got to say, I’ll fess up to you. Start from the beginning. What were you doing out in that canyon, alone and on foot? Where did you think you were going?”
Mae set her empty cup aside and hugged her knees. Trace reached for a blanket and tossed it into her lap, not trusting himself to be any closer. He needed to maintain a cool head around this hellcat, and that was damn hard to do.
She looked at him for a long moment, and then slid the blanket around her shoulders. “I was doing my best to head east until I picked up the railroad,” she began. “I had money for a ticket…home.”
“Where’s home?”
“My grandfather owns a horse farm—Foxtail Farms in Kentucky, outside of Versailles. Not big like Almhurst, but he gives them a good run for their money with quality horseflesh. The farm was hit hard during the war. Both sides kept coming through trying to take horses for their armies. My grandfather had the boys dig a huge cellar under the manor house. Outriders would send word that soldiers were in the area, and they’d drive the horses down into the cellar and then cover the entrance with sod and park wagons and buggies atop that. We had to leave a few out for them to take every time, of course. It wouldn’t look right, a horse farm with no horses. They were suspicious, but we held on, surviving when other farms collapsed.” Her face softened. “It was so pretty, that farm. With its whitewashed fences and barns.” Dropping her chin on her knees she added, “I wanna go home.”
“Well, that explains how come you can ride better than any Indian I ever met.” Trace swallowed hard the knot in his throat as he watched her staring into the fire. More than once over the years he had done the same thing, staring into the fire while wishing to go home. Only, for some, going home was only a dream. Home was long gone. All the people who mattered were long gone. Oh, the land was still there, but that was all.
“I could sit a horse before I could stand,” Mae remarked wistfully.
Trace was softening, empathizing with her desperation in wanting to go back to a place where she felt safe, so he reminded himself that poor Diablo had suffered because of her. “Don’t tell me you walked all the way from the Lazy C to that canyon?”
“N-no…” she replied.
“Well?” Trace reached for the ointment cup that was warming by the fire, and he stirred the herbs again.
“That cook friend of yours, Preacher. He replaced the cook that Jared told you ran off. The cook’s name was Bill Coulter. I got him to take me. I paid him, but he…he took it the wrong way. He thought…He wanted…” She grabbed a blanket and pulled it tight around herself.
“I get the picture,” Trace said, sparing her. “You ran off from him?”
She nodded. “I wasn’t thinking about anything, just getting away from him. He was drunk, and foul…” She shuddered. “I just ran. He couldn’t go back to the Lazy C—not after running off with me like that. I’m guessing he’s probably halfway to Texas by now, fearing Jared will catch up. I never looked back. I kept running and running ’til my sides ached and I could scarcely breathe. Then I saw your horse. He was like an answer to a prayer. I couldn’t run anymore, I couldn’t even walk, and then you…you…” Burying her face against her raised knees, she sobbed.
Trace grimaced. So much for keeping his distance. She was crying. She’d been alone and scared, had run just as his sister had run to escape the Yankees. Only, his sister hadn’t gotten away. He couldn’t go home and comfort her.
Going over, Trace laid a gentle hand on Mae’s arm. “Hush now. Why couldn’t you have told me all this back in the canyon? Do I look like the kind of man who would turn his back on a lady in distress?”
Her head snapped up, her wounded gaze accusatory.
“You have no idea what I’d just come from. Any man was the devil to me! I didn’t know who you were, what kind of man…How could I? And you shot me! I had just nearly been raped by someone I thought I could trust. After that, how could I trust a perfect stranger? Then you reminded me that somebody would be coming after me. I knew you were right, and that’s why I stole your horse again. I almost made it away, too. I almost made it!”
“Yeah, I saw that you were close to outrunning them.” Trace wanted to hold her, to tell her it was all over, but after her confession about nearly being raped, he didn’t want to spook her with an offer of comfort. He reached for her cup, poured it half-full, and handed it back. “I understand wanting to go home, but why didn’t you just ask your husband to take you? Why put yourself in harm’s way again and again?”
“I was running
from
Jared Comstock,” she moaned. “And from that foreman of his, Will Morgan. He was no better than the cook. Of course, Will would never have taken me away. He would have used me right there, right under Jared’s nose!”