Desperate Hearts (4 page)

Juniper, her sturdy dun gelding, pulled
against his reins restlessly. She glanced at the hotel doors again.
Where was Rankin? she wondered. He had told her to be here at
sunup, but he was nowhere to be seen. She took out her pocket watch
again. It was after seven, and now she’d been waiting for twenty
minutes. What if he’d forgotten? Or worse, what if he’d changed his
mind?

Tying Juniper to the hitching rail, she
flopped down on the hotel steps and pulled a cold biscuit from her
coat pocket to nibble.

It vexed her that Rankin was bossing this
arrangement, and that they had to travel first to Misfortune. In
fact, everything about Rankin vexed her. Almost as much as he
terrified her. Only her hatred for Tom Hardesty had given her the
courage to cross miles of open, desolate prairie to seek Rankin
out.

Last night, he had even invaded her dreams.
She’d seen him again as he’d looked when he’d outstared Clem, the
scar-faced miner. So coldly confident was the expression in his
eyes, so menacing was his deadly quiet voice that it wasn’t until
later that she remembered the miner had been much heavier and at
least a head taller than him. Rankin seemed enormous, as though he
towered over all of them. Kyla had lurched to wakefulness, the
bedsprings screeching and her heart thundering in her chest with
fear. It had been only a dream, but not far from the truth.

Kyla envied that, the ability to kindle fear
in an enemy. She could have used it over the years . . . especially
that night—

Just then the doors behind
her opened, and she swung around to find Jace Rankin standing
there. Jumping to her feet, she paused on the bottom step, her
breakfast clamped in her hand. Their eyes met and he stared down at
her as if trying to place her. He gripped his rifle, but let his
hat hang by its bonnet strings and rest against his shoulder
blades. Without that wide-brimmed hat hiding half of his face, he
seemed a bit less fearsome.
Only
a bit.

It was an interesting face, she conceded. It
held a strange mix of youth and hardened age beyond measure.
Actually, if she were forced to describe him honestly, she would
have to admit that he was sort of, well, attractive. That vexed
her, too. She put the biscuit back in her pocket.

It struck her again that he was not a big
man, certainly not as big as his reputation made her expect. But
his size didn’t matter. He was very intimidating—and very
dangerous. Even given his present state.

In her opinion, he looked like he had spent
the night working his way to the bottom of a whiskey bottle,
probably with the help of a saloon girl. Kyla knew his type—he only
wanted one thing from a woman, making her doubly grateful for her
disguise. His eyes reminded her of the American flag she’d seen
fluttering over the Silver City courthouse: red, white, and blue.
But mostly red.

He gazed at her until her identity obviously
registered. “Oh, shit . . . yeah,” he muttered, half turning away
from her. “Kelly Springer—” He rubbed his face with his gloved
hand. A day’s growth of beard shadowed his jaw.

“
Kyle,” she corrected,
keeping her voice low. He wasn’t going to back out now, was he?
He’d already agreed to help her. Briefly she clenched her back
teeth. It was a nervous habit she had developed in the last year or
so. Sometimes she woke up with a headache from grinding her teeth
in her sleep. "We made a deal, Mr. Rankin," she reminded him, using
Kyle’s tough persona to hide her fear of him. "Two hundred and
fifty dollars. I’m ridin’ with you to Misfortune, then we’re goin’
together to Blakely."

The sun inched its way up over the rim of
the Owyhees, and Rankin squinted against the knife-sharp brightness
spearing his aching head. Damn, he’d almost forgotten about this
kid with his blood grudge.

After he and the boy parted, he had bought a
room and a bath upstairs. He sat in the tub, drinking and thinking.
It was a bad mix. A man ought to do one or the other, not both. And
the more he drank, the more his thoughts drifted to the blank
emptiness that seemed to form his future. It was as if finding
Sawyer Clark and killing him had closed not just a chapter in his
life, but the whole goddamned book. And this hangover didn’t make
things any clearer. From one of the mines in the west, the deep
rumble of a powder explosion shook the planking under his boots. It
reverberated through his legs and up his spine, further torturing
his skull.

He glanced at the kid again, who watched him
silently with eyes that seemed to miss nothing. At least he’d
washed the dirt off his face. Now he looked like any other farm boy
his age. Skinny, a few freckles. A little on the delicate side,
especially in the face. But something else about him seemed off
kilter and Rankin could not put his finger on just what that was.
Maybe it was the sensitive curve of his mouth, or the way he tended
to bite his bottom lip.

Oh, hell, he thought, he had agreed to help
him. It wasn’t syrupy benevolence that made him decide to let the
kid tag along. After Misfortune, he just didn’t have anything
better to do. Gently, to avoid jostling his head, he put on his
hat.

“
Right, kid—Kyle. We’ve got
a deal. I’ll get my horse.”

The boy gave a short nod and jumped down to
untie his own gelding.

Rankin descended the steps
and started off toward the livery. He turned suddenly and walked
back to the dun’s side. “But let’s get a couple of things straight.
I’m used to working alone and traveling alone. So if you can’t keep
up, that’s your problem. I expect you to pull your own weight, and
do as you’re told. If the going gets hard, I don’t want to hear any
bellyaching. And if you
ever
get the notion to point that gun at me,” he
continued softly, indicating the kid’s revolver, “well, let’s just
say that I’ll turn it into the biggest regret of your
life.”

Kyle’s expression was stony. “Okay, Mr.
Rankin.”

“
And while we’re at it, lay
off that ‘Mr. Rankin’ stuff. You might as well call me
Jace."

Kyle glared at him, then spit in the dusty
street. “Jace.”

* * *

The terrain was rough and craggy, and the
going slow as they picked their way down through the mountains. But
Jace set a steady pace that allowed no dawdling. A lot of the time
they rode single file, with Jace ahead of Kyla. That was fine with
her—at least she didn’t have those cold eyes boring into her
back.

Hours passed with nothing to look at but the
rump of Jace’s horse and passing tumbleweeds, punctuated by scrubby
sagebrush or an occasional sudden chasm. Overhead the sky was deep
blue, that particular shade seen only in autumn; now and then a
hawk would cross the face of the sun and cast a shadow on the
dust.

They were too far apart to talk, and even if
they hadn’t been, Kyla didn’t know what she would say to the man.
Nothing about him encouraged conversation. He was everything his
reputation claimed: cold, detached, intimidating. He rode far
ahead, never looking back to see if she followed, and by his manner
he made it plain that Kyle Springer was not much more than a
nuisance to be tolerated.

At any rate, ever conscious of preserving
her disguise, she was doubly glad to be out of his range of vision.
And it was just as well that they didn’t talk much; subduing her
feminine voice was the hardest part of being Kyle, although she
knew she didn’t sound too girlish. As they descended from the
mountains and the sun climbed, so did the temperature. She took off
her coat, confident of her binding. Her only inconvenience was
finding scrub tall and dense enough to let her attend to personal
needs in seclusion.

“
You’re pretty damned shy
for someone who talks as big as you do. You don’t own anything I
haven’t seen before,” Jace groused impatiently after she returned
from a long walk to a sage thicket. His eyes shone like shards of
blue ice.

“
Then you ain’t missin’
nothin’, are you,” she said curtly, putting her foot in her
stirrup. She hoisted herself into the saddle. "Sometimes a man
likes his privacy."

Jace snorted. “Yeah, right.” He was already
on his horse, and Kyla supposed he probably would have left her if
she hadn’t come back when she did.

By the time they reached more level ground,
they had crossed into Oregon and most of the day was gone. Jace
reined in his horse next to a spindly ponderosa pine and waited
until Kyla caught up to him. He’d taken off his duster and rolled
his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. She was surprised to see that
what she’d mistaken for the bulk of a coat across his shoulders was
really muscle. She hadn’t noticed last night, given the
circumstances.

He pointed to a sheltered place against a
canyon wall and pulled out his rifle. “We’ll make camp over there.
I’m going to get something for dinner. You get the fire started—I
hope you can cook.”

She chafed at the greenhorn
role he had put her in. She gestured at her Winchester in its
scabbard. “I can shoot game as good as any other man,” she said,
pushing out her chin a little. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m
helpless, like some—some
girl
.”

Jace lifted his brows,
shifting his hat. “We had an agreement—you were going to do as
you’re told. So now you can get dinner
and
start the fire. I don’t mind at
all.”

Caught in the snare of her own boasting, she
bit her tongue. She knew she couldn’t complain about the double
work; if she did, he might refuse to help her with Hardesty, and
like it or not, she needed him.

“
I saw a rabbit back there
a quarter mile or so." She Juniper and took off across the
field.

Jace watched the boy trot away, and then
climbed down to unsaddle and water his own horse at the flat,
slow-moving creek that ran through the canyon. Hunger made his
stomach rumble and he searched through his saddle bags for a piece
of dried beef to fill the void until the boy returned with that
rabbit if he returned. Instead he found a leather pouch filled with
silver dollars, the coins that he had made as much a part of his
reputation as the Henry. They were heavy, and certainly not as
convenient as his gold coins. But he liked their weight, and
fancied the way they felt in his hand. He couldn’t eat them,
though, and he found no jerky in the saddle bags.

Using the saddle as a headrest, he stretched
out on his bedroll and tipped his hat over his eyes. He’d just have
to wait for Kyle to come back.

He breathed a long sigh. He was finally rid
of his headache, but it felt good to lie down for a while. It had
been one hell of a long day. The ground wasn’t as soft as the hotel
bed had been, but he had spent years on the trail—he was used to
it. It just wasn’t as easy anymore.

He peered at the lengthening shadows through
the slit under his hat brim. Damn, he was really getting hungry. He
probably should have insisted on going after the rabbit himself. It
might be midnight before the kid came back with something to eat,
if the coyotes didn’t get him first.

He wondered again how he’d let himself get
talked into helping Kyle. Even now he could hardly believe it. Jace
had made it a point to avoid most people. Every lick of good sense
he owned seemed to have flown away when he met that defiant
red-haired kid.

But he might change his mind yet. If the boy
took one step out of line or became too much of a pest, Jace would
simply call off their deal.

He was an odd one, that was a fact, Jace
thought as he crossed his ankles. Kyle was angry and tough, but
other things about him still felt out of step. The kid had a bad
habit of biting his lower lip in tight situations. It didn’t just
give away his uncertainty, it had a sissy look about it. Somebody
ought to teach him to develop a better poker face.

And that story about the ranch—if it was
true, how did a boy his age expect to run the place by himself?
Even if he had a little money and could afford to hire help, no one
would take orders from a green kid. He’d be lucky if the hands
didn’t steal him blind. That part was none of his business, he
reminded himself. The boy wanted his help and he had the money to
pay. Probably. Well, maybe. But that was all. Jace let his
shoulders relax against the bedroll—he might as well get
comfortable. He knew he was in for long wait and his stomach was
starting to rumble

He’d give him an hour. If he wasn’t back by
he’d go get his own damned rabbit.

Just then, the distant crack of a gunshot
brought upright. He listened intently for other shots but there
were none. Instead he heard the sound of hoofbeats just before Kyle
trotted back through the brush, holding a rabbit by its ears.

“
I’ll be damned—” Jace
muttered to himself.

Kyle gave him a brief look but said nothing.
Jace leaned against his saddle again, crossed his arms over his
chest, and considered the boy. He wore that determined, mule-headed
expression again. He had to give the kid his due—he had gotten the
animal, and without much fuss. Kyle swung down from his gelding,
and within minutes had a fire started. He worked quickly and
quietly, and soon the rabbit was dressed and spitted over the
flames.

Kyle squatted by the fire, tending the
roasting meat, saying nothing, Jace glanced at the boy’s small
hands.

“
Where’d you learn to hunt
and cook?” he asked, plucking a rabbit-laden skewer from the
fire.

Kyle shrugged and took a skewer for himself.
The meat was hot and he blew on it before taking a bite. “It ain’t
so unusual. I wasn’t raised in some fancy city house, y’know.” He
dragged the back of his hand across a dribble of hot grease on his
chin.