“There once was a man named Trevor Guilliard,” Trace began, opening his can of peaches with his knife. “He would have fit in the life you paint. That man died one rainy night back in ’sixty-five. There’s nothing left of him. I have nothing to offer someone like you, so stop building castles in the sky, Mae.”
Handing her the can, Trace turned his back. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He didn’t have to see her haunting gaze to know it followed him as he strode off toward the horses; the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up the way they did whenever a wild horse was near. She was that, by God: a wild filly, with the power to stand up to the evils of men; no whining, squeamish, milk-and-water miss, she. And raised among horses to boot. If only they had met under any other circumstances.
He snatched Diablo’s reins and stalked east, downstream, to where Duchess wandered in search of tastier grass, and then he collected the burro that hadn’t
budged an inch. Trace took his time returning to Mae. When he did, she had finished her meal and most of the peaches.
“I saved you one, Trace. It’s no good unless we share.”
Her sad-eyed look had vanished, and in its place was something dangerous: determination. Damn fool woman hadn’t heard a single word he’d said. He hesitated, but she stood holding out the spoon and the open airtight. Only Mae would turn a canned peach into a battle of wills. He thought about taking the can and flinging the peach away, but he couldn’t. The act would hurt her. He’d hurt her too much already.
With a frown he took the can. “This doesn’t mean anything, Mae. I’m eating a damn peach. Nothing more.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Absolutely. It’s only a peach. Nothing more.”
Trace almost growled. Stubborn woman! He had to admit, the peach tasted good. You didn’t get many treats like this in the West. Airtights were around, but peaches always sold quickly. He glanced up in time to see Mae’s tongue poke out and wet her lips, licking away the last drops of juice. His whole body bucked, and he closed his eyes to fight the intense waves of lust racking him.
“Let me ride Diablo,” she pleaded, laying a hand on his arm. “Just once more, Trace.”
It took him several breaths to focus. Then he understood Mae was plotting again. “No,” he answered firmly. “I’m on to that. I don’t know exactly what you’re up to, but—”
“I’m not going to run from you, Trace,” she insisted,
but something in her mood was changed. There was something akin to panic in her voice. “Please…just that. Let me ride Diablo. It’s little enough to ask, since you’re going to stick me on a train and turn your back on me. I won’t see him again. Please…?”
She seemed so sincere. Trace still hesitated. Something didn’t sit right. Every instinct in him cried caution, and he worked Diablo’s bridle in his gloved hand considering her request.
She shrugged. “If you don’t trust me, you can hold Diablo’s bridle and lead me. Just let me ride him, Trace. I’ll never ask you for anything again. I won’t have the chance.”
Against his better judgment, he let her mount the stallion. He also took her up on the offer to hold Diablo’s reins. Atop Duchess, he turned them back the way they’d come and led the way out of the draw.
He’d scarcely settled in the saddle when he spotted four riders heading out of the sage, all driving their horses hard. Comstock was leading them.
Mae saw them, too. “I’m sorry, Trace,” she said, “but you’ve had it your way long enough. Now it’s my turn. It’s four to one. You haven’t got a chance. Get into a skirmish here and you’ll get us both killed. Pretend you don’t see them and head north—toward the Lazy C. It’s our only hope.”
“Hell and damnation,” he growled through clenched teeth. He couldn’t tell if that was triumph or fear in her voice. “You little fool. So that’s why you let me hold Diablo’s bridle.”
“You recognized the horse, caught me running away, and were bringing me back to the Lazy C,” she pressed.
“That’s the only way. It’s what you should have done from the start, like I told you. I can take care of myself. I have so far, haven’t I? You’ll be near to protect me.”
“Damn it, Mae—”
She cut him off. “I’d rather die right here, right now, than face the prospect of never seeing you again, Trace Ord. It’s too late for ‘why.’ I’ll play my part. You just follow my lead and play yours.” She gave him a sad smile. “I love you, Trace. I trust you. Now you trust me.”
T
he
plan turned out to be a little more work than she suggested, as Mae had a moment of inspiration and broke away from Trace, holding Diablo back so that he could rope and capture her in full view of Comstock’s riders. That exhibition turned the trick and called for very little acting, since Trace was mad enough at that point to kill her, but the episode earned Trace a job. Mae spent the trip back gloating over her victory—until, locked again in her room at the Lazy C, she began to realize the chilling ramifications of her actions. The steps on the stairs were a wake-up call.
She lifted a heavy candlestick as the door opened, and Jared came inside. He’d changed his dirty trail clothes. He wore a pristine white shirt and meticulous attire. He was hatless, he’d shaved, and his blond hair was wet, curling about his earlobes. But the comely appearance was a direct contradiction of the man himself. Oh, he was a handsome man, with the looks of an angel. Most women would be flattered he wanted them—until they got close enough to see that any spark of humanity missing.
His steps were slow and sure, those of a drunk trying to appear sober. He reeked of whiskey.
“Don’t come near me, Jared Comstock,” Mae warned, brandishing the candlestick. “Or—”
“Or what?” he drawled, still advancing, clearly not frightened. “Why did you run again, Mae? You know I’ll only bring you back. Every damn time.”
“Why did I run?” she retorted. “For the same reason I ran before. Because I’m tired of being held captive, tired of your games of deceit, tired of Morgan pawing me when he thinks your back is turned.”
“What are you talking about?” Comstock asked, hand on hip.
“We made a bargain,” she continued. “I told you I needed time. You agreed, and then you left that watchdog Morgan to guard me. Don’t tell me you’re blind, Jared. I wondered if this was some sort of game the two of you played, that he’s the real boss around here, for he does as he damn well pleases, making free with your whiskey, your help…your woman.” She knew just how far she could go, and she’d reached that point and crossed it. Retreat was no longer an option.
“Are you saying he put his hands on you?” Comstock looked furious.
“Put? I told you before. He was all over me—squeezing, pinching, trying to get his hand between my legs. Is this how you earn my love, by letting your men manhandle me like a whore? Am I to be used and passed around? Put him near me again and I’ll run all right, the first chance I get. And the next time, you won’t find me, I promise you that. What does he have
on you? He acts like he can do as he wants around here and you’ll do nothing to stop him. Why?”
Comstock jeered. “I suppose you’d like that drifter, Ord, to keep an eye on you? Something’s going on there. I’d bet my last nugget on it. Don’t think I won’t find out what that something is.”
“Don’t you dare bring that varmint here to guard me!” she replied. “He’s no better than you are. You’re two of a kind.”
“That remains to be seen,” Comstock said. “I saw how he hog-tied you, Mae. Very impressive. But he’s going to have to prove himself if he wants to wrangle for me, and I’m going to ride him like a bucking bronco ’til I know his story. You better be telling me the truth about Morgan, Mae—for your sake, and for his. But I
do
know somebody I can trust to keep his hands off you ’til I sort this out.”
“Good. Look into Morgan. But you think he’s just going to
tell
you he was all over me? Use your brain, Jared. The man is a snake. You can bet he’s the one that killed my father. But I’m not the poor, sick drunk my father was, and I won’t let him near me. You’d think a husband would protect a wife—especially one trying to earn her respect so that she can finally be in the right mind to fulfill her marital duties.”
Comstock’s manner changed. “You know I’m crazy about you, Mae. And I told you I never had anything to do with the death of your old man. Why would I do that? I already had what I wanted: you.”
“If you’re innocent, Morgan did it. I’ll bet you could make him admit it, too,” she pressed. “If you really cared about me.”
“All right, all right, simmer down. You got no proof Morgan’s involved. I don’t even know why you think it.” He threw up his hands in a gesture of truce. “Look, sugar,” he added, “I don’t want to fight with you. I promised you some time. Ain’t I been good and stuck by that? I’ve given you plenty of time, despite what you done. Still, I’m losing patience. I’ve got better things to do than to go chasing you all over the territory. I could claim my right as a husband any time. It’s best you know that.”
He ripped the brass candlestick from her hand and threw it across the room. “You think that thing would stop me if I was of a mind to have you? Think on that, Mae. Think on it hard.” He wheeled around then and stalked from the room, locking the door after him.
Her heart hammered in Mae’s ears, hot blood thrumming at her temples. What had she done? What had she led Trace into? She’d told him she could take care of herself, but she was no longer sure that was entirely true.
She sank down on the bed, suddenly full of regret. Though she was grateful, she didn’t understand why Jared permitted her to keep putting him off; it wasn’t in keeping with the man’s vile nature. Bullies loved hurting those weaker than themselves, loved taking what they wanted. One might think he was enamored of her, but she just couldn’t buy that he had tender feelings of any kind. That didn’t make any more sense than Jared letting Morgan strut around pretending he was the boss. There had to be more to this situation she just wasn’t seeing. Still, what ever the reason, she was damn glad something was keeping Jared in check.
Shaking, she got to her feet, dragged a chair to the door, and propped it under the knob. Whomever he sent to guard her, they weren’t going to get in. Then, sinking back down on the bed, she succumbed to exhaustion, praying that Trace was equal to what ever Jared Comstock was planning.
At sundown, Trace Ord was in a blind rage as he arranged his gear in the bunkhouse. One by one the others straggled in. Jared Comstock was not among them; the boss had herded Mae into the main house when they arrived and had not emerged since. Worry over what might be happening between them at that very moment all but paralyzed Trace’s mind with fear. He dared not show it, though.
Trace hadn’t seen Preacher, but that wasn’t unusual since the old man had a cot in the cookhouse. No matter the temptation, it wouldn’t do to arouse suspicion by running straight to the old man. Instead, he stretched out on his bunk in the corner, pulled his Stetson down over his eyes, and listened to the hands talk. He felt as if he were dozing in a nest of rattlers.
Damn her! Mae had sacrificed herself. Of course, though he hated to admit it, she’d been right. Once they were spotted, there was no way he could stand and fight with her in the line of fire. But he had to find a way to get her out of there quick. And then…well, the only way she would ever be safe from Comstock was if Trace saw him and his rustling outfit in jail—or dead. He favored the latter option.
“Has a nice ring of finality to it,” he muttered to himself.
A poker game was forming in the corner of the bunkhouse. Feigning sleep, Trace wasn’t invited to participate. A rider called Ben watched from his cot. Will Morgan, Chip McVey, and three others were at the table. One was a tall, lanky rider named Wally. There was an older ranch hand with a handlebar mustache and grizzled forearms who walked with a limp and answered to the name of Jeb, and lastly came a mean-looking youth known as Michael Slade—the only one Trace knew by reputation.
Slade’s face was deeply lined, his skin like tanned leather. Clean-shaven and fierce-eyed, and the only thing people knew about him was the rumored notches on his Colts. He was reputed to be one of the fastest gunslingers in the territory. He sported an air of casual regard, but Trace recognized that mask for what it was. The youngster’s guns were tied down, slung low on his hips and within easy reach. Those eyes moved about alertly, as quick as his hands.
Trace took great care not to attract any notice. He had a bit of a reputation himself. Gunslingers made it their business to know who was a threat, who was competition. He was fast enough for word to have reached Michael, and that possibility made him uncomfortable. He had to ignore the nagging feeling that things were falling apart.
He hadn’t lain there long before the bunkhouse door came crashing in. Jared Comstock’s tall, lanky figure appeared, blacksnake in hand. With a flick of his wrist, he lashed out the whip with a blood-chilling crack. It wrapped around Will Morgan’s neck twice and yanked him backward onto the floor, chair and all.
Cards, coins, and bills went flying. Michael Slade leapt out of his chair, guns drawn, until he saw who was meting out justice; then he jammed them back in their holsters. The others sat slack-jawed, their eyes trained on Will Morgan writhing at their feet, clawing at the whip wrapped around the neckerchief he wore.
There would be no credibility to sleeping through this. The foreman’s strangled cries and Comstock’s bellowing voice were loud enough to wake the dead. Trace eased back his Stetson and slowly swung his feet to the floor, frowned, and faked a yawn.
“Lay hands on my wife, will you?” Comstock shouted. He turned to the others. “Wally, Chip, stand him on his feet. Ben, get up from there and fetch a rope. Jeb, stay out of the way! The rest of you, get him outside—you, too, Ord. You’re new here. I want you to see right off what happens to any man who crosses me.”
Without question or hesitation, the others dragged Morgan outside. Trace followed, his thumbs hooked in the waist of his jeans, and he leaned against the frame of the bunkhouse door, watching Comstock’s men haul the foreman down the steps.
“Bring that rope here, Ben,” Jared barked.
“You’re making a mistake,” Morgan was saying. “You fool! You know I didn’t break my orders—no more than you did, eh? If she said different, she’s a damn liar. Nobody could get near enough to that she-cat to lay a finger on—” The handle of Comstock’s blacksnake caught him across the lower jaw, cutting him off. “You don’t dare cross—”
Jared struck him across the mouth, this time with a
backhand. “Lash the son of a bitch to the hitching rail,” he commanded the others.
Jeb and Wally carried out the order and quickly stepped away. Comstock grabbed the foreman’s shirt in a white-knuckled fist and ripped it open down the back. Then, despite Morgan’s screams of protest, he used his blacksnake.
Slade hovered nearby, watching, hands seemingly lazy but close to his holsters. Trace glanced around. More men were gathering, coming from the barn and the corral. But where was Preacher? That racket should have brought him. Not that Trace wanted him to see. Morgan deserved this and more, but it wasn’t a pretty sight. At ten lashes, he grimaced and stopped counting. The flesh on Morgan’s back was a bloody mess. Trace couldn’t help but remember the whip marks on Diablo’s sleek, black hide.
Comstock’s men had begun to mumble among themselves, saying enough was enough. That only fueled their boss’s rage and earned them a warning glare. Mercifully, the foreman had lost consciousness. He was hanging from the rail by his wrists.
“Cut him down,” Jared commanded at last, to no one in particular.
Wally responded, shuffling over and fisting his hand in Morgan’s blood-matted hair. He pulled the foreman’s head back and squinted down at him. “By damn, he’s dead, boss,” he said.
Comstock shrugged. “Dig a hole and plant him. Let this be a lesson to you—to
all
of you. I’m in charge here. You do as I say. No questions asked,” he added,
addressing the entire gathering though his eyes were riveted on Trace. “That corpse there was my right hand, my
best
hand, before he crossed me. None of you stands on firmer ground. Now clean this mess up.
“Not you, Ord,” he rumbled when Trace moved to help. “You get some shut-eye. Come dawn tomorrow, you’re going to show me your stuff. It’d better be good. You’re going to have to do your job and Morgan’s, too. We’re shorthanded, and there isn’t time to find a replacement. I need someone I can trust.”
Mae hadn’t dozed long when a sharp knock at the door wrenched her bolt upright. It took her a moment to remember where she was, and another to accustom her eyes to the darkness and make her way to the door.
“Missy,” said a gruff voice from the other side, “it’s Preacher, the cook. Ord’s friend.”
“Is he all right?” she asked.
“I won’t lie to you, I ain’t seen him,” he replied.
“What are you doing here? If Jared catches you—”
“Easy, now, it was Comstock who put me in charge of guarding you. Guess after Morgan he figured a crusty old man was safer. Maybe I can carry messages between you and Ord ’til he can figure something out.”
“Oh, Preacher. Will you tell him I’m all right? He probably doesn’t care anymore, though. Not after…after…”
“Now, now, none of that,” came the old man’s voice. “I knew how much he cared for you before he did.”
Tears welled in her eyes. If only it were true that he cared. Even if it had been true once, she couldn’t see how it possibly could be now. Still, it was something to
hope for, and she grasped at hope with every fiber of her being.
“Morgan’s in for it. Comstock’s after blood over something he done. That’s why he give the job of watching you to me,” Preacher was saying.
“Oh, God, that’s my fault!” Mae realized. “I told Jared how Morgan…tried to attack me. I had to do something to put him off Trace. He doesn’t trust Trace, Preacher. You’ve got to warn him. He’s going to make him ‘prove himself.’ Trace has such a temper, I’m afraid he’ll—”
“Don’t you worry, missy, just leave all of that to me. And don’t worry about Morgan, neither. He’s one mean hombre; I can vouch for that. What ever he gets, he deserves. Get some sleep. I’m moving away from the door, just in case. The minute it’s safe to talk again, I’ll come back.”
Mae stumbled away from the door and sank back down on the bed, comforted by Preacher’s words. She heard the floorboards creak under his receding steps. She hoped he returned quickly.