Winter Fire (2 page)

Another man was called Whiskey Jim. He drank. When he was sober, he was a good hand with dynamite, a useful skill for former bank robbers.

There were at least five others in the gang known as Moody's Breeds, but Case hadn't put names with the faces or voices yet. He had been too busy keeping track of Culpeppers.

This time he was going to be certain that not one of them escaped. The Culpeppers' long history of raiding, rape, and murder was going to end here, in the wilderness of red stone.

No more men coming home to find their ranches ruined and their women tortured and killed
, he thought.

No more broken children thrown away like whiskey bottles along the trail
.

Case was going to see to it.

Personally.

Yet it wasn't a hot, passionate need for vengeance that drove him. War had burned all emotion out of him, except for the bond with his older brother, Hunter—the brother Case had dragged off to join a futile war.

After the war the brothers went home to Texas, expecting to create a better life. They found nothing left of their home but the sickening wreckage of a Culpepper raid.

If Case felt anything at all these days, it was in his dreams, and he was careful not to remember them.

All that moved him was a cold sense of justice. The way he saw it, God had been too busy to take care of all His children during the war. The devil, however, had looked after his own.

Now Case was going to balance the scales.

“Shut up, all of you!”

Ab's cold voice cut through the heckling like a knife,
gutting the argument, leaving silence welling up as thick as blood.

Sarah fought against an urge to flee. At his very worst, Hal had sounded just like Ab. That was when she had grabbed Conner and escaped into the maze of red stone pillars and dry canyons. Only the birds of prey could find their way through the stone wilderness.

She had watched the wild birds, and she had learned. She and her younger brother had survived the grim times when her husband went crazy with drink.

But running right now will get you killed
, she reminded herself fiercely.
Then who would take care of Conner? Ute is loyal only to me and Lola is loyal only to Ute
.

Conner would be on his own
.

Just as Sarah had been on her own after her parents died in the flood. That was what had driven her at fourteen to marry a stranger three times her age.

Thank God Hal is dead
, she thought, not for the first time.

Once she had felt guilty for being glad to be rid of her cruel husband. Once, but no more. She was simply grateful that she and her younger brother had survived Hal Kennedy.

“We agreed on no raiding close to Spring Canyon,” Ab said loudly. “Remember, Moody?”

“Dammit, I—”

“You remember or not?” Ab snarled.

Case saw the hints of movement below as members of the Moody bunch squared off against the Culpeppers.

Good
, he thought.
Maybe Moody will just kill the lot of them and spare me the trouble. Then I can get on with looking for a place to build a ranch of my own
.

But Case didn't really think he would get that lucky. Ab Culpepper was too wily to be killed by the likes of Moody.

“Dammit!” Moody said.

He repeated himself several times. There was more bluster than conviction in his voice.

“The Circle A is too close,” Ab said. “You want beef, you go farther. You want game, you hunt anywhere you please. Savvy?”

“Dammit, I still think—”

“You don't think nothin',” Ab interrupted impatiently. “That's my job. If you was any good at thinking, you wouldn't be dead broke in winter, chasing your own tail in this red hell.”

“You're doin' the same thing, dammit.”

“I got twenty Yankee dollars, saddlebags full of bullets, and I ain't chasing nothing.”

“Dammit! We go all the way to New Mexico Territory for our beef and, dammit, we don't have no time to look for Spanish silver, dammit.”

“You can look after we get the meat we need so we ain't eating roots like Injuns come spring.”

“What about women, dammit?”

“What about them, dammit?” Ab mocked.

“A man can't go all winter without a woman to warm his jeans and cook his beans.”

“Steal or buy some down in Mexico. Or get a Injun.”

“Dam—”

“Just be damned sure she ain't no chief's wife or daughter, savvy?” Ab said, talking right over Moody. “Some of them redskins are pure poison when they're on the prod.”

If Case had been a smiling kind of man, the words would have made him smile. He knew just why Ab was so touchy on the subject of stealing the wrong Indian girl.

Over in the Ruby Mountains of Nevada, Ab and some of his kin had tangled with Indians over a stolen girl. Ab and Kester were the only Culpeppers who survived. They had faded out of the losing fight, mounted up, and gone to join their remaining kin in Utah Territory.

“What about them two white women over to Lost
River Canyon?” asked a new voice. “They're close. All they got guarding them is a kid and that old outlaw. Them's good odds.”

“That girl is supposed to be right tasty, dammit,” Moody said eagerly.

Other men joined in with a chorus of rough comments about the girl they had seen only through their spyglasses.

Hearing the voices, Sarah fought against the nausea that was trying to wring her stomach like a washrag.

“Shut up,” Ab said flatly. “Get it through your noggins. Ain't no raiding close to camp.”

“But—”

“
Shut up
.”

For a moment there was only the faint sound of water trickling down stone into darkness.

“Nothin' riles the army like a white woman gettin' raped by half-breeds,” Ab said coldly. “If I decide the Kennedy widow needs taking care of, I'll do it personally and legally. I'll marry it.”

There were faint grumblings from Moody and his men, but no real protest. When they first met, one of Moody's gang had tested Ab's temper. The man had died before his gun was even partway out of the holster.

Ab was as fast with a six-shooter as any man Moody's Breeds had ever seen, and they thought they had seen them all.

Until Ab Culpepper.

“Be easier to winter at Lost River ranch, dammit,” Moody said.

“Easy ain't always best. Time you learned that. We're gonna do just what we planned.”

“Stay in Spring Canyon?” asked another voice. “
Por Dios
, the wind there, she is very cold.”

“If you and the rest of the breeds got the lead out of your butts,” Ab said, “camp would be snug as a tick in a hound's ear.”

Someone swore in disgust but no one spoke up.

“I'll kill the next man I see rustling Circle A beef,” Ab said.

No one said a word.

“Same for any man who messes with them white women,” he added.

“Even Big Lola?” Moody asked in disbelief.

“I hear she done give up the sporting life.”

“Sure, but dammit, she's just an old whore, dammit!”

“Leave her be. We're gonna do what them 'Paches do. Live quiet at home and raid far off.”

There were restless movements but no voice spoke against Ab Culpepper's calm, ruthless orders.

“In a year or so,” Ab said, “we'll have ourselves a thousand head of stock and enough women for a sultan's palace. Anyone got trouble with that?”

Silence.

“All right. Get your tails back to camp. Kester and me will ride the back trail and see if any Circle A folks take a notion to come calling. You got any questions, talk to Parnell.”

Shod hooves clicked on stones. The unshod hooves of the mustangs Moody's men rode made less noise.

The smell of dust rose up to the shallow cave where Sarah and Case lay motionless.

After it had been silent for several minutes, she started to get up. Instantly he was over her again, flattening her, silencing her with a hand across her mouth.

“Ab” was all Case whispered.

It was all he had to say. She became utterly still.

Long minutes went by.

“Told you,” Kester said.

“An' I'm telling you,” Ab said, “that someone is out there.”

“Ghost.”

“Ghost,” Ab mocked. “Ain't no ghosts, boy. How many times I have to tell you?”

“Seen 'em.”

“Only at the bottom of a bottle.”

“Seen 'em,” Kester repeated.

“Ain't you the baby. Pa woulda kicked your sorry ass all the way round the holler.”

“Seen 'em.”

“Shee-it. Next you'll be whining about them Texicans following us.”

“Ain't seen 'em.”

“Shee-it.”

With that, Ab reined his mule around and trotted off into the darkness. Kester's mule followed.

Case didn't move.

Neither did Sarah, for the simple reason that she was still pinned beneath him.

Finally, slowly, he rolled aside. Before she could move to get up, he pressed a hand firmly between her shoulder blades.

Together, motionless, they listened to the immense silence of the land.

If she hadn't been accustomed to hunting or simply watching wild animals, she would have grown impatient long before Case gave her any signal that it was all right to move.

But she had spent many years with a rifle or shotgun, providing food for her younger brother and her worthless, treasure-hunting husband. She endured the discomfort because there was no other sensible thing to do.

Her patience impressed Case as much as her absolute stillness. He had known few men and no women who could be motionless for long periods of time. Sooner or later, most men fidgeted.

Sooner or later, most men died.

Lord, but this girl smells good
, he thought.
Feels good, too. Soft, but not pudding soft. Like a rosebud, all springy and alive
.

Wonder if she tastes like rain and heat and roses all mixed together?

With a silent curse at his unruly thoughts—and body—Case lifted his hand from Sarah's back, freeing her.

“Keep your voice down,” he said softly. “Sound carries a long way down these stone draws.”

“I know.”

“You have a horse?”

“No.”

What she didn't say was that a horse would have made too much noise, alerting Conner that she was going off alone into the night. She had done that more and more often lately, driven by a restlessness she didn't understand. She only knew that she found peace in the clean, moonlit silence of the land.

“Can you ride, Mrs. Kennedy?” Case asked.

“Yes.”

“I'll see you safely home.”

“That's not necessary, Mr., er…”

“Just call me Case. My horse is in a grassy draw off to the south,” he said. “You know the place?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I'll follow you.”

Sarah started to speak, shrugged, and turned away. There was no point in arguing. If he wanted to see her home, then he would do so whether she liked it or not.

Yet if he indeed was following her, he didn't make any noise about it. After a few minutes her curiosity won out. She stopped and turned around to look for him.

He was right there.

The startled sound she made at seeing him looming so close behind her brought an even more startling reaction from him. One instant his hands were empty. The next instant a six-gun was gleaming in the moonlight, cocked and ready to fire.

Case took a gliding step, then another, not stopping until he was close enough to breathe a soft question into Sarah's ear.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“I didn't hear you, so I turned and you were right on my heels,” she whispered. “It surprised me, that's all.”

The gun vanished into its holster with as little warning as it had appeared.

“Being noisy can get a man killed,” he said matter-of-factly. “Especially in a war.”

Sarah took a shaky breath, turned around, and started walking again.

His horse was waiting at the narrow end of the draw. The only noise the big animal made was the quiet ripping of grass as he grazed in the little oasis. When the horse scented her, his head came up fast, ears pricked.

The shape of the horse's head against the moonlight told her that this was no ordinary animal. The clean lines, straight nose, flaring nostrils, and widely spaced eyes shouted of good breeding.

“Stay back,” Case said to Sarah. Then, “Easy, Cricket. It's just me.”

When he brushed past her, she realized why he was so soft on his feet. He was wearing knee-high fringed moccasins rather than the boots most white men wore.

With smooth, efficient motions, Case tightened the saddle cinch, picked up the reins, and led Cricket toward her.

The horse was huge.

“Biggest cricket I've ever seen,” she muttered. “Seventeen hands if he's an inch.”

“He was cricket-sized when I named him.”

She doubted it, but kept her mouth shut.

“Let him get your scent,” Case said. “Don't be afraid. He's a stallion, but he's a gentleman as long as I'm around.”

“Afraid of a horse?” she retorted. “Not on your life.”

Then her voice changed. It became low, soothing, almost singsong, as clear and unthreatening as the murmur of water in a creek.

Cricket was as pleased by the musical sounds as Case was. The stallion's surprisingly delicate velvet muzzle
snuffled over her hat, lipped at her long braids, and whuffled over her wool jacket. Then Cricket lowered his head and butted her chest in a naked request to be petted.

Sarah's soft laughter licked over Case like fire. He watched without a word while she slipped off her gloves and rubbed Cricket's head and ears. She slid her fingers under the bridle to the spots where leather itched on horsehide and only human hands could scratch.