Wyoming Wildfire (Harlequin Historical) (2 page)

His fingers found the small key and the ring that held it. Still he hesitated, stalling as he searched for some way to salvage this debacle.

He glanced up at Jessie, then back at her brother. “You know, Frank, if you ride out of here, you’ll have a whole troop of vigilantes on your trail. And if they find you before the law does, you’ll be swinging on a rope before you can say your prayers.”

“I’ll be swinging anyway,” Frank muttered. “At least, if I run, I’ll have a fighting chance. Do what she says, Marshal.”

Matt sighed as he pulled the keys out of his pocket. “I just wish you’d—”

The rest of the sentence died in his throat as he sensed a slight tremor in the mud beneath his boots and heard, from beyond the bend in the road, the rumble of galloping horses—many horses—coming from the direction of the town. Matt’s instincts
slammed into high alert. Only one thing would bring a large band of riders onto the road this morning.

“Vigilantes!” Frank’s face had gone chalky. Still handcuffed, he leaned forward in the saddle and, gripping with his knees, jabbed his boots into the side of the horse he was riding. The startled bay shot off the road and up the hill, with Frank clinging Indian-style to its back.

Roped to the other horse’s saddle, Copper, Matt’s chestnut gelding was yanked into motion. Copper snorted, jumped, and broke into a gallop, keeping even with the bay. Matt swore as his prisoner and both horses vanished over the top of the wooded ridge. He could hear the riders approaching the bend in the road. Seconds from now they would be in sight.

Jessie stood on the high bank, her pistol arm hanging slack as she stared after her brother.

“Get out of here, damn it!” Matt snapped, lunging for his gun. “You’re the last person I want those hotheaded fools to find!”

He found the gun belt in the muddy roadside ditch and jerked his pistol out of the holster. When he looked up again, Jessie Hammond had disappeared behind the top of the bank. He hoped she’d have the good sense to run. If the vigilantes failed to find Frank, they could turn their fury on his sister. Whatever happened after that was bound to be ugly.

He took a split second to examine the gun. The
leather had kept the weapon relatively clean of mud, but it hadn’t kept out the moisture. There was no way of knowing whether the bullets would fire except to pull the trigger, and there was no time for that. Any second now, the riders would be thundering around the bend—and right now he had a fast decision to make.

The high-minded course of action would be to face them down and use his authority as a federal marshal to turn them back. But when the vigilantes saw him on foot, without his prisoner, they’d likely guess what had happened. If they picked up Frank Hammond’s trail, they’d be off like a herd of banshees and Frank would be as good as dead.

If, on the other hand, he took the coward’s way out and hid, they might gallop right on past, thinking he and Frank were ahead of them on the road. With luck, they’d ride all the way to Sheridan, break up and head for the saloons to cool their thirst. That would give him time to round up Frank and bring him in by another route.

There were times when cowardice made more sense than bravery. This was one of them.

The riders were getting close. With a hasty glance toward the bend in the road, Matt clawed his way up the steep bank, dived between two clumps of rabbit brush and tumbled headlong over the top.

A
grunt of surprise exploded between Matt’s lips as his body collided with something soft and yielding. His pulse slammed, but before he could right himself and look around, he felt the cold jab of a muzzle between his ribs.

“Lay one finger on me, Marshal, and I’ll blow you to kingdom come!” The voice was so close that he could feel the warm breath in his ear. Matt muttered a few choice words no lady should ever hear—but then he’d seen no evidence that Jessie Hammond was any kind of lady.

“I thought I told you to get out of here!” he growled.

“I’ll get out of here when I’m ready. Right now, I need to see what’s happening.”

“Then put that damned gun away before it goes off. Believe me, I wouldn’t lay a finger on you for a
month of paydays.” Matt could hear the riders coming closer. The last thing he needed now was for this trigger-happy hellion to start more trouble.

Moving cautiously, he eased himself away from the steely pressure of the gun. She made no move to stop him as he inched toward the top of the bank. “Stay where you are and keep still,” he hissed.

Instead of obeying, she crawled up alongside him. “I want to see, too,” she whispered through the bandanna that still covered most of her face. “You won’t recognize the rotten skunks. I will.”

He couldn’t argue with that, Matt conceded. But even if he’d chosen to, there was no more time. He heard her breath catch as the band of mounted vigilantes exploded around the bend in the road. There were about twenty riders, he calculated, all of them masked, armed and, from the looks of them, well fortified with whiskey. Why they’d waited this long to come after Frank instead of busting down the jail was anybody’s guess. Maybe they thought there’d be too many witness in town.

Behind those drawn-up neckerchiefs were the faces of farmers, ranchers, hired hands and townspeople—husbands, sons and fathers. Half of them would be scared to death, Matt reminded himself. But even the most law-abiding citizens could be swept away by the violent madness of a lynch mob.
In their present condition these men were as dangerous as a pack of rabid dogs.

“The brute in the lead is Virgil Gates, Allister’s brother,” Jessie whispered, close to his ear. “I’d know that big, ugly piebald horse of his anywhere. And I can pick out a half-dozen of the cowhands who work on his ranch, and a few no-accounts from town who’d ride anywhere for a bottle. The rest of them are likely from other ranches around here. I don’t—”

“Shh!”
Matt hushed her with a jab of his elbow. His heart froze as he realized the riders were slowing down, most likely to let some stragglers catch up. He’d been hoping—almost expecting—they would just ride on down the main road. If they stopped here, there was a real danger they’d notice the trail of fresh hoofprints where Frank had fled up the hill with the horses.

The bullnecked man Jessie had identified as Virgil Gates reined in his horse. Matt held his breath as Gates lowered his mask, pulled a silver whiskey flask out of his pocket and raised it to his mouth. A few of those with him did the same. It took a lot of liquid courage to hang a man.

Jessie wriggled upward, trying to see. Fearing she might move too far or loosen a rock, Matt grabbed the seat of her overalls and held her down. She squirmed against his fist. Blast the woman. He could have managed fine without her interference.

Time crawled as Virgil Gates stoppered the flask, shoved it into his pocket, wiped his mouth on the back of his hands and adjusted the thick coil of rope that lay over his saddle horn. “Let’s go, boys,” he said, motioning with his arm.

Jerking his mask into place, he spurred the big piebald to a gallop and headed down the road toward Sheridan. The rest of the mob thundered after him in grim silence, as if weighed down by the awful thing they’d set out to do.

Dizzy with relief, Matt watched them go. With luck, they’d be miles away before they realized their quarry wasn’t ahead of them. For now, at least, he was free to deal with other problems.

He groaned out loud as he felt the thrust of Jessie Hammond’s pistol against his ribs once more. “What the hell—”

“I want the key, Marshal.” Her breathy voice rasped in his ear. “The key to the handcuffs. Give it to me now, and you’ll be free to walk back to Felton.”

“And if I don’t?” Matt stalled, knowing he had to beat her at her own game. If Jessie was demanding the key, she likely knew where Frank was headed. More important, she almost certainly had a horse hidden nearby—a horse he needed.

“You can give me the key now, or I can take it off your dead body. It’s all the same to me.”

Matt sighed. “You’re not much of a bluffer, Jessie.
If you were capable of murdering me, you’d have done it by now.”

“You don’t know that for sure. And I wouldn’t have to kill you. I could hurt you so badly that you’d wish you were dead.”

“One shot would bring those vigilantes right back here.”

“Not fast enough to catch me. Now stop dithering and give me that key!” The Peacemaker jabbed harder against his ribs.

“You know where it is.” Matt’s muscles tensed like coiled springs. “If you want the key, just reach into my pocket and get it. Go on.”

Caught off guard, she shifted against him to reach the pocket. For the space of a heartbeat she was vulnerable. That was all the time Matt needed.

Twisting sharply, he made his move. His body exploded upward, hands flashing to catch her wrists. She gave a little cry as the force of his weight struck her, flipping her sideways onto her back, with his weight above her.

She lay on her back, glaring up at him with those deep lilac eyes. Her hat had tumbled off, revealing a spill of night-black curls, but the bandanna remained in place over her nose and mouth. “Get off me!” she sputtered. “Let go of me now, or I’ll scream!”

“Go ahead.” Using his weight to pin her against the slope, he locked one hand around her wrists while his
other hand pried the Peacemaker from her fingers. To control her hands, he had to straddle her impossibly tiny waist with his knees and lean forward. The body beneath him felt small but voluptuous through the baggy denim overalls. The pressure of her jutting breasts against his belly sent waves of erotic awareness ripping down into his loins. To his chagrin, Matt realized he was fully aroused. He swore under his breath, hoping she wouldn’t feel him against her and get the wrong idea. He liked his ladies in satin and perfume—more important, he liked them willing. And right now, the only things he wanted from Jessie Hammond were her gun, her horse and her cooperation.

She had stopped struggling and gone rigid beneath him. She knew, all right—probably wanted to kill him for what he couldn’t help. The sooner he got off her the better. But there was one temptation, heaven save him, that Matt was unable to resist.

He had to see that face.

Releasing the hammer on the Peacemaker, Matt thrust it into his belt. Then, still pinioning her wrists, he used his free hand to tug away the red bandanna, revealing the lower part of her face.

He stifled a reflexive gasp.

If Frank Hammond’s sister had been as plain as mud, he thought, it would have made everything easier. But she was far from plain. And as Matt filled his gaze with the sight of her heart-shaped face, lush
lips and straight little nose, crowned by those unearthly violet eyes, he knew that he was in danger of tumbling over the edge of reason. The heavenly powers were too prudent to have created such a face—only the devil could have done it.

“Let me up.” Her whispery voice raked his senses. “No tricks, I promise, as long as you agree to listen to my story.”

“You can tell me your story while we ride after your brother.” Matt sat back on his heels. “Come on. Let’s go.”

She’d begun to struggle again. “But I haven’t got—”

“Don’t lie to me, Jessie. You and your brother raise horses—that’s what he told me. And you didn’t get clear out here on foot. Now take me to your horse. We can ride double till we come up with something better.”

Rising, he jerked her none too gently to her feet. She was the sister of an accused killer, desperate to free her brother, he reminded himself. To save Frank Hammond’s life, she would lie, steal, seduce—and maybe even put a bullet through an unwary lawman’s heart. Show even a moment’s weakness, and she would pounce on it like a cat. He could not afford to lower his guard, even for an instant.

“Where’s the horse?” His grip tightened on her arm, easing only when she winced and pointed down-
hill toward a wash, where willows trailed over a sluggish stream.

“What are you going to do?” She stumbled over her boots as he pulled her roughly down the hill.

“I’m going to find your brother, make certain he’s safe, and take him to Sheridan for trial. That’s my job. If I want to keep it, I have no choice.”

“What if I could prove to you that Frank didn’t kill Allister Gates?” She stumbled, twisting her ankle as she went down on one knee. Matt forced himself to keep moving, dragging her along until she regained her footing.

“Can you prove it?”

“I could try! That’s more than you’ve done!” She wrenched herself loose and stood facing him, her raven hair bannering in the wind. “Look at the facts! Frank dropped the rifle. Anybody could’ve picked it up and used it to shoot Allister!”

“I’d wager that’s exactly what his lawyer will argue. Reasonable doubt.” He seized her arm again, yanking her against his side as he strode down the grassy hillside. “It’s a fair defense and it might work. But I won’t be on the bench or in the jury box. My only duty is to bring him in.”

“You’re heartless!” She flung the words at him. “Frank’s never harmed a soul in his life! Why,
I’m
more capable of killing Allister Gates than he is.”

“Now that I can believe.” Matt cast her a sidelong
glance and was seared by the blaze of fury in her eyes. “I have to ask,” he said. “Did you kill him?”

“Of course not! And neither did Frank!”

“So who did? You must have given the answer some thought.”

She frowned, the black wings of her eyebrows shifting pensively. “It had to be someone at the ranch, someone who was close enough to see the rifle and seize the chance to kill Allister before he went back into the house…maybe a cowhand with a grudge, or even Virgil. He had the most to gain from his brother’s death.”

“But you have no proof.”

“No. No more proof than you have against Frank.”

They had reached the stand of tall willows where Jessie had tethered the horse, a sleek buckskin mare that nickered and pricked its ears at their approach. It was a beautiful, spirited animal, Matt thought, not unlike its owner. But Jessie Hammond had too much spirit for her own good. From the moment he’d first heard her voice, the woman had caused him nothing but trouble. He’d be crazy to take her with him when he could just as easily trail Frank on his own.

For the space of a breath he weighed the idea of leaving her behind. It was a tempting notion—he would have no trouble following the horses’ tracks without her. But no, he concluded, he needed her with him. She could tell him things he needed to
know, and if it came to a showdown with Frank, she might prove useful—providing he could keep the little hellion under control.

Deciding to test her, he released her arm and turned to free the mare’s tether. “I’ve decided not to take you with me. You can walk back to town from here and find a way home. When I get my own horse back, I’ll see that this one is returned to you.”

“No!” The word exploded out of her. “I don’t care if you
are
a lawman, I won’t let you take Gypsy without me! And I need to be there when you find Frank. He’ll be scared. He could even be hurt! I’ve always been there to look out for him. I can’t fail him now!”

Even after what he’d already experienced, Matt was startled by her vehemence. And the fact that she’d looked out for Frank was a revelation. He’d assumed, perhaps because of her diminutive size, that she was younger than Frank. Now, studying her determined features, he realized she must be in her early twenties—a fiercely protective older sister.

“Take me with you!” she insisted, seizing Matt’s arm. “You need to understand what’s happened and why Frank has to be innocent. I can tell you everything. Please—I promise not to give you any more trouble!”

He’d believe that when pigs could fly, Matt thought. But at least it was a step in the right direction. “You can ride behind me. If you go for the gun
or the key or try any other tricks, you’ll find yourself on the ground. Understand?”

She nodded. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

He inclined his head in a mocking bow. “Deputy Marshal Matthew T. Langtry, at your service, ma’am.”

“And I suppose the
T
stands for Texas. I could butter a biscuit with that drawl of yours, Marshal.”

“Whatever you say.” Matt swung into the saddle, hoping she would dismiss the subject of his name. But as he reached down to pull her up behind him, she probed deeper.

“Now you’ve got me curious. What does the
T
really stand for?” Her husky voice had taken on a teasing note. “Thadeus? Terwilliger?”

Matt sighed. “Close. It’s Tolliver.”

“Oh?” She settled herself into place behind the saddle, her hands resting lightly against his ribs. “Are you related to the Tollivers who live north of here? The ones who own the biggest spread in the county?”

“Being from Texas, I don’t rightly know.” Matt nudged the mare to a silky-smooth canter. He’d been asked the same question before and had given the same answer. He’d done enough quiet checking to know that the late Jacob Tolliver, who’d founded the ranch a generation ago, had brought most of his cat
tle up from Texas. Jacob had left the place to his sons, Morgan, who was half Shoshone, and Ryan, who’d recently sold out his share and moved to the Canadian border.

Matt knew little else about the family except that they were well respected. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know more, or to know them. And the very last thing he’d ever want to do would be to ride onto the Tolliver ranch, knock on Morgan Tolliver’s front door and announce,
You don’t know me, but I have reason to believe I might be your long-lost bastard half brother!