Beauty and the Bounty Hunter (15 page)

She should have figured he was up to something, considering what he’d been up to so far, but she was trying
to keep enough distance between them so Walters wouldn’t see her, while at the same time searching for a grove of trees to duck into or a dip in the land that would allow her to catch up, then catch him.

But the Territory wasn’t known for its forests and hills. The few trees this area might have once possessed had been yanked from their roots and whirled away to parts unknown by both recent and long-ago twisters, leaving great gaping holes in the ground but no cover. Which meant by the time she reached where Frank was going, a small Cherokee village more villagelike than Tennyville would ever be, she was already too late.

The first shot exploded as Cat passed the outskirts of the settlement. The second sounded as she urged the horse to gallop toward the one building from which light poured. The third and fourth cracks came as she leaped to the ground and ran, pulling Alexi’s guns from the holsters as she did.

She had a moment to wish she’d retrieved her own weapons from Mikhail—Alexi’s were both bigger and strangely lighter than those she was used to—before she glanced inside and saw Frank taking a bead on another victim.

“Frank Walters, drop your weapons,” she ordered, pulling breath from her belly, expanding through the chest, her shout that of a man, just as Alexi had taught her.

In the middle of a nasty game of Shoot the Cherokee, one he appeared to be winning four to nothing considering the dead men on the floor, Frank was so surprised at her command he didn’t pull the trigger.

“Who’s that?” He squinted at the door. Cat stayed out of sight, hugging the wall next to the open hole in the plank that served as a window.

“There’s a bounty on you. I’ve come to take you in.”

Frank guffawed. “You and what army?”

He sighted on another Indian, and Cat stepped from cover. At least he stopped what he was doing.

“How about you just repeat
you or her
, and I won’t make this painful?” If he moved, she’d wing him. She needed the man to say the words, after all.

Frank’s eyes widened; he swung the gun in her direction. “Yer Ca—” was all he got out before Cat pulled the trigger.

The gun made a sick, clicking, empty sound.

W
ho the hell are you?” Alexi demanded of the woman wearing Cat’s—no,
his
—clothes.

She stared in horrified fascination at the gun in his hand. He felt equal horror, combined with a sharp bite of nausea. The weapon seemed to weigh a hundred pounds, and Alexi had to fight to keep it leveled in their direction.

But he did. He had to. Sheriff Ben looked like he wanted nothing more than to snatch the gun back and blow off Alexi’s head.

Why hadn’t he sent Mikhail up here? The big man would have had the truth out of these two in an instant with no squeamishness about the gun. Or anything else.

But Alexi hadn’t thought; he hadn’t planned. He’d seen Sheriff Ben’s hand on Cat’s ass and he’d run.

And it hadn’t even been Cat’s ass.

“Where is she?” He glanced around the room as if Cat might be hidden behind the sparse furnishings.

The dress on the floor tweaked his memory, and he cursed, long and low and obviously in English, from the expression on the face of the woman who was not Cat.

“Hey, now,” Sheriff Ben murmured. “Not in front of the lady.”

“Where?” Alexi repeated.

The lawman glanced away, shrugged. Alexi cocked
the weapon, and Sheriff Ben stepped in front of the woman. “She’s got nothin’ to do with this.”

Alexi swallowed back bile, bit the inside of his lip, gave himself a mental pat on the head for keeping his hand—and therefore the pistol—steady, then murmured, “What do
you
have to do with it?”

Ben’s forehead creased. “I’m the sheriff.”

“The star gave it away.” Alexi waved the gun to indicate the badge. The woman’s and the sheriff’s heads twirled as their eyes followed the barrel. “But why would you go along with her charade? Why would you risk your life to keep her whereabouts secret?”

“She said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I won’t.” The sheriff took one step forward. Alexi snapped the fingers of his free hand, and Mikhail entered the room. The other man froze. “He, on the other hand—”

“Indian Territory,” the woman blurted.

“Ruby Dean!” Ben exclaimed.

“Ben Chase,” she returned.

“Chase?” Alexi murmured. “How…interesting.”

Ben stilled, eyes flicking to Alexi’s. “Why would that be interesting?”

“I knew a woman once.” Alexi held Ben’s gaze. “Cathleen Chase.”

“She died,” Ruby volunteered. “Or at least everyone thinks so. Had a place ’bout thirty miles from here. It done burned to the ground, and by the time anyone got out there, the animals had—” She winced, shrugged. “You know.”

Alexi considered asking why, if Cathleen was dead, there was only one grave on that hill and the marker hadn’t read
Cathleen Chase
. Then decided that question would only lead to answers he either didn’t want to hear or things Cat didn’t want discovered.

Ruby patted Ben’s shoulder. “She was Ben’s sister-in-law. Both she and Ben’s brother, Billy, died in that fire. Was real sad.”

Alexi hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he let it out on the words “sister-in-law.” For an instant, his overactive imagination had fashioned Cat and Sheriff Ben as man and wife, the grave at the farm that of their child. The two of them on a path of vengeance—Ben as a lawman, Cat as a bounty hunter.

Considering that Cat had told him she was barren, his leap to those circumstances was large, even for him. Then again…Cat O’Banyon wasn’t a legend because of her truthfulness. In fact, it was quite the opposite. However, the strange and unreasoning fury that had flowed through Alexi at the idea of Cat, even when she’d been Cathleen, carrying another man’s child both chilled and fascinated him.

“Indeed,” Alexi murmured, staring at Ben. “Sad.”

The man flushed, taking Alexi’s meaning. The sad part was how Cathleen had become Cat and taken to hunting her husband’s killer while his brother sat in Rock River and let her.

Alexi considered having Mikhail remove Ruby so he could have a private talk with Ben. He’d like to know the details of Cathleen’s “death.”

“This man Cat went after,” Ruby said. “He’s a bad’un.”

“Aren’t they all?” Alexi murmured, continuing to contemplate Sheriff Chase, wondering how much he knew, how long it would take to get him to tell.

Mikhail tugged on his arm. Alexi shrugged him off. “But Al—”

Alexi shot him a look that stopped Mikhail instantly. The big man licked his lips, glanced at the window, then back at Alexi. “She doesn’t have a gun.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Alexi said. “Of course she does.”

“She did,” Ben agreed. “Though she wasn’t toting her usual Navy Colts.”

Alexi’s gaze fell on Ruby’s clothes.
His
clothes. The ones Cat had stolen—along with his guns.

Then he felt kind of sick.

Cat tried to throw herself to the side; maybe Frank would miss. But at this range Frank would have had to be half blind not to hit something.

Frank was not half blind.

Fire erupted just below her shoulder. The useless gun dropped from her suddenly useless hand. She followed it to the ground, the lighter clatter of the weapon followed by the heavier thud of her body right next to it.

The gun had been empty. Why in hell was Alexi carrying around an empty gun?

A shadow fell over her; Cat glanced up. The end of the barrel, when pointed at your face, seemed to loom as big as a cavern.

“Yer her,” Frank said. “Cat O’Banyon.”

“Nope.” Cat tried to answer using her manly voice, but all that came out was a whisper.

Frank pulled her hat from her head, and Cat’s hair tumbled down. “Hell,” she muttered.

“Huge bounty on Cat O’Banyon. Dead or alive.” He glanced toward the door. “Too bad that shot didn’t kill you. Guess I’ll have to truss you up and drag you all the way to Denver City.” He pursed his mouth, thought a while. Finally he cocked his head, then the weapon. “Too much trouble.”

The explosion was deafening.

Alexi and Mikhail approached the Cherokee village around midmorning. The place had a deserted air that made Alexi’s skin prickle.

They’d followed the trail left by Frank Walters. It wasn’t hard. The man left dead bodies behind him like bread crumbs.

Unfortunately, they’d gotten caught on the far side of a raging creek after a driving rainstorm and lost that trail for the better part of a day. Alexi had feared they might never find Frank, or Cat, again. He should have known better. Mikhail could find anyone.

“Why is it so quiet?” Alexi asked as they walked their horses through the far-too-silent settlement. Didn’t Indians keep dogs? Perhaps a screaming child or two?

Mikhail pointed. On a near ridge covered with trees stood several men. They moved about, bending, straightening, tossing the earth.

“Hell,” Alexi murmured, then kicked his horse into a gallop.

The Cherokee had dug shallow trenches next to several large boulders. Some continued to dig near other boulders; some had begun to build knee-high walls of smaller stones around each trench.

They lifted their heads as Alexi and Mikhail arrived. Chests bare, copper skin gleaming, breechclouts hung to their knees. A few had tattoos; some wore woven arm or ankle bands. Every neck supported a thong off of which hung a claw or a tooth or a shell, some all three. Their ears had been distorted by metal inserted into the lobe, a type of adornment that stretched the supple skin to abominable lengths. From their belts hung deerskin purses to the front, a knife to the right. Nearby lay several rifles.

When the Cherokee saw neither man meant them harm, they went back to what they were doing.

Alexi slid from his horse, crossed to the nearest trench, glanced inside. As expected, a dead Cherokee lay within. He couldn’t tell from the body how the man had died, as
he had been cleaned and dressed in his best breechclout and deerskin shirt. But considering there were several bodies, Alexi had a feeling Frank had been here. What he needed to know was if Cat had been here as well.

“What happened?” he asked.

The Cherokee continued to build, stone upon stone, over and over. No one gave any indication they’d understood either word.

Alexi glanced helplessly at Mikhail, who shrugged. Alexi was the one who knew languages. So many, but not one of them Cherokee.

“Was there a—?” The Indians lifted their gazes and waited for him to continue. He had no idea how, so he began to act out the words. He patted his belt where a gun might be, made an angry face, used his finger and thumb to point, squinted down the “barrel,” then pulled the “trigger.”

All but one of the Cherokee went back to building. The other let his dark gaze pass over Alexi’s fading bruises and crooked nose, then pointed behind Alexi’s shoulder and said in perfect English, “The man hunter is over there.”

Alexi spun, hope lifting the heavy weight that had pressed on him since he’d awoken in bed alone. He blinked at the empty vista, then frowned at the other man, who made a shooing motion with his large work-roughened hands.

Alexi’s frown deepened, but he shooed, first striding in the indicated direction, then stopping so fast his boots slid in the loose dirt when he saw the edge of another open hole.

This one had been dug away from the others—no boulder to mark it, no lovingly placed stones surrounding it. Just a hole big enough for a much smaller body.

He approached, light heart now thundering so
fiercely, his chest had begun to ache. He didn’t want to look inside, but he had to. Even so, he stopped a foot away, closed his eyes, fought for control, waited as long as he could before moving closer, then opening first one eye—slowly—then the other quite fast.

The sight of what lay in the grave caused his already wobbling legs to give out completely. He went to his knees—head bent, shoulders slumped.

It wasn’t her. From what was left, he thought this must be Frank. “Where is she?” he whispered.

“The woman who dresses as a man?”

Alexi’s gaze lifted. The Cherokee who’d sent him here stood at his side. “You saw her?”

“
U-le-tsu-ya-s-ti a-gi-ya
,” the man murmured, then shook his head. “
U-lv-da-le-s-gi a-gi-ya
.”

“I don’t understand,” Alexi said.

“A woman both brave and foolish.”

Alexi sighed. He’d seen her. “Which way did she go?”

“Go?” The Cherokee’s forehead creased. “She did not go.”

Alexi’s hope came back. “She’s…”

The man nodded. “Dying.”

“Dying,” Alexi repeated stupidly.

“Durga,” one of the Cherokee called and beckoned to the fellow at Alexi’s side. The man shook his head, rattled off a few sentences in Cherokee, then turned to Alexi.

“I will show you.” He indicated Mikhail should remain near the graves and that Alexi should accompany him down the ridge.

Mikhail didn’t want to stay. His gaze touched upon the knives, then the rifles, and his big shoulders hunched. “Alexi,” he whispered. “Don’t leave.”

“It’s all right.” Alexi patted the massive hand that plucked at his sleeve. “They won’t hurt you.”

Mikhail laughed with the clear, sweet innocence of a child. “’Course not.” Then his laughter faded, and his brow creased. “But I’m supposed to take care of you.”

“I’ll be fine.” Alexi removed Mikhail’s hand from his arm, and as always, Mikhail believed whatever Alexi told him.

Alexi followed Durga down the ridge, through the town, over an embankment, and across a dusty, crusty hillside to a stream where a humped structure of mud and grass covered with blankets sat near the gurgling water. A fire burned outside the door, the smoke obscuring what lay within, although the chant of “Caaaat” gave a good indication.

He started forward. His companion blocked his way. “They are calling her back from the spirit world.”

“I’ll call her back,” Alexi muttered. He’d drag her back. And then he’d shake her until her teeth came loose for being so damn…