Bloody Sunday (5 page)

Like a beautiful woman he was a little bit in love with. Maybe more than a little bit.

Luke beat as much of the dust from his hat and trousers as he could, then got a rag wet at the pump and used it to clean off his boots. He took off his shirt, stuck his head under the stream of water, and sluiced more dust from his hair and bare torso. It felt good to be at least a little bit clean again, he thought as he pulled on the fresh shirt. It stuck to his damp skin in places.

When he turned toward the house, he thought he saw one of the curtains move slightly as it fell back into place.

Had Glory been watching him wash up?

Luke didn't have any false modesty. He knew that many women found him attractive, despite the fact that he wasn't what anyone would call handsome. And he certainly enjoyed the company of women in return.

But even if Glory MacCrae was drawn to him, he wasn't going to try to take advantage of that to capture her and turn her in for the reward on her head. Such behavior just wouldn't be honorable as far as he was concerned. He might be just a no-account bounty hunter with more blood on his hands than he liked to think about, but he had his limits.

When he went back inside the house, Glory greeted him by saying, “Why don't you hang your gun belt there on that peg beside the door?” When Luke hesitated, she added, “Surely you don't intend to sit down to dinner armed to the teeth?”

“That would interfere with eating, now wouldn't it?” he said with a smile. He didn't like taking off his Remingtons, but he didn't want to make Glory suspicious, either. So he unbuckled his gun belt and hung it on the peg she had pointed out.

Anyway, he thought, he still had a pair of two-shot, .41 caliber derringers, one in each pocket, so it wasn't like he was defenseless.

Graciously, she showed him to a dining room with a long mahogany table in the center of it. The table was already set for dinner, and platters of food awaited them. Luke saw slabs of roast beef and mounds of potatoes and rolls, but in that mix of cultures common here in West Texas where the border wasn't all that far away, there were also beans and chilies and tortillas. Everything looked and smelled delicious.

Glasses of wine waited for them on the table as well, and the bottle sat to one side.

“I opened the best bottle I could find,” Glory said. “I thought you would appreciate it, Mr. Jensen.”

“I'm sure I will. And you can call me Luke, you know.”

“Would that be proper, since we've only known each other a short time?”

“You're the mistress of this ranch,” Luke said. “I figure you can make your own rules.”

She smiled and said, “That's true. Let's have a seat.”

She certainly looked like the mistress of all she surveyed, he thought. Instead of the utilitarian riding clothes she had worn earlier, she had changed into an ivory-colored dress that set off her tanned skin. The dress hugged her waist, left most of her arms bare, and swooped low enough at the neck to reveal the upper swells of her bosom. A simple but elegant necklace was her only piece of jewelry other than the wedding band she still wore. She had put her dark hair up on her head in an elaborate arrangement of raven curls.

She was lovely enough to take a man's breath away, no doubt about that.

They sat down across from each other with the seat at the head of the table—old Sam MacCrae's seat, Luke assumed—left vacant.

Glory took a sip of her wine and said, “I know, this isn't the proper mourning garb, either. Teresa doesn't approve of my choices. She'd have me wear black for a year, at the very least. But to be honest, Mr. Jensen—Luke—you're the first visitor to the ranch since Sam's death. The first welcome visitor, I should say, since I don't count Harry Elston and his gunmen. I just didn't feel like wallowing in my grief tonight.”

Or maybe she didn't have any real grief to wallow in, Luke thought. He said, “You won't hear me complaining, Mrs. MacCrae. Or should I call you Glory?”

She smiled and said, “I think that would be very nice.”

Luke picked up his wineglass and said, “To the future, then.”

“To the future.”

And to five thousand dollars, he thought.

Teresa emerged from somewhere else in the house and served them. She wore a dour expression, and Luke could imagine how she had looked at Glory when she had seen the younger woman's garb for the evening. She probably thought Glory was dishonoring Sam MacCrae's memory. She probably believed as well that Glory was going to go to bed with the visitor.

That wasn't going to happen, Luke told himself. Not when he knew what the future held for both of them if everything went according to his plan. But if the circumstances had been different . . .

He put that thought out of his head and concentrated on enjoying the meal, which was not difficult at all. The food tasted as good as he expected it to. Teresa might not have a sparkling personality, but she was a fine cook.

The evening passed without Luke really taking note of the time. That came from being in such pleasant company. Glory was witty, intelligent, well-read, familiar with many of the same books and plays and operas that Luke had enjoyed in the past. She could discuss Fielding and Defoe, Hawthorne, Whitman, and Longfellow, Verdi and Wagner, Shakespeare and Sophocles. She disagreed with some of Luke's opinions, but in such a charming way that the disagreements could never be called arguments.

In short, she was so blasted charming it was easy to forget that she was also a murderess and a fugitive from the law.

Luke had to force his mind back onto the real business at hand. As they lingered over snifters of brandy, he said, “Tell me, do you go out riding to oversee the ranch's operation the way your husband did?”

The light had dimmed in the room. A short time earlier, Teresa had lit the candles in a silver candelabra at the other end of the table, as well as in several oil lamps in brass wall sconces around the room. The soft glow of candle flame washed over Glory's face and struck highlights from her hair and made her even more beautiful, but it also revealed a slight tightening around her mouth as Luke asked that question.

“I do,” she said. “And Gabe does everything short of telling me I'm a stubborn fool for doing it, too.”

“He's just worried about you,” Luke said. “After what happened to your husband, I don't think you can blame him. Elston might hesitate to have a woman killed . . . but he might not. Do you take any of the hands with you?”

“Sometimes,” she replied with a shrug. “It depends on what needs to be done. Keeping the ranch going is the most important consideration.”

“I'm sure Sam MacCrae would be proud of you for feeling that way.”

“I hope so,” she said, and once again there was the faintest of catches in her voice.

The wheels of Luke's brain turned rapidly. He had a good reason for asking Glory about her habits. If she rode out from the ranch headquarters on a regular basis, that might be his best chance to get his hands on her and take her somewhere she could be locked up. Painted Post was the closest town, but he didn't know how sturdy its jail was. Since it was on the railroad, chances were he could find a telegraph office there, too, and wire the Rangers that he had arrested the fugitive Gloria Jennings. He had to worry, though, about Gabe Pendleton and the rest of the MC crew coming to town to bust her out of jail as soon as they got wind of what had happened.

Would they do that once they found out the truth about her? Would they be willing to put themselves on the wrong side of the law for a woman who had murdered at least one husband and maybe two, including their former boss?

Luke didn't know the answers to those questions, and he probably wouldn't be able to find out and deal with them until the time came.

There was another potential problem to consider. What he had just said to Glory was true as far as it went. If Harry Elston really wanted to grab this ranch, he might decide it would be quicker and easier just to have Glory killed, especially if he had been responsible for Sam MacCrae's death instead of her. In that case, she really was risking her life by leaving the ranch and making herself an easier target for bushwhackers.

Luke thought he might have a glimmer of a way to address both issues, but he needed to give it some more thought first.

In the meantime, there was no reason for him not to enjoy this evening. He said, “I didn't mean to veer off into unpleasant territory. Let's get back to books. What do you think of
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
? I'm sure you've read it.”

“Indeed I have. It was quite good . . . for a burlesque. But I think Mr. Mark Twain has even better, more serious work in him, and I'm eager to read whatever he publishes next.”

Luke would have responded to that—he always enjoyed a vigorous discussion of literature—but at that moment several gunshots slammed through the night outside. The reports were muffled slightly by the thick adobe walls, but Luke heard them clearly enough to know what they were.

“Good Lord!” Glory exclaimed as she lifted her head. “Is that—”

“It is,” Luke said. He had already started to his feet. “Stay here. I'll find out what's going on.”

She stood up, too, and said, “I can handle a carbine. I'll get it.”

“Well, then, stay inside, anyway,” Luke told her. “If you have to shoot, do it from a window and keep your head down.”

At first he had hoped the commotion was just some high-spirited cowboys letting off steam. The gunfire continued, though, the heavier boom of handguns mingling with the sharper cracks of rifle shots. He even heard the dull roar of a shotgun as he hurried through the front room and grabbed his gun belt from the peg beside the door.

He buckled on the Remingtons, but he didn't rush out without knowing what was going on. Instead, he blew out the lamps burning in this room and went to one of the windows. As he peered through the glass he saw scattered muzzle flashes blooming like crimson flowers in the darkness. Night had settled down over the ranch, but it hadn't brought peace with it.

Some of the shots came from the bunkhouse, but plenty of others originated outside. The men firing them seemed to be moving around, and after a second Luke realized they were on horseback. The continuing gun-thunder drowned out most other sounds, but he thought he heard hoofbeats, too.

“Can you tell what's going on out there?” Glory asked from beside him.

At that moment one of the bullets flying around hit the window, shattering the glass. As sharp splinters flew through the air around them, Luke grabbed Glory and dragged her to the floor with him. He sprawled on top of her, shielding her with his body as more slugs whined through the broken window.

“Blast it, I told you to stay back!” he said. “They must've spotted us.”

“Who . . . is it?” Glory gasped. Luke supposed she was a little breathless because he was lying on top of her and his weight kept her from getting as much air.

“I don't know. Night riders. Elston's men, if I had to guess, trying to settle the score for that dead rustler.”

“The one . . . you killed.”

“Well, it seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

“It was. But now . . . you need to get off of me. I'll keep my head down.”

Luke pushed himself up on hands and knees so she could breathe easier. He knelt beside her as she scooted over next to the wall and sat up with her back against it. In the light from the dining room, where the candles were still burning, he saw the Winchester carbine she held across her lap.

“We can't let them get away with this,” she said.

“Your men are putting up a good fight. The raiders won't keep up the attack for long. They have to know how thick the walls of this house and the bunkhouse are. They're just trying to do a little damage. Then they'll pull out and head back where they came from. If they get in a lucky shot or two and kill some of your men, so much the better for them.”

“Elston's declaring war on the MC,” Glory said grimly.

Luke shook his head.

“I'd bet the fanciest hat in a San Francisco haberdashery that Elston is in Painted Post right now, in a saloon or a restaurant where dozens of people can see him. If the law ever asked him any questions about tonight, he'd claim that he didn't know anything about it. His men will be the same way. They'll all swear they were back at the Lazy EO together.”

“Then what can I do?” Glory asked with a note of desperation in her voice. “I can't let Elston just attack me at will.”

“He's hoping a few of these raids will convince you to sell out to him.”

“Never!”

Bullets had stopped coming through the window, so after telling Glory again to stay down, Luke risked another look.

Just as he raised his head over the sill, he saw what appeared to be a giant ball of fire coming straight at his face.

He got out of the way so fast he went over backwards. As he hit the floor, the blazing torch one of the night riders had just thrown flew through the window and landed on the rug behind him. The walls wouldn't burn, and torches flung onto the tile roof wouldn't have any effect, either, but if the raiders threw enough of those blazing brands through the bullet-shattered windows, they could catch the inside of the house on fire.

“There are more of them coming!” Glory cried. She had ignored Luke's warning and gotten up to look through the window.

Luke surged to his feet and started trying to stomp out the flames as they tried to spread. It was the rug that was burning, so he told Glory, “See if you can roll it up and smother the flames!”

While she did, he lunged to the window with a Remington in each hand. She'd been right: Two more riders carrying burning torches galloped toward the house. The raiders were bent low to present smaller targets, but Luke didn't aim at them as he opened fire. He shot at the torches instead, the Remingtons roaring and bucking against his palms.