Cherished (23 page)

Years of solitary living and a learned
distrust of every other human he encountered had bred in Cole the
ability to hide his thoughts and his motives, to suppress his
feelings and keep them under rigid control. He knew all too well
that he would never have survived the years in the orphanage if he
hadn’t. And only when he’d let his guard down enough to trust Jess
Burrows and Liza White had he nearly lost his life. So the lesson
had been doubly learned. Now, as he covered the traces of their
camp and watered the horses, he struggled against his feelings
regarding Juliana Montgomery. This woman was as combustible as
dynamite. Trouble was, he wanted her, even though he knew better.
She had knocked him off balance with her beauty, with something
courageous and indomitable in her spirit, with the unpredictable
quirks of her behavior, but when he’d touched her, kissed her, and
held her in the circle of his arms, something even more confounding
had happened. He wasn’t sure what that was, and he didn’t want to
know. What he had to do, Cole told himself as he obliterated all
traces of their campfire and of the camp itself, was to get his
balance back. To think calmly and clearly about Juliana Montgomery.
Which meant keeping as far from her as he could get until he had a
chance to sort her story out.

Something wasn’t right about this business.
Though Cole had never broken his rule concerning prisoners before,
never discussed the guilt or innocence of anyone he captured, never
paid attention to their protestations of innocence, he found
himself intensely curious about what had happened between Juliana
and John Breen. Either she was a damned good con artist and liar
and thief or she was ... what? Some kind of victim.

He didn’t exactly believe what she said about
John Breen, but he couldn’t completely discount it either. Yet, he
had no reason to believe a word she said. Her actions ever since he
had snatched her away from Hogan and his men had caused him nothing
but trouble—and her words were as full of deceit as a tonic
peddler’s guarantee. So why this nagging feeling that something was
wrong? Why the doubt?

Because he wanted to believe her, Cole
realized in disgust. That’s why he had tested her with the gun.
Even though he’d had every reason to believe she wouldn’t shoot
him, based on her distaste for blood and killing, he’d had to know.
Liza had fooled him, fooled him well, proving that he wasn’t proof
against a woman’s wiles. Hell, no man was. So he had played that
trick on her, something she probably thought of as cruel,
pointless, but Cole had needed to know if she could kill him to get
what she was after. Now he had his answer. Trouble was, it led him
to a whole lot of other questions, questions as prickly as a
cactus.

Rivers was a good man, though, and Cole
intended to have a lengthy talk with him about Juliana Montgomery,
John Breen, and this whole stinking business before the day was
out. He ignored her as best he could while he tied his pack onto
Arrow’s saddle. Yet he was all too aware of Juliana’s every
movement.

Part of him wanted to kiss her again so badly
it hurt, but the other part wanted to cleanse her memory, taste,
and scent from his mind. The farther he kept from her, the easier
that would be to do, so he helped her mount Cash Hogan’s bay and
kept his face closed and impassive when she glanced at him.

It would be a relief to turn her over to Hank
Rivers, to not have to meet those deep, expressive eyes again, and
keep from drowning in them. Cole reckoned they’d reach Plattsville
by suppertime and that over a good meal in the Peterson Hotel, with
Juliana safe in jail, he and Hank could talk things over.

Sheriff Lucius Dane spit a gob of tobacco
juice out the open window of his office, chuckling when it landed
on the skirt hem of old Mrs. Wiggins, the doctor’s wife, who
happened to be passing by.

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” he sang out cheerily,
his broken-toothed grin widening when she scowled at him. He
slammed the window shut and laughed. The old hag looked as
ferocious as a coyote, he thought gleefully. But she wouldn’t dare
open her mouth.

He saw the pair of strangers heading into
town from the direction of Bone Creek, and his grin faded like
daylight before the first stars. Pushing the strawlike gray hair
out of his eyes, he edged closer to the window to better appraise
them, but from this distance all he could see was that they were a
man and a woman, and their horses looked tired. But he couldn’t let
it go at that. As sheriff of Plattsville, it was his duty to keep
the town clear of troublemakers and those who would get in Mr.
McCray’s way. Naturally, he didn’t want to tangle with any real
outlaws or gunmen. Keeping the shopkeepers, ranchers, and merchants
who didn’t like what was happening in Plattsville quiet was much
more in his line. If McCray wanted someone to deal with a
professional gunman who was skilled at his business, he’d have to
call in Jackson and his boys.

From the look of the pair riding into town,
Lucius Dane thought with a grimace, Jackson would have his hands
full. They were definitely not some banker and his wife back from a
Sunday social.

He swore under his breath as the couple drew
nearer, wondering if they were just passing through. He had a
feeling this wasn’t going to be one of his better days.

The man was tall and tough-looking—with a
dark, savage face, Lucius thought. Not a desperado, his demeanor
was too cold and sort of dignified for that, and he didn’t have
that air of furtiveness most wanted men carried around with them. A
gunfighter, probably, and if Lucius guessed right, a good one. The
woman, worn and bedraggled-looking in a gown that had seen better
days, was still a damned sight prettier than any woman Lucius Dane
had ever seen. She had an amazing cloud of golden blond hair and a
figure that made his mouth water.

When Lucius realized they were headed
straight for the center of town, he felt sweat dribbling down his
armpits. If it was the woman alone, he’d have been more than eager,
but that ruggedly grim hombre wasn’t one he’d like to tangle with,
especially not knowing if the business bringing the stranger to
Plattsville branded him friend or foe.

He sighed aloud with relief when several of
Jackson’s boys appeared suddenly from the saloon, peered at the
newcomers, and lined up alongside the boardwalk to head them off.
In a moment, Jackson himself strode from the Long Arm, eyeing with
surly appraisal the man who’d just ridden into town.

Lucius Dane leaned against the dirt-streaked
window of his office and watched.

* * *

Juliana shuddered in the saddle as the bay
trotted into Plattsville beneath a queerly yellow-gray sky. Another
storm was brewing, and soon rain would come slashing down from the
Rim, but that wasn’t the reason for the chills that darted over her
now. Neither was the fact that she was bone-tired from the past
excruciating hours on horseback, with only one brief rest all day.
The cause of her dread was this place, Plattsville, and the people
in it. An air of fear and gloom hung over the town, with its
boarded-up storefront windows, empty streets, and its eerie
silence. The few men and women she saw hurrying about their
business wore glum, anxious expressions on their faces, and did not
speak to one another. No children played in the shady glade across
from the newspaper office, no dogs lounged under porch chairs, nor
were there any young, smiling faces in sight. Instead, several
swarthy-looking men had come out of a saloon and were staring at
her and Rawdon. They were men who looked even more evil and
murderous than Cash Hogan, Luke, and Bo, something she had thought
would be impossible.

What kind of a place had Cole brought her
to?

Her stomach muscles twisted deep within. How
could he abandon her in a town like this?

Rawdon could almost smell the fear in the air
as he rode past the blacksmith’s shop and the stables and sent
Arrow trotting toward the sheriff’s office in the center of town.
He didn’t know exactly what was wrong here, but he had a feeling he
was going to find out fast.

When he saw the reception party coming out of
the saloon, a hard glint entered his eyes. He wondered what the
hell was the matter with Rivers, letting vermin like that into the
town? He didn’t know any of the men personally, but their type was
easily recognizable to him. Hired guns and bullies, second-rate,
the kind that wouldn’t be particular about who they killed or why.
When he saw Knife Jackson come out of the Long Arm, he sucked in
his breath. Jackson he knew.

Cole rode on, keeping the corners of his eyes
fixed on the big man with the tar-black eyes who was fond of
carving an X with a bowie knife on the foreheads of the men he
killed.

“It’s been a long time, Rawdon.” Jackson
planted his big hands on the hitching post in front of the
sheriff’s office as Cole swung down from the saddle. In his holster
was a Walker Colt, and stuck inside his right boot, Cole knew, was
a razor-sharp bowie knife that he could whip out in a flash.

“Say, Rawdon.” Jackson grinned. “You ever
catch up with the Hardin boys?”

“Someone knifed them down by Blue Creek
before I could get them, Jackson. Any idea who that might be?”

“Nope. But I think it’s a damned shame. They
died without saying where the money from the bank job was hid,
didn’t they?” The tar-black eyes shone beneath shaggy brows. If not
for the pockmarks and scars on his face, he might have been a
handsome man. “All that cash, just plumb disappeared.”

“Your brand was on them.”

“My brand?” Jackson slapped his thigh. “No,
you don’t say! Wal, someone’s trying to frame me!”

The men on either side of him broke into loud
guffaws. One of them spat into the street, inches from Cole’s
booted foot.

“Just a word of advice,” Cole remarked as he
helped Juliana down from the bay. There was no sense beating around
the bush with a man like Jackson. “Get in my way one more time and
I’ll kill you.”

A silence gripped all the men. Jackson’s face
worked convulsively as he struggled with a sudden flood of rage,
and Juliana’s stomach flipped over and back as she waited for him
to draw on Cole. But Jackson must have known he was no match for
the bounty hunter in a fair gunfight. He swallowed back his fury,
glared with those black eyes of his, and said in a raspy tone,
“Maybe I’ll be the one to kill you someday, Rawdon.”

“Not unless you learn to shoot straight,
Jackson.” Cole took Juliana’s arm and started for the sheriff’s
door, but Jackson stepped into his path.

“Who’s your ladyfriend, Rawdon? Ain’t you
going to introduce me?”

He reached out toward Juliana, as if to grasp
her shoulder, or maybe her hair, but instantly Cole blocked him,
his eyes hard as agates. “Don’t touch her, Jackson,” he said
quietly. “Not one finger. Or I’ll blow holes in you till there’s
nothing left for the undertaker to stick into the ground.”

“Hey,” one of the other men growled suddenly,
swinging forward with his teeth bared like a wolf’s. “You can’t
talk to him like that. Knife, you going to take that? Who the hell
does he think he is?”

Through the thunderous pounding in her ears,
Juliana heard someone say, “That’s Cole Rawdon, you durned fool.
Shut up.”

Cole pulled her along with him, and the men
stepped back, out of his path. No one touched her, or spoke, but
she could feel their stares upon her, and she sensed their
hostility. But they wouldn’t make a move—because they were scared
of Cole. Scared of his name, his reputation, as well as the assured
and deadly way he carried himself —as if he could shoot down any or
all of them with no apparent effort or concern. She was glad of his
hand upon her arm, of his tall, lean form beside her, especially as
they passed the glaring figure of the man called Jackson.

Before she knew it, she was past them all,
past the rocker and the spittoon outside the sheriff’s door, and
inside the low-ceilinged little office, Cole still holding her arm.
It was dim inside, for the windows were so filthy, only a
smattering of light could penetrate from outside, and no one had
bothered to light the kerosene lamp. Juliana took a deep breath and
nearly choked on the cigar fumes and the stench of human sweat.

Lucius Dane pretended not to have heard the
commotion outside and even ignored the creak of the knob as his
door swung inward. He refrained from looking up until the pair was
actually in his office, then greeted them with raised brows and his
most solemn, professional lawman’s stare, the one he had practiced
in front of the mirror for hours after he’d won his first local
election five years ago. It hadn’t been the first time he’d bought
votes to win an election, and most likely it wouldn’t be the last,
but that election had taught him the value of looking the part. The
sheriff’s badge and a Navy .45 helped, but the cold-eyed Dane stare
worked wonders on doubtful, weak-kneed citizens who got a little
too curious about a man’s background at a time when it wasn’t
convenient to answer questions.

“What can I do for you folks?” Lucius
demanded, resting his nail-bitten hands on the arms of his chair.
He was about to say, “Speak up, I don’t have all day,” but when he
saw the frowning expression on the stranger’s face he thought
better of it. He clamped his mouth shut instead and waited in
growing uneasiness for some inkling as to what this was all
about.

Rawdon noted the weasely man’s badge with a
start of surprise.

“Who the hell are you?”

One look at him was enough to tell Cole that
this short, spindly man with the protruding dark eyes and coffee
stains on his vest was no model of honesty and virtue. The man
looked like scum, smelled like scum, and had the shifting eyes and
braggart posture of scum. The sheriff’s office and the cells behind
it looked filthy and unkempt, not at all the way Rivers normally
kept them. Cole glanced around slowly, noting the lumpy unmade beds
in the prisoner cells, the rats gnawing old bread in a corner, the
dirt ground into the floor. In the dim light he could see cigar
butts and ashes littering the desk, as well as filthy crumpled
handkerchiefs and a pile of poker chips half hidden by a sheaf of
papers.