Defiant (7 page)

The woman was looking at him with an understanding that bewildered him. “I don't want a dead man's clothes,” he said rudely. “I want my own.”

“They're nothing but rags. Unless you have something in your gear.”

He shook his head. He hadn't taken anything but food. He hadn't thought beyond finding those miners.

“Your horse. Anything on it that would identify you?”

He was startled again. She could have been a lawman herself, he thought wryly. “The bridle. It's beaded. I don't want the Utes blamed.” Christ, he hadn't even considered that until now. “I have to get—”

He tried to sit again. And managed it only with supreme effort. Then he swallowed his pride. “I … will … take those clothes.”

Mary Jo was fascinated with the contradictions in him. He had just admitted to cold-blooded killing, yet he was ready to risk his life and the pride that appeared even more important to him, so someone else wasn't blamed for his crimes. She didn't know anyone who cared an owl's hoot over what happened to Indians.

“How far do you think you'll get?” she asked.

“As far as I have to,” he said. “And I'll go naked if I have to.”

He
would
try, she realized. He wouldn't get much farther than the door, but he would try. And she and Jeff would have to drag him back.

“I'll go,” she said. “The posse apparently didn't find your horse. How far is it from the man you killed?”

Man you killed
. How easily she'd said the words.
Forgive me, Jeff
.

“A couple of miles. After I was shot … after I killed him, I didn't realize my pinto had also been badly hit. He just kept going, bleeding to death, and I wasn't even aware …” The lines in his face seemed to deepen. “He was … so gallant. And now he's dead. But I won't be responsible for more, dammit.” He stood, uncaring now if he were covered or not, then swayed as he took a step.

Still, he was magnificent. Taller than she'd thought, with a rider's lithe grace and tightly muscled thighs.

“All right,” she said. “I'll get you those trousers.” Just putting them on would sap what strength he had. She wouldn't help him, and he would discover on his own that he would never reach that horse. Even if he did he could never manage to remove the riding gear, not with that arm.

He wasn't listening to reason. Sheer will and determination were driving him, but neither could be sustained. He'd lost too much blood, had been too badly injured.

She ached for him. Something inside her didn't want him defeated. He had called his horse gallant, but she was seeing the man's gallantry now.

She didn't want him dead. All thoughts of sending for the posse had disappeared from her mind. His urgency became her urgency.

Only for a fleeting second did she question why. The answer came even quicker. He needed her. No man had ever needed her before. Not Jeff. Not Ty. They'd wanted, but they'd never needed. Even her son needed her less now.

She hadn't realized how much she wanted that need.

But she mentally thrust away that idea. She couldn't afford that kind of thinking.

She fetched the trousers, throwing them to him. Wade Foster caught them with his good hand, and she left once more, pulling the door closed behind her. He would have to discover his weakness on his own. She wouldn't increase his humiliation by watching.

Jeff looked at her anxiously. “How is he? Did he say anything about the posse? He didn't kill that man, did he?”

Mary Jo closed her eyes for a moment, trying to decide what to say. She had already lied to him. She couldn't do it again.

“Yes,” she said, “but the man was shooting at him, and Mr. Foster … well, he had good reason.”

Jeff's frown smoothed out. “Like when Pa had to shoot someone?”

“Something like that,” Mary Jo said, hoping it was the truth.

“I knew it,” Jeff said, a smile coming to his lips. “But why doesn't he just tell them?”

“He's too sick,” she said gently. “They would have taken him to jail while they checked, and I don't know if he would have survived the trip.”

Jeff accepted the explanation. Because he wanted to, she knew.

“Would you go saddle my horse for me?” she asked.

“Why?”

“I need to retrieve some of his things from his horse. I want you to stay here and look after him.”

He nodded and flew out the door, calling Jake to follow him. Jake cast a woebegone look at the closed bedroom door, then followed. The stranger had two advocates in this home. Two good ones, in her opinion.

Wade damned his weakness and the trousers. They wouldn't go past the bandage on his leg. He swore and just looked at them for a moment. Then he tried to pull them once more, automatically using his right arm. The pain nearly annihilated him. He breathed slowly, one deep, steadying breath at a time.

How long since he'd last eaten? Four, five days except for that milk. Now he was paying for that neglect.

He used his left hand to untie the now rust-colored bandage on his leg. It took him a very long time, but finally it came loose and he unwrapped it. The wound was raw and ugly, seeping a yellow-reddish discharge. The skin around it was red and puffy.

He needed part of the bandage to remain. If only he could cut it. His knife. Where was it? He couldn't find it, and he was damned if he was going to call her. He had seen the doubt in her eyes, knew she thought he would fail.

To hell with her. He used his teeth to tear the bandage, then he had difficulty wrapping the smaller piece back around the wound. Finally, he just threw it on the floor, and stuck his wounded leg in the trousers. He stood, pulling up the trousers with his left hand. He swayed. He was so dizzy.

He got the trousers over his hip, but buttoning them was another problem. He sat and then tried to button them as despair flooded him. What if he never regained use of his arm?

He finally managed to twist the last button into the hole. The trousers were tight. A dead man's clothes. Fitting, somehow.

Wade stood. Dizziness assaulted him. The world was whirling around him, or maybe
he
was whirling. He didn't know. He tried to take another step. He had to retrieve the halter, the beaded halter that his wife had given him.

The dizziness increased. He tumbled to the floor, falling on his right arm. Agony stabbed him. Damn, he could still make it. He had to.

But as he tried to rise, he admitted defeat. Once more, he couldn't protect the people he cared about.

Jeff had not yet come back when Mary Jo heard the noise from the bedroom. She opened the door and her gaze quickly found him on the floor. He was trying to sit. His breathing was labored and harsh, but he wasn't giving up. He kept trying, even as pain-filled eyes looked up at her.

“Say it, dammit.” His voice was raspy.

Why did she understand him so well? She kneeled down, offering her hand to him. “You had to find out for yourself,” she said, keeping sympathy from her voice.

He stared at her hand as if it were a poisonous snake. She wondered whether he had ever accepted help in his life.

“Take it,” she commanded. “Unless you want to wait until Jeff gets back.”

His eyes were full of frustration, but he finally held out his left hand and struggled to his knees. A groan escaped his lips, but he immediately cut it off. Giving him her shoulder to lean on, she managed to get him back to the bed.

“I
will
get your gear,” she said.

He turned his head away from her.

“Jeff will bring you some broth in a little while,” she said softly. “Eat as much as you can.”

He didn't acknowledge her words.

She returned to the kitchen and finished frying ham, then set a plate for Jeff, and watched him eat. She had no desire to hurry. The task before her was nasty at best.

“I don't know how long it will take,” she said, ignoring the bites he sneaked down to an eager Jake. She should lecture him on dog food and people food, but Jeff had been so good these last few days, so grown-up in his attempts to be helpful with the stranger.

Part of her was proud. The other part hated to see him grow up, knowing he would leave one day. She swallowed her rebuke and looked away as if she hadn't seen.

“Take Mr. Foster a bowl of broth,” she said, “in about an hour. It should be ready then. Check first, though, and see if he's sleeping. If he is, let him sleep. He needs the rest.”

He nodded. “You sure I can't help you?”

She shook her head. “Someone needs to watch him, all right? And if anyone comes by …?”

“I know,” he said impatiently, but his eyes were full of excitement. It was heady for him, this small conspiracy they shared. Or was it so small? Her son had watched her lie to a lawman, protect a man who confessed to being a murderer. She must be crazy.

A tingle of apprehension ran through her. Dear God, she prayed silently, let me be doing the right thing.

She put on her long coat and a floppy felt hat. It was still raining, and she wondered whether it was going to rain forever. At least no one else would be out in this mess, only the posse and it was gone. She hoped.

Mary Jo had no problem finding the horse. As she thought, there were no tracks. Despite her brave remarks to both Jeff and Wade Foster, she had to force herself to dismount and approach the animal.

The birds had been at it, and the stench was strong, even with the rain. She immediately saw the halter. It was elaborately braided, colorful and distinctive. Undeniably Indian. She already wore gloves, but she wrapped a thin rag around them before taking the halter off.

She knew she couldn't get the saddle off, not with the horse lying on it, but she could retrieve one of the saddlebags. Using the knife she brought with her, she cut the leather strap between the bags, taking the one not hidden by the horse's body. She then eyed the dead animal one more time for anything that looked Indian. That seemed to be Wade Foster's greatest concern. The saddle blanket looked well worn and ordinary. The saddle and stirrups were the same. Satisfied that none of the items could be linked with Utes, she mounted her horse. She hoped the cold rain would wash the smell of death from her.

She wondered whether it would ever wash off her patient, or even whether he wanted it to.

She looked down at the halter. Why did Wade Foster care so much that Indians not be blamed for his actions? Comanches had taken her sister, massacred her best friend and family. The Utes here in Colorado had been accused of similar atrocities, including the setting of numerous forest fires to kill settlers. Feelings against Indians ran as high here as they did in Texas.

What connection did Wade Foster have with Indians?

Chivita. Was it a Mexican name? It couldn't be Indian. She'd heard of white men who took up with Indian women, but she'd never met one. And he'd said his son's name was Drew.

Mysteries. So many mysteries surrounded him.

Jeff poured a bowl of soup and buttered a piece of bread, then carefully placed both on a tray, along with a glass of milk and a spoon.

He went to the bedroom door, knocked lightly so as not to wake the stranger if he was asleep. There was a grunt in response.

Jeff opened the door cautiously. He had seen little of the stranger in the past few days, and he couldn't quite forget the sheriff's words, despite his brave words to his mother.

The stranger was lying on the bed, wearing a pair of trousers. His face was rough with bristle and he looked tired. But he seemed to relax as Jeff entered.

“I've brought you something to eat,” Jeff said hesitantly. “Ma's gone out to see about your things.” He paused. “You're wearing Pa's trousers.”

The stranger's eyes flickered slightly. He tried to smile, but he wasn't very successful. Jeff set the tray down on the table next to the bed. “It's real good, Mr. Foster,” he said with no little pride. “My ma was the best cook in Texas. She used to cook for the whole Ranger company down there.”

Wincing, the stranger struggled to pull himself up and lean against the pillow. His eyes never left Jeff, and Jeff felt a little disconcerted. They seemed to be searching for something, and Jeff didn't know what.

Jeff picked up the bowl and spoon and sat on the side of the bed. “Can I help you, Mr. Foster? I know that arm must hurt a whole lot.”

A hardness suddenly gleamed in the man's eyes, but then it was gone. His chest rose with a small sigh. “I would be grateful, boy,” he said. “If I tried, I might just ruin these fine trousers of your pa's.”

But despite the soft words, Jeff saw the fingers of the stranger's good hand ball up in a tight fist. Jeff understood. He was a man too, and men didn't like needing help. He sure didn't, when he'd been sick last year.

So he didn't say anything, just spooned some broth and carried it steadily to the man's mouth. They finished the broth in silence and then the man closed his eyes. Jeff started to go, then hesitated. “There's some milk and more bread too, when you want.”

The stranger opened his eyes. “Tell me about your pa,” he said unexpectedly.

Jeff began to fidget. There was nothing he liked better than to talk about his pa, but his mother had warned him not to wear out the stranger. Jake had moved over to the bed, and put his head on it, obviously waiting for the stranger to acknowledge his presence. “Jake likes you,” Jeff said. “He doesn't like all that many people. He's part wolf, you know. I think he believes you belong to him, since he saved you, like the Chinese people do.” Nervousness made the words all run together. It was exciting to have a man to talk to, especially one he had helped save. “Ma told me about the Chinese. She read it someplace. She's always reading when she can.”

The stranger looked confused by the rapid flow of words, but one side of his mouth turned up slightly, and Jeff felt his chest expand with pleasure. He remembered the man's original question. “My pa was a Ranger, one of the best there was. So was Ty.” Suddenly his pride seeped away, gone in that sense of loss he'd had since Ty died.