Defiant (9 page)

He opened them. His left hand felt his face. Smooth and clean. It felt good. “I didn't think you would,” he said.

“Then why …?”

She'd been honest with him right from the beginning. It was time he was honest with her, as honest as he could be.

His gaze met hers. “It felt too good. Better than I deserve.”

She tipped her head slightly, studying him. “It's an improvement.” Then she hesitated, “Are there wanted posters?”

“I doubt it,” he said. “At least not current ones.”

Her eyes narrowed in question.

“I don't think anyone saw me,” he said. “They're probably just looking for any strangers, especially those with a hole in them.”

“How did you kill … that miner when you were shot that badly? He couldn't have shot you after—”

“I managed with my left hand,” he said, biting off each word. “You can do anything if you want it bad enough. And he was out of ammunition. And scared.” That, he thought, should silence her.

But it didn't, although her face paled slightly. “He killed your son?”

“And my wife,” Wade said. “He was one of three, and he was the last to die.” He watched her, then said deliberately, “And you can stop being polite. My wife was a Ute, my son a … half-breed. He was six years old when those men slit his throat after raping and killing my wife. Of course, most would say that it was no great loss. Two less Indians.” He couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice.

“I'm sorry,” she said softly.

“Are you? Are you, really? I saw your eyes when you brought that bridle in.”

“I don't say things I don't mean, Mr. Foster,” she said defiantly. “I'm sorry whenever a child is killed. But I've also seen white children killed by Indians. My friend was killed, and my sister was taken by Comanches when I was seven. We never found her though my father never stopped trying, not even ten years later.” She snapped her mouth shut and rose. “Breakfast will be ready shortly.”

Wade watched her leave, regretting his angry words, regretting the flush he'd brought to her face and the old grief to her eyes. He was so good at hurting those around him. So damn good.

Jeff finished washing off Jake with pails of water from the well. Jake shook himself, dousing Jeff, then gave him a lick as if to forgive him for the indignity of a bath.

“Now don't do that again,” Jeff scolded him. Jake slunk away dejectedly.

Jeff quickly dried himself with a towel, then skipped up the steps to the porch. His stomach was growling, and he wanted to talk more to the stranger.

His mother was frying eggs on the stove, and he smelled ham again. Golden biscuits already lay on the table, and Jeff's nose wiggled with delight. He'd told the stranger the flat-out truth. His mother was the best cook in Texas. And Colorado, too.

She plopped a piece of ham on a plate. “Cut that up for Mr. Foster,” she said, “and butter those biscuits. You might put some of those apple preserves on them.”

Jeff was glad to do it. It was good to have another man in the house. He loved his mother, but he missed the Rangers and all the attention they had given him. They had taken him fishing and hunting, and talked to him as if he were a grown-up. Treated him like one too, giving him responsibilities in caring for the horses. He knew a lot about horses.

Jeff wanted the stranger to stay, wanted Wade Foster to share things, man to man. His mother still treated him like a child. Worried when he was gone too long, when he got lost in his own thoughts while meandering down along the stream or riding his horse.

He didn't blame her. Jeff understood that he was the only person she had. Ty used to explain it to him when he'd complained about too many hugs. She needed a husband, Ty had said.

Jeff didn't want just any old father. But he was impressed by the stranger, by the way Jake liked him. Jake didn't take to just anybody. And Mr. Foster didn't talk too much or try to make anyone like him. He wore his gun right, the way Jeff's pa had and he'd been sad about his horse dying.

Those things added up to a lot for Jeff.

He'd completely disregarded the sheriff's words about cold-blooded killing. As his mother said, if the stranger killed anyone, he had a reason, and Jeff was not a stranger to that line of thinking.

It made him wonder, though, if the stranger had ever been a lawman. Or in the army. Jeff had so many questions, but his ma had warned him against pestering their guest.

Jeff didn't think he would be pestering, though. Just a few tiny questions, like about his son. Jeff had been surprised to hear about the son. Mr. Foster said it real sad but angry like, too, and Jeff had guessed something awful had happened. The stranger had hurt, just as Jeff had hurt when his pa died, and then Ty.

Jeff finished cutting the meat while his mother prepared the tray, adding a glass of milk along with a cup brimming with coffee.

“You take it in to him,” his mother said. Jeff was a tad surprised, but then she had been stiff and tight-lipped since she'd come out of Mr. Foster's room a little earlier.

Jeff picked up the tray and was halfway across the room when his mother spoke again. “Tell him to eat as much as he can, Jeff. And don't ask him any questions, please. I think he's had a bad time, and he doesn't need reminders.”

He turned around to face her. She looked worried, and she hardly ever looked worried. “I won't,” he said, thinking, though, that it wouldn't hurt if he just sort of stuck around a few moments in case the stranger
wanted
to talk. Maybe he was lonely, the way Jeff sometimes was.

He entered the bedroom and was amazed to see the stranger standing. He was wearing trousers, but his chest was still bare and Jeff saw scars. Though clean-shaven now, the stranger still looked dangerous.

But not mean, Jeff thought, as Mr. Foster's mouth quirked a little when he spied the food-laden tray.

He sat back heavily on the bed, as if he could no longer hold himself up. His eyes didn't leave Jeff, and Jeff felt like dropping the tray and running from the intensity of his gaze.

But he didn't. He held himself straight and looked straight into the stranger's eyes. “Ma said for you to eat as much as you could.”

“I'm obliged,” the stranger replied hesitantly, as if unused to the words.

“Ma fixed it,” Jeff added. He put the tray down and started to leave.

“Jeff.”

He turned back to the stranger.

“Tell your mother … tell her … hell …” Jeff could see the clenched muscles in the stranger's face. “Tell … her I'm …”

Jeff grinned. “I'll tell her you said thanks.” He spun out the door before the stranger could protest Jeff's liberal interpretation of what he was trying to say.

6

Wade ate half the food on the plate. Christ, but it tasted good. He hadn't had those kind of biscuits since that morning he had left his family farm for town.

The reminder sickened him, but he forced himself to drink the milk. He needed to get strong. He needed to get the hell out of here.

His gut twisted at the thought of the danger he was putting these people in. It twisted even more at the thought of their discovering who he really was. That his real name still brought curses in two states, and that a noose had hung over him for more than fourteen years.

He hadn't missed the beginning of hero worship in the boy's eyes. Jeff might as well look up to a rattle-snake. Wade had seen the same light in Drew's eyes, and he had failed his son completely.

Wade stood and walked to the window. The heavy rain had washed away some of the vegetable crop. A wheat field to the side was all but gone.

The corral fence needed fixing. He wondered how many horses the woman had, whether he could borrow one. He had one asset in this world: twenty horses he'd rounded up in the mountains and carefully bred with those of Chivita's Tabeguache band. The Utes were superb breeders of horseflesh, and he had learned much from them. His own stock was now being tended by Chivita's brother, Manchez, in a high mountain valley.

Wade had to get there.

And then?

What would he do with one usable arm? He couldn't rope wild horses. He couldn't even break them.

Thoughts tumbled over in his mind. He would give the animals to Manchez. He owed his brother-in-law for failing to protect his family. Perhaps he could give several of the horses to Mary Jo Williams. And then there would be no debt at all. Then he would disappear.

He took a few more steps, trying his legs. The wounded one ached, a dull throbbing that would grow worse the more he tried to use it. How far could he get on foot? To the fence if he were lucky. He was as much a prisoner in this room as he would be in a jail cell.

He needed a horse. Would the woman loan him one? Why should she, for God's sake? He was a man who had admitted to killing.

He could always steal one. Wade Foster knew a lot about stealing horses. But then in his mind's eye, he saw Jeff's face and how crestfallen he would feel if Wade did steal a horse.

Damn the kid, and those eager eyes and hopeful smile. He didn't want to be trusted.

He took a few more tentative steps. The wound in his leg pulsed. Riding would open it again. Just how much blood did a man have to lose before dying?

A knock came at his door. He stiffened, then grunted his permission to enter. He couldn't very well forbid the woman to come into her own room.

The door opened and she stood there. He studied her closely: the dark red hair that smelled like flowers, the smooth skin, the high cheekbones, the slim body that held so much determination and too little fear for her own good.

She smiled when she saw him standing. “You're better!”

He nodded curtly. “Well enough to give you your room back. I can stay in the barn, if that's all right. Just a day or so, until I can move on. I've been enough trouble.”

The smile disappeared, and her eyes became cautious, almost as if a curtain had fallen over them. “I doubt you'll be strong enough to get far, and the barn is damp, ripe for infections. I would prefer that you stay here. Jeff and I are fine as we are.”

“I don't—”

“If that posse comes back, you're safer in my bedroom,” she said. “They won't look here. They might search the barn.”

Wade clenched his teeth. She was right, dammit. He couldn't imagine anyone invading this woman's bedroom against her wishes. She would quell them with a simple look.

Hell, she was quelling him.

He sighed in surrender. Then knowing he was about to fall down and not wanting to do that in front of her again, he retreated to the bed. He sat stiffly, holding himself rigid by sheer strength of will. “Another day,” he said. “I should be able to—”

“Maybe walk to the gate,” she interjected. “Not much farther than that.”

“A horse. If I could borrow …” He was determined to leave this place, one way or another, even if he had to beg, something he hadn't done in twenty years. “I have some horses in the mountains. If … I can get to them, I could repay—”

“You wouldn't get far on a horse, either,” she said softly, even regretfully. “And we don't have any extra, just Jeff's and mine, and the two wagon horses which double on the plow.”

Frustration flooded Wade. Frustration at his helplessness, his dependence. He wanted to strike back at fate, except fate wasn't handy. The woman was.

He glared at her. “What would your neighbors think if they knew you were harboring an Indian lover?”

Her steady gaze didn't waver. “Same thing, I guess, if they knew I was sheltering someone who killed that miner.”

“It doesn't matter to you? My living with the Utes.”

She hesitated, troubled eyes meeting his. “I don't know. I can't say I understand it.”

“I'm too good to marry an Indian?” he asked mockingly. “It was the other way around. Chivita was much too good for me.”

“It's none of my business,” she said.

“It
is
your business,” he disagreed. “If I'm found here, I'm very likely to … contaminate you. And Jeff.”

A flicker in her eyes told him she had already considered that. Again, he felt reluctant admiration. He wondered what her husband had been like.

“Tell me about your son,” she said unexpectedly.

Wade hesitated. “He was just a boy,” he finally said, his voice breaking. “Just a boy with hopes and dreams … and feelings like yours.” He didn't want to talk about his son with anyone, with her. Yet the part of him that wanted to keep Drew alive urged him on. “I think he was trying to protect his mother when he died. His body was near hers.”

“And you?”

“Hunting,” he answered bitterly. “I should have taken him. He wanted to go.”

“I can't tell you not to blame yourself,” she said. “Sometimes you can't help it. I've blamed myself for Ty's death.”

“Ty?” He didn't want to be curious, but he was.

“He wanted to marry me. I kept saying no because I didn't want to be widowed again. Perhaps if I'd agreed, he wouldn't have gone that last time.”

So that accounted for some of her sadness. Grief was bad enough, but guilt kept it burning longer.

“He was a Ranger, too?”

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Your son told me.”

“Jeff. His name is Jeff.” She said it so sharply, she must have guessed what he was trying to do. Keep himself distanced from them.

“You should turn me over to the law,” he told her.

“If I did what I should,” she said, “I wouldn't be here in the first place. Everyone told me I couldn't run a ranch by myself, that I should go East.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Jeff, mostly, I guess. But partly me. I grew up in Texas. My father was a small rancher during the war. He was stubborn, and he taught me to be stubborn. After … my sister was taken, he made sure I could take care of myself. I can ride, and I can shoot a rabbit from five hundred yards, but I don't think I can be an Eastern lady. I was willing to try, for Jeff, but then he made me realize it would break his heart. It was bad enough leaving El Paso and the Ranger station. This ranch was a compromise with him. And then everyone told me I couldn't.” She looked chagrined. “I got my dander up.”