Forbidden Fires (3 page)

Abner snorted in disbelief. “When did you get to be an Injun lover?”

“I don’t have any love for Indians and you know it,” Caitlyn retorted, her cheeks flushed with anger. “But I don’t intend to stand by and watch you hang an innocent man, either.”

Her outburst was met by astonished stares from Abner and her father. No one on the Circle C had any love for Indians, and Caitlyn had always been the most outspoken, the most unforgiving. Yet now she was defending one.

Caitlyn did not understand her feelings any better than anyone else. She only knew that, though she had been determined to see the Indian hang, she was now just as determined to see that he didn’t.

Dismounting, she walked over to where the black mare stood grazing placidly on the lush prairie grass.

“This mare’s in season,” Caitlyn announced. “Red must have caught her scent last night. It isn’t the first time he’s run off after a mare.”

Stalking Wolf held his breath, knowing his whole future would be decided in the next few minutes.

Brenden rode to where his daughter stood beside the black horse. For a moment he forgot all about the Indian as he openly admired the mare. She was as fine a piece of horseflesh as he had ever seen, with a coat like black velvet and near-perfect conformation. A sudden need to own the fine animal took hold of him, and his mind whirled with the realization that the mare would be his once the Indian was disposed of.

“Pa?”

Caitlyn’s voice brought him back to the matter at hand. “The mare’s in heat,” Brenden agreed. “Hang the Indian and let’s go home.”

Caitlyn stared at her father. “You can’t be serious.”

Brenden glanced at the brand on the mare’s left hip. “She’s wearing a Texas brand, a double
D,”
he pointed out, “and I’ve never heard of any Indians, from Texas or anywhere else, branding their stock. It’s obvious he stole the mare, and he’ll steal our horses, too, if he gets the chance.”

Stalking Wolf felt his last hope drain out of him at the old man’s words. Black Wind
had
been stolen, and Killian had been the culprit. Stalking Wolf would have laughed at the irony of it if the situation wasn’t so serious.

“Get on with it,” Brenden said. “Luther, bring the mare.” He glanced briefly at the Indian. “Leave the body. Maybe it’ll discourage any other redskins in the area
.”

“Pa, I won’t let you do this,” Caitlyn said, grabbing her father by the arm. “You can’t hang a man because you
think
he’s a horse thief. And even if he did steal the mare, he didn’t steal it from us. You have no right to act as judge, jury, and executioner.”

“Dammit, Caitlyn, the West would be a better place if every last Indian was dead and buried and you know it.”

She heartily agreed, but she could not let her father hang the Indian. She could not explain why she felt so strongly that he was innocent, or why she found the thought of his death so unbearable.

“Hanging this Indian won’t bring Arlo and Morgan back,” she said quietly.

At the mention of his sons, all the fight went out of Brenden. Hanging the Indian wouldn’t bring his sons back, or heal the raw ache in his heart. He gazed at Caitlyn. She was all he had left, and he loved her dearly. He couldn’t bear to have her think badly of him. He’d always been her hero. How could he bear it if her admiration turned to disgust?

“Very well, turn the Indian loose,” Brenden said gruffly. “But bring the mare along. I’ll send a wire to the marshal in San Antonio and see if he’s heard of anyone missing a black mare.”

Brenden bit back a smile. The chances of finding the mare’s owner were slim, but in the meantime, he’d treat the animal like one of his own.

He was about to rein his horse for home when Caitlyn’s voice stopped him.

“He’s hurt, Pa,” she said, her huge green eyes dark with concern. “We can’t take his horse and leave him out here on foot.”

Brenden swore under his breath. The redskin was more trouble than he was worth, but since he had the black mare, he could afford to be generous. “Bring him along,” he said curtly. “Never let it be said I didn’t do my Christian duty.”

Chapter Three

Stalking Wolf didn’t argue as the man called Paulie cut his hands free, lifted the noose from his neck, and then took up the reins of his horse. It was all he could do to remain in the saddle and he sat stiffly erect, one hand grasping the horn, his other arm wrapped protectively around his broken rib. Each step the horse took sent jolting shafts of pain through his side. His head throbbed, and there was a dull ache in his groin where Wylie had kicked him.

They rode across flat grassland for almost an hour and then the land dipped slightly and Stalking Wolf saw the Carmichael ranch.

Made of native stone and sun-bleached wood, the house was long and low with a shingled roof, a red brick chimney and a covered porch that ran the length of the house. Several clay pots held a variety of flowers. Stalking Wolf recognized roses and daisies but the others, in colors of bright pink and lavender, did not look familiar. A rectangular building to the left of the house appeared to be the bunkhouse, and a large red barn with a sloping roof and several well-built corrals were to the right. Tall pines grew in scattered clumps behind the house and on a distant ridge. There were no shrubs close to the house that might provide a hiding place for Indians or other intruders.

A slow-moving river gurgled merrily on its way some twenty-five yards from the front door, running straight as an arrow from one end of the shallow valley to the other until it disappeared from sight behind a stand of timber.

As they neared the house, Stalking Wolf saw a dozen Rhode Island Reds scratching in the dirt. A large yellow hound thumped its tail as Brenden Carmichael swung out of the saddle.

“Paulie, look after the horses. Wylie, take the Indian inside. Luther, you get busy and add another rail to that corral. Wylie will give you a hand. That damned stud’s run off for the last time.”

Caitlyn grinned at her father as he issued the last of his curt commands. “And what are my orders, Captain?”

“Hell’s fire, girl, you know you’ll do whatever suits you.”

“Now, Pa, that’s not so.”

Brenden snorted. “You’d best keep an eye on that Injun. I don’t think he’s in any shape to cause trouble, but I want to know just where he is until we decide what to do with him. Wylie’d just as soon cut his throat as look at him, you know.” A dark shadow passed over Brenden’s face. “Can’t say as I blame him, at that.”

“I’ll watch him, Pa,” Caitlyn said, her voice tinged with resentment. She hadn’t realized she’d be saddled with being the Indian’s keeper when she insisted he was innocent.

“I know you will. I’ll be out cutting timber if you need me. Send Paulie out when he’s finished feeding the stock.”

Stalking Wolf refused Wylie’s help. His teeth set, he slid to the ground unaided, then stood leaning against the horse’s flank, gathering his strength.

“I’ll look after him, Abner,” Caitlyn said, her voice carrying a note of dismissal. “You go on and help Luther.”

“Whatever you say, Miss Carmichael,” Abner replied. “But you’d best watch yourself around that buck.”

Stalking Wolf’s eyes narrowed ominously at the derogatory tone of the man’s voice. Had he not been in such pain, he would have taught him a little respect, but not now, when just drawing a breath was an effort.

Caitlyn saw the fury in the Indian’s eyes and hoped she would be on hand when Abner got his comeuppance from the Indian. She had never liked Abner Wylie. He reminded her of a weasel, always skulking around, his narrow, close-set pale blue eyes forever lingering on her figure with a look that bordered somewhere between insolence and lust. But he was a top hand, which was why her father had hired him, and why he still had a job.

“Thanks for the warning,” Caitlyn said dryly, “but I don’t think the man’s in any condition to do me harm.”

Abner turned away, muttering under his breath, and Caitlyn reached for the Indian’s arm. “Come on, I’ll help you inside.”

“I can manage.”

“Suit yourself,” Caitlyn said with a shrug, opening the front door, and waiting for him to enter the house.

Stalking Wolf moved away from the horse, his arm wrapped protectively around his ribcage. His jaw set with determination, he crossed the yard to the house and followed the girl inside.

The parlor was large, furnished with a faded blue sofa and two overstuffed leather chairs. A fireplace took up most of one wall and a Navajo rug was spread before the hearth.

“Take off your shirt,” Caitlyn said brusquely. It was her duty to see to their prisoner’s injuries, she supposed. “I’ll get some water and bandages.”

Stalking Wolf sat on the edge of the raised hearth and removed his shirt, every movement sending a painful jolt through his right side. After tossing his shirt on the floor, he looked around the room again. There was a Winchester rifle resting on a pair of pegs over the front door, and a painting of a pinto horse galloping across a yellow prairie hung on the far wall. A pair of blue-and-white figurines, a blue china plate, and a pair of silver candlesticks were arranged on the mantle.

He looked up as Caitlyn emerged from the doorway that he assumed led to the kitchen. She was carrying a tray laden with a bowl of water, a pair of scissors, a dark green bottle with no label, and a roll of white cloth.

He had never seen a woman in pants before and he tilted his head to one side, watching her as she walked toward him, captivated by the sway of her hips, and by the way the faded denim clung to her long coltish legs.

Caitlyn knelt at the Indian’s side and placed the tray on the floor. In a swift movement, she removed her hat and tossed it onto one of the chairs.

Stalking Wolf felt his breath catch in his throat as a wealth of honey-gold hair fell in luxurious waves about her face and shoulders. After having spent six years with the Lakota, it was a rare treat to see a woman with hair that was not as black as midnight, or as straight as a string. But, more than that, she was beautiful. Her golden hair emphasized her peaches-and-cream complexion and accentuated her eyes, which were as deep and green as a high mountain stream beneath a warm summer sun. He noticed that her nose was small and straight, that her brows were slightly arched, and that her lashes were incredibly long and dark. Her mouth was full and pink and perfect.

Caitlyn flushed self-consciously under the Indian’s scrutiny, but she was all business as she tended to him. She was accustomed to treating any number of injuries that occurred on the ranch; only in dire emergencies did they summon the doctor from town. When she had washed the blood from his face, she placed a cold cloth over his black eye, wondering if she had done the right thing when she insisted her father spare the Indian’s life. Maybe he
had
stolen Red, and the black mare, too. Maybe he’d murder them all in their beds, and scalp them as well.

Lost in thought, her hands were less than gentle as she probed his ribs.

“Damn!” The oath exploded from Stalking Wolf’s lips as the girl’s slim fingers pressed against his side.

“I’m sorry,” Caitlyn said quickly.

“Look, I don’t want to be here, and I’m sure you’d all be happier if I just rode on.”

“Not until Pa decides what to do with you. Maybe he’ll turn you over to the sheriff,” Caitlyn said in a voice that left no room for argument.

As gently as possible, she examined his side again, ascertaining that at least one rib was broken, perhaps two. His entire right side was bruised and discolored, and she silently cursed Abner. The man seemed to take great pleasure in inflicting pain.

After carefully washing the Indian’s mid-section, Caitlyn bound it with several layers of cloth to stabilize the break. He would be in considerable pain for several weeks, but broken ribs eventually mended on their own and until they did, he would have to move carefully.

“Are you hungry?” Caitlyn asked.

Stalking Wolf shook his head.

“Thirsty? There’s coffee warming on the stove.”

“Got any whiskey?”

Caitlyn’s right eyebrow lifted. “I thought Indians and whiskey didn’t mix.”

“Maybe not, but I’m half Irish, and I’d like a drink.”

“Irish!” Caitlyn exclaimed. “You’re joking.”

Stalking Wolf shook his head. “My father came here from Ireland thirty years ago.”

“Well, you look more Indian than Irish to me.” Caitlyn spoke the words over her shoulder as she went into the kitchen. Standing on tiptoe, she opened the cupboard and reached for a bottle of sourmash that her father kept on hand for medicinal purposes. Taking a glass from the bottom shelf, she poured a quarter of an inch of liquid into it and carried it to the Indian.

He sniffed it, wrinkled his nose, and tossed it off in a single swallow. It was the cheapest kind of whiskey, likely homemade, but it quickly spread a warm glow throughout his body, easing the pain in his side.

“Thanks.” He handed her the empty glass, his fingers lightly brushing against hers.

The heat from his touch spread from her fingertips to her arm, making her heart lurch queerly. Startled by the sensation, she took a step backward, wondering if he had felt it, too.

“My name’s Caitlyn,” she said, flustered and hoping to cover it with casual conversation.

Stalking Wolf nodded. It was a pretty name, and it suited her. “I’m…” He started to introduce himself as Stalking Wolf, and then thought better of it. “Gallegher,” he said, trying out the name he had not used in over six years. “Raiford Gallegher. But I answer to Rafe.”

“Irish, indeed,” Caitlyn murmured.

He nodded again, suddenly overcome with weariness as the beating, the long ride, and the shot of whiskey taken on an empty stomach began to take their toll.

“You’re tired,” Caitlyn observed. “I guess Pa won’t mind if I put you in the spare room.”

“Thanks.” He stood up, swaying, and Caitlyn stepped forward and placed her arm around his waist to steady him, then helped him down the narrow hall that led to the bedrooms. His thigh brushed against hers and she felt a quick flutter in the pit of her stomach. What was the matter with her? She’d been around men her whole life and none of them had ever affected her so strangely.

Rafe’s pulse quickened at her touch and he cursed under his breath. He had been aware of the almost instantaneous attraction between them, but he was determined that nothing would come of it. She was a woman, a pretty, desirable woman, and he had vowed never to trust a woman again.

Caitlyn opened the last door on the left, revealing a small whitewashed room furnished with a big brass bed and a three-drawer oak dresser. A colorful rag rug brightened the stark decor.

“Why don’t you get some rest?” Caitlyn suggested.

Rafe nodded. “Thanks again.”

“I’ll bring your dinner in so you won’t have to get up,” Caitlyn offered, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Rafe grimaced as he sank down on the bed, his hand straying to his side as he silently cursed the man who had kicked him while he was down. He’d make Abner Wylie pay for that kick, he vowed as he carefully lowered himself to the bed. Yes, indeed, he’d make the bastard pay…

Caitlyn was frowning when she went into the kitchen to help the ranch house cook, Consuelo, prepare lunch. Life was so unfair, she mused as she sliced a loaf of freshly baked bread. For the first time in her life she had met a man who excited her, who was tall, dark, and sinfully handsome, a man she felt drawn to, and he was an Indian.

It just wasn’t fair, she thought glumly, but then, no one had ever said life was fair.