Patricia Potter (20 page)

“Get out of here,” he demanded. “And off my land.”

“Yes, sir,” Lobo said mockingly, and turned. He heard the sound of a drawer opening, a sound so slight that most men wouldn’t have heard, and he whirled around, his Colt Peacemaker in his hand.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a gun in there, would you?” he said gently.

Alex’s face turned pasty, and sweat gathered around his brow as his gaze darted down to the drawer.

Lobo strode over and looked into the drawer, where a pistol lay. He picked it up and looked at it curiously, as if it were a child’s unusual toy. “That wasn’t very smart, Mr. Newton.”

He picked up the gun and strode over to the table where he reached for the two thousand dollars. “That little move is going to cost you.”

Without another word he walked out of the room, leaving Alex grateful that this particular misjudgment had cost him only money.

L
OBO DECIDED TO
stay where he’d been camping that night. He’d move into town in the morning; let Alex Newton know he was still around. He didn’t think Newton would try anything that night, not the way his eyes looked when Lobo held the gun on him.

And then? He didn’t know what then. The next move was Alex’s, and Willow’s.

He knew she had turned down Gar Morrow’s offer of Canton. Would she also turn down his help? When she knew who and what he really was?

Like that girl in Prescott, Arizona, when she’d found out he’d been with the Apaches…

He’d been at Fort Verde, carried there bound hand and foot, for four weeks while his wounds were tended. The sound of English gradually brought back the language to him, and though he offered little information to questioning officers, he’d finally been released once they were satisfied he would not return to the Apaches.

Lobo had been uncertain about who and what he was then. It was 1867, and it was already clear to him that the Apache’s way of life was doomed; there were too many soldiers, too many whites pouring into the area. He felt no emotion about that one way or another. He had been their prisoner and in order to survive had become one of them, and now in order to survive he would have to become a white man again. Survival—that was all that counted.

Once released by the army, he explored his new world. His long hair was cut, and he forced himself into heavy white-man’s clothing. He was offered a job as scout for the army, but he’d turned it down. While he held little affection for his former captors, neither did he wish to help destroy them. The army had given him a small sum of money, but he had no experience with paper money, and was soon cheated by a gunsmith. A helpful soldier who was fascinated by the White Apache explained to Lobo that he had paid twice the price. Lobo made a second visit to the store, and very carefully offered several options to the gunsmith. His money was returned, and the gunsmith told him to keep the gun, free of charge.

Lobo had learned then what the Apache had always believed. Whites cheated. The Apache had a brutal but honest code of conduct; whites did not. It was a lesson Lobo never forgot. As a result, he usually explained options prior to a transaction. It saved a great deal of trouble later.

He was in his mid-twenties when he left the Apache, and he’d had little experience with women. He had used women slaves as other warriors had, but he avoided Apache women and a permanent Apache union, though he couldn’t explain why. So he was unused to the niceties of courtship when he left Fort Verde to strike out on his own.

In Prescott he’d found a job as horse wrangler for a stable owner who bought wild horses. He’d quickly been attracted to the daughter of his employer, a lovely young girl with dark brown hair and brown eyes. Her name was Laura, which he thought very pretty, and her eyes had filled with admiration as she watched him break the wild ponies.

They took walks at first, and then short rides, both with her father’s approval. He was invited to dinner; he’d learned acceptable manners from his time at Fort Verde. He hid the fact he could neither read nor write, studying for hours a signature of the name John Smith until he could copy it perfectly. It was the handle he used then, and still used, when the name Lobo wasn’t convenient.

But then a discharged soldier came into Prescott, saw him and told the stable owner that John Smith was really the White Apache, that he had lived with the Apache, had burned and killed with them.

Lobo had watched the girl’s eyes fill with horror and then loathing. The Apaches were well hated in the area. He had been fired that day and told he’d be shot on sight if he showed up again.

He’d thought about killing the stable owner and the soldier, but he’d seen similar loathing and terror in the eyes of others within hearing range. He couldn’t kill everyone. But he’d learned another lesson that day. He was neither white nor Apache, and would never belong in either world. His was a world alone, and from then on the only rules he would observe would be his own.

But then he’d come to Newton, and in a matter of days he’d glimpsed a different kind of world, a different kind of life, and part of him yearned to taste it. But always a wary voice in the back of his mind warned that this time would be no different than Prescott.
She’ll despise you when she discovers who you are.
She and the boy and the little girl. White Indian. White Apache. To many, there was no worse curse.

The tension in his body was communicated to his pinto, and the horse responded with nervous steps. Lobo leaned over and whispered in its ears, and the horse lengthened its stride until they were both racing from the past.

S
ULLIVAN AND
M
ARISA
saw the horse and rider gallop through the gates of the Newton ranch, and both exclaimed almost at the same moment.

“What in the hell is
he
doing here?”

“What’s Papa up to this time?”

They both stared at each other.

“You know him?” Sullivan asked, incredulous.

“Do you?” Marisa returned.

“That’s Jess. Willow’s stranger.”

Marisa paled in the moonlight.

“That’s also Lobo,” she said slowly, “the man Papa hired to drive Willow off the ranch.”

12

L
obo saw the buggy and cursed when he recognized both the doctor and Newton’s daughter.

He wanted to be the one to tell Willow Taylor who he was. Painful as it might be, he owed that much to her. And he had to judge her reaction for himself. It was, he knew, the only way he would ever be able to get her out of his mind and soul.

Her horror should accomplish that fast enough.

Lobo turned his horse toward the Taylor ranch. The house was some four miles distant. He slowed the pinto to a trot and moved cautiously but steadily across the rolling plain. He saw other riders, cowpokes coming in from a day’s work, checking on the various herds grazing on the rich Colorado grass. There were no fences in the area, not yet, although there was talk of such.

Usually cattle of several ranchers mixed together, recognizable only by the brand and separated in the spring and fall at branding and roundup time. But because of the bad feelings between Newton and Morrow, the two ranchers kept their stock separated, a never-ending task, requiring nearly twice as many hands as usually required. Newton killed Morrow cattle on Newton land, and as a result Morrow killed Newton cattle found on his range.

Lobo considered the feud stupid and unproductive, but it was such arguments that kept him employed.

He was virtually ignored by the Newton hands, who knew a number of gun hands had been recently hired. Some of the old hands were, in fact, thinking about leaving. They didn’t want to be caught in a crossfire. It wasn’t their battle.

The day had passed into velvet darkness lit by a moon that was nearly full. The evening was cool, unlike the day, which had been blistering hot, and Lobo tried to enjoy the night, as he usually did. The night had always been his escape, a time that wore easiest on him. But it didn’t now.

He kept seeing her face. And he imagined her disappointment and disgust when he’d tell her exactly who and what he was. But he no longer had a choice.

Yes, you do,
argued a persistent voice from deep within.
You can just ride away
…
as you should have done in the beginning.

But he kept seeing Newton’s face and knew the rancher would stop at little now to get his way.

He saw the house, dark except for one brightly lit window, and then the barn. He was surprised at how much had been accomplished that day, and he wanted to kill Newton for suggesting the barn be burned. There was so much hope in that building.

As he approached the corral, a man appeared from within the new structure, a hammer in his fist.

Brady Thomas! So he had returned. Lobo’s gaze went to the corral and he saw the bull there. Perhaps Thomas wasn’t as useless as he appeared.

The man walked toward him as Lobo slowed his horse to a walk.

“You’re Lobo,” the man said. It was not a question but a statement.

Lobo said nothing, just looked at him. The silence was answer enough.

“What do you want here?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“But it is.”

“Protectin’ them now? After burnin’ down their barn?”

Even in the soft glow of moonlight Lobo saw the man flush as he moved the hammer to his other hand and rested his right hand on his gun. Lobo could see it tremble.

“I asked you before, what do you want?”

Lobo slid down from his horse, not even bothering to keep his eyes on the ex-sheriff. The insult was deliberate and obvious.

“Damn you,” Brady Thomas said.

Lobo continued to ignore him and walked his horse to a hitching post, where he tied the reins.

“Lobo!”

Lobo didn’t turn around but continued toward the porch.

“Stop, or so help me I’ll shoot you in the back!”

Lobo turned around then, and the two men were face-to-face, inches apart.

“I don’t think you will,” Lobo said in a soft drawl. “You don’t have the guts anymore.” His eyes raked over Brady with contempt. “Go climb back in that bottle.”

Brady’s right hand clenched and unclenched near his gun. “What do you want with her?”

“That’s between her and me.”

The ex-sheriff straightened his shoulders, and determination flitted across his face. But the image was ruined by the hand which, though not trembling as badly as a moment earlier, was still shaking.

A moment of unfamiliar pity struck Lobo. This had once been a strong man. Chrissakes, what happened to him?

“Why do you think I’m Lobo?”

“Fort Worth. I saw you there six years ago.”

Lobo raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Six years?” He was surprised the man remembered.

“You were pointed out to me.”

“Was I?” Lobo said in an amused tone. “Should I be flattered?”

“No,” Brady said flatly. “All the mad dogs were.”

Lobo grinned, but it was more like a wolf’s baring of teeth.

“You thinkin’ to get yourself one now?” His gaze was contemptuous as it went down to Brady’s gun.

“Why are you here?” Brady said, trying to make his voice authoritative, but knowing he failed miserably.

Lobo waited several seconds, just long enough to show how little the question meant to him.

“Damn you,” Brady Thomas whispered, and once again Lobo felt a certain sympathy. Whatever else Brady Thomas was now, it wasn’t a coward.

“Have you told her who I am?” Lobo said abruptly.

“No,” Brady said.

“Why?”

“I wasn’t sure until you rode up.”

“And now you are?”

“I remember that pinto and your eyes.”

“And you’re ready to face me with a shaky hand?”

Brady flinched. “At least she’d know who and what you are,
Jess.”
The statement was a devastating blow. Lobo wondered if the ex-lawman knew how powerful the strike was.

“That’s why I’m here,” he said easily, his eyes revealing nothing. “To tell her.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Lobo shrugged. “Because it’s time.”

“God damn you. I’m tired of your riddles.”

Lobo turned his back on Brady and started up the stairs just as the door opened. Willow was silhouetted in the doorway. “I heard voices,” she started to say to Brady, and then saw Lobo standing in the shadows. “Jess!”

There was a silence. Lobo challenged his opponent with that silence, and Brady knew it. Yet Brady couldn’t say anything, not when he heard the sudden delight in Willow’s voice. He’d never heard it before, and the sound stilled him.

“I knew you would be back,” Willow said, so unabashedly happy that neither man could speak.

Even Lobo was unsure of himself. She wore a light blue night robe, and her hair hung freely down her back. Her eyes shone in the moonlight, almost as bright as the stars overhead. His throat constricted. The next few moments would be the worse torture he’d ever suffered.