Patricia Potter (29 page)

Estelle felt her insides bunch up as she recalled scenes that kept invading her life.

Her mother, drunk, entertaining men in the same room where Estelle slept. Estelle didn’t even know the name of her father; she doubted whether her mother knew either.

She huddled on a cot while her mother sold herself in one cheap hotel after another. When Estelle was old enough, her mother’s friends started casting eyes her way. And then one day her mother disappeared. She said she had somethin’ to do and for Estelle to wait in the room. Estelle, who’d known her mother’s slaps well, waited. Night came, dawn came, and then night again. Hungry and scared, she left the room and started asking about her ma, finally discovering she had left the day before on a stagecoach.

Estelle was thirteen. She had no money, not so much as a dollar, and she was thrown out of the room. A man spotted her huddling in an alley in Omaha. He had been kind, had fed her, and told her he would help her find work. He did, first in a dance hall, where she wore skimpy skirts, and then in bed. Estelle was too lonely and frightened to protest. He was the only one who seemed to care whether she lived or died.

She traveled with him as he played poker, and she plied her trade, often entertaining his friends for free. She had tried to leave once, and he’d beaten her, saying he would do worse next time. In Newton he’d cheated once too often and was killed. She was eighteen then, and knew only one way to survive. She became the town’s soiled dove, an outcast among the decent women. And then one night a man came to her room and nearly killed her.

Estelle remembered that night, every terrible second. He had done the most awful things to her, stuffing a gag in her mouth so she couldn’t scream. And then he’d started hitting her so hard that she lost consciousness. She woke to horrible pain.

Dr. Barkley had been kind, although it had taken all her strength not to scream when he touched her. And Miss Willow had been an angel. No one wanted to take her in, except Willow, and even then Estelle trembled with shame and fear. She’d seen the schoolmarm from a distance, but she had never attended school, and she knew Miss Willow was a world apart. And yet no one had ever been so kind, so patient, so accepting. She had never made Estelle feel dirty as the others did.

Estelle had been with Willow two years now. It had taken Estelle a year to call her friend by her given name, but by then Willow Taylor was like the family she’d always wanted and never had. Estelle knew she’d caused Willow trouble; she’d heard about the town meetings and the gossip, and once she’d even tried to leave. But Willow had stopped her, said she needed Estelle to take care of the young ones. It was the first time Estelle had ever felt needed, much less wanted, and she’d stayed.

But she couldn’t get over her fear of men. She invariably viewed them as attackers, as enemies who would use her and beat her, except for Dr. Barkley and Brady.

Estelle liked Brady. She sometimes wondered whether it was for the same reason she liked the stranger. Brady, too, was an outsider, an outcast. She didn’t, however, like the way he drank. Many of her former customers came to her drunk, including the one that terrible night. She didn’t trust a man who drank.

Brady usually did his drinking away from the ranch. When he was there he was kind to her, even thoughtful. He didn’t look down on her as most lawmen would.

It made her sad when she saw him standing alone, a lost, despairing look on his face. But as he respected her privacy, she respected his. And she tried not to think badly of him when he fell back on his drinking; at least she didn’t until the night the barn burned. Then she found it hard to understand. He knew how much was at stake. This was the only home Estelle had ever known. She loved it. This was her sanctuary, a word Willow had taught her.

And she had a terrible fear that this life would be taken from her.

Until the stranger came.

Like Willow’s stories, like the legends, he was the knight who appeared to make things right.

And Willow was his lady. Estelle knew it deep in her bones when she saw them together. He made Willow’s eyes sparkle, and anyone who made Willow happy was Estelle’s friend.

He had done something to Brady, too. Brady stood taller today. His hand had been steadier at breakfast. He frequently glared at the stranger, but there was also growing respect in his frequent glances. Best of all, Estelle knew Brady hadn’t been drinking again.

Estelle also realized that the stranger had done something for her. His brief observation about the breakfast biscuits had filled her with pleasure and new confidence. She knew her cooking was usually not very good, and she knew Willow and the children often lied about it, but she had been slowly improving, and his comment had the ring of sincerity about it.

He was a dangerous man, Estelle knew that. She’d seen him draw. She’d seen the fear in the other men’s faces. But she also knew deep in her heart that she was very glad he was there.

B
RADY LOOKED OVER
at his nemesis. Lobo was the very devil. Brady became more and more convinced of that by the minute. The man was purposely tormenting him, taunting him, challenging him.

Brady didn’t want to be challenged. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to put a gun back in his hand.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the last man he’d killed. Dammit, he didn’t want to kill again.

Yet whenever he looked up at Lobo, the man’s eyes were judging and condemning him.

Why in the hell did he care?

He’d always hated gunfighters. They were all alike, this man as much as any. He had the same cold eyes, the same arrogant mouth, the same response to trouble.

And if Brady wanted to look into his own soul, which he didn’t much care to do, he resented Lobo, resented the trust Willow gave him, the hero worship in Chad’s eyes, especially the pleasure in Estelle’s face. That knowledge didn’t say much for him, but there it was. Ugly and real.

“Goddammit,” he swore aloud, and was even further annoyed at the amused look in his fellow worker’s eyes, just as if Lobo knew exactly what was going through Brady’s mind. It was disconcerting. Brady hit a nail through the wood with such force, the plank split, and he looked at it with disgust.

“Ready to quit?” Lobo taunted him.

Hell yes, he was. “Hell no,” he said.

Lobo was surprised at how satisfying it was to build something.

As a boy and young man he’d lived in wickiups and never had more than he could carry on horseback. As a white man he didn’t have many more possessions: a bare room in Denver with several changes of clothes, a saddle, a rifle, a pistol, a saddle roll, and a horse.

The sum total of his life.

But now he felt pride in what he was helping to build. He and Brady had finished the entrance to the barn, the stalls, and the hayloft. Little was left now except completing the doors for the wide opening off the hayloft, and the painting.

Lobo had pricked Brady Thomas all day. If there was one thing Lobo knew, it was men; and he sensed that Thomas’s pride, as beaten as it was, responded to challenge. There was something left in the man: a spark that possibly could be fanned into something worthwhile again.

Lobo didn’t care a whit about Brady Thomas himself. He didn’t like lawmen. He didn’t have any use for drunks, or for weak men. He seldom liked anyone. He never stayed anywhere long enough to strike up anything but the most casual acquaintance, and his reputation had kept most people away. If Thomas had been alone, Lobo would have handed him a whiskey jug and ridden away without a second thought.

Now Lobo was committed to the people who lived on the ranch. But he could not stay. Somehow he had to make sure that Brady Thomas would pull himself together enough to protect Willow and the kids when he left. The sooner the better.

He smiled grimly as he considered his task. Lobo, the savior of men’s souls. What a joke, on himself most of all.

Nonetheless, he continued to push Thomas, watching as his red face became redder with exertion and anger. Yet he didn’t quit, and that said something about him.

Lobo’s own body tensed as the day wore on into afternoon. Willow would be returning soon. He had tried to forget her kiss, the boiling, searching passion he had felt in her. It had surprised him, for she was a lady, and for some reason he’d thought ladies didn’t feel such things. Not that he’d had any experience with ladies; they’d always seemed so cold and aloof, sweeping their skirts aside when he passed as if he were dirt.

He hadn’t cared, for he hadn’t thought any better of them. But now he did care, and it was more troublesome than he wanted to admit. He wanted Willow. He wanted her in a way he’d never wanted a woman. He knew she wasn’t a woman who gave herself outside marriage and that marriage was not a hand he’d ever hold. He had nothing to offer but trouble. And no woman was worth his freedom.

He was shaking slightly as he looked out toward the gate, wanting to see the wagon, dreading it at the same time. He didn’t like the way his knees went weak. He didn’t like the curling warmth that disabled him, or the worry that might slow his gun hand a fraction of a second. He didn’t like being responsible for someone else, and he didn’t like the trust in their eyes, for it bonded him to them as strongly as chains.

Hell, he didn’t like any of this. So why didn’t he get out? He looked at his reluctant companion. Thomas wasn’t ready to stand alone. Perhaps he’d never be ready.

A few days. What were a few days?

Everything, part of his mind warned him. Get out while you can, while you’re still alive and whole.

He heard the wagon, its old springs creaking, and he looked toward the ranch gate. She’d tamed her hair into a bun in back, and some strands had worked loose, curling around her face. Her back, as always, was straight and proud, and he saw her face turn toward the barn and her gaze rest there on him.

He couldn’t see her eyes, but he could see the change in posture, the way her body moved suddenly, and he knew that she was experiencing the same excitement that was running up and down his spine. He deliberately turned away and spoke to Thomas. “I’ll take the first watch tonight.”

Thomas nodded grimly. He hadn’t missed the brief exchange, and he knew Lobo wanted to avoid dinner, to avoid being near Willow. And he agreed. He was surprised that he agreed with anything Lobo said. But he didn’t want Lobo any closer to Willow than the man himself apparently wanted to be.

By the time Lobo and Brady had finished hanging the loft door, Willow had climbed down from the wagon and was watching them intently. The blue of her eyes was even purer and deeper than he recalled, and her expression was hopeful.

“Jess,” she said. “It looks wonderful.”

“Lobo,” he corrected her.

Chad appeared. He’d been with Lobo and Brady most of the day, handing them nails and boards and doing whatever he could, considering his injured hand. He had disappeared shortly before Willow returned home, and Lobo had been grateful. He was uncomfortable with Chad’s admiring gaze and hopeful glances. The boy was waiting, Lobo knew, to learn some horse tricks, but that took time, and Lobo knew he wouldn’t be there that long, so he’d kept putting the boy off.

But now he was grateful for the distraction.

He brushed his hands against his pants, forcing his eyes from Willow’s face, from the anticipation in it, from the hope in it. He had no right to accept what she was offering.

“You’ll join us for supper, won’t you?” she said, and he saw her right hand nervously play with the material of her dress. The gesture surprised him and moved him. She usually seemed so sure of herself.

He shook his head. “I’m taking first watch tonight.”

“But…you have to eat.”

“I have some hardtack. It’s all I need.”

Her eyes clouded in a way he hadn’t seen before. He wanted to change his mind, but that was the worst thing he could do for either of them.

“Can you finish up?” he said to Thomas, who nodded curtly.

Lobo rubbed the back of his neck, forcing himself to move away.

“Where…where…are you going?” The words were hesitant, as if she knew he needed to leave.

“The small rise north of here.”

“I’ll bring you something later.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said flatly.

“I’ll take something when I relieve him,” Brady said helpfully, receiving Lobo’s inquisitive gaze and Willow’s frustrated one.

She started to say something, but Lobo didn’t give her a chance. He moved quickly to the corral, where he saddled his pinto, his movements all business and concentration. He checked his rifle, then swung up into the saddle and without a glance backward rode toward the gate.

Willow, disappointed but not surprised, stared after him.

Patience, she cautioned herself. Patience.

H
ELL,
L
OBO CURSED
as he settled on the rise, his pinto staked yards away out of sight of the trail.

He kept getting in deeper and deeper.

He knew exactly how deep as he gazed up at the sky and found the dipper. And the lion. Pictures in the sky. Hell. He’d been happier when they were just damned stars.

Nonsense, all of it. Especially the feeling of emptiness. He’d never recognized it as such before, and he didn’t much like identifying it now. He had done well enough, hadn’t he? He was alive. He was even rich. That was a hell of a lot more than he could say for most of the people he’d met.