Samantha James (3 page)

But Rose and the driver had been killed. Stringer Sam had shot Dillon and left him for dead, but Dillon had survived. He’d recovered at Fort Bridger, then spent the next year in search of Stringer Sam, to no avail. Pa had begged him to give up the search and come home. Eventually, Dillon had, only because Pa had asked him to.

But he was a changed man, moody and bitter. Abby recalled how Pa had once confided that he suspected Dillon had taken the post of Laramie marshal in the hopes that it might someday put him on Stringer Sam’s trail …

Dear God, it had.

Abby shuddered. It was a miracle that Dillon had ever survived; Stringer Sam had left him there to die …

Now the outlaw had done the same to Pa. A dizzying fear swept over her. Surely Dillon couldn’t be so unlucky a third time … But there was a saying—that bad luck came in threes …

Pa moaned. “Don’t want you to lose Dillon, too. Got to have someone to look after you …”

Abby stifled a sob. She could see him straining desperately to breathe, trying vainly to drag air into his lungs, struggling to hold on. He clutched at her fingers.

“Abby,” he gasped. His chest was heaving, his breathing a mere trickle. She had to drop her head close to his lips in order to hear. “You have to find him … Find Dillon and warn him before Sam kills him, too.” His fingers twisted around hers. His expression was tortured and imploring. “Promise me, honey. Promise … me.”

Tears streamed down her face. “I promise,” she choked. “Pa, I promise.”

His eyes closed; the grip on her fingers grew slack.

“Pa,” she screamed. “
Pa!
”

This time Pa didn’t hear.

Abby was only dimly aware of Lucas leading her into the parlor. There she clung to Dorothy.

“Dorothy,” she sobbed. “He—he’s dead.”

Dorothy found it difficult not to break into tears herself. “I know, child,” she whispered. “I know.” At length the older woman eased her down at the table. She squeezed the girl’s shoulder, and went to fetch a cup of strong hot coffee.

After that first small storm, Abby’s tears ceased. A curious kind of numbness overtook her; she stared listlessly at her hands, so neatly folded in her lap, and let her mind wander at will.

She noted distantly how tanned her hands were, the color a rich dark honey. It had never concerned her that her skin wasn’t milky-white, which was why she took no precautions to shield herself from the sun. She wore a cowboy hat when she was out riding, but the only bonnet she’d ever owned had been given to her on her twelfth birthday by a schoolmate, Emily Dawson. It was white and frilly and decorated with pink satin ribbons. She remembered how proudly she’d paraded in front of Pa and Dillon. Pa had tried hard not to laugh aloud, but Dillon hooted openly. That was the last time—the only time—Abby had worn a bonnet.

It was Emily’s mother who had convinced Pa that her education was sorely lacking when it came to ladylike qualities. When she was seventeen, her father decided maybe Mrs. Dawson was right—maybe it was time his Abigail learned to be a proper lady. Abby had argued and cried and pleaded, but he’d packed her off to that fancy girls’ school in Chicago despite her protests. Mrs. Rutherford, the headmistress, had been shockingly appalled at her golden skin—and frankly dismayed at her loose-limbed, leggy stride.

“This—this
creature
,” Mrs. Rutherford had sniffed disdainfully when her father came to collect her a scant month later, “will never be a lady. She can’t sing. She can’t dance—but I’m not surprised since she walks like a cow!”

Abby had lost her temper then. “Look who’s talking,” she retorted. “Did you ever hear yourself laugh, lady? You whinny like a horse who got his behind stuck on a fence post!”

Pa hadn’t been pleased that Mrs. Rutherford had dismissed her from the school. It was only later when they were on the train and headed back to Wyoming that he confided he shared her opinion of Mrs. Rutherford—her brain was surely stuffed with chicken scratch.

Abby watched her fingers curl into her palm, so tightly her nails dug into her skin. But the pain was like nothing compared to the ache in her heart. For as long as she could remember, she had relied on Pa. She was seven when her mother died from pneumonia. Dillon had been seventeen, already a man. But Abby was still a child—with a child’s tender need for shelter and protection—and Duncan MacKenzie had taken on a role not every man could have accomplished. While Dillon was off scouting for the army, Abby and her father had clung to each other and shared their grief. He had taught her, played with her, and indulged her. Abby had grown up strong and proud, and when she’d needed someone to hold her, her father had always been there. Abby had sometimes teased him that she’d probably never marry.

“I couldn’t bear to live anywhere other than the Diamondback,” she’d laugh. “Besides, you wouldn’t like it if you and Dillon weren’t the most important men in my life, would you?”

A wrenching pain ripped through her; it felt like her soul was on fire. Now Pa was gone.
Gone
. And all she had left was Dillon.

Abby couldn’t suppress a twinge of bitterness. Dillon was never around when they needed him. Her mind screamed in silent outrage.
Damn you, Dillon! Where are you? Where?
It was just like him—just like a man!—to think he was invincible.

Stringer Sam had already proved that he wasn’t.

Yet she didn’t wonder why Dillon had gone after Sam. To her knowledge, only once had Dillon ever considered marrying and settling down—but Stringer Sam had shattered his dreams. For Dillon, in this instance, at least, it was less a job than a vendetta …

But she had made a promise to Pa that she could never hope to keep. A debilitating sense of helplessness seeped through her. How on earth was she to find Dillon? The only man who knew where Stringer Sam’s outlaw hideout was had been killed!

“Dillon,” she whispered. “Oh, Dillon, why are you so—so reckless? And why can’t you love this land like Pa and me?” A hot ache constricted her throat. She battled the overwhelming need to cry.

Behind her someone gently coughed. Abby jerked around in time to see Lucas step into the parlor.

It was a moment before she was able to speak. “Is Dr. Foley gone?” She’d seen his buggy drive up just after Lucas led her inside.

Lucas pulled off his hat and nodded. “He asked me to pass on his respects, Miss Abby.” His voice sounded as rusty as hers.

Abby looked away, unable to bear the anguish in his eyes. The burning threat of tears made her chest ache.

She raised trembling hands to her face. “Lucas,” she said on a half-sob. “Oh, Lucas, what am I going to do? I promised Pa I’d find Dillon and warn him Stringer Sam was after him. But how?” she cried hopelessly. “I don’t know where that—that damned outlaw’s hideout is! No one does—not now!”

Lucas was at her side in two steps. “Don’t take on so, Miss Abby.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “I know it sounds crazy, but maybe we can find Dillon and warn him after all.”

She looked up with a gasp, convinced he was only trying to soothe her and make her feel better. But his grizzled expression was deadly serious.

“What do you mean?” Her breathing grew jerky. “Lucas, tell me!”

He half-turned and beckoned to someone in the hall just outside the door. Abby watched as a sandy-haired young man stepped into the parlor, clutching his hat between both hands. It was Grady, the man Lucas had sent into town after Doc Foley.

He tipped his head toward her. “I’m real sorry about your pa, miss.”

She murmured her thanks.

Lucas nodded. “Grady, tell Miss Abby what you told me.”

The young man shifted his booted feet. “Well,” he began. “The doc wasn’t in his office when I got to town. I went over to the Silver Spur to wait ’till the doc got back. It wasn’t long before this guy comes down the stairs.”

Excitement began to mount in his voice; Abby listened intently.

“Things got real quiet all of a sudden. You can tell just by lookin’ that this guy’s mean as a rattle-snake. All dressed in black, he was, with a pair of Colts strapped to his legs. And his eyes … I swear he’s got the strangest eyes a body ever saw—kinda silvery, like a looking glass that’ll slice right through a man.”

Abby’s brows rose slightly. “Who is he, Grady?”

“Seems his name is Kane—that’s all he goes by—Kane. Roger Simms was sitting next to me and he told me town gossip has it that Kane rode with Stringer Sam’s gang a few years back.”

Abby’s jaw clamped shut. “If he’s an outlaw and everyone knows it, why isn’t he in jail?”

Grady exchanged glances with Lucas. It was Lucas who quietly offered, “Abby, a man values his life above all else. I hate to say it, but after what happened to Andy Horner and Nate Gilmore last night, Stringer Sam and every one of his gang could probably walk straight through town and not a single man would raise a hand against him.”

“‘Lest he was a fool,” Grady chimed in with a faint smile.

It was a smile that was extremely short-lived. One scathing glance from Abby banished the inclination, while inside she seethed. Was this why Stringer Sam had never been caught? Were people so afraid of him that they would turn a blind eye to his treachery rather than see him put behind bars once and for all?

Fear was a powerful weapon indeed. It was an acknowledgment Abby made bitterly.

“Maybe this man Kane was part of it, too—maybe he helped Stringer Sam kill his man Roy and the two deputies.” She glanced at the two men for their reaction.

To her surprise, Grady appeared uncomfortable. He shifted his feet, his gaze trained on the rug between his feet. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he muttered, stumbling slightly. “But it seems a—a lady can vouch for the fact she was with Kane most of the night. And someone told Roger he’s looking for work.”

Abby’s eyes had gone wide. A lady. She was under no illusions as to the type of “lady” he meant. Grady’s cheeks were flame-red—and so were hers. She scarcely heard the last of his words.

Instead she considered the information Grady had revealed. As she did, a burgeoning hope began to blossom inside her.

She laid a hand on Lucas’s arm. “Lucas,” she said slowly, “if this man—Kane—really was part of Stringer Sam’s gang, do you think it’s possible that
he
would know where the hideout is located?” She held her breath and waited.

“Indeed I do,” he said grimly. “That’s why I brought Grady in to see you.”

“Then there’s only one thing left to do.” She turned to Grady. “Grady would you go out to the barn and saddle Sonny for me?”

He jammed his hat on his head. “Sure thing, ma’am.”

Her steps purposeful, she strode from the room. She was halfway up the stairs before Lucas’s voice halted her.

“Miss Abby, where … what do you think you’re doing?”

Abby paused, turned and looked down at him. Another time, another place, and she might have laughed at his gaping astonishment.

She smiled faintly. “I think you know, Lucas.”

His face had turned dark as a thundercloud. “Miss Abby, you can’t. Why, it’s crazy! The man’s an outlaw! No doubt he’s a killer just like Stringer Sam …” He stopped and cursed silently. He’d known Miss Abby too darned long not to recognize the stubborn set of that pretty little chin.

Watching him, seeing the bleakness creep into his lined features, Abby felt her heart rend in two. Pa had been gone … what? Only a few hours.

She felt as if a lifetime had passed since then.

And yet there wasn’t time to see that Pa had a decent burial—she would have to leave that to Dorothy and Lucas. There wasn’t time to mourn him … to say a last good-bye.

There wasn’t even time to cry.

Lucas continued to stare up at her. “Miss Abby,” he said finally, “you don’t have to do this. Let me go instead.”

A hot ache constricted her throat. Her heart brimmed with misery. “No, Lucas,” she said, her voice low and choked. “I need you here at the ranch. Besides, I promised Pa.
I
made that promise, Lucas, and it’s up to me to fulfill it. I know it’s risky, but this may be the only way to save Dillon—Kane may be the only man who can save my brother’s life.” She drew a deep tremulous breath, her eyes full of quiet desperation. “I have to find him, Lucas. I have to find Kane.”

“L
et’s go upstairs,” she whispered.

His lazy slouch against the bar was deceptive. Standing, he was a full six-foot-two inches of lean, spare flesh with the instincts of a predator. His hair was black as a crow’s wing, but whether his coloring came from his mama or his papa, he had no idea … because he’d never known either one. His mother was a drunk who’d left him on his own when he was just a kid; his father had never stayed around to begin with.

“Kane?” The voice came again, a sultry invitation close to his ear.

Soft feminine arms twined around his waist. Daisy draped herself against his back, thrilling to the intimate press of her stomach against his buttocks. She remembered splaying her hands against him last night, glorying in the way he tensed and flexed with each sinuous motion of his hips.

A smile of remembered satisfaction played over her full, rouged lips.
Such a man
, she recalled.
More man than most
.

Her fingers toyed with the thick dark strands of the hair that grew low on his nape. He hadn’t been inclined to talk last night, but that was all right. And for all that those glittering silver eyes gleamed icy and cool, he was a superb lover, not at all selfish like most of her customers. Why, it seemed almost a sin to take his money!

And it wasn’t the thought of his money that was making her burn inside again. Her hands fluttered over his chest. She rotated her hips and whispered his name huskily once again, hoping he would take the hint.

Kane released a long, pent-up sigh of frustration. He turned, trying to ease free of her cloying grip. Christ, she had hands like an octopus! When he would have stepped aside, she raised her head and kissed him. Her fingers plunged into his hair, shaping themselves to his scalp. Her lips clung—like a leech, he thought disgustedly. God, and she tasted like sour whiskey.

He finally managed to tear his mouth from hers. He stared at her, his vision blurred. All that registered was brassy red hair and a figure that had started to go to fat. His mind groped fuzzily for a name. Christ, was it him or was he drunker than he thought? Or had there simply been so many women—in so many towns—that they’d all begun to look alike?