Wildflower (28 page)

And then he’d be dead.

Chapter Fifteen

Logan saw the plume of smoke rising in the northern sky. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The only place that fire could be coming from was the Standing T. He plunged his spurs into Sergeant’s flanks and the roan leaped into an all-out run. He had to get home. Fast.

What could have happened? Where was Matt? Was she safe? Which building was on fire? Had a lamp tipped over in the barn? The house? Questions fired through his brain faster than bullets from a Gatling gun. Each with no answer. The one answer that did rear up numbed his heart.

Rustlers.

It was their pattern. First herds were stampeded and then homes were burned. And sometimes people were killed. How could he have been so stupid as to leave her? Though Chuck was with her, it didn’t dent the panic rising in his chest. He rode like the devil himself was on his heels. Only Lucifer wasn’t behind him, but in front. Was he holding Matt? Had he hurt her?

A red curtain of rage dropped over his eyes. He’d tear apart anyone who dared to harm his wife. But shimmering just below the surface of his anger, terror closed a meaty fist around his heart. It was like being held underwater. He didn’t feel anything. Except a coldness spreading through his chest, freezing his heart. His lungs.

Drowning him.

He fought to master the useless emotions. Whatever the circumstances at the ranch, it’d do no good to lose control. He briefly closed his eyes. Matt was safe. If she wasn’t, he’d know. To the core of his very soul, he’d know. He could only pray she stayed safe until he got to her.

He came up to the last stand of oaks which blocked sight of the Standing T gate. Smoke hung heavy in the air, its black and gray column rising above the tree tops. In the shadows to his left, he spied Arch’s horse.

He reined Sergeant to a stiff halt and bounded from the saddle, his Colt out of his holster, cocked and ready. “Arch!” he whispered loud.

The cowboy ducked out of a thicket of boysenberry bushes, his own gun drawn. “Here, boss.”

Logan lowered his weapon, but didn’t holster it. “What the devil is going on?”

Arch shook his head. “Hell if I know. We seen the smoke back at the herd.”

“Where are the other men?”

“Sent Tom to fetch the sheriff. The others are still with the herd. I didn’t want to risk this was a distraction for another stampede.”

Logan nodded. “Good thinking. What’s burning?”

“Everything but the cookhouse.”

Logan peered through the dense foliage, his heart in his throat. “Have you seen Matt?”

Arch shook his head. “Haven’t seen her or Chuck. They gotta be inside the cookhouse, right?”

Please God
. “Seen any horses?”

“Half dozen or so are tethered by the woodpile behind the cookhouse.”

“Guards?”

“Two that I saw watching the horses. Might be more. You figure they’re the rustlers?”

“Don’t know, but I aim to find out.” Logan went back to his horse and pulled his Winchester from the scabbard. “Work your way back behind the cookhouse.” He tucked his rifle under his arm then checked the bullets in his Colt.

“What’s your plan, boss?”

He spun the cylinder of his Colt. “To go get my wife.”

“You’re gonna just walk in there?”

“I’m gonna just walk in there.”

“If it is
them
rustlers, you’re only gonna get yourself shot.”

“You got a better idea?” Logan snapped.

“Yeah. Wait for the sheriff. Tom’s got the fastest pony around.”

“I’m not waiting for the sheriff to show up. That’s my wife in there.”

“You go in guns blazing and you’ll get her killed for sure. If she ain’t dead already.”

At Logan’s withering glower, Arch raised his hands in surrender and stepped back. Logan then holstered his gun to check his rifle. “It’s a chance I have to take. Take out the guards in back then run the horses through the yard. The ruckus should give me the chance to get Matt to safety.” He held out his hand. “Give me your Colt. Chances are whoever’s in the cookhouse will want me to drop my guns. They won’t expect me to have a third one.”

“That is if they don’t gun you down like a dog first,” Arch grumbled, handing over the six-shooter. He pulled his hat low then crept off to the left.

Logan stole forward, one slow step at a time. The closer he got to the yard, the thicker the smoke became. It burned his eyes. He tugged his bandana up to cover his mouth and nose. Between two large oak trees, he watched fire eat the three buildings.

Flames licked the sides of the house, spreading up and onto the roof. The barn and bunkhouse fared no better. All were nothing but red-and-yellow-balled infernos. With a thunderous crash, the roof of the house caved in.

His home was gone. And he was helpless to save it, just like he’d been at the age of nine. Anger welled in his chest. His home might be lost, but he’d be damned if he lost Matt as well. He shifted to his right for a better view of the cookhouse door. No movement of any kind caught his eye. He squatted down, rubbing a hand over his chin.

There wasn’t any cover whatsoever in the thirty feet between him and the cookhouse. Arch was right, he could step out in the open and be gunned down in nothing flat. But the risk was worth taking if it meant he got to Matt.

He tucked Arch’s Colt into his belt at his back, stood and moved to where anyone from the cookhouse could see him. He yanked the bandana off his face and angled his body so he could dive back into the cover of the brush in case bullets came flying. “Hallo!”

He waited. Blood battered in his eardrums. He could scarcely breathe for all the smoke in the air, and the fear in his heart. Finally the cookhouse door creaked open. Matt’s head appeared. With a Colt muzzle pressed to her temple.

The sight of the gun barrel to his wife’s head crushed any remaining fear in Logan’s body. It was replaced by pulsing fury.

She’d been shot and nearly trampled. And now this. No more. No more harm would come to her. His promise to God. “Are you all right?” he called.

“I’m fine, but Chuck’s not. He’s hurt bad.” Her head twisted to the side as the gun was pressed tighter. “They want you to drop your rifle and gun belt.”

He tossed the Winchester to the ground then unbuckled his belt. Hands out to the side rather than in the air, he walked forward. He studied her face as he approached. Her lip was cut and swollen, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. Her eyes held more anger than fear. Good. He rather have her pissed than scared. She kept her head about her better when riled.

Ten feet from the cookhouse, a male voice barked out, “Hold it there.”

He stopped. The door opened further and Matt stepped out with Roscoe holding the gun to her head. If Logan was furious before, rage blinded him now. He’d kill Roscoe with his bare hands.

Three other men exited the cookhouse and flanked Roscoe and Matt, their guns pointed at him. Four men stood in front of him and if Arch was right, there was at least another two in back. Six—or more—against two. Not good odds. In fact, damn bad ones. He stared at his wife. “You sure you’re all right, sweetheart?”

“She’s fine,” a voice from inside said. “For now.” From behind the group, Jules Dobson swaggered out, a malicious, cocky glint in his eyes.

After a moment surprise, pieces fell into place for Logan. He glared at the banker. “This is about you wanting the Standing T, isn’t it Dobson?”

The banker’s malevolent grin grew wider as he nodded.

“Well you can have it. We’ll sell.”

“That’s exactly what this person,” he fluttered a hand toward Matt, “you call a wife told me. But why buy what I can now simply take?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that once you’re both dead, I’ll buy this land at auction in Fort Smith. For a fraction of the cost, I might add.”

“But why? At least tell me that.”

“It’s because he thinks the railroad is coming through,” Matt answered. She barely winced when Roscoe jabbed the barrel into the side of her head.

“No railroad will ever come this way,” Logan said. “That’s just a rumor. Choctaw land is to the north and west. They won’t give permission for a railroad to cross their land.”

“If you think some godless savages are going to stand in the way of progress, you’re sadly mistaken.” Dobson’s smile warped his pinched features. “I’m sure the military will have no trouble getting rid of them, especially since I’ve taken the steps to ensure everyone believes those heathens are responsible for the rustling. I’m also sure Roscoe here won’t have any trouble getting rid of you two.”

Panic knotted Logan’s throat when Roscoe cocked the hammer of the Colt in his hand. “You don’t want to do that,” he said, thinking fast. If he stalled long enough, maybe Arch could cause a stir and he’d get Matt to safety. Or maybe Tom would show up with the sheriff.

Maybe blue birds flew in Hell, too.

“Really?” Evil sarcasm dripped from Dobson’s single word. “And why is that?”

“Because if anything happens to us, you’ll hang.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You shouldn’t. One of my men saw the smoke and went to get the sheriff. They’re on the way back here right now. Probably with a posse.”

“By the time anyone gets here, you two will be dead and the last of this miserable ranch will be gone.”

“But the sheriff
will
know you’re responsible not just for burning out the Standing T and killing us, but for all the rustling.”

“And how will he know that?”

“Because it’s obvious.”
It took every ounce of control for Logan to keep his voice steady and confident. “Funny how folks whose places you offered to buy suddenly had their herds stampeded or their ranches burned.” He gave a casual shrug, relaxing his stance, his arms by his sides. “If I can figure out your scheme, the sheriff can too.”

“Even if the sheriff suspects me, which I doubt, there’s no proof of my involvement. Besides, the Standing T is the piece of land I need. Once this business is done, I’m back to the civilization of Fort Smith.”

“You’re willing to take that chance?”

“Yes.” Dobson gestured to his henchman. “Roscoe, if you’d be so kind.”

Roscoe yanked Matt closer to him, nuzzling his nose through her hair and grinning. “But I promised her a good time first.”

“All right. Fine. Kill him.” The banker pointed to Logan. “Then burn everything to the ground. Take her with you and have as much fun as you want. Just make sure she’d dead when you’re done.”

The other three men snickered and licked their lips. One cupped himself in a vulgar gesture.

An icy cold settled over Logan. “Hurt my wife, and I’ll kill you all.”

Roscoe grinned wider. “That’d be a neat trick.” He holstered his gun then grabbed her breast with a lecherous smirk. She pulled away, but he held tight. “I’d like to see that, Cartwright. Us against just you. And you without your guns.”

In the blink of an eye, the world changed. Gunshots sounded from behind the cookhouse. Shouts rang out. Matt drove her elbow into Roscoe’s middle, then slammed her fisted, bound hands into his crotch, doubling him over.

Logan grabbed Arch’s Colt from his belt and dropped to one knee. He fired. The shot hit the man to Matt’s left. The frantic whinnies of the horses heralded the approaching thunder of stampeding hooves. He pivoted. Fired two more times. Missed. The rustlers were scattering like rats from a fire.