Wyoming Woman (13 page)

Luke's throat contracted at the sight of her. But his reasons for being here tonight had nothing to do with Rachel. The two of them had ignited a few very hot sparks, and that was all. The sooner he could forget about her, the better.

A gangly teenaged girl, a stranger, glanced in his direction. Nervous about being recognized, Luke turned away and faded into the shadow of a covered buggy. That was when he almost stumbled over the circle of youths shooting dice in the moonlight.

“Hell, man, I'll bet you two coyote tails against that box of rifle bullets your pa gave you.” The speaker was the young whelp called Slade who'd come to live with the Carmodys a few months back. Luke had met him in town and disliked him on sight. For all his bantam size, the little pill had walked with a swagger that took up the entire sidewalk and made a show of being mean to anything and anyone too weak to fight back. Luke would have wagered his best saddle that Slade had been one of the riders chasing his sheep and was likely involved in other mischief as well. But there was not a shred of proof against him.

Keeping to the shadows, Luke ambled past the
boys, who were on their knees in the dust, intent on their dice game. A quick glance at Slade's boots confirmed that they were too small and narrow to have made the prints Luke was trying to match. In fact, none of the boys in the circle, including Morgan Tolliver's twin sons—Rachel's brothers—had large enough feet to have left the tracks that were burned into Luke's memory. That fact alone did not prove their innocence. It only reminded Luke that he needed to learn more, much more.

Making a mental note to check the area around the cave-in for smaller tracks, Luke turned away. He was about to move on when he heard another of the boys, a stranger, ask in a nasal twang, “Store-bought bullets is worth more'n a couple coyote tails, Slade. What about that dog hide you said you was gonna get? The one you said Lem was gonna give you fifty dollars for? Why not put that up?”

“He can't put up what he hasn't got.” The speaker was one of the Tolliver twins. “What happened, Slade? You never did tell us.”

Slade cursed. “Rode by there the other night and saw the place was all dug up. Knew I wouldn't find the damn-fool dog, so I skedaddled fast. But I'll get me one yet. So if I promise, can I use it to bet for your bullets?”

“Can't bet what you ain't got,” the boy said. Slade cursed again, and the boy laughed. “Now if you could promise me a roll in the hay with Beth Ann Harper…”

The youths burst into raucous laughter. As the con
versation swung to the inevitable subject of girls, Luke thrust his hands into his pockets and drifted off in another direction.

So Slade had been involved in setting the dog trap. Who, then, had made the larger tracks Luke had found? Could it have been Lem Carmody's son?

Against his will, Luke's gaze wandered toward the dance floor, seeking Rachel. His gut ached at the thought of her with another man, and he found himself yearning to stride into the swirl of dancers, seize her by the waist and claim her in the eyes of every cattle-raising mother's son there.

But Rachel wasn't his to claim, Luke reminded himself. He hadn't come here to make trouble for her. In fact he could no longer see her among the dancers. Both she and her tall blond partner had disappeared.

Luke scanned the crowd, apprehension gnawing at his insides. He was dangerously close to making a fool of himself, something he could ill afford to do. Let jealousy get the upper hand, and anything he might gain by being here tonight would be thrown to the winds.

Wrenching his thoughts away from her, Luke moved on through the edge of the darkness. In the shadow of a big cottonwood tree, he passed a man and woman passionately locked in each other's arms. His pulse lurched. He had taken a step toward them, one fist raised, before he realized the woman was a plump brunette with a long braid hanging down her back.

Turning away, Luke shook off the tense fury that
had seized him. He had no claim on Rachel. Yet here he was, bristling like a bull elk in rut because he thought he had seen her in another man's arms. What he needed right now was an ice-cold dunk in the sheep pond.

Suddenly, a dozen yards ahead, he caught sight of two figures through the crowd. All distracting thoughts fled as he realized he was looking at the pair of men who worried him most—Lem Carmody and Morgan Tolliver.

Getting close to them was not difficult. They were standing on the outer edge of the crowd with the darkness behind them. Morgan was watching his pretty wife polka around the floor in the arms of a gangly young cowboy. Head tilted back, face laughing, Cassandra Tolliver looked like an older, softer version of her daughter. For the space of a breath Luke studied her, comparing in his mind. Rachel was taller, her features sharper, her body more angular, her hair more gold than red, and instead of curling like her mother's it fell in soft, sun-streaked waves around her face….

Rachel again. He shoved her out of his thoughts and focused his attention on the two men. Lem Carmody, short and stocky with a bull neck and a thick gray moustache, took a long puff on his cheroot. Smoke curled upward as he spoke.

“My boy and your girl make a right fine couple, don't they, Morgan? Speakin' for myself, I wouldn't mind havin' a few grandkids around to liven up my old age.”

Morgan let a moment of stillness pass before he answered. In that stillness, Luke felt his stomach clench.

“If it's what Rachel wants, that's fine,” Morgan said at last. “But we're hoping Bart won't rush her. She's only just come home. We'd like the chance to enjoy her as part of the family for a while.”

Lem snorted. “Sometimes I think you're too patient. Maybe it's the Injun blood in you. Me, I don't like to wait. When something needs pushin', I like to jump in and push.”

Again Morgan was silent. His eyes were on his wife, but there was no sign of jealousy in his expression. His mouth wore a faint smile, as if he were simply enjoying her beauty and waiting for the moment when she would come laughing back to him. That was how things should be between a man and a woman, Luke thought. No gut-wrenching uncertainty, no jealous rages, just simple trust and love. It was all too rare.

Lem Carmody cleared his throat and spat in the dust. “Don't know about you, but I'm ready to do a little pushin' right soon. That sheep man, Vincente, is gettin' too big for his britches, runnin' those woolly maggots of his all over the range, spoilin' the land for our cattle. A bunch of us want to band together and pay him a visit, burn him out and send him back to wherever the hell he came from. Can we count on you and your boys to help us?”

Morgan exhaled sharply. “I don't like sheep any more than you do. But as long as Vincente's running
them on open range, and not on anyone else's land, he's not breaking any laws.”

“Then maybe we ought to make our own laws!” Lem snarled. “If we all stick together, that's law enough for me.”

“What you're suggesting could land the lot of you in jail,” Morgan said quietly.

“Not if we don't get caught!” Lem argued vehemently. “And even if we do, no jury is going to convict us if every rancher in the county is in on it. Hell, the whole system would go broke without us. There'd be no jobs, no taxes paid, no business at the stores…” Lem cleared his throat and spat again. “That's why we need everybody to do it together. It's why we need you.”

Listening in the shadows, Luke felt the strain in every raw nerve of his body. Beads of sweat congealed on his forehead. The Tollivers owned more land and cattle than any other family in the county. If Morgan agreed to join Lem, the other ranchers would fall in behind them. Blood would be spilled, and in the end, no matter how it happened, Luke would lose everything.

His thoughts flashed to the two boys, Miguel's sons. Even if they insisted on staying, he would not put them in danger. But, Lord, how could he keep them safe? Where could he send them?

Luke's breath rasped in his dry, gritty throat as he waited for Morgan to answer. The distant sounds of the fiddle buzzed in his ears, in an odd counterpoint to the hammering of his pulse.

“So what'll it be?” Lem demanded. “Are you and your boys with us?”

Morgan's gaze lingered on his wife, where she flitted among the dancers like a bright little hummingbird. When he looked back at Lem, his face was as impassive as a Shoshone warrior's.

“My answer is no, Lem,” he said. “I won't risk my sons to that kind of trouble, and I won't put my wife and daughter through the worry of it. As long as the sheep man keeps his animals off my land and does no harm to me and mine, I won't have any quarrel with him.”

Luke felt his knees go weak with relief. Drops of perspiration trickled down his face, wetting his cheeks like tears.

The polka ended on a single crashing note. Dancers broke apart, laughing and sweating. Lem Carmody scowled up at Morgan, looking as if he wanted to argue. But there would be no more time to talk. Cassandra Tolliver had left her young partner. She was making her way back to her husband, her blue eyes sparkling, her arms reaching out in anticipation.

It was time for him to get out of here, Luke thought. He had seen his enemies. He had heard their threats. To stay longer would only tempt fate.

Still, Luke found himself hesitating. He had come here for one reason—to find solid evidence against the men who had murdered Miguel. For all he'd learned tonight, he had failed to get what he really needed.

But how could he push his luck any further? his
cautious side argued. What did he expect to do, follow the men around and examine their tracks? This was, after all, a party. The owner of the boots with the curled insole would likely be wearing something more presentable tonight. Searching for the print here would be as fruitless as it was risky.

His eyes made one last brief scan of the crowd, but Rachel was nowhere in sight. And that was for the best, Luke told himself, turning away. If what he'd heard was true, she would soon be marrying Bart Carmody. The sooner he burned her image out of his heart, the better.

The sounds of music and laughter faded as he walked past the outbuildings toward the corral fence, where his horse was tethered alongside a half-dozen others. He had not found the proof he needed. But at least he knew who to watch. Everything he had learned pointed toward the Carmodys. With luck, if he shadowed them long enough, he might learn who was behind Miguel's murder.

A glimmer of movement in the shadow of the granary caught his attention. Instinctively Luke froze, ready to defend himself. Then the sounds of heavy breathing reached his ears. More lovers. They seemed to be everywhere tonight. Maybe it was the full moon.

Willing his taut nerves to relax, Luke moved quietly past them. He had gone only a few steps when he realized he was hearing the sounds of a struggle.

“Why, you little hellcat!” a man snarled. “Scratch me, will you? I'll show you once and for all!”

“No!” a woman's voice rasped with desperate fury. “Let me go! I won't let you—”

The rest of the words were muffled, but Luke had heard enough to recognize that voice. It was Rachel's.

T
he warning voice in Luke's head shouted that he should ignore the struggle and keep walking. Rachel had clearly gotten herself into this mess; she could damned well get herself out of it. He had his own skin to think of.

But he was already plunging toward the sound of her voice, driven by a possessive rage so hot and so primal that, for one blinding instant, he could have killed Bart Carmody with his bare hands.

The impact of his charge struck Bart's shoulder, knocking him off balance. With a startled gasp, Rachel spun out of Bart's arms. The bloody streaks her nails had left down the side of his face flashed in the moonlight as Bart turned. A split second later, Luke's fist crashed into his jaw. Stunned, Bart reeled like a drunkard and stumbled sideways against the wall of the granary.

“Get out of here, Rachel!” Luke growled. But Rachel did not move. Her hair was disheveled, her pretty yellow gown torn off one shoulder. She stared with
wide, frightened eyes as Bart recovered and came at Luke, head lowered like a bull's.

The impact drove Luke backward. He was still staggering when Bart came at him again, fists flying. Bart was a powerful man. Younger than Luke by a decade, he had the advantage of lightning-quick reflexes. But Luke had honed his fighting skills in the hellpit of the Louisiana State Penitentiary. He knew tricks that could cripple a man, or even kill him. Driven by fury, it took all his strength of will not to use them now. The last thing he wanted was to end up behind bars again.

He met Bart's charge from a crouching angle that brought him up below the younger man's arms, allowing him to drive into Bart's chest and belly with the power of his fists. Grunting with pain and surprise Bart staggered backward. Luke's eyes flickered toward the shadows, where Rachel seemed to be scrambling for something she could use as a weapon. Fool woman.

“Get out of here, blast it!” he hissed at her. “Run!”

He cursed when she showed no sign of leaving, but there was no time to reason with her. Bart's next charge hit him like a freight train, knocking him flat and dashing all hope that, once Rachel was safe, he could get loose and make a dash for his horse.

Seizing the advantage, Bart leaped on him, punching, kicking and gouging. Luke brought his knees up to counter the blows. His thoughts flashed briefly to the small pistol stuck in his boot. He fought the temp
tation to reach for it. Draw a weapon, and he might as well be a dead man.

“Fight! Fight!” The shout went up, setting off a stampede of onlookers. Luke heard the sound of running feet and glimpsed a forest of legs closing into a ring around them.

“Jehosephat, it's Bart and the sheep man!” a man's voice shouted. “Go to it, Bart! Kill the bastard!”

“Five dollars on the sheep man!” another voice called out. “Heard tell he killed a fellow down south with his bare hands!”

“Ten dollars on Bart! Come on, Bart!” People were hooting and cheering, as if they were at a rodeo. They wanted blood, Luke thought. His blood.

“Please, somebody stop them!” Luke heard Rachel's desperate cry through a blaze of pain as Bart's fist slammed into his nose. He glimpsed her yellow skirt flashing around them, glimpsed her hands brandishing a grain scoop. What in hell's name did the woman think she was doing?

The grain scoop swung through the air and slammed into the side of Bart's head. It was only a glancing blow, but it caught Bart off guard for an instant—long enough for Luke to roll like a cat and spring to his feet. Still dazed, Bart lurched upward, but Luke had the advantage now. A single, well-aimed blow from his fist crashed into Bart's jaw. Bart's eyes rolled back in his head as he collapsed in the dust like a poleaxed steer. It was over.

But it was far from over, Luke realized. The watch
ers, recovering from their surprise, were closing in around him, muttering and cursing. Too late, Luke realized they had every reason to believe
he
was the one who'd attacked Rachel, and that Bart had come flying to her defense.

“Tar and feathers!” a voice shrilled. “Come on, let's get 'im!”

Behind him, Luke caught a glimpse of Rachel, looking pale and frightened. Scores of eyes had seen her hit Bart with the grain scoop. When the mob remembered that she'd struck out against one of their own to save the sheep man, she would be a pariah.

Glancing around for an opening, Luke calculated that he might still be able to escape. But the mob wanted a victim. If he left her here, they could turn on her, and not even Morgan Tolliver would be able to stop them.

There was only one thing he could do, and Luke did it.

Moving like quicksilver, he slipped the pistol from his boot. His free arm flashed out to capture Rachel's waist and jerk her in front of him, holding her like a shield, with the muzzle of the small gun pressed against the soft, white flesh of her neck.

“Stay where you are, all of you,” he said in a flat, cold voice. “I don't want to hurt this little lady, but if even one of you moves a muscle, so help me…” He left the rest of the threat to the crowd's imagination.

A hush fell over the watchers. In the sudden silence, Luke could feel their stunned disbelief as they
edged out of harm's way. The fear that hung in the air was as real as the haze of tobacco smoke and smell of horses on the warm night wind.

Rachel's body was taut and still against him, her breathing a shallow flutter. Where his arm crossed her breast, he could feel the pounding of her heart against his wrist. He could only hope that she understood what he was trying to do, and why.

“Don't do this, Vincente.” Morgan Tolliver had pushed his way through the crowd. He faced Luke across the ring of open ground, one arm clasping his wife, who looked as if she wanted to plunge headlong to her daughter's rescue.

“She's never done a thing to hurt you.” Morgan's black Shoshone eyes caught glints of moonlight. “Let her go now, and I'll see that no charges are brought against you. But harm one hair on her head and, so help me, I'll track you down and kill you with my own hands.”

Studying Rachel's father across the distance, Luke sensed that here was a man who lived by his word. He ached to tell Morgan that he would rather cut off his arm than hurt his precious daughter. But he had to maintain the fiction. If he let Rachel go, there was no guarantee that Morgan could stop the crowd from rushing him and tearing him apart. And the longer he could appear to threaten her, the more apt they were to believe she'd meant to strike him, not Bart.

Luke's grip tightened around her waist. “I don't take much stock in a cattleman's promise,” he said. “This little lady is my best insurance policy, and I
mean to take her along when I ride out of here. We'll take an extra horse, and once I'm satisfied nobody's come after me, I'll send her back.” He began edging toward the corral. Rachel moved with him, her feet stumbling over the toes of his boots. As he steadied her, it suddenly came to him that he could not leave yet. He had something to say to these people, and this might be his only chance to say it.

“Please.” Cassandra Tolliver strained against her husband's arm. “We love her so much. Please don't hurt her.”

Luke felt the quiver of emotion that passed through Rachel's body. Looking across the moonlit circle, into her mother's tearful eyes, he knew that this was one person he could not lie to. “Believe me, ma'am,” he said gently, “hurting your daughter is the last thing I want to do.

“But I came here for a reason,” he continued, raising his voice so that even those at the back of the crowd could hear him. “A band of masked men attacked one of my herders, a fine old gentleman who would never harm any of you. They set fire to the sheep wagon where he'd taken refuge, and, when he stumbled outside, they beat him with their fists and kicked him with their boots. They did it again and again and again. Miguel was a tough old man. He lived long enough to tell me what happened.”

A hush had fallen over the listeners. Some of them stared at the ground, refusing to meet his gaze. From somewhere near the house, a child began to wail.

“A few days ago I buried my friend. He left two
young sons. They're part of the reason I'm here.” Luke scanned the crowd, his eyes lingering on one man, then another, on Lem Carmody and then on Bart, who lay twitching on the ground, just beginning to awaken. “The men who beat Miguel are cowards and murderers,” Luke said. “If they're here tonight, I want them to know that the death of Miguel Agustín Ibarra y Sandoval will be avenged. One way or another there'll be justice for him and for his sons. One way or another, his killers will pay.”

For the space of a breath there was no sound except the whisper of the night breeze through the branches of the cottonwoods. Then the crowd began to mutter, and Luke knew it was time to leave.

“Nobody move!” he warned as he backed Rachel toward the horses. “Don't make me hurt her!”

Getting her into the saddle was awkward and dangerous. Luke feared that the onlookers would choose that vulnerable moment to rush them, but the menace in his eyes and Rachel's evident fear kept everyone at a distance. Swinging up behind her, he seized the bridle of the horse that was tied nearest his own. Nerve-grinding seconds later, they were galloping through the gate of the Carmody ranch, onto the open plain, with the spare horse trailing alongside them.

Rachel did not speak. She clung to the front of the saddle, her body tense, her hair fluttering back into Luke's face. Was she frightened? Angry? Would she be cold and distant when they finally stopped, or would she fly at him like a wildcat? The longer they rode, the less certain Luke became that he had done
the right thing by forcing her to come with him. He could almost feel her mind churning, building up to an explosion of anger that would surely come when they stopped.

Two miles beyond the gate a low bluff rose out of the plain, its rocky crest overlooking the way they had come. Here they could stop, rest the horses and make sure no one was following them.

Luke swung the horses off the road and circled behind, to the sloping side of the bluff, where a narrow, hidden game trail wound its way to the top. Only as the horses slowed to pick their way up the twisting path did Rachel begin to speak.

“You've set yourself up for more trouble, you know.” She sounded shaken, but calm. “After tonight, they'll never leave you in peace.”

“That's what I'm counting on,” Luke replied, grimly. “If I can't find the buzzards who killed Miguel, I'll just have to let them find me.”

“But they'll kill you!” The worry in her voice almost undid him. He had expected her to be outraged, even hysterical. But Rachel's first concern was for him.

“They'll have to catch up with me first,” he said. “When they do, I'll be ready for them.”

“Ready how?” she pressed him. “I've been to your ranch, Luke. It's not exactly an armed fortress—just you, the boys, the dogs and those fool sheep. And after tonight, it won't just be Miguel's killers hunting you down. It will be every cattleman in the county.”

“Including your father and brothers?”

The question silenced her. Luke could hear her shallow breathing in the darkness. He could feel the tension where her legs rested lightly against his own, cupping his knees as the horse wound its way upward. The full moon rode the crest of the sky, veiled now and again by scudding clouds that made pools of shadow on the rocky landscape.

When Rachel did not answer his question, Luke forced himself to speak. “I overheard your father talking with Lem Carmody. He said that as long as I kept the sheep off his land and didn't interfere with him or his family, we had no quarrel.”

“But now all that's changed!” she cried. “You've made an enemy of a man who was willing to leave you in peace!”

“I know.” Luke shifted in the saddle, balancing her weight as the horse rounded the last bend in the path. “But after so many people saw you swing that grain scoop at Bart Carmody, I couldn't leave you there, Rachel. I couldn't stand the thought of what they might do to you—now and in the future.”

“You should've left that to me!” she snapped. “For that matter, you should have let me deal with Bart. I can take care of myself!”

“Is that what you were thinking when you let Mr. Carmody lead you off behind that granary in the first place? That you could take care of yourself?”

They had reached the level ground at the top of the bluff. Luke reined their mount to a halt, feeling dark and ugly. What had he been thinking? That he was saving her? That he had had some kind of claim on
her? He'd heard the talk between Lem Carmody and Morgan Tolliver. According to Lem, at least, Rachel and Bart were as good as engaged.

If that was true, Luke lashed himself, he had just interfered in a private spat, knocked out a woman's fiancé and kidnapped her at gunpoint.

Swinging a leg over the horse's rump, he dropped to the ground. A quick scan of the moonlit plain below confirmed that no one had followed them. But Luke knew his troubles were far from over.

Still in the saddle, Rachel gazed down at him. Moonlight shone down from above her, casting her eyes in shadow and giving her eyelids a heavy, sensual look.

“That's not fair, what you just said.” Her voice was so low he had to strain to hear her. “I've known Bart all my life. We grew up together. Tonight we were joking around, just playing, and suddenly he was grabbing me, tearing at my gown. I was scared. I started to fight him. That was when you came by.”

“You should have run when I told you to,” he muttered. “If you had, we wouldn't be in this mess now.”

“I couldn't. I was afraid he was going to hurt you. Oh, Luke!” Her lips began to quiver. She seemed to be fighting tears, but she did not cry.

Reaching up, he clasped her waist to help her down from the horse. Her hands gripped his shoulders for balance, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should fall into his arms. But that did not happen.