Wyoming Woman (19 page)

Clouds had spilled across the sky, hiding the moon and plunging the landscape into blackness. Rachel's lantern provided no more than a tiny circle of light as she paused to listen for the horses. The night was eerily silent.

Her heart began to pound. Where were they? She had heard them. So had Luke. What was happening here?

As if in answer to her question, a big, rough hand was suddenly clapped over her mouth. Strong arms jerked her backward, off her feet. As she kicked and clawed, the lantern fell to the damp ground, flared briefly and flickered out, plunging everything into darkness.

“Help me hang on to this hellcat!” a familiar voice growled. Rachel's heart dropped as she recognized Bart Carmody.

Hands grabbed her wrists and elbows, holding her fast. As Rachel's eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she found herself staring at three bandana-masked faces.

Under different circumstances she might have laughed at their pathetic disguises. It was easy to recognize Lem Carmody's bull neck and bulging belly, as well as Slade's narrow eyes and ferret-thin face and body. Bart would be the one behind her, his fingers digging into her ribs where he gripped her body. The fourth man was one of the hands at the Carmody ranch, a surly, unkempt Irishman whose name Rachel
could not recall, but whose shaggy black eyebrows she would have known anywhere.

She swallowed the scream in her throat. The last thing she wanted was to bring Luke charging outside to her rescue—that would be exactly what the Carmodys were counting on. But it made no difference whether she screamed or not, Rachel realized. Luke would have seen the lantern drop and go out. For better or worse, he would know there was trouble.

“Rachel!” At the sound of his voice, her heart sank. She could see him now beneath the overhanging eave of the porch. He had come out with the rifle, closing the door behind him. “Rachel!” he called again. “Are you all right? What's happening out there?”

Rachel fought against Bart's smothering hand as she tried to call out a warning. But it was no use. Bart gripped her tightly, all but cutting off her breath. She writhed helplessly as Slade drew his pistol and took a step forward.

“We got your whore, sheep man!” he crowed. “Less'n you want to hear the little lady scream, throw that gun off the porch and come out where we can see you, with your hands up.”

Luke did not move. “Let her go!” he shouted. “When I know she's safe, I'll do anything you say.”

In reply, Bart removed his hand from Rachel's mouth and gave her arm an abrupt twist behind her back. The pain in her shoulder was so excruciating that a sharp little cry escaped her lips. “No, don't—”
she called out. “Luke, don't listen to them! My father will kill them if they hurt me!”

But Luke had already flung the rifle to the ground. Rachel heard the gun thud against the earth. She saw him moving down the steps with his hands in the air. “What do you want with me, Carmody?” he demanded. “Let Rachel go, and you can have it. Your fight is with me, not with her.”

Lem lumbered forward, pushing Slade aside. With a snort of impatience he jerked the useless mask off his face. “I didn't come to fight you, Vincente,” he growled. “I came to bargain. I have a bill of sale for your land right here.” He drew a folded paper and a fountain pen out of his vest. “Sign it, and your little bird goes free.”

“No, Luke! It's a trick!” Rachel struggled in Bart's arms, scratching and clawing. “Don't—”

Her vision exploded as Bart slapped her, snapping her head to one side so that she felt the blow all the way down her spine. Luke made a lunge for Bart, but the big Irishman stepped between them and jabbed the muzzle of his shotgun into Luke's belly. “Don't you move, man, or I blow your guts out,” he said.

The moon had emerged among the thinning clouds, casting a ghostly light over them all. Bart's arms gripped Rachel like a vise. From where his blow had split her lip, she felt the blood trickling down her chin, dripping onto her shirt.

“You could've had me, Rachel,” Bart muttered in her ear. “You could have been my wife and had everything you ever wanted in this world. Instead you
chose
this
…a sheep man, a killer and an ex-convict. Look at him! Take a good long look.”

Rachel's gaze met Luke's through the moonlit darkness. In his eyes she read worry, anger, and a love so deep and strong that it filled her soul. Lem did not intend to let either of them live—Luke knew that and so did she. They both knew too much. The only advantage they had left was the fact that they had nothing to lose.

“Let her go, Carmody,” Luke said. “When I know she's safe I'll sign anything you put in front of me. Otherwise you're not getting anything. I'll let you kill me before I sign away my land.”

Lem scowled. “Sign, and she's as good as home,” he lied. “Give us any more trouble, and we'll tie you up and let you watch the show while we all have our fun with her. How'd you like that, sheep man? I'll wager you've had your turn with her already. How was she, eh?”

A vein throbbed in Luke's temple. He strained against the shotgun that held him in check, and Rachel knew he was dangerously close to making a lunge for Lem's throat.

Grasping for some diversion, she fixed her eyes on Slade. “It was you who shot my brother, wasn't it, Slade?” she demanded. “It couldn't have been very hard. All you had to do was go back for the wire cutters you'd left behind, circle around the rocks and take aim. What a lying, cowardly, low-bellied snake you are!”

Slade flashed her a lopsided grin, as if she'd just paid him a high compliment.

“I even know why you did it,” she continued, driven by desperation. “Your family wanted my father to join them in attacking Luke. When he refused, you had to give him a reason to change his mind. And that old sheepherder, Miguel. Your family was responsible for beating him to death, too. Am I right? Give me that much satisfaction before I die, Slade.”

“Shut that woman up!” Lem snarled at Bart, and Rachel felt Bart's sweaty hand clamp over her mouth again. Lem turned back toward Luke. “So what'll it be, sheep man? Sign the paper or watch the show?”

“I'll sign.” Luke's voice was like winter ice. “But first I'd like to know why you're so all-fired anxious to own what amounts to nine hundred acres of sheep pasture. Are you planning to go into the wool and mutton business, Carmody?”

Lem's mouth tightened, but Slade, who was standing behind him, hooted with laughter. “Hellfire, he's gonna die anyway! Let's tell him and watch him squirm! Your land's got oil under it, sheep man! Beautiful black gold! We found it this spring, bubblin' up around that bad water hole! Looks like enough there to make us all filthy rich!”

“Shut up, you little fool,” Lem snarled. “Let's get this over with!”

Luke's expression had not even flickered. “Give me the pen and the paper,” he said. “Congratulations, Carmody, you're going to be a rich man if you can live with yourself.”

Lem stepped forward with the legal document and the pen, but the big, slow Irishman was standing in his way. There was a moment of awkward shifting, and in that moment Luke moved.

Knocking Lem and the Irishman aside, Luke made a headlong drive for Bart. “Run, Rachel!” he yelled as the two smashed together. “Get to your horse! Get out of here!”

Bart reeled backward as his flailing arms let Rachel go. Then recovering, he came at Luke. Rachel burst out of the melee of flying fists and bodies, her eyes frantically assessing the scene. The Irishman had fallen badly. He was struggling to stand, whimpering as he clutched his shoulder. Lem was fumbling for his pistol. Slade was dancing back and forth, trying to get a shot at Luke without hitting Bart instead.

Luke had told her to run. But even if she made it to the horses without being shot, she could not, would not leave him behind.

The thought flashed through her mind that she could get both of their horses and come charging back for him. But the odds that she would be too late were fearfully high. She was still weighing them when she caught sight of the rifle Luke had dropped. It lay in the dirt, a dozen paces from the front steps. If she could get to it—

With no more time to think, Rachel dived for the rifle. Her hands groped for the stock; her finger found the trigger. With agility that would have done credit to a cat, she rolled and came up onto her feet with the barrel leveled at Lem Carmody's heart.

“Tell your boys to back off, Lem, if they want you to live,” she said, her voice flat and cold. “I'll shoot you. Don't think I won't.”

“Rachel, sweetheart!” Lem smiled affably. “You can't shoot us all, you know. You'll be gunned down before you can get off a second shot.”

“Fine,” Rachel snapped. “But I won't go down without taking you along with me, Lem!”

Luke and Bart had stopped grappling. The Irishman had fallen back against the woodpile, still clutching his shoulder. Slade simply stared at her dumbfounded. For the interval of a heartbeat, everyone seemed to freeze. Then Rachel glimpsed something in Bart's hazel eyes—something she recognized as pure, naked greed.

As Bart's hand moved to his holstered pistol, Rachel's mistake slammed home. Her threat to Lem's life would not stop Bart from shooting Luke. With his father out of the way, Bart would inherit the ranch and all that went with it. Nothing would suit him better than to have Rachel pull the trigger.

She was aiming at the wrong man.

“No!” She jerked the rifle toward Bart and fired. The shot went wild, but in the confusion, Luke managed to deliver a solid punch to Bart's jaw, knocking him onto his back.

“Come on!” Luke grabbed the rifle in one hand and Rachel's arm in the other. Together they started for the shed, where their horses were waiting.

They had gone only a few steps when Slade's pistol rang out behind them.

Rachel felt Luke's body jerk. He spun sideways, blood streaming from the wound in his shoulder. The rifle dropped from his hand as he pushed Rachel away from him. “Go on,” he gasped. “You can make it, love! Run!”

“No!” Rachel shoved herself beneath his good arm. The horses were out of reach, but if she could get him inside the house, they could barricade the door long enough for her to bind his wound and find another gun.

Slade and the Carmodys were closing in around them. Only the fact that Luke had not signed the paper was keeping them from killing him outright, Rachel realized. If she could get him inside, they might have a chance. But how could she get him up the steps before time ran out?

From the inside of the door came the sound of frantic snarling and scratching. Only then did Rachel remember they had left the dog in the house.

Leaving Luke on the steps, she made a lunge for the door and flung it open. The big mongrel came barreling across the porch and shot into the yard. Snapping and snarling, it leaped on Slade and locked its fangs into his upper arm. Rachel heard him shriek before she dragged Luke over the threshold, slammed the door shut and shoved the bolt home.

Luke was bleeding badly. Ripping off her own shirt, she pressed it hard against the wound, praying it would stanch the blood. Cradling him in her arms, she crouched beside him in the darkness. She dared
not leave him, even long enough to look for a gun. There was nothing to do now but wait.

Luke's eyelids fluttered open. His fingers groped for Rachel's hand, found it and squeezed hard. “I love you,” he whispered. “Whatever happens, remember that.”

Rachel kissed his damp hair, his forehead, his eyelids. “No whatevers,” she murmured. “We're going to get through this, my love. We're going to be together always and live to see our grandchildren grow up. Now rest, my dearest. Save your strength…”

Outside, the night had grown strangely quiet. Suddenly she heard the clamor of galloping horses and shouting voices. Moments later, frantic footsteps echoed across the porch. Fists pounded on the door.

“Rachel!” a voice shouted. “Rachel, are you in there? Are you all right?”

The voice was Morgan Tolliver's.

July 2, 1901

“T
urn around, Rachel! Let me look at you!” Molly laughed with delight as she rested against the pillows, nursing her newborn son. The tiny golden-haired boy, who had entered the world just two nights ago, was beautiful and healthy and perfect. But his birth had not been an easy one. The doctor had forbidden Molly to leave her bed and go downstairs, even for Rachel's wedding.

Rachel pirouetted in a slow circle, letting her skirt of soft white voile float outward over the ruffled petticoat beneath. Her veil of simple tulle, anchored to her upswept hair by a single fresh pink rose, drifted like a cloud around her radiant face.

“Do I look all right? Nothing unbuttoned or hanging out where it shouldn't?” she asked anxiously.

“You look perfect!” Molly said. “You're absolutely glowing. Ryan and I are so happy for you!”

Rachel bent over the bed, kissed Molly's cheek,
and brushed a fingertip over the baby's downy head. “Maybe by next summer there'll be a playmate for this little miracle of yours,” she said.

“I hope so.” Molly found Rachel's hand and squeezed it hard. Her lovely violet eyes were moist with tears.

A sharp rap at the door broke the stillness between them. “Rachel!” Her father's voice penetrated the thick planks. “Everyone's in place downstairs. Should I have your mother signal the fiddler?”

“In a moment!” Rachel called back. “I'll be right out!”

As she adjusted her veil in the tall looking glass, Rachel's mind flew back to the last time she had heard Morgan's voice through a door. It was a miracle that he and the other men had come when they did—and the miracle had been Josh. In the dark hours before dawn, her brother had awakened long enough to tell his father that he had seen Slade raise his rifle from behind the rocks, just before he'd been shot. Hurrying to tell Rachel the news, Ryan had found the note on her pillow.

By the time Morgan, Ryan, Jacob and Johnny Chang arrived at Luke's place, the Carmodys had heard them coming and scattered, leaving nothing but the wounded dog. Rachel had since lovingly nursed both the dog and Luke back to health.

Armed with evidence that included Bart's distinctive boot track, a posse from Sheridan had rounded up Lem, Bart, Slade, the Irishman and the other hands
who had not already fled. They were now in jail, awaiting trial.

But Rachel would not allow herself to think about the Carmodys now, on the happiest day of her life. Blowing a kiss to Molly and the baby, she opened the door and stepped out onto the landing to take her father's arm. She smiled up at him and saw the unexpected glimmer of tears in his eyes as the music began.

As they started down the stairs, she looked down at the loved faces below them. Rachel had wanted a simple wedding with just the family and a few close friends. But by the time they included the longtime workers on the ranch, the entire Chang clan, Luke's two young herders and her own family, the guests filled the dining room, the parlor, the entry and part of the porch.

As they neared the bottom of the stairs, Rachel caught sight of her mother standing before the fireplace, wearing a blue dress and a tearful smile. Jacob and Josh stood beside her, dressed in identical brown suits.

Standing next to the preacher, she saw Luke—her love, her life. From this day forward they would share every happiness, every sorrow, every wonderful adventure that the future had to offer them.

His eyes shone with love as they met hers. Rachel felt her father's arm release her. Radiant with joy, she moved forward to stand at Luke's side.