“You could end up in jail yourself,” Felipe warned.
A hand settled lightly on her arm, the fingers hot against her shivering skin. Franny. “We shouldn’t let Juan do this.”
We. She meant that Isabel shouldn’t let Juan do this. Isabel didn’t think she could stand for much longer, much less stop their brother. The ache in her head turned into a nauseating throb, a sick headache coming on faster than she’d ever experienced.
“We’ll say he was trying to escape,” Juan said.
“You’ll have to shoot him in the back to make that story work,” Felipe countered. “Could you shoot an unarmed man in the back? I couldn’t.”
McCade struggled briefly. “You can’t shoot me. That’s murder—you’ll hang.”
A few men canted backwards at the word murder, their expressions saying they wanted no part in such a thing.
Murder. No, she didn’t think she wanted any part of that either.
“You’d know all about that, I’d reckon,” her brother said to McCade. He turned back to Felipe. “He hurt Isabel. He shot Obregon in the gut. It’d be no more than he deserves.”
The men who’d been undecided before—their expressions hardened. Juan was no orator, but his words were convincing them all the same. As he gazed at each man in turn, he knew he was winning them—it was there in the grim half-smile he wore.
Except for Felipe—he wasn’t convinced. He looked as Isabel felt: wary, watchful. Uneasy. Juan wouldn’t convince him as easily as the others.
But perhaps Juan had no intention of persuading Felipe. One man would stand no chance at stopping the rest should they decide vigilante justice must be served.
“If it was your sister,” Juan demanded of Felipe, “what would you do?”
Felipe averted his face, Juan’s harsh blow landing just as he’d intended it to. Because Felipe never would truly know what he might do if it were his sister—all his sisters were in the grave.
Isabel had allowed McCade to seize hold of her rather than risk her sister—and she’d do the same all over again.
“The boys will back up any story we come up with, won’t you, boys?” Juan asked.
The crowd’s will leaned toward Juan. They were ready to follow him.
“We ought to hand him over to the marshal,” Felipe said, still battling for the moral choice.
“Where the hell is he?” Juan gestured to indicate his absence. “As usual, when we need them, the law is nowhere to be found.”
The marshal had sworn that she’d be safe. Had insisted that he would capture McCade. He’d been wrong about both.
The crowd’s will moved a little closer to Juan. A little closer toward acting on their own, without his go-ahead.
A different kind of cold began to seep through her, one tinged with an unyielding horror. They could string McCade up—and she might have to stand by and watch. For all that she hated McCade, she didn’t want to see her brother kill him.
She began to make her way toward Juan, skirting the ring of men and the captive in the center of them, Franny following close behind.
“We caught him—we decide what to do with him,” Juan declared.
With that, Juan had the men completely on his side. The shifting of their feet, the hardening set of their expressions, the squaring of their shoulders—they looked like men preparing for a hog butchering, steeling themselves for the squealing and blood and entrails about to follow.
“Juan,” Felipe tried once more, “you should not do this.”
Isabel arrived at Juan’s side then, ready to take up Felipe’s entreaties—only close in Juan’s ear, so that no one would hear her plead for the life of the man who’d tried to kill her.
“Fine,” Juan spat. “Let’s ask Isabel.” His gaze, sharp with antipathy, met hers. “What do you want us to do?”
What did she want done with him?
Suddenly, when Juan shoved the decision before her, wanted her to declare herself before everyone, uncertainty crept in like a thief and made off with her resolve. Her head throbbed and every joint wobbled. If only she had a bit of quiet to think, some solitude in which to reflect and pray, to know what the answer should be…
But she knew.
She couldn’t ask her brother to shoot a man in the back, no matter what the outlaw had done. Juan’s blood was running hot—he would do it without hesitation if she gave the word—but she couldn’t put that on her brother’s soul, even if he was willing to take it on.
Yet, if McCade were dead… She could regain her peace of mind for the price of a man’s death. Such an evil whisper that, sneaking in the cracks of her carefully reasoned morality. Seductive in its simplicity, its wrongness.
“Isabel?” Juan prompted. “What do you want?”
She licked at her suddenly too-dry lips, her throat closing as if McCade’s hands were circling it again. “I—”
“Step away from him.” The voice was polite, pleasant even, but commanding nevertheless.
The marshal came into the clearing, the pistol in his hand pointed straight at her brother.
Anger flared in her. You’re late. And I wasn’t safe, not at all.
Juan didn’t move. He stared right back, his stance challenging. “You could just head away from here,” her brother suggested. “Pretend you didn’t see anything.”
“I don’t think so.” The pistol was as steady as his voice. She’d no doubt that he’d fire on Juan if he thought it necessary.
“There’s a dozen of us and only one of you. How do you propose to stop us?”
The marshal released a sigh that seemed to say, You idiot. The gun remained fixed. Every eye was fastened to that deadly length of metal as it pointed right for her brother. Her heart shuddered as though the pistol were aimed at her instead.
“We ought to let the marshal do his job,” Felipe said. Always the peacemaker, Felipe. He turned to her, his expression pleading. “Don’t you think, Isabel?”
Her head rang savagely with her headache. She could hardly think for the pain. She rubbed at her temple, trying to find a glimmer of clarity in the muddle of her thoughts.
She’d told them what she’d decided, hadn’t she? She’d spoke clear at one point, saying—
The thread of that thought was snipped by sharp pain. She couldn’t remember what she’d decided. The pain had washed it away.
No. No, she knew.
She let her hand fall back to her side.
“Felipe’s right,” she called so that all could hear. “Let the marshal have him.”
Juan’s mouth twisted in disgust as he glared at the marshal. She prayed that her brother’s temper wouldn’t rule him, just this once. Prayed for him to accede to her wishes.
She held her breath as Juan continued to stare, but eventually he stepped away. Relief and gratitude blunted the knife’s edge of her headache for a moment.
“If that’s really what you want,” Juan said. He motioned to the two men holding the outlaw to release him.
The marshal set his pistol back in the holster before stepping forward with a pair of handcuffs. “Your wrists, please.”
McCade held them out as docilely as a child proving he’d washed his hands, his bloodied lips twisting in a mocking grin. “Come to take me home, then?”
The metallic scrape of the cuffs closing echoed in the silence, rubbed rough against her ears. The marshal checked that the bonds were secure, then turned to her.
“Did he harm you?” the marshal asked darkly.
She shook her head, her brain feeling as though it were swimming in her skull.
“Move. I want you far away from her.” He gave McCade a rough shove to get him going.
“Wait,” she called. “I want to ask him something.”
“You don’t want to do that,” the marshal warned, continuing to herd McCade away.
“Please.” Marshal Spencer paused, glanced back at her. “Please,” she pressed on.
His impassive expression flickered for half a momen
t. He pulled McCade to a halt. “Quickly. You won’t like his answers, I assure you.”
“Why did you do it?”
He might not give her answers, but she had to try. She wanted to understand—to find some order, no matter how malignant, in the chaos he had unleashed on her life.
“Your man was going to kill me.” McCade’s eyes were flat, as dead as a snake’s. Perhaps more so, since a snake had its low nature as an excuse for its pitilessness and he had none.
“No, he wasn’t, you—”
“Stop.” The marshal’s command was as harshly grating as the snap of the handcuffs had been. “I told you, you wouldn’t like his answers.”
“Oh, she’ll like it even less when I have these men tried for assaulting me.” The assurance in McCade’s voice was a terrible thing. He might be handcuffed, but the outlaw carried himself as if he were the victor in all this, his bruised state making his statement all the more damning.
Juan might go to prison.
She pressed her fist hard into her belly. Yet another member of her family endangered by this. Lord, when would it all end?
McCade went on, “First the sheriff tries to kill me, his woman shoots me, and you rubes try a third time.” He shook his head. “I might even press charges against her.” His gaze landed on her, the stark promise within bringing bile to her throat.
He wanted to harm her. Very, very badly. “She’d be in prison then, too. No more than the bitch deserves—”
His words were stopped by the marshal’s fist landing on his jaw. Before she could even gasp, McCade was falling to the ground, Marshal Spencer’s fist following him, landing again and again and again, each thud echoing through the dark.
Everyone stared in shock at the violence erupting from the marshal. He’d always been so controlled, so contained—she could hardly believe such ferocity could be coming from him.
After several hits, the marshal pulled back from the bloody work he’d done, his chest heaving and his gaze on the man at his feet. McCade rolled to his side and spit what appeared to be a tooth onto the ground.
Her stomach rolled and she scrambled backwards. She couldn’t have been more horrified if a grizzly had wandered into camp and begun mauling men.
“Now we can blame me for your injuries,” the marshal ground out. “Not even your father can threaten a marshal, now can he?”
He jerked McCade to his feet. “Bring a rope,” he said to no one in particular.
Even if Isabel had a rope, she wouldn’t have dared to approach Marshal Spencer, not with the state he was in. Where had such fury come from?
Franny was the only one brave enough to obey him, her rope coiled in her hands as she moved toward him. Felipe took a step forward as if to stop her—but only the one.
The three figures moved off to an oak tree not thirty feet away.
“Is he going to hang him?” Juan asked.
“No,” Isabel answered. She wasn’t sure what he was doing, but she knew it wasn’t that. She watched in silence as he tied the outlaw to the tree, wincing when he bore down on the knots with his considerable strength, leaving McCade held fast like some kind of pagan sacrifice.
When he was done, he stalked back, Franny at his heels. The violence had not quite left his frame, his muscles trembling with it. His face was tense, his eyes coldly burning.
“Don’t you all have something else you should be doing?” he growled.
The crowd dispersed with alacrity. Except for her.
“He won’t get loose,” he said. His expression gentled, going softer than she would have thought possible. “By tomorrow, we’ll be on the train for Los Angeles.”
She ought to thank him, to give some gesture of appreciation for what he’d done. Instead, she said, “You weren’t here. He came, and I was all alone.”
She realized then how much she’d needed him to be there, that for once she wouldn’t have been alone in this.
Just once.
He went still, and with a nearly audible click, his mask slid fully into place, his expression slipping into that hateful impassivity. “No,” he said. “I wasn’t.”
There was no apology in the words.
She swallowed hard, trying to make sense of the emotions surging through her despite the pain slicing across her head. She had just been granted her greatest wish: her attacker had been captured. The fear that he would seize her in an unguarded moment should be dissipating.
So why did she feel so bereft? She wanted to drop to the ground and weep.
The marshal continued on. “I wasn’t here, but he’s caught now and you’re safe.” His words were bracing, almost crisp. “You won’t have to see him again until the trial.”
“Until the trial.” The words were numb on her tongue.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re the only witness. Unless some miracle occurs with Obregon, it will be your word against McCade’s.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, fingers resting on the wire of her spectacles, that slender bit keeping the whole together.
Her word against his. And only hers. Alone again, with Joaquin—and the entire town—looking to her to send McCade to prison. To see that justice was served.
To attempt such a thing with Edwin McCade’s son… it would be David against Goliath, and she hadn’t even a sling.
There was nothing for it. She looked at the marshal, at his unreadable features. “I know that. I will be prepared, I assure you.”
She took a deep breath and held out her hand. No sense holding him responsible for being absent when McCade had come—foolish of her to be upset by it.
“Thank you very much for capturing him,” she said stiffly. “You carried out your duties admirably.”
He studied her for a long moment, her hand held out between them.
“I apologize for any distress I caused you,” he said finally, regret tempering his tone. “It was always in service of a higher goal.”
With that, he captured her hand. Instead of shaking it, he brought it to those unsmiling lips. His breath fanned across her skin, followed by the brush of his lips. Gooseflesh broke out in a chilled flush along her entire length at the touch of his mouth.
“Perhaps we shall meet again, Señorita.” The words, spoken in that beautiful Spanish of his, stroked warmly against her, even more caressing than the kiss had been. She wanted to curl her fingers and capture that breath, to keep it close to her.
Such an intimate farewell. Or perhaps her own addled state was misconstruing it. The marshal she’d known until now would never have offered such courtly gestures.
“Perhaps. At the trial, of course. But beyond… Only fate will tell.”
“Indeed.” There was no sadness in him, only acceptance. “If you’ll excuse me, I must sit with my prisoner. I recommend you stay far away.”
As if she would want to come close to McCade. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
“No,” he said, “you won’t. I’m leaving before the sun comes up. It will be better that way.”
So this was the end. A stitch tugged her heart toward her breastbone. A few days ago, she couldn’t wait to see the back of this man, but now… sadness wasn’t quite the word for what was lodged in her breast, but perhaps regret would fit.
“I wish you the best of luck,” she said.
“I wish the same for you.” He was so solemn, she found herself wanting to offer to sit with him through the night, to not leave him alone with that outlaw.
But that was foolishness.
She turned and left for the safety of the others, telling herself that this was the outcome she had always wanted.
Chapter Eight
Having his wrists shackled together didn’t seem to bother McCade. Nor did being hauled back to Los Angeles as a captured fugitive.
Still wearing the soiled clothes he’d been captured in, he sprawled shamelessly in his seat across from Sebastian, the two of them alone in the train compartment. A few souls had come through the sliding door,
seen the handcuffed man and Sebastian’s stern expression—and promptly left again.
“Spencer,” McCade said musingly. He tapped his forearms against his thighs. “I think I’ve heard of you.”
Perhaps he had. Although Sebastian’s crimes were over a decade old.
“You haven’t.” Sebastian sent the other man his most implacable stare.
McCade wasn’t put off. “No, I’ve heard rumors about you. About the things you did when you were young.”
Sebastian’s stomach turned to think of what McCade might have heard.
“I’ve heard rumors about you as well,” he said, pushing the other man into speaking of his own crimes.
If they continued down the path of Sebastian’s past, his control could slip. McCade might learn how deeply the past was still rooted within Sebastian.
“Don’t think that because you prey on the weak, the oppressed, that no one hears of your violations,” Sebastian went on. “Your father must hear of them—else why would he wash his hands of you every few months?”
Sebastian didn’t seek out such stories—Judge Bannister relayed each new rumor of father-son estrangement with glee. “Working on a ranch, being this far out from Los Angeles—you were out of favor again, weren’t you?” he asked. “I wonder how your father will view this little escapade.”
“Once he hears the truth—that a vicious band of Mexicans targeted me, no doubt thinking they’d gain some of my father’s wealth by threatening me—he’ll see to it that the guilty are punished.” McCade’s smile was sickeningly triumphant. “And the guilty parties won’t include me.”
It was cunning, Sebastian had to admit. With a good lawyer, a jury might be convinced by it.
“Let’s not split hairs,” he said, tired of sparring over falsehoods. “We both know you did it. This wasn’t the first of your crimes.”
“And you’ve no crimes on your conscience?” McCade asked.
He did. Terrible ones. Sebastian had used the same things McCade would—his father’s name and the anonymity of his victims—to escape his deserved punishment.
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