This time she heard him walk away, but she didn’t make a move to follow him.
Her thoughts turned to the moments before the miners’ confrontation in the saloon. She had wished then that she had a man like Ty Kincaid to help her find her father’s killer. Which brought up the question of why he had involved himself last night with her troubles. She couldn’t continue to ignore the fact that she had had the man who murdered her father in front of her and her only thought had been to help save Kincaid’s life, not end her search for revenge.
She opened her eyes to see that he was awkwardly trying to build a fire with one hand. Practical matters first, she reminded herself. Then she’d make the decision about telling Kincaid what he wanted to know.
Dixie sipped the last of her mint tea, surprised at the way she kept repeating to herself Kincaid’s soft-voiced compliment of the nearly smokeless fire she had built. His easy acceptance of her as his equal helped dispel the tension that had become as much a part of her as the gun she wore.
She checked the other coffeepot to see if the water was hot enough to wash his wound and caught his rueful smile.
“Don’t tell me I’m going to have trouble with you over cleaning that shoulder, Kincaid.”
“I’m not looking forward to it. This makeshift bandage is stuck but good. The skin’s hot, but near as I can see there’s no cause for alarm.”
“Now you’re a doctor, too?”
“Man alone learns to be all things if he hankers to survive.”
“Not just a man. A woman, too,” she added softly, once more withdrawing to her place. Leaning back against the rock at the cave’s entrance, Dixie sent a searching glance over the valley. “It’s peaceful here. I can understand why someone would want to build a home in this valley. The grass is lush and that streambed must run all year.”
“McKee must have agreed. He struggled long and hard to hold on to it before he gave up. But not all men think about owning land and settling down.”
“You sound like a man who’s tried and found it didn’t work for you.”
“Could be.”
Dixie took his words for what he meant them to be—a warning about himself. She set aside her cup and stood up.
“It’s time to tend that shoulder.”
Removing the pot from the fire, she stuck her finger into the water to test the temperature. “It’s just about hot enough.”
She eyed him where he sat. “It would help if you would lie down.”
“Prone and biddable isn’t my favorite position.”
“Most men would agree with you, Kincaid. But I guess most women would agree it might be nice to have the boot on the other foot, so move.”
He stretched out on the saddle blankets she had dragged from the cave and waited until she was kneeling at his side. “What man tried to make you prone and biddable, Dixie?”
“You. This morning, remember?” she snapped, spreading open his shirt to untie her neckerchief from his shoulder.
“If I remember correctly, you were well on your way to prone. But I’ll give you this, the biddable part was going to take a bit of work.”
“Just goes to show you, Kincaid, how differently men and women view the same happening. I wasn’t prone. I wasn’t going to be prone. And I had no intention of becoming biddable then, or ever, for some man.”
“Take it easy!” he yelled as she used the soaked cloth to remove her padded shirt from his wound. “You’re sour on men for sure, but don’t make me pay for all their sins.”
Her fingers stilled. She met his direct gaze with her own. “No, Kincaid. I won’t ever make that mistake.”
Ty found that he needed to keep her talking, for it offered a little distraction from the feel of her hands gently probing his shoulder.
“Why don’t you try telling me where you learned to play cards? I watched when I played with you. Figured you could do just about anything with a deck, but make them sit up and sing for you.”
Her laugh was soft and husky and went through him like lightning. He wanted to capture the sound, capture the sparkle in her eyes, the smile on her generously shaped mouth.
“Dixie?”
His fingertips grazed her open palm before he curved his fingers over hers, stilling her.
“My father was a gambler. He taught me.” She allowed a moment more of resting her hand within the nest of his. Large and warm, his strength was there in the tapered, long fingers, and the thick calluses. She stared down at the minute scars. For a shocking few seconds, she found herself thinking of how his hand would feel on her skin.
Dixie quickly withdrew her hand from his grasp, and buried the wanton thought.
“Gambling’s an odd thing for a man to teach his daughter. Most would protect their—”
“My father wasn’t most men. He took me everywhere with him after my mother left us. When I was ten, he gave it up and settled down.”
Keeping her gaze focused on rinsing out the neckerchief, she gave herself another warning to beware of Kincaid’s ease in prying her past from her. True, she had kept to herself for these long months, but talking about her father, or what their life had been like, never came easy for her.
The wound, now that she had cleaned it, was raw looking. “I should stitch it closed, Kincaid,” she said, sitting back on her heels.
“You askin’ or tellin’ me?”
“Asking you. I don’t have your experience in dealing with wounds.” Not the ones visible to the eye, she added to herself.
“Wish I had my saddlebags. I’ve a salve that’s good for just about anything that ails a body. Works fine on a horse, too.”
“No sense bemoaning its loss.” Dixie folded up the cloth and set it in place on his shoulder. “You rest easy while I wash out my shirt. At least it will make a clean bandage.”
“We can’t stay here too much longer,” he warned.
“Why?” Dixie rose and looked around at the quiet valley. “We have shelter and water and surely there’s game.”
“You figurin’ on shooting something to eat? ’Cause if you do, you’ll bring whoever’s huntin’ us to the valley.”
“Maybe they gave up. The rain had to wash out our trail. And I haven’t forgotten how to make a snare. Unless you can come up with a better reason for moving on, I’m for staying right here another day.”
Dixie started for the stream, then turned back and went into the cave. She came out carrying the stolen saddlebags. Withdrawing the filthy shirt, she held it up.
“I’ll just give this a wash, too. It’ll give you something to wear when I wash and mend yours.” Tossing the bags down beside him, she added, “I couldn’t find much of use in them last night, but it was dark. You might have better luck, Kincaid.”
“You told me to rest.”
“So I did, but you strike me as a man who needs to be always doing something. Figure that’s a good way to keep you busy and out of trouble.”
Dixie set the shirts in the fast-running water of the stream with a decent size rock to hold them. Kincaid called her. She turned to look at him. Even with the distance that separated them, she knew from the way his gaze went from her to the object he held, what he had discovered. One of the missing items her father’s killer had stolen. The one that she worried over after she had buried her father and lost their ranch. When she found it missing, she felt warned that the man might come back for her.
Very slowly, and very deliberately, she lifted the wet shirts to the bank before standing.
“Want to come here and explain this to me, Rawlins?”
Berating herself for not being more thorough in her search of the saddlebags didn’t do a lick of good, so she didn’t waste time on it. She settled her gunbelt lower on her slender hips, buying time to gather the courage she needed to do what she must.
“You giving me any choice, Kincaid?”
“Nope. None at all. What the hell is this tintype of you doing in these saddlebags? And it is you, isn’t it? A heck of a lot cleaner, a
nd younger looking with your hair down, but you just the same. A real pretty lady. Not the Dixie I see now.”
Chapter Four
Dixie briefly closed her eyes against the condemnation she heard in his voice. Bravado was in short supply, but she dug up what she had left and stared at him.
“Figure I was in cahoots with those men?”
“I figure,” he said in his soft voice that nonetheless demanded attention as he stood up, “on hearing the truth from you.”
Dixie’s steps were slow but steady toward him. She knew what her choices were. Tell him or leave. Telling Kincaid the whole story would drag him into it. That unshakable truth settled in her mind and wouldn’t be dislodged. He was already wounded. Dare she put his life at risk?
“What makes you think that isn’t the truth?”
Ty leveled his hard gaze on her. “Try again. The truth.”
She stumbled and quickly straightened, but while she still held his gaze she leveled her gun on him.
“Wrong move, Dixie.”
“No. It’s the right one. Move over by the horses.” She didn’t think he would do what she ordered. Then for seconds he stared at the tintype of her, tossed it down and complied.
“Untie the chestnut’s reins.”
“It’s awkward using one hand. Why don’t you help me? I’ll give you my word I won’t—”
“Stuff thinking I’m a fool into your boots, Kincaid, and just do it.”
“Takes a lot to shoot a man,” he noted, working the leather, which had dried hard and stiff after being soaked. “Don’t think I’m using a delaying tactic here, the knot’s hard.”
“So’s your head. Stop trying to talk me to death. I’m not the kid you faced last night. I don’t want to shoot you, Kincaid. Hear that? I don’t want to doesn’t mean that I won’t do it.”
“You’re the lady with the gun. Guess that makes you the boss. For now,” he added, finally freeing the knot. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Now what?”
“Now you drop your gun belt and take your horse for a walk down to the other end of the valley.”
Dixie refused to look away from his eyes. She knew she had to watch a man’s eyes, a lesson from her father she never forgot, for that is where the clue to a man’s moves would come. Unfortunately, Kincaid must have had the same lesson. His gaze offered her nothing.
“Save us both grief by not putting me to the test, Kincaid. Go for your walk, and I’ll be out of here.”
“Maybe I don’t want to let you go.”
“It’s not your choice.”
Ty heard the underlying note of regret, but he wasn’t about to push her. Not now. He took the reins in his right hand and walked away. The lady had secrets. He didn’t want to get involved. He was damned if he knew why he had to keep reminding himself of that.
As Dixie watched him approach the stream where he let the horse drink, she suffered an attack of guilt. She’d not spared a thought to caring for the horses this morning. She had broken one of the first and hardest rules she had learned on the trail. You took care of your horse before you saw to your own comfort.
“Cross over to the other side and keep walking, Kincaid,” she called out. Not wasting time trying to undo the knot, she holstered her gun and used her pocketknife on the ends of the reins. A quick look showed that Ty was still walking, so she ran into the cave and came out carrying one of the saddles.
Kincaid was still walking in grass that was knee-high.
Dixie made short work of saddling her horse. She snatched up the tintype and her coffeepot and cup, stuffing them into her saddlebags. Tossing the bags behind the cantle, she quickly tied them in place with the rawhide hanging from a fancy silver-worked concha. There was no time to adjust the stirrups to her leg length the proper way, so she just shortened a few notches on the belt and prayed for the best. Swinging herself up onto the saddle, she took one last look at Kincaid’s back before she set off at a lope toward the opposite end of the valley.
Ty glanced back and watched her go. With the same leisurely walk that had taken him this far, he set out to return to the cave site. She’d be back.
He was sure of it.
Dixie rode beneath the tall pines that shadowed the rock-strewn entrance to the valley. At the far south, sunlight lay on the peaks like a cloak of golden glory. She drew rein and took a moment to get her bearings. She had gold enough to see her through a few weeks, and the most pressing thing was to get supplies. She was hungry, but she had been hungry before. She couldn’t afford any more mistakes like last night. Word would spread about her from one mining camp to another. It might be a good time to lay low for a while, or head south.
But being away from Ty Kincaid allowed her thoughts to return to her missed chance last night. If she left the area, she might not pick up the scarred man’s trail again for months.
Letting her horse pick his way at a walk out from the pines, Dixie managed to set Ty Kincaid from her thoughts. She headed south, watching the land as she rode forth. She had ridden less than half a mile when she thought she saw a rider in a rock crease up ahead.
Shading her eyes with one hand and cursing the loss of her hat, Dixie scanned the area. There was no sign of a man and horse. Likely it had been a shadow that had caught her attention and nothing more.
Urging the horse forward, she realized that the trail she followed disappeared beyond the next bend. A strong sense of warning came over her, telling her to go back, but Dixie shrugged it away.
The land was broken and rugged, offering a hundred places where someone could hide. She refused to hug the rocks and forced the horse to the middle of the trail.
On her right, she saw a rattler slither into the shade of an overhanging rock and repressed a shiver. She hated snakes. The horse snorted, and she leaned forward to rub his neck, whispering reassurances.
A shot sprinkled rock in a sudden shower upon her. A second shot peppered the ground and the horse shied. Dixie kept her seat by virtue of hanging on to the animal’s mane. She yanked hard on the reins, kicking the horse into a dead run back the way she had come. Two more shots flattened into the rocks behind her.
Running in fear, uncertain of the bay’s responsiveness, Dixie tried to think what to do. She had abandoned Kincaid in the valley and might make good her own escape, but whoever was shooting at her was sure to discover him. He was wounded. She couldn’t forget that.
If she kept riding, would the shooter follow her? The valley could be a trap, with only one way out. But if they couldn’t get out, no one else could get in.
Wishing she had her sweet little mare, bred from hardy mustang stock, beneath her, Dixie demanded more speed from the bay. Wind whipped her hair back from her face in a tangled snarl. Fear had her heart pounding at an alarming rate, and yet an icy chill snaked its way down her spine when a few more shots told her how close her pursuer was.
How long ago had she left the valley? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Longer? She wasn’t sure. Decide, she told herself. Go back or keep riding.
Keeping low in the saddle to make herself as small a target as possible, she felt the start of tears. She was coming to the end of any courage or strength she had.
Don’t be a quitter, Dixie. Her father’s words rose from memory. Words that were always telling her that she could do whatever it was she set her mind to.
She had to survive. She had to get out of this particular pickle barrel. She was the only one who could make her father’s murderer pay for what he’d done.
The shadowed pines up ahead were a welcome sight, for she knew they offered her a few minutes’ safety. Urging the bay into the shaded coolness, she faced making her decision now and quickly. Back to the valley and warn Kincaid, or keep riding in the hope of drawing her pursuer away.
Drumming hoofbeats sent her fear up a notch. There was more than one rider chasing her down and closing too fast.
Shots rang out, sending deadfall branches crashing to the ground. They were too damn close to her. Dix
ie guided the horse in a weaving pattern through the thick pines, thankful that the layers of pine needles deadened the sound of her horse’s movement.
But just as the thick carpet offered a measure of safety for her, it also concealed the sounds of her pursuers.
A few moments more and she would be at the mouth of the valley. And Kincaid would be there.
She couldn’t question why the thought of him instantly eased her fears. She just accepted that it did, the same way she accepted that her parched throat closed off a scream that wanted to be vented.
A single shot plowed into the trunk of the tree she was passing. Dear Lord! she prayed, and suddenly heard return fire. There, up ahead, with a streak of sunlight glinting off his gun barrel, was Kincaid.
“Keep going!” he shouted when she slowed, coming abreast of him. “Ride the stream through the valley. There’s a crease in the rocks. Lead your horse through, and I’ll meet you there.”
“Kincaid—”
“Go, damn you! I’ll hold them off.”
The blaze of anger that made his features sharp and predatory stilled all the words she could muster to argue with him. He was right. This wasn’t the time to discuss partnerships and equal-share-and-share-alike rights.
Dixie rode into the valley with shots ringing in her ears. He was stronger than she believed, for he had managed to saddle his horse. The fact that he was mounted and clearheaded enough to give her orders told her that her earlier fear for him was groundless.
Flagging her tiring horse, she followed the streambed until she came to the split in the rock wall. She was off her mount and running up the small slope, yanking on the reins to make the horse follow her, when she heard another horse running full out.
Kincaid! And behind him were three horsemen!
Dixie stood at the top of the split, knowing she was a perfect target but unwilling to let Kincaid try to make it through with those riders so close on his tail. She wrapped the reins quickly around one arm to keep her horse from bolting and drew her gun.
Giving him protective fire so that he had a fair chance was small payment for what he had done for her.
Once a Maverick Page 4