Once a Maverick

by Raine Cantrell

  Dixie dropped her bundle. She started to run through the house, stopped and once more looked about the walls, hoping she would find a rifle mounted. There wasn’t a weapon in sight.

  The excited whooping sounds frightened her. She had heard enough of them in the mining camps from men drunk on rotgut and looking to kick up a little hell.

  Livia’s cry was abruptly cut off. Dixie caught up the gown and petticoat, cussed to herself about her bare feet and grabbed a knife in the kitchen. She paused just long enough to look out the window. She couldn’t see anyone, but the washtub had been turned over, the sudsy water making a muddy puddle that the ground quickly soaked up.

  A glance showed no one near the kitchen door, but a shiver of dread worked its way down her spine as she cautiously made her way to the back door.

  There was a stream of vile cursing coming from a harsh male voice as Dixie peered outside. If she hadn’t been so frightened for Livia, she would have laughed at the sight that met her gaze.

  A man was trying to drag Livia across his saddle, but she had her teeth clamped on his leg. One of her hands reached upward to tear and grab at whatever she could. His howl of pain was heard over the snorting of his animal. He suddenly released Livia and she fell in a heap on the ground. Dixie ran toward her.

  Too late, Dixie understood that the man wasn’t alone. Another rider charged her. She reached Livia, offering one hand to help the woman to her feet. Holding out the knife, Dixie braced herself. She swore under her breath at Ty for leaving her defenseless without her gun.

  There were a few moments when her vision blurred. She shook her head to clear it, uncertain if she was imagining that the man bearing down on her was riding her mare.

  In a rush, things came together. These were the men from the saloon. She managed to dodge the first attempt to grab hold of her. The rider drew rein and with sharp kicks turned her mare to come at her again. Livia threw the washboard at him, but he ducked to the side. But it was the mounted man beyond Livia that arrested her attention.

  Dixie froze. The man was rubbing his leg where Livia had bitten him. Rubbing the wound with a hand that bore a jagged, lightning-shaped scar. Once more she faced her father’s killer. And once more, she might forgo a chance for revenge.

  “Livia! Where’s a spare gun?” she yelled over a man’s order to catch hold of her.

  For a moment Dixie didn’t think that the woman had heard her. She looked around, a lost, almost distracted expression on her face. She repeated the demand to know where Greg kept a spare gun, but her shout was drowned out by the hollering of the man now circling around her.

  The dust choked her. Dixie saw that her mare’s mouth was flecked with blood. The horse had a gentle mouth, and the animal who rode her used her cruelly. Pity for the mare rose inside her. The horse’s eyes rolled wildly, but the spirited mare fought her rider for control of the bit.

  Swiping at the rider with the knife, Dixie kept him from getting too close to her. Between the two horses weaving around them, Dixie couldn’t see the third man, the young gunslinger who had challenged Ty. She worried about where he was, but there was little time to look when she once more defended herself from being caught.

  “Get inside the house,” Livia shouted to her. She ran and tried to grab hold of Dixie’s arm to pull her along, but once more the rider came between them. “If you get in, bolt the door.”

  “We’ll both make it.” Dixie coughed, and wished she felt as certain as she sounded. She saw that the wash line had been torn down, the clothes dragged into the muddy puddle. It was foolish to become enraged over the soiled clothing, but a fury rose in Dixie that men like this only knew how to destroy.

  She shoved Livia ahead of her while the men were once again getting ready to charge.

  Too late she saw that their escape into the house was cut off. The young gunslinger stood in the doorway. His eyes were as cold and hard as the biscuit he was eating.

  Then the man with the scar was dismounting and Dixie felt fear take hold. She knew what he was capable of. Even as she swore she would kill him before he ever touched her again, the cold, dreaded fear wrapped tight around her and squeezed until her knees felt like jelly. He, too, now stood between them and the door.

  Dixie grabbed Livia’s arm. “Run for the stable!” All she could think of was getting to the horses, if not them, then the tack room. She beat back the fear of fire. Fire that could easily smoke them out into the open once again.

  Her unsecured braid had come apart, and her loose streaming hair made a perfect handhold as Peel leaned from his saddle and yanked hard.

  “You little wildcat bitch! I’ll teach you to knife me!”

  “Run, Livia!” Dixie shouted her order, then turned in a blind rage. She had sworn no man would ever make her feel helpless again. She knew her rage made her wield the knife in a clumsy manner, but the man’s swearing hit a new high, so she knew she found a mark.

  Praying that Livia was free and that she would ride for help, Dixie blocked out the pain of her hair being torn from her scalp. Tears filled her eyes. Tears that blinded her as he wrenched her head back and dragged her tight against his leg.

  Her heart pounded, and sounds receded until all she heard was her own blood in a drumming beat. Her breath was dragged into her lungs and released in heaving pants as she tried not to cry out with the agonizing pain. She made an attempt to stab at him, but his laugh told her she had missed. The tangled fall of her hair truly blinded her. She didn’t know if Livia had made it to the stable or not.

  Dixie barely avoided having her bare foot stepped on by the horse. She was hauled alongside the animal. Trying to still the panic taking hold, she warned herself to bide her time and wait for a chance to get free.

  “What the hell are you standin’ there for, Thorne? You let that other one go.”

  “But you caught what I’ve been hunting, Peel. That’s all that matters. We got unfinished business, her and me. I didn’t recognize her that night in the saloon. But in a gown, with that hair all wild recalled my memory.”

  Thick, guttural, the sound of his voice brought back Dixie’s memory, too. The terror-filled nightmare came rushing back from where she tried to keep it buried.

  Black spots danced in front of her eyes. She no longer heard the men’s taunts. Within her was a strong yearning to give in to the darkness welling up to embrace her. Seductively it whispered that it was the only way she could block out the sound of that voice.

  But right now, she needed the hate fueled by once more hearing a voice from hell itself. A voice that now had a name to go with it—Thorne. Hate gave her strength. Memory proved stronger.

  She saw herself standing in the kitchen that long-ago night, folding the napkins, then putting away the supper dishes. Her mending basket waited, but first she would join her father for their nightly walk down to the barn. They had two mares ready to foal, blooded stock bought with a gambler’s winnings whose offspring would bring them good prices to increase the cattle herd they had started.

  Faster and faster the images rose, and with them came her silent scream to cease.

  The first shot had torn through the night just as she had blown out the lamp. Screaming for her father, she had run to the door when a torch came sailing in the parlor window. Shattered glass snapped beneath her shoes as she stamped it out before the curtains caught on fire. Her cries to her father for help went unanswered. The smell of pitch from the torch stayed with her.

  Laughter. How could she ever forget the laughter? Wild and wicked sounding, filling the night.

  And the shots. There had been too many of them to count. The air burned as if all she could inhale was the gunpowder.

  Even then she had known this had been caused by her father’s refusal to sell off his water rights. He had been worried but not fearful. He had never warned her to expect an attack like this.

  It shamed her now, as it had then, to remember herself cowering inside, too afraid to go out and see what had happened. Terro
r had kept her scurrying like a frightened mouse from room to room until she had smelled the smoke from the barn.

  Memory brought back images, and with them an intense pain that sought relief. Dixie couldn’t stop the keening wail escaping her lips. Regardless of the added pain it caused, she rocked her head from side to side. She wanted to block out what she saw. She had to.

  Once again, memory proved stronger than her will. And the nightmare she had lived with all these months continued to play itself out.

  She had grabbed the pan of dishwater by the back door. At a run, water sloshing over her gown, she headed for the barn. Smoke was thick. Her eyes watered and stung, but she saw the flames licking up the back wall. Fear didn’t stop her from running inside with her empty dishpan.

  Her only thought was to save the mares. A scream came. Faintly she heard it, but then she had screamed over and over that night, too. Blood was smeared on the barn doors. Smeared on the posts, on the stalls. It had been too late. She had been too late to save her precious horses. Her hands were covered with blood when she ran, choking and crying down the length of the barn and into the night.

  Both horses were dead. Butchered in their stalls. There would be no foals. No money. No future breeding stock. No more dreams.

  And no matter how she screamed, her father never once answered her.

  But he did.

  She was branded by the sound of his laughter when she tumbled out of the barn and ran for the house. She would forever carry his taunting voice telling her what he was going to do to her.

  Panic lent strength to her legs. Terror sent her fleeing. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t contain the beat of her pounding heart. Or the icy fear that encompassed her body.

  Run! was her only thought. The only action she was capable of, the one thing she could do.

  Alone. Hunted. Then, as now, he had come after her on his horse trying to ride her down, attempting to rope her like a calf for branding.

  She had stumbled and fallen to her knees time and again. Like a wild creature she struggled to her feet, dodging, running, driven by terror of being caught. And always the laughter returned, sending a new frenzy of panic streaming through her.

  Clawing her way up the porch steps, she had touched hard leather. Even through the fear that filled her, she knew it was a boot. She listened again to the childlike whimpers that had escaped her throat. Knowing, before she could reach up and touch the now-still face, that it was her father’s body sprawled in death.

  Whimpers became screams. She had never heard the whistling of the rope that settled taut around her body. With a jerk she was down, scrabbling for purchase, holding on to her father’s body as she was dragged like a broken rag doll off the porch.

  Even now, she spat dust, like that night, feeling how it had filled her nostrils and sucked every bit of moisture from her mouth. Her body hurt. Grit filled her eyes.

  She remembered the searing burn of the rope around her body. The utter despair of being so helpless to stop him. Around and around the yard he had ridden, dragging her behind the horse. Bruised and bleeding, she was barely conscious when the rope suddenly went slack.

  He had come for her then. She had begged for mercy. And his harsh laughter grew, grew until it was all she heard. Where the strength to continue to struggle had come from, she never knew. It was all in vain. He dragged her inside.

  She had wanted death. He wanted her to see hell first.

  Glass had crunched beneath his boots when he flung her to the parlor floor. From her lips came animal-like snarls. His laughter abruptly stopped when she threw glass at him.

  And still he reached for her.

  She had to stop the laughter. Life was suddenly very precious. He had destroyed what she loved most. She could not let him destroy her.

  She couldn’t!

  Tearing cloth. Fetid breath. A feeling of being smothered. The glass. She remembered the glass he held. His howl of pain. The surging demand for survival rushing through her. The sudden freedom that renewed her fight.

  The smash of broken wood. Her mother’s candle stand shattered. Her flight to her father’s body. In the glow of the burning barn she knew it had been too late to save him. The image of herself backing away, sickened until she was racked with tremors and a cold sweat, had never left her. The sight of that hand, torn and bleeding as it came through the doorway of her home, was all she had remembered of the animal who destroyed her life.

  And she had never forgiven herself for running.

  Now it was happening again. She was caught, helpless to stop him.

  Only he wasn’t alone. She fought back the smothering blackness that threatened to enfold her. A ringing filled her ears.

  The present rushed back with the pain of her hair being twisted and yanked. It was moments before Dixie understood that the ringing was real. A bell pealed with a frantic clanging. Livia had made it to the barn. She had to be signaling for help.

  Time had lost meaning for Dixie. A body neared and she kicked out, impeded by the gown and petticoat. She dropped the knife and, with both hands, reached up and behind her to grab hold of the man’s arm that held her. The yells and shouts returned as her hearing cleared. Holding the bony arm in a death grip, she threw her body forward.

  The move was unexpected. Suddenly she was free, stumbling to her knees, barely breaking her fall with her extended hands. There was no time to catch her breath. She heard the thump of his falling body behind her. Not waiting to see what he’d do, she was up and staggering toward the barn.

  The bell had stopped ringing. She heard shouted orders but made no sense of them. Halfway across the yard, Dixie looked up to see Livia, mounted bareback, come charging out of the wide double doors. With expert skill she cracked a bullwhip, driving the calves and horses into the yard. Confusion reigned. Calves bawled. Horses shied and pawed air, trying to avoid the milling smaller creatures.

  And over the animals’ heads, Livia swung that fifteen-foot lash with a strength and repeated skill that almost stopped Dixie in her tracks. But she had not forgotten the nightmare she had just relived, and veered around the swarm of animals until Livia and her deadly whip stood between her and the men.

  There wasn’t a moment to lose. Livia could only hold them off as long as no one shot her. Even as Dixie darted into the barn, searching for a pitchfork to use as a weapon, she was struck by the fact that not one of those men had used their guns. It gave her pause. The answer came to her in the same moment that she spotted the pitchfork.

  Shots would alert Greg and Ty that there was trouble. For some reason those men didn’t want them down here. She grabbed hold of the pitchfork, intending to return outside to help Livia. Then she remembered the bell. Had Greg heard his wife’s warning? Were he and Ty even now riding back?

  Gunfire erupted.

  Chapter Nine

  Dixie ran out from the barn, carrying the pitchfork. She cursed Ty in one breath, then thanked him in the next when she saw that he rode with Greg and the older boys. Like four avenging angels, they came down the sloping hill toward the homestead.

  The gunfire had sent the loose horses fleeing. The calves scattered. She couldn’t find Livia in the milling mass of animals. Another burst of shots made her realize that Ty and Greg were firing in the air, not yet close enough to sight clear targets.

  She found Thorne. Their gazes locked for a long, endless moment. He was readying to mount. Where the other two men were, Dixie didn’t know and didn’t care. She was not going to allow her father’s killer to escape again.

  The pitchfork was heavy and awkward, but she found the inner strength to make a rush at Thorne.

  Someone shouted her name. Dixie ignored it. A calf ran alongside her. She was halfway across the yard when a single shot sent Thorne reeling from his saddle.

  “No!” she screamed. This was to be her revenge. No one was to cheat her of it. Thorne’s death would wipe out the stain of being helpless, of losing everything her father had labored to gain.

/>   The calf butted her side, making her stumble. She swore at the animal. The pitchfork saved her from falling, but she wasted precious seconds before she could heave it up in front of her again.

  A shot kicked up dirt at her side. Thorne was mounted! He aimed at her again, but the bawling calf knocked her off her feet and the shot went wide. From behind her, Dixie heard shouts, but nothing mattered now. Thorne, with the young gunslinger at his back, was riding out and she was once more left in the dust.

  She didn’t know how long she lay there, her sobs of sheer rage soaking into the earth, before she felt Ty’s hands on her shoulders.

  “Dixie? Are you hurt?” Guilt pierced Ty. He had ridden off and left the women alone. He could feel the sobs that shook her body and his concern for her grew. Muttering curses, then whispering to her, he felt his fury build higher when he spied the pitchfork.

  “You used that? Worthless as a barrel of shucks! What’s the matter with you, Dixie, going after them with a damned hay-tosser? Dixie? Dixie, let me help you turn over so I can see where you’re hurt.”

  She tensed the moment he tightened his hold on her shoulders in an attempt to see her face. Ty wished she was a soft, dependent sort of woman right now, one who showed some appreciation of the fact that he had helped to run those varmints off.

  Not that he didn’t admire her spirit. But there was a time and place for it, and as far as he was concerned, now was not the right time. He had known she was trouble from the first. He had no one but himself to blame for getting his boots tangled with an ornery critter like Dixie Rawlins.

  “Dixie, honey,” he whispered, leaning over her so that his words were for her ears alone. “Don’t get all mule stubborn on me now. It’s the wrong time to show off your thickheaded independence. Let me hold you. Let me just see for myself that you’re all right.”

  “Then see for yourself!” She spit the words at him and, like a Texas twister, rolled away from him. “You bastard! I could have killed him, Ty. If I had had my gun. That’s twice now, Kincaid. Twice that I missed him. I wouldn’t have needed you or any man to protect me and Livia. Damn you!”