With this in mind, he shredded the thin paper, letting the tobacco fall into a tiny pile. A good rain would wash the sign away. Cobie looked up then and saw that Thorne watched him from across the fire.
“I’ve been doing some thinking, Thorne,” Cobie began.
“It ain’t what you’re best at, boy.”
Cobie stifled the swift rise of anger at being called “boy.” His instincts were right. It was time he cut loose from these two. And since he wanted to do that without a fight, he chose to ignore the remark.
“When we hooked up in Prescott you promised me money. I ain’t seen dollar one.”
“But you got a chance at Kincaid. A chance you fouled up but good.”
Cobie shot a look at Peel. If he was paying attention to their conversation, he wasn’t revealing it. The steady motion of blade against whetstone never varied, nor did he look up at either him or Thorne.
“Ain’t gonna make excuses for that. But you got me mixed up in something that don’t smell right. That woman back there, she’s got past history with you. Killing kind of history.”
“You asking, boy?”
There was a deadly softness to Thorne’s voice that Cobie had a healthy respect for. He shook his head. But his mind was made up now. He was cutting loose of the bad smell of trouble coming his way.
“’Pears to me that you’re getting a yella streak, boy.”
“Shut the hell up, Peel. No one asked you.” Thorne kept his steady and warning gaze pinned on Cobie. “You ain’t got a yella streak. You ain’t got questions. You’re gonna ride along an’ do what I tell you ’cause you want a chance at Kincaid again. An’ this time you ain’t gonna foul up. Are you, boy?”
“Whatever you say, Thorne. You’re the boss.” Cobie scooted down until he was prone and pulled his hat low. Every muscle in his body was tense with the need to climb all over Thorne and show him who he was dealing with.
“You remember that, Cobie. Remember it good. Turn in, Peel. I want us to get an early start come daybreak.”
Thorne rolled over with his gun nestled within his hand. He didn’t like Cobie questioning him. The kid was smarter than he let on. He’d have to do something about the boy, but not until he had taken care of the Rawlins woman. He hadn’t questioned the luck that had placed her in his path, but cursed hers for escaping him again. Damn! but that little bitch was a fighter!
Under the cover of darkness, he traced the scar he bore. The scar she left him with. He had almost had her that night. He’d never figured she had any spit and fire left in her. It was a mistake he’d never again make.
He didn’t much like the idea that she had split off from Kincaid. It would make things neat and tidy for him to catch the two of them together. Kincaid had gotten in his way, and he owed him for the bullet crease that left his arm aching. Unless…Thorne shook his head. She couldn’t have hired Kincaid to help her. He knew she was gambling, he’d heard the rumors that she was buying what word she could about him. Kincaid would command a high price. After all, he knew how much he got paid for a job, and he didn’t have Kincaid’s reputation.
He chewed over this new, possible complication, half-listening to the restless stirrings as Peel tossed and turned in his bedroll.
The only solution he could come up with was to let Cobie have Kincaid. But he had to be the one to set it up so that the kid would owe him one.
That was something he’d learned from his boss. It was not enough to pay a man to do your dirty work. You had to have something to hold over his head so that he never got free of owing you.
A setup…he’d need to ponder that come morning. A hiss and flare came from the fire where a bit of sap burned. Thorne carefully turned over and watched for a few minutes to make sure that Peel and the kid were asleep. He slipped out of his blanket, waited again, then slowly crawled toward Cobie’s bedroll.
Thorne ignored the lancing pain in his arm each time he braced his weight on it. He wanted the kid’s saddlebags. Foolish men kept personal mementos, and Cobie struck him as a foolish kid still wet behind the ears.
He gauged the boy’s steady breathing with his own. Satisfied that Cobie was asleep, Thorne leaned forward to lift the saddlebags.
The chill press of cool metal against his throat warned him he had made a mistake.
“You want something, Thorne?”
“Just came to talk.” He set the bag down and coughed, hoping it distracted the boy so that he wouldn’t know what he’d been up to. “Had a thought on how we can corner Kincaid.”
Still keeping his gun in the open, Cobie sat up. “I’m awake and listening.”
“You ever walk-down mustangs?”
“Never did, but I heard tell about it.”
“There’s three of us and only one of him,” Thorne said, shifting slightly away from Cobie. “We keep him on the move, never giving him a chance to rest or water. We do it in relays. Just need to keep back out of firing range. Won’t last long that way.”
Cobie fought the tug of a smile. It wouldn’t do to let Thorne see what he thought of his lie. “You figure that’s how I want to take the man? Bone dogged, too weary to draw on me?”
“What the hell difference does it make how the hell you take him? Fact is, you’ll have the notch you’re aiming for.”
Still holding his gun, Cobie lay back down. “I’ll sleep on it, Thorne. You want that early start in the morning, I’d suggest you do the same.”
Thorne crawled back to his bedroll. He didn’t much like the feeling that the kid had the best of him. Funny thing was, he couldn’t figure out why he had that suspicion. Once he had presented a walk-down as a way to get rid of Kincaid, he found himself liking the idea. Then he would go after the Rawlins woman to tidy up that last loose end.
Come morning…
When the barest hint of daybreak was lighting the far horizon, a shout from Peel sent both Thorne and Cobie scrambling from their bedrolls.
At first Thorne couldn’t see anything wrong. There was no gunfire, no sign of anyone, and he cussed Peel as he made his way to where the man stood.
“What the hellfire was that about?” Thorne demanded.
“Count them,” Peel answered, pointing to the rope picket where they had tied the horses.
“Count them?” Thorne repeated, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“There’s four,” Cobie announced. “That little wildcat’s mare is missing but we got our two back. Now we won’t have to listen to Peel’s bellyaching about his mount.” He glanced at Thorne. “Still figure to do a walk-down on Kincaid?” He walked away before Thorne could answer him.
“How’d this happen, Peel?”
“I was sleeping. You never said to stand guard. He come an’ fooled us good, Thorne. Yep, that Kincaid’s gonna be a tough son to take down.”
“Go make coffee, Peel, before I figure to take you down in his place.”
Peel spat off to the side and left Thorne. He didn’t blame Thorne for his surly voice. He was a mite put out that Kincaid had snuck up on them without making a sound. A shiver of dread walked up his spine and Peel looked around, not once, not twice but continuously as he filled the coffeepot with water from the canteen and built up the fire.
“What d’ya make of this, boy?”
“Me? I tell you, Peel, I figure Kincaid’s served notice that he’s riding us.”
“Maybe so. But there’s three of us an’ only one of him.”
“And still he managed to sneak in here last night. Don’t think more of us is gonna stop him, Peel. Kincaid’s smart.”
“Yeah? Thorne’s the smartest man I know. He’ll figure a way. You just wait and see if he don’t.”
Ty found himself a shaded place to grab a few hours of shut-eye. He would have liked to have been there when the horses were discovered this morning, but he had a lot of ground to cover.
With any luck he’d have a good four hours to sleep before Dixie caught up with him. And he knew he would need every bit of it when he presen
ted himself to her.
The setting sun’s promise had been kept and by midday, Dixie was sweating. She wished she still had her hat, but she wasn’t about to veer off the trail she had found to head for a mining camp to buy one. Three sets of horse tracks were headed south and, as near as she could determine, the riders had about a four-hour lead on her.
Instinct was all she had guiding her that she was on the right trail. Time and again she wondered where Ty could be but ruthlessly pushed the question aside. She couldn’t afford the distraction. The mare proved herself surefooted over the vast steppes she rode between two ranges of mountains.
The grass was plentiful, and she knew that a source of water had to be close. Anyone with sense would think about resting in the scorching heat of the day then moving on in midafternoon when the sun began its descent. She longed to stop and bathe in cool water. And she knew she was breaking a good rule of the trail. Thinking about it increased her thirst, as well as made her feel the heat more intensely.
Dixie didn’t know who was more startled—her or the mare—when the sheep suddenly cut their path. The mare quickly settled down as four thickly coated churro sheep ambled up into the rocks. She watched them for a few minutes, their coats earthy in tone from brown to pale cream, gray to black. She knew the Indians raised the sheep, for she had seen the weavings made from the colors of the sheep’s wool.
What struck her as strange seeing the sheep loose like this was that less than ten years ago in the crushing finale of the Navajo wars, the army had swept through the Navajo homelands killing the sheep and burning the crops. She had heard that sheep had been brought back to the reservations.
Just as she urged the mare into a walk, one of the four horned rams crossed her path. There were twigs caught in its thick shaggy coat. Dixie glanced at where the sheep had come from, knowing that water had to be close.
But she was leary, too, and proceeded with caution to walk the mare up a granite gravel slope where she could study the land before she went farther.
Twisting around in the saddle, Dixie found Black Butte to the far north, which helped her get her bearings. To the east and south of where she was would be the Big Horn Mountains. Below her, a winding ribbon of water flashed beneath the sun. In places she could see how clear and shallow the wash was, for its rock-strewn sandy bottom was visible. If she followed its path, Dixie knew she would find deeper pools along its banks.
The temptation to find a safe place where she could bathe the stench from the trail grew too strong to resist. She thought of the few hours’ lead time Thorne had on her. If she rested herself and the mare, she could push hard and close the distance between them.
Glancing up, she saw a lone hawk floating high above. Like the tattered remains of a shawl, a drifting cloud revealed the sun once more in all its blazing glory. The heat intensified. Dixie made up her mind.
She slipped the rawhide loop holding her gun in the holster, for there were too many hiding places in the rocks below. Regret for the loss of her gear, including a Spencer repeating rifle, filled her. She had no more than her own instincts and that of her horse to warn her of any trouble.
It had to be enough.
She found the spot she wanted within an hour, then sat and watched it for an hour more. Satisfied that this small dip in the curve of the wash was deserted, Dixie rode down. She stripped the mare of the saddle, let her drink her fill, then ground-tied her close by the sheltering branches of an aged cottonwood, where there was sacate grass growing in a small patch. By its thick growth, Dixie knew no animal had foraged here in some time.
Dead branches lay in abundance, and she gathered enough for a fire to dry her clothes. Keeping a close watch on the mare, for she would alert Dixie if anyone was coming, she stripped and headed for the thigh-high pool. The sand was both soap and washcloth for herself and her clothing. There was one vulnerable moment when she had to duck her head beneath the water and Dixie steeled herself to do it.
She rose with water streaming down her face, momentarily blinding her as she struggled to keep her footing in the sandy bottom and push her wet hair aside.
Smoke curled from the wood within the stone circle she had left ready.
A glossy-coated roan hid most of another horse that had joined her mare on the grass patch. Still clutching her wet clothes, Dixie fought the fear that speared through her, leaving her shaking.
She eyed her gun lying on top of her saddle. She wondered what her chances were of reaching it. Once more she scanned the small clearing. There was no sign other than the two horses that anyone was here. But the chill penetrated deeper inside her. Forcing her legs to move, she started for the bank.
“I was just betting with myself if you’d come out or take root where you stood.”
“Ty?”
“None other.”
Dixie followed the sound of his soft, amused voice and found him wedged in a shadowed rock crease above her. She was glad to see that he was all right and knew she couldn’t hide that from him. It wasn’t until he moved with that lazy, lithe grace to come down that she once more became aware of her state.
“Go away.”
“Nohow, Dixie. Just think what could’ve happened if it hadn’t been me that found you.”
Feeling utterly ridiculous standing there, Dixie had no choice but to climb up the bank. She ignored him as best she could while she wrapped her blanket around her. No heroine in a penny dreadful had ever confronted a man she thought of as both hero and villain. But Dixie did.
Forcing a calm that was as phony as her smile, she eyed him from his head to his boots, then slowly drew her gaze back up to his face. “You don’t look any the worse for wear.” But she could see the faint lines around his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept well.
“And you,” he noted softly, “look a hell of a lot better than the last time I saw you.”
“Which wasn’t all that long ago, Ty. Why did you follow me?”
“Angel, if you were standing in my boots, seeing yourself with my eyes, you wouldn’t be asking me a schoolgirl’s question.”
“But I’m not.” Her hand closed nervously over the tucked end of the blanket. “And I was never a schoolgirl. There wasn’t time, or a place my father and I stayed long enough for me to go to school.”
Ty could see the rapid pulse in the hollow of her throat that betrayed her nervousness, and he felt a sudden surge of tenderness. She faced him with more courage than men he had known. He still wasn’t accustomed to the swift rise of wanting he felt for her, but he knew she aroused him more when she faced him proudly than any other woman.
“I’m not a child, Ty. I won’t be treated as one who needs—”
“I,” he said in a near whisper, his gaze traveling to the hint of cleavage edged by the blanket, “can see that for myself.”
Warmth curled in her belly. Dixie had to look away from him. Within seconds, memory supplied the feel of his hands holding her, the press of his hard body against her own, his lips tantalizing hers with the promise of a kiss. She closed her eyes, willing the images away.
“Dixie? What’s wrong?”
She knew he was too close. Even before she opened her eyes to find him standing before her, she knew she had to refuse the invitation in his gaze.
“My clothes need drying.” She wet her lips and swallowed hard. “The fire’s hot enough—”
“I know that, too.” He lifted his hand to brush the wet hair from her shoulder. Beneath his palm she was tense, but her skin felt smooth, and he could feel the heat below her skin. “There’s unfinished business between us, Dixie. You’ll run and I’ll likely chase you until one of us gets tired of running, but in the end—”
She jerked away from him. “It won’t be me. Nothing you do or say will stop me from doing what I must.”
“I just wanted you to understand how it’ll be with us. As for going after them, you won’t be doing that alone anymore.”
Chapter Eleven
Dixie refused to be drawn int
o an argument with him. “Suit yourself, Kincaid,” she said with a shrug.
“I intend to.”
When he lifted her clothes, Dixie started for him but thought better of it. The best thing she could do was to keep her distance from him. Seeing the way he held up first her shirt, then her pants, a frown deepening on his brow, she tartly asked, “What’s wrong? Didn’t I get them clean enough?”
With a devil’s light glinting in his eyes, Ty turned toward her. “Ain’t the problem. I was just wondering where the rest of them are.”
“The rest? Of what? That’s all I was wear—” Dixie felt the heat climb into her cheeks. Her chin rose. With a narrow-eyed stare showing the battle glint in her eyes, she marched over to him and snatched her clothes from his hand. “I’ll tend to these, Kincaid.”
Ty let them go. “You know,” he remarked, ducking beneath the dripping branches to settle himself against the tree, “you can’t keep me at a distance by calling me Kincaid. You only do it when I’m getting too close.”
“It doesn’t work, does it?” she snapped, trying to figure out how to stretch up and hang her shirt and pants without losing the blanket. “Telling you plain out to leave me alone doesn’t make a dent in that tough hide of yours, either.”
“Well, at least you’re thinking about my body.”
“Kincaid! You’d give a saint callused knees and the good Lord knows I’m no saint.” She wished she could see his face, but he was nearly hidden behind the thick leafy growth. His soft chuckle set her temper on low boil.
“I thank the Lord that you’re not a saint. Don’t know a man alive who’d want one.”
He swung aside the smaller tree limbs and stepped out into the open. “Will you give me those before I lose what little control I have left wondering if you’re gonna lose that blanket any second?”
Dixie slapped the wet clothes against his chest and walked back to the fire. She was a fool to argue with a man whose skull had the density of rock.
“Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here, Kincaid?”
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