Brandon pulled Jay into his arms, and by the fierce way Jay's fingers tightened around Brandon's neck for an instant, Allie glimpsed Jay's need for Brandon's love and approval.
"I know you wouldn't, Jay. You're a son any man would be proud of." Brandon's voice was low, and tightly controlled.
Allie's eyes filled with tears. Brandon was used to being on his own. This love from Jay, his childish adoration, was something Brandon wasn't sure how to handle. How would he deal with being loved so much by not only Jay, but her as well? She would have to tread very carefully.
"I don't want any other man for my father, Pa. I picked you, an' you picked me. I'm a Gabriel now." Jay's voice was muffled against Brandon's chest.
Brandon squeezed Jay's shoulder. "All right, son. If that's how you want it."
"I do."
Releasing him, Brandon asked, "Will you do something for me, then, Jay? Go into the front room, or into your bedroom, and make a list of everything we're going to need for this…this idea. We'll need fencing before we can put cattle in the pastures, so you can start with that – wood, wire, and hardware… I – want to talk to your mama."
"Sure." Jay climbed down from the bed, starting for the door.
"Don't go outside."
He stopped. "What if I have to go – out back?"
"You come tell us. Don't go out without letting us know, okay?"
The unspoken worry tinted Brandon's words, plain enough for Allie.
Jay shrugged. "Okay, then. I'll go get started on the list." He pulled the door shut behind him firmly as he went out.
Allie met Brandon's cool gaze with one of her own. "What now?"
He shook his head, a slow smile curving his mouth at her confusion. "Now…we figure out Gabriel's Law. Then, we'll go from there."
* * * * *
Doc Wilkins rode toward Hobart at a leisurely pace. He'd left himself ample time to be there ahead of the two o'clock stage. His mind whirled and spun like the desert tumbleweeds as he kept to the rutted path, due west from Allie Taylor's spread.
He'd had no choice but to tell Brandon about what Allie was facing with Arnie Smith. Allie would be livid. He shook his head. Maybe Brandon would have her calmed down by the time he got back to their place this evening. Maybe she'd realize that he'd only told Brandon about Arnie and his threats because he was concerned for her safety. And Jay's. Arnie would stop at nothing to own Allie's spread – and Allie herself. He would certainly not let Jay remain the impediment he'd been so far. Would he go so far as murder?
Not for the first time, Doc wished Allie had aimed a little higher. Arnie was pure evil. Allie would have saved herself a world of trouble if she'd only…
There had to be another way. Brandon Gabriel could be the answer, if his hand healed properly – and if those vultures waited until it had time to mend.
He happened to like Brandon, despite the fact that he sold his gun. There was much more to him than that – a tenderness in his eyes every time he looked Allie's way; the quick closeness between him and Jay… Brandon had brought Arnie's wrath to a head in more ways than one. But Brandon wasn't the kind of man to leave a job unfinished – no matter what the outcome was to be.
He had a kind of honor about him, Doc thought. Hired gun aside, he was loyal. Brandon would lay down his life to protect Allie and Jay.
The more Doc thought of it, the more anxious he was to pick up his new partner, Owen Morris, and get back to Allie's place. Something wasn't sitting right. There was the slightest prickle in the small of his back that he'd learned never to ignore. Didn't mean any one particular thing. Didn't mean someone was following, or watching. Didn't mean for sure there'd be trouble tonight. But it meant something.
As he rode into Hobart's dusty Main Street, he made straight for the livery stable. Renting a buggy would be best for the young doctor from Massachusetts who was coming all this way to begin a new life. Owen would be walking into a hornets' nest, but it was unavoidable.
He drew rein, dismounting stiffly. There was plenty of time to rent the buggy. Glancing at the sun, he judged the time to be somewhere between ten and eleven. The stage wouldn't be rolling in until around two o'clock that afternoon.
He looped Ol' Rooster's reins over a hitching rail in front of the livery and started toward the door, intending to make his arrangements first, then head for the saloon to wait in the cool interior.
He'd taken three steps when two boys ran out of the livery stable, nearly knocking him down. He grabbed the second one, holding onto his thin shoulders to steady them both for an instant. "Whoa, son, where you headed in such a rush?"
The boy looked up at him from under a wide-brimmed hat that was too big. Straight, cotton-blond hair escaped from where the hat set crookedly on his head.
"I'm sorry!" he said breathlessly, worry darkening his face. "Sorry, sir. I didn't mean to run into you."
Doc smiled, trying to put the boy at ease. "It's all right. I just wondered if someone was after you."
At that moment, three more boys came pelting out into the bright light, laughing and pushing each other.
"Hey! You boys! That's enough!" A surly bear of a man followed them out, and Doc could see another three or four boys behind him in the dark recesses of the stable.
Immediately, the laughter stopped. The boys all hung their heads and stood looking down at the dusty street.
"They ain't hurtin' nothin', Mr. Buell," the livery owner said, following the man outside. "They're just boys, been ridin' a long ways and glad to be almost to the end of the trip, that's all."
"Well, they ain't at the end yet, Mr. Glass." Buell turned hard eyes toward the livery owner. "And it ain't your business, now, is it?"
Glass spat in the dirt, eyeing Buell for a long intense moment. "I reckon it ain't, Mr. Buell. But I don't tolerate mistreatment of horses or children on my property." He turned away and went back inside, leaving Buell and Doc alone with the young boys.
"Where're you headed, Mr. Buell?" Doc asked amiably, hoping to put the man in better humor again. He knew all too well that this type of man would take out his frustrations on the youngsters, and probably had been doing so for a good many miles from the looks of the boys.
"Headed over to a spread between here and Spring Branch. Owned by Mrs. Allison Taylor."
Doc looked down at the dusty road, hiding his surprise. So these were Allie's cattlemen; the orphans she was trying to make a place for in the world.
"Why she would want so many of the little bastards, I've no idea."
Doc's head came up at Buell's casual statement, his eyes icy behind his glasses. He clamped his lips together. An idea was forming in his mind, and he didn't want to give Buell the power to deny him what he hoped to do: get these boys away from the abusive man as soon as possible.
"Doc Wilkins." Doc extended his hand. "I know Mrs. Taylor," he said quietly. "She's not expecting the boys until the end of the week. You may have to set up camp outside of town for a couple of days until she's ready for them."
"Oh, no!" Buell put his beefy hands up in protest, shaking his head. "I'm not keeping these little bastards one minute longer'n necessary, mister. I was paid to deliver 'em and I shoulda asked for four times what they're payin' me."
Doc stroked his chin, peering past Buell into the interior of the stable. Ten, Allie had told him. Just ten. But by his count, there were at least fifteen. Good Lord.
"Well, Mr. Buell, I wish you good luck." He touched the brim of his hat and started to turn away. "Mrs. Taylor is pretty tough to deal with. If she said she'll accept delivery on Friday—" he broke off, shaking his head regretfully, "I'm afraid that means Friday. Not Tuesday."
"So…if she said she'd take ten of them boys, that only means ten, right?" Buell looked anxious.
"How many did you bring, Mr. Buell?" Doc bent a sharp look on him.
"Eighteen."
Doc gave him a long stare, and Buell looked away.
"Well, Hell's bells, the orphans' home is runnin' over and she said
she might take more later on, so—" he broke off. "Are you tellin' me she's going to turn down the rest of 'em? What'll I do with 'em?" His voice turned plaintive. "Lord, I can't handle draggin' half of 'em back to New Mexico Territory with me!"
Doc met his eyes. "I…might be able to help you, Mr. Buell."
"How?"
Doc took a deep breath. He was surely taking a step out on the proverbial limb. "Well, I know Mrs. Taylor, and you don't. She might take it better from me, bein' as how she's a long-time acquaintance.
"You mean – are you sayin' you'd be willin' to take these boys and deliver 'em for me?"
"Hold on, now, Mr. Buell. There's a price involved. I can't be spending a lot of valuable time delivering orphans – that's a job you were getting paid to do."
"I'll pay you, Doc! The orphans' home, they gave me a hundred dollars. That was for travel, food, renting the wagon, everything. I still have fifty dollars left."
Doc shook his head. "I couldn't take on all these boys for less than seventy-five, Mr. Buell."
"But – but you're almost there! The spread is only a couple of hours' wagon ride from here!"
Doc nodded complacently. "Yes. But Mrs. Taylor may not be willing to take the boys ahead of time. Arrangements will have to be made in that case." He looked around at the boys, none of them meeting his eyes. "These boys look hungry, Mr. Buell."
At that, one of the older orphans looked up from a mop of black hair, his odd silver eyes blazing. "We haven't eaten since yesterday at lunch."
"You shut your filthy mouth!" Buell started toward him, but Doc grabbed his upraised arm.
"There'll be no more of that, Mr. Buell. And my price just went up to eighty-five dollars."
"Eighty-five doll— Doctor, I-I can't pay that! Why that would leave me flat broke."
Doc shrugged, turning away. He saw the boys' shoulders slump in dejection, but he had to play his cards right to make this work. "I'm sorry. You'll have to take your chances with Mrs. Taylor—"
"Wait! Wait—" Buell hurried after Doc, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. "If you're willing to take possession of these boys, and be responsible for them, I guess – " he pulled out his wallet, rifling through the bills. "Here. Take it. Take them." He glared around the circle of boys as the others stepped into the daylight. His lip curled beneath his shaggy moustache. "Buncha troublemakers, all a'ya!" He shoved a handful of bills at Doc. "You can tell Mrs. Taylor I said so. And good riddance to all of you little sons-a-bitches."
Doc took the money brusquely and folded it, not bothering to count it. He slipped it into his own wallet and put it back in his pants pocket, all business now. "Where are their clothes? Their bags?"
Buell's lips drew up in a tobacco-stained snarl that passed for a smile. "Ain't got none. Ain't got nuttin' but what they got on. Bunch a dirty little beggars—"
"That's enough from you, Mr. Buell," Doc told him coldly. He was aware that the boys were gathering close to him, putting him between themselves and Buell. He glanced around at the uncertain faces. "Is this all of them?"
Buell shrugged. "Whaddaya care? If some of 'em runs off, that won't hurt Mrs. Taylor's feelin's none, I don't imagine."
Doc looked at him, disgusted. "You're quite wrong, sir." He drew himself up. "Mrs. Taylor is a kind person. She wouldn't want any of these boys to – be lost."
Buell turned to walk away. "That's your problem now, Doctor. Eighty-five dollars worth of problem. Fix it however you can."
Doc watched him, suddenly realizing his intent. "The wagon stays," Doc called after him. Buell stopped, turning slowly to look at him.
"That weren't part of the deal."
"How do you expect these boys to travel the rest of the distance?"
"I don't care. It ain't my—"
"The wagon stays."
"We'll walk," one of the boys muttered from behind him.
Doc held up a hand for silence.
Finally, Buell gave a nod. Snatching his hat from his head, he slapped it against his thigh. "All right, dammit. Keep the wagon. Take the little bas—"
"Enough!" Doc thundered, stopping Buell mid-word. He turned his back on Buell, facing the boys. The two oldest were much more than fourteen. He met the defiant silver stare of the boy who'd spoken up earlier. "Is everyone here?" he asked kindly.
The boy looked around, then nodded. "Looks that way."
Doc nodded toward the hotel. "Let's go find you boys a meal and a bath." He started toward the hotel, but the boys didn't move. They stood in a wary half-circle, eyeing him as he walked away. He turned to look back at them. "What's wrong?" He motioned for them to follow. "Come on, let's go eat—"
The older boy with the odd mercurial gaze stepped forward. "To tell you the truth, Doctor, we ain't too trusting of anyone." He glanced at where Buell stood, just inside the stable door. "You head off over to the hotel, we're gonna be walkin' the rest of the way to Mrs. Taylor's. That wagon won't be here when we get back."
"Why, you little—" Buell began. Sudden anger colored his face.
"Mr. Buell. Have you further business here?" Doc asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "If not, may I suggest that you buy yourself a horse and head back for New Mexico Territory?"
"I plan to spend the night here! Get started in the morning."
Doc's lips drew together in a grim line. He turned to the teenager. "What's your name, son?"
"Sam. Sam Jennings."
"Well, Sam," Doc said, handing him twenty-five dollars, "you're in charge – for now. You all go get some lunch, and then get started on the baths."
"But—"
Doc shook his head. "I'll see to this business about the wagon and be along, shortly, Sam. I'll need to stop at the mercantile and get some new clothes for everyone." He looked at Sam's dirty, bare feet. "Then we'll get boots. I think there'll be plenty of money for what we need to do. But we don't have a lot of time." He looked meaningfully over the rims of his glasses. "So, the sooner we get started, the better."
Sam nodded reluctantly, pocketing the money. "Let's go!" he called, turning for the hotel. "Let's go eat!"
Doc watched the boys run down the street, confident that Sam could handle them for a short time. Then, he turned back to look at Buell. "Let's you and I have a talk, Mr. Buell. Shall we?"
Chapter 13
Allie didn't turn away. "Jay has a point," she murmured. "Especially if you intend to stand by what you've told him – be the father he's dreamed of for so long." A wistful note crept into her voice.
His lips curved up in a faint grin. "Are you asking me to marry you, Allie?" He relaxed back onto the bed, grateful for the pillows at his back.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, her breathing suddenly uneven. "Yes. I guess…maybe that's exactly what I'm doing."
The hopeful longing mingled with hurt in her features when he didn't answer immediately. Couldn't she understand he was trying to protect her? He had to make things safe for her again with the townspeople of Spring Branch. How was he was going to do that? He damn sure wasn't going to allow her to see what he really felt – he couldn't fool her. When he left this time, she and Jay must be protected, no matter what the cost to himself.
"Brandon?"
As the tension ran through him, he forced his expression to remain impassive. More curtly than he'd intended, he said, "It's not so simple as you think, Allie. There are several problems with your proposition."
His casual aloofness was sharp. She recoiled, as if he'd slapped her. It cost him too, though he'd never let her know. He wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him. No one had ever cared for him – loved him – like Allie had. But she needed to face the truth.
"Did you happen to notice what color my skin is, Allie?" His voice was quiet. "I'm a half-breed. It might not mean anything to you, but I promise you, most other Anglos aren't as colorblind as you are. You'd be ostracized in polite society, wherever we lived…as would our children."
As he'd intended, those last words broug
ht her chin up in a mixture of defiance and anger. Her green eyes glittered like shards of broken glass, reflecting pieces of her shattered dreams.
He gave a lazy shrug. "The second problem is, I'm a gun hawk. You – still have a chance to marry respectably." If you move away somewhere. "As long as it's not – someone like me."
A shot of undisguised fury overshadowed the hurt in her face momentarily, but she looked down at the bed, veiling her thoughts.
He went on with relentless determination. "The third problem is the fact that I'm – baseborn." His voice was suddenly hoarse, his throat scratchy and dry. "I'm a bastard, Allie. It's no secret that my parents weren't married, and my mother was a prostitute—"
Allie shook her head, and he stopped, glad to end the elaboration on that particular aspect of their unsuitability. That one would always bother him more than either of the other two.
Slowly, Allie moved to put her right hand on his left wrist in a gentle touch. She didn't lift her head, and he wondered if she might be hiding tears. Her left hand came to his right wrist, where she gripped it with the utmost care, and he knew she was mindful of his mangled flesh and the mending bones. But when she raised her eyes to his and he felt every ounce of the languorous trust melt away.
No mercy, her look told him. She was going to be truthful, too. The emerald glare she gave him was full of raw pain, as if he'd ripped out her heart and dangled it in front of her. Her fingers tightened, curving around his darker flesh until her knuckles turned white. She moved in a catlike motion to straddle him, still gentle, but firm.
Sitting across him in a parody of lovemaking, she looked into his face as if she wanted his blood rather than his body. "Point one," she said softly, "I don't care what color you are. U kamakutu nu."
I love you, she'd said. In Comanche. He couldn't keep the surprise from his expression at her bilingual capability. Her face registered a very minute hint of smugness. "That child out there that I bought taught me everything I need to know about skin color. About equality. About prejudice and cruelty. He also taught me to speak the Comanche language quite passably."
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