The Trailrider's Fortune

by Shannah Biondine

  Maybe she'd grown too accustomed to Western ways: gritty men, cattle drives, horses, honky tonks and saloons. Kent Barlow was pure Easterner. Cultured, urbane, handsome, ever proper. He also had an illustrious career going…whereas she had absolutely nothing going. Maybe that was the problem.

  No, it wasn't. He didn't wear spurs.

  She chuckled aloud at the thought, then heard her laughter dissolve into something closer to a sob. She buried her face closer against the white cotton linens. The real problem was Kent didn't own a saddle horse with the world's crudest moniker. He didn't wear a charcoal gray cowboy hat. He caused scars with his scalpels, but he didn't have one. He didn't drawl.

  He wasn't Rafe.

  She opened her eyes hours later. Fingers of gray light poked between the shutters. She'd favored sleeping until noon before Dodge City, when she'd shared a brass bed with an amorous gunfighter. Now she often woke at dawn to find she'd been dreaming about the panel crib again.

  "Leave me alone, Rafe," she whispered. "God knows I shouldn't have, but I did love you." She rose and opened the shutters. She gazed out the window at nothing in particular. "And it's a curse on both of us, because no matter how hard I try to stop, it seems hopeless. Damn my soul, I still do."

  * * *

  Sparkle chatted nonstop, emulating Joe Brooks on the stagecoach, though she doubted Jace could hear her. He lay motionless except for his shallow breathing, beyond comprehension, but it made her feel better to sit beside him each day. To ruffle his tawny curls, hold his limp fingers. To watch and hope.

  Jace was still like a brother to her. Today she needed to tell him what was on her mind.

  "You've got a fine doctor. You don't know it, but he's been calling on me. Majesta said you'd fretted I'd never take a husband. That's silly. Of course I will, someday. Maybe in the next year or two, if Dr. Barlow keeps courting me. I'd have to consider it, wouldn't I? Settling down with him as definite merit. I'd be living right here in town. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

  "You and Majesta would have your privacy, but we'd see more of each other than we have in recent years. I can't as yet claim to care for him. But I don't have much sense when it comes to matters of the heart. I seem to love all the wrong—"

  She stopped, pausing to wipe her cheek and blow her nose before she asked the next question. "Do you think it's appropriate for me to consider the doctor? People wed for lots of reasons, like stability. Maybe I could learn to love Dr. Barlow. Do you think so? I wish you'd answer me, Jace. You don't know how silly I feel, sitting here talking to myself."

  "Then why don't you just shut pan, Sparkle Cummings? If you didn't rattle on, maybe a body could get a word in."

  "Jace?" Her head shot up. Her hanky fluttered to the floor. "Jace, did you say something? What did you call me?"

  Blue eyes cracked open. The voice came again, weak but lucid. "Sparkle Cummings. That's who you are, aren't you? You're the only gal I know with those funny-colored eyes."

  "That's who I was, a long time ago," she answered carefully. "When we lived in Texas. You remember Texas? The name of our town?"

  "Fire Thorn. What's wrong with you? You act like…Lord, but you look weird. Kind of bumpy in spots. You were always skinny as a rail."

  "Yes," she laughed, tears of elation filling her eyes. "I'm bumpy in a few places now. I need to go tell someone you're awake. Don't worry. You're in a Kansas City hospital, but you're all right. I'll be back."

  She skidded into the hall, shouting for Dr. Barlow. A nurse pointed in the direction of the intersecting corridor just as he headed toward Jace's room. "Looking for me, sweetheart?"

  She didn't even acknowledge the endearment. "He's awake! And he remembers. He sounds a little confused, though. He recognized me, but I'm not sure he realizes we've both grown up."

  Kent took her by the elbow and smiled. "It's not unheard of, gaps in a patient's memory after some trauma like this. He had a particular amnesia before. We'll ease him into the present, and give him whatever time he needs to adjust." He escorted her into the room and grinned at his alert patient. "Good afternoon, Mr. LaFleur. Your sister says you're feeling much better."

  "My sister?" Jace snorted, frowning. "I don't have any sister, and my name's Jace Flowers. She's Sparkle Cummings, my best friend. But you got to watch her, she likes pranks. This time she's come up with a real frolic. My sister."

  Sparkle ignored the ominous expression on the doctor's face and spoke to the man in the bed. "Oh Jace, I knew you'd come around! I prayed and prayed that someday you'd remember Fire Thorn and our past. The tarot cards said to have patience, that eventually you would."

  "Oh yes. Tarot. Eliza Cummings and her funny cards. How is she, and where's Mother?" His face clouded. "Father's…gone, isn't he?"

  She glanced uncertainly at Kent. He gave her a small nod of encouragement. She reached for Jace's hand. "I'm afraid so. He's been gone for years. That night in the Fire Thorn cemetery was a decade ago. We've both grown up. Our parents are gone, but you have a wife. A need to go get her. She'll be thrilled."

  "A wife? Ten years?" Jace sounded incredulous. "Sparkle, my God, that would make me…"

  "Going on twenty-three in a couple months, and still my very dearest friend," Sparkle replied as she bent to kiss his cheek. "Dr. Barlow will tell you whatever else you need to know. I'm going to get Majesta."

  Jace grabbed her hand tighter. "Majesta? What kind of name is that?"

  "I don't know," Sparkle said, shrugging. "Majestic?" She couldn't resist a teasing smile. "It fits her."

  "Oh, heavens. What's she like?"

  "Fairly tall with light-colored hair. She's bright and proper, and…" she hesitated, still finding it hard to admit this, "perfect for you. But your mother changed your family name after your father died. Your last name—sorry, our last name's LaFleur now. It's French for—"

  "Flower," he supplied, giving Sparkle a look of trepidation. "Majesta sounds too fancy to be married to a plain old Flower. Guess I ought to leave the French surname."

  "You and Majesta can decide. I've kept it all these years. I love you, Jace."

  * * *

  "You might have warned me he wasn't actually your brother," Kent chided. They sat in the parlor before a low fire. "You can't imagine what an unpleasant surprise it was, to have my patient vehemently denying his own name and relationship to a significant person. For a second, I was afraid we'd cut out his sensibilities along with the bullet. That would have been some tragedy. We'd already disposed of the slug. It wasn't as though we could put it back."

  "Oh Kent," Sparkle laughed. "You're incorrigible."

  "As are you, young lady. You should have confided in me. I thought we were closer than that."

  Sparkle took a deep breath. "I swore an oath to Jace's mother never to tell. I was orphaned, Kent. She could have left me to make my own way, just another guttersnipe. She didn't, she took me in. Calling me Jace's sister was her idea. She claimed me as her own in exchange for my silence. I never broke my oath, even after her death. She wanted Jace to recall on his own."

  "Perhaps you'll make me a promise too, though not such a solemn one as that. When Jace is back at home and things settle down, will you promise to spend all your free time in my company, Miss LaFleur."

  "Actually, I've taken too much time off lately. I should find a position somewhere. Jace has a modest trust fund, but the only way the household managed before was with me gainfully employed."

  He nodded. "Majesta mentioned you were a teacher. I have a friend on the local school board. I could put in a good word for you."

  "No. I mean, I…I don't think I want to be surrounded by children any longer," she blurted.

  "I understand," he smiled, patting her hand. "It makes you long for your own. That's why I don't work the children's ward, if I can avoid it. I've got a soft spot for them. Plan to have a dozen or so of my own someday."

  A dozen or so? Sparkle swallowed, calculating. His wife would have to spend…nine years of her life pregna
nt. Nine years bloated and waddling? Not her. She'd have to temper his views on that subject.

  "But Kent, you're such a busy man, with a demanding schedule. A large family is…well, a man would have to summon a great deal of fortitude and…" She colored, trying to think of how to put it delicately.

  "Income?"

  "Inspiration…to father twelve children. Not to mention tremendous patience and energy to rear them all properly."

  "I'd find the time and forbearance." He raised her fingers to his lips. "With a woman like you, inspiration and energy pose no hardship. Remembering I'm a gentleman is much harder than finding myself…inspired."

  Oh God. He'd grasped what she was hinting at, all too eagerly. Now she was sorry she'd ventured into such dangerous conversational waters. She purposely yawned and got to her feet. "I'm sorry, Kent. This has been quite a day. I'm exhausted, elated, grateful for your medical skills. However, I also need to get some sleep."

  He drew her into his arms and kissed her. "Most inspirational," he mumbled, smiling as he stepped out into the cool evening air.

  Knowing what genuine "inspiration" was, the memory of lying nude in Rafe's arms, reflecting on things they'd done, forbidden fruit she'd tasted, she wanted nothing less and no one else but Rafe.

  She wasn't sure she could compromise and devote her life to Kent. Many women would consider him ideal, yet, as Majesta noted, each woman needed certain things from her mate. Intelligence, stability, a sense of humor were all important to Sparkle. So was having her bed sheets on fire.

  And the man who could set them ablaze was gone. The man she dreamed of kissing in Kent's place, the man she fantasized was touching her, bringing her to a shattering climax—

  Rafe was gone. She was no one's woman now.

  CHAPTER 18

  Travis wondered whose tail was on fire. Someone was kicking up dust along the drive from Crockhead's main gates. He'd put up supplies for the winter, brought back two loads of hay the day before yesterday, didn't owe any merchants on his accounts. He couldn't imagine why anyone would be in such a hurry to see him. Nor did he recognize the fella bearing down on the ranch house full chisel.

  Behind the stranger, through the haze of billowing dust, came a familiar star sorrel. The horse's rider was slung crosswise over the saddle. Rafe.

  Travis' rifle somehow appeared in his hands. He had no awareness of having crossed the porch to get it. But whoever the bastard was who'd shot Rafe Conley, if he had balls enough to show up here to dump the body, he was someone to be reckoned with. Travis wasn't sure he'd let the man live long enough to turn his horse back around. Or maybe he'd let the son-of-a-bitch think he was in the clear, then drop him just as he reached the main gate. Shoot him in the back, the way he'd probably shot Rafe. The way Travis and Miranda always feared he'd be killed.

  "Ain't a goner," the stranger shouted. "Just passed out. Got hit a couple days ago. Bullet passed clean through. Bleeding stopped, but he needs a doctor."

  By now three ranch hands had ridden toward the house, alerted by riders approaching. Travis turned to two of them. "Put Rafe in the back bedroom." He barely glanced at the third man. "Randy, fetch the doc."

  Travis turned to the stranger. "You, come inside." It wasn't an invitation of welcome. Travis kept his rifle pointed at the man's chest.

  Moments later, Travis sat drinking strong coffee at his kitchen table with the fella, listening to his tale. The man said his name was Driscoll. Said he and Rafe and another man—the half-breed friend of Rafe's Travis knew, Sam Parker—had been ambushed outside of Big Bow. There was a pregnant silence when Driscoll finished his story, until boots entering the parlor brought Travis to his feet.

  "You move from that chair, Driscoll, you'll regret it." Travis accompanied the doctor to look at Rafe.

  Driscoll was permitted to leave an hour later. He rode away wondering if he'd ever lay eyes on Rafe Conley again. The man had a real talent with weapons. And a daunting reputation that Driscoll fully believe the gunslinger had earned. But the past few months, it seemed he'd lost his edge. Hard to imagine. Fella had taken out Ned Slocumb. Rafe hadn't only fulfilled his guarantee to the cattle baron who'd hired them, but done it with his lady card-reader half naked in the outlaw's arms.

  Now Rafe had taken a bullet himself and lost his back-up man. Driscoll was no slouch with a six-gun, but he lacked Conley's lightning speed or Parker's instincts. Driscoll had thrown in with Parker two years ago, ended up riding with Conley a lot of the time. Which was fine by him. The three of them had fit like pegs in grooves, made real money. Taken out some vicious criminals, shared some good times.

  Hell, just a week before, they'd been drinking at a rickety plank bar listening to Sam Parker tell his bad Injun jokes. They'd slept under the stars, shared a campfire, each trusting the other two with his life. Tight. Solid companions, a working team.

  Now everything had gone to shit.

  The doctor said Conley's wound was badly festered. He'd lanced it, drained the putrescence, smeared some ointment over it. Driscoll knew as well as the doctor did—though neither said a word to Conley's brother—sometimes the poison was already in a man's blood and draining the wound couldn't save him.

  Driscoll rode out of Colorado alone. Worn out, busted, headed for Texas. Leaving one riding partner behind in a shallow grave; the other, maybe already half dead.

  * * *

  Travis stood beside the bed, staring down at his unconscious older brother. Feeling a bit haggard himself as he wiped a palm over his stubbled cheek, Travis grimly realized he hadn't used a razor in two days. Or slept. Since late Tuesday when the stranger rode in, all he'd done was change his clothes, slurp bitter coffee, and prowl this small room while either the doctor or the foreman's wife fussed over Rafe.

  Well, he'd done one other thing. Sent a wire summoning Miranda. He'd hated scaring her so badly, especially with her being in the family way. And he'd questioned the wisdom and necessity of his actions, even as he ordered the telegram sent. If Rafe woke up tomorrow, he'd cuss a blue streak at learning Travis had gotten Miranda involved. But if he didn't wake up…

  Travis couldn't think about that. Rafe would come around. He was too damned ornery to die.

  He hadn't when some outlaw tried to carve him up like a side of roast beef. He'd laughed over the shot he'd taken in his upper arm last year. Rafe had been nicked by more bullets than a practice tin can, yet he'd always come through. If a ten-inch Bowie hadn't sent him to meet his Maker, how could a simple little rifle slug that didn't even stay inside him possibly do it?

  "You die on me, Rafe," Travis warned aloud, stalking the perimeter of the silent bed, "I swear I'll never forgive you. You die on me, I'll curse your soul to eternal hellfire every day for the rest of my natural life. Don't forget, I'm younger than you, Little Brother…And you are the little brother. Look at you! Puny, all pasty. Look like some damned plucked chicken folks wouldn't bother to even set to boil."

  No response.

  "I'd get up and punch my brother right in the face for a crack like that if I was layin' there. You gonna let me get away with that? What happened, rifle bullet knock all the piss out of you?"

  No reply, just uneven breathing.

  "You die on me before Miranda gets here to see you one last time, I'll go out and shoot that damned horse of yours. I'll come after you when I die. Find your miserable ass down in Hades and drag it to barn dances every night. I swear I will. You die on me, I'll tell every man on this spread how you and Rannie had tea parties and you sipped lemonade like a girl. You give up and die, I'm never forgivin' anything you ever did…that includes breakin' Ma's heart. You worthless, ignorant mule. Never listen to no one, never bothered that we love you. You ought to die and end the damned suspense. Go on, see if I care!"

  Rafe never moved.

  A choking sob echoed in the small bedchamber. "Please, Lord, oh please…Don't let him die. Don't let my big brother die."

  * * *

  Rafe heard her slip into the room
and come to the bed. He'd been lying still, burning with heat, wanting her worse than he could remember since the very first time. She didn't say anything. Didn't reach for him or say his name in that certain way she had that made his gut clench and his manhood stiffen. He was already so hot, he had to be hard as an oak limb. Damn, what was she waiting for? Didn't she know how he wanted her? He tried to move his lips.

  "Rafe."

  Was she crying? Maybe she had a cold in her turned-up nose. She was sniffling. Was that why she hadn't curled up against him? Even when he rolled away, she'd snuggle up close when she thought he was sleeping. It was one of the things he loved about her. The way she always knew he didn't mean to shun her. It was just hard for him not to show too much sometimes.

  Especially when he looked into her eyes.

  The color had struck him that very first day, along with the crackling life in them. But now that he really knew her, her eyes affected him for a whole different reason.

  She watched while they made love. Watched him move on top of her, watched him lick and suckle. Most gals closed their eyes when a fella took them. Sparkle did too…but not until just seconds before she came.

  It was like a dare. Let's see if you're man enough, Rafe. Make me close my eyes.

  He always could, but he had to get her to the very edge. So close to climaxing himself, he could hardly hold back. Then those aquamarine pools would go dark, the lids would squeeze shut. She'd begin to quiver and gasp his name. Seeing her, hearing her…knowing he'd given her such intense pleasure, he'd lose control. Gratefully. Explode deep inside her, where she was hottest. Unbelievably tight and burning. Like his skin now.

  "Too hot," he mumbled. A cool wetness engulfed his brow. He felt her fingers. "Darlin'?" He willed his leaden eyelids to raise a notch. Through slits he saw it wasn't Sparkle, but Rannie, weeping.