The Wrangler

by Jillian Hart

  "No, Kit." His dear Kit. "This isn't a dream. I wish to hell it was. When I was nineteen, I was found guilty and convicted of rape and murder. The girl was my boss's daughter."

  "I heard she was fourteen years old." The sheriff towered over him, gun resting on his knee, eyes razor-edged. "I heard she was tortured, mutilated and raped before she died. Now, after seeing how close you got to Kit, maybe a little vigilante justice wouldn't be a bad thing."

  This was it, Dakota thought. Her denial was over, and she would hate him now, hate him with a power that would destroy all they had shared. All the love, the happiness, the whispered pleasure they'd given each other in the night was gone, destroyed, as if it had never been. There was no saving it.

  It was kinder to her to walk away.

  His feet didn't want to go, but he made them. His soul hammered with pain as he stumbled down the lane. His dreams faded with every step he took. He'd only been fooling himself. Dreams of breaking the mustangs together, of her as his wife, of little children running around underfoot, their laughter as merry as lark song.

  Well, they were over now. He didn't know if he could live with the pain he'd caused Kit.

  Maybe he couldn't.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A fourteen year-old. The sheriff's declaration haunted her with every breath, with every waking step through the day. Her heart had shattered watching Dakota walk down the road and out of sight, never to come back.

  Good riddance, she should have thought. But nothing, not even common sense, could penetrate the tidal waves of grief and shock. She tended the horses with Fred and Red's help, she watched the mustangs mill around their enclosure scenting the wild winds. Blue knew what was wrong and nibbled at her collar and tried stealing her hat, but not even his love could give her solace.

  She kept watching the road, wanting to wake up from the nightmare. But the waking day continued, proving once and for all it was no dream. Her heart hurt like an open wound when she and Red took the wagon to Gold Dust City for more lumber, when she'd returned home to catch Honey watching the road waiting for him to return, when she tried to explain to Fred that Dakota had to leave. Heaven knew, she could not bear to tell him why.

  Tortured, mutilated and raped before she died, the sheriff had said.

  The girl had been Mindy's age.

  Denial roared through her hard enough to weaken her knees, and she grabbed the doorframe to keep from falling. The wind gently puffed the canvas sides of the house, and she remembered helping hold the end posts while Dakota hammered. Laughing, sun shining, he'd been six feet of solid masculinity, tempting her to love him.

  Now she watched the sun slanting low through the window, casting evening shadows across her ranch, and tried to make the sun go down in her heart.

  "You miss him, don't you?" Mindy swiped the last of the crumbs from the plank table Dakota and Fred had built one evening from lumber scraps.

  "I miss him, but this is for the best." She remembered the care he'd taken to show the boy how to plan and measure, combine the pieces of wood and construct. It had been an insignificant moment in time, nothing incredibly special, just Dakota being himself. Kind, easy going, helpful. A moment in time, thirty minutes later the table was standing.

  Now the memory clung to her with importance. Dakota was all she could see. He'd been instrumental in the house construction, in laying the canvas roof, in cutting prairie grass for the mattress ticks.

  "Whatever he did wrong, maybe you could forgive him." Mindy dowsed the rag in the dishpan and wrung it out. "He's devoted to you. He's worked hard here and never wanted a dime. You should see the way he looks at you. Like you're a great treasure."

  "It's something that can't be fixed." When I was nineteen, I was found guilty, he'd said.

  "I'm real sorry."

  Her throat closed up, keeping her from speaking. She grabbed the dishpan and hauled it outside. She tossed the water into the field, watching it fall in a sparkling arc.

  "Kit." Red waved to catch her attention. "Wanted to check and make sure it's still fine by you that I head to town?"

  "You're off work for the day." She set the dishpan in front of the door. "Your time is your own."

  "It doesn't feel quite right leaving you by your lonesome to hold down the fort." Red ran a hand through his tangle of hair. "It feels unsettled out there. I don't know why Outlaw left, but he ought to have stayed. He had a way about him that let ya know he could handle anything that came his way."

  A knife to her heart. She bit her lip to keep from agreeing. Dakota's confession rang through her head, ringing with truth. I'm a convict. I was found guilty.

  It was the truth. He'd confirmed it, he hadn't denied it. He'd walked away like a man being found guilty of a crime, with his head down and grim acceptance.

  Why couldn’t she make her heart believe it?

  "I have the Winchester." She shaded her eyes with one hand. "Tannen doesn't scare me anymore. We'll be fine."

  "Okay, then. Guess I'll ride out." Red donned his hat. "My brother might be up with a fella from Gold Dust City. We all have a poker match every few weeks. I can't afford to play tonight, but I'd sure like to see him."

  "Then you have to go. Have a nice time."

  "Will do, but I'll be back late tonight. To keep an eye on things." Red tipped his hat and left.

  The soft evening light clung to the land. The prairie shone like new gold for as far as the eye could see, the pearled blue sky shot with golden clouds.

  "Hey, Kit." Fred tromped up from playing in the creek. His bare feet were flecked with bits of mud and grass. "I made sure the water tubs were full."

  "Looks like you had a fun time doing it." She tugged on his Stetson's brim. "I thought we could read more tonight. We need to find out what happens to Pip when he goes to London."

  "We sure do. I wish Pa was here to read to us." Fred blew out a sigh, wrestling with his feelings. "Are you sure Dakota can't come back?"

  "Yes." Those words pierced like a knife. "Dry off your feet before you go in the house, and we'll get started."

  Fred obliged by wiping his feet in the grass. She stood a moment in the quiet of the yard. It seemed empty without a certain man. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t accept the truth?

  A curious nicker penetrated her thoughts. Blue stared at her at the end of his picket line, head up, ears pricked with a question arching his horsy brows.

  "I'll be out later, handsome," she promised. Tonight she would be putting him in the stable alone, feeding the saddle horses grain and shutting them up safe. It was a routine she was going to have to get used to again. There would be no Dakota to laugh with, talk with, to share tender intimacies in the night.

  Blue's eyes stayed worried, but he lowered his head to graze. Honey stared down the road with longing in her eyes. Jack looked up, to watch, too.

  The sight of them killed her. She squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around her middle. She suspected Dakota would leave one day, but she'd never guessed it would have been like this. With lies, disillusionment and betrayal. She'd thought he was a better man than that.

  "Okay, my feet are cleaned off." Fred bounced into the house. "I'll go find the book!"

  "I'll be right in." She was grateful they'd been able to save many possessions before the fire had engulfed the cabin. Their motley collection of used books had been some of the first items she'd rescued. Tonight she needed to get lost in the world of Dickens, to forget herself. Maybe then she could find a way to cope.

  The horses nickered, heads up, and Honey danced in place. She heard it too, the patter of boot steps. Not Dakota, she pleaded, her eyes stinging. Watching him go had been tough enough. Having to send him away would be worse.

  "That can't be you, can it, Little Katherine?" A quiet, mousy man headed toward her, dusty from a long walk. He wore tan trousers, a tan shirt, and a brown leather vest. He had a battered wide-brimmed hat, thin blonde hair and Pa's eyes.

  "Uncle Howie." She blin
ked in surprise. She hadn't seen him in almost a decade. "What are you doing here? No, wait. The sheriff's letter."

  "I came as soon as I got it." He set down his satchel in the shade of the house. "Never been out of St. Louis. Believe me, this has been an adventure. What Hubert was thinking leaving you behind, I can't say. You're just a little thing."

  "Not anymore." She was a woman in her own right, a landowner and a rancher. Things she only used to dream of. "Pa felt hemmed in here, but we didn't want to leave. You know how he is."

  "I do. That letter got me worried, but it looks as if you're doing fine."

  "We are." She gave him a hug, her kind uncle. It was nice of him to come.

  "Is that Baby Fred?" Howie swept off his hat, his blue eyes welling with happiness. "Why, you're nearly grown. A real man."

  "I'm a wrangler. I already know how to round-up horses and how to give 'em grain and friend 'em." Fred came running. "You really did look like Uncle Howie, Kit. Except he's taller. And except for the mustache."

  "I know." She really was regretting the mustache. "It's a long story, Uncle. Fred, why don't you take his bag? I'll make you supper."

  "Why I sure would appreciate that." Howie's face was pinched with exhaustion. "All the places to eat back in town looked a little wild, so I didn't risk it. I wasn't sure how they would take to a man like me."

  "I'll make you a bear meat sandwich." Mindy appeared at the doorway, shy and pretty. "Hi, Uncle Howie. Have you ever had bear meat?"

  "Can't say that I have. Look at you all grown up."

  Mindy blushed prettily. "We've got some beans still warm from supper and a few buttermilk biscuits left. Sit down and let me get it for you."

  "Why, that would be real nice, my dear." Howie waited for Kit to lead the way inside, but she shook her head.

  "You go on in. I need a moment."

  "All right. I'd sure like to hear about how you did all this." Howie gestured to the house, half built, and the tall fencing holding in the mustang herd. He let Fred take his hand and haul him inside.

  There was that feeling again, like she was being watched. Her stomach balled up. Unsettled, she itched for her revolver. With a Colt at her hip, she might not feel quite as vulnerable. The slanting light and the elongated shadows across the prairie could hide any number of dangers. But with the larks singing, the sparrows hopping and a deer grazing nearby while her spotted fawns frolicked, it wasn't a predator of the four-legged kind.

  Was it Tannen? Nothing looked unusual on the distant rise where she and Dakota had found those tracks. Dakota. Her pulse stuttered over his name.

  You're alone now, Kit, she told herself. He wasn't who you thought him to be. Accept it.

  She'd given her heart and her virginity to the wrong sort of man. Sorrow and regret burned behind her eyes, but she blinked them away. Remembering Tannen's threat, she crossed the yard, intending to put Blue and the other two horses into the barn early. Better safe than sorry.

  * * *

  Dakota sat watchful in the shadows, his Colt strapped to his thigh, his Winchester by his side. The heat of the day gave way to cool. He could feel autumn in the air. A quick wind whispered in the grasses and an owl hooted somewhere near the creek. His stomach rumbled, he'd barely moved since morning when he'd left Kit and her tears to settle here.

  It was the right thing to do. He couldn't walk away, not until he knew she was safe. He took Tannen's threats seriously. Kit may hate him—she'd probably let go of her denial by now, but that wouldn't stop him from protecting her.

  A faint blur of calico and blond braids caught his attention down below. Her gait subdued, her head down, she knelt to untie Blue's picket line. The big red stallion ambled over to her, lipping her hair, stealing her hat, likely trying to make her smile.

  Dakota couldn't see her face, but he knew she wasn't smiling. He'd hurt her. He'd done the one thing he swore he wouldn’t. He'd held a dream, loving her, in his hand. For one moment, he'd wanted her so much he talked himself into thinking it could last.

  Pain drilled through him like a thousand bullets. He was to blame. He was at fault. He'd lost everything before and it hadn't hurt like this. Seeing her blew apart the defenses he'd put up around his heart, and he hurt all over again.

  He rubbed his neck, realizing it was tingling. He sat up straight, scanned the peaceful prairie. Larks lifted in sudden flight, rising from a faraway draw and into the sky painted with golds and purples. He trained his eyes there and waited.

  A faint nicker of a horse sailed up from below. Blue blew out a breath of air and the clomp of his hooves echoed. Kit was too far away to hear her voice, but he knew she would be talking away to her horse, her hand on his neck, leading him into the stable. A little grain, some hay and a lot of love later, she'd be back out to bring in one of the other horses. He resisted the urge to move closer for a better look.

  There she was again. He sat unmoving, watching her breeze into view, charm Jack with a pat and a smile and lead the gelding to his stall. She returned to bring Honey in. Minutes passed. Maybe twenty. Did he see a shadow move in the shadowed draw? He couldn't be sure.

  A deer and her twin fawns bolted away, leaping into the tall grasses and disappearing in a blink. As if she'd sensed something there, too.

  He grabbed his Winchester, checked the cartridge and moved in. The sun sank low behind him, scattering the last rays of daylight across the prairie in a crescendo of brightness that hurt the eye and when it waned left the darkness of dusk.

  The shadow moved, too. It separated from the twilight and slipped across the crest of the same rise he'd spotted the tracks on. The gusting wind rattled the tinder-dry grasses and hid the sound of his movements as he sprinted, crouched low, clinging to the shadows. Gun in hand, he kept going as low and as fast as he could, shielded by the last dregs of sunset. Three men stood on the rise ahead of him. All armed.

  He was outgunned.

  He had a partial view of the house down below, where lamplight shone through the windows. Kit must be inside with her family and the man she'd greeted with a hug. He had to be a relative, maybe even Howie, since the sheriff had written to him. At least she was safe indoors. He only wished he'd been able to get wood walls up before he left.

  Rifle loaded and ready, he moved forward. The twilight deepened as night took over the prairie. He used it to his advantage, moving in on the men silhouetted on the crest who passed something between them. Looked like a flask.

  "Guess that does it." A man's voice—maybe Cliff the foreman's—sounded muffled, hard to hear as the wind snatched his words and carried them away.

  "We did as you said, boss." Another hired hand. He took the flask—no, it was too big for a flask—and upended it in the grass. "This is all of it. Are you sure you want to do this?"

  "I'm sure. Let's see her hold on after this." Tannen's voice. The scrape and flash of a match coming to life between his fingertips. The flame danced and writhed on the hard wind.

  As he jogged closer, he smelled it. Kerosene. The gusts would carry flames down to the unsuspecting house. And Kit...fierce protective urges roared through him.

  "You drop it, and you die." Feet braced, he aimed straight at Tannen's heart. "Go ahead, give me a reason to pull this trigger. I'd welcome it."

  "Outlaw, is that you?" Tannen squinted into the dark. Judging by the set of his face he wanted nothing more than to go for the Colt holstered at his hip. "You and I have a score to settle."

  "Blow out the match, and we'll settle it." Dakota gritted his teeth, keeping his eye on the two hired men. "Cliff, don't even try. Draw, and I'll shoot your boss dead. If I go, then I'm taking him with me."

  "At ease, Cliff," Tannen barked, moving his fingers back on the match stick. "Outlaw is sweet on little Kit. That always makes a man weak. Watch."

  The match tumbled to the ground, hit the grass and ignited with a sudden flare. Fire snaked along the crest, fuel driving the flames higher in a sizzling whoosh and crackle. He saw Kit's dreams going up in
smoke. He saw danger to her. His first instinct wasn't to shoot but to think of her.

  Big mistake. He realized it the moment he saw Tannen draw. He pulled the trigger, knowing it was too late. Fire flashed from the muzzle in the dark, the gun's kick sent him back a step, and he felt the bullet tear through his ribcage. His vision went black, he willed it back. His knees buckled, but he stood firm and saw Tannen hit the ground, his Colt tumbling into the dark. Backlit by the fire, he lay on the ground, writhing. Blood gleamed black on his shirt.

  "You're next." He stared down the barrel of Cliff's revolver. "It's your choice."

  Cliff lowered his gun and holstered it. He knelt by his boss, who was cursing in pain and anger.

  Dakota spotted the gleam of Tannen's gun, retrieved it, and was relieved to see both hired men take off in the dark. Guess they weren't a threat any longer.

  A column of smoke rose black against the horizon, blotting out the first stars of the night. A furious tangle of red and orange flames slithered down the slope, driven by a fast wind. Red embers and glowing ash fell like snowflakes, mixing with smoke so thick he couldn't see the house. Wherever the embers landed, they ignited.

  "Hurry!" Kit's voice rose up on the other side of the wildfire. "Mindy! Fred! Hurry!"

  A piece of ash landed on the grass in front of him and he stomped it out. His legs were water. The front of his shirt was wet. Blood, he realized. He tossed down his rifle and stumbled toward the fire.

  "I heard gunshots," Fred's shout sounded distant over the growing roar of the fire.

  It fed, growing like a monster in the dark. Rising up to spew more flames and smoke, undulating down to feed and writhe across the grass.

  "It doesn't matter," came Kit's answer. "Put out the fire. Like this."

  "It's moving too fast," a man shouted. "We aren't going to be able to stop it."

  "We don't have a choice." Whap, went the gunnysack as she beat it against the ground. Whap, whap, and the spot fire died, puffing ghostly smoke. She dunked the sack in a dishpan full of water and attacked a flame head on.

  "Fred, help me clear this grass." Howie moved like a ghost in the thick smoke, a shovel in hand. "Hurry!"