The Accidental Guardian

by Mary Connealy

  “You can’t go.” Trace reached across from his horse and caught her reins. He pulled both animals to a stop.

  That distracted her from her inner talk, goading herself into going with those folks.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too late in the season. That trail could snow shut right over your head.” He angled his horse around so that he faced west and she east. He could look right into her eyes this way.

  “I’ll tell them on the train to push hard.”

  “You might run right back into those outlaws like you did before. You and Gwen and the children could be killed.”

  “I’ll be fine. You’re The Guardian, remember?”

  “Of course I remember I’m The Guardian.”

  “Now that you know the outlaws are active again, you will protect the wagon train, and me in it.”

  “I’m going to stop them if I can, but what if I fail?” He reached now for her hand, white-knuckled on the saddle horn.

  “You won’t.”

  “Well, then what about the children? What about their uncle? You wrote to him.”

  “I’ll write him again and tell him where to come.”

  “What about . . . ?” Trace dropped her hand and dragged his hat off his head. He hung on to the brim as if the poor hat were making an escape. “What about me? I thought we were going to spend the winter . . .” He jerked one shoulder. “What about me?”

  The hurt in his voice was her undoing, especially since, darn it, she didn’t want to leave him, either. “What about my newspaper?”

  Trace looked up, and his eyes were warm and kind. How could he consider himself cold-blooded when he was so decent?

  “I’m wondering if you even really want to run a newspaper.”

  She scowled at him. “Of course I do.”

  “You’ve spoken often about how hard it was to do. I have no doubt you’re able, but think of the jobs you had. Writing stories, selling ads, running the printing press, collecting on money owed you, paying out money you owed others. You had a paper route. You had to attend events and report on them. I’m sure you’re good at it, but do you really enjoy it? Would you pick that to do for the rest of your life if it wasn’t the only job you’ve ever had, the only work you know?”

  Deb opened her mouth to yell at him. It was insulting. Of course she wanted to—wanted to— Her heart pounded so hard she could hear it. She wondered if he heard it.

  He went on quietly, “It’s in some ways as if the father who pushed you into that job at such a young age is still with you, still pushing. You don’t have to run a newspaper if you don’t want it, Deb. You can choose a life for yourself.”

  “Let’s ride on.”

  Trace didn’t let go of her reins right away.

  “I need to think. Is it possible that what I’ve thought of as showing the world I did everything on my own is letting my father rule me from the grave?”

  “You can have all the time you need to think, but don’t fetch yourself a ride on that wagon train until your thinking’s done. Springtime will be soon enough, surely.” Trace released her reins, and they turned their horses so they were riding along again.

  Nodding, Deb tried to hide her relief. She really didn’t want to leave him, not so soon. “Yes, you’re right. I can wait for spring.”

  Just saying the words lifted a weight off her heart.

  “There’ll be plenty of room for you. I expect by the time we quit this chasing around looking for outlaws, the bunkhouse will be finished. The trails will be snowed shut, and the men and I will have long idle hours after the evening meal. We could make a gathering out of reading most every night.”

  “I’d like that. Where are we going now?”

  “Today we’ll reach the north shore of Lake Tahoe. I’ll take you up a narrow trail to see it. There’s a likely spot to look down from one of the mountains that rim the lake. We can’t dawdle, though. I hope to get home today yet.”

  “Let’s pick up the pace then so we end up at home all the faster.” Deb kicked her horse into a gallop, and she and Trace rode in silence for a long stretch.

  Trace felt an itch at the back of his neck. For the first time he wished he’d brought Wolf along. But he’d taken him to Sacramento, and neither his dog nor the people there were one speck happy about it.

  He saw Black’s ears twitch. A twig snapped. Nope, not a twig. A gun being cocked.

  Trace yanked on the reins and crashed Black into Deb’s horse, veering them straight toward the woods. A bullet whistled so close, Trace could feel the heat of it.

  “Kick your feet out of the stirrups!”

  He felt more than saw Deb obey and launched himself off his horse. He tackled her off the back of hers, fell with her to the ground, and rolled hard up against a huge stone.

  Another bullet split the air. Black reared. The mare whinnied, then both horses tore off at a full gallop. Trace used the horses’ frantic bodies as a barrier and moved.

  He shoved Deb down flat on her belly, then surged forward, crawling on his elbows and pulling her along with him. A bullet pinged off a boulder just inches above their heads.

  Trace got them behind a man-high rock just as another bullet shredded the leaves over their heads, then more hit alongside the granite barrier.

  Three guns firing. Three men. The number of murdering outlaws they were hunting. Somehow they’d caught up to the only witness.

  “Trace—”

  “Shhh!” Trace spoke barely louder than a breath. “Stay with me. Stay low.”

  He headed up the mountain, directly away from the boulder, and dodged between two trees that made an almost solid wall. He snaked along, hunkered down but moving. Deb kept up, silent but for her running footsteps. He could even tell she was trying to make her feet land quietly. She always did her best not to slow him down.

  He heard the bullets firing back near the boulder. He heard shouts that weren’t words he could make out, but they sounded like the gunmen were on the move. Thinking their prey was pinned down.

  A game trail barely big enough for a rattlesnake popped up in front of Trace. He turned at a right angle and plunged down the almost invisible path in the direction his horse had gone. Branches grabbed at them, evergreens clawing at their clothes. Trace did his best to shield Deb while racing on.

  Black would come hunting Trace at some point. No idea about the mare, but horses were herd animals so she might stick with the stallion.

  The bullets stopped. Trace heard quiet talk. Still no words were loud enough to make out, but the men were talking. They sounded like they’d reached the boulder. They’d made a run on that hiding place and saw no one there.

  Any halfway-decent tracker would be hard on the trail Trace and Deb couldn’t help but leave. He picked up the pace, stood straighter, sure now they’d gone deep enough into the woods not to be visible from where the outlaws were down on the trail.

  How to stop leaving tracks? Trace studied the ground as they ran. The game trail he’d taken was so narrow they might just miss it.

  “We’ve got to get some space between us and them,” he whispered to Deb.

  Connected only by their clinging hands, he felt her run faster.

  Gunfire erupted behind them. Had they found the trail, or were they just blasting away at the area where they’d last seen their prey?

  Driving forward, he watched for any opportunity to leave the trail in a way that wasn’t clearly noticeable.

  Then he saw a slash of white ahead and knew he was looking at a streak of pure stone. This was their chance. A good tracker would know where they left the trail, but the rock crossed this trail and headed in a white streak up and down the hill. There’d be no way to judge which way they’d chosen. And because only an idiot would go down, closer to where those men searched, he figured their pursuers would go up without hesitation.

  So he went down.

  It wasn’t a smooth layer of stone, but it was wide enough that they weren’t being whipped by tre
e branches every step. The rock branched out, and Trace didn’t hesitate to follow, parallel again to the trail below, the direction they’d been heading before the men opened fire.

  His sudden swerve tripped Deb.

  He scrambled to hold her up, but she fell hard to her knees.

  “I’m fine. Let’s go!” She was on her feet again, but he saw her knees bleeding, her dress torn, her jaw gritted against pain.

  “No. Stop.” His eyes darted around, searching for some place to hide her.

  At the very thought of those men after them, of them finding her, his heart hardened into rage, and he decided he was done running.

  It was time to stop and fight.

  Time to stop being the prey and become the hunter. He swung her up in his arms and ran on, but now he was looking for something. A cave, a tight boulder with a little space behind it. Even a dense copse of trees.

  “I can run, Trace.”

  “Hush, let me think.” Did he dare hide her? Leave her defenseless?

  A loud shout and a roar of gunfire. Not that close, but not far enough, either. They’d found the game trail. And if he wanted to waylay them, he needed to get into position fast.

  There it was, a jumble of trees that looked like they’d been washed there by flooding spring runoff until they’d dammed up against each other and stopped. Years and years’ worth of piled-up trees twice as high as his head, and just off this gashing white path of stone.

  He ran for it, climbed right up, using the logs like stair steps. He never had to set a single boot on soil that’d leave a track.

  He reached the top and looked down. A tiny gap behind the trees and the mountainside they’d skidded down. He hurried right down and set her on the ground.

  “Trace.”

  “Shh! I’m going to see if we’ve lost them. I’m quick in the woods, Deb. They’ll never see me.” That’s when he noticed her ever-present bag, slung over her head and under one arm. “Have you got your gun?”

  She gave him a firm nod.

  “Get your gun out and cock it now when they are out of hearing range.” He sure hoped they were still out of range.

  “Then don’t make a sound.” He squeezed her hand and realized how much he trusted her to be careful and how much he hated to leave her. He turned and sprinted back toward the men, killing hate eating at his heart.

  It was a feeling he knew for a sin.

  A feeling he hoped to overcome . . . someday. But he sure hadn’t managed it today.

  CHAPTER

  21

  He rushed along the white rocks, quiet, listening. It gave him grim satisfaction to know he was tracking them now. And they were running right for him.

  Find the right spot. Pick off every mother’s son of these vipers before they knew they were under attack.

  Get back to where he’d had a choice with these rocks to go up or down.

  Lie in wait.

  A bullet fired. One of the men shouted something ugly. Trace wasn’t sure what, but then the gunfire stopped.

  Soon they came on, feet thudding like stampeding horses. He had time, just enough and not a moment too much.

  He reached the spot where the white rock divided and stepped away from the rocks into the trees. His lungs pumped out rage and drew in pure fire. He was The Guardian again.

  Hunkering down, he found a log in a good-enough spot and dropped to his knees. The trail was mostly covered by trees, but he could see enough. He could make out feet if they approached.

  He rested his six-gun on the log and wished for his rifle. He was a dead shot at any distance with that. Good enough with the pistol, yet he could pick these men off faster and more surely with his rifle.

  Breathing too loud. He didn’t fight it, deciding they were still far enough away and he needed to catch his breath the best he could. It’d help keep his hands steady. There’d be plenty of time to go dead silent later.

  The voice of one crying in the wilderness.

  That came to him as if blown on the wind.

  He faltered in his righteous hate.

  Shaking his head violently, he went back to his cold, deadly intent. These men were murderers. Trace wanted justice. He wanted to save lives. God was on Trace’s side.

  The voice of one crying in the wilderness.

  Footsteps finally sounded and told him all he needed to know. They’d reached the white rocks. They’d be visible in seconds.

  A battle raged inside him as if his very soul were being torn in two directions. Fighting the quiet conscience, he leveled the gun. Those words echoed within.

  “I don’t like this.” A slow drawl stopped the man’s feet. “We’re running blind.”

  The voice dropped, the murmurs too quiet. A long moment beat as if it were Trace’s own heart as he wrestled with his conscience.

  Was God telling him to let them go and leave the wagon train at risk? Leave the men who’d killed Ronnie’s parents running free?

  The tread of hurrying feet faded away, heading back the way the men had come.

  It sickened him. He could have shifted his position, gone after them, opened fire. The cowards would have run, and Trace could have picked them off one by one.

  Even now he could hunt them. But it was as if the hand of God pressed him into this kneeling position.

  Maybe he could see their faces. He’d be another witness. He could at least measure his description against Deb’s to make sure these were the same three men.

  He could move then. He holstered his gun. He wouldn’t use it unless he was faced with a gunman ready to attack.

  He steadily covered the ground between him and the outlaws. Slipping up, nearer, nearer.

  Only a curve separated them now. Trace left the trail. He didn’t think the men knew he was here and he wanted to remain concealed. If he got the chance, he’d take a prisoner. Not kill anyone who wasn’t aiming at him, but he’d be glad to haul one of them back to Carson City under arrest. Even more than one. Let the sheriff look at old wanted posters and ask these men some hard questions.

  He felt the difference in his gut, from vengeance to justice, and he was grateful now to the still, small voice that had stopped him from opening fire.

  He’d see them in a few more steps. He eased forward and saw them walking away through thick bushes and leaves. A snake-thin man. One a bit taller, still thin as a rail, but he moved like a coiled muscle. It reminded Trace too of the wild longhorns he’d rounded up. Dangerous critters. Kill you first chance they got. The third man was big and burly. Gray hair showed under his wide-brimmed hat. None of these varmints were kids. They might’ve been around ten years ago.

  “Let’s go back and see about thinnin’ out those wagon trains.” The high-pitched voice Deb had mentioned. Trace wasn’t sure which man was speaking, but he thought it was Snake Man. “We don’t have to wait until we attack. We can take a few of the tougher men out tonight.”

  His muscles stiffened. If this was their plan, Trace would have to act now.

  “Stupid fool. If y’all hurt even one of ’em”—Trace was sure this was the big man speaking—“they’ll be callin’ the law, and everyone’ll be rarin’ to kill, standing on razor’s edge. We won’t have a lick of a chance.”

  Listening for their every word, Trace drew nearer, completely silent.

  Longhorn said, “I’m out. I’m done. This is the devil’s own bargain.”

  “You skeered you’re gonna get in trouble, Dalt?”

  They’d called him Dalt. Trace had a name now.

  “Nope, I’m plumb skeered,” Dalt said, “that I’ve fallen in with a pack of half-wits. You know I’d kill every man, woman, and child if it meant I’d come away rich, but I ain’t interested in a fight I can’t win. Anyhow, Luth’ll kill you when he finds out you’re at this.”

  “I can handle him, so leave that be. Be thinkin’ of the money in those wagons. It’s a prosperous bunch. Lots of stock, too. Enough we’ll live high through a cold winter.” The big man sounded coaxing no
w. Appealing to the man’s greed.

  “I think we can do it.” Greed was winning out. “But not if you attack now. If that’s the plan, I’m hittin’ the trail.”

  “We won’t. We’ll watch ’em. Learn where they post sentries, learn who’s tough and who sleeps on watch. You’ll stay then?” the big man asked gruffly.

  “I could use a stake.” The man turned, and Trace saw half his face. For just a second the man’s eyes swept past him and Trace froze. There were plenty of trees between them, with Trace in deep shadow. But if he could see that man, it was possible the man could see him.

  The man looked forward without reacting, and Trace dared to breathe again. This had to be the man Deb saw. Dalt was his name. Trace itched to look through wanted posters. The sheriff had suggested it to Deb, but Trace hadn’t wanted to take the time. Now that they both knew what to look for, maybe they should go back.

  “What about that witness?” Dalt asked. “Those two folks spreading the word about us?”

  “We’ve got ’em on the run now. We can catch up to them later. They’ve done their damage. Let’s go see just how savvy these movers are before we worry more about those two.”

  If he could just see a little more, see the faces of the other two men. He rounded a big oak and walked straight into full view of a huge grizzly bear not ten feet away. It should’ve been in hibernation, but if it hadn’t eaten enough and gotten fat enough, hunger might’ve driven him to stay awake. It might drive him to eat a man.

  Trace froze. His hand went to his pistol and knew that was a ridiculous defense against this monster. The grizzly rose to his hind legs and roared. He swung a paw and cracked a young tree in half.

  One of the men on the trail, the one with the high-pitched voice, said, “That’s a grizz. Let’s get outta here.”

  The sound of running feet on the trail faded while Trace took one step back, then another. Feeling his way, fumbling for the big oak he’d just stepped around, he was tempted to duck behind it, but it was too close. He needed distance before he made any sudden moves. He kept opening space. Trace judged the bear to be near nine feet tall. And if he was skinny from hunger, it didn’t show with that thick brown hair. The grizz flexed paws the size of dinner plates, its claws bared. He roared until Trace was shaking in his boots.