Tin-Stars and Troublemakers Box Set (Four Complete Historical Western Romance Novels in One)

by Rice, Patricia

  A bloody crimson.

  Fancy shivered. She wrapped the chain of her lucky coin again and again around her finger, but she couldn't shake her feeling of doom. A part of her hoped that Cord and his deputies really were being trailed by Ned Wilkerson's outlaws. Another part of her worried that the Rawlins boys would be no match for Wilkerson's men.

  What if Ned suddenly decided he wanted her dead?

  Fancy blanched at the thought. In truth, she didn't know much about Ned's disposition, although she was inclined to believe that his nickname, the Terror of the Pecos, spoke for itself. If he was anything like his cousin Bart, he would be violent and cruel. He'd hate Mexicans and Indians. And he wouldn't have much use for women.

  Fancy chewed her bottom lip.

  Perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea, after all, to tell Ned she had hidden her plates and would tell him their location for a price. Perhaps she should have returned to the Barbary Coast, where she could have auctioned the plates to the highest bidder or ransomed them back to the U.S. government.

  Then again, she mused darkly, there wasn't much use in second-guessing herself now. She was stuck with her earlier decision. When the time came to act, she would simply have to find a way to come out on top. Like Diego always did.

  She shivered to think of her dead lover. Ever vigilant, Wes hurried to her side with his blanket.

  "Are you cold, ma'am? I know it must be kind of rough on you, no dinner and no fire."

  She couldn't help but smile. Compared with being left to die in three feet of Nevada snow, sitting on a carpet of clover under a balmy Texas sky was sheer paradise.

  "No, Wes. But thank you."

  Zack looked disgusted by his brother's chivalry. Rising abruptly, he grabbed his rifle and headed for the bushes.

  "Hey! Where do you think you're going?" Wes called.

  "Mind your own business."

  "Cord said not to wander off alone."

  "Yeah?" Zack spun back around and tried to stare Wes down. "Since when did you start following orders?"

  "Shoot. You got a chip on your shoulder bigger than the Rio Grande, son." Wes tossed aside his blanket. "What's eating at you, anyway?"

  "Look. I've got to take a dump. You want to tag along?"

  Wes wrinkled his nose. "Hell, no!"

  "I didn't think so."

  Fancy had to duck her head to hide her smile.

  Zack tossed her a withering look. "Just keep an eye on her 'til I get back."

  "Would you just get going already?" Wes waved a hand in front of his face. "Pew!"

  Fancy nearly choked to hold back her laughter. Zack turned bright red and fled for the trees.

  "Poor Zack." Wes's grin was lazy as he winked at her. "He's so goldurned thin-skinned that sometimes I just can't help myself."

  Fancy dropped her eyes. In growing bemusement, she realized that she sometimes felt the same way about Cord.

  She shrugged away such perplexing thoughts. Shading her face with her hand, she gazed toward the horizon. The sun glared through the trees like a giant, bloodshot eye. It made her feel as if someone crouched out there watching... and waiting.

  Hastily, she turned her shoulder and tried to think of other things. Cord slipped back into her mind. Surely he had reached the ridge by now. Had he found the outlaws he was searching for? Or had they found him?

  She was beginning to hope they hadn't. She was beginning to wish he'd hurry back to camp.

  A chubby fox squirrel appeared in the live oak above Wes. Squatting on its haunches, it flicked its plush russet tail and scolded him. A devilish twinkle lighted the boy's eyes. Pulling out his slingshot, he searched the grass, found an acorn, and fired. The squirrel screeched and dodged, racing up and around the trunk to settle on a higher limb. Outraged, the little fellow shook a branch. Wes chuckled and reloaded.

  As Fancy watched their play, tentacles of guilt crept through her until they squeezed her heart.

  Dear Lord, what had she done? Wes was a boy. Just a boy, for God's sake! What if Ned Wilkerson really had followed her to this desolate place? What if he discovered Wes sitting here alone?

  What if Wilkerson had already found Zack?

  Awareness hit her like a speeding train. The grove was too quiet. Aside from the squirrel, nothing moved, nothing chirped. Something was wrong.

  "Wes, don't you think that... Zack should be back by now?"

  He shrugged, his attention on the squirrel. "I reckon you can't rush these things, ma'am."

  Fancy bit her lip. She peered into the shadows, but no matter how she tried, she could find no sign of Zack. She tried to console herself that the boy would never have done his business close enough for her to watch. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere out there, beyond her vision, danger lurked.

  "Don't you think you should check on him, Wes? I mean, Zack's been gone an awfully long time, and, well... I'm worried about him."

  She was worried. She didn't quite know how it had happened, but she was wholly and unequivocally frightened for Zack.

  "Please, Wes." She had trouble keeping the panic out of her voice. "Please go look for him."

  He sighed and shook his head. "All right, ma'am. All right. Now don't go getting yourself in a lather." He stood and shoved his slingshot back inside his pocket.

  "Zack!" he boomed, his eyes betraying his mischief. "You got a burr up your butt, son?"

  Silence answered him. The humor slowly drained from his features.

  "Zack? You okay?"

  More silence. Wes glanced at Fancy. In the fading light, he looked uncannily like Cord. His shoulders tensed, his jaw hardened, and his eyes glittered like sea-green jewels.

  "Dammit, Zack, this isn't funny anymore. Answer me!"

  Fancy climbed to her feet. Wes muttered another oath. Stooping, he reached for his Winchester. His fingers had barely closed over the barrel when a metallic flash caught Fancy's eye.

  "Wes! Look out!"

  Gunfire spat. The report was deafening. Wes's shriek was lost in it as he slammed to the ground. Blood rapidly stained the shoulder of his shirt, and Fancy rushed to his side.

  "Wes! Oh my God." She tore off her neckerchief and sopped frantically at the wound. "Wes, open your eyes. Don't die. Please don't die!"

  "Move away from the boy."

  The cold, hard voice sounded like Death itself. Fancy gulped, glancing fearfully over her shoulder. She recognized the slouching stance and grizzled beard of Wilton Slade.

  "He's just a boy! Leave him be!"

  Slade's smile was even more chilling than his voice. "That 'boy' gave me a crooked arm. Doc Tate said there's no telling whether it'll ever be right again."

  Fancy saw the bulge in the middle of Slade's left arm, as if his coat sleeve hid a wad of bandages. He was obviously favoring that arm. Her heart speeding, she shifted to hide Wes's head and shoulders from Slade's view.

  "Wes?"

  To her relief his eyelids fluttered. He stirred.

  "Don't move!" she whispered urgently, pinning his unhurt shoulder with her hand.

  One glazed eye opened to return her anxious gaze.

  "You have to play opossum." She silently begged him to understand.

  "I told you to move away from that boy," Slade called with greater menace. He snapped his rifle breechblock.

  Fancy swallowed hard. Easing her hand from Wes's shoulder, she cocked her wrist. The derringer slid into her palm. The boy's other eye opened wide, and he blinked at her in a mixture of astonishment, comprehension, and growing admiration. The ghost of a smile played across his lips.

  "I think I'm in love," he murmured.

  "Goddammit, woman, are you deaf?"

  Snapping twigs announced Slade's approach. She gave Wes a warning look, and he quickly closed his eyes.

  "No, I'm not deaf." Gathering her courage, she slowly rose. She wondered if Cord would hurry back to investigate the shooting.

  Please, God, send him back. Send him back now.

  "I was jus
t seeing if the boy had any money," she lied a little less expertly than usual.

  "I ain't going to say it again, bitch."

  "Okay. Okay, Slade. Whatever you say." She stepped deliberately into his line of fire. "The boy's dead anyway."

  "Yeah? You won't mind me pumping another round or two into his gut then, just to be sure."

  Dammit, Cord, what's keeping you?

  "Of course not. But his brothers might. They're around here somewhere. I say we get the hell out of here before one of them returns."

  She advanced toward him. She had to. Cord might not show up for another half hour. She had to rely on her derringer, and the pistol was useless outside of ten feet.

  "That's far enough."

  She halted, hard-pressed to pose in any kind of alluring way on legs that felt like jelly. Slade sneered at her best attempt.

  "What d'ya got there in your hand?"

  "The boy's money."

  Slade didn't look convinced. "Toss it here."

  Her heart stalled.

  "Why don't you come and get it?" she rallied, raising her hand and pretending to drop something into her cleavage.

  She was gratified to see Slade's eyes narrow, darting from her artfully cupped gunhand to her half-exposed breasts. She hadn't learned to palm cards for nothing.

  "You sleazy little whore. I oughta put a bullet through your twat."

  She smiled, doing her damnedest not to look nauseous.

  "Lest you've forgotten, Mr. Slade, my bounty's only good if you bring me in alive. I daresay five hundred dollars could buy you a lot of pain medicine. Or maybe you'd rather have a fancy new saddle and a couple of Winchesters. Henry repeaters aren't the rage anymore."

  "A Henry kills just as good as a Winchester. And lest you've forgotten," he mimicked ominously, nodding at Wes, "it proved itself today. Now bring me the money, or I'll cut your tits off."

  "Mmm." Her stomach somersaulted so fast that she thought she might be ill. "How I do love it when a man talks dirty."

  Somehow, she kept up her smile as she marshaled her legs. The derringer was growing heavy under her thumb; her palms were hot and sweating. A pistol wasn't much use against a rifle, but surprise was on her side. If she missed, Slade would kill her. He'd kill Wes, too—like he'd probably killed Zack.

  Oh God, Oh God, don't let it be true.

  A numbing calm washed over her. She couldn't think about Zack just now. She couldn't think about anything but luring Slade's eyes away from her hands. Swaying her hips, bouncing her breasts, she strutted right up to the muzzle of his rifle. One shot, one chance, was all she had. She would make it work because she had to.

  "Come and get it, Slade."

  Throwing back her head, she straddled her hips with her hands. At last she had the gun in position.

  "What's the matter? Aren't you man enough to take it?"

  His lips curved in a thin smile. "Think you're something special, eh?"

  He shifted the rifle barrel across his bandaged arm. She stepped closer. She was only three feet away when he reached for her shirt. His eyes were gloating, eager. When they locked with hers, she fired. She could hear his roar of pain above the popping report. Realization dawned hard and fast as his rifle swung toward her. She'd aimed too wide!

  "Bitch!"

  The rifle butt descended. She ducked. The move saved her head but not her shoulder. Yelping, she stumbled backward as he charged after her, ignoring the bubbling hole in his arm.

  "Miss Fancy!"

  She heard Wes's cry above a sudden pounding in her ears. Was it her heart... or horse's hooves?

  Slade whirled, training his weapon on the boy.

  "Slade, no!"

  She threw herself against him, clawing at his face, his hands, his rifle. He cursed, and the Henry slammed into her stomach. Fancy doubled over. Too winded to move, she could only watch in horror as Wes struggled upright, tugging at the trigger guard on his holster. Slade's face was a mask of feral rage as he aimed again at Wes.

  "Hold, Slade!"

  Cord's voice rang through the clearing. Slade ignored the warning. He squeezed his trigger, and Cord fired. His bullet drilled through Slade's heart, and the bounty hunter toppled, his cartridge burrowing into the oak trunk just beyond Wes's head.

  Slade fell lifeless at Fancy's feet. For a moment, she could do nothing more than gulp down air to fight off her sickness. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw Wes sink back to the earth. Waves of fear crashed over her. Ignoring her dizziness, she stumbled toward him.

  Cord sprinted after her and yanked her around by the arm.

  "Keep away from my boy! So help me God, I'll—"

  "Cord..." Wes's weak voice silenced Cord's threat. "Is Zack okay?"

  Fancy had never seen a suntanned man turn so white. Cord shoved her aside and dropped to his knees beside Wes.

  "Dear God." Raising Fancy's sodden neckerchief, Cord blanched a shade whiter. "Wes, what happened? Where's Zack?"

  "I don't know," the boy said thickly. "He wouldn't answer me. He's not hurt, is he?"

  Cord shot her a look that would have made any other woman cringe and run for cover.

  "Where the hell is Zack?" he shouted as if she were somehow to blame.

  "I don't know! In the trees somewhere! He went to relieve himself, and he never came back."

  Cord's chest began to heave. He stood and drew his gun. For an instant, she feared he might actually shoot her.

  "Help him," he growled, grabbing her wrist and thrusting her toward Wes. Then Cord started running, calling Zack's name.

  He paused long enough by Slade's corpse to pick up her derringer before he tossed her another menacing look and thrashed into the underbrush. Fancy released a ragged breath.

  "Miss Fancy?"

  She gazed down into Wes's worshipful eyes.

  "I've never seen anybody so brave. Except maybe for Cord."

  She blinked back tears. The praise had been high indeed, coming from Wes Rawlins.

  "You're going to be okay, Wes," she murmured, peeling back his shirt.

  "'Course I am." His feeble smile turned to a grimace as she gently probed his wound. "Did he... hurt you much?"

  She wondered for a moment if Wes meant Cord. She'd practically forgotten her bruised ribs in the face of his anger. Perhaps he was right to blame her, she mused. Only... why did it have to hurt so much?

  "No. He didn't hurt me," she lied.

  "Good. I would have felt real awful if he did."

  His eyes closed. She panicked.

  "No! Wes, stay with me. You can't sleep yet!"

  "Wes!"

  The cry was Zack's this time. Glancing up, Fancy saw the older Rawlinses emerge from the trees. Zack wrestled himself free of Cord's supportive arm and rushed to Wes's side.

  "You aren't gonna die, are you?" Zack whispered, slumping woefully to his knees.

  "Naw. I'm too young." Wes dragged his eyes back open. "'Sides. I got to whup you for running off on me."

  "I didn't run off!"

  Cord joined them. "Zack was struck from behind, Wes. He's got a knot on his head."

  "Yeah sure," Wes taunted weakly. "Next you'll be telling me that's why he's so ugly."

  Relief flooded Zack's features. He snorted, but he couldn't keep a smile from spreading over his face. "Aw shoot. I reckon he's gonna live, after all."

  Fancy noticed dried blood above Zack's ear. "Do you feel well enough to help me, Zack?" she asked anxiously. "I need more water. And bandages. Anything you can tear up."

  The boy nodded. She turned next to brave the accusation in Cord's eyes.

  "I can't find any sign of the bullet. I think it went through him, but I'm no doctor. We need to get him to Fort Graham—"

  "The ranch is closer," Cord said tersely. "Aunt Lally will know what to do. We'll ride just as soon as we can rig a travois to carry him."

  Fancy nodded, shutting down that newly discovered part of herself that ached whenever Cord glared at her.

  "Zack will
need his head looked at—"

  "I'm fine," the boy told her tersely. His gaze wasn't much friendlier than Cord's.

  Sighing, she turned her attention to Wes. His fingers had laced through hers. It took her a moment to realize the boy had slipped into unconsciousness.

  Her heart twisting, she gently retrieved her hand. The ride to the ranch was going to be a long one.

  Chapter 10

  "You most certainly are not going to lock Miss Fancy up in a bedroom," declared Eulalie Rawlins Barclay, planting her red, work-roughened hands firmly on her hips.

  Fancy listened in some bemusement to Mrs. Barclay—or rather, Aunt Lally, as the woman had insisted on being called. The portly, chin-high matron reminded Fancy of a locomotive steaming at full speed.

  "Wes told me about last night," she said to Zack. "He told me how Miss Fancy fought off that murdering Slade person with nothing but a pocket pistol. And him packing a Henry rifle!" Aunt Lally shook her graying auburn head. "Miss Fancy saved your brother's life, and she did it with powerful little help from you menfolk. And now you want to lock her up? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Zachariah Rawlins!"

  Zack grimaced, reddening at the use of his full name. "But Miss Fancy's our prisoner. And Cord told me to—"

  "So Cord who put you up to this, eh? I might have known." Aunt Lally's eyes flashed seastorm-green, the exact shade as Cord's when he started to rage. "Just wait 'til I get my hands on that boy, getting you to do his dirty work for him. Where'd he run off to?"

  Zack looked sheepish. "Reckon he's upstairs visiting Wes, ma'am."

  "Well, you just run right up those stairs and fetch him back here. Tell him Aunt Lally's got a bone to pick with him."

  "But—"

  "Off with you now. You boys aren't too big for me to be taking a switch to your behinds."

  Zack's color had heightened to scarlet. "Yes, ma'am," he muttered, slinking from the parlor to the stairs.

  Fancy fidgeted as she watched him flee. Threats of a beating always made her uncomfortable. Zack, of course, could easily have overpowered his aunt, but Fancy suspected that fighting back would never have crossed Zack's mind, at least, not the way it had so often crossed hers when she'd cowered beneath the brothel madam's fists.