by Sara Orwig
No one moved. Perspiration ran down her forehead and her sides. If the men attacked, there was no way to stop all six of them. She could get McKissick and Pa would get one, but the rest could overpower them.
“Whatever you folks want,” McKissick said and turned his rangy chestnut. His men moved back into the darkness. Lyman McKissick paused to tip his hat to Rachel. “We’ll meet again.” He winked at her and disappeared into the night, riding back north the way they had come. Relieved, she stared after them, her hand shaking from holding the heavy revolver so long. As she gazed into the dark, she suspected they would be back.
Yards away in the darkness, Dan lowered the Henry in his hands and watched the men ride north instead of south. His relief was fleeting, because he knew they would be back. They wanted the women. And the Kearney women were pretty enough to make any man do foolish things.
Dan’s gaze shifted back to the camp, focusing on the woman who said she was Mrs. Johnson. Rachel Kearney Johnson. Or was she Mary Benton? Was there really a Elias Johnson? Dan’s breath caught as he looked at her and the cascade of wild, red-gold tumbling over her shoulders. The mane of hair gave her a wanton appearance while the boyish clothes that hugged her figure revealed lush curves and a tiny waist. The little girl cried, and Rachel Johnson returned to the wagon. The younger woman handed the girl out to the mother. Dan’s gaze ran down the denim pants that curved enticingly over a rounded bottom and fit Rachel Johnson’s long legs snugly.
His body responded to his rampant imagination that peeled away the pants, desire making him hot and hard as he watched her walk back and forth with the baby. Mrs. Johnson. If that was her right name, he was on the wrong trail. The little girl had the same red curls and when they were in town, he had heard her hold out her arms and cry, “Mam—.”
His gaze roamed over Mrs. Johnson again, down her long legs, and he wiped his brow, shifting his weight. Lyman McKissick had seen the same thing, seen the mass of riotous curls, the swell of the shirt over high, lush breasts, the tight denim pants that molded her hips and long legs. Her spunk would be a challenge to any man. He remembered how she had taken aim and shot down the chandelier in the saloon. He had seen the perspiration dot her forehead. She had looked terrified, yet she had taken her time with the deliberation of the best fighters on a battlefield. She was quite a woman. Dan watched her, relishing every pull of denim as she moved around the camp. She crooned a soft lullaby to the baby, rocking her lightly in her arms.
You’ve been without a woman too long. In the next town find one and cool your system so you can forget Mrs. Johnson or manage to view her without steaming.
Mrs. Johnson. It didn’t fit any description he had been given. But everything else fit. The Kearneys wouldn’t have gotten as far as Fort Worth if it hadn’t have been for the baby. He would have arrested Eb Kearney the second night he had found them. But no one had mentioned a baby. And Eubanks had specifically said two unmarried daughters.
Dan remembered sitting in Vicksburg in Luther Eubank’s large office. The government tax collector caused a curl of distaste in Dan when he walked through the door. Reconstruction was causing almost as much upheaval as the war. Eubanks was a powerful man in Vicksburg and whether it was for his own gain or for the U.S. government, Dan didn’t know, but as he sat in the leather chair and gazed across an oak desk into Eubank’s brown eyes, he could feel Eubank’s too-eager thirst for revenge.
“They’ve been gone two days. We went out to search for my brother. They buried the body in a shallow grave; they just packed and fled,” Eubanks said and all the time he talked, his long, spindly fingers tugged at a corner of his thin black mustache. What really happened when Eubanks was killed? Some of the men in charge now in southern states were unscrupulous and would stir a man’s rage easily. And Peter Benton had two daughters to defend as well as his home.
“Peter Benton was injured during the war,” Eubanks continued. “He can’t speak above a whisper. He has two daughters and a son. One daughter is twenty-two years old. I know all about the arrogant Mr. Benton. I farmed a few acres down the road from Green Arbor, the Benton place. I don’t want to wait on a U.S. Marshal who has cases up to his nose. Pinkerton says you’ll bring him back.”
Eubanks leaned forward, his eyes holding a feral gleam. “In addition to your Pinkerton pay, I’ll give you a ten thousand dollar reward to bring Benton back to hang. I hate the man. I want him brought back alive so I can face him.”
In spite of a steady dislike Dan experienced talking to Eubanks, he felt a stab of elation at the prospect of the reward. Ten thousand dollars. A fortune in today’s world after the disasters of war. He nodded his head. “Tell me more about Peter Benton. Describe him.”
“He’s a rotten murderer, evading his taxes—”
“What are physical characteristics,” Dan asked impatiently.
“Tall, broad-shouldered, scars on his throat and hands, blond with blue eyes. The man is a murdering snake.”
Listening to Eubank’s angry voice, Dan sat quietly. Eubanks and Benton may have been old enemies. Or one man jealous of another. Eubanks had come a long way from farming a few acres to the big office in Vicksburg. But if Eb Kearney was Peter Benton and had murdered a man, he should go back to Vicksburg and face trial for it. And if he was guilty, he would hang. For a moment Dan stared into the night without seeing anything, his thoughts jumping to his own past. He felt a twinge of guilt, and then he shut his thoughts on the dark past, refusing to dwell on it.
Now Dan continued to watch the woman who said she was Mrs. Johnson. She looked about nineteen. The other sister looked younger than sixteen, yet women often didn’t look their age. With her auburn hair, the baby resembled Mrs. Johnson. The one piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit. Otherwise, the tall, gaunt man in the wagon would be on his way back to Vicksburg now to a trial for murder.
The child became quiet in the woman’s arms. Dan remembered looking into her fiery green eyes and watching her in the saloon when she had taken her time to aim at the chandelier. He remembered her holding up the rifle, the plain gold wedding band on her finger glinting dully in the light. He felt admiration for her. She was brave and resourceful, damned stubborn too. But if she was a Benton from Vicksburg, she was running scared, trying to get her father to safety. She was the one in charge, no mistake about that.
He remembered how she had faced the men. He had been ready to go to her defense, but she didn’t need his help. He snorted, a soft, cynical sneer at himself. He should be arresting Eb Kearney, not gawking at the man’s daughter and admiring her and lusting after her. That thick mass of curls—he could imagine winding his fingers in its softness. His gaze lowered to her voluptuous body that was outlined by the male clothing. Soft, warm, luscious curves—
Dan’s gaze circled the campfire. They didn’t know anything about the dangers of the frontier. They shouldn’t head south alone. And two of them ought to stand watch, not one lone person who couldn’t see every direction. He shifted his weight, feeling annoyed with himself. Don’t get taken in by big green eyes and long legs.
When she disappeared into the wagon with the child, he gazed north. It was only a matter of time until the six men would return. Dan clenched his fist. He wanted one good swing at the blond. McKissick was a natural bully, a man obviously accustomed to taking what he wanted.
The woman jumped down from the wagon and shook out a blanket. She stomped out the fire and kicked dirt over the smoldering remains to kill the drifting wood-smoke. As he watched her stretch out, in his mind he saw the fall of auburn hair, imagined her sprawled on the blanket. He inhaled deeply. Think about something else or go crazy!
When he climbed out of the draw, he spotted a tree on higher ground. The Kearneys didn’t know how to camp and they didn’t know where to camp. If attacked, they could be boxed in within minutes. During the day the draw was cool and shaded and probably that’s why they had chosen it, but it wasn’t any safer as a camping spot than the place they had chosen the nigh
t before. They should be on the high ground where no one could sneak up unseen. They should be away from a creek that was a watering hole for men and wild animals alike.
Dan hobbled his horse and swung up into the tree, settling on a limb and leaning back against the trunk. He had a view in all directions across the flat land. He rested the Henry across his thighs and peered to the south.
McKissick and his men wouldn’t build a fire, and they would be impossible to spot at night until they were close. Dan couldn’t see any sign of them and felt better, but it was fleeting. They would be back. McKissick said he was from San Antonio. If he had headed home, he would have taken his men and ridden south. Instead they dropped behind to the north again. Tonight? Tomorrow night? Dan felt certain they would come at night and they would take the two women. The old man might get killed in the fracas. They might take the children to sell.
When the first stars faded from the morning sky, the Kearneys were up and moving around. Scanning the horizon in all directions, Dan was unable to spot McKissick. Dan dropped down out of the tree and crossed to his saddle to pick up his canteen and take a long drink, and then splashed cold water on his face.
An hour later he sat astride his sorrel, moving slowly at the edge of the line of trees, letting space widen between the wagon and him. As the sun burst above the horizon, the trail veered to the west away from the stream.
Reluctant to allow too much distance to get between him and the wagon, Dan rode into the open. Mrs. Johnson would see him following, but it didn’t matter. She knew who he was. Was Eb Kearney the wanted man? Was he a murderer? That was becoming increasingly difficult to imagine. Remembering how easily in Fort Worth Lyman McKissick and his men had knocked down Eb Kearney and tied him to the wagon, Dan frowned. Kearney hadn’t acted like a man who had murdered another in a rage. Dan had been ready to step in if things got too rough, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, so he waited. In the middle of the day in town, he didn’t think the men would hurt the girl.
Just when he had started to follow them to the saloon, the kid had jumped from the wagon and run to the store to get Mrs. Johnson, and Dan waited to see what they would do.
But in that scuffle, Kearney had been useless in defending his daughter. Yet all too well Dan knew from the war, a man whose nerve was gone could have moments of desperation when he could pull himself together and commit a swift, violent act.
Dan shifted in the saddle and settled comfortably. In the war he had learned to doze while he was in the saddle. Now was the time to catch a little sleep.
He jerked upright and blinked, remembering at once where he was and what he was doing. A mile ahead, the Kearney wagon stirred a spiral of dust. As he looked around in the distance behind him he saw a small cloud of dust. He gazed through binoculars them at the men riding with Lyman McKissick.
They weren’t coming at a gallop, no dust stirred behind them, so they were biding their time, probably waiting for night. Probably two miles separated the men from the wagon. Dan peered through the binoculars at the wagon. Something had changed. He studied it, swinging the binoculars the length of the wagon. The black horse was gone.
Letting his gaze swing in the direction of McKissick and his men, Dan searched the prairie. A quarter of a mile behind the wagon, he spotted the lone rider heading south, a familiar slouch hat on a slender figure. What the hell was she doing? If she met up with the six men, they’d take her.
“Damnation.” He jammed the binoculars back in his knapsack and flicked the reins. Stubborn little witch! Why was she riding back toward McKissick? Feeling a surge of exasperation, he urged his sorrel to a gallop.
Chapter 3
Rachel searched the horizon for a sign of men following them. She heard hoofbeats and looked around. With a ripple of fear, she reined the black to a prancing stop as she peered at the man coming at a gallop. He was in black, his hat squarely on his head. It had to be Overton, and now she was alone. Frightened, she turned the horse to gallop for the wagon, and then decided she couldn’t outrun him. Tugging on the reins, she drew her Colt and waited, feeling tension mount as he approached.
Tall in the saddle, broad-shouldered, Dan Overton looked formidable. Had he crept up on her at night to throw a scare into her that he hoped would continue to intimidate her? Her pulse quickened each time she saw him; her heart raced with fear. Determined not to yield to him without a fight, she gripped the Colt tightly. As soon as he rode close, he slowed his horse.
“Stop right there,” she said, levelling the revolver at him, her heart thudding at being caught away from Pa and help.
Dan Overton raised both hands in the air. “You’re just wrangling to get yourself hauled away by that band of men. Why are you here alone?”
“You’re not our appointed guardian, mister,” she snapped, her anger flaring. Who was he? What did he want with them? “We don’t want your help.”
Looking amused, he lowered his hands carefully, and she was surprised. His smile changed his harsh looks, making crinkles around his eyes and creases in his cheeks, softening his features. It was as appealing as spring sunshine, an inviting smile that coaxed her to relax, that belied the cold, hard look in his dark eyes. And she wasn’t going to be taken in by a coaxing, rogue smile. She raised her chin. “Get away from me.”
His smile vanished, and he jerked his head. “The men are back there. If you meet up with them, you won’t be able to protect yourself against six armed men.”
She drew a deep breath. “I wanted to see if they’re still trailing us. I’ll ride back to our wagon, and if you want to be so all-fired helpful, go away and leave me alone.”
“I’ll give you space, but I’ll accompany you part of the way,” he said, turning his horse toward the south.
“I don’t want you to,” she snapped. “Why are you following us?”
“I told you before—you’re on a reckless course, riding across this country alone. You folks need others with you. Look, if I wanted to harm you and your family, I could have done it when I slipped up on you.”
The last he said flatly, harshness filling his voice, and she felt threatened. They were at an impasse. It was dangerous to keep sitting with a revolver trained on him while Lyman McKissick rode closer and Pa and the others didn’t have her help. “All right. You keep your distance, so I can see where your hands are and what you’re doing.”
“Do you ever trust anyone?”
“Only my family and friends. Not a stranger who hangs around for no reason.” How could she trust a man who slipped up on her in the night? Every time they talked, there was a crackling tension. She was afraid he was after Pa. Not for a minute did she believe Dan Overton was following them to be kind. Except when he smiled, he looked as hard as iron.
As he sat facing her, his gaze drifted over her and she became aware of him, feeling as if it were fingers trailing over her breasts, her hips and legs, down to her toes and back to her eyes. He was as bold as that McKissick. Bolder, maybe, because when Dan Overton studied her, she couldn’t get her breath. Shoving the Colt in the holster on her hip, she urged her horse forward and Overton did the same, riding a few yards away.
“How old is your baby?”
“She’s one month over three years. My husband hasn’t ever seen her. He was injured in the war and when he recovered, he said he would go west, settle near San Antonio, and send for us.”
“So he sent for you?”
“We decided to join him. He went ahead to get a start.”
“What’s his name?”
“Elias Johnson,” she answered without hesitation.
“That’s a long time not to hear from a husband.”
“My Elias wasn’t much on writing. What’s your occupation, Mr. Overton?”
“Gambling,” he replied with another engaging smile that would melt ice. How many hearts had he won with that smile? Or broken by it? How many wary people had dropped their guard because of it? Yet a glance into his hard brown eyes, and she did
n’t trust the smile.
“Where’s your home? You sound Southern,” she said, noticing his soft drawl that matched her own.
“I was born in Baton Rouge. I’ve traveled and most of it has been in the South.”
A gambler, a drifter. Could be or could be a bounty hunter or a U.S. Marshal. Her gaze ran over his lean frame, over the faded denim molding his well-muscled long legs. She remembered the feel of the muscles in his arms when he held her that night by the wagon. He didn’t get his muscles sitting at a poker table. Was he after Pa?
“You’d be safer if you didn’t build a campfire and draw attention to yourself.”
“Mister, we’ve been out of Fort Worth since yesterday. We’ll get along,” she said, noticing that he was riding closer. She rested her hand on the gun butt and watched him. He flicked a glance her direction, his gaze dropping to her hand, and she thought she detected a flare of amusement in his eyes.
“Where did you meet your husband?”
“We’re from Tennessee originally,” she said, searching for something to tell him.
“What town in Tennessee?”
Feeling tempted to refuse to answer, she decided it would draw less attention if she appeared unconcerned about his questions. Was he being friendly? Or did he want to learn about Pa? The questions about her family made her nervous.
“We’re from Nashville. My husband’s family was from Atlanta, Georgia, so I moved there when I married. When the war was so bad in Tennessee, my family went to Georgia. Then when Atlanta fell, we moved to Vicksburg, Mississippi. You’ve been traveling the same way we have since Louisiana, haven’t you? You were in Shreveport when we were.”
“Afraid not.” He shook his head, and she gazed into dark eyes that revealed nothing. His secrets were his own. “I came down to Fort Worth from Indian Territory.”
The feeling of wariness persisted. It couldn’t be accidental that he had been near the wagon in Fort Worth, then in the saloon, and now on the trail with them. He was after Pa or after something they had. Or something he thought they had.