Golden Flames

by Kay Hooper

  Winding the packhorse’s lead around her saddle horn, she dismounted and dropped the reins to ground tie her horse. The horse stood between her and the two ramshackle structures, and she remained there for a few moments, studying her surroundings. After a while, she relaxed just a bit, but her green eyes were wary and both hands remained beneath the concealing poncho while she stepped out and headed first for the building that must have been built as a barn.

  It was large, as such buildings sometimes were, its back to the north and a tumbledown corral beside it. A shed stuck out bravely from the side to shelter a small corner of the corral, one of its support posts leaning precariously and gray sky showing through the roof. The barn proper was, unusually enough, completely enclosed, but one of the doors hung askew by the last threads of a leather hinge.

  She bent and picked up a rock, tossing it inside the barn with enough force to strike the back wall sharply. Listening intently, she heard no sound, no rustle of animal inhabitants. After a long moment, she walked inside the building and gazed thoughtfully around.

  There were three open stalls along one wall, all with mangers. On the opposite wall hung various pieces of rusty equipment and bits of rotted leather. In the loft above, she could see plenty of loose hay, which lifted her spirits; the horses would have shelter and her supply of grain would last longer. The roof seemed solid enough, but she made a mental note to check the hay carefully for mold.

  She smiled a little to herself, satisfied, before turning to retrace her steps to the door. The buckskin and sorrel packhorse stood as she’d left them—Buck’s head up as he watched her, and the packhorse standing wearily on three legs while he rested the fourth. She headed for the house, still moving cautiously and alert for any suspicious sound. The animals would be sheltered; now she had to make certain of shelter for herself.

  It was little more than a sod shanty with a dirt floor, but there was a rock fireplace, a roughhewn table and bench, and a cot with mostly rotting leather straps beneath the stained and musty straw-filled mattress. The door had long since parted company with its leather hinges, and now lay in the dirt outside, but the roof had only a few holes, and the walls seemed sturdy.

  An hour later, she had picketed both horses nearby to get what grass they could, and carried her gear into the house. Using rusty nails found in an old can and strips of leather she carried in her pack, she repaired the door and fixed a latchstring, then set about making the place reasonably weathertight.

  It was hard work, and make-do, since scant materials for repairs could be found. There had once been glass in the single window near the door; she used a section of canvas from her pack to close out most of the drafts. She made a rough broom with straw from the barn and a long stick, then swept out the filth accumulated by animal inhabitants over a long period of time. Along with the dirt, she swept out any crockery that couldn’t be burned or cleaned. She rolled up the filthy mattress and set it near the fireplace; it was dry, so it would burn. Clean straw from the barn piled on the repaired cot made a fresh mattress; over this she placed a huge pelt that had once belonged to a bad-tempered grizzly, and over that her bedroll. It would be a comfortable bed.

  Within another hour, a fire burned in the hearth and coffee was making. The house would never be spotless, but it was neat and reasonably clean, and warming rapidly.

  She made several trips outside, to check on the horses and fetch water from the nearby spring and wood from the pile behind the house. On this last, she cast a thoughtful, measuring eye, then raided the barn for what pieces of wood could be used for the fire. By the time she was finished, she had a sizable woodpile, and a comfortable certainty that she could weather a storm of up to a couple of weeks without ever leaving this place.

  But no more than that. Any longer than a couple of weeks, and she would miss the ship leaving Charleston. Any longer than a couple of weeks, and Morgan’s killers might escape her forever.

  But they were still out here, she was sure of it. The trail she had followed was no more than a few days old, and those men would have to seek shelter, just as she had. But she’d have to move on during the first break in the weather, move on and close the distance between herself and them.

  She had to find them.

  She took the horses to the spring for water, and then to the barn, tossing them hay and finding some corn in an old crib. With the corn and her own supply of grain, she decided, the horses would make out very well.

  The last thing she did before darkness fell was to make a complete circle a hundred yards out from the buildings, on foot and cautious. She studied the layout of the place with wary eyes, coming finally to the conclusion that the homesteader who’d built here had chosen well. The place was in more of a hollow than a valley, but it was not a small hollow. Hills reared up all around, far enough away to provide a certain amount of protection from the elements, and from hostile guns. There was no cover near the buildings sufficient for anyone caring to creep up on the house unseen, and the trail leading here was disused to the point of being nearly gone.

  Satisfied, she returned to the cabin. She closed the door and pulled the latch inside, then removed her poncho at last and hung it on a peg by the door.

  If there had been a mirror in the cabin, and if she had cared to look at her reflection, she would have seen a sight that was becoming something of a legend the length of her back trail. Her boots were old and worn, boy’s boots on small feet, and no spurs jingled to advertise her movements. In a plain holster on her right hip was a Peacemaker Colt, a gun that any man would have realized had been used and cared for, and it was tied down in the manner of gunfighters.

  She unfastened the thong and the belt, then hung it over the tarnished bedstand. Faded jeans clung to slender legs and hips, worn jeans, with the shiny seat of someone long in the saddle. A heavy coat joined the rest on the wall, and its absence took away twenty or so pounds from her appearance, revealing her as a fairly tall woman, and slender. Her blond hair was worn in a single, long, thick plait down her back, tied at the end with a rawhide thong; she had chosen the style for the sake of convenience, but an impartial observer would have noted that the plain, severe style emphasized her delicate bone structure.

  A man would have instantly noticed that her leather vest and faded blue shirt did nothing to hide a body that God had been generous with, but she noticed only that a button was missing. She untied her bandanna and cast it onto the table with a sigh, then hung her hat by the door and went wearily to pour herself a cup of coffee.

  Stretched out on the cot, the only light provided by the crackling fire, she sipped her coffee and allowed her tired body to relax. Somewhat. There was a part of her that never slept now, a part born in grim, grieving necessity and kept alive out of need; that part of her was alert with the senses of a hunting or hunted animal.

  Her only meal that day had been a jackrabbit roasted in her morning campfire, but she wasn’t hungry. She was too tired to be hungry. After a while, listening to the building wind outside the cabin, she slept.

  —

  Her unease grew as the storm outside intensified. Time…she needed time! It did no good to reassure herself that the men she hunted had likely taken shelter and were as immobile as she was herself. Time was her enemy.

  She went out at least twice during the following day, but there was nothing to be seen or heard in the blowing snow. She knew her restlessness was rooted in some definite cause apart from passing time, but she also knew that her mind, in an effort to avoid thinking of recent events, could well be unreliable in the recognition of possible dangers.

  She was tired.

  There was so much she could not bear to remember! The time in New York with Falcon, colored only faintly by her own guilt. The shock of the telegram; Falcon’s bitterly accusing eyes, and her own pain; her swift, anxiety-ridden trip back to the ranch. And, finally, what had awaited her at home and now pursued her as demons in her dreams: the horrifying sight of Morgan when she had found him. />
  It was, she tried to tell herself, hardly surprising that uneasiness plagued her. It would have been a miracle if she had not felt tired and sick and shaken, if she had not felt the itch between her shoulder blades that grew stronger with every passing day. A miracle.

  She was tired, her emotions numbed by everything that had happened since she had begun that joyful, unconcerned trip to New York. Her mind, for the most part, remained blank, because there was too much that hurt unbearably to think about. She didn’t want to think, because the pain would come, the pain of Falcon and Morgan. The pain of loss that had left her so hollow and alone that she couldn’t bear to think about it. Not now. Not yet. She wanted to hold on to the blessed numbness as long as possible, because there was something she had to do, and pain would distract her from that.

  Perhaps it was wrong, and Morgan would certainly have disapproved, but she felt a terrible sense of guilt about his death. She had been away enjoying herself—with another man—in New York, while enemies had torn her husband apart. Morgan hadn’t believed in revenge, but he had believed in justice. So did she. Lawful justice. But the law had failed to provide that for her, so she was going after it herself. She was tracking the men who had killed Morgan.

  And she intended to find them, even if the trail led into hell itself.

  It went against her very nature to deliberately set out on a hunt for men she intended to see punished. Nothing in her life had prepared her for something like this. So, of course she was uneasy and restless.

  Of course.

  But when the trouble came, Victoria realized that the root of her anxiety had indeed been a sight unnoticed at the time. Because when the door burst open, she caught a glimpse of a pinto outside the door—a horse she had glimpsed once while riding from the ranch, and a second time in a town she had passed through. And all her instincts had been trying to tell her that, signs or no, someone had followed her from the ranch.

  She was one step too many from her gun when the door slammed against the wall, and she froze without having to be told; he held a gun that was pointed levelly between her breasts, and she couldn’t doubt he would use it.

  He was—or should have been—an ordinary-looking man; the gun made of him something deadly. He was of medium height and lean, his shaggy hair, filthy clothes, and beard-stubbled face telling of days in the saddle. And his close-set eyes were hot and hard, with a gleam as wild as unreason. He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut and staring at her.

  And she remembered him. This man had struck Falcon down in a dusty bookshop in New York a lifetime ago, had later whined that he wanted to go into the cellar and crawl between her legs. What was he doing here? What—

  “The gold!” His voice rasped. “Tell me where to find the gold!”

  Victoria had no need to feign bewilderment. “Gold? What gold? Who are you?”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. His eyes darted around the cabin, as if he would find what he sought. “You know where it is. You were with him. All the way, you were with him. You must have seen him hide it!”

  For the second time in moments, the door slammed open. Victoria dived for her gun instantly, grasping it and falling to the floor, rolling to make a lesser target of herself. From the corner of her eye, she saw the stranger whirl with a hoarse cry, and two sharp reports echoed within the space of a heartbeat. The stranger cried out again and fell heavily, his gun clattering against the stone hearth as it dropped.

  Victoria, on her stomach, raised her gun toward the door—and froze.

  Falcon leaned against the jamb, the hand holding his pistol slowly dropping to his side. Their eyes locked—his bitter, and hers astonished, bewildered. In that still instant, she saw the other side of the city gentleman, a man dressed roughly in jeans and a heavy coat. A man with the weariness, dirt, and stubble of days of riding covering him.

  Then she saw the blood reddening the shirt beneath his coat, and her own gun clattered as she thrust it aside and scrambled to her feet. She tried, desperately, but failed to reach him before he fell.

  Chapter 2

  NEW MEXICO/ARIZONA

  It occurred to Jesse only when the Fontaine ranch lay far behind him that he had no idea at all of how to find his sister. He realized vaguely that he was heading toward Arizona, about which he knew absolutely nothing, and wondered for the first time if there was danger about. He was carrying a rifle on his saddle, but wore no handgun; the provisions in his saddlebags were running low; and though he could navigate by the stars as adeptly as any ship’s captain, tracking a horse and rider across barren terrain was somewhat beyond him.

  It had been eight years since he had seen Victoria, eight years since he had accepted her apparent death, and the knowledge that she was alive—and bent on finding her husband’s killers—drove him on, despite his lack of familiarity with this bare, arid landscape. He had come of age in a brutal war, and had spent the years since primarily at sea, working his way up rapidly to become one of Marcus Tyrone’s few trusted captains. He could find her. Like Victoria, he possessed a stoic strength integral to what he was, and a dogged determination that took little notice of hazards.

  So Jesse merely buttoned his coat against the chilly winds and rode on toward the western horizon. He ran out of provisions on the second day and could find very little food; though he was a good shot, game was increasingly scarce. Winter was blowing into the Southwest early and in an unusually severe mood, and both animals and humans had read the signs and taken shelter.

  All except for a lone, tired man on a weary horse. If it hadn’t been for his sturdy and trail-wise chestnut, Jesse would have died quickly; but he had sense enough to give the horse his head, as long as they moved in a generally western direction, and the gelding found water where Jesse would have found nothing. With water at least, they could press on steadily.

  It was on the fourth day, and somewhere in east Arizona, when Jesse topped a rise and looked down on an Indian encampment. He was saddlesore, bone-weary, hungry, and inclined to be furious at his own lack of experience. He felt like the rawest tenderfoot, and didn’t relish the feeling.

  The chestnut nickered loudly when he sensed others of his kind, and began to pick his way down toward the encampment. Jesse gave him his head.

  The Indians had been tamed, hadn’t they? He remembered reading it somewhere. Not that it really mattered to Jesse. He needed food and help, and wasn’t too proud to ask for it. He needed help in order to find his sister quickly, and it would have taken more than a numerous band of Apaches to turn his steps from the first sight of other humans in days.

  Beginning to feel more cheerful, Jesse rode on.

  Into Geronimo’s camp.

  TEXAS

  The wind was wailing, snow blowing angrily—a noisy storm that allowed no other sound to penetrate inside the dimly lighted room. From a seemingly great distance, as if he were at the bottom of a deep well, he heard a voice. It was a familiar voice, but it was saying words that surprised him somehow. He had said such words, he recalled idly, a few times in his life. When things had been desperate, when he had known gnawing anxiety and gut-level fear. He had sworn then, as she was swearing now, and in the same unsteady, toneless kind of voice.

  She?

  Her voice changed, becoming soft and crooning, and even though he didn’t hear the words, he responded to that voice. He managed to get his feet under him, leaning on a slender, fragile strength to replace his own. He was dimly aware of moving, slowly and haltingly, aware that the voice urged, and that he couldn’t deny her anything, no matter how much it hurt.

  And then he sensed he was lying flat on something soft and yielding, and wondered idly what it was.

  Very quickly, though, he forgot sound, forgot puzzlement. His body was wracked by pain, fiery waves of it. When he opened his eyes, the pain seemed to shimmer like heat waves before him. He felt something touch him, causing an agony that lanced through him, and a groan locked behind his teeth. The pain was unendurable, and h
e had no strength to push away the touch that brought agony. Someone was stabbing him, over and over again, using a razor-sharp hot knife that seared as it sliced raw flesh. He could not even breathe; all his remaining energy was taken up with merely outliving the torment.

  Then the agony faded to mere pain, a dull ache that pulsed throughout his body, and he felt the relief of respite after torture. His eyes opened and sight was hazy; he blinked, blinked again. He saw a face hanging over him, familiar, but strange in its deadly pallor. It was a lovely face, with wet, green eyes and bitten lips.

  And of course she was stabbing him; he could hardly blame her for that. After what he had said to her in New York, the only wonder was that she apparently hadn’t killed him. But she probably meant to let him die slowly, the way an Apache would…and he couldn’t blame her for that either.

  She had cut off one of his arms, because he couldn’t feel it anymore, but the other was there, and he lifted it with all his remaining strength so that he could touch her pale, wet cheek. “How beautiful you are,” he said clearly, wanting to tell her so much more, but unable to find the breath to push words out.

  “Goddamn you, live,” she whispered.

  Falcon heard a thick laugh and knew it was his own. Of course she wanted him to live; a quick death would cheat her. He wanted to say something, comment on her unladylike swearing, or ask why she was crying. She shouldn’t be crying over him, that wasn’t right. No woman had ever cried over him. And he wanted to say…something else. Something terribly important. But her face swam before his eyes hazily, and he felt unable to say anything at all. He was hurting again; the arm she had cut off hurt dreadfully now, and his chest too, and he was hot and very tired and he just wanted to sleep.

  —

  His eyes opened occasionally, fevered and unseeing, and muscles in his arms and legs jerked at her every touch as she carefully bound his wound. When she finished, she covered him, then brought a cup of the tea she had brewed and managed to get some down him, even though her hand trembled.