by Pam Crooks
She fought to hide her smile. He really was insufferable, but Carleigh couldn’t fault him too much for it, given her own lusty thoughts of late. After finishing his shave, she wiped away the last of the soapy suds. “There. Not a drop of blood in sight.”
He ran his palm along his jaw, his chin, his throat. “You’ve done a fine job.”
“Didn’t I say I would?”
She untied the strip of cotton around his shoulder and studied the closed wound; she gently touched a finger to the tender skin surrounding it.
“You’re healing well,” she mused. “I’m amazed at this cactus we use. It truly is powerful medicine as the Indian chief claimed.”
“As good as any a doctor might prescribe,” he conceded, studying it, too.
“I would have been worried sick about you without it.”
“I can take care of myself. You don’t need to worry about me.”
Though his tone lacked animosity, his words hinted at years of independence. At a man accustomed to being alone.
She straightened and set her hands on her hips. “Have you not had a woman fuss over you before?”
He tossed her a wry glance. “My mother. When I was a kid.”
Out of the blue, her heart constricted. Of course, a mother would worry about her child, as all mothers had over the ages.
Had Belle ever worried for her?
Carleigh couldn’t know for sure. But Luann had. Many times over.
Once, that had been enough. Now, knowing Belle was alive, Carleigh wasn’t so sure.
“I don’t mean your mother,” she said, forcing her thoughts back to the conversation. To Trig. “A woman. Someone who cared enough about you to worry when you got into trouble.”
He regarded her. “The women in my life have cared enough to give me their time in bed, but not much more than that.”
Carleigh clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Whores, then.”
He nodded, those dark eyes of his intent upon her. “Ladies of the evening.”
She huffed. “No matter what fancy name you use to disguise their trade, they’re still whores. And it’s a shame you spent time with them instead of fostering a relationship with a decent woman.”
“There are a hell of a lot of whores in this country who’d be decent women if their circumstances allowed it.”
She supposed the differences in their sex inspired his point of view. Certainly there was some truth in it. Luann had told her some stories about prostitutes that were quite disturbing.
Instead of arguing with him further, however, Carleigh kept her attention on cleaning his shoulder with a wet cloth.
“Meat smells good,” he said in an obvious change of topic.
“Are you trying to sweet-talk me?” she asked, still thinking about the whores.
“I mean it. You’re getting to know your way around a campfire pretty well these days.”
“Hard to believe for a rich girl from the big city, isn’t it?”
“I never said that.”
“No, but you thought it.”
“At first, yes,” he said. “Not anymore.”
She finished the dressing. “Well, I guess I have you to thank for it, then. I wouldn’t have known what to do without you to teach me.”
She gathered up his knife, razor and the leftover cactus. When she would have moved away from him, his arm snaked around her waist and pulled her into his lap.
“Regardless of what you’re thinking, I’m obliged to you for worrying about me,” he murmured. “And for taking care of me like you do.”
“Not that you appreciate it.” She pushed against him. “I fear it’s time wasted on you.”
“Just give me a chance to get used to the idea.”
His gaze roamed over her face with a thoroughness that made her much too aware of how disheveled she must look with her hair escaping its braid and skin too flushed from the heat.
“It’s best you don’t take too long over the notion. Our time together is limited.” She scooted off him, a sudden sadness stinging deep into her heart. “Dinner is ready by now. You’d better get dressed before our rabbit is burned to a crisp.”
Chapter 10
“These are the last of the berries, Carleigh.” Trig drew the gelding up next to her mare and held out his hand. “You want any more?”
“A few. Thanks.” She took several, leaving him the rest, and popped one into her mouth.
Her gaze roamed the low-roofed building sprawled in the valley before them. Wildflowers grew on the edges of a lawn, thick and green all around the house. A white picket fence surrounded the sides and back; a half dozen hitching posts lined the front.
Attached to the main house was a smaller structure. An office. A sign hung from the porch roof that read “Customhouse”.
“Your friend is a Customs Officer?” Blue eyes swung toward him in puzzlement.
“Yes.” He wondered how much he should tell her. “His name is Gifford Cullin. I’ve known him for years.”
“And you think he can help you find whoever shot at you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“How?”
“He has access to information that might be helpful.”
“Contacts, you mean.”
He nodded. “Inside information.”
She studied him, those blue eyes seeming to probe deep inside him for the answers she wanted, but he wasn’t ready to give. “And you’re sure he won’t mind if we stop by unannounced.”
“I’m fresh out of engraved calling cards. He’ll understand.”
Her gaze slid to the house again.
“What’s the matter?” Trig asked, watching her as he was prone to do these days. He’d learned to read her moods, recognized whenever something was bothering her.
“I’m not prepared to go calling on strangers,” she said. “I would love a fresh dress.”
“Gif will understand our circumstances. He won’t give a damn what either one of us looks like.”
She hesitated. “I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“Embarrass me?” Taken aback, he stared at her. “You’re a beautiful woman. Whatever you’re wearing won’t take that away from you.”
In spite of his clumsy attempt to reassure her, her fingers checked for stray wisps beneath the straw hat she always wore. Her skin had taken on a golden tan during their long journey; her slender hands were calloused and rough, the nails chipped. She looked thinner to him, too, and tired.
But she carried herself with grace and poise, both in the saddle and out. She’d acquired a confidence from the things she learned to do out in the wilds of the California desert. She’d grown from her mistakes. Hard work wasn’t something she was accustomed to, but she hadn’t shied away from it.
“A damned beautiful woman,” he said again, more to himself than to her and his tone more emphatic this time.
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to believe you. I don’t even have a mirror to convince myself otherwise.”
His mouth curved at her wry self-deprecation. “Let’s go.”
They rode into the valley and approached the house. The door opened, and Gif stepped out.
Trig’s spirits soared just seeing him. He grinned. “Hey, old man!”
“Old man, hell! Mathison, that you?” Gif bellowed.
Trig’s grin widened. Damn, it was good to see him again.
There were few men more loyal. Big as a bear and just as hairy, Gif sported a salt-and-pepper beard and thick moustache. Most times, he had the heart of a pussycat, but he was as sharp as snake’s teeth and just as quick to strike when provoked. Trig would trust him with his life.
And Carleigh’s.
They drew up next to the hitching posts, and Gif waited for Trig to dismount before taking his hand and shaking it heartily. Standing a full head taller, the man had a grip that could kill if he was so inclined, but one look into his warm brown eyes revealed he was genuinely glad to see Trig.
Both men turned in unison toward C
arleigh. Behind her, Spencer barked from inside the leather bag.
“Well, damnation! Look at that little furball!” Gif exclaimed and chuckled at the sight of him. “And this here young lady. Get her down from that horse, Trig. I want to have a look at her.”
Trig reached up to swing her out of the saddle and settle her on the ground. His hand lingered on her waist.
“This is Carleigh Chandler. She’s from San Francisco but heading to Mexico for personal business,” he said, meeting Gif’s swift glance.
“Trig has been kind enough to escort me there.” She extended her hand with a gracious smile. “So nice to meet you, Mr. Cullin.”
His mammoth paw engulfed her fingers while his shrewd eyes took her in. “Now, let’s just cut this ‘Mr.’ stuff and go straight to Gif. Right pleased to meet you, young lady.”
“Thank you,” she said, clearly charmed.
Spencer barked again, and Carleigh gathered him into her arms.
“And this is Spencer,” she said, giving him an affectionate scratch under his chin.
“Gawd, but he’s little.” Gif broke into hearty laughter. “Do you mind?” He extended a long, beefy arm out to hold him.
“Not at all.” Carleigh settled him into the broad palm.
“You call him a dog? Why, he’s no bigger than a mosquito.” Moving his hand up and down, as if testing Spencer’s weight, his chuckling deepened.
“Hello, Trig.”
Trig turned at the shy, feminine voice belonging to Gif’s wife. He smiled in pleasure and pressed a warm kiss to her cheek. “Flower. It’s good to see you again.”
“You are well?” she asked. A buckskin dress adorned with intricate beading sheathed her slender figure. Her copper skin revealed her Indian heritage.
“Fine, thanks.”
“My wife’s name is Flower in the Sun,” Gif said to Carleigh. “But everyone just calls her Flower.”
He completed the introductions, and Carleigh acknowledged her with a polite nod. “You have a beautiful name, Flower.”
“It is kind of you to say so.”
“They’ve just come down from the desert,” Gif said. “Carleigh could use a nice, cold drink. Maybe the dog could use a bath, too. That fur of his should be a mite whiter than it is.”
His wife glanced at him, and an unspoken message passed between them. She nodded quickly and took Spencer from her husband’s outstretched palm.
“Maybe a little trim, too?” She made a cutting motion with two fingers. “If Carleigh does not mind?”
Carleigh’s gaze darted to Trig before dragging it away again. “Of course not.”
“We will go this way.” Still holding Spencer in one arm, she took a firm hold of Carleigh’s elbow and led her toward the back of the house. Carleigh twisted for one last look at Trig before both women disappeared around the corner.
Gif whirled toward Trig.
“Chandler?” he choked. “As in Judge Reginald Chandler?”
Trig nodded. “His daughter.”
“Christ.” He appeared stunned. “Those eyes. Just like his.”
“I know.”
Blue as ice, Trig had thought more than once. Now, instead of chilling him, they drew him. Like a clear lake on a hot day.
Gif studied him hard. “She’s the reason you stopped by, then.”
“Yes.”
“Judge Chandler’s daughter,” he muttered in disbelief. “You’ve got some explaining to do.” He hitched her mare to one of the hitching posts; Trig did the same with his gelding. “We can talk over here. Flower will keep her occupied for us.”
A pair of wooden benches sat in the shade of a maple tree. Gif eased his bulk onto one. Trig squatted on his heels and slipped the stem of a foxtail weed between his teeth.
He squinted an eye toward the San Diego horizon.
“My kid brother was shot to death in an opium den a little over a month ago,” he said quietly. A wave of pain cut through him, as it always did when he thought of Nathaniel.
A moment passed. “God, Trig. I’m sorry.”
“Chandler framed me as the killer.”
“Of your own brother?”
He didn’t need to look at Gif to see the outrage in his face. Years of friendship told him it would be there.
“He put me through a farce of a trial, then confiscated my father’s farm while I was in jail. Took everything Pa’s ever worked for on trumped up charges of back taxes.”
“Was he in arrears at all?”
“Some,” Trig admitted. “I didn’t know until it was too late. Hell, I could have paid off the debt from my own accounts if I’d known. But Chandler was too quick to take the land before I could settle up from my cell. By the time Pa told me about it, it was too late.”
“Hard on a man to lose his place like that.” Half angry, half sympathetic, Gif shook his head.
“Damn hard.”
Ma had died from the fever the previous fall. Trig thought of the years he’d spent tracking down murderers and smugglers and every kind of lowlife in between, of how his ability to read sign and know a hunted man’s way of thinking earned him his reputation as a ruthless bounty hunter.
Yet he’d been oblivious to his own family’s troubles. He hadn’t realized how sick Ma had been or how troubled Nathaniel was. Pa’s pride—and Trig’s absence from home—kept it all from him.
Regret shot through him. And guilt, deep and piercing.
“Chandler went through a hell of a lot of trouble to get that land, Gif,” Trig said, clawing his way through it.
Over and over again, he had puzzled over the judge’s motives. The Mathison farm bordered the rocky California coast. The acreage was small, hilly. Not particularly fertile. Pa had all he could do to make a decent living off it.
“Seems so,” Gif said, bushy brows furrowed. “How does Carleigh figure into all this?”
Trig explained her discovery of the mother she never knew she had, her hurt from the judge’s deceit.
“When she ran away from home, Chandler pulled me out of jail to find her,” he finished.
“After all he put you through, why did you agree?”
“I didn’t have a choice. He’s blackmailing me,” he said, tossing aside the foxtail in disgust. “Holding Pa until I bring her back to San Francisco.”
“But you’re headed to Mexico.”
Trig slid a glance toward Carleigh and Flower, each bent over Spencer, wet and soapy in a metal tub.
“Carleigh was damned determined to get there,” he said. “Came a time when I figured she was entitled to find her mother.”
“At the risk of not getting back to your pa.”
Trig grimaced. “Yes.”
“She know about hers?”
“No.”
“You going to tell her?”
“In time,” Trig said, suddenly impatient.
“Going to be tough on her to find out.”
Trig fought down a shudder. He dreaded the day.
“Until she learned about her mother, at least, she pretty much adored him,” Trig said. “The feeling is mutual. Carleigh’s the one decent thing Chandler’s managed to accomplish in his life.”
“So you find her mother. You take her back to San Francisco. You get your father back. Then what?”
Trig met Gif’s gaze. “Revenge. And it’ll be damned sweet when I get it.”
Gif nodded, slow and satisfied. But his expression clouded. “Don’t reckon Carleigh knows about that, either.”
He shifted uneasily. “She realizes there’s bad blood between us. But she doesn’t know Chandler’s been suspect a long time. The law in San Francisco is so damned corrupt, no one’s been able to pin anything on him.” He hesitated. “When I get the evidence I need to convict him, she’ll know the truth.”
“Hell of a story you’re telling me, Mathison,” Gif said with a heavy sigh.
“There’s more. Someone shot at me a couple of days back. Just a graze to the shoulder, but it was enough to let me kn
ow a few inches over would have killed me.”
“Any idea who?”
“Not for sure. Chandler will know I should’ve been back in San Francisco by now. Won’t be hard for him to figure I’ve decided to take Carleigh to her mother, after all.” A corner of Trig’s mouth lifted. “He’ll know I’ve double-crossed him.”
“So you think he sent someone after you.”
“I’m sure of it. Which makes me think there’s something he doesn’t want Carleigh to find out.”
“Something her ma must know about.”
“Exactly.”
“What can I do to help?” Gif asked.
“I need to get to her mother. Fast. Until I know who’s after me and why, Carleigh could be in danger, too. The sooner I can bring her back home, the better.”
Gif reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a bag of horehound candy. Trig knew his brain worked best sucking on the sweets.
“Okay. What do you know about her mother?” Gif asked, tucking a piece against the inside of his cheek.
“Very little.” Trig withdrew a piece of paper from inside his boot, kept there for safekeeping. “This is the letter she sent to Chandler.”
Gif read aloud:
“Reginald, isn’t it enough you made sure I would never see my daughter again? But lest you think my letters are nothing more than whining missives from a mother spurned and ignored for too many years, I warn you to heed me well.
Allow me to see Carleigh. There’s not much time left. For either of us.
Belle Lamont”
“She’s threatening him.” Gif shook his head. “Spunky woman.”
“Notice where the letter is from.”
“Belén.” His shocked gaze lifted.
“Yeah.”
One of the harshest penitentiaries in Mexico.
The prison housed women of various disreputable walks of life. Once a woman walked beyond the brick walls, she rarely came out again.
“Belle sounds desperate to see Carleigh,” Gif said.
“What mother wouldn’t? Could be she knows something about Chandler. Maybe she’s trying to protect Carleigh from it.”
“Sounds like she’s sick and dying, too.”
“All the more reason to find her as soon as possible.”
“How? When she’s locked up miles away from here?” Gif’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You planning on taking Carleigh there?”