by Linda Howard
Nothing. No one. The street was empty. He stopped to listen. He heard birds, the rustle of a fitful breeze in the trees, the far-off sound of an engine climbing the slight rise on the north side of the town. Nothing else. No fast breathing, no running footsteps.
Wolf swore to himself. The guy was worse than an amateur, he was clumsy and made stupid moves, as well as being out of shape. If he’d been anywhere close by, Wolf would have been able to hear his labored breathing. Damn it, somehow his quarry had slipped away.
Wolf looked at the quiet houses nestled under the trees. Ruth didn’t have residential and commercial zoning; it was too small. The result was that the houses and few businesses were mixed together without order. The man could have gone into any of the houses; the way he’d disappeared so suddenly left no other possibility. It verified Wolf’s conviction that the rapist lived in Ruth; after all, both attacks had happened right in town.
He noted who lived in the houses on the street and tried to think of who inside them matched Mary’s description of a heavily freckled man. No one came to mind. But someone would. By God, Wolf vowed, someone would. He was slowly eliminating men from his mental list. Eventually, there would be only one left.
From inside a house, a curtain moved fractionally. The sound of his own raspy breathing as he sucked air into his laboring lungs filled the man’s ears. Through the tiny crack he’d made, he could see the Indian still standing in the street, staring at first one house, then another. Murderous black eyes moved across the window where the man stood, and he automatically stepped back out of sight.
His own fear sickened and enraged him. He didn’t want to be afraid of the Indian, but he was.
“Damn filthy Indian!” He whispered the words, then echoed them in his head. He liked doing that, saying things out loud the first time, then saying them to himself for his private understanding and enjoyment.
The Indian was a murderer. They said he knew more ways of killing people than normal folks could even imagine. The man believed it, because he knew firsthand how Indians could kill.
He’d like to kill the Indian, and that boy of his with the strange, pale eyes that looked through him. But he was afraid, because he didn’t know how to kill, and he knew he’d wind up getting killed himself. He was too afraid of getting that close to the Indian to even try it.
He’d thought about it, but he couldn’t come up with a plan. He’d like to shoot the Indian, because he wouldn’t have to get close to do that, but he didn’t have a gun, and he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by buying one.
But he liked what he’d done to get back at the Indian. It gave him savage satisfaction to know he was punishing the Indian by hurting those stupid women who had taken up for him. Why couldn’t they see him for the filthy, murdering trash he was? That stupid Cathy had said the Indian was good-looking! She’d even said she’d go out with the boy, and he knew that meant she’d let the boy touch her, and kiss her. She’d been willing to let the filthy Mackenzies kiss her, but she’d fought and screamed and gagged when he’d touched her.
It didn’t make sense, but he didn’t care. He’d wanted to punish her and punish the Indian for—for being there, for letting stupid Cathy look at him and think he was good-looking.
And the schoolteacher. He hated her almost as much as he hated the Mackenzies, maybe more. She was so goody-goody, making people think the boy was something special, trying to talk people around so they’d be friendly to the half-breeds. Preaching in the general store!
He’d wanted to spit on her. He’d wanted to hurt her, bad. He’d been so excited he almost hadn’t been able to stand it when he’d dragged her down that alley and felt her squirming beneath him. If that stupid deputy hadn’t shown up, he’d have done to her what he’d done to Cathy, and he knew he’d have liked it more. He’d wanted to hit her with his fists while he did it to her. That would have shown her. She would never have stuck up for the half-breeds again.
He still wanted to get her, to teach her a lesson, but school was out now, and he’d heard people say that the deputy had made her move to some safe place, and no one knew where she was. He didn’t want to wait until school started again, but he thought he might have to.
And that stupid Pam Hearst. She needed a lesson, too. He’d heard that she had gone to a dance with the half-breed boy. He knew what that meant. He’d had his hands on her, and she’d probably let him kiss her and maybe do a lot more, because everyone knew what the Mackenzies were like. As far as he was concerned, that made Pam a slut. She deserved to be taught a lesson just like Cathy, and just like the lesson the schoolteacher still had coming.
He peeked outside again. The Indian was gone. He immediately felt safe, and he began to plan.
When Wolf walked back into the feed store, the same group of men were still there. “We don’t much like you tracking folks around like we’re criminals,” one man snapped.
Wolf grunted and sat down to pull on his boots. He didn’t care if they liked it or not.
“Did you hear what I said?”
He looked up. “I heard.”
“And?”
“And nothing.”
“Now look here, damn it!”
“I’m looking.”
The men fidgeted under his cold black stare. Another spoke up. “You’re making the women nervous.”
“They should be nervous. It might keep them on guard, keep them from getting raped.”
“It was some drifter trash who blew in and blew out! Likely the sheriff won’t ever find who did it.”
“It’s trash, all right, but he’s still here. I just found his track.”
The men fell silent and looked at each other. Stu Kilgore, the foreman on Eli Baugh’s spread, cleared his throat. “We’re supposed to believe you can tell it was made by the same man?”
“I can tell.” Wolf gave them a smile that was closer to a snarl. “Uncle Sam made sure I got the best training available. It’s the same man. He lives here. He slipped into one of the houses.”
“That’s hard to believe. We’ve lived here all our lives. The only stranger around is the schoolteacher. Why would someone just up and start attacking women?”
“Someone did. That’s all I care about, that and catching him.”
He left the men murmuring among themselves while he loaded his feed.
Pam was bored. Since the two attacks, she hadn’t even stepped outside the house by herself; she’d been pretty scared at first, but the days had passed without any more attacks, and the shock had worn off. Women were beginning to venture out again, even by themselves.
She was going to another dance with Joe, and she wanted a new dress. She knew he was going away, knew she couldn’t hold him, but there was still something about him that made her heart race. She refused to let herself love him, even though she knew any other boyfriend would have a hard time replacing Joe. Hard, but not impossible. She wasn’t going to mope after he’d left; she’d get on with her life—but right now he was still here, and she savored every moment with him.
She really wanted a new dress, but she’d promised Joe she wouldn’t go anywhere alone, and she didn’t intend to break her promise. When her mother returned from shopping with a neighbor, she’d ask her about going with her to get a new dress. Not in Ruth, of course; she wanted to go to a real town, with a real dress shop.
Finally she picked up a book and walked out onto the back porch, away from the sun. There were neighbors on both sides, and she felt safe. She read for a while, then became sleepy and lay down on the porch swing, arranging her long legs over the back of the swing. She dozed immediately.
The abrupt jolting of the swing awakened her some time later. She opened her eyes and stared at a ski mask, with narrowed, hate-filled eyes glittering through the slits. He was already on her when she screamed.
He hit her with his fist, but she jerked her head back so that the blow landed on her shoulder. She screamed again and tried to kick him, and the unsteady swing toppl
ed them to the porch. She kicked again, catching him in the stomach, and he grunted, sounding oddly surprised.
She couldn’t stop screaming, even as she scrabbled away from him. She was more terrified than she’d ever been before in her life, but also oddly detached, watching the scene from some safe distance. The wooden slats of the porch scraped her hands and arms, but she kept moving backward. He suddenly sprang, and she kicked at him again, but he caught her ankle. She didn’t stop. She just kicked, using both legs, trying to catch him in the head or the groin, and she screamed.
Someone next door yelled. The man jerked his head up and dropped her ankle. Blood had seeped through the multicolored ski mask; she’d managed to kick him in the mouth. He said “Indian’s dirty whore” in a hate-thickened voice, and jumped from the porch, already running.
Pam lay on the porch, sobbing in dry, painful gasps. The neighbor yelled again, and somehow she garnered enough strength to scream “Help me!” before the terror made her curl into a ball and whimper like a child.
Chapter Twelve
Wolf wasn’t surprised when the deputy’s car pulled up and Clay got out. He’d had a tight feeling in his gut since he’d found that footprint in town. Clay’s tired face told the story.
Mary saw who their visitor was and automatically got a cup for coffee; Clay always wanted coffee. He took off his hat and sat down, heaving a sigh as he did so.
“Who was it this time?” Wolf asked, his deep voice so rough it was almost a growl.
“Pam Hearst.”
Joe’s head jerked up, and all the color washed out of his face. He was on his feet before Clay’s next words came.
“She fought him off. She isn’t hurt, but she’s scared. He jumped her on the Hearsts’ back porch, for God’s sake. Mrs. Winston heard her screaming, and the guy ran. Pam said she kicked him in the mouth. She saw blood on the ski mask he was wearing.”
“He lives in town,” Wolf said. “I found another print, but it’s hard to track in town, with people walking around destroying what few prints there are. I think he ducked into one of the houses along Bay Road, but he might not live there.”
“Bay Road.” Clay frowned as he mentally reviewed the people living on Bay Road; most of the townspeople lived along it, in close little clusters. There was also another cluster of houses on Broad Street, where the Hearsts lived. “We might have him this time. Any man who has a swollen lip will have to have an airtight alibi.”
“If it just split his lip, you won’t be able to tell. The swelling will be minimal. She would have to have really done some damage for it to be visible more than a day or so.” Wolf had had more than his share of split lips, and delivered his share, too. The mouth healed swiftly. Now if Pam had knocked some teeth out, that would be a different story.
“Any blood on the porch?”
“No.”
“Then she didn’t do any real damage.” There would have been blood sprayed all over the porch if she’d kicked out his teeth.
Clay shoved his hand through his hair. “I don’t like to think of the uproar it would cause, but I’m going to talk to the sheriff about making a house-to-house search along Bay Road. Damn it, I just can’t think of anyone it could be.”
Joe abruptly left the room, and Wolf stared after his son. He knew Joe wanted to go to Pam, and knew that he wouldn’t. Some of the barriers had come down, but most of them were still intact.
Clay had watched Joe leave, and he sighed again. “The bastard called Pam an ‘Indian’s dirty whore.”’ His gaze shifted to Mary, who had stood silently the whole time. “You were right.”
She didn’t reply, because she’d known all along that she was right. It made her sick to hear the name Pam had been called, because it so starkly revealed the hatred behind the attack.
“I suppose all the tracks at Pam’s house have been ruined.” Wolf said it as a statement, not a question.
“Afraid so.” Clay was regretful, but practically everyone in town had been at the Hearsts’ house before he’d gotten there, standing around the back porch and tromping around the area.
Wolf muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath about damn idiots. “Do you think the sheriff will go along with a house-to-house search?”
“Depends. You know some folks are going to kick up about it no matter what the reason. They’ll take it personally. This is an election year,” he said, and they took his point.
Mary listened to them talking, but she didn’t join in. Now Pam had been hurt; who was next? Would the man work up enough courage to attack Wolf or Joe? That was her real terror, because she didn’t know if she could bear it. She loved them with all the fierceness of her soul. She would gladly put herself between them and danger.
Which was exactly what she would have to do.
It made her sick to even think of that man’s hands on her again, but she knew in that moment that she was going to give him the opportunity. Somehow, she was going to lure him out. She wouldn’t allow herself the luxury of hiding out on Mackenzie’s Mountain any longer.
She would begin driving into town by herself. The only problem would be in getting away from Wolf; she knew he’d never agree if he had any idea what she was doing. Not only that, he was capable of preventing her from leaving at all, either by disabling her car or even locking her in the bedroom. She didn’t underestimate him.
Since he had moved her up on the mountain with him, he’d been delivering and picking up horses, rather than letting the owners come up to the ranch, where they might see her. Her whereabouts were a well-kept secret, known only to Wolf, Joe and Clay. But that meant she was left alone several times a week while Wolf and Joe ran errands and delivered horses. Joe also left for his math lessons, and they had to ride fences and work the small herd of cattle, just as every rancher did. She really had a lot of opportunities for slipping away, at least the first time. It would be infinitely more difficult to get away after that, because Wolf would be on his guard.
She quietly excused herself and went in search of Joe. She peeked into his bedroom, but he wasn’t there, so she went out on the front porch. He was leaning against one of the posts, his thumbs hooked in his front pockets.
“It isn’t your fault.”
He didn’t move. “I knew it could happen.”
“You aren’t responsible for someone else’s hate.”
“No, but I am responsible for Pam. I knew it could happen, and I should have stayed away from her.”
Mary made an unladylike sound. “I seem to remember it was the other way around. Pam made her choice when she made that scene in her father’s store.”
“All she wanted was to go to a dance. She didn’t ask for this.”
“Of course not, but it still isn’t your fault, any more than it would have been your fault if she’d been in a car accident. You can say you could have delayed her so she’d have been a minute later getting to that particular section of road, or hurried her up so she’d have been earlier, but that’s ridiculous, and you know it.”
He couldn’t prevent a faint smile at the starchiness of her tone. She should be in Congress, cracking her whip and haranguing those senators and representatives into some sort of fiscal responsibility. Instead she’d taken on Ruth, Wyoming, and none of them had been the same since she’d set foot in town.
“All right, so I’m taking too much on myself,” he finally said. “But I knew it wasn’t smart to go out with her in the first place. It isn’t fair. I’ll be leaving here when I finish school, and I won’t be back. Pam should be dating someone who’s going to be around when she needs him.”
“You’re still taking too much on yourself. Let Pam make her own decisions about who she wants to date. Do you plan to isolate yourself from women forever?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he drawled, and in that moment he sounded so much like his father that it startled her. “But I don’t intend to get involved with anyone.”
“It doesn’t always work out the way you want. You
were involved with Pam even before I came here.”
That was true, as far as it went. He sighed and leaned his head against the post. “I don’t love her.”
“Of course not. I never thought you did.”
“I like her; I care for her. But not enough to stay, not enough to give up the Academy.” He looked at the Wyoming night, the almost painful clarity of the sky, the brightly winking stars, and thought of jockeying an F-15 over these mountains, with the dark earth below and the glittering stars above. No, he couldn’t give that up.
“Did you tell her that?”
“Yes.”
“Then it was her decision.”
They stood in silence, watching the stars. A few minutes later Clay left, and neither of them thought it strange that he hadn’t said goodbye. Wolf came out on the porch and automatically slid his arm around Mary’s waist, hugging her to his side even as he put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Okay enough, I suppose.” But he understood now the total rage he’d seen in Wolf’s eyes when Mary had been attacked, the same rage that still burned in a rigidly controlled fire inside his father. God help the man if Wolf Mackenzie ever got his hands on him.
Wolf tightened his arm around Mary and led her inside, knowing it was best to leave Joe alone now. His son was tough; he’d handle it.
The next morning Mary listened as they discussed their day. There were no horses to deliver or pick up, but Joe had a math lesson that afternoon, and they intended to use the morning inoculating cattle. She had no idea how long it would take to treat the whole herd, but imagined they would both be tied up the entire morning. They would be riding a couple of the young quarter horses, to teach them how to cut cattle.