The Wayward Heart

by Jill Gregory

  But Murdock was too smart to come gunning openly for him in town. He’d try something sometime, but it would be a sly, stealthy attack, perhaps a shot in the back or a knife thrown suddenly out of the darkness...

  Texas yanked his attention back to the matter at hand. Casper would have to be dealt with, that was obvious. But maybe, Texas thought, he could be of some use before he was finished off.

  With slightly raised brows, he gave the furious outlaw his most mocking smile. “If you’re really interested, Casper, I’ll tell you why I grabbed the girl from under your filthy nose. I thought it was a good joke on all you two-bit coyotes, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity to glance back and see the expressions on your weaselly faces as I rode off with your prize catch of the day.”

  He watched Ned’s face flush scarlet with rage.

  “I laughed the whole way back to town,” Texas added coolly. “And you know what? I reckon I’ll enjoy telling that story for many years to come.”

  “The hell you will!” His face contorted with fury, Casper could barely choke out his words. “I’ll kill you first, you low-down son of a bitch, and if I don’t, someone else will! Either Murdock or—” He caught himself abruptly, and finished in a rush, “or one of the others.”

  “You meant to say the name of the man who hired you in the first place, didn’t you?” Texas asked softly, his keen gaze riveted on Casper’s face. “Who is it? Who hired you to kidnap the girl?”

  Casper’s mouth opened and closed in consternation, but he recovered quickly, and snarled, “What’re you talkin’ about? No one hired us. We saw her and we wanted her! That’s all!”

  Suddenly he glanced nervously about the room, for the first time aware of the other men present. “No one hired us, you hear?”

  Texas laughed derisively. He’d hoped to anger Casper into making a slip, but the outlaw had recovered his wits in time. Well, it didn’t really matter. He already had a damn good suspicion who had arranged the stagecoach robbery as a cover for the girl’s kidnapping, and he’d guessed the reason behind it.

  The man who’d hired that gang of outlaws had wanted Bryony Hill out of the way—permanently. Texas had no doubt that eventually she’d have been killed—probably after all the men in Gilly’s had had their way with her.

  But things hadn’t worked out that way. Bryony had been rescued—leaving the man who’d masterminded the plot in a very dangerous and vulnerable position.

  Texas wondered what that hombre’s next move would be.

  Whatever it was, Miss Bryony Hill would be the target. She was in imminent peril of her life because her unknown enemy was a desperate man. He was fighting for his very survival against the danger she’d unwittingly presented to him, and Texas guessed he wouldn’t rest until he was assured of her total harmlessness. He needed her dead.

  Texas had a bad feeling that Bryony Hill was running out of time.

  “Supposing you tell me what you want, Casper,” Texas suggested. “I don’t have all morning to waste with a no-good rattlesnake like you.”

  “I want you, Logan. Dead! Buried!” Ned’s anger overrode all caution as he issued his challenge for everyone to hear.

  The cowboys at the card table gaped in astonishment at his words, and Meg Donahue gave a clearly audible gasp, but the man called Texas just smiled, his eyes gleaming at the prospect of a fight.

  “Now look here,” Meg put in swiftly, clapping a hand on Casper’s arm. “Mister, I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re after, but do you know who this man is?”

  “I know!” Ned rasped, shaking her off roughly. “And I ain’t scared of him or any other man! And this is none of your business, lady, so keep the hell out of it!”

  “Suit yourself, mister,” Meg returned, leaning back to rest her elbows on the bar behind her, her expression frosty and disdainful. “But when they bury you tomorrow mornin’, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “You goin’ to fight me or not?” Casper yelled, his infuriated gaze boring into Texas’s lean face. “Or are you too chicken to face a man with a price on his head?”

  “You’re shore the braggart, aren’t you, Casper?” Texas drawled. “Don’t you ever worry that a lawman might overhear your boasts and decide to earn himself a nice fat reward?”

  “Lawman! Haw! There’s not one damn lawman for miles around and you know it. Unless you’ve taken on the job, Logan, and not seen fit to tell no one? After all, rescuin’ that girl was the kind of thing I’d expect from a man with a badge. Sure you’re not hidin’ one under that purty black vest?”

  “I’m no lawman,” Texas responded softly, his eyes gleaming. “But I’m man enough to help rid the world of rats like you—which is what I intend to do. Pronto.”

  His voice turned steely.

  “Outside, Casper. Now. I won’t dirty Meg’s floor with your filthy hide.”

  Ned Casper’s face darkened with rage, and he spun toward the door. Texas followed quickly, his cool, purposeful step leaving little doubt in anyone’s mind what the outcome of the fight would be.

  ***

  The street itself was deserted—but the wooden boardwalk lining the street was crammed with excited onlookers.

  For Bryony, flanked by Matt Richards and Judge Hamilton, this morning had offered her the first glimpse of Winchester in daylight. She’d had little time to notice anything, other than that it was a dusty, colorless little town, with long, dreary rows of unpainted frame buildings on either side of the narrow main street—and groups of sweating horses tethered to a broken line of hitching posts along the road.

  And people—there was an assortment of people. Now they were clustered together like cattle beneath the imperturbable cerulean sky to witness a killing.

  “And I’m one of them,” she thought dazedly, dismayed by her own behavior. Yet she couldn’t help herself. She had to see what was going on. To her chagrin, a tall woman wearing a high, stiffly starched yellow bonnet blocked her view of the two combatants already standing in the street, but just as she ducked her head in a vain attempt to peer past the woman, her attention was caught by a noisy crowd of people emerging from the saloon.

  A large, red-haired woman in a glittering blue satin gown shoved her way through the swinging doors and onto the wooden platform of the boardwalk, followed closely by a handful of eager, grinning cowboys whose boots scraped loudly, breaking the hushed silence that preceded their arrival on the scene.

  Then a door flew open suddenly on the upper floor of the saloon and a girl scrambled out onto the narrow balcony over the Silver Spur, a sheer, red silk robe trimmed with red maribou draped over her body, her coppery hair spilling wildly about her shoulders as she rushed to the guard rail surrounding the balcony and stared intently down into the street.

  Bryony could read the fearful anxiety in the girl’s face, and wondered which of the two men about to engage in the duel was the recipient of this anxious concern. Bryony, raised strictly in proper eastern society, had never seen anyone like the copper-haired girl before in her life. She had never known anyone who would dare emerge into public view in a dressing robe, especially a robe as daring and revealing as this vivid red silk one.

  A moment later her attention was reclaimed by the event taking place in the street. The crowd shifted suddenly, and the woman in the yellow bonnet no longer blocked her view. Bryony squinted against the hot white brilliance of the noonday sun, straining to see the two men facing each other alone in the deserted road.

  All at once, her eyes widened, and a startled gasp escaped her lips. She felt a tiny shock vibrate throughout her body as she recognized them.

  Ned Casper stood not more than twenty five feet from her. She could only see his profile, but she knew him instantly. With a gasp, her gaze flew to the other man.

  He was facing in her direction, his hat pulled low on his brow to protect his eyes from the sun’s glare. Even from this distance she recognized his tall, powerful form. He was braced for action, his hands still and steady at
his sides as he waited for the moment he would draw his gun.

  It was him. Texas.

  Bryony’s heart began to beat violently, and she pushed her way through the crowd to its very edge.

  Suddenly movement exploded in the narrow street. Ned Casper lunged for his gun, jerking it rapidly from his holster to fire at Texas. But the shot never came.

  Texas drew first, whipping the big black Colt from its well-oiled holster, squeezing the trigger just once, with deadly accuracy.

  With his own gun still in midair, Ned Casper crumpled to the ground, bloodying the gray dust as he sprawled like a misshapen puppet in the dirt. A short, terrible scream tore from his lips, echoing for an eerie instant in the stunned silence.

  His body twitched convulsively, and then went completely still beneath the bright, hard blue of the Arizona sky.

  Slowly, slowly, the crowd came to life, buzzing with excitement as people surged forward toward the fallen form.

  Texas returned his gun to his holster and began to turn away.

  Then he saw Bryony, leaning against a supporting post as if she could not stand alone, her emerald eyes huge and vivid upon him.

  Beside her stood the paunchy, white-haired figure of Judge Hamilton, and the dark, powerful form of Matt Richards.

  Texas smiled grimly to himself, then lifted his hat in a brief, insolent salute to the beautiful girl in the soft, white dress.

  An instant later he strode away, walking with easy strides toward the saloon, where Meg Donahue waited outside the door, a beaming smile on her rouged face.

  Overhead, the copper-haired girl leaned over the balcony railing and called out her congratulations. Her filmy red dressing robe blew enticingly in the breeze.

  Bryony watched the entire scene mutely until Texas disappeared into the saloon. A terrible feeling of dread stole through her and she began to shake. Her voice emerged as a dry, low whisper in the thin, desert air.

  “Who... who is that man?” Her gaze was still fixed on the spot where he’d disappeared into the saloon. “I know his name is Texas, but who...what...?”

  Her hands tightly gripped the wooden post for support as a horrifying premonition swept over her.

  Beside her, the Judge and Matt exchanged grim glances, hesitating.

  “You’d best tell her,” the Judge finally muttered in a low voice.

  Richards nodded, glancing down at Bryony’s pale face. “That man is a gunfighter, Miss Hill. One of the coldest, most dangerous gunfighters in the west.”

  To his surprise she nodded, closing her eyes in anticipation of his next words.

  “His name is Texas. Texas Jim Logan.” Matt’s tone hardened. “He’s the man who killed your father.”

  Chapter Ten

  The gun was small and compactly made, with a shiny pearl handle and gleaming black barrel, exquisitely tooled. It was a Remington .22 derringer, guaranteed by the merchant who sold it to her to be deadly at a range of twenty feet.

  Bryony found that its unfamiliar weight inside her reticule was unexpectedly comforting, and she had to deliberately control herself against continually opening her bag to glance at it. Instead, she focused her gaze purposefully on the trail ahead as the buggy in which she rode rolled forward at an easy pace under Judge Hamilton’s guidance. Matt Richards rode alongside her, mounted on a fine-looking gray gelding that seemed impatient of the sedate pace the Judge was setting.

  Bryony chafed with impatience herself. After the events of the morning she was more anxious than ever to reach the sanctuary of the Circle H, to settle herself in and temporarily shut the world out. Judge Hamilton seemed unmindful of her inward tension, and unconcernedly passed the time while they drove to the ranch by recounting to her some of the details of Arizona’s history.

  She tried to concentrate on the conversation, but her mind churned with confused thoughts and emotions as she sought to recover from the shock she’d experienced only a short while before.

  She’d gathered her belongings and checked out of the hotel, and then insisted on being taken directly to the gunsmith to purchase a weapon before leaving town. Matt and the Judge had tried to discourage her, but she’d been adamant. Finally, they’d escorted her to the gunsmith and helped her to select the derringer.

  Both men were uncertain about her intentions for its use, and Bryony had given it little thought herself, only knowing that she wanted it. She firmly intended to learn how to shoot it with expertise. But that would come later. Now she only wanted to calm the tumult whirling madly in her mind, to think about her discovery that the stranger called Texas who had rescued her from the highwaymen and then brazenly kissed her beneath the desert stars was the feared gunfighter who’d killed her father.

  Strangely enough, she’d sensed this an instant before Matt Richards had put it into words. Something had clicked inside her head when she’d seen him in the street—a distant memory of a conversation on the stagecoach, when Tom Scott had talked of “Texas Jim Logan” and his dangerous reputation, had begun to return, and she’d realized the awful truth an instant before Matt Richards actually voiced it.

  The horror of that moment still quivered through her—the shock of realizing that she’d been boldly kissed by her father’s murderer. And worse—she’d enjoyed it.

  Her only consolation, however slim, lay in the fact that at the time she’d been unaware of the stranger’s identity. Surely if she’d known the truth, she never would have responded with such ardor to his advances. She wouldn’t have felt delight at being held against his iron hard body, or felt a rush of response as his lips caressed hers so enticingly.

  She cringed with shame at the memory, and silently vowed vengeance on the loathsome stranger who’d used her in this way—all the while knowing full well who she was and what he’d done to her father.

  Gripping her reticule tightly, she thought of the little black gun inside. She’d learn how to use it. Oh yes, indeed, she would.

  With an effort, she returned her thoughts to the present. It wouldn’t be long now before they reached the ranch. The countryside was magnificent as the horses trotted along a winding trail where wild geraniums, violets, and poppies grew in colorful profusion beside the road, and green shrubs and flowering cacti added their own special charm to the scene.

  Above, the brilliant blue sky was dotted with small, fleecy clouds like tufts of lamb’s wool, and the sun bathed the entire landscape in dazzling golden light. It was hot, and very still. In the distance, mesas and jagged bluffs rose up from lavender-misted foothills and sloping valleys.

  And then there were the mountains, their rainbow-hued colors ever changing with the light and angle of vision. Just now, their towering, carved formations loomed against the sky in breath-taking shades of blue and purple and lavender.

  Somehow, she found their solid, imposing presence reassuring.

  Bryony felt a strange bond to this rough, colorful, untamed land—a sense of kinship that deeply pierced her innermost soul.

  But how could she explain her feelings to Judge Hamilton and Matthew Richards? She barely understood them herself.

  She only knew that all of her life she’d yearned for adventure, for excitement, for something beyond the ordinary. She wanted to draw from the strength of those towering mountains, to discover life’s secrets and treasures, its richness and joy. She had a feeling that here in Arizona she’d have the opportunity to taste life—to embrace it as one embraces a cool wind on a sultry summer’s day, to know the happiness of real freedom. She was overwhelmingly glad that she had come.

  When the Circle H ranch finally came into view she caught her breath. The hacienda was nestled in the foothills of the Dragoon Mountains, Judge Hamilton had told her. Yet she hadn’t envisioned at all how impressive it would look, with the mountains behind it and the beautiful valley spread as far as the eye could see.

  The ranch house was the crown jewel of the sprawling green and yellow valley carpeted with golden poppies and purple owl’s clover—and the land
around it was studded with mesquite shrubs, paloverde trees, and cacti of all shapes and sizes. Groves of cottonwoods flanked the ranch-house grounds, and Bryony caught the scent of the orange groves bordering the rear of the house.

  The range—dotted in the distance with peacefully grazing cattle—seemed to spread forever over a vast amount of land. In the distance, the thin blue ribbon of water that was the San Pedro River wound its way northward through the plunging valley.

  Looking down upon this beautiful scene from an overhanging bluff as they drew nearer, Bryony caught her breath in admiration. She’d never seen such splendor in her life!

  The ranch house itself was handsome—a long, two-storey red adobe building with numerous wooden-shuttered windows. A wide, roofed porch supported by wooden posts ran around the outside of the house, giving the structure an open, airy appearance.

  Judge Hamilton explained that porches of this type were common in the southwest, for they helped protect the inside of the house from the intense heat inflicted by the desert sun. A wide road led up to the front of the building, where a white-painted wrought-iron fence guarded the path leading to the shaded entrance within the porch.

  Bryony gazed at the ranch house in delight as Matt Richards dismounted from his gelding and helped her to alight from the buggy. The Judge stepped down from his perch on the buggy and took the time to tether the horses to a hitching post.

  But before following the two men up the steps and into the ranch house, she glanced swiftly about once more, noting the long, low bunk house nearby where the range hands undoubtedly slept, and glancing swiftly at the gable-roofed barn and stables, the storehouses and corrals.

  A group of cowboys in the nearest corral had been watching a young wrangler breaking in a fiercely bucking black stallion, but upon Bryony’s arrival they’d swung their attention over to her. Their eyes seemed to bore into her as she paused on the ranch house steps. The wrangler, tossed to the ground by the horse, rolled free of his plunging hooves, narrowly escaping death, but he seemed oblivious of his danger as he calmly climbed the corral fence and joined the rest of his companions in staring openly at the elegant young woman who was now mistress of the Circle H cattle ranch.