The Tracker

by Mary Burton

  His iron grip eased and he released her. However, his body remained tense, as if ready to spring. Slowly she lowered the blade to cut off his pants. His flat belly flinched as the cold steel touched his skin. She sliced the fabric, moving down the pant leg all the way to the ankle. The pant leg fell open like a gutted fish. Grabbing the folds, she ripped the rest of the fabric up to his hip bone.

  Blood oozed from a deep wound on the outer part of his thigh. She prayed she’d not struck an artery. “This isn’t going to be easy to fix.”

  “Do what you need to,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper.

  She removed a thick stick from her box and lifted it up to his lips. “So you don’t bite your tongue off.”

  His eyes sharpened and for a moment she thought he’d refuse. Finally he opened his mouth. Even white teeth clamped down on the stick.

  She studied the wound. The buckshot had torn away a portion of his thigh. She rolled him onto his side and inspected the back of his leg. There was no exit wound. The pellets had lodged deep and the bleeding was heavy.

  He grunted as she rolled him back. “I’ve got to dig the pellets out, Mr. Baron. I’ll do this as quickly as I can.”

  He nodded.

  She prodded the wound with her fingertip. Every muscle in his body strained with pain.

  Grimacing, she lifted the blade to the wound and started to dig. The marshal groaned. He squeezed his eyes shut and arched back against the pillow.

  The tip of her blade grazed several pellets. The marshal swallowed and squeezed the handle of his pistol. Sweat beaded on her brow. Please, let me get these out.

  Finally she wedged the blade tip under the bits of metal and, with a flick of her wrist, raised them up enough so that she could get the cluster out with her fingers.

  By the time she’d removed the last, her hands and the sheets were soaked in blood. “That’ll do it.”

  Sweat discolored Marshal Baron’s shirt. His heartbeat thrummed rapidly at the base of his neck. His eyes remained shut and his brow knotted.

  Ellie took the gun from his near lifeless hand. “I’ve got to wash the wound and stop the bleeding.”

  He didn’t protest the taking of his gun this time. Like her, he seemed to understand that the cleaning would be worse.

  She took the whiskey bottle and poured a liberal portion over the wound. The marshal hissed in a breath and groaned. Weakened by blood loss and pain, he passed out.

  She pressed a white cloth against the wound, holding it in place for a half hour. Slowly the bleeding eased.

  She rinsed the blood from her hands in the basin and then wiped them dry. Very carefully, she stitched and bandaged the wound.

  When she was finished, the sun had dipped a bit lower in the sky. By her guess, it was past three o’clock.

  Her gaze drifted back up to the hard planes of Nick Baron’s face. Even in sleep he scowled. Few men could have endured the pain. Even Chin Lo would have been impressed.

  She brushed back a lock of thick black hair from his forehead. A small scar marked his right brow and another trailed his jawline. Other scars were visible on his well-muscled arm and another on his shoulder blade.

  The marshal wasn’t a stranger to pain.

  Sighing, she rose and stretched the tightness from her lower back. “You should have listened to me and left.”

  He shifted in his sleep, muttering something she didn’t understand.

  Ellie checked on the baby, who was still asleep. Three hours was a long nap for Rose and she’d soon wake up. While she still had the time, Ellie sat at the marshal’s bedside. They were going to have a long night together. The next twelve hours would be critical. He could still hemorrhage or, worse, fever could poison his blood.

  After a time, the baby woke and Ellie fed her. She cleaned Rose up and placed her back in her crib, then made herself a simple meal before she took up her post at the marshal’s side again.

  Later, she did her evening chores, feeding the animals and closing the place up for the night. Again, she fed Rose. Around midnight, she collapsed into a chair by the marshal’s bed, her body so weary her bones ached.

  Hours later a rooster crowed, waking Ellie. She jumped to her feet. Sunlight streamed into the cabin. She’d slept the night through in the chair. Immediately she checked the marshal, half expecting to find him dead. To her relief, he still breathed evenly. Her doctoring job seemed to have worked, for now.

  Ellie stretched her arms, stood, and peeked in on the still-sleeping baby. Every muscle in her back ached. Coffee. She needed hot, strong coffee if she hoped to get through the day. She went to the kitchen, stoked the fire in the stove, set the coffeepot on the burner and ground the beans. It would be an hour before the coffee was ready and the horses needed to be fed.

  Her eyes itched as she went outside. The air was pleasantly warm. Normally she’d have savored a summer day like today.

  As she crossed the yard toward the corral, chickens pecked the ground. An old cat rose from his bed of hay by the porch, yawned and followed her. A wild dog barked in the distance.

  Her body protested as she loaded hay into the feed bins and hauled fresh water from the well near the barn. How had Annie been doing this alone for twenty years?

  The whinny of a horse had her turning. Standing in front of the house was the marshal’s mount. It pawed at the dirt and snorted.

  She walked toward the black mare and whistled. The horse’s nostrils flared.

  “Of course,” she muttered. “Why would the horse be less difficult than the man?”

  The birds sang and a gentle breeze flapped the edges of her homespun skirt. She whistled again. “I won’t hurt you!”

  Again, the horse didn’t move toward her. Sighing, she started toward the porch. “When you’re ready, let me know. I’m too tired to fuss with you now.”

  As she climbed the first porch step, she heard the bridle jingle. She turned. The horse held its head high and proud, as if it were waiting for her. Its tail swished.

  “Cocky thing, aren’t you?” she said.

  The horse snorted as if she were a queen.

  Ellie lifted a brow. “Remember, I grew up around difficult women.”

  She moved slowly toward the horse. The mare’s black eyes widened. “I can take that heavy saddle off and turn you loose into the corral. Sweet hay to eat.”

  The horse snorted again and took a step back. Ellie hadn’t ridden much in her life and if truth were told, she didn’t like horses much. She’d heard they each had personalities, but she’d yet to figure one out.

  “Your choice, gal. I’m not dealing with any more ornery creatures today.” She stepped closer.

  The horse didn’t move this time. Gently, Ellie took hold of her reins and guided the mare toward the corral. It didn’t take her long to unsaddle the horse. In the last two months, she’d saddled and unsaddled more horses than she had in the rest of her lifetime.

  Fifteen minutes later the horse was watered and fed. She carried the marshal’s saddlebag into the house and laid it on the table. She flipped open the thick buckle. “Let’s just see what you’re about, Marshal.”

  She dumped the bag’s contents onto the table. She found two books, extra bullets, a knife sheathed in a fine leather case, a spare pair of handcuffs, another pair of pants and two extra shirts.

  She picked up the knife and removed it from its soft sheath. The steel blade curved at the tip into a savage point and glistened in the sunlight. No doubt it could cut through most anything. Carefully she replaced the blade.

  Ellie’s gaze dropped to the richly bound book. She leafed through the pages. Her reading skills were limited, but she could see by the small letters that the book was the kind a very educated man read.

  She glanced toward her room, where the marshal slept. The few lawmen she’d known hadn’t had much formal education. “Mr. Baron, you are full of surprises.”

  Ellie wondered how long it would take her to finish a book like this. As slow as she read,
it would probably take more spare time than she had in a year.

  As Ellie leafed through the book, a tintype fell out. The edges were worn but the picture was clear. It was a wedding portrait of the marshal and a woman.

  He was married. For some reason, the realization didn’t sit well.

  “What do you care?” she muttered. “The man’s pure trouble.”

  Good sense didn’t ease her curiosity. She studied the picture more closely. The marshal’s face was downright boyish and there was a light in his eyes that testified to youthful energy. He wore a fine black suit, starched collar and silk tie.

  She’d not have believed this was a picture of him if she’d not had time to examine it and see the same cleft chin and square jaw.

  In the picture, the marshal stood with his hand resting on the woman’s shoulder. The woman wore a white dress trimmed in satin ribbons and on her head was a veil made of lace. A cameo threaded through a silk ribbon hung around her neck. She sat bolt-straight, her delicate hands folded in her lap. Her ice-blond hair was coiled on top of her head and tiny pearl-drop earrings dangled from her ears. Clear, pale eyes stared at the camera and her lips curled into a soft smile.

  The girls at the Silver Slipper liked to dress up fancy but none had come close to looking like this woman. She possessed an air of quality and breeding that only came with real money.

  Ellie looked at her own hands. Chapped by the wind and callused from work, they were not even remotely delicate. And her red hair, tied back at the nape of her neck, wasn’t flat and smooth like the woman’s. It curled into little ringlets when it rained. Her dress—a hand-me-down from the minister’s wife in Butte—was two sizes too large and stained with grease.

  Ellie flipped the picture over. “Crystal, 1872” was written in bold, black lettering.

  Crystal. A pretty name.

  She smoothed her fingertip over the image. There was more to the marshal than she’d first thought. He’d clearly lived a very different, refined kind of life.

  Suddenly, Ellie felt very plain and very aware that she was the daughter of a whore. She’d never wear a fancy wedding dress or sit for a portrait. Silly to sit here and dream of the impossible.

  She replaced the picture in the book and set about doing her chores.

  DEMONS CHASED NICK into the fiery depths of hell. Or so he thought as he pushed the sheets and blankets away from him. Stifling heat seared his lungs and made it difficult to breathe. Sweat drenched his body.

  As he battled to hang on to rational thought, Crystal stepped out from the darkness. Her flowing white hair draped her slender shoulders and her white transparent gown hugged her lush curves and teased her trim ankles. She was as stunning as he remembered and her smile as bright as a thousand stars.

  Crystal. She was his wife and he loved her.

  He held out his hand to her. Ah, if given a second chance he’d have spent more nights dancing with her, more afternoons making love to her and more mornings listening when she spoke. She leaned close to him, pressing her breasts to his chest. He could smell the lavender in her hair. “I love you,” she whispered.

  “I love you,” he said. His body grew hard and he wanted to take her in his arms and make love to her.

  But as he pulled Crystal close, time shifted and she vanished.

  Out of the mists stepped his brother Gregory. They’d served together in the army, fought enemies together and drunk together. But Gregory was no friend. His older brother with the smiling green eyes had betrayed him with his wife.

  Nick called out to Gregory. “Traitor. Animal. If I see you again, I will kill you.”

  Gregory laughed, his eyes glistening in the light. Nick watched his wife kiss Gregory as only lovers do.

  Nick fisted his fingers. Outrage at the betrayal, still as fresh as an open wound, singed his veins.

  Cool fingers brushed the hair from his forehead. “Shh. Shh.”

  Nick pried his eyes open and looked up through the haze. A woman with skin as pale as snow and hair as vibrant as the setting sun stared down at him. She smiled. He knew her, but from where he could not say. Her eyes were the color of green fields.

  “What happened to me?” he said.

  “You are safe. You must drink.” She held a spoon up to his mouth and poured cool water into his mouth. The water trickled down the side of his face to the pillow.

  “No!” He felt as if he were drowning.

  “You must drink. It will break the fever.” Again she held the spoon to his mouth. This time a bit of water seeped through his lips to his swollen tongue. It tasted refreshing. The next time she brought the spoon to his mouth, he opened his lips a fraction.

  “That’s good,” she coaxed.

  “Where am I?” he asked. He swallowed, his throat as dry as dust.

  “You are safe, Marshal. Don’t worry.” She cradled his head in her hand and raised a cup to his mouth. The cool water soothed his parched throat and dry lips.

  Why did she call him marshal?

  The question was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t manage to speak the words.

  His hand slid down his hip to where his gun normally hung. He realized the weapon was gone. He always had it with him, even when he slept. Without it he felt naked, vulnerable.

  What the devil had happened?

  Anger goaded him to sit up. The fire in his leg forced him back against the pillows. His eyelids felt very heavy.

  Gregory, Crystal and finally the redheaded siren started to drift away. Sleep clouded his mind.

  He didn’t want the redhead to leave. He had to tell her something. But as hard as he tried to remain awake, the waves of sleep washed over him.

  So many details escaped him, but one point was clear in his mind.

  He and the siren were running out of time.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  BY DAWN of the third day, the marshal’s fever showed no signs of letting up. He continued to thrash and to call out to the woman named Crystal.

  Red-orange light streamed through the window as Ellie moved across the cabin with a basin of fresh water. The baby still slept and she was careful not to make noise.

  Water sloshed on Ellie’s hands as she set the bowl beside the bed. She glanced down at the marshal. His olive skin remained sickly pale. She laid the back of her hand against his forehead. So hot.

  She pulled clean cloths from her frayed apron pocket and sat on the edge of the bed. He murmured something she couldn’t understand as she dipped a rag in the cool water and wrung it out. Gently she dabbed the cloth on his forehead.

  She’d worked so hard to save him these last two and a half days. But fear of the hangman’s noose no longer drove her. Pride had kept her going past exhaustion.

  This man would not die. And she would win.

  After rinsing the cloth in the water again, she pressed it to his cheek. Immediately his head turned toward her. His eyes remained closed and he mumbled more words that made no sense.

  Ellie wiped his face, moving the rag over his strong jaw covered in a thick mat of dark stubble. She brushed his black hair off his forehead.

  Even in sleep, his full lips curved down into a frown. He reminded her of the bare-knuckle boxers who fought in front of the saloon when the circus came to town.

  He was so different from the boy she’d seen in the picture. What had happened to change him so?

  Despite her better judgment, her curiosity about the man grew each day. She took the few clues she had to his past and wove story after story to explain how he’d ended up in Montana so far from his wife. He spoke of Crystal often in his sleep. A beautiful wife, a sound education and a marshal’s badge. None of it made sense.

  She continued to wipe his neck and chest. Keeping his body cool would be critical. If she could have, she would have dunked his entire body in cold water to break the fever.

  She glanced at his torn pants. She’d left them on these last couple of days, but the time had come to strip him down. She chewed her lip as s
he stared at his belt buckle.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Ellie,” she said. A girl born and raised in a brothel, she had seen her share of men in all states of undress. And she’d heard the girls talk about their customers, often laughing as they compared their attributes. But as much as Ellie had seen and heard, she had never touched a naked man.

  She set down her cloth. “How bad can it be?”

  Ellie pulled a sheet over his legs and covered his more private regions. She reached under the sheet for his belt buckle and unfastened it. The marshal’s flat belly rose and fell with each breath. Coarse hair brushed her knuckles.

  She moved to the foot of the bed and grabbed his pant legs. She started to pull. The pants didn’t move. She tugged harder. Nothing.

  Ellie blew a stray curl off her face. “I don’t suppose you could lift your hips?”

  Unconscious, he didn’t respond.

  Ellie moved to the middle of the bed, reached under the sheets and grabbed his waistband. His skin was warm beneath her fingers. Keeping her gaze averted, she tugged. The pants started to slide down his hips. So did the sheet. Then the pants caught on the bandage.

  She dropped her gaze.

  Her cheeks flamed.

  This man was well constructed. The girls at the Silver Slipper would have done their best to attract his attention. They’d have called him a Handsome Devil.

  She covered him with the sheet and gingerly worked his pants off. She tossed them on the floor.

  Without warning, his arm captured her wrist and he pulled her against him. Her lips were but inches from his. Then he lifted his lips to hers.

  He tasted salty and sweet and soft and hard all at the same time. Smoldering embers in her body ignited. Heat spread from the core of her body through her limbs. She relaxed into the kiss and savored the taste of his lips and the feel of his body.

  “Crystal,” he murmured, his eyes closed. His hand dropped away.

  She pulled back, feeling a thousand times the fool.

  Here she sat kissing a man who not only belonged to another woman, but who had brought nothing but trouble to her life. Lord, but she was a pitiful, weak-willed creature.