Tracker’s Sin

by Sarah McCarty

Spinning on her heel, she ran, her heart thundering in her ears. Or was it the sound of his horse? Was he going to run her down? She ran faster, her skirts tangling around her legs, slowing her.

  Please God, don’t let him catch me. Not this time. Not this time.

  She ran until she couldn’t run anymore, chanting Tracker’s name like a talisman with every step, pushing herself when her body demanded she quit, not stopping until a hand on her arm spun her around.

  “Que pasa, hija?”

  The lights stopped flashing. Ari blinked and looked around at the collection of buildings and people. She’d run all the way to town. A middle-aged woman stood beside her, holding her elbow. She had kind eyes. Ari had been tricked by kind eyes before.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  The woman clucked her tongue and told her in Spanish to go home. That it wasn’t safe for her to be here in town. One glance around confirmed it. Even as she assessed her position, men lounging about buildings straightened and took notice. Their gazes crawled over her skin, lingered in her hair, dismissed the baby in her arms.

  Fear shivered down her spine. A man with a dirty sombrero pushed back from his face stepped off the wooden walk. Another followed suit.

  “Tracker.” She had to find Tracker.

  I’m going to get a drink.

  Lifting her chin, filling every step with a confidence she didn’t feel, Ari locked her gaze on the cantina, pretending she didn’t see the men along the way who fell into step beside her. Licking her lips, she hugged Miguel closer. Josefina was right. She didn’t know what she was doing, and now she’d endangered her baby.

  “Venga aquí, muchacha,” a man on the left called. Another picked up the call, while a third added encouragement. She wasn’t going anywhere near him. She wasn’t going near any of them. Miguel fussed. She kissed his head and kept walking, whispering Tracker’s name like a prayer.

  She took the steps to the cantina in a near run, her heels making staccato taps on the wood. No one stopped her from going in. No one stopped her once she was inside. The minute it took for her eyes to adjust to the dim light was the longest in her life. The stench of stale sweat, whiskey and tobacco burned her nose and lungs. She coughed. Miguel fussed again. Wooden chairs creaked as men turned to stare at her.

  In almost a panic, she searched for Tracker. He was in the back right corner, a bottle of whiskey set in front of him on a rickety-looking table. In his hand, he held a full glass. His hat was pulled down over his eyes. Not by a twitch of muscle did he indicate he saw her. She needed him to see her.

  Hurrying across the floor, doing her best to steer clear of everyone as she maneuvered between the tables, she was vividly conscious of how loud her heels sounded against the plank floor. Her heart pounded in her ears and her breath caught in her lungs.

  Please don’t let him be drunk.

  If Tracker was drunk it was going to be very, very bad for her. She looked over her shoulder at the line of men forming a wall between her and the door. If he wasn’t drunk it was going to be very bad for both of them. She reached his table. He didn’t move.

  “Tracker?”

  Was it her imagination or did he draw a deep breath? He raised his head, and through the shadows cast by the oil lamps on the wall she could see his eyes. There was no comfort there. His gaze flicked left and then right, calmly taking in, in a split second, everything that terrified her.

  “Yeah?”

  She had to suck in two more breaths before she found her voice.

  “I thought about it, and I’ve decided what matters.”

  “So?”

  Betting everything on a hunch, she leaned over and slid the shot glass out of his reach. Drawing one more breath, she met his gaze and held out her hand. A plea. An invitation. “I’ve come to take you home.”

  5

  To Ari’s surprise, Tracker’s fingers closed around hers, then threaded between them until they were palm to palm. He got to his feet with that easy grace that was so much a part of him, and brought her hand to his mouth. His lips were warm and firm, but she didn’t have time to appreciate the sensation before he tugged her behind him. A glance around revealed why. The men who’d been following her through town were now lined up in the center of the cantina, watching them.

  “I’m sorry.” It seemed she was always saying that to him. She hugged Miguel.

  “Don’t worry about it, sweets.” His smile wasn’t much comfort. It merely added to the overall sense of danger.

  A trio broke away from the pack. Tracker turned and his quiet “Stay back,” blended seamlessly with the tension filling the room. Ari looked around for a weapon.

  “I don’t have any quarrel with you, Indian. We just want the woman.”

  Ari grabbed the whiskey bottle off the table.

  “I’m not particularly interested in what you want,” Tracker drawled.

  “She’s not worth dying for.”

  “She’s mine, and what’s mine stays mine.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Tracker Ochoa.”

  A ripple of unease went through the crowd. A few of the men shook their heads and stepped back. Even here at the edge of Mexico, Tracker’s reputation carried weight. But along with the fear, Ari could see excitement on the faces of others. Again the force of a reputation, but this time it was working against them. She held little Miguel close and kissed the top of his head. What had she done?

  “Tracker?”

  “Nothing to be worried about, sweets. The boys and I are just going to have a chat.”

  Chat? It was going to be a massacre.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Tracker palmed his pistol but didn’t draw it. Ari wanted to scream at him to pull it from the holster. She tightened her grip on the bottle. “Nothing sorry about a woman coming to get her man, is there, boys?” Tracker was saying.

  The “boys” gave her looks that varied between resentment and lust.

  “She your woman, señor?”

  There was the barest of hesitations before Tracker nodded. “And the baby’s my son.”

  “The Moraleses claimed him as their grandson.”

  “They were doing me a favor.” He cocked the hammer back. “You all understand how some men might be tempted by my absence.”

  “Sí. She’s a very pretty puta.”

  In a blink, Tracker’s pistol was in his hand. A shot rang out. The speaker grabbed his ear and yelped.

  Tracker smiled that scary smile. “The next one to speak disrespectfully about my wife will be eating a bullet.”

  The man’s friends grabbed his arms and pulled him aside. Ari counted. There were seven enemies still standing. She had one bottle. How many bullets were in Tracker’s gun? With the muzzle of his pistol, Tracker pushed his hat back. “Anyone else want to keep me from my lunch?”

  The crowd parted, leaving a clear path to the door.

  “Sweets?”

  “Yes?” Ari took a step forward, placing her hand in the middle of Tracker’s back, concentrating on the feel of hard muscles beneath her fingertips. She’d never been so scared.

  “We’re leaving. Is Miguel ready?”

  He was in her arms. How much readier could he be? “Yes.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  Going meant entering that crowd. Giving the men an opportunity to swarm them. Before Tracker took his first step, she leaned her forehead against his back. She probably wasn’t supposed to show weakness, but she was terrified, and she needed that momentary contact for strength.

  “While you’re back there, sweets, do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Take that pistol out of my waistband and carry it for me, would you? I’m a bit tired.”

  “My hands are full.”

  He turned, saw the bottle and smiled. “We won’t need the whiskey.”

  Because she would have the gun. With a shaking hand, she set the bottle on the table.

  Hostility filled the expression of ever
y man that remained. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill Tracker, her baby and eventually her. Ari didn’t have to remember her past to know that. The future was in every hard, greedy gaze that fastened on their corner of the room.

  She slipped her hand between Tracker’s back and the warm metal of the gun and pulled the weapon free. “No. We don’t.”

  She expected a cutting remark. She didn’t expect the approval in Tracker’s voice as he said, “You just take care of that gun for me, and it’ll all be fine.”

  She didn’t see how anything could be fine, even if they survived this. She was always doing something crazy, because it drove her crazy that she couldn’t remember anything before eleven months ago, and her mind was always in such turmoil. She didn’t bother trying to explain all that to Tracker. All she said was, “Good.”

  They started moving forward, one step at a time into that lecherous, hostile crowd. As they came abreast of the men, she forgot to breathe, expecting all of them to reach out and grab her. Her hand tightened on the pistol and she pointed it at the one staring at her the hardest. He had close-set eyes. She didn’t trust men with close-set eyes. He threw his hands up and backed off. It wasn’t enough.

  “You have a filthy mouth.” She lowered the gun and pointed at his groin.

  He backed up farther. “I meant no offense.”

  “I was offended.”

  “Keep up, sweets,” Tracker calmly interjected.

  She couldn’t make her feet move. She was stuck in the moment of power. A hand on her arm dragged her forward. “You want them dead?”

  Yes. Images of men—dark-skinned, light-skinned—flashed behind her eyes. All of them with the same lust-filled expression on their faces. All of them waiting to hurt her. She stumbled against Tracker’s side. Yes, she wanted them dead. All of them. Every leering one.

  “Yes.”

  Without missing a beat, Tracker took aim. Men dived aside, reached for their guns. Dear heavens. He was serious.

  “No!”

  “Make up your mind. My supper’s getting cold.”

  It was up to her. It would be so easy to say “dead.” Faces flashed in front of her mind, laughing, sneering, all male, all dark, all of them familiar, yet she didn’t know a one. As each face flashed in front of her mind’s eye, panic rose. And the flickering lights began. She quickly shut the door on the memory, but the panic lingered. As if he could read everything that happened behind that door, Tracker cocked an eyebrow at her. If not for the scar on his face, he would’ve been a very handsome man.

  “Home?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I came to take you home.”

  No, that wasn’t what he’d asked her. It didn’t seem to matter. His hand squeezed her arm and tugged.

  “Let’s go then.”

  No one said a word as they walked through the cantina. She had no doubt, if it were any other man leading her out of there, that bunch would have fallen on them like a pack of ravening wolves, not being satisfied until they’d torn them apart and there was nothing left. But Tracker walked through the crowd of men as if he was looking forward to have one step in his path and challenge him. Since cowering wasn’t going to get her anywhere, Ari borrowed a bit of Tracker’s bravado, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, keeping the gun up, despite the ache in her wrist. It was surprisingly heavy.

  As if sensing the seriousness of the moment, Miguel grabbed her blouse and buried his face in her throat. As soon as they were on the street she released her breath.

  “A little too soon to be breathing a sigh of relief,” Tracker said, taking the pistol from her hand and putting it back in his belt. Grabbing her arm, he hustled her over to where the horse stood patiently waiting. “Tighten your grip on that baby,” he said as he lifted her. She grabbed the back of the saddle with her free hand.

  Without further ado, he stepped backward into a stirrup and swung his leg over the horse, turning his body. The saddle dipped with his weight, and Ari dipped right along with it. His left arm swept back and pushed her upright as he settled into the saddle. If he hadn’t left it there she would’ve tumbled right off when the horse spun.

  Miguel laughed. Ari cried out. Tracker swore. Switching her grip to his waist, she pressed her face into his back, relishing the feel of muscle beneath his skin. She held her son tightly between them.

  Tracker didn’t slow the horse until they got back to the ranch. He was strong. So strong. And he made her feel so safe. For the first time in eleven months, she felt she could breathe.

  The horse stopped in front the barn. Tracker grabbed her arm, offering support. “Slide down.”

  It was awkward, holding Miguel. Tracker swung her out a little. She squealed. Miguel giggled. Tracker swore. It was getting to be a pattern.

  Vincente came hurrying up. Tracker waved him away. “Go back to the house. Make sure that gun of yours is loaded.”

  When Ari turned to go with Vincente, Tracker grabbed her arm. “We need to talk.”

  More ominous words had never been spoken. “About what?”

  “About why I’m about to paddle your ass.” He hauled her through the barn door.

  “Your horse?”

  “Deserves better than he’s getting, but he’ll wait.”

  The growl in Tracker’s voice sent a shiver down her spine. It should’ve been one of terror, but it wasn’t. That odd sense of being alive tingled through her, spreading until her fingers curved with the need to touch him.

  Inside the barn door she stopped, blinking. He kept going, taking her with him. She stumbled. Miguel giggled again. Tracker gave them both a dirty look. His hair swung out and fell over her shoulder as he spun back around. Miguel grabbed a handful, his eyes widening at the novelty.

  “Hell, now. You don’t want to be chewing on that.”

  Oblivious to Tracker’s frustration, Miguel dragged his new treasure to his mouth.

  Tracker stared as if he’d never seen the like. “That’s disgusting.”

  Whatever Miguel touched went into his mouth. “You haven’t been around too many babies, have you?” Ari asked.

  “No.” He motioned with his free hand to Miguel. “Any chance he’ll let go soon?”

  It might’ve been her imagination, but there wasn’t as much anger in Tracker’s voice now. There was still that growl, though. Another tingle started where he gripped her arm, spread over her shoulder, moved down to her breasts. Her breath caught. Her “no” was a little hoarse.

  “Figures.” Not even bothering to fight Miguel’s claim to his hair, Tracker pulled her into the bedroom and stopped dead. He stood there holding her arm, Miguel holding his hair, and Ari realized he didn’t know what to do. The last of her fear flitted away. Whatever the Ranger’s past, whatever horrible things he might have done in the course of his job, he wasn’t a danger to her. But he was a temptation. Strong and handsome, he would be a temptation to any woman. Another thrill went through her.

  “Make him let go,” he grunted.

  Excitement, she realized. Those thrills were excitement. Tracker Ochoa excited her. It was shocking. It was…nice. She tossed her hair back off her face. Her neat bun was a thing of the past. “You make him.”

  “Do you think I won’t?”

  She was pretty sure he wouldn’t. Tracker didn’t have the look of a man comfortable around children.

  “No.”

  A flutter of sensation went through her, followed very quickly by a surge of heat as the side of Tracker’s pinkie touched her breast. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t frustration. It wasn’t depression. It was excitement. And she was feeling it, when she’d given up on feeling anything good ever again.

  His expression a mix of determination and hesitation, Tracker reached out with his free hand. Miguel let go of his hair, grabbed his finger and held on. Tracker blinked. Content with his prize, Miguel laid his head against Ari’s shoulder. He sighed that little sigh that told her he was going to sleep shortly. Her heart stirred when Tracker didn’t tug his hand free. He w
as a good man. She glanced at his expression and hid a smile. Albeit a frustrated one.

  “In about two minutes he’ll be asleep, and you can tear into me then,” she told him. It was comfortable in this moment with him. The world was so far away. Her life so far away. As far away as her memories. There was just now. It was funny, when one had no past, how comfortable one could get with the present moment. And right now, she was with Tracker. A man who’d offered her understanding. A man who’d saved her life. A man who made her feel alive. Excited her. She licked her lips.

  Tracker’s gaze flicked to hers before dropping to her mouth. His own mouth lost its hard edge. Her breathing quickened.

  “What makes you think I want to tear into you?”

  The fullness of his lips. The tension in his muscles. The desire in his eyes. The increased pressure of his hand.

  She tilted her head, glancing at him sideways, not quite so brazen that she could look him directly in the eye as a delicious hunger built inside. Hunger for him. For his touch. For the sheer joy in living that she felt in his presence. He made the nothingness of today feel like the possibility of tomorrow. “Just a hunch.”

  Little flickers of lightning sparked out from where the side of his hand rested on her collarbone. It wasn’t her imagination that his touch grew heavier. It wasn’t her imagination that his fingers spread down, caressing the soft upper curve of her breast. She should stop him. She told herself she would as soon as it stopped feeling good. He made her feel so good, so alive.

  “You’re playing with fire.”

  “I know.” But at least she was playing.

  “You don’t want this.” His hand slipped lower.

  Didn’t she? “You seem awfully sure of what I want and what I don’t want.”

  “I have more experience than you.”

  “But not in what I want.”

  His eyes narrowed and his pinkie slipped down to graze the tip of her breast, which grew hard and tingled with sensation. It felt so right.

  “I’m a widow, Mr. Ochoa, not a virgin you have to worry about scaring.”

  “You have no idea what I worry about.”

  “It shouldn’t be me.”