Tracker’s Sin

by Sarah McCarty

  Shit. Vincente wanted forgiveness. Tracker tried another tactic. “You keep talking and your wife will wake up.”

  Vincente shook his head. “She has taken her special tea. It makes her sleep when her mind will not. She will not wake if we are quiet.”

  Tracker didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy. “It’s a hell of a thing, a guilty conscience.”

  “Yes.” Vincente sighed and rubbed his hand down his face. “Our son did not die.”

  The bed ropes creaked at Ari’s shock about a truth she didn’t need to hear.

  “Shut the hell up.”

  Vincente held the weapon higher. “I am the one with the gun. I will decide who talks.”

  “She doesn’t need to hear this.”

  “She does. Her memory returns in the night. She says things, remembers things she does not recall in the morning. I do not want her thinking badly of us when the forgetting stops.”

  Tracker didn’t see how she could think any differently. “Let it go.”

  “She is a good woman. She deserves the truth.”

  He said that as if it justified everything. “Yes, she is,” Tracker agreed. “And I need to get her out of here now.”

  Vincente didn’t appear to hear. He stepped to the side so he could see Ari. Tracker had the overwhelming urge to step between them again, to shield her.

  “Antonio was always such a good boy, raised to do right, but maybe a bit spoiled because he was the only one.” Vincente looked for understanding. “It was easier to make him happy than to see his tears. He became used to such things. When he got older, he still wanted everything given to him.”

  It was a common enough story. Ranching was a hard life with little profit. Many young men went out in the world for easier pickings. Some stayed on the right of the law, others went to the left. Vincente’s son had obviously chosen the second route.

  If only the old man would lower that barrel a fraction more… “You done?” Tracker asked.

  Vincente shook his head. The pistol held steady. “My wife could not accept what Antonio became. Every day she prayed for his return to the path we had laid out for him. But he got further and further away and my wife’s heart broke more and more.” An apologetic look filled Vincente’s eyes as he pleaded for understanding. “Josefina cannot see Antonio for who he is. She still sees him as a little boy who just needs guidance.”

  There was no shielding Ari now. The only thing Tracker could offer her was the full truth. “So when he brought you Ari, you agreed to hold her for him.”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  “I was not here when she was brought, but had you seen her, you would have understood why I would not have said no, had I been.”

  Tracker had seen Desi. It was entirely too easy to imagine how Ari had looked. “I understand.”

  Something bumped his thigh. Ari’s foot. He reached down. She twisted away. He caught it, needing to hold her as Vincente delivered blow after blow with his confession. She needed comfort. Tracker was all she had.

  “Antonio is a Comancheros,” Tracker said.

  Ari went very still. Tracker looked over his shoulder. Her gaze was locked desperately on Vincente, as if through sheer force of will she could change the words coming from his mouth. She shook her head.

  Vincente hung his. “To my shame, yes.”

  “That’s why your ranch can remain undisturbed and undefended.”

  “Yes. Last fall, he came here with Ari, talking big, not caring that she was injured and pregnant.”

  Behind them Ari moaned. Tracker swore under his breath. Vincente kept going, as if he couldn’t see the devastation his words wrought.

  “He said he just needed a place to keep her until he could find this man who would pay to have her.”

  Ari’s family attorney. The man who’d ordered the death of them all. The man who hunted Ari and Desi, because whoever owned them owned their inheritance.

  “Your wife had to know it was wrong.”

  “She is not reasonable when it comes to Antonio.” Vincente looked every one of his years as he shook his head. “We did wrong by Ari. It had to be made right.”

  Tracker squeezed Ari’s foot. It was all the comfort he could give. “So you were the one who sent me the message.”

  The old man nodded. “Sí. I got to know her. She is a good woman. She deserves a life bigger than the lies we told her. Bigger than what my son would have.”

  “You told her the lies about her past so she could be happy.”

  He nodded again. “We grew to love her.”

  “And Miguel?”

  “I love him, too.”

  “But he means more to your wife.” Tracker hazarded the guess as he glanced toward the window. Much longer and Shadow would come check out the delay. One look at the gun and he’d shoot. Tracker didn’t want Vincente dead.

  “My wife sees in him another chance to raise a child.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I’m an old man in failing health. For my son I have done things that do not make me proud, but I will not do this. I will not give to him an innocent woman and baby.”

  “No, you won’t.” Tracker palmed the knife tucked up his sleeve. If it meant he had to kill Vincente to insure that, he would.

  “He has chosen his path. I have chosen mine.” He motioned with the gun. “You must take her and leave.”

  Tracker looked over at Ari. She was lying still in the bed, staring at the ceiling, tears leaking from her eyes.

  How much of what she’d heard did she understand? How much did she remember?

  “There were no gringos in town, were there?”

  “I only created them to keep Ari out of town, so there would be no questions.”

  “While you waited.”

  Vincente frowned. “Yes. You took longer than I expected.”

  “I was delayed.” Getting Tucker’s pregnant wife to safety. Fighting off Comanches. Dropping off stray women at Hell’s Eight.

  “You should know that Antonio knows she is worth money to a gringo.”

  “Perfect.”

  “They will be coming for her soon.”

  “What will you say when they get here and she’s gone?”

  Vincente smiled sadly. “I will tell them I am an old man and no match for the great Tracker Ochoa.”

  He backed into the hall and grabbed a bag and tossed it onto the bed. It clanked and rattled. “Food for the baby and his mama.”

  “Thank you.” Tracker picked up the bag and hefted it. There was probably enough for a couple days. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m sick. If Dios wills it, I will live long enough to get my wife to her family in Mexico. But either way, when I die I’ll not have this stain on my soul.”

  Men had done less for bigger reasons. “Fair enough.”

  Vincente let the muzzle drop. “You can leave the way you came.”

  Through the window, like a thief in the night. Tracker took the bag and set it on the ground outside the window.

  He went back to the bed and picked up Ari. She didn’t fight, didn’t struggle. And when he looked down, she was staring at Vincente, all the agony in her soul reflected in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, hija.”

  She turned her head away.

  It was hard to hate the old man. A parent’s love for his child was absolute. Tracker remembered that rush of emotion he’d felt when he’d held Miguel. The utter need to protect and shelter. Love was a son of a bitch in all its forms. “Vaya con Dios, Vincente.”

  “Gracias. Y tú tambien.” Vincente stared at Ari, his heart in his eyes. Ari didn’t turn her head. Didn’t acknowledge his existence. Vincente would have to find his forgiveness elsewhere.

  The old man turned his attention back to Tracker. “Promise me you’ll make an honest woman of mi hija.”

  That he couldn’t promise. “I’ll do what’s best.”

  “Take her to a place where she can have peace, a family, her dreams.�
��

  He was taking her to Hell’s Eight. “I will.”

  Vincente left the room, gun dangling at his side, shoulders hunched. A broken man coming to the end of his life, with his sins riding his back.

  Tracker swore under his breath and headed for the window. No sense pushing his luck by trying for the front door. As he eased Ari to the floor, he gave thanks he wasn’t going to live long enough to be old. Long before he was faced with the prospect of staring down death with nothing but his failures to contemplate, his luck would run out and he’d die somewhere alone, likely with a bullet in his back. But before that day came, he had one last mission to accomplish.

  He sat Ari on the windowsill and brushed the curls from her forehead. She stared at him with the uncomprehending shock he saw in the faces of soldiers who’d seen one battle too many.

  He remembered the sweetness of her kiss, the heat of her passion, the purity of her smile that day in the barn, their one time together, as her desire rose to meet his. She had a future. She just needed the opportunity to believe in it.

  He removed the gag from her mouth. “It’s time to go home, sweets.”

  7

  Ari clutched the knowledge harder than she clutched the saddle horn. She needed something real to cling to as her mind spun with Vincente’s revelations. She’d never been married. There’d been no murder. There’d been no disaster from which she needed to recover. She was just a crazy woman Vincente was holding for his son, so his son could make a profit down the road. And she’d made it so easy for them. Believing what she was told. Wanting it to be that simple.

  Why? Why had she wanted it to be that simple? What was her mind hiding from her? What could be so awful that she’d be content with a fiction that didn’t even make sense when she held it up to the light of day? She should have questioned it.

  She looked at her son. She should have questioned a lot of things.

  It’s time to take you home.

  So, where was home? What was waiting for her when she got there? Was any of it good? A pounding began behind her eyes, the way it always did when she thought of going back…where? Where was home?

  She put the thought into words. “Where’s home?”

  Neither Tracker nor the other man, whom Tracker had introduced as Shadow, his brother, gave any indication they’d heard her, though she knew they had. The two heard every little thing, even what she didn’t want them to. Which could only mean she’d asked a question they didn’t want to answer. Sure enough, when she looked back over her shoulder at Tracker, she caught him exchanging with Shadow one of those glances that passed for communication between the two.

  Tracker pulled his horse off to the right and dismounted beside a small stream. He untied Miguel’s cradleboard from the saddle and, after checking for snakes, propped it against a rock. The stream was barely more than a trickle in places. It would be dried up in a month. Riding then would be torture. Hot, dusty and thirsty. She frowned. How did she know that?

  Shadow rode past her. The only acknowledgment he gave her was a brief nod. He was a very rude man and very good at ignoring her. He dismounted and led his horse over to the water.

  “I asked a question,” she said as Tracker stood. She couldn’t see his eyes for the barrier of his hat brim, so she snatched his hat off his head. Neither man said a word. They just watched her—Shadow with the neutral expression that said nothing, and Tracker with that cautious concern.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to have an episode.” She didn’t think even she could handle that.

  Tracker jerked his chin upward, indicating his hat, which she still held. “You done or were you planning on hitting me with that?”

  It did look as if she was getting ready to swing. Lowering her arm, she shrugged. “I couldn’t see your eyes.”

  The explanation sounded lame. Tracker didn’t even blink at the absurd explanation. He merely reached up and took the hat from her fingers.

  “I’m rather fond of the shape it’s in already.”

  She’d been crushing the brim. “I’m sorry.”

  Her hands felt empty without the hat. She needed something to hold on to. She settled for the saddle horn instead.

  “I—” Ari couldn’t finish the sentence. How did one put into words the emptiness inside? The longing for something solid in a world that was as insubstantial as dandelion fluff? How could she tell a man she barely knew that she needed to see his eyes, because when he looked at her she believed she was something more than nothing? Something more than crazy? She couldn’t.

  “You trying to tell me you’re feeling a bit lost right now?”

  Lost didn’t begin to cover it. She had nothing. Nothing. “A little.”

  Tracker held up his hands. They were darkened by the sun, with scars slashing the backs in a random pattern, but they were strong hands. Tendon flexed over bone as he motioned her toward him, and she slid off the horse into them, her feet dangling in the air.

  There was no panic when his hands closed around her waist, just a sense of rightness. Ari closed her eyes, absorbing that feeling. Instead of setting her away, Tracker held her against him. More strength and, God help her, comfort. The wall she’d built around her emotions cracked. A tear leaked down her cheek.

  Don’t hold me. Don’t be nice to me. Don’t. Don’t.

  “What can I do?”

  Nothing. There was nothing he or anyone could do.

  The wall cracked further. Of their own volition, her arms slid around his neck and her legs curled around his, anchoring her to him. “Don’t lie to me.”

  His deep drawl rumbled in her ear. “It’s not a habit I planned on picking up.”

  She leaned her head against his chest. His heart beat in a slow, steady rhythm against her cheek. He smelled of leather, sweat and horse. She should be repulsed. She just wanted to get closer. To crawl inside his skin and dare the memories to come. When Tracker held her, fear disappeared. “Thank you.”

  She flattened her palms against the cool leather of his shirt. Beneath, she could feel the hardness of muscle. He was such a solid man. “How do I know?” she added.

  “What?”

  “How do I know you’ve never lied to me?”

  He let her slide down his body, easing her away only when the buttons on her shirt caught on his belt buckle. He stepped back. She immediately felt bereft. She caught the bottom corner of his vest, halting his retreat. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  Don’t walk away.

  She shook her head and let him go, giving him a small smile. “Nothing.”

  He studied her, and then, almost as if expecting her to run, he reached out. Why would he expect her to run from him? The back of his fingers touched her cheek. She closed her eyes and let the familiar sensation flow through her. When she opened her eyes, he was waiting. His gaze held hers with the same surety with which he’d held her body a few minutes before. “I won’t leave you. And I won’t lie to you.”

  “Promise?” She so needed a promise.

  “I promise.”

  “And it is said that the Hell’s Eight never break a promise.”

  “No, and neither do I.”

  He wanted her to see him as more than a Ranger doing his job, she suddenly understood. He wanted her to see him as a man.

  He’d never been anything else to her.

  She forced a smile that she hoped didn’t look as wobbly as it felt. “That’s even better.”

  His fingers slid across her neck. A shiver went down her spine and his big palm cradled her head. His thumb wiped the tear from her cheek. “What’s wrong, sweets?”

  “You’re going to take me home.”

  His thumb wiped away another tear. “That should make you happy.”

  “I have no idea what to expect.”

  “A very warm welcome.”

  “How will I even know when I’ve arrived?”

  “You’ll know it when you see it.”

  “What makes you so s
ure?”

  “You’ll have to trust me, Ari.”

  She preferred “sweets” to “Ari.” Ari sounded formal, distant even, on his lips. Everyone called her that. Only Tracker called her “sweets.”

  “I guess so.”

  Tracker dropped his hand from her cheek and settled his hat on his head. The brim was a bit bent where she’d grabbed it. She liked the idea that she’d left her mark on him, but hated the way the brim shaded his eyes, hiding his thoughts from her. Touching her cheek where he had, she realized he was right. She had no choice but to trust him.

  The same way you had no choice but to trust the Moraleses.

  She pushed the knowledge aside. Tracker was as different from them as night was from day.

  “I’ve got breakfast ready,” Shadow called from where he crouched in front of Miguel. He had a knotted red bandanna in his hand. Miguel was watching it with wide-eyed fascination. Whatever else he was, Shadow was good with her son.

  Tracker waved her forward. “You’ll feel better once you have something in your stomach.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He cocked an eyebrow and smiled—a smile that made her want to stand on tiptoe and kiss him. His eyes narrowed. The right corner of his lip quirked up a little, just enough to feed the longing inside her.

  “What happened to trusting me?”

  Her smile was confident, but inside, she felt tremulous. How did he do this to her? Draw her attention away from her troubles, to the pleasure between them? The sensation of his hand on her cheek was fading. She wanted to replace it with something even better. “It was a passing fancy.”

  His gaze never left her mouth. “Uh-huh.”

  She cut a glance at Shadow. He was watching her. So was Miguel. It would be scandalous to accept the invitation Tracker was extending. But she wanted to. The best she could do was turn her back to their audience and blow him a quick kiss. And even that was shocking. Not only to her, but to Tracker.

  His eyes widened and then narrowed, the heavy-lidded expression so sexual that her knees went weak. He had beautiful, expressive eyes. And right now they were nearly black with the memories she knew she had invoked.

  “You’re awfully brave when we have an audience.”