His every muscle tensed. His boot crushed a dried leaf and he flinched. Paused. Kept moving.
The last few feet he covered on his belly, his eyes never leaving the fringe of grass that marked the crest of the hill. When he was just inches from it, he stopped and remained still, flattened against the ground. He waited. Listened. Heard nothing.
Only the peaceful chirping of meadow birds.
He waited a moment more.
Then he lunged to his feet and brought up the .45 and swept the hillside below in a swift arc.
But he didn’t see her standing at the bottom, waiting to kill him.
He saw her lying at the bottom, on her back, a patch of crumpled, faded blue among all the green.
His heart thudded a strange, doubled beat. Her horse was nowhere in sight. It looked like she had come up on the sheer drop too fast and fallen—
No, it was a trick.
“Antoinette Sutton,” he shouted, starting to walk down the hill toward her, aiming right at her.
He called her name a second time and she stirred, moaning. She lifted her head, pressed her hand against the ground as if struggling to raise herself up on one elbow.
He couldn’t see her other hand. Kept waiting for her to whip out a gun. Instead she froze, staring up at him. He looked down into her lovely face.
And knew it had been the last thing his brother saw before he died.
Cold, blinding fury seized him. He thumbed back the hammer on his Colt. His finger tightened on the trigger. Her eyes widened, locked on the barrel of the .45.
His breathing became harsh. He could feel the steel curve beneath his finger. So smooth, so hard. So easy.
One shot and it would all be over.
But still she didn’t pull a weapon. Didn’t beg for mercy or curse him or spit in defiance. She just gazed, transfixed, at the Peacemaker, with those brown eyes so like a doe’s.
And a second later she lowered her lashes, her expression shifting to one that held no terror or even resignation but...
Acceptance.
Lucas felt a tremor go through him. He ignored it. Held his hand steady. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He blinked it away, remembering young Peter and Cordelia, crying. His sisters, looking to him for justice. Olivia, pleading with him. The West is an uncivilized place...
No questions would be asked.
Before he knew what he was doing, he was at the bottom of the hill, standing over her, the pistol still in his hand. Antoinette flattened herself against the ground with a cry that might have been fear or pain or both.
This close, he could see her cheek badly bruised, her lip bleeding. No gun in her hands. He eased the hammer forward.
And holstered his pistol.
She blinked up at him with a look that mirrored his own surprise at what he had just done.
And now she looked terrified. “W-what do you... what...”
He reached down for her but she shook her head and tried to scramble away—only to stop, gasping sharply.
He caught her arm, his fingers clamping around her wrist. So soft. Quickly, he searched her for weapons—sure that he would find a pistol, a knife—and found none. When he pulled her to her feet, her right leg gave way beneath her and she crumpled to the ground with an exclamation of pain.
He told himself he didn’t care. Took a pair of handcuffs from the pocket of his trousers.
“Federal Marshal,” he bit out, his voice heavy with disgust—for her and for himself. “Miss Antoinette Sutton, you are under arrest for the murder of James McKenna, your lover.” He knelt in front of her, jerked her hands together, and locked the steel manacles around her wrists.
Then he pulled her close to him, glaring into her eyes as he revealed the rest. “My brother.”
She uttered a choked, wordless sound. Her eyes filled with disbelief. Shock.
Panic.
He slid one hand behind her back and the other beneath her knees to lift her up. She fainted in his arms.
~ ~ ~
It took one hell of a long time to make his way back to town.
The sun dropped behind the white-capped peaks in the west, leaving the mountainside gray and soft and shadowy with dusk as Lucas rode across the meadows. He kept the gelding to a slow walk, his right arm around his unconscious prisoner, the reins in his other hand. The dappled horse limped a few paces behind.
He’d found the mare stumbling back toward town with a lame leg, and at first had considered just putting her out of her misery. God knew he wanted to put a bullet in something. But it wasn’t his horse, so it wasn’t his decision.
He only wished he had such a simple explanation, any explanation, for why he hadn’t shot the woman now cradled in his lap.
He looked down at her, this wisp of a female, her weight almost nothing against his thighs and his shoulder, her slender throat arched back over his arm, her dark curls tumbling down the horse’s side. Her face was so delicate, her features so flawless, she could pose as a model for an expensive china doll. He could see why James had found her attractive, he thought bitterly.
James would have wanted to protect her, take care of her.
Lucas felt fresh anger simmering in his gut. Anger at this innocent-looking lightskirt... and at his own weakness. It had come as an unpleasant surprise to discover that—despite his hunger for retribution, despite all the god-awful things he had seen and done in his life, despite the hatred he felt—he didn’t have it in him to shoot Antoinette Sutton.
And he didn’t understand why.
Because she was unarmed, he told himself. Because she was hurt and vulnerable.
He briefly thought it might be her beauty, but it had been a long time since Lucas was an inexperienced kid, hypnotized by every pretty female who came within ten feet of him.
He had no real answer. Only the fact that, so far, nothing about Antoinette Sutton was what he’d expected.
Her clothes and her thinness and the dark circles under her eyes told him she hadn’t been living the carefree life of ease and luxury he’d imagined. Nor had she been waiting to ambush him out on that hill.
She had, in fact, simply fallen from her horse. And gotten badly hurt. The bruise on her cheek and cut on her lip were the least of it. He could tell she had broken a rib or two. And maybe her ankle. Hell, if the fall had been bad enough, she could be bleeding inside.
If he had any sense, he would just dump her here in the middle of nowhere and leave her to the slow, painful death she deserved.
Yet he kept riding. And tried to figure out what he intended to do next. Things would’ve been simple if he had taken vengeance, let his Colt dispense justice.
But he had allowed that moment to pass, like the storm clouds that had vanished from the sky overhead without releasing even one flash of lightning.
The bay gelding stumbled and Antoinette moaned, her lashes fluttering upward. When her gaze met Lucas’s, she made a sound of distress and started struggling to break free.
He tightened his arm around her. “Don’t even think about it, lady. You cause me any trouble, you give me just one reason to put a bullet in you, and I’ll take it.”
She went still, her breathing shallow and uneven, her body tense in his hold. Her dark eyes, glassy with pain, searched his face.
And somehow he sensed what she was thinking. “Yes,” he said harshly, “James’s brother, Lucas. I favor our father. James favors our mother—or rather, he did. Until you shot him dead.”
She swallowed hard, looked away.
“Aren’t you even going to try and deny it?” he demanded, his fingers digging into her arm. “Tell me I’ve got the wrong woman, Mrs. Smith? Insist there must be some mistake?”
He could feel her body trembling against his. She remained silent for a long moment. The horse’s hooves clopped through the grass.
“There’s...” Her voice was soft, and bleak. “... No mistake.”
Surprised, Lucas couldn’t respond for a moment. Then he whispered a curse. Hearin
g her admit her guilt brought him no satisfaction. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
And perversely, he felt like a brute, like he was bullying the confession out of her when she was hurt. He relaxed his grip on her arm, just slightly. “I didn’t think so.”
She looked up at him, clearly struggling for words against the pain of her injuries. Her voice was scarcely a whisper. “I... didn’t mean to... do it—”
“I wish I had a dime for every outlaw who ever told me that,” he said caustically.
Her expression held both fear and confusion. “Why... didn’t you... kill me?”
It was the same question that had been plaguing him—the one question he couldn’t answer. For the second time, she rendered him mute.
Why did you close your eyes? he wanted to ask.
“Because I’m taking you back to Missouri to stand trial,” he told her at last. “You’re on your way to face a judge and jury, Miss Sutton. And then you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison. Lucky for you, Missouri hasn’t hanged a woman in fifty years—though maybe they’ll make an exception in your case.”
She flinched, whether from the pain in her ribs or the coldness of his words, he couldn’t tell.
But again, she didn’t argue with him. Simply closed her eyes, remained still in his embrace, and didn’t say another word.
Damn the woman, couldn’t she do what he expected just once? Why did she have to lie quietly in his arms looking so fragile and—
He ruthlessly cut off that thought. He was not going to be deceived into feeling sympathy for her. Regardless of how she looked, she was a cold-blooded killer who had murdered his brother. The last thing she deserved was his sympathy.
Lucas looked out across the sea of grass that stretched before them. As the moon rose and the first stars blinked into view, he began contemplating the long trip back to Missouri... wondering how he was going to stand it. If an hour’s ride with her left him feeling this edgy and off-balance, he didn’t want to think about what it was going to be like sharing close quarters with her for the next several days.
Night had fallen by the time they approached the town, visible only as a dark silhouette and a scattering of firelight ahead. Eminence apparently lacked street lamps, but he could make out lanterns and torches, carried by about twenty people gathered in the street. When they caught sight of him, shouts went up and they hurried in his direction.
The kid, Travis, raced ahead of the rest, holding a lantern aloft, the bouncing light illuminating his stricken expression when he caught sight of Antoinette, who had fallen unconscious again. “Tarnation! She ain’t dead, is she?”
“If she were dead, I wouldn’t have her in handcuffs.” Lucas kept riding toward town. “She just needs to be patched up—”
“You said you was her kin.” Travis jogged alongside, his voice accusing. “I told everybody I only pointed her out ’cause you said—”
Lucas cut him off with a dry look and didn’t bother explaining to the boy that he shouldn’t trust strangers. “You got a doctor in this town?”
Before Travis could reply, the rest of the crowd surrounded them.
“Sakes alive!”
“Lord amighty, what happened?” A matronly woman with a purple ostrich plume in her hat touched Antoinette’s cheek.
“Who the hell are you, mister?” one man challenged.
“Poor Mrs. Smith!”
“Her name isn’t Smith and she’s never been any man’s Mrs.” Lucas reined the bay to a halt, shifting Antoinette’s weight to dig in his pocket for his badge. “I’m a federal marshal and this woman is wanted for murder—”
Shouts of dismay and disbelief drowned him out, even as he held up the silver star with the words U.S. MARSHAL on it.
“That can’t be true!”
“You’ve got the wrong woman—”
“She already confessed.” Lucas practically had to yell just to be heard. To his amazement, the crowd had quickly turned hostile—toward him.
He awkwardly swung his leg over the gelding’s neck and slid to the ground, still holding her in his arms. She moaned softly as his boots hit the dirt.
“Her real name is Miss Antoinette Sutton,” he continued, “and there’s a warrant out for her in Missouri. Right now she needs a doctor. Do you have one in this town or not?”
The man who had challenged him a moment ago stepped forward. “I’m Dr. Holt. My office is over here.” He reached out to take Antoinette.
Lucas shook his head adamantly. “I’ve got her. Let’s go.”
The townsfolk raised their torches and lanterns to light the way, swarming around him as he carried his injured prisoner across the street.
To his surprise, the doctor led him straight to the two-story, clapboard house on the corner that Antoinette had entered earlier. Lucas abruptly recognized him as the man who had greeted her so warmly when she knocked on the door.
The man whose dappled horse she had used to make her getaway.
As they stepped inside, Lucas assessed Holt in the brighter light. Early thirties, brown hair and gray eyes, a match for Lucas at about six feet tall. Something about his furrowed brow and rumpled clothes suggested a schoolmaster, but his tanned face and hardy build seemed more suited to a bullwhacker or a blacksmith than a doctor. Already Lucas didn’t trust him.
A dozen people followed as Holt led him through a simply furnished parlor and into an adjoining room. After lighting a pair of oil lamps, he directed Lucas to lay Antoinette on an examining table.
One of the women came forward to help as the doctor bent over his patient, his expression concerned. “Take these cuffs off, Marshal—”
“Just patch her up and get her ready to travel.”
Holt straightened and fixed him with a stare. “Look, lawman, you can’t just flash a badge and start giving orders. I don’t know who you are and I don’t—”
“Lucas McKenna. The brother of the man she murdered.”
A shocked chorus of gasps and exclamations came from the gathered townsfolk.
And Travis, who had lagged behind in the doorway, came hurrying into the room so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. “Did you say McKenna?” he asked, his voice rising. “Lucas McKenna? You’re U.S. Marshal Lucas T. McKenna of Indian Territory?”
Lucas looked at him warily, braced for what he feared was coming next. “Yeah.”
“Tarnation!” The kid took a step back. “Don’t anybody else know who this is?” he asked incredulously, turning to his neighbors. “This is... tarnation, this is one of the best, most wrathy lawmen ever to ride the Red River! Tough enough to chew nails an’ spit out tacks and so quick on the draw they say he’s got rattler blood in him—”
“Kid—”
“He brung in Mad Jack Pickett single-handed, and him and his deputies shot up the Blevins gang and—” Travis looked at Lucas as if he were Wild Bill Hickok come back to life, then stuck out his hand. “Marshal McKenna, sir, I’ve been readin’ about you for years. Why, you’re a gen-u-ine hero—”
“Don’t believe everything you read, kid.” Lucas didn’t shake his hand. “I’m nobody’s hero.”
“But the rattler part might be accurate.” Holt looked up from gently examining Antoinette’s side and gestured to her bruised face. “Did you take a bit of revenge for your brother’s death, Marshal? Is that how Ann got hurt?”
“She fell from her horse.” Lucas was rapidly losing his patience and his temper, especially since it didn’t look like Holt or anyone else believed him—regardless of Travis’s glowing biography. “Or rather, your horse, Doctor. You own that dappled mare she used to escape?”
“I let her borrow it—”
“Then I guess I won’t have to add horse-thieving to the murder and robbery charges.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Holt started rolling up his white sleeves. “Just take the cuffs off so I can examine her properly. She may be seriously hurt—”
“Yes.” The woman with the ostrich-plume hat
kept hovering over Antoinette and generally getting in the way, her eyes full of worry. “The poor lamb’s barely recovered from losing her baby.”
“What?” Lucas asked in astonishment. “What did you say?”
The woman rushed over to him. “Ann came here two months ago in the middle of the night, dropped off by a stagecoach makin’ a detour on its way to Leadville ’cause she was having a miscarriage. She can’t be the woman you’re looking for—”
“Rebecca, would you and the marshal and everyone else get out of here?” Holt demanded. “Mrs. Owens is all the help I need. I have to examine this patient more thoroughly and I am not going to do it in front of half the town.”
Lucas tore his gaze from Rebecca, with her pink dress and plumed hat and bobbing earrings, and looked down at Antoinette, so slender and pale in the faded blue calico. Nothing about this made sense. He felt like he had stepped into some bizarre dream. Miscarriage.
“Get her ready to travel,” Lucas ordered, when he could find his voice. “Keep in mind I’ll be right outside. And the cuffs stay on.”
He moved through the parlor and out into the night with everyone else, his mind reeling.
Miscarriage. No wonder she looked so wan and fragile. The people he’d questioned had mentioned only “female trouble.” He’d had no idea that Antoinette was pregnant—
All at once, he recognized the emotion he was feeling as pity, and shook it off.
Whatever she had been through, it didn’t matter. And it didn’t come close to the pain she had inflicted on his family—on James and Olivia and their children and his sisters.
And it didn’t change Lucas’s mind about taking her back to Missouri to face every bit of suffering the law could inflict. He took a deep, steadying breath of the cold night air. There was no way to know, he told himself, if it had even been James’s child.
Lucas doubted the daughter of a whore would be faithful to a lover.
Maybe that was what she and James had been arguing about that night.
He had walked several paces outside before he realized everyone was peppering him with questions again.
After Sundown Page 5