Mountain Wild

by Stacey Kayne

  Everett didn’t argue. He swung into his saddle. “I can make it there in thirty minutes,” he shouted as he set off toward the western rise.

  An hour too long, Garret thought as he made his way back to the front yard. They hadn’t topped the next rise. He couldn’t see his dog in the tall grass but he could hear him.

  “Boots! Heel!”

  Black fur flashed through the dense green. Still barking, Boots ran back. Reaching his side, his dog turned to stand guard, the hair down his neck standing on end. As was the hair on Garret’s neck. Something about armed men hiding their faces behind flour sacks led him to believe they didn’t have talking in mind. Garret had waited too long for answers and preferred an enemy he could see. He backed toward the chicken coop, taking cover.

  “Got to be patient, old man. Let them come to us.”

  Five riders topped the last rise, which meant at least three others were sneaking around to surround the ranch.

  Boots’s bark became a low growl as the masked men made a steady approach. He fought the urge to start shooting, picking off as many as he could. He’d only draw return fire from more directions that he could cover. These men didn’t ride for any struggling rancher and with cattle barons controlling the law, a bloodbath on his land could still earn him a noose. His best chance was to stall them as best he could.

  The moment they cleared the grass at the edge of his yard he murmured, “Git ’em, Boots.”

  His dog bolted into action, darting for the riders, his bark at full blast as he made tight circles between the horses, nipping at their legs and haunches. The animals reared, stamping as Boots rushed them back. Two dumped their riders. Shouts filled the air, the men tried to control their mounts and dodge hooves.

  “Call him off, Daines!” one shouted, struggling to control his mount.

  Not a voice he recognized.

  Another rider raised his rifle, taking aim at Boots. Garret sighted the man’s hand and fired. The bastard’s shout and fall from his saddle was hardly noticed by the others in all the chaos. One masked man dropped to his belly. Two others ran after the horses Boots chased farther into the tall grasses.

  Spotting movement beyond the barn, Garret dropped back and pressed tight against the barn door as he turned his focus to the figure crouched on the far side of the hog pen. Scouting the open ground around the house and bunks for any others, he edged his way to the north side.

  The intruder straightened to find Garret standing over him. His eyes flared wide behind the ivory cloth just before Garret cracked the butt of his rifle against his skull. The man dropped like a sack of oats.

  Paybacks are hell.

  “Hold it right there, Daines.”

  Not likely. He turned and barely dodged a fist. He swung, his knuckles slamming into the canvas-covered face with a satisfying crack.

  Spotting a second man coming up on the right, Garret pulled the hammer from his belt and sent it spinning while fighting off his companion. A cry of pain assured him he hit his target as a blow to the gut sent the man before him crumpling to the ground. A fist clipped his chin as the brawl shifted to another target.

  Each time he knocked a man back, another sack-covered face appeared before him. Delivering two punches for everyone he received, Garret moved against the wave of men. Boots growled and barked from somewhere behind him. A man’s scream was punctuated by a gunshot. His dog yelped.

  Garret whipped around to see Boots lying on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Something struck the back of his head, the ring of pain sending him to his knees. A dozen hands slammed him down, pinning him against the dirt. Garret looked up at Boots and was relieved by the slightest movement of fur.

  “That dog was a goddamn nuisance!” shouted one of his captors.

  Garret twisted against the weight bearing down on him. “He knows that scarecrows belong in cornfields. What’s your business here?”

  A hand slammed his face into the dirt. “I owe this one a bullet!”

  “Not yet,” argued another.

  “Should we stand him up?”

  “Hell no!” another man shouted. “Hold ’im down!”

  The pressure on his back increased, the heel of a boot digging into to his spine. Garret fought the hold on his hair and looked up at the man striding toward him. His gaze focused on a small circular brand burned into the lower flair of the man’s chaps—Circle S. It was a practice among loyal foremen to wear the brand of their employer—which gave Garret the answer he’d been seeking for nearly three months.

  The man stopped a few feet away and lifted his flour sack just high enough to reveal a dark mustache as he spit out a mouthful of blood and at least one tooth.

  “Goddamn, he scraps like a bear!”

  His weary crew closed in behind him, all of them nursing wounds and bleeding beneath their flour sacks.

  “Where’s the second man?” he asked, pulling his flour sack back into place.

  “Found fresh horse tracks leading toward the cliffs. No one’s here but Daines.”

  “Yer man deserted you.” The masked foreman with a deep Southern drawl took another step toward him. “Might as well cool yer fire. We got ya beat. If I were you, I wouldn’t bank on makin’ it to the stockyards next month.”

  “Then you must intend to bury me.” Nothing less would keep him from driving his stock.

  “You should have stayed on the mountain with yer haggard lady friend.”

  Rage rolling through him at the man’s admission. “You killed Duce.”

  “Things might have gone differ’ntly if he chose to be helpful. Seems we wasted our time with the wrong man. Now where can we find Mad Mag?”

  They’re after Maggie? His gaze moved over the eight masked men waiting for his answer. “All of you are after one little mountain woman?” Rather drastic measures to collect a five-hundred-dollar bounty, especially to be dispersed among a large band of men. Strafford had to be behind this.

  “Told you he knew her,” said a man holding him down.

  Garret wrenched against the pressure on his back and the hold on his arms. “You won’t find a man in these hills who doesn’t know of her. Why in hell would that mountain woman be here?”

  The Circle S foreman crouched down, his unfamiliar blue eyes snapping with anger. “No need fer you to die today. We know she was here. She was spotted comin’ off the mountain and we tracked her here. She had yer dog, Daines.”

  “I thought I lost him on the mountain until he showed up today. Figured he just decided to come home.”

  “She helpin’ you steal cattle? You do know the penalty for rustlin’?”

  “You know damn well I haven’t stolen any cattle.”

  “Someone has been,” he said, a smile coming into his eyes. “Who’s to say she’s not leadin’ ’em straight to you? You bes’ hope the missing stock ain’t wearin’ a Lazy J brand when they turn up.”

  Garret didn’t take that threat lightly. Men had been wrongfully hanged due to such malicious tactics.

  “Mad Mag has made herself a real nuisance, releasin’ stock and vandalizin’ ranches. You have a hand in that, too, or you just got a hankerin’ for haggard old women?”

  “Strafford’s ego must be awful damn fragile. Folks of Bitterroot might like to know their new mayor has hired a bunch of masked raiders to handle his dirty work.”

  The man’s boot slammed against his jaw, knocking dirt into his eyes as pain exploded through his face.

  “Pull him up.”

  The moment his boots touched the ground a fist pounded into his abdomen, the blow knocking the breath from his lungs.

  “The only tellin’ you’ll be doin’ is where we can find Mad Mag.”

  Thank God she’d taken his horse. Hopefully she’d stay on the west side of those mountains. “Go to hell,” he wheezed.

  “Take him into the barn.” He glanced around the yard before turning to the men standing behind him. “We’re gonna need some rope.”

  Chapter Eleven
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br />   T hey came up out of nowhere, horses splashing through a shallow stretch of river.

  Maggie moved back, quickly guiding Star into the shelter of late-afternoon shade amid the dense trees and scrub. She clamped over her mare’s muzzle to keep her quiet as the riders rumbled past.

  Outlaws. Wasn’t any other reason to risk a horse riding through a rocky riverbed.

  “We should have killed him,” one called over the clatter of hooves and splashing water.

  “Ain’t sure we didn’t,” another shouted. The splash of water distorted their conversation as they rumbled past.

  “Shot his dog.”

  The words carried back on the river.

  Maggie shifted, trying to get a look at the horses, a glimpse of a face, but couldn’t make out much beyond a bit of horsehide before they rode out of view.

  She waited until all she heard were the sounds of the river then stepped from the foliage and led Star back to the river’s edge. Someone had received an unpleasant visit. The comment about the dog played in her mind, stirring a deeper unease.

  Most ranches had dogs. Garret’s ranch was the closest.

  Her gaze was drawn toward the bright sky to the west. She’d followed the river beyond his ranch over a half hour ago, and without so much as a side-glance to see if he stood on the roof. She now wished she’d taken the time to scout out his presence.

  Must have been more than a half a dozen riders splashing through the river. At noon Garret had only one worker on his ranch. Not a good time for an ambush.

  Biting out a curse, she shifted into her saddle. She wouldn’t be able to bed down unless she at least scouted from a distance.

  Just a quick look. Once she saw him or Boots she could leave without notice.

  Thirty minutes later she stood beyond the line of trees. The low sun lit up the empty rooftops of his ranch. She rode over the next small rise and pulled out her telescope. No lamps glowed from inside either dwelling. So far as she could see no one stirred. She steadied the scope on the barn roof for a few minutes but didn’t detect any movement on the far side. She sat back in her saddle, apprehension turning her belly to fire.

  Two men and a dog should be somewhere in sight. The house and the bunks would be dark and needing lamplight this late in the day. His herds were too far out to be riding out at this hour.

  Something’s not right.

  She kicked her heels against Star. Approaching the yard, she pulled her rifle from the scabbard. Star’s slow, plodding steps echoed across the quiet grounds as she rode close to the bunks, nearing Garret’s house. A dark spot shifted beyond the porch.

  Maggie reined in and raised her rifle. Boots limped out from beyond the front steps, his black fur matted with dried blood.

  Maggie slung her gun over her shoulder and grabbed a canteen. She dismounted and pulled a towel from her saddlebag. Boots whined beside her.

  Where’s Garret?

  Constantly watching the area around her, she knelt beside Boots and poured some water over the matting of blood and dirt. Fresh blood welled from a hole in his shoulder. Boots whined as she prodded the wound. “Easy, boy,” she whispered. The bullet had passed through. Quickly securing the towel beneath his front leg and around his shoulder, she scooped him up. She hurried up the steps to the porch and set Boots on a bench beside Garret’s front door. She turned to look back across the quiet shadows and various buildings beyond the yard.

  “Garret!”

  Something rattled in the direction of the barn.

  “Stay,” she said to Boots, and moved as swiftly and silently as she could across the yard. Her rifle in her hands, she pushed against one of the double doors. The heavy wood creaked. She inched through the small gap into the musty shadows. Near the center of the barn, Garret’s pale hair stood out in the dim light. Coils of rope bound his arms across the top of the gate where his arms stretched wide, his legs folded beneath him.

  “Garret?” she said, her strained voice barely a whisper.

  He lifted his head. The sight of his battered face knocked the breath from her lungs. His eyes were nearly swollen shut and blood was…everywhere.

  He muttered a curse, chin lowering back to his chest.

  “Garret.” Tears burned her eyes as she knelt before him. His arms strapped tight beneath the rope and blood covering his shirt, she didn’t know where to touch him. “Who did this?”

  “Covered faces,” he said in a ragged breath. “They shot Boots.”

  “I found him. He’s okay.” She reached blindly for her blade. “I’ll cut you down.”

  “Left arm first. My shoulder, I think it’s broke.”

  She cut away the spiral of rope along his arm. The bone at his shoulder appeared to be poking up beneath his shirt. His arm rolled from the top of the gate as the rope fell away. He grunted as she eased the limp limb against his side.

  Using her body to hold him up, she pressed firmly against him as she cut the rope holding his right arm. His swollen lips pressed against her neck.

  “You smell like heaven,” he breathed against her skin.

  “You look like hell,” she said, hoping his frisky move meant he wasn’t hurting as badly as he appeared.

  His other arm fell forward and his weight knocked her back. She landed on her butt, her arms banded around his chest. It took all her strength to ease him to the side before she fell on top of him. He groaned and hooked his right arm around her, holding her against him.

  “We gotta stop meetin’ like this, Magpie,” he said in a weak voice. “You lookin’ pretty as springtime. Me on death’s door.”

  She eased back. Fresh tears hazed her vision at the full sight of him. She’d never seen such a battered face. The bones in his left shoulder pitched up, creating a rise beneath his shirt.

  “You are not on death’s door.”

  “Am, too,” he insisted. “Better strip me nekkid and have your way with me. Do it quick.”

  “Garret!”

  His swollen lips shifted in what could have been a grin. “Worked last time.”

  “They’ve knocked you senseless.”

  He shifted, attempting to sit up but only managed a deep moan before settling back on the dirt and straw. “Just lay here with me,” he said in a pant. “I’ll get up in a minute. You sure Boots is all right?”

  “Yes. And you shouldn’t try to move. Your shoulder is broken. God only knows what the rest of you looks like.”

  “Shh,” he whispered. “I’m trying to impress my girl.”

  He’d suffered far too many blows to the head. “I’m not your girl.”

  He peered up at her through the swollen slit of one eye. “You will be.”

  She tensed, the confidence behind those three words sending a combination of fear and longing shooting through her.

  A rumble from outside caught her attention. She eased up to listen. “Horses approaching from the south.” She looked back at Garret. “Your ranch hands?”

  “Too early.”

  Maggie grabbed her rifle and stood. “Don’t move,” she whispered.

  “Mag—”

  “Shh!” She hurried into the stall and lifted the latch on the window. Using the barrel of her rifle, she eased open the wood shutter.

  A band of riders swarmed in from the south pasture, guns drawn. Chance Morgan and his brother rode at the center. Relief shook her as they thundered into the yard.

  Thank God.

  “Garret!” shouted one of the Morgans. His brother’s bellowing voice followed like an echo.

  “He’s in here!”

  Garret groaned and made an attempt to rise.

  “Don’t move,” she ordered, rushing back to him. “It’s the Morgans.”

  “I’m all right,” he insisted.

  She dropped back to her knees and placed a hand on his chest. “Please don’t move, Garret.”

  He muttered a swear word, and his body relaxed beneath her palms.

  Both barn doors swung wide. The Morgan brothers stepped
inside.

  “He’s in a bad way,” she said, not caring which was Chance.

  “Maggie?”

  Chance Morgan followed his brother into the dim light of the barn and could hardly believe the scene before him. A teary-eyed Mag kneeling over Garret—at least he thought it was Garret beneath all the blood and bruises.

  Her gaze moved past him and all emotion drained from her face, her narrowed eyes seeming to glaze with frost. She straightened. Her hand closed over the hilt of her knife.

  Suddenly aware of the murmuring voices, he turned to the men filing into the doorway behind him. “The rest of you cover the grounds, search the buildings and alert Garret’s crew. Find out which way the raiders went.”

  “East along the south river,” Maggie said as Tucker crouched beside Garret. “They have an hour lead.”

  His foreman gave a nod and stepped out.

  Chance joined his brother and knelt across from Maggie. “Holy hell, kid. You took a wallop.” If his gut was half as bruised as his face, he was in some serious pain.

  “Anything broke?” asked Tucker.

  “Oh, yeah,” Garret said in a shallow breath.

  “His left shoulder doesn’t look right,” Maggie said, sniffing back tears, forcing Chance to give her a second glance. Mag had never struck him as a woman prone to cry in any situation.

  “Let’s check out that shoulder.” Before he could touch Garret, Maggie’s hands moved over the row of buttons and brushed open Garret’s shirt with shocking familiarity.

  The kid’s one-eyed glare told Chance voicing that shock would cost him strips off his hide.

  She pressed back the edge of the shirt and Garret sucked in a hard breath.

  “I’ll cut the sleeve,” she said, drawing her blade.

  “Try not to draw more blood,” Garret said, his voice weak.

  “I ought to just skin you,” she scolded, her blade parting the fabric over his shoulder. “For making me fret so.”

  “Thank you, Maggie,” Chance said, and tried to ease in.

  She continued to hover over Garret, her hostile expression and the long blade in her hand making him more than a little tense. He spared a glance at his brother. Tucker watched the mountain woman with equal caution.