“No,” Jessie was saying. “Charlie told me he killed a man in self-defense.”
Will trained his eyes on the floor. “Makes sense,” he fabricated. “Otherwise he would have been arrested for the crime.”
“Oh, he was accused of murder. There was even a wanted poster with his picture on it. I didn’t see it, but I heard about it.”
“He escaped?”
“He ran. Said he couldn’t prove his innocence.” Will felt weak. Sick. “You must have known him well,” he retorted.
“Don’t worry about it,” she evaded. “It was a long time ago. Charlie has proved the kind of man he is.”
“Murdering and calling it self-defense? Dodging the law for over—who knows how long? Stealing land from the Haskels?”
“Whose side are you on, Will?”
Will looked into her deep, black eyes. She was smiling, but it was a wan, sad sort of smile that added years to her usually youthful appearance. “On the side of the law, Jess.”
“Where does that leave Priscilla?”
“Priscilla?” Will swallowed the distress that rose in his throat. “Miss Jake McCain can take care of herself. She’s definitely her father’s son.”
Five
“SADDLE UP!”
Titus Crockett’s call echoed through the early morning chill. Priscilla wasn’t going on the cattle drive willingly, but she was going. Pa remained adamant.
At Uncle Crockett’s call, she rushed to the tack room to find an extra slicker in case they ran into rain. In her search, she came upon an old trunk. Memories assailed her. Her mind seemed to stand still. The cattle drive forgotten, she stooped, opened the lid. To her surprise, the trunk was empty.
“Get a move on, Jake. Crockett an’ those ol’ steers are waitin’.”
Priscilla glanced up to find Pa standing in the doorway, his demeanor solemn. Her hand trailed inside the trunk. Her fingers absently picked at the aged paper lining, while her mind played with a nagging memory.
“What happened to the old Spanish armor and stuff that was in this trunk, Pa?”
She watched his gaze fasten on the trunk. He frowned.
“It’s…completely empty?”
She nodded. “Isn’t this where I found that little pistol?”
“Pistol?”
“You remember, Pa. That little pistol I found years ago. You caught me shooting it at tin cans. That’s when I told you not to call me sugar or Miss Priss, to call me—”
“Jake,” he supplied. “‘You don’t call Uncle Sog sugar, or Uncle Crockett,’ you said. ‘Call me Jake.’”
She smiled fondly, remembering along with him. “You’ve had a hard time remembering that lately.”
But her pa didn’t smile. He looked old, his features drawn. The trip to town yesterday had been too much for him. The trip and the argument they’d had later, out at the canyon. That argument had taken a lot out of both of them.
The trunk forgotten, Priscilla rose and went to him. She folded her arms around his middle, laid her head on his chest. “Get some rest while we’re gone, Pa.” He patted her head in a reassuring manner.
“I’m sorry I jumped on you like that yesterday, sugar. I wish you could understand.”
A retort was on her tongue—how could she understand when he was being as stubborn as a jackass? But she held her tongue. She couldn’t leave Spanish Creek with another argument between them. The one yesterday had been enough, the worst argument she and Pa had ever had.
Not far out of Santa Fé, Priscilla had realized why Pa sent Red Avery home ahead of them. They’d traveled only a couple of miles past the outskirts of town when he instructed her to take the southern route back to Spanish Creek.
“We’re going by the canyon?”
“Might as well.”
The thought of seeing Spanish Creek Canyon cheered Priscilla. Joaquín’s cynicism and Will’s likely collusion with the enemy had left her steaming. She figured that was why Pa decided to go by the canyon. They both needed time to cool off before returning home.
The canyon was hers and Pa’s special, secret place; at least that’s the way she thought of it. Her mother knew about the canyon, of course, but no one ever talked about it. The few times Priscilla had gone there had been in the company of her pa. She’d been fifteen or so the first time he took her to see the horses. She recalled his warning, still.
“Don’t ever come here without me, Jake. And don’t tell another soul about this place.” They’d been hunting wild horses, just she and Pa. “Spanish Creek Canyon is sacred to the Apache. They trust me to keep it thataway.”
They had followed Spanish Creek to its head, where the water burbled from under a mound of rocks at the base of a fir-studded cliff. Priscilla hadn’t missed the precautions Pa took to be certain they weren’t observed. Only after he’d climbed part way up the cliff on foot and scanned the countryside in every direction, had he pulled aside some low-growing cedars and motioned her into a narrow passageway formed by a split in the cliff. The resulting space was so narrow they were forced to ride single-file.
Priscilla would always remember her initial excitement at such an adventure. Excitement mixed with anxiety. “If it belongs to Victorio, what are we doing here?” she had whispered. She wasn’t actually frightened, she’d assured herself. She was, after all, with Pa. He was the best shot in the territory, and she was quickly learning to shoot as well. Between them she and Pa could dispatch most any adversary. But tales of Victorio’s merciless wrath speared her excitement with a goodly measure of trepidation.
“Victorio gave me use of the canyon,” Pa had explained. “Said I could take horses from here when I needed ’em. Long as I never told anyone where they came from.”
Priscilla had always been a romantic where her father was concerned. If Pa said the fierce war chief Victorio gave him use of the canyon and the horses in it, then Victorio gave him the canyon and the horses. At the time it hadn’t occurred to her to question the veracity of such a claim, nor the circumstances behind the gift.
But standing there yesterday, watching the magnificent Spanish horses frolic in their natural environment, she had begun to wonder. She knew what was on Pa’s mind. Joaquín.
“How did Joaquín find out about this place?”
Pa shrugged, but didn’t answer.
“Why would he steal some of our horses?”
“They aren’t technically ours, Miss Priss.”
“We’re the only ones who know about them. The only ones who use them.”
Again Pa remained silent. She watched him visually count the herd.
When he finished, she questioned, “How many did he take?”
“Six.”
“Why?”
He favored her with a strange sort of smile. “Joaquín figures they belong to him.”
“But…”
“He’s right. They do.”
Priscilla’s boots slipped on a rock. She caught her balance, physically. Emotionally, Pa’s claim had been a wallop to the gut.
“In a manner of speaking,” Pa finished.
“In what manner of speaking?”
“They belong to Victorio’s Apaches. Joaquín is—”
“I know what Joaquín is, Pa. So does he. What he needs to know is who he is.”
“I don’t know who he is.”
Priscilla stalked away. Kicking a stone in front of her she wandered toward the cave where they’d found the Spanish armor. Pa came up behind her.
“I don’t know who Joaquín’s father is, Priscilla.” His voice had softened. He took her by the shoulders. “But it isn’t me. If it were, I’d have been man enough to claim the boy years ago. Your mama and I have discussed it many times.”
Priscilla watched water bubble from the earth, she imagined it running through the cave and out the other side. Pa had related the history of the canyon on that first trip, what was known, anyway, or more accurately, what he deducted from the evidence. The Spaniards had obviously found this canyon o
n one of their treks up from Mexico. Some of them were killed here. The armor and other remains testified to that. Their horses had grown and multiplied in the valley unobserved, as Mexicans and later Anglos moved into the area. To the Apache, the fact that the horses had evaded discovery by the white eyes could mean only one thing—the Great Spirit had given them to The People.
And Victorio in turn gave Pa permission to take horses from the canyon when he needed them, in appreciation for Pa’s help in solving some difficulty involving white raiders. The only condition Victorio had placed on the gift was that no one else could ever learn about the canyon or the horses. Priscilla wasn’t even sure Uncle Sog and Uncle Crockett knew about it.
“How did Joaquín find this place?” she asked again.
“That’s what has me buffaloed,” Pa admitted. “And worried as hell.”
“Why would he take them?” she demanded again.
“To get back at me.”
“Victorio won’t hold you responsible.”
“Victorio isn’t the problem. He’s facing bigger troubles than this from both sides of the border.”
“Then—”
“If Joaquín tags me as being involved in a horse theft ring—”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“I don’t think so, either,” Pa had agreed. “But he’s determined to call my hand. A determined man is dangerous.”
She thought about that, recalled Mama’s departing admonition that morning. “That’s what Mama meant.”
“Your mama wasn’t talking about Joaq—” Pa stopped in midsentence, stared hard at Priscilla, then turned abruptly away.
It reminded her of Will, of the way he could be gentle and kind one moment, arrogant and spiteful the next.
“Men! I don’t understand any of you.”
Pa wheeled, his eyes flashing. “What brought that on?”
Priscilla shrugged. “I don’t know.” She kicked a stone into the water with the toe of her boot. “It’s just that…” At length, she looked up at her father, shaking her head. “One minute you’re sane and sensible, the next you don’t make any sense at all.”
“Makes perfect sense to me.”
“That’s what I mean. Just like Will. One minute he’s friendly as can be, the next minute he acts like I have the plague or—”
“PRISCILLA!”
Her heart stilled at the fury in his voice. Pa never got angry with her, not really angry.
“I told you that man is no good. You’re not to talk about him, again. You’re not to see him. You can’t even want to see him. Do you understand?”
For the second time in one day Priscilla felt a rush of tears. “How can I understand, when all you do is shout orders?” She tossed her chin defiantly. “One little kiss—”
“It isn’t just the kiss; it’s the man. He’s no good.”
“What about him is so bad?”
“Everything.”
“You don’t know everything about him.”
“I know enough.”
“Then tell me.”
“I don’t need to tell you anything, damnit. I’m your father. I forbid you to see William Radnor.”
Priscilla couldn’t believe her ears. “Forbid? When did you start forbidding me to do things? You taught me to think for myself, to make decisions, to trust my own judgments about people. Now you’re taking it all back, forbidding me—”
Pa had grabbed her by both shoulders then. He shook her. The action was so unprecedented, it startled her into silence. She stared into his angry blue eyes, her own tearing. His anger and stubbornness fueled hers.
“I’m a grown woman, Pa. I can do whatever I please. I can think about anyone I want to think about; I can see anyone—”
Pa’s voice softened, but his resolve remained firm. “I don’t care if you get to be a hundred and one, Priscilla McCain, I won’t have you taking up with the likes of Will Radnor.”
“And I don’t care what you try to do about it, I’ll take up with the Haskels themselves if it pleases me.”
The absurdity of her claim had astonished her. She ducked her head. “Maybe not with the Haskels. But they’re different. I know why you would object to the Haskels. I know what kind of people they are, what they’re doing to us. I wouldn’t even want to take up with the Haskels, Pa. But Will—How can you object to Will? He isn’t some fly-by-night wrangler. He makes an honest living, even if it is by working for the Haskels. He’s new in town. Newt might try to brainwash him, but I can keep—”
“Priscilla!” Pa’s eyes had narrowed to slits. His voice was low and clear. As was his meaning when he continued. “This subject is closed. I don’t want to ever hear that man’s name again. When you return from Fort Stanton—”
“Me? I’m not going to Fort Stanton, Pa. What if the Haskels attack Spanish Creek—?”
“I can handle the Haskels.”
“But the trip will take a week or more, and—”
“You’re going.”
“We decided Uncle Crockett would drive the steers.”
“You’re going with him.” When she objected further, he added in tones he rarely used with her. “I decided, Priscilla. I’m still running this dadburnt ranch. Don’t you forget it again.”
How could she ever forget it? she thought now, feeling her pa’s arms around her, loving, protecting…over-protecting.
“Crockett’s ready to hit the trail,” he said.
“I still don’t think I should go, Pa.”
“You’re going.”
“What about Joaquín? You can’t leave Mama alone with Red to go see about Joaquín—”
“Leave that to me. I still have a little sense left in this old noggin. By the time you and Crockett return, I’ll have Joaquín’s difficulty settled.”
In her elation, Priscilla almost told him about the plan she intended to effect after Will cleared Joaquín. But she didn’t. If yesterday had taught her anything, it was to keep her trump card to herself. Pa couldn’t very well prepare a defense against something he didn’t expect to happen. She hugged his neck. “Take care of Mama.”
“I intend to, Miss Priss.”
At the end of the week following Priscilla and Charlie’s visit to Santa Fé, Will made his way out of town, using a crude map he had finally persuaded Newt Haskel to draw for him. He rode north along the Santa Fé Trail, turned west, coming at length to a small spread nestled among the rocks and hills east of the Río Grande.
The ride had given him ample time to think, an activity that was becoming hazardous to his mental health. He regretted coming to town under the ruse of practicing law. The job with Faust & Haskel had seemed like the answer to his dilemma when the offer was made.
But now he was stuck with Joaquín’s case and he couldn’t deal with Charlie until he’d represented Joaquín in a fair manner. That was his problem. His mother said his perseverance bordered on mania. No matter what the task, Will attacked it with everything he had until it was solved.
So now he had to clear Joaquín before he could settle things with Charlie. And he had to do both and get out of the territory, away from Priscilla—far away from Priscilla—before leaving her became a bigger chore than dealing with her father.
He should never have kissed her. He should never have flirted with her. The moment he learned her identity, he should have shunned her like the pox.
But he hadn’t, and now she was quickly working her way into his heart, and he knew himself. He knew himself too well. Like his mother said, once he got started on something, hell pulled by four devils couldn’t drag him away.
Well, not this time. Not this woman. Even if she was the first woman who’d ever lighted such an intense fire of passion inside him that all the water in all the oceans would have trouble extinguishing it.
He shouldn’t have kissed her. Hell fire and damnation! He should never have kissed her. For days now the only image he’d been able to conjure in his worthless brain was an impossible dream—the dream of holdin
g her in his arms, skin to skin, lips to lips, his body curling around hers, filling hers…
Fiercely, Will tore his mind away from Priscilla McCain. McCain, damnit, that was the important word. He concentrated on the scenery—or tried to.
Although majestic and beautiful, the country he rode through was rugged; Will had difficulty picturing a pure-blooded horse operation in these mountains. And that’s what Newt claimed the horses Joaquín stole were—pure-blooded Spanish horses.
He grinned, hearing Priscilla’s sure retort. He was a greenhorn, after all. What did he know about horse raising in New Mexico Territory?
But even the horse he rode, which Carlos, the hostler, assured him was a mountain-bred mustang, shied nervously around rockslides and pricked his ears at any distant rumble.
Arriving at his destination, Will dismounted cautiously at a ramshackle shack that hung precariously on the edge of a cliff. When Newt said the ranch was in the mountains, Will had envisioned a place like Spanish Creek—a rolling verdant valley surrounded by mountains, not a rocky cliff overlooking the river.
Back behind the shack stood an equally rundown barn and beyond that a pole corral. Between the barn and the corral a mangy wolfhound strained at a rope, setting up enough racket that Will figured the most hardened rustler should be scared off.
A large man approached Will. Of obvious Scottish ancestry with a freckled, once-fair complexion and ruddy hair tinged with gray, he wore two Colts strapped around his mammoth waist and carried a buffalo gun in a hamlike fist, all of which accentuated the man’s ability—and intention, Will had no doubt—to intimidate.
“Aaron DeVries?” he questioned.
“Depends on who’s askin’.”
Will introduced himself as a member of Faust & Haskel. “Newt says you raise pure-blooded Spanish horses around here.”
DeVries, the rancher from whom Joaquín was supposed to have stolen the horses, glared at Will, while spitting a stream of tobacco juice off to the side. He wiped his unkempt mustache with the back of a fist. “Ain’t no reason I can’t raise purebloods if I take a notion.”
“Looks like pretty rough country for expensive horses.”
“An’ it looks to me like yer new to these parts.” The way the Scotsman said it, it was more like an indictment than a casual comment.
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