Futilely, he searched for the gun he already knew was gone. On the blazing shore, the Rebel soldier reached out to him from amidst the fire. Chase looked away, helpless. The man's scream of agony was higher pitched than usual. Looking again, he saw that it was Libby's face that watched him from the flames. A silent scream tore from his body....
Chase jerked awake from the nightmare, drenched in sweat and panting in fear. The dream was a brutally familiar one, except for the ending.
That, he realized grimly, was new.
He blinked in the half-light of dawn, turning his cheek against the scratchy straw and repressed a groan. A herd of horses was stampeding through his brain. Where the hell am I? he wondered.
Blinking in the half-light, he struggled to reorient himself. Surprisingly he found he was not in the loft but in a stall, and fully dressed, boots and all. How the hell had he gotten there?
Then, with unfortunate clarity, he remembered all of it—the whiskey, Libby, what he'd done to her.
A noise stilled the curse he was about to utter aloud.
Chase opened his eyes to the shadowy light of dawn with sudden, pulse-pounding alertness. He had the distinct and unsettling feeling he was not alone. His fingers tightened over two fists full of straw. He was listening.
The sound came again.
This time, he recognized the stealthy scrape of boot leather on wood, the sifting fall of straw to the barn floor, the footfalls of a man who did not mean to be heard.
Chase sat bolt upright just as the man evaporated into the hazy morning light through the double barn doors. Instantly, he regretted the haste of the movement and clamped a hand to his forehead. Nevertheless, he lurched out of the stall, aiming for the barn door. The man, if indeed it had been a man, was gone.
Chase considered the possibility that all this had been a figment of his cobweb-cluttered mind. Perhaps no one had been in there. After all, the sneak had disappeared, seemingly into thin air.
On the other hand, if someone had been in the barn or, more to the point, in his loft, what the hell was he doing there? Chase's gear was up there. Saddlebags, bedroll... gun.
Chase narrowed his eyes and made his way up the ladder to the loft. Picking up the rifle that lay beside his things, Chase unloaded it, checked his ammunition carefully and reloaded. There were no signs that the gun had been tampered with. A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth.
Then his eyes fell to something lying on top of the hay near his bedroll. Chase reached over and picked up a small packet of brown cigarette papers. He recognized them instantly. They belonged to Bodine. It didn't surprise him that he'd been right about the little bastard. But he was disappointed at not catching him in the act.
What had he been doing? Setting some kind of trap? And more importantly, why? If Bodine was the one trying to sabotage Libby, where did Chase fit in? Why would Bodine be trying to kill him? And more to the point, why would a two-bit wrangler be trying to undermine Libby's operation? None of it made any sense.
He stuffed the cigarette papers in his pocket, gathered up his gear and climbed back down the ladder. He had a few questions to ask Early and the other men. He planned to keep close watch on Bodine until he could prove his suspicions.
Behind him the barn door's heavy hinges creaked. Blanking his mind of all thought, Chase dropped his gear and swung his gun around, leveling it at the figure silhouetted by the morning sun.
Chapter 12
Chase's heart kicked back into rhythm. It was Tad.
"Holy Moses, Chase! It's just me," the boy exclaimed.
Bloody hell! He could have blown Tad's head off. He lowered the gun, easing down the hammer. "Hell, boy. You and your ma have a bad habit of sneaking up on a man."
"Were you gonna shoot me?" Tad asked incredulously, coming nearer. His blond hair was rumpled from sleep and his shirttails hung out of his suspenders.
"No." Chase answered shaking his head. "I'm sorry I scared you."
"That's okay." Tad reached deep into the pocket of his britches. "I brung ya somethin' to see."
Chase rested his rifle against the wooden beam that supported the loft and hunkered down on the balls of his feet to see the plump creature Tad was holding. A smile curved his mouth. "Well now, that's a fine horny toad, Tad. Where'd you find him?"
"Down by the creek. His name's Charlie. Ma says I gotta make a proper box fer him today or I can't keep him. But he likes my pocket best of all." Tad stuffed the squirming toad back into his britches.
"You're probably right," Chase agreed, ruffling Tad's hair, "but mothers can be downright touchy about toads in the house."
"Yeah." Tad screwed up his mouth in thought. "I was thinkin'...maybe... um... you could help me build him a box." Tad glanced furtively at Chase through a fringe of blond lashes. "I got me some flat tree bark and... um... string."
Chase knew there were a hundred more important things to be doing. None, however, that meant a fig to Tad. He felt a strange tightening in his chest. This was the kind of question the boy should have been asking his pa. "You got any nails?"
The boy's face brightened. "Nails? Sure! You think we'll need nails? I got 'em. Lots of 'em! And a hammer an' saw, too. You just wait right here," he said, flying toward the tool room. "I'll be back quicker'n you kin say horny toad."
"I'll be right here," Chase answered with a laugh, and he leaned back against a stall partition. His questions could wait a few minutes more. Sometimes, he decided, horned toads and eight-year-old boys took priority.
Chase looked up to see Elliot walking into the barn.
"Morning, big brother," El said with a broad smile. On closer inspection, he added, "Or is it? God, you look like hell, Chase."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it." El lifted his saddle off the saddletree and slipped a bridle from the tack wall.
"Where are you headed?" Chase asked.
"Box canyon. I drew watch for the day. Early's going to show me the way. We're rotating a few head back up to the canyon, and he wants you along to help him bring another bunch back for breaking."
"Where is Early?"
"Back in the bunkhouse. He was just rolling out of bed when I left."
"What about Bodine?"
El frowned. "I don't know. He was up before me. The less I see of that bastard, the better. Why do you care?"
Chase ignored the question. "Then you haven't seen him this morning?"
"No." El stared at Chase for a long moment. "Why do I get the feeling there's some significance to these questions?"
"Because someone was in here this morning while I was asleep in a stall, and I'm fairly certain it was Bodine. He was up in the loft going through my things."
El's expression turned serious, and his gaze went to the Henry. "Your gun—?"
"Wasn't touched. I checked it. He wouldn't be stupid enough to try the same thing twice." Chase had shared his suspicions with Elliot last night after supper. The same thought seemed to have occurred to both of them.
"Damn," Elliot cursed. "What the hell's going on here? You sure it was Bodine?"
Chase nodded slowly, holding up the cigarette papers. "He left a calling card."
"But why?"
"That's what I intend to find out." Chase stood up stretching his long legs. "Tell Early I'll be ready when he is. I have a few questions to ask him."
Tad came clanking out of the tool room, arms full of saws, hammers, and tree bark slabs. He dumped them at Chase's feet. "First," Chase added with a grin, "I've got a toad box to build."
"A toad box?" El repeated with a laugh.
Tad pulled the wriggling creature from his pocket. "For Charlie."
"Ah, I see." El gave the brown, lumpy animal an appraising look, then rubbed one finger between the toad's beady black eyes. "That's a toad worthy of a toad box if ever I did see one." Straightening, he added, "Good luck, men. Chase, I'll meet you outside in a few minutes."
"El," Chase called, stopping him and meeting his gaze. "Watch your b
ack."
El nodded. "My thoughts exactly."
* * *
A thin line of perspiration beaded Libby's upper lip. The smell of homemade lye soap wafted up to her as she leaned over the oversized kettle of bubbling water and lifted steaming lace-trimmed under-drawers and camisoles out with a flat wooden paddle. After dunking them in another kettle of cool water, Libby wrung the moisture from the garments and carefully hooked them on the line to dry, anchoring them with wooden clothespins.
The heated afternoon breeze flapped through the line of clothes already hanging there. Alongside her personal things, sheets, socks, and some of Tad's britches were bleaching dry under the blazing New Mexican sun. Out of modesty, Libby did the laundry behind the house, out of sight of the corrals and bunkhouse.
She placed her hands at the small of her back and arched backward. Fatigue crept up her spine and made her muscles ache. She'd spent the morning scything fresh grass—hay in the north pasture with Tad and Straw. It was for the horses they kept corralled at the ranch. Replenishing the supply of feed was a job that had to be done several times a week. She thanked God the pasture in the narrow-ended box canyon, where they kept the rest of their herd, had plenty of graze.
Like the horses Chase and Early had taken this morning, the ones still penned here would be rotated back to the canyon after being gelded, broken, and hair-branded with the Honeycutt mark.
Libby's mind kept pace with her hands as she worked, wringing out the wet clothes and hanging them up to dry. Tad had prattled on endlessly about how Chase had helped him build the bark box for his latest pet, and the box never left Tad's side that whole morning. It had served as a constant reminder to Libby of Chase's small kindnesses.
She'd been glad for the physical labor and had thrown herself into the task, as she had done with the washing. But no amount of work could push away the memories of what she and Chase had done last night.
Libby felt an unwanted tightening of her nipples at the memory of his hands on her bare flesh. The ache he'd stirred in her was with her still. She'd spent a sleepless night thinking about what he'd said to her. You don't belong with a man like me. Trust me, I can only hurt you. She'd accepted it then. She'd tossed and turned and cried into her pillow.
And finally, she'd decided he was wrong.
Wrong to deny the chance they might have together. Wrong to think he could only hurt her. He was a man filled with heartache. The utter loneliness and vulnerability of his kiss last night had proven that to her. Why couldn't he let himself love her?
What makes a man close himself off so? she wondered. The war? She'd only heard stories of the ugliness of it. And though she'd lost her husband to it, she couldn't begin to know what they must have gone through. She knew enough to know it changed men. Perhaps he only needed the kind of softness a woman like her could give him. She had that softness in her, and only last night realized how much she'd missed sharing it with a man.
Drifter or no, Chase Whitlaw was the best thing to happen to her in a long, long time. But it wasn't as simple as that.
She had started to fall in love with him.
It had come to her—just like that—as morning filtered through her bedroom window. It didn't matter that she'd only known him a short time. It didn't even matter that he wasn't the type of man she'd envisioned herself with. He was so unlike Lee or even Jonas Harper. Chase Whitlaw was a hard man, self-contained—with troubles she could only guess at. But there was another side to him he'd allowed her to glimpse last night. A part that told her he was kind and gentle and, yes, even vulnerable.
There'd been something between them since the moment he'd met her out in that storm. Something as strong and inevitable as the sun rising in the morning or the steady thudding of her heart. And she knew, despite what he'd said, he felt it, too.
He'd ridden off that morning before she'd even seen him. Her mind was made up. When he got back from the box canyon, she'd—
"Well, ain't them purty little things a-hangin' there?"
Trammel Bodine's low, husky voice, next to her ear, made her jump. She dropped her freshly washed camisole into the dirt. Whirling around, she found him standing close behind her, a smile on his face. Her hand went to her throat and she backed up three steps, eying him warily.
The sleeves of his blue chambray shirt were rolled up past his elbows, revealing darkly tanned, muscular arms. His trousers rode low on his narrow hips, held there by a silver-buckled belt. Over them, he wore a pair of worn-looking leather chaps held up by a single rawhide thong that traversed his lower belly.
He bent down to pick up the dainty, then pushed his hat brim up with a finger. "Aw, now that's a darn shame. Now yer gonna have to wash it all over again." Spreading the delicate garment between his two hands, he gave her a slow smile. "Lace'n all."
She snatched it from his fingers, her cheeks flooded with color. "What do you want, Trammel? I thought you were over in the breaking corrals, gelding the horses with Straw."
"Oh, I was," he said, taking a step toward her, at which she took an equal one back. His heavy-lidded brown eyes raked suggestively down the length of her. "We're done pluckin' prairie oysters. Straw an' the boy decided to hunt up some more trout for dinner."
Libby scanned the distant paddocks. He'd spoken the truth. She was alone with him. A wave of apprehension swept over her. Bodine had always been arrogant and teasing, but he'd never before been so bold. She ducked under the laundry, walked to where the black kettle hung over the fire, and flung the camisole back into the hot water. "Have you halter-broken those stallions Early brought in yesterday?"
"Not yet."
At the jangle of Bodine's spurs, her gaze darted back to the clothesline. He parted two pairs of her cotton underdrawers that were hanging out to dry, and let them slide through his hands. He shrugged as he drew up beside her, hooking his thumbs into his belt. "I just had a hankerin' fer some of that buttermilk you keep inside—if you still have any."
"You want buttermilk?"
"If it ain't too much trouble. Gelding them horses works up a man's thirst." He slowly ran his tongue over his lips while his eyes held hers.
Libby's gaze went from his mouth to the blood spattered on the front of his shirt and the tips of his boots from the gelding. Her stomach roiled. If buttermilk would get rid of him, then she'd get some. "It's no trouble at all. I'll... uh, I'll be right back with it."
The house was dark and cool as she went in through the back door. She walked straight to the kitchen, braced the palms of her hands on the wooden table, and took a deep steadying breath. She didn't know why Bodine scared her so, but something about the way he looked at her sent chills up her spine.
She poured a cupful of cool buttermilk from the pitcher she kept in the adobe niche. When she turned around, she almost ran smack dab into his chest. A gasp of surprise escaped her.
He caught her by the upper arms, and his mouth crooked into a smile. "Scare ya?"
"Yes," she said pulling away. "You did. I didn't even hear you come in. Why didn't you wait outside for me?"
"It's hot out there," he said, relieving her of the cup. "Thought I'd save you the trouble of bringing it all the way out to me." He gestured toward the pitcher. "Have some with me?"
"I'm not thirsty." Libby backed up a step and watched while he downed the buttermilk in one long gulp. He wiped his mouth off on the shoulder of his shirt, then handed the tin cup back to her.
"Much obliged, ma'am."
"You're welcome," she said, turning to put the cup on the counter near the dry sink. "Now if that's all—"
Trammel trapped her there against the counter by bracing an arm on either side of her. "Not necessarily..."
Shocked, Libby let out a harsh breath and bent backward against the sink. Their bodies didn't touch, but Libby could fee! the heat radiating from his skin. He smelled of sweat and horses and, dully, of tobacco. The look in his eye was a frank invitation. "Don't—" she began.
"Don't what? Don't look at you
like you was a woman? Is that why you wear them britches all the time?"
"You're making a mistake." The warning in her voice was clear.
He didn't move closer, nor did he back away. "You're a fine-lookin' woman, Miz Libby. You know, seein' them frilly things out there and"—he filled his lungs with her scent—"smellin' you just now made me think how lonely it must get fer a woman like you out here without a man."
"Trammel..." She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. Fear twisted, like a fine thread, around her throat. No one would hear her now if she screamed.
"Then again"—he shifted his hips, but still didn't lay a hand on her—"maybe you ain't so lonely. Maybe you already found somebody to scratch that itch."
Like flashing images, pictures of her and Chase together darted through Libby's mind. Could Trammel possibly have seen them together? The mere thought of it made her sick to her stomach. "You don't know what you're talking about," she declared and pushed against his arms to free herself, but she might as well have been trying to escape the steel jaws of a trap. "If you don't let me go right his minute, I'll—"
"Step away from her, Bodine, before I blow your head off."
Libby whirled to see Chase standing in the doorway of the house, his rifle primed and aimed straight at Bodine's back. His voice was hard and cold as a winter freeze.
"Well, if it ain't the bluebelly," Bodine taunted, easing his hands away from the counter, freeing Libby.
Libby had never been so grateful to see anyone in her life, but she found herself frozen to the spot by the deadly violence she read in his blazing eyes. "Chase—"
"You gonna shoot me for talkin' to the lady, Whitlaw? I ain't armed," Bodine told him with a smile, lifting his arms away from his hips. "I didn't touch her. Ask her yourself." Chase's hard gaze slid inquiringly to Libby.
Libby was furious with Bodine for scaring her, but she couldn't let Chase kill him over it. "He didn't touch me, Chase. He's telling the truth."
Chase sneered. "You don't have to touch a woman to get her dirty, Bodine. Move away from her. Outside."
Chase the Fire Page 16