That’s why I need you. Trace dropped his gaze to her fingers on his arm…and he wanted to be her hero.
Yup, the time had come to leave.
“Didn’t you hear Rigby?” he asked. “I’m an ex-lawman. I’m not the sheriff of Loveless anymore.”
She drew back as if first hearing the news. “You left Loveless? I can’t believe such a thing. You were the pillar of that town. Everyone respected you.”
“Respected me enough to give me the boot.” He couldn’t look at her. Instead, he drove the horse forward. Better to get where they were going so he could leave.
Flanna sat in stunned, gratifying silence. It lasted only a moment. “Why would the people of Loveless do that? You took that town from a wild cattle stop to a thriving village.”
He focused on the road ahead. “Well, a good number of folks were upset that you and Rory had separated them from their hard-earned cash.”
“We sold those bottles to them and we never asked for more than what a person was willing to pay.”
“You also made some promises about the elixir.”
“It does what we promised,” she told him primly, “if a person is in the proper frame of mind. You have to work with it to make the magic happen.” She paused. “Turn here and follow this trail over beyond that ridge.” She sat back. “So why did they really ask you to leave?”
“Because times are changing,” Trace said dully. “A man who has killed as often as I have is not suited for the kind of town Loveless had become. They have churches there now and stores, families.”
“You do have a reputation.”
“And how did I earn it?” He swore softly. “I gave them everything I had. When there was fighting to do, I did it. I took the town back from the Watkins gang and I kept it. I made something of myself in Loveless. Because of my reputation as a gunfighter, the streets were safe. There was law. And then, some medicine man comes through and people start to think I don’t fit the town anymore.”
They’d also remembered about his being born a bastard. Most of them had known his mother. Hell, years ago, she’d been a cornerstone of the community in spite of her trade. Of course, with civilization, people’s opinions changed. “They started thinking they wanted a better man. So they hired some policeman from the east and wished me well. They even asked me to leave.”
Bitter humiliation and injustice choked him. And it had all started with her. Before she’d come, everyone had liked him fine. Of course, he’d known his place back then. He’d never have courted a town gal, but Flanna’s love had let him believe he was one of them.
God, he wished he had a drink!
Flanna sat quietly. He didn’t look at her. He hated himself this way…and he didn’t want pity. Especially hers. He’d make his way. One way or the other.
But he was tired. Damn tired…
“I have your guns. And your horse.”
He glanced at her. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. But there was no pity. “When we get to your place, I’ll pick them up and be off.”
She didn’t answer but leaned forward, placing her hand right beside his thigh on the hard, wood seat. Another half inch over and she’d touch him.
Every fiber of his being honed in on that one tantalizing possibility…especially after that kiss back in Harwood.
“I need you.”
Her throaty words stirred his imagination.
“I did love you,” she added. “It was like cutting out my heart to leave you, but I couldn’t abandon my father, and the two of you were oil and water.”
He tightened his grip on the reins. The trail across the prairie curved, disappearing into the high grass. He could feel her watching him.
“You could start new, too,” she offered. “Just as Rory and I did.”
Trace didn’t answer. That had been his advice for others, not himself.
At last, she sat back. “What shall I do about Slayton?”
“I’d sell. You know how to drive a hard bargain.” There, he’d absolved himself of responsibility.
“And what? Move on from the first home I’ve known?”
He chose his words deliberately. “You’re good at moving on, Flanna. You won’t have any problems at all.”
She crossed her arms. There was a beat of silence and then she said, “Rory was right—you can be a bastard, Trace Cordell.”
“That’s what they tell me,” he replied grimly.
As if sensing the tension, the horse picked up his pace. “We’re almost home,” Flanna said.
“Ah, yes. Kennedy’s paradise,” Trace countered.
She didn’t reply. At the same moment the trail took them up over a bluff—and there it was.
The horse lifted his head and whinnied, an announcement he was home. An answering call came from Trace’s horse, Bill, down in a makeshift corral.
Trace felt a stab of disappointment.
The homestead—a soddy and a barn a little larger than a stable—was like a hundred others he’d seen across the prairie. He hadn’t really known what to expect. Something in Flanna’s tone when she’d spoken of the place had made him picture grandeur on a scale that common sense told him couldn’t be found in Kansas. But he wasn’t expecting a soddy. He hated the small houses made out of blocks of tough sod. They smelled of earth and the stories he’d heard of snakes put a shudder through him. Even the barn, really nothing more than a lean-to, had sod walls. A chicken coop with some of the sorriest-looking poultry he’d ever seen had been built against the barn.
A line of huge cottonwoods, locust trees, and hedges marked the path of the stream. There was water in the air. He could smell it. He knew many ranchers would kill for this parcel of land.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” Flanna said proudly. She reached for the reins.
“It’s something,” he agreed truthfully.
“We started with nothing, not even the sod house.”
“You made money fast.”
She bit back a smile. “Well, we had that bit of a stake we’d earned in Loveless.”
“Oh, yes, that,” he replied dryly, and she wisely let the matter rest.
She drove down the bluff into the yard. Two hound dogs of dubious heritage barked a warning and then jumped up into the wagon to jubilantly greet their mistress. They even had some slobber for Trace.
Flanna laughed at their happy eagerness. “Calm down,” she ordered, removing her straw bonnet and holding it high so the dogs wouldn’t get it. Immediately, the ever present wind captured her red-gold hair and playfully lifted it in the breeze. She jumped down before Trace could offer a hand. “Let me put this horse up and I’ll show you around the place.”
Trace thought he could see everything from where he sat. His buckskin, Bill, came to the edge of the corral where Flanna had him penned and nickered.
Flanna’s laughing gaze met Trace’s. “Your horse is a bit of a stud. He has his eye on my Spice.”
“Well, he’d best be thinking about leaving,” Trace said, and the smile disappeared from her face.
“Yes. Of course.”
He told himself he had no reason to feel like a deserter. There were no promises between them. Flanna shouldn’t have assumed. Still…even the dogs seemed to look at him with recriminations.
“Here, you go put your bonnet away before the dogs eat it and I’ll see to Spice,” he offered as penance. In truth, his conscience was bothering him, but he knew about battles over land. Where money was involved, some men were ruthless. Flanna would be safer selling and starting anew somewhere else.
She nodded and hurried inside. He’d just finished unharnessing the horse when she returned. She held his guns and holster in her hand. “I thought you’d want these.”
He stared at the pearl handles of his guns and felt a sudden unease. What good had these guns ever done him? This morning he’d woke thinking he’d killed a man. He took a step back. “Set them up on the wagon,” he said, turning away. “I’ll get them later.”
I
f Flanna noticed a change in him, she gave no indication. Instead she said, “Let Spice graze. She’ll not wander far. I want to show you something.” Without waiting for his response, she turned and walked toward the stream.
“It won’t do any good,” he called after her. He waited. She kept walking. “Flanna, I’m not staying. I’m not your hero.”
She stopped, turned. “Are you coming?”
“You told me no once. I’m not some lapdog to hang around.”
She kept walking. “You made yourself perfectly clear. You’ll not champion my battle. But I want you to see this, to understand why I won’t go without a fight. Wait until you see what I want to show you.”
His feet started moving. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t stop himself.
She led him down by the stream and then turned with a smile. “What do you think?”
On a level bit of land along the banks of the stream stood the foundations of a house. The first floor had been built with supporting beams set in. To his right was a stack of lumber for building, almost as high as his chest.
“It’s not much now,” she told him. “Rory and I sketched it in a bit on the ground and had been working on it as we got a chance. Wood is expensive, but we want the best. We already have the glass windows. They arrived in Dodge the day after they shot my father.”
She stepped up on the boards. “I wanted it by the stream so we’d have its music in the morning. Rory wanted a big porch so he could sit in his chair in the evenings and enjoy the shade. In the summer, this is the only place to catch a breeze.” She ran her hand over a piece of rough wood, her expression wistful. “I can’t give it up. I’ve been traveling since I was wee thing. This is my first home. I’ll never sell. Can you understand now how I feel?”
Oh, yes, he could. Her eyes were shiny with pride and the wind blew her curls around her face. He felt a need the likes of which he’d never experienced before. For her.
This was Flanna, he reminded himself. She was a tease, a lure used by her father to turn men’s minds from his true purpose. And she’d been very good at ensnaring him. She’d cost him everything he’d valued—his position as sheriff, his pride…and in turn had spurned his love.
“I want you to stay.” Her husky voice cut through his doubts. Her gaze slid from his as if she found the words difficult to say. “I need you.”
She knew how to twist him in knots.
Trace took a step back, and then another. “I don’t know how you do it, but you have the touch.”
Flanna stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing. It’s as if you are trying to grab my soul. Well, it won’t work, not this time. I thank you for saving my life, but, lady, we’re through.”
He turned to walk away just as the dogs began barking. Riders were coming over the bluff. “Do you know them?” he asked Flanna.
“Yes.” Her mouth flattened. “It’s Burrell Slayton and his men. Well, it appears you are going to be making his acquaintance, after all. Shall I invite them for tea?” She didn’t wait for an answer but walked forward to greet her “guests.”
Chapter Four
SLAYTON RODE on a white horse at the head of a small party of rough-looking men.
Her heart pounding in her ears, Flanna stopped in the middle of the yard waiting for him to come to her. Trace had followed, and now stood no more than five feet away, his expression wary.
Her pride refused to drag him into a fight he did not want. But his refusal to help her cause hit her full-force. She’d counted on his help. From the moment she’d heard he was in town, she’d known he’d been sent to help her…and she’d thought she’d have a second chance at his love. Leaving him had been a mistake.
Now, she knew she was alone. The Trace who stood behind her wasn’t the man she remembered. That man had an inborn sense of justice. He’d have fought for what was right regardless of the circumstances.
This man thought only of himself.
She directed her resentment toward her unwanted guests.
Dust swirled around the hooves of the horses as Slayton called his band to a halt ten feet from where she stood. “Miss Kennedy,” he greeted with jovial humor. He was a lean man, fastidious in dress and manner—especially when compared to the coarse men riding with him. His boots were polished to a shine the trail could never dull, his shirt, a crisp white against the black of his jacket, and his ribbon tie made him appear as if he’d just come from church.
Rory had always liked the vain. He claimed they were the easiest marks. For that reason, he’d assumed he could handle Slayton. He hadn’t expected to be shot.
“Or should I say, Mrs. Cordell?” Slayton queried in soft, polite tones, leaning one lazy arm over his saddle horn. His gaze moved past her to where Trace stood, a silent witness. “How convenient for you to turn out to be married to one of the fastest guns in the West. I’m surprised Rory didn’t brag about it.”
“What do you want?” she demanded.
Slayton grinned. “I want what I’ve always wanted, Mrs. Cordell. I want to buy your property. I was hoping I could have a word with your husband about the matter.”
Too late, Flanna realized the shortcoming of her marriage scheme. By law, a wife’s property belonged to her husband. Trace’s advice for her to sell rang in her ears. She blocked his path. “It’s not for sale. It’ll never be for sale. Not to you.”
“That’s all well and good, Mrs. Cordell,” Slayton replied, “but I’d like to hear from your husband. This is men’s business now.”
“How much are you offering?” Trace’s rough voice cut right to her soul.
Slayton’s teeth flashed in triumphant. “Three hundred dollars. Gold.”
“Only three hundred?” Trace repeated.
The smile on Slayton’s face flattened. “My price is more than generous.”
“I have another price in mind.” Trace came up to stand by Flanna. “How about admitting to the murder of Rory Kennedy?”
Flanna’s heart gave a glad leap. Burrell Slayton sat up on his horse, his lazy good humor gone. The riders behind him tensed.
“I didn’t have anything to do with Rory’s accident. I wasn’t even close to where it happened.”
“You were the last person to see him,” Trace replied evenly. “If you didn’t shoot him, you know who did.”
Slayton’s eyes turned cold. “I had nothing to do with Kennedy’s death, Cordell.”
“Well, naming the killer is my price for this land.”
Flanna linked her arm in Trace’s. She saw the trap he’d laid. Slayton could never admit to the murder. And if he turned in one of his own men, well, there was no doubt in her mind the killer would squeal like a cowardly dog to save his own neck.
“You are making a mistake, Cordell,” Slayton said. “A fatal one if you continue to accuse me of something I didn’t do.” The three men behind him shifted their hands to their guns.
Trace didn’t waver. “Threats won’t get you what you want.”
“I don’t make threats. I make promises.”
Flanna clenched her fists, but Trace smiled easily. “Any time you want to carry out a promise, you go right ahead. I’m not Rory Kennedy. I know how to watch my back.”
“We’ll see.” Slayton nodded to his men and, with a sharp jerk of the reins, turned his horse around. But as he passed one of his men, Flanna caught a signal pass between them.
“Watch out,” she warned Trace even as the man pulled his gun and fired.
The bullet whizzed into the dirt right at the toe of Trace’s boot. Flanna gave a small yelp of surprise and jumped back, but Trace didn’t flinch.
Instead, a change seemed to come over him. His eyes took on a blazing light. He actually seemed to grow in stature. He looked up at the man who had shot at him, a trail-beaten cowboy with a toothless grin, still proudly holding the gun on him.
In two giant, quick steps, Trace was in front of him. He grabbed the cowhand by the front of his
shirt and yanked him off his horse as if he weighed no more than a rag doll. His movements had been so unexpected, the man hadn’t had the presence of mind to shoot.
Trace knocked the gun from his hand. It flew through the air to land close to Flanna who promptly snatched it up.
Wrapping both hands around the cowboy’s neck, Trace held him high. The man’s face started to turn red, his mouth gaped for breath. His comrades pulled their guns. Her knees shaking, Flanna trained the gun on them.
Trace ignored them all. He acted possessed, his focus was on the cowboy who struggled for breath. “If you ever take another shot at me, you’d better not miss,” he said in a low, dangerous voice Flanna had never heard from him before. “Because if you do, the next time, I’ll kill you.”
The cowboy’s feet were kicking out now, trying to swing free of Trace’s dangerous grip. Then Trace let him go. The cowpoke fell to the ground, his legs unable to support his weight. On all fours, he started hacking, trying to catch his breath.
Trace pinned Slayton with his hard gaze. “Leave Flanna alone. I’ll not let harm come to her.”
Slayton’s lips formed a firm line as if he bit back a retort. Instead, he looked at the two remaining men. “Pick Tom up. Let’s get out of here.” He rode off while his men scurried to obey under Trace’s watchful eye.
One caught Tom’s horse while the other rode over and held down a hand. Tom took a minute before he could gather enough strength to reach up for help. His burly friend swung him up behind his saddle and the trio followed their boss.
Flanna watched until they had gone over the bluff and out of sight. Any triumph she felt was tempered by the swift, controlled violence of Trace’s actions. Tom could have shot him. And yet Trace’s reaction had unsettled her. The way he had walked into the line of the cowboy’s gun had been suicidal and yet Trace had not hesitated. Something dangerous and unrestrained had overtaken him. Something she didn’t understand.
Flanna and the Lawman Page 3