Wanted

by Potter, Patricia;

  “Until you’re back in my custody,” Morgan said softly, knowing he’d already made his decision. He did trust Braden that much.

  Braden nodded. Morgan took Nick’s holster and gun from his saddlebags, loading it with bullets from his own gunbelt, thanking a higher being that they used the same caliber. He took the key to Nick’s handcuffs from his pocket and leaned over, unlocking them, leaving them to dangle from the cuff connecting them to the saddle horn. Morgan’s voice was low as he warned him. “I have your word, Braden. Don’t forget it.” He handed him the gunbelt and then he took a knife and cut Lori’s bonds. “Stay here,” he said curtly.

  Braden was already riding ahead of him, his body low on the neck of the horse as he raced down the road. Morgan took his Colt from the holster and followed his prisoner. As they reached where the road leveled off, he saw that two of the Indians were in the wagon, one swinging up the child to a mounted warrior as the second held the struggling, screaming woman around her waist. Braden fired his gun into the air, apparently trying to frighten them off, but Morgan saw one of the mounted warriors take aim at Braden and fire. The bullet missed, but Braden whirled around and fired. He didn’t miss, and the Indian fell from the horse.

  Others turned toward Braden, swinging their rifles in his direction. Morgan shot one, and the remaining two rifles turned back toward him. As Morgan fired at one, he saw Braden aim at the other, hitting him, and then Morgan was too busy to see anything else. He heard a noise behind, and he whirled just as an arrow whizzed past him by a fraction of an inch. He fired his Colt and another Indian went down. He heard shots in front of him where Braden had been, then a grunt of pain.

  He turned. Two of the Indians were racing off to the trees, the riderless ponies between them. Four other warriors lay on the ground, and Braden had apparently jumped the one holding the child. They were wrestling on the ground, and the child lay screaming nearby. Morgan and the woman reached the little girl at the same time, the woman sweeping her up with a small cry. Morgan turned back to Braden and the Indian, who were rolling around in the dirt, the Indian clutching a knife and trying desperately to reach Braden with it.

  Morgan followed the movements, trying to get a shot, but he was afraid he would hit Braden. The knife sliced down, and Morgan heard a grunt of pain; then Braden stilled, and the Indian raised his hand to strike again. Just as Morgan was about to fire, Braden suddenly bucked the Indian off him, his hand reaching for the knife in a movement that apparently surprised his opponent. Braden twisted the knife and pushed it into the Indian, then rolled over on top of him, making sure he was dying.

  When the Indian’s last movement stilled, Braden wearily stood. His coat was bloodstained, and he took it off. There was a rip in his shirt, and blood pouring out of a long slash. He looked at the carnage around them, then at Morgan, and finally at the woman kneeling next to the child. He walked over to her. “Is she all right? I …” His voice broke. “He was going to ride off. I didn’t know what to do but jump him, and I … I couldn’t catch her.”

  Lori was there then. Morgan didn’t know when she’d arrived, how much she’d seen. But she knelt next to the child with the woman and Nick, then, apparently satisfied the child was all right, turned her attention to her brother. “Nick,” she exclaimed, her hand going to the rip in his shirt.

  The child whimpered as Morgan approached, making him feel once more achingly out of place, once more the outsider.

  The woman looked up. She wore a bonnet, but strands of long brown hair had escaped from it, and she had clear sky-blue eyes. They were misty as they looked from one man to another and then to Lori. “Thank you,” she said as she hugged the child again. “Thank you.” Her hands went tenderly over the child, making sure that little was wrong but fear and bruises. Then she looked up again at Nick, her gaze resting on the blood darkening Braden’s shirt. Her eyes grew larger as she realized he was still waiting for an answer. “She’s fine … but you …”

  Morgan broke in. “We need to get the hell out of here. Two of them got away. There might be more out there.”

  Lori stood. “Not unless you want him to bleed to death. That would solve your problems, wouldn’t it?”

  Morgan refused to turn away under the blazing anger in her eyes. “Then fix him,” he said curtly, not wanting to remember the way Braden had shot the Indian who had been aiming straight at him. Not wanting to consider the fact that Braden could have mounted one of the Indian ponies, or even his own, and ridden off during the melee. Morgan didn’t even want to think about the fact that he had trusted Braden.

  The woman on the ground looked from one to the other, obviously trying to understand the tension. “I’m good at nursing. Please let me help.”

  Lori stooped down next to her. “Then let me take the girl.” She held out her hands and gathered the child to her. Morgan watched as the child’s initial resistance yielded to Lori’s natural warmth, warmth the little girl had shown to everyone but him. Nick grinned up at him, recognizing Morgan’s dilemma, and Morgan wanted to hit him, wound or not. His prisoner was obviously making him the villain. And, dammit, he was beginning to feel like one.

  Morgan approached the woman. “Do you know why they attacked? If there might be more?” He’d been told the Utes were peaceful.

  The woman blushed, and she looked even prettier. She looked at one of the men lying on the ground. “He … he wanted to marry me after my husband died. And he’s the son of one of their chiefs.”

  Braden had been staring at her as if mesmerized. Now he looked up at Morgan. “If he’s the son of a chief, you’re right. We better get out of here. The Utes are basically peaceful, but more and more they’re being forced from their land, and there’s a lot of tension. All they need is something like this.”

  The woman spoke up again. “Their camp is two days from here. They offered me … the choice of four of their warriors after my husband died. They weren’t supposed to come for an answer for several more days, but Chorito … he …” Red color deepened the natural rose of her cheek, and she looked away, obviously ashamed.

  Morgan changed the subject to spare the woman further embarrassment. “Then we have a little time.” He walked over to where Nick stood, now leaning against the wagon, and pulled up his shirt, looking at the slash. “It needs to be sewn,” he observed calmly as he reached down and took the pistol that lay nearby. He checked it for bullets, found there were none left, and tucked it into his belt.

  “No fire?” Braden said laconically.

  “I didn’t have anyone I could trust,” Morgan retorted. He turned to the woman. “Morgan Davis, ma’am. This is Nick Braden and his sister, Lorilee.”

  The woman smiled shyly, but her gaze shifted from the Ranger to Braden, trying to understand the antagonism between the two men who looked very much alike. “You aren’t brothers?”

  It was Braden who answered first. “Hell, no,” he said, then caught himself. “Begging your pardon, ma’am.”

  The woman looked startled, but then manners apparently took over. “I’m Beth Andrews. My daughter, Maggie.”

  “Well, Mrs. Andrews,” Morgan said, “if you think you can take care of his wound, you better do it. We need to get out of here. Where were you heading?”

  “Georgetown, then Denver.”

  Georgetown.

  Christ. He couldn’t leave them alone, nor could he take them back to Georgetown and chance running into Whitey Stark. He’d been at a disadvantage before with two prisoners. Now he would have a woman and a child as well. He walked a few feet away, watching as the woman retreated to the wagon and returned with a small bag. Lori was whispering into the child’s hair, tucking her head away from the dead bodies that lay on the ground.

  Beth Andrews’s soft voice reached Morgan. “Can you get us some water? We have a little in the wagon.”

  Morgan untied his canteen from his saddle and took it to her, watching as she washed the wound.

  “Any alcohol?”

  Morgan s
hook his head.

  She took some powder from the bag and sprinkled it into the wound. “After my husband died, I made sure I had sufficient medical supplies. This should prevent an infection.” Her face clouded for a moment, as if reliving bad memories. She shook her head, trying to dismiss them, and took a needle and thread from the bag and leaned over. “This is going to hurt,” she said. Braden nodded, his body tensing as the needle worked its way in and out of the skin. He saw Lori flinch at each stitch, but Braden didn’t utter a sound. When the woman finished, she took a bandage from the bag and wrapped it tightly around his chest.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Braden said, his gaze following her as she rose and went over to her daughter, taking her in her arms.

  “Thank you, Mr. Braden. They would have taken Maggie …” She held the girl tighter.

  “What happened to your husband, Mrs. Andrews?” Morgan asked, wanting to know more.

  Her arms tightened around the child. “He died a year ago. Blood poisoning.”

  Morgan looked at her with new compassion. Blood poisoning was an ugly way to die. “You’ve been out here this long? Alone?”

  “I tried to keep our farm going, it was my husband’s dream, but I just couldn’t do it alone, and then a few days ago the Utes came by. They admired my husband, everyone did, and they apparently thought it was their responsibility to … take care of us.”

  “Even against your will?” Lori asked, horrified.

  “I think they thought they were honoring me by offering me their warriors. I knew they wouldn’t accept no for an answer, especially …” Her voice trailed off, but Morgan noticed her quick, fearful glance at the now dead warrior who had been manhandling her in the wagon bed just minutes earlier. She looked at Braden and seemed to strengthen. “I thought, hoped, we could reach Georgetown before they discovered I’d left.” She looked at Braden hopefully. “Can you help us get there?”

  A muscle knotted in Nick Braden’s cheek as he shifted uncomfortably.

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Andrews,” Morgan broke in. “We’re headed south.”

  Beth Andrews glanced again at one man, then the other. “Mr. Braden?”

  Nick Braden met her pleading gaze steadily. “If it was up to me, I would take you,” he said. “But I don’t have any say in the matter. He’s in charge,” Braden said, then added softly, “at the moment.” He didn’t elaborate.

  Morgan swore softly to himself. “He’s wanted for murder,” he said flatly. “I’m taking him back to Texas. There’s some bounty hunters behind us who wouldn’t mind taking him back dead.”

  She looked stunned, disbelieving. Her gaze went to Nick, asking him to disagree, to deny the charge.

  He gave her that crooked smile that was so disarming. “It’s true, ma’am,” he said softly. “I am wanted. But it was self-defense. The Ranger here doesn’t want to acknowledge that fact.”

  “But you had a gun,” she protested, still obviously reluctant to believe one of her rescuers was less than a hero.

  “A temporary truce in defense of a fair damsel,” Nick replied. “A truce very limited in nature.” His eyes went to his gun now tucked into Morgan’s belt.

  “I’ll take your word again,” Morgan said softly. “No more irons if you give it to me.”

  “And go back to Harmony willingly? You’re loco,” Nick Braden said.

  Morgan shrugged. “We’ll do it any way you want.” He turned to Beth Andrews. “Ma’am, the best we can do for you is take you along. You’ll have to leave the wagon here. If those Utes return, they’ll come in numbers, and we can’t outrun them with that wagon. We’ll find you a stage or train as soon as possible. I’ll send someone back for your belongings. It doesn’t look like this road is used any longer, and we can cover it with undergrowth. But we have to hurry.”

  She nodded. “Can we take Wind Dancer, our stallion, and …” She hesitated. “Caroline.”

  Morgan’s puzzlement obviously showed, because she hurried on. “Caroline is our pig,” she said, and for the first time Morgan noticed the pig tethered to a tree.

  Braden chortled. Lori smiled.

  “She’s Maggie’s pet,” Beth pleaded. “She’s the last present her father gave her. It would break her heart …”

  A pig. A damned pig. Morgan was about to say no, and then he looked at the small girl, who was staring at him with fearful eyes. Her face was streaked with tears, and he saw bruises coloring her arms.

  “Caroline,” he said in a choked voice, wondering how everything had gotten so out of control. He’d had a simple task: bring back a fugitive. And then Lori had complicated what should have been routine. Now another woman, and a child, by God. And a pig.

  “She’s not any trouble. She’s used to following Maggie,” Beth said quickly.

  “Hell, why not?” Morgan finally said. It would just be a few days. They might well have lost the bounty hunters by now, and even if they hadn’t, perhaps the additional tracks would confuse them. It sure as hell confused him. In minutes he and Braden had unhitched the horses from the wagon and used them as pack horses for as many of the Andrewses’ belongings as possible. Nick had looked at the stallion with something close to awe.

  “My husband brought him all the way from Kentucky,” Beth said softly. “He was breeding him to some of the Indian ponies.”

  Braden whistled. “The toughness and endurance of the mountain horses with that blood. They would be fine animals.”

  “They were,” Beth said with pride, her gaze resting on Braden’s face, obviously looking for the murderer that the Ranger said was there. “I had to sell what we had when he died, but I kept Wind Dancer.”

  Morgan saw her examine Braden’s face, saw her face soften as she obviously decided on her own that he was not the murderer Morgan had pronounced him to be. More trouble, he sensed immediately. He stepped between them. “We only have three saddles,” he said. “Do you ride, Mrs. Andrews?”

  She nodded. “My husband taught me.”

  “Without a saddle?” Morgan disliked the choices being given him. He had to have his saddle, because of the rifle scabbard, the saddlebags with the weapons and ammunition in them. Nick also needed a saddle. The irons were the only way to keep him under control, and Morgan knew it. He’d half hoped Braden would give him his parole; Morgan would accept it now. But he should have known better. Nothing had changed. Braden’s eyes had told him as much.

  He moved his right arm slightly. His right side hurt. He must have twisted it in some way, though the pain was burning, not the dull ache that came from a strained muscle. It made him irritable. More irritable than usual.

  The woman hesitated, then nodded, but Lori broke in. “She and Maggie can use my saddle.”

  Morgan turned his glare on her.

  “I’ll give you my word,” she said bitterly.

  Morgan swallowed the chunk of bile rising in his throat. Lori’s golden eyes were all fire again. She knew he had been thinking only of how to get her brother back to Texas. Mrs. Andrews was looking tired and vulnerable and scared. The child looked at him with terrified eyes, and he realized his voice had been harsh. Nick Braden was looking at him with that damned amusement that so often lurked in his eyes.

  Morgan nearly choked on the chunk of bile rising in his throat. Christ, he was the lawman, and he felt like the devil incarnate.

  But he merely nodded. “Mrs. Andrews and the child will have the saddle, then.” He made makeshift reins for Lori and offered his hands to help her mount. As usual, she refused and led the horse over to a stump, where she mounted on her own.

  Braden started to help Mrs. Andrews, but then Morgan saw him wince with pain, and he went to give her a hand and lift up the child. The youngster shied away from his touch, and he felt a deep, stabbing pain of his own, deeper than the one that still plagued his side. He looked up at Mrs. Andrews. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She tried a smile, but it didn’t quite work. She had already obviously allied herself with Braden. The hell wit
h it, Morgan thought. He was right. He was doing his job as he always did it. He stalked over to Braden’s horse and motioned for his prisoner to join him. To his surprise Braden didn’t balk when Morgan attached the handcuffs to his wrists. Morgan didn’t know whether it was because of the woman and child, or because the wound had sapped his strength. He told himself he didn’t care.

  But that doubt inside him was growing. When he and Braden had approached the Utes, Braden had first fired into the air, obviously reluctant to kill. That was not the act of a man who would kill an unarmed man. The gnawing question deepened: was he really taking an innocent man to his death?

  And what did that make him?

  Morgan clenched his jaw together as he rigged a lead, tying Braden’s horse and the stallion to it. Mrs. Andrews said the pig would follow, but he’d found some rope in her wagon, and he rigged another line from her saddle to the animal. All he needed now was to lose the damn animal and have a heartbroken kid on his hands as well as three hostile adults.

  When he finally finished, he mounted. He didn’t like leaving the dead Indians in the clearing, but if the Utes were anything like the Texas tribes he knew, they would return for their dead. Neither he nor Braden were in any condition to dig graves in this hard, rocky country.

  He touched his heels to the sides of his bay, and they started down the canyon.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Nick struggled to keep upright in the saddle. The toll of the last two weeks had already drained him of his usual energy. Sleep had been sporadic at best, the restrictive irons compounded by Lori’s own restlessness. And now the loss of blood and the throbbing pain from the knife wound had weakened him further.

  He wasn’t going to ask for rest, though. The Ranger had allowed himself none when Lori had shot him. Nick wasn’t going to show himself less a man. But, God, when was Davis going to stop? It was as if all the demons in hell were nipping at his heels, the way he drove them all.

  What time was it? The sun had hit its zenith some time ago. It was midafternoon, he guessed. Except for that brief battle, they’d been riding since just after midnight. Even the horses were exhausted.