by Arlene James
They were locked into their schedule, thanks to the deal they’d made with the Jicarilla Apaches, but in truth it wouldn’t have made much difference—and Rye wanted this remaining time with her badly enough to risk it all, anyway, even if they were confined to stolen kisses and whispered regrets. It wasn’t necessary any longer, and they both knew it, but by silent agreement, they resisted the impulse to slip off together and make love. For him it would be too fraught with the feeling of goodbye; he’d had some of that already, and he didn’t think he could bear more. Not yet.
Thankfully the sky held, the snow clouds stacking like the Tower of Babel reaching for the heavens. A cold wind sent them all scurrying for heavy coats and dusters. Even the camera crew broke out the hats and knit caps. They left the reservation about midmorning that next day and polished off gallons of hot soup and coffee during lunch break at a roadside park. Night would find them within thirteen miles of their goal, but mere minutes from camp they passed through a narrow gorge cut between two low rocky walls, and that’s where the first shot spat dirt right beneath the belly of Rye’s horse.
Just for an instant everyone and everything seemed to freeze. Then another loud crack sent a bullet flying, and Rye felt it whiz by his hat. All hell broke loose. Even as Rye spurred his tired horse, Kara screamed his name, cows bawled, eyes rolled, and they had themselves a stampede. He was pretty sure there were more shots fired, but with his every brain cell locked on Kara and the possibility of her getting caught beneath the slashing hooves of the cattle ramming themselves through the narrow gorge, he couldn’t say for sure how many shots. He tried to get to her, but she was ahead of him, trying to ride against the flow toward him. Thankfully, her horse had better sense. Fighting its way around, it carried her through the narrow opening with the cattle and out of sight.
Rye spurred his poor bay mercilessly, desperate to get through the opening and find Kara. Then suddenly he was through. Horrified, he watched Kara desperately trying to contain the cattle, to prevent them from surging up and out of the narrow gorge and disappearing in two dozen directions. He yelled at her to let them go, but even as the words tore out of his throat he knew that she couldn’t hear him and wouldn’t have obeyed if she could’ve. He thought of the gun that was probably even then trained on them, but he couldn’t spare time to worry about it. First things first, and at the top of his emergency agenda was getting to Kara before her frantic horse fell and took her down into the path of the crazed cattle.
He yanked his horse up onto the steep, sandy wall of the gorge and raked its flanks mercilessly. That animal was all go. It climbed, slid and climbed some more, all the while lunging forward. Suddenly Charlie Choate was there at his side and then right behind him. Handling his horse with one hand, he flapped his hat with the other, hazing the cattle back down into the ravine. By golly, they just might keep them yet! Rye leaned forward in the saddle, giving his horse rein, and it took off like lightning. He got to Kara, putting himself between her and where he expected the next shots to come from. In the process, he headed off several cows bent on wild-eyed freedom.
A glance ahead of them yielded the welcome sight of riders flying low in the saddle toward them. He recognized Shoes and Bord at a glance. The other he assumed was Wes Randal. He was suddenly glad beyond words that they’d taken on those two extra cowboys, his heart pounded with gratitude when Wes dropped a loop, pretty as you please, on that lead cow, dragging her around to turn the herd. Bord and Shoes shook out their own loops, and Kara let one fly, too. Rye was almost too weak with relief to do any good, but somehow he managed to lasso himself a bawler and bring it to heel, while Charlie and Dean used their ropes like whips. In seconds the herd had turned and was milling in a noisy circle. Moments later it stopped entirely, shaggy hides heaving.
Shoes rode up to Rye and Kara. “We heard shots.”
“They were aimed at Rye!” Kara exclaimed angrily, and it was then that Rye realized Pogo and Dean had taken up spots behind him. Any shots aimed at him now would have to go through them. The hair lifted on the back of his neck.
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“We’re going as a unit then,” Kara said, “you in the middle of us, even if it means leaving these damned cows to fend for themselves.”
Rye looked around him at the closed, determined faces of the best of friends and the woman he loved. He gulped down a lump in his throat. “Let’s move ’em into camp, then.”
Shoes gave a nod of satisfaction and smoothly assumed control. “Dean, Wes get on those flanks. Pogo, you and Charlie take drag. Rye, you’re with Kara and me on point, and I mean trading stirrups.”
Rye nodded toward Kara. “I don’t want her on the outside. The shots came from those rocks there.”
“Kara, you’re riding inside, then,” Shoes said, “and don’t give me no lip.”
She lifted her eyebrows, but moved inside as she was told. They rode to the point, real slow and easy, Rye in the center, Kara on his right, Shoes left and slightly behind, so close that his mount could have bitten Rye’s leg without so much as turning its head. The film crew had parked their vehicle at the top of the rise just outside camp, and a cameraman was standing on the roof, his lens sweeping the rocks to the north and behind them. Rye was suddenly thankful they hadn’t turned away the reporter and his crew, even if Warnke was too glamorous for his own good.
“Anything happens,” he told Kara, “I want you to ride for that news truck with all you’ve got.”
She slid a look at him. “Those shots weren’t aimed at me, Rye. You’ve always been the target! And I was too worried about getting the damned cattle to the ranch on time that I didn’t stop to consider, even after that rock nearly flattened you!”
He wanted to drag her off her horse onto his lap, but he didn’t dare. Those shots had been aimed at him, all right, and nowhere else. Still, he argued. “We don’t know that. No one has any reason to target me.”
“Unless they’re smart enough to realize that killing you is the one thing that will stop me,” she said bitterly.
He was shocked to hear her say it. For a moment he didn’t know how to reply, but then he knew he wasn’t going to let her give up no matter what. “You happen to know who the local law is around here?”
She nodded. “I’m willing to bet Mom’s already got the sheriff on the phone.”
“These Detmeyer women are sharp,” Shoes commented, grinning at Rye.
“Damn straight.”
Kara leaned back in the saddle a few degrees. “That Jicarilla Apache babe wasn’t exactly dull.”
Shoes grinned wide. “No, ma’am.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m thinking maybe I ought to hang around these parts for a while.”
Rye was too astounded to come up with a pithy remark or any remark at all, for that matter. He just gaped at Shoes, sure he hadn’t heard right. Shoes lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “What? You think I can only find happiness with a Chako, or don’t you think I like girls?”
“I hadn’t exactly thought about it. I just—”
“You just figured that if you got your fingers burned, mine naturally stung, too,” Shoes said. “Well, I’ll tell you something. The idea that my cousin is dying makes me think maybe I shouldn’t be hanging around waiting for you to grow a brain.” He leaned forward to look at Kara, adding, “I don’t know. Maybe we ought to paint a target on his chest and send him in the other direction.”
“That’s not funny,” Kara said softly.
“You hear me laughing?” Shoes came back sharply.
Rye wondered if he was in shock, or if maybe Shoes was. Or was that anger he saw tightening his usually inscrutable friend’s jaw? They rode right behind the news truck and straight into camp. Bradley Warnke was following them on foot with a microphone.
“Kara! Mizz Detmeyer! Mr. Wagner! Those were gunshots we heard, weren’t they?”
Rye wheeled his horse. “Yeah, they were shots. Somebody tried to aerate my hide. Now get the hell out of the
way! We’re bringing the herd right into camp!” He waved an arm at Pogo, signaling him to bring them on in, while Kara yelled at her mother, Champ and the camera crew to get out of the way.
“Get that table down!” Rye yelled. “Spread these trucks and block the open spaces. Put out that fire!” Even as he shouted the order, he was dismounting to take care of it himself, while Kara and Shoes put themselves into breaks between the vehicles. “I want rope strung! Use the tables to block spaces, if you have to!”
It was pure chaos for several minutes, but in the end. they had the herd inside the loose circle of vehicles, which meant making camp outside. Kara protested that arrangement, but Rye wasn’t about to lose the herd at this point.
“We’ll set up on the east side. The shots came from the northwest.”
“That doesn’t mean he won’t circle around!” Kara argued. “Look around you, Rye. He’s got plenty of cover to choose from.”
“Those rocks on the east are too close,” he said dismissively. “He won’t want to risk showing his face.”
“If he does,” one of the newsmen said, his camera still perched on his shoulder, “he’ll be seen around the world. Bradley’s ordered a satellite hookup, and we’re on standby.”
“Good for Bradley,” Rye muttered, turning his attention elsewhere. “Get those water troughs out! No showers! It all goes to the cattle. And drop some hay! We don’t want them spooky. Bord, I want that remuda on the southeast corner, and hobble ’em! I’ll be damned if I’ll lose a single mount.”
Rye ignored the looks traded amongst the others and handed his horse off to Bord. He meant for Champ to stay inside the motor home. He didn’t even want the boy standing in the door or opening the windows, but he glanced in that direction and caught sight of his son skipping around the end of the motor home, outside of the circle. On the northeast. Rye took off running. “Champ!” The instant he showed himself, he heard the crack of a rifle.
Instinctively he hit the ground, then popped up again and took off in the opposite direction, leading the shots away, he hoped, from his son. Shots peppered the ground around him. He ran for all he was worth, felt a burn across the back of his neck and fell. He hit the ground rolling, then scrambled beneath his truck. A cameraman had climbed into the bed, and he could hear Bradley Warnke expounding on “the event unfolding before our very eyes!”
“Got him!” someone else yelled.
But most confusing of all, Kara was on her belly in the dirt, staring at him from the other side of the truck, shouting his name as tears streamed down her face, and Pogo was lying on top of her, as if holding her down.
“Rye! Rye! You’re bleeding!”
“Where’s Champ?” he yelled, putting a hand to the back of his neck. It came away wet. “Champ!” he yelled again. The sounds of sirens in the distance did nothing to calm his fears. Terror unlike anything he’d ever known made his head swim and the world go white.
Chapter Sixteen
The sport utility vehicle slid to a stop in a cloud of dust, its siren dying away, lights flashing amber, red and blue. The driver’s window slid down, a cowboy hat came off, and a dark head poked out of the opened window.
“We got a report of shots fired! What’s going on?”
Everybody started talking at once. Pogo and Kara got up. Rye crawled across the ground beneath the truck and out on the opposite side from which he’d entered. It was utter chaos, cattle bawling and milling, people all trying to tell the story at the same time. Rye had just one thought.
“Where’s Champ? Champ? Champ!” He was shouting at the top of his lungs.
Suddenly Shoes thrust the boy forward. “I’ve got him!”
Rye nearly collapsed with relief. “Thank God!”
“Oboe knocked him down, and I was able to drag him back inside the circle.”
“D-D-Daddy?”
Rye swept the boy up and crushed him against his chest, staggering. “You okay, son?”
Champ nodded his head, but then he looked up and lifted the arm he’d flung about his father’s neck. The inside of his wrist was wet with blood. Sheer panic contorted his face. “Dad! Dad?”
Rye staggered back against the side of the truck, bracing himself. “It’s all right, son. I’m all right. It’s just a scratch.”
Disbelief still lent a wildness to the boy’s dark eyes. Suddenly tears welled and spilled over. He shoved his face into the curve of his father’s neck and sobbed. Rye just hugged him tight and kept repeating that he was all right. Dear God, if anything had happened to this boy, Rye thought, knowing he’d never forgive himself. Suddenly he remembered seeing Kara belly down in the dirt, tears streaming down her face. Had a bullet hit her? He glanced around, Champ in his arms, frantic once more. “Kara! Kara, dear God!”
“I’m here!” His worried gaze found her shoving at the rump of a bawling cow that had wandered between them. Rye hurled himself at her. They met with a full-body slam that would have knocked them both off their feet if not for the arms that clamped them together, Champ between them on one side. “Rye, Rye, I thought you were dead!”
“Are you okay? Were you hit?”
“You’re bleeding!”
“Are you okay?” He practically shouted it at her.
She pulled back, gulping and nodding her head. “Yes, but you’re still bleeding!”
He felt weak with relief. “Thank God! If anything had happened to either one of you...” He let the thought trail away and closed his eyes. They popped right back open again. “He’s still out there! Where’s that sheriff?”
“He’s talking to everybody,” Kara said, trying to get a look at the wound on the back of his neck without leaving the curve of his arm. “There’s an ambulance on the way.”
Even as he protested the need of such, the back of his neck started to sting like all get-out. His knees felt as if they might buckle. “I better sit down,” he mumbled, head spinning as Champ was taken from his arms and Kara led him swiftly forward. She gave him a shove, and he sat down hard on the rear bumper of his own truck. Automatically he lifted a hand to the back of his neck. “Ow!”
“Let me look at that,” Kara said, pulling his head forward slightly. “Heavens, it dug a groove right through your hair! It’s not bleeding so much now, though. My God, Rye, another inch or two and he’d have taken your head off!”
Rye lifted his gaze to find her standing close in front of him, Champ parked on her hip like a big, overgrown baby. Something about that made him smile. He wondered if Champ even realized he had both arms around her neck.
“You think it’s funny?” she said, sounding angry all at once.
He reached up and settled a hand at the indentation of her waist on the side where his son did not hang. “No, I don’t think it’s funny. I’m just so glad...” His throat clogged up, and he couldn’t go on, couldn’t tell her how glad he was that the two people he loved most in this world were all right and that he was here with them. A tall man wearing khakis and a cowboy hat appeared at Kara’s side.
“Mr. Wagner?”
Rye switched his gaze. “Yes. Thank you for coming when you did.”
The man stuck out his hand. “It’s Sheriff Hernandez, and as to that, we’re pure lucky I was close by. I’m told you’re wounded.”
Rye shook his hand. “Just a scratch, really. Not that whoever was behind the bullet wasn’t aiming for more.”
Hernandez craned a look at the back of Rye’s neck. “Don’t look too bad. Bet it smarts, though.”
“Some,” Rye admitted.
The sheriff squinted at the rocky hill from where the shots had come. “I’ve radioed some men to look for our shooter. Meanwhile, this reporter over here says he’s got him on tape. I was wondering if you could take a look, maybe identify our culprit. It’ll mean walking over to their vehicle.”
Rye stood determinedly. “You bet.”
Champ slid down from Kara’s hip and took his father’s hand. Kara wrapped an arm around Rye’s waist as if to suppor
t him. He draped an arm about her shoulders. They all walked over to a space between the farrier’s wagon and the back end of one of the horse trailers. The expensive four-wheel drive had been pulled close to the farrier’s wagon, the tailgate open. One of the camera crew sat with a computer keyboard on his lap, a stack of equipment, including a monitor, beside him. Images whooshed by on the monitor in a blurry stream. Then the crewman hit a button, and the images slowed. He hit another one, and the image froze. Rye could just make out the shape of a man’s head between two boulders. The cameraman typed rapidly, occasionally highlighting spots on the screen by rubbing the tip of his finger on a small sensor on the keyboard. Suddenly the image flickered into sharpness. Kara gasped. “Damn him!” Rye swore.
“You recognize him?” the sheriff asked hopefully.
“I recognize him,” Kara whispered.
Rye tightened his arm around her shoulders. “Honey, I’m sorry.”
She slid both arms around his waist. “You tried to tell me.” She looked at the sheriff and told him shakily, “That’s Payne Detmeyer, my cousin.”
The sheriff whipped out a small pad of paper and an ink pen to take down a full description, address, telephone numbers, everything they could come up with.
Rye transferred his arm to her waist as she answered the sheriffs questions. She was trying to remember Payne’s fiancée’s name when Wesley Randall trotted up.
“Boss,” he said, addressing Rye, “I thought you’d want to know. The wrangler took off soon as the shooting started again. Just climbed on a horse and lit out.”
“Well, I guess that tells us the rest of it,” Rye commented bitterly. To the sheriff he added, “We’ve been experiencing some harassment. Sabotage, I call it, meant to slow us down, keep us from making our deadline.” The sheriff had heard about their troubles and the reason for the drive.