Cherished

by Jill Gregory

  “Maybe we should tell the whole story,” Cole suggested with a grin. “What about the bear—maybe you could demonstrate your tree-climbing ability.”

  “I prefer to forget every minute of the time I spent with you,” she flashed.

  “You sure about that, angel? You didn’t enjoy any little part of it?”

  “No!”

  She saw Cole’s eyes glint beneath his dark hat, but before he could embarrass her further, Wade’s voice interrupted from the doorway.

  “We’d better be heading back.”

  “Fine with me!” Juliana snapped.

  She jerked her hand away from Cole’s, swept past him with all the hauteur of a royal princess, and sailed out the door with a low-voiced farewell to Josie.

  She was so angry, she could scarcely breathe. She didn’t catch the amused glance Josie shot Wade as Cole stalked after her, didn’t hear the girl whisper, “What’s that all about?”

  She didn’t see her brother shake his head with rueful resignation, “Love or hate, I’ll wager. You tell me which one.”

  All during the ride back to the cabin, Juliana forced herself to look straight ahead. She refused to glance at either Wade or Cole. Instead, she fixed in her mind the image of Gil Keedy and reached a decision. She would make herself fall in love with Gil—beginning tonight. Josie Larson was unsure of her emotions, and besides she still had Tommy—so she wouldn’t be crushed to bits at losing Gil. He was a fine man, a brave man, one who had already traveled hundreds of miles to locate her brothers in an effort to help her. Surely that deserved some reward. And she was not going to pursue Gil only to make Cole jealous, she told herself. That was the last thing she would ever do. She thought such tricks immature and beneath her, weapons of a desperate woman.

  That was the last thing she was—desperate. She didn’t need any man, much less Cole Rawdon. In fact, she told herself as she recognized the juncture in the trail that led to the cabin and spurred her horse ahead of her companions for the last stretch, he was the very last man with whom she would ever consider a permanent alliance.

  She had a bath in an old washtub Skunk filled for her in the back room, with heated water from the stove and a cake of lilac soap Josie had given her. She washed her hair vigorously and brushed it until it shone in a pale cloud that drifted about her shoulders. She dressed for dinner in the yellow organdy gown Wade and Tommy had given her. She primped and arranged and adjusted, adding hair combs, pins, earbobs, then tying and retying her sash. She made herself as beautiful as she knew how to do.

  She made up her mind that by the time she finished with him, Cole Rawdon would be begging for her attention. But she would not give it to him. No matter what.

  Then she sighed, called herself a pathetic liar, and finally faced the truth. She sailed out to the main room of the cabin with the single-minded purpose of bringing that man to his knees.

  23

  If you don’t tell me where Juliana Montgomery is right now, I’m going to blow your damned head off.”

  Line McCray stared in incredulity at the tall, elegant man with the strange yellow-tan eyes who had just burst into the parlour of Belle Mallory’s boardinghouse in Plattsville and pointed a double-barreled Winchester at his head. Three men in long dusters and muddy boots, brandishing their pistols as if they meant business, had charged in with him, effectively getting the drop on Knife Jackson, who didn’t even have time to reach for his gun, much less draw it. Belle Mallory bit back a scream, then stayed frozen beside McCray on the velvet sofa.

  McCray could do nothing but gulp for a moment as he stared down the barrel of that gun. Then he recovered his voice—and his temper.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” he bellowed in the manner of men accustomed to inspiring fear in others.

  John Breen shot the whiskey glass out of his hand.

  “I asked you a question, McCray.” Breen’s voice could have cut through rock. “If you want to live long enough to appreciate the charms of that lady there ever again, you’ll answer it. Pronto.”

  “I never heard of this Juli—”

  Breen’s next shot struck McCray in the shoulder.

  He fell back against the red velvet sofa, blood spurting out all over Belle, the cushions and the floor. She bit her lip but said nothing, shifting away from McCray and the blood dripping from his wound and turning a flinty gaze to the man with the gun.

  McCray was sweating now, his pale gray eyes bulging from an ashen face. He clapped a hand to his wounded shoulder, trying to ignore the pain burning through it. The stranger had winged him; next time he might not be so lucky. The handsome, sun-browned face of the man with the rifle was so set and determined, so filled with deadly purpose, that McCray was convinced there would be no reasoning with him, no putting him off, or stalling until Knife figured out a way to make a move.

  “All right, you son of a bitch,” McCray rasped. “I’ll tell you what I know. But it isn’t much....”

  “Start talking. Where is she?”

  And so John Breen listened, the Winchester pointed directly at McCray’s head, while the other man poured out a tale of frustration and failed effort. McCray explained how the Montgomery gang had been robbing him blind, how he was certain they would continue to do so until they were caught and thrown in jail—or, better yet, hanged as they deserved. And the girl, Juliana Montgomery, she had been a lucky stroke, an opportunity that had somehow slipped through their fingers. Sheriff Dane had hoped she could lead them to the gang, but then that bounty hunter, Rawdon, had run off with her before they could question her. And no, McCray admitted with pure aggravation seeping from every pore, they didn’t have the smallest idea where she, Rawdon, or the Montgomery gang were hiding out.

  But his men were searching. They were combing the area and it was only a matter of time ...

  Breen’s fingers relaxed on the rifle trigger. McCray’s words corroborated what Lucius Dane had already testified to in hopes of receiving the two-thousand-dollar reward. Breen had warned the sheriff that he’d get his money only if the information actually led him to the girl. But John Breen felt in his bones that he was close. A banked excitement flickered within him. As he studied the stocky gray-haired man before him, noting the receding hairline, the gray mustache, the heavy jowls, his own lips twisted in faint contempt. He’d heard of Line McCray from time to time, and what he knew about the man didn’t impress him overmuch. McCray was doing the kinds of things he had done on his way up—but doing them poorly. Breen judged him stupid and shortsighted. Didn’t he know that a man had to move secretly, applying pressure only behind the scenes in his acquisitions? Preserving one’s name and reputation was crucial, or else when a man finally achieved the wealth and power he wanted, no one worth knowing would ever associate with him or think of doing business with him. Keep the gunplay, the coercion, the underhanded tactics to a minimum, and always as secret as possible—then kill anyone who could link you to them. That’s how you built an empire and a name men respected. McCray might have money, and he had a degree of power in small towns like Plattsville, but if he wanted to be an important man in America, to achieve a position where he could really influence things—could buy men, elections, and companies the way most men bought a sack of grain—he had at least to appear honest.

  Lack of respectability, that was McCray’s problem. Breen dismissed him with scorn. Breen didn’t give a damn about McCray—all he wanted was Juliana. He had a feeling, though, as McCray talked, that in order to get her back, he’d have to join forces, at least temporarily, with this man. McCray had an outfit here that was well trained and knew the territory. He also knew something about this bounty hunter, Cole Rawdon, whom they were apparently up against. Rawdon was hanging on to the girl for some reason Breen couldn’t fathom. His actions were strange. First he’d brought her in to jail, then he’d killed two men to get her out. Why? It was loco. Maybe he wanted to hike up the reward. Greedy bastard, Breen thought, half admiringly. Or, he reflected as he kept the
rifle trained on McCray, maybe Rawdon was using Juliana as a way to get accepted by the Montgomery gang, figuring if he joined forces with them against McCray and robbed enough freight payrolls and gold shipments, he’d pile up more money than any bounty would bring.

  Hell, Breen didn’t care what his motives were. All he wanted was Juliana Montgomery. McCray wanted her too—as a tool for locating her brothers. Well, working together they would find both Juliana and the Montgomery gang. Whichever they located first could be forced to lead them to the other; then he and McCray would each have what they wanted.

  When McCray stopped talking, a little silence fell on the parlour, except for the clock ticking on the mantel. Belle Mallory didn’t move, neither did McCray or Knife Jackson. Then Breen nodded.

  “All right, your story makes sense to me. You’re not going to die just yet after all, McCray.”

  Knife Jackson, held all this time to silence by the fact that Bart Mueller had a Colt revolver pointed at his heart, could contain himself no longer. “Now tell us who you are and what you want,” he snarled. His black eyes glinted with rage. “Nobody busts in on Mr. McCray like this—you hear me? No one.”

  Breen’s gaze was nailed to the sweat on McCray’s face. “You may have heard of me, McCray,” he said quietly. “John Breen.”

  McCray sagged back against the sofa cushions once more, as if he had been struck by another bullet. He gaped for a full minute at the tall, wide-shouldered man before him. John Breen. Breen was a legend. He was McCray’s idol, the man he had tried to emulate in building his fortune. He himself had amassed a fair bundle of prosperity, but John Breen—why, he was the master of a kingly empire. Above all, he was a man McCray had always dreamed of someday doing business with, and that alone would mark the pinnacle of his achievements.

  But Knife Jackson was spoiling everything.

  “I don’t care who the hell you say you are,” Knife spat, his fingers flexing open and shut convulsively as he resisted the suicidal impulse to go for his gun. His scarred, pockmarked face looked hideous in the glare of the afternoon sunlight spilling past Belle Mallory’s parted velvet curtains. His tar-black eyes shone malevolently as he stared in turn at Breen and each of his three men. “Put your gawdamned guns away and let me get a doctor for Mr. McCray or—”

  “Shut up, Knife,” McCray bit out. He raised himself unsteadily to his feet. Blood still gushed from his wound and his face was abnormally pale, but he held out his good hand with a smile pasted on his face. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Breen, a real pleasure. If I’d known who you were, all this unpleasantness could have been avoided. I’m only too happy to assist you in any way that I can, sir.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.”

  “I understand there’s a bounty out on the Montgomery girl.” McCray’s knees buckled, and he recovered his balance and his composure with visible effort. “That’s all I know, Mr. Breen, but does that by any chance have something to do with why you want her?”

  “My reasons are none of your damn business, McCray.” But Breen lowered the rifle. He smoothed his mustache, glancing about the garish, overfurnished parlour with a scornful eye.

  “I’m hoping to buy a ranch in these parts,” McCray informed him quickly. Suddenly the velvet curtains and overstuffed sofa and chairs, the gilt-framed paintings and flocked wallpaper, even the sweetly perfumed air of the two-story boardinghouse, which before he had thought elegant and fashionable, now seemed cheap, ridiculous. “This ranch I’m buying—it’s a magnificent place—soon as I can set the deal with the current owner, I’ll be moving in,” McCray assured him. “In the meantime, I’ve taken up temporary residence here—of course, I’ve rented out the entire house for my men,” he bragged. He glanced over at the blood-spattered woman sitting like a tainted statue on the edge of the sofa. Belle Mallory had been through fire and flood in her life, and she knew she could get past an encounter with a Winchester, if she didn’t make any stupid moves.

  “Belle, don’t just sit there,” McCray said impatiently. “Where are your manners, woman? Get some whiskey—or maybe brandy—for our guest. Mr. Breen is a very important man.”

  “Line, it seems to me the first thing you’d want is a doctor ...” she remarked quietly, getting to her feet after Breen’s nod of approval.

  “Don’t need one. This is nothing but a flesh wound. He barely nicked me.” McCray gave a slight, forced laugh. “Good shot, by the way, Mr. Breen.”

  Breen didn’t bother to reply. Line McCray and his bootlicking ways, his ambition and nauseating conceit, were of no interest to him—except as they helped him track down Juliana. “Bart,” he said suddenly, with a glance at his foreman, “why don’t you and the boys show this fellow”—he jerked his thumb toward Knife—“over to the Ten Gallon and buy him a drink. And don’t come back or let anyone in here until I say so. Mr. McCray and I have business to discuss—alone.”

  To the woman, waiting stony-eyed for orders, he said politely enough, “You can bring that brandy in here right away. Along with some bandages and liniment for Mr. McCray’s shoulder. Can’t have him bleeding to death before he’s served his purpose, now can I, ma’am?”

  He turned to McCray when they were alone and regarded the stocky gray-haired man through glinting topaz eyes. “We’re going to go through every detail again, McCray, down to the color of Wade Montgomery’s hat. And then I’m going to figure out a way for you to catch this pesky band of thieves.”

  “I appreciate your help, Mr. Breen, I truly do. And let me just assure you now that whatever I can do to repay you ...”

  “Oh, you will repay me, McCray. Believe me, you will.”

  From the cold-as-a-coffin smile on Breen’s face, Line McCray had no doubt of the truth behind his words.

  * * *

  At the precise moment when John Breen fired his gun into Line McCray’s shoulder, Cole was subduing the urge to blast Gil Keedy full of holes.

  The young Texan’s offense was plain for everyone to see: He was dancing in the cabin on Stick Mountain with Juliana, one tune after another. Grinning like a fool, he spun her around the floor, his arm encircling her waist, his eyes twinkling like summer stars, his Texas drawl grating on Cole’s ears like sand across marble.

  The other men danced with her, too, of course—all except Cole—but it was Keedy who really infuriated him. Maybe it was the way Juliana looked at the red-haired cowboy, her eyes all sparkly one minute, then soft and dreamy the next. Or maybe it was the way she laughed so delightedly at everything he whispered to her, or the fact that when she was dancing with him, she didn’t appear aware of anyone or anything else.

  It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Cole asked himself angrily as he sprawled on a chair in the corner and watched the slender girl whirl like a graceful butterfly across the room. She’s turning her attention elsewhere, setting her sights on Keedy. And why not? He’s all the things you’re not—steady, good-natured, the settling-down type. He’d take good care of her.

  But would he make her happy? Remembering the rapturous way she’d stared up at him in the feather bed, the glow and happiness radiating from her eyes, Cole wondered if she could really feel for Keedy the way she’d seemed to feel about him. It hurt just thinking about it. But he hoped so, for Juliana’s sake. Keedy would bring her security and peace.

  So why was he having so much trouble resisting the urge to jump up and shove his fist down that scrawny Texan’s throat?

  I don’t belong here. Cole took a deep breath, studying Juliana’s brothers as she collapsed in a chair beside them at last, taking a sip of the wine that Skunk handed her. This cabin full of people, full of warmth, comradeship, a sense of festivity. Even with the danger surrounding them on all sides, a danger Cole smelled the way he smelled coffee when it was fresh-brewed and hot—even with all that, the Montgomery gang, Juliana, and Keedy seemed to belong, to feel comfortable and at ease with one another, to be able to shed their cares and enjoy the companionship of an evening dancing and laughing and warm
ing themselves before a fire. Cole didn’t know how to do that. It had been years since he’d had any sense of family, any real link with another human being, and he felt cramped and stifled here. He wanted to be out there in the mountains, staring into a campfire beneath the stars, with the wind and the night creatures for company, and—

  He stopped short. He’d been about to wish that Juliana was part of that picture too. He’d like to have her out there in the mountains with him, lying beside him on the fragrant grass, her hair waving in the night breeze and the moonlight cool, soft upon her face. He’d like to kiss each one of those adorable freckles marching across her nose, then undo the buttons of that dress she was wearing, and slowly, relentlessly make love to her beneath the Arizona stars.

  What had happened to his urge for solitude, pure and simple? He was a loner, right? He didn’t need anybody.

  Damn, what had she done to him?

  His throat dry, he had a sudden vision of her the way she’d looked this afternoon, holding that baby. The sight of it had done queer things to his heart. Tender feelings were new to Cole. He couldn’t afford them, not in his line of work. A wife and a baby were loco things for him to wish for.

  Besides, wishes didn’t come true. He’d learned that years ago in the orphanage.

  I don’t belong here, he thought again, with even more bitter certainty, and he stood up, drawing the glances of Gray Feather and Yancy from their hotly contested checkers match. Without looking at Juliana, whose head was bent close to Keedy’s before the fire, he stalked to the door of the cabin and left.

  Juliana’s heart fell when she saw him leave. Secretly, the entire time she’d danced with Gil, flirted with him, and chattered like a mad parrot with everyone in the cabin, she’d kept waiting for Cole to come over to her, to invite her to dance, or even simply to glare at her in that cool, infuriating way of his—anything to show her that somewhere deep down he did care. But he didn’t. Not once had he tried to speak to her or even glanced at her with more than passing interest. She felt as though a huge weight were sitting on top of her heart, pressing out all her breath, all her life’s blood.