Renegade Riders

by Dawn MacTavish

  “You’re a coward, Trace. But I’m strong enough for both of us,” she called after him.

  Trace kept up a steady pace, glancing briefly behind him from time to time. The sun rose higher, crowning the mountains with a halo of flaming gold, while the plateau they traveled remained steeped in dusky shadow. Not until the sun turned lemon-colored and cleared the mountains altogether would the valley flood with light. He hoped to be some distance from the mesa and the Lazy C by then. It wasn’t safe to travel by day, but the sooner he settled Mae on a train for home, the better.

  Her perception both impressed and infuriated him. With Mae out of Jared’s reach, he planned to go back to the Lazy C, federal marshal in tow. Somehow he would get the horses back he’d been hired to find and simultaneously whip the hide off Comstock for what he’d done to Diablo and Mae. Maybe in the aftermath he’d find that deed. But then what? Where was he headed? He had no more roots here in the West than a blasted tumbleweed. He had no wife, no children, no home, just a heartache from the past, demons of what-if eating at his heart and soul.

  Mae had grown silent behind him, but he took little comfort in that. She meant to defy him; he was certain of that. It was only a matter of time. But she’d met her match. Through the whole long night he’d hardened himself for their parting, convincing himself it was the only solution. Of course, his heart didn’t buy that.

  Her doe eyes troubled him, and her plea to come with her to Kentucky was a knife in his soul. Images threatened his resolve: of touching her last night, of her soft flesh, so smooth and fragrant, of her so willing in his arms. The only saving grace was that he hadn’t declared his love. She could suspect all she wanted, but once those words were out, there would be no controlling her.

  He did love her. Mae made him think about living again. He feared it was too late for him, though. There had been too many hard years of being eaten alive with guilt. He had nothing to offer her. He was a nobody now, not some well-to-do planter’s son. He had the clothes on his back, a spare set, and Diablo.

  Pain twisted inside him. Some idiotic part of his soul could almost see him back in Kentucky. Likely, her grandfather and he would have a meeting of the minds, with horseflesh being the commonality between them. Horse breeders were a strange lot, perhaps not too very different from wranglers themselves.

  Trace bit the inside of his lip, allowed the coppery taste of blood to fill his mouth, to remind him of the fire and blood that had destroyed Trevor Guilliard. The sad truth? Trevor and Mae might have made a good match years ago. But never Mae and Trace Ord. He wasn’t fit for the likes of her.

  The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached a narrow draw that opened onto a sandy-bottom wash where a small tributary fed a rushing stream. Rocks at its mouth made a good blind. To the east, the pass opened into foothills. To the south lay a stretch of red clay sand grizzled with sage, monuments standing in distant muted purple silhouette against a cloudless sky.

  Prairie chickens and the occasional wild turkey strutted in and out among the rocks, observing the human interlopers with little interest and no fear. Trace watched the birds longingly. He salivated, imagining the juices from their succulent meat dripping into the flames of a sage and mesquite fire. On any other occasion, he would have bagged at least two. But there wasn’t time for that now. He swallowed emptily and swung himself out of the saddle. He would have to settle for jerky and stale biscuits that would be hard as rocks, since they couldn’t be soaked in coffee. He wouldn’t risk a fire.

  He glanced around, almost feeling Comstock breathing down his neck. The nagging sensation wouldn’t leave him, and it grew, an animalistic warning that he was heading for a trap. But that was silly. Pushing the sense of dread to the back of his mind, he smiled. There would be a treat for Mae. He had an airtight tin of peaches in his pack.

  What remained of the burlap on Diablo’s hooves was all but tatters. Confident that they had covered enough ground to elude pursuit if it was possible, Trace stripped the cloth away and led both horses and the burro to the stream, where he left them, bridles down. There was plenty of new spring grass beside the bank to keep them occupied without fear they’d roam, and while they drank and grazed, he saw to Mae’s needs. She groaned, wiping sweat from her brow.

  “You all right? Shoulder bothering you?” he asked, handing her some hardtack and jerky. “We can’t stay long. We’ve got a hard ride to cross those sand flats to the south. If we keep up the pace, we’ll reach the railroad yard in Prescott tomorrow.”

  “And if there’s no train when we get there?” Mae asked. “You said Jared would be watching the train stops.”

  “I’ll stay with you until you’re aboard.”

  “Trace, come with me.” She stared at him, pleading. “Just put Duchess and Diablo on the train and come back with me. They’d have a good life on my granddad’s farm. My father’s dead; there is no hope he will ever return. There’s no one for my granddad but me. You could carve out a place there. Help him with the horses. It’s almost like fate, our meeting. You’re right—I don’t belong out here; this land is too cruel for me. But come back. My granddad fought so hard to build up the farm, struggled through the years of the war not to lose everything. There is a place for you there…a place with me.”

  “There once was a man named Trevor Guilliard,” Trace began, opening his can of peaches with his knife. “He would have fit in the life you paint. That man died one rainy night back in ’sixty-five. There’s nothing left of him. I have nothing to offer someone like you, so stop building castles in the sky, Mae.”

  Handing her the can, Trace turned his back. It was the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He didn’t have to see her haunting gaze to know it followed him as he strode off toward the horses; the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up the way they did whenever a wild horse was near. She was that, by God: a wild filly, with the power to stand up to the evils of men; no whining, squeamish, milk-and-water miss, she. And raised among horses to boot. If only they had met under any other circumstances.

  He snatched Diablo’s reins and stalked east, downstream, to where Duchess wandered in search of tastier grass, and then he collected the burro that hadn’t budged an inch. Trace took his time returning to Mae. When he did, she had finished her meal and most of the peaches.

  “I saved you one, Trace. It’s no good unless we share.”

  Her sad-eyed look had vanished, and in its place was something dangerous: determination. Damn fool woman hadn’t heard a single word he’d said. He hesitated, but she stood holding out the spoon and the open airtight. Only Mae would turn a canned peach into a battle of wills. He thought about taking the can and flinging the peach away, but he couldn’t. The act would hurt her. He’d hurt her too much already.

  With a frown he took the can. “This doesn’t mean anything, Mae. I’m eating a damn peach. Nothing more.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Absolutely. It’s only a peach. Nothing more.”

  Trace almost growled. Stubborn woman! He had to admit, the peach tasted good. You didn’t get many treats like this in the West. Airtights were around, but peaches always sold quickly. He glanced up in time to see Mae’s tongue poke out and wet her lips, licking away the last drops of juice. His whole body bucked, and he closed his eyes to fight the intense waves of lust racking him.

  “Let me ride Diablo,” she pleaded, laying a hand on his arm. “Just once more, Trace.”

  It took him several breaths to focus. Then he understood Mae was plotting again. “No,” he answered firmly. “I’m on to that. I don’t know exactly what you’re up to, but—”

  “I’m not going to run from you, Trace,” she insisted, but something in her mood was changed. There was something akin to panic in her voice. “Please…just that. Let me ride Diablo. It’s little enough to ask, since you’re going to stick me on a train and turn your back on me. I won’t see him again. Please…?”

  She seemed so sincere. Trace still hesitated. So
mething didn’t sit right. Every instinct in him cried caution, and he worked Diablo’s bridle in his gloved hand considering her request.

  She shrugged. “If you don’t trust me, you can hold Diablo’s bridle and lead me. Just let me ride him, Trace. I’ll never ask you for anything again. I won’t have the chance.”

  Against his better judgment, he let her mount the stallion. He also took her up on the offer to hold Diablo’s reins. Atop Duchess, he turned them back the way they’d come and led the way out of the draw.

  He’d scarcely settled in the saddle when he spotted four riders heading out of the sage, all driving their horses hard. Comstock was leading them.

  Mae saw them, too. “I’m sorry, Trace,” she said, “but you’ve had it your way long enough. Now it’s my turn. It’s four to one. You haven’t got a chance. Get into a skirmish here and you’ll get us both killed. Pretend you don’t see them and head north—toward the Lazy C. It’s our only hope.”

  “Hell and damnation,” he growled through clenched teeth. He couldn’t tell if that was triumph or fear in her voice. “You little fool. So that’s why you let me hold Diablo’s bridle.”

  “You recognized the horse, caught me running away, and were bringing me back to the Lazy C,” she pressed. “That’s the only way. It’s what you should have done from the start, like I told you. I can take care of myself. I have so far, haven’t I? You’ll be near to protect me.”

  “Damn it, Mae—”

  She cut him off. “I’d rather die right here, right now, than face the prospect of never seeing you again, Trace Ord. It’s too late for ‘why.’ I’ll play my part. You just follow my lead and play yours.” She gave him a sad smile. “I love you, Trace. I trust you. Now you trust me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The plan turned out to be a little more work than she suggested, as Mae had a moment of inspiration and broke away from Trace, holding Diablo back so that he could rope and capture her in full view of Comstock’s riders. That exhibition turned the trick and called for very little acting, since Trace was mad enough at that point to kill her, but the episode earned Trace a job. Mae spent the trip back gloating over her victory—until, locked again in her room at the Lazy C, she began to realize the chilling ramifications of her actions. The steps on the stairs were a wake-up call.

  She lifted a heavy candlestick as the door opened, and Jared came inside. He’d changed his dirty trail clothes. He wore a pristine white shirt and meticulous attire. He was hatless, he’d shaved, and his blond hair was wet, curling about his earlobes. But the comely appearance was a direct contradiction of the man himself. Oh, he was a handsome man, with the looks of an angel. Most women would be flattered he wanted them—until they got close enough to see that any spark of humanity missing.

  His steps were slow and sure, those of a drunk trying to appear sober. He reeked of whiskey.

  “Don’t come near me, Jared Comstock,” Mae warned, brandishing the candlestick. “Or—”

  “Or what?” he drawled, still advancing, clearly not frightened. “Why did you run again, Mae? You know I’ll only bring you back. Every damn time.”

  “Why did I run?” she retorted. “For the same reason I ran before. Because I’m tired of being held captive, tired of your games of deceit, tired of Morgan pawing me when he thinks your back is turned.”

  “What are you talking about?” Comstock asked, hand on hip.

  “We made a bargain,” she continued. “I told you I needed time. You agreed, and then you left that watchdog Morgan to guard me. Don’t tell me you’re blind, Jared. I wondered if this was some sort of game the two of you played, that he’s the real boss around here, for he does as he damn well pleases, making free with your whiskey, your help…your woman.” She knew just how far she could go, and she’d reached that point and crossed it. Retreat was no longer an option.

  “Are you saying he put his hands on you?” Comstock looked furious.

  “Put? I told you before. He was all over me—squeezing, pinching, trying to get his hand between my legs. Is this how you earn my love, by letting your men manhandle me like a whore? Am I to be used and passed around? Put him near me again and I’ll run all right, the first chance I get. And the next time, you won’t find me, I promise you that. What does he have on you? He acts like he can do as he wants around here and you’ll do nothing to stop him. Why?”

  Comstock jeered. “I suppose you’d like that drifter, Ord, to keep an eye on you? Something’s going on there. I’d bet my last nugget on it. Don’t think I won’t find out what that something is.”

  “Don’t you dare bring that varmint here to guard me!” she replied. “He’s no better than you are. You’re two of a kind.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Comstock said. “I saw how he hog-tied you, Mae. Very impressive. But he’s going to have to prove himself if he wants to wrangle for me, and I’m going to ride him like a bucking bronco ’til I know his story. You better be telling me the truth about Morgan, Mae—for your sake, and for his. But I do know somebody I can trust to keep his hands off you ’til I sort this out.”

  “Good. Look into Morgan. But you think he’s just going to tell you he was all over me? Use your brain, Jared. The man is a snake. You can bet he’s the one that killed my father. But I’m not the poor, sick drunk my father was, and I won’t let him near me. You’d think a husband would protect a wife—especially one trying to earn her respect so that she can finally be in the right mind to fulfill her marital duties.”

  Comstock’s manner changed. “You know I’m crazy about you, Mae. And I told you I never had anything to do with the death of your old man. Why would I do that? I already had what I wanted: you.”

  “If you’re innocent, Morgan did it. I’ll bet you could make him admit it, too,” she pressed. “If you really cared about me.”

  “All right, all right, simmer down. You got no proof Morgan’s involved. I don’t even know why you think it.” He threw up his hands in a gesture of truce. “Look, sugar,” he added, “I don’t want to fight with you. I promised you some time. Ain’t I been good and stuck by that? I’ve given you plenty of time, despite what you done. Still, I’m losing patience. I’ve got better things to do than to go chasing you all over the territory. I could claim my right as a husband any time. It’s best you know that.”

  He ripped the brass candlestick from her hand and threw it across the room. “You think that thing would stop me if I was of a mind to have you? Think on that, Mae. Think on it hard.” He wheeled around then and stalked from the room, locking the door after him.

  Her heart hammered in Mae’s ears, hot blood thrumming at her temples. What had she done? What had she led Trace into? She’d told him she could take care of herself, but she was no longer sure that was entirely true.

  She sank down on the bed, suddenly full of regret. Though she was grateful, she didn’t understand why Jared permitted her to keep putting him off; it wasn’t in keeping with the man’s vile nature. Bullies loved hurting those weaker than themselves, loved taking what they wanted. One might think he was enamored of her, but she just couldn’t buy that he had tender feelings of any kind. That didn’t make any more sense than Jared letting Morgan strut around pretending he was the boss. There had to be more to this situation she just wasn’t seeing. Still, what ever the reason, she was damn glad something was keeping Jared in check.

  Shaking, she got to her feet, dragged a chair to the door, and propped it under the knob. Whomever he sent to guard her, they weren’t going to get in. Then, sinking back down on the bed, she succumbed to exhaustion, praying that Trace was equal to what ever Jared Comstock was planning.

  At sundown, Trace Ord was in a blind rage as he arranged his gear in the bunkhouse. One by one the others straggled in. Jared Comstock was not among them; the boss had herded Mae into the main house when they arrived and had not emerged since. Worry over what might be happening between them at that very moment all but paralyzed Trace’s mind with fear. He dared not s
how it, though.

  Trace hadn’t seen Preacher, but that wasn’t unusual since the old man had a cot in the cookhouse. No matter the temptation, it wouldn’t do to arouse suspicion by running straight to the old man. Instead, he stretched out on his bunk in the corner, pulled his Stetson down over his eyes, and listened to the hands talk. He felt as if he were dozing in a nest of rattlers.

  Damn her! Mae had sacrificed herself. Of course, though he hated to admit it, she’d been right. Once they were spotted, there was no way he could stand and fight with her in the line of fire. But he had to find a way to get her out of there quick. And then…well, the only way she would ever be safe from Comstock was if Trace saw him and his rustling outfit in jail—or dead. He favored the latter option.

  “Has a nice ring of finality to it,” he muttered to himself.

  A poker game was forming in the corner of the bunkhouse. Feigning sleep, Trace wasn’t invited to participate. A rider called Ben watched from his cot. Will Morgan, Chip McVey, and three others were at the table. One was a tall, lanky rider named Wally. There was an older ranch hand with a handlebar mustache and grizzled forearms who walked with a limp and answered to the name of Jeb, and lastly came a mean-looking youth known as Michael Slade—the only one Trace knew by reputation.

  Slade’s face was deeply lined, his skin like tanned leather. Clean-shaven and fierce-eyed, and the only thing people knew about him was the rumored notches on his Colts. He was reputed to be one of the fastest gunslingers in the territory. He sported an air of casual regard, but Trace recognized that mask for what it was. The youngster’s guns were tied down, slung low on his hips and within easy reach. Those eyes moved about alertly, as quick as his hands.

  Trace took great care not to attract any notice. He had a bit of a reputation himself. Gunslingers made it their business to know who was a threat, who was competition. He was fast enough for word to have reached Michael, and that possibility made him uncomfortable. He had to ignore the nagging feeling that things were falling apart.