Renegade Riders

by Dawn MacTavish

  Looking up, he felt a weak smile spreading across his mouth. “Damn fool horse,” he muttered. Though Diablo had slowed his pace and dropped back, he was trailing after the train. “He likely doesn’t give a tinker’s damn about me, though. He wants Mae back. Well, so do I. So do I,” he laughed.

  As he mounted the final two steps, he could see movement inside the coach. Jack Ahern had his beautiful daughter, his left arm crooked around her throat and the nose of his revolver pointed to her temple. As Mae had pointed out earlier, it didn’t seem there was anyone else inside.

  His wife’s eyes were frightened, reminding Trace of the long-ago night he’d shot her. Her pretty white dress was speckled by the flecks of soot floating back through the open windows. How could any man use his daughter in this fashion? But then, Trace supposed the man had used Mae in worse ways.

  “Keep back! Keep back, I say!” Ahern commanded as Trace opened the door and entered, though he kept himself behind cover. That cocksure smile was gone, replaced with nervous anger.

  Trace smiled in challenge. “Or you will what? Shoot Mae down in cold blood? You may be the sorriest excuse for a father I’ve ever laid eyes on, but I don’t for one minute believe you’ll shoot your daughter when she’s helpless. Besides, you know the moment you shoot her, your shield is gone and I’ll empty my Peacemaker into you.”

  “I’m warning you, Ord.” Jack’s gaze darted around, looking for an avenue of escape.

  “Yep, you are. And I’m calling your bluff, Ahern. You won’t kill Mae. Because I will make you pay if you harm so much as a hair on her head. And I’m a much harder man than you, gramps.”

  While he didn’t believe Jack Ahern would shoot his daughter in cold blood, the cornered man could get her killed in all this foolishness. Mae’s eyes watched Trace, surely trying to judge what he was planning, to glean some clue as to what he wanted her to do. He wished he could assure her that everything would be all right or give her some brilliant directive, but he’d have to trust she would act with common sense and on the spur of a moment when an opening presented itself.

  He stepped out into the open to press his claim. “You should have cut your losses, Jack. You could be halfway to California or Oregon now. No one knows you’re alive. All the blame has come down on Jared’s shoulders—as you intended all along. He was your dupe. You had him pretend to marry your daughter to protect her, though that didn’t work quite how you expected. And you were going to use him to sell all those rustled horses. Perhaps he was the worse gambler of the two of you. I reckon he was. Did he get into debt and owe you his soul? I suppose it doesn’t matter. He’s dead and gone. Now maybe you should turn yourself in and we can end this all nice and easy. Isn’t it time?”

  Jack Ahern scowled. “The trouble with a lone wolf—and that is what you are, Trace Ord—is that it hangs back and watches instead of having proper fear. It just keeps watching and guessing how its prey will jump. Well, you judge correctly how I’ll jump. You’re right. I won’t kill Mae, because even as low down a varmint as you think I am, I’m still her pa. But those family ties don’t extend to you, even if you’re my son by marriage. I won’t kill Mae, but I damn sure can put a hole in you.” He raised his gun hand.

  Mae acted. She struck backward with the heel of her dainty boot, catching her father in the shinbone of his right leg. At the same instant, she sank her teeth into the hand under her chin and struck out at her father’s arm. The action changed the path of his shot. Instead of hitting Trace in the chest, his bullet struck Trace’s gun. The impact sent the Colt flying out of his hand and spinning away into the shadows.

  There was no time to worry about where it went. Trace leapt forward, catching hold of Ahern’s arm and jerking the man’s gun barrel away from Mae. But Jack Ahern was a tough man, despite the thick thatch of snowy white hair, hardened by the years of living in the West. With his fingers locked on the stock of the Peacemaker, Jack Ahern was determined not to let go, and while Trace had the advantage of youth, his arms had been nearly ripped from their sockets after he’d jumped from the back of Diablo. That fatigue was an edge for Ahern. Compounding that, Trace’s right hand was numb from the gun being shot from his grip.

  Trace jerked forward and then pushed against Jack’s hold, but only succeeded in lifting the gun barrel. The Colt barked, putting a bullet through the ceiling of the railcar. He and Ahern spun around and around in some bizarre dance, each resolute to be the victor.

  Mae lunged for the emergency cord and pulled it. As the massive engine fought to come to a stop, the whole train gave a lurch, wheels locking up and screaming as the long cars jump-bucked against their couplings. That herky-jerky bouncing tossed Trace and Jack sideways, each still struggling for control of the revolver. They slammed against the seats on the left side. With Trace bearing the brunt of the fall, a sharp wooden edge bore into his hip. He grimaced in pain but kept struggling.

  “Don’t move.” Mae stepped forward, dropping her reticule, and in her hand was the derringer. Without hesitation she pointed the small gun at her father’s head, much as he had done to her just moments before.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Jack Ahern rose slowly and gave his daughter a smile. “Now, Mae, honey, you should know that pistol is practically a toy.”

  Mae frowned. “This is a Sharps .32-caliber derringer. A little old, possibly older than I am, but it’ll still do its job. John Wilkes Booth assassinated President Lincoln with a derringer, so I would hardly dismiss it as a mere toy, Father. Especially at this range.”

  “Now, Mae…you wouldn’t shoot your old papa,” Ahern said. “Not when you know I wouldn’t harm a hair on that pretty head of yours.”

  “No, you might not. But you apparently would drag me halfway across the country and away from the only home I’ve known, away from the safety and protection of Grandfather. You saw me ‘married’ to a coward—a bully with a blacksnake whip instead of a spine. You put my life at risk for some scheme for you to get rich—or should I say richer, since I’m assuming the Lazy C belongs to you? You used me, lied to me. You allowed me to think you were murdered, all just to swindle Foxtail Farms from its rightful owner and steal my inheritance. Worse, you put my husband’s life in peril.” Mae was furious, her face pale with two high spots of color on her checks.

  The door to the front of the car jerked opened and the conductor appeared. “What in the heck is the problem, folks? The engineer is—” He pulled up short when he noticed Trace and Jack still fighting over the Colt, neither willing to let go and give the other the advantage, and Mae with her gun pointed to her father’s head. “Oh!”

  Trace spoke up. “How far to the next town? Someplace that has a lawman?”

  “Comanche Wells…uh…that’s the next place we stop to take on wood. They have a sheriff there.” The conductor gulped.

  Ahern’s jaw muscles flexed. “You ain’t turning me over to no lawman. They’ll hang me.” The old man moved fast. He released the Colt so quickly that Trace was suddenly falling backward, his arm slamming into a seat, which sent the revolver flying in the air. It landed on the floor several feet away and spun out of sight.

  Ahern latched on to his daughter’s wrist, trying to take the derringer. She fought. The derringer discharged once, sending the conductor scurrying behind one of the seats, and then a second bullet whizzed across the carriage, hit the metal framework, and ricocheted. White-hot pain slammed into Trace’s shoulder.

  Trace almost laughed, as his luck couldn’t get much worse. But he couldn’t care about the agonizing throb of his bruised hip or his numb hand or the wound in his shoulder. Fighting light-headedness, he struggled to his feet and toward Mae. There were two shots left in her pistol.

  Ahern shoved his daughter, knocking her back, then whipped around to point the short barrel at Trace as Trace fought to rise. “This ends here and now, Ord.”

  “Don’t. I wouldn’t squeeze that trigger unless you want your daughter to see the mess a Winchester makes of a man’s chest.�
�� Preacher stood in the doorway. “Drop it, or by God I’ll drop you.”

  For a moment, the thought surely crossed Ahern’s mind to go out in a blaze of glory; it was clear in his angry blue eyes. But finally he gave a nod and dropped the derringer. He seemed to age right before their eyes.

  “Here.” Preacher tossed a length of rope to Trace. “Figured you might need this.”

  “You always seem to be right there when I need you,” Trace said, awed.

  The old-timer shook his head. “Not this time. I was a bit late. Sorry. Bashed myself on the bean. Wasn’t knocked out, exactly, just stunned, but I sure couldn’t move. Plumb fool horse—Duchess kept licking my cheek trying to get me up. Horse breath sure ain’t sweet.”

  Trace tied Ahern’s wrists, then ankles. Mae’s father didn’t resist, nor did he utter a word. Trace reached out and patted his thigh. “Now, don’t you go anywhere, hear?”

  “Oh, Trace! You’re bleeding.” Mae rushed to him, pushing on his good shoulder until he sat down on the opposite site of the car. It didn’t take much effort, as loss of blood was quickly getting to him. She immediately reached down and started ripping up her petticoat to form a bandage. “Hold still, so I can press on this to stop the bleeding. What happened? I thought his bullet hit your gun.”

  Preacher was laughing. “Well, if’n this ain’t a fine howdy-do! You shot Trace!”

  Her spine straightened and she paled. “I did not!” Then, as her mind went through the sequence of events, she asked, “Did I?”

  Trace gave her an easy smile but grimaced as she applied pressure to the wound. “Yes, my love, you shot me. The ricochet from the derringer—which goes to prove that gun isn’t a toy. I’m living testament. Damn, but that hurts.”

  “Oh, Trace.” Mae looked horrified, then sad. “I think I’m going to faint.”

  “No, don’t. You faint, I’ll bleed to death,” Trace teased.

  “What should I do? As I recall, you dug the bullet out and then cauterized the wound.” She gulped. “Trace, I don’t think I can do that.”

  “No need.” The conductor finally came out from his hiding place. “We’ll get the engine going again. They have a doc in the town up ahead. Just keep doing what you are. Your man will be fine until then, miss.” Taking out his watch, he shook his head. “Well, we sure are going to be late today.”

  “Oh, Trace,” she whispered.

  He reached out with his right hand and brushed her cheek. “Hush, everything will be fine. Just think of the stories for our children: ‘Your father shot your mother because she was stealing his horse—yes, that’s how we met! Then, on the day after our wedding, your mama shot me in return.’ ” He couldn’t help it; he laughed, then groaned because the vibration hurt his shoulder.

  Preacher joined the chuckling. “Danged if’n you two won’t have matching shoulder scars. What’re the odds on that?”

  Trace leaned his head back, closing his eyes and fighting the pain. “What ever the odds, I’ll take them. Our love is a sure bet.” Suddenly, however, he remembered his horse. “Diablo—”

  “Not to worry. He caught up. I put down a ramp on my way up here. Blasted horse walked right up it without the first word of encouragement. I think he just wanted to see Duchess.”

  Trace shook his head, and he couldn’t help but smile. “There’s an important lesson there: never try to keep a man from his woman.”

  Epilogue

  Trace leaned with his arm on the top rail of the whitewashed fence, studying the rolling hills of the Kentucky landscape. Diablo was alone in one small pasture, prancing around with his tail high, for in the far pasture were the mares. They were showing off for him, as well. Some would trot toward the fence, whinnying, but then Duchess would charge forward and run them back.

  “Looks as though Diablo belongs to her,” Preacher commented as he walked up.

  Trace watched with a wistful smile. “It does seem that way. We may have to take Duchess out for a long ride while we slip Diablo into the breeding paddock. Mae’s grandfather truly thinks he has the blood to breed a winner in this new race they’re having, the Kentucky Derby. He thinks it would up the price of the stock if we could win, and the way Diablo runs…”

  “I think the old man has the right of it. No one is faster than that horse except maybe Standing Thunder.”

  Preacher was worrying the lobe of his ear. Trace had noticed the gesture before, and his friend did it when he had something on his mind that he didn’t know how to approach. But Preacher didn’t have to; Trace already knew what burr was under the man’s saddle. His friend was restless. While he’d enjoyed his stay in Kentucky, the place wasn’t for him.

  “You finish your game of chess with Sean?” he asked, stalling.

  “That I did,” Preacher replied. “It’s been a long time since I played chess. Damn near forgot how. He finally took pity on me and we switched to checkers, but the sly old dog is too good. At least with chess I could sometimes outfox him and get a draw. I suppose if we keep it up all summer long I would get to where I could beat him sometimes, but…” His words trailed off, and with a frown he looked into the sunset. West.

  “But what?” Trace finally asked. “I never knew you to keep your mouth shut when you have something riding your mind.”

  Preacher exhaled in frustration. “I am damn happy for you, Trace. You know that. You’ve found yourself again through Mae. You belong here. After all you told me…well, it’s easy to see Trevor Guilliard has finally shaken off the horrors of that stupid war—as much as anyone of us ever will. You didn’t belong out West any more than that beautiful gal. The planter’s son is at home here. This is your element. You’re returning to life, to a life where you belong. And you know what? I think you’re going to breed that black son of Satan to a good mare and win that derby for that old man. It’s a good life you’ve found. Be damn happy the good Lord saw fit to give it to you.”

  “Now I remember why I called you Preacher,” Trace joked. “But there’s a place for you here, too.” He spoke the words hoping he could convince his friend, but knew it wouldn’t be enough; the old-timer had wanderlust in his eyes.

  Preacher smiled, though the expression was a bit sad. “I thank you and Mae, kindly, but if I spend the rest of my days on that porch playing cards and chess with her grandpappy, you might as well take that shovel propped next to the barn over there and bury me out in the pasture. Trace Ord was running from the war and how it destroyed everything you loved. Mae is the salve for that wound in your heart. She’ll watch your back now, though she’ll use a derringer instead of your Winchester.” He winked and held out his hand. “I never told you my real name in all our travels, though I implied I had a past. Shake hands with John Mercer. I think it’s time.”

  Curious, Trace reached out. The two men shook.

  “I buried a lot of me back there in the Shenandoah,” Preacher continued. “My oldest boy was killed in the Wilderness. That was damn hard to take. Such an ugly campaign. Then Yanks came through one night. They burned my house and crops, drove off the livestock, and robbed me of everything. I worked my whole life to make that farm something to be proud of, something to leave my sons, and they took it all away.

  “My youngest wasn’t even fourteen…” The old man swallowed, his eyes glassy. “He took his brother’s death hard, so to watch them Union soldiers ruin our home was more than he could stand. Tad was the apple of his mother’s eye, so when one of the soldiers snatched the cameo off my wife’s neck, he grabbed an old musket off the wall…Damn thing was left over from the War of Independence—my pappy fought with Lighthorse Harry Lee, Robert E. Lee’s sire. Tad rushed forward to defend his mama, and that bluecoat captain shot him down like a dog.

  “I went crazy, killed two soldiers. That captain drew his long Colt and pulled the hammer back. My wife jumped in front of me, took the bullet. I can still hear him laughing as he rode off, leaving me holding Carrie in my arms. Said I could live the rest of my life knowing what I’d done.
John Mercer died that night. I buried him with my family in the light of my burning house. Then I walked away.”

  The old man sighed and looked down at the ground before fixing his gaze once more upon Trace. “I don’t really recall much, wandering across the countryside afterward. I guess I went plumb crazy for a time. Years later I came across that captain up near the panhandle. I could see it in his eyes that he didn’t recall my face. Even when I prodded him, he just laughed and said it was war. He wasn’t laughing when I killed him…”

  Trace shook his head. “I am sorry for your losses, John Mercer.” There was nothing else he could say.

  “I thank you kindly, Trevor Guilliard.” The old-timer gave his hand a squeeze and then released it. “I am fine now. Helping you and Mae get back here sort of put paid to a lot of my sorrows. Only, I cannot live here. Reminds me too much of things that hurt to remember. Out in the territory I found peace. I’m not sure what I want to do now, maybe find a spread like the Lazy C—a good one that might need an old sourdough…”

  “I understand.” Trace reached into his back pocket, pulled out a letter, and unfolded it. “I was kind of thinking along the same lines, and maybe this will be the answer. The Lazy C is now Mae’s. She got this letter from her father. I guess prison is making him sorry for a lot of things he did. He tells her how he’s found religion, though I figure that’s just another lie. I reckon Mae thinks so, too, since she gave me the letter and asked me to deal with it. She doesn’t want to face anything to do with that ranch right now—maybe never. Too many bad memories. Still, I hate to let it go. It’s a fine spread. It would need someone with an even temper and a strong determination to turn it back around. But it could be done.”

  “There’s no stock, no hands. Jared’s men will have done claimed all the horses that weren’t returned to the ranchers they was rustled from,” Preacher pointed out.