Later that evening, when the two excited little girls had eaten and gone to bed in the loft, Emma helped Jeb with the dishes. “It must be lonely out here,” she said.
He looked at her with concern. “It is. And dangerous, too. What the devil are you doing, riding through the countryside all alone?”
Emma sighed. “I’m trying to catch up with a trail drive,” she answered. She didn’t want to say more, and Jeb didn’t press.
“You can sleep over there,” he said, pointing to a double bed pushed close to the wall. “There’s no need to worry—I’ll stay in the barn where I belong—but I want you to bolt the door all the same. For your own peace of mind.”
Emma was struck by a strange, bittersweet feeling that, under other circumstances, she might have made a life with this man. “Thank you,” she said.
His eyes caressed her face for a moment, as though he might be having similar thoughts. “Good night,” he said, and then he was gone, and Emma bolted the door behind him, as instructed. But for the prospect of wandering Indians and outlaws, she wouldn’t have bothered. She knew she had nothing to fear from Jeb Meyers.
Emma was up early the next morning, before the children were awake. She and Jeb talked quietly in the barn while he saddled Smiley, and after thanking her host for supper and a warm bed, Emma rode on.
At midday, sweaty and tired and very hungry, Emma mounted a tree-covered rise and saw the herd. Her heart leaped into her throat when she spotted Steven in the distance, whistling and shouting at the cattle like the other men. She was just about to ride down and announce herself when a horse materialized beside hers and a strong arm curved around her neck.
The cold barrel of a pistol was pressed to her throat. “Just be glad I’m so anxious to see my bastard of a brotherm”>
Frank Deva gave a shrill whistle to get Steven’s attention, and when he had it, he gestured toward the country stretching out behind them. Steven wheeled his horse around and felt his heart stop beating for a moment, then start again with a painful lurch.
Emma was riding toward him, clad in an old coat and a riding skirt. Her hair was coming loose from its braid, and it made a coppery halo around her pale face. Behind her, mounted on the same horse, was Macon.
All the world went still in that moment. Steven couldn’t hear the cattle bawling, the whistles and shouts of the cowboys, the nickering of their horses. Everything he knew and everything he was, every sense he possessed, was focused on Emma’s face.
He reached automatically for his gun, moving it in and out of his holster to make sure it wouldn’t hang up if he drew.
When they were within a dozen yards of each other, Steven could see that Emma’s hands were bound, and Macon had a pistol barrel pressed to the underside of her jaw.
Macon smiled, showing the straight white teeth that were standard equipment in the Fairfax family. “Hello, Steven,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”
Steven’s gaze was fixed on Emma’s face. She was wan and wide-eyed, but she looked unhurt. “If you’ve done anything to her,” he told his brother, “I’ll kill you.”
“I haven’t done anything to her,” Macon replied smoothly. “I’m saving that for when you’re dangling at the end of a rope.”
Emma turned in the saddle to glance back at Macon, but an instant later, she was staring at Steven again, questioningly. It made him ache to know she was wondering if she’d given her body to a killer.
“Let her go, Macon,” he said quietly.
Macon laughed and drew back the hammer on his pistol. “You’re in no position to give orders, Steven. I’ve got a warrant for your arrest in my pocket, signed by a federal judge. All I have to do is ride to the nearest town and tell the marshal about you and you’ll be on your way back to Louisiana in chains. But I’m keeping the little lady here as insurance, so I don’t run into any accidents.”
Steven glanced back over his shoulder and saw Deva and three of the cowboys there, pistols in hand, ready to defend him. “Put the guns away,” he said with resignation.
“Speaking of that,” Macon put in, “why don’t you drop yours? Right now.”
Macon’s pistol was still pressed to Emma’s flesh; any sudden action could get the top of her head blown off. “Take it easy,” Steven breathed, unbuckling his gunbelt and letting it fall to the ground. He held his hands at shoulder height, palms out.
After indulging in a moment of pure spite, ioningn lowered his pistol from Emma’s neck and shoved it back into the holster. She closed her eyes briefly in relief.
Steven longed to tell her everything would be all right, that he was innocent of any crime, that he wasn’t about to let anyone hurt her, gun or no gun. But he was too afraid Macon would feel called upon to prove him wrong.
It was almost more than Steven had dared to hope for, but Macon became cocky, overconfident. He swung down from the saddle to face his half-brother.
Behind him, her hands still bound together, Emma slipped to the ground, her eyes fixed on Steven. Still, she didn’t speak.
Steven would have given his soul to take her into his arms and reassure her, but he couldn’t afford the luxury. “So you found me,” he said to his half-brother. “It took you long enough.”
Macon grinned bitterly. “You killed my son. I would have dogged you to your grave.”
Sweat trickled through the trail dust covering Steven’s face in a gritty coating. He raised one arm to wipe his brow, and the action created just the right degree of distraction. He backhanded Macon as hard as he could, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
Before his brother could draw, Steven had recovered the Colt, which he trained on Macon’s midsection. Emma ran to Steven, and he put an arm around her, pulling her close for a moment, then letting her go. Her hands were still bound behind her, and she stumbled a little.
“Toss the pistol aside,” Steven told his brother.
Now it was Macon who was sweating. Gingerly, he drew his gun with two fingers and flung it into the dust. Steven kicked it well out of reach, then handed his Colt to one of the men behind him. Frank Deva was cutting away the rope that bound Emma’s wrists.
Macon scrambled to his feet when he saw that Steven was facing him unarmed. It was a moment both of them had longed for, ever since the day Steven first set foot on Fairhaven.
“Steven, no!” Emma croaked.
He ignored her, speaking to his men without looking at them. “Nobody interfere—no matter what.” After that, he circled Macon like a panther closing in on its prey.
Macon lifted his fists and jutted out his chin. Steven’s hands remained loose at his sides, but they ached to close around Macon’s throat.
For a long time, the two men just stared at each other, each waiting for the other to throw the first punch. Macon weakened first, and landed a solid blow in Steven’s middle.
The pain shot through his rib cage in razor-sharp streaks, but Steven smiled. He’d just been granted the license he needed. He caught Macon in a hard right cross and sent him sprawling backwards onto the ground.
Macon lurched back to his feet, his eyes glittering with hatred, and now there was a small, sharp knife in his hand. The blade glinted in the bright sunshine.
Steven smiled. “I always said you were a sneaky son-of-a-bitch,” he said, circling Macon again, making him turn like a top. Their gazes were locked together, but Steven knew precisely where the knife was t any given moment.
Macon finally tired of the game and lunged at Steven, making a slashing motion with the blade. It caught Steven in the upper arm just before he sent it flying with a blow from his foot, and he felt blood saturating his shirt sleeve.
If there was pain, Steven wasn’t aware of it. He dragged Macon close by his lapels and kneed him hard in the groin.
Macon cried out and sank to his knees, his head down, his hands sheltering his wounded genitals. Steven reclaimed his Colt and jammed the barrel into his brother’s jugular vein. “How does it feel?” he rasped.
If Emma hadn’t
been looking on, Steven would have done considerably more damage to his brother. As it was, he gave him a dose of the fear Emma must have felt, then just left him kneeling there in the dirt while he recovered his gunbelt and strapped it on. Deva collected Macon’s pistol and bloody knife without comment.
Emma rushed to Steven, her eyes wide with horror and fear, her throat working convulsively. “You’re hurt—”
Steven felt the pain then, and it braced him up, like a stiff drink. He entangled the fingers of one hand in Emma’s hair. “I’ll be all right,” he said hoarsely.
“You need a doctor!”
He shook his head. “The cook’ll sew me up, if I need it,” he said.
The color drained from Emma’s face, and she let her smudged forehead fall against his shoulder. “What’s happening, Steven? Is it true what your brother says? Did you really kill two people?”
Steven couldn’t have answered any of those questions with a simple yes or no, so he didn’t reply to them at all. He was looking at Macon, although his arm was around Emma, holding her close. “Get up,” he said.
Macon clambered awkwardly to his feet. The hatred was still there in his face, and so, despite the pain he must have been feeling, was the smugness. “You can’t win, Steven,” he breathed, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. “You can’t stop me from riding for the nearest lawman unless you kill me. And you wouldn’t do that, not in front of so many witnesses.”
Steven felt Emma’s eyes on his face, pleading. “Later,” he told her. “I’ll explain later.”
Emma hung on to Steven, certain she would collapse if she let go. Looking up at his face, she saw a grim resignation that frightened her.
“I’ve got to turn these cattle over to the army in Spokane. Once I do that, I’ll come back to New Orleans and stand trial.”
Emma felt as though the very earth beneath her feet had suddenly caved in upon itself. She held on to Steven’s dirty vest with both hands and willed him to say he was innocent, but he didn’t speak up for himself.
“What about the woman, boss?” one of the cowboys asked. “We can’t take her all the way to Spokane with us.”
Steven glanced at Emma, then at Macon. “I’m sure as hell not going to trust my brother with her. Emma stays mple yes.”
While Emma was a little affronted that Steven would make such a decision without even consulting her, she saw the sense in it. She couldn’t very well go riding through the countryside with Macon Fairfax on the loose.
Macon spat furiously. “You don’t expect me to trust you, do you? The minute I turn my back, you’ll be on the run again.”
Slowly, sadly, Steven shook his head. “I’m all through running,” he said, tightening his good arm around Emma’s waist. “All through.”
Macon watched him warily. “I’ve got a half dozen men with me,” he said. “I’ll be trailing you.”
“Fine,” Steven answered, and he turned his back on Macon, taking Emma with him, and helped her onto his horse. He swung up behind her, and she felt him wince. She knew his rib cage was probably hurting, as well as the knife wound he’d sustained in the fight, and she longed to comfort him.
All the same, other emotions churned inside her, too. She needed to hear Steven say he was innocent, that he’d never murdered anyone. And so far, he hadn’t said anything of the sort.
The herd was moving ahead, and Steven spurred the gelding forward. The cowboys who’d come to his aid flanked him like an armed guard.
When they caught up with the chuck wagon, Steven spoke to Sing Cho, and he brought his team of mules to an immediate halt. While the others went on ahead, Steven and Emma stopped.
Emma glanced back and saw Macon riding away, his horse’s hooves making dingy clouds in the dust. She thought about the little pinto mare she’d rented in Whitneyville and held onto the forlorn hope that Macon and his men would return it.
The Chinese cook chattered in his own language when he cut away the sleeve of Steven’s shirt and saw the wound beneath. It was long and wide, and Emma had to turn from the sight of it for a moment and swallow a mouthful of bile.
Sing Cho pointed toward a stand of trees in the distance. “Go there. Need to make fire.”
Steven nodded glumly and got back onto his horse, pulling Emma up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his middle and laid her cheek against the hard, muscular expanse of his back. She felt like crying, but the tears wouldn’t come.
When they reached the trees, Sing Cho secured the wagon and handed Emma a battered enamel basin. Pointing toward the creek flowing nearby, he said, “Bring water.”
Emma was eager to obey. Squatting by the creek, she saw fat brown trout wriggle by, and plain rocks glittered like jewels under the crystal-clear water. She filled the basin and hurried back.
The cook had already started a fire, and Steven was sitting on an upended crate, watching while the Chinese tied a tourniquet around his arm to staunch the bleeding.
The small man with the long queue trailing down his back nodded toward the fire. “Put in kettle and get more.”
Unquestioningly, Emma poured the cold water into a pot sitting near the fire and went back to the creek.
When she returned, the kettle was suspended over the flames on a spit, and Steven was drinking whiskey straight from the bottle.
“Where is he?” Emma whispered.
Steven grinned. He was filthy from head to foot, and that made Emma think of the time she’d helped him bathe, back at Chloe’s house. “Sing Cho? He’s getting out his sewing kit.”
“How can you be so calm?” Emma asked. She was trembling at the very prospect of needle meeting flesh.
He shrugged. “If carrying on would make it stop bleeding and knit together, I’d do it,” he replied. “Are you all right, Emma?”
She thought for a moment, then nodded.
“You should have stayed in Whitneyville, where you belong,” he reasoned quietly, as the Chinese returned with a needle and a length of catgut.
Emma stepped back and put her hands on her hips. “Here it comes,” she cried. “The lecture. I was trying to warn you, Steven.”
“Mr. Fairfax,” he corrected, with a smile lighting his eyes.
Emma wanted to strangle him. “Mr. Fairfax,” she complied, but grudgingly.
Sing Cho appeared to be deaf to the conversation. He was busy cleaning Steven’s wound with water from the kettle and a soft cloth.
“I probably saved your life or something,” Emma went on.
“My life wouldn’t be worth a damn without you,” Steven replied, just before he downed another gulp of whiskey from the bottle. “And you could have run into a pack of Sioux warriors we met up with the other day. Or outlaws. As it was, you’re: damned lucky Macon didn’t rape you. He’s not a man of delicate sensibilities, in case you didn’t notice.”
Sing Cho thoughtfully threaded the catgut and peered at the long, gaping cut on Steven’s upper arm.
“I don’t believe this,” Emma said, temper flaring. “I came all this way to help you and you’re scolding me like a child!”
“I’ve got half a mind to take you over my knee and paddle you.” He took another swallow of the whiskey and made a lusty sound of satisfaction as it went down.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
Steven flinched as the needle made its first pass through his skin. “Ask Joellen Lenahan about that.”
Emma didn’t look at the wound again because she knew she’d throw up if she did. All she could do to help was distract Steven, and if that meant a screaming fight, then so be it.
“I’m not a sixteen-year-old child,” Emma pointed out. “And by the way, I didn’t appreciate learning that you’d spent the night with Joellen.”
Steven flinched again and muttered a curse as Sing Cho continued his work. “Like you said, Miss Emma—she’s a child. I didn’t touch her, and you damned well know it.”
Emma did know, but she was still jealous. Joellen had lain with Steven, probab
ly huddled close and sheltered in his arms, and that was a privilege Emma reserved for herself. Feeling overheated all of a sudden, she jerked off the cumbersome wool coat and flung it down on the ground. “Did you kiss her?”
Steven managed to grin and grimace at the same time. “What if I did?”
“I’ll scratch your eyes out, that’s what,” Emma vowed fiercely. Her hands were on her hips and she paced back and forth. Her riding skirt and blouse were rumpled and stained, her face was grimy, her braid was coming loose around her face. And she didn’t give a damn about any of that.
Steven laughed even as he groaned with pain. He was very pale under his mask of sweat and dirt, and a small cut at the corner of his eye was seeping blood. His clothes were in need of mending and washing. “After the day I’ve had,” he answered, “it wouldn’t surprise me if you did.”
Emma’s heart twisted. She wanted to send the cook away, to take Steven in her arms, to comfort him and tend to his injuries herself. But she knew she’d probably faint if she had to stitch torn flesh together. Her eyes filled with tears and she turned her head away to hide them.
“Talk to me, Emma,” Steven said quietly. “I need something to think about besides this needle going in and out of my arm.”
Emma glanced nervously at Sing Cho. “Is it true—what Macon said? Did you kill two people?”
Steven looked incomprehensibly weary. “Is that what he said?”
“Yes,” Emma sniffled. She was tired and sad and she needed a bath. She wanted to go home, and take Steven with her. “He said you killed his son. And a woman.”
“Do you believe him?”
Emma swallowed. “You didn’t deny it.”
Steven bit down on his lower lip and closed his eyes as Sing Cho tied off the last stitch. In the next instant, the Chinese grabbed the bottle of liquor from Steven’s hand and sloshed the wound generously.
Steven drew in a hissing breath and shot to his feet, then let out a stream of curses. Sing Cho leaped backwards, but his face was impassive as he met Steven’s glare with a steady and unperturbed gaze.
“Now we make bandage,” he said.
“The hell you will,” Steven rasped. “Stay away from me.”
Emma and the Outlaw Page 21