by Bobbi Smith
"If you wouldn't mind," Sheri said sweetly, intrigued by the thought.
He guided them through the small office area, showing them where he kept his weapons, ammunition, and keys, then on into the back room, where there were two cells. Each cell was furnished with only an uncomfortable-looking cot. They were stark, cold reminders of what the lawless had to suffer. A double-locked door at the end of the walkway in front of the cells gave access to the alley.
Sheri was glad to get out of there. "Do you have much crime in Phoenix, sheriff?"
"Nothing too exciting, but we're ready if anything ever does happen."
"I appreciate you showing us around," Sheri told him as they started from the office.
"Any time. Say, Charles, what happened to your shoulder?" Sheriff Warren asked, noticing how he was favoring it.
"We had a run-in with some renegades out at the fort."
"You hurt bad?"
"It wasn't fun, but I'm going to live."
"Well, that's good to hear."
They headed back toward the hotel.
"Is there anything else you wanted to see?" Charles asked.
Sheri had been quiet and thoughtful for a while, and she surprised him with her answer. "There is one more place I'd like to visit, but I'm not sure if it's possible."
"What's that?"
"You had mentioned to me that Brand's wife was killed at their ranch. Could we possibly ride out to the homestead and take a look around?"
"We can do that if you want."
"Is it very far?"
"It's an hour or two ride, so it's too late to go today. Why don't we go in the morning? That will give us the whole day."
"Are you sure you're up to it?" Maureen worried.
"I'll be fine," he assured her. "I'll see about getting us horses. Shall we meet at the stable at eight-thirty? Will that give you time enough in the morning?"
"That'll be fine."
"Would you like to have dinner tonight?"
"I want to work, but . . . Maureen?" Sheri looked at her cousin.
"I'd love to have dinner with you," Maureen said, smiling at Charles.
"I'll see you a little later then."
Maureen and Charles spent the evening together, sharing a quiet dinner. His feelings for her were growing ever stronger, yet he held himself back from saying anything. They had only known each other for the better part of a week, and he knew it would be far too bold to speak of his feelings just yet.
Still, Maureen would be leaving soon, and Charles couldn't let her go without telling her how he felt. He would bide his time and wait for the right momentif it ever came. He had some doubts about that. She was an Eastern lady, who'd made it clear from the first time they'd met that she missed her home in New York and couldn't wait to get back. He was a small-town newspaperman, and he was happy there in the Territory. The pay wasn't good and he would never have a lot of money, but if love was counted as riches, Maureen would be a wealthy woman.
Charles gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek in the hotel lobby when they parted company, and he watched until she was upstairs before going home for the night. He found himself imagining what it would be like to take her home with him. He liked the thought.
The following morning they met at the stables and rode for Brand's long-deserted ranch. It was a warm day, but not overly so. Charles told them more history of the area and of the Indian fighting as they made the trip.
"We're almost there," Charles announced when they started up the low rise. "It's just on the other side of this hill."
As they topped it, Sheri reined in to stare at the scene below. All that remained of Brand and Becky's shattered dream was the burned skeleton of their house. In Sheri's imagination, she could see and hear and feel all that had happened that night. The attack, the terror, the fire . . . and finally death. She let her gaze sweep over the area, studying the landscape with a writer's eye, seeing the desolate miles of desert with no sign of life or hope. Then, slowly, she urged her mount forward, leaving Charles and Maureen to follow.
Sheri dismounted and with quiet intent approached what little was left of the house. She tried to imagine what Brand had experienced when he'd returned to find the life he'd worked so hard to create for himself and his wife destroyed. Remaining silent, Sheri listened for the sound of the wind and the call of the birds. She told herself she was paying so much attention to detail, because she wanted to be realistic when she wrote about the fictional Brands background. But, in truth, she had come here today not so much to research the book, but to try to find answers that would help her understand the real Brand.
Making her way around the site, Sheri found the grave by accident, and it startled her. She hadn't considered that Brand might have butted Becky there, but there was no denying that the mounded rocks definitely marked a grave site.
Maureen . . . Charles . . ." she called out to them softly.
They came to her side.
"This must be Becky's grave. It must have been so terrible for Brand, coming home to find everything destroyed and his wife murdered."
"Did you know that she was pregnant at the time?" Charles asked, recalling more of the tragedy.
"No . . ." Sheri was aghast at the thought. She stared down at the grave, wishing there was some way she could erase all the tragedy, and knowing there wasn't.
Maureen paled at the revelation. "No wonder he's so driven to hunt renegades."
Charles and Maureen moved off to look at something else, and Sheri remained standing there over the grave, thinking of the handsome young man who'd lost his love that day all those years ago. She knew Becky had been a very lucky woman to have had Brand's devotion.
Driven by some emotion she couldn't name, Sheri knelt down beside the grave and touched the rocks that covered it. She prayed that Becky was happy in a better world than the one she'd left and that Brand would somehow find happiness again. Rising slowly, she turned and walked back to where her horse was tethered.
"Are you ready?" Charles called out.
"When you are."
They made their way back to the horses and mounted up for the return trip to town.
Brand told himself he was crazy. He told himself it was ridiculous that he was doing this, that he was asking for trouble, but he couldn't help himself. Sheri was haunting him. Her spirit . . . Her intelligence . . . Her tears . . . Her kiss . . . He had dressed as a white man, and he was riding into Phoenix to see her one last time.
The trip seemed to take longer than it ever had before. Mile after endless mile stretched out before him, and by the time he reached town, it was dark.
He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to say once he found her. He just knew he couldn't bear to let her go without seeing her again.
Reining in near the hotel, Brand tied up his horse and mentally girded himself to meet her. He started toward the main hotel entrance, then changed his mind as he heard the music from the Gold Bar Saloon down the street. The thought of a whiskey right then appealed greatly, so he altered his course and went into the saloon to get a drink before going on to see Sheri.
It was crowded, and quite a few heads turned as he walked in. He might be dressed as the other men were, but he was still part Indian. They never let him forget it.
"Whiskey," Brand ordered as he took a place at the bar.
The barkeep set a shot before him, and he paid for the drink. He took one appreciative sip, savoring the power of the liquor, then quickly downed the rest. It burned all the way down, and he was glad. He needed the power and fearlessness whiskey would give him tonight.
"You want another?" the bartender asked, seeing how fast the first one had disappeared.
Brand nodded and waited while the man poured more of the potent liquor into his glass. Logic told him he should get back on his horse and ride out of town. He had no business seeing Sheri again. Beautiful though she might be. Drawn to her though he was. If he truly cared about her, he should leave and never look back. Trouble wa
s, a part of him ached to be near her, to see her smile, to hold her and kiss her once more.
He picked up the glass and took a deep drink. He stared straight ahead, not paying attention to anyone or anything. He was too caught up in deciding what to do. She was close. Just a short distance away. All he had to do was go to her. He wasn't sure what he would say once he was there, but he had to do it. . . . Brand finished the shot and pushed the glass toward the barkeep for one more refill.
It was about fifteen minutes and two more drinks later that the sound of the drunken man's voice rose above the regular noise of the crowd in the saloon.
"It's him, I tell you. He's the one from the fort."
"Shut up, Hale."
"I ain't gonna shut up. Somebody needs to set the bastard straight. With what he's been gettin' away with all these years . . ."
"I came out for a drink, Hale. Not for a fight."
"To hell with you then. I'll tell him to his face what I think!"
The man named Hale separated himself from a knot of drunks at the end of the bar and staggered toward Brand. The look in his beady black eyes was mean as he stared at Brand.
"You're that breed scout, ain't ya?" he demanded, stopping about three feet from where Brand stood at the bar.
Brand had heard the sound of their argument, but had ignored it. He had other things on his mind . . . more important things. He didn't care if these people liked him or not. They meant nothing in his life. All that mattered was finding Sheri.
''You! Breed! I'm talkin' to you!" Hale shouted.
Brand turned his head to look at the man. He kept his expression carefully guarded. "You want something, mister?" He remained calm and cool, not wanting to provoke the drunk in any way.
"Yeah, I want something. You're the one from the fort, aren't you? Your name's Brand, ain't it?"
"That's right."
Hale looked over at his drunken companions and smiled broadly. "Told ya it was him. Told ya it was the one keeps makin' whores outta white women . . ."
Brand stiffened at his statement, and the expression in his eyes turned deadly.
"What'sa matter, injun? Cat got your tongue? Don't ya like hearin' the truth?" he sneered, then looked over confidently at his companions. "He ain't got nothing to say for himself, 'cause he knows it's the truth. He likes them white women. . . . He likes that white meat. First, you put it to the colonel's daughter, and now this little gal from back East"
He got no further.
"I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch," Brand seethed, the liquor having eroded his usual rigid self-control. This man was talking about Becky and Sheri! He wasn't even good enough to be in the same room with them, let alone call them whores! He lunged at the drunk in a move that was so swift and so deadly, none of those around could believe it.
Chaos erupted as Brand fought with the man. The drunk put up a good fight, but Brand was beyond fury. He wanted the man dead for the things he'd said. He would have continued to throttle him, possibly even killing him bare-handed, had not strong hands torn him from his bloody retribution.
"Brand! Stop it!" Philip ordered as he and Colonel Hancock got a grip on him and dragged him away.
It had been pure coincidence that they had walked into the Gold Bar at that particular moment and heard the exchange between the two.
"Let's get him out of here!" Hancock snarled sternly, furious over the situation.
Together, they all but dragged the still struggling Brand from the saloon. They forced him down the sidewalk away from the entrance, wanting him as far away from the troublemaking drunk as possible.
"Brand! Get yourself under control!" Hancock ordered.
Philip had always known that Brand would be a vicious enemy, but he'd had no idea the scout was such a powerful man. He seriously doubted that he could have controlled Brand had the colonel not been there to help. Not that he blamed Brand for his anger. He, too, had been outraged by the drunk's ugliness.
As his bloodlust eased, Brand slowly stopped fighting them. When he had calmed, he shook himself free of their restraining hold and faced them. His expression was still murderous, for he had not forgotten the insults the man had cast upon Becky and Sheri. In the semi-darkness, he glared angrily at the two officers who'd stopped him. They regarded each other in silence for a long, tense moment; then he turned and stalked away.
Philip had been tense and ready for trouble. He breathed a little easier once Brand had gone. "I'm glad we broke that up. I was afraid he might actually kill the man."
"He was angry enough," Hancock agreed. "Are you still ready for that drink?"
"I think I could use a double now."
They went back inside.
It was some time later when Hale staggered out of the Gold Bar Saloon. He was drunk, mad, and sore as hell after his fight with the half-breed.
"I coulda beaten the bastard if they'd just let me alone with him," he snarled out loud, talking to himself. "They shoulda let me kill him while I had the chance . . . The way he's always after white women . . . 'Course any white woman who'd have him is a slut, but that don't matter none . . . No breed should be touchin' a white woman . . ."
There was no one to hear his drunken ramblings. The streets were deserted. All was quiet. Lurching unsteadily, he started toward home. He angled down an alley that was a short cut, unaware of anything save the need to reach his own bed.
A shadowy figure stalked Hale at a distance, taking care to avoid notice. The wicked blade of the lethal-looking knife he carried glinted in the pale moonlight. When Hale ventured into the seclusion of the alley, he knew it was time to strike. He was cautious in his attack. Surprise meant everything. Silently, he closed on the drunk, and in a swift and deadly assault, he ended the man's life. The only sound was that of his lifeless body collapsing to the ground, his throat slit.
Satisfied that Hale had gotten what he'd deserved, his murderer wiped the blood from his weapon onto the dead man's shirt and then backed away, disappearing into the night, leaving no trace of his presence.
Chapter Fourteen
Brand, the Half-Breed Scout, or Trail of the Renegade
The Return
Mercy had heard the gunshot and had ridden as fast as she could in the opposite direction to escape. But then when silence fell like a pall over the area, she knew she had to go back. She couldn't just ride off and leave them behind. She was a cavalry captain's wife. She owed allegiance to the man who'd tried to save her and to the woman who'd bravely stayed to fight. Mercy headed back. She might be signing her death warrant, but it didn't matter. All that mattered was helping the others.
Riding slowly and as quietly as she could, Mercy neared the site of the attack. She reined in and dismounted. After tying the horse to a bush, she traveled the rest of the way on foot. She wanted the element of surprise on her side. The night was dark. As silently as possible, she moved among the rocks and cacti vigilantly searching for some sign of her companions, some clue as to their fate. . . .
Sheri was irritated. She had retired early again just so she'd have some time to write, but for some reason her characters weren't talking to her tonight. The book had been moving along so smoothly for a while that the story seemed to be telling itself. Now, for some reason, she couldn't think of a thing for them to say or do. In frustration, she threw down the paper and pencil and stood up to stretch. She was tired, but it was more emotional than physical. Visiting Brand's ranch that day had touched her deeply.
Brand . . .
An image of him seared through her thoughts, and she felt a great sadness in her heart. She would be leaving Phoenix soon, and they would never meet again. He was gone from her life, just like Buck McCade. The trouble was, Buck had been a fantasy and Brand was real. Too real for her own inner peace . . .
Sheri moved to stand at the window, hoping for a cool breeze to refresh her. The night was still, though. Nothing was stirring. She parted the sheer curtain to look out into the darkness, and it was then that she saw him
a shadowy figure across the way, watching her.
"Brand . . ." she said his name in a breathless invitation as her soul instantly recognized him. He was there. . . . He had come to her. . . .
Sheri let the curtain fall and backed away from the window, unsure of exactly what to do next. She was dressed for bed in her nightgown and wrapper, but if Brand was there and wanted to see her, she would certainly put on a daygown and go downstairs to meet him. Rushing to her trunk, she hurried to open it and pull out a suitable gown. She had just started to untie the sash of her wrapper when a feeling came over her that she wasn't alone, and she stopped. Slowly, she turned to find Brand standing in her room just inside the window.
"You came. . . ." she said in soft amazement. His presence seemed to fill the room.
"I had to see you again," he said with an intensity that came from the depths of his soul. His gaze was warm upon her. Silhouetted as she was by the lamp on the table behind her, he could see the outline of her lush curves through the silken garments she wore. A tight ache grew within him.
Sheri let the daygown drop from her hands as she took a tentative step toward him. He had come to her because he'd wanted to. No one had forced him or ordered him there.
"I'm glad," she said gently. Then she noticed a slight cut near his left eye and a little swelling. She reached up to gently touch the injury. "You're hurt. . . . what happened?"
"Nothing. That's not important." He trapped her wrist in a gentle hold as he gazed down at her. She was beauty and innocence and fire and spirit. She had matched him in every challenge and had torn down the walls he'd built to shield himself from the pain of feeling again. He knew it was crazy. He knew he shouldn't be here, but sometimes logic failed. His heart told him this was right, and that was all that mattered.
"What is important?" Sheri asked breathlessly as she gazed up at him. She could see the heat in his blue-eyed gaze, and she felt an answering fire flame to life within her.
"This . . ."
His mouth swooped down to claim hers in a passionate, long-denied exchange. He had ached for her. He had wanted her for so long. He needed this. He needed her. . . .