Angel heard the voices for several minutes before she rode around the base of the bluff. The creek came into view and with it, an unexpected sight.
There were no dead bodies. At a glance, it appeared no one had even sustained serious injury.
Her father’s men stood on the north side of the fence. Every one of them looked like they’d been in a howling dust storm that left dirt caked around their eyes and mouths. She could only wonder how they’d gotten in that condition.
Lundy’s men had lined up on the opposite side. Only the runs of barbed wire separated the two factions. Most were talking back and forth, while some argued.
Most amazing of all was the sight of women and children milling among the motley crowd as though the fence war had turned into a casual Sunday social. Where had they come from?
Angel’s heart nearly dropped to the pit of her stomach when she spotted Rane leaning against a fence post. He had positioned himself well away from everyone and stood with his arms crossed over his chest looking detached, but she knew he was taking in everything with avid interest.
Like the opposite pole of a magnet, his dark gaze slid to hers and locked.
Across the distance that separated them, even amid the chaotic voices clamoring to be heard, he spoke to her. Without moving, without words. His very presence allayed her fears. Reassured, she turned, wondering if her father could finally settle the long-running feud between the Flying C and Hacienda outfits.
Wearing a fierce expression, Roy dismounted and faced the crowd. “What the hell’s goin’ on here!”
Several people spoke at once, some shouting and red-faced.
One of the men on the opposite side of the fence stepped forward. “Mantorres says you’re gonna send word down to Laredo and sic the Rangers on us.”
Though Angel knew this was news to her father, he didn’t blink an eye. She sent a quick glance back at Rane. A small, devious grin sat on the handsome devil’s lips.
Her father hesitated a mere beat. “Damn right!” he shouted. He was backing up Rane’s bluff. “You can’t go around shootin’ at people and destroyin’ property. Especially my property!”
The cacophony of voices started up once more, each clamoring to out-shout the others.
“Shut the hell up!” Roy bellowed. He waited until he had their undivided attention. “Now, I’m here to take names and I wanta know who run some of my cattle over a cliff about two hours ago.”
They all got still and found a spot of ground to focus on.
Finally, one man spoke up. “You can’t hardly say nothin’ about that, not after the way you fenced out Mr. Lundy’s cattle and left ‘em to starve. You owe him for that.”
All the blood appeared to rush to Roy’s face, leaving it mottled with anger. “I don’t owe Horace Lundy one goddamned red cent, and any man that says I do is a goddamn liar! This is my land! Horace Lundy’s got no claim on it. His herd died of the tick fever.”
Even while her father’s tirade poured heat into Angel’s face, the sight of him taking charge sent a surge of pride through her.
The men continued to argue across the fence. The question of the money Lundy had promised emerged as the main source of discontent.
At last, Roy waved them to silence. “You boys are barkin’ up the wrong tree,” he said. “Horace Lundy is as broke as last week’s eggs. I’m offerin’ you another deal right now. Walk away from this, peaceful, and no charges will be brought against you.”
“Roy Clayton has always been a man of his word,” someone said.
Several others nodded agreement.
“I ain’t goin’ no-damn-where ‘til I get that reward money!”
Roy picked the dissenter out of the crowd with a narrow-eyed glare. “There’ll be no bounty money paid out on my daughter! Any man that wants to make an issue of it, step over here, and I’ll take it up with you.”
No one stepped forward.
“The deal is, you walk away right now, free and clear, and that’s it, by God!”
“Yonder comes the bastard now!” someone shouted.
An excited murmur ran through the crowd as everyone shifted and craned their necks to look southward.
From her higher viewpoint atop her horse, Angel was amazed to see Horace Lundy riding toward the hornet’s nest at a steady lope on a big bay. Like the others, she watched him come while the restless susurrus around her grew louder. A new fear began to form. All these men were now anxious to hang Horace up on a cross. If they decided to crucify him, who would stop them?
When Horace approached the creek, the disgruntled young cowhand lifted his gun from his holster and took a shot at him. A woman in the crowd screamed. Angel was forced to take her skittish horse in hand, but not before she saw a startled expression leap to Horace’s face and a spot of crimson bloom on his flawless white shirtfront. He slumped forward, over the horn of his saddle. The horse wheeled in a tight arc, nearly unseating him, and set off at a lope in the opposite direction.
The shooter sighted down the gun again, prepared to fire another round. Several of the men standing nearby tackled him to the ground.
All hell seemed to break loose. Across the fence, the shooter wasn’t giving up easily and rolled on the ground amid a confusing tangle of legs and arms as he struggled with the men trying to wrest the gun from his hand. The screaming woman continued to let out ear-piercing shrieks. Angel’s mare tossed her head and side-stepped dangerously close to the barbed wire fence. Meanwhile, Rane sprinted away from the creek and disappeared among the rocky debris along the base of the bluff.
Angel was still trying to get her horse under control when she heard the hoofbeats of a running horse. Rane appeared astride the black stallion, stretched out in a dead gallop.
The black didn’t slow, even though it was headed straight for the fence. Angel held her breath. Surely he didn’t intend… Oh, yes, he did! The stallion’s powerful muscles bunched in a tremendous leap that sent it skimming the top strand of wire. The horse nearly went down to its haunches on the other side. Following the stumble, it recovered quickly and bounded away with Rane riding low over its neck.
Panic played riot as Angel watched Rane go chasing off after Horace. Did he intend to finish the young cowhand’s handiwork and kill Horace? That’s exactly what she feared.
Shortening up her reins with a firm grip, Angel wheeled her horse. “Pa! Quick! Cut the fence!” she shouted.
Her father stared at her with his mouth agape. “What do you mean, cut the damn fence!”
“Rane’s going after Horace. I’m afraid he’ll kill him!”
Cursing a blue streak, Roy stomped to the fence and snatched a pair of wire cutters from a man standing on the other side. With no ado, he snipped through both strands of the barrier his men had risked their lives to protect.
Angel didn’t hesitate. She walked her horse through the opening and waded across the creek.
“Hey, you wait up there!” her father called after her.
Up on dry ground, she flicked her reins against the mare’s flanks and headed south, onto Hacienda range.
****
The sun had set by the time Angel rode her horse through the outer gate of the Hacienda. Before her, the house’s massive front door stood open. She leaped from the saddle and raced up the steps. She heard her father’s shout and turned to see him careen through the front gate, hard on her heels, but she didn’t wait.
Inside, the cavernous foyer held the utter stillness of a place long deserted. The sconces, hung on brackets along the stone walls, reflected only darkness.
Straight ahead, the open courtyard glowed beneath silver-blue moonlight. She turned and walked along the shadowy portico, her heels clicking loudly on the terra-cotta tiles.
Thin lamplight sliced beneath the door of Horace’s office. She placed her hand against the handle, expecting to find it locked. The door swung inward at her touch. She stepped through and then halted with a gasp trapped in her throat.
Horace sat behind his desk with t
he pallor of death on his skin. Bloody fluid seeped through his fingers where he clutched the wound low in his abdomen. Though sweat glistened on his waxen features, he appeared calm. Too calm. As though he had already accepted the inevitable.
“Come in,” he beckoned in a strange, breathless voice. “After all, what good is retribution to a man if there’s no one to witness his moment of triumph?”
Angel stared in horrified fascination while the words slipped blithely from his lips. Retribution? Moment of triumph? Had he truly gone mad? She caught a flicker of movement near a window. Cold fear crept through her when Rane stepped from the darkness.
Gone was the cool, self-composed man she knew. Some inner turmoil transformed him, ravaged his handsome features until he looked older than his years. As he walked nearer, his obsidian eyes blazed. Open windows to the violent emotions working at him from within.
“You should not have come, Angel,” he said.
When he stepped past her, into the light, Horace lifted his right hand—hidden until that moment behind the desk—and revealed the Colt he’d been hiding. The end of the barrel followed Rane’s movements.
The thick, dead air swirled against Angel’s exposed skin, disturbed by her father’s passage as he silently eased in beside her.
“Put that damn gun away,” he ordered with quiet authority.
Horace gave no sign that he heard. “Come in, Roy. The more the merrier. Now I have two of you to bear witness when I shoot this intruder.”
The words sent more ice dripping through Angel’s veins.
“If you shoot him, I’ll swear it was cold-blooded murder,” Roy said.
Horace twitched a shoulder as if he meant to shrug and couldn’t complete the motion. “It makes no difference. I won’t be around to see the consequences.”
Rane dared another step toward the desk. “That’s right. You’re dying, old man. So why not make it easier on yourself and confess your sins.”
“Confess my sins? To you?” Horace’s chuckle held a brittle edge. “While I’m sure you know much about sin, you’re no priest.”
A satiric smile twisted Rane’s lips. “No, I’m no priest. But only you can say exactly who and what I am.”
“Gotten desperate now, haven’t you?”
“Confess it,” Rane hissed. “This may be the last thing you do, so why not make it an honorable act.”
“Easy, boy,” Roy cautioned. “Can’t you see he’s been gut-shot.”
A muscle in Rane’s jaw bunched. “I only wish it were my bullet in him.”
“If you mean that, go ahead and do it now!” Horace taunted. “Go on. Pull it! You know you can beat me. Put me out of my misery. You’ll be doing me a favor.”
Rane’s hawkish gaze narrowed. “Not yet,” he bit out. “You know why I’m here, viejo. Before you die, I want to hear you say the words.”
Though horrified, Angel hung on every nuance of the exchange with nerve-shattering vigilance. What sort of secret could Horace know that Rane would risk so much to hear him confess it? Was this the “something” he’d tried to extort from Horace when he’d taken her hostage? Had he risked his life, and hers, for nothing more than mere words?
For a long moment, nothing but thick malevolence filled the muffled silence while the two men eyed each other across the few feet of space separating them.
“Say it!” Rane hissed again.
Horace slumped lower in the chair, as if the last vestige of stubborn pride had drained from his body and left him tired and defeated. “Rane Mantorres is my son.”
Roy cocked his head as if he hadn’t heard correctly. And, truth be told, Angel didn’t trust her own ears just then.
“Come again?” Roy blurted.
“I said, this misfit is my son,” Horace stated with new strength.
Stunned, Angel’s thoughts tumbled into chaos.
“Shit!” Roy exclaimed. “Why the hell didn’t you say so before now?”
Horace appeared incredulous. “Claim a bastard, sired on a lowborn peasant as my son! Can you even imagine the repercussions of that?”
“Repercussions,” Rane echoed on a caustic note. “In other words, his wife and her family wouldn’t have taken the news very well. Francine might have tossed him out of the plush nest she’d paid for here.”
He edged closer, the blue vein throbbing at his temple visible even in the poor lighting. He was beyond caution, beyond care. “Tell them the rest of it!” he demanded.
Horace set his jaw at a stubborn angle.
Looking from one to the other, Angel marveled at the similarities between the two men. The aquiline nose, the natural curve that tilted the outer corners of their lips. Easy now to see where Rane had acquired his lordly bearing. He had unconsciously emulated the mannerisms of his father. Why hadn’t she noticed these things before?
“From your own lips, you speak of retribution,” Rane continued. “So, tell them! Tell them how you got my mother with another of your bastards!”
Angel’s father cursed under his breath.
“Don’t interfere,” she whispered.
While her heart shattered at the sight of the raw pain that ravaged Rane before her eyes, she knew there was still a chance. If he could get it all out in the open, air the past at long last, the terrible scars he carried might yet heal.
“He got her pregnant again,” Rane said. His voice had softened to the deceptively mild tones she knew so well. “Only this time, something was wrong. This time, she got sick—so sick she could no longer work. And when the patron’s wife realized that one of her servants was falling down on the job, she very quickly righted the situation. She ordered my mother off the property.” His blazing eyes narrowed to mere slits that burned into Horace. “Do you remember, patron?”
The question met with stony silence.
“Damn you, do you remember!”
The unexpected violence in Rane’s plea nearly brought Angel out of her skin. She realized, until that moment, she’d never truly heard him raise his voice.
“I came to you, begged you on my knees to help her. Do you remember what you said to me? ‘Run along, boy. There’s nothing I can do.’”
“There wasn’t anything I could do,” Horace said at last. The way his breath heaved faster and the hard dip of his brows betrayed that his son had finally touched a nerve. “I couldn’t make special concessions for one insignificant servant. Francine would have questioned it.”
“And you couldn’t have her asking questions, could you?” Rane retorted. “She might have uncovered your nasty little secret and learned about Maria Mantorres being your mistress all those many years.”
Angel had seen Rane in more than one dire predicament, had seen him snuff out life and nearly lose his own. Even in those very desperate circumstances, she had never heard such raw emotion fill his voice. How many years had he lived for this night?
He seemed to run out of steam then, and his dark gaze flickered over each of them before he tilted back his head and released a long, sighing breath. Relief? Sorrow?
“So, what did happen to Maria?” Horace asked. “Since you’ve accused me of her death, I think I have a right to know.”
When Rane looked at Horace again, the brightness shimmering in his eyes shredded Angel’s heart.
He swallowed, sending his Adam’s apple gliding beneath the skin. “I tried to take her back to Mexico, to her village. She died before we got there. She bled to death on the bank of a creek.” His dark, haunted gaze touched on Angel for a brief instant. “That’s where I buried her,” he concluded.
In her mind’s eye, Angel again saw that small grove of cottonwoods near Rane’s adobe, and him standing reverently beside a narrow grave with his hat in his hands.
Horace expelled a harsh breath into sudden stillness. “Well, now you’ve got what you always wanted. I’ve confessed.” Very deliberately, he placed the Colt in his hand on top of the desk. “So, go ahead,” he said. “Finish what you came here to do. You’ve waited for i
t a long time.”
As Rane stared at the old man before him, Angel could almost see him drawing deep within himself, summoning his last shreds of inner strength. Instead of blazing with hatred, his eyes grew cold and impassive.
“No,” he said with calm finality. “That would make it easy for you...Papá. You’ll get no mercy bullet from me. Dying is one thing you’ll have to do on your own.”
Rane turned and started for the door.
Roy stepped into his path. “Don’t leave just yet, Mantorres. This ain’t over.”
“As far as I’m concerned, it is.”
“You just stay put,” Roy ordered. He headed for the desk. “Let’s have a look at that wound, Horace.”
Angel reached out and clutched onto the back of a chair, suddenly feeling as if she might fall without the support. The upheaval of the past thirty minutes was finally taking its toll. She sat quickly and pressed her hands between her knees to try and control their trembling. Rane was Horace Lundy’s son.
Roy knelt beside Horace’s chair and pried his hand away from his stomach. After ripping apart his shirt, Roy examined the wound. When he lifted his head again, grim acceptance carved deeper grooves into his leathery face.
“It don’t look good, Horace. Not good atall. There may not be much time, so why not do the right thing?”
Horace’s craggy brows peaked. “Surely you don’t expect me—”
“I surely do,” Roy said. “You ain’t got nobody else, so who’s it gonna hurt?”
Rane stood leaning against the doorframe, his back turned to the two men, ignoring them, to all appearances. However, Angel was aware that something extraordinary was taking place. Her father pulled paper, pen, and an ink well from a drawer and placed them on the smooth surface in front of Horace.
“Just do it,” Roy urged.
Grimacing with pain, Horace leaned forward, picked up the pen and dipped it. After a long moment’s hesitation, he started writing. The scratch of the pen moving across the paper grated through the silence for several minutes, then finally stopped. Horace looked up at her father and handed him the quill. “There. If you like, I can sign it in blood.”
Ignoring the remark, Roy leaned over the desk and added something to the page Horace had written.
Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance) Page 23