The smile faded as memories stirred of a past that could never be recaptured. Years ago, Garrett Sinclair had taken his wife and daughters camping in the wilderness often. After they had established a base camp, he'd hunt venison while Morgana, Delilah and Eve fished. Delilah remembered cleaning fish, smoking and preserving them until the barrels were full enough to supplement their larder for another winter. It had been hard work, and yet it had been a time full of laughter and promise.
Those carefree days had ended with her mother's death when she was just fifteen, and Eve thirteen.
It had taken over a year for Garrett Sinclair to begin to live again after losing Morgana. And even when he had, and had begun to take his daughters on wilderness treks again, their times together had never been quite as joyful as they once had. In the days after her mother's death, her father had focused more on instruction than on enjoyment. Although always a stern taskmaster, he'd also been kind, invariably offering praise or encouragement when it was due. He'd seemed determined that his daughters learn how to take care of themselves. Looking back, it seemed to Delilah almost as though he'd known he wouldn't be around to protect them much longer.
Lord how she still missed him.
The swipe of a moist doggy tongue across her nose suddenly tugged her from her melancholy thoughts. She was carrying Poopsy in a saddlebag over her shoulder at the moment, and the little dog, no doubt sensing the abrupt despondent direction of her mistress's mood, had decided that she had to do something about it quickly. Now, she curled her upper lip and offered Delilah one of her most engaging smiles.
With a small hitching laugh, Delilah returned the smile and reached up to scratch gently behind Poopsy's left ear. "You're right, Poochie. Today is no time for thinking of things best left in the past.” Poopsy, her mission accomplished, turned her head to gaze around from this new vantage point with glistening black eyes, her small pink tongue lolling from her mouth as she panted with excitement.
Delilah was just about to cross the street toward the livery when the stable's wide double doors opened and a buckboard wagon pulled by a familiar team of bay horses rolled into view. "Mornin' ma'am," Ronnie Didsworth shouted without heed for those who still lay abed on this fine morning. Then he pulled the wagon to a halt while somebody behind the conveyance—Mr. Metter perhaps?—loaded something onto it.
Delilah waved, but waited until she'd closed the distance between herself and the wagon before returning his greeting. "Good morning, Mr. Didsworth," she said just as Didsworth climbed down to move around the wagon and do some rearranging of its contents. Then, she smiled at his son who, for the return trip, was seated on the wooden plank seat. "Good morning Master Tyler Didsworth."
The boy's eyes widened with pleasure at her very proper greeting. "G'mornin' ma'am," he returned as he reached one hand to tip a hat that was not in place. His straw-colored hair, still uncombed after his night's sleep, stuck up in odd directions. Faced with the presence of a lady, he hastily raked it with his fingers before reaching behind himself in blind search of the misplaced hat which, once found, was immediately plunked on his head. That accomplished, he looked back at Delilah. "Whatcha doin' up so early?" he asked, with the honest curiosity of youth.
Her smile widened. "I'm going to visit my sister. I haven't seen her in a long time, and I'm very excited."
"Oh.” He looked vaguely disappointed by her response. "I got sisters, but I see 'em all the time.” He shrugged. "Sometimes I wish I didn't.” He glanced back at his father. "Pa has a sister too, but we ain't seen her in a long time."
"That's unfortunate."
The boy shrugged. "It don't make no never mind to me. Truth be told, she's kinda uppity, if'n you know what I mean."
"Yes, I believe I do."
At that moment, Didsworth shook hands with Metter in farewell and climbed up onto the buckboard seat once more. "Well, I guess we'll be off. Ma'am, you just have Mrs. Francis down at the telegraph get hold of me whenever you'll be wantin' a lift back to Butte City. You hear?"
"I do, sir. Thank you.” With a nod of acknowledgement, Didsworth clucked to the horses, and the wagon began to roll. "Have a safe trip," Delilah called in their wake.
Both Didsworths raised their hands in farewell. As the morning once again regained its quiet, Delilah found herself scanning the area, seeking the tall muscular form belonging to Sheriff Chambers. He was nowhere in sight.
Dismissing as mere loneliness the faint surge of disappointment she felt, Delilah turned toward the stable-master, who'd moved forward to stand at her side. "Is the Appaloosa ready, Mr. Metter?"
He nodded. "Yes, ma'am. His name's Jackpot.” With a grin, he added, "I guess you'll be appreciatin' that more 'n most.” It was obvious that either Sheriff Chambers or the local grapevine had made him aware of Delilah's occupation.
She smiled without comment. "May I see him?"
The livery owner led her into the warm, musty-smelling stable, indicating a stall about half way down on the left. "Here he is."
Jackpot's head hung over the gate studying them with a bright-eyed curious gaze. A good sign. "Can you bring him out please, so that I can get a good look at him?” Another of the many things she'd learned from her daddy was the value of a reliable horse.
"Sure thing.” Metter removed a halter from a near-by hook and slipped it over the gelding's head with ease. A moment later, he opened the stall and led the animal out into the open.
Delilah studied Jackpot. He had good lines, strong hind-quarters and a nicely arched neck. There was no sign of lameness when he walked. She ran her hands over him. The muscles were smooth and in good shape. There were no saddle sores or scars to denote poor treatment. Bending, she lifted his hooves and noted that the shoes were in good shape, the hooves themselves well-trimmed. There were no imbedded stones which would bring the horse up lame as he began to move.
"You know horses, do you?" asked Metter.
"Yes. . . yes, I do," Delilah acknowledged absently without offering the explanation she knew he wanted. Satisfied, she gave the animal a pat on the rump. "He's a good-looking animal. What's the price?"
Metter named a sum. "That's for horse, saddle and tack since you don't got yer own."
Delilah considered. It seemed reasonable. "And how much will you refund when I'm finished with him?" she asked. She had never liked surprises. They haggled a moment more and then, content with the deal, Delilah saddled Jackpot. While Metter moved about his business, she settled her bedroll, canteen and the saddlebags containing Poopsy and a change of clothing into place.
She was just leading the horse outside in preparation for mounting when Metter shouted, "Mrs. Sterne?"
She turned. "Yes?"
He came forward in a fast walk. "I blame near forgot to tell you that the sheriff said he'd catch up with you on the road. He had to ride out 'fore dawn this mornin'.” Metter frowned. "There was more trouble last night. Some of Joshua Kane's men surprised them rustlers, and Jamie Cox got hisself shot right outa his saddle. He was a damn good hand too, if you'll pardon me for swearin' ma'am."
"Of course, Mr. Metter. Is he. . . deceased then?"
Metter nodded. "Deader 'n a doornail.” He shook his head sadly. "What a waste.” Then taking a deep breath he returned to the message at hand. "Anyways, ma'am, the sheriff asked me to tell ya to just stay on the road and be careful until he can join ya. Okay?"
Delilah nodded and mounted. "I'm always careful, Mr. Metter. However, I do thank you for the message."
"Yer welcome, ma'am."
Metter stared after the straight-backed young widow as she rode out of town. Somehow he didn't doubt her words. Not one bit. If he was a betting man, he'd bet there was more to Mrs. Sterne than met the eye. Way more. He sent a prayer of thanks winging heavenward that he had a good, solid woman waiting for him at home who was exactly what she seemed to be. Then, with a shake of his head, he dismissed the young widow from his mind and returned to his barn. There were stalls to muck out and halters to mend.
* * *
Samson studied the area in which he'd lost the trail. Nothing. Not the scuff of a shod hoof on stone. Not a broken twig. Not a single print. He'd lost them.
How could three men on horseback simply disappear? It didn't make sense.
Samson scanned the surrounding rocky bluffs for the umpteenth time. What was he missing?
But he saw nothing.
With a frown, he conceded defeat for the moment. Checking the position of the morning sun, he decided it was time to be on his way. He wanted to be back in Red Rock by the end of the day, and he had a goodly distance to go yet to get to the Lazy M. The Lazy M, like a number of other ranches in the vicinity, had been losing cattle to rustlers. And Carter McTaggert had demanded to see Sheriff Chambers about the latest theft. With the herds so seriously depleted after the winter just past, no one could afford the loss. Not even McTaggert, who up until this spring had been one of the area’s most affluent and tyrannical ranchers. Of course, he still tended to be tyrannical. It was just the affluent part that had changed a mite.
But there was another reason Samson was anxious to be moving too. And that reason came in the form of a pretty young black-haired widow who was travelling his way.
Damn! The woman infuriated and enticed him at the same time.
With a cluck of his tongue, Samson set his horse, Goliath, into motion and did his best to ignore the sense of exhilaration invoked by the thought of once again meeting Mrs. Delilah Sterne. But, as his memory plagued him with a vision of how she'd looked the previous evening in the Lucky Strike, he discovered that ignoring his anticipation at seeing her again was not an easy thing to do.
He'd been surprised to see her still in her high-necked, concealing widow's garb. And yet, as the evening progressed, it became quite evident that she'd not needed the artifice he'd expected. Delilah Sterne, quite simply, had made the saloon her parlor. She'd had a calming influence on the men gathered there, and no one present would have ever suggested that Mrs. Sterne was anything other than a lady.
She was simply a lady who also happened to be a gambler.
And that was where the problem lay. He could not abide gamblers. Yet he couldn't deny the fact that he found Delilah Sterne damnably attractive. How did he reconcile the one with the other?
At that moment, Goliath went skittish on him, pulling at the reins and chomping at the bit as he side-stepped on the rocky mountain trail. Fighting to control the draft-size horse, Samson's attention returned to the present with a snap as he scanned the area, searching for the reason behind the big animal's distress.
The screaming roar of a mountain lion pierced his consciousness at the same instant that a streak of tawny fur launched itself toward him from a ledge above. There was no time to spur Goliath into motion. No time to draw his gun. No time for anything more than twisting to meet the attack as he kicked his feet free of the stirrups so that he could roll with the force of the big cat's strike.
And then he hit the ground with a couple of hundred pounds of raging, screaming wildcat upon him. Samson was desperate. Even as big as he was, a seething, savage cougar bent on his demise offered a significant danger.
Ignoring the painful but less-life-threatening damage the beast's claws inflicted as they raked his chest and arms, Samson wrapped his fingers around its neck and concentrated on keeping its deadly fangs away from his throat.
Something was wrong here. Mountain lions rarely attacked people, and almost never one on horseback. But the instant Sam saw the blood-flecked foam edging the snarling creature's mouth, he knew the reason for its assault.
Rabies.
His heart almost stopped.
He felt the cat's warm breath on his face as he stared into wild, hate-filled golden-green eyes. Tightening his grasp, he felt the corded muscle in the neck beneath his fingers, the heaviness of the animal's body upon him, and the heat of its fur against his bare forearms. And he saw the exact moment that the lion realized the tables had been turned. Yet still it fought on, the unreasoning madness induced by the rabies eradicating any instinct for self-preservation and survival.
Had the animal been healthy, Samson would have hesitated to kill it. Most cougars would have run as soon as he'd begun to fight back. They preferred to kill swiftly, taking their prey by surprise. But this animal made the choice for him. It would not run.
Altering the grip of his fingers slightly, he twisted the big cat's neck. Then, with a final jerk, he snapped its vertebrae. As the coiled tension faded from the beast's body, Samson thrust its carcass aside and sat up.
He immediately jerked his shredded shirt from his body and began a diligent search for any hint of a bite that had broken the skin. He had seen a man die from rabies once, and he'd sworn that he'd put a gun to his head and pull the trigger before he'd let himself die like that.
No bites. Nothing. And he didn't think any of the animal's disease-tainted slobber had fallen onto the scratches inflicted by its claws. He was winded and scratched up pretty good, and the left thigh of his denims had been shredded, but otherwise he was all right.
Closing his eyes briefly, he exhaled in relief. Then he scanned the rocky slopes for his horse. Goliath was nowhere to be seen. The horse had been well-trained, however, and Samson knew he wouldn't have gone far. Putting his fingers to his lips, he released a series of piercing whistles, then leaned back to catch his breath while he waited.
Moments later, his sweat-flecked mount came clopping up the trail. If a horse could look sheepish, Goliath did. Still, he stopped a healthy distance away from the corpse of the lion. Samson rose, wincing as the scratches began to bother him, and discovered a few new aches and pains as well. Somehow, he seemed to have hurt his thigh. Probably when he'd been propelled out of the saddle. Limping over to his hat, which had been knocked off in the struggle, he slapped the dust from it and put it back on. Then he turned to Goliath.
The horse's head hung nearly to his knees. Goliath always seemed so ashamed of himself in the aftermath of an incident when horse instinct took over that Sam thought the animal must be part human. "It's okay, boy," he soothed as he stroked Goliath's sweaty neck. "It's okay."
Reassured, Goliath lifted his head and tugged affectionately with his lips at the shirt Samson held in his hands. There wasn't much left of the garment. The fabric had been cut to ribbons by the cougar's sharp claws.
Opening his saddle bag, Samson removed the blue chambray shirt that he always carried as a spare and considered. He needed to do something to stop the bleeding before putting on his clean shirt, or he'd simply have two ruined shirts. He'd bind the wounds with his torn shirt and hope that would suffice.
* * *
Delilah had been on the trail, more generously termed a road, for a couple of hours, and there was one thing she could now say with certainty. Montana territory contained some of the most beautiful country she'd ever seen. Majestic was the only word she could find to describe it. From its enormous blue sky to its distant snowy mountain peaks, it was an endless vista of natural beauty. She saw deep green forests, valleys bright with new grass and spring flowers, and colorful rocky crags striated with multi-hued stone. She saw bighorn sheep, bald eagles, and a herd of deer. A gaggle of Canada geese, a pair of bluebirds, and a porcupine. At every turn, as each new vista became visible, she gasped anew at some glorious sight.
She was observing a trickle of glacial mountain water that seemed to ooze from a rock face next to the road when suddenly she heard the sound of a horse approaching. Glancing over her shoulder, she immediately recognized the sheriff's form for, even at a distance, he looked enormous. After waging a brief internal struggle, Delilah pulled up and politely waited for him to join her, though she found herself averting her eyes as he drew closer. Knowing the effect that his strange steely-eyed gaze had on her, the last thing she wanted to do was meet his eyes.
"Good morning, Sheriff," she said, barely sparing him a glance, as he drew abreast of her.
"Ma'am.” He greeted her
with a nod.
Did his voice seem somehow tight? "Did you catch the rustlers?"
"No, ma'am. Lost the trail."
Delilah set Jackpot into motion and the sheriff followed suit with his huge black horse. Yes, there was some new aspect to his voice, but she was uncertain what it was. "That's unfortunate.” Grief perhaps? "Did you know Mr. Cox well?"
"Just in passing, ma'am."
"Is something wrong, Sheriff Chambers?"
Silence. Then, "Nothing you should concern yourself about, ma'am."
Delilah's lips tightened. A condescending male response if she'd ever heard one. "I assure you, Sheriff, that I am quite capable of understanding the intricacies of law enforcement. My father was a bounty hunter."
No response. Delilah risked a glance in his direction. Did he seem paler than he had earlier?
"I'm afraid you've lost me, Mrs. Sterne," he said as he met her gaze. "Were we talking law enforcement?"
Delilah quickly looked away. "I believe so, Sheriff. Unless whatever is bothering you has nothing to do with your profession."
"Actually it doesn't, ma'am."
"Then, pray tell, what does it have to do with?"
Silence.
Delilah looked over at him to see that he was eyeing her consideringly. This time his dark eyes caught hers and held. Her heart fluttered, robbing her of the ability to breathe properly. Desperately, she sought the thread of their conversation. "Well?" she prodded.
"Well what, ma'am?"
"Are you going to tell me what is bothering you, or not?” She frowned. He definitely looked a bit pale beneath his tan. "You don't look well, sir. Are you ill?"
He eyed her for a moment and then appeared to come to a decision. "In a manner of speaking, ma'am.” He mopped his brow. "I got jumped by a rabid cougar back there."
"Jumped by a . . . ," Delilah broke off as the words sank in. "Good heavens! Were you bitten?"
He shook his head. "Scratched up pretty good, but not bitten."
Beyond Betrayal Page 7