Frontier Lady (Lone Star Legacy Book #1)

by Judith Pella

  Griff did not have to go far to find his erstwhile outlaw accomplice. Miller, having heard some of what happened, was storming toward the cabin to vent his own anger.

  “I told you something like this was gonna happen!” Miller yelled. “I always said you was a lily-livered fool, Griff, an’ now there ain’t no doubt about it!”

  Before Griff could respond, Deborah spoke up. “It’s my fault he got away, not Griff’s,” she said. “Griff had nothing to do with it. I let him go because you were planning to kill him.”

  “Me? Why, you lying, murdering little tramp!” As Sid spat out his accusations, he quickly covered the short distance between him and Deborah, punctuating his words with a stinging slap across her face.

  The force of the blow was enough to jar her head roughly, but she was accustomed to such abuse and held her footing, even though the pain brought tears to her eyes. She made no other acquiescence to the pain and stared at him as if she defied him to strike her again. And no doubt he would have if Griff had not intervened.

  “Leave the woman alone!” he ordered, stepping between Sid and Deborah. “Your problem’s with me, Sid, and no one else.”

  “She is the problem,” retorted Miller. “She’s got you wrapped around her finger. Maybe she ought to be the boss of the outfit. Maybe she’s got more guts than you!”

  “Don’t push me, Sid! I ain’t got much more patience left,” growled Griff.

  “I’m shaking in my boots.” Sid’s coarse, ugly face twisted with mocking fear. “I said before, if your plan with the Ranger blew up, I was gonna take over.”

  “Ha, ha! That’s a real laugh.” Griff’s steely gaze did not change. If he was worried, Deborah could not tell. “You couldn’t take over a henhouse.”

  “Maybe it’s about time we found out.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m calling you out, Griff!”

  This brought a mixed reaction from the men who had gathered around the scene. Most didn’t particularly like Sid, but it had always been the unspoken policy among them that the strongest man would lead them. If Sid was tough enough to stand up to Griff, and if he was fast enough to beat him, then he ought to lead. Some recalled a few years back when Griff had called out Monty Parker. It had been a fistfight then, and Monty, a muscular hulk of a man, outweighed Griff by fifty pounds and towered over him several inches. Griff laid Monty flat in less than ten minutes, and even Monty had conceded to Griff’s superiority, staying with the gang despite his defeat because he admired Griff’s courage. Monty had been caught rustling some of Caleb Stoner’s cattle and, with Griff’s best friend, had been hanged.

  Somehow, though, even the most optimistic among the gang did not believe this present contest of strength would end as amiably as it had with Monty. Sid was mean and ornery, and there had always been bad blood between him and Griff. If it hadn’t been this incident with Killion, it would have been something else. They had nearly come to blows on the recent job over a minor dispute. It was seemingly destined from the beginning for their relationship to end in violence.

  When Griff answered Sid’s challenge, all anger was gone from his voice. But his tone was lethal.

  “I’m gonna give you one chance to back down, Sid, and walk away from here alive. Just start walking, and I don’t never want to see your face again.”

  Sid laughed. “I ain’t afraid of you, McCulloch.”

  “Okay,” said Griff coolly, “name your game.”

  “Six-guns.”

  “You sure about that? I’ve been known to be pretty fast.”

  “Prove it.”

  “This is foolishness!” pleaded Deborah.

  “Back away, Mrs. Stoner,” said Griff. “This ain’t got nothing to do with you anymore.” Then he gazed at Sid as he took his Colt from his holster, spun the chamber to assure that it was loaded, and slipped it back in. “I’m ready, Sid.”

  They moved out into the middle of the yard while Deborah, helpless to stop the inevitable, moved toward the cabin. The other men scattered to safer positions.

  “Mitch,” said Griff, “count for us. We want this fair and square.”

  Then Sid and Griff began pacing away from each other. They had agreed to a ten-count.

  Deborah watched tensely as Mitch counted off. One … two … three …. She knew what would become of her should Griff lose the gunfight. She silently counted along. Seven … eight … nine …

  She did not know why her eyes shifted toward Sid at that moment. An instant later, and it would have been too late, but as it happened, she was in time to see Miller begin his move on the count of nine, his hand touching his gun as his body turned.

  “Griff!” she screamed.

  She covered her eyes, unable to watch the outcome as two shots in quick succession exploded in the still air. Slowly she removed her hands from her face, but only when she saw Sid’s prostrate form did she let out her held breath in a relieved gasp.

  “You weren’t worried, now, were you, ma’am?” said Griff with a grin. He was not even flustered. He slipped his Colt into his holster. “I never figured Sid would make it all ten counts.”

  “You knew?”

  “Just an educated guess, but thanks for the warning all the same. It helped, and I owe you one.”

  He turned his attention to the men. Some had cheered at his victory, especially touting Griff’s skill in being able to outdraw someone even when the other man had a head start. But a few others were stunned. They had fully expected Sid to be their new leader by now, and they were suddenly very worried about their friendly association with Miller. It was to these that Griff addressed his next words.

  “Anybody else thinking ‘bout leading this gang?” he challenged. “What about you, Pablo? You think maybe you’re faster than me?”

  “No, Señor Griff, I am content,” said the Mexican humbly.

  “Good. Now that we got that cleared up, we got work to do.” He strode to where several of his men were bent over Sid. Shaking his head with regret, he added, “He woulda been a good man if he weren’t so ornery. Guess we better bury him. Then we gotta get some shut-eye, boys. We gotta hightail it outta here at first light.”

  Deborah watched the scene, shocked at how quickly and casually everyone put the terrible incident behind them and went about their business. Three or four men carried off Sid’s body, while a few others went to tend the horses that had been hurriedly deserted when the altercation had begun. No one seemed disturbed that one of their number had died. And Griff showed no remorse at the fact that he had just killed a man. Was this, then, the wild West, where violence and death were so common they hardly broke up the established routine?

  She had begun to have a taste of this in Stoner’s Crossing, but she had naively hoped it might be isolated to the oppressive, calculating Stoner clan. Were these the attributes one must acquire to survive in this land? Was Leonard Stoner merely a product of a harsh, cold society? Would she also have to resort to violence in order to survive? The idea was frightening, but each day she lived in the West she became more and more certain it might be as inevitable as the showdown between Griff and Sid.

  Griff noted the perplexed frown she wore and sidled up to her. “Ma’am, is there something wrong with you?”

  “No one seems to care that a man has just died.”

  “No sense tearing your hair out over something we can’t do nothing about no more.”

  He was so matter-of-fact about it. She wondered if she could ever respond in the same way to such things.

  Griff continued. “Here in the West, ma’am, there usually ain’t time to mourn your dead proper-like. Not that I’d be likely to grieve much for a varmint like Sid, but too often the business of staying alive don’t give you no time for luxuries like mourning.” He paused, seemed about to leave, then stopped and turned back to Deborah. “I’m sorry you had to witness this business, Mrs. Stoner. It weren’t right for a lady to be present. But …” He hesitated briefly before for
ging ahead. “Well, ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re mighty squeamish for a woman who shot her own husband.”

  She knew he was fishing for information, for some confession or denial of her guilt. He had always been curious. But she did not yet want to think about what had happened three months ago in Stoner’s Crossing.

  “Whether or not I killed my husband,” she answered, “it wouldn’t necessarily mean I am a cold-blooded killer.”

  “And neither am I, ma’am. Sometimes you just gotta do what has to be done.”

  “Yes … I suppose so.”

  “Well, Mrs. Stoner, I reckon I best get my horse tended. If you don’t mind and feel up to it, the boys and I’d appreciate if you’d fix a hot meal for us. We had a long ride today.”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’ll be ready to ride out in the morning?”

  “I still think Mr. Killion will keep his word.”

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” Griff answered. “’Course, if you want to stay behind, that’s your privilege.”

  A long, arduous horseback ride at her stage of pregnancy was not something she looked forward to, but she knew she was not yet ready to survive alone.

  Would she ever be?

  19

  At least Sid Miller’s death released a horse for Deborah to ride alone. Yet even as the first light of dawn pierced the cabin window and the men outside were starting to stir, Deborah had not yet fully resolved to join the outlaws in their hurried retreat.

  She had received much needed rest and respite here in the cabin and could not easily give it up. She had also counted on the settlements downriver to aid her during her time of confinement. If she went with Griff, she would again be thrust into an uncertain—and most likely dangerous—future. But could she truly count on Killion’s word? He was little more than a stranger and a confessed lawman. All his religious prattle might well be a cover, a “smoke screen,” as Griff had suggested. If Killion brought the law back to the cabin and they found her here, alone or otherwise, there could be no doubt of her fate. Most certainly she would go back to jail, even if her advanced pregnancy spared her the gallows. That was a fate she was no longer resigned to accept.

  But if Killion could be trusted, it might mean she’d be able to finish the term of her pregnancy in the secluded peace of the wilderness cabin. Of course, neither Griff nor any of his men would be available to fetch help from the settlements when her time came.

  So, finally realizing that the risks of remaining outweighed the risks of leaving with the outlaws, Deborah determined to join them. Sid’s horse was an added affirmation of her decision. Thus, before the pink and orange of dawn had faded from the overcast sky, the party of eight riders departed the isolated clearing surrounding the little cabin. Deborah cast only a brief backward glance. This was no time for wistful attachments.

  The air was chilly that morning and smelled of impending rain. Deborah was thankful again to Sid for the use of his sheepskin-lined leather coat, which she now hugged close to her body. The coat was oversized, easily accommodating her expanding waist, but it had a foul odor that made her nauseous. She knew, however, that the time would come when its warmth would surpass that inconvenience. Already summer was a distant memory, and winter lay immediately in their future. She had no idea where Griff was leading them or how long they’d be traveling, but it was very likely winter could catch them on the trail.

  They continued west until a suitable place for crossing a tributary of the Red River presented itself, then struck out north across the plains. They were in the Indian Territory now, each mile taking them farther and farther from Texas. Deborah never thought it possible that she could be so far removed from the Stoner Ranch. Now she was many days’ journey from it, from that nightmarish world that had held her captive for so long. Had Caleb Stoner given up on her after all this time? As much as she would have liked to believe it, she knew otherwise. Caleb was not the sort to relent easily. In fact, Deborah fully expected to live the rest of her life under the shadow of his vengeance. No matter where she went or what she became, she would always have to take care that he did not find her. She was hundreds of miles from Stoner’s Crossing, but was that even far enough?

  Caleb’s whole life had been his son—his eldest son. If such a man could take joy in anything, it was in the promise that this beloved son would carry on his name and identity. He would search the depths of hell itself to avenge that son’s murder; and the grim irony that now his only heirs were the half-breed sons he disdained would feed his hate all the more.

  For the first time in a long while, Deborah thought about Laban. He hated all of them, including herself for her part in Jacob’s departure. But now Laban stood a good chance of being heir to the Stoner kingdom. Jacob would never return; he had done the only thing he possibly could. During her trial, Deborah had harbored a flimsy hope he might come to her rescue … but of course, that would have served no good but to get them both killed. Jacob was gone forever, and though she cared for him and thought of him as a friend, she knew her feelings went no deeper. She was glad he had escaped. Only an occasional gnawing fear—that he had stayed away from the trial because he was dead—disturbed this hopeful wish. If that were so, or if he simply never returned, then Laban would definitely inherit Caleb’s wealth, and that was perhaps the greatest irony.

  Deborah found a small comfort in the fact that Caleb would end his days knowing his heritage would pass to an heir who despised him. Odd, how the only one to benefit from the tragedies of the last two years was quiet, sullen, withdrawn Laban. Well, Deborah was happy for him; he deserved something for all his years of pain.

  Riding at a fast pace, the travelers struck the Washita River in a day and a half and crossed it under stormy skies. It rained all that day after the crossing, and foul weather threatened on the third day with cold temperatures and biting winds. They camped early that day when they happened to find a campsite as well-secluded from the inclement weather as they were likely to find on the open plains. Griff built a fire and made coffee, not caring about alerting Indians. Anyway, he said, the Indians were most likely wintering and not looking for a fight. But he set two lookouts just to be sure.

  Mitch took first watch and found a position southeast of the camp, on a little rise that afforded a good view of the trail south of the river. He was leaning back against a rock, waiting for someone to bring him a hot cup of coffee, when he saw the movement way off in the distance. He shot to attention. But even with his good vision, the riders were too distant to reveal details. He was certain of only one thing: they weren’t Indians. Wasting no more time with speculation, he raced back to camp.

  “Riders approaching from the south!” he exclaimed as Griff was pouring his first cup of coffee.

  Griff held the pot in midair. “Riders? Indians?”

  “Ain’t Indians, that’s for sure. It’s white men; I can tell from how they ride.”

  “Soldiers?”

  “Nope. I’d a been able to tell the uniforms. There’s a good dozen of ’em, though, and they’re moving fast.”

  Griff jumped up, took a brief, wistful look at his coffee, then dumped it on the fire along with what remained in the pot. Dousing the fire, however, was probably a futile effort.

  “It’s gotta be the law riding like that,” he said. “Looks like they finally caught up with us.”

  “You don’t think it was Killion?” asked Mitch.

  Before answering, Griff inadvertently glanced at Deborah; then he gave her a regretful shrug. “Mighta been,” he said noncommittally. “’Course, it could be a coincidence.”

  “You need not soften the blow, Mr. McCulloch,” said Deborah acidly. “I was wrong, and I am sorry. I only hope I haven’t brought trouble upon all of us.”

  “We ain’t done for yet,” said Griff. “There’s still a chance we can outride them.” He didn’t add unless they’re Texas Rangers, but that’s what he thought. His tone remained optimistic. “Let’s moun
t up. We got a couple more hours of daylight to burn.”

  They covered a lot of ground in that time and continued even after sunset as long as the ground was fairly level and the trail clear. Longjim, a seasoned mountain man who had lived some years with the Crow Indians, knew this country well and made a good guide, but even he had to stop when thick clouds obscured the light of the half-moon. They pitched a cold, dismal camp that night, made even more so by the eerie howling of wolves. It made Deborah shiver, and she cast a worried glance at Griff. He assured her he had never known a wolf to attack a man unprovoked, but he set an extra guard around the horses. They slept little, wondering if they were truly being pursued or if the riders were simply independents, outlaws like themselves, perhaps. But regardless of who it was behind them, Griff still would not chance giving away their presence. Even outlaws posed a danger, and he knew a few in particular that would be especially interested in the booty Griff’s boys carried in their saddlebags. Contrary to popular lore, there was little honor among thieves, especially in the West.

  The next morning, two hours before dawn even touched the sky, they broke camp and mounted. Deborah was sore and weary after the hard ride yesterday afternoon and could hardly face another day of the same. But Griff set an even more demanding pace that day—a pace which became nearly frenzied when they paused about an hour after crossing the Canadian River for a short rest. Griff saw their pursuers in a gorge only an hour or two behind them. Mitch said that was about how far away they had been when he first saw them.

  “They musta rode all night to keep that pace,” said Mitch.