Once a Lawman

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Once a Lawman Page 17

by Raine Cantrell

“Whatever was dragged behind a horse was bleeding.” Holding up long, thin reddish hairs, he showed them to each man, then to Logan. “What do you make of these?”

  “Horse or human. If it’s horse, could be from a roan’s mane or tail.”

  “Yeah, but look at the way the hairs curl. Don’t know many men who braid their horses’ tails or manes. Now if they were weaving a rope—”

  “A hair rope?”

  “Logan, I don’t know what else it’s from. Found them by the furrow.” Ty glanced at the other men. “Any of you know who braids rope from horsehair? Seen any of Riverton’s men with one?”

  “There was a fella over at Rosie’s saloon when I was in the other day,” Hazer said, kneeing his horse to move closer to the brothers. “A mean-looking breed. Bragged he could lasso anything with his reata. Claimed he made it himself. Didn’t ever say he worked for Riverton.”

  “Half-breed, Hazer?” Logan asked, thoughtful.

  “Sure looked like one. A little ’Pache, Mex and white. Don’t see many in these parts. Leastways I ain’t seen one in Sweetwater before this.”

  Billy Jack. The name popped into Logan’s mind and wedged deep. His gut instinct said he’d come back…I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.

  “What makes you sure they didn’t hang the man?” Phillip asked. “Those trees would be a temptation if men—”

  “I’ll look.” Ty stepped away, his head tilted back, searching the branches for any visible torn bark. He got a cold knot in his stomach thinking about Conner and a rope and Riverton’s men.

  “Hazer,” Ty called.

  “I’m already there, Ty. Don’t look like one of these was used for hanging. Not recently.”

  Shaking his head, Ty walked back and mounted. He waited for Logan to make a decision.

  He didn’t wait long.

  “We’ll split up. Ty, you take Moddy, Blue and Casey with you. Follow that rope trail. We’ll ride after the buckboard tracks. Three spaced shots means you found something. We’ll do the same.”

  Logan looked at Phillip. He gave the man points for not questioning him seven ways to Sunday. “You stay close to Hazer and, before you get your back up, understand that it’s for your protection. I don’t know what we’ll find waiting for us. You don’t know the land, and Hazer can ride it blindfolded.” Logan hesitated, then added, “That all right?”

  “You’re the man giving the orders, ride on.”

  They did, with their rifles across their thighs, eyes peeled for trouble.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A hot, stiff wind blew down through the flat, and Belinda turned her face from its furnacelike blast. She swayed on her feet, stubbornly working another strap of the buckboard’s traces free from the horse. A large pair of birds circled above her, gliding on the wind currents. She did not look at them often, fearing they were buzzards and not hawks.

  Finding Conner was her only thought. She had stopped thinking about water minutes or hours ago. She was numb to pain. Her breath sounded ragged in her ears against the utter solitude of the empty land about her.

  “Damn you!” Once again her fingers slipped from the leather, the small cuts bleeding freely. Her head fell forward and she rested it against the warm, broad animal’s side, too exhausted to cry. Drums beat in her head, at least she thought they sounded like drums. Rolling her head from side to side, she moaned as the pounding continued.

  Belinda did not know how long she stood there, staring without focus. At first, the shadow cast on the land that fell across her narrow range of vision did not penetrate her dulled senses. She thought it a mirage. She had seen a few in her travels when the heat waves danced between ground and sky. But there was something about this shadow that forced her to lift her head.

  A dark form slowly moved toward her.

  “No!” The defiant utterance was louder and more forceful in her mind than in speech. But it rallied her to yank the small derringer from the waistband of her skirt. She was not helpless. Moving proved an effort, but she managed to get to the back of the buckboard where the axle rested on the ground. It was not the best of shelter, but all she had. Crouching there, waiting with labored breath, she gave in to fear again.

  More than the thought of buzzards circling above, she had feared that someone would come back for her.

  The roan Conner rode whinnied to the placidly standing horses. It roused Conner from his stupor. He had taken a longer, circular route to avoid the creek and the men who might be hunting him. Somehow he guided the horse, always heading in the direction he’d last seen Belinda driving the buckboard.

  Despite the aches of his body, Conner sat erect in the saddle. A few times he’d come close to passing out, falling forward over the roan’s neck, instantly in agony when his cut and bleeding chest touched the saddle horn.

  Seeing the team of horses and the crazy angle of the buckboard sent a fresh surge of fear through him. He’d found something, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to ride any closer.

  A hoarse cry hovered in the air, sending Belinda to huddle against the side of the buckboard. She could not tell if it was human or animal. One of the team’s horses nickered a greeting. She cursed the Fates that had stolen the few more minutes she had needed to have a horse free. She could have been riding for safety, not cowering like a weak-kneed ninny, wondering if she would have the courage to shoot.

  The thud of something knocking against the other side of the buckboard made her hold her breath. If she was very still, if she did not breathe…her thought ended abruptly.

  The hoarse cry sounded like her name.

  Belinda was afraid to hope, that fragile feeling had taken a battering. She closed her eyes and prayed.

  The noises—creak of saddle leather, the plod of hooves—came nearer. Her prayer was, of necessity, brief. Yellow was a coward’s color, and she had never worn any shade of it well. Cocking the derringer, she gripped the wood edge with her free hand and inched her way upward to peer over the side of the buckboard.

  The sight of the lone horseman brought tears to her eyes. “Conner?” she whispered. He turned to look at her. “Oh, my sweet Lord, what did they do to you?”

  His upper body was a mass of cuts and bruises. The pants, or what was left of them on the side facing her, were shredded, and she could see more wounds on his skin. She covered her mouth with her hand to stop a scream.

  “You’re…alive.” The two words cost Conner a lot of pain. What he could see of her showed that Belinda had not fared any better than he had. Her shirtwaist, torn and filthy, hung from her shoulders, the sleeves in tatters. A bruise marred her forehead. A ragged piece of lace held her hair away from her face. She had never looked more beautiful to him. “Alive,” he murmured.

  “Of course I am. I come from good German stock, Conner.”

  “If I…if I didn’t hurt…I’d laugh.”

  “Be my guest, Kincaid. I could do with a few laughs.”

  He eyed the small gun. “Don’t…shoot.”

  “What?” She looked down at the derringer she still held and tucked it into her waistband. “I thought you were one of them coming back.”

  Ten questions popped into his mind, but the effort to ask them was beyond him at the moment.

  “Is there water in that canteen?” She thought he nodded, it was hard to tell, but she moved away from the buckboard to stand at his side and grab hold of the canteen.

  “Your hands are all—”

  “I’ve been trying to work the straps loose so I could have a horse to ride.” Belinda took a long swallow of the warm water. It was wet and she wished for a barrelful. Not knowing how long it would take to get to the Kincaid ranch, she recapped the canteen.

  “Take more.”

  “No, thank you. Would you like—”

  “No.”

  Belinda was not thinking, her need to touch him took over. She laid her head against his thigh, careful not to press his injured flesh.

  Conner felt the heat of her tears. “Don�
��t,” he whispered, forcing his hand to release the reins and touch her hair.

  With his touch came a torrent of words, telling him what had happened to her, the broken wheel, and the fear for him that had overridden all else.

  Conner hated being so helpless. He could only sit there, letting her pour out her fear. He couldn’t lift her into his arms and hold her close the way he longed to do. He couldn’t get down and press her body close to his, silencing her torrent of terror with kisses that celebrated life and mocked their escape from death. If he got down, he’d never get into the saddle again. He could feel his strength ebb by the moment.

  The sobs had quieted, the words at an end, and still Belinda remained as she was, clinging to him. “Conner,” she said in a broken, sniffling voice, “I do not want you to die.”

  “You won’t…die.”

  Belinda struggled to lift her head and look up at his face. He misunderstood her. His gray eyes were glazed with pain. She wiped at the tears still bright in her eyes, sniffling and wiping her nose in a most unladylike manner. She was amazed to see what might be a grin on Conner’s lips.

  He couldn’t tell her, but the thought of her unconscious move to wipe her nose and how appalled she would be if he could say something to tease her, did indeed bring a grin to his lips.

  “You won’t die.”

  “Not me, you thick-headed lawman. You. I do not want you to die.”

  “Can’t.” He swayed slightly. “Got to…get home.” He cast a worried look around. The sun would be going down soon, and with it, the heat would be lost. He could feel a chill in his body.

  For a few seconds all he wanted to do was revel that she was alive. But he hadn’t come looking for her to end up dead if Riverton’s men did come back. He still couldn’t understand why they’d left her. She had been vague recounting that part of her ordeal. More questions that would have to wait. He had to get them both out of here.

  Conner looked at her hands. She’d hurt herself trying to free the horses. He wasn’t going to give her any more pain. Gathering what was left of his strength to talk to her, he fought off the black oblivion that beckoned him.

  “Listen,” he began. “Climb—”

  “Don’t talk. I can see for myself how much it is hurting you.”

  He closed his eyes, willing his lovely, stubborn lady to listen and do, without an argument. The Lord smiled. Belinda mutely listened to the haltingly given instructions. She climbed on the precariously tilted buckboard, grabbed his shirt and the poncho, then reluctantly, for the fear of causing him pain made her awkward, she managed to settle herself behind him. She brushed her lips over his skin, then slid the shirt over his shoulders. Lightly and Very gently, she smoothed the soft cloth down his back. The poncho was too bulky to set between them, so she wore it.

  Conner felt her light kiss and even gentler touches. They humbled him. After all the anguish he had caused her, Belinda still found him worthy of her tender attention. His guilt acted as a barrier against the pain constantly renewing itself.

  He made a vow. He’d get her home where she would be safe, then out of his life.

  “Conner,” she whispered, “I will hurt you if I put my arms around you.”

  “Do it.”

  His order had no force behind it. Belinda raised her hands. Wherever she placed them, she would cause him pain.

  “Bel—”

  “All right.” She tucked her fingers into the waistband of his pants. Not the most secure grip, but one that satisfied her.

  “You’ll fall—”

  “I will not. I would not let go of you were we to swim a river, climb a mountain or traverse hell itself.” Her firm tone softened when she added, “Take me home, Conner. Take us both home.”

  Belinda wished she could share with Conner her guilt, which weighed heavily upon her. If she had been stronger, if she had not given in so easily to the intense desire to have Conner for a lover, they both would have been safe.

  She had to swallow the sobs burning her throat. Blinking rapidly, she managed to stop the tears again filling her eyes. She was selfish to think of telling him. This was her burden, and hers alone to bear.

  Conner had paid with his blood, and she could not even help him. Her skills with injuries extended to using muslin soaked in beaten egg whites to wrap a sprained ankle.

  The easy canter of the horse brought twinges to her bruised body that were minor when measured against Conner’s tense body shaking with agony caused by every lengthening stride of the animal.

  She felt her payment had just begun. Even the pride she had harbored for not crumbling—as so many women of her acquaintance would have—died slowly with every step bringing them closer to his home.

  Then shame replaced pride.

  His family would soon know that she had not obeyed his first order to leave when he knew there would be trouble. They would all blame her for not riding to them for help. Help that might have prevented some of Conner’s injuries. A little devil’s voice reminded her that even if she had left him at first, she had no idea where the Kincaid ranch was. Belinda ignored it. She wanted to punish someone for the way Conner was hurting. She was the only one available.

  Her grip tightened on his pants. She gazed at the rolling terrain broken by a few red rock outcrop-pings. An occasional towering saguaro cactus or a clump of the thorny low-growing ocotillo bushes broke the view as they followed a dried-up streambed.

  They were both sweating. She wanted to ask Conner how he had managed to get free of Dacus and Billy Jack. What had they done to him? The many cuts and bruises on his body suggested they had beaten him. Such violence was beyond any she had known. And her questions remained unasked. Conner had had enough trouble speaking a few words to her.

  She might be a stranger to violent acts, but an icy rage filled her when he could not stifle a groan. Right now, she could shoot those men for what they had done.

  All that should matter was Conner—alive and warm, and able to take them home.

  But did he blame her?

  The growing tension gripping Belinda’s body shifted through Conner’s layers of pain. The reaction from being terrorized had finally set in. He had believed it too good to be true when she sassed him back at the buckboard, and her complete silence since they had started riding proved to him she realized how badly he had failed to protect her.

  His first failure had been forgetting he was a lawman. Hell, he thought, he’d forgotten everything in his desire to have her. Bitterly he recalled something he had always taught his brothers when they were much younger. Please and pleasure a woman and she’ll always invite you back to her bed a second time.

  He was lucky she still trusted him enough to ride with him. But then, he’d not given her much choice.

  He couldn’t even blame her for hating him.

  And she did blame and hate him, didn’t she?

  The question burned to be asked. Conner denied himself the pain or the pleasure of her answer.

  Thoughts of Belinda had to be put aside. He had to figure the best trail home. The shortest and easiest ride would take them past the creek and eventually Billy Jack’s body.

  This was a sight he could protect Belinda from seeing, and spare himself the reminder of his shame and failure.

  The responsive roan didn’t break stride when his light touch guided the horse to a westerly direction. The terrain would be rough, but gentler on her peace of mind.

  And his own.

  Conner’s murmur of home roused Belinda as they climbed a rise and she had her first sight of the sprawling ranch below them. It was a welcome sight to her dulled senses.

  “Beautiful,” she whispered, knowing it was more. This was the haven they both needed.

  Set in open country with a wide, winding stream running past, the grand Spanish-style house was graced with ancient cottonwood trees that offered shelter and shade to those within the thick adobe walls.

  Belinda shook off her exhaustion. She gazed at the stream and the
dam that created a fair-sized pond. The image of a young boy laughing and swimming there stole into her mind. She smiled at the whimsical thought that it could have been Conner she saw.

  Corrals formed an irregular pattern around a long barn. Horses, hides gleaming, tails high and ears pricked forward, raced back and forth in their fenced pastures as they rode by.

  She saw the men stop their work, to look, then the whispers turned into shouts.

  Conner did not acknowledge them. Belinda felt as if all his concentration was directed at reaching the massive wooden gates set in a high adobe wall.

  Her head tilted backward as her gaze tracked the rise of a high windlass, still and silent until the need for water would set it in motion. There was a tower, too, and she spied a man within its open archway. He shouted something, then disappeared.

  Men began to gather from the smaller buildings and other corrals. There was an undercurrent of violence to their whisperings as they caught sight of Conner’s injuries.

  The closer they rode, the more the scent of lemon trees in bloom filled her with a message of comfort and haven to be found within these walls.

  Belinda had a feeling that Conner’s thought mirrored hers, for the tension seeped from his body as they halted in front of the gates.

  She heard the shouting behind the gates grow louder, and moments later both gates swung open to admit them.

  She saw Macaria rushing forward.

  “Sangre de Cristo! What have they done to my son?”

  “Madre…our guest…”

  Conner slumped forward. His fall was stopped by two young men.

  Belinda scooted back to allow them to lift Conner’s body from the horse. Macaria followed them as they carried Conner into the house.

  “Ma’am, allow me?”

  Belinda saw only broad shoulders and a kindly face as the man lifted her to the ground. She straightened her skirt and, when she looked up, a young woman walked rapidly toward her.

  “You must be Belinda. I’m Jessie, Logan’s wife. Come into the house. We’ve all been worried about you.” Jessie didn’t give her a chance to refuse. She gently took her arm, then slid hers around Belinda’s waist, murmuring small comfort sounds. At the door, she turned. “Henley, send someone to fetch Logan and Ty. If I know my mother-in-law, she’ll want a war council.”

 

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