Promises Kept

by Scarlett Dunn

  L. B. chuckled, her red curls bobbing up and down. “Well now, I can’t promise that.”

  Grudgingly, Hoyt took his seat, but his eyes followed Lucy as she made her way to the bar. He wondered if Wallace was intentionally trying to get under his skin. “I guess I’ll just have to show Mr. Wallace that my luck is gonna hold all night,” he boasted.

  “Hoyt, I won’t have anyone beatin’ on my girls,” L. B. told him sternly. She put her hands under the table and discreetly pulled her derringer from her sleeve and aimed it directly at Hoyt’s gut.

  “I was drunk, but I pay for my time. Why do you care?” That was the second time L. B. had come down on him. When his business with Wallace was finished and he got his money for doing his dirty work, he’d take care of her and Wallace. No one talked to him that way.

  Lucy returned and handed the whiskey bottle to L. B. “Go on back to the bar and help Sam,” L. B. instructed. As Lucy hurried to the bar, L. B. started pouring a round for the men. She held the bottle over Hoyt’s glass, but she didn’t pour until he looked at her. “I care what happens to my gals. No one is gonna hit on them, drunk or not.” She clanked the bottle to the rim of the glass, muffling the sound as she cocked the hammer on her derringer. She wasn’t taking any chances with a man like Hoyt. She knew he was just as likely to kill a woman as a man.

  Wallace had told him to stop causing trouble in the saloon, so when Hoyt glanced in his direction he wasn’t surprised to find him scowling. “I didn’t really hurt her,” he said.

  L. B. filled his glass and then her own. “If you can’t handle your liquor better than that, you better give it up.” She pointed to the swinging doors and said, “Out there, you answer to God.” She then gave the table a tap. “In here, you answer to me. I’ll shoot you myself if I find out you are beating on one of my gals again.”

  Leaning forward, Hoyt narrowed his eyes at her. “That sure is brave talk for a woman who doesn’t have a gun.”

  “Who says I don’t have a gun,” L. B. retorted.

  “That little derringer you carry in your garter doesn’t count as a real gun.”

  “I guess that depends on where it’s pointed. Granted it might not kill a man, but it’ll get his attention all the same.”

  Every man at the table wanted to laugh, but seeing the glower on Hoyt’s face, they thought better of it. Gage knew that Hoyt was trying to decide if L. B. was bluffing, and understandably wasn’t willing to find out. He also realized Wallace was displeased with his hired hand, and if looks could kill, Hoyt would be carrion about now. Hoyt seemed oblivious to the look on Wallace’s face, or he didn’t care. Gage figured that meant Wallace had hired him for his fast gun, and whatever job he was to perform had yet to be fulfilled.

  Wanting to put an end to the tension at the table before bullets started flying, Gage threw some bills down. “Are we going to play poker or just talk about it?”

  “The man’s right. Put your money on the table,” Wallace said. The men followed Wallace’s lead and started throwing bills to the center of the table. Wallace directed his gaze at Hoyt. “Hoyt, you in?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Hoyt grabbed some money and added it to the pile, and glared at L. B. “This ain’t over.”

  Releasing the hammer on her derringer, L. B. tucked her fingers in her bodice and pulled out a wad of money. “Look at it this way, Hoyt. You get to keep your . . . dignity, and play poker.” She waited a beat before she added, “Today.”

  Two hours later, Hoyt had managed to lose all his winnings and more. His mood hadn’t improved with liquor. “I don’t have much left, so I guess I’ll go find Lucy.”

  Seeing how much whiskey he had consumed, L. B. was about to tell him to leave, but Wallace beat her to it.

  “Not tonight, Hoyt. You’ve had too much.” Wallace pocketed his money and stood. “Time to go to the ranch.”

  Staggering to his feet, Hoyt pushed his chair back. “I ain’t that drunk.” He rubbed his bleary eyes, trying to focus on Wallace. He blinked, but he kept seeing three men that looked like Wallace. “I ain’t ready to leave.”

  “That’s the advantage of being the man who pays the wages. It doesn’t matter what you want.” Wallace glanced at the other men at the table. “Take him to the ranch where he can sleep it off.”

  The men rose and gave each other a look that said this was one order they didn’t relish carrying out. They’d seen Hoyt draw and he was fast, real fast. He could easily outdraw them.

  “Get him out of here,” Wallace commanded again.

  The two cowboys rushed Hoyt, pinning his arms to his sides, and carried him from the saloon.

  “Do they always do what you tell them?” Hardy cut in.

  Wallace gave Hardy a firm look. “They’d better. Now you come see me in the morning.” He grabbed the bottle from the table and headed toward the bar.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I’d say there’s near fifty head missing.” T. J. had met Colt at the house to give him the tally on the cattle lost. “Rustlers.”

  Colt strapped on his gun belt and grabbed his rifle resting by the front door. “Round up a couple more men. We’re going to pay a visit to those squatters on the west side. They might not be responsible, but I bet they know who is behind this. Bring what we need to burn down that cabin.”

  T. J. had seen that look on Colt’s face before, and it didn’t bode well for the people on the receiving end of his anger. “If they hadn’t had that woman and those two kids with them, I would have burned them out yesterday,” T. J. replied.

  “If they’re not gone by the time we get there, it won’t matter to me who’s there. I’ve had enough.” Colt stalked toward the barn to saddle his horse. It had been over two weeks since he last saw Wallace at the picnic, and every day since he’d been met with more problems. His losses were mounting, and he wasn’t any closer to a solution. His men were exhausted from pulling extra duty patrolling the ranch all night for months. He needed to hire on more men, but he couldn’t find anyone who wasn’t already working for Wallace. Hearing the count of his losses this morning was the last straw. He was determined to put a stop to this, one way or the other. He’d danced around the situation long enough, trying to avoid a range war. But if a range war was imminent, then so be it. He was going to do everything in his power to protect what was his. If Wallace thought he was the only one who could play rough, Colt was going to show him, the hard way, how wrong he was.

  Walking from the cabin, T. J. mounted his horse. “Looks like they’ve pulled up stakes.”

  Colt studied the fresh hoofprints around the cabin. “Burn the place down.”

  “I doubt they will be back,” T. J. said.

  “We don’t have enough men to watch every acre, and I don’t want anyone else coming along behind them. Burn it down.” He watched as the men threw kerosene around the cabin and set the fire. “T. J., the men can handle this. Let’s follow these tracks to make sure they’re off McBride land.”

  While following the trail of the squatters, Colt’s mind wandered in several directions. There was no question Wallace was behind all the trouble, even if some people might disagree with him. Like Victoria. It puzzled him why she trusted the man. So much for female intuition. He’d even considered that she might be developing feelings for Wallace since she had attended the dance with him. He hadn’t seen her since that night, but he’d sent Tate over to her house several times to see if there was anything she needed, and he still had two men watching the place at night. Bartholomew made a point of stopping by the ranch to let him know Wallace had been visiting Victoria frequently, hinting that he was still courting her. Colt felt he was also indirectly suggesting he needed to do something about that. The way he saw it, Victoria was old enough to make her own decisions, and she was making them. The last time Bartholomew was over, he mentioned that Mrs. Wellington and the boys were due to arrive any day.

  He told himself he hadn’t intentionally avoided Victoria; his schedule at the ranch was
demanding. There were barely enough hours in the day for him to sleep, so he certainly didn’t have time for social calls. He hadn’t even had time to go to town to see Maddie, and that was where he needed to go if he had free time. He wasn’t inclined to waste time with a woman he had no intention of marrying. Sure as shootin’, Victoria was the kind of woman a man would have to marry. If he got involved with her he’d be saddled with even more responsibility in the form of two growing boys. He’d been so busy he didn’t even know what day it was. He looked over at T. J. “What day is it?”

  Laughing, T. J. said, “Saturday.”

  “Huh.” Saturday. What was it about Saturday? Seems like he remembered something was going to happen on Saturday. Oh yeah. Bartholomew mentioned Victoria was having dinner at Wallace’s ranch tonight. Did Bartholomew say he was having dinner with them? He tried to recall the conversation, but he’d been so preoccupied at the time he was only half listening to him.

  “I thought about going to town tonight,” T. J. said.

  Colt eyed T. J.’s dust-covered face. He had dark circles rimming his eyes and at least a week’s worth of beard. He wondered if he looked as bad as his foreman. “You look like you’ve been on the range for a week. How are you going to find the energy?”

  “You plain hurt my feelings. You’re not exactly lookin’ your Sunday best,” T. J. teasingly replied. He nudged his horse into a gallop and yelled over his shoulder, “Besides, I always have enough energy for the ladies. I can rest when I’m six feet under. I might even keep Maddie company tonight since you’ve given her up.”

  There was a time T. J.’s crack about Maddie would have rankled him. Right now, he was curious why he didn’t give it a second thought. He didn’t even bother to push Razor to catch up to T. J.

  “Your home is lovely,” Victoria said to Wallace as she and Bartholomew followed him into the dining room.

  It wasn’t high on Bartholomew’s list to join them for dinner, but Victoria didn’t want to go without him. He’d told Colt about the dinner, hoping he might find a way to intervene, or at least put a wrinkle in Wallace’s plans, but no such luck. Colt was too busy with all the mischief going on around his ranch. Wallace was up to something, and he didn’t have to be a genius to know what that was. Not taking anything away from Victoria, but he didn’t doubt Wallace’s interest in her was more about her land than her. Victoria ignored his warnings about Wallace, but he figured he’d just bide his time. Wallace was sure to show his darker side, sooner or later. He was praying for sooner.

  Once they were seated at the table, Wallace placed his palm over Victoria’s hand and squeezed. “It’s lovely to have you at my table.”

  Sitting across the table from Victoria, Bartholomew rolled his eyes.

  Two Mexican women carrying platters of food walked into the dining room. “I hope you like Mexican fare, my dear.” He pointed a finger at the older woman. “That’s the only decent food she can prepare. It’s been my misfortune to have hired two women that can’t seem to learn how to cook true English fare, or become skilled at the English language.”

  Victoria’s eyes darted to the women placing the platters on the table. From the look on the older woman’s face, she felt certain she understood Wallace’s cruel words. Taken aback that he would be so unkind, she jerked her hand away. “Actually, I’ve never been particularly fond of English food.” She gave the Mexican woman a smile. “I must say that this dinner looks absolutely delicious.”

  Bartholomew chuckled to himself. He couldn’t have been prouder of Victoria if she had been his own daughter. “It sure smells delicious too,” he chimed in.

  The younger Mexican girl placed a platter near Wallace’s elbow, and as he lifted his hand to pick up the plate, the girl flinched as if she expected him to hit her. Wallace waved her away and handed the plate to Victoria.

  Victoria saw the frightened look on the girl’s face, and glanced Bartholomew’s way to see if he noticed. She could tell by his expression that he did.

  Wallace continued talking, unaware of their questioning glances. “I lived in Texas for a few years and had my share of Mexican food there. When I moved to Abilene, I found a woman that could cook anything I desired,” Wallace told them.

  “You lived in Abilene?” Victoria almost choked on her food when he mentioned Abilene. She had thought he looked familiar when she first met him, but she couldn’t recall ever seeing him in Abilene.

  “I spent a few years there,” Wallace replied. “Have you been to Abilene?”

  Keeping her eyes on her plate, Victoria stammered, “Ah . . . no, but I’ve heard about the town.” More lies. Would she ever be able to tell the truth to anyone?

  Wallace reached over and patted her hand. “I thought not. It’s no place for a lady like you. It’s a rough, uncivilized cow town.”

  “That was wonderful food,” Victoria said to Bartholomew once they were away from Wallace’s ranch.

  “Yes, ma’am, it was. Wallace should be grateful he has such a fine cook.”

  Victoria thought about Wallace’s comment to the Mexican women. “Do you think those women understood what he said?”

  “They surely did. They don’t like him, so they don’t want him to know they understand him.”

  It was the first time Victoria had seen a different side to Wallace. Perhaps she was making too much of his unkind words to the women, but it bothered her all the same. What if Mr. McBride was right and Wallace wasn’t all he appeared to be on the surface? Seeing the younger girl flinch when Wallace raised his hand made her question if he was all he professed. She’d seen women at the saloon in Abilene react the same way after years of being smacked around by men. Yet it probably wasn’t fair of her to jump to the conclusion that it was Wallace who hit the girl. It could have been another man.

  Preoccupied with her thoughts, Victoria didn’t notice the two men on horseback riding toward them until she saw Bartholomew pull his shotgun onto his lap. When the men drew near, she recognized one of them. Gage Hardy. Slowing his horse to a trot, Hardy tipped his hat to Victoria as he passed the buckboard. Ignoring him, Victoria gazed at the other man, and judging by the insolent grin on his face, she figured Hardy had told him about her.

  Snapping the reins, Bartholomew urged the horses to a faster pace. “Do you know that cowboy that tipped his hat?”

  Victoria turned and looked over her shoulder to make sure they didn’t turn around and follow the buckboard. “He thinks he knows me, but he has me confused with someone else.”

  “I don’t know him, but that other fellow is a gunslinger by the name of Hoyt Nelson. He works for Wallace. You be sure to stay away from them.”

  Wanting time to think, not to mention question his own sanity, Colt held Razor to a slow pace. If his life depended on it, he couldn’t figure out why he was out here on the trail at this late hour, going visiting instead of getting some much needed rest. He’d slept out on the range more than he had in his own bed for the last two weeks. But asleep or awake, Victoria continued to plague his thoughts. No matter how busy he was, he couldn’t stop thinking about her . . . and Wallace.

  He was so deep in thought that he was scarcely aware of his surroundings and didn’t hear the sound that caught his horse’s attention. It wasn’t until Razor came to a complete stop that Colt realized he was near Victoria’s farm. Razor turned his head toward the trees and when his ears flicked forward, Colt knew something was amiss. Attuned to Razor’s habits, Colt snapped his head around in the same direction as that of his horse. He placed his hand on Razor’s neck and gave him a pat to let him know he had his attention. Both were motionless as they listened. Colt scanned the darkness around them. From the trees a few yards away he heard a horse whinny. Quietly, he slipped from the saddle and led Razor to the brush. When the moon peeked from behind a cloud he caught a glimpse of the horse tied to a tree. Pulling his pistol, he moved slowly in the direction of the animal. Drawing closer, he recognized the horse as one he had seen in front of the saloon the
last time he was in town. There weren’t many horses that he couldn’t place with their owners. He thought of the men he’d seen in the saloon that night. Then it clicked. Gage Hardy. After checking the horse and finding him sound, he searched the area for the rider. No one was about, and Colt knew the horse had intentionally been left out of view from Victoria’s house. He couldn’t think of a good reason Hardy would be snooping around Victoria’s house in the dark.

  Moving Razor a safe distance away, he tied him out of sight. Pulling his rifle from the boot, he took off at a run toward the house. He stopped in the shadows of the barn and scanned the property for any movement. It was dark and quiet. Too quiet. But he had the feeling he was being watched. What about Bandit? Why wasn’t he barking? The last time he’d ridden over, he’d heard Bandit long before the house came into view. Maybe Victoria and Bartholomew hadn’t arrived back from Wallace’s house and Bandit was with them. It occurred to him that Hardy could be inside in the dark, waiting on Victoria.

  Out of habit he checked the load in his pistol before he opened the latch on the barn door. Nosing the door open with the barrel of his rifle, he listened before moving. Hearing nothing except the usual sounds of horses in their stalls, he slipped inside. Spotting the buckboard, he knew Victoria was home. He didn’t like the look of this. It made the hairs on his neck stand up, but he refused to allow his mind to go to the worst possible scenario. He prayed to God that Hardy wasn’t inside the house waiting for her when she arrived.

  Exiting the barn, he once again scanned the perimeter of the house. There wasn’t a sound, nor a single light from the house. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he caught a glimpse of something white just a few yards from the front of the house. His eyes remained fixed on the spot, hoping to catch a flash of it again. Nothing. What was it? The handle of a pistol? Maybe. The night he played poker with Hardy he’d noticed his pearl-handled pistol. Hoyt Nelson’s pistol also had a pearl handle. That was one of the reasons gunslingers usually ended up six feet under; they allowed vanity to get in the way of good sense.