by Jill Gregory
“Do you mean like Señor Steele? Everyone always talks about him as if they are afraid of him, as if he is someone terrible. But he is good, isn’t he? He’s your brother, and he wants to help us.” A horrible thought struck him, and Tomas clutched at Brett’s hand.
“Or is that a trick, too?” he whispered.
“No, Tomas.” Brett patted his shoulder. “That’s sure no trick. My brother is a good man. He came all the way across the whole Arizona territory to help us. So we’re not going to let a couple of low-down sneaky boys get in our way, are we? We have important work to do.”
“Do you ... trust me to help? Before you said that I was too young and ...”
The boy’s voice trailed off. Brett winced and at that moment he could have kicked himself. “I was wrong, Tomas—I just plain wasn’t thinking straight when I told you that. Too much tequila. That stuff is bad for the brain, you know what I mean?”
Tomas shrugged.
“Well, take my word for it. My big brother was right. You’re going to be a big help to us. But first, let me figure something out. Why did those boys lock you in here? Just to be mean?”
“No, when they were pushing me in they kept telling me that Señor Ellis told them to do it. He thought it would be a big joke. They said this more than once. I thought it strange.”
“And that’s not all that’s strange.” Brett rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “The boy who ran and told me where you were also said that Hank Ellis had put his son Jack and the other boys up to locking you in.”
They stared at each other as a jackrabbit skittered across the vegetable garden. “Do you think someone wanted you to get angry with Señor Ellis?” Tomas asked slowly.
“Yep. And I know why. They want me to pick a fight with him.”
“Why?”
“Because they think he can beat me if it comes to shooting. And they want to ambush my brother while everyone is watching Ellis and me.”
Tomas sucked in his breath. He wiped the remaining tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. “Can he?”
“Can he what?” Brett asked, distracted, as he mulled the situation over, searching for a way to escape the trap.
“Can he beat you if it comes to shooting?”
“You never know,” Brett replied almost cheerfully. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Tomas. It doesn’t pay to underestimate a McCallum.”
And whether or not I’m one by blood, I am one by training, he told himself as he led the boy back toward the rear of the hacienda. He had endured hours of target practice and shooting lessons from both his father and the same English hunt master who had taught Cade as a young man. Their father had insisted on proficiency with firearms. Maybe that’s what’s kept me alive so far in these skirmishes with Lowry’s men, he reflected. But would it be enough to help him in a one-on-one gunfight with Lowry’s foreman, Hank Ellis? Time will tell, Brett decided with a scowl, but a vise of tension wound itself around his gut.
Suddenly, a tall figure appeared silhouetted against the door of the kitchen.
“Señor Steele!” Tomas bounded forward. “I was tricked. And now they want to force Señor Brett into a fight and—”
“I know, Tomas. But it isn’t going to work. None of it. I have a better plan.”
“See Tomas,” Brett said softly, nudging the boy between the shoulders. “What did I tell you?” His glance met Cade’s. “Never underestimate a McCallum.”
* * *
“You underestimated me, Miss Investigator. That was real stupid of you.”
Annabel made no reply because she couldn’t speak. Cobb’s red silk bandana made an all too effective gag, since he had clenched it between her teeth and knotted it tightly behind her head. Her hands were bound by heavy rope to the saddle horn before her, and Red Cobb’s sweaty form, wedged behind her in the saddle, pressed against her with uncomfortable intimacy. The night wind rose screaming around her ears, filling them with a bleak wail which echoed the silent wail within.
She wondered in terror where he was taking her. Though she tried to keep track of where they were riding, it soon became difficult, for Cobb rode fast and followed a trail of numerous twists and turns. She had realized at first that they were headed in the opposite direction from the Rivers ranch, but when they’d descended through a zigzagging series of canyons she’d become hopelessly confused. She only knew that back at the Lowry hacienda, the people she cared about were embroiled in a confrontation that would risk all their lives. And she, who was needed to help, was riding farther and farther from the trouble every minute.
She now faced a different kind of trouble. She sensed with purely feminine instinct that Red Cobb meant to exact a vicious and personal revenge for her deception. He had already fondled her breasts after he’d bound and gagged her, laughing as he tossed her upon his mount. And the crude glint in his eyes had promised much more of the same. A shudder shook her as she wondered if he meant to kill her after the rape, or just leave her hurt and stranded somewhere in the mountains to die.
And what then? No doubt he would still return to kill Brett. But Cade will stop him, she told herself, forcing back the tears that clogged her dry, aching throat. He’ll defeat Lowry, and then he’ll save Brett from Cobb.
But who will save me?
I’ll have to save myself, she concluded numbly, and wished for the thousandth time that she had her derringer.
“A little farther, and then we can stop and start the fun,” Cobb mocked her in her ear. To her horror, his revolting mouth nibbled at the base of her neck as his horse’s hooves flew across the blood-dark grass. She felt his hand cover her breast and squeeze hard.
Despite herself, she could not hold back a moan of protest.
“Like that, Miss Investigator? Well, you’re going to love what’s coming up next.” He laughed uproariously in her ear, and his hand fell away to grip the reins once more. “Yes, indeed, ma’am, you’re not missing a thing by leaving that fancy ranch back there. You and me are going to have our own little private party and it’s going to be a helluva fiesta.”
Chapter 22
Cade spotted his prey advancing from the dining room to Lowry’s big main parlor, smiling and nodding at all the guests. Tomas saw him at the same time, and as Cade watched, the dark-haired boy, approached the man.
Lounging against the wall, pretending to be absorbed in his glass of champagne, Cade watched the whispered conversation, complete with gestures from Tomas. The black-garbed man looked obediently where Tomas pointed, then nearly shoved the child out of his way in his haste to reach the hallway.
Casually, Cade began to walk in the same direction.
When he reached the staircase, he edged around behind it where he could better hear the voices coming from the small paneled study.
“So you’re ready to sign? Just like that? Well, it’s about time.”
“You leave me no choice,” Conchita’s voice reached Cade softly, sounding low and sad. “It is too dangerous to continue on this way—not knowing what will happen next.”
“That’s what we’ve been trying to make you understand, señora.” The black-garbed cowboy gave a triumphant laugh. “Come on with me and we’ll tell the boss ... señora.” But as he reached for her arm, Cade hit him over the head from behind, the barrel of his gun connecting with a sickening thud. Cade kicked the door closed just before the body thudded to the floor.
“That should do it.” He nodded at Conchita, and bent to grasp the cowhand under the arms. He dragged him behind the brown leather sofa and dumped the limp form beside the other two men Brett had described to him as being part of the plot.
“I guess these three hombres won’t be ambushing anyone tonight,” Conchita said with solemn satisfaction.
“Not likely.” With one easy movement he opened the study window and then stuck his head out. Tomas waited outside, grinning eagerly at him. “Here is your rope, señor.”
“Gracias, Tomas. Nice work.” Cade found himself returning the boy’s
excited smile, feeling something lighten within himself as well. It was good to see Tomas happy. The boy at least felt he was doing something to avenge his father’s murder. Maybe after this night, if all ended well, he would be able to go on with his life, to leave all the pain and the bitterness of the past behind him, and not let what had happened to his family scar him for the rest of his life.
Now if only Brett can do his part and come out of this in one piece, there will only be Lowry left to deal with. And if I can’t provoke that son of a bitch into drawing on me, then I’m no son of Ross McCallum.
He frowned as he finished tying up the last of the trio. If what Brett had heard from Boxer was true, then Brett himself was no true son of Ross McCallum. Cade didn’t know what to make of Boxer’s story, except that it turned his stomach. But he knew one thing—Brett was his brother no matter what. It didn’t matter that they’d been apart for thirteen years, it didn’t matter that only Livinia’s blood might flow in common in each of their veins—they were brothers in every sense of the word, and he would give up his own life if necessary to save Brett’s.
But if things went as he planned, it wouldn’t come to that—for either of them.
When Cade finished, he and Conchita left the three behind the sofa, and turned down the lamp before going out and closing the door. Even if Lowry’s men awoke and yelled for help, no one would hear them, what with the music, the merriment, and the general din of the fiesta.
“Now it’s time to see how that brother of mine handles himself,” he said quietly to Conchita as they returned to the parlor, where strolling guitar players were serenading the guests as they helped themselves to blueberry pies and tiny iced applesauce cakes. Adelaide hurried over, but Cade gave her only a brief nod before scanning the crowd.
Where the hell was Annabel?
He hadn’t spotted her once since he’d come downstairs, but then, he’d been pretty busy rounding up those three snakes.
She must be with Brett, he thought to himself, trying to stifle the jealousy that lanced through him at the thought. If what had happened upstairs between them made any sense at all, it told him that he didn’t have reason to be jealous of Brett. But still, nothing had been settled between him and Annabel, and he’d made his own doubts about the two of them more than clear. In fact, Cade reflected, he’d tried his best to convince her that things probably wouldn’t work out between them. Can you blame her then if she does decide to turn back to Brett?
Suddenly, shouts erupted from the terrace, making him forget everything else. Cowboys, ranchers, townsfolk, children, women, and hired help alike turned and stared in that direction, muttering among themselves. Like a herd of cattle, people began moving forward.
“Ellis, you’re a no-good cowardly skunk. You put your boy and his friends up to playing a mean trick on Tomas Rivers, and I think you and your son owe him an apology.”
That was Brett’s voice. He sure sounds mad, Cade thought admiringly. Though his younger brother was inexperienced, he’d learned fast how to survive out here, and he had courage. Good for him, Cade acknowledged, and suddenly guessed that Annabel must be out there on the terrace too, somewhere nearby, perhaps keeping Tomas away from the line of fire.
He headed that way, shouldering his way through the crowd.
“You can go to hell, McCallum,” Cade heard Ellis taunt back at Brett. “I don’t know what that little Mexican squirt’s been telling you, but I think boys should settle their own problems in their own way, and men should settle theirs. My question is, which one, amigo, are you—a boy, or a man?” he bellowed, and then gave a contemptuous guffaw.
“I’m no amigo of yours,” Brett shot back. “As for the rest, if you have the guts, we’ll find out.”
“I don’t reckon I care for your tone.” Ellis was staring at Brett hard. “Unless you want to apologize, I reckon I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”
Cade had reached the terrace by now and he saw the crowd ebb back like tide from a seashore. Murmurs rose and fell like dark waves. Lowry was there, watching, listening. Cade stayed behind a tall rancher in a silver-trimmed suede vest, not wishing Lowry to see him—yet.
“Now, boys,” one man whom Conchita had pointed out earlier as another small rancher who had reluctantly sold his property to Lowry, spoke up uneasily. “Can’t you settle this without gunplay? Why don’t both of you go on home and sleep it off?”
Several others muttered agreement with this, and a woman’s stern voice called out, “We came to dance, not to fight.”
“Folks, you’re right. I hate to see bloodshed as much as the next fellow,” Calvin Lowry announced, stepping forward with his hands lifted before him. “This is my little fiesta and I don’t want any trouble. None at all. So maybe I can talk some sense into these boys. But I have to say, they don’t seem drunk to me—they’re just plain mad. Ellis, my advice to you is to simmer down. You don’t want to shoot anyone tonight. Maybe you and McCallum here can just forget about this little disagreement and—”
“No way, boss.”
The crowd set to murmuring again.
“McCallum, what about you? Why don’t you just apologize to my foreman here and then we can go back to dancing, like the lady suggested?”
“Go to hell, Lowry.” Brett flicked the rancher a contemptuous glance.
“Well, folks,” Lowry sighed, dropping his hands in resignation, “as you can see, I tried.” Lowry shrugged and edged backward. “I reckon there’s nothing left to do now but let ‘em settle this the only way men know how.” Calvin Lowry’s voice boomed commandingly louder over the disapproving swell of voices. “Let them fight.”
Lowry had halted near one of the stone benches that lined the terrace. As he threw down his cigar, squashing it beneath his boot, his eyes were riveted with satisfaction upon Brett’s face. Cade was no more than ten paces away and his palm itched, for he realized that he could pick the cattleman off in an instant. But that would be murder.
Cade smiled thinly to himself. No, he’d wait. This had to be done legal. Legal for New Mexico.
People flowed backward, giving the two men space. A hush of tension fell over the assembled guests as the torches cast eerie yellow light over the proceedings, and somewhere in the mountains, thunder rumbled again.
Finally Cade saw Lowry’s glance shift from Brett to flick over the crowd. He’s looking for me, and for his three hired killers, Cade realized with grim amusement. But Lowry was doomed for disappointment.
“Any time you say.” Brett’s arms hung at his sides.
Cade marveled at how confident his brother’s voice sounded. This was his first one-on-one gunfight, but though Cade had tried to come up with another strategy, Brett had insisted on going through with it. Cade, though uneasy, knew he had to let Brett handle this challenge himself. Red Cobb was a different matter—he was a skilled gunslinger, practiced, ruthless, and with a draw akin to lightning, but Hank Ellis was a far more equal opponent. Assuming Brett had benefited from the formal training Ross McCallum had insisted on for his sons, he should be able to handle an overcocky piece of scum like Ellis.
Or else, Cade reflected with a tight spasm of fear in his gut, I’ll have my own brother’s death on my conscience. But at this moment, he knew there was nothing he could do.
“You’re sure, boy?” Ellis taunted. “You don’t want to back down and apologize and get your ugly hide off Mr. Lowry’s property?”
“Not a chance, Ellis. Now are you going to gab all night or are you going to get down to business?”
“I’m going to blow your damned brains out, boy! Right now!” Ellis roared, and his hand flashed downward for his gun.
Brett drew smoothly and fired. His aim was true. The bullet tore through Ellis’s green vest and ripped into his chest. It killed him instantly.
He toppled at Lowry’s black-booted feet.
The cattleman’s cheeks blotched with surprise. Then his lips thinned into a snarl. He glanced swiftly about, and Cade could tell he
was wondering why the hell he hadn’t heard more shots, why there weren’t screams and an outcry because Roy Steele was dead.
But there was only the same gray hushed silence from the crowd.
Brett was breathing hard, and he was pale, but his face was stony and set as he stared at the man he’d killed.
Cade did a quick scan of the terrace. He spotted two of Lowry’s men together on the fringe of the crowd. Maybe they’d step in to bail out their boss and maybe not.
At any rate, he thought as he stepped forward around the knot of people before him and made his way toward Lowry with a long, slow stride, the time for Mr. Calvin Lowry to end his bullying days on this earth had come, one way or another.
“What’s wrong, Lowry? You look kind of disappointed.”
“My foreman’s dead, Steele, what do you expect? I want you and your whole troublemaking bunch off my land now.”
“Not very neighborly, trying to throw out invited guests. Or am I wrong? Didn’t you invite Conchita and Adelaide Rivers and Tomas to your little fiesta? Right kind of you, considering you murdered Alec Rivers and have been doing everything you can to steal the family’s property.”
Thunderous rage darkened Lowry’s eyes. He nearly shook with the livid rage that gripped him. “You’ve got a helluva nerve accusing me of that in front of all my friends and neighbors, Steele. Mrs. Rivers,” he snarled to Conchita, standing with Tomas beneath one of the torches, “you never should have brought this lawless gunslinger to a fiesta for civilized folks. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Not yet, señor.” Conchita regarded him stonily. Beside her, Adelaide’s chin jutted forward with anticipation.
“We’re about to see vindication for my son’s murder,” the older woman snapped out. “You know it, Lowry, and we know it. Think we’d miss this? Naw, we’re not going nowhere.”
“I reckon,” Brett said, as Lowry’s hands balled into fists at his sides, “that everyone here will have real reason to celebrate when Roy Steele is finished conducting his business with you. And, you two men,” Brett called harshly to the hired hands Cade had spotted on the fringes, “if you’re smart you’ll stay out of this. If not, you can die just like your pard Hank Ellis.”