Ropin' the Moon

by Deborah Camp

  She tore her mouth from his. “Dalton, please don’t.”

  “Why not?” His mind still a muddle, he dipped his head, trying to capture her mouth again, but she evaded him.

  Her gaze flashed up to his. “Because it gets us nowhere.”

  Nuzzling behind her ear, he murmured, “My body says something different. Yours does, too.”

  “My bodily urges don’t rule me.” Pushing him back a little, she ran a fingertip along his jawline. That slight touch sent more blood to his groin. “You’ll be leaving soon. Leaving here. Leaving me.”

  “You could come with me, Lacy. Nothing’s keeping you here.” The words tumbled out before his brain had time to process them, but they felt right. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

  “Are you dangling a carrot in front of me with no intention of ever allowing me to take a bite of it? If you are, I might just slap your face.”

  He caught her wrists in his and grinned, not the least bit bothered by her threat. He couldn’t blame her for doubting him. “I’m not dangling anything. What would stop you from coming with me when I leave Far Creek? Would you even consider it?”

  Pink color pooled in her cheeks. She stared at his shirt button, refusing to meet his eyes when she whispered, “Perhaps.”

  The world paused, suspended by her one-word answer. “Perhaps?” he repeated, needing to be sure that’s what he’d heard.

  Her shoulders bobbed. “It depends on if you ask me the right question before you ask me to leave Far Creek with you.” Now her gaze slid up and she peered at him through the curtain of her sable lashes.

  His breath whistled down his throat. The right question? Oh, hell. What did he say to that? Was he ready to ask that of her? Was he even worthy of asking her? Before he could say another word, she made a sound of impatience and ripped from his loosened grasp. With a flounce of petticoats and the lash of her thick braid across his chin, she was gone.

  Dalton stood in the dark alley, breathing heavily as if he’d just chased down a cougar – a cougar that smelled like strawberries and talcum powder. He breathed in her scent and closed his eyes, feeling vulnerable, stripped bare. She owned him. Lacy, with her golden hair and blue-sky eyes, had lassoed and hobbled him.

  Did he have the unadulterated gall to ask her to marry him? To leave her home, her kin and friends, and roam the west and east with him? What kind of life could he offer her? What kind of life did she want? Did she really have a yearning for travel, a thirst for whatever was around the next bend in the road? Were they kindred spirits in that regard?

  He turned and leaned back against the wall, analyzing her every word. That she could be his – all his – brought a chuckle up from his heart and stroked his ego.

  She wanted the right question. Okay. Now all he had to do was find the temerity to ask it.

  Chapter 15

  After oiling his single action army Colt, Dalton went out back of the jail for some target practice and to be sure the weapon was perfectly sighted. When he was satisfied, he holstered it and tried to ignore the oppressive feeling that had settled in him.

  Inside the jail, he added another log to the fire in the stove and paced like a caged tiger, trying to expend some of the nervous energy building inside his chest. He’d ride to the Pullman ranch today and deliver the news of Forrest Cole’s murder. That was his job, even though he had no doubt that Pullman already knew about Cole’s demise and who had killed him. Since he’d been warned not to “trespass” on Pullman land again, he expected a bloody confrontation. He dreaded it something fierce, but that wouldn’t keep him from carrying out his duty as a lawman.

  He’d thought about going unarmed, but had discarded that notion. Being without a weapon wouldn’t have much sway with someone like Junior Pullman, who thought nothing of shooting an unarmed man – or a man in the back.

  He examined his hands, making sure they were steady. He’d slept fitfully last night after his tryst with Lacy. Dreams of her wove through him like silken threads, tightening his body and creating an ache in him that he knew wouldn’t subside until he claimed her. Until he asked her to be his. Maybe not even then. Suddenly, it felt as if a noose tightened around his chest. Marriage. Was he ready for that? Was she? Well, if that’s what she wanted, he was all in. When he’d awakened that morning, the decision had been made, born from his fevered dreams and certainty that he’d never feel like this again for any other woman.

  Shaking his head, he concentrated on the tasks before him. Time to get going. Putting off going to see Junior wouldn’t make the job any easier. He glanced at the wall clock. It was already two in the afternoon. He’d wasted enough time. Probably should tell someone where he was headed so they’d know where to look if he didn’t show up in town again. Dutch. He’d tell Dutch.

  “Guess you’re my deputy now, Thumper.” He stroked the dog’s sleek head. “Stay here, boy, and watch over the place while I’m away.” He shrugged into his coat and then stepped out into the still, cold air.

  He immediately felt the change. It had nothing to do with the north wind bringing with it the bite of winter. The fine hair at the back of his neck quivered. All was quiet. That, in itself, was peculiar. Usually, children ran like wild hares along the boardwalk, making ladies cluck at them. Men loaded or unloaded wagons. Merchants arranged wares outside their businesses or manned shovels to clean up the horse and mule leavings. But not this afternoon. The town was as quiet as a tomb.

  A figure left the boardwalk in front of the saloon and walked purposefully in the middle of the street, heading his way. Dalton strained his eyes to make out any features. The man strode into a bar of sunlight that slanted between two buildings. Dalton cursed under his breath. Trey Pullman.

  Oh, hell. No good will come of this.

  He steadied himself, counting his heartbeats, and focusing his senses on the man approaching with a decidedly lopsided stride. Why was he limping? Was he here about Forrest Cole? As Trey came nearer, the bruises on his chin and cheekbone and the swelling at the bridge of his nose added more questions to Dalton’s list. Who had been beating on him? Had he tussled with Forrest and ended up shooting his saddle pal? Or had Junior whipped him? What for? Killing Forrest Cole? Not killing him so that someone else had to do it? What had been going on at the Pullman spread?

  Someone else stepped off the boardwalk near the saloon and into the sunlight. Dalton hissed out a breath, recognizing the swagger of Junior Pullman. But Junior stood still and watched his son stalk toward Dalton. Watched the last few minutes of his son’s life.

  “What do you want, Trey?” Dalton asked when the man was in speaking distance. He draped the side of his coat over his gun handle to make it easy to draw.

  “You. We’ve given you a chance to get out of town alive. You didn’t. Now you’ll have to leave in a hearse.”

  Dalton lifted his left hand in an attempt to stave off Trey’s foolishness. “Hold up.” He stepped into the street and toward Trey, his long strides eating up as much ground as possible to make the confrontation more of a discussion and less of a duel. Trey wore a short, leather jacket and leather pants. Hatless, the chilly air ruffled through his black, thinning hair. “What’s all this about? Have you had a few whiskeys?”

  “I’m not drunk.” Trey stood with his boots planted and his hands out from his sides in a gunslinger’s stance. “We’re having this out, you and me.”

  “Who’s been beating on you?”

  Trey flinched and glanced sideways. Dalton saw Junior’s smile widen. The bastard.

  “Did you shoot Cole, Trey?” Dalton asked.

  Trey blinked once, then again. “Hell, no.”

  “Who did?”

  His glanced to the right again, in the general direction of Junior. “That’s not why we’re here.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about, though. I was heading your way to see what you and your bunch can tell me about who killed Forrest Cole.”

  “All I know is that you’re the next one to di
e.” Trey curled his upper lip, making his mustache bristle.

  A flurry of movement at the saloon divided Dalton’s attention. Lacy ran out and Dutch caught her by the elbows and hauled her back off the street. She stared at Dalton and Trey and her blond hair shimmered over her shoulders as she shook her head and struggled in Dutch’s hold. Dutch said something to her that diminished her fight.

  “Get on with it!” Junior bellowed, striding a few steps toward his son. “Let’s see who has metal in his spine and who doesn’t.”

  Trey backed up, giving them room for a gunfight. Dalton shook his head, wishing he didn’t have to kill him. As with poker, everyone had a “tell” – that miniscule tic or habit that signaled something good or bad was arriving with the next heartbeat. For gun duelers it was the same. An eyebrow quirk. Pupils expanding. The twitch of a thumb or forefinger. Dalton waited for Trey’s to reveal itself. Then he’d clear his holster first and either maim him or kill him. He never could control that outcome. It depended on whether the other man moved before the bullet burrowed into flesh and muscle. Dalton didn’t know if he had a “tell” because he always let the other guy make the first move. When it came to gunfights, Dalton possessed what was most needed – patience. He was never in a hurry to kill a man.

  “Don’t do this! It’s not worth dying for!” Lacy pleaded, wrenching one arm free from Dutch and reaching out to them. “Please!”

  “This has nothing to do with you, girl,” Junior snarled at her. “Take that gal back inside, Dutch. All y’all women and children, get out of the way. This is man business.” He made a sweeping gesture and several women and curious boys ducked back inside the businesses.

  Vaguely aware of the movement around him, especially that Lacy had refused to find a safer place, Dalton couldn’t spare her more of his attention. Trey was focused on him again and his gun hand trembled.

  For God’s sake. Stand down! Every muscle in Dalton’s body tensed. The stench of blood burned his nostrils – a memory now, but in the next few seconds it would be real. He blocked out the roar of heartbeats in his ears and the trickle of sweat down the small of his back. Time slowed to the consistency of molasses and just when Dalton knew that Trey was on the verge of making his move, the thunder of hooves shattered the moment. A white Appaloosa with a black speckled rump whipped around the corner of the main street buildings and came barreling toward them.

  Trey swung about, dancing backward away from the charging horse. The rider brought the mare to a quick stop and the animal’s hooves threw up a cloud of dirt. Through the dust storm, Dalton recognized the rider. Carmella Pullman. She was dressed in an English riding habit; her long, gray skirts falling in deep pleats over her legs and her vest and blouse cinched tight at the waist. Her bosom rose and fell with her labored breathing. She stared at her son with a mixture of panic and fear.

  “Don’t, Trey! Go away from here now!”

  “Mother, what are you—? What the hell?” Trey waved an arm and the Appaloosa neighed and swung her head.

  “If you love me, you will walk away from this,” she said, between gasping breaths. She darted a look behind her to her husband, who was walking slowly in their direction.

  “What are you doing here, woman?” Junior bellowed at her. “Get out of the way.”

  “No!” Carmella flung the word over her shoulder, keeping her pleading eyes on her son.

  In a flurry of movement, Junior strode to the horse and grabbed his wife by the arm, jerking her out of the saddle. She let out a shriek before he backhanded her across the face, hard enough to knock her down. A roar erupted from Trey and he charged at Junior, planting his hands on his father’s chest and shoving him away from Carmella, who struggled to her feet. She hitched up her chin in the manner of a proud lady, although her clothes were now smudged with dirt and horse dung and a trickle of crimson ran from the corner of her mouth.

  “Don’t you touch her!” Red-faced, Trey stood between Junior and Carmella.

  “Just who do you think you’re talking to, you pissant?” Junior cocked his fist and slammed it into Trey’s face. Trey staggered backward as blood spurted from his nostrils. Running the back of his hand across his nose, Trey stared at the streaks of blood before glaring at his father with pure hatred.

  Junior chuckled. “If you’re not going to finish the job you set out to do, get out of my way, boy. You’re embarrassing.”

  “Hey, big man!” Dalton waited for Junior to look his way before he offered up his own smirk. “You’re mighty scary, hitting a woman like that and then your own son. Trey has proven that he has the mettle to face me in a fair fight. What about you? Or are you going to wait for another chance to shoot me in the back?”

  Junior chuckled. He looked at Carmella, who was being comforted by Trey, and shook his head in disgust. Pushing his black hat higher up on his forehead, he tugged at his belt. A Colt rested in its holster. From this distance, it looked to Dalton like the handle was carved ivory. Probably more for show than for accuracy.

  “Look what you’ve done, Carmella. You nosey bitch. You should be home. Didn’t I tell you to stay put? Why, I ought to . . .” Junior pulled his arm back, ready to strike her again. He grunted in surprise when Dalton closed the distance between them and nearly shoved Junior off his feet.

  “Don’t. You. Dare.” Dalton met his gaze and he saw Junior check his surroundings. People had pressed their faces against windows and filled doorways – watching, whispering, waiting to see what would transpire. The corners of Junior’s mouth tightened and his skin paled. He had nowhere to run. “So, what’s it going to be, Pullman? You’re not slinking out of town. I’ll tell you that. I know you either killed Willa Hollister or had her killed to keep her from testifying that Sam Louder used his fists on her.”

  “You don’t know nothing,” Junior flung back at him.

  “I know you’re a chicken-livered coward.” Dalton paced backward. “I know you’re good at beating and killing women. What I don’t know is if you’ve ever faced a man, fair and square.” He stopped when he was a good twenty steps from Junior Pullman.

  The man stared at him for a few moments. He looked around at the audience they’d drawn and laughed under his breath. “This is the man you hired as our marshal?” he asked, waving a hand in Dalton’s direction. “He accuses me of something he can’t prove and expects me to have a gunfight here in the middle of town?” He smirked at Dalton. “I’m a ranch owner, not an outlaw.”

  “Did you kill Forrest Cole, too?”

  Anger settled like a gray cloud over Junior’s face and he pointed a menacing finger at Dalton. He squinted so hard that his eyes disappeared from view. “I’m not standing here and being accused by the likes of you! You can’t find who is murdering folks around here? That’s your failure. Not mine.” He waved a hand at the people standing near him on the boardwalk. “Y’all hear him, don’t you? He knows that all he’s done here is talk big and lie to a judge to get one of my best ranch hands sent to prison! That’s all he’s done.”

  Dalton glanced right and left. His gaze fastened for a few moments on Lacy. She’d moved along the boardwalk, closer to them. She held herself stiffly as if she were on the brink of breaking in half and her face was pale, making her blue eyes almost glow. He looked away from her and back to the man who was trying to appear as if he had the situation under control. Junior squared his shoulders and puffed out his chest as he surveyed the onlookers, the smirk still twisting his lips.

  “Show’s over,” he called out to them. “Come on, Carmella, Trey. We have work to do at the ranch. I’m not giving this joker another minute of my time.” With a juicy chuckle, he turned away.

  Dalton waited. Patiently.

  Junior whirled back around, his hand grasping his gun handle, his eyes wide now, and his jaw set with conviction. He grunted in pain when Dalton’s bullet slammed into his shoulder before he could clear the Colt from the holster. Falling back a step or two, he righted himself, bringing his weapon up and firing a s
hot that went wide. Before he could squeeze off another, Dalton’s gun clicked ominously and he fired again. This time the bullet plowed into the center of Junior’s chest and shoved him off his feet. He fell flat on his back, a look of surprise on his face as he stared up at the blue sky.

  “Junior!” Carmella went to her knees beside him, but Trey didn’t move. He stood stock-still and watched as a red rose blossomed on his father’s white shirt. A few men rushed into the street, surrounding the fallen man and his wife. Women sobbed and clung to each other, overcome by the violence they’d witnessed.

  The ice inside him melted and Dalton’s vision expanded to take in the world beyond Junior Pullman. He looked to where Lacy still stood. Why hadn’t she gone inside? He didn’t want her to see this. Didn’t want her to see him shoot a man.

  Her eyes shimmered with tears and her cheeks were wet. She sucked in a hiccupping sob and turned away, her shoulders slumping. Otis was there and he placed his arms around her as he stared at Dalton. Dalton couldn’t tell if Otis was glad it was over or he hated Dalton even more for it. Turning aside, Dalton wished to hell that he’d been the one to take Lacy into his arms and dry her tears, ask her to forget what she’d seen and to view him only as someone who would do her no harm, who didn’t want to harm any living soul. How could he ever explain to her that he felt compelled to right wrongs, to go against men who were determined to make others suffer, to march onto battlegrounds with the shield of righteousness?

  Several men carried Pullman to the saloon where Dutch waited for them, holding open the doors. Dalton followed, each step feeling as if he had lead in his boots. A few people muttered words of camaraderie. Women gave him a wide berth, their doe eyes wide and wary as he strode by them. Inside the saloon, Dalton stood near the doors while Dutch went to work on Junior. They’d pushed a couple of tables together and laid Junior across them. Trey and Carmella stood near Dutch. Trey, blood smeared under his nose and across his lips, embraced his mother. Carmella hid her bruised and bloodied face against his chest as if she couldn’t bear to look at her husband’s dying body. Dalton had seen enough chest wounds from his time as a soldier and as a lawman to know that Junior wouldn’t rally. When Dutch began to curse in his native language, Dalton turned and left the saloon. He walked west, toward the dying sun.