Race’s deep voice drifted to her through the darkness, the smoky warmth of it curling around her. He was standing only a few feet away by the fire, close enough to hear if her stomach growled, for pity’s sake. And he’d assured her he meant to sleep under the wagon. The chances were slim that anyone might sneak past him during the night. What had she to be afraid of?
What if he leaves camp?
The thought made her feel as if a steel band were tightening around her chest, making it difficult to breathe. She lay there, stiff with fear that had no basis in reason, and even worse, knowing it didn’t. But the fear didn’t abate. It was like a living thing with a vitality apart from her, its icy tentacles wrapping around her, the relentless grip impossible to break.
Rebecca had no idea how long she lay there. Minutes? Hours? Exhaustion made her thoughts fuzzy, and there was terror even in that, for she was afraid to sleep. She struggled to keep her eyes open, her mind forming horrible pictures of jerking awake to find a knife at her throat. She had to stay alert. Be ready. They were out there, even now.
And if they reached her, they would kill her…
Race had no idea how long he’d been crouched beside the fire alone. Two hours, possibly three? A number of the men were bedded down for the night, Corey, Johnny, and Tag among them, their reclining bodies forming dark lumps on the ground near the bedroll wagon. Race almost wished Johnny were still hunkered by the fire with him, chattering ceaselessly.
Instead Race was alone with his thoughts. He stared at the base of the dancing flames where blue heat shimmered, the brilliant hue reminding him of Rebecca’s eyes. The delicate rose had her share of thorns, after all, he thought with self-derision. Not that he blamed her for it. It wasn’t her fault that he felt so drawn to her. Prim and proper, buttoned clear to her chin. She wasn’t exactly a temptress. And yet she tempted him in a way no other woman ever had.
If that wasn’t a hell of a note, he didn’t know what was. The one time in his life that he was responsible for the welfare of a young woman, every time he looked into her big blue eyes, he wanted to kiss her senseless and loosen her braid so he could run his hands into her hair. Christ. He kept trying to douse his feelings, but it was impossible. He kept remembering how he’d felt while holding her earlier that day—the tenderness, the ache in his chest. In his recollection, no female he’d ever run across had had this kind of effect on him. In short, he wanted her, not only in a sexual way, but simply in his arms as well, so he could hold her and protect her.
Craziness…He barely knew the girl, and if ever a female had been too fine for him, she was. Earlier when she’d hugged him, he had damned near gotten tears in his eyes. What in the hell was happening to him? No woman had ever tugged on his heart as she did. He couldn’t understand it, let alone find an explanation for it. The feelings were just there, and he seemed unable to set them aside.
In an attempt to stop thinking about her, Race turned his thoughts to his cattle herd. Time after time tonight, his men had walked into camp, their shoulders slumped with defeat, to deliver more bad news. Bad news that spelled Race’s ruin, not to mention that of all his hired hands. That was what he needed to be thinking about—the ruination of his life and the fact that he would be taking a lot of other men down with him.
A shuffle of footsteps coming toward camp brought Race’s head up. Shifting his weight slightly so he could easily reach for his gun, he squinted to see into the shadows. A moment later, he saw Pete Standish entering camp, the butt of his rifle grasped in one hand, the barrel resting against his shoulder. A leather-faced, bow-legged little man, the ranch foreman had always reminded Race of a strip of beef jerky; small, dried up, and not much to look at, but more than a mouthful and too tough to chew if a man decided to take a bite.
As he moved toward the fire, Race took in the foreman’s haggard face and filthy clothing, stark evidence of grueling hours spent in the saddle.
“Howdy.” Pete drew to a stop next to the circle of stone, his wiry body taut to combat the weight of exhaustion. “That coffin varnish fresh?”
Race ran his gaze over Pete’s bloodstained shirt and chaps, then brought it to rest on the man’s arms. From the tips of Pete’s leathery fingers to the rolled-up shirt sleeves at his elbows, his skin was caked with dry blood. Race knew the man had been slitting steers’ throats—putting the animals down to end their suffering. Broken legs, usually. The bovines panicked in a stampede and ran blind, into gullies, pitching off banks into arroyos, stepping into gopher holes.
“You won’t get coffee much fresher than this. I just made it,” Race replied in a gravelly voice. Tugging a glove from his belt, he bent forward on one knee to lift the Arbuckle can. Pete met Race’s reach midway over the flames, a tin cup clutched in his bloody fingers. “It’ll burn the hair off your tongue, so watch it,” Race warned.
“So long as it’s hot. Mite nippy out there at this hour.” Pete straightened, the battered tin cup cradled between his callused palms, his sun-baked, wrinkled face hovering scant inches away to catch the steam. “Boy, howdy, it do smell good.”
Race didn’t need Pete to tell him that he was so exhausted he could barely stand. He could see it in every line of the foreman’s compact body. He returned the coffee can to the bed of coals. “What’s the tally, Pete? How bad did we get hit?”
Pete pursed his mouth, deep lines fanning over his brown cheeks. His bleached-out blue eyes glittered like chips of ice as he met Race’s gaze. “Over half.”
Race’s guts knotted, and a sinking sensation came into his chest. He had tried to prepare himself for the worst. But over half of his herd? Pete and all the men stood to lose money as well. Race had promised each of them a percentage of the profit if they were able to get the animals back to his ranch in time for the fall cattle auction on the first of October. Race knew Pete had to be feeling frustrated and deeply disappointed, but not a trace of that was evident in his voice or expression.
Not much say, but a lot of do, that was Pete, a trait apparent not only in his speech, but in his appearance. His faded chambray shirt and saddle-rubbed jeans had seen better days, his Colt .45 had a black, dull-finish grip, and the best that could be said for his gun belt, bat-wing chaps, and kip boots was that they were serviceable, the leather of all three dark with age and worn by hard use. Nothing about the man looked impressive. Yet he was one of the best horsemen Race had ever seen, a damned fine marksman, and, without question, the hardest working man in the outfit.
“I done my best,” Pete said hollowly. “So did all the men.” He grew quiet for a moment, his head cocked to listen to the constant lowing of the cattle. “Can’t be much of a surprise. A body can tell by their bawlin’ that their numbers is down considerable.”
That was true, and Race had expected bad news. He just hadn’t been thinking in terms of over half. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I could tell.” He recalled the decision he’d made earlier that day to forsake the cattle and stay with Rebecca, telling himself that to protect her life he would happily sacrifice his own. Well, he had sacrificed it, sure as God’s favorite color was green. “Son of a bitch.”
“You gonna go tits up?” Pete asked quietly.
“No go to it,” Race bit out. “This finishes me. We only stood to make thirty percent profit after payin’ off the bank loan that I got to buy the herd. If we lost over fifty percent of them, I’ll be shy just tryin’ to plank down on the debt.”
Pete nudged one of the rocks encircling the fire with the toe of his boot. “Well, shee-it.”
“To settle with the bank, I’ll have to dip into my savin’s. And for a considerable amount. I’ll have to lay off my men.” He looked up at Pete. “We’ll tell ’em come mornin’. I got maybe enough to pay ’em until December, and that’ll be it. Wouldn’t be right, keepin’ ’em on until then and lettin’ ’em go in the dead of winter. Jobs are kinda scarce when the snow’s hip-deep.”
Pete stared into his coffee cup. “I sure hate like hell to see it.” His jaw m
uscle ticked. “The bastards! I swear, every time we’d get them critters soothed down, one of them sons of bitches would fire off a rifle ag’in. Twenty-nine head run themselves to death. Poor dumb things.”
Race closed his eyes. There were few things more horrible than to see a steer that had run until its heart burst. “I’m real sorry I ain’t been out there helpin’ you, old son. Must have been one terrible day.”
Pete released a weary sigh. “You had your work cut out for ya here. And you’re right. I seen some bad’uns in my time. But today took the prize, I think.” The foreman took a loud slurp of coffee. “How’s the girl holdin’ up? I hear she come damned close to bein’ raped and gettin’ her throat slit. Must’ve been tough on her, comin’ so fast on the heels of that slaughter in the arroyo.”
Race bit down hard on his back teeth for a moment. “It was rough on her, no question. I didn’t help matters.”
About to take another sip of coffee, Pete hesitated, his washed-out blue eyes cutting Race a questioning look over the rim of the cup. “What’s that mean?”
Race locked gazes with him. “When I shot the bastard, he fell right on top of her. Blood all over her. Scared the devil out of me, thinkin’ I’d sent her back into shock.”
The words hung in the predawn quiet. Pete’s hollowed cheeks seemed to become more sunken, the facial muscles under his weathered skin stretching tight over the bones. “How’s she doin’ now?”
“Better. Pretty froggy, I think. But she don’t seem will-in’ to admit it.”
“What do you think them bastards is after?”
“Money. What else?” As briefly as he could, Race recounted the story Rebecca had told him. “Somehow the plug-uglies found out they were transporting cash.”
“And you figure they’ll be back.”
Race sighed. “Knowin’ that kinda trash, they’ll keep on until they get their hands on it or until they’re dead.”
Pete slowly dropped into a hunker to be at Race’s eye level. “Dead’s my vote. I reckon that means we’ll have to be on our toes. Unless she’s made of steel, that girl can’t take much more. We gotta make sure they don’t get to her again.”
“They won’t,” Race said in a dangerously silken voice. “I guarant-ass-tee it.” He smiled slightly. “She offered to cover my losses if I’d go get the money.”
“What’d you say?”
Race shrugged. “I wouldn’t feel right about takin’ it. A lot of folks died for it, for one thing, and then it belongin’ to a church, to boot.”
Pete chewed on that for several seconds. “I reckon I’d feel the same way.” He dug in his back pocket for his plug. After tearing a chunk of tobacco off with his teeth, he returned the plug to his pocket, one cheek puffed as he worked his mouth for spit. “Well, let’s just be glad we only lost cows. Coulda been worse. Might still be yet. I bet you’ve a good mind to go huntin’ plug-uglies with blood in your eye.”
“If it wasn’t for the girl, I would. But I don’t wanna leave her.”
Pete nodded. “After today, I can’t say I blame you.” A speculative look came over his face. “You’re uncommon fond of her, ain’t you?”
Race bent his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I reckon I am. Don’t ask me why. I can’t explain it.” He glanced up. “She’s a sweet little thing. And you can tell straightaway that she ain’t puttin’ on. She truly is what she seems to be.”
Pete winked. “You been hit hard. Way you’re lookin’, maybe you oughta take your losses out in trade.”
Race chuckled. “With Rebecca?” He shook his head. “She ain’t that kind. Couldn’t touch it for no amount of money. The only man who’ll ever lay a hand on that girl will be her husband.”
Pete arched an eyebrow. “You best watch your step, boss. You got a look in your eye I don’t recollect ever seein’ afore.”
“Yeah?” Race thought that over for a second. “Well, I’m feelin’ like I ain’t never felt. There’s somethin’ real special about her.”
“All the more reason to watch your step with her.”
“Watch his step with who?”
Both Race and Pete glanced up to see a sleepy-eyed Tag stepping up to the fire. The boy’s face was streaked with dirt, his hair stiff with dust and standing on end. He fastened curious, big gray eyes on Pete. “You fellas talking about females?” Tag said “females” as if it were a dirty word. “Seems to me that’s all any of you talk about. Johnny and Corey, now you and the boss. I think it’s a waste of time. What’s so special about girls? All they do is fuss.”
Pete winked. “As you git older, son, they start to kinda grow on ya.”
“I didn’t think you liked them none too well,” Tag observed.
Pete chuckled. “Well, now, I reckon I don’t, truth to tell. Not where’s I wanna rub elbows with one over long. But I don’t mind the occasional handshake.”
Tag wrinkled his nose.
“What’re you doin’ up, tyke?” Race asked.
“I’m not a tyke.”
“Sorry. Old man, then.”
Tag scratched under his arm. “I swear, them dead steers got fleas on me.”
“We’ll head out come mornin’,” Race assured him. “You can bathe when we hit the river.”
“Sounds good.” Tag yawned and turned from the fire. “I gotta go see a man about a dog.”
“Stay close,” Race called. “Wearin’ that light-colored shirt, I don’t want you wanderin’ off from camp.”
“I won’t.”
Race gazed after the boy for a long moment, his smile fading. “I’m gonna hate like hell havin’ to lay him off,” he told Pete. “Don’t know what his mama will do without his pay comin’ in each month.”
Pete sighed. “We’ll work it out. A good number of the men’ll probably volunteer to stay on without pay till you get back on your feet. You’re a fair man, and good jobs is hard to come by in this line of work.”
Pete had no sooner finished speaking than the blast of a rifle rent the air. Both he and Race dove for the dirt. When Race sprang back into a crouch, he’d already drawn his guns. He swung his gaze over the camp. His men were leaping to their feet over by the bedroll wagon and scrambling for their weapons.
“It came in close,” Pete whispered as he duck-walked toward Race, his gun arm swinging first right, then left to cover his boss’s back. “Don’t think it was aimed at us, though.”
Race’s heart caught. “Jesus!” He pushed to his feet. “Oh, sweet Jesus, no!” He broke into a run. “Tag? Tag!”
No answer. Just an awful silence stretching beyond the wagons where the boy had disappeared. Race felt as if he were slogging hip-deep through cold mush, his every stride agonizingly slow, the short distance stretching before him like a thousand miles. To the edge of camp. Past the wagons. Out into the darkness.
Where? He cut left, then veered back to the right, his gaze scanning the grass and bushes. “Tag! Answer me, damn it! Where are you? Tag? Sing out, son, so I can—”
Race reeled to a stop, barely preventing himself from stepping on the boy’s arm. Tag lay sprawled on the grass, face in the dirt. Race dropped as if someone had dealt a blow to the backs of his legs.
Hiding, he thought dazedly. That was it. Tag had been scared by the rifle shot, that was all. And he was just hiding.
Race grasped a thin shoulder to turn the boy over. “Hey, Tag. It’s all right. You can get up now and come back to—”
Even in the darkness, Race could see the splash of shiny wetness on the front of the kid’s shirt. He grabbed the boy’s other arm to sit him up. “No. Tag?” Tag’s sleep-tousled head flopped sideways. Race found himself staring into unseeing big gray eyes that had been filled with life and intelligence only minutes before. Blood trickled from the boy’s lax mouth. “Oh, Jesus, no,” Race whispered. “Oh, God, no. No!”
And then he screamed it. “No—oo-o!”
Chapter 12
Wind whistled across the grasslands, blowing particles of di
rt into Rebecca’s eyes as the men filled Tag’s grave. She blinked, seeing everything through a stinging blur of tears, but didn’t bother to rub away the burn. Pain seemed real, at least. Nothing else did. A gust caught her skirts, whipping them high to reveal her petticoats. If the men around her had the presence of mind to look, let them. What did it matter? Nothing seemed to matter anymore.
Numb. No arms, no legs, no feet. The one thing she could feel was the huge aching emptiness where her chest should have been, a vacuum that compressed her lungs, making it difficult to breathe.
Her mother…her father…Uncle Luke and Aunt Hester…and all of the others. Now an innocent twelve-year-old boy. Was this land that had held so much promise in faraway Pennsylvania just a place haunted by death and failure?
She would never forget the look on Race Spencer’s face last night when he’d come back to camp, carrying that skinny, half-grown body in his arms. Twelve years old. Rebecca hadn’t known Tag, had never even seen him until that horrible moment when she had rushed across the encampment as Race laid him by the fire. Yet she felt as if her heart had been ripped out.
Race had refused to let her touch the boy. Refused to let anyone touch him. He just kept saying, over and over, “I promised. Dear God, I promised.” Later Mr. Grigsley had whispered to Rebecca that Race was referring to Tag’s mother—that Race had promised her that he would look after Tag and keep him safe.
God help him, he’d tried. They’d all tried—all of those hard-bitten, hard-riding, well-meaning men. And then along had come Rebecca Morgan, as devastating as any plague. Without meaning to, she had brought nothing but grief to Race Spencer and his men. Financially, he was ruined because of her. His men were out of jobs, or soon would be—because of her. From what she’d been able to gather, he would be letting all of them go as soon as they reached his ranch with the pathetic remnants of his herd. His dog, the pet he so clearly loved, was clinging to life by a thread, which was all her fault. His cook was so battered that he could scarcely walk—because the feisty old man had tried to defend her. And now…now a young boy, who’d never done anything to anyone, had been shot down in cold blood. That was the worst of all. The very worst.
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