Steve realized at once that the posse should have waited until morning. Daley fancied himself something of a tracker, though, so they’d set off in the dark as if it made sense.
Ramon had made the mistake of many panic-stricken men. He’d stayed off the roads and left a clear trail across the desert, where very few horses or anything else traveled.
Steve stayed close to Daley, who turned out to be a pretty fair tracker after all. He was a little slow and hampered by darkness, but he was almost as good as an Indian. Steve could have led the posse faster, but he kept quiet. They were already going faster than he wanted them to.
Something about the trail puzzled him. Slowly he dropped back and let the others go on ahead. When he’d put a little distance between himself and the rest of the posse, he dismounted, struck a match from the tin he carried in his pocket, and studied the trail. Then he saw it—a dark spot in the sand. He touched it with his finger, which came away wet with blood. Daley had to know, but he hadn’t said anything to the others. Either Ramon or his stolen horse was bleeding.
Steve caught up with the posse. About two A.M. by the stars, the moon went down. Without that light Daley called a halt; men bedded down for the night. Steve lay on his saddle blanket until everyone was asleep, including the man who was supposed to stand the first guard.
Silently he stood up and walked away from the camp. When he was out of earshot, he cut a branch off a mesquite bush and tied it to the back of his belt with his handkerchief. Satisfied he would leave no trail, he settled into the long, ground-eating pace he’d learned from the Indians. Over time, a man in good shape could outrun a horse. Except for that scratch on his arm, almost healed now, he was in good shape. He would have preferred to be wearing moccasins, but his low-heeled shoes, chosen for dancing, would have to do.
About ten minutes from the posse, he thought he heard a horse. He stopped to listen. The sound came again, a whinny. Slowly he walked through a stand of cactus toward a riderless horse outlined against the lighter sky.
“Easy, boy,” he said, stepping close and grasping the horse’s reins. Heat radiated from the quivering animal, which smelled strongly of sweat. “Where’s your rider?”
Steve reached into his vest pocket and found the sugar cubes he kept there for Calico. He let the horse have them, then lit a match. He checked for a bullet wound and the ground for signs. The horse’s tracks led from the direction of the hills north of him. Leading the horse, Steve backtracked.
Seconds later he found Ramon, motionless on the ground. Steve knelt beside the boy, felt for a pulse, found one, and then struck another match. Ramon had been hit in the back, low down on the right side. Steve ripped Ramon’s shirt into strips and used it to bind his wound. Then he unsaddled the horse, slipped the top saddle blanket out from under the saddle, and covered Ramon with it. The one next to the horse was sweated through, but this one was fairly dry. Steve draped Ramon over the saddle, tucked the blanket around him to keep him warm, and led the horse toward the mountain, looming black against the skyline.
Steve knew this part of Arizona. He had hunted in this area as a boy. At the base of the hill, Steve broke through a heavy thicket and found a cave he remembered. He searched his mind for a better place, but this cave narrowed into a natural tunnel that opened onto a hidden valley where Ramon would be safe from pursuit.
Steve checked Ramon, then led him and his horse into the back of the cave, where he was plunged into such dank coolness and impenetrable darkness he might as well have not had eyes. The cave smelled of bat droppings. It felt cold and still, and filled with unseen presences. But that was probably just his imagination, he hoped.
Steve stepped carefully and kept his right hand on the cold rock wall. The horse’s shod hooves made sharp sounds on the rock. The walls echoed each step. About a hundred yards in, the cave narrowed to a tunnel barely wide enough and high enough for the horse to walk upright. The horse whinnied its displeasure, but it had no choice, either.
Steve stepped carefully, but soon lost track of time. So much darkness disoriented him. He needed to get back to the posse before they woke and missed him, but he could only go so fast.
At last the darkness was relieved by faint light. His hand became visible on the wall, then his feet and the floor of the cave. Finally he saw stars shining through a slit and realized that he’d somehow gotten through.
At the pivot rock, he wiped cold sweat off his forehead. Still holding the reins, he put his back against the rock and pushed. It turned slowly on its axis, letting in cool air. The night didn’t seem so dark after the cave.
Steve led the horse out of the opening, lifted Ramon down, and checked his wound, which still seeped blood into the cloth around it. From the canteen he’d found on the stolen horse, he dribbled water into Ramon’s mouth, then wet his own mouth with a swallow of the water. The saddlebags yielded dried fruit and jerky. Steve put the food and water near Ramon and led the horse back to the pivot rock.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Steve said to the unconscious boy. He felt frustrated, but he’d done everything he could. Ramon was warm and alive. He was on his own now.
Chila woke to the sound of a wagon rattling up to the front porch. She put on her robe and walked out to see who would be arriving in the middle of the night.
As she stepped out onto the porch, Ham Russell and Roy Bowles got down from the buckboard and walked up the steps.
“What’s going on?”
“Got Piney here. That little greaser killed him.”
“Oh, no!” Piney had been with her since Joe was a little boy. “Put him in the parlor, Ham. I’ll clean him up and…get him ready to bury.” The thought of burying Piney brought a quiver to her insides.
She rushed to light a lamp. Grunting and complaining, Ham and Roy carried Piney up the steps like a sack of potatoes. They bumped him through the door and laid him on the floor beside the window.
“You need anything else?” Ham asked.
“Get me a bucket of water and put it on the stove. I don’t like working with cold water.” She knelt to be sure Piney’s eyes were closed. She didn’t like no dead man staring at her. His eyelids felt warm to her. She knelt and pressed her ear to his heart.
“Why, you fools,” she said, standing up. “He’s not dead.”
Sunday morning dawned clear and bright. If not for her fury at the whole town, Samantha might have gone to prayer meeting. Any other Sunday, she, Tristera, and Nicholas would have dressed, eaten breakfast in the hotel dining room, and walked to Mary Francis’s house for church services.
As it was, she and Nicholas ate in their room and then prepared to ride directly back to the ranch. As they left their room, Tristera, dispirited and pale, stepped into the hall.
“Good morning,” Samantha said.
“Buenos días, señora,” Tristera mumbled.
A few paces further, Juana stepped into the hall.
“Morning, Juana.”
“Sí, señora,” Juana murmured, not looking at her.
Samantha put her arm around Juana’s shoulders. “Juana, please stop blaming yourself. There is nothing we can do for Piney, but Nicholas is safe, and Steve will save Ramon.” Nicholas reached up and patted Juana’s arm.
Juana wiped away tears. “It is easy for you to be forgiving of others, señora, niño mio,” she said, giving Nicholas a squeeze, “but not for me. If I had not gone to sleep…”
“You work hard. You’re entitled to sleep occasionally. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
Samantha knew where the real fault lay. She had known about the mood of some people in the town. If she’d been watching Nicholas instead of mooning over Steve, Nicholas would not have been frightened and humiliated, and Ramon might not have shot Piney.
Piney was dead. Samantha had cried about that and written a note to Chila, telling her how very sorry she was, but she knew that wouldn’t lessen Chila’s pain.
Samantha had agonized half the night about
going to Phoenix after all that had happened. She had finally decided it was still important to sell that herd.
In the hotel lobby, Rathwick put aside his newspaper and stood up.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said stiffly, avoiding Tristera’s gaze. “Are you ready to go back to the ranch?”
“Yes, we are.”
At the creek below the house, Rathwick stopped his horse. The others continued on up the hill. Tristera felt the pull from Rathwick’s body. In spite of her wishes to the contrary, she reined her horse and looked at him. She had stolen glances at his stony profile, but this was the first time she dared look into his eyes.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” he said. “If there is anything I can do, please let me know.”
Tristera nodded her thanks.
“Did Joe Dart hurt you?”
Surprised, Tristera blinked. “No.”
“I saw you crying.”
“I let him kiss me. I felt ashamed.”
The look on Tristera’s face caused his insides to twist with compassion. She was so young and so innocent. Even a kiss could torment her.
The sun was setting; dusk turned the desert and her lovely features gray. Rathwick was close enough to touch her. She looked into his eyes with that strange unabashed openness that told him nothing, yet made his heart pound in spite of his anger and jealousy. “I wish I had asked you to dance,” he said.
“And risk your spotless reputation dancing with a…Mexican girl?” she asked, her bitterness causing one corner of her mouth to pull down.
On impulse Rathwick dismounted, helped her down, and held out his arms to her.
“There’s no music,” she whispered.
“I could be killed by renegade Indians tonight. I don’t want to die without ever once holding the prettiest girl in the world in my arms.”
Tristera’s face felt tight. If she had any tears, the muscles of her face would have squeezed them out of her. “You are loco,” she whispered.
“You are obviously a princess,” he said solemnly. “You can’t risk your reputation dancing with a lowly infantry officer,” he said with a smile, holding out his hands and crooking his fingers in a gesture that motioned her into his arms.
He was tall and solid; heat radiated from his body. Surprised at the strength she felt in him, Tristera realized that her tight face was relaxing into a smile. Suddenly she felt better than she had in days.
They waltzed in silence. Tristera felt dizzy, as if she might say or do anything. Too soon, Rathwick stopped dancing, took her by the elbow, and guided her toward an imaginary lemonade tub. “May I dip you a drink?”
“Sí.”
Her answer was so soft Rathwick almost didn’t hear it. He pretended to dip two cups of punch. She pretended to drink hers slowly, watching him with dark, challenging eyes.
“Do you have family around here?” he asked.
“No.”
“Anywhere?”
“No.”
Rathwick scowled down at his boots. He would have rather heard that she was surrounded by people who loved her.
“What about Ramon?”
“I thought you meant my mother and father. They died when I was little.”
Rathwick thought of her as a child. And himself bordering on lunacy. He had no business being out here with this girl, but he couldn’t make himself lead her to the house. His body seemed out of his control.
“What do you want, Miss Tristera?” he asked, touching her arm. His hand tingled, felt more alive than any other part of his body. In the dying light, her cheeks were sweetly curved, her lips plump and smooth. The urge to kiss her made sweat bead on his forehead. He took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his face.
Tristera had the sudden impulse to see if kissing the capitán would elicit the image of Tuvi. “Why don’t you just do it?” she asked softly.
“Pardon?”
“Kiss me. Why don’t you just kiss me?”
Rathwick’s stomach felt as if it had suddenly filled with hot water. Heat spread through him. He leaned down and tentatively touched his lips to hers. She didn’t draw away. Her mouth opened, and it was the sweetest, warmest mouth he had ever tasted, as smooth as warm butter. Her arms curled around his neck. Her tongue licked the corner of his mouth, sending a heated thrill down his spine.
Rathwick pulled her into his arms and kissed her the way he’d wanted to since the first time he saw her.
Tristera received his kiss on two levels. Part of her responded wildly, with raw emotion, and she knew that she loved him and her life would never be the same again. Another part of her waited to see if Tuvi would appear.
The kiss ended. She sighed and tossed her hair. “I will put that in my scrapbook, Capitán.” She had proven something to herself. He did want her, and he was man enough to do something about it if the circumstances were right. But he would never marry her or even think of her in that way. And she was not about to make the same mistake again. Tuvi must have known. He had not felt it necessary to show himself.
Before Tristera could finish that thought, Rathwick stepped away from her, turned jerkily, and mounted. He touched his hat, turned his horse, and galloped away. Tristera sank down on a rock. If she had any sense at all she would cry, but she couldn’t make rain inside or out.
Samantha sent for Eagle Thornton. When he arrived, she stepped out on the porch to meet him. “How many head have you loaded into the cattle cars so far?”
“Five hundred, give or take a few.”
The locomotive came just after lunch to claim the filled cattle cars. Samantha recognized her palace car, its brand-new windows gleaming in the sunlight. As the locomotive chuffed up to the house, there was still no sign of Steve. She packed an overnight bag while the crew coupled the cars. When everything was in readiness, to the lowing sounds of mournful steers and the yips and waves of tired cowhands, Samantha kissed Nicholas good-bye and carried her satchel aboard her newly refurbished palace car.
“Mama, take me with you.”
“No, this is going to be a quick business strip. You’ll be better off here.”
“But I want to see Amy and Chane.”
“Amy was sick last time I heard. By now little Chane may be sick with whatever she had. So, no.”
“Please, Mama!”
“No, you’ll be safer here with Tristera and Juana.”
This was a business trip, but she had packed one of her prettiest gowns, just in case.
Samantha was grateful for the time it took to reach Phoenix. She used the time to try to figure out how she felt about being courted by Lance. She struggled with it for hours, but Steve’s face kept coming between her and her beloved, irritating her. It seemed unfair that now, when she’d finally gotten something she had wanted all of her life, Steve could show up and make such a nuisance of himself.
Phoenix smelled of cattle dung. Although it was still April, and supposedly springtime, a blistering hot sun burned down at midday. Samantha felt a little disoriented as she stepped off the cool train and glanced up and down the station platform, looking for a familiar face.
“Over here!” Lance called out from a buggy parked beside the platform.
Samantha lifted her skirts and stepped down. “I wasn’t sure you would meet me.”
“Then you must have forgotten Chane’s superior system of scheduling,” Lance said, raising an eyebrow at her.
He took her elbow and led her toward a man who had been standing beside the buggy. “Samantha Forrester, Jed Sparks.”
A typical cattleman, rawboned and tough as leather, Sparks’s seamed face broke into a warm smile.
“How do, ma’am.”
Samantha and Lance closed the deal with Sparks by three o’clock, then Lance drove her to Chane and Jennie’s. In front of the enormous two-story house, Lance helped her out of the buggy; his warm hands lingered on her waist. At the stairs he turned her and looked into her eyes. “I forgot to mention that Chane and Jennie and the kids aren’t here.
”
“Where are they?”
“San Francisco, for a week or so.”
“But Amy was sick…”
“She’s fine now.”
Suddenly Samantha felt odd. If this were any other man but Lance, she would suspect his motives. He must have read it in her eyes.
“You can stay here. I’ll stay at our—my house.”
Lance still maintained a house in Phoenix. It was one he had owned before he married Angie.
“You don’t mind if I eat dinner here with you, do you?” he asked, eyeing her carefully.
“Of course not,” she said, a little too quickly.
“Yoshio’s in Durango, and I’m not much of a cook.”
Samantha tried to shrug off the feeling, but she was strangely uncomfortable. It was ridiculous. After all, she loved Lance. Whatever he wanted, she wanted, but…this just didn’t feel quite right.
“Dinner at seven?” he asked.
“Yes, that will be fine, thank you.”
Malcomb, the Kincaids’ elderly butler, confirmed their dinner plans. Lance thanked him, scowled, and turned back toward his buggy. Malcomb led Samantha upstairs.
In the guest bedroom, she took off her clothes, washed in the basin, and then lay down to rest. The room was cool, despite the afternoon heat. Chane had built the house with two-foot-thick bricks. This was what her house would feel like, if Steve ever came back and finished it.
She wanted to think about Lance, but Steve’s face, as she’d seen it that night when he was about to ride away with the posse, filled her mind. He seemed so open and friendly, but mystery surrounded him. Since she’d known him he’d been shot at twice and maligned in an anonymous letter.
Someone in Camp Picket Post obviously did not like him. But she and Tristera and Nicholas did. And she trusted their instincts before those of someone she didn’t know.
Lance would be coming to dinner soon. And if the feelings she was getting from him were any indication, he was planning to seduce her. She needed to know how she felt about that. I know men, Steve had said. He’s nothing but trouble now. He’ll hurt you.
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