by Pam Crooks
She couldn’t trust him. Not past the blink of her eye.
“Next time, I won’t miss putting a hole in your heart, Mr. Wells,” she said coldly. “One bullet is all I’d need.”
“Now listen here, ma’am.”
Her glance jumped to the other cowboy. Nubby Thomas. Gray-haired and wiry, his hands still in the air, he appeared more compassionate than vindictive, but she refused to fall for the ploy. He rode with Trey Wells, didn’t he? He couldn’t be trusted, either.
“We’re here to help, that’s all,” he continued, frowning at her. “Looks like you could use it.”
A sudden lump jumped into her throat. Help? Even if it were true that was what they wanted to do, they were too late. No one could help her or Papa. Not anymore.
“Why don’t you just put down that shootin’ iron, young lady, and we’ll get to the bottom of what happened out here,” Nubby finished.
Her old Henry remained leveled at Trey Wells’s chest, but she kept the gray-haired cowboy in her sights, watching as he slowly, carefully, dismounted from his horse.
Now, both men were on the ground. Only a half dozen yards away. An image of Allethaire, kicking and shrieking as she was being taken against her will, shot through Zurina’s memory.
She wasn’t so foolish to think she could fight both these men if they rushed forward and grabbed her, and a ripple of apprehension, of very real fear of the possibility of being attacked, shuddered through her. She bettered her stance and took strands of comfort in the one bullet she had left to defend herself.
“I don’t believe you mean what you say,” she said as bravely as she could. “I will tell you again. Leave us or I will shoot.”
Nubby’s hands lowered, and he slid a glance at Trey, whose mouth moved into a sardonic, triumphant quirk.
“‘Us’?” he asked softly.
Too late, she realized her mistake.
“I include the sheep,” she said, scrambling to rectify the blunder. She even managed to infuse a convincing firmness into the words.
“There’s someone else here with you,” he said sharply. “Who?”
“And where?” Nubby demanded right after.
“There is no one but me—”
“’Rina. Please. Enough of this.”
She started at the sound of her father’s voice, and she could no more keep from swiveling toward him than she could keep herself from breathing. Her heart tilted at how pale he looked in the morning sun. How weak. He leaned heavily on his uninjured arm, and though he braced himself on the blackened wagon frame, he appeared ready to fall at any moment.
An inadvertent sound of dismay slipped from her throat. She’d given him strict orders to stay hidden beneath the pile of pine branches she’d gathered and piled near the wagon. A crude attempt to stay warm, to be safe. To get themselves through the awful night—and the inevitable confrontation with these men.
But before she could go to him, the rifle was suddenly wrenched from her grasp, and she stumbled forward from the force. Trey Wells loomed in front of her, with a scowl as fierce as thunder, and who did he think he was, taking away the one piece of defense against him she had left?
Hadn’t he taken enough from her already?
With a cry of rebellion and unbridled fury, she lunged toward him and latched both hands onto the old Henry, one on the barrel, the other on the butt, and tugged. Hard.
“Give it back, damn you,” she snapped.
“Not a chance, sweetheart,” he growled, and tugged right back. Harder.
She fell against him. Thigh to thigh, hip to hip, with the rifle wedged between them.
Through the thin layers of her skirt, the strength in those denim-clad thighs branded themselves against hers. The buckle of his gun belt pressed into her abdomen, but she refused to be intimidated. She had no patience in being afraid.
But she couldn’t help being aware. Of Trey Wells as a man. His power. His control. That he could easily overpower her, right here.
Now.
His scent surrounded her—leather, horse, coffee. Man. But it was his gaze that held her in its clutches, as if he wove some bizarre spell over her, holding her against her will. Making her feel as if she could drown in the glittering bronze depths of his shadowed gaze.
The planes of his face shown harsh above her. Tiny creases etched the corners of his eyes. The sun had tanned his skin and rough bristle covered his cheeks, giving him the look of the lawless.
A look that suited him. Trey Wells had no law—except for his own. He’d victimized her and destroyed her because of his arrogance and superiority over the sheepman.
God, she hated him.
But she hated his effect on her even more, and in a determined burst of rebellion, she tugged on the rifle again.
To no avail.
“Leave us alone,” she hissed. “You’ve taken what you want from us, haven’t you?”
He speared her with a dark glower. “Think whatever you want of me, but you need help, woman, and I’ll be giving it to you.”
As if to prove his point, he swiftly jerked his arms upward and yanked the rifle from her grasp.
She gave up fighting him and leveled him with a fierce glower of her own. “How kind of you.”
“’Rina,” her father said, his tone raspy. Wheezy. “Do not argue with him. Have you forgotten who he is?”
Her nostrils flared with disdain. “I have not forgotten, Papa. How could I ever forget?”
“He is… Trey Wells.”
Alarmed by the wheezing sound which threaded his words, she stepped toward him, but before she got there, before she could help, her father’s knees buckled, he crumpled to the ground and went still.
Chapter Four
She feared he was dead.
But, dear Lord in heaven, the faint pulse at his wrist assured her he wasn’t. Blinking back tears of anguish, of immense relief, she bent over him and kissed his cheek, whispering her love and assurances she would do all she could to make things right for them again.
“He needs a doctor.”
Zurina took a moment to compose herself, then sat back on her heels and speared Trey Wells with a condescending glance. He squatted on his haunches across from her, his expression grave. Did he think she was blind to all her father had suffered?
“I know,” she said coldly.
“He’s lost a lot of blood.”
She refused to look down at Papa’s crimson-stained shirt, which still glistened wet against his shoulder. “I know that, too.”
The anguish inside her roiled deeper, and she hovered on the edge of losing her composure again. She took Papa’s limp hand into both of hers and held on.
“I did all I could for him,” she said stiffly. “But I had nothing. I—everything we had was in the wagon, and everything was burned, and—”
She stopped herself from rambling and drew in a breath. What did Trey Wells care what she had lost—her wagon, its contents or otherwise? Certainly, he had no care for her sheep. He would want so many to die.
Somber, Trey carefully parted Papa’s thin cotton shirt and peered beneath to inspect the wound. “How many times was he hit?”
In her mind, Zurina could still hear the blast of the masked cowboy’s gun. Could still see her father spin and fall with a dull thud to the ground.
“Once,” she said, swallowing.
Trey drew back. “Nowhere else besides the shoulder?”
“No.”
She’d fashioned a bandage, but it was crude at best, and from the way the wound seeped blood, ineffectual.
“The bullet still in him?”
“I couldn’t see that it came out, so yes, it must still be in his shoulder.” Knowing what must happen, what lay ahead, she squeezed her father’s hand tighter.
“Got to come out,” Trey said.
“He needs a surgeon, yes.”
“A surgeon.” He regarded her. “You see one out here?”
In spite of his sarcasm, her glance lifted to the
range sprawling beyond the horizon. If only a trained physician would suddenly appear. Or a magician, who could magically wave his wand and make Papa strong again.
“Of course not,” she said.
“We need to remove the damn thing. Now. Before he gets any sicker.”
Zurina took a moment to comprehend his intentions. After what had happened, after the terrible slaughter of the sheep, Trey Wells wanted to help?
Why?
Who was he trying to fool?
Nubby Thomas strode forward. He’d taken her rifle and tied it to his saddle for safekeeping, leaving Trey free to examine her father without reprisal. “I’ve got some rotgut to give him, ma’am, if it’ll make you feel any better about it.” Nubby indicated the narrow brown bottle of Old Fitzgerald he carried in his fist. “I always take some when my arthritis acts up. We’ll give him enough so he’s numbed up but good.”
Zurina dragged her gaze off him and leveled it over Trey.
“You will not touch him,” she said slowly. Succinctly.
“He’ll die if we don’t get that bullet out.”
“He needs a surgeon.”
Not a cattleman who would just as soon see him dead than live to raise sheep.
“Yes,” Trey said. “He does. But it’s not possible, is it?”
“I will make it possible.”
“How?” he demanded.
“I will find a way.”
“You going to carry him on your back into town?”
“If I must.”
He made a sound of impatience. “Like hell you will.”
Zurina knew her words were only false bravado to him, but she meant each one. They made clear her intention to do everything she could to give Papa the help he needed.
And yet….
“When did he get shot?” Trey asked.
It was as if he knew the way of her thoughts. That too much time had passed already, and what had she done so far to help him?
Too little, too late?
“Last night,” she said, miserable. “At supper.”
He squinted an eye into the sky. “It’s after dawn. The next day. What do you figure, Nub? Ten, twelve hours, maybe, he’s been carrying that bullet?”
“Reckon so.” The old cowboy rubbed his grizzled jaw. “Something’s got to be done for him, ma’am. And pretty damn fast, I’d say.”
As if tugged out of his faint by the sound of their voices, Papa moaned and stirred. Awash in sympathy for all he’d endured, and for what still lay ahead, Zurina touched his cheek tenderly, and felt the heat of his fever.
“Too bad the lady doesn’t want our help.” Sighing loudly, Trey stood. “Let’s head out, Nub. We’ve got a helluva lot of riding ahead of us.”
The cowboy pursed his lips, chapped from the wind and sun. “Yep, we sure do. Guess we could leave her a knife, couldn’t we? Then she could build her own fire to get the blade good and hot. She’ll just have to find a way to hold her daddy down by herself while she pushes that white-hot knife into his shoulder. ’Course, it won’t be easy finding the lead in there. Might take her a while, but she’ll figure it out.”
With a careless shrug, Nubby pivoted on his boot heel and strolled over to Trey, already bending to grasp his horse’s reins.
Zurina gritted her teeth. She hated herself for giving in to their manipulation and hoped Papa would forgive her.
She abruptly stood. “Wait!”
She held her breath, the fear racing through her that they wouldn’t listen, after all. That they’d mount up and ride off like they said they’d do and leave her alone.
To let her father die.
Her heart pounded as Trey Wells straightened, in no hurry, and locked his gaze with hers.
But he said nothing. Merely waited. Forcing her to make the next move.
The bastard.
Clinging to every shred of pride she had left, she lifted her chin.
“Please,” she said.
“Please what?” he taunted in his low voice.
“Please do not go.”
From somewhere deep within her core, the plea came. This need to trust in Trey Wells, just this once.
What choice did she have?
Perhaps it was only Papa’s elevated opinion of him. Or perhaps it was that neither he nor Nubby were wearing bandannas and had not harmed her or her few remaining sheep when they’d had every chance to do so.
Whatever the reason, she couldn’t deny she needed Trey Wells. Needed him so much she was willing to get down on her knees and beg him to stay.
He dropped the reins and moved toward her in a slow, purposeful tread. A part of her, the female part, noted the grace with which he walked. The control he showed. The power he was accustomed to wielding. An awareness that flickered through her with a startling and unexpected clarity.
He came to a halt in front of her. His stance forced her to tilt her head back a bit to hold his hard gaze.
“Tell me your name,” he said.
“Zurina.”
It never occurred to her to withhold the information. She didn’t expect him to know her. They’d never met, after all.
But clearly, he hadn’t recognized her father. Most likely he would have, under different circumstances, when Papa would’ve spoken to him with his usual respect.
Circumstances when he wasn’t lying unconscious on the ground, his pale cheeks covered in a short beard. Sick and wounded.
“Zurina,” Trey said, as if testing the unusualness of her name on his tongue.
“Vasco,” she finished. “Zurina Vasco. You already know Papa.”
For a moment, he appeared stunned. “Gabirel?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
His glance whipped downward with a muttered oath, and he dropped into a squat beside her father again, gripped his chin and swiveled his head gently to study his features, as if to see for himself if Zurina spoke the truth.
“I’ll be damned.” His jaw hardened, when he realized she had.
“Is he the sheepman who grazes over in the valley?” Nub asked with a frown.
Trey nodded. “Yes. Sun River.”
“Hell.” Nubby thrust the flask of whiskey toward him. “Best get this over with.”
Trey turned grim. He slipped his arm beneath Papa’s shoulders and raised him to a half-sitting position. Papa groaned. Trey took the whiskey from Nubby and held the bottle to her father’s lips.
“Drink up, Gabirel,” he said. “You’ll soon be glad you did.”
And Zurina knew his ordeal was about to begin.
Trey wasn’t sure who worried him more—Gabirel or his daughter.
Zurina.
Zurina Vasco.
He committed her name to memory while his gaze clung to her slender form, the concern building in him as she knelt at the riverbank, washing her face, trying to regain the composure she’d lost.
Taking the bullet out had cost her. She’d felt her father’s pain deeply, as if she’d experienced the knife on her own shoulder, and the anguish had been more than she could handle. She’d fled toward the river, only to lose the contents of her stomach before she got there.
But then, the smell of burning flesh would upend anyone’s belly. At the time, Trey had wrangled with a healthy dose of revulsion from it himself.
The worst had been Zurina hearing her father’s screams. Trey grimaced. Yeah, that’d been the worst. Nubby had done all he could do to hold the man down while Trey probed the muscle with the knife’s blade, then doused the wound with a good amount of whiskey in hopes of staving off infection. After Trey finished the nasty job of cauterizing, Zurina had bolted and Gabirel had passed out.
Tiredly Trey lifted his Stetson and ran a hand through his hair. Main thing was, Gabirel had gotten through it, the damned bullet was out, and all that was left was getting him to a hospital.
The whole ordeal had set Trey back in his need to find Allethaire—and his father’s murderer. But finding her had to come first. He’d accomplished nothing since
he left the ranch last night, save for learning she hadn’t returned to her hotel in Great Falls.
He could only hope she’d gone back there by now and was safe, sleeping off her aggravation with him. Or maybe sleeping satisfied that she’d given him a damned good scare.
It’d be just like her, he knew. Still, when it was all said and done, she’d have her father to contend with. Paris would disapprove of her running off like she did. He wouldn’t appreciate the scandal she’d caused, either. Wasn’t proper for someone in their social status.
Like Sutton, Paris saw Allethaire’s marriage to Trey as an extra-fine bonus for the hydro-electric plant he wanted to build on Wells rangeland, and Trey knew it well enough.
But Paris had to understand Trey’s decision to postpone the engagement, which spurred Allethaire’s decision to run off in a huff. Trey refused to tolerate her behavior, this time and any other time in the future. Like it or not, both had to accept his refusal to leave Montana.
Zurina straightened from the riverbank, and like a cloud of fickle butterflies, Trey’s thoughts scattered away from Allethaire to gather over Zurina again. She appeared calmer, in control. She strode toward him with her back straight, her shoulders squared, and from the way she held her chin, her pride carried tight around her.
She was a beauty, all right, even dog-tired from all she’d been through. That dark skin, hair black as midnight—her Basque heritage shown strong in her coloring and gave her an exotic look different from other women he knew.
Different from Allethaire, he mused. About as different as two women could be.
Allethaire went to great lengths to keep the sun off her face, and Zurina, well, she seemed to welcome it. She didn’t appear to notice how the wind had tossed her hair, that it all dangled loose and free down to her waist. Allethaire kept hers pinned up close around her head to keep a single strand from escaping. Hell, Trey had never seen it any other way.
Zurina drew closer, and he chastised himself for comparing the two women. Wasn’t fair to either one of them, and their differences shouldn’t matter, besides.
He rose slowly to meet Zurina, and their gazes met. She had a strange pull to those eyes of hers. They kept hold of his and wouldn’t let go.
