Ward only smiled and lifted an eyebrow. He liked the young ones but not that young. Doug Paggett, with his unruly shock of black hair and his mustache, looked older than Ward, but he was actually several years younger. He seemed a lot younger sometimes, when they were with females. He seemed to go out of control, no longer resembling the cool-headed second lieutenant who (without destroying the contents) could set a charge of dynamite to blow any safe the Texas and Pacific could devise.
The choir was followed by a procession of papier-mâché statuary, elaborately shaped and painted to resemble the busts of famous revolutionary Mexican leaders. The colorful busts bobbed along on thin brown legs and were followed by a long red-and-yellow paper dragon that weaved from one side of the street to the other, exactly like a sidewinder, propelled by at least a hundred legs, the humps on its colorful back undulating like waves on the ocean. Doug laughed delightedly—probably, Ward decided, having the time of his life trying to decide which of those young brown dragon legs belonged to girls.
The dragon was followed by a Mexican band playing loud, patriotic music, and then by a contingent of dark-garbed riders that brought a hush over the crowd. At least fifteen men, resplendent in silver-edged black charo suits, riding sleek-looking blooded stallions and armed to the teeth, with two guns at every waist and a rifle sheath on every saddle, rode behind a girl dressed like a Spanish queen, her beautiful gold dress gleaming in the afternoon sunlight, her carriage as proud on the stately white horse as any queen. Ward recognized her as one of the females who had laughed at him when he was leaving Maria’s wagon.
One of the men beside Ward cursed. “Powers got himself a new woman?”
Another man laughed softly. “Naw! She ain’t Powers’s woman. B’longs to Dallas Younger. That must be the little filly from back east I heard him braggin’ about last night.”
Someone else spoke up, also softly, since it wouldn’t be healthy to be openly contemptuous. “They got a lotta guts marching in the parade. Anyone who’s done the folks around here the way they have should be in jail!”
Ward, who hadn’t been in Phoenix for at least two years and wasn’t aware of any changes that might have been taking place, felt an instinctive tightening of muscles in his broad back, which he made a conscious effort to relax. Politics didn’t interest him—not even politics like the Powers Ranch played so openly. Ward vowed not to get involved in other people’s business, but habits were strong, especially survival habits. His eyes narrowed, and he studied each face in that slow-moving group of misfits. They were the roughest he had seen since riding with the Jackson Hole Gang. They made the Clantons look like choirboys. Three of them he recognized; the rest he would remember next time he saw them.
The girl on the white horse was riding from side to side in the wide street, tossing flowers at the smiling faces in the crowd. When she zigzagged across to Ward’s side of the street, she looked at the crowd and their eyes met. She recognized him as the man she’d seen climbing into and out of the wagon with the pretty Mexican girl, and he remembered her as the one Belen had almost torn into when they had robbed the Texas and Pacific. He had watched her without her knowledge on the train because she was one of those rare women who seem comfortable within themselves. She probably hadn’t seen him because she didn’t have searching eyes.
When he had boarded the train in Tucson, he had seen her talking in her quiet way with her lady’s maid, and he had appreciated her friendliness and openness. It struck him then that she was one of those singular women without guile. She looked relaxed and composed—like a beautiful swan who would ride a choppy lake as serenely as a placid one. During the train robbery, he had been impressed again, because it had been obvious that while she might be amused by the excitement of a lifestyle wilder than her own, she was not in the least tempted by it. She could be mischievous when the mood struck her, he thought, remembering the way she had leaned out that window to taunt him…
She was prettier than he remembered. She had exquisite coloring, but it didn’t take a connoisseur to appreciate coal-black hair and creamy white skin, especially when the gown she wore made it apparent that she was as graceful and comely of limb as she was of face.
“Which one is Younger?” he asked of the lantern-jawed, mustached man who had said she was Younger’s woman.
“The one on that dun. Thinks he’s a real ladies’ man!” he snorted. “Dallas Younger is Powers’ foreman. Want my opinion—it’s not ’cause he’s hell on cows!”
Younger had no doubt earned his reputation. There was a healthy arrogance in his lithe frame that was easy to identify. The man wasn’t afraid of man or beast, and it was apparent from the look on his handsome face that he wasn’t often required to prove it. One look from those steel gray eyes would discourage anyone but the most suicidal.
Ward couldn’t tell, when the lady’s eyes caught and held his, whether the stirring he felt was his innate competitiveness or a response to the look in her eyes: a look that fluctuated between chagrin at her own position, recognition of him, and mild interest.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it beyond that one instant because a feisty little red dog pushed past them, ignoring his owner’s shout, “No, Pepito! No!” and ran into the dusty street, straight at the front legs of the silky white Arabian.
The playful mutt, an alley mixture of terrier and anonymous parentage, nipped at the sleek white fetlocks, barking ferociously. The big white horse, naturally nervous and high-strung, reared, almost unseating the startled girl. Leslie, caught off guard, with her hands more occupied by the basket of flowers than the reins, screamed and dropped everything in her scramble to keep from being thrown.
Without thinking, Ward leaped forward and grabbed the reins she had dropped before they hit the ground. He dragged the horse’s head down before he could bolt and then looked up, expecting to see relief on the girl’s face. But Leslie was mortified and angry. Not at the man who had saved her, but at herself for agreeing to ride in this stupid parade and to throw stupid flowers at people who looked like they resented her. She had been painfully conscious of the open hostility rippling through the crowd as they passed by. Since she had gotten herself into this mess and couldn’t think of any way to get out of it, she had forced herself to concentrate on the faces of the guilelessly adoring children. But when she had almost been thrown, the adults had made themselves felt, cautiously. She had seen, all in a flash, smiles of triumph and open snickers, and her anger now caused her to jerk the reins out of Ward’s hands and turn the horse sharply, accidentally knocking him down. Leslie watched in mounting horror as one atrocity seemed to follow another.
Her scream had brought Dallas Younger and her uncle to her side. Before she could react, her uncle shouted an order, cursing savagely while she watched, speechless with fear and anger, as Younger pulled his rifle from its sheath and used it like a club on the man who was just coming to his feet.
“No! No!” she screamed frantically, but if they heard her outraged cries over the mounting roar of the crowd, they ignored them. Ward slumped limply into the powdery gray dust. Powers’s men formed a threatening phalanx behind Younger, and the crowd that had started to surge forward stopped, quieted.
“No harm done here!” Younger yelled at the row upon row of resentful faces. “Get that bastard out of the way! This is a parade! Not a damned side show!”
Doug Paggett, who had been on the verge of drawing his gun, thought better of it in the face of the determined and concerted opposition and rushed forward to drag his friend’s limp form out of the street.
The Powers contingent moved slowly forward, but Leslie felt like a statue, stiff and pale, her flowers forgotten in the dirt. She could not believe what her eyes had seen! Dallas Younger, who had seemed perfectly normal, at least for Arizona, had practically killed that man just for trying to save her from an embarrassing spill!
Dazed, she rode stiffly, until her senses began to return. With a conscious effort to still the wild pounding of he
r heart, she stopped her horse and started to turn it. That man might be crude and churlish, making love to Mexican girls in broad daylight, but he had tried to help her!
“Heah! What the hell you doing?”
“I’m going back there!”
“Like hell you are! You’re a Powers. Sit up straight!”
Leslie’s mouth dropped open. She couldn’t believe her ears. Her uncle was talking to her exactly like he talked to the Mexican servants in his kitchen.
Powers grabbed the reins from her nerveless fingers and the parade moved forward again. Leslie was a captive wedged in between her uncle and Dallas Younger, whose flat gray eyes shot her a warning look.
Doug Paggett and the man who had been most vocal about the Powers outfit half carried, half dragged, Ward Cantrell into the deserted saloon.
“He hurt bad?”
“Cain’t tell for sure. He’s breathin’ though,” Doug said, frowning down at his friend. Uncharacteristically, his hands trembled at the thought that Cantrell might be badly injured.
The stranger parted the tawny hair on Ward’s head and peered knowingly at his scalp. He repeated this until he satisfied himself he had uncovered the entire area.
“’Pears to be all right. Got a concussion sure, though.”
“Those bastards!” Doug swore. “I saw who did it. I’m gonna kill him!”
“Better leave well enough alone,” the man said kindly. “They’ve killed men for a lot less than accosting one of their womenfolk! They don’t ride alone.”
“Jesus!” Doug picked up an unfinished drink off the table above Ward and held it to Ward’s lips. He spilled some of the liquid into Ward’s slack mouth and was rewarded with a groan. Ward’s eyes opened tentatively, focused on the worried face of his friend, then closed. The light behind Doug was a blinding ache to Ward’s tortured skull. He could feel his brain throbbing with each heartbeat.
“You all right?”
Ward squinted at Doug. “What happened?” he groaned.
“You ain’t hung over, that’s for sure! You got hit on the head!”
Ward reached up and touched his head, wincing.
“That bitch hit me?” he asked, his memory slowly returning.
“’Twarn’t her,” the stranger volunteered. “She just knocked you down so’s he could hit you—Younger!”
“The hell you say? Who the hell is Younger?” he asked, not remembering they had already gone over this earlier.
“Powers’s strawboss. Texan. Right dangerous with a gun, from what I hear.”
Ward struggled into a sitting position. He tried to stand, but his legs didn’t respond. It took him two tries before he made it.
“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re gonna do?” Doug demanded, not liking the look on his friend’s face.
“I’m going to kill that bastard Younger,” Ward said grimly.
The stranger, a long-faced New England type, shook his head. “Wouldn’t try that if’n I was you, mister. Younger ain’t about to meet you alone, ’cause he don’t have to. Powers has fifty men in town right now, and half of them are gunfighters.”
“Fifty men?” Ward asked, squinting at the man.
“At least fifty.” He nodded.
“Whatcha gonna do, Ward?” Doug asked.
Ward rubbed his neck, turning it from side to side to see if it still worked. “I’m going to finish my drink and then see about dinner.”
“What about Younger?”
“Someday we’ll meet when I don’t have a headache and he doesn’t have fifty men with him,” he said quietly.
Chapter Eight
Leslie rode sidesaddle beside Annette, keeping the subdued Frenchwoman between her and the others like a buffer, avoiding Younger and his attempts to placate her with cheerful conversation.
The sun set, and the desert, ever responsive, cooled. Chill night air fanned her flushed cheeks, and her agitation slowly diminished with the exertion of the ride. It was dark when they reached the ranch. A silver wedge was rising over the mountains to the east. The ranch house sat like a fortress on the hill, glistening under the stars.
They climbed the gentle slope quickly, the horses as eager as Leslie to end this ride. Once inside the protective walls, she dismounted and relinquished her reins to the young Mexican boys who ran out to greet the horsemen. Uncle Mark, apparently anticipating her, stepped up onto the wooden porch where he towered over her. “Go to my office, young lady,” he said, his manner brusque.
Determined not to be cowed by him, Leslie swept past Younger, ignoring the hand he extended to help her up the stairs. She preceded her uncle into the room he used as an office and watched in silence as he settled himself into the big leather chair behind the desk. He had arranged his features into a conciliatory mask, but he fairly reeked with the self-confidence of a man who could not lose.
“Now, Leslie,” he said. “You wanted to talk to me?”
Her hands tightened on the edge of the chair and she leaned forward. “I want you to buy me out so I can go back home,” she said quickly.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “And what do you think of the ranch?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you are your father’s heir. It is, roughly speaking, half yours.”
“I don’t understand,” she said softly.
“Well,” he said. “You will appreciate that a half-interest in a steer cannot be divided until the steer is either slaughtered or sold to a third party for money.”
“Yes, sir, I understand that,” Leslie said, feeling uncomfortable, “but the ranch isn’t a steer.”
“Your father owned an undivided half-interest in this ranch. And frankly, Leslie, I don’t think you could manage your half of the ranch,” he said, smiling at the ridiculousness of her struggling with the myriad details involved.
Irritated at his obvious pleasure in what he saw as her incompetence, she leaned forward. “There is no need. If you would only purchase my half from me…”
“I have no intentions of selling or dividing any part of the ranch,” he said gruffly. “This is my home! And while you may have an interest in the ranch, there is no way for you to turn that interest into money without my cooperation. Your signature on any document attempting that would be as worthless as a pile of grama grass in wheat country,” he declared, slamming his fist onto his desk.
“I understand your desire to keep the ranch together, Uncle Mark,” she said, controlling herself with an effort. “But I was hoping we could reach an agreement where you would purchase my interest for an amount that would be less than its actual value.”
“Cash is not something we keep in great quantities. Cash is for buying cows. I can turn my money over many times by putting it into cows. And without my signature, your interest is totally without value. However,” he said, holding up his hand to forestall her heated words, “you are my brother’s daughter, and I have no intention of keeping you from enjoying your inheritance. You are welcome here as long as you live, Leslie.”
“What? What do you mean?” she asked, incredulous.
“Your father and I spent our life’s blood to build this ranch. It was always his wish that you should live here with him. I see no other way to resolve this impasse.” He shrugged. “My only wish is to take care of you. I can’t do that if you’re gallivanting around in some city where a body can’t see the sky for the haze.” He leaned back in his chair, his face darkened by a look of righteous indignation. He crossed his arms over his chest, determined to get through what he saw as an unpleasant duty to an ungrateful and bothersome relative.
Recognizing that stubborn look for what it was, Leslie nearly despaired. She was not accustomed to having her wishes entirely disregarded. But time and again since arriving in Phoenix she had discussed matters with her uncle only to find either instantly or later that he hadn’t taken her seriously at all, as if he were listening to a child.
Now, grim with parental purpose and righteousness, Mark Powers s
at like a block of granite—impervious to reason—determined to “take care of her.”
“I am not a child,” Leslie said grimly.
“I never had any children of my own, Leslie, but I do know that children need guidance. I don’t hold with that newfangled horse baloney your mother put such store in. You might want to read the law of the land. It’ll be clear to you that I’m the one who’ll be held responsible for you,” he said, leaning forward. “I happen to be your legal guardian.”
“I’m nineteen years old!” she protested.
“An unmarried woman needs a guardian until she reaches majority. As your only surviving relative in this territory, I am your guardian. My dear, it behooves me to care for you until you marry a fine young man who will father children my brother would be proud of.”
Leslie leaned back in the chair, feeling the room closing in on her. Face pale and glowing, she sat forward. “And I suppose your being my guardian also entities you to pick my husband for me?”
Something unrecognizable glittered in his jade green eyes, and Leslie paled. Her uncle, though his veneer of earnest regard had not worn through, frightened her suddenly. Was it possible she had skipped blithely off the train and into a trap? Had this man purposely lured her here, knowing all the time that he fully intended to toss her like a bone to his lusty foreman?
His eyes were guarded again. “I would respect your wishes insofar as that is reasonable, but I could not allow you to marry someone who would be a detriment to you.”
Leslie could barely speak around the knot that had formed in her throat. “You mean you want me to marry an asset like Dallas Younger,” she said bitterly.
Her uncle’s brows crowded his eyes in a scowl. “Well, Dallas would make you a fine husband, no doubt about that.”
“And if I refuse?”
He shrugged. “You may marry or not, as you wish. Obviously I do not expect you to manage your own financial interests. A woman needs a man to do those things for her.”
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 6
