Dallas shook his head. “I didn’t say that either. The men he’s killed are just as dead. I reckon he’s a gunfighter all right—he just ain’t from Texas.”
“I thought all the really dangerous men was from Texas,” she laughed.
“That’s ’cause those damned Texas rangers hound a man until he has to leave or hang. You didn’t sit down here to listen to my life story, did you, sweet thing?”
“I sat down here to do whatever you wanted me to. If you want to talk”—she shrugged—“well, that’s fine by me,” she said, smiling archly.
“And if I want to go upstairs?”
She laughed breathlessly, and he tossed a coin on the table and took her arm.
Peggy enjoyed Dallas Younger thoroughly. He was exactly what he appeared: a simple man who took his pleasures when and where he found them. No fancy stuff for him. His loving was as straightforward as he was.
At nine-thirty, Dallas disengaged himself and dressed.
“You don’t forget me, Dallas, honey,” she said, fingering the twenty-dollar gold piece he had tossed onto the bed. “Next time you’re in town ask for Peggy, you hear?”
“Right, sweet thing.”
Younger sauntered through the saloon, waving and nodding to acquaintances. He left the noisy saloon, but the raucous sounds of laughter, piano music, and loud talk followed him halfway to the livery stable where he had left Maverick.
The stable boy was asleep or gone. Younger walked through the big barn, lit now by one kerosene lamp hanging from a support post, to the stall where his horse waited.
“Howdy, Maverick. You enjoy that grain, did you?” He reached for the saddle that was draped over the gate, and just as he did, a noise behind him, like the crunch of straw underfoot, brought his senses surging alert. He threw himself sideways, using the momentum of the saddle swinging down to help. He fell, rolled, came up with his gun in his hand, only to hear the sound of footsteps running into the dark alley.
He holstered his gun, cursing himself for not getting a look at his would-be assailant. He took the lamp off the post and looked around the barn floor for footprints, hoping he would recognize some peculiarity. But the straw that had probably saved his life didn’t provide footprints. A gleam of metal led him to a buck knife half-hidden by straw. He picked it up, tested the blade, and flinched when its razor-sharp edge nicked his thumb. Probably the same knife that had killed Powers. He stuck it in his boot, saddled Maverick, and led the horse outside before he mounted him.
Summers was waiting for him beside the old line shack. “You’re late,” he said testily.
“Had a little problem.”
“Anything serious?”
“Naw. What’s up?” Dallas demanded.
“Slight change of plans. We aren’t going to be moving cattle over the Texas and Pacific anymore. Too risky now. I want you to drive this herd to El Paso and ship them on Crocker’s line.”
“El Paso! That’s eight hundred miles.”
“I know how far it is,” Summers said caustically. “Do you have a better idea?”
“We’re rustlers, not drovers. Mexico’s closer if you don’t care what kind of price you get for them.”
“Mexico’s fine. I’m through with rustling. When this is over, scatter the gang.”
“What if they don’t want to be scattered? We’ve had a pretty comfortable set-up here for a long time,” Dallas said.
“Then kill them! I don’t care how you do it—just do it!” he said vehemently, his pale face reflecting his intensity.
Dallas kept his face impassive, but he was remembering that Powers had been killed when he was no longer useful. Now that Summers was marrying the Powers girl, he didn’t need the gang anymore—or Dallas. Dallas started to point this out to Summers, but the sound of a rider approaching at a rapid rate brought both their heads around.
“Did anyone know you were coming here?” Summers demanded, his eyes like black pearls in the moonlight.
“Only Parker—he told me to be here.”
“I can’t afford to be seen with you,” Summers said angrily. He moved into the abandoned line shack, and Younger stepped away from the door and moved to stand in the shadow of the building. The rider was only Parker, but he looked agitated, riding the horse almost into the side of the shack before he could stop him.
“Whoa, dammit, whoa!” he shouted, swinging down. “Dallas, it’s me, Slim!”
Younger stepped around the corner, putting his gun away. “What you all lathered up about?”
“Hell to pay up at the camp! Texas Jack sent a rider down to let you know what happened. Smoky said Cantrell rode up there and killed three men: Rand and Pick Sitwell and Bass Wimer. He’s looking for you, Dallas. And he’s taken over the gang. They’re driving the cattle down to the pens starting first thing after Cantrell got there. Smoky almost killed a hoss getting here! I found you as fast as I could,” he panted, sagging against the wall.
“That worthless two-bit bunch of bastards!” Summers swore, coming out of the building. “Forty goddamned men up there and they let him ride in, kill three of their friends, and then start giving orders! I don’t want those cattle at the pens! I want those pens destroyed! Not a trace!” he said vehemently.
“That don’t solve our immediate problem,” Dallas drawled, watching Summers.
“Go on,” Summers said grimly.
“Looks like Cantrell has decided to be your new partner—cutting me out. Don’t look like he wants to be told to take those cows and stuff ’em.”
Summers controlled his fury with an effort. “If you have an idea, now is the time for it,” he said grimly.
Dallas grinned. Summers was an arrogant bastard. He was enjoying seeing him sweat. “Cantrell is in one hell of a precarious spot. He’s got almost forty men behind him, driving five hundred head of stolen cattle, and he’s all alone. Soon as I show up—don’t matter what he’s doing—those men are mine. I take him on, and it’s open season on Cantrell. He’s a dead man.”
“Are you absolutely sure of that?”
“Hell, yes, I’m sure. They’re a good ole bunch of boys, but there ain’t a leader in the lot. I step back into the picture, and they’ll follow me.”
“I’m going with you. I want to be sure Cantrell is dead. No slipups this time.”
Younger raised one eyebrow, but he resisted the urge to remind Summers that he was the one who made the mistake that put Cantrell on their backs in the first place. “When d’yuh want me to brace Cantrell?”
“Soon as possible. I want this behind me. I’m getting married in a few days, and I want that bastard dead! I’m tired of him messing around in my business.”
“We can cut ’em off about sunset tomorrow, before they move out of the brakes, if we leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
“All right, I’ll meet you outside of town at six o’clock in the morning.”
Friday night and not even Tim was around to help her fight off the doldrums. Monday the creamy white lace Jennifer had ordered would arrive and they could start work on the wedding gown, but now…
Jennifer came into the parlor where Leslie was putting the finishing touches on a sketch of the mountains to the north.
“Where’s Tim tonight?” She had just come downstairs from tucking the children into their beds. Jennie had changed drastically in the last week. Her lovely purple eyes were haunted, forlorn, filled with worry, pain, fear. She had faint blue circles under her eyes, like bruises. It was almost physically painful for Leslie to look at her. She felt embarrassed, as if she were prying into family secrets.
Jennifer was able to hide her pain for brief social intervals, but it came back quickly, stronger than before, as if the poor thing were crumbling under the strain.
Leslie saw this as proof that Cantrell had lied about his relationship with Jennie. Had he also lied about how he fell into outlawry? Not that it mattered any longer. She was finished with him, but she hated being taken in by a cheat.
; “Tim had a business meeting. He left at eight-thirty. He said if we were up, he would stop afterward.”
Jennie sighed and slipped into a chair, depression showing in the uncharacteristic lethargy that seemed to have seeped into her very bones. “I don’t see how you do it,” she sighed. “Every time I look at you you’re doing another painting, or finishing a sketch. Don’t you ever get moody?”
Leslie grimaced. “Moodiness is a luxury. People with few interests are moody. Those of us with work we love experience different degrees of tiredness.” She stifled the urge to remind Jennie that she used to be one of the busy ones, before her obsession with Cantrell.
“I guess you’ll be waiting up for Tim then. Would you like to play gin rummy? Chane won’t be back until almost eleven. He had another meeting with the governor about the rustlers. I know I’ll never be able to sleep,” she said nervously.
“I’d love to play rummy,” she lied. She would do anything to help Jennie. She owed her so much, both her and Chane. In truth, she had lost interest in painting as well. But she continued out of desperation. It was easy to hide behind her work. There were times when she did enjoy it. There were other times when she took her rage out on the canvas. She worked because not to work was unthinkable, because she knew that this too would pass, and when it did, if she had worked hard, she would have something besides her scars to show for it.
They moved to the table. Jennifer brought out the cards and shuffled them. She dealt each of them ten cards and turned a ten of clubs face up. “You go first,” Jennifer said.
They arranged their hands, and Leslie drew a card from the stack, pretending to concentrate. “Any news about Cantrell?” she asked casually.
Jennifer looked thoroughly miserable. Her hand trembled as she took a card. “Only bad news so far. Sam McCormick has increased the reward. He wants Ward tarred and feathered before they hang him,” she said bitterly.
“Why is he so sure Ward took her? She’s a big girl. She could have just run away.” Since leaving Cantrell in a jealous fury, she had thought of six ways he could have gotten Sandra’s locket.
“I guess because she chased him so. She was so infatuated with Ward. Anyone could tell.”
“She looked just as infatuated with Dallas Younger to me,” Leslie said defensively. She had gone over that scene at the hotel in Buckeye a thousand times. She watched Ward’s reaction over and over, and she still could not be sure he had taken Sandra. Wouldn’t he have looked guilty? Wouldn’t he have tried to hide Sandra’s necklace? Unless he hadn’t expected her to follow him there—and of course he hadn’t. If he was innocent, where did he get the scratches? She always came back to that.
Jennifer’s lips tightened into an angry line. “I know it wasn’t Ward. I’ve known him too long. He’s not a sneak thief. If he wanted a woman, he would announce it to the world.”
Leslie lowered her eyes, embarrassed and miserable for her friend. Had Jennie forgotten that Cantrell had kidnapped her?
Jennie saw Leslie’s expression and stopped. “You think me batty, don’t you?”
“No, of course not,” she said gently, biting back the urge to say, “But I don’t see how you can be so sure he’s innocent.”
“He had a good reason for taking you,” Jennie said, as if reading her mind. “Those men killed four people he loved!”
“What?”
Jennie stopped, alarmed that she had blurted a secret they had agreed needed to be kept until this business was settled. “I guess there’s no help for it now.” She sighed and told her the story of the Mendoza family’s murder.
“I never knew…” Leslie whispered when Jennie, eyes brimming with tears, ended her recital. “He never told me.”
Jennie patted Leslie’s hand. “To retell it is to relive it. He told Chane because he had no choice. They were going to hang him.”
Leslie bit her tongue to keep from replying. She was moved to tears by the story of the Mendoza family, but that did not change the major issue between the two of them. She could forgive many things, but infidelity was not one of them. It was an unforgivable crime between a man and a woman. She was immovable in that regard. Ward Cantrell could be champion to any number of Mendoza families, honest in every other respect, but if he could make love to another woman after that day at Aravaipa Canyon…
Confused and frustrated, Leslie covered her face with her hands. “Why can’t he just stay away from women?” She didn’t realize she had spoken aloud until she heard Jennie.
“She chased him!” Jennifer said, instantly angry. “You won’t see too many men who toss aside beautiful women who throw themselves at their feet. Most men will allow a woman to make as big a fool as she wants of herself.” Jennifer laughed suddenly, a brittle, tinkly sound that bordered on hysteria. “You’ll think me foolish,” she said, new tears welling in her eyes, “but I really think Ward is in love with you.”
Lime-green eyes widened, and the last vestige of color drained out of Leslie’s cheeks.
“Oh,” Jennifer said, “I know he isn’t like Tim, always showering you with attention, flattery, and gifts, but I could see the reaction in him the second he saw you, or someone mentioned your name. I’m equally sure he was careful not to let you know, but he can hide very little from me. I’ve known him too long. He acted very much like Chane did when we were in love but our problems were keeping us apart.”
Jennie sighed, responding to the implacable look on Leslie’s face. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I am so worn out from worrying about him. It seems I’ve worried about him so damned long.” Tears began to stream down her cheeks, and she buckled forward, covering her eyes with her trembling hands.
Alarmed, Leslie moved around the table and put her arms around her. “There, there,” she whispered, feeling helpless.
Jennie huddled against Leslie’s shoulder, sobbing. After a time, the gasps turned into sniffs and then into shuddering indrawn breaths. At last, she raised her head and smiled weakly. “I know he didn’t take her.”
Contrarily, Leslie remembered his response when she asked him if her lovemaking had been satisfactory: that husky-quiet “very” and the look in his suddenly opaque blue eyes, as if he were expecting a twist of the knife. Well, she hadn’t disappointed him, had she?
Leslie was suddenly trembling. She stood up. “I’m tired. I think I’ll take a bath and go to bed, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, dear. We both need rest. There won’t be much time next week with shopping and fittings and then the wedding and honeymoon, will there?”
Unfortunately sleep did not come. At eleven-thirty she finally got out of bed, wrapped a blue silk dressing robe around her, and started down the stairs only to be stopped by masculine voices coming from the first floor, from the direction of the library. She was at the top of the stairs. The library door opened, and she stepped back into the shadows. She was in no mood to see anyone now.
Chane and Tim stopped in the entry hall.
“When will you be leaving for Tucson?” Chane asked.
“Early. My business should be completed in two or three days and I’ll catch the first train back.”
“Don’t rush. These family things come up. Take your time. You’ve earned a vacation.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kincaid. I really appreciate all you’ve done for me.”
“Nonsense. You work hard. I’m going to hate losing you.”
“Well, maybe we can still be useful to each other, even after I take over the ranch.”
“I’m sure we can be. Then you’ll be a customer, if all goes well.”
Tim laughed. “Of course. I forgot that.” Then his voice sobered. “Unless Cantrell has already stolen all my cattle,” he said grimly.
Chane, a scowl darkening his handsome face, held out his hand.
“You’ll tell Leslie for me, won’t you?” Tim asked.
“Of course. Have a good trip. Give your aunt our regards.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The f
ront door closed, and Leslie slipped back into her bedroom, the urge for a glass of milk forgotten. Tim was going away on business—a family problem. Relief swept over her. She had no problem going to sleep after that.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Leslie woke long before dawn. She lay quietly, listening to the sounds of birds coming awake. Her window was half-open and she shivered slightly, wondering if the cold had awakened her. The sky was a luminous gray, becoming lighter in a cloudless dawn. Yesterday’s clouds, which had looked so threatening, were gone, leaving the air crisp and fresh. She felt good, like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She stretched and rolled around in the bed, enjoying the freedom and the delicious tingle of good health. Too bad her head was still so confused.
Maybe a ride would straighten that out. It had worked before. She got out of bed and dressed in a simple buckskin skirt that Jennie had given her for riding astride—it had been her sister-in-law’s. Apparently Angie didn’t cotton to all those fancy riding habits most women wore. With a pale green cambric blouse and the cashmere coat—why not? No one would see her anyway. Mrs. Lillian was in the kitchen. She stopped for muffins and bacon, even stuffing some in her pockets for later.
“Tell Mrs. Kincaid I’m going for a ride. I’ll be back before lunch.”
“You be careful, dear. Remember what happened to that other young lady.”
Leslie smiled. I should be so lucky, she thought.
“I’ll be fine. Mr. Kincaid insists I take one of the guns from the stable with me. Don’t worry. He taught me how to shoot it.”
Leslie chose the big white Arabian again because she liked his gait and he was in a stall instead of loose in the corral.
Saddled up, with the gun in a holster hanging from the pommel, she headed north. Even with Dallas Younger no longer around—he was gone, Tim said, probably in New Mexico or Nevada looking for work—she still wouldn’t ride west toward her ranch. She enjoyed riding toward the mountains. It gave her a special sense of freedom, and today she was glad to be alone.
The sky turned clear blue and it was warm enough so that she rolled the coat up and put it behind her saddle. Two hours of the big horse’s rhythmic stride and her absorption in the ride burned away her strange mood.
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 43
