As to the mountains: “We’re going there?”
“T’ the other side.”
“But why?”
A shred of impatience. “Meetin’ your paw.”
Elizabeth snorted her own impatience. “Look, Baldy—”
“Win!” Carpenter stopped dead and turned to glare at her, with fire in his eyes. “I toldja, girl, my name is Win. Bald-win! Got it?”
“Okay, sure, I got it. Win.” Hard to shrug, uncaring, when one’s hands are tied together over the horn of a saddle, but somehow she managed. “Quite honestly, Win, that makes no sense. Now, if I were planning some sort of wild abduction…”
“Yeah?” Mood suddenly shifting, with an indulgent half-smile he leaned one arm across his own pommel to survey her.
The bursts of irritation were infrequent and non-threatening. As one of the Territory’s premier bad men, with a string of bank robberies and stagecoach holdups to his credit, Win Carpenter didn’t seem really very tough at all. Or even very scary, in her opinion. What kind of cold sober kidnapper, intent upon murder and mayhem, allows his victim to collect any necessities she might need before he carries her off?
“And just how, Miss Drayton, would you proceed?”
“Well, I’d have some cozy cabin all set up, hidden away somewhere,” she drawled.
“Ahuh. And who says I don’t?”
“Oh.” A minute to process that, to ponder a rejoinder. “Well, then, after leaving a note for the family, I’d be looking for some meeting place not too far from that.”
“Ahuh. And who says I ain’t?”
“Oh.” Another minute of consideration. “And I would have asked for enough money to make all this worthwhile.”
“Ahuh. And who says I didn’t?”
Finally conceding the point, Elizabeth heaved a sigh. “So you have this wild-eyed, screwball plan all thought out, then. Well, good for you. Fine and dandy. Hunky-dory, and all that. Now, how about untying this rope, Win? My nose itches.”
“Not now. Maybe later.” Turning away, he clicked at his horse and they set off again. He leading, she trailing helplessly behind, with the reins of her sweet mare, Caramel, gripped in his hand, while they moved on through knee-high grass, around jutting boulders, under wind-swayed alder and oak.
He was a warty old man, this outlaw whose Wanted posters decorated a wall in every regional law office. Neither prepossessing, with his bulbous nose, yellowed teeth, and thinning gray hair, nor inspiring confidence, with his wolfish grin and worse-for-wear garb.
In fact, she’d been downright terrified of him, at first. Especially when he’d shoved his Colt .44 revolver into her ribs and growled orders like a sergeant-major of an army outpost. Not that she could compare, of course, having no experience in the matter.
The man’s handgun looked as much worse-for-wear as he did, yet far more dangerous. The blackened business end of a weapon leveled straight at your heart tends to add a sense of urgency to every moment. As in, “Good God, I’m not ready to die yet!”
And what a shock, after all!
She’d been out for an early morning ride, right after breakfast, as was her custom. This property would be hers, someday; these fecund, fertile acres would become part of her heritage. She needed to do her part to oversee whatever was going on, from one border to the other. Besides, she thoroughly enjoyed trotting around the far fringes of Catamount Ranch. Fine, crisp weather was too integral a part of her existence to simply brush aside.
Trotting along, humming tunelessly, keeping watch for anything untoward and seemingly prepared for any eventuality, as it turned out, she was completely unprepared for this one. Paused as she was to contemplate the ever-changing scenery, nearby bushes had suddenly rustled and parted to reveal a mounted man, armed and belligerent. Not the most fortuitous of combinations.
“Where’s your paw?” he demanded.
“Why do you want to know?”
His lip curled. “Lookahere, Miss Hoity-Toity, I asked you a question and I want an answer. Where’s Gus Drayton got himself to?”
Elizabeth had never backed down from a risky situation. She wasn’t about to start now. “None of your business.”
The sharp, cool snick of a revolver’s hammer being cocked gave her second thoughts.
“Wanna try again?” the man asked with a perceptive half-smile.
Her gaze flicked sideways, in one direction, then another, casting about for nonexistent help. To the horizon her land lay empty of other human beings, and she alone must deal with whatever was going on.
“Pa’s with the rest of his men, moving a herd of cattle north,” she finally answered, reluctantly. Fear had begun to work its way up and out from the pit of her stomach to tingle at the very ends of her fingers, and her mouth had gone dry. Spine stiffened, however, as she had been taught since babyhood; never let an enemy see weakness. Spine stiffened, chin lifted, and gaze of deep blue eyes straight on and hard as his own.
“Ahuh. Anybody back at the ranch house?”
“No. Nobody’s there.”
“Don’t bullshit me, little lady. What happened to the housekeeper? That Sonsee woman?”
Hell’s bells. For how long had he been spying on the Catamount and its residents, to have the routine down so pat?
“She went to town this morning, for supplies.”
“And the Injun?”
Elizabeth swallowed what little saliva remained, enough to speak. Clearly and coldly. “You mean Cochinay?”
“That’s the one. Her son, ain’t he?”
“Coch is driving her, in the buckboard.”
“Good ’nuff.” He nudged his horse nearer, so that the barrel of the handgun showed alarmingly close. And big. “Then let’s head on back there, Missy. You can throw some stuff t’gether, I’ll leave a note for your old man, and then we’ll ride out.”
And so they had, and so they did.
And now, feeling slightly less afraid and slightly more comfortable in the old outlaw’s presence, Elizabeth kept trying to engage him in conversation. The more you know about your enemy, she had learned at her father’s knee, the easier it will be to take him down. Trouble was, Baldwin Carpenter wasn’t cooperating as much as she had hoped.
“Win,” she called out now. “Oh, Win. Yoo-hoo.”
“Drat the woman,” he muttered, from up ahead. Halting, he turned to look back over his shoulder, squinting against the afternoon sun. “What is it now?”
“I really must insist that you remove these ropes.”
“You really must? And why’n hell should I do that?”
“Because,” she smiled sweetly, “I have to—you know…find some facilities out here somewhere.”
By God. Was that the faintest hint of a blush coloring his unshaven cheeks?
“All right, all right.” He climbed down, scrambled toward her over a little slope of loose flint shale, and worked for a few minutes to undo the knots he had so laboriously affixed a few hours before. “There. G’wan off over there, and take care o’ your business.”
No worry that she’d try to escape, now, not afoot and alone in the middle of wooded, rocky hinterland. He’d just ride her down, anyway. So he might as well take care of business, as well.
Win watched her return and clamber with accustomed ease into the saddle once more. “You always wear men’s pants around?” he inquired curiously.
“You always ask such damn fool questions?”
The old outlaw pulled a reluctant grin. “Most of the time I try not to, Missy. All right, let’s go.”
“Hey, Mr. Kidnapper, it’s to your best interests to keep me in the best of health, you wanting this big fat ransom, and all. Do you intend to feed me pretty soon?
“Soon enough. You’ll survive till we get t’ my hideaway. Now stop your bellyachin’ and c’mon.”
If Carpenter thought to have his captive cowed and quivering behind him, as they approached the high country, he was dead wrong. Elizabeth, seeing no reason not to test the limits of
her abductor’s patience, was chattering away bright as a parrot with every clomp of her horse’s hooves.
Her comments ranged from the lengthening shadows (“Yeah, drawin’ in t’ dusk,” was Win’s response) to the depth of her father’s fury and alarm when he returned to find her vanished (“Good. Serves him right.”), to the increasing coolness of the air (“Smart thinkin’, t’ bring along a coat.”), to wondering what had led old Baldy into a life of crime.
“Win, Goddammit!” he snapped. “I toldja, it’s Win.”
Elizabeth hid a smile. Evidently the gunslinger was super-sensitive about the loss of his hair and the shininess of his scalp, as concealed under a wide-brimmed hat.
“Mr. Carpenter, please tell me,” she cajoled, “how your most admirable photograph came to be hanging—pardon the pun—everywhere.”
“Hmmph.” He was riding alongside, their horses at a walk through difficult terrain. “Whydja wanna know old history like that, anyways?”
“Because it keeps me from thinking about how hungry I am, and how tired of this saddle my backside is getting.”
He deliberated for a few minutes, as if trying to decide where to begin. Finally: “I was a lawman once, y’ know.”
Elizabeth nearly fell off her mare in astonishment. “You—a lawman? Impossible!”
“Why’s that?” Win slanted a squinty-eyed glance across at her.
“Because…well, because—”
He waited.
“Uh. Well, you’re just not what I picture when I hear the word lawman,” she faltered.
“I was a damn good one, too,” mused Win, leaning forward onto the pommel as a change of position. His own backside wasn’t exactly overjoyed, either, about the number of hours spent atop a horse, and too many parts of it were beginning to protest. “Till a woman come along, and screwed things up royally.”
“Cherchez la femme,” murmured Elizabeth.
“Hmmph.” Another snort. “If that means makin’ an ass of yourself, then I reckon you’re right. Anyway, I served as sheriff of a little town quite a ways northwest o’ here, called Juniper.”
The trail he was taking through sand buttes and shale wasn’t really a trail—only his own path, in no particular direction. Just edging slowly ever higher. As light began to fade, day birds like cliff swallows and thrush were giving way to nighthawks and softly hooting owls, even the occasional bat zipping across the sky. Elizabeth, wishing she had grabbed up warmer gear while she’d had the chance, pulled her coat more closely together. Reaching the sanctuary of their destination would prove to be a blessing…and, depending on what the old outlaw might have planned, possibly a curse.
“Then how did you go from being a respected lawman to—this?” she asked through teeth that wanted to chatter.
“Killed me a few desperadoes,” Win replied, fielding his reins for a right-turning angle. “In my eyes it was justified. Needed. But the law didn’t see it that way. So I lost my job, went on the run, and ended up turnin’ to robbery to finance my—lifestyle.” A snort of laughter to accompany the sardonic term. “And it all started with a woman. A pretty woman. Goes t’ show you, don’t it?”
“Show you what, Win?”
“Ain’t nobody in this world you can trust, girl. Only yourself. Remember that.”
“Actually,” she said, so softly that he barely heard it, “I think I’ve already learned that lesson.”
From cold open rock they moved into sheltering cypress and pine, sumac and alder and birch, where the ground underfoot was so thickly carpeted with needles and fallen leaves that every sound was muffled, and even the soughing wind was denied entrance.
“What caused you to kill those desperadoes?” Elizabeth asked, out of the blue and into the stillness.
He was beside her again, riding along with the quiet expertise of years spent doing just this. At the question, a wave of such unutterable sadness passed over his homely face that Elizabeth, watching with consternation and amazement, almost expected him to break into tears.
“That ain’t no story t’ be tellin’ you right now,” he finally said gruffly. “Later, maybe.”
“All right, fair enough. But, answer me this—why me, Win? Why take me in particular?”
Carpenter peered across the intervening space. “Ain’t your paw never spoke of me?”
The sun-kissed blonde hair tumbled over one shoulder as she shook her head.
“Hmmph.” Pondering, it took him a while to reply. “I did some work for him, a long time ago, somethin’ he asked me t’ take care of. Gus promised to pay me well for it. He never.”
“My father reneged on a debt he owed? No! He wouldn’t do that. He’s an honorable man.”
“So you say. Whatever, he’s got an obligation t’ord me. And I aim t’ get it paid, with ransom for his daughter’s return. All right, Miss Drayton. Climb down and take a load off. We’re here.”
They had emerged from the heaviest growth of high hill and mountain greenery into a grassy area where a log cabin stood, tucked away beside a small pond, almost hidden amongst ponderosa and underbrush. A late shaft of the sun cut through darkening skies, like a benediction from heaven above, to highlight the place. The porch stacked high with cut wood and kindling showed foresight, as did a lean-to constructed at the rear for animal shelter.
Despite her somewhat precarious situation, Elizabeth couldn’t hold back a crow of delight. “Why, Win, what a pretty set-up. Did you build this?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did. Years in the past.” He seemed pleased by her obvious pleasure. “Claimed the land, spent a long while puttin’ this together. Been livin’ here, in between—uh—jobs. ’Fraid it prob’ly won’t compare t’ what you’re used to, but I tried t’ make it comf’rtble for you.”
Elizabeth, already swinging one long trousered leg over the rump of her mare to slide to the ground, paused, deeply touched, once she got there. If the stars in their infinite wisdom had decreed her fate to be victim of an abduction, she could have been dropped into a far worse stew of circumstances than the hands of Baldwin Carpenter.
“Baldy,” she said, deliberately considering the word’s effect, “for an outlaw, you’re all right.”
Another blush, for heaven’s sake!
“Yeah,” he muttered, “you say that now, but—Goddammit, I told you, my name’s Win. Win!”
But the rumble of his umbrage lacked force, and Elizabeth merely grinned impudently. And then, in a purely infantile act of defiance, stuck out her tongue at him.
Some time was given over to taking care of their horses’ needs: unsaddling, installing in the corral for food and water, currying and examining for any hurts or bruised hooves. Then they could haul their gear inside and settle themselves for the evening.
The cabin had the look of careful preparation and an air of snug coziness. One large front room held a mammoth river rock fireplace that occupied one whole wall, handmade twig chairs, rugs, kerosene lamps and fat squatty candles, and a kitchen area. Behind that lay two much more modest alcoves, each containing a single bed and little else.
“The empty one is yours,” advised Win, already busy with matches and wood. “Put your stuff down and we’ll get us some vittles here soon.”
His fire caught hungrily at the dried shavings and chips, then began in a deliberate, no-nonsense way to feast upon added oaken chunks. By then Elizabeth had scoonched herself beside it, chafing her chilled hands together and shivering pleasurably in the warmth.
At the bare, scrubbed plank table, they shared a plain but filling supper of blistering hot strong coffee, heated-up beans, and cornbread, retrieved from Win’s pack and crumbled together with syrup. Over their meal, Elizabeth asked once again to know more about her captor’s early years.
By then, outside dark had come down, soft and friendly as a navy-blue blanket spattered with star punctures, and their room exuded comfort, quiet, and peace. The fluttering flame of lamps and crackling fire provided so much light and heat; Elizabeth couldn’t recall th
e last time she had felt such a sense of homeyness.
Not often at the ranch house, certainly, with the housekeeper, Sonsee, as surrogate parent, always busy and often absent; her son and the cowhands equally busy and absent; Gus, wearing a look of perpetual discontent, even anger, too involved in Catamount matters to pay much attention to his only daughter. From a lonely, motherless childhood, shared only with her playmate, Cochinay, she had grown into a lonely adulthood: independent, determined, and self-reliant.
Over the rim of his enamel coffee cup, Win beetled his brows at her. “Why’re you so danged interested in what I done years gone?”
“From what you’ve told me, I’ll be stuck here for another three days. You may as well keep me entertained.”
A rusty sound that might have been a chuckle, long unused and unfamiliar. “By God, girl, you got brass, I’ll give you that,” he said with what sounded like admiration.
“Damned straight I do.” She forked up a mouthful of cornbread. “Baldwin. What happens if my father doesn’t pay you that ransom? What then?”
“Oh, he’ll pay,” Carpenter assured her confidently. “He’ll pay. Got no doubt. He knows exactly why I done what I did.”
Utter stillness, as she studied him. “All right. Then why did you kill three men?”
Win considered her for a long moment, while across the room their fire popped and snapped. “You’re like a bulldog, never givin’ up on whatcha got between your teeth.”
She grinned. “Ahuh.”
“Well, then.” Finished, he pushed the empty plate aside to lean back into his chair. “Part of it,” he mused, beginning his story, “was b’cause that was the job your paw paid me to do.”
“My father contracted for murder?” Elizabeth sat very still, aghast. “You can’t possibly be serious. Why would he—?”
A Western Romance: Thomas Yancey Taking the High Road (Book 4) (Taking the High Road series) Page 2
