Desperate Hearts

by Alexis Harrington

  She even made sure she carried nothing with her might give her away; no sweet soap, no silver-backed mirror or hairbrush, no feminine trappings of any kind. Not that she owned many.

  Kyla sucked air into her lungs and scratched her rib cage where the fabric had pressed red grooves in her skin. After pouring water into the washbowl, she went to retrieve a piece of plain soap from her gear. What she really wanted to do was pull off her clothes and crawl into bed. But she’d had to abandon enough of the things that made her a woman—washing wouldn’t be one of them.

  Yes, she was tired, but nudging aside that fatigue was grim triumph. She had finally caught up with Rankin. After a month on the road, following rumors and news that he had been someplace but had left the night before or two days earlier, she finally tracked him to Silver City. After that, it was easy. Word of Jace Rankin’s presence in town buzzed through the streets like St. Elmo’s Fire.

  That he had rescued her from certain disaster at the Magnolia Saloon did not make it easier for her to like him. In fact, much as she needed his help, she didn’t like him at all. There was something despicable about a man who made his living by hunting his own kind.

  Kyla knew her attitude was hypocritical. After all, wasn’t that why she had hired him, for his reputation? But her situation was different; Tom Hardesty had stolen more from her than she could count, more than she could ever replace. Her personal vendetta against him had nothing to do with bounties or rewards.

  Rankin might have said he wouldn’t shoot Hardesty, but he had the look of a cold-blooded killer if ever she’d seen it. His face was young, but she saw it in his eyes—ice blue eyes as old as the grave. She’d find a way to change his mind by the time they got to Blakely. She had to.

  She looked up at her reflection again. Some people needed killing.

  Tom Hardesty was one of them.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kyla stamped her feet and burrowed deeper into her saddlecoat. She had been standing here in front of the hotel for fifteen minutes, and she was getting cold. Streaks of pink and gold lighted the eastern sky but there was no warmth in the sunrise. She could see her own breath, and her horse’s, too.

  Across the street, a shopkeeper came out to sweep the walk in front of his hardware store. A few doors down, the bakery windows opened. Wood smoke from breakfast stoves drifted on the air. The town was just beginning to stir. But not so much that it made enough noise to drown out the heartbeat of Silver City’s mines. In the dawn quiet, Kyla heard the distant muffled roar of powder blasts coming from the mines, and the dull racket of the stamp mills pounding ore into gravel.

  Juniper, her sturdy dun gelding, pulled against his reins restlessly. She glanced at the hotel doors again. Where was Rankin? she wondered. He had told her to be here at sunup, but he was nowhere to be seen. She took out her pocket watch again. It was after seven, and now she’d been waiting for twenty minutes. What if he’d forgotten? Or worse, what if he’d changed his mind?

  Tying Juniper to the hitching rail, she flopped down on the hotel steps and pulled a cold biscuit from her coat pocket to nibble.

  It vexed her that Rankin was bossing this arrangement, and that they had to travel first to Misfortune. In fact, everything about Rankin vexed her. Almost as much as he terrified her. Only her hatred for Tom Hardesty had given her the courage to cross miles of open, desolate prairie to seek Rankin out.

  Last night, he had even invaded her dreams. She’d seen him again as he’d looked when he’d outstared Clem, the scar-faced miner. So coldly confident was the expression in his eyes, so menacing was his deadly quiet voice that it wasn’t until later that she remembered the miner had been much heavier and at least a head taller than him. Rankin seemed enormous, as though he towered over all of them. Kyla had lurched to wakefulness, the bedsprings screeching and her heart thundering in her chest with fear. It had been only a dream, but not far from the truth.

  Kyla envied that, the ability to kindle fear in an enemy. She could have used it over the years . . . especially that night—

  Just then the doors behind her opened, and she swung around to find Jace Rankin standing there. Jumping to her feet, she paused on the bottom step, her breakfast clamped in her hand. Their eyes met and he stared down at her as if trying to place her. He gripped his rifle, but let his hat hang by its bonnet strings and rest against his shoulder blades. Without that wide-brimmed hat hiding half of his face, he seemed a bit less fearsome. Only a bit.

  It was an interesting face, she conceded. It held a strange mix of youth and hardened age beyond measure. Actually, if she were forced to describe him honestly, she would have to admit that he was sort of, well, attractive. That vexed her, too. She put the biscuit back in her pocket.

  It struck her again that he was not a big man, certainly not as big as his reputation made her expect. But his size didn’t matter. He was very intimidating—and very dangerous. Even given his present state.

  In her opinion, he looked like he had spent the night working his way to the bottom of a whiskey bottle, probably with the help of a saloon girl. Kyla knew his type—he only wanted one thing from a woman, making her doubly grateful for her disguise. His eyes reminded her of the American flag she’d seen fluttering over the Silver City courthouse: red, white, and blue. But mostly red.

  He gazed at her until her identity obviously registered. “Oh, shit . . . yeah,” he muttered, half turning away from her. “Kelly Springer—” He rubbed his face with his gloved hand. A day’s growth of beard shadowed his jaw.

  “Kyle,” she corrected, keeping her voice low. He wasn’t going to back out now, was he? He’d already agreed to help her. Briefly she clenched her back teeth. It was a nervous habit she had developed in the last year or so. Sometimes she woke up with a headache from grinding her teeth in her sleep. "We made a deal, Mr. Rankin," she reminded him, using Kyle’s tough persona to hide her fear of him. "Two hundred and fifty dollars. I’m ridin’ with you to Misfortune, then we’re goin’ together to Blakely."

  The sun inched its way up over the rim of the Owyhees, and Rankin squinted against the knife-sharp brightness spearing his aching head. Damn, he’d almost forgotten about this kid with his blood grudge.

  After he and the boy parted, he had bought a room and a bath upstairs. He sat in the tub, drinking and thinking. It was a bad mix. A man ought to do one or the other, not both. And the more he drank, the more his thoughts drifted to the blank emptiness that seemed to form his future. It was as if finding Sawyer Clark and killing him had closed not just a chapter in his life, but the whole goddamned book. And this hangover didn’t make things any clearer. From one of the mines in the west, the deep rumble of a powder explosion shook the planking under his boots. It reverberated through his legs and up his spine, further torturing his skull.

  He glanced at the kid again, who watched him silently with eyes that seemed to miss nothing. At least he’d washed the dirt off his face. Now he looked like any other farm boy his age. Skinny, a few freckles. A little on the delicate side, especially in the face. But something else about him seemed off kilter and Rankin could not put his finger on just what that was. Maybe it was the sensitive curve of his mouth, or the way he tended to bite his bottom lip.

  Oh, hell, he thought, he had agreed to help him. It wasn’t syrupy benevolence that made him decide to let the kid tag along. After Misfortune, he just didn’t have anything better to do. Gently, to avoid jostling his head, he put on his hat.

  “Right, kid—Kyle. We’ve got a deal. I’ll get my horse.”

  The boy gave a short nod and jumped down to untie his own gelding.

  Rankin descended the steps and started off toward the livery. He turned suddenly and walked back to the dun’s side. “But let’s get a couple of things straight. I’m used to working alone and traveling alone. So if you can’t keep up, that’s your problem. I expect you to pull your own weight, and do as you’re told. If the going gets hard, I don’t want to hear any bellyaching. And if you ever get the n
otion to point that gun at me,” he continued softly, indicating the kid’s revolver, “well, let’s just say that I’ll turn it into the biggest regret of your life.”

  Kyle’s expression was stony. “Okay, Mr. Rankin.”

  “And while we’re at it, lay off that ‘Mr. Rankin’ stuff. You might as well call me Jace."

  Kyle glared at him, then spit in the dusty street. “Jace.”

  * * *

  The terrain was rough and craggy, and the going slow as they picked their way down through the mountains. But Jace set a steady pace that allowed no dawdling. A lot of the time they rode single file, with Jace ahead of Kyla. That was fine with her—at least she didn’t have those cold eyes boring into her back.

  Hours passed with nothing to look at but the rump of Jace’s horse and passing tumbleweeds, punctuated by scrubby sagebrush or an occasional sudden chasm. Overhead the sky was deep blue, that particular shade seen only in autumn; now and then a hawk would cross the face of the sun and cast a shadow on the dust.

  They were too far apart to talk, and even if they hadn’t been, Kyla didn’t know what she would say to the man. Nothing about him encouraged conversation. He was everything his reputation claimed: cold, detached, intimidating. He rode far ahead, never looking back to see if she followed, and by his manner he made it plain that Kyle Springer was not much more than a nuisance to be tolerated.

  At any rate, ever conscious of preserving her disguise, she was doubly glad to be out of his range of vision. And it was just as well that they didn’t talk much; subduing her feminine voice was the hardest part of being Kyle, although she knew she didn’t sound too girlish. As they descended from the mountains and the sun climbed, so did the temperature. She took off her coat, confident of her binding. Her only inconvenience was finding scrub tall and dense enough to let her attend to personal needs in seclusion.

  “You’re pretty damned shy for someone who talks as big as you do. You don’t own anything I haven’t seen before,” Jace groused impatiently after she returned from a long walk to a sage thicket. His eyes shone like shards of blue ice.

  “Then you ain’t missin’ nothin’, are you,” she said curtly, putting her foot in her stirrup. She hoisted herself into the saddle. "Sometimes a man likes his privacy."

  Jace snorted. “Yeah, right.” He was already on his horse, and Kyla supposed he probably would have left her if she hadn’t come back when she did.

  By the time they reached more level ground, they had crossed into Oregon and most of the day was gone. Jace reined in his horse next to a spindly ponderosa pine and waited until Kyla caught up to him. He’d taken off his duster and rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. She was surprised to see that what she’d mistaken for the bulk of a coat across his shoulders was really muscle. She hadn’t noticed last night, given the circumstances.

  He pointed to a sheltered place against a canyon wall and pulled out his rifle. “We’ll make camp over there. I’m going to get something for dinner. You get the fire started—I hope you can cook.”

  She chafed at the greenhorn role he had put her in. She gestured at her Winchester in its scabbard. “I can shoot game as good as any other man,” she said, pushing out her chin a little. “You don’t have to treat me like I’m helpless, like some—some girl.”

  Jace lifted his brows, shifting his hat. “We had an agreement—you were going to do as you’re told. So now you can get dinner and start the fire. I don’t mind at all.”

  Caught in the snare of her own boasting, she bit her tongue. She knew she couldn’t complain about the double work; if she did, he might refuse to help her with Hardesty, and like it or not, she needed him.

  “I saw a rabbit back there a quarter mile or so." She Juniper and took off across the field.

  Jace watched the boy trot away, and then climbed down to unsaddle and water his own horse at the flat, slow-moving creek that ran through the canyon. Hunger made his stomach rumble and he searched through his saddle bags for a piece of dried beef to fill the void until the boy returned with that rabbit if he returned. Instead he found a leather pouch filled with silver dollars, the coins that he had made as much a part of his reputation as the Henry. They were heavy, and certainly not as convenient as his gold coins. But he liked their weight, and fancied the way they felt in his hand. He couldn’t eat them, though, and he found no jerky in the saddle bags.

  Using the saddle as a headrest, he stretched out on his bedroll and tipped his hat over his eyes. He’d just have to wait for Kyle to come back.

  He breathed a long sigh. He was finally rid of his headache, but it felt good to lie down for a while. It had been one hell of a long day. The ground wasn’t as soft as the hotel bed had been, but he had spent years on the trail—he was used to it. It just wasn’t as easy anymore.

  He peered at the lengthening shadows through the slit under his hat brim. Damn, he was really getting hungry. He probably should have insisted on going after the rabbit himself. It might be midnight before the kid came back with something to eat, if the coyotes didn’t get him first.

  He wondered again how he’d let himself get talked into helping Kyle. Even now he could hardly believe it. Jace had made it a point to avoid most people. Every lick of good sense he owned seemed to have flown away when he met that defiant red-haired kid.

  But he might change his mind yet. If the boy took one step out of line or became too much of a pest, Jace would simply call off their deal.

  He was an odd one, that was a fact, Jace thought as he crossed his ankles. Kyle was angry and tough, but other things about him still felt out of step. The kid had a bad habit of biting his lower lip in tight situations. It didn’t just give away his uncertainty, it had a sissy look about it. Somebody ought to teach him to develop a better poker face.

  And that story about the ranch—if it was true, how did a boy his age expect to run the place by himself? Even if he had a little money and could afford to hire help, no one would take orders from a green kid. He’d be lucky if the hands didn’t steal him blind. That part was none of his business, he reminded himself. The boy wanted his help and he had the money to pay. Probably. Well, maybe. But that was all. Jace let his shoulders relax against the bedroll—he might as well get comfortable. He knew he was in for long wait and his stomach was starting to rumble

  He’d give him an hour. If he wasn’t back by he’d go get his own damned rabbit.

  Just then, the distant crack of a gunshot brought upright. He listened intently for other shots but there were none. Instead he heard the sound of hoofbeats just before Kyle trotted back through the brush, holding a rabbit by its ears.

  “I’ll be damned—” Jace muttered to himself.

  Kyle gave him a brief look but said nothing. Jace leaned against his saddle again, crossed his arms over his chest, and considered the boy. He wore that determined, mule-headed expression again. He had to give the kid his due—he had gotten the animal, and without much fuss. Kyle swung down from his gelding, and within minutes had a fire started. He worked quickly and quietly, and soon the rabbit was dressed and spitted over the flames.

  Kyle squatted by the fire, tending the roasting meat, saying nothing, Jace glanced at the boy’s small hands.

  “Where’d you learn to hunt and cook?” he asked, plucking a rabbit-laden skewer from the fire.

  Kyle shrugged and took a skewer for himself. The meat was hot and he blew on it before taking a bite. “It ain’t so unusual. I wasn’t raised in some fancy city house, y’know.” He dragged the back of his hand across a dribble of hot grease on his chin.

  Jace bit off a hunk of the tough meat “I never would’ve thought that,” he observed wryly. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Old enough.” His voice cracked.

  “It’s a secret?”

  “No, it ain’t a secret, but what do you care?”

  Jace took another bite. “I don’t give a damn, kid. But usually women are the only ones who are touchy about their ages.”

&nb
sp; Kyle looked away. “I just don’t like answerin’ a lot of questions. I told you what you need to know.”

  “Not by half. I need to know enough to make sure I don’t walk into a trap and get my head blown off. Tell me again how Hardesty got this ranch you say is yours.

  “I ain’t just sayin’ it. It’s the truth.” He threw a bone into the fire and wiped his hands on his pants legs.

  “Fine, tell me about it anyway. I don’t want to get to Blakely and be . . . surprised. I hate surprises.” Jace listened carefully while Kyle repeated the story he had him the first time, no more and no less.

  “Who did Hardesty kill?”

  Jace heard him sigh. “He was my—he worked at the as foreman. After he was dead, the rest of the crew scattered. I can’t blame them.” He threw another bone into the fire. “I tried to hold Hardesty off but I couldn’t do it by myself. He had the Vigilance Union behind him."

  “How long has your father been gone?” Jace extracted a cheroot from his saddlebag.

  “He died almost two years ago.”

  “Any sisters? Brothers?"

  Kyle glanced up at him sharply. “No!”

  Silence fell for a moment then, interrupted only by soft snapping of the fire and the call of a peregrine as it crossed the darkening sky.

  “Hardesty’s soul is festering and rotten, and he must pay," Kyle concluded, his voice cold and flat, as it had been yesterday.

  Jace nodded but said nothing. There had to be more to it. He knew the boy was withholding something, and that the part he was hiding was vital. He would keep an eye on him; that was the best way to discover whatever secret he kept.

  In his experience, most people betrayed themselves eventually.