Saddling Juniper took twice as long as it should have—anger and haste made her clumsy. When she finally accomplished the job, she mounted the horse and hunching low over the pommel, galloped out of the barn. Oddly, there was no question about direction she would take. Jace could have decided to track Hardesty anywhere, but like a pin on a compass, she turned the horse toward her home. That was the place where they would face off. She sensed it—she could envision it.
Tom Hardesty was about to meet Jace Rankin and a Henry rifle.
* * *
Jace crept up to the Springer ranch house, sliding behind the sunset shadows for concealment. Glancing at the sky, he imagined that Kyla was just now discovering that he had gone. After watching her habits for a day or so, he realized that he would be able to slip away right before any meal. It had been so simple he almost felt sorry for tricking her. But it was for her own good as well as his. If she were here, he would have to worry about her safety. She would just be a distraction, and if things were to go wrong, Hardesty could use her as a hostage.
Finding the ranch hadn’t been difficult. Kyla had spoken of it often enough to give him sufficient clues as to its location. It was just as she had described it, two miles outside of town, a beautiful spot that was part rolling green hills, part rangeland scrub, situated on a low rise next to a creek.
He stood behind a big oak and studied the house. It had a forsaken feel about it, as if the character of latest occupant had spread a pall of gloom over place. He was certain that Hardesty was inside.
“Okay,” he said under his breath, “let’s find out where you are.” From his pocket Jace withdrew a few pebbles, and emerged just long enough to pitch the one at the window in the kitchen door before ducking behind the tree again. Almost immediately, an answering shot was fired from the house. Jace smiled. He let a moment pass, then he tossed another pebble, this time at a metal washtub that stood next to the back door. The stone made a sharp pinging noise it struck. This was followed by two more shots, recklessly fired, each hitting nothing. They were coming from behind a curtained window on the first floor, which was opened a crack to allow the width of gun barrel.
Jace tossed pebbles at a washboard, at the side of the house, at a box of canning jars that stood on the porch. In response, wild, unaimed shots hit the fence, the windmill, a wagon. Jesus, the man acted as if he were blind. Or struck with consuming, judgment-robbing jitters. This was going to be easier than he thought. As long as he stayed out of the path of one of his reckless shots.
Remaining behind the tree, Jace tightened his grip the Henry. “All right, come on, Hardesty, it’s time to show your face,” he yelled at the house. “We’ve got business to discuss, you and me.”
Still more shots. Then a long moment of silence fell. Finally from within Jace heard, “The only business I’ve got with you, Rankin, is the red-haired woman. Where is she?” The voice was demanding, vicious.
After everything he’d done to her, the son of a bitch still wouldn’t let up on her, Jace thought. “I’ve got her, you’ll have to come out to the porch if you want to talk about her.”
“You must think I’m pretty goddamned stupid if you believe I’m going to fall for that.”
“No, Hardesty,” Jace called in a light, sarcastic tone. “I just think you’re a goddamned coward.”
There was a crash from within the house, as if chairs or some other furniture had been tipped over. Suddenly, the back door flew open and Tom Hardesty appeared in the frame, carrying a shotgun and wearing a two-gun rig. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his dark hair greasy, and down one side of his beard-shadowed face a long, purple scar, newly healed, cleaved his jawline. Just as Jace had guessed, a red-hot temper was one of Hardesty’s chief failings. It impaired his judgment and made him act foolishly, and brutally. Apparently no one, not even Luke Jory, had curbed him. That was over now.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Hardesty growled, reminding Jace of a stupid, vicious dog—untrained, snapping at anything, everything. The notable difference, however, was that this dog was a raping murderer.
Jace stepped from behind the tree, then as if it were a formal proclamation, he stated, “I’m calling you out, Hardesty, for two people. For my friend Hank Bailey, the man you killed. And for his widow, Kyla Springer Bailey, one of the women you raped. I’m sure there are other people, dead or alive, with grievances against you, but these two are my business.”
Hardesty hooted, “You can’t prove a thing, Rankin. No one is going to listen to you. The Vigilance Union is even bigger than you are. They’ll get rid of you, and Kyla will be on her knees begging to give me whatever I want.”
God, the man was crazy, Jace thought. He might as well have held a target between his own eyes for Jace to shoot at. He felt a slow, hot flame ignite in his belly, a hate so profound he wished he could step away from it. He’d faced a lot of desperate, big-talking men his career, men who when cornered had boasted of ridiculous things or had pelted him with insults. He had been able to ignore them. This time, he felt his control slipping away from him.
“Don’t press me, Hardesty,” he warned, and took deliberate steps toward the porch. “I have no reason to see you live another minute.”
Hardesty squinted at him. “You know, close up, don’t look like such a big man. You just look like a runt.” Then, without warning, he pulled out his revolver and pointed it at Jace.
Jace took one step back and raised the Henry to pull trigger and to his horror, the weapon jammed. Extending the revolver, Hardesty laughed, sounding jubilant and relieved. “You blinked, Rankin! I out-stared the angel of death,” he laughed and cocked the pistol. “You blinked and I won!”
Jace worked the Henry’s trigger, but it wouldn’t budge. He hadn’t bothered to bring his revolver—he depended on this rifle that had never let him down. Events did not slow, but instead seemed to speed up, moving too quickly for him to act upon. For first time in the last ten years, he knew without a doubt that he was going to die. His heart thumped like hammer in his chest. Images of his life darted through his mind . . . Lyle Upton reaching for his belt . . . a woman and a little girl in the Bluebird Saloon . . . Travis McGuire and his wife Chloe . . . a scared kid hiding under a soap crate, crying . . . and there was a red-haired female who talked tough but had the power to heal his soul . . .
“Good-bye, little man.”
Hardesty fired—it might have been a wild shot. In the back of his head, behind the sound of his pulse rushing past his ears, Jace thought he heard a scream. Another shot rang out and he tried to figure out where he was hit. Time and events flickered past as quickly as his memories, as fast as the blades turned on a windmill. He felt nothing but he knew that wouldn’t last. He looked for blood . . . where was the blood? But then he glanced up at Hardesty just in time to see the hole in his forehead before he tumbled facedown off the porch.
Whirling around, Jace saw Kyla emerge from behind the wagon across the yard, her pistol extended with both hands, her eyes huge in her blank, white face.
“Kyla!” He ran to her on legs that felt numb, but she stood rigid and paralyzed, with the gun still pointed at Hardesty. “Honey, put the gun down,” he said, but he didn’t touch her.
“Is he dead?” she asked. Her voice sounded flat and emotionless.
“Yeah, he’s dead.” He put his hands on her stiff arms to lower the revolver. “Kyla, come on, give me the gun.”
She stared at him without comprehension, then finally allowed him to pry the weapon out of her hands. “He would have killed you,” she said and looked from Jace to Hardesty’s lifeless form, and back again. Twilight began to come on but it was easy to see her chalky pallor in sharp contrast with her hair. “He was going to kill you. It all happened so fast. I had to shoot him. Had to.”
And it was one hell of a shot, Jace thought grimly. “I know you had to, Kyla. You did exactly what I would’ve done in your place. And you saved my life.” But now she would have to live with the deed, and
it might not be easy.
She began to tremble then, with shivers so violent could no longer stand. She fell against him. Dropping his useless rifle, he swept her up into his arms carried her to the front porch, away from the grisly scene. They huddled there, clinging fiercely to other for several moments—Jace wasn’t sure how long. The silence was broken only by Kyla’s gasping sobs. She gripped his coat in her clenched fists and he rocked her, even as he took comfort from her warmth.
Finally Kyla lifted her head and gazed into Jace’s eyes. He looked haggard and bloodless, so different from earlier that afternoon. She didn’t bother to stem the tears streaming down her own face, and her words came out in jerky snips. “I-I’m not sorry that he’s dead. And I’m so glad that you’re alive. All those nights I dreamed of pointing a gun at Tom Hardesty and pulling the trigger. I pictured that nasty smirk wiped off his face forever. But it’s not—it isn’t the way I thought it would be. I don’t . . .” She let the sentence trail away unfinished, not sure how to phrase what meant. She was confused, disappointed.
“You don’t feel satisfaction,” he said, his voice low and reflective. “Not like you expected.”
She shook her head and dragged her sleeve over her cheeks.
He took her icy hands in his and pressed them to his lips. Then, as if searching for the right words, he glanced at the first stars of the evening where they hovered above the distant hills. “I tried to tell you about this early on but the truth is, I guess no one can understand it until they’ve been through it. Anytime you take another person’s life, no matter what the reason, you lose a little of your own life, too, a little of yourself. Some people, like Hardesty, are so empty and dark-hearted to begin with, they don’t notice what killing does to them. And even if they knew, wouldn’t care. But the rest of us”—he shrugged—“we have trouble sleeping afterward. It’s like I said before. Nothing will be different just because Hardesty dead. You still have to live your life, and shooting him didn’t bring back Hank, or change what he did you.”
She shuddered again. “I’ll have to bury him, suppose.”
He kissed her knuckles again, and then took into his arms. "No, we’ll put him on his horse and take him to the undertaker’s. There’s no point in hiding any longer. If Luke Jory didn’t know I was in town before, he will now. His right-hand man is dead.”
Yes, and she was responsible. She could not shake the hollow feeling. "At least I stopped Hardesty from killing you.”
“You did, honey, and I’m not sorry about that. That makes us even now.”
Even. And over with. A torrent of emotions sluiced through Kyla, including shame. Not for what she’d done, because in that, she’d had no choice. But had had believed Jace to be a cold-blooded killer, and in fact, had sought him out because of that. She had supposed it was easy for him, and that issues of conscience or morality never came up to haunt him.
Searching his handsome face, she gripped his lapels again and desperately hoped that he would listen. “Jace, please give—give this up. Give up bounty hunting and stay in Blakely. You’re not a killer, and have nothing left to prove. No one would dream of questioning your courage.”
He gave her a wobbly smile and shook his head. “We talked about this before, Kyla. I can’t quit now. I’m not trying to prove anything, but it’s way too late. I don’t fit in anywhere.”
She released his coat and sat back. “It’s never too late. Not if you’re still alive. Not if someone loves you way I do!”
His blue eyes fixed on her, and it seemed that suddenly and briefly he looked five years younger. She felt a dull flush creep into her own cheeks. God, she hadn’t meant to blurt it out like that. After everything they had been through and had done together, after all the sides she had revealed to him, she shouldn’t feel self-conscious about baring her heart. But she did—it the most risky thing she had done yet. And oddly, most freeing.
Though he had been a good man, when she could not love Hank, she’d worried that, like Jace, her life had robbed her of the ability to give and feel love. Thank God, neither her disapproving father, nor Tom Hardesty, alive or dead, had done that to her.
“I love you, Jace,” she repeated, this time more emphatically. “Stay in Blakely.”
He held up his hand. “Kyla, I don’t want you to love—”
“Or take me with you,” she said, hurrying on before he could stop her, terrified of his rejection. “We could go some place and start a new life where nobody knows you.”
He shook his head and waved his hand in the general direction of the range. “You’re happy here. This is handsome land . . . really handsome.” His expression turned pensive as he scanned the quiet, rolling plains. “This is where you belong. Since I’ve promised to help you with the vigilantes, I’ll do it, but then I’ll be leaving. You and I had a deal and it’s finished.”
“A deal,” she repeated dully, feeling a wave of anger and pain roll over her. That was all it had ever been to him, she supposed, all he would let it be. “Yes, we had a business deal. Of course, you’ll want to be paid.”
He gripped her upper arms. “Kyla, that’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant,” she replied, trying to keep her tears in check. She batted away his hands and stood up on legs that felt like lead. Trudging to a back corner of the porch, she yanked up two loose boards and peered down to the darkness beneath. Good, there it was—Hardesty hadn’t found it.
She detected the vague shadow of her strongbox and dropping to a crouch, she closed her hands around it to bring it up. It was small but heavy, and she struggled with it.
“Let me give you a hand.” She heard Jace’s quiet voice, felt his boot steps vibrate through the boards under his feet.
“I don’t need your help, I can do it,” she snapped from behind gritted teeth, and turned her back to him. “I learned to do for myself long before I met you.”
Jace backed up as she hauled the box to the porch floor. Her cold anger was as sharp as a newly stropped razor, and it sliced through him, a clean, swift stroke. He was almost surprised to see the box under the floorboards. So she really did have money. She had talked about it often enough, but he’d doubted its existence from the outset. Besides, he had long ago decided against accepting any pay from her. He looked down at the top of her russet head and had stop himself from caressing her hair.
She lifted the lid on the strongbox and withdrew a sack of coins, testing its weight in her hand. She poured the gold out into her hand, counted it, and then replaced it in the pouch. “Two hundred and fifty for Hardesty. What about the clothes? How much did you spend?”
Her face was set and hard—he’d seen eyes as cold staring at him above a revolver in a shoot-out. He knew they masked the hurt he had caused her. How had things come to this point between them? He wished he could tell her that he longed to stay here more than anything he had ever wanted in his life. But that would give a voice to the dream he had envisioned so many times. As long as he kept it as a wistful image tucked in the back of his heart, it wouldn’t hurt so much when the time came to ride away. At least he hoped it wouldn’t.
“I don’t remember,” he said truthfully. He never intended that she pay him back. The things he’d bought her had been gifts.
She glared up at him and shook her head. Crouching there, she looked ready to spring at like a frightened, wounded cat on the defensive. "Then I’ll pay you what I think they were worth.” She began ticking off items on her fingers. “A pair of jeans, a shirt, two coats”—her voice trembled and cleared her throat—“a-a dress and—and the other things.” Briefly, she lifted her hand and pressed against her shirt where he knew the locket hid beneath. She cleared her throat again. “I figure another thirty dollars.”
He dropped to one knee next to her. “Goddamn it Kyla, I don’t want your mon—” She threw the sack of heavy coins at him and it hit him square in the chest before tumbling to the porch floor.
She gave him a cold smile. “Jace, it’s ju
st like I said—every man has his price. There’s three hundred dollars in that pouch. Take it.”
Offended, he picked up the pouch and put it in her hand. “I didn’t agree to help you because of money. It was never about money between you and me!”
“Just what was it between us, then?" she demanded. He saw a glint behind her eyes, as if were waiting for a specific answer.
Jace shifted from one foot to the other, unable give it to her. “If I were just interested in the money I would have asked for five hundred dollars or thousand.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, though, does it?” she said, and pushed the coins toward him. “Take it or not. It’s up to you.” She stood then with the box in her arms, and gazed down at him with a long look that seared his heart. Her chin quivered slightly, her voice was not much more than an anguished whisper. “Good-bye, Jace.” She turned to open the door.
“What do you mean, good-bye? Where are you going?” he asked, lurching up to grab her elbow.
She pulled away from him. “That’s plain enough, I think,” she said, sounding so weary he wished he take her into his arms again. But he felt as if sometime in the last few minutes he’d lost that right. “I’m home now.”
He stared at her. “You can’t stay here alone. This isn’t over yet, you know.”
“It is for me. I’m tired of fighting, of sleeping in the open or in barns and cabins.”
“Kyla—“
“I hope you find hap—good-bye, Jace,” she said. Turning she fled into the house and slammed the door behind her.
He stood there for a moment, his throat tight and eyes stinging. Gazing at the door, he suddenly he felt twelve years old again, friendless, scared, and crying, under a soap crate on a hot July afternoon. He took a deep breath. He had never expected to feel like that again.
But he did now.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“I want a bath, and a steak dinner in my room twenty minutes.”
Desperate Hearts Page 25
