by Lynda Bailey
“Don’t I know.”
She stood with a small laugh. “Like you know about marriage.”
“I’ve been married.”
She gawked at the old cook. “You have?”
He harrumphed. “You don’t need to make it sound so all-fired impossible.”
“I didn’t mean that. I just never knew.”
He pumped water into the wash bucket for the dirty dishes. “No one did. Not even your pa.”
“Why keep it a secret?”
“Wasn’t no durn secret. It was just private is all.”
She picked up a towel to dry the washed plates. “So why aren’t you still married?”
“Because she died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.” He handed her a plate. “Stony was a good woman.”
“Stony? That was her name?”
”Yep. A Sioux half-breed. All piss and vinegar.” He handed her another plate. “You kinda remind me of her.”
She turned to make a saucy retort when the door busted open. She jumped into Chuck. The plate crashed to the floor and splintered apart. Three very dirty and even uglier men crammed the doorway, their guns drawn. Chuck muscled her behind him just as Roscoe entered the room. The former foreman strutted into the cookhouse like he owned it.
Chuck took a step. “What the hell is this, Roscoe?”
Roscoe paused. “Shut up, old man, and you just might live to see suppertime. I’m not here for you.” His sneering grin distorted his face. “I’m here for the little missus.”
Matt moved from behind Chuck, her chin high. She glowered at the man who’d worked beside her and her father for five years. “What do you want?”
Roscoe drew a filthy finger across his chin, leering at her from head to toe. Revulsion crawled over her skin. She locked her knees to keep them from shaking. “Oh, there are several things I want from you, but that’s for later. Right now I want to know where that lily-livered husband of yours is.” He sat at the table.
She felt Chuck shift to the left where he kept his scatter gun propped in the corner. She move to block Roscoe’s view. “What do you want with Logan?”
A deafening blast shook the walls. She whipped around to see Chuck sprawled on the floor, not moving. One of Roscoe’s men just shot him in the back.
“Chuck!” She knelt by his side and pressed the dish towel to the gaping wound. Blood immediately soaked the material. “Can you hear me? Chuck?”
The cook moaned, his fingers clawing at the floorboards. Before she could to anything to help, a painful grip latched on to her hair. She was hauled up and brought to within in an inch of Roscoe’s ugly face.
The stench of piss and stale tobacco filled her senses. “Let me go!” She twisted and torqued like a bed sheet in the wind, clawing at his hand. His sneer grew bigger, uglier at her vain struggles. The other men laughed.
“Looks like we’se got ourselves a fighter, huh Roscoe?”
“That we do.” He yanked harder on her hair. “You’re not so high and mighty now, are you?”
She simply glared at the pock-faced bastard.
One of the other men holstered his gun. “Let me have a taste of her, Roscoe.”
He came toward her, his grin showing decayed and broken teeth. Still held tight in Roscoe’s grip, she waited until the other man was less than two feet away. She then drew back her leg and kicked him as hard as she could square in the balls. He doubled over as his shrill shriek pierced her ears.
Coughing and sputtering, retribution seethed in his beady eyes. “I’ll kill you for that, bitch.”
He made a grab for her, but Roscoe stepped in his way. “Not yet, Curly. You’ll have your time later. After me.” He wrenched her closed. “I can’t wait to show you what it’s like to be with a real man.” Her stomach lurched at the sinister promise .
Still cupping his balls, Curly hobbled to a chair and sat. The grasp on her hair tightened. Pain spread across her scalp like a fire though dry brush. She bit her lip to keep from crying out. “So where’s that sorry excuse of a husband man?” Roscoe asked.
“Not here,” she snarled.
Her head snapped to the side at the backhanded slap he gave her. Dizziness reeled in her head and she tasted blood in her mouth. She just glowered harder.
“Don’t sass me. Where’s is he?”
She angled her chin, saying nothing. She didn’t know if Roscoe planned to exact revenge for getting fired, but the last thing she’d do is tell him anything about Logan. She’d die first.
“Hit her again, Roscoe,” Curly sneered. “Hit till her face is a bloody pulp.”
Roscoe shook his head. “Nah. Hitting this one won’t work. She’s more stubborn than a mule. Need to do somethin’ else to convince her to tell us what we want to know.” He jerked her to his side and drew his gun. Then pointed it at Chuck. “Where is he?”
Terror clutched her chest.
He pulled back the hammer. “Tell me or he’s dead.”
A suffocating reality squeezed her throat. “You’re gonna kill him anyway. And me, too.”
“That’s true. But how the old man dies is up to you.” His lips turned down. “It could be quick and painless. Or real long and real painful. Your choice. Now.” He adjusted his grip on the handle. “Where is your man?”
She closed her eyes against the sickening swell of helplessness. What could she do? She couldn’t let Chuck get gunned down like a dog. She forced back the bile in her throat. “At the herd. Logan rode out this morning and isn’t due back for a week.”
“We’ll see ‘bout that.” Roscoe tossed her down besides Chuck. “Tie ‘em up, Slim, and don’t forget her legs. Don’t need her kicking anyone else’s balls. Then bring that scatter gun and that Bowie knife on the table there. Curly, you and Paddock come with me. Let’s help the other boys get things ready.”
Matt took the tiniest measure of pleasure at seeing Curly hobble behind Roscoe.
“All right, missy,” Slim said. “Git your hands up here so I can tie ‘em.”
Alone with Slim, she calculated if she could overpower him. Though he wasn’t as broad as either Roscoe or Curly, she’d still have a devil of a time getting the best of him. But how would she then escape? There was only the one door and Roscoe had said something about there being other men. How many more were there? And what about Chuck? She couldn’t just leave him.
In the end, she held her arms out, allowing Slim to tie them together with a short piece of rawhide. She ignored the stinging to her wrists. Slim moved to secure her legs and she looked more closely at Chuck. His face was pale and sweat beaded on his forehead. But he was breathing. At least for now. Slim went to tie the cook’s hands.
“Please,” she beseeched. “He’s no threat. Tying his hands will only make his wound worse.”
Slim snickered. “Lady, his wound is gonna get a whole lot worse real soon.” But after examining Chuck, he shrugged and stood. Clearly he agreed that Chuck posed no threat. Slim grabbed the scatter rifle and knife then walked out, leaving the door wide open.
She got down until she was face to face with the cook. “Chuck? Can you hear me?” She jostled him with her tied hands. “You have to wake up. We have to get out of here.”
Not even a moan. Wooziness and fear swam through her head. She wasn’t yet fully recovered from the shot to her head and having been backhanded by Roscoe didn’t help.
She sat up and looked around for something to fight with. Chuck’s rifle was gone and her gun was at the house. She fumbled with the biggest piece of the broken plate, but it was too short to cut the rawhide. Maybe there was something on the worktable she could use.
With an eye to the door, she squiggled her way across the floor like a worm on a hook. Fighting nausea and lightheadedness, she hoisted herself up until eye level with the table. Whoops from outside whipped her around. She plopped onto her butt, her body tense. Was someone coming? She waited. No one entered.
Taki
ng a breath, she turned and again dug her elbows into the table then craned herself up until her feet were flat to the floor. There had to be something on the table she could use as a weapon. Nothing.
Defeat choked her breath and quivered her chin. Slim had even taken the paring knife she’d used to peel the apples. She lowered herself onto the floor. Tears of frustration flooded her eyes. Poured down her cheeks.
What was she going to do now? She had no gun. No knife. How was she going to defend Chuck against these men? How was she going to defend herself?
Chuck moaned, switching her attention to him. She squirmed and wiggled back to his side. “Chuck? Can you hear me?”
“I hear,” he mumbled into the floor. “What—happened?”
She swiped at the wetness on her cheeks. “Roscoe’s here with a gang. One of them shot you.”
“What—they want?”
“I don’t know. Can you move? We have to get outta here.”
“Get—knife,” he panted.
“They took it. And your scatter gun. Is there any—” Just then a dark figure blocked the doorway. “Shh,” she whispered, sitting upright.
Roscoe came in followed by Curly, who was walking better. Damn it. A third man entered the house. As tall, but not nearly as wide as the other two, he looked like a bean pole between two boulders. It took her a moment to recognize him. When she did, her mouth dropped open.
Jules Dobson. From the bank.
What was Dobson doing with Roscoe? The prissy man made a show of brushing the seat off a chair before sitting in front of her. He crossed a leg of the other and stared at her over his glasses. “Hope you weren’t too partial to that house or anything in it.”
It was then she smelled smoke. She dated her gaze to the door then back to Dobson. “You burned our house?”
“Yep. The barn and bunkhouse, too.”
She looked from the banker to Roscoe to Curly. Cold dread seeped into her bones. “You’re the rustlers, aren’t you?”
Dobson flicked imaginary dust from his sleeve. “I thought that would be obvious.”
Matt swung her gaze to Roscoe. “You turned to rustling just because Logan fired you?”
Roscoe’s mouth twisted into a nasty grin. “Nah. I’d been rustling for almost three years now. Ever since I met Mr. Dobson here on a trip to Fort Smith.”
“What? For three years? How could you?”
“Never underestimate a man’s greed,” Dobson interjected. “Anything can be gotten. For the right price.”
She narrowed her gaze at Roscoe. “My father trusted you.”
He rolled a lazy shoulder. “Too bad for him. And you.”
She looked back at Dobson. “So what do you want?”
“Again, obvious. I want the Standing T and since your husband was too stupid to sell, I’m taking it.”
She canted forward. “But we’ve decided to sell after all. If you’ll just—”
He waved a dismissing hand. “It’s too late for that. You had your chance and now it’s gone.”
“But why do you want the ranch?”
“Because the Texas and Pacific railroad is coming this way.”
“What does the railroad have to do with any of this?”
Dobson shook his head. “You really are thick-headed, aren’t you? When Texas and Pacific comes through, land will be needed. Land I will own and will gladly sell.” His smile was maniacal. Spiteful. “For a price, of course.”
“You can’t sell land you don’t own.”
He wagged his head. “But I will own the land. All of it.”
Confusion crinkled her forehead. “How were you able to buy so much land?”
He studied his fingernails. “I didn’t actually buy it all. I mean, if people were smart enough to take my trifling offer, then yes, it was a legal transaction.” His gaze settled on her. Ants skittered across her skin at his malevolent expression. “But if they weren’t smart, like your husband, I had to find…other ways…of persuading folks to leave.”
“So you’re the one behind all the stampedes. And if that didn’t work, you’d burn people out of their homes.” She twisted her rawhide bindings, wishing it was Dobson’s neck. “One of our hands was killed during the stampede that you caused!”
“Yes, well, it was supposed to be you who was killed as an incentive for your husband to leave.” He cast an irate look to his minions. “Roscoe made a mistake. One that won’t be repeated, I assure you.”
She tossed her head toward the open door. “When Logan sees that smoke, he’ll come.”
The banker cackled a laugh. “You stupid chit. That’s exactly what I want him to do. He sees the smoke. Rides in. Roscoe shoots him dead.” Dobson stood. “Good plan, don’t you think? And I’ll be staying to make sure nothing goes wrong. This time.”
He led the way out of the cookhouse, Curly in his wake. Roscoe took Dobson’s vacated chair and straddled it backward, his arms resting on the back. His stare shriveled her insides.
“Once everything’s done ‘round here, you and me.” He flicked his thumb to her then back at himself. “We’re gonna have ourselves a little party. Just the two of us. Then, if you survive, I’m gonna let my boys take turns with you.” He leaned forward. “Bet you’re now wishing your old man had asked me to marry you.”
He winked then shoved to his feet and the chair tumbled forward. She couldn’t stop herself from jumping when it landed on her legs. His cruel laugh reverberated in her ears as he left.
She blinked at the tears in her eyes. She was useless. Utterly and completely useless. She had no way to warn Logan. It was just like Dobson said. He’d see the smoke and ride in.
And then he’d be dead.
Chapter Fifteen
Logan saw the plume of smoke rising in the northern sky. Something was wrong. Very wrong. The only place that fire could be coming from was the Standing T. He plunged his spurs into Sergeant’s flanks and the roan leaped into an all-out run. He had to get home. Fast.
What could have happened? Where was Matt? Was she safe? Which building was on fire? Had a lamp tipped over in the barn? The house? Questions fired through his brain faster than bullets from a Gatling gun. Each with no answer. The one answer that did rear up numbed his heart.
Rustlers.
It was their pattern. First herds were stampeded and then homes were burned. And sometimes people were killed. How could he have been so stupid as to leave her? Though Chuck was with her, it didn’t dent the panic rising in his chest. He rode like the devil himself was on his heels. Only Lucifer wasn’t behind him, but in front. Was he holding Matt? Had he hurt her?
A red curtain of rage dropped over his eyes. He’d tear apart anyone who dared to harm his wife. But shimmering just below the surface of his anger, terror closed a meaty fist around his heart. It was like being held underwater. He didn’t feel anything. Except a coldness spreading through his chest, freezing his heart. His lungs.
Drowning him.
He fought to master the useless emotions. Whatever the circumstances at the ranch, it’d do no good to lose control. He briefly closed his eyes. Matt was safe. If she wasn’t, he’d know. To the core of his very soul, he’d know. He could only pray she stayed safe until he got to her.
He came up to the last stand of oaks which blocked sight of the Standing T gate. Smoke hung heavy in the air, its black and gray column rising above the tree tops. In the shadows to his left, he spied Arch’s horse.
He reined Sergeant to a stiff halt and bounded from the saddle, his Colt out of his holster, cocked and ready. “Arch!” he whispered loud.
The cowboy ducked out of a thicket of boysenberry bushes, his own gun drawn. “Here, boss.”
Logan lowered his weapon, but didn’t holster it. “What the devil is going on?”
Arch shook his head. “Hell if I know. We seen the smoke back at the herd.”
“Where are the other men?”
“Sent Tom to fetch the sheriff. The others are still with the herd. I didn’t
want to risk this was a distraction for another stampede.”
Logan nodded. “Good thinking. What’s burning?”
“Everything but the cookhouse.”
Logan peered through the dense foliage, his heart in his throat. “Have you seen Matt?”
Arch shook his head. “Haven’t seen her or Chuck. They gotta be inside the cookhouse, right?”
Please God. “Seen any horses?”
“Half dozen or so are tethered by the woodpile behind the cookhouse.”
“Guards?”
“Two that I saw watching the horses. Might be more. You figure they’re the rustlers?”
“Don’t know, but I aim to find out.” Logan went back to his horse and pulled his Winchester from the scabbard. “Work your way back behind the cookhouse.” He tucked his rifle under his arm then checked the bullets in his Colt.
“What’s your plan, boss?”
He spun the cylinder of his Colt. “To go get my wife.”
“You’re gonna just walk in there?”
“I’m gonna just walk in there.”
“If it is them rustlers, you’re only gonna get yourself shot.”
“You got a better idea?” Logan snapped.
“Yeah. Wait for the sheriff. Tom’s got the fastest pony around.”
“I’m not waiting for the sheriff to show up. That’s my wife in there.”
“You go in guns blazing and you’ll get her killed for sure. If she ain’t dead already.”
At Logan’s withering glower, Arch raised his hands in surrender and stepped back. Logan then holstered his gun to check his rifle. “It’s a chance I have to take. Take out the guards in back then run the horses through the yard. The ruckus should give me the chance to get Matt to safety.” He held out his hand. “Give me your Colt. Chances are whoever’s in the cookhouse will want me to drop my guns. They won’t expect me to have a third one.”
“That is if they don’t gun you down like a dog first,” Arch grumbled, handing over the six-shooter. He pulled his hat low then crept off to the left.
Logan stole forward, one slow step at a time. The closer he got to the yard, the thicker the smoke became. It burned his eyes. He tugged his bandana up to cover his mouth and nose. Between two large oak trees, he watched fire eat the three buildings.
