by Lynda Bailey
Flames licked the sides of the house, spreading up and onto the roof. The barn and bunkhouse fared no better. All were nothing but red-and-yellow-balled infernos. With a thunderous crash, the roof of the house caved in.
His home was gone. And he was helpless to save it, just like he’d been at the age of nine. Anger welled in his chest. His home might be lost, but he’d be damned if he lost Matt as well. He shifted to his right for a better view of the cookhouse door. No movement of any kind caught his eye. He squatted down, rubbing a hand over his chin.
There wasn’t any cover whatsoever in the thirty feet between him and the cookhouse. Arch was right, he could step out in the open and be gunned down in nothing flat. But the risk was worth taking if it meant he got to Matt.
He tucked Arch’s Colt into his belt at his back, stood and moved to where anyone from the cookhouse could see him. He yanked the bandana off his face and angled his body so he could dive back into the cover of the brush in case bullets came flying. “Hallo!”
He waited. Blood battered in his eardrums. He could scarcely breathe for all the smoke in the air, and the fear in his heart. Finally the cookhouse door creaked open. Matt’s head appeared. With a Colt muzzle pressed to her temple.
The sight of the gun barrel to his wife’s head crushed any remaining fear in Logan’s body. It was replaced by pulsing fury.
She’d been shot and nearly trampled. And now this. No more. No more harm would come to her. His promise to God. “Are you all right?” he called.
“I’m fine, but Chuck’s not. He’s hurt bad.” Her head twisted to the side as the gun was pressed tighter. “They want you to drop your rifle and gun belt.”
He tossed the Winchester to the ground then unbuckled his belt. Hands out to the side rather than in the air, he walked forward. He studied her face as he approached. Her lip was cut and swollen, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. Her eyes held more anger than fear. Good. He rather have her pissed than scared. She kept her head about her better when riled.
Ten feet from the cookhouse, a male voice barked out, “Hold it there.”
He stopped. The door opened further and Matt stepped out with Roscoe holding the gun to her head. If Logan was furious before, rage blinded him now. He’d kill Roscoe with his bare hands.
Three other men exited the cookhouse and flanked Roscoe and Matt, their guns pointed at him. Four men stood in front of him and if Arch was right, there was at least another two in back. Six—or more—against two. Not good odds. In fact, damn bad ones. He stared at his wife. “You sure you’re all right, sweetheart?”
“She’s fine,” a voice from inside said. “For now.” From behind the group, Jules Dobson swaggered out, a malicious, cocky glint in his eyes.
After a moment surprise, pieces fell into place for Logan. He glared at the banker. “This is about you wanting the Standing T, isn’t it Dobson?”
The banker’s malevolent grin grew wider as he nodded.
“Well you can have it. We’ll sell.”
“That’s exactly what this person,” he fluttered a hand toward Matt, “you call a wife told me. But why buy what I can now simply take?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that once you’re both dead, I’ll buy this land at auction in Fort Smith. For a fraction of the cost, I might add.”
“But why? At least tell me that.”
“It’s because he thinks the railroad is coming through,” Matt answered. She barely winced when Roscoe jabbed the barrel into the side of her head.
“No railroad will ever come this way,” Logan said. “That’s just a rumor. Choctaw land is to the north and west. They won’t give permission for a railroad to cross their land.”
“If you think some godless savages are going to stand in the way of progress, you’re sadly mistaken.” Dobson’s smile warped his pinched features. “I’m sure the military will have no trouble getting rid of them, especially since I’ve taken the steps to ensure everyone believes those heathens are responsible for the rustling. I’m also sure Roscoe here won’t have any trouble getting rid of you two.”
Panic knotted Logan’s throat when Roscoe cocked the hammer of the Colt in his hand. “You don’t want to do that,” he said, thinking fast. If he stalled long enough, maybe Arch could cause a stir and he’d get Matt to safety. Or maybe Tom would show up with the sheriff.
Maybe blue birds flew in Hell, too.
“Really?” Evil sarcasm dripped from Dobson’s single word. “And why is that?”
“Because if anything happens to us, you’ll hang.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“You shouldn’t. One of my men saw the smoke and went to get the sheriff. They’re on the way back here right now. Probably with a posse.”
“By the time anyone gets here, you two will be dead and the last of this miserable ranch will be gone.”
“But the sheriff will know you’re responsible not just for burning out the Standing T and killing us, but for all the rustling.”
“And how will he know that?”
“Because it’s obvious.” It took every ounce of control for Logan to keep his voice steady and confident. “Funny how folks whose places you offered to buy suddenly had their herds stampeded or their ranches burned.” He gave a casual shrug, relaxing his stance, his arms by his sides. “If I can figure out your scheme, the sheriff can too.”
“Even if the sheriff suspects me, which I doubt, there’s no proof of my involvement. Besides, the Standing T is the piece of land I need. Once this business is done, I’m back to the civilization of Fort Smith.”
“You’re willing to take that chance?”
“Yes.” Dobson gestured to his henchman. “Roscoe, if you’d be so kind.”
Roscoe yanked Matt closer to him, nuzzling his nose through her hair and grinning. “But I promised her a good time first.”
“All right. Fine. Kill him.” The banker pointed to Logan. “Then burn everything to the ground. Take her with you and have as much fun as you want. Just make sure she’d dead when you’re done.”
The other three men snickered and licked their lips. One cupped himself in a vulgar gesture.
An icy cold settled over Logan. “Hurt my wife, and I’ll kill you all.”
Roscoe grinned wider. “That’d be a neat trick.” He holstered his gun then grabbed her breast with a lecherous smirk. She pulled away, but he held tight. “I’d like to see that, Cartwright. Us against just you. And you without your guns.”
In the blink of an eye, the world changed. Gunshots sounded from behind the cookhouse. Shouts rang out. Matt drove her elbow into Roscoe’s middle, then slammed her fisted, bound hands into his crotch, doubling him over.
Logan grabbed Arch’s Colt from his belt and dropped to one knee. He fired. The shot hit the man to Matt’s left. The frantic whinnies of the horses heralded the approaching thunder of stampeding hooves. He pivoted. Fired two more times. Missed. The rustlers were scattering like rats from a fire.
Matt raced toward him, hands outstretched. He grabbed her. Using the frenzied horses hurtling through the yard as screen, they dashed to the nearest cover, which was the water trough in front of what used to be their barn. It wasn’t much, but it was the best they had. If Lady Luck was on their side, Arch or Tom or the sheriff or someone would come a-helling into the yard.
Bullets peppered the ground around them. Whizzed past them.
He kept her in front of him, shielding her with his body. The relative safety of the trough neared. She ducked behind it. Just as he was about to join her, fire exploded in his back and out the front of his shoulder. The ground reared up and smacked him in the head. In the distance, he heard his wife scream.
Face down in the dirt, pain coursed through his body. It was made worse by Matt yanking his arm from the socket. Grime clogged his nose. He couldn’t breathe. Once the torturous pulling stopped, he rolled over. So much for Lady Luck being around today. At least they were behind the trough.
> Matt hovered above him. Tears gleamed in her eyes. “You’re shot.”
“I kinda figured that. Here.” He wrestled his knife from his boot and handed it to her. She cut the rawhide at her wrists. A bullet bit into the wood just to the side of her head. He wrenched her down beside him. “Stay down,” he ordered.
In spite of the pain ripping at his body, he slanted over to check around the corner of the trough. A bullet kicked dirt into his face. He quickly whipped back and groaned deep in his throat.
“You’re bleeding bad.” She pressed her hands to his wound.
He glanced down. Blood covered half his shirt. Yeah, he was.
“Think the sheriff will get here soon?” Her voice trembled slightly.
“No, sweetheart I don’t.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said. It was a bluff. It’ll take time for anyone to get here.”
Suddenly a barrage of more shots filled the air. But they weren’t from six-shooters. The tenor was different. Deeper. Rifle fire. Arch had to be keeping Dobson’s gang busy. Now was the chance for Matt to escape
He gripped her arms. “Listen, sweetheart. That’s Arch out there. Run for the cover of the trees. Stay low and as close as you can to the barn. The smoke will help to protect you while Arch will gives you cover.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be right behind you. Now go.”
“You won’t neither be right behind me. Not the way you’re bleeding.”
“You need to go.”
She shrugged from his grasp. “No.”
Before he could stop her, she took the Colt and peeked over the top edge of the trough. She fired two shots. A bullet buzzed past so close her hair fluttered.
“What the hell are you doing?” He gripped her shirt and hauled her down tight to him. “Hell’s fire, woman! Are you trying to get yourself shot?”
Her mouth formed a defiant line. “No, I’m trying to shoot the rustlers because that’s your gun arm you’re bleeding from.” She stole another glance over the top. “I think I winged Roscoe.”
He dragged her down again. “And now you’ve got only one bullet left. Run for the trees, woman.”
“No.”
Lordy, he hated that word. “Will you, just once, do as I say?”
“Not if it means leaving you.”
He tightened his hold on her arm, fear and anger blinding him. “If I didn’t love you so damn much, I swear I’d throttle the living life out of you.”
She tossed her head, green daggers flying from her eyes. “I’d like to see you try with that hole in your shoulder. And I love you, too. So if we’re gonna die, we’re gonna do it together.”
Dobson’s men bellowed. They were getting closer. He didn’t hear Arch’s rifle shots any more. The man had to either dead or out of bullets.
Logan curled his good hand around the back of Matt’s neck, trapping her. “Fine,” he growled. “We die together.” He bought her lips to his. “But I at least want my lips on you when it happens.” He slanted his mouth and kissed her without any tenderness or softness. He drove his tongue into her mouth. Hard. Purging.
Because he wanted to purge her of any fear she might have. He didn’t want her thinking about what was coming. He wanted her last thoughts in this world to be about how much he loved her. How much he had always loved her. How much he would love her forever.
Time stood still. All sounds ceased. Nothing existed. Nothing except Matt. Her lips. Her taste. Her little mewling moans in the back of her throat.
The gun dropped to the ground as she melted against his chest. His cock throbbed. To be able to bury himself inside her sweetness one last time—
“Here they are!”
He twisted away from Matt and thrust her behind him. He grabbed the Colt and aimed it at the looming figure blocking the sun. Hands bolted up.
“Whoa, boss! It’s me.”
Arch?
“Hell fire and brimstone, man!” Logan barked. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“Saving your asses. Pardon my language, Matt.” Arch lowered his arms.
Logan struggled to a sitting position. “I figured you were dead.”
“Nah, not yet anyway. Tom’s here with the sheriff. Everything’s under control.”
Logan thrust his uninjured hand out to him. “Get me up.”
“Careful,” Matt admonished. “He’s shot.”
None-too-gently, Arch hauled him to his feet and stars spun in front of Logan’s eyes. Matt wiggled under his good arm, wrapping her arm around his waist. His head cleared and Tom, along with the sheriff, stood before him and Matt. Several other men from town, Sam Applegate included, some with rifles cradled in their arms, milled around the dead bodies of Dobson’s gang. The banker himself sat on the ground, covered in dust, his hands tied behind his back.
Logan looked at the sheriff. “Jules Dobson was responsible for all the stampeding and ranch burning. He also had my wife shot.”
The sheriff nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me. The bank was robbed this morning before it opened. We then found the bank manger, Harrison and his poor wife, shot dead in their home. We were tracking the robbers when your man found us. The Standing T seemed as good a place as any to start looking.”
“Chuck’s in the cookhouse, hurt bad,” Matt said.
“I’ll go find him,” Tom volunteered as he hot-footed it inside.
Suddenly bone tired, Logan sagged on Matt’s shoulder. She stiffened her stance. “You better sit before you fall.”
“I’m fine,” he protested.
“Right.” She helped him balance his backside on the rim of the water trough.
The sheriff went to check on the prisoners as Arch poked at his wound. Logan fisted his hands to keep from punching him. Matt sat next to him and tore part of her shirt bottom off then stuffed it against his wound.
“Bullet made a clean pass through,” Arch stated. “Bleeding’s almost stopped, too. Guess you’re gonna live, boss.”
“Good,” Logan growled. He hooked his arm around Matt’s neck and pulled her closer to his side. “Now go make sure you can say the same where Chuck’s concerned.”
Arch went to the cookhouse and Logan pressed a kiss to his wife’s forehead, so very, very grateful she was unharmed. He looked around as the men worked to put out the last of the fires. What was once a good and sturdy ranch was now just smoldering remains.
She followed his gaze around the yard then tipped her face up to his. “What are we gonna do now?”
He shrugged. The small movement sent burning pain through his shoulder and chest. He swallowed back his groan. “I don’t know.”
“You’re not gonna try and send me packing for Kansas City again, are you?”
“You had your chance for that.” He grinned at her smile.
After a moment, her smile faded and doubt clouded her eyes. “So you meant what you said before? About loving me?”
The tremor of uncertainty in her voice hurt worse than his bullet wound. He wouldn’t deny the truth. Not to himself and not to her. Not any longer. “Yeah, I meant it. Did you?”
“Yes.”
He cupped her chin and angled her face to bring her lips to his. A shout from across the yard turned their heads.
Tom and Arch and two others carried Chuck from the cookhouse on a blanket. The Standing T cowboys wore big grins and the wizened cook raised a feeble hand. He and Matt returned the wave. The men then carefully placed Chuck onto a makeshift travois for the trip to town and Doc Bingham.
She looked at Logan. “He’s gonna be all right, isn’t he?”
He nodded. “You know Chuck’s too stubborn to let a little thing like a bullet get the best of him.”
But seeing Chuck, and considering his own gaping shoulder wound, again drove home the dangers of the prairie to Logan. He cast another look at the ruins of the Standing T. Damn near everything was gone. If they stayed, they were going to have to rebuild from scratch. A prospect
he didn’t relish. “Maybe Kansas City isn’t such a bad idea after all.”
She elbowed away. “You said you weren’t going to send me away.”
He lugged her back. “I’m not sending you anywhere. Not alone anyway. I was thinking we’d go together.” Her piqued huff returned the grin to his lips.
She cuddled back to his side. “Like I said before I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“But it’ll be tough to stay, sweetheart. Damn tough. We’d be basically starting over. We’ll have to build the new house before heading to Abilene, providing we drive the beeves north at all. And if the coming winter is as hard as the last one, we might—”
She tipped her face up to meet his gaze. The set of her jaw and determination in her eyes sent joy spiraling in his heart. “It’ll be hard. So what? I won’t complain.”
“You never do, sweetheart.” His lips hovered over hers. “I just want to give you everything you ever wanted. And more.”
Just before he could settle his mouth on hers, she pulled away. “Well, there is something you can give me, Logan Cartwright.”
“What’s that?”
“A baby.”
His eyebrows popped up. “A baby, Mrs. Cartwright?” Anticipation stirred his blood. “Reckon I can see my way clear to do that.”
He laid claim to her mouth in a kiss full of love, for now and for their future.
The End
A Note from Lynda:
I’ve always loved stories, especially love stories. Growing up in the Midwest, I’d make up stories, usually to my favorite TV shows.
As I got older, the stories didn’t relent. In fact, they became stronger, the characters more insistent until I had no choice to put everything on paper. It’s an obsession. One that I love.
When not sitting in front of my computer, I spend my time working as a fitness instructor. I live in Reno, NV with my husband of thirty years and two pampered pooches. You can visit me at www.lyndabailey.net.
If you enjoyed Wild Flower, please remember the three R’s: Rate, Review, Recommend. I’d be grateful if you’d pass the word along.
