Renegade Bride

by Barbara Ankrum

  "And I think you're a liar."

  Her words stopped him cold and he whirled around to face her. "You what?"

  She wondered if she'd gone too far, but it was too late to turn back now. "Seth would never have sent a man he didn't trust after me. Perhaps it's more convenient to let people draw their own conclusions about your scruples or lack of them, Mr. Devereaux. Just as it's easier to pretend you don't care that I just insulted you."

  His jaw worked. "I am used to insults, ma petite."

  She remembered the scene at the ticket window with that woman dragging her boys away from Devereaux as if he were dirt. And she recalled the way she'd treated him when they'd first met. Yes, he was used to insults. But instinctively she knew they cut him more deeply than he would admit.

  He swung up on Buck's back. "I'm headed into the mountains until I can find a place to cross the Sun. If the weather holds, it will take four or five days of hard riding to reach the gold fields. But it's rough travel and not for the faint of heart."

  "And do you think I have a faint heart, Mr. Deve—"

  Unexpectedly, his expression softened. "I have seen that you do not. Do you cook?"

  "I... beg your pardon?"

  "Can you cook? If you come with me, you will do your share. I won't coddle you."

  Mariah checked the flare of hope in her eyes. "Eggs are coddled, Mr. Devereaux. I, on the other hand, am more than willing to do my share. I can cook. Can you hunt?"

  He tossed her a rare grin, as if to say, touché. "At least we won't go hungry."

  At the mention of food, Mariah's stomach growled and she covered the offending spot with her hand. Creed reached in his saddlebag and tossed something to her. She regarded the brownish lump questioningly. "What is it?"

  "Pemmican."

  She stared at him blankly.

  "The Blackfeet make it from pounded cherries, dried meat, and buffalo suet. You eat it, Miss Parsons."

  "Oh." She invested the syllable with all the enthusiasm she could muster and bit into the edge of the lump he'd so generously identified as food. Though she'd prepared for the worst, it was quite good.

  When she looked up, however, Devereaux was already urging his horse up the hill.

  "Wait! Does that mean you'll take me?" She nudged her mare after him with a kick of her heels.

  "Do I have a choice?" he returned over his shoulder.

  She couldn't help the giddy smile of relief that curved over her lips. "Everyone has choices, Mr. Devereaux," she called.

  "Peut-être," he answered, then to himself, he repeated, "Perhaps."

  Chapter 5

  In the place known to French trappers as terres mauvaises, or badlands, in the Missouri Breaks, the two men slowed their horses to a trot and entered the narrow chasm in the massive rock wall single-file, trailing a loaded packhorse behind. The smaller and infinitely dirtier of the two went first, signaling to a lookout perched atop the high column of rocks above them like a hawk in search of dinner.

  The straggly-haired lookout smiled toothlessly, then sent out a long plume of tobacco juice in reply, which landed exactly between their two horses. "Hey, Downing—who's the dandy?" he asked with a low, mocking laugh.

  "Save it, Blevins," warned the scruffier of the pair—the man named Downing. He glanced at his companion who, indeed, wore the dandiest clothes he'd ever laid eyes on. From his brocaded satin vest to the finely made black wool frock coat, the man looked as out of place as a piece of fine crystal at a slop trough. Unlike Blevins, the lookout, Downing knew better than to point that out to a man like Reese Daniels.

  "Hey—" Blevins called again, still chuckling. "Where the hell is Étienne? He decide to stay behind for a little nookie with one a them smooth-skinned white whores that was shippin' in?"

  Downing's shoulders stiffened beneath his grimy calico shirt, but he ignored the question. More accurately, he avoided it. Time enough, he reasoned, to explain why he had come back without Étienne. Time enough to imagine all the ways Pierre could make him suffer for letting his bastard brother die.

  He'd ridden with the LaRousse brothers for three years now. It occurred to him that all those years wouldn't mean a thing once Pierre learned about Étienne. He smiled ironically. There was little loyalty among thieves.

  The serpentine path to the camp led through a series of high-walled switchbacks assuring the near-invulnerability of the hideout. The light of the setting sun washed the stone walls red. Long, menacing shadows poured thickly over the towers of rock.

  At the end of the path, the trail opened up into a surprisingly large box canyon, littered with scrub pine, broken rocks, and graze for their stock. A slender waterfall trickled over a smooth rock spill, feeding a creek that disappeared beneath the canyon walls. Its soothing, tinkling sound belied the tension in the air as the two men trotted into camp.

  Downing spotted Sam Bennett, Poke, Petey Ford, and a young Piegan outcast known as Running Fox ensconced in a heated game of cards near the cool edge of the stream. They tossed a cursory glance at the pair as they dismounted. Petey, the youngest at seventeen and the only one Downing gave a damn about, nodded in silent greeting. He was learning, Downing thought, as he turned his gaze toward the woman turning meat on a spit over the fire.

  Raven was a beautiful young Blood squaw of twenty or so. A hint of a smile lit her agate-colored eyes briefly as she caught sight of Downing, but she extinguished it before the man lounging cross-legged against the willow backrest near the low fire could see.

  The deadly-looking knife in Pierre LaRousse's hand stilled against the smooth sharpening stone he held against his buckskin-clad leg. He was a big man, though his height was made less noticeable because of his lean, youthful build. Blue-black hair fell around his face and past his shoulders, hiding the old white scar that traced his cheekbone.

  He was handsome, Downing mused, the way a fine, deadly weapon was handsome, with sharp, straight features and the rich hue of his mother's peoples' skin. Among them, he was called Red Eagle, and in deference to his long-absent mother, a lone black-tipped feather dangled from his long hair. His father's legacy, a large silver crucifix, dangled blasphemously from a chain at his neck. He spoke a curious mixture of Sioux, English, and the tongue of his father, a French-Canadian named Emile LaRousse.

  Flat, expressionless eyes the color of a starless night studied the two as they approached. Downing had imagined more than once that ice would form on the half-breed's eyes if he didn't blink. He felt a sudden chill invade his bones.

  "So, you 'av come, mitakola," LaRousse observed, regarding Daniels. "Il y a long temps." He braced a forearm over his cocked knee and dangled his deadly-looking blade between his legs.

  "H'llo, Pierre." The stranger slid off his mud-flecked black hat, slapped it against his equally muddy thigh, and ran a hand through his shock of white-blond hair. "You're lookin' mean as ever."

  Pierre smiled and glanced at the burdened pack-horse tied to the scrub pine beside the others. Two long, heavy-looking crates straddled the pack's saddle. "'Ave you brought what you promised?" he asked, dispensing with preliminaries.

  Daniels inclined his head with a vague smile. "I always do what I say I will."

  Pierre got to his feet in one fluid motion. "C'est bon. If zey are what you say, zen we talk. Poke! Bennett!" he yelled. "Unload ze crates and break zem open."

  The two men jumped as if they'd met the business end of a branding iron. Sam Bennett tossed his cards to the ground and lumbered to his feet. Two hundred and forty pounds and six feet, seven inches made him less agile than some, but gave him the distinct advantage over most men—except LaRousse. An unkempt beard covered the lower half of his face, concealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth.

  With the blade of his Arkansas toothpick, Bennett sliced the rope that bound the crates and the two lowered the boxes to the ground and pried the tops open.

  "Pierre—" Downing interrupted hesitantly. "I need—"

  LaRousse shot a silencing look at Downing, the
n reached into the opened crate and lifted out a spanking new Spencer Repeater Rifle, U.S. Army issue. The walnut stock gleamed in the fading sunlight. His heartbeat quickened. There were at least twelve guns in each crate. Each of those precious weapons would bring a dear price from any of several tribes he traded with on a regular basis.

  A low whistle came from the diminutive Poke, who rocked on the worn soles of his boots as he crouched beside the crates. "Holy perdition! Would'ja look at these? These here the repeaters I done heard tell of?"

  Daniels smiled. "Pretty lot, aren't they?"

  Entranced, the others gathered closer.

  "Right out from under the Yanks' noses," Petey exclaimed in awe.

  Pierre caressed the gun's smooth stock as if it were a newborn babe. "Oui. You 'ave done well, Daniels." He glanced admiringly at the rifle again. "Le mitawa. Thees one ees mine."

  "Do we get one, too?" Petey asked.

  Pierre leered at the youth. "Wiz gold, mon ami, you can buy anything." He turned and walked toward the fire.

  "Hell, we gotta buy 'em?" he grumbled to Downing, who'd moved beside him.

  "Shut up, boy," Downing snapped, leaving Petey flushed and staring after him as he joined the two men at the fire.

  Pierre squatted near the fire beside the woman and the Piegan, Running Fox. Pierre slid the cold walnut stock erotically against Raven's elkskin-covered breast and across her smooth brown cheek. It pleased him to see the look of fear creep into her black eyes. It made him feel stronger, invincible. As the gun did.

  With the tip of his knife, he stabbed at a piece of rabbit that was cooking over the fire. The greasy morsel stopped halfway to his mouth and he looked at Downing. "Where ees my brother? 'E ees following behind?"

  Downing felt his stomach shift into his throat and he swallowed hard. The scent of the rabbit made him suddenly nauseous and sweat broke out on his upper lip. "Étienne was killed," Downing mumbled. "He's dead, Pierre."

  In the fraction of a second it took for those words to sink into Pierre's consciousness, Downing glimpsed a moment of something human in those eyes—a flicker of pain or disbelief or, possibly, grief.

  It was quickly replaced by fury.

  Before Downing could move, LaRousse was on him, flattening him to the ground with the razor-sharp edge of his knife blade—rabbit meat and all—pressed against his throat.

  "Bâtard! You lie!" he snarled, drawing a fine bead of blood from Downing's neck.

  "No! Pierre, listen to me!" Downing pleaded in a choked voice. "I'm sorry, it's true, but I—I swear, there was nothin' I could do. We g-got there just as the steamer was dockin'. The levee was crawlin' with people. But we didn't see nobody who would recognize us.

  "That bastard bounty caught us unawares. The sonofabitch was on Étienne before we could turn around. We both took off runnin', but I... I guess it was Étienne he wanted. I don't reckon he—he even saw me." He felt the pressure of the blade decrease only slightly. "Another b-bounty come right after. Maybe they was workin' together. I don't know.

  "But I do know Étienne didn't have a spit's chance in hell. He drew on 'em, but the bounty shot him dead, right there in front of dozens of witnesses."

  "He's quite right," Daniels confirmed from somewhere out of Downing's line of vision. "I saw the whole thing myself. Your brother didn't have a prayer in that mob. Downing and I wouldn't have stood a chance either if we'd interfered. Besides," he added pointedly, "if we'd been fool enough to get between them, they would have killed us both and you wouldn't have had these guns."

  LaRousse's hand shook slightly as he pulled the knife away from Downing's neck and eased back onto his moccasined heels. His lip curled like that of a rogue dog who has been kicked once too often. "Who?" The word embodied a lifetime full of hate. "Who were zey?"

  Downing drew his breath shakily. "The second one was that drunken pissant, Lydell Kraylor—that feller we run into down on the Big Horn last fall? Come outta nowheres, after that first fella called Étienne out. Kraylor shot him once. But he ain't the one who kilt him. I ain't never seen that one before."

  "Saaa-aa!" Pierre spat disgustedly, yanking the rabbit meat from the blade of his knife and flinging it at Downing. With a smack, the meat landed and slid greasily down his face. He dared not move to wipe it off.

  "His name," Daniels interjected in a deep baritone, "was Devereaux."

  Pierre felt the color leave his face. He swallowed heavily. Devereaux? It couldn't possibly be the same one. It was, after all, a common name. There must be dozens of men with that name in the Territory. Still..."Thees you are sure?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at the gunrunner.

  "Why? You know him?"

  LaRousse's face had reverted to stone, revealing nothing. "'Ow did 'ee look?"

  "Tall, twenty-five to thirty, dark hair... wears some kind of a bone or shell choker at his throat."

  The flare of LaRousse's nostrils was the only indication that he'd heard. "Eyes?" he demanded. "Did you see 'ees eyes?"

  Daniels regarded LaRousse curiously for a moment. "I'm afraid I didn't get that close. They looked like any other man's eyes from where I stood."

  Downing propped himself on one muddy elbow and spoke.

  "I saw 'em, Pierre. They was a funny color—not blue... not exactly green. More like the color of one a' them turquoise stones."

  LaRousse dragged the blade of his knife slowly against his buckskin leggings, leaving a smear of grease. "You saw zem and zen, mon ami," he asked Downing in a low voice, "zen, did you run like ze rabbit from my dead brother's body, or did you 'appen to see where 'ee went, thees bounty, Devereaux?"

  Downing raked a hand defensively through his mousy brown hair as he sat up. "He followed a stage to Virginia City. He was talkin' to some woman who got on that stage, too. The ticket agent told me her name was Parsons. Mariah Parsons."

  LaRousse stared unseeing at the ground for a long moment, then stood, casting his long shadow across Downing. "We leave at first light." With that, he turned and started to walk away.

  "Hey, LaRousse—" Daniels inquired impatiently. "What about my guns?"

  Without breaking stride, Pierre turned, and arrowed his bone-handled knife toward Daniels' chest. With a dull thunk, the weapon found its mark and the impact sent Reese stumbling backward with a mixture of surprise and horror on his face. He groaned, sinking to his knees, clutching at the hilt of the protruding weapon. A crimson stain seeped across his shirt and his rapidly numbing fingers groped futilely for the pistol at his hip.

  "Mary, Mother of—" The rest was a strangled moan and he bent over the hilt like a man in prayer.

  Petey, Poke, and Bennett stared, frozen in shock. Raven backed away from the fire to cringe by Running Fox. Downing's shaking hand went to his hip, waiting for LaRousse to turn on him as well.

  But the half-breed ignored him and stared down at the fallen man. With his lip curled again in a parody of a smile, he grasped his knife and tipped the gun-runner the rest of the way backward with a well-placed shove of his foot. Reese sprawled helplessly, too weak to resist, while his life's blood ebbed out onto the ground. A gurgling sound punctuated the labored rise and fall of his chest.

  "Your guns?" Pierre repeated. "Now, Monsieur Reese, zey are my guns."

  "Why?" Reese pleaded, clutching his chest. "I always dealt straight with you—"

  LaRousse snatched up Reese's bloody shirtfront in his fists and yanked the man close to him. "Étienne was ze brother of my blood, sacre Americaine! And you think rifles would take 'ees place?" He spat in Reese's face and the spittle tricked down the dying man's cheek. "You are less zan nothing to me." With a shove, he released the gunrunner who slammed against the ground.

  Daniel's face crumpled in pain. "I'll see you in... hell, LaRousse," he rasped.

  Pierre LaRousse turned his back on the dying man and without a backward glance, stalked out of camp toward the high, isolated cliffs that limned the badlands. He would sing a death song for his brother, then he would find the man responsib
le and cut out his heart.

  Chapter 6

  The moisture from the damp cedar sizzled as the flames of the campfire licked it dry. Creed added several larger pieces of wood, then shoved another hunk of crystallized pine sap beneath the small pyre. The fuel roared to life, casting a crimson glow on the undersides of the aspen leaves surrounding the camp. Spires of pine forked into the midnight blue sky in inky silhouette, like giant sentinels.

  Beyond these, he could hear the Sun River rushing against its banks as it flowed downstream. The water had kept them hemmed in on the north bank, its currents too treacherous and swollen to cross. Tomorrow, he thought. Surely tomorrow they would find a decent ford.

  Through the flames he watched Mariah's delicately sculpted face, lit by the otherworldly light. She sat opposite him across the fire, wrapped in a blanket, eyes closed and head bobbing forward with exhaustion. The knife with which she'd been peeling a wild onion lay forgotten in the relaxed curl of her palm—the roasting pair of fat, planked trout at her feet and her earlier claims to hunger overridden by mindless fatigue.

  He guessed they'd covered nearly fifteen miles today, far less than he would have covered on his own, far more than he should have pushed a tenderfoot like her. He'd suffered a pang or two of conscience over that, but he'd warned her, hadn't he?

  Still, he would have felt less like a brute if she'd complained. But she hadn't. Not once. Not even when she'd nearly fallen from her horse when they'd made camp. She would have, too, if he hadn't caught her. Even then, she'd been too proud to ask for his help—too stubborn to tell him she was in pain and, until that moment, he'd been too angry with her to notice.

  Unwillingly, his gaze roamed over her again as he remembered the feel of her trembling like a willow branch in his arms, the way his hands had nearly circled her small waist—

  The slender stick in Creed's hands snapped in two. He stared at it a moment, surprised, then pitched it into the fire. He rose soundlessly, circled the fire and slipped the wild onion from her hand.