by Lough, Loree
Callie’s stomach growled, and, as if on cue, so did Josh’s. Another hour, maybe two, and he’d treat himself to some of the jerky he’d bought on his way out of town. His purchases—coffee, oats, biscuits, jerky, carrots, and matches—would have cost half as much at home. One more reason to thank the good Lord that he lived on the outskirts of Eagle Pass, where the annual church bazaar stood in satisfactorily for big-city noise and activity.
The sun went down, and so did the temperature, making a fire seem mighty appealing. Josh directed Callie toward a flat spot near a small grove of scrub pines he’d spotted.
“Atta girl,” he said, patting her neck as she slowed to a stop. Both his boots hit the dust as he added, “Let’s hope our campfire won’t lure scorpions—or bandits.”
He’d worried about both almost from the moment he’d ridden out of San Antonio. It hadn’t taken long to tell the sheriff what he knew about the holdup at the bank. He’d done his best to describe each man, but that hadn’t been easy, since all but one had had his face hidden behind a bandanna. That was, all but one and the girl.
If the sheriff had asked his opinion, Josh would have told him the gang’s best bet would be to head south, not west. That’s where he’d have gone, anyway. But the sheriff hadn’t asked, and as Josh had watched the posse ride out, he hadn’t been able to help feeling uneasy. Like a dark cloud, the dubious sensation had shadowed him, meaning he’d had to sleep with one eye open every one of the five nights of his trip. Still, it would feel mighty good sliding into his soogan after washing down a biscuit and some bacon with a cup of hot coffee.
It was completely dark when he finally stretched out under the night sky. Callie, her belly full of oats and carrots, nickered from where he’d tethered her to the branches of a scrawny blackbrush shrub, reminding him of the last trip on which he’d bedded down beneath a canopy of stars. It had been two years ago—just over a month after Sadie had joined Jesus—that Josh and his cousins had driven a herd toward a Nebraska packing house. During those sweltering, dusty days, the boys tried to cheer him up by cracking jokes as they yee-hawed and whistled to keep the cows together. At night, the dogies lowed in happy harmony to Daniel’s guitar, while Paul plucked the Jew’s harp and Micah hummed into his harmonica. Ordinarily, Josh would have crooned along, but with Sadie’s passing so fresh in his mind, he’d counted stars in silence, instead.
Now, he tucked his hands under his head and smiled a little, thinking about Sadie’s first Thanksgiving as a Neville. “The good Lord did your mamas a favor,” she’d teased, “putting just one boy under each roof!” Josh’s mother had pointed out that God had more than made up for it by delivering giggling girls to each Neville house—four sisters for Paul, three for Micah, six for Daniel, and two for Josh—all of whom had bonded instantly with Sadie, despite the fact that she’d grown up as the only child of elderly parents.
Pushing himself up on one elbow, Josh used a gnarled whitebrush branch to stir the coals. Sparks floated toward the heavens, and he recalled how much Sadie had loved the stars. “God’s diamonds,” she’d called them.
Callie snorted, then pawed the dirt and whinnied. Josh strained his ears, sitting up all the way to distinguish between normal noises of the night and whatever had spooked his usually unflappable mare. He quickly dismissed the hoots of owls, the symphony of crickets, and the shrill peent of a nighthawk and focused on a sound that fell somewhere between a moan and a sigh, coming from behind a boulder near Callie’s tree.
Instinct made him palm his pistol. Witnessing the robbery and murders in San Antonio had made him edgy and restless. The gang of outlaws could be anywhere, and, after all his family had suffered in order to obtain the banknote hidden in his boot, he had no intention of giving it up without a fight.
Inching along toward the source of the sound, he eased back on the hammer of his gun, wincing at the barely audible click that seemed to crack like thunder in the near silence.
“Please,” came a tiny, frail voice, “please don’t shoot.”
What’s a young’un doing way out here in the middle of nowhere? Josh wondered. But he’d volunteered to help the Rangers round up enough rustlers and bandits to know they had more than just cards up their sleeves. It wouldn’t have surprised him in the least if it was an outlaw imitating a child. “Hands up,” he growled, “and on your feet.”
“I—I can’t.”
He’d already assumed the “ready, aim” position. Now, as Josh took those last few steps, he adopted the “fire” stance, fully prepared to drill the phony-voiced crook full of lead if he had to.
However, it was not a child, but a woman. When he rounded the rock, she was on her knees, facing him, both arms high in the air. She was not much bigger than a child, and Josh couldn’t tell if her head-to-toe trembling was caused by fright—for her bright-green eyes looked twice the size of Callie’s—or if the chill in the air was to blame. Seeing that she wielded no weapon, he lowered his own. “Are you out of your mind, sneaking up on a man in the dark?” he snarled, holstering the gun. “That’s about the best way I know to get shot!”
Hugging herself, she said, “I—I just hoped to come closer to the fire…once you’d gone to sleep, that is. I would’ve been gone before you awoke in the morning.”
How long had she been skulking around these parts, to have worked out a plan to snare a few moments of warmth? She looked oddly familiar, though, for the life of him, he couldn’t say why. “Looks like you’ve been yanked through a keyhole at the end of a rope,” Josh said, helping her up. “What in tarnation happened to you, missy?”
It must have been feminine self-consciousness that prompted her to pat her snarled, coppery hair and smooth her wrinkled, brown skirt. Sweat and grit had stained what had likely once been a fine, white shirt, and those boots—clearly not made for hiking any distance—were covered in trail dust.
He’d never been able to stand seeing a female in distress, even one who looked as though she’d just climbed out of the coal bin. So, he invited her toward the warmth of the flames, and, when she appeared to be limping, he scooped her up in his arms. She weighed hardly more than his saddle, and her pained grimace told him that under the grubby blouse, she hid bruises, maybe even a cracked rib or two.
Dropping to one knee, Josh eased her to the ground near the fire. The instant he draped his blanket over her shoulders, she clutched it tightly to her and leaned so close to the fire that he worried she might topple face-first into it.
“Easy, now,” he said, “unless you want a mouthful of hot ashes.” Uncorking one of his canteens, he held it out to her. “Are you thirst—”
She grabbed it, pressed it to her lips, and gulped.
“Whoa, too much at once, and you’ll end up with a powerful bellyache.”
She quickly wiped the back of one hand across her mouth. “Sorry,” she gasped. “Didn’t mean to behave like an ungrateful pig.”
He shook his head to let her know that she needn’t apologize, noting how odd it was that, so far, she hadn’t looked him square on for longer than an eyeblink.
“I haven’t had anything to drink in days,” she added.
Or a bath, he thought, and probably not a bite to eat, either. He fetched a chunk of jerky and two biscuits from his saddlebag, then held them out to her. “Slow and easy, now, hear?” he said as she accepted them with an eager look in her eyes.
“Thanks,” she said around the first mouthful.
He plopped down beside her, careful not to sit too close, and rested his forearms on his knees. “So, what’s your story?”
Brows high on her forehead, she stopped chewing. “Story?”
“I’ve made the trip between Eagle Pass and San Antonio several dozen times. Saw my fair share of lizards and bobwhites and even a cuckoo or two on the trail, but you’re the first woman. There’s sure to be quite a tale about why you’re out here, all by your lonesome, lookin’ like you do.”
She finished chewing and swallowed, then ran her dirty f
ingers through her tangled hair. “I….” Frowning, she looked everywhere except at him, as if somewhere deep in the blackness, she’d find an explanation to satisfy his curiosity. “I don’t know how I got out here.”
“Is that so? Well, I don’t mind admitting that sounds more than a mite suspic—”
The tears glittering in her eyes silenced him, and though nothing she’d done or said so far justified it, a long-forgotten sentiment echoed in his heart. He wanted to ease her fear, make her feel safe. “Let’s start with something easy, then. Like, your name?”
Staring into the fire, she chewed her lower lip. “I—I don’t remember.”
“Don’t remember?” he echoed her. Josh had met some addle-brained women in his day, but every last one had at least known her own name! “Did you fall from a horse? Wander away from a stagecoach accident? Get thumped on the head by a robber?”
A minuscule gasp escaped her lips, and, for a moment, she actually looked him square in the eye. In that instant, he knew without a doubt that something sinister had happened to her. Then, just when he thought he might have made some headway, she hid her face in her hands. “What day is it?” she mumbled through her fingers.
“Wednesday.”
“Is it—is it still May?”
This country was ripe with swindlers, each with a unique scheme to steal a man blind. Could it be that she had donned this clever disguise to relieve him of his family’s money? “Yep, still May.”
She dropped her hands but kept her eyes fixed on the fire. “Did I hear you say you’re returning from San Antonio?”
He answered yes, thinking he’d have to be deaf not to hear the strain in her voice.
“We aren’t, by any chance, headed to Mexico, are we?”
Maybe she had suffered a blow to the head. She’d said “we.” Did that mean she expected to travel with him from here on out? Josh sure hoped not. Because the last thing he needed was a woman adding to his worries. Especially one without a horse. And one who reeked of trouble.
He picked up the whitebrush branch again and shoved the pointy end into the fire. For all he knew, she had a derringer tucked into one of those little boots; the glowing end of the stick might just come in handy if she decided to aim it at him. “We’re a good three days’ ride outside of Eagle Pass.” Josh didn’t know why, but when she blinked in response to his curt tone, he gentled his voice. “Mexico—is that where you’re headed?”
“Yes. At least, I think so.”
That was an afterthought, if ever he’d heard one. But something told him that he could hammer at her all night and still end up with more questions than answers. Better to let her finish the meat, have another swallow of water, and get a couple of hours of sleep. Maybe her memory—if that was her problem—would wake with her at first light.
Once she’d finished devouring every crumb of biscuit that had fallen into her lap, Josh tidied his makeshift bed and helped her slide into it. For a minute there, as she blinked up at him gratefully, he was tempted to press a comforting kiss to her forehead, the way he did when tucking in his sister’s little boy for the night. “G’night,” he murmured instead, fighting the urge.
In place of a reply, she treated him to a shy, little smile that started his heart to pounding like a parade drum. Josh blamed his reaction on the life-altering events of the past few weeks—events that, one by one, had threatened to make him stagger. Since Sadie, no woman had turned his head, and he couldn’t allow himself to acknowledge that the waiflike woman near the fire could change that fact, even if she was the cutest little slip of a thing he’d ever laid eyes on.
Wrapping himself in Callie’s saddle blanket, Josh leaned back against the tree where she was tied, smiling to himself as the woman slipped into a fitful slumber. His grin faded, though, when she began to mutter and groan. In the fading firelight, he saw her expression change from worry to horror. “What do you make of it, Callie?” he whispered.
The horse snorted, as if to say, “You’ve got me by the feet.”
The woman hadn’t seemed able to bring herself to look at him, whereas Josh couldn’t make himself look away from her. Even contorted by apparent anguish, her face reminded him of an innocent angel, and he shook his head, wondering about his earlier wariness. Without all that grit and grime, she’d likely be downright gorgeous, he thought.
The mare bobbed her head as if she agreed with his silent assessment.
When the sun rose, maybe its rays would reveal evidence of a head injury to explain his midnight visitor’s peculiar behavior. In the meantime, Josh could count two good reasons to content himself with watching her sleep.
For one thing, she had the prettiest face he’d ever seen. She was prettier than any of his sisters. Prettier, even, than Sadie, though he felt like a lout admitting that, even to himself. For another, as long as he kept a guarded eye on her—and kept his boots on—the money his family would use to repopulate their herds would remain safe.
If only he could be as sure about the safety of his heart.
4
Kate felt terrible about lying to the good-looking cowboy, but what other choice did she have? He could have been an off-duty Texas Ranger, for all she knew. Or, worse, some ruffian who’d once ridden with the Frank Michaels Gang.
He was kind to share his food and water and to insist that she take his bed near the fire. And it had been mighty nice that he hadn’t pressed her for too many details, especially considering it was plain to see he was chomping at the bit to learn more—lots more—about her history.
He looked vaguely familiar, but that didn’t surprise her. She’d lost count of how many men had visited Silky’s as they’d passed through town. Maybe this soft-spoken, trail-weary fellow had been one of those who’d asked her to sing his favorite ballad.
On the off chance he was just an ordinary man, going about his ordinary business, he was far better off—and far safer—not knowing the truth about her. In the morning, after she’d gotten directions to Mexico, she’d ask his name and pray for his well-being as she headed south.
In the meantime, she figured she’d better come up with a new identity for herself. Even if the cowboy didn’t resume his interrogation, she was bound to run into someone else between here—wherever “here” was—and Mexico, and the next inquisitive fellow might not be a gentleman.
And then, there was the matter of the wanted poster that featured her portrait. Hunger and thirst had driven her into the last town she’d passed. As she’d stood, gawking, at the black-and-white likeness of herself, Kate’s heart had beat so hard, she’d worried it might just burst clean through her shirt. “WANTED,” the top line said, and below it, “KATE WELLINGTON, DEAD OR ALIVE.” Beneath that, “FOR MURDER AND ARMED BANK ROBBERY.” And, finally, in bigger, bolder letters, “REWARD.”
What a silly little fool she’d been, believing no one had been witness to what had happened that day in the bank. It was yet another reason to change her name. And she’d stop wearing her hair loose and free, the way the artist had drawn it in the picture, and style it in a sensible bun. She’d also trade her attractive dress for humdrum attire. The changes would save her skin, and if they spared the cowboy from having to choose between letting her go and delivering her to the Texas Rangers, who’d make her one of the only women in history to be sent to the gallows, they’d be worth every uncomfortable moment.
She agonized over it all night, pulling at his scratchy, brown blanket, punching at the ratty quilt he’d rolled up to be used as a pillow, then berating herself for how spoiled she’d become. The third-floor bedroom Etta Mae provided as part of Kate’s weekly pay came furnished, complete with thick towels and crisp, white sheets, a colorful coverlet, and a fat, feather pillow. On her small balcony, she could sit, sipping tea, as she smiled and waved to the townsfolk down on Main Street. And when the delectable scents of chicken-fried steak and beef stew woke her taste for solid foods, she had a standing invitation to help herself to anything in the kitchen, any old time
her hungry heart desired. She could almost taste the melt-in-your-mouth mashed potatoes and vine-ripened tomatoes served by Dinah and Theodore, Etta Mae’s cooks.
Kate had grown accustomed to her pampered lifestyle, but those days were long gone, thanks to her fanciful, doltish decisions of late. If she hoped to fulfill her dream of sending money to the families of Frank’s victims—and she most certainly did—she realized she’d need to learn to make do with rough covers, unyielding head cushions, and scarce food. She’d better get used to clothes that looked like she’d borrowed them from a scarecrow, too.
The thought brought her attention to her soiled shirt and tattered skirt. How could she expect a future employer to hire her when she looked like a ragamuffin? And yet, with no money, and no prospect of procuring any, how would she replace her ragged outfit? Discouraged, Kate exhaled a weary sigh.
Dwelling on the situation won’t change it, she scolded herself, so don’t! Her thoughts and energy would be better spent on solving her dilemma, starting with putting herself on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande. The Texas Rangers’ jurisdiction stopped at the border, though, in all truthfulness, dying at the end of a rope seemed a far, far easier way to go than enduring whatever torture Frank would inflict—before ending her life.
The fear welling up inside her reminded Kate of a day from her childhood, when the mighty Mississippi had surged above its banks, feeding on houses and businesses like a raging, gluttonous fiend. Miraculously, she and her mama had escaped the water’s greedy appetite, but many others hadn’t been so lucky. If she closed her eyes, Kate could still hear their terrified cries for help. She could pray for another miracle like that, but why would God answer the prayers of a sinner like her?
Swallowing hard, Kate licked her lips. A sip from her rescuer’s canteen sure would taste good right about now. She lifted her head and saw him staring toward the horizon. What had captured his attention so completely? The Rangers, maybe. Or Frank’s gang. She needed to leave this place. Leave this man. Because, whether the approaching riders were lawmen or lawbreakers, he could pay a hefty price for helping her.
