by D'Ann Lindun
Taking care to stay in the tree line, Derrick climbed the mountain with steady intent. Every so often he stopped to let the mare catch her breath. The sun had begun to rise over the eastern peaks, making it easier to see. Its rays warmed his hands. He flexed his fingers. He’d be dead if he couldn’t pull a trigger faster than Lawrence.
He lifted his Stetson and wiped his forehead with his arm. Although the morning was cool, he sweated as much as if it were already hot. Hard to believe he planned to kill a man today.
But if Lawrence had hit Laramie instead of Ramona yesterday, Derrick didn’t know what he’d do. Laramie had become his life in a few short days. After what Lawrence had done to Laramie, there was no doubt in Derrick’s mind Lawrence planned to kill Laramie. He wouldn’t stop until he succeeded.
Making his way to the meadow where Ramona had been shot, Derrick went to where her body had fallen, still outlined in bright orange chalk, and knelt down. From the way her body landed, he knew the shot had to have come from over his right shoulder. Turning around, he studied the area trying to pick out where Lawrence had stood.
There! A slight projection of rocks stood out from the rest. Difficult to see, but there.
About an hour later, after a long, hard climb, he dismounted and stood on the precipice. He surveyed the area around him. Derrick knelt down and smoothed the red dirt with his fingertips. Although difficult to see in the hard, red rock, faint boot prints still showed. He curled his fingers around something soft. Lifting it, he found he held a wild-rag. Bloodied, but exactly like the one he’d found on the Big Misty. Distaste curled his lips and he reached to his back pocket for a clean bandana to wrap the rag in. Taking care, he wrapped it and placed it in his saddlebags.
Derrick knew he stood in the exact spot Lawrence had when he killed Ramona. Taking a step back, he looked around. On every side stood mountain peaks, some still covered with snow, the meadow directly below. On the surface, a serene spot. Some would call it heaven.
Lawrence had here stood and took aim at Laramie, killing yet another innocent woman.
Making a half-turn, Derrick spotted Lawrence’s tracks leading off in the brush. He wrapped the reins around the saddlehorn and slapped the black mare on her rear, sending her back down the mountain. From here on was too steep for the horse. Following a narrow deer trail, Derrick tracked Lawrence’s escape route through thick oak brush. From the meadow below, he’d been virtually invisible.
Stopping often, taking time to make sure he didn’t lose the trail, Derrick came out in an open area around mid-morning.
He stood in the shadows, waiting.
Turbo’s hair stood on end. He growled and Derrick motioned for silence.
The scent of smoke still hung in the air, making his eyes sting.
A camp robber flew away with an annoyed screech, but nothing else moved. Derrick glanced at Turbo to see if he noticed anything, but the dog lay down and panted, apparently unconcerned about anything. The hair on the back of Derrick’s neck stood up, and he turned his head in each direction, taking care to not draw attention to himself by moving too fast.
Nothing.
Turbo looked up the hillside and growled again.
Taking a chance, Derrick shouted. “Come out, Porter. Take on a man for a change.”
The ground at his feet exploded in a cloud of dust.
With a curse, he dove for the closest tree. Turbo yapped and lunged with him. Derrick motioned the dog to stay, and the heeler flopped on his belly near the base of an oak bush. He’d wait there until Derrick told him to get up.
Slithering on his belly, Derrick moved further under cover.
He spotted a flash of red on the hill directly across from him.
Lifting his rifle, he aimed. And pulled the trigger. The echo resounded through the mountains like thunder on a sunny day. Turbo whined, but Derrick didn’t take his eyes off the target.
The red vanished behind a low hill.
Had he hit Porter?
He waited, but nothing moved or made a sound. “Come out, Porter. I’m not going away, so you might as well come out and face me like a man, not the worm you are.”
No response.
Rolling under a low-growing bush, Derrick searched for a way to go toward the other man without being out in the open. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and his breathing came fast and hard. He risked a glance at Turbo, and the dog lay patiently waiting. “Good dog.”
A bullet whizzed above his head, tearing leaves, sending them showering over him.
“Son of a bitch.”
Another bullet zinged by his shoulder, so close it nearly burned him.
Taking a deep breath, he tucked and rolled. When he hit the open, he half crawled and half ran toward a lone pine tree. Bullets struck the ground around his feet, but none hit his body. From behind the tree trunk, he aimed his rifle in the general direction of Lawrence and pulled the trigger.
A pile of rocks detonated, sending shards of stone and dust through the air.
Through the blowing dust, Lawrence suddenly appeared like a ghost moving at a run down the mountain.
With a curse, Derrick raced after Lawrence.
• • •
Laramie had saddled and unsaddled Pale half a dozen times by noon. She knew where Derrick had gone, and her heart ached with fear. Although she longed to follow him, he was miles away. And she knew her presence might get him killed. He needed all his wits about him, not having his mind on her.
She sat on a log and stared at the stream, thinking over the last few days. Zeke nudged her hand and Laramie absently stroked his soft head. It amazed and humbled her that Derrick cared enough about her to go after Lawrence. Even though she knew he felt compelled to do so, she wished he hadn’t put his life in danger for her.
No one had ever loved her so much.
Closing her eyes, she said a prayer for his safe and quick return.
Both dogs jumped to their feet and barked. Laramie started to spin around, but too late.
“Miss me, little sister?” Lawrence circled her neck with one arm.
“Let me go.” She could barely think. Fear paralyzed her. This was it. There wouldn’t be a miracle escape this time.
He tightened his hold until she could barely breathe. “Nope.”
“Let her go, Porter.” Derrick moved out from behind the tree, holding the rifle at his hip. Keeping his index finger on the trigger, he advanced. “Face me like a man. I’m not an unarmed woman.”
Lawrence lifted his own weapon to point at Derrick’s chest. “You’re not walking out of here. Neither is she.”
“Wanna bet?” Derrick looked unfazed that a crazed sheriff held a gun on them, and Laramie drew strength from him. “You murdered your own wife and child in cold blood. You tried to kill Laramie. You cut down Ramona Quintana. What did they ever do to you?”
“They didn’t know when to keep their mouths shut.”
“Because they tried to force you to see you have a bad drug habit?”
“Shut up!” Lawrence screamed the words, his voice high pitched as a girl’s.
Derrick pressed him. “I’m not going to shut up. I’m going to lay the truth out here in front of you and force you to eat it. Every bite until you gag on it.” He glanced around. “What are you going to do, shoot me? Then what, shoot the next person who comes after you? And they’re coming. Your buddies might have looked the other way, but the other cops aren’t going to turn their heads to three murders.”
“Derrick,” Laramie said.
“Shut up.” Lawrence aimed the rifle at Derrick’s head.
“No. You’re going to hear it. Two beautiful women died by your hand.” He lowered his voice to a man growl. “Because you’re an addict. And everyone knows it now. And if they don’t, I’m going to shout it from the top of these mountains until every single person in Cliffside hears me. Now let her go.”
With a roar of rage, Lawrence shoved Laramie aside and lifted his rifle. Before he could pull the trigger, he grabbe
d his chest and fell back onto the ground with a look of surprise etched on his face.
Derrick froze for a moment, then dropped to his knees beside Lawrence. He took his pulse, looked up and shook his head.
Laramie sat in stunned silence. “Is he dead?”
“Yeah.”
She knew the grief would come later, but now only relief flooded her. She crawled toward Derrick, and he turned, shielding her from the body. Taking her in his arms, he rocked her.
Someone moved up beside them.
Derrick looked up at the policeman above him. Brendan. “How’d you know?”
“I followed you.”
“Took you long enough to get here.”
Brendan grimaced. “I missed a turn up in the trees.”
“You got here in time to save my butt.”
“Yeah, I did.” Brendan sighed. “Would you have shot him?”
“Damn straight.” Derrick looked the cop in the eye.
“You didn’t trust me to take care of it?”
Derrick’s silence said it all.
Brendan sighed again. “I guess I deserve that.”
“It’s over now. I need to get Laramie home.”
“I’ll need a statement.”
Derrick sighed. “Fine.”
• • •
Laramie stood in Derrick’s protective embrace. They had answered all of Brendan’s questions, watched as the EMTs loaded Lawrence’s body. Now they were free to go. She stood lost in thought. She had been wrong to ever think that she and Derrick might be anything like Lawrence and Julie. Maybe they had been doomed from the beginning. Surely from the time Lawrence started abusing drugs.
Derrick would never do anything to hurt her. He proved his love time and again. He had taken on a madman for her.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
“I’m fine.” She gripped the front of his shirt and leaned back so she could look into his eyes. “I was so scared. You left without saying anything … ”
“I didn’t want you to try to talk me out of it, and I didn’t want you to go.”
“How did you know where to go?”
He held her closer. “I didn’t. Just a hunch. I tracked him past Cedar Rim to the Blue Sky Divide — ”
“Daddy used to have a hunting cabin not far from there,” she whispered. “Lawrence must’ve gone there to hide.”
He nodded. “Probably.”
“Tell me,” she demanded. “All of it.”
“I found where he stood when he shot Ramona, and started tracking him from there … ”
“Alone?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know Brendan was behind me.” He grabbed her wrists and held them. “Laramie, I had to go. Lawrence left me no choice. You were next. I couldn’t count on the cops to protect you — ”
“Would you have killed my brother?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded accusing.
“Yes.”
Her eyes welled. Lawrence. Shot. Killed.
“Brendan followed me because he knew I was going after Lawrence.” He took hold of her shoulders and moved her so he could look into her eyes. “Listen to me, Laramie. I would do whatever it took to protect you, even if it means you couldn’t forgive me. I’d rather have you alive and hating me than seeing you end up on a morgue table like Julie.”
She stared at him. “Hate you?”
“I know you must because of what I was going to do.”
The tears she’d been fighting broke free. “I could never hate you, Derrick. You put your life on the line for me and I love you for it.”
“But — ”
She placed a finger on his lips. “I am going to miss my brother for the rest of my life. But I will never blame you for what he did to himself. He was once a wonderful person, but I can never forget how he took away my best friend. And Ramona, a woman I would’ve liked to have known. You didn’t do anything wrong. All you did was protect and love me.”
He took her hand in his. “I do love you. I always will.”
“I know. Your love is what’s kept me going.”
With a shake of his head, he said, “No. Your strength kept you going. All I did was help you. Now let’s go home.”
“Home,” she agreed, taking his hand.
About the Author
I draw inspiration from the area where I live, Western Colorado, my husband of twenty-nine years and our daughter. Composites of our small farm, herd of fourteen horses, five Australian shepherds, a Queensland heeler, eight ducks and cats of every shape and color often show up in my stories!
Find me on my blog or Facebook:
http://dlindunauthor.blogspot.com
www.facebook.com/DLindunAuthor
More From This Author
(From Desert Heat)
A wave of despair kicked Mike Malone in the gut, nearly doubling him over.
Warm Arizona air in his face and the sweet perfume of nasturtiums in full bloom made his stomach churn. This time of year — early February — The Jumping Cholla Resort should be packed with tourists escaping bitter northern winters. With the holiday hustle and bustle over, the century-old ranch would normally be bursting at the seams with pale-faced vacationers soaking up the Arizona sunshine.
The pool stood empty, the horses grew fat, most of the help had been let go. Besides four long-time friends, the only other resident on the ranch was an old prospector named Skeeter. Because Mike felt sorry for the guy, he let him stay in one of the cabins. Hell, someone might as well use them. No one else could.
Skeeter minded his own business, wandering out in the nearby Superstition Mountains for days, sometimes weeks on end, searching for lost treasure. His only companion on these trips was a little burro named Nobody. Mike had asked about that once, and Skeeter told him nobody else would want the homely little animal. Mike grinned thinking of it. There was precious little else to feel good about.
Deciding to see if Skeeter would like to have breakfast, Mike walked the short distance to the Spanish-styled cabins, enjoying the view along the way. The near horizon was filled with jagged red cliffs and a cactus forest. In the distance, the violet-hued Superstitions strained for the sky. Along the western edge of the property, the Salt River provided water to the citizens of Phoenix and its suburbs. Right now, Mike almost hated the sight of the slow-moving current.
Fighting off his anger, he knocked on the door of the last cabin. When no one answered, he shrugged and turned away. Then he spotted Nobody staked out a few feet from Skeeter’s cabin. Something didn’t look right. The burro’s head hung between his front legs, his ears drooped. In two quick strides, Mike was at the little animal’s side. The burro’s sleek tan flanks were drawn up tight. He obviously hadn’t been fed or watered in at least a day or two. This wasn’t like Skeeter. He loved his little companion. Something had to be wrong.
After leading the burro to an empty corral and filling the trough with cool, clean water and the feed bin with good hay, Mike went to see about Skeeter. He knocked again, listening carefully for signs of life. Hearing nothing, he took the master key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. The stench hit him first. His mind refused to believe it for a moment, but the sticky-sweet smell of something once alive, now rotting, was unmistakable. He’d come across enough dead animals in the desert to recognize the particular odor.
Digging a clean bandanna out of his pocket, Mike held it over his nose and mouth and stepped inside. In the dim light, he saw Skeeter’s bloated body in the bed. Apparently he’d fallen asleep and not awakened again. For that much, at least, Mike was grateful. He scanned the room. Skeeter had been a man of simple means. Nothing personal adorned the room. No pictures, no mementoes, nothing. Turning away, Mike wondered if there was anyone alive who cared about the old prospector.
• • •
After the ambulance carrying Skeeter’s body pulled away, a sheriff’s deputy lingered. “Too bad about your friend. At least he died here, where someone knew the score. If he had croaked out in the desert, nobody
would’ve been the wiser.”
“Yeah. It’s a good thing,” Mike commented, his tone as dry as the air around him. He handed over a ragged green duffle bag. “This is all he had. What about the body?”
“Someone will have to claim it; make funeral arrangements.” The deputy looked pointedly at Mike.
He sighed. “I’ll be in touch later this afternoon.”
“Good.”
Waiting until the cop pulled out of the driveway, Mike headed for his house. He needed coffee. What a fine mess this was. As if he didn’t have enough problems of his own, now he was saddled with making burial arrangements for a mere acquaintance. He and Skeeter hadn’t been close friends. While riding in the desert last fall, Mike had met up with the solitary prospector, and taking pity on him, invited him for a meal. With the ranch standing empty, Mike had urged the old man to stay, and Skeeter accepted. Whatever his business in the desert, Skeeter didn’t share, and Mike didn’t pry.
No time like the present to clean the cabin.
As he walked the stone path to the guest building, he noticed a pair of bright red cardinals on an outstretched arm of an ancient saguaro. One of the birds cocked its head Mike’s way, eyes bright with curiosity.
At the door, Mike took a deep breath, and turned the key.
Hurriedly, he lifted the mattress to take it outside to haul to the dump later. A crumpled legal-size envelope fell to the floor, and Mike dropped the mattress back on the bed springs, curious about the envelope. He picked it up and examined it. The address was to Gary James, Tortilla Flat, Arizona. Skeeter’s real name was Gary James? The return postmark was from Las Vegas, Nevada, and read 1991.
Holding it for a moment, Mike took a deep breath before looking inside. A few pieces of paper slid into his waiting hands. A yellowed map with one jagged edge, torn in half, a black-and-white picture of a pretty, dark-haired woman holding a baby.
Mike studied the map, and recognized several landmarks in the desert. But it was meaningless without the other half. He laid it aside and unfolded the single lined sheet. In large, curly handwriting, a woman named Carole told Skeeter she couldn’t wait any longer for him to come to his senses and return home to her and their daughter. They wanted him with them. Let her know what he decided.
