ChasetheLightning

by Madeline Baker

  Rob looked at her and shook his head. “Are you going to eat all that?” he asked dubiously.

  Amanda stuck her tongue out at him. “Eventually.” The slice of cake on her plate was four layers of chocolate, with fudge frosting between each layer. She sighed as she took a bite. “Heaven,” she murmured, closing her eyes. “Pure heaven.”

  Rob chuckled. “You look like you’re having a religious experience.”

  “Almost,” she said. “Want a bite?”

  “No thanks. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of a single mouthful.”

  They lingered over coffee until Rob declared it was time to go. “I hate to leave,” he said, “but I’ve got to take you home and get back in time to catch my plane.”

  “All right.”

  “You want to take a piece of that heavenly cake for later?”

  “No,” Amanda said, laughing. “I don’t think so.”

  Rob paid the check and they left the restaurant.

  It was after four when they pulled into the driveway.

  Rob switched off the engine and slid his arm around Amanda’s shoulders. “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

  “Me, too. How long will you be gone this time?”

  “As long as it takes. I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “You love it, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll bet you’d have been a bounty hunter in the Old West, too.” She grinned at him. “Or maybe Wyatt Earp.”

  Rob laughed. “You’d win that bet, missy. Bounty hunting runs in the family, you know. I was named after my great, great grandfather. He did some bounty hunting in his time. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. Probably finish unpacking.”

  “You’re still unpacking?”

  “I have a ton of books to put away.” She grinned at him. “And I have to get busy and write up my ideas for Mr. Hennessy. Our first meeting is only two weeks away. I should probably buy a new suit. What do you think?”

  “I think you should stop worrying.”

  “This is important to me, Rob. I want to make a good impression.”

  “I know, but, honey, you’ll do fine. I know Earl Hennessy, and he’s not going to be looking at your clothes, believe me.”

  Amanda made a face at him.

  “It’s true,” Rob said. “The man may be a brilliant lawyer, but he’s the biggest womanizer I’ve ever known.”

  “Bigger than you?” she teased.

  “I told you we went to school together. Who do you think taught me?”

  She punched him on the arm. “You just behave yourself, mister,” she warned with mock ferocity. “Don’t make me come looking for you!”

  “Tough chick,” he muttered, drawing her into his arms.

  “Darn right.”

  “I don’t know why you want to work. Especially for what he’s paying you.”

  It was true. Her uncle’s will had left her independently wealthy. She had spent the last two years taking care of Uncle Joe because he was afraid of doctors and hospitals. She had known her uncle had some money, but she’d had no idea just how much until the lawyers had settled his estate.

  “I’ve got to do something with my time,” she said. “Anyway, it’s only a couple days a week.” And it wasn’t really a job. Earl Hennessy was thinking of opening a half-way house for abused women who had no place else to go, and Amanda had volunteered to help him set it up.

  “Well, whatever you decide to wear, you’ll be a knockout.” Lowering his head, he kissed her. “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too.”

  He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to go.”

  Exiting the car, he walked around and opened her door for her. She took his hand, and he helped her out, then drew her into his arms. He kissed her again, deeper, longer.

  “Hurry back. And be careful.”

  “I’ll do my best.” He glanced up at the house, which sat on a small rise. “I still don’t know why you wanted to move clear out here. It’s a long drive into town.”

  “I just wanted to get away from everything.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Including me?”

  “Of course not. I was just tired of the noise and the traffic, you know? I’ll only have to go into the office a couple times a week, so the drive’s not that big a deal.”

  “Well, you can always stay at my place, if you need to.”

  “I know.”

  “Okay, hon, I’ve gotta go.”

  One last kiss, and he was on his way.

  Amanda watched his car until it was out of sight; then, with a sigh, she went into the house and changed into a pair of jeans and a shirt. She couldn’t sit around moping over Rob. She had a horse to take care of.

  The stallion whinnied softly when she approached the corral. Sliding between the rails, she attached the lead rope to the halter and led the horse to a patch of grass near the one where it had grazed earlier that day.

  “Looks like it’s you and me,” she muttered as she sat down on a fallen log. And then she smiled. “Guess I’ll get to spend the evening with a good-looking stud after all.”

  Chapter Three

  Trey woke with the dawn, eager to be on his way. As always, his first thought was for his horse. Stretching the kinks out of his back, he settled his hat on his head and walked over to the where the stallion stood, grazing on a patch of short grass.

  Frowning, Trey ran his hands over the stallion’s neck and back. The horse’s coat felt smooth beneath his hand. If he hadn’t known otherwise, he would have sworn someone had come along during the night and given the stud a good brushing, but that was impossible. And yet, there was no denying the proof of his own eyes. Someone had groomed the stallion.

  He glanced over his shoulder as Ben Needham approached him.

  “Hey, Ben,” Trey said, “you didn’t happen to groom the horses last night, did you?”

  Needham shook his head. “Why would I do that? Hell, I been too tired to groom my own self.”

  Trey laughed as he continued to stroke the stallion’s neck. He'd never heard of horses grooming themselves, like a cat. But ’Pago was one-of-a-kind, and Trey wouldn't put it past him. He looked over at Ben, aware that the man had asked him something.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I was wondering where we go from here,” Needham said.

  Trey shrugged. “I’m headin’ north,” he said casually. But it was a lie.

  “Alone?”

  Trey nodded.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Find me a little spot where nobody knows who I am and settle down. I’ve had enough.” He had already found it, a nice patch of ground near Canyon Creek, but he saw no need to tell Ben that. The last thing he wanted was for Needham and the others to know where he was headed.

  An hour later, after a hurried breakfast of bacon, beans and campfire coffee, Trey was on his way, alone. They had split the take four ways, Trey had wished the others luck, stuffed his share in his saddlebags, and ridden away, just like that. It felt good to be on his own again.

  He found himself thinking of Sonny Clark. No doubt the kid’s body was on display in a rough pine coffin in front of the undertaker’s parlor down the street from the bank. They’d let him sit there a day or two, a grisly warning to other outlaws, before they planted him in boot hill. Trey hadn’t intended for anyone to die but the banker, and he’d failed at that, too. Guilt gnawed at his innards. He had led them into the bank; like it or not, he had to accept some of the blame for Sonny's death, but not all. Sonny had been riding the owlhoot trail long before he threw in with Trey, as had the others. During the division of the loot, Strouse and the others had made jokes about how they’d be sure to tip a few for Sonny as they spent the larger share his death had brought them. Trey hadn't been able to laugh. He had found himself wanting to say some words for Sonny, something to commemorate the kid’s courage, but he’d let it pass. From now on, he was going to
play a lone hand, and not lead others into danger.

  Before the day was half done, his circuitous route had led him back to the escarpment above the desert floor, and to a trail known but to few. Lost in thought, Trey let the stallion set its own pace. Losing the ranch had been a bitter blow to his old man. Louis D’Arcy had worked hard to earn the money to buy the land, had worked hard all his life, and then he’d had a run of bad luck that had forced him to borrow money from the bank. But the bad luck continued, and he’d fallen behind on the payments.

  Louis had gone to the bank and asked for an extension, but it had been refused. Trey could still remember the day the bank had foreclosed on the ranch. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the look of defeat on his old man’s face as they loaded their personal belongings into the back of the ranch wagon and rode out of the yard for the last time while J. S. Hollinger stood with the sheriff on the front porch, looking smug and self-righteous.

  Louis had never regained his self-respect. Lost in self-pity, he had turned his back on his wife and son and turned to booze, looking for solace in a bottle. Trey had been sympathetic, certain that, sooner or later, the father he had loved and respected would shake off his defeat and regain his self-esteem. But it hadn’t happened. D’Arcy had become a familiar sight in the saloons, working odd jobs for liquor money, cadging drinks when he could. Trey couldn't remember seeing his father sober after the first year. Trey’s mother, White Antelope Woman, had done the best she could. She built a snug lodge and planted a garden. Trey hunted game.

  It hadn’t been a bad life, until that day his father went into town, liquored up and spoiling for a fight. Louis had gone to the bank, confronted Hollinger and accused him of stealing their land. According to witnesses, Hollinger had taken refuge in his office and Louis had followed him inside and slammed the door behind him. The people in the bank lobby claimed to have heard him yelling, followed by three quick shots. When the head teller had tried to open the door, it was locked. When Hollinger emerged from his office a few minutes later, Louis D’Arcy was sprawled on his back, his shirt soaked with blood, an old rusty Colt Navy, unfired, on the floor beside him. Hollinger claimed Louis had gone for the gun, and he had fired in self-defense.

  Trey had known that was a lie. His father had long since pawned his six-shooter to buy whiskey. Trey had had to hide the Winchester he used for hunting to keep his father from trading that for liquor, too. His father hadn’t been armed when he rode into town. He’d had no money to buy a gun, and even if he had, no one would have sold him a gun in his drunken condition. No one admitted to selling D’Arcy the old black-powder pistol. But the fact remained, it was there, near the body, and the coroner’s inquest had returned a verdict of self-defense.

  Trey had wanted to go after Hollinger, but his mother had begged him to take her home to her people. There had been enough trouble, she had said, and with tears in her eyes, she had asked him for his promise that he would not go after Hollinger so long as she lived. And because he loved her, because he could not refuse her, he had given his word. They had buried his father, packed up their meager belongings, and then burned their lodge and everything that had belonged to his old man. The next day, he had taken his mother back to her own people.

  Trey had loved living with the Apache in the years that followed. The time spent with his mother’s people had been the best time of his life. His grandparents had welcomed them home. His grandmother, Yellow Calf Woman, had comforted his mother; his grandfather, Walker on the Wind, had taken him in hand and instructed him in the ways of the People, instilled in him a sense of who he was, made him proud of his Indian heritage.

  The Apache were a close-knit people, loyal to their own. All other people were looked upon as the enemy. Trey soon discovered that the one and only ambition of every male was to become a warrior. To that end, he’d had much to learn. Walker on the Wind had taught him to hunt and track in the way of the People, to live off the land. His grandfather knew every inch of the land he called home. Every canyon, every creek, every rock and tree and waterhole.

  Trey learned that a true Apache warrior could travel for days, carrying what little food he needed, finding edible plants along the way. He could cover more than fifty miles a day on foot. The land shared her secrets with the Apache. A stone that had been overturned, a branch that had been broken, horse manure found along the trail, all carried a message for those who knew how to read it. Warriors were able to cover themselves with dirt and plants so skillfully that unwary enemies would come upon them unaware of their presence until it was too late.

  He learned how to read smoke signals, and send them. A sudden puff of smoke that came and went quickly signaled that strangers were in the area; if the smoke was repeated over and over, it signified that the strangers were numerous and well-armed. It was an education in warfare and survival that had served Trey well even after he had left the tribe.

  The Apache held truth in high esteem. He did not steal from his own. He shared what he had with others, paid his debts, loved his children, supported those who depended on him.

  The People did not eat bear meat, or pork, or turkey, nor did they eat fish or any other creature that lived in water. But almost every other animal was considered a source of food: deer, buffalo, prairie hens, squirrels, and horses. Mule meat was considered the best of all.

  Bears were to be avoided, as were their trails and droppings, as the People believed that bears were the reincarnated ghosts of people who had been evil in life and were made to live as bears as punishment for their misdeeds.

  They hunted the turkey and the hawk and the eagle for their feathers; they hunted mink and muskrat and beaver for their skins.

  Trey had learned that colors played an important part in the daily life of the People. Black was the color for the East, yellow for the West, blue for the South, white for the North. East was the holiest direction, and the People believed that things were best begun in the East. Four was a sacred number, as there were four directions, four seasons.

  The Apache were a sociable people, and feasts and dances were held often. Gambling was indulged in not only by women and men, but children as well.

  Wood from a tree struck by lightning was considered to be powerful medicine. Trey had a piece he had taken from a tree he’d seen split in half during a storm. He had worn it on a string around his neck while he lived with the Apache. Now, it adorned the stallion’s bridle.

  He had learned to make arrows from mountain mahogany or mulberry wood. He had used the feathers from a hawk for fletching. His most prized possession had been a bow his grandfather had made for him. It had been a powerful weapon, strengthened with layers of sinew on the back. An Apache warrior could shoot an arrow five hundred feet with fatal effect.

  Trey had practiced with the bow every day, and every target had been J. S. Hollinger. And every day, he had vowed to avenge his father’s death.

  He had stayed with his mother until she died of a fever eight years later.

  He had bid his grandparents goodbye, had promised Walker on the Wind that he would return when he had avenged his father’s death.

  His last goodbye had been to Red Shawl, an Apache woman who had flirted with him on more than one occasion and who had let Trey know that, had he asked for her hand in marriage, she would not have refused even though she was several years older than he.

  But he’d had no time for a woman, no thought of settling down. Vengeance rode him with whip and spurs, filling his every thought, guided his every action.

  It had taken time, but Trey had formed a gang. His men were hard-edged, willing to do anything he asked of them. They had held up one bank after another until they reached Wickenburg. He’d had every intention of gunning down J. S. Hollinger but when the time came, he couldn’t do it. There was no honor in killing a coward. The need for vengeance that had driven him so mercilessly for so long had faded like smoke in the wind as his old enemy cowered before him, sobbing and begging for mercy. All th
at was left now was an aching void.

  Trey rode until nightfall, then made camp in a dry wash. Dinner was beans and hardtack for himself, a patch of dry yellow grass for his horse.

  Sitting there, he promised both of them a bath and a good rubdown at the first town they came to.

  * * * * *

  Amanda woke with a smile. Any other time, she would have been a little blue at Rob’s absence, but not today. She dressed quickly and hurried outside, eager to check on her new horse. But the stallion was gone.

  Frowning, she checked the empty corral. The gate was shut, all the rails in place. But the stallion was gone. Had she dreamed the whole thing? She picked up the brush she had left on top of one of the fence posts, ran her fingertips over the long white hairs caught in the bristles, solid proof that the horse had been there. She glanced inside the corral, reassured by the faint hoofprints discernible in the dirt. The horse had been there—of course it had. After all, Rob had seen it, too. Perhaps the stallion had jumped the fence. Or been stolen. Or, most likely, the real owners had come along and taken it back. But even if that was the case, there should be tracks of some kind.

  With that thought in mind, she circled the corral. But there were no fresh tracks to be found. No sign that the stallion had been led out of the corral, no tire tracks, no footprints except her own, and Rob’s. And over there, the stallion’s hoofprints where she had led him out to graze. If only Rob was here. He was always bragging about his ability to hunt things down. Maybe he would have been able to find her phantom stallion.

  * * * * *

  A vibration in the earth roused Trey from a deep sleep. In his experience, only two things made a rumble like that: a stampede, or a posse hard on the trail of its quarry. Caught between shit and sweat, he didn’t stop to wonder how they had managed to trail him this far so fast.