An Unconventional Bride For The Rancher (Historical Western Romance)

by Cassidy Hanton

  Finding another street, Aaron and George led the way toward the end of town and out of it. Still at a dead run, not daring to slow down, Aaron turned south across the dry, dusty land, not daring to look back out of fear of what he would see.

  “They aren’t chasing us,” George yelled over the pounding of hooves. “We have to slow down, Aaron.”

  Heeding his brother, Aaron slowed both mounts to a walk, finally glancing at Franklin. His brother still lay over the horse’s neck, not moving. Frantic, he reached over to his brother’s throat, seeking a pulse. He found it, but its thready, fast beat had him alarmed all over again.

  “What happened to him?’ Elmer demanded, riding up to Franklin’s other side.

  “He hurt his back when he jumped from the window,” George answered when Aaron didn’t.

  “His back?” Elmer’s voice had grown ominously soft as he, too, checked Franklin’s pulse. “You can’t put a man with an injured back on a horse, Aaron.”

  Aaron recognized the danger in Elmer’s voice, but didn’t care. “I had no choice,” he snarled. “We all would have been killed.”

  “Franklin wanted to stay and cover for us,” George said. “He knew he’d die though, knew they’d shoot him down.”

  “Quiet down, George,” Aaron shouted. “And I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

  “No choice?” Elmer’s voice dropped an octave. “He’s going to die in agony when he could have died back there, painless, and with honor.”

  Aaron reined his horse around until he was face to face with Elmer. “We don’t leave anyone behind,” he snapped, his own voice low as he glared fiercely into Elmer’s. “You know that. And he’s not going to die, dammit. I promised him I’d take him to a doctor. He’ll get fixed up.”

  Elmer raised his hand and pointed at Franklin. “There is no fixing a broken back, Aaron. Even if he lives, he’ll never walk again.”

  Aaron’s mouth opened, then closed, only to open again. He couldn’t speak. His throat choked him. He felt the blood drain from his face, his hands and feet cold, like blocks of ice even in the desert-like heat. “That’s not true,” he whispered. “He’s just beat up a bit. His back’s not busted.”

  “Does that look like just being beat up to you?” Elmer demanded, his voice only slightly louder than Aaron’s.

  Aaron followed his pointing finger. At the rising lump along Franklin’s spine, a lump that hadn’t been there a while ago. “No.” Aaron felt his world lurch, stumble, as though God had just given it a good hard push. “No.”

  “Yes. That’s his spine swelling, Aaron. You should have let him die the way he wanted. He knew. He knew, and you wouldn’t listen to him.”

  “I couldn’t let him die,” Aaron pleaded. “I couldn’t leave you to die either. Or George. We’re all blood.”

  Elmer nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Aaron’s. “We are. But sometimes, you have to let go.”

  “I can’t,” Aaron whispered, anguished. “He’s my brother.”

  “He’s my brother, too,” Elmer said with a growl in his voice. “And I for one would rather see him gunned down than live the life of a cripple.”

  Guilt, an emotion that he had never felt before in his life, raged through him. Franklin wanted to die on his feet, protecting those he loved, a quick, nearly painless death. But Aaron’s demand, no order, brought Franklin to a life that was far, far worse than a clean end at the bullets of their enemies. “What have I done?”

  “What you thought was right,” Elmer replied, his eyes on Franklin. “For you. But sometimes, you have to think about what is right for someone else. That’s something you’ll never be able to see, Aaron.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Aaron screamed. “Shoot him in the head right now?”

  “That would be merciful.”

  Aaron shoved at Elmer’s arm, dragging his brother’s attention back onto him. “If you’re so high and mighty,” he sneered, “you do it. You kill him. You put an end to his suffering.”

  “You know I can’t,” Elmer replied, his voice calm, devoid of emotion. “He’s my brother. This is on you, not me, not George. Just you.”

  Strangling on his runaway feelings, his anger, guilt, terror, he stared at the terrible swelling under Franklin’s shirt. “Then it’s on me,” he finally said when he could speak. “I accept it. This is my fault. There’s no going back on it.”

  Elmer reined his horse away from Aaron’s. “Then, we best be moving along.”

  Turning, Aaron snubbed the horse carrying Franklin’s unconscious body to his knee and rode at a walk behind Elmer. Over and over, the same refrain sang through Aaron’s mind. I did what I thought was right. I did what I thought was right. I did –

  But Elmer’s remark about Aaron’s own selfish view of what was right silenced it. “I should have let him die as he wanted,” he muttered to himself. “With honor.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Feeling as though he stood in a nightmare, Tyler gawked at the raging inferno that had been his bunkhouse. While sleep still had a hold of his mind, he had no idea what to do. The horses and mules in the corral bolted around the pen in panic. Then, like someone dumped cold water over his head, he moved.

  Running to the corral, his previous pain nonexistent in his panic and fear, Tyler reached the gate and unlatched it. Swinging it wide, he ran in, waving his hat at the already frantic animals, yelling. A mule found the open gate and galloped out, the others on its heels. They disappeared into the thin forest until he couldn’t even hear their hooves.

  Grabbing a bucket from the well, he ran to toss the water, not onto the flames, but onto the closest building – the barn. He knew the bunkhouse was beyond saving and fought to keep the other buildings from catching. Back and forth he ran with full buckets, throwing them onto the sides and the roof of the big barn.

  Suddenly, he realized he was not alone. Wintonta galloped into the yard, yelling something Tyler couldn’t understand, four Comanche warriors behind him. Tyler dared not stop, but continued to run, throwing water on the vulnerable wood of the barn. Smoke from the fire choked him, made him cough, and stung his eyes. When a hand grabbed his arm, he staggered, gasping, fighting to keep his property from the flames.

  “No,” Wintonta yelled in his ear. “Stop. Your barn is safe. Look.”

  Through the smoke-induced tears in his eyes, Tyler squinted. The flames of the bunkhouse had died down, the light wind blowing it away from the barn. The four Comanche warriors dumped buckets of water on the embers near the bone-dry cedar and mesquite trees, stamping out tiny fires before the trees might also erupt into a raging forest fire.

  “There is nothing more you can do,” Wintonta told him. “Come. You do not look well.”

  “I don’t feel well.”

  With Wintonta’s hand under his arm, Tyler staggered, floundering his way to the porch. He slumped onto it, coughing, his throat raw, his previous injuries waking now that his adrenaline rush had died away. Wintonta sat beside him, both of them watching the last of the flames die, even as smoke continued to rise into the blue sky.

  “Someone set fire to your barn,” Wintonta said. “We saw three riders gallop north at the same time we saw smoke.”

  Tyler nodded. “I didn’t see them, but I figured it had been set.”

  Still coughing, Tyler rested his forearms on his knees, bowing his head. When he could speak, he said, “Your son is doing well.”

  “I am glad of this.”

  “But yesterday someone tried to kill Charlene and me. Shot at us.”

  “You were not harmed?”

  “We were. Just not fatally. Three horses from town were stolen.”

  “And three horses just rode away from here.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Who are these enemies of yours?”

  Tyler, at last, raised his head, looking blearily at Wintonta. “I have no idea.”

  “You must find them. Before they kill you.”

  “You make it s
ound so easy.”

  “No. It is not easy when your enemy does not confront you on the field of battle but strikes from the shadows.”

  Tyler nodded slowly. “Maybe somehow I can draw him out. Get him out of his shadows.”

  “That would be wise, Tyler.”

  Tyler stared at the smoking remains of his bunkhouse, the blackened timbers, the Indians still kicking out burning embers that might still set the trees on fire if the wind struck them right. A rage grew from those embers, a fury hotter than the flames that destroyed his property.

  “I will find them,” he gritted. “I will find them, and they will wish to God they hadn’t messed with me or mine.”

  “The woman, Charlene,” Wintonta asked. “She was hurt?”

  Tyler gestured absently toward his arm, still thinking about finding whoever was responsible and punishing them, his rage ebbing away, little by little. “A bullet grazed her arm. But she’ll be fine.”

  The Comanche nodded with satisfaction. “She is a tough woman. Like a mesquite with thorns to keep you away, yet strong.”

  Nodding, Tyler chuckled as he thought of Charlene wrapped in heavy mesquite thorns that kept anyone from getting close to her. “Very true.”

  “We found poor hunting,” Wintonta said. “We killed a yearling calf.”

  Tyler eyed him sidelong. “Did you save some for me?”

  “We did. We will feast this day.”

  The Comanche built a fire in the middle of Tyler’s yard, spitting meat over it to roast. Hungry, his horses and mules wandered back home, ambling into the clearing. Tyler tossed hay into the corral and enticed them back in with a bucket of oats, then closed the gate behind them as the stock munched happily.

  He threw hay down for the Indian horses, already tied to trees with long ropes, then sat down beside Wintonta. The Comanche spoke amongst themselves in their tongue, the scent of the roasting beef tantalizing, as Tyler and Wintonta spoke together.

  “When can I return to your village and bring Tosahwi home?” Wintonta asked.

  Tyler thought for a moment. “Another week. By then, his leg will have healed enough that he can withstand travel. But he must keep the splint on for a while longer.”

  “It is good he is so well cared for.”

  Tyler grinned. “The ladies adore him.”

  Wintonta nodded. “Some white people are good, like you and the women. Others, steal our land, kill us, make war.”

  “I know,” Tyler admitted, poking the fire with a long stick. “I like to see good in people, but it’s not always possible.”

  The afternoon wandered toward evening as Tyler and the Comanche cut slices from the tender beef brisket cooking on the spit, its fat dripping to sizzle on the flames beneath. Tyler ate the meat off his knife, juice running down his chin. “I’m headed back to town,” he said to Wintonta. “With these renegades causing trouble, the ladies need looking after.”

  “We will remain here and watch your property, Tyler,” Wintonta replied, nodding. “They will not come back to burn again.”

  “I’m obliged to you.”

  “You have helped my son.”

  After saddling his horse, Tyler mounted up and rode past the Comanche, offering Wintonta a half salute as he passed them. His exertions in saving his barn from the flames had not done his head or his shoulder any good at all, thus he rode back to Bandera at a quiet walk. The intense throbbing in his torso and the pounding in his head brought choice oaths to his mouth.

  The strong heat kept most folks indoors, and the town lay quiet under the blazing sun as he rode down the street. Victor’s dun gelding stood tied to the rail outside his office, indicating he was inside. Halting his bay, Tyler slid wearily down from his saddle and wrapped his reins around the post next to the dun’s. Not bothering to knock, he opened the door and went inside, into the slightly cooler shade of the sheriff’s office.

  Victor glanced up from the paper he perused, his boots propped up on his desk. “You look like hell, boy,” he remarked by way of greeting.

  “Matches how I feel.”

  Sitting in the chair on the opposite side of Victor, Tyler groaned, taking off his hat and fanning himself with it. “Our little friends are at it again,” he said. “They set fire to my bunkhouse.”

  Victor, scowling darkly, took his feet from the desk and leaned forward. His blue eyes pierced Tyler through. “You sure it was them?”

  “The Comanche saw three riders fleeing at the same time my bunkhouse went up.”

  “Did they see faces?”

  “Nope.”

  Victor let loose a string of vile words. “Just who the hell is doing this?” he demanded. “And why?”

  “Did you happen to ask your pal in there?” Tyler jerked his thumb toward the door that led into the jail.

  “I did.” Victor leaned back in his chair, his fingers forming a steeple. “Ole Harvey Johnson claims he's got no friends who would plot revenge on his behalf. And, if he were turned loose, he would murder that boy the Quinns got, and them, too. Without blinking an eye.”

  “I hope you don’t plan on setting him loose.”

  “No, sir, that ain’t gonna happen. The circuit judge will be here in two weeks, then he’ll be off to a Texas prison.”

  “I hope so. If these miscreants are acting on his behalf without his knowledge, might they think to break him out?”

  “You are just plum full of trouble, ain’t you?”

  “Not me, Vic,” Tyler replied. “Just trying to think like they do.”

  Victor stroked his thick mustache, pondering. “Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll take extra precautions where that man is concerned. I’ll keep the key to his cell on me at all times. Will that settle your mind?”

  “It’ll help. But until these outlaws are caught and in your jail, my mind won’t settle at all.”

  “I reckon I can see that.”

  Tyler stared thoughtfully at the black cast iron stove. “Was there anything distinctive about the stolen horses?”

  “Not that I was told,” Victor replied. “But I can ask. I know they wear the farmer’s brand. The Bar H.”

  “I don’t know if it’ll help much to know,” Tyler admitted. “But it might.”

  “You can tell your Comanche friends about the brand,” Victor went on. “In case they see them again.”

  Tyler stood. “I will. I’m headed to the Quinns to keep on eye on them.”

  “You do that.”

  Deciding to mount his horse wasn’t worth the trouble, he led the bay down the street toward the Apple Tree. Thinking Charlene might be done working, he tied his horse to the rail out front of the shop and went inside. Both Charlene and Mrs. Maple glanced up at the sound of the bell from where they stood behind the counter. He doffed his hat.

  “Afternoon, ladies,” he said, strolling toward them across the creaking wooden floor.

  Mrs. Maple beamed. “Hello, Mr. Price. How nice to see you again. Charlene, look who came to see us.”

  Tyler smothered his grin upon catching Charlene’s tiny eyeroll, out of Mrs. Maple’s sight. “You look like you’ve been rode hard and put up wet, Tyler,” Charlene observed.

  “Funny, ma’am,” he replied, letting his grin pop forth. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

  Eyeing her closely as he reached the counter, he decided Charlene looked only slightly better than he did. Her mouth and eyes were lined with pain, the already pale flesh of her face lighter still. However, her wide smile and the sparkle in her eyes made his heart beat faster.

  “I happened by,” he said, mesmerized by her unequaled beauty, “and thought I might walk you home. If you’re ready to go, that is.”

  “Well, no, not yet –” she began.

  Mrs. Maple cut her off. “Yes, of course, she is, Mr. Price. What little there is to do yet can be finished by Harold.”

  “You work me harder than a Hebrew slave, woman,” Harold called out from the back room.

  Mrs. Maple shook her head in resign
ation. “Charlene, such a dear, came in to work and insisted upon staying, even though she should be home, resting. Go on now, girl, you’re finished here for today.”

  Charlene frowned, her fine brows narrowing over her eyes. “It’s no trouble, I’m sure Tyler won’t mind waiting.”

  Mrs. Maple waved her hands. “Go. Get your bonnet, dear, or else the sun will cook your head.”

  “Why is it you never have a concern for my head?”