“Paradise,” Joe announced. “The Garcias have been here for a long time. Good people.” He nudged his horse’s side and cantered down the gentle slope, picking one of the two ruts that wagon wheels had cut into the earth over the decades.
As they rode closer, Brock noticed a man pacing in front of the break in the rock wall, his steps measured and unhurried as he passed a closed split-rail fence that offered only the illusion of safety. Another man leaned against the same wall, knee bent, one foot planted firmly on the wall. The second man tilted his head and brought his hand up to his face. Smoke billowed from beneath his hat, then dissipated in the air.
Brock wasn’t fooled. The smoking cowboy may appear to be relaxed, but he wasn’t. Neither was the other man, though his pace hadn’t changed. Both sported gun belts, the holsters tied low around their thighs in the fashion of a gunfighter. Both also carried rifles. Family members? Guards? Professional gunmen? Brock didn’t know, but his anxiety rose another notch, especially when the smoking cowboy raised his head and peered directly at him. He made no other move, but that didn’t bring any comfort.
Brock turned his head, his eyes seeking out Stevie Rae, and let out his breath, relieved she was still beside him, yet concerned at the same time. She was afraid of this new game Logan seemed to be playing. He could see that plainly in the way she looked at him, and he wouldn’t blame her if she headed back to town. Or better yet, back home. In fact, that might be the best thing for her. Logan wasn’t after her—didn’t even know she existed. She could go back to Little River, meet a nice man, and marry. Have children. Grow old with someone else.
As soon as the thought popped in his head, he stiffened in his saddle and a jolt of pain settled in his chest. She deserves to have a good life. A safe life. She deserves to grow old with someone who loves her. Why should that bother me?
The pain in his chest increased and his jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together as he answered his own question. It wasn’t him she was growing old with. The vision in his head did not include him and truthfully, it couldn’t, not with this new threat hanging over his head. She deserved so much better…and he couldn’t give it to her.
He shook his head, hoping to stop the whirlwind of his own thoughts and doubts, and he forced himself to unclench his jaw. He also tore his gaze from Stevie, as hard as that was, and concentrated on the cowboys protecting Paradise. “They gonna let us get close enough to see who we are before they shoot us?”
“Maybe.” Joe shrugged and grinned. He pointed to the man leaning against the wall. “That’s Natanil, Antonio’s oldest boy. A little hotheaded, like his father. He’s faster than a rattlesnake and just as deadly.” He gestured to the man who paced back and forth in front of the gate. “That’s Rafael. You don’t have to worry about him.”
“So Rafael isn’t a good shot?”
“I didn’t say that.” Joe’s grin widened, the creases bracketing his mouth deepening. “He’s a damn excellent shot. I just said you didn’t have to worry about him. He tends to think before he acts, whereas Natanil just shoots and thinks about asking questions later…if at all.”
“Great.” He couldn’t help the sarcasm that slipped into his voice “Stevie, I want you to stay behind me, all right?”
She didn’t say a word. In fact, she didn’t argue at all, just flicked the reins in her hands and Willow fell into step behind Resolute. They rode closer, close enough to see that the rifle resting in Natanil’s hand was a Henry Repeating Rifle, close enough to see the fancy stitching on the shirt of the shorter man. Apprehension whipped through him. Despite the fact Joe seemed to know these young men and didn’t appear concerned, Brock knew how quickly something could change, especially with a hothead like Natanil. All it would take would be one wrong word, a wrong look, a misunderstood movement, and the shooting would start.
He took his eyes off the boys for a moment and glanced around, unease crawling up his spine. Was Logan here? Was he watching? Was he inside the ranch house, just waiting for him to walk straight into his trap and bring Stevie with him?
Joe brought his mount to a halt in front of the gate. Brock and Stevie did as well. He nodded to Natanil, who did not return the greeting. Instead, the young man dropped his cigarillo and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot, then walked away, the rifle still clutched in his hand.
“Don’t mind him, Marshal.” Rafael pushed the brim of his hat back on his forehead as he approached them. “He’s just upset Father is making him stand guard.” He grinned, showing straight, white teeth and dimples in his cheeks, then turned his attention to Brock and Stevie. “Welcome to Paradise.” He gave an exaggerated bow, then opened the gate, allowing all three of them to enter the yard.
The fountain Brock had seen from the distance was more impressive close up. Water shimmered and sparkled as it streamed into the air from the four mermaids surrounding a reflecting pool. The effect seemed to ease some of his tension…not all, but a little.
Joe dismounted and tied the reins to his horse around a thick post. Brock followed suit, slipping from the saddle easily even though every muscle in his body thrummed, every nerve ending screamed. He glanced to his right. Stevie hadn’t moved, though Willow stood quietly by the rail.
“Stevie?”
She jumped, startled, then climbed from the saddle, her movements stiff. She stumbled a bit as her feet met the flagstone, but Brock caught her arm in one hand so she wouldn’t fall while he grabbed the reins with his other. “You all right?”
She didn’t answer, just nodded, but her eyes were dark, almost slate blue, and huge in her pale face. She was afraid—he felt the slight tremor beneath his hand, and for a moment, he thought he could hear her heart pounding in her chest, but perhaps it was only his own.
He didn’t know what to say—or do—to put her at ease. Hell, man, you can’t even put yourself at ease. As he searched for words of comfort that couldn’t be found, he reached up to cup her chin in his palm, his thumb caressing the soft skin of her cheek.
It was enough. Color seeped back into her face and she exhaled, though her eyes remained dark. She gave a slight nod, then taking his hand in hers, stepped up to the intricately carved door.
Joe used the knocker on the big, heavy portal of the sprawling ranch house, the deep sound echoing in the courtyard. Brock shivered despite the warmth of Stevie Rae’s hand in his. The banging sounded like a death knell in his head. Stevie squeezed lightly. He glanced at her, studied her as she stood beside him, both grateful she was here yet afraid at the same time. Her hat now lay against her back, suspended by the corded string around her neck. Her hair, tied back in a ponytail, reflected the sunlight and gleamed in every color from pale wheat to rich honey gold. A hank of that hair slipped from the leather thong she used to tie it back and fell forward to curl near her cheek. He reached out and tucked it behind her ear, then jumped and stiffened when a small covered square in the middle of the door popped open and a man who looked remarkably like Rafael peeked through. His face was set in stern lines until he recognized Joe, then his features softened a bit. “Marshal.” The little door closed. The big door swung open a moment later. “Please, please, come in.”
Brock stood back and let Stevie Rae enter first. He hid his smirk when she wiped her boots on the woven straw mat, then stepped over the threshold. He followed, stepping into a wonderfully warm receiving room.
The marshal performed the introductions. “Antonio, I’d like you to meet Miss Buchanan and Mr. MacDermott.”
There were no handshakes, no exchange of pleasantries. Antonio Garcia’s entire body stiffened. “So, you are MacDermott. Please, follow me.” It wasn’t disrespect Brock detected in his voice, but rather anger. And fear. The man said nothing more as he led the way down a hallway toward the back of the house, his footsteps loud on the Mexican tile when they weren’t muffled by several thick throw rugs. A maid dropped a curtsey, then quickly scurried out of the way.
He stopped before a set of French doors and fished a
key out of his pocket. “I’ve kept this room locked ever since…” He did not finish his sentence as he fitted the key into the lock. Instead, his face flushed with anger as he pushed the doors open and invited them inside. “This is our formal parlor. We never use it except on very rare and special occasions; however, it is cleaned once a week.” His voice trembled slightly as he pointed toward a wall and the message written there, once again in blood.
YER A DED MAN, MCDERMIT. THE GIRL TO.
Brock heard Stevie Rae gasp, but it hardly registered over the buzzing in his ears as he read the words, blinked, then read them again. The humming grew louder, interspersed with the sound of his heart thundering in his chest.
Antonio’s voice came from a distance although the man stood beside him. “This is what Anjanette saw when she came in here to clean. Poor girl screamed then fainted. My wife came running when she heard the screams. Neither one of them will come in this room again.” His voice grew louder, his statement punctuated with the staccato slap of his fist hitting his palm. “Someone was in my house and did this horrible thing while we were home!”
“He’s long gone, Antonio. Logan doesn’t stay anywhere too long,” Joe said as he worried the brim of his hat between his fingers and looked the older man right in the eye, but his expression of confidence fell a bit short and Antonio was not at all appeased.
The rancher’s body stiffened. “I don’t care that you’re certain he’s gone. The point is—” He punctuated his words with his fist in his palm once again, as if trying to make others understand the importance. “He came into my house! My wife—or one of my children, God forbid—could have stumbled on him in the act, and then what?” He took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I am sorry. I should not take my frustration out on you, Marshal.” He took another breath, then slumped into a chair, his fingers drumming on the arm. “Believe it or not, I am much calmer now than when I first saw this.” He gestured to the warning on the wall then turned away from the bloody words.
“You have a right to be angry, Mr. Garcia. I would be. I am.” Brock approached the man slowly, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet on the floor. “But he’s not after you or your family. Why he chose your home to vandalize, I can only assume it’s because he saw an opportunity and he took it.” He didn’t say that if Logan wanted the Garcias dead, they would be. The man was upset enough and didn’t need to know that.
“What is he doing?” Stevie Rae asked, her voice hoarse and filled with fear.
He turned toward her and tried to swallow the dryness in his throat. One thing and one thing only made itself clear to him. Logan might not know who she was, but he sure as hell knew Stevie Rae traveled with him. Heat rushed to his face and his muscles grew taut as nausea roiled in his gut. “Trying to scare me. Intimidate me.”
“This is a game?” Antonio sputtered, unable to control his temper, and jumped from his chair.
“Yes.” Brock didn’t look at the man when he answered. Instead, he studied Stevie Rae’s face—the hollows beneath her cheekbones, the plumpness of her lips, her impossibly blue eyes, all of which had become so dear to him—and in that moment, the shadows disappeared, leaving a startlingly clear light, and the truth struck him to his very soul.
I’m in love with her.
The knowledge came not only with the feeling of peace he associated with her, but also with a pervasive fear that settled in his bones.
When, precisely, had he lost his heart to her? Was it when she stood up to him and demanded, more or less, to join him in his search for Logan? Or when she walked into a saloon full of outlaws and kept her wits about her even though she’d been terrified? Or when she let down her defenses and cried in his arms?
He couldn’t pinpoint the moment exactly, but it didn’t matter. The fact remained—he was in love with her.
Stevie Rae Buchanan was, by turns, frustrating and comforting, too stubborn for her own good, and yet kind to a fault. She had been good company, reminding him that it wasn’t wise to be alone so much, and he’d found himself telling her much more than he’d ever told anyone, and wanting to share even more. Over the miles they’d traveled together, he’d come to admire her, then actually like her, but when had that turned into love? And why did he feel as if his heart was breaking now?
Logan.
He would—and could—come after Stevie just to hurt him.
As he stood looking down into her beautiful face, his love for her filling him, Brock came to a decision she might hate. In fact, he knew she’d hate it. And she’d probably hate him, too, which was just as well.
Stevie Rae Buchanan was going home.
Chapter 18
YER A DED MAN, MCDERMIT. THE GIRL TO!
Two days later, Brock could still see the words painted in blood as he and Stevie Rae rode north beside the Mora River in one of the canyons the river had cut through the landscape. Mora was behind them by about two hours or so, Little River hours ahead, but time had not lessened the devastation of seeing the warning sprawled across the wall of the Garcia home, the blood having dried to a dark brown against the bright white of the paint.
Fear rode with him. Not for himself, but for Stevie Rae. The decision to take her back to Little River had come without discussion because she didn’t know the plan. He hadn’t told her. He’d simply made up his mind as he read the words written on the wall when the threat to her life had become more than clear. Because he loved her, there was no other alternative. For her own safety and for his peace of mind, Stevie Rae had to go home.
Brock almost grinned, but stopped himself. She had no idea that was why they were heading north again.
“MacDermott!”
The voice echoed and bounced off the canyon walls, making it impossible to know exactly where it came from—behind them? In front of them? The only two things Brock knew for certain was that it came from above, somewhere along the rim—but which rim, east or west?—and that it belonged to Zeb Logan. He’d know that gruff, deep voice anywhere—
“You’ll never take me alive.”
“Where is he?” Stevie whispered as she pulled on the reins and brought Willow to a halt. She tipped her hat back as she scanned the rim of the canyon, much the same as he did.
“I don’t know.” His mouth went dry and his hands fisted around Resolute’s reins. He’d made a mistake. Several of them. The first was leaving Mora. The second? He should never have taken the trail down to the river a few miles back, but he had done so because he’d felt so exposed on the ridge. Now they were caught with nowhere to go. To the left was the steep canyon wall rising skyward. To the right, the Mora River, still swollen from the recent rains. Brock glanced at the water flowing swiftly beside them. He had no idea how deep it was or how fast the current, but if they tried to cross here, they’d be out in the open, a clear shot if Logan decided to take it. Chances were good he’d hit one of them. Or both of them. If the current didn’t take them first.
How long had Logan been following them, waiting for such a perfect opportunity? And it was perfect. The way he saw it, he and Stevie had no choices at all. Try to get out of the canyon and get shot. Or stay here and get shot. Either way, someone would end up dead. He’d rather it wasn’t Stevie Rae. Or himself.
“Don’t let him rattle you,” Stevie hissed as she and Willow sidled up beside him, Whiskey Pete following behind, but not happily, his braying echoing off the sides of the canyon. She gestured to an outcropping of rock, a shelf of sorts protruding from the cliff face that might offer a little protection. Brock nodded and motioned for her to head that way. He didn’t follow, but rather rode by her side, careful to keep her as protected as possible.
“If ye quit doggin’ me, I’ll stop killin’.”
Brock stiffened in his saddle. It was quite an offer, even if untrue, and others, he knew, might consider it, but he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Logan would never keep his word. The killing would continue simply because Logan was an evil man. He enjoyed it. The warnings he
painted in blood made it quite clear who was next on his list, and to prove his intentions, a shot rang out, echoing against the canyon walls, followed quickly by another.
“Stevie!” Brock vaulted out of the saddle and pulled Stevie Rae down to the ground just as a third and fourth shot were fired in quick succession. Resolute and Willow, startled not only by the bullets slamming into the canyon wall, but by his own scared leap from the saddle, raced farther down the canyon. Whiskey Pete no longer trailed behind but was almost in the lead, the mule’s braying mingling with the crazed laughter floating down from the rim of the canyon. He sent a silent prayer heavenward for their safety and cussed, almost within the same breath. His rifle, as well as Stevie’s shotgun, was now heading south beside the Mora. All he and Stevie Rae had were their pistols, which would do little good from this distance.
“Get off me!” Beneath him, Stevie squirmed and struggled. Brock simply tightened his embrace as more shots pinged into the dirt and rock beside him, and he silently counted. Five. Six. Seven. Logan’s choice of weapon was a good one, if it was a Henry Repeating Rifle…and Brock thought it might be. He knew exactly how many bullets the rifle could hold—seventeen, if one loaded the chamber—and Logan would be a man to load the chamber. How many would he fire to keep them pinned to the ground? All of them? How long would it take him to reload?
He didn’t have time to learn the answer as another shot rang out. Pain seared his thigh as the bullet found its mark and he couldn’t help the groan rising up from his throat.
“Son of a bitch shot me!”
A Kiss in the Shadows Page 22
