The Wayward Heart

by Jill Gregory

  Thinking of this, a lump rose in her throat. During most of her life she’d borne a very private pain—the pain of loneliness and rejection by her nearest living kin. Her father’s indifference had hurt her deeply, wounding her more cruelly than harsh words or beatings would have done. But she’d never let on to anyone how unhappy she was. She’d never complained.

  Now, standing before the mirror in the Winchester hotel room, fingering the locket he’d bought her last winter in Paris, she was gripped by a sudden pang, more searing than any she had known previously. She realized with a forlorn wrenching of the heart that now it was too late to ever remedy the coldness in her relationship with her father. She would never have the chance to bridge the gap between them, to show him that she loved him and wanted his love and affection more than any gifts he could purchase for her.

  Death had provided a final gulf, a permanent, insurmountable distance that she must learn to accept. All that was left now was to try to build a life for herself on the ranch he’d bequeathed to her.

  Perhaps, she thought, she could try to know him by learning about the ranch he’d loved and nurtured in a way he’d never loved or nurtured her.

  Today, she decided, she’d go out to the Circle H and begin to make it her home. Today would mark a turning point in her life, a time for a fresh new beginning.

  Descending the stairs, she entered the hotel dining room, glancing about for Mrs. Billings. The dining area was a moderately sized room opposite the main desk and stairway. Faded green-and-yellow patterned wallpaper decorated the walls; the tables were small, scrubbed, and polished, and the wooden-shuttered windows were open, allowing the bright spring sunlight to pour into the room in a pool of dazzling warmth.

  There were half a dozen other people in the dining area at various tables, and they all turned to stare as she appeared. Bryony took a seat at a table in the corner, uncomfortably aware of all the attention she was receiving.

  In a town like Winchester, strangers were instantly conspicuous, especially if the unfamiliar face was both young and beautiful. Self-consciously, Bryony smoothed the skirt of her gown. She wished everyone would stop staring so openly. She felt as though she was a prize steer being inspected before a cattle show.

  As Mrs. Billings bustled out of the kitchen and made her way quickly to Bryony’s table, relief washed over her at the sight of a familiar and friendly face.

  “Well, now, honey, don’t you look nice!” Edna declared, placing her hands, which were slightly coated with flour, on her broad hips. She smiled with genuine friendliness and Bryony returned the smile, glad that she seemed to have at least one friend in Winchester already.

  “I must thank you again, Mrs. Billings.” Bryony smiled. “You’ve been much, much more than kind.”

  “It wasn’t nothin’ at all, honey.” The woman dismissed the praise offhandedly, though her pale blue eyes glowed with pleasure. “And listen, you just call me Edna, like everyone else in town. I don’t go for puttin’ on airs, and Mrs. Billings reminds me of my Frank’s mother, which is someone I don’t like to think of!”

  They laughed together, and then the older woman turned briskly away. “I’ll be back in a jiffy with the rest of your breakfast, so don’t you be going anywhere!” she ordered, and hastened off to the kitchen.

  After this show of friendliness from the hotel-keeper’s wife, the other people in the dining room ceased staring quite so fixedly at Bryony, and she was able to consume her breakfast in relative peace, though she was still aware that every now and then someone cast her a curious glance. When she’d finished her meal, and Edna had cleared away the dishes, Bryony began to rise, intending to seek out Judge Hamilton, but before she’d done more than get to her feet, the judge walked in, his kind features lighting up as he caught sight of her. Beside him strode Matthew Richards.

  “Good morning, my dear! You look prettier than a poppy in the desert!” the Judge enthused, grasping her hand in his. “I’m sure glad to see you’re none the worse for your experience of yesterday. Doesn’t she look fine, Matt?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Matt Richards gave her a warm, admiring smile. His black eyes lingered on her—taking in the swell of her breasts beneath the thin muslin gown, her delicate features, and clear green eyes fringed by thick, dark eyelashes.

  She was a beautiful woman, and he was a man who appreciated beauty.

  Bryony blushed beneath the intensity of his gaze. She was surprised that Matt Richards was such a young man, certainly not more than thirty years old. She’d expected her father’s friend to be considerably older. He was undeniably handsome, with dark strong features and a polished air that was very attractive.

  “I hope you’re feeling well enough this morning to discuss what happened yesterday,” Judge Hamilton ventured, his faded brown eyes searching Bryony’s face for some sign of distress at his suggestion.

  “Yes, I’m feeling much better today, Judge. And I want to tell you everything so that you can apprehend the men who abducted me.” She sat down again, and the two men joined her.

  “Well, that might not be easy,” Judge Hamilton began, clearing his throat. “You see, Miss Hill—”

  “Oh, it shouldn’t be difficult at all! I know the name of the outlaw leader—it’s Murdock. Zeke Murdock. And one of the men with him was called Ned, and I can describe him and the others perfectly, and surely if you go to Gilly’s—” She broke off at the regretful expression on his face and stared at him in confusion. “I don’t understand. What is the problem? Why can’t you apprehend those men and see that they’re punished?”

  “The thing is, Miss Hill,” the Judge said heavily. “Those men could be apprehended—if only there was a lawman in town to do it. But there isn’t. And I’m afraid it’ll be quite a spell before such a man arrives.”

  She stared at him blankly as he continued in a tired voice. “You see, I’m not a lawman. Neither is Matt here. I’m just a judge, a justice of the peace, able to pronounce sentences, marry folks, and help out with legal documents. Matt’s a rancher, a powerful one to be sure, but not a sheriff or a marshal, which is what it takes to go out and arrest desperadoes like these men who kidnapped you. Now, I’ve heard of Zeke Murdock, and he’s one bad hombre. He’s a suspected rustler who usually hangs out in Tucson with a pretty wild bunch of troublemakers. But no one has ever been able to prove anything against him, or catch him in the act, which is the only reason he’s alive today. Rustlers who get caught red-handed are usually hanged on the spot.”

  Bryony’s eyes widened at this brutal pronouncement, and she shivered.

  Seeing her shocked reaction, Matt Richards smiled ruefully. “You see, Miss Hill, this is a rough, almost barbaric civilization you’ve entered. A man who steals another man’s cattle or horse is considered as bad as a murderer in these parts. If we didn’t take tough measures, stealing would be even more widespread than it is already. Brutality is sometimes necessary in a wild frontier territory like Arizona. In order to preserve what little there is of law and order, we must sometimes take the law into our own hands and act decisively against these outlaws.”

  “Well, it still sounds rather horrible—hanging a man without trial just for stealing some animals,” she replied. “But if that’s the policy out here, I understand even less why you can’t capture and punish the men who stole me! After all, what they did was far worse than rustling.” Her voice shook as she remembered what had almost happened to her yesterday.

  “Fortunately, I was rescued before they could do me any real harm, but if I hadn’t been...” She broke off as her emotions threatened to overwhelm her and tears shimmered in her eyes.

  The Judge tried to soothe her. “Please, don’t upset yourself, Miss Hill.” He glanced at Richards for help. “We’ll explain it to you if you’ll just listen to me for a moment.”

  As she nodded and settled back in her chair expectantly, he went on in a firmer tone.

  “Catching someone rustling cattle red-handed is one thing. Usually a group
of wranglers catch the thief and punish him on the spot. But to go after a whole band of outlaws hiding out in the wilderness, well, that’s something else. It’s a job for a lawman, and they’re pretty scarce in this territory. You see, every so often a marshal passes through town, but those visits are few and far between, and in the meantime we have to fend for ourselves. And even if there was a lawman in town, it would be pretty hard to track down those hombres who grabbed you off the stage. There’s a hell of a lot of wilderness out there in the desert.”

  “But I told you that they took me to Gilly’s hideout. You’ve even heard of it! Surely it wouldn’t be difficult to ride out there and—”

  The Judge shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Hill, but that would be impossible. Sure I’ve heard of Gilly’s—who hasn’t? But the fact of the matter is, no one knows exactly where it’s located. No one, that is, but the outlaws and gunmen who hang out there. I’m afraid its location is a secret to all law-abiding men. Oh, one or two have tried to find it, but without any success. It’s my opinion that looking for that outlaws’ den in the wilderness would be like searching for sunken treasure in the ocean without a map. A worthy cause, but doomed to failure just as sure as I’m sitting here.”

  Bryony listened in silent frustration. She hated to admit it, but the Judge’s words made sense. How could she expect him and Matthew Richards to volunteer to risk their lives going after a dangerous band of criminals? It wasn’t their job or their duty, and they had no legal authority. Apparently, no one in Winchester had such authority. She had to keep in mind the fact that she was no longer in St. Louis, but in a wild, primitive frontier territory where lawlessness reigned.

  Tom Scott had warned her on the stagecoach that good lawmen willing to track down hardened desperadoes were scarce. Apparently, he’d spoken the stark, bitter truth, and she’d have to accept it.

  Besides, she reflected with a defeated sigh, what Judge Hamilton had said about Gilly’s was all too true. She clearly remembered the secret passageway in the heart of the canyon walls, the passageway that was impossible to detect from above, and that led to the hidden, secluded bluff where Gilly’s was located.

  But even if she was able to describe the setting to the Judge and Matt Richards, she’d never be able to pinpoint precisely where it was, or to differentiate the canyon from any one of the hundreds of other canyons that looked identical to it.

  No, there was no way to find the hideout. As the Judge had said, only outlaws and gunmen knew its location. Suddenly, she gave a gasp and leaned forward excitedly in her chair, gaining the full attention of both men.

  “Texas knows how to find the place!” she exclaimed triumphantly, her eyes flashing. “He could lead a lawman there!”

  “Who?” Judge Hamilton and Matthew Richards boomed the word together, their eyes riveted incredulously on Bryony’s face.

  She glanced uncertainly from one to the other of them. “Texas,” she said falteringly, confused by their sudden, intense silence. “The man who rescued me.”

  The two exchanged shocked glances. Matt Richards seemed about to speak when he was interrupted by a bustle of excitement. A tall, bow-kneed cowboy burst through the hotel doorway and announced excitedly to the patrons inside, “Hey, folks, there’s goin’ to be another gunfight! They’re comin’ out of the saloon now!”

  The few other people in the room set down their coffee cups and hastened to crowd out the doorway into the street. Bryony and her two companions stared after them.

  “A gunfight?” Bryony whispered, forgetting the strange turn their previous conversation had taken in light of this startling new development. She felt sickened by the thought that at any moment another man would die in the streets of Winchester, just as her father had done...

  “I’m afraid so.” Matt pushed to his feet, his thickset, powerful form looming over her as he glanced down at her pale face. “These gunfights are all too common. In Winchester, a man is killed nearly every day.”

  “How awful.” Bryony shuddered. She gazed upward as Judge Hamilton also rose and the two men prepared to leave her. From the street outside came sounds of commotion and shouts as people hurried to get out of the way. There was a queer note of frenzied excitement in the air, an excitement that was as contagious as it was unnerving. She swallowed painfully, feeling an icy shiver along her spine.

  “We’ll be back, Miss Hill,” Judge Hamilton muttered as he and Matt moved to join the onlookers in the street.

  Bryony nodded, watching their retreating forms. She felt shaken and cold and more than a little sick. Something was acting upon her, a force she didn’t recognize or understand. She only knew that she wanted nothing more than to sit here with her hands over her eyes and ears, and to block out all sound and sight of the violence that was about to take place, to banish its ugly brutality from her mind.

  Yet something was telling her to get up, to move. Something was drawing her outside, to the street where the tragic scene was taking place. She closed her eyes for a moment, fighting for control, struggling to regain logic and thought and reason. And then, she rose as if drawn by an unseen, magnetic force, and moved slowly, irresistibly toward the hotel door.

  Chapter Nine

  Texas buckled on his gun belt, fitting it tightly about his slim hips, letting the gun ride low and hard against his body. Poised in front of the tall, gaudy, imitation-gilt framed mirror, he studied his reflection impassively in its dusty surface, totally oblivious of the narrow, tawdry bedroom over the Silver Spur Saloon in which he found himself, and of the girl in the red negligee who was carelessly asleep in the rumpled bed only a few feet behind him.

  His eyes met those of the tall, lean man in the mirror and narrowed appraisingly. The man who stared back at him looked formidable, his blue eyes cold and hard beneath the black sombrero that almost hid his curly, dark brown hair from view. His black bandana was tied about his neck with just the right touch of careless skill, his red shirt fit well over his wide shoulders and broad chest, and the snug-fitting black vest with small pearl buttons added a dark, dangerous tone to his appearance. His black trousers and dark leather boots emphasized the fine strong shape of his powerful legs and thighs. And then there was the gun belt, ever present, ever needed, with the gleaming black Colt fitted snugly into the holster.

  For a moment he eyed the weapon coldly, and then, as he did every morning of his life, he slowly dropped his hands to his side and let them hang for an instant. Suddenly, with blinding speed, his right hand flashed to the gun with one swift fluid movement, yanking it from the holster into shooting position. The entire action took less than two seconds, far too rapid for the eye to accurately measure.

  He replaced the gun silently in the holster and went through the process again. And again. And again.

  Time after time his hand flashed to his hip and produced the gun in a lightning stroke, his fingers sure and tight around the weapon, his eyes relentless and, unblinking in the mirror. The ritual was the same day after day, a period of practice imperative to his survival. At last, satisfied, he turned away from the mirror.

  He was ready to begin another day.

  As he moved with the smooth, quiet grace of a panther toward the door, he could hear the sounds of men’s voices in the saloon below. The girl on the bed shifted restlessly, her almond-shaped eyes slowly opening, enabling her to see the man advancing quietly toward the door.

  Sleepily, she propped herself up on one elbow, surveying him, her coppery hair tumbling over her bare shoulders as the red negligee she wore dipped forward, impudently revealing her enormous breasts.

  “Texas, where are you going?” she demanded poutingly, her eyes fixed accusingly on his tall form.

  Pausing, he turned to face her, a slight sardonic smile twisting his lips. “Well, well, awake at last. I thought you were going to sleep all day, Ginger.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me if you wanted me this morning? You know, Texas honey, I’m always ready and willing whenever you’re around.”r />
  “I know.” He grinned at her and turned again toward the door.

  “Wait!” Ginger leapt from the bed and ran to him, pressing her abundantly curvaceous body against his and entwining her arms firmly about his neck. “Don’t go, honey,” she whispered huskily, her full, pink lips warm against his jaw. “Stay with me just a little longer. We’ll have a wonderful time, I promise you.”

  Without a word, he lowered his head and kissed her lightly. She pressed against him and opened her lips, trying to draw him back toward the bed, but he pushed her away with a laugh. “Sorry, I reckon I don’t have time to play games with you this morning.” He chuckled, and strode toward the door. “But, maybe, if you play your cards right, I’ll stop by and see you again tonight.”

  She shoved her coppery hair out of her eyes, glaring at him. Anger hardened her face. He was leaving her, depriving her of the pleasure she’d looked forward to throughout the night. They’d made love until very late, and she’d finally drifted off to sleep, possessively expecting another round of fun in the morning. Instead, he was walking out without satisfying the craving he aroused in her by his mere presence.

  Where was he going that was so damned important? Did he think she’d forgotten that he’d arrived hours late last night, all because of that stupid little bitch from the east who’d gotten herself into well-deserved trouble?

  “Well, sugar, don’t bother to show up if you’re going to be late again!” she flung at him sulkily. “Next time you can just turn to your little Miss Bryony Hill for company!”

  He turned toward her, amused, his eyes glinting beneath the dark rim of his sombrero. “What does Miss Hill have to do with this?”

  Ginger sat up on the bed, giving her head a petulant toss and reaching for the silver hairbrush she kept on the night stand beside the bed. She began brushing her long curls with languid, self-consciously sensual strokes as she talked.