“You little idiot.” He jerked a thumb toward the doorway. “Get out of here. I could have you arrested for making these ridiculous accusations. You’re grieving, so I’ll let it pass—this time.”
Lark walked up to Cameron, her fists clenched at her sides. “My father’s killers will be brought to justice.”
Jud watched her walk down the hall. The arrogant bitch! As he returned to his desk, a plan formed in his mind. First he’d get hold of Shanks. Then he’d drive out to the Bar T, his ranch, and call a meeting of the Ring. He needed the water rights to Gallagher’s property, and if he had to use a little of the Ring’s influence to get it, so much the worse for Lark Gallagher.
Abe Harris greeted Lark warmly as she entered his dry goods store. His other lady customers were not so inclined and muttered darkly under their breaths before quickly leaving the premises. Within a minute, the store stood empty and silent. Abe scratched his balding head and pushed his square spectacles up on his large nose.
“Looks like they all had someplace to go in a hurry,” he noted wryly. He came around a bin containing bolts of colorful cotton and extended a hand to Lark. “We were terribly shocked and saddened to hear of your father’s death, Lark. Both Millie and I were shaken. Father Mulcahy said you buried him out at the ranch. We’ll be coming by shortly to pay our respects.”
Lark gripped his firm, dry hand. “Your words touch my heart, Abe. Thank you.”
He patted her hand and then released it. “Is there anything we can do for you, Lark? You’re there at that ranch all alone now.” Before she could reply, the door opened and closed. Abe’s face went blank.
Lark turned, perplexed, and her eyes narrowed on Bo Shanks as he ambled into the store.
“Afternoon, Mr. Harris,” he drawled. He lifted his boot, and the match he held exploded into flaming life as he struck it against the hardened leather. He sucked on a thin brown cheroot pressed between his full lips. The smoke drifted upward, making him squint. Negligently, he tossed the dead match aside.
“Afternoon, Mr. Shanks. What can I do for you?” Abe asked in a tense tone.
“Oh…nothing. Nothing. Just lookin’ around is all. Go ahead, wait on the little lady.”
Stifling an urge to scream at him, to tell him to quit following her, Lark tried to keep her mind on the business at hand. “The supplies my father bought from you earlier were destroyed after he was murdered—”
“Way I hear it, Ga’n killed him,” Shanks volunteered, moving around a bin. He lifted a bolt of red cotton. “You’d look good in this. Would bring out that wild Injun blood.”
Lark turned her back on Shanks. “Abe, can you fill this order?” She handed him a long list. “I have the wagon outside.”
Abe studied the paper. “Sure can, Lark. It’s identical to the last order. Let me get my boy, Hastings, to help load it—”
“She gets no help, old man.”
Anger congealed into hatred and Lark turned toward the gunslinger. “You have no right to bother me, Shanks. Get out of here and leave Mr. Harris and me alone.”
“Look, Mr. Shanks,” Abe added, “those flour sacks weigh a hundred pounds apiece. No woman ought to tussle with that kind of weight.”
Shanks drew deeply on his cheroot and released another cloud of white smoke from his mouth and nostrils. His eyes glittered. “She won’t mind. Apaches are bred to be like mules—they’re nothing but beasts of burden. Ain’t that right, breed?”
Fully aware of how dangerous Shanks could be when riled, Lark realized with sinking finality that if she bucked his order, Abe might be roughed up. No one crossed Shanks’s path. If someone did, he was apt to find his home or business mysteriously destroyed by fire. She loved Abe and Millie too much to subject them to Shanks’s brand of revenge.
“I’ll pack my own supplies, Abe,” she whispered tautly. “If you’ll just credit—”
“No credit for you,” Shanks said softly, giving Harris a look that spoke volumes.
“You stay out of this!” Lark cried.
Shanks looked steadily at Harris, a silent warning in his green eyes. “She gets no credit.”
“My father had credit with Mr. Harris for years! You can’t just decide that I can’t have it.”
Sliding his fingers over the curve of his Colt, Shanks smiled. “Sure I can. Ya may be queen of that ranch of yores, but here in Prescott, yore nothin’ more than a breed. And Injuns and breeds ain’t wanted here. Understand? Next time I suggest ya send some of those greasy Mexes in to do yore business for ya. No tellin’ what the town folk might do if ya show yore face here again. They’re in a scalp-huntin’ mood.” He smiled slightly. “Why, a scalp like yores would fetch a twenty-dollar gold piece over at Fort Whipple.”
Lark’s nostrils quivered. “Why are you doing this?”
“Let’s just say I’m doin’ ya a real big favor by warnin’ ya.”
“You work for Jud Cameron. Has he put you up to harassing me?”
“A squaw that thinks. I’ll be damned.” Abruptly his smile disappeared. “Get yore supplies and get outta here. I’m runnin’ out of patience.”
Fearful for Lark, Abe tugged on her sleeve. “Come on, Lark, do as he says. Please?”
Resigned, she nodded.
After the supplies were loaded, she reluctantly paid the one hundred dollars. That meant only two hundred was left with which to pay each of her wranglers fifteen dollars per month until they earned the next Army voucher. Tucking the money into the left breast pocket of her shirt, she glared one last time at Shanks, who was leaning lazily against the hitching post outside, finishing off his third cheroot. As she slapped the reins to the backs of the mules, she reassured herself with the thought that, as soon as she talked to the sheriff, her business in Prescott would be finished and she could go home.
Sheriff Dan Cole didn’t even move his feet off the desk when she entered his office. He looked up from the handful of wanted posters he held and sized her up like the other white men had. Lark swallowed against her disgust.
“What are ya doing here?” he drawled, smoothing his long, blond handlebar mustache with tobacco-stained fingers.
Lark looked around the empty office, noting that several cells contained prisoners. Wanted posters filled one wall. Cole’s watery blue eyes missed nothing. Lark didn’t like his thin-lipped mouth, his hooded eyes, or the deceptive ease with which he examined her.
“I want you to continue to investigate my father’s murder, Sheriff.”
Cole stopped stroking the end of his carefully manicured mustache. “I tole ya, the case is closed, girl.”
“Ga’n knew and respected my father, Sheriff. He’d never kill him.”
With a shrug, Cole eyed her carelessly. “The report I filed said he was shot in the back by an Injun. Pure and simple.”
Rage twisted through Lark and she took a step forwards “You liar! You haven’t even investigated who might have done it, have you?” She fought to control her anger, clenching her hands. “He was a good man, Sheriff! How can you justify ignoring his killer?”
“Watch yore mouth, breed. I’m tryin’ to keep my patience with ya precisely because yore father was respected in this community. But I won’t take that kind of talk from anyone. Certainly not from a woman and especially not from a breed. Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”
She stood wavering, torn between anguish and frustration. “Did you even go out to Denton Road where he was killed? Did you check for hoofprints to see if the horses were shod or not? What about the bullet? Did you have my father’s body examined? What kind of gun or rifle did it come from? He was killed with one shot between the shoulder blades. Only a gunslinger kills from behind and with that kind of accuracy. Have you questioned Bo Shanks? He’s a known killer!”
Slowly, his every movement full of menace, Cole pulled his boots off the desk and rose to his feet. “Nobody tells me how to do my job,” he said with soft harshness. “I rode out and gave you a copy of the report. That’s the e
xtent of my responsibility.”
In her heart, Lark knew Cole was covering up for someone. But who? Acid burned in her mouth. “I won’t let you get away with this, Sheriff Cole. I’ll ask Ga’n about this myself the next time I see him.”
Cole snorted. “Then yore gonna be in a heap o’ trouble, girl. Ga’n’s wanted by every U.S. agency in this territory. If yore caught consortin’ with him, yore gonna be hauled up on charges too. Just remember that. An accessory after the fact.”
“My own people are trying to hunt him down just like yours are,” she said. “He’s killed Mexicans, Apaches, and whites alike.”
“Just proves my case. Yore father was a white and Ga’n hates us worse than any other race. Git out of here. I’ve wasted enough time on you.”
Without another word, Lark left. Before she climbed into the buckboard she checked the wagonload of supplies. She couldn’t afford to have them stolen from under her nose. How quickly the money from the voucher was running through her fingers. As she urged the mules into a brisk walk, anxiety ate at her. Was this how her father had felt when his hard-earned money had trickled away like fog before Holos, the sun? Her mind spun with thoughts of how many mortgage payments could be made over the next year, how much money would be left for monthly supplies and the wranglers’ wages.
She was so engrossed trying to sort out the numbers that she didn’t notice the glares of the townspeople as she left the main street and headed home. Holos had slipped from the zenith two hours ago. When Lark finally pushed aside her troubling thoughts, it was time to turn off the main thoroughfare and take the poorly maintained Denton Road that would eventually lead to the ranch.
She brought the mules to a temporary halt and took a long drink of the warm water in the canteen. Some of it spilled from the corner of her mouth, winding down her slender throat and soaking into her shirt. Capping the canteen, she studied the pine-covered mountains that, rose around her. Was this where her father had been bushwhacked? Certainly the silent hills could hide an attacker. She wrestled with a surge of grief as she wondered who had killed her father. He hadn’t stood a chance, the bullet striking him with deadly accuracy in the back, straight through to his warm and generous heart.
Suddenly Lark tensed, her attention drawn to the mules, whose ears had abruptly pricked up. She sniffed to catch any unusual scent she might have missed and tilted her head, listening intently. A violent shiver worked its way up her spine, her father’s killing branded too freshly in her memory.
As she reached down to retrieve the loaded Winchester, the mules veered suddenly to the right and five riders, men with bandannas drawn across their sweaty faces, swooped down at a gallop from behind a towering cliff.
Lark was jerked backward by the unexpected movement of the buckboard, and the mules came to a sudden halt as one man yanked the reins out of her hands. Red dust billowed around them as the horses milled restlessly around her buckboard.
Lark’s eyes widened as she recognized Shanks’s lean form, despite the black, broad-brimmed hat drawn down across his yellow eyes.
“Heeyyy, what have we here?” crowed a hulking cowboy in a black shirt. He pulled his sweaty bay gelding up to where Lark sat stiffly. When he reached out to touch her, she shrank away from him.
“Leave me alone!” she shrieked, striking him with her fist and rising to her feet. The men on their nervous mounts guffawed and pressed closer to the buckboard, making it impossible for Lark to keep her eye on all of them.
“Nah, we can’t do that, breed,” another shouted, his laughter high and off-pitch.
The hulking cowboy behind Lark stretched up in his stirrups and wrapped his hand in her hair. With a vicious yank, he pulled her off the wagon.
She struck the dry, dusty earth with jarring force, her head slamming backward. Momentarily stunned, she saw the hooves of several horses dancing close to where she lay. Gasping for breath, she struggled to rise to her feet, but from another direction a boot caught her in a glancing blow to the shoulder, sending her sprawling forward on her belly.
“Get those supplies out of there.””
Lark recognized Shanks’s soft voice. Spitting dirt out of her mouth and ignoring her aching shoulder, she lunged swiftly to her feet while two men dismounted, clambered onto the bed of the buckboard, and began throwing the supplies out onto the trail. There were yips of approval and bursts of laughter as one of them used his knife to slit open a hundred-pound sack of flour. The stone-ground meal spread in all directions, lost to the wind and dust.
With a cry of rage, Lark charged them. A horse blocked her path. Blindly she tried to push past the animal, but the rider only laughed, forcing her away with the sheer bulk of the lathered animal.
“No!” she shrieked, pounding at his chapped leg, then dropped to her knees and rolled beneath the horse’s legs. Breathing hard, she pulled her knife from the scabbard and leaped with startling ease into the back of the wagon. With a scream of pure fury, she slashed the bowie knife first in one direction, then the other, at the two men who were destroying the supplies.
Was this how they had treated her father? Had they taken his supplies first and then shot him? She struck out again, watching as the cowboys scrambled to evade the blade. She caught one across the belly, watching with satisfaction as the tip tore through the leather vest and cotton shirt he wore. The man cried out, tripping and falling out of the wagon. Lark spun around and faced her second foe. The man’s eyes bulged and he went for his gun, but Lark’s blade was quicker than his hand and she slashed forward, catching him in midreach. Blood spurted as the point sank into his wrist. The man howled, staggering and then pitching to the ground, holding his injured hand.
Shanks watched Lark through slitted eyes. He smiled, thinking how graceful she was in action. Pity she was a breed. Then, abruptly annoyed because his men weren’t doing what Cameron had ordered, he shouted, “All of ya, stand back. And keep yore guns holstered.” He glared at Oley, who was whining that his hand was permanently maimed. “Tie yore neckerchief around it, ya braying jackass.”
Shanks watched as Lark slowly straightened, the bloody bowie held tightly in her white-knuckled hand. Damned if she didn’t look beautiful—defiant like a wild mustang with her eyes wide, and nostrils flared like a stallion ready to fight for his territory. His eyes gleamed as he approached her.
“Get out of the wagon, breed.”
“I’m not moving, Shanks. No one’s taking any more of my supplies.”
Cameron had said he wanted no rough play with Lark. He’d almost bet his boss wanted the girl for himself. He had seen an interest in Cameron’s eyes, all right. “Don’t hurt the merchandise,” was how he had put it to Shanks. Well, a few bruises wouldn’t hurt, would they? Besides, his men wouldn’t squeal on him if he roughed her up a little. Someone needed to bring her down a peg or two—teach her a lesson. No squaw challenged him or his men and got away with it.
Trembling with anger and fear, Lark watched as Shanks pulled his horse to a halt beside the buckboard, his yellow eyes narrowed. “You’ll have to kill me before I let you take any more of my supplies,” she stated.
“Make a deal with ya, breed,” he drawled.
“What kind?” Lark turned warily, watching as the men gathered at the heads of the spooked mules.
“I’ll fight ya fair and square with a knife. If I win, ya lose your supplies and go home empty-handed.”
Dread fear wound through her like a venomous snake. Shanks was evil, one of the fastest hired guns in the Arizona Territory. “Why can’t you just let me go? I’ve done you no harm. I came to Prescott in peace and I left in peace. Why must you follow me?”
Shanks dismounted and untied his bedroll from behind the cantle of his saddle. “Because,” he said with a contemptuous smile, “ya need to be taught a lesson. Now climb down out of there. We’ll fight over there,” he said, gesturing toward a flatter piece of ground.
She saw his face was set. There was no way out. Lark remembered Maria’s pl
eading words to wait for the wranglers to escort her into town. Bitterly, as she climbed from the buckboard, she acknowledged her mistake. She saw Shanks wrap a wool blanket around his left forearm and draw a bowie knife from the saddlebag. Her throat ached with unrelieved tension. He would be fast. Faster than she. No, she reprimanded herself, do not defeat yourself. Us’an will lend you strength and cunning if you are deserving of them.
Shanks removed the bandanna covering his face and threw aside his black felt hat. He looked over his shoulder at his men. “This is between her and me. Understand? No one draws a gun.”
“But, boss, what if she sticks ya?” Oley asked.
Slowly Shanks began to circle the girl. “She won’t.” He grinned at Lark. “First one who takes the other down, flat on their back, wins.”
“If that’s what you want,” she flung back, crouching and warily watching his languid moves. Boa Juan had taught her to hold out her left hand to ward off the attacker, keeping her knife near her body so it couldn’t be ripped from her hand.
Shanks pointed to his left cheek. “Remember these? I ain’t ever forgot ya gave ’em to me, breed. I plan to carve ya up just like ya did me. Then we’ll be even.”
Lark’s eyes widened momentarily. Shanks meant it. Licking her dry lips, she said nothing as they continued to circle one another. She moved on the balls of her feet, the sun beating down overhead. A sheen of perspiration covered her dirt-smeared face. Shanks feinted, his blade whistling inches from her face. Lark jerked back, stunned. She hadn’t even seen him make the attack, he was so quick. Panic began to eat away her confidence. Lark gripped her own knife harder as sweat trickled down her temples.
“Yore slow,” Shanks taunted with a chuckle. He threw up the arm padded with the blanket, but Lark stood her ground, not in the least distracted. Her blade sank deep into the blanket and Shanks jumped back.
“Bitch,” he snarled, glancing down at the slashed material. But the blade hadn’t completely penetrated all the layers to his arm.
Lark forced her gaze to Shanks’s hips—they would move first—her breath coming in sharp gasps. He moved. She whipped to the left just as he lunged. He missed, but as he passed by her, he swung his left arm.
Hostage Heart Page 9
