The sun had risen, sending long, thin streamers of light across the cool desert. Matt held Lark for a long, long time. Awkwardly he brushed sand from her cheeks with his gloved hands. Her eyes were dark with pain, her lips soft and parted with grief. Leaning over, he molded her mouth to his, seeking to draw the agony from her eyes.
Lark drank of Matt’s strong, clean mouth, tasting his maleness, his gentleness, all that he gave so effortlessly to her. Her arms slipped across his shoulders, her fingers nestling in the dampness of the hair at the nape of his neck. His beard was rough against her skin. Each pressing motion, each caress took a little more of the hurt out of her heart, out of her soul. Finally Matt eased away, breathing raggedly.
“I almost lost you,” he said hoarsely, framing her face, looking deep into her wounded blue eyes.
Lark swallowed hard. “I—I’m sorry, Matt. I was afraid you’d investigate without me. And then I saw Shanks in the Glass Slipper Saloon where you had been earlier. I was so afraid that you wouldn’t see him and he’d kill you….”
“I didn’t see him, Lark. I’d gone out the rear of the saloon earlier to check out another livery down the street. You couldn’t have seen me leave.” He kissed her eyes, nose, and finally her trembling mouth. “My God, I was so scared I’d lost you.”
“How did you find me?”
“I and some other people heard the gunshot over at the Jenkins Livery. I got there first. I caught Ga’n trying to escape out the back door. He was hurt bad. He told me Shanks had taken you and was heading east toward McCray’s ranch with the red stud. He could have shot me, but he didn’t. In his own twisted way, he had honor.”
Lark sank against him, stunned. “Ga’n saved my life. Shanks fired first, not realizing it was him. He stepped in front of me and took the bullet meant for me.”
“It’s the only decent thing that renegade has ever done, then,” Matt muttered, holding her tight in his arms.
Lark squeezed her eyes shut. “He didn’t break his promise to protect me, then.”
Some of the terror was draining from Matt. Lark was alive. It was over. “I’m not sure Ga’n’s going to live,” he said.
Lark’s heart squeezed with pain. Ga’n’s pain. He hated himself, the world, and yet there was a shred of decency still alive within him. “Did he get medical help?” she asked.
Gently, Matt lifted her to her feet. She swayed against him. “I’m sure he did. I told the men heading for the livery to get the sheriff and the doc. Come on, let’s get you back to Tucson.”
Mr. Peekins met them at the desk when they walked into the Star Hotel. “I’ve got a telegram here for you, Mr. Butler. Sez urgent.”
Lark stumbled to a halt beside Matt. Mr. Peekins’s white eyebrows shot up at her disheveled appearance and men’s clothing. Despite her weariness, she felt Matt tense.
“Matt? What is it?”
Taking Lark’s arm, he guided her toward the stairs that led to their room. Once out of earshot of the hotel clerk, he said, “It’s from Frank Herter. He says trouble’s brewing with Cameron and that we’re to get back to the ranch as fast as we can.” He looked deeply into Lark’s shadowed eyes. “I can ride out within the hour and you can stay here and rest—”
“No!” Lark halted at the top of the landing, gripping the banister. She hadn’t meant to sound so angry, and lowered her voice. “That’s my father’s ranch, Matt. If Cameron thinks he can take it from us while we’re gone, let him try. He’ll have to face both of us, not just you.”
Sliding his arm around Lark, Matt brought her against him. “Come on, my fierce cougar. We’ll get a bath, put on a fresh set of clothes, and then ride like hell.”
Cameron swore softly while reading the telegram from Robert McCray one more time. According to the rancher, a loyal Ring member, Bo Shanks’s body had been brought into Tucson by a sheriff’s deputy. He slowly crumpled the paper.
“What’s goin’ on?” Bart Devlin asked from one of the wing chairs in his bank office.
Barely turning his head, Cameron snarled, “Shanks fouled up the transfer of that breed’s stud to McCray. He went and got himself killed.”
Devlin, a tall, well-muscled gunslinger of twenty-five, shrugged his shoulders. “You said that Injun Ga’n was with him. He dead, too?”
With a snort, Jud threw the paper into the wastebasket. “He’s been badly wounded and is in jail, pending a trial for horse stealing.”
“Can the sheriff spring him?” Devlin asked, thinking that the lawman, Porter Sanderson, was getting well paid to look the other way on certain occasions.
“I’m going to wire McCray and see what can be done. Ga’n’s the leader of the renegades. We can’t let him hang. That isn’t the worst of my problems, though. I’ve got to have water for my cattle. Now.”
He paced the length of the office. It was hot, murderously hot, and the frustration he felt was as high as the hundred-degree weather, which had been burning up Prescott for the last two weeks. Shanks was gone, but Cameron had had the foresight to replace him with an even more competent gunslinger. Bart Devlin had worked for McCray for the last two years and was very capable. One look into those blue eyes that glittered like those of a wolverine ready to attack, and Cameron felt a surge of power. Yes, Devlin was the right man for the job.
Devlin chewed on the toothpick, most of his upper lip hidden beneath a long, blond mustache. “Your cattle are starting to drop like gnats in a sandstorm, boss. If they don’t get water in the next couple of days, you’re gonna lose the entire herd.”
Stinging beneath Devlin’s slow Texan drawl, Cameron snapped, “I’ve run a ranch for the last fifteen years. Don’t you think I know the crisis I’ve got on my hands?” He paced some more.
“McCray didn’t say anything about where Kincaid and Lark Gallagher were staying after the shooting,” he muttered more to himself than Devlin. “Chances are, they’re going to take it easy coming back to Prescott.”
“When I rode over to the Gallagher Ranch last week,” Devlin said, “there was a gent there by the name of Herter who was running it in the breed’s absence. He said the boss lady was going to be gone for a spell.”
“Herter!” Cameron ground out. “I figured the bastard would head west to California after he retired. Instead he hires on with that outfit! He’s acting foreman?”
“Yeah.”
Frank Herter wasn’t one to be underestimated and Cameron knew that. “Did the wranglers respect him?”
“Looked like it.” Devlin had ridden over at Cameron’s request to check out the ranch and water situation. Since Devlin was new to the Prescott area, Herter had had no inkling that he worked for Cameron. “They were busy building stout fences around each of those three artesian wells. They’re rationing the water to their own stock and didn’t want any of them drinking too much at one time.”
Folding his hands behind his back, Cameron set his jaw. “This is the perfect time to let my cattle get a drink of water, then.”
“What are you saying, boss?”
Jud smiled tightly. “If we drive a thousand head to the Gallagher Ranch to drink their fill, those stupid greasers, Negroes, and Injuns won’t know what to do. When they see that herd stampeding hell-bent-for-leather down on them, they’ll scatter like the yellow-bellies they are.”
Devlin frowned. “What about that hombre Herter? He ain’t no coward.”
“One man can’t get all those wranglers organized.” He paused. “We’ll attack them at dawn tomorrow.”
“What will you do after that breed and her gunslinger return?”
Cameron eyed Devlin. “That’s what you were hired to do—kill the both of them.”
Lark pulled Kentucky to a halt at the crown of the ridge that overlooked the ranch. Matt drew up alongside her, and they both looked down at the quiet homestead that stood shadowed against the forthcoming dawn.
Wearily Lark wiped the sweat from her cheek and brow with the back of her sleeve. They’d had only a few hours of rest f
or the horses or themselves for the last three days. Taking a mountain route from Tucson, Lark had been lucky to find water along the way for Kentucky, since he still refused to eat cactus.
“Everything looks quiet,” Matt observed. He pointed to the south where a lone sentry rode at a slow walk around the corrals. “Looks like Primo’s in the saddle.”
“Yes.” Lark absently patted the stallion’s damp neck. Exhaustion stalked all of them. Her heart sank as she gazed out across the blackened valley. No tree had been spared in the march of that monstrous fire, and the once-fertile land looked like a wasteland. “There’s so much to do, Matt,” she whispered.
He found her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We’ll do it together, Lark.”
Rallying at his husky words, Lark drowned in his dark gray gaze. There had been no time to hold him, much less to show her love. “Together sounds so—”
“Jesus Christ,” Matt breathed, gripping Lark’s hand hard.
She looked in the direction he pointed. “No!” she cried angrily. From their vantage point on the ridge, they could barely see the outline of a herd of cattle making its way from Cameron’s land onto her property. The cattle were crossing the last series of small hills that would funnel into the end of the valley, and to the ranch. Lark’s heart pounded wildly in her breast as she swung her gaze back to Matt. His face was drawn in fury.
“That bastard Cameron’s going to try and water his cattle with or without your permission.”
Lark gripped the reins, making Kentucky rear nervously. “We’ve got to stop them!”
“Ride for the family homes, Lark. Get the women, children, and old ones to the main house. I’ll roust the wranglers out of their bunks and get them organized.”
Sinking her heels into the stallion, Lark flew down the tree-clad slope. The stallion was tired, but he had heart, and as if sensing Lark’s urgency as she leaned low over his neck, calling to him, he gave every last ounce of strength he possessed. There was so little time!
Lark was the first to ride into the yard, Matt not far behind her. He hauled his horse to a sliding halt in front of the bunkhouse. “Herter! Wake up! We’ve got trouble!”
Primo came galloping in from the opposite direction. “señor!” he screamed. “Cattle are coming! There’s a herd of at least a thousand no more than three miles away!”
“Primo, get over to the main house and get fifteen rifles and boxes of ammunition. Come back here and hand them out to everyone.”
“Sí, sí, señor!” Primo whirled his horse around. Frank Herter stumbled onto the porch, still pulling up his pants. Two more wranglers followed in quick succession.
“Frank,” Matt roared, “get the men saddled up! Cameron’s got a herd of cattle heading straight for the ranch. Make it pronto!”
Herter spun around, issuing a series of curt orders to the sleepy-eyed men.
The mustang Matt rode whinnied plaintively as ten wranglers stumbled off the porch and raced toward the corral. Men shouted, horses neighed nervously, and clouds of dust rose as the wranglers slipped through the logs of the corral fence and grabbed the first horses they could catch.
Matt’s eyes narrowed toward the hill where the cattle would come. In the gray dawn light, there was nothing to indicate that Cameron’s herd would be upon them in less than thirty minutes.
After awakening the residents of each house, Lark ordered the sleepy children and wide-eyed mothers to run for the homestead. Their husbands grabbed Levi’s and shoved their arms through shirtsleeves as they ran across the yard to join the armed resistance. Then Lark rode back to the center of the busy yard.
“Matt!” she cried, bringing Kentucky to a halt in front of him. “I’ve got a plan!” She pointed to the southeast. “If we can turn the herd in time, there’s a deep ravine we can drive them into. Cameron won’t want to risk losing his herd to broken legs and necks. That might force him to turn back.”
“If we can turn them,” Matt agreed. “Does Cameron realize how close that ravine is or how deep?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s covered with heavy underbrush. Only the people on the ranch know its location.”
He nodded. “I’ll ride out to meet the herd with Herter and the wranglers. I want you to stay with the women and children,” he told her. He held her eyes, which were dark with fear and anxiety. “This time, you’ll do as I say. And no argument, Lark.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it. The stormy look on Matt’s face and the threat in his tone were very real. “All right. But we’re not going to sit here at the ranch without any protection.”
“There’s plenty of ammo left. Give the women and Apaches who know how to shoot a gun or rifle and position them at every window. The only safe place will be the house. If that herd gets past us, it’ll destroy everything in its path, but that house is strong enough to withstand their charge.”
Nodding, Lark saw the wranglers mounting up. Suddenly she was more afraid than ever before. She gripped Matt’s arm. “Please, be careful. I know Shanks is dead, but Cameron’s hands are all dangerous.”
Matt slid his gloved hand around Lark’s slender neck and drew her against him. “I love you,” he whispered hoarsely against her lips before covering them with a burning kiss.
Abruptly Matt released her and laid the spurs to his gelding, leaving Lark dazed in the saddle. The fifteen wranglers that worked at Gallagher Ranch rode by at a gallop, leaving her behind.
Dismounting, Lark led the stallion to the barn. She had no time to strip the saddle or bridle from him. Too much had to be done, and he’d be safe enough in the barn. Making a run for the house, she saw Maria waiting on the porch for her, wringing her hands.
“Get the rest of the rifles from the cabinet,” Lark ordered. “And get the children into the bedrooms. Tell them to hide under the beds where they’ll be safe.”
“Sí, Patrona.”
The Old Ones were waiting for Lark in the main room. Their serenity infused Lark with new confidence as she handed Ny-Oden a rifle and a box of ammunition.
“The Thunder Beings are with you, daughter,” he told her.
The Thunder Beings were the forces that shaped and moved thunderstorms across Father Sky. For a long time, Lark had suspected that the shaman received his power from the Sky People. To tell her that the mighty warriors of the sky were with her meant powerful luck.
“Matt will need their power more than I will,” she said, quickly dispensing rifles and bullets to the other Old Ones.
Ny-Oden gripped the rifle. “No, daughter. Before this is over, you will need their strength. This day, you will become a warrior, like your mother.”
Shaken by the dire warning in the shaman’s voice, Lark halted momentarily. “I don’t understand….”
The shaman patted the rifle he held. “I will keep this loaded for you. You’ll need it soon.”
Lark had no more time to question the Apache. Whether Ny-Oden spoke in mysterious riddles to force her to be on guard, or if that’s all his power had told him, Lark wasn’t sure. Maria was calling to her, but as Lark walked swiftly down the hall, her thoughts turned to Matt. Us’an, she prayed fervently, protect him.
As they crested the ridge, Matt saw the cattle no more than two miles away, spread out across two hills. Frank Herter pulled up at his side. “I count twenty men,” he shouted.
Matt nodded and threw up his hand to signal a halt. The wranglers drew to a stop around him, dust billowing in thick, choking clouds. Matt glanced over at Herter. “Let’s stretch a line of men to match the length of the herd. I want you to watch for my signal. When I raise my hand, I want everyone to fire their rifles into the air. That ought to scare that herd back toward Cameron. Then we’ll try and swing them south, toward the ravine.”
Paco Hernandez pushed through the group. “What if those hombres fire at us, señor?”
“Then you fire back,” Matt ordered.
He looked grimly at the Mexican, Negro and Apache men sitting on ner
vous horses, their set faces mirroring their determination to win despite the odds against them. “Under no circumstances are you to let the herd break through our line. If we have to, we’ll start shooting the cattle to stop them. If they get within half a mile of the ranch, they’ll smell water and then no one will be able to halt them. They’ll go crazy, and the women and children will be in danger. Understand?”
Every man nodded his head.
Matt twisted in the saddle. “Boa Juan?”
The Apache lifted his gaze. “Yes?”
“You’ve got the eyes of an eagle. Can you spot Cameron? Is he with his men?”
Boa Juan stood in the stirrups, peering intently toward the herd. “The pindah is there,” he snarled. “There’s a yellow-haired man riding next to him on a paint horse.”
“Yellow hair, huh?” Herter snorted. He looked over at Matt. “That might be the gent who came to the ranch last week and prompted me to send that wire to you. I had a bad feeling about him. He’s probably Shanks’s replacement as top gun for Cameron’s outfit.”
“You’re probably right, Frank.” Matt held the ex-cavalryman’s gaze. “You take the northern end and I’ll stay here in the middle of the line. Paco, you take the south. Ready, men?”
Shouts went up and horses danced nervously beneath the reverberating cry. Matt raised his voice. “This is for Roarke Gallagher, men, and for his wife, Mourning Dove. Their dream built this place, but you’ve helped it become a reality. Defend it. Defend your families.”
The wranglers gave hoarse shouts in three different languages. Matt ordered them to disperse and take their places along the line. As he spun his gelding around to face the herd, he wondered what Cameron was going to do now.
“Sonofabitch!” Cameron yelled, smashing his fist against his chap-covered thigh. He rode at the northern flank of the herd, staying clear of the dust raised by the cattle. “How in the hell did they find out we were coming?” he demanded of Devlin.
Devlin shrugged, checking the position of the holster on his right leg. “Doesn’t matter, we got ’em outnumbered.””
Hostage Heart Page 31
