“I hate waiting. I’d rather skedaddle while we still can.”
“Trust me. My way is best.”
Clay looked into her limpid eyes, and his resolve weakened. “I reckon one more night won’t matter much,” he said begrudgingly.
Lilly smiled. “I knew I could count on you.” She pecked him on the lips, rose, and headed for the door. “Now I must be off. Already I’ve stayed too long. Miles might worry and send some of his gunmen to check up on me.”
“Let them come!” Clay snarled, striding at her side.
“Control that temper of yours,” Lilly cautioned, stopping in the doorway to lay a hand on his arm. “It’s already caused us enough grief. Just dwell on tomorrow and how happy we’ll be together.”
“The two of us, together at last,” Clay said. “It will be a dream come true.” He raised her hand, kissed her palm. “I doubt I’ll sleep a wink.”
“Try, handsome. I don’t want you falling asleep in the saddle.” Lilly swiftly mounted the mare. “Take care.”
“I should escort you to your doorstep.”
“Be sensible. The punchers won’t be asleep yet, and there are always gun sharks hanging around. I don’t want them making wolf meat of you, not now when we’re close to fulfilling both our wishes.”
Clay didn’t like having her leave by herself, but, he had to concede, she had a point. He waved until she blended into the night; then he jogged to the stable and swung onto the dun. Since she wouldn’t let him take her home, he’d do the next best thing and trail her all the way back to ensure she reached the Triangle G safely.
The moonlight made the task simple. Clay hung far enough back to prevent her from detecting him and maintained the same pace she did. When she slowed, he slowed. When she stopped, as she did twice for no apparent reason, he also stopped.
Approximately half an hour had gone by, and they had another fifteen minutes to go before they reached Gillett’s sprawling house, when Clay heard the sound of riders approaching from the north at a full gallop. Fearing hostilities, he began to rush to Lilly’s rescue, then drew rein when the night was rent by shouts in English.
“There she is!”
“Mrs. Gillett!”
“The boss was afeared for your safety, ma’am.”
Further statements were too jumbled for Clay to make sense of. Simmering with resentment, he watched Gillett’s men form a protective circle around Lilly and squire her into the darkness. Typical of Gillett, he mused somberly, to send men after her instead of going after her himself. The man never did anything he could have others do. Power and wealth did that to a person, made them too big for their britches. Miles Gillett was long overdue to be taken down a peg.
Swinging the dun around, Clay returned to his spread and bedded the horse in the stable. It took some doing as the dun balked initially at the strange enclosure, but once Clay had it snug in a stall heaped high with hay, the dun quieted and ate contentedly.
Clay went straight to the kitchen. His rumbling stomach demanded food, so he checked the pantry and cupboards and found all was in order. Someone, evidently Lilly, had been gathering the eggs his hens laid daily, and there was a basket of them on a pantry shelf.
In short order Clay had the stove lit and was frying a dozen eggs and chopped potatoes mixed with diced onions and shortening. He also made biscuits, smothered in butter. A bubbling pot of coffee completed his preparations. When he sat down to eat, his plate was piled so high he couldn’t see the bottom. He chewed with relish, more cheerful than he had been in a coon’s age.
Things were finally going his way, he thought. In twenty-four hours he would be on the trail with the woman who meant more to him than life itself. In two weeks they would be—where? Clay suddenly realized Lilly hadn’t voiced a preference. No matter. They would be together. And in one year they would have their own place and be as snug and content as that horse in the stable. Their worries would be over. No more Miles Gillett, no more Marshal Tom Crane, no more Apaches.
The last thought bothered Clay. He should have been true to his word and gone with the band to wipe out Ben Johnson’s vile gang. He owed them that much, at least. Delgadito had helped him when he’d needed help the most, had saved his life when any other Apache, and most whites, would have left him to rot under the blazing sun.
Taking a big bite out of a biscuit, Clay shook his head to derail his train of thought. No one could fault him for not keeping his word to a pack of redskins. Apaches were notoriously unreliable themselves, so he’d treated them no differently than they treated others.
But Clay kept seeing Delgadito in his mind’s eye. Delgadito, who had persuaded Fiero and the others to conduct two raids on Clay’s behalf. Delgadito, who had helped Clay get revenge and, yet, who had not objected when Clay reneged on his promise and rode out on them.
Clay had to admit he had done Delgadito wrong. But it was too late to cry over spilt milk. He had a new future to think of, the prettiest filly in the world to look after.
Once every last bit of egg and potato had been licked from the plate, Clay washed the meal down with four cups of steaming coffee. Feeling drowsy, he walked to his bedroom. As he entered, he glanced at the mirror above the chest of drawers and couldn’t believe his eyes. Astounded, he gave himself a pinch. Was that him or an Apache?
Lilly had not been exaggerating. Clay’s skin had been tanned a dark brown, so dark he might pass for a full-blooded Indian if not for his blue eyes. His hair, which hadn’t been cropped in weeks, hung down, almost to his shoulders, the same length warriors wore theirs. Combined with the headband, breechcloth, and special knee-high moccasins, the effect was startling.
“This will never do,” Clay said. He filled a basin with water, stripped naked, washed, and shaved using his straight razor, which was a welcome change from the knife he had used while living among the Apaches. The tangles in his hair took a while to get out with a comb. Next he took a pair of scissors to his head and gave himself a passable haircut.
Donning a pair of Levis and a shirt, he strolled barefoot to the kitchen and poured another cup of coffee. A closet in the hall contained an old pair of worn boots which he squeezed into with an effort. Upon going to the mirror again, he saw a new man, and he raised his cup in mock salute.
Packing took more time. Clay laid out his saddlebags and bedroll in the front room so they would be handy, come morning. He locked the doors, secured the windows, and turned in fully dressed.
Lying there in the dark, in the comfort of his own house, Clay felt a twinge of regret. He would much rather find a buyer for the ranch before leaving, but if he went into Tucson, Marshal Crane would throw him in the calaboose so fast his head would spin. Judge Abrams would preside over the trial, and everyone in Tucson knew Abrams and Gillett went back a long ways. A strangulation jig would be the end result. No, he’d have to forget about selling his property. As the old saying went, better to be safe than sorry.
Sleep was a long time coming. Clay was too excited at the prospect of living his new life with Lilly. He tossed and turned until the middle of the night and, at last, dozed off to have a fitful dream in which Miles Gillett, wearing an ancient suit of black armor and mounted on a black charger, attacked Lilly and him on the trail to Montana. The dream was perfectly ridiculous, as Clay concluded when he awoke at the crack of dawn to the crowing of his rooster out by the stable.
Clearing the bed in a single bound, Clay hastily washed up, making himself presentable. He wanted to impress Lilly with how he looked, to show her that he was the same man she had always loved and not some murderous turncoat who had gone Apache.
Clay didn’t own a spare holster so he simply wedged the twin ivory-handled Colts under his belt, one on either side of the large buckle. He donned an old hat and gave his boots a quick shine.
A spring in his step, Clay hustled to the kitchen to make a new pot of coffee. He also made toast and finished off the last of the eggs.
The sun cleared the eastern horizon. Thro
ugh the open kitchen window wafted scents Clay knew so well: the sweet odor of the dew-covered grama grass, the faint but unmistakable smell of cattle, and a hint of dust. Soon, though, the cool breeze gave way to the hot air of late morning, and Clay grew worried. Very worried.
Lilly should have been there by now, Clay told himself as he anxiously paced on the front porch. Something must have gone wrong. Maybe Gillett had caught her packing. Perhaps Gillett had changed his mind about inspecting cattle and stayed home. Or maybe there was another reason. Whatever, the morning waxed, and still Lilly didn’t show.
Clay pondered whether to ride to the Triangle G or stay put. What if he was gone and Lilly came? Would she wait, or would she go on into Tucson, thinking something had happened to him? Indecisive, he kept pacing for another hour. Then he could wait no longer.
Since the dun was not accustomed to a saddle, Clay rode northward bareback. There had been a time when he’d looked down his nose at anyone, especially Indians, who rode in such fashion, but his time with the Apaches had changed his perspective. He actually liked riding bareback now, found it more comfortable.
There were several routes Lilly might have taken between the Triangle G and Clay’s spread. He chose the likeliest, the shortest, and covered over five miles, always careful to stay near cover in case any riders appeared.
Two kinds of men worked for Gillett. There were ordinary cowhands who handled the cattle and other legitimate ranch work, and then there were the gun-hands, a dozen or so gun-wise leather slappers, whose only purpose was to safeguard Gillett and eliminate Gillett’s enemies. Boorman had been one of the latter, with a reputation as one of the nastiest in a nasty bunch, and Clay entertained no regrets about killing the man.
Not long after Clay crossed onto the Triangle G, riders did appear. Clay was out in the open with nowhere to hide. His reaction was to lift the reins and to wheel the dun so he could flee to a knoll a quarter of a mile off. But he didn’t. The riders, seven men in all, were traveling from east to west and would come nowhere near him. He had to remind himself that he was no longer dressed like an Apache. From a distance he would look like any other cowboy.
So, Clay brazenly rode on, waving when a couple of the riders did the same. The group never slowed and were presently out of sight. Clay chuckled, touched his heels to the dun to bring the horse to a trot, and covered another two miles without finding any sign that Lilly had passed that way earlier.
Frustrated, Clay stopped. He had gone far enough. Any further and he was bound to run into more punchers, who might take word to Gillett. Off to the northwest he spied cattle, a lot of them. Squinting he made them out to be longhorns. So Gillett had imported some, too.
Heading homeward, Clay laid out his plans for the rest of the day. He’d wait until nightfall, and if Lilly hadn’t shown by then, he’d go after her. Thanks to the Apaches, he should be able to sneak right into Gillett’s house undetected. He’d find Lilly, whisk her away, and be in Colorado within the week.
The burning sun created a haze that blurred far off objects. When Clay set eyes on his house and stable, they shimmered as if they were mirages. Drawing closer, he spied a horse at the hitching rail and a shimmering figure in front of the house, a figure with long black hair.
Clay whooped in delight and galloped forward. He removed his hat, waved it wildly, beaming like a kid who had just been given the greatest gift ever. Lilly stood quietly, waiting with her hands clasped at her slim waist, a grin touching her lips.
In a cloud of dust Clay reined up and leaped down. “At last!” he bellowed, enfolding her in his arms. “I was so scared you weren’t coming!”
“It took longer than I counted on.”
Clay shoved his hat on his head and took her dainty hands in his. “Are you as glad as I am? I’m fit to bust, I tell you! At long last we’ll be together!”
“I’d never guess you were excited.”
“You have no idea!” Clay laughed, then embraced her again. He kissed her, or tried to, but she shifted and his lips connected with her cheek. Belatedly he noticed she was stiff, tense, and his pulse quickened as he stepped back. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Bad news?” Clay repeated, his innards bunching into a tight knot.
“We can’t leave today.”
“Why not?”
“For the same reason we can’t leave tomorrow or any other day.”
“What?” Clay said, bewildered. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m not the one who should explain,” Lilly said sweetly. “He is.” With that, she pointed at the house.
Clay looked and was transformed into a living block of ice. For out into the open strode none other than Miles Gillett.
Chapter Five
Overpowering rage coursed through Clay Taggart, rage so potent he shook from the intensity of it and flushed scarlet from neck to brow. He took a step, his hands poised to draw, and barked, “You! Here! Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!”
Miles Gillett had stopped at the edge of the porch and stood calmly, a mocking smirk on his face. “Everyone knows I don’t pack an iron,” he responded suavely, lifting the flaps of his expensive jacket to prove his point. “Kill me, Taggart, and you’ll be wanted for two murders.”
“Do you think I care?” Clay roared, beside himself with fury spawned by this man who had caused him so much misery, who had stolen Lilly from him. “You’re buzzard bait!”
Oddly, Miles Gillett laughed. “I reckon not, you stupid bastard. Not unless you want Lilly caught in the cross fire.” He held out a hand, then loudly snapped his fingers.
From around both sides of the house came gunmen. Others came from inside. Still more appeared at the stable. Eleven hard cases, their pistols drawn or rifles leveled.
Clay noted their cold, implacable expressions, and knew they would have no compunctions in cutting loose with Lilly so close to him. He motioned at her, whispered, “Move to one side, pronto, so I can draw on these polecats.”
“I can’t do that,” Lilly said.
“Don’t worry about me. Just run!”
“No!”
Exasperated, Clay twisted to give her a shove but froze when a six-shooter cracked, the lead smacking into the earth between his legs.
“Just be still, senor, and you will live a little longer.”
The speaker was a sturdy Mexican wearing a wide-brimmed sombrero, a white shirt with frills, a brown jacket, and embroidered pants that flared out at the bottom and barely covered his huge spurs.
“Surgio!” Clay snapped.
“Si, senor. We meet again.”
Surgio Vasquez was one of the best trackers in the whole Southwest and a bad man of some note, who favored a nickel-plated Colt sporting seven notches. It was Vasquez who had tracked Clay down for the posse, Vasquez who had recaptured Clay, after Clay briefly escaped their clutches.
“I owe you,” Clay growled.
“But what can you do with the senora right there, tonto?” Vasquez asked, sneering.
There was nothing Clay could do, and they all knew it. Clay glanced right, glanced left, then glared at the man he hated with an abiding passion. “I should have known you wouldn’t fight me fair and square.”
Gillett snorted in contempt. “Fight you fairly? Honestly, Taggart, sometimes you amaze me. You seem to think the whole blamed world should be as self-righteous as you are. This isn’t a poker game we’re playing. It’s for much higher stakes than that, the highest a man can go after.”
“A good woman,” Clay said.
“What?” Gillett responded, his smirk back. “Oh. Yes. For lovely Lillian.” Gillett laughed again strangely and pointed at Clay’s midsection. “Lose the irons, and do it mighty carefully.”
Shoulders slumping, Clay complied, the twin Colts thumping at his feet. As soon as he was disarmed, the gunnies converged, two taking him by the arms and propelling him toward the house. They wrenched him to a standstill shy o
f the porch. Another hard case knocked off his hat, then slapped his face.
“Now, now, boys,” Miles Gillett said. “There will be plenty of time for that. For now I want to enjoy this. I want to see the look on his face when he learns the truth.”
“What are you talking about?” Clay demanded.
Gillett hooked his thumbs in his belt and stepped down. Up close, he presented an imposing figure, as tall as Clay but twice as wide and not an ounce was fat. His slicked hair was brown with a trace of gray at the temples. His face was square in shape, his nose thick and broad at the bottom, his lips fleshy. A thick mustache partially hid his cruel mouth, a clipped beard framed his jutting chin. “The truth,” he stated smugly.
“Which you wouldn’t know if it jumped up and bit you on the ass.”
Some of the hired killers chortled.
Gillett glanced past Clay and said, “Why don’t we show the poor deluded fool, my dear? Seeing, after all, is believing.”
An invisible knife sliced into Clay’s abdomen and carved its way upward as he saw Lilly sashay past him and mold her voluptuous form to Miles Gillett. She kissed Miles, a lingering, loving kiss, their lips working as their tongues probed, and Clay felt the knife pierce his heart. A sour taste filled his mouth, and, for a moment, he thought he might be sick.
Lilly grinned when she broke for air. She draped a slender arm on Gillett’s shoulder, winked at Clay, and said, “The best damn lover this side of the Mississippi.”
Raucous laughter greeted her remark. Surgio Vasquez yipped and spun in a small circle.
“Do you understand yet, you pathetic simpleton?” Miles asked, his thick fingers idly stroking Lilly’s hair. “Has the truth sunk in?”
Dazed, his body tingling as if numb, Clay answered softly, “She never loved me, did she?”
It was Lilly who responded. “I thought I did, once, when we were young. Miles showed me how wrong I was, showed me the difference between loving a boy and loving a man.”
“But you came to me after you were married. You told me that you didn’t care for him, that you wanted out so you could be with me,” Clay said.
Warpath (White Apache Book 2) Page 5
