Rio stood there. One hand held the reins to his own horse, the other hand clenched at his side. He tried to think of something to say, but his parched throat and the ache within would not allow him to speak. His heart was full, his gaze—unknowingly—pleaded with his son.
The boy continued to stare at him.
Rio turned away and mounted. Agony rode with him as he followed the path.
There comes a time when a man believes everything is finished. That is a false belief. It is only the beginning. His grandfather’s words. He had thought of their meaning a great deal this past year. It was all he wanted. A new beginning.
His grandfather had also told him that time was a healer. But time was a thief, too. Time had robbed him of years, and of memories with his sons.
Judging by the look in Lucas’s eyes, Rio didn’t think his son was going to forgive him. Not that the boy had a choice. Rio had taken that from him and from Gabriel.
Time. He needed time and a quiet place where no one hunted him.
He constantly looked over his shoulder to search the rim as they dropped down into a hollow. There was no sign of life. That didn’t mean someone was not there. He wished he had his father’s field glasses. He wished for many of the things he had counted as his, but they were gone, and all he had was himself to depend on.
Lost in his thoughts, Rio almost missed the opening. He had gashed a mark low on the boulder opposite a crack in the lava. The brush screened the angled opening. From where he sat on his horse, it appeared too small to allow a horse through.
Once more he studied his back trail. He was uneasy. Every sense told him they were safe. His eyes saw no movement. He heard no sound above the howl of the wind. He inhaled deeply several times but caught no scent of smoke indicating a fire nearby.
He did not know of any man who would travel the lava beds unless he was running from something. If he had been driven to the lava itself, he would be lacerated by the glasslike shards and die there.
Rio stared once again at the crack in the wall. A note of added caution whispered through him. He watched the horses, for their mountain-bred senses could be trusted more than his own. Neither horse showed alarm.
His gaze traveled up to where the rock appeared to curve over the slitted opening. It would shield those below from any gunfire from the rim. But the way before him was narrow, in some places so narrow he had to ride with one foot free of the stirrup.
It was the quiet that added to his unrest He had no choice but to go forward. Inside, where water had hollowed out a cave, he had food and blankets cached. There was wood for a fire within the green oasis. The horses needed rest as much as they did. He needed a chance to explain to his sons where they were going and why.
But sometimes a man’s senses pick up sounds or a glimpse of something not strong enough to make an immediate impression, but strong enough to affect his thinking.
Rio’s instincts prowled with warnings that all was not right.
He motioned for Lucas to stay. With a gentle touch he started his horse toward the opening. Nothing. He walked the horse a few steps more. His nostrils flared as he caught the faint smell of dust. Surrounded by the sheer, towering walls of lava, there was no wind here. The dust could only drift from the green oasis.
Were he alone he would chance going forward, but he had the lives of his sons to think about before he made any move. Old as life itself was a man’s desire for sons to walk upon the earth of their father, and that of his father before him. Having lost his sons once, he would do nothing that would endanger them or risk having them taken from him again.
Now the mustang’s ears pricked forward. Rio heard the sound at the same time. It was a scraping noise like something brushing against rock. A noise a man might make if he grew impatient with one position too long and moved to ease a cramp in his leg.
Rio listened for long minutes but there was no repeat of the sound. With firm hands on the reins he touched his heels to the horse’s flanks and backed him out of the defile. Once clear, he motioned for his son to follow as he took the faint trail south.
They rounded a twist in the trail when a shout sounded behind them. Without looking back, Rio spurred his horse, with the other keeping pace, as he led the way out of the lava beds that should have offered him shelter and safety.
Acoma, on the other side of the Ceboletta Mesa, was the closest town. Rio thought the men hunting him would expect him to head there for food. But no man could reckon on his need for freedom. He headed for the North Plain.
Within an hour, black thunderheads piled high in the north sky. Rio eyed the building storm as he left his sons and rode his back trail to see who was following them.
There was no sign of pursuit.
That didn’t mean they would not follow. Rio rode back. Off to the west was the Divide. He thought of trails that would take him over the mountains, then south through the Arizona territory into Mexico. But without needed supplies, and a desert to cross, he knew they would have little chance of succeeding. All he wanted now was a small canyon where they could build a fire and rest with a measure of safety.
He rejoined his sons and, keeping silent, they pushed on once more. Twice he veered away from box canyons that would be death traps.
In a broken wash where rain had collected in the stone depressions, he called a halt. There was barely enough water for the horses to drink. Gabriel complained of hunger. Rio shared venison jerky with his sons.
“The men who stole our horses are still hunting me. We will keep riding,” Rio told his sons after each had a drink from the canteen.
“The men who burned our house? The ones who killed Mother?” Gabriel asked, pressing his small body against his brother’s.
“The same. Only now they are three.”
“You should have killed them all.”
Rio shot a long, hard look at Lucas. The accusation in his older son’s voice and gaze sent a fresh wave of pain through him. Rio was the first to look away.
“We will try to outrun the storm.”
“And the men?” Lucas asked in a taunting voice. “Will you outrun them, too?”
The whine of a bullet stopped Rio’s reply. Sand kicked up in front of his horse. He slapped his palm on the rump of the boys’ horse, yelling at them to ride south. He barely managed to keep his seat as his horse reared. Twigs flew from a shriveled, dried shrub less than a foot away. Rio quickly drew his rifle and laid covering fire, before he too rode on.
There were men who would brand him a coward for running,, but those men had no fear of having everything they worked for destroyed for no better reason than a taint of blood. Apache…hell. He knew the ways of the people, but he had never followed their war trail, never killed for the joy of battle, never counted coup against his white enemies. He had killed two men who had destroyed his life. Only two of five. And still they named him a renegade, a half-breed renegade they would shoot or hang on sight because he dared to fight back.
He thought of his wife and wondered if she watched over him and their sons? Did the dead know how the living fared? He shook off the black, despairing thoughts.
Running…even his son thought him a coward.
He caught up with his boys, motioned for them to keep to low ground as the storm began with great, fat raindrops plopping on the dry and thirsty land.
Rio had lived through his share of torrential rains and flash floods, but never experienced anything like the sudden, insane storm that smashed with howling, bansheelike winds strong enough to blow a man down. The hard-driven rain struck him like the lash of a leadtipped whip. He heard Gabriel cry out, and Lucas quickly hushed him.
Rio cursed the storm for hurting them, but blessed it, too. The rain hid them from their enemies.
No sooner had the thought come than his horse went down. Between the rolling burst of thunder and the searing flasshes of lightning, he never heard the shot that killed his horse.
Rio managed to kick free of the stirrups before the animal w
ent over. He grabbed hold of his canteen and the rifle. He cried out to see Lucas swing his horse around to come back to him.
At a run, Rio grasped the reins, turning the horse. He slipped, for footing was already treacherous, but his only thought was to find safety for his sons. Not until later did he think of the saddlebags he left behind, and the ammunition for his rifle.
He veered from the trail, heading over rocky ground that would take them through the Black Hills, then south into the mining towns. He needed a horse, supplies and a chance.
Just one chance and then, freedom.
But the Apache Coyote, the trickster all men feared or hated, was laughing at his meager attempts to run.
Lightning created a dance of destruction over the land. Wind struck them like a solid wall, the rain lashed their clothing. The horse shied, and Rio used his strength to stop the animal from bolting.
Rio had a nightmare glimpse of bleached deadwood off to their left just as the lightning struck and turned it into flame. The horse reared, and the reins were ripped from his hand. He felt the sting of a bullet skinning his knuckles. Rio reached for his sons as the horse reared and then, in the howl of the bitter, cold wind, was gone.
They were afoot. Without shelter, food or ammunition. And the hunters were closing in.
Chapter Two
Sarah Ann Westfall awoke with a start in the hours past midnight on the seventh night of a raging storm that swept Hillsboro and the surrounding New Mexico hills with an icy ferocity. Constantly battling the force of the wind and the flooding to get to the barn to feed her horses had left her with bone-deep aches.
Was it truly a noise she heard above the rolling thunder?
Or was this more of the vague unaccountable restlessness that had marked the past week?
She released a breath she did not realize she held and listened again. With one hand she clutched the quilt, but the other already gripped the loaded rifle she kept near her bed since Catherine had left on her marriage trip months ago.
The lurid flashes of lightning illuminated her sparsely furnished bedroom for a few seconds. Were she a weak-minded woman, she would indulge in a bout of pity for her lonely state.
But long ago, she had vowed to never be weak again. She had kept that vow. Still she caught herself wishing for either her cousin Mary’s comforting presence, full of practical reason and the warmth that was the very essence of the woman herself. Or if not Mary, then friend Catherine’s unfailing good humor to laugh away the feeling that something was wrong.
The two widows who had shared the house with her were gone, both remarried with Sarah’s good wishes for the love each woman had found.
There were no regrets for herself. Once again she lived alone. She just wanted a reason for the panic that was holding her still and frightened in her single bed.
“It’s just the storm winds wreaking havoc again,” she whispered. She remembered that two days ago a deadfall limb had been ripped from the cottonwood tree close by the house and smashed the side parlor window.
But that had happened during the daytime, gray and gloomy as the hours since the storm began. Night had a way of making every creak of wood in the old frame of the house into a flight of wild imaginings.
She lay there for long minutes, blaming the storm for the ragged nerves that set her mind on fire. The only cure, she knew, was to get up and go downstairs to reassure herself that she was indeed alone in the house.
Lightning danced beyond the windows as she untangled her nightgown and pushed aside the quilt. She did not light her lamp. She wanted both hands free for the rifle. The floor, despite the bedside rag rug, was chill and damp to her bare feet. She hefted the rifle and walked out into the hallway.
The door where once Mary and Catherine had their bedrooms stood open and empty. The stairs were lit with brief, indirect flashes of light, then instantly shrouded in darkness.
Sarah stood at the top of the staircase and listened. She could not identify the noise that woke her, and now it was impossible to hear over the growing howl of the wind and slashing pound of the rain.
By the very act of taking charge, she lost some of her fear. But she remained cautious, too. Keeping her back pressed to the wall, the rifle cocked and ready to fire, she made her way down slowly. Drafts crept beneath her nightgown. She shivered from the chill, but fought against an inner cold, too.
Telling herself she behaved with foolish caution did not lend the courage to step boldly into the parlor.
Here she hugged one side of the wide doorway. From the two front windows came the flickering lights or rapid strikes close by that revealed the room was empty. A few coals still glowed in the fireplace.
When she stepped into the hall again, a stronger draft of cold air swept over her bare feet. The weight of the rifle, the very tension of her grip, seemed to pull her arms downward. She did not understand why she hesitated. But her mind quickly took advantage to supply tales told over the years of women alone who were terrorized by men without conscience.
Her rough head shake sent the long, single braid of straight black hair swinging against her back. This was not the time to be afraid.
She sensed something, someone motionless and most dangerous, beyond the darkened doorway to the kitchen. Alarm gripped her as she sought to steady herself. Her senses all were alerted. She smelled the wet mustiness of rain-soaked cloth. No wild imagining. From where she stood, she could see the lightning flashes that showed the large round table, the chairs and part of the back door.
The draft was no longer chill, but cold, icy cold. Goose bumps raced over her skin. She forced a swallow, thought about calling out a demand to know who was hiding, but the sudden dryness of her mouth spread to her throat. No amount of swallowing sent moisture to aid her.
A few steps more. Sarah couldn’t seem to take them. She thought of Rafe and Mary’s visit with the children at Christmas and Rafe’s insistence that she get a dog. She had refused, as she refused his offer to hire someone besides young Ramon to help with chores.
She was Sarah Ann Westfall, who had survived a marriage made of rosy bowers that quickly slid into hell. She needed no man. She didn’t want one.
She had her precious breeding stock, the horses she loved, and the home she had struggled to gain and keep. No one knew the price she had paid for it Not her dearest cousin Mary, or friend Catherine. She had made a life for herself, alone, and it was enough. It was peace.
She refused to allow fear to send her scurrying to the safety upstairs. Living the way she did, isolated from neighbors and far from town, with no one but herself to depend on, she could not afford to quake and hide at every noise. She was not about to let someone steal from her.
She pressed against the wall at her back, sliding her bare feet along the floor so not to make a sound.
But she heard her own shallow breathing, felt and listened to the racing beat of her heart.
Inches from the doorway, she stopped again.
There! On the kitchen floor near the back door were wet, dark spots. They were there and gone in the few moments of flickering lightning.
Damp palms and dry throat. Goose bumps and cold sweat. Fear quaked inside her slim, hard-workened body.
Sarah shifted her hold on the rifle, bringing the barrel up and taking a firmer grip. She was not about to walk through the doorway leading with the barrel, only to have it yanked from her hands.
She forced herself to calmly think of the kitchen, with the corner cupboard off to the left, the pantry door to the right, dry sink beneath the windows, wood box and stove against the outside back wall. Then the door. In the middle were the table and chairs. If she were hiding in there, the pantry would be the most logical choice.
There grew within her a fierce need to step inside the room and confront whoever waited. Above the increased drumming in her ears, the storm outside retreated to a muted roar. She reminded herself she came from hearty stock. Her grandmother protected her home from Indians when she had come to the
territory as a bride, her mother stood in defense of the town when the marauding bands of soldiers turned loose after the Civil War had raided the Mexican rancheros along the Rio Grande.
Courage. She had inherited it in abundance. Or so she often claimed.
One step. Two. Caution or a bold entrance?
Sarah let caution win. The strength of danger she felt waiting had increased until she breathed its essence.
Her foot slid a little where water had puddled on the floor. She froze. Someone had stood there. Stood in the doorway and looked out into the hall. Watching her? All this time? Her teeth clenched to stop the inner trembling from making an audible sound. She felt him close. But where?
Dear Lord, was there only one?
Please, let there be only one.
Her night-adjusted eyes swept over the once-familiar kitchen. Now, with the eerie flashes of lightning, the room took on a frightening gloom that formed shadows where none should be.
Sarah made a half turn and stared at the partially closed pantry door. She leveled the rifle, her index finger coming to rest on the trigger.
“Come out. Come out or I’ll shoot.” She surprised herself with the firmly delivered demand. She edged around the table, gently squeezing the trigger.
There was a second when the overpowering sense of someone’s presence swept over her. Before she could react, her wrist was manacled by iron-hard fingers that ripped her steading hand from the rifle’s barrel. The ceiling beam splintered with the blast of one shot, and then the rifle was jerked from her hand.
A cold steel blade flashed before her eyes, descending toward her throat. She didn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. A powerful anger tore through her fear. She had vowed never to be helpless again.
Sarah threw herself backward and to the side, away from the wicked blade. She kicked out and heard a grunt of surprise. If there was pain she didn’t feel it.
Theresa Michaels Page 2
