Chapter 22
Dust blew high and hard behind him. Zack paused at the edge of the yard where a small split rail fence leaned drunkenly around a few goats. A neat frame house stood beneath a wind-twisted cottonwood. A woman hung clothes out to dry on scraggly bushes, her skirt flapping in the wind. He put a hand to his face, wondering what her reaction would be if he just walked up to her without warning. In his dark beard and torn shirt and pants, he probably looked frightening.
After a brief hesitation, he moved toward her. He had little choice, and perhaps he could form an explanation before she screamed for her husband to come running with a rifle.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said when he got close enough for her to hear him. She whirled around with a gasp, reaching for a rifle propped in the bushes. She had it up and leveled at him before he could lift his hands high enough for her to see he was not armed.
“Who are you?” the woman demanded. “What do you want?” Zack eyed her closely. She was startled, but not afraid. There was no fear in the calm green eyes watching him. “I want food,” he said slowly. His voice was rough from disuse, and his throat felt thick.
“Food.” She kept the rifle on him, assessing him with a steady gaze.
The wind blew around him, kicking up dust devils and peppering him with grit. His stomach growled as the wind brought a faint whiff of roasted meat. It was what had lured him to this house, that tantalizing odor and the hope of help. He was still so weak, his body aching and unable to answer the demands he put on it. It had taken him three days just to get down out of the hills. He swayed slightly, and managed to stay on his feet, though his arms drooped from where he held them over his head. She was still watching him closely, and Zack closed his eyes. He was near the end of his endurance, but his body was too stubborn to surrender just yet.
Zack felt a rising dismay when his knees buckled, and he sagged slowly to the ground. His eyes snapped open. He saw a faint flicker in the woman’s face, and the muzzle of the rifle lowered slightly. The clothes on the bush snapped in the wind, a flutter of muslin and cotton that punctuated the tense silence. He heard the rattle of a windmill turning slowly, and a faint creak of chains. Goats milled and bleated harshly.
“Ma’am,” he croaked, “I won’t hurt you. I just need some food and water . . .”
His voice trailed into silence, and he felt the terrible weakness steal over him. He clung desperately to consciousness, but a numbing weariness sapped him of the strength to continue talking. He just gazed at her mutely, and saw her take a step toward him.
“Try anything funny, mister, and I’ll shoot you between the eyes,” she said finally. Her voice was firm, but soft.
He wanted to assure her he wasn’t capable of trying anything funny, but couldn’t summon the energy. His head nodded once, and the rifle barrel lowered to point at the ground. He knelt there in the sun and wind on his knees with his hands spread on his thighs and waited as she crossed to the house, looking back every so often as if expecting him to leap after her. If he hadn’t been so tired, he would have laughed. Never in his life had he been so helpless, and it wasn’t a good feeling.
Here he was, on his knees in the dirt, begging for food from a stranger.
It was certainly humbling.
She returned. He smelled the bowl of food she carried, and it snapped his head up.
“Here,” she said. “1 brought you some stew. Come eat in the shade where it’s not so warm.” Zack noticed the small table set up under a scrub oak with twisted branches and dusty leaves. He pushed painfully to his feet, staggered a step, and jerked away when she put out a hand to help him.
“I’ll get there,” he muttered, realizing he was being ungrateful, but too proud to take her hand. It was bad enough asking for her food. To allow a woman to offer him her strong shoulder was too much.
She seemed to understand and watched as he crossed the few yards to the table under the tree. The chair creaked loudly as he sank into it, and the woman put the bowl of stew down in front of him.
“There’s bread and stewed apples. I’ll get them.” She came back with the rest, bringing her own bowl of stew. By that time, Zack had eaten most of his, feeling his belly knot at the unexpected bounty. He chewed slowly and washed it down with cool well water. Then he looked up to find his hostess watching him.
“Thank you,” he said simply. There weren’t words enough to convey how much he appreciated the food. He had the thought it had literally saved his life and wondered if she guessed that already.
“You’re welcome.” She smiled faintly and tucked a strand of dark blond hair behind her ear. It fluttered in loose curls around her face. “My name is
Sally Martin.”
He hesitated. Zack Banning was well known in some places. Hawk might frighten her. He looked away.
“My mother named me Zachary, but most folks call me Zack.”
“Well, Zack, you look pretty tired. If you like, I can offer you a bed of straw in my barn and a good breakfast in the morning.” His gaze shifted back to her. “I have no way to pay you.”
“I am not asking for payment. I made the offer. You may accept it or not, as you like.”
She stood up and cleared the small table, piling the dishes with slow, unhurried movements. Sally was sturdy, with capable hands and a slender frame.
What will your husband say?” he asked, and she paused with one hand hovering over an empty plate still smeared with the sticky juices of stewed apples.
“Nothing. He’d dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
Her eyes met his, a clear, cool green, direct and unshadowed. “So am I.
He was a good man, and I miss him.” Zack stayed in the chair under the oak for a while, and saw her come back out of the house and go back to the basket of wash she was spreading on bushes. Then she fed the goats and chickens and went into the barn. He saw a clump of hay come sailing out into a small corral, and a rangy horse ambled over to munch.
With a pained grimace, he heaved himself out of the chair and hobbled to the barn. She had her skirts hiked up a little and tucked into her waistband while she forked hay out the side door of the barn.
“I’ll do that,” he said.
Sally turned to look at him. “No. You don’t look like you can do much of anything. My guess is, those are bullet holes in that shirt.” It was more a statement than a question, and Zack grew still. “Yes.”
“Thought so.” She studied his face in the dusty gloom of the barn for a long moment. “Rest today. If you want to help me tomorrow or the next day, I’ll be glad of it.”
The dizziness made him reel slightly, and though pride nudged him to insist on helping, common sense won out.
She left him alone in the barn, and returned only to bring him a few blankets. Zack managed to stay upright until she left again, then made up a bed in the straw and rolled up in the blankets. Through the open door, he could see the sun sliding into a crimson and gold thread of sky. As it disappeared, the last fiery rays shot up in splinters of light that made him think of the firelight in Deborah’s hair. Dark fire, glowing and shimmering with radiance.
“Who’s Deborah?”
Zack looked up in surprise, eyes narrowing slightly. A brisk wind blew as he leaned on the fence. “Why?”
“Because sometimes at night I hear you say her name.” Sally shrugged.
“Just curious. Your wife?”
“No.” Zack looked away from her. He’d been at her ranch for a month, slowly recuperating from his injuries. The day after he’d arrived, she’d come into the barn to wake him for breakfast and found him delirious and raving.
His wound had suppurated during the night. If not for Sally, he would have died. She’d removed that bullet, tended his wound, and even removed the bullet still in his arm.
Sally Martin was a very capable, undemanding woman. He’d never known anyone like her. She asked for nothing, not even help. She offered quiet companionship and gentle humor, and in exchange, h
e did what little he could to help her. He had learned that she was very self-sufficient and content to remain on her small ranch.
“It suits me,” she said in reply to his question about the suitability of her living out here all alone. “After Marty died, I just went on. At first, because it was the only thing I could do, and it helped me focus on the everyday things that make up life. And then, I realized that even alone, I could enjoy sunsets, the flight of an eagle, the smell of freshly baked bread.” Her mouth had curved into a smile. “I just have to admire them with the goats.” As Zack slowly regained his strength, he began practicing with a pistol again. Sally gave him the Colt that had belonged to her husband, along with a worn leather holster for it. Sometimes, in the evenings when the chores were done and before the sun set, she came to watch him draw and shoot tin cans balanced on the top rail of a fence.
“You’re good,” she said once, her eyes shrewd. “Even with that sore arm.” “It’s a good thing I’m right-handed.”
“Can you shoot with your left?” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Passably well.”
“If I were you, I’d work on that one too.” He turned to look at her as she leaned against the trunk of a cottonwood that slanted over a small trickle of water. As he shoved more bullets into the cylinder of the Colt, he asked, “Why?”
“A man like you can’t afford not to be the best.” He knew, then, that she must know who he was. She’d never said. Nor asked. He felt a spurt of warmth for this quiet woman with calm green eyes and a peace that lent him strength.
“You’ll be going soon, won’t you?” she asked quietly.
He felt her eyes on him as he focused on the pistol. “I think so.” He slid the last bullet into an empty chamber and clicked the cylinder into place. “I’m almost ready.”
Unanswered questions hung in the air between them, and he knew she wouldn’t ask. He looked up at her. He owed her the truth. She’d given much, and asked nothing of him.
“My name is Zack Banning. The men who shot me and left me to die in the desert work for the man who has Deborah. She . . .” He paused, not knowing how to put it into words. She what? She was his woman? She was his life? He didn’t know. He didn’t know how to explain to anyone else what he’d never been able to explain to himself.
“She’s important to you,” Sally finished for him, and he flashed her a grateful glance.
“Yes. And I think she may be in danger.”
“Then you have to help her.”
“Yes.”
Zack turned back to the fence and the cans neatly arranged in a row. He felt a spurt of impatience. It was taking too long. He had to regain his complete strength and ability with a gun. Every day put Deborah in more danger, and he had no idea what had happened in his absence. He only hoped she was all right.
His legs bent slightly at the knee and his hand flashed down to the holstered gun tied low on his thigh, sweeping it up and out in a blur of movement. The air was filled with the sharp rattle of gunfire and the ping of tin cans flying off a fence rail.
He straightened and reloaded without looking at Sally. He could feel her gaze on him. His muscles were working again. Only traces of the stiffness remained. He looked up finally, and was startled by the slight sheen of tears in Sally Martin’s eyes. She cleared her throat.
“You’re ready to go.”
“Tomorrow.”
She nodded. “Take the horse. No, don’t protest. You can’t very well walk. And you can bring him back when you get another one.” Zack thought of his gray and hoped the stallion was still at the Double D. “We can take the wagon into town,” he said and saw a flash of relief in her eyes. “Yes. We can do that.” He lay in his bed in the barn that night and thought about Deborah. She was so different from Sally, with her cool poise and elegance of features. Sally was sturdy, a sensible woman with no frills or elegance to her. Yet she was as precious in her way as Deborah, and he felt a pang of regret that he would be leaving her behind. There had been nothing between them but a quiet companionship, but it had been healing and peaceful, and he’d needed that.
A faint smile curved his mouth as he had the thought that Deborah and Sally would probably be friends if they met under the right circumstances.
The wagon rolled to a halt in front of the general store, and Sally looked around. “It sure is busy here. I’ve never seen so many wagons unless it’s a Saturday.”
“Must be something going on. A funeral, maybe.” She laughed. “Or an election.”
“Sometimes that’s the same thing.” He set the brake on the buckboard and glanced at the crowded streets. He didn’t see anyone he knew yet.
“I usually go into San Ysabel,” Sally said when he looked back at her.
“Sirocco is a little farther away from my ranch.”
“I appreciate your bringing me here.” Her smile was wry. “I might need to hang around to haul you out again.” He leaped lightly from the buckboard, leaning in to tie the reins to the brake he’d set. “Let’s hope not. Come on. I’ll help you down.” Sally stood and leaned over, bracing herself with her hands on his muscled forearms as he lifted her down and swung her to the wooden sidewalk. She wore a sensible sunbonnet to shade her face, and the brim kept her eyes in shadow.
“Not only handsome,” she said with a forced laugh, “but a gentleman.
I’m going to miss you, Zack.”
“Handsome?” He laughed ruefully, touching his face with one hand. “I doubt my own mother would recognize me now.” She eyed him speculatively. “With your beard gone and a little meat on your bones, you’ve changed. I didn’t know you before, but if you looked as dangerous as you do now, it’s a wonder people didn’t avoid you.”
“They did,” he said grimly.
People passed them, and wagons rolled down the middle of the dusty street with noisy rattles. Sally studied him for a moment, then smiled.
“Would you like to help me with my shopping before you leave me? I could use a little advice.”
“Sure. As long as you aren’t talking about female gewgaws, I’m game.” She laughed, and tucked her hand over his forearm. “I would not dream of asking you for any advice on those. Not only would it be useless, but it would be embarrassing for both of us.” Zack laughed with her and let her draw him along toward Potter’s General Store. Sally had been generous and open with him, and he could tell that she didn’t want him to leave. He also knew she’d never admit it. She was not a woman to try to keep a man by tears and pleas. But it hurt him, nonetheless, to know that she’d come to depend upon him for companionship and would truly miss him.
Sometimes he’d seen her looking at him wistfully, a soft expression on her face and her lips trembling slightly. She would have been mortified if she’d known he recognized her emotions, and neither of them had mentioned it or allowed any awkwardness to mar their friendship.
Reaching around her, Zack pushed open the door to the General Store and held it for Sally. He let it close behind him with a jangle of the bell that announced new customers.
“Potter’s probably in the back,” he said as Sally began pricing a copper kettle. “I’ll see if I can find him.”
“Zack.”
He turned, brow lifted. She was holding out some greenbacks, and he stiffened. She colored hotly, and her voice was defensive.
“You earned it, helping me and all.”
“You fed me and gave me a place to sleep. Keep it. I don’t want your money.”
“Well, you should buy some new clothes. Marty’s don’t fit you that well.
You’re taller. And leaner.”
“They’ll do.” He relaxed slightly. “I appreciate it, but I can’t take your money.”
She sighed and slipped it back into her reticule. “I had forgotten how stubborn you can be.”
Grinning, he leaned down and kissed her smooth cheek. “A disastrous mistake.”
Sally tilted back her head, her sweet face lighting. “Yes. I’ll know better next time. I’ll tr
ick you.” He laughed, and was still smiling when Mr. Potter came out from the back. The older man jerked to a halt, and his eyes grew big.
“Banning?” he whispered hoarsely, fixing Zack with a frightened stare.
“I heard you were dead.”
“Looks like you heard wrong,” Zack said coolly, letting his hand fall away from Sally’s arm.
Potter eyed him for a long moment. “You look different, somehow.”
“A couple of months older, maybe.” A rusty laugh echoed, but Potter didn’t look truly amused. He kept staring at Zack, and it was obvious he was uncomfortable.
“You still working for Diamond?” he asked after a moment of tense silence.
“Maybe.” Zack didn’t elaborate, and Potter didn’t ask. For a brief moment, he considered asking the older man what had happened between Diamond and Velazquez, and if Deborah was all right, but didn’t. He could find that out from the sheriff. He had every intention of pressing charges for attempted murder against Don Francisco, but he wanted to wait until the right time. If there was a chance Deborah would be hurt by it, he’d handle it another way.
“What can I do for you?” Potter asked finally, and Zack gestured to Sally. “She’s buying. I’m just looking.”
“Certainly. What may I help you with, ma’am?” Potter bent to help Sally with her purchases, and the murmur of their voices discussed the merits of different copper kettles.
Restless, and filled with a growing impatience, Zack moved to the store window and stared out at the street. He saw carriages roll past, and heard a burst of laughter from down the street. Even on Saturdays, Sirocco had never been this busy. He massaged his right arm, flexing and unflexing his fingers as he watched people pass.
Frank Albright rode past, his hat pulled low over his face, but unmistakable. Zack stiffened. Albright, the man Diamond used to run off squatters and even legal homesteaders. If he was in town, odds were, so was Diamond.
Comanche Moon Page 28
