Only Mine

by Lowell, Elizabeth

  “Please call me Red,” she said, sighing, “or Jessica or Jessi or whatever suits.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No thanks are necessary. If no one out here wants his family name known, it stands to reason nicknames and Christian names would be used instead. One must, after all, call others something.”

  Rafe’s smiled faded as he looked out the window. A familiar tension stole through his body. He had spent enough time in rough places with rougher men to know that trouble was afoot.

  The men standing around the Lonetree wagon were part of the crowds of drifters, outlaws, and prospectors who had gathered in Canyon City to await the opening of the passes. Lust for gold ran through the men, but there was nothing they could do about that lust for the moment. So they talked about women waiting for them with white thighs spread, and they drank, and they bullied people less coarse than themselves.

  The crowd outside had been getting rowdier with each drink from the bottle that was being passed around. When Rafe had passed them on the way to the store, he had heard their speculations on the subject of fancy foreign ladies, and if they had a special way of riding their men as well as riding their horses. Rafe doubted that the men’s thoughts had become loftier with each passage of the bottle.

  “Mrs. Lonetree—”

  “That’s too formal,” she insisted softly.

  Rafe looked away from the window. “All right, Red. Don’t go back to the wagon unless your husband is with you.”

  “Why?”

  “The men out there are drunk. They aren’t used to decent women.”

  “I see.” Jessica sighed. “I have a few more purchases to make, in any case.”

  Silently, Rafe accompanied her down the counters loaded with dry goods.

  “Perhaps you could help me,” she said after a few moments. “I’ve never bought clothes already made. Does this look the right size?”

  Rafe stared in disbelief at the Levis she was holding up.

  “Ma’am, I doubt that your husband could get one of his arms in those, much less a leg.”

  She smiled. “I was thinking of myself, not Wolfe.”

  Rafe made an odd sound as he measured the size of the denims and the delicate girl whose quality shone through her travel-rumpled clothes.

  “That cloth is much too harsh for someone like you,” he said simply.

  Jessica slanted Rafe a sideways look and saw that he wasn’t teasing. He truly thought she was as delicate as she looked.

  “You would be amazed at how sturdy I really am,” she said mildly.

  After shaking out the Levis, Jessica held them against her waist. The legs fell to the floor and beyond.

  “Blast.”

  She put back the Levis and rummaged for yet smaller ones. In time she found a pair that had been cut for a boy rather than a man. She held them up. She suspected they would be too loose in the waist and frankly snug in the hips. On the other hand, they were the smallest Levis she had yet found.

  “Would you hold these for me?” she asked, handing over the Levis to Rafe.

  He accepted them without a word and watched with increasing amusement while Jessica rummaged among the shirts for one that might possibly be small enough. He was still smiling indulgently when he sensed a presence behind his back. He turned around and saw Wolfe Lonetree standing there, measuring him for a shroud.

  “Rafe, what do you think of—oh, good, you’re back,” Jessica said, holding out a shirt to Wolfe. “What do you think of this?”

  “Too small by half.”

  The clipped tones of Wolfe’s voice brought Jessica’s head up. She looked at him and sensed the anger that blazed just beneath his impassive surface.

  “I rather thought it was too large,” she muttered, measuring her arm against the sleeve.

  Abruptly, Wolfe realized that Jessica was buying clothes for herself. “Your ladyship, we already have enough clothes for two packhorses. In any case, I won’t have you parading your limbs like a saloon girl throughout the West.”

  He took the Levis from Rafe and tossed them onto a table before he turned back to Jessica.

  “Did you manage to purchase the dry goods on the list?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Despite the red flags on Jessica’s cheekbones, her voice was civilized. Wolfe didn’t take the hint.

  “Will wonders never cease.” Wolfe took the shirt from Jessica and threw it after the Levis.

  Her eyes narrowed into ice-blue slits as she measured the grim lines on Wolfe’s face.

  “I’ll bring the horses from the stable,” he said flatly. “By then you should have managed to get back to the wagon. The storekeeper’s boy will help you carry everything.”

  With a black glance at Rafe, Wolfe turned and strode out of the store.

  Rafe let out a long, silent breath. Seeing Jessica’s husband in his dark, well-worn trail clothes instead of city fashions had convinced Rafe that Wolfe Lonetree was indeed the halfbreed who was reputed to know the mountains so well. That same halfbreed was also reputed to be the best rifle shot west of the Mississippi and a warrior to the steel marrow of his bones.

  Rumor hadn’t mentioned that Wolfe was fiercely possessive of his wife, but Rafe would be happy to pass the word along to the next poor fool who innocently warmed himself at the hearth of Jessica’s smile.

  “Ma’am,” Rafe said, tipping his hat. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “Don’t feel you must rush off. Wolfe isn’t as fierce as he sometimes looks.”

  Rafe smiled thinly. “I believe you’re right. He’s easily twice as fierce. He’s also damned, er, darned protective of you. Not that I blame him. If I had anything even a fraction as valuable as your smile, I’d be real careful of it, too.”

  Jessica’s smile flashed, then faded. As Rafe turned to leave, she said softly, “God speed, Rafael Moran.”

  She gave the name its fluid Spanish pronunciation, lending the elegance of music to the syllables. Rafe turned back, struck by hearing his name spoken so beautifully.

  “How did you know my full name was Rafael?”

  “It suits you.” Impulsively, Jessica touched Rafe’s sleeve. “Do take care of yourself. Gentlemen are uncommon anywhere in the world.”

  “I’m not all that gentle, ma’am. But thank you. You stay close to your husband. Real close. This town has an ugly feel to it right now. Reminds me of Singapore, which is to say it reminds this sinner of Hell.”

  Rafe tipped his hat again and withdrew to the end of the store where harness was displayed. He reached for a long, coiled bullwhip. With smooth, almost invisible motions of his left wrist, he tested the whip’s balance and flexibility. Twenty-five feet of supple leather writhed as though alive beneath his skilled hand.

  With a sigh at having lost a pleasant companion, Jessica turned away. She gave a longing glance to the Levis and shirt that Wolfe had discarded, but made no effort to retrieve them. She was still shocked by the primitive masculine possessiveness he had shown. She wanted to tell Wolfe that he needn’t be jealous of Rafe; she would rather have a single kind look from Wolfe than a week of kindness from Rafael Moran.

  On the other hand, a bit of kindness from a stranger was better than no kindness at all.

  Jessica went back to the dry-goods counter, found that Wolfe had paid for the purchases, and waited for the lanky teenage boy to gather up all the packages. The task would have gone more quickly if he had been able to keep his eyes on what he was doing rather than on the single tendril of mahogany hair that had slid out from beneath Jessica’s hat. The silky, subtle fire of the curl fascinated the boy, as did her light foreign accent and softly curving lips.

  “Is everything all right?” Jessica asked finally.

  Caught staring, the boy blushed to the roots of his badly cut hair. “Sorry, ma’am. I’ve never seen anything like you outside of the fairy tale books Ma used to read to me.”

  “That’s very sweet of you,” Jessica said, hiding her smile. The boy
’s transparent approval was like a balm after Wolfe’s constant anger. “Here. Let me get the door. You have far too many packages.”

  Jessica opened the door, caught a package that was teetering on the edge of falling, and gathered her skirts above her ankles to avoid the mud and manure of the street. She looked both ways, having narrowly avoided disaster earlier when a rider had gone racing through the streets at a dead gallop, whooping and swinging an empty whiskey bottle overhead like a sword in one hand while firing a six-shooter with the other. The performance would have been more impressive if the pony hadn’t stopped suddenly, sending the rider head over heels into the muck.

  “Careful, ma’am,” the boy said. “The town has gotten real lively since word of gold came out.”

  “Gold?”

  “Somewhere up in those mountains. San Juan country.”

  “That’s where we’re going.”

  “Thought so.”

  “Why?”

  “Your husband paid in raw gold,” the boy said simply. “Bought horses at the stable with gold, too. Word went through here like wildfire.”

  When they were closer to the wagon, the boy looked hesitantly at Jessica. “Tell your husband to be careful, ma’am. Gold brings out the lowest kind of devil in men. From what I’ve heard, Wolfe Lonetree is a bad man in a fight, but he’s only one man. I’d hate to see a delicate girl like you come to grief.”

  Jessica looked at the boy’s pale brown eyes and saw that he was older in many ways than she had thought from his awkwardness around her. She suspected that frontier living cut short the innocence of childhood. The boy was at least six years younger than she was, but he had an adult’s understanding of the harshness of life.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “Wolfe will—”

  “Well, what do we have here?” asked a rough voice, cutting across Jessica’s reassurances. “Mighty fine clothes for a town like this. Mighty pretty gal, too. Come here, sugarplum. Old Ralph wants a good look at you.”

  Jessica ignored the man who was standing at the rear of the wagon, wearing a split riding coat, muddy clothes and a wide leer.

  “Put the packages in the back of the wagon, please,” she said to the boy.

  While she spoke, she climbed into the wagon seat. Beneath the cover of her flowing skirts, her hand closed around the buggy whip.

  “Ma’am,” the boy said. His face was pale, his voice urgent.

  “Thank you. You may go back to the store now.”

  Jessica smiled reassuringly, wanting only to remove the boy from the reach of the men who were gathering around the wagon.

  “Please go. My husband will be along soon. Perhaps you could see what’s keeping him?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Ralph’s hand shot out, but the boy twisted aside, evading capture. He sprinted for the stable, sending clots of mud flying with each step.

  Jessica’s fingers tightened on the stock of the whip. She sat quietly, looking at the horizon, acting as though she were alone. The comments of the men gathering around the wagon told her she wasn’t alone, but they weren’t saying anything she chose to overhear.

  A heavy, dirty hand grabbed a fold of her hem.

  “By God, I haven’t felt anything this soft since Atlanta. Bet it’s even softer underneath.”

  Several men laughed. The sound was as coarse as the muddy street.

  The few townspeople brave enough to walk past Main Street’s raucous saloon saw what was happening, but hesitated to interfere. The eight men around the wagon were heavily armed and drunk enough to be ugly without being incapacitated in the least. They made a formidable gang.

  Nor was Jessica known to the townspeople as other than the wife of a halfbreed. It wasn’t a high personal recommendation in the raw frontier town, where Indians were thought to be worth a lot less than a good coon hound.

  “A sawbuck says she’s wearing silk underwear,” called one of the men.

  Ralph’s hand tightened on Jessica’s skirt. “Well, sugarplum, is you is or is you ain’t?”

  That witticism sent one man laughing until he could barely stand without the help of the wagon.

  “Come on,” Ralph said. “Show a little leg to the lads.”

  Jessica ignored him.

  “Look at me when I talk to you,” he snarled. “Any slut that lies down with a halfbreed should be damn grateful that a white man will even touch her.”

  When Jessica felt her skirt shift, she wrenched the wagon whip free and brought its heavy stock down across the bridge of Ralph’s nose with all the force of her small body. Bellowing with rage and pain, Ralph let go of the skirt and grabbed his face. Blood spurted between his fingers. Before Jessica could turn to face the rest of her attackers, Ralph grabbed her wrist, pulling her off balance.

  There was a sound like a pistol shot, followed by a high scream. The grip on her arm loosened. From the corner of her eye, Jessica saw Rafe running toward her, wielding the supple bullwhip with lethal skill. As she watched, his left arm moved slightly and the long bullwhip leaped forward. The odd, pistol-like sound came again. Close to her, one of the attacker’s hats seemed to leap up and fell away in two pieces. Blood poured from a gash over the man’s eye.

  Suddenly, the men were reaching beneath their coats.

  “They have guns!” Jessica yelled.

  She brought the buggy whip down as hard as she could on the closest man, but knew it wouldn’t be enough. There were five men left untouched, four more were running from the saloon, and they were all armed.

  “Get down!” Rafe yelled.

  Jessica ignored him, for she was too busy laying about with the buggy whip.

  Rafe’s bullwhip sang out again, but this time it wrapped very gently around Jessica’s waist. The yank Rafe gave wasn’t gentle at all. It pulled her right out of the wagon and into his arms as gunfire erupted around them. Pressed between the side of the wagon and Rafe’s big body, Jessica saw little of the fight.

  What she did see astonished her. Wolfe was down the street in front of the stable, two hundred yards away, and he was picking off men just as fast as he could lever bullets into the firing chamber. Lead whined and crashed around the wagon. The withering hail of bullets sent the men scattering.

  All that prevented every one of the attackers from being killed was the fact that Jessica was in the middle of the fracas.

  “Son of a bitch, but that man can shoot,” Rafe said reverently.

  A lull came in the firing.

  “Jessi!” yelled Wolfe.

  “I’m all right!” she called back.

  “If I were you, boys,” Rafe said in a normal tone, “I’d see how far down into that mud I could get before Lonetree reloads.”

  The wisdom of Rafe’s advice became apparent as Wolfe swapped rifle for carbine and opened fire again. The men who hadn’t fallen already threw themselves full length onto the soggy ground.

  “Hang onto the wagon, ma’am,” Rafe said.

  Blindly, Jessica grabbed the rough wood.

  Rafe stepped back until he could see all of the men.

  “Keep your heads down, boys, or you’ll lose them.”

  It was the only thing Rafe said. It was all he had to say, for the whip in his hand was like a living thing, flicking restlessly over the fallen men, plucking at their hats and coats, nipping at fingers that crept closer to hidden guns. No sharp pistolsounds came from the bullwhip now, simply an unnerving hissing and seething as leather licked lightly over flesh.

  One of the men moaned and crossed himself.

  “That’s the idea,” Rafe said encouragingly. “Never too late for a man to get religion.”

  Wolfe arrived at a dead run, carbine in hand. Behind him came the boy from the dry-goods store, carrying the empty rifle. One by one Wolfe went to the frightened men, rolled them over with his boot, and memorized their faces. They stared back at him and knew they had never come closer to dying.

  When the last man had been memorized, Wolfe stepped back. “If I s
ee any of you near my wife again, I’ll kill you.”

  Jessica looked at Wolfe and had no doubt of it. Even as she told herself she should be appalled, she wasn’t. She sensed she would have been brutally treated by men who knew nothing of her but her name and her sex.

  “I’m counting to ten,” Wolfe said in a neutral tone that was more threatening than a shout. As he spoke, he began feeding cartridges into the carbine. “Anyone who is in sight when I’m finished had better be shooting. One. Two. Three. Four.”

  There was a frantic scrambling as men came up out of the mud and stumbled down the street. Most were limping. Several could use only one arm.

  One man didn’t move at all.

  Somehow, Jessica wasn’t surprised that it was the man called Ralph who had died. Neither was Rafe. He looked from the mohonless man to Wolfe and nodded.

  “Good job, Lonetree. You’re everything I’ve heard you were. But you’re still only one man and if s a long way to Cal’s spread.”

  There was nothing friendly in Wolfe’s blue-black eyes as he levered a cartridge into the firing chamber and turned on Rafe.

  “What the hell business of yours is it where we’re going?”

  9

  “R AFE is the paragon’s brother,” Jessica said quickly, stepping between the two men.

  There was a tense silence before Wolfe spoke.

  “Willow’s brother?” he asked, looking over Jessica’s head at the handsome blond man.

  Rafe nodded.

  A subtle change came over Wolfe as understanding began to sink through the adrenaline of battle. There was a visible lessening of the predatory readiness that had radiated from him when he saw Rafe standing so close to Jessica. For the space of several breaths, Wolfe looked intently at the big man who used a whip with chilling skill. Finally, Wolfe nodded slowly.

  Jessica let out a slow breath and stepped aside once more.

  “I should have guessed,” Wolfe said. “Same honey-licking drawl, same hair, same catlike shape to the eyes.” He smiled at Rafe for the first time, uncocked the carbine, and held out his right hand. “Willow’s a damn sight prettier, though.”

  “I’d hope to shout.” Rafe smiled slowly and shook Wolfe’s hand. “I suppose you’ve heard this before, but you’re one hell of a shot with a long gun.”