by Jill Gregory
I believe enough for both of us. If only I could explain that to him. All I need is a chance.
Maybe, if Line McCray walked into Cole’s trap and gave up without a fight, she would get it.
* * *
Hoofbeats broke the burning stillness of the afternoon, firing across the dry dust of the land like rifle shots.
“Sounds like company,” Tommy chirped, shooting an eager look at Cole as he bolted toward the window.
“Better lay down the welcome mat,” the bounty hunter returned calmly.
Gray Feather took up his position at the far left parlour window; Wade and Tommy each moved into place behind curtains along the rest of the main floor.
Cole paused in the hall, trying to shake off the ghosts drifting around him. He had been here to see Wells that one day he’d left Juliana, but they’d talked outside. It was the first time he’d come back inside this house since the day his parents and sister had been killed.
Wells had made changes over the years, yet the rooms—two parlours, kitchen, study, and the winding oak staircase—were all eerily as he remembered, and he knew the sunny bedrooms above would be familiar too. A few pieces of furniture remained, tugging at his memory: the armchair where his grandfather had sat when they played chess, the little Queen Anne desk in the parlour where his mother had copied down favorite recipes for Caitlin’s future use, the delicately painted seascape over the mantel, peach and yellow and blue shades—sunset colors, his mother had always said—all blending together in a tranquil scene. The rest was different. Different furnishings, different knickknacks. Yet it was home, unmistakable, immutable.
He was surprised to find that the ghosts felt friendly, at peace. The memories conjured up the moment he had stepped across the threshold this morning were not memories of death, as he had feared, but memories of life—of the days when this had been a grand and happy house, when his grandfather had run the ranch with his unique brand of wisdom and vigorous energy, and the wild horses had stormed through the canyons and arroyos like thunder, and when delicious cooking smells and his mother’s and sister’s laughter had filled the air with feminine delight.
McCray’s voice outside in the yard blasted away the sweet, distant memories of his youth. Cole’s senses jerked back to the present, and every muscle went tense, alert with that keen-edged vigilance, that ice-cold deadly concentration that was second nature to him.
“Wells, come on out here,” McCray bellowed.
Pompous ass.
“We’ve got to have ourselves a little talk.”
Not glancing sideways at Wade, Tommy, or Gray Feather, Cole opened the front door and strode out.
Sunlight slanted across the open yard, outlining in bright citrine relief the shock on Line McCray’s face when he saw not the stooped, gray-haired man of slight build and watery voice whom he expected, but the tall, black-garbed bounty hunter who nailed him with a look of pure scorn.
One of McCray’s riders went for his gun, his motion a blur in the sultry air. Cole drew faster, and shot the man between the eyes. The rider catapulted backward off his horse with a low, keening groan of agony, then died in the dust without another sound. Seven others, among them Lucius Dane and Knife Jackson, froze in the silence of the yard. Sweat broke out on a number of leather-skinned faces as they stared at the compelling figure that was Cole Rawdon.
Each one smelled in that instant the stench of his own imminent death.
Rawdon was not a man to take lightly. Tall, muscular, his reckless face as hard as a bullet, he skewered them all with that vividly intense blue gaze.
“Wells is gone, McCray. He sold out to me days ago. Said he’d rather sell to a dog than to you, matter of fact.”
Fury and incredulity darkened McCray’s face, turning his skin a mottled purple. He jerked a shaking hand at his string tie, trying to think past his outrage. He had encountered Rawdon before on occasion, but never like this, as enemies, opponents, ready to spill blood. He wanted to ask the man why in hell he had snatched that girl out of jail, why he was trying to buy this property out from under his nose, why he was making McCray’s life miserable, but Line was too busy thinking about that dirty, cheating, back-stabbing Joseph Wells to bother.
He struggled for a moment with his emotions. “We had a deal,” he rasped, his voice trembling with the hot fury flicking inside him. “He agreed to sell to me.”
“Free country.” Cole shrugged. “Man can change his mind.”
He remembered Wells’ relief when he’d ridden up, approaching slowly, letting the memories and feelings wash back. He had tried not to look at the corner of the yard where his mother had died. Wells had come out to greet him, smiling, wiping his brow against the heat of the day.
“Never wanted to sell to McCray, but he scared off any other buyers,” he’d explained. Then he’d shaken his head. “Burned down one fellow’s barn that was interested. Dirty bastard.” He had shrugged. “I need to go east for some specialized medical treatment, doctor says New York or Philadelphia is the best place. Don’t think I’ll be coming back.”
Cole had told him quietly he couldn’t match McCray’s price.
“Hell, I don’t care about that, boy. I’d rather sell to you than to anyone—you’ve got a claim to this property no one else on this earth can match. I never felt quite right, the way I won it from your pa. I’ll take what you’ve offered for it—it’ll do just fine. Won’t McCray be sore, when he finds out? I shore as hell don’t want to be the one to tell him.”
And Wells had chuckled, slapped him on the back, and packed up that very afternoon.
He’d be halfway to Philadelphia by now, Cole figured. But McCray was here, mad as hell, and there were two ways this whole thing could end. Either he could scare McCray into backing off, vamoosing out of Fire Mesa and Plattsville, leaving the Montgomerys and Josie safe or—
Or there’d be a lot of dead bodies rotting under the sun on Fire Mesa today.
Lucius Dane kicked his horse forward, his face working nervously. The sheen of sweat made his ashen skin seem to ripple. “Rawdon, why the hell are you mixed up in this? I’ve heard about you—you never stay in one place long enough to shine your boots. Why the hell do you want this ranch?”
“I reckon, Dane, I should have shot you that night when you got yourself locked up in your own jail cell. Puzzles me why I didn’t.”
“How much?” McCray rasped. “I’ll buy the place from you. Right here and now. Name your price.”
“Fire Mesa is not for sale.”
McCray’s mouth was an ugly slash in his face. “Every damn thing on this earth is for sale! Name your price, I said!”
Cole returned his frantic gaze with an expression of contempt. “Listen up, McCray, because I’m only going to make this offer once. I’m prepared to let you and these fleabag vermin of yours ride out of here alive—if you clear out of Arizona for good.”
“You’re prepared ...” McCray sputtered. “These men could shoot you down right now, Rawdon, no matter how fast you are. You can’t beat all of us!”
A gunshot blew his hat off his head as he finished speaking the words. Wade Montgomery’s voice yelled, “He’s not alone, McCray! We could cut you down like lumber right now, unless you swear to get the hell out of the territory.”
“Montgomery!”
“You bet your ass!” Tommy shouted, firing rapidly into the air to punctuate his words.
Rage then surged through Line McCray in a torrential rush that swept aside caution and good judgment. A part of his brain told him to back off, to retreat, keeping his enemies hemmed in while he sent off a man to the river to summon Breen for help. Reinforcements would help him wipe out these hombres once and for all. But it stuck in McCray’s craw to rely on Breen—the Montgomerys and this damned bounty hunter had pushed him far enough. He sensed the tension in all of the men around him, and knew that none of them—with the possible exception of Dane—were cowards. They’d follow him, and he’d never led them wrong yet. He
’d reward them richly for victory—their only alternative was death. They’d fight like hell when he told them to start shooting. All he had to do was say the word.
One glance at the implacable set to Cole Rawdon’s face triggered the fuse of McCray’s frustration. He’d wipe out these bastards here and now—John Breen be damned.
“Kill ‘em, boys!” he roared, spurring his mount forward with a vicious kick. Then he was shooting at Cole Rawdon, along with every other man on his side, but Rawdon dived forward into the dust and fired from the ground, the spray of his bullets killing the two men on either side of McCray, and missing McCray’s head by inches.
Pandemonium broke out as gunfire erupted from inside the house and from the rocks behind McCray’s outfit as well, panicking the riders. They started shooting wildly at windows and doors, then lunging for cover all about the yard as the deafening shots exploded in a cacophony of death. Horses shrieked in terror, and the fight was a blur of noise and action, grunts, shouts, shots, confusion.
From inside, Gray Feather killed a man just as he was jumping through the dining room window.
Tommy saw Lucius Dane sprint behind the shed, and went after him.
Cole, meanwhile, with a revolver in each hand, was working his way backward into the house.
Three of McCray’s men suddenly made a run for the hill over which they had climbed just before descending toward the ranch house, and a mighty explosion followed them. Yancy waved an arm in triumph as the stick of dynamite he’d thrown from high in the surrounding rocks found its mark.
How many left? Cole crouched beneath the parlour window beside Wade and cast a glance around the yard. Bodies strewn everywhere. No sign of McCray. An unnatural silence descended.
Tommy crept around the shed, his boots making practically no sound in the dust. He listened, his own breath light and quick. A soft shuffling. Dane. Springing around the corner, he confronted Dane and fired. Lucius Dane fired back. The sheriff’s shot zinged into the dirt, but Tommy’s was true. It struck Dane straight through the heart, and he toppled face first into the dirt without uttering a sound.
The next instant, McCray and Knife Jackson both converged on Tommy at once, firing in rapid succession. He dropped to the ground, grunting at the pain slicing through his arm. A fountain of blood sprayed from his shoulder and down the expensive sleeve of his shirt. Damn. Rolling sideways to dodge the bullets, he sprang into a crouch and fired again, but even as his finger squeezed the trigger he saw that he was too late. Both McCray and Knife Jackson were very, very dead. Standing ten feet away, side by side, Cole Rawdon and Wade stared back at him.
“I had ‘em. Didn’t need any help, but as long as you’re here, damn it, Wade, look what that bastard did to my shirt.” His handsome young face, beneath the scowl, was pale.
When it was over, one of McCray’s men escaped. The other seven lay dead beneath the glare of an amber sun. Gray Feather, too, had been wounded, a bullet piercing his chest, but Yancy, who’d seen a good many such wounds in the war, announced that the Apache would survive.
“And so will this varmint,” he said as he gave Tommy a playful punch in his good arm. “But we’d better load them both on a wagon and get them to the doc in Plattsville.”
They loaded up the bodies, too, in another wagon for burial in town, since Cole didn’t want McCray and his outfit resting permanently on his land.
Wade offered to drive them into Plattsville, alongside Yancy.
“With McCray dead, as well as that weasel Dane, things should start getting back to normal in Plattsville,” he reflected, wiping an arm across his perspiring face. “And I don’t think anyone’s going to hold it against us that we killed ‘em.”
“Hell, no, Montgomery, you and your brother will be heroes,” Cole assured him.
It was true. He’d seen it happen many times. Despite the fact that the Montgomery gang was wanted by the law, killing McCray had freed the townspeople from the unscrupulous businessman’s tyranny. The folks in Plattsville, once out from under his filthy thumb, would welcome the Montgomerys now with open arms, probably give a dance in their honor.
“This means Josie can go home finally,” Wade remarked, handing Tommy and Gray Feather their water canteens before the wagons set off.
Tommy’s eyes lit thoughtfully. “In that case, I might want to stick around these parts awhile.” He took a long swig of water. His blue eyes fastened on Cole, standing quietly beside the wagon as Yancy took up the reins.
“You’re a pretty cool customer, Rawdon. I’ve only got one bone to pick with you.”
“What’s that, Montgomery?”
“You made my sister cry.” Both Cole and Wade stared at him. It was the last thing they’d expected from the happy-go-lucky, good-natured Tommy.
“You thought I didn’t notice,” Tommy told Wade as he shifted more comfortably into the hay scattered through the wagon to cushion their ride to town. “But I see more than you give me credit for. I’ve seen her when she thought no one was looking. And I know those tears are all Rawdon’s fault. Hell, anyone can see Juliana’s out of her head in love with him.”
Cole’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“For once, he does,” Wade retorted. “Well, Rawdon, what exactly are your intentions toward our sister?”
Cole couldn’t believe this. The two of them, confronting him, demanding to know about his feelings toward Juliana. He’d never answered to any man for anything in his life—now these two young outlaws, every bit as stubborn and outrageous as their sister—were trying to pin him down, make him sweat, get him to answer their questions.
Funny, he didn’t mind it as much as he’d have thought.
“If you boys had any sense, you’d see right off that I’d make a terrible husband,” he returned flatly. “I’m not exactly a family man ...”
“You could be if you had your own family. Damn it, you would be if you married Juliana. We’d make damn sure of that,” Tommy growled.
A laugh choked in Cole’s throat. Cocky youngster. These Montgomerys had spunk. And gall. He thought of Juliana stealing his horse. And his gun. And demanding that he not shoot that bear.
Suddenly, something lifted inside him. Why not? Why the hell not? McCray was dead. The immediate danger was over for good. Marrying Juliana would certainly protect her from John Breen. Once he went to Colorado and dealt with Breen—as Juliana’s husband—the man would have to back down. Maybe it could even be accomplished without bloodshed. No other bounty hunter would dare try to get to her if they knew she was Cole’s wife.
As his wife, Juliana would be safe. But would she be happy? Did he really have it in his power to live a steady, regular life, to break old lonesome habits and carve out a piece of happiness with a woman, a home, perhaps even a child?
Not just any woman, he reminded himself. Juliana.
“Maybe you’d rather see her marry Keedy. He’d jump at the chance, I can tell you that.”
These words produced such a flood of fury inside Cole that for a moment he couldn’t even breathe. But the picture they conjured up—of Juliana living with Keedy, kissing him, cooking for him, sleeping with him, were like ice water being dumped on Cole’s head. Suddenly, deep within his heart, he knew that he could never let her marry another man. He could never let her go at all. There wouldn’t be any kind of life without her. Even today, fighting McCray, he’d scarcely been able to keep his mind on the job at hand. His thoughts had kept straying to where she was, what she was doing, wearing, thinking. He needed her, the way the earth needed rain, and the growing things needed sun. He needed her beside him every night and every morning, and he decided—filled with a sudden joyful determination that seemed to cast off the shackles of uncertainty he’d been struggling under for days—that he’d make damned sure she needed him just as bad. She’d had her chance to get away—and she’d only come back to him in the gully, asking for more. Begging.
Well, she’d never have to beg ag
ain. The decision came clearly to him then, answering the longings of his heart. He’d love her and protect her until the end of their days, whether she liked it or not.
Cole grinned to himself. Something told him she’d like it just fine.
Wade and Tommy were still looking at him, waiting for some kind of answer. They probably thought he was loco.
He was. Loco with happiness.
One glance at the two-story adobe ranch house outlined against the sapphire sky sealed his determination.
Come live with me and be my love.
He had to say those words to her and soon, or he would burst.
“Got to do some riding, fellows. Got to see a lady about a wedding.”
He couldn’t believe he was saying those words, but they poured from his throat sweet as molasses.
“You do that,” Tommy shouted after him as Cole hurried off to mount Arrow. “Tell her I’ve got a hankering to spoil me a little niece or nephew, so she’d better say yes.”
Wade signaled Yancy to get started, and smiled at his brother as the wagon started off toward town.
“I thought for a minute we’d have to lasso him and drag him to Juliana like a bawling calf,” he called after the two injured men.
“Naw,” Tommy shouted back, “he’s just as loco in love as she is—only scared of it. I felt the same way a hundred times.”
Why doesn’t that reassure me? Wade groaned to himself as he climbed into the seat of the wagon loaded with bodies. But then Rawdon was a very different man from his little brother. Tough, experienced, with enough years of being alone to appreciate the loving adoration of a beautiful woman. He wouldn’t take Juliana’s love for granted. And when he set his mind to something, Wade suspected, he never once swerved from his course. If he was set on making Juliana happy, Wade sensed he would.
