by Linda Broday
So said the woman who’d just railed against wearing prison stripes.
“Humph,” he said instead of teasing her, and laid the saddlebags on the dirt floor. Josie went out and removed the bedrolls while he lifted off the saddles. They made quick work of lightening the horses.
Luke placed his hands on her shoulders, staring into her eyes. “An old outlaw once told me that the expected never happens on the trail. If I don’t come back, walk to the trading post. It’s not far. No one will spot you in those clothes with your hair under the hat. Ask for help.”
“What would I say?”
“You’re a good actress. With your skill, making up a story will be child’s play.”
Her lip suddenly quivered. “But, what about you? I can’t just leave and not know if you’re alive or—”
“Dead,” he supplied softly. “You can say it. Make your way to the Lone Star. Stoker will know what to do.”
“If that horrible man at the trading post kills you, I’ll make him pay. You can count on that.” Fury filled her voice. “The low-down skunk won’t get away with it.”
“That’s my girl.” A smile came despite his efforts to hold it back. Josie made him happy to be alive. For however long he had.
Thick clouds had blocked the moonlight. He draped an arm across his golden-haired angel’s shoulders. Though most wouldn’t give her a second glance right now in her boy’s clothes and serape, he’d never seen her as anything except a woman. Not even when bloodstained and waving a gun at him.
Josie was a rare beauty with a heart full of caring, and a spirit that wouldn’t be broken.
He pulled her against him, so close he could feel the wild beating of her heart. The firm binding beneath her shirt told him she’d tightly wrapped her breasts.
More’s the pity.
He wished for time to remove the strips that flattened her. The desire to feel her fully against his chest rose up inside him, carrying scorching heat and driving passion.
“Leave me something to remember you by,” she murmured.
The simple request was all he needed.
With the roar of the river behind them, Luke slid his hands down her body, crushed his lips to hers, and took his pleasure. He’d spent the last few days thinking about this kind of kiss, dreamed about it, waited patiently for the moment.
Unlike the others they’d shared, he held back nothing. He kissed her all out, with aching desire pushing him past every boundary he’d set. When she softly parted her lips, he slipped his tongue inside, tasting her need. Thrusting in and out.
He burned with uncontrolled hunger.
Unbridled passion.
Thirsted for what she wanted to give.
A blacksmith’s forge was cool compared to the heat consuming Luke. The flames seared clear through to his weary, godforsaken soul.
His hands slid down her flat stomach, traced the curve of her hips, her firm bottom.
Josie clung to him as though being swept away by a raging river and he was a piece of driftwood. “Never let me go, Luke.”
Good God, what he’d give to be able to promise.
“Help me make new memories to fill the emptiness in my head,” she begged against his mouth.
His groin tightened with need. He wanted to forget she had no memory. Forget the danger lurking so close he could reach out and touch it. And he wanted to forget he was an outlaw with nothing to offer. But he couldn’t. To do so would put Josie in harm’s way.
If only he could be Luke Legend, for just one night—someone with integrity, who stood tall on the side of the law.
She seemed to sense the direction of his thoughts and stepped from his arms. “Cowboy, I’ll remember that kiss long after I’m dead.”
So would he.
He lifted a strand of her hair and rubbed the silk between his fingers. Lord, how he hated to leave her. “I’m kicking myself for it, but I won’t apologize. I don’t regret the kiss.” Then before he lost his mind and pressed his lips to hers again, Luke knelt to pull a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebag. It didn’t pay to visit an outlaw’s camp without sharing something. He strode to the horses and lifted the reins. “Keep your eyes and ears open. I’ll be back.”
Or not, depending on any number of things.
Scanning the area for trouble, his Colt in hand, he led their mounts into the thick brush. After hiding the animals in a little wash in a tangle of undergrowth, Luke focused on finding Brenner McCall.
Downwind of the trading post, he sniffed the air for a campfire and listened to the sounds around him. Finally, he heard a man’s ragged cough drifting on the breeze. Could be his old friend.
Within moments, he spied a cold camp. McCall had nestled in a small wind cave with barely enough room for one man. The white-haired old outlaw had to be in his fifties by now and had seen his share of bad times. McCall wasn’t a hardened man—just one with a lot of skeletons in his past. He’d killed his share of men, but as far as Luke knew, it had never been for the sport of it as it was with outlaws like Reno Kidd.
Brenner McCall, under the alias Cash Starr, had once pulled off the largest, most brazen bank robbery in Texas and the price on his head had made Luke’s look like pauper’s pennies. McCall didn’t have a cent of the stolen money left. He’d lived to gamble, any game of chance, and he’d played his games from Texas to San Francisco and back again.
A man’s vices almost always did him in. That had been a hard lesson learned, one not everyone managed before they succumbed.
Most others’ involved women and gambling. Something to make them feel alive as never before. Luke’s was far worse. At eighteen he’d fallen in with a rough bunch and they’d introduced him to opium. He’d become addicted, loving how the powerful drug blocked his pain and the nightmares that came with darkness.
Luke winced with the shameful memory. He owed his life to Brenner. The man had helped him find his way back from hell. Last Luke had heard, Brenner had opened a law practice. Talk was that Brenner now did his robbing on paper. He swindled farmers out of their land to pay his gambling debts. Something about men who walked on both sides of the law didn’t sit well with Luke.
“Brenner,” he said low, clutching the bottle of whiskey. “It’s Luke Weston.”
The old outlaw yanked his gun awkwardly from the holster with his left hand. “Show yourself.”
Luke stepped forward with his hands raised. “Satisfied?”
“I always said you could track a beaver in a river.” Brenner put his gun away and gripped his upper arm. He was badly hurt. “Wish I had half of your skill.”
The best tactic was to play dumb. Luke had learned a lot over the years that way. He considered Brenner McCall the closest thing to a friend, but that didn’t mean he trusted him. How could you trust someone who played both ends against the middle? Which of Brenner’s two faces was talking to him tonight?
Still gripping his arm and grimacing, Brenner McCall dragged himself from his one-man cave. “Can’t be too careful. The law is crawling all over these parts like a bunch of red ants.”
“Why do you care? I thought you’d turned into a respectable lawyer now.”
“I have. Got my eye on a judgeship. Or maybe governor if things go right.” Brenner rubbed his leg. “I’m too old for this life. I need comfort now. Got bad knees and my joints hurt.”
“Outlawing is hard on a man,” Luke agreed. “How’d you get hurt, Brenner?”
“Gunshot. Don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’ll take a look at it,” Luke offered.
“I’ve seen to it myself. Bullet went through.”
Who shot him? Luke wanted to ask, but Brenner didn’t seem to invite those kinds of questions. At least not yet. Luke passed him the bottle of whiskey. “So why are you hiding out, sitting on the cold ground, when you could walk right up to any campfire?”<
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After taking two long swallows from the bottle, Brenner said, “I have my reasons.”
Clearly, he was hiding something.
“Know why the Texas Rangers are here?” Luke dropped to the ground next to him.
“Yep.” Brenner muttered a curse and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hell, I’d give a hundred dollars for a cup of coffee.”
The short gray bristles of his neatly trimmed beard told Luke that Brenner had gotten accustomed to regular barbering. A far cry from the old days.
Luke cast Brenner a sideways glance. “Someone get killed?”
“Folks found Walt Preston gutted here at the crossing a few nights ago.”
Luke let out a low whistle. “No wonder this place resembles a lawman convention.”
A few pieces fell into place. An ex-congressman and powerful rancher, Walt Preston had been considered a shoo-in for state governor in the next election. Preston was a blowhard known for throwing his weight around, expecting everyone to follow blindly like a bunch of dumb-ass sheep. His egotistical attitude had turned Luke’s stomach.
How was Josie involved? Luke pondered that. Preston already had a wife. Unless…Josie was his sweet little plaything on the side?
A muscle in Luke’s jaw quivered. That possibility brought thoughts he didn’t even want to consider.
“Did anyone see who twisted the knife into Preston?” Luke asked.
With a groan, Brenner rested his back against a boulder and turned up the whiskey bottle. He didn’t offer to give it back. “Fingers were quick to point to a woman by the name of Josie Morgan, but she didn’t do it.”
It appeared Luke had come to the right source. Still, hearing the name spoken like that was a bit unexpected. He slowed his breathing. “I happened upon a posse looking for someone by that name. They said she killed her husband, but you and I both know Preston already had a wife. Wonder why they said that.”
“Shoot, who knows. Folks are always getting stuff wrong.”
Luke studied Brenner’s face. “You sound awful sure of the facts.”
Brenner grunted. “I oughta know. I was there.”
Surprise shot through Luke. Was Brenner McCall a witness, or the killer? He had to be sure. “So, you know this Josie?”
McCall let out a string of curses a mile long. “You might say so. The Morgan gal’s never tied the knot and I know that for a damn fact.”
Relief swept through Luke and eased his conscience. If Brenner wasn’t pulling a fast one, then Luke could quit kicking himself for stealing those passionate kisses. “Tell me this—why were the pair of you there that night?”
Brenner narrowed his eyes. “Boy, you’re sticking your nose where it don’t belong.”
“I have a vested interest. Someone asked me to look into it. To borrow a page from your book, I’d rather not say who.”
Brenner grimaced and clutched his shoulder. “You do learn well.” He took another drink of whiskey.
“Did you kill Preston, Brenner?”
“If I’d wanted him dead, I’d have shot him instead.”
Luke digested this, wondering if Brenner spoke the truth. “Then who did?”
“Reno Kidd. He’s why I’m here. The arrogant, murdering bastard took something from me and I mean to get it back. Even if I have to put a bullet between his beady little possum eyes to do it.”
Luke’s gaze narrowed. “What did Reno take?”
“Recall how I always told you the expected never happens on the trail?”
“I do.”
“I was here with Walt Preston that night. On…business. Reno and a couple of dirty gringos jumped us from the shadows, intent on robbing us. Preston refused to hand over his cash. He and Reno scuffled, and then Kidd got him with a knife. Josie—Miss Morgan—started screaming at the blood. Preston was dead. I drew my pistol and fired. Next thing I know, I’m shot in the shoulder and bleeding. Couldn’t even chase after the bastards. Hell.”
“What happened to Josie Morgan, Brenner?”
“Not sure, but I think Kidd took her. That’s why I’m looking for the bastard.”
That part of the story matched. Luke was on the right track. “That wound must pain you something awful. Let me take a look at it.”
Brenner ignored Luke’s offer, instead seemed far away, still reliving the murder. “Gotta find Josie. Reno Kidd is a dead man when I catch him.”
Everything was making a little better sense.
Though the night was darker than the inside of Sam Houston’s tomb, Brenner McCall’s silver hair shone. Sorrow twisted through Luke. He wanted his friend to be one of the good guys—to have tried to turn his life around. He’d become a lawyer, sure, but he was still the same shady outlaw, looking for an easy way to line his pockets.
Looked like he was right to mistrust the man, even though Brenner once had saved him from certain death. Luke remembered how Brenner sat by his side for days on end, bathed the face of that eighteen-year-old kid that Luke had been. How the man had held his hand and staved off the opium demons, pulling Luke from their grip.
Luke owed him, no question. But he also had a vow to fulfill. “Brenner, I need to know. Just who is Josie Morgan to you?”
Eighteen
The coal-black night hid many things, but it couldn’t hide Brenner McCall’s wary eyes. Luke watched them shift.
The man growled. “Careful, boy. Questions will get a man killed before you can blink twice. Thought I taught you better.”
“You also told me to listen to the things that aren’t said as much as the things that are.”
Brenner’s hand inched toward his gun. Luke didn’t take his eyes off the man he’d once considered like a father. He realized now how very far from that ideal Brenner actually was. Stoker could teach this man a thing or two about the subject.
“Do you really want to do this?” Luke asked. “Whiskey and age have slowed your reflexes. I’m guessing you probably can’t see so well either. Do you want to die tonight?”
A sudden, easy grin erased the thick, tension-laden air. Brenner reached into his pants pocket and pulled out cigarette papers and a sack of Bull Durham. “The girl didn’t have any place to go and I took her in. She’s a good person.” Brenner gave him a one-eyed squint. “You remember how I took you in and put your legs back under you, boy?”
“Sure do. I’ll owe you for it for the rest of my life.”
“You got a funny way of showing loyalty.” Brenner tapped a line of tobacco onto a thin paper and changed the subject. “What are you doing at Doan’s, anyway?”
“Looking for a few answers for a friend. And trying to keep Munroe O’Keefe from putting a bullet in my back,” Luke said. “He just showed up too.”
The old outlaw grunted. “Heard he was gunning for you.”
“The fool is worse than a crazy badger. He’s determined to kill me to make a name, however he has to do it.” And if he kept coming, he’d eventually succeed. The truth soured in Luke’s stomach. “Back to Reno Kidd. Where do you think he might hole up?”
“Wish I knew. I’d be sitting on his doorstep right now.” Brenner rolled a cigarette and licked the paper to seal it. With a heavy sigh, he rustled up a match. “The young ones today don’t have the brains God gave a turnip. It’s not like when I came to Texas. I had sense enough to blend in and not draw suspicion. I damn sure wouldn’t taunt lawmen like Reno does. I think he’s messed up in the head.”
Luke had stopped listening. If Kidd found out Josie had survived, would he come to silence her once and for all?
If so, Kidd would find himself in Luke’s crosshairs.
What was Josie’s role in Preston’s death? That part had Luke scratching his head. Had she been in on whatever plan Brenner and Walt Preston had going? Or maybe she saw what Kidd had planned for the politician and tried to stop it. He liked
the second idea better.
He thought back to what Reno’s men had said and done, the day he’d found Josie. They’d said that her father was a mean hombre, and someone you didn’t want to mess with.
Who the hell was her father? Did they mean her natural father, or Brenner, since he seemed to have been taking care of her? She wasn’t his by blood; Brenner’d never had children of his own.
Brenner probably could tell him, but as Luke had already seen, it was dangerous to ask too many questions.
So, if not Brenner, then Walt Preston? Did Josie belong to him in some other way? Maybe she was like Luke—a child born on the wrong side of the blanket.
Luke stretched out his long legs and put his hands behind his head. “What do you hear about any trouble these days?”
Brenner blew out a line of smoke rings. “What do you mean?”
“Uprisings, county wars, blood feuds—that sort of thing.”
“It’s a strange question.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what parts of the country to shy away from. I don’t want to get caught up in the middle of a big mess.”
Brenner inhaled on the cigarette, making the end glow fiery red. “The Texas Rangers ended the Horrell-Higgins feud down in Lampasas County, but I know for a fact Mart Horrell is still looking to even the score. He lost five brothers in that squabble.”
“Blood feuds never die. They go on and on until there’s no more kin to bury,” Luke said. “Anything else?”
“The Lincoln County War is going on, but I doubt you’ll be heading to New Mexico Territory. A bloody fight. I’d steer clear of there if I was you, Weston.”
“That trouble isn’t for me,” Luke said. “How about you?”
“Hell, I’m getting too fat and old.”
Luke glanced at the man he’d ridden with. The glow of the cigarette lit up the deeply lined face, his hair and beard.
Suddenly, Noah’s words filled his head. He had gray hair and a beard. Not as tall as you. He didn’t smile or anything. My pa called him Captain.
Josie had visited Noah’s farm with the gray-haired man. Was Brenner “Captain”? He’d admitted he knew her. It fit.
