Dorothy Garlock

by This Loving Land

  Almost instantly, he was calm again. She stared into his eyes, glorying in the tender regard she saw there. Happiness sang out like a bird in her heart, and she lifted her hand to stroke his cheek. His brow furrowed. She gently rubbed her fingers across the harsh lines of his frown, smoothing it away. His eyes searched her face. Their gaze warmed and played within the depths of each other’s eyes.

  At last, his lips came to rest on her forehead and he kissed her as if she were a child and tucked her face once again into the curve of his neck. His voice, when it came, was firm.

  “You must stay here for a while. You and Mary will be safe here. I’m going south with the army troop for a few days, maybe more than a few days, but when I get back we’ll plan what we’re going to do.” When she shook her head in protest, he stilled it with his hand. “Trust me. I’ll speak to Slater. He’ll see that you’re not left alone.”

  “No. Summer is gettin’ married. This is her happiest time. She won’t want to go away and leave me if she knows. ’Sides, I still don’t think they’d believe it.”

  “Slater will believe it, and so will Jack. Stay here and I’ll figure out something. You’ll be safe here until I get back.”

  Sadie remained still. Reality was coming back. There was a long silence before she spoke.

  “You won’t come back.” Her voice held a queerly resigned, almost laconic note. “You won’t come back, ’cause Mrs. McLean won’t let you. She’s pretty and rich and has nice manners. I don’t blame you, Jesse, for wantin’ to be with her.” The eyes she lifted to his were those of some stricken little animal caught in a trap and surrendering to its fate. “Mrs. McLean won’t let you come back,” she repeated. “She’ll . . . not ever let you go.”

  “We’ll not talk of Ellen now. Close your eyes and get some sleep. It’ll be dawn in a couple of hours, and I suspect Jack will find a way to cross the creek.” He held his palm against her cheek. “You’re awfully pretty, Sadie.” He smiled gently. “Awfully pretty and . . . sweet.”

  At McLean’s Keep, the wind tortured the heavy branches of the oak trees and hurled the rain against the glass window panes. The two figures that lay pressed closely together in Slater’s bed were unmindful of the raging storm.

  Summer sighed contentedly and kissed the side of Slater’s neck.

  “This is a wonderful soft bed,” she murmured drowsily. Her hand searched for his face in the dark, touched his lips before slipping about his neck as he leaned over her.

  “I thought you were asleep, you’ve been so still,” he whispered, his lips playing on hers.

  “I don’t want to waste time sleeping,” she replied softly, wistfully. “Dawn comes so quickly.”

  “Never thought I’d be grateful to the creek. Think I’ll name it Witch’s Creek, for this beautiful witch in my arms.”

  She drew him to her and closed her eyes in ecstasy as his kisses came upon her mouth, warm, devouring, fierce with love and passion, then traveled lower to spread their heat over her quivering breasts, which thrust forward in eager anticipation.

  Passion spread in the heat of their touch. His caresses were searching, and Summer opened her legs to his questing hand, rolling her head in bliss. His wandering fingers brought soft, breathless whimpers of trembling joy. She felt the hard, manly boldness of him against her thigh, and then the flame was within her, consuming, searing, setting fire to every nerve, flaming, filling her with an almost unbearable pleasure. His heart beat wildly against her naked breast, and beneath her hands the hard muscles of his back tensed and flexed. She heard harsh breathing in her ear, and hoarse, whispered words of love. Then they were riding high on the surging, swelling tide of rapture.

  The wind howled and the rain pounded against the windows, but in the aftermath of their own storm, Summer and Slater lay peacefully content, legs entwined, slender fingers gently interlaced in a knot of love. Slater’s lips nibbled at the soft flesh of her shoulder, paused to take her earlobe into his mouth, then sucked gently at the flesh of her slender neck.

  Summer wiggled away, laughing softly. “You’ll make a mark for all to see!”

  “They’ll wish they were me.”

  “Slater, darling.” The corners of her mouth curved softly. “I love you.”

  Slater smoothed her tumbled hair and nuzzled his face into its fragrant mass, breathing in the sweet scent of her.

  “I think I’ve loved you forever.”

  Summer giggled and nestled closer. “You haven’t known me forever.” Then, suddenly serious, she murmured, “You’re sure no one will know I spent the night in your bed?” Her hand caressed the ridge of scars on his chest before moving to the ones under his arm and over his rib cage.

  Slater leaned on an elbow. “Don’t worry, love. Jack and Bulldog went to the bunkhouse and the captain brought his men up to the shed by the blacksmith. Raccoon is with Sadie and I suspect Jesse is, too. He was asking questions about Sadie. Actually, one question, but that was a lot for Jesse.” He laughed and pressed kisses on her face. “Don’t feel guilty, sweetheart. Love me. Just love me.”

  His lips pressed hers gently, tenderly, and Summer gave a quick, warm answer, returning fleeting kisses. All the qualms she had expected, all the quirks of gnawing guilt she had imagined would torment her, were not there. She had given herself out of wedlock, had sinned in the sight of God, and yet there was a strange sense of rightness being here in his arms, as if here was where she was meant to be. Then contentment prodded her mind along a different path. She laughed teasingly, lightly nibbling the lobe of his ear, touching it with her tongue.

  “The night won’t be over for a couple more hours, my sweet love.”

  Twelve

  The last thing Slater saw as he put his heels to the tall black gelding and rode toward the hills was Summer standing in the yard waving to him. A half-mile from the house, he slowed the horse to a canter, then to a walk.

  The cattle had all been moved into the lower pastures along the creek, and there wasn’t too much to do now except guard the herd until roundup and branding time. McLean’s Keep and other ranches in the area, including the Rocking S, made one big drive each fall up the Chisholm Trail, across Indian Territory to the rails in Kansas. Each ranch furnished men according to the size of their herd. Slater had made the trip many times, but he wouldn’t be going this year.

  His face gentled when he thought of the reason why he wouldn’t be making the trip. Summer. Her name slipped unnoticed from his lips, and he gave himself up to his favorite pastime—daydreaming about her. Summer, soft and yielding; Summer, lovely and proud across the table; Summer, beautiful and tempting in a faded dress with her arms buried deep in soapsuds. He was ever conscious of her. She could not guess the depth of his feeling for her or how his life had changed and become suddenly precious to him. His pa would have loved her! He wished Sam could know there would be another generation of McLeans at the Keep.

  Slater had given himself three days to scout the hills surrounding his land. He had moved his lookouts in to watch the herd and the buildings, posted a guard at the entrance to the valley, and assigned several men, including Jack, to guard the “little place.”

  It was late afternoon. He had made a big circle and now pointed Estrella toward the boundary line camp where Sam had been killed. Drawing up at the crest of a low hill, he scanned his back trail. He sat his horse for a moment, studying the terrain before and behind him with a careful eye. There was nothing on the trail, no dust, no movement. It was growing late and the sun was already behind the mountain. The softness of the hill evening was settling over the densely wooded trail, and the air was cooler.

  The big horse, restless for home, moved off of his own volition, and Slater let him go. Taking his time, he worked his way around a boulder. A wild turkey gobbled and scurried into the underbrush, then the night was silent, carrying no sound except for Estrella’s hoofs. Slater drew cool air deep into his lungs, air touched with the faint scent of sage; it was as refreshing as a drink of cool
spring water.

  Suddenly, a distant sound, foreign to the evening, caught his ears; he drew up sharply against the black clump of mesquite, listening, his hand on the butt of his gun.

  Each boulder, pine or clump of brush was a spot of darkness. The floor of the hillside was covered with a thick cushion of pine needles and profuse stars blossomed in the clear field of sky overhead. Slater waited patiently. Each rock, each tree, each shrub was studied with particular care, making allowance for the darkness, contours, distances, but there was no further sound. Slowly, his hand came away from the butt of his gun, and the horse walked on.

  After several minutes of slow progress, the gelding’s ears began to twitch, then stood straight. At that instant, Slater heard the click of metal, saw the flicker of a darker shadow among the mesquite clumps. He threw himself flat along the horse’s neck just as he was struck a wicked blow on the shoulder. Searing pain tore through him and he grabbed wildly at the saddlehorn and clutched it with a desperate grip. He heard the other shot as it struck him, and he seemed to go tumbling forward, over and over, round and round in the velvety darkness. His fingers clung to the one real thing in his tilting world: the saddlehorn. Estrella was running smoothly. With all his will, he held on, through the heaving, roaring blackness. Behind him, there was another sharp, splitting crack. The shot tore the hat from his head. Silence, except for the sound of Estrella’s hoofs on the pine needles and his own hoarse breathing.

  It seemed an eternity before he pulled the horse up.

  Fighting to stay conscious, he relaxed the death grip he had on the saddlehorn, kicked his feet from the stirrups, and slid to the ground. He crawled into the underbrush. His last thought was of Summer. I can’t die . . . I can’t leave her.

  He fought his way back to consciousness in broad daylight. He lay in a nest of dried grass, flat on his back, half under a bush. The sky beyond was blue and spotted with fluffy clouds. He lay very still, afraid to move, trying to locate where he was. He could hear Estrella cropping grass nearby, and he moved his head carefully until his eyes found him.

  Memory returned. Memory of shots out of the darkness. He cursed himself for a stupid fool. He had let himself be bushwacked! Yet . . . how could that be? He scowled. Who had known he would be on the trail? It was no accidental meeting. The place had been carefully chosen, and the drygulcher there well ahead of him. The trail he had used was well-known to his own men, but to few others.

  Now the pain made itself felt. It was his left shoulder. Two bullets had hit him, one had gone through his shoulder below the collarbone and the other skidded off his hipbone, ripping the fleshy part of his side. Son-of-a-bitch, he cursed. An inch or two and either one would’ve killed him. He rolled over carefully, using his right hand to push himself up into a sitting position. He looked around, turning his head carefully on his stiff neck.

  He wasn’t far from the place he had planned to camp. He must have had some grip on that saddlehorn. Undoubtedly, he had lost a lot of blood, his thoughts were hazy and he couldn’t bring his eyes to focus clearly on any object. He lay back and stared up at the sky.

  Knowing he was hunted quarry prompted him to move. He sat up again, let the world stop swaying, then struggled to his feet and staggered to the horse. He tried to mount, but his weakness was too great, and he went sprawling on the ground. Bright lights flashed before his eyes, his head seemed to explode, and he sunk down into a pit of blackness.

  It was sunset when his eyes opened again. The air was cool and a slight breeze was blowing. He lay there in the grass. His shoulder was on fire and his head pounded. A long time later, his right hand searched the grass beside him for the canteen. His thirst seemed without end, and he remembered from somewhere that thirst usually accompanied a heavy loss of blood. Thank God he was near the stream.

  The pain in his head was agonizing, and his shoulder burned like fire. He tried to decide what to do. He’d not make it into the saddle, but he had to have food, water. His stomach rumbled and he dug into his saddlebag for biscuits and meat and ate hungrily. While untying his blanket, his mind dully remembered that this was the second night he had been out . . . or was it the third? He had to get his strength back and get on the horse. Summer would be worried.

  It was night. He settled himself in the grass and pulled the blanket around him. His mind told him that he must do something about his shoulder before the fever that he knew was coming set in. He crawled to the stream, made a poultice out of the wet biscuits, refilled his canteen and crawled back to the blanket. His head pulsed with slow, heavy throbs, his shoulder felt as if someone had put a torch to it. He kept flexing his fingers, turning his stiff neck, afraid of stiffness, knowing that if he was found by the bushwacker, he wouldn’t have a chance if he couldn’t use his gun.

  He awoke with a start and glanced quickly at the sun. He had slept well into the day. His face was hot and his mouth dry. After drinking deeply from the canteen, he ate beef jerky, deciding to leave the biscuits for another poultice. Gathering the blanket around him, he lay back in the warm sun.

  Night came while he slept. He awoke in complete darkness, shaking with a chill despite the blanket. He crawled to the stream, drank, changed the poultice and drank again. The water was cold and went down his throat like intoxicating wine, giving him strength and new life. After he finished drinking, he lay wrapped in the blanket, his head throbbed and his shoulder and side tortured him with every beat of his heart. Drifting in and out of sleep, the day passed and night came again. The sun was directly over the tree tops when he awoke. He dozed, and when he next opened his eyes it was dusk.

  His mind told him that he must move, but his muscles refused to obey. God, he was weak! He had to get on the horse . . . Summer would think he was dead. The days had floated by, he couldn’t remember how many.

  Getting first to his knees, then to his feet, he looked around for Estrella. He was not in sight, and Slater felt a quick prick of alarm. He whistled and waited. Whistled again. Relief fell over him like a cloak when he heard the soft nicker and the horse came toward him.

  “Good boy! God, you’re a good horse!” Slater hung his right arm about the horse’s neck and leaned on him while his heart pounded in his head. It seemed hours before he got the strength to thrust his boot into the stirrup, but mounting was easier than he thought it would be.

  Night comes quickly to the hills, and it was dark when he touched his heels to the horse and said: “Let’s go home.”

  He sat in the saddle like a drunken man. Exhausted, almost sick to his stomach from the effort of climbing on the horse. His head felt heavy and part of his mind dwelled on Summer. The other part dwelled on the thought of what had been done to him and the driving urge to fight back, to slash back, to kill . . .

  Slater knew himself well, and the anger he was feeling gave him strength. He was actually a man of violent and explosive temper, and his usual quietness was a coverup for what lay under the surface. Seldom did he lose control, but occasionally, under exceptional strain, he had given way to outbursts of fury.

  Unfortunately, the shortest route back to the ranch would mean he would travel the boundary line for several miles. In his present condition, he realized he wasn’t worth much, but on the other hand there was not much of a chance of anyone riding by this way at this time of night. He checked his weapon to be sure he was prepared to defend himself. The next thing he had to do was stay in the saddle. He thanked God again for a good horse.

  Reaching the lower fork of the creek, he waded the horse through the stream and up the bank. He was shaking with pain and fury, no longer conscious of the cool night because the fever was on him again. A steady beat of agony pounded in his wounds.

  Suddenly, Estrella’s ears came up. Instinct snapped Slater to awareness, his inborn will to survive alerting him to danger. He drew up, listening. He heard nothing, but the ears of his horse told him there was something. He moved only a few feet and pulled up again. It was then he smelled the woodsmoke. He urged t
he horse along a flat boulder. At the end of the boulder, which was at least twenty feet high, Slater could see that it overlapped another boulder of equal size and shape. Between the two was a passageway that would easily be overlooked if not for the pause beside the boulder. The path was large enough for a horse and rider to pass through.

  He could hear voices. One sounded strangely familiar. He moved the horse into the passage and the voice that reached his ears was unmistakable. Travis.

  “What’s the matter, kid? Don’t you have a stomach for real sport?”

  “It ain’t that, Mr. McLean, but . . . ain’t ya already done a’nuff to ’er?”

  “There’s never enough, kid. Never enough you can do to a woman. And an Indian woman ain’t worth the sole on-my boot. Now, you’re going to have to learn that, if you’re going to join up with me. Men, real men, got to take their pleasure where they can get it. You’re not one of those that like men, are you?”

  “Well . . . no, Mr. McLean, but . . . ” The young voice was hoarse, strained.

  “Then what are you balking for? Come on, get on her. Or can’t you get it up no more?” Travis’s voice was scornful.

  “I already been on her once . . .”

  “Once! Hell, boy,” he said the word insultingly, “I been on her three times and I’ll be on her three more. Come on, now. I want to see you hump her.”

  “I . . . don’t think I can, Mr. McLean. I think she’s swooned or . . . dead.”

  “She’s not dead. Only playing possum. Here, I’ll show you.”