Once an Outlaw

by Raine Cantrell

  Once an Outlaw

  The Kincaids, Book 2

  Raine Cantrell

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1995 by Theresa DiBenedetto

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition November 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-944-5

  Also by Raine Cantrell

  A Corner of Heaven

  Calico

  Darling Annie

  Desert Sunrise

  Gifts of Love

  Silver Mist

  Tarnished Hearts

  The Homecoming

  Western Winds

  Whisper My Name

  The Kincaids

  Once a Maverick

  Once an Outlaw

  Once a Lawman

  Once a Hero

  Clan Gunn

  Fire and Sword

  Silk and Steel

  Magic and Mist

  The Merry Widows

  Mary

  Catherine

  Sarah

  Novellas

  A Time for Giving

  Apache Fire

  Miss Delwin’s Delights

  More than a Miracle

  The Bride’s Gift

  The Secret Ingredient

  To special friends who keep the faith: Donita, Harriet, Kris, Louise, Maudeen and Shelly

  Chapter One

  Furious. Frustrated. Failure. These about summed up Logan Kincaid’s thoughts and feelings.

  It was ironic that he was helping to rob the payroll destined for the workers at the Silver Belt Mine. Ironic, because the mine numbered among his family’s holdings in the Arizona Territory.

  Sweat trickled down beneath his hat. The blast of the relentless sun turned the small arroyo into a furnace. He hadn’t bothered to mask his face with his bandanna. Logan had been cursed with thick, fast-growing facial hair that required daily shaving. Every two days or so these past months, he’d scrape it clean with his blade. Right now the stubble itched.

  Known as Lucky, to the outlaws seizing the payroll for the fourth time in as many weeks, Logan suddenly felt a tingling sensation creep up his spine. Unlike his younger brother, Tyrel, Logan didn’t always sense the trouble coming his way.

  A sweeping gaze up the narrow arroyo revealed scrub brush and rocks. Not a hint of life moved beyond the men grouped around the wagon.

  With a jerk of his reins, Logan kept his restive horse in place. He watched as Tallyman—former slave, buffalo soldier, army deserter turned outlaw—used his massive gloved hands to shove the payroll money into two sets of saddlebags. Buckling them closed, Tallyman tossed one set to Monte Wheeler, the man who gave the orders, and the other he secured on his own horse.

  The five men hired to guard the payroll were ringed by the other three outlaws. They had been stripped of their boots, guns and hats. Logan kept a sharp eye on Billy Jack Mulero, a true mixed breed of Mexican, Apache and white blood. His bloodshot eyes and fitful moves were signs that he had been chewing mescal buttons again.

  Blackleg, on Billy Jack’s right, caught Logan looking and high-signed him to watch the breed. No one had been killed in the four robberies in as many weeks. For some reason the outlaws wanted no murders. But no one stopped Billy Jack from taunting the five men.

  Logan shut out thoughts of many descriptive ways to let a man die slowly. It had taken nearly six months to infiltrate this gang. He was furious that he had come no closer to discovering who was behind the robberies and cattle-rustling plaguing the Kincaid holdings.

  Frustration ate at him. It wasn’t a matter of losing silver ore, money and cattle. It was his pride that suffered from his failure to uncover their enemy.

  Zach Romal’s gravelly voice joined Billy Jack’s. Feeling himself watched, Logan didn’t dare look away from the youngest of the guards, visibly shaken by the two men’s threats. He couldn’t ignore the keen edge to the taunts and kept waiting for Monte to signal them to move out.

  Each of the previous robberies had gone off without a hitch. Despite a varied and erratic schedule of both the payroll and ore shipments, the gang he rode with had known the exact dates and times. Their accuracy could only come from someone with knowledge of every move Conner Kincaid had planned. Someone damn close to Conner, if Logan was any judge of the way his older brother thought.

  He hated the moments when he felt a reluctant admiration for whoever was behind these perfectly executed holdups.

  He had a bullet earmarked for the man. Smelling the fear from the five men huddled together as Zach uncoiled his whip, Logan thought about putting a bullet to his hide. But if he made a move to protect these innocent men, he would blow his cover.

  He had to do something. His back was twitching and it was more than annoyance with the sweat that rolled down his spine.

  “Hey, Monte, round up these cayuses. I’m parched—”

  “Who the hell you callin’ a cayuse?” Billy Jack demanded.

  “You, boy,” Logan answered, grinning, as his fingers tightened on the leather. A cayuse was a wild horse, native bred, nondescript, runty, ill-mannered and unreliable. That about described Billy Jack Mulero and Zach Romal except for one added attribute—they were unpredictable.

  Zach threw back his head and laughed, coiling his whip in quick, economical moves. “Lucky is right. We waste time.”

  Monte stared at the man he knew as Lucky. “Something bothering you?”

  “Damn right. I’ve got trouble crawling up my back like a two-bit frail sister on Monday night.” Since most saloons that had soiled doves plying their trade in rooms upstairs or out back hardly had business on weekdays, Monte caught his meaning. “We got what we come for, didn’t we?” Logan was pushing him now, but he couldn’t help it. His back felt as if someone had it in their rifle sight and was already squeezing the trigger.

  In a sudden move, one of the guards made a dive for the wagon boot. Tallyman shot him before the man could grab hold of the rifle stashed beneath the seat.

  Seeing his body draped over the wagon freed the others from the fear that had gripped them. With snarling rage the four of them lunged for Billy Jack. He was the one closest to them. All hell broke loose. Before Monte could shout an order to ride out, another of the guards went down. Logan was across from Blackleg, who was shooting wildly as his horse reared.

  Fire slammed like a rattlesnake without warning. Fire that burned its way into Logan’s shoulder. He tried to stop his forward momentum. The sandy bottom of the arroyo blurred. He caught the buckskin’s mane with one hand, jerking the gelding around. He thought he heard a high-pitched scream before he dug his spurs into the horse’s sides, sending him at a dead run down the narrow arroyo.

  “Do ya think he’s dead, Kenny?”

  “I dunno. Those men took his boots an’ guns. Iffen he’s dead he ain’t got no use for ’em.”

  “They took his horse, too.”

  “Yeah.” There was a world of regret in thirteen-year-old Kenny Styles’s voice. “Thing is, we can’t just let him stay there. Buzzards’ll come. Com’on, Marty. We’ll bury him just like we did our folks.”

  “I’m scared. Real scared, Kenny.”

  “I told you, dead folks can’t
hurt you. And no more cryin’. Now, give me your hand.” It wasn’t easy for Kenny to take care of seven-year-old Marty. Not when he’d been the youngest of his family. But all they had now was each other. He’d never admit that holding hands forced him to put aside his own fear.

  Climbing out of the rocks where they had hidden as soon as they’d heard the approach of horses, Kenny held tight to his rifle and Marty. They had been on their own for four months.

  Down on the flat, they stood side by side and stared at the body of the man the other men had dumped and stripped before they rode away.

  “He’s awful big, Kenny. We’ll be diggin’ and diggin’ all night to get him buried.”

  Pressing the butt of his rifle into the earth, Kenny looked around. “Dirt’s soft enough. Won’t take that long. We can dig around him and underneath. That way we won’t have to move him.”

  “Kenny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s awful mean lookin’.” The towheaded little boy took a step closer and squatted with his hands gripping his knees. “Do dead people bleed?”

  “How should I know?” Already wielding the rifle butt as a shovel, Kenny kept his eyes on the shallow depression taking shape.

  “You figure he’s got money?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care. We ain’t got use for it. Ain’t nuthin’ to buy ’round here. Stop gawkin’ an’ get to helpin’ me, Marty.”

  “I was just asking. You sure are jumpity. An’ we do so got a place to use money.” Straightening, then turning to face Kenny, the boy sucked noisily on his lower lip. “We can use it for the widow woman.”

  “Trade her fair for everthin’ we’ve taken, boy. Left her a mess of fish last week when I took that chicken you were cravin’.” Without looking up, he added, “Now stop jawin’ an’ get to helpin’ me.”

  Marty ran back toward the rocks and returned minutes later with a small flat stab of stone. He eyed the prone body and the deepening depression that Kenny steadily lengthened. The only way for him to dig was to get down on his knees. And that would bring him close to the body. Real close. Too close. He could feel his stomach churn. But he didn’t want to be sick. Last time Kenny got mad at him for messing on his clothes.

  “You ain’t gonna get sick again?”

  Marty exhaled noisily, blinking all the while. “How come you always know?”

  With a sigh Kenny stopped. He braced both hands over the upright rifle barrel and leveled, on the boy, dark brown eyes too weary for a child. “You get all pasty an’ sweaty, boy. I can see you shakin’ in your boots from here. I ain’t scared. You wanna be like me, don’t you?” Marty’s nod brought one of his own. “That’s right. You settle your innard’s an’ get to work.”

  Kenny started whistling and once more went back to digging. He had neared the man’s feet. Anxious to get done and away, he swung the butt faster and faster. He nearly jumped out of his clothes when the foot moved. His heart pounded, and sweat popped out all over his body. It took him long moments before he realized he must have hit the foot with the rifle.

  Throwing his head back, he gulped air, warning himself that he had to be the strong one. He couldn’t give in to the urge to run. It was at times like this that he most resented having Marty to take care of. If he was alone, he could take off and pretend he’d never seen another dead body.

  But he wasn’t alone. He wasn’t going to run off and leave Marty alone.

  “Ken-Kenny?”

  “Now what?” Scowling, he shot a look at the younger boy. Marty, ashen-faced, pointed a shaking finger at the man.

  “You’re lookin’ dumbstruck as a turkey in a thunderstorm.” Marty started shaking his head back and forth, faster and faster, his finger shaking the same way, so that Kenny was reminded of a schoolteacher scolding him for a naughty prank. But little Marty wasn’t any teacher. He hadn’t played a prank on anyone for far too long. Surviving was all he had time for these days.

  Reluctantly, Kenny followed Marty’s finger down to the body. His dark brown eyes widened. Without thought he started backing away. “Holy cow! Get back, Marty. Get away from him! He’s still alive!”

  Frozen where he stood, Marty couldn’t move. “W-what—whata we g-gonna d-do!”

  “Jeez. Oh, jeez, I don’t know.”

  “W-we can’t l-let him d-die.”

  The plea in Marty’s voice cut through Kenny’s fear. “Son of a gun!” he muttered. He didn’t know nothing about the kind of wound that bled from the man’s shoulder. He’d need a doctor. He’d need care and medicine. He’d need…The widow woman! He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think of the best thing to do. He didn’t want to stay here alone while Marty went to fetch her. He couldn’t leave Marty here while he went for the widow woman, either. Damn!

  “K-Kenny? K-Kenny. I th-think he’s groan—ing!”

  “If he’s wakin’ up, stands to reason he’s hurtin’.” But even as he answered Marty, Kenny shouldered the rifle in reflex. Aiming it at the man, he squinted down the long barrel. His hands were wet. He could feel sweat plastering his shoulder-length hair to his damp shirt. Jeez, but he was scared.

  “You listen up, boy. There’s only one thing to do. We got to take him to the widow woman. Can’t leave him here alone, ’cause he might die. So you run back to the wagon an’ get me Ma’s quilt.”

  “S-supposin’ she don’t want him?”

  “Only a wet-behind-the-ears runt like you would ask somethin’ so dumb. She’s a woman, ain’t she? Pa always said that all a woman wants is some man to take care of her. You heard that man what’s come by tryin’ to coze up to her. Said she’d been without a man nigh onto a year now. Jus’ listen to me. She’ll be so happy to have him she’ll forget all ’bout us stealin’ from her.”

  He met Marty’s big-eyed look. “Go on with you. Time’s a-wastin’. An’ bring PeeWee back with you.”

  Jessie Winslow knew it was a waste of time to open the cash box. Money would not have magically appeared since the last time she had looked. But she opened the small metal tin anyway.

  The hot afternoon sun slanted across the smooth, scrubbed wood of the pine table. She ignored the reddened state of her hands as she set aside the list she had made of bare essentials needed if she was to survive the summer and keep the small ranch.

  From the box she lifted out her marriage certificate, the deed to the ranch that Harry had insisted be made over to her as a wedding gift, and an empty worn velvet bag. Her mother’s silver chatelaine with its thimble holder, scissors, needle case and pincushion hanging from chains attached to the silver scroll pin had gone the way of everything of value. The velvet bag was all she had left. Her brother, Greg, would be furious with her if he knew she had sold the chatelaine and the two horses he had given her.

  She glanced around the two-room cabin. The spool-turned rocker was the only furnishing she had brought with her from the hamlet of Kripplebush. Not that she missed the New York countryside. She hadn’t had a home there, only a companion’s place on her aunt’s sufferance. There had been no reason to stay—not that she was encouraged to by her cousin—once her aunt had passed on. Greg and his wife, Livia, had welcomed her to their home, newly set up in the north territory. Jessie had no one but herself to blame that she felt uncomfortable sharing another woman’s home and family. Livia would have been happy for her to continue on with them, but Jessie had hungered for a home of her own.

  Her mind drifted off along that tangent for a while longer. Memories of Greg’s arguments against Harry, her own stubbornness. She had believed that Harry wanted the same things she did. Hindsight had proved her wrong. He had been fixated on finding gold in the Superstition Mountains. He’d had no interest in building the ranch. No matter how she pleaded with him not to go off and leave her alone, he’d cajole and promise that it was the last time, that he was sure that big strike was waiting for him.

  Perhaps he had found a gold strike. Jessie would never know. His horse had carried his fever-ridden body home, where he’d d
ied without ever realizing she was there.

  Angry, she shook herself free of her musings and returned to the problem at hand.

  She was a thirty-year-old widow who owned a broken-down excuse for a ranch without a penny to her name. She had sold everything of value with the exception of Harry’s shotgun.

  And her wedding ring.

  Sunlight glinted on the pinkish gold band as she lifted her left hand. The ring was thin and worn, having belonged to Harry’s mother for almost forty years.

  Jessie stared at the ring, thinking of her happiness the day Harry had placed it on her finger as they said their vows. She had never once taken it off. But this was the first time she admitted to herself that she wore it as much to protect herself as from sentiment.

  Each Sunday after church services that she never attended, David Trainor, a widower and the only person from Apache Junction who did not believe that she had killed Harry, would come to call on her. They sat on the wood plank bench in front of the cabin, David on one end, she on the other, sipping lemonade she made from the lemons that David brought with him. He never came inside. As if she didn’t have the most isolated ranch in the area, as if she didn’t already have more gossip than anyone else whispered about.

  She couldn’t fault David, but his insistence on what was proper and what was not irked her at times. As long as she wore her ring, he did no more than hint of his interest in courting her. He timed his visits to last an hour and no more, checking his pocket watch from the moment he arrived to the moment he sat up on his wagon’s seat to leave. His last visit had ended with his reminder that her year of mourning would be up at the end of the month.

  She had no doubt that David would ask her to marry him. Marry him immediately. He was a sweet, thoughtful man, but she didn’t love him. He had a family grown from his first wife, two children from the second and she had no wish to be the third Mrs. Trainor.