A horrifying possibility occurred to her and she hastily scanned the area. "Is it still alive?"
"No, ma'am."
"Thank goodness!” Her most immediate fear eased, Delilah turned her attention once more to the man at her side who was quite obviously in considerable pain. More concerned than she ought to have been, but refusing to examine that emotion, Delilah sought a suitable place to stop and spotted a downed tree. "Pull up over there. I want to take a look at those scratches."
She urged Jackpot in the indicated direction, then dismounted and secured him to a nearby tree limb. Turning, she expected to see Sheriff Chambers behind her, but he wasn't there. Rather, he was still sitting astride his mount in the middle of the narrow road they'd been following, watching her expressionlessly. "Are you coming, Sheriff?"
"I've already bandaged the scratches."
Delilah placed her hands on her hips. "Really? You cleansed them, disinfected them, and bound them with clean cloth."
A pause. "I can't rightly say I disinfected them. I didn't think about it."
"Just as I thought. Do you have any whiskey in those saddlebags of yours?"
"I might have a bit."
"Good. Then I suggest you allow me to look after those scratches before they fester."
"You think it's that important?"
Delilah nodded. "Unquestionably, Sheriff. My mother saw two brothers die during the war from infections that she was positive could have been prevented. She made certain her daughters understood the importance of cleansing any wound."
He looked away, staring off toward a distant mountain peak. Delilah waited. Then, with a small shake of his head, the sheriff nudged his horse toward her and dismounted slowly, his face tensing with the pain of his injuries. After dropping his reins to ground-tether his mount, he removed the whiskey bottle from his saddlebag and turned to face her. "Over there?" he asked, indicating the fallen tree.
She nodded. Now that he was before her, so big and imposing and male, she wondered if she could, in fact, do what needed to be done. She hadn't willingly touched a man in anything other than a social situation since. . . since the day Jacob Sterne had entered her life. She'd certainly never touched bare skin.
Samson sat on the log, watching her, and waited. She was different than she'd been in town. More relaxed somehow? No that wasn't it. More certain? Confident, perhaps? Maybe. Not that he'd noticed a lack of either quality before, but now the traits seemed somehow more obvious. As though Mrs. Delilah Sterne had returned to something she knew well. That was it. She seemed very at home suddenly. He suspected she knew very well how to fire the Winchester that rested in her saddle scabbard.
Interesting. A lady. A gambler. And an obviously accomplished horse woman who knew rifles.
Who was Delilah Sterne?
"Take off your shirt, Sheriff," she directed in a brisk tone as she removed from her saddlebag an old petticoat that she no doubt intended to use as a clean bandage.
Her dog whined from the other saddlebag and Delilah set her on the ground. "No running off this time, Poochie," she ordered distractedly as she continued to look in the saddlebag for something. "I don't intend to chase after you again.” Poochie bared her teeth and then ambled a short distance off.
In the process of removing his shirt, Samson shook his head. "You talk to that dog as though it can understand you."
Delilah turned to face him. "I believe she can understand much more than people give her credit for. She's really quite intelligent."
"If you say so, ma'am.” Leaving the blood-soaked torn shirt that he'd secured around his midsection in place, he draped his good shirt over the log and resumed his seat upon the log. "I've seen some pretty smart cattle dogs in my day.” He left a but hanging unspoken.
"But you've never seen one that could understand more than a couple of words. Correct?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Sterne nodded. "I hadn't either until I met Poochie.” Her tone was final, and dismissed the topic. Samson got the message. He could either believe or disbelieve, it was of no concern to her. "Can you remove that as well?" she asked, gesturing toward the ragged shirt tied at his waist.
He nodded and watched as she retrieved her canteen, took a deep breath as though to gird herself, and then moved smoothly toward him through the bed of ferns that carpeted the roadside.
She gasped as the claw marks became visible, and Samson had to admit they looked a mite worse than he remembered. Four gaping bloody parallel lacerations marked his left side from his breast to the waistband of his denim trousers. Another deeper trio of gashes angled from right to left starting just below his rib cage and ending at his navel. Even his forearms had gouges, though these were less deep, having been inflicted by the creature's front claws as it had tried to break his stranglehold. Every scratch continued to ooze blood despite his previous doctoring attempt.
He noted that Mrs. Sterne paled visibly. "You're not going to faint, are you?” Damnation! If there was one thing he did not need at the moment, it was an unconscious woman on his hands.
"Of course not!" she assured him, though her complexion remained ashen. "But. . . goodness gracious! Those are more than scratches. They require stitching."
"I was figuring on seeing Doc Hale when I get back to town tonight."
"You could lose a considerable amount of blood by then," she pointed out.
He shrugged. "I've lost blood before, and I've got things to do. They'll wait."
With a grimace that suggested a certain amount of exasperation with male bravado, Delilah said, "It's your life."
"Yes, ma'am.” He studied her. She seemed to be frozen in place. "Did you want to bandage these scratches or not, ma'am?"
She started slightly. "Yes, of course.” Kneeling in the foliage at his side, she ripped some strips from her petticoat which she then wet with water from her canteen. That done, she began to sponge the blood from his wounds. Her hands felt cool against his skin.
Samson stayed silent as she worked, watching her. She seemed to be avoiding looking at him, but he didn't mind. It was the first time he'd had the opportunity to study her this closely. She was a damned attractive woman, that was for certain. He imagined her with her midnight hair unbound and spread across his pillow, staring up at him with those deep pansy-blue eyes. He imagined her soft white body beneath him as she held him in her arms, her pouty red lips parting to accept his kiss. He imagined making love to her.
"Does that hurt?"
Her words jerked him back from the realm of imagination with cruel finality. "What?" he managed to ask, fairly barking the word.
Delilah looked slightly taken aback. "I asked if I was hurting you. You seem more tense all of a sudden."
"No, ma'am. I'm fine," Samson choked out. But he wasn't fine. Hell! He was about to bust the buttons of his trousers.
She eyed him doubtfully for a second and then nodded, asking, "Can you pass me the whiskey please?"
Samson handed her the bottle. It was only a quarter full but he figured it would be enough.
She didn't seem to agree. "Is that it?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am. That's all I've got."
She studied the contents briefly. "Well, I guess we'll just have to make do.” She met his eyes for the first time since beginning to work on him. "This is going to hurt some."
He nodded and said nothing. He was fully aware of how much it hurt to have good whiskey poured into an open cut.
"Lift your arm," she directed. She indicated his left arm which, held snugly against his side, was blocking accessibility to the outermost cut. Obliging, he did as directed.
An instant later, liquid fire seared the parallel slashes created by the cougar's claws. He grit his teeth. As the strained muscles in his shoulder complained at having to hold his arm in the air after their already excessive use today, he rested his hand on Delilah's shoulder and focused his attention on his tormentor. On the subtle strength of the bones beneath his fingers. On the silken texture of the lock of hair that b
rushed his knuckles. On the delicate bone structure of her features.
The color had come back to her face now. In fact, she looked decidedly flushed. Samson frowned and contemplated her. What was the matter?
Her bottom lip trembled slightly, and she caught it between her teeth to still it. A sheen of perspiration dampened her forehead. Even her breathing had altered, having become more rapid and shallow. It was almost as though she was nervous.
A thought occurred to him. Was she perhaps as attracted to him as he was to her? The idea pleased him immensely.
She poured more whiskey on the diagonal scratches and pressed a square of white cloth against his ribs to catch the excess.
"Your hands are trembling," he observed.
She jumped slightly, as though his words had startled her. Then, meeting his gaze she said, "Don't worry, Sheriff. It has nothing to do with you. I won't faint on you.” Hastily looking away, she returned to the task at hand, but not before he saw what was in her eyes. It wasn't attraction; it was fear. He was momentarily disconcerted, but more than that, he was curious.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Nothing!” But she said the word too quickly. Seeming to realize that, she shrugged slightly and added, "Just ghosts."
She didn't look at him, yet he needed to see her eyes. Slowly, he reached out a hand and gripped her chin, bringing her gaze up. "Someone in your past?"
She nodded slightly and pulled from his grasp, looking away.
"Why now?" he asked. "What made you think of it?"
She looked down at her lap, staring intently at the torn cloths resting there as though the answer lay there. He began to think she wouldn't answer. Then, finally, she whispered, "I don't like. . . men. . . touching me."
"Pardon me?" he asked, certain he had to have misheard.
She shook her head. "Nothing. Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything.” She passed him the end of a long strip of white cloth. "Here hold that in place while I dress the scratches."
He did as she directed, but he couldn't get her words out of his mind. "Your husband?"
"No! My husband was a gentle, loving man whose equal I shall never find.” She looked aside briefly, as though searching for words in the foliage to her left. Then, she murmured, "Please, just forget I said anything."
Samson considered her. He wanted to know what had happened to her because he wanted to know Delilah Sterne, to understand her. But he couldn't force her to tell him. "All right, ma'am.” He looked down at the bandage she secured in place by tying the two ends together. It was clean and tight enough to slow the bleeding if not stop it all together. "Thank you."
"You're welcome.” She took a deep breath and smiled a dazzling, albeit forced, smile. "And now Sheriff Matthew Chambers, I suggest you try not to tangle with any more lions for a while."
"Yes, ma'am. If I could just convince those danged rustlers to give themselves up, maybe I could stop roamin' cougar territory."
She frowned. "Do you have any idea who is responsible?"
"I'm not real sure, ma'am.” Retrieving his shirt, he put it on while Delilah collected her canteen and the now empty whiskey bottle. "I heard a while back that a fellow wanted for rustlin' in Wyoming was in the area, but I haven't seen him."
She passed him the bottle. "A bounty hunter on the train to Butte had WANTED posters on some men he said were in this area. One of them was a rustler."
"Do you recall his name?"
"Let's see, Samson Towers is the name that comes to mind most readily, but he wasn't the rustler. Let me think about it."
Something tightened in Samson's chest at her words. "Sure," he said, but he could hardly force the word past the constriction in his throat.
Ah, hell! After two years, it was starting again. Thankfully the likeness on the poster was not very good. He'd destroyed enough of those that had crossed his desk to know that. Still, anyone who knew him well would eventually make the connection if one of the posters came into their hands.
~~~* * *~~~
CHAPTER 5
________________________
They'd been riding in silence for a while when Sheriff Chambers abruptly pulled up his horse and waited for Delilah to come abreast. His horse balked a bit as Jackpot drew near, but he quieted him, murmuring, "Whoa, Goliath," as he reached forward to pat the animal's neck. Delilah was just about to comment on the suitability of the name he had chosen for the huge horse when he looked at her, pinning her beneath his hard, too-discerning gaze. "You don't happen to remember that bounty hunter's name, do you?" he asked.
"Yes, I. . . uh.” But the potent power of the sheriff's scrutiny wrought havoc with her memory. Blinking, she diverted her attention toward the road ahead and managed to find her voice. "He introduced himself as Mr. Pike. Joseph Pike, if I'm not mistaken."
At that moment Goliath side-stepped again, irritated with Jackpot's proximity. Sheriff Chambers took him firmly in hand, and then, by tacit agreement, they began walking the horses. "Have you remembered yet who the other posters were of that he carried?"
She nodded. "The one fellow was named Butch Morgan, and the other. . ." she frowned, "Clark, I believe. I can't recall his first name."
"That would be George Clark," he said with a nod. "I heard about a month back that he and Morgan were in the area. But, since they were never seen around, I'd assumed they'd moved on. Seems like a heck of a coincidence though that all this rustlin' is going on right when Morgan is rumored to be in the area.” He frowned and mused aloud, "I wonder if Pike is going on old information or new?"
"I wouldn't know."
He turned his head to look at her for a moment, and his steel-hued gaze had a rather distant thoughtful expression. Then, finally, he murmured, "No, you wouldn't."
They settled into silence, and much of the remainder of their journey passed quietly and uneventfully. Matt seemed deep in thought, and spoke little which was fine with Delilah. She found conversation with him too disturbing.
Whoa! Matt? When had she begun to think of him so familiarly. Sheriff Chambers was fine. Even Matt Chambers was acceptable. But just Matt. Uh-uh. She'd have to watch that.
She'd begun to think that perhaps they'd make it through the entire journey without initiating a disagreement concerning their most fundamental difference: the fact that she was a gambler and he hated them. Then, out of the blue, he spoke. "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"
Delilah felt tension invade the muscles of her back. "You can ask, but I won't guarantee you an answer."
He nodded. "Fair enough.” He rode without comment for a bit, his eyes on the wall of forest ahead. Finally, he turned to look at her and said, "Why do you gamble? There must be any number of other occupations open to a lady such as yourself."
Delilah stared at him. Memories of how difficult life had been after her father's death came crashing in on her, and a rush of anger and bitterness suffused her, stiffening her spine and enabling her, for the first time to meet his eyes without losing her equanimity. "Oh, yes, Sheriff," she said caustically. "There are any number of occupations available for a lady like myself. I could have become a whore. Though of course I wouldn't have been a lady for very long in that occupation, would I?” Without giving him the opportunity to respond, she continued. "Or, I could have continued to work my fingers to the bone doing mending and laundry until my hands crippled and my eyesight went from working for long hours by lantern light. Or, hallelujah!” She mimicked the tone of someone having just made a wonderful discovery. "Perhaps I could have married into unpaid servitude, becoming old before my time. I mean there are any number of men out there looking for a woman to keep their house, do their laundry, and warm their beds. Aren't there?” Lord knows she'd received enough proposals from lecherous old men to last her a lifetime.
A moment of stunned silence greeted her outburst. "You dislike hard work?" he asked.
Realizing that perhaps her passionate response had been inconsistent with the cas
ual nature of the question, Delilah struggled to reign in her temper. "On the contrary, Sheriff. I've never been afraid of hard work if it is necessary for my own survival or the well-being of those I love.” She paused, remembering her mother and father. "I know from observing my parents that love can make a lifestyle that is at times quite meager palatable. But, until I find that kind of love for myself . . . ” She trailed off, suddenly remembering her persona, and the lie she lived. In a choked voice, she continued, "Until I find that kind of love again," she emphasized the word meaningfully, "I fail to see what is so wrong with the way I make my living.” She wondered if, in her anger, she'd betrayed too much of the truth concerning her circumstances.
Sheriff Chambers looked at her then, his steel-cold eyes looking deep into her soul as though to seek out the mysteries hidden in the shadows there. "I see," was his only response. Delilah was left with the distinct impression that Matt Chambers, being much more perceptive than most of the men she encountered, was beginning to question her story. "Tell me about your husband Mrs. Sterne. What exactly happened to him?"
She'd answered that particular question often enough to be able to reply without stumbling. "Kenneth was killed by a cheater's bullet while gambling on the Kentucky Dream.
"That's a riverboat?"
"Yes. On the Missouri River."
"So your husband was a gambler too?"
Delilah nodded. "By continuing in my husband's profession, someday I shall meet up with the man who killed him and seek justice."
Sheriff Chambers studied her a moment. "Um-hmm," he said. Was there still a note of disbelief in his voice? Then, to Delilah's relief, he nodded and said, "My condolences," before kicking Goliath to a faster pace. Delilah nibbled the inner flesh of her bottom lip nervously, thoughtfully. He was beginning to doubt her story, she was almost certain of it, but she didn't know what to do about it.
It was past midday when he finally reined in again. Then, pointing down into the vast green valley that lay before them, he simply said, "That's the Devil's Fork ranch.” Nodding toward the east he added, "The next valley over belongs to the Lazy M."
Beyond Betrayal Page 8
