She drew a shaky breath. "My mother."
After a moment of silence one of the Indians rode forward. He was large and powerfully built despite his wrinkled skin and the silver hairs that twined through his fur-wrapped braids. From the top of his head fell a scalp lock, which he'd adorned with a yellow feather, and he had painted the center part of his hair red, like the tattoos on his face and chest. No brows or lashes framed the keen black eyes that gazed into Cord's, for the Indian had plucked his body hairless, as was the Comanche custom. Still, the white man's influence was evident in this warrior's choice of weapons—a double-action Remington revolver—and in the oversized dice that dangled from his belt.
The warrior's shadow fell across the youth. It acted like a tonic on the boy. Rousing himself, he reached for his knife, but Cord stepped on the handle.
The boy's eyes grew murderous, but the warrior berated him in cool, crisp tones. The youth staggered to his feet. Muttering what must have been oaths, he limped to his horse.
"The boy has brought great honor to himself and to your people," Cord said in Spanish, hoping the warrior would understand the dialect of Aunt Lally's vaqueros. He knew that Comanches often traded their rustled horses and cattle for guns with Spanish-speaking New Mexicans. "He has stolen two ponies from our camp. Now we want them back."
Again those keen black eyes locked with Cord's. He thought the Indian must have understood him, for the warrior's gaze shifted to Zack and Wes. Their repeating Winchesters could easily have gunned down the entire Comanche hunting party—assuming, of course, Cord thought grimly, that the Indians missed with their one-shot Enfields.
"I am Standing Bear," the warrior said at last in stilted Spanish. "Blood Wolf is my son. That which he took from you is now his. Be grateful that he left your scalp."
Standing Bear turned his horse's head around. Cord caught the reins.
"The great Standing Bear would not return to his people with only two ponies when he could have had three. He would lose face."
The warrior looked down his long, flat nose at Cord. "There is no shame in two ponies."
"No shame to Blood Wolf, who caught the ponies. But Standing Bear has nothing of his own to show his people. The tribe will whisper. They will say he is old. Unfit to raid."
The Indian stiffened, and Cord knew he'd figured right. Standing Bear must have had trouble persuading the tribe's more venerable warriors to join him. He was aging. He was losing respect as a hunter. That was why four of his six braves looked no older than Zack.
"We will trade," Standing Bear said abruptly. "I will take your rifles and your squaw. You may take one pony."
"One pony?" Fancy exclaimed. "I'm worth only one lousy pony?"
Cord hid his smile. Apparently Fancy understood Spanish too.
"Actually," he said to her, "Standing Bear figures you're worth something closer to a quarter of a pony."
She turned crimson. "Well, you just tell Standing Bear he can go to hell!"
"I'm not sure Standing Bear would understand, considering how the Injuns don't have fire-and-brimstone preachers. You have any other ideas?"
She glared at him. "As a matter of fact, I do. You need to play Standing Bear for the horses. He's wearing dice, so he must be a gambler."
Cord had been thinking the same thing. In fact, his initial challenge had been headed that way. There was just one little problem.
"I'm not good at dice."
"I am."
"That's only because you cheat."
She dug her fists into her hips. "Look here, Rawlins. Do you want those horses or not?"
"I want them all right." His humor ebbed. "But not your way. I don't cheat. Never have. And I'm not going to start now."
"Oh. And I suppose you think Mr. Standing Bear is going to roll a square game?"
"It doesn't matter. A man's got his honor."
"Honor?" She tossed her head. "Well, I've seen more honorable men than I can count wind up dead. You know what your problem is, Rawlins? You've been a lawman for too long."
Before Cord could stop her, she marched straight up to Standing Bear and tapped a forefinger on his buffalo leggings.
"Excuse me, sir," she crooned in lilting Spanish. Her smile was sweeter than a honeycomb. "My husband and I were just talking. We figured that because of the baby and all"—she laid a loving hand on her belly—"you'd consider a different trade. You see, I won't be much use to you for... oh, another six or seven months."
Cord's face flamed. One of his brothers snickered. He shot them each a withering look, but he couldn't tell which one was guilty. They both wore poker faces.
Standing Bear frowned at Fancy's bulgeless womb. "Consider?" he said. "Very well. I will take instead the pistol in your husband's belt."
Cord's patience completely unraveled. "Look here, Standing Bear. I'm not parting with that pistol. Or the woman, either."
"No pistol? No deal."
Fancy laughed in musical tones. "Darling," she said lightly, her eyes piercing through him like flint, "don't be such a ninny. I think Standing Bear's offer is more than fair. Only..." She fluttered her lashes. "I was wondering, Mr. Standing Bear. Is your six-shooter just for show? Because my husband's a fair shot with his. He can knock out the eye of a squirrel at sixty paces. Can't you, darling?"
Cord understood now where Fancy's guile was leading. The girl was smart, all right. Smarter than a tree full of owls. "Sure I can... sweetheart."
She rewarded him with a heart-tripping smile. "Can you shoot like that, Mr. Standing Bear?"
"Your squaw talks too much, white man."
"Maybe." Cord hooked his thumbs over his holster. "Or maybe Standing Bear can't hit the side of a barn."
The jibe worked. The Indian set his jaw and dismounted. "Name your target."
"First, the terms. Six shots at sixty paces. Best dead-eye wins. If it's you, you get the horses and rifles. If it's me... well, I just want the horses."
"Agreed."
"It's a trick, Father. A white-man's trick!" Blood Wolf cried. Apparently recovered, he cantered forward, waving his Enfield. "I say we kill them now. Take the guns, the horse, and the woman!"
Standing Bear raised a hand. "No. I have agreed."
"But the horses are mine!"
"Do you wish to compete for them?"
Blood Wolf hesitated, but only long enough to leer at Fancy. "I will whip this paleface dog and teach his woman what it means to know pain."
Fancy stiffened. On impulse, Cord dropped an arm around her shoulders.
"Listen here, Standing Bear. I don't give a damn which of you I shoot against. I'll take you both on, if you want. But the woman's not part of the deal. You got that?"
Standing Bear nodded. Blood Wolf sneered. Jumping to the ground, he traded guns with his father.
"Cord, what if it is a trick?" Fancy whispered in English. "What if Blood Wolf tries to shoot you?"
Cord gave her a light squeeze before he set her free. "Don't you fret. Zack and Wes will cover me."
"But you've promised Standing Bear the rifles and the horses."
"That's because I don't plan to lose."
Her gaze was so troubled, he almost believed she was concerned about him.
"Here now," he said gruffly, discomfited by the feelings of warmth that her worry roused in him. "Don't you think I can hit a knothole at sixty paces?"
"Of course you can. It's just that... Well..." She frowned. "You're too honest, Rawlins."
"You make it sound like a hanging offense."
She reddened. "Well, where I come from, honesty's a weakness."
Turning on her heel, she marched off to join Zack and Wes. Cord shook his head. Now she was acting more like the Fancy Holleday he knew. He probably shouldn't care, but... Why did she always believe the worst of his good intentions?
Standing Bear led his son's horse away, and the other Comanches entered the clearing. Fancy willed herself to stand firm, meeting their eyes with defiance. Some of them gestured obscenel
y at her despite Zack, who stepped forward to shield her, and Wes, who snapped his rifle lever in warning. She tried to tell herself that no matter what happened, Indians were just men. She could handle them.
Still, stories of Comanche brutality crowded her mind. The prospect of captivity left her cold. The most frightening part of all, though, was that she was actually beginning to fear for Cord and the boys. Her enemies.
Caring was weakness. And weakness was death. Diego had taught her that lesson well.
She tried to discount her feelings. She told herself that worrying about the Rawlins brothers was only natural, since they were protecting her from Blood Wolf and his kind. Her derringer would be useless under these conditions. And she had no way of surviving out here, alone, against Indians who intended rape, or worse.
She swallowed hard.
While his braves gathered behind the firing line, Standing Bear paced off fifty yards and plunged his knife into an oak. A breath of wind riffled the leaves, and Fancy could vaguely discern a knothole in the dappled play of light and shadow.
Blood Wolf shoved past Cord. With a show of arrogance, the youth indicated that he would fire first. Cord shrugged.
Wes snorted. "Shoot. Knotholes are nothing. If the Injun can't hit a sitting target, he doesn't deserve his gun."
The Indians grew breathlessly quiet. Blood Wolf raised the Remington. Firing in rapid succession, he split the knife handle, shattered the blade, and carved the knothole from the tree. He accomplished all this with five bullets. The Indians whooped.
"Not bad for a windbelly," Zack murmured. "Reckon he can aim."
Standing Bear searched for another target. Claiming the knotholes were all unsuitable, he hung his dice from a low-hanging cottonwood bough. Each die was crudely carved from bone and measured about half the circumference of Blood Wolf's target.
The wind shifted, and the cubes began to twist and sway.
Fancy's heart quickened. "Blood Wolf's mark wasn't nearly as difficult!"
Zack smiled grimly. "Don't you worry, ma'am."
"Yeah, Cord'll get our horses back," Wes said. "Plenty pronto too."
Cord stepped to the line. The Comanches all shouted and jeered. He ignored them. Turning his shoulder, he raised his Peacemaker and fired so quickly that the three reports sounded like one.
His first bullet pierced the right die's center.
His second punched out the left's snake eye.
The third shot sawed the rawhide cord in two.
Spinning his .45, he shoved it back into its holster before the dice could rattle to the earth.
The braves sobered, falling silent.
"Looks like I get the ponies," Cord said dryly.
Blood Wolf turned a shade of plum. "No! The horses are mine."
"The agreement will be honored," Standing Bear said, nodding at Cord. "I gave my word."
"Your word is not mine!"
Blood Wolf raised his gun. Fancy cried out a warning along with Zack and Wes.
Cord turned, reaching, but it was too late. The Indian's gun blazed. The charge was deafening as the revolver backfired, exploding in the young Comanche's hand. His high-pitched screams froze Fancy's pulse. Stunned, she could only stand in horror, watching the spray of blood from the grotesque remains of severed fingers.
Cord was the first to reach Blood Wolf. Ripping off his shirt, he pinned the writhing youth and wrapped his gushing wounds. Standing Bear fell to his knees at his son's side. The old warrior's face looked pale despite his unyielding features.
"He needs a doctor. A medicine man," Cord said brusquely, binding Blood Wolf's arm to his chest.
The boy began to shake and chatter. He curled into a ball.
"Is your camp nearby?"
Standing Bear nodded stiffly, then called to his braves. Two scrambled forward and carried their comrade to a horse.
Cord rose. Standing Bear joined him. Only then did Fancy realize she'd twisted the chain of her lucky coin so tightly, her fingers had chafed near to bleeding.
"My son would have killed you." Standing Bear's voice was hoarse with restrained emotion. "Why did you help him?"
Fancy wondered the same thing. If Diego had been in Cord's shoes, he would have gunned the boy down—after prolonging his agony, of course. She waited shakily for Cord's answer.
He fidgeted, seeming uncomfortable with Standing Bear's question. Many seconds passed before he finally met the old warrior's eyes.
"Because it was the right thing to do."
* * *
Fancy couldn't stop thinking about Cord's answer. She thought about it that afternoon as he helped escort Blood Wolf to the Indian camp. She remembered it again when Cord returned, sporting a deerskin shirt, hunting knives for the boys, and a strawberry pony for her. Later, she thought about it on the trail, when his brothers began teasing him, and his rough, embarrassed voice silenced their yarns about Cord, the death-defying Ranger.
Fancy thought a lot that day. She reflected on honor and compassion, hatred and vengeance. She remembered how she had vowed to punish the lawman who had killed Diego. She knew her lover's soul could never rest until the deed was done, and yet, a part of her yearned to be excused from the treacherous task she'd set for herself. Maybe, just maybe, a man like Cord Rawlins deserved to keep living.
Never had she expected to think of a federal marshal as anything other than a mark. Cord wasn't just her enemy, though. He was a widower grieving for his wife and son. And he wasn't just her captor, he was a brother, dedicated to protecting two young hotheads. She tried doggedly to harden herself against him, to strip him of every attribute except his badge, but the more successful she became, the more alone she felt.
When the sun began to sink, Cord ordered the boys to make camp. Wes hunted rabbits for dinner, and Zack warmed the inevitable beans.
Fancy sat idle.
If she'd still been dealing faro, twilight would have signaled the start of her busiest time of day. She tried to reflect fondly on those nights of humbugs and shams at the Golden Garter Saloon. Instead, she kept recalling the endless waiting for Diego, his cursory lovemaking, his drunken rages, and his flagrant affairs. Sometimes it was hard to remember the silver-tongued caballero who had been so enamored of her, a girl of eighteen, that he'd staked his beloved casino to win her from the whorehouse.
Of course, Fancy knew now that Diego's sacrifice hadn't been as great as it seemed then: He'd cheated. As he always had.
Her gaze strayed to Cord. Bare-chested and dripping, he was returning from the nearby stream. She watched his approach furtively, telling herself she must study his habits. How else could she apprise Ned Wilkerson of them?
Cord stopped by the fire and used the rag that once had been his shirt to dry himself. The fine coat of sorrel hair blanketing his chest formed ringlets as water dribbled over his ribs. Rolling past the hardened planes of his stomach, the droplets trickled into the dark recesses of his breeches. She grew warm, despite her stubborn efforts not to imagine where those droplets had come to rest.
Next, he shook his head. Water sprayed, leaving his mane unruly and spiked until his sun-bronzed fingers curried the mess. She couldn't help but admire how his hair glinted like copper fire against the red-gold horizon. He appeared oblivious to her regard, though. In fact, the entire time that he rubbed and stretched, working his naked muscles before her, he seemed to concentrate on Zack.
"We'll be heading east a ways now," he said. "I reckon we'll come to Fort Graham in a day, less than two. It's high time I sent you boys home to Aunt Lally."
Zack's brow furrowed, and Cord steeled himself for an argument. Now that the boys were enamored of Fancy, it would be even harder to send them back to the ranch. Even so, he couldn't let them anywhere near Carson City's courthouse. They would insist on attending Fancy's trial, and when she was sentenced, all hell would break loose. He had nightmares about Zack and Wes breaking her out of jail, using the ruse that he, God forgive him, had taught them. They'd either get caught, or
shot, or live like wanted men, hiding out in the hills with Fancy.
Cord wasn't sure which was worse.
One thing was certain, though. The girl had an appetite. If she ever feasted her eyes on Zack or Wes, those same, hungry eyes that were devouring his naked flesh and heating up his insides, then the boys he knew would be lost to him forever.
"You're worried about those Comanches, aren't you, Cord?" Zack asked.
Cord fidgeted. He supposed he was, but it was hard to concentrate on Indians when a woman was staring his pants clean off him. In a way, her wanting him was flattering. Most women didn't let on that way. Beth sure never had. Just knowing Fancy sat nearby, ripe and ready and certain to please, jangled his nerves. He felt as he had at sixteen, when he was falling head over heels for Lila Mae Clegg. Restless and hot-blooded at the age of nineteen, she had lured him to her daddy's hayloft one night to teach him everything she knew about loving.
And Lila Mae had known plenty, he thought with a lopsided grin.
"Cord?"
He started, his face flaming. Zack was eyeing him as if he'd gone deaf. Or daft. He figured daft was closer to the truth. How the devil had he let himself get so randy?
"Er... Comanches. Yeah."
He glanced furtively at his fly. It didn't look as strained as it felt—yet. If his pants got any tighter, he would have to take another dip. Either that, or carry Fancy off into the bushes. The idea made his pulse pound, and he nearly groaned aloud.
Confound it, he was playing right into her hands. Horny with his pants down was exactly how she wanted him. He had to get ahold of himself. He had to think of Beth, instead of wondering if one tumble with Fancy was worth a whole night with Lila Mae.
Zack cleared his throat. "The way I figure it," he said, his eyes shifting curiously to Fancy, "Standing Bear's braves are just strays. The Quahadi and Peneteka bands aren't likely to leave their hunting grounds and come this far east."
Cord smiled ruefully. So Zack could sense the sparking going on. Bless the boy's discretion. Wes would have made at least a dozen wisecracks by now.
"Maybe. Or maybe we were just lucky." Cord drew a ragged breath and forced his brain back to Indians. "Whatever the case, I'm not taking any chances. We'll be safer heading east. And you boys'll be safer at home."
Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1) Page 9
