Adrienne deWolfe (3 page)

"C'mon, Creed! Give it to 'im!" Danny was shouting, jumping up and down and swinging his fists like a prizefighter.

Torn, Wes gazed outside once more. As a lawman, he did have the pesky responsibility to keep the peace...

The combatants were on the street now, rolling in a cloud of dust. It looked like the two of them were determined to beat each other bloody, if not to mutilate and maim.

Damn.

Rising, Wes unhooked the trigger guards on his holsters and headed for the doors.

However, the woman had already taken matters into her own hands. She marched up to the flailing fighters and doused them with a bucket of water. The arena turned instantly to mud. Creed reared back, coughing and sputtering, and Shae heaved him into a puddle of ooze. The woman hurried between them, brandishing the hammer in warning.

Danny started cursing like a muleskinner. "Get up, Creed!" he shouted, pounding on the glass. "Get up and knock that Yankee on her bustle!"

Wes hesitated at the door as he noticed movement near the edge of the crowd. The spectators were falling back before a dark, squat, powerfully built man. A polished star glinted on his sweat-stained shirt, and a short-barreled Remington was strapped to his hip.

"Uh-oh," Danny muttered, becoming instantly subdued. "Pa looks mad."

Wes arched an eyebrow, his gaze darting back to the lawman. Dukker was the town marshal?

Snarling something at the woman, Dukker wrenched the hammer from her hands and threw it into the wagon bed. She straightened, seeming even taller as she towered over the marshal. Wes couldn't help but admire her as she inclined her head with a dignity reminiscent of Old World royalty. When she gestured to Shae, the young man stomped forward and handed her into the buckboard.

As the spectators hastily dispersed under the marshal's malevolent eye, Dukker was joined in the street by a rotund, laughing man, who slapped him on the shoulder. They exchanged words for a moment before heading for the dance hall's front doors. Danny grew whiter than bleached bones.

"Uh-oh. Gotta go. See ya around, Ranger."

Wes frowned, watching the previously self-assured boy bolt like a jackrabbit for the alley.

Wes had reseated himself by the time Dukker and his companion entered the dance hall. The rotund man advanced toward Wes's table with a spritely step.

"Welcome to Elodea, stranger," he boomed. "Phineas Faraday is my name. I'm mayor of this fine town. And this here's Hannibal Dukker, our marshal."

Wes allowed the mayor to pump his hand, but he remained seated. He didn't much like politicians with wide, toothy smiles.

Apparently unconcerned by the slight, Faraday beamed at him as he adjusted his glasses. He had ink stains on his rolled-up sleeves and a smudge on his nose. It occurred to Wes that Faraday must be the owner of the local newspaper.

"Of course," Faraday went on, "you being a stranger, you probably aren't aware of our no-gun ordinance." His tone was amicable but the gaze he trained on Wes's Colts was wary. "If you don't mind my asking, what's your business here, mister?"

Wes delayed his answer as the bartender deposited a plate of greasy food before him. The man kept his eyes to the ground as he edged around Dukker and high-tailed it back to the safety of his bar.

"My name's Rawlins," Wes said finally. "I've got Ranger business with Sheriff Boudreau."

Faraday's eyebrows humped up like twin caterpillars. "Rawlins? Ranger
Cord
Rawlins?"

Wes tried not to grimace. Folks in Bandera County often confused him with his legendary, law-fighting brother. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why. Cord had left the force years ago. Besides, Cord was six inches shorter—not to mention fourteen years older—than he.

"Cord's a relation of mine," he answered coolly. "Anything else I can do for you, Mayor? I've got a meal waiting on me."

Dukker sneered, folding apelike arms across a barrel-sized chest. "Reckon you ain't heard then, eh, Rawlins?"

"Heard what?"

"You're late, that's what. Cousin Gator was expecting you two damned weeks ago. 'Course, he's dead now, so I reckon any business you got is with me."

Wes nearly choked on his mouthful of beans. "Boudreau's
dead?"

"Yep." Dukker nodded ominously. "Shot and ambushed about twelve miles west of town. Hell, if you'd been doing your job, hunting down renegade niggers like you were supposed to, Cousin Gator would still be hunting and fishing with my boys."

Wes set down his fork. He didn't much like Dukker's accusation, mainly because there was a ring of truth in it. He could have ridden much harder, but he'd chosen to rest Two-Step during the hottest parts of the afternoon. He'd holed up for dust devils and lightning storms, and he'd even allowed a calico queen to lure him into an overnight stay. Could he have prevented the sheriff's ambush if he'd arrived sooner?

A pang of guilt stabbed through him.

"This is the first I've heard of Boudreau's death. Or of any renegades," he added cautiously. "Seems strange no one mentioned it to me while I was walking through town."

"Maybe no one mentioned it to you 'cause you ain't wearing a badge," Dukker retorted. "I reckon you Rangers get your jollies by strapping on Big Irons and scaring the living daylights out of unarmed folks."

Wes felt his neck heat. He knew he should allow for Dukker's grief at his cousin's death, but the man was making it hard.

"You've got a right to be angry. I apologize. Now you want to tell me why I had to bust my britches riding nearly two hundred miles?"

"I already told you it was renegades," Dukker snapped. "'Course, if those niggers had a lick of sense, they'd be halfway to New Mexico by now."

Faraday cleared his throat, his shrewd gaze darting to Wes. "You know we can't be entirely sure of that, Hannibal. And the county isn't within your jurisdiction—"

"A man's got a right to defend his property."

"Yes, but Mr. Rawlins has the
legal
authority to enforce the law until our new sheriff is elected. Perhaps before he rides off to track down Gator's killers, Mr. Rawlins can help you settle the trouble on your cousin's spread—you being so busy with the election campaign and all."

Dukker's face darkened. He seemed on the verge of a virulent protest until a cagey expression flickered in his eyes.

"Hell, you're right, Faraday. It's just that Gator was my boys' closest relation. Creed spent half the summer working those fields. Gator wanted his homestead to pass to my boy, and I'll be damned if I let some squatters lay a claim."

"Perfectly understandable, of course," Faraday said briskly. "No Texican is fond of squatters." He flashed Wes an apologetic smile, but his shoulders remained taut. "Perhaps now, Mr. Rawlins, you can see why Hannibal is so... er, quick on the draw. Since Gator's spread's only ten miles west of Elodea, none of us here wants trouble. What we do want is justice. And a Ranger can end this dispute. I can personally attest that Hannibal has been as patient as a man can be these last two weeks, but the Sinclairs—" Faraday sighed, shaking his head, "they're just—"

"A bunch of damned Yankees," Dukker interrupted, screwing up his face to spit.

Wes grimaced, pushing aside his plate. He didn't know which turned his stomach more: the greasy beans or Dukker. If Dukker's claim was legitimate—and the town mayor seemed to think it was—then Wes had a legal obligation to ride out to Boudreau's farm. He had a moral one, too, if the story of Boudreau's death was the gospel truth. But damn. Squatters. After riding two hundred miles, he deserved a more exciting mission than ending a property squabble.

"So what do you want me to do?" he asked, eyeing Dukker in disgust.

"Round 'em up," Dukker said. "Drive 'em out. Hell, shoot 'em if you have to. But don't hurt none of the livestock," he added quickly, a covetous gleam lighting his wintry gaze. "I plan on selling it. Them goats and chickens ain't much, but they'll help pay for what needs mending. Ol' Gator wasn't good with roofs and windows and such, if you catch my meaning."

Wes's lip curled. He'd caught Dukker's meaning all right. "How 'bout if I just burn them out?"

Dukker bristled at Wes's sarcasm, but Faraday's quick laughter diffused the tension.

"That's a knee-slapper, Rawlins. Burn them out." He chuckled again, slapping Wes on the shoulder. "Tell you what. Instead of eating that day-old hash, why don't you come over to my house? My wife makes the best fried chicken in the county. And my Lorelei, why she's Bandera's prettiest belle."

Wes managed a thin smile. Any man who was a bachelor—and wanted to stay that way—didn't go sparking a virgin at her father's invitation. But the chicken sure was tempting. He'd gotten mighty tired of canned peaches and roasted rabbit on the trail.

"Much obliged, Mayor. I'd like to take you up on that." Wes stood and noticed with satisfaction that Dukker had to crane his neck back to look him in the eye. "But first I'd like to ride out to Boudreau's farm. Ask the Sinclairs what they know about his murder."

Dukker stiffened.

"Of course. Of course," Faraday said with brassy brightness. "Come on by the
Enquirer
when you're ready, and I'll escort you to the house."

Wes nodded.

Faraday turned to Dukker. "Buy you a drink. Hannibal?"

He gestured toward the bar with a wide smile, but the strain between the two men was hard to mistake. Considering that town marshals were typically hired by the mayor and his council, Wes found Faraday's kowtowing curious.

Keeping a wary eye on the two men, he stooped for his saddle. The sooner he rode to Boudreau's farm, the sooner he could get the coming unpleasantness over with. He planned to listen to the Sinclairs' story, of course, but he didn't have a lot of faith in the validity of their claim. If one could believe Faraday's testimonial, the law was on Dukker's side.

Heaving his saddle to his shoulder, he headed for the swinging doors. By sundown, hopefully, the squatter issue would be settled. He wanted to start tracking Boudreau's killer at dawn. With any luck, his manhunt would take him out of Bandera County before Cord and the rest of the family caught wind of his return.

Setting his hat on his head, he turned his thoughts to his meeting with Mr. Sinclair.

* * *

"Rider coming!"

The cry of alarm was the first thing Wes heard as Two-Step trotted up the drive of the Boudreau homestead.

Somewhere, a door slammed. A dozen or so boys and girls converged upon the yard, running from all directions, charging through squawking chickens and bleating goats. Every race and color seemed to be represented as the youngsters rushed by, clutching straw dolls and fishing poles, some clinging to another child's hand.

Surprised, he reined in, throwing up an arm just in time to protect his hat from the frenzied flapping of a hen.

A squat black woman was gesturing frantically, shooing the children like chicks into the storm cellar by her feet. Every last one of the youngsters looked scared—if not of him, Wes noticed with growing concern, then of the yawning black pit below them. The woman was insistent, though, and she snatched up the smallest bawling child, kissing his hair as she hurried down the stairs after her wards. Two chubby brown arms reached past her, a pigtailed head bobbed, then the doors fell shut, sealing everyone in with a resounding bang.

Wes blinked.

Now if
that
wasn't the oddest damned thing he'd ever seen....

"What's your business here, mister?"

His head snapped around at the sharp midwestern accent. He'd been so bemused by the rush of little bodies that he hadn't noticed the statuesque woman beneath the magnolia tree by the front of the house. He recognized the sunflowers on her mud-spattered skirt, and for a moment, he allowed himself to admire what her straw hat had hidden from him earlier. A honey-brown sheaf of primly coiffed hair framed the classical features of her face, one that appeared to be a few years older than his own, and yet striking in its maturity. Her high, thoughtful brow and elegantly chiseled cheekbones both bloomed pink at the moment, no doubt due to her agitation, and her firm, full lips were pressed together over a dimpled chin.

But the feature that struck him the most, the characteristic that downright stole his breath away, was her eyes: two fiery jewels of amber. And right now, those eyes were burning into him as if he were Satan's own messenger.

Which wasn't that far from the truth, he thought with a twinge of guilt.

Suddenly he remembered the badge in his pocket. A part of him cringed to think that in Mrs. Sinclair's eyes, his star would probably put him in a league with Hannibal Dukker. Still, he'd resigned himself early in his Ranger career to the fact that duty was rarely pleasant.

Thinking to save himself a lot of argument by proving his legal authority, he reached for his hidden star. The glint of steel froze him in midgesture. Warned of her .45 before Mrs. Sinclair drew it from her skirts, he spent the next heartbeat or so cursing himself for having fewer brains than a wooden Indian.

Then he smiled. He couldn't help himself.

He'd looked down many a gun barrel before, but never once had he faced a woman with the bearing of a queen and the courage of a mother cougar.