Adrienne deWolfe (47 page)

"You be safe, boy." She pushed him away, her dark cheeks glistening with tears. "Come back to me, you hear?"

"Yes, Maw-Maw."

Rorie dashed off a few words of explanation to Fancy as Nita hovered nervously nearby.

"Take this to Wes's sister-in-law," she instructed, shoving the note into Shae's saddlebag as he mounted. "Tell her—tell his brothers—what's been going on here. Tell them Wes needs help."

Shae nodded. "You'll need a gun—"

"We've got the carbine. Don't worry about us. Go, Shae, please."

His jaw hardened, and he pulled his hat brim down over his eyes. "I'll be back in two days' time. I'll be back to get the sonuvabitch who did this to Lorelei."

Rorie clasped her quaking hands, watching as the boy who was like a son to her spurred Daisy toward the field. She prayed to God she would see him alive again.

"Nita," Ginevee called hoarsely, "get the broom, child. I need to sweep his tracks."

"I'll do it, Ginevee," Rorie said. "You need to get off your feet. Go inside with the children."

The old woman worried her bottom lip. "Aurora, you can't take on Hannibal Dukker by yourself."

Rorie drew herself up stiffly. It was the only way she could stop the trembling in her knees. "I have no intention of taking on Hannibal Dukker. There has to be at least one reasonable man in that posse, and I'll appeal to his sense of decency. If we're lucky, Dukker will mistake Creed's tracks for Shae's. If not, maybe I can buy Shae enough time so he can get to the cliffs at Ramble Creek. Dukker will have a hard time tracking him through there."

"And the children?" Ginevee asked, glancing anxiously toward the porch, where Topher and Merrilee stood on either side of Po, holding his hands.

"I'm sure even Hannibal Dukker wouldn't harm a child." Rorie struggled to sound convincing in the face of her gnawing doubt. "But just to be safe, take the carbine upstairs with you."

The two women's eyes locked. A silent understanding, age-old and maternal, passed between them. Rorie knew Ginevee would fight to the death for the children.

"Everybody back upstairs," Ginevee said, shooing the orphans before her.

Rorie took the broom and turned fearful eyes toward the ever-approaching flickers of light.

Wes, we need you. Please, please, come back.

* * *

Wes slouched down on his favorite Ramble Creek boulder and glared at a slew of green glass fragments and their dripping, golden contents. Now
there
was one damnable waste of a bender, that was certain.

He'd poured no more than three or four shots' worth of tarantula juice down his gullet before the whole consarned bottle had slipped through his fingers, shattering on the rocky earth between his boots. The whiskey might be making the catfish howl, but he didn't feel one iota better as he watched it run into the murky waters.

In fact, he was thinking about heading back to town for another bottle. Or better yet, a keg. The damned moonshiners had the right idea, corking up wooden vessels. They were hard to break.

Two-Step, big moocher that he was, wandered over to sniff at the glass, then apparently disappointed, tried making a midnight snack of Wes's hat. Wes snatched his prized Stetson out of reach and scowled at his four-footed friend.

"What do you want, crow bait? I don't have any carrots or apples here with me. Merrilee spoiled you rotten."

Two-Step snorted, turning his head to regard Wes through one bright, curious eye.

"Think you know so much with all your horse sense, eh? Think I'm being punished for going back on my drinking oath, right? Well, that just shows you don't know nothing. I rode all the way out here so I could cut my wolf loose without hurting anybody. I got me a bottle, and nobody's been jinxed yet, see? Nobody, except for me," he added miserably.

He'd been an uncurried fool to come to Ramble Creek, with its memories of loving and laughing with Rorie. But when he gave Two-Step his head, the old rascal had headed straight for Daisy's corral and home. It was just the sort of behavior a fellow should expect from his smart aleck pony.

"Only you aren't so smart, are you?" Wes muttered, pulling the velvet snout lower so he could glare into that eye. "I don't have a home anymore. And that means you don't either, fiddle foot."

Two-Step tossed his head.

"Yeah, well, I ain't too happy about it either, son."

Standing a trifle less steadily than usual, Wes let the world blink back into focus before he caught hold of Two-Step's reins. He was intent on heading back to Sultan's—and maybe even to the jail, to make sure his rabid cur of a prisoner hadn't chewed off some body part to escape. Then the distant sound of gunfire rolled across the hills and echoed off the cliff face.

Two-Step snorted, stomping. Straining his ears, Wes listened as the echo receded. He tried to determine the gunfire's origin, knowing that Gator's farm was only a mile to the east. The moon was still too dim for coon hunting, and that worried him.

He climbed into the saddle. Maybe hunters were just burning their powder, but Wes had the edgy, goose-prickling sensation that he needed to trot by Gator's farm, just to be sure. Just to prove to himself that whiskey wasn't a curse every time it passed his lips.

A second rifle report sounded—rolling clearly from the east.

Merciful God.

With an oath, he spurred Two-Step hard toward the fringe of trees that marked the edge of Gator's property. The gelding bounded forward, chewing up the yards with long, powerful strides. For Wes, though, Two-Steps' breakneck gait wasn't nearly fast enough.

"C'mon, churn-head.
Come on!"

Only a mile might have separated him from Rorie and the children, but it would be the longest mile of Wes's life.

* * *

Rorie stood with stiff, outward poise before Hannibal Dukker's five deputized Elodeans. Inwardly, however, she was queasy with fear. They'd already searched the storm cellar, combed the hayloft, and torn up the house looking for Shae. They had even shot off the lock on Gator's foot locker, hoping the boy might be hiding inside. Now, baleful and volatile, they were eager to vent their frustration.

Dukker stalked toward her. She was grateful for that. After his men had wrestled the carbine from Ginevee—which had resulted in a misfire—they'd herded the children downstairs to huddle, trembling, by the front porch. As long as Rorie could keep Dukker's attention focused on her, she knew Ginevee and the children would be safe.

"Search for tracks," Dukker snapped over his shoulder at his men. Then he halted less than an arm's length from her.

She tried not to dwell on the stench of his rumpled shirt or the blast of stale liquor that struck her face. She tried, too, not to telegraph any anxiety as she stared squarely into the bloodshot eyes that glowed in the macabre wash of the moon.

"All right, woman." Dukker tilted his head to glare up at her, and she saw fresh scratch marks stretched across his corpulent neck. "Where'd that murdering nigger bastard go?"

"I'm not Shae's keeper, Hannibal."

Swift as a snake, his hand lashed out, striking her across the cheek. For a moment, she was so stunned by this attack, all she could do was stumble backward, her hand held to her stinging cheek.

"Leave her alone!" Topher shouted, struggling against Nita and Ginevee, both of whom were trying to keep him from dashing off the porch to her rescue. Dukker had already cuffed the boy, raising a welt on his temple, after Topher and his slingshot full of marbles had defended the bedroom door against Dukker's deputies.

A cruel smile tugged at the marshal's lips.

"I reckon you know I mean business now, woman. You want to tell me where McFadden went, or do you want me to beat it out of your boy?"

Rorie repressed the urge to shudder. She couldn't bear to think what an enraged Dukker might do to a boy with Topher's sass.

"I'm sure you can't mean that, Hannibal. It's not the sort of thing a lawman does, beating up a child."

He snorted. "Yeah? Well, that sarsaparilla-drinking rooster you've been humping might be squeamish about getting the answers he needs, but I ain't."

Rorie swallowed, glancing past him to the grumbling townsmen whose mediocre tracking skills hadn't been enhanced by the free whiskey they'd consumed at Founder's Day. She prayed that Creed's tracks would catch the deputies' attention before the men spied the broom marks she'd left to obliterate Shae's.

"Topher doesn't know any more than I do, Hannibal," she said firmly. "He's been asleep for hours. All of us were sleeping, in fact, until you and your men broke down our doors."

"Is that so?" A sneer stretched Dukker's lips. "My cheating whore of a wife lied better than you do, Aurora. Hell, the Injuns who scalped my ma and pa lied better than you—'til I grew up and cut their tongues out," he added menacingly, "and left their entrails for the buzzards."

Somehow, Rorie refrained from glancing at Merrilee, whose knees, she was certain, must be knocking.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir."

Suddenly, one of Dukker's men grew noticeably excited. "I found them! I found the tracks, Hannibal!"

Dukker didn't seem to hear. He didn't seem to notice, in fact, as his men mounted up, eagerly turning their horses in the direction of Creed's trail.

"Come on, Hannibal!"

Two of his five riflemen had already started toward town; the other three sat on their prancing, head-tossing horses waiting for orders.

Dukker licked his lips. He was leering at her, his eyes glazed and savage with a kind of half-crazed look.

"So you've been sleeping all this time, eh?"

He stalked even closer, but she stood her ground in spite of every screaming impulse to flee.

"If you've been asleep all this time, Aurora, where's your nightdress?" he taunted. "Under that day dress?"

Before she could suspect his intent, he reached out and grabbed her bodice, ripping it open and sending buttons flying.

"Dukker!"

It was Wes's voice. The earth shook with the pounding of Two-Step's hooves as the gelding broke from the cover of the house. His reins in his teeth, Wes rode as if he were fused to his mount and raised his rifle stock to his shoulder.

One hapless deputy tried to turn a carbine on him, only to have it—and his torch—blown from his hands.

Another man shrieked, his arm hanging limp as his rifle clattered to the drive. A second torch dropped.

Now there were two lines of fire, kindling the dry summer grasses that led to the barn.

"Dear God," Rorie whispered.

Above the pounding red rush of his fury, Wes heard Rorie's cries of, "Fire!" Smoke swirled, and flames whooshed, shooting up beneath Two-Step's hooves. The gelding obeyed the commands of Wes's knees, though, charging down the fiery lines, scattering horses and riders.

"It's Rawlins! He's gone loco!" a wounded deputy shouted.

"I've got a wife and children. I don't want no trouble with Rangers!"

"Ride on, boys! Follow the tracks."

Seeing his deputies running like rabbits, Dukker bolted for his horse. Wes realized he had a choice: Gun down frightened townsmen who had no idea of their marshal's crimes, or draw blood from the bastard who'd dared to strike his woman.

"Dukker! Stand and fight, you sonuvabitch!"

Making an obscene gesture, Dukker shoved his rifle into his saddleboot.

It was more than Wes could bear. Denied the satisfaction of blowing Dukker to kingdom come, Wes spurred Two-Step closer. Just as Dukker was heaving himself into the saddle, Wes rammed his rifle stock into the marshal's gut. An oath wheezed from Dukker. Toppling from his horse, he landed flat on his back as his gelding shied away from Two-Step.

Wes snapped his rifle lever and took aim.

"Go ahead," Dukker panted, sneering up at him from his vulnerable, spread-eagle position. "Shoot me dead. Show the little kiddies what a big man you are."

"Wes!"
It was Rorie's voice, shrill with panic. "We have to stop the fire!"

A tendril of smoke curled over Dukker's heaving chest. Wes ground his teeth, fighting the murderous urge to end the bastard's life and be done with it. He'd fought too long for justice, though, to resort to vigilante tactics.

His grip tightened on his Winchester. "You're a dead man, Dukker."

For the first time, Wes saw fear in those wild, curdog eyes. It was enough to make him sick.

"Unbuckle your gun belt.
Now!"

Dukker's hand shook as he obeyed.

"On your feet."

He rose unsteadily, suspiciously.

"You've got one minute to get off this land. Then I start firing."

Dukker scrambled for his horse.

"Not so fast! The rifle stays here. Toss it!"

Dukker hesitated, and Wes raised his Winchester again. He had the satisfaction of watching Dukker's weapon fly out of the saddleboot to skitter across the drive.

"Now you'd best run, old man. And you'd best say your prayers," Wes said savagely, "because there's not a place on this earth where I won't find you."