Dorothy Garlock (28 page)

“Shut up!” Shorty shouted.

“Ah . . . c’mon, Shorty. Ya’ve been like a b’ar with a sore tail ever since Malone shot yore toe off. We’s jest afunnin’. Go on, Larson. Give us another’n.”

“Thar’s a Injun on the range

’n the boss said, kill it,

So I shot ’em in the arse

’n he landed in the skillet.

Come’a ti yi yippi, yippi yea, yippi yea,

Come’a ti yi yippi, yippi yea.”

Logan’s lips twitched in a grin. Was the joke on him or on Clayhill? Finally, he came to the conclusion it was on Clayhill, because this “posse” was about as useless as tits on a bull. That included Banes, who was all fists and mouth and no brains. He backed into the solid blackness behind him and circled toward the horses again. The need to let the posse know he’d been here was on him. They could think about how dammed lucky they were to be alive on the long, hot walk back to the ranch.

Motioning for Brutus to stay back so he wouldn’t spook the horses, Logan moved among them, untied each horse, and left the lead tied to the stake. Before he sprang upon the back of the last horse, he marked his name in the dirt with a stick, and dropped a couple of bullets into the “O” in Horn. Then, with gentle urging, he drove the herd into the thick pines where the soft carpet of needles muffled the sound of their passing. Away from camp, he turned them toward the draw where Rosalee was waiting. The singing and joshing going on around the campfire faded into the distance, and then the only sound was the hoofs of the Clayhill horses striking the soft earth.

Mercury let Rosalee know the horses were coming long before she could hear them. His ears twitched and he moved nervously. Strangely calm, she pulled the extra rifle from Mercury’s saddle and placed it across her lap. She refused to allow her thoughts to dwell on anything except what Logan had told her to do, and the minutes paced slowly by.

Out of the shadows Brutus appeared. He walked calmly toward them and lay down. Rosalee was thinking about the significance of that when she heard the low whistle that had been the signal when Logan was returning to the cliff dwellings. Her shoulders slumped with relief and she sat hunched over for a moment before she returned the rifle to the scabbard on the saddle.

The night was more than half gone by the time they drove the horses into the hills and scattered them. As they turned their mounts once more toward the valley, Rosalee couldn’t hold back the giggle that bubbled up at the thought of the long, hot walk awaiting Adam Clayhill’s posse.

Logan heard the soft sound and edged his mount close to hers. He raised an eyebrow. “You’re downright bloodthirsty,” he accused with an indolent grin.

“Yes, I am!” She laughed then, and it carried on the night wind. “I hope every one of them gets blisters on his feet the size of hen eggs!”

“Banes was wearing a boot and a moccasin. He’ll have a long walk on that sore foot. Someone said Malone shot his toe off.”

“Good!” Mischief brimmed from her eyes and giggles from her lips. “I think there’s something wild and wicked in me after all.”

Love for her rose like a hot fountain from the core of him, rose to fill his mouth with its heat and its force. It was hard for him to tear his eyes away from her. She was his woman, he thought with a strange feeling, as if he lacked breath and could not speak, as if he were sad to the point of tears, and yet through them, like a rainbow, she was the promise of all the sweet things he’d ever dreamed of having.

He was her man, she was thinking. She didn’t care whether he was Spanish, Cheyenne, Scotch or Irish. She didn’t care what he had, what he’d done, or what anyone said about him—he was her man. She’d be with him for as long as he wanted her.

Although she hadn’t mentioned it, Logan knew she wanted to see her home, so he took her there. They skirted the hills, approached the homestead from the north, and pulled the horses to a halt in the cedar grove. He scanned the area thoughtfully, alert for ambush. The half moon had come up over the mountains and the stark outline of the stone house was visible. The shed was a pile of burned rubble, but the posts Rosalee and Ben had sunk in the ground to build the corral were still standing, although the crossbars had been pulled down. Odell’s sack swing, hanging from the big oak tree, swayed gently, moved by the restless wind. In the pale light of the moon she could see that her garden had been trampled to the ground; not even a single stalk of corn was left standing. The homestead had a sad, lonely look about it.

“I’ll take a look around,” Logan said. He moved Mercury over beside Rosalee. When he handed her the reins his hand squeezed hers in silent understanding of what she was feeling at the sight of the wanton destruction of her home. “If I whistle, come on in.” He pressed her hand again and left her, moving swiftly, like a fleeting shadow, and she wondered how a man so large could move so lightly on his feet.

Rosalee waited far more patiently than the big horse that tugged on the bit. The stallion didn’t like the smell of the charred wood, or being left behind by Brutus and Logan. When the all clear signal came he recognized it and she was forced to drop the reins or be pulled from the mare. He trotted, reins dragging, across the open space to where Logan waited beside the house, and nudged him affectionately.

Rosalee came slowly out of the woods without any of the joyous feeling of homecoming. She slid from the mare’s back and went to stand in the doorway of the fire-gutted house. The inside was like a black cavern that reeked of wet, burned wood. In the dim light of the half moon she could see the grotesque shapes of what was once the trestle table, the back of her father’s chair, and the shelves where she had worked and stored their foodstuffs. Her eyes sought the corner where her bunk had been. Logan’s mother had died there and her father had died out here in the yard. Memories brought a mist of tears to her eyes.

The family being here had made this shell of a house a home. They had sat around the yellowstone fireplace during the long, cold winter evenings and her father had related bits of history and told them of his boyhood escapades in the mountains. By the light of the fire she had taught Ben and Odell how to read from a tattered primer and how to make their letters on a chalkboard.

“We’ll rebuild it,” Logan’s voice came from behind her and his arms came around her waist. “If it’s all right with you and Ben, we’ll make this our headquarters while we build a place of our own—a place for us, and for your sister and brother for as long as they want to stay.”

“Oh, Logan . . .” She turned and burrowed in his arms. “Adam Clayhill is so ruthless and so determined. He’ll not let us stay here. He’ll—”

“Remember what you said? You told me that nothing worthwhile comes easy. We’ll build our home here in this valley and we’ll defend our right to stay here. You hold onto that.” He grasped her shoulders and put her away from him so he could look into her face. “Wait until you meet the men who are coming out from Illinois. They’re battle-tested and loyal. They’ll be fighting for something of their own, for I intend to buy up more range and make them full partners. Clayhill will have to come up with better than that ragtag outfit we stole the horses from to best us.” He chuckled softly and drew her to him again.

“You sound so . . . sure.”

“I am sure,” he said with more conviction than he was feeling. “Let’s find a place to bed down for awhile. We’ll get some sleep. In the morning we’ll go to the Haywards, get your sister, and head for town.”

“Oh, no! Not town—”

“It’ll be all right. Clayhill won’t gun me down in town. He’s got to do away with me out here on the range where his men can say I drew down on them. Trust me.”

“I do, my love. I do!”

Long after Rosalee slept, Logan lay awake, looking up at the stars and thinking about what lay ahead of them. Clayhill was not foremost in his mind. He thought of the meeting with the Haywards tomorrow. It would be the first test. All his life he’d lived in the white world filled with prejudices. Never, since he was a child, had he been free of it. He had known from the moment he realized he was different from the other children that there was no easy way for him and soon ceased to look for one. He walked his own trail, fought his own battles. He’d measured himself against the land, against other men, and in battle. He was confident of his abilities and prepared to give as good as he received. What he faced now was a fight of a different kind. His arms tightened around the slim girl he held, and his lips moved in her hair. How could he protect his sweet woman from the hurt that was sure to come? He fell asleep wondering what tomorrow would bring.

*  *  *

When morning came again there was a cool, fresh breeze coming down the forested mountainside. It had the smell of the pines on its breath. Logan and Rosalee followed the dim track that led toward the hills and the high valley the Kentucky homesteaders had settled. The path led through the woods and then dipped to the right. They came out on a bench and saw the sunlight gleam on rushing water. Beyond the stream they climbed onto a ridge and followed it to the valley. To the east was more thick forest and then the mountains, rising boldly up, bald at their higher points, the lower portions thick and green.

It was a bright, shining morning. Rosalee, feeling refreshed after a splash wash in the spring, felt a brightness within her. This day was a new beginning.

The Hayward homestead backed to a timbered hill. That it had been built by a man who came from generations of mountain people showed in the solid log construction, trimmed with some cut boards, a wide porch that ran the width of the house, and the two stone fireplaces and the tin roof. Cut firewood was stacked in neat rows between the trees. Behind the house a large, iron washpot bubbled over a small fire. A bench with wooden tubs on it sat nearby, and to the side, in the full sunlight, a line was stretched from tree to tree to hang the wet clothes. Chickens, goats, and dogs wandered onto the porch and were prevented from going into the house by Lottie, who flapped her apron as she came out the door. The squeals of excited children announced the approach of visitors.

Mr. Hayward and his two tall sons were waiting when Rosalee and Logan rode into the yard. All were carrying their long Kentucky rifles. Rosalee had eyes only for Odell, who flew off the porch and raced toward her. She slid from the mare and held open her arms.

“Rosalee! Rosalee! I thought you wasn’t comin’.” Odell’s voice choked as her arms wrapped around her sister and clung.

“Hello, honey. Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” Rosalee hugged the child to her, then held her away so she could look at her. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” Odell’s eyes went to Logan, who was still mounted on Mercury. She put her lips to Rosalee’s ear. “Are you agoin’ to leave me here?” Her voice was choked as if she was about to cry.

Startled by the question, Rosalee looked into her little sister’s worried face. “What’s wrong, honey? Do you want to stay here?”

“No!” Odell whispered urgently.

Still puzzled, Rosalee took Odell’s hand and turned to greet the tall, bearded man in the round-brimmed, peaked, leather hat.

“Hello, Mr. Hayward.” She held her hand out to the father and then to each of the boys. “This is Logan Horn,” she said, moving over beside Logan. “He’s bought the range over south of our place.”

“I heard ’bout it.” The mountain man’s sharp blue eyes stared straight into Logan’s before he turned, leaned over, and expelled a played-out chaw from his jaws. He didn’t extend his hand or move from where he’d planted his heavy boots firmly in dirt yard. He stood on spread legs, his rifle cradled in his arms.

“Howdy.” Logan’s dark eyes stared steadily into those of the mountain man. He sat on his horse, seemingly at ease, but there was a visible tension in his hands and the half smile on his lips that did nothing to relieve the waiting soberness of his expression. From the concealing shadow of the hat brim, he surveyed the other man, his black eyes boring down on him with an intensity wholly at variance with his relaxed attitude. The two men continued to eye each other, neither speaking or moving, while the unfriendly silence built up, thicker and higher.

“Rosalee.” Lottie called from the porch, breaking into the stillness.

Rosalee glanced at Lottie, then back to Logan. His eyes flicked to her, then back to Mr. Hayward. She felt a pang of bitter disappointment. It had not occured to her the Haywards would reject Logan’s offer of friendship. Holding tightly to Odell’s hand, she went toward the porch and Lottie.

“Odell, why don’t ya run play with the girls while I talk to yore sister?” Lottie said without greeting Rosalee.

Rosalee glanced at the older woman and then at her sister, who clung to her hand and moved slightly behind her.

“It’s all right, honey. You’ve got to tell Polly and Sudie May good-bye. We’ll be leaving soon.” Rosalee loosened her hand and gave her sister a little push.

“C’mon in,” Lottie said when Odell rounded the corner of the cabin. “C’mon in and tell me if’n ya’ve lost yore senses, or what’n the world’s caused ya to go do what ya’ve done.”

“What do you mean, Lottie?” Rosalee stood just inside the door. She saw the breakfast things were still on the table and it hit her like a blow between the eyes that she and Logan would not be invited to stay and eat, a courtesy usually extended by mountain people even to one they considered an enemy.

“We got word ’bout Clayhill aburnin’ ya out. We’re plumb sorry ’bout it. It’s a shame it ahappenin’ jest after yore pa up ’n died ’n all, but what’n the world made ya go off with that breed, Rosalee? Ya’ve ruint yoreself with decent folk by adoin’ it.”

Rosalee stared at her with stricken eyes, then her face stiffened. “I had no choice but to leave when Adam Clayhill came to burn us out. Logan could scarcely walk from the beating his men gave him when they ambushed him on the trail. I drove his wagon into the canyons where he would be safe until he got his strength back. I love him. I’m going to marry him.”

“Yore aweddin’ up with that breed?” Lottie’s voice squeaked with disbelief. “Rosalee! He ain’t nothin’ but a red nigger buck!” she burst out, and it was as if she were pleading for her to deny that it was true.