Dorothy Garlock (37 page)

Logan edged his horse closer to hers. That she was his was a miracle of ever-expanding proportions. It increased his resolve to hold onto this intangible something hidden beyond the enjoyment of welcoming flesh. He felt a sense of awe. She loved
him.
Wanted to be with
him.
The solitary years stretched behind him. The agony of that loneliness was over.

“I didn’t need him to say the words to make you mine, Mrs. Horn. I wanted the paper for legal purposes.” He leaned toward her and found her soft, trembling mouth. His lips clung to hers as though he slaked a long, long thirst, and when he finally let them go, he said in a voice that quivered with emotion, “I give you my life, my eternal love.”

“Oh, Logan! I’m as happy as a dog with two tails!”

He smiled deep into her eyes; her answering smile was one of startling girlish sweetness, warm with the glow of complete trust. It was fearless and honest and full of an overwhelming love that blazed like the noonday sun. With his gaze fixed on her face he felt his mind grind to a halt. The very realness of her happiness caused a lump of fear to rise and constrict his throat. To see the light go out of her eyes would cause him more pain than he would be able to endure. He swallowed audibly and forced his lips to hold the smile.

“Put on your riding skirt, sweetheart. We’ll be traveling a rough trail.” He handed her the canvas bag he had slung over his saddle horn.

“Where are we going?”

“To a place where we’ll be welcome.”

“To Mary’s?”

“Yes, to Mary’s.”

Logan stayed mounted while Rosalee changed clothes. His eyes constantly scanned their back trail. When Rosalee remounted, he wheeled his horse so they could ride side by side until it became necessary to ride single file with Brutus leading the way. They headed south, staying among the trees. The trail they followed was seldom used. At times it was overgrown with a low-spreading shrub with hooklike thorns, making it necessary to go off the trail and into the rocks. Occasionally, through the thick brush, they could see the road below they dared not travel.

In late afternoon they came out onto a bench that overlooked Mary’s house. The late afternoon sun was slipping behind the mountains to the west. When Rosalee would have ridden on, a softly spoken word from Logan held her back.

“Wait.”

She pulled up sharply and turned to see him staring fixedly at a screen of scrub cedars. A quiet hung on the timbered benchland of diffused sunlight and dense shade. The plaintive song of a mourning dove seemed surprisingly loud in that impenetrable quiet. The faint scent of tobacco smoke had caused Logan to stop and cautiously study the terrain below them and above the road. He scanned it methodically, studying each rock, tree, and shrub with particular care, making allowances for light and the length of the shadows. Finally, the flick of a horse’s tail, fighting the pesky flies, gave away the man’s position. He was sitting on a rock among the stunted cedars and gnarled oak that clung to the hillside above the road. After a long wait Logan spoke again.

“Wait here,” he said without looking at her.

Without questioning him, Rosalee quietly moved the roan back into the woods.

Logan wheeled the freckled stallion, and with the flick of his hand signaled Brutus to stay beside him. He made a wide half-circle and swung down toward his quarry, the irregularity in the hill’s outline and the thick growth of brush beneath the tall pines affording concealment. Reining in, he sat the stallion and waited.

Ghostlike, Brutus drifted down through the screening brush and rocks and sank into the grass ahead of the horse, his gaze fixed on the man seated on a flat rock, his elbows resting on his knees while he rolled a smoke.

There was another stretch of waiting silence. Logan saw the dog’s hackles rise. Without a sound he rose to a half crouch, stole forward a half dozen feet, and sank into the grass.

Trained to respond to the lightest touch, Mercury stood perfectly still while Logan watched the man in hard-eyed silence. He was a small man with hair that hung over the collar of a faded flannel shirt. His boots were run-down at the heels and his pants showed signs of long wear, but the rifle he held on his lap and the six-gun in the holster were well cared for. There was a bedroll tied behind his saddle. He was a drifter, a hired gun.

In the silence Logan dropped three quiet words.

“Drop the gun.”

He watched the man’s back stiffen, his head suddenly thrust forward in surprise, but he made no other move. He was trailwise enough to know that if he did he was dead. Logan waited, letting his silence work on the man’s nerves. Finally, as he knew he would, the man carefully lifted the rifle from his lap and began slowly to get to his feet.

“I’d be careful with that rifle if I were you.”

“I ain’t no fool!” He placed it on the ground and turned.

“I’m not so sure of that. Not even a half-wit greenhorn would lay himself out as open as you did.” Logan couldn’t resist the taunt. Anger bubbled up. The sonofabitch was waiting to ambush him! He was playing a hunch that sooner or later he’d get in touch with Case Malone and was watching the road to Mary’s house.

A look of contempt came over the man’s face as he realized Logan’s breeding. He emitted a mirthless laugh, silently congratulating himself. He’d been right in thinking the Indian would visit the whorehouse. On the point of speaking, he detected a movement and fixed his gaze in sudden consternation on the shaggy apparition noiselessly rising from the grass and advancing on him. The dog’s upper lips curled away from gleaming fangs in a blood-chilling wolf grin.

“Christ—”

“He won’t attack unless I tell him to. Were you waiting for me?”

The very softness of his voice whipped the man’s gaze to Logan. With brash confidence in his superiority over men of Logan’s heritage, he spread his legs and his shoulders dropped. He looked Logan up and down, eyes brightly glinting. This was the half-breed they were talking about at the saloon as if he were the devil himself. Hell! He didn’t look so tough. He was nothing but a dirty, stinking blanket ass, for all his size and manner. Doubt that he could take the Indian touched him for a moment; but he lifted his voice loudly against it.

“Ya’d be smart to get yore red ass back to whatever reservation it belongs on. Ya keep on ahangin’ out in this country apesterin’ white folks and yore apt to get yore hide shot full a holes.”

“Is that what you’re here to do?” The very softness of Logan’s words should have been a warning, but the man on the ground was tragically incapable of gauging the full depths of the danger confronting him.

“Well, I ain’t agoin’ to jest stand here ’n let a stinkin’ Injun shoot me,” he sneered.

“That’s up to you.” Logan’s voice was quiet and he appeared to be relaxed, as if they were having a casual conversation. “You make a wrong move and you won’t have any say in the matter. Drop your gun and ride out. I don’t want any trouble.”

“I ain’t never seen the day a nigger, a Mex, or a Injun could run me off!” he replied tartly. “Ya think a breed can—”

“Watch yourself!” Logan spoke with a voice as hard as iron. “I’m telling you again. Lift the six-shooter out of the holster and ride out. I don’t want to kill you.”

“That’s right friendly of ya. Yore right uppity fer a breed.” He gave a laugh of derision. His confidence soared. He was on his feet, the Indian was mounted. Hell! He’d shoot him out of the saddle before his hand reached that big army Colt on his thigh. Then he’d ride into town leading that speckled stallion! Folks’d sit up and take notice.

Stupid fool, Logan thought. The man saw a chance to make a name for himself and he wouldn’t back down. Greed for a brief moment of recognition and a few coins would cost him his life. He forced the thoughts to the back of his mind. He couldn’t afford to allow pity to distract him. He fixed his gaze on the man’s face and smiled, although he had never felt less like smiling. He knew his smile confused and angered the man, so he waited, giving the anger time to stiffen him up before he gave his final jab.

“I feel sorry for you. You’re nothing but a piss-poor piece of white trash sent out to do another man’s killing. If you’re so anxious to die, make your move.”

Logan watched the man’s face. When he was ready, he would know it by the look in his eyes. He caught the slight tightening of his frame and the barest movement of his eyelids. Suddenly, the man’s right hand snapped down toward the gun on his thigh. Instinctively, Logan’s own hand moved with the swiftness of a coiled, striking snake. The big saddle-gun bucked in his hand, its furious bellow shattering the sundrenched stillness. The echo of the shot splattered into a thousand fragments against the rocky canyon walls and faded into nothingness.

The impact of the big slug flung the man back against the twisted trunk of a tree. He hung there, his hand raised in a futile attempt to stop the blood pouring from his chest. His hat, tilted when he struck the tree, still clung to his head at an odd angle.

“Oh! Christ!” he said in a breathless, failing voice of deepest dismay. He looked down at his chest with an expression of pure horror, and then with a faint sigh he went limp and slumped to the ground.

Brutus rose up. Sensing the man was no longer a threat, he walked to him, sniffed, then moved disdainfully away to lay belly down on the cool grass. The scent of blood rather than the bark of the gun set Mercury dancing, and Logan was forced to hold him with a strong hand. He wheeled the stallion and calmed him before he dismounted beside the lifeless body.

A wave of sickness washed up from the pit of his stomach. He’d looked into the faces of men he’d killed during the war; young, serene, unbelievably innocent faces. This man’s face looked younger in death, although it was slightly haggard from not enough food and too much drink. He wanted to look away, but forced himself to look at the man who had tried to kill him and whom he had killed. It was all so . . . utterly pointless. In the backwash of emotion, nausea roiled up inside him and he turned away before he became retchingly sick.

Rosalee heard the ugly bark of the shot, and fear squeezed the air from her chest. Even in her near panic she realized the folly of moving out from the place where Logan told her to wait. She had no gun. She’d be more of a hindrance than a help to him. She made herself hold the roan motionless while she sat rigidly upright, wildly staring around. What could she do? She didn’t know where he was! She gazed with growing fear in the direction from which he would come. Nothing moved. There was not even a birdsong to break the silence.

After what seemed like hours, but could have only been minutes, she heard the crackle of brush and first Brutus and then Logan and Mercury came into the clearing. She was seized with an uncontrollable trembling and clenched her teeth after she said his name.

“Logan—”

“It’s all right,” he said gently. “It’s all right.”

*  *  *

The hoofs of their horses loosed a rattling barrage of stones as they took the downward trail in a rush. On the level road Rosalee and Logan put their heels to their mounts and cantered into Mary’s yard to find Josh and Ben, rifles cradles in their arms, cautiously emerging from the barn, and Case Malone standing beside the back door. Ben let out a shout of greeting when he recognized his sister, then rushed forward in a delirium of joy.

Rosalee slid from the saddle and hugged her brother. “Oh, Ben! I swear to goodness! Let me look at you—you’ve grown a foot!”

“Yo’re gettin’ shorter,” he said with a wide grin. “Have you seen Odell? Does she know about the house bein’ burnt?”

“Logan and I went by the Haywards’. Odell is with Mrs. Parnell. Ben . . . Logan and I were married today.” She watched him with anxious eyes. He glanced quickly at Logan, then back to his sister.

“Well what’a ya’know. I got me a brother-’n-law.” He held his hand out to Logan and quick tears spurted in Rosalee’s eyes.

Logan grasped the boy’s hand firmly. “I’m sorry my being at your place brought Clayhill’s vengeance down on you. We’ll rebuild it, Ben, and get you set up in the cattle business like your pa wanted.”

“That’ll take some doin’.” The boy’s young face creased into worried lines, and his bright blue eyes went from the tall man’s face to his sister.

“It’s going to be all right, Ben. Logan will take care of it,” Rosalee said with a confident smile.

“Rosalee! Logan! We’ve been worried to death about you!” Mary came across the yard to meet them, immaculate as usual, every brown hair on her head in place. Poised and cool looking, she seemed to be immune to the heat of the late afternoon. “I’m dying to know what’s happened.”

“Oh, Mary! So much has happened I don’t know where to start!”

Hugs, handshakes, and congratulations were exchanged after a brief exchange of news. Mary and Rosalee walked toward the house and Logan spoke quietly to Josh.

“I’d be obliged for the loan of a shovel. I left a man up there in the hills.” He inclined his head toward the steep rise beyond the house.

Josh nodded. “We heard the shot.”

“Fetch two shovels, Josh,” Case said. “I reckon two can do the job faster ’n one.”

*  *  *

Rosalee lay in Mary’s high, soft bed and waited for Logan. Mary had insisted they spend their wedding night in her room. Now, full of the delicious meal Meta prepared for their wedding supper, Rosalee stretched her limbs and spread her shiny clean hair over the pillow. The bath in Mary’s hip tub was the next best thing to bathing in the warm springs in the valley of the Indian ruins, she thought contentedly. She heard the low male voices as Logan bid Case good night, and the creaking of the floorboards in the hall just before the door opened and he came into the room.

The flame of the single candle wavered in the draft from the open door, but steadied when it closed. Logan had bathed. He had put his shirt on his wet body and damp spots came through the cloth. His damp hair, black as midnight, was combed back from his face. His thick, dark lashes made shadows on his cheeks, and the softened lines of his half-smiling mouth touched her heart. He reminded Rosalee of a picture of a Greek statue in one of her mother’s books. How had this handsome, wonderful man come to love
her
? She was so ordinary!