Love's Sweet Revenge (44 page)

A month after Texas Ranger Sam Legend almost died, an ear-splitting crash of thunder rattled the windows and each unpainted board of the J. R. Simmons Mercantile. The ominous skies burst open, and rain pelted the ground in great sheets. A handful of people scattered like buckshot along the Waco boardwalk in an effort to escape the thorough drenching of a spring gully washer.

Sam paid the rain no mind. The storm barely registered—few things did, these days. The feeling of the rope around his neck was still overpowering. He reached to see if it was there, thankful not to find it.

The nightmare had him in its grip, refusing to let go. More dead than alive, he moved toward his destination. When he reached the alley separating the two sections of boardwalk, he collided with a woman covered in a hooded cloak.

“Apologies, ma'am.” He glanced down by rote, then blinked. All at once, the world and its color came rushing back as Sam stared into blue eyes so vivid they stole his breath.

A pocket of fog drifted between them. Was she just a dream? He could barely see her.

She nodded and gave him a smile for only a brief second. He reached out to touch her, to see if she was real, but only cold damp air met his fingertips.

The man beside her took her arm and jerked her into the alleyway.

“Hey there!” Sam called, startled. He'd been so focused on those blue eyes he hadn't realized anyone else was there. “Ma'am, do you need help?”

He received no answer. Through the dense fog, he watched her companion force her toward a horse at the other end of the alley where a group of mounted riders waited. The hair on the back of his neck rose.

Intent on stopping whatever was happening, Sam lengthened his strides. Before he could reach them, the man threw her onto a horse, then swung up behind her. Within seconds, they disappeared, ghostly riders in the mist.

Sam stood in the driving rain, staring at the empty alley. It had all happened so fast he could hardly believe it.

Hell, maybe he'd imagined the whole thing. Maybe she'd never existed. Maybe the heavy downpour and gray gloom had messed with his mind…again. Ever since the hanging, he'd been seeing things that weren't there. Twice now he'd yanked men around and grabbed for their hands, thinking he saw a black widow spider between their thumbs and forefingers. The last time almost got Sam shot. Folks claimed he was missing the top rung of his ladder and now, his captain was sending him home to find it.

Crippled.
The word clanked around in his head, refusing to settle. But even though he had full use of his legs, that's what he was at present. The cold fear washing over him had nothing to do with the air temperature or rain. What if he never recovered? Some never did.

His hand clenched. He'd fight like hell to be the whole man he once was. He had things to do—an outlaw to hunt down, a wrong to right—a promise to keep.

Sam squared his jaw and drew his coat tight against the wet chill, forcing himself to move on down the street toward the face-to-face with Captain O'Reilly. Again. It stuck in his craw that they thought him too crazed to do his job. The captain thought him a liability, a danger to the other rangers. Wanted him to take a break.

His heart couldn't hurt any worse than if someone had stomped on it with a pair of hobnail boots. Maybe the captain was right. If he'd imagined that woman just now—and he really couldn't be certain he hadn't—then maybe he
needed
the break. Sam Legend, who had brought in notorious killers, bank robbers, prison escapees, and the like, had become a liability.

But one thing he knew he hadn't imagined, and that was the blurred figure of Luke Weston standing over him when he'd regained consciousness that fateful day. There had been no mistaking those pale green eyes above the mask. They belonged to the outlaw he'd chased for over a year—he'd have staked his life on it.

When his fellow rangers had ridden up, Weston disappeared into the brush, leaving Sam with questions. Had Weston cut him down from the tree? Was he with the rustlers? And why had the outlaws left Trooper behind? Awful considerate of them.

So what the hell had happened, dammit?

Rangers who'd ridden up told Sam they'd seen no one. He'd laid on the ground with the rope loosened around his neck, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Those questions and others haunted him, and he wouldn't rest until he got answers. Somehow he knew Weston was the key.

At ranger headquarters, he took a deep breath before opening the door. He pushed a mite too hard, banging the knob against the wall. Captain O'Reilly jerked up from his desk. “What the hell, Legend? Trying to wake the dead?”

“Sorry, Cap'n. It got away from me.” It seemed a good many things had, recently.

The tall, slender captain waved him to a chair. “I haven't heard this much racket since the shoot-out inside that silo with the Arnie brothers down in Sweetwater.”

Sam removed his drenched hat, lowered into the chair, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I hope I can talk you out of your decision.”

O'Reilly sauntered to the potbellied stove in the corner and lifted the coffeepot. “What's it been? A month?”

“An eternity,” Sam said quietly.

“Want a snort of coffee? Might improve your outlook.”

“I'll take you up on your offer but doubt it'll improve anything. I need this job, sir. I need to work.” Revenge burned hot. He'd not rest until he found the men who'd hung him, and when he did, they'd pay with their blood.

“What you
need
is some time off to get your head on straight. I can't have you seeing things that aren't there.” O'Reilly sighed. “You're gonna get yourself or someone else killed. I'm ordering you to go home. Rest up, then come back ready to catch outlaws.”

“Finding the rustlers and catching Luke Weston is my first priority.”

“That wily outlaw has been taunting you for the last year.” O'Reilly's eyes hardened as he handed Sam a tin cup. “It seems personal.”

“Hell yeah, it's personal!”

Weston had been there. That much he knew for damn certain. The outlaw could have strung him up himself. Why else would Sam remember those green eyes, so pale they appeared silver?

In addition to that, and though it sounded rather trivial when compared to a hanging, Weston had taken Sam's pocket watch during a stagecoach holdup a year ago. Sam tried to protect a payroll shipment, but Weston did the oddest thing. The outlaw took exactly fifty dollars, a paltry sum compared to what remained in the strongbox, and left the passengers' belongings untouched. He did, however, seem to take particular delight in pocketing Sam's prized timepiece. The way the wily outlaw singled Sam out was downright eerie. Weston knew exactly where to find the treasured keepsake. No rifling his pockets. No fumbling. No uncertainty. Memories of how Weston had flipped it open and stared intently at the inscription for almost a full minute before tucking it away drifted through Sam's mind.

“Makes me mad enough to chew nails.” The thought filled Sam's head with so many cuss words he feared it would burst open.

The captain leaned back in his chair and propped his boots on the scarred desk that Noah must've brought over on the ark. To make up for a missing leg, someone had cut a crutch and stuck it under there. “Sometimes we all get cases that sink their teeth into us and won't let go.”

“I just about had him the last time.” And now the captain was forcing him to take time off. Sam would lose every bit of ground he'd gained.

Luke Weston had led him on a chase this past year from one end of Texas to the other. To this day, other than a vague outline of his figure, Sam had yet to glimpse anything solid except a pair of cold, pale green eyes glaring over the top of a bandana. Eyes that only held contempt and anger. Except for this last time, when they'd seemed to hold concern. But maybe he'd imagined that.

Damn! He really didn't know what was real and what wasn't anymore.

Maybe the captain was right.

Reaching for a poster that lay atop a pile on his desk, Captain O'Reilly passed it to Sam. “Got this yesterday.” Bold lettering at the top of the page screamed:
WANTED! $1,000 reward for capture and conviction of notorious outlaw Luke Weston. Sought for robbery and murder. Armed and considered extremely dangerous.

The murder charge was new since the last poster Sam had seen. The reward had been only two hundred dollars then. He stared at the thick paper and narrowed his eyes, wondering whose fate had intersected with Luke Weston's.

“Who did he kill?”

O'Reilly's face darkened. “Federal judge. Edgar Percival.”

“Stands to reason Weston would turn to outright murder eventually. Seems every month he's involved in a gunfight with someone, though folks say they were all men who needed killing.”

And yet the new charge did shock Sam. He'd come to know Weston pretty well. A period of four months separated all of the outlaw's robberies, with only fifty dollars taken each time. And in every single instance, Weston had never shot anyone. Maybe he robbed out of boredom…or to taunt Sam.

“A bad seed.” The ranger captain's chair squeaked when he leaned forward. “Some men are born killers.”

This poster, as with all the others, didn't bear a likeness, not even a crude drawing. There were no physical features to go on. Frustration boiled. The lawman in him itched to be out there tracking Weston. The need to bring him to justice rose so strong that it choked Sam. Weston was
his
outlaw to catch, and instead, he'd been ordered home.

Hell! Spending one week on the huge Lone Star Ranch was barely tolerable. A month would either kill him, or he'd kill big brother Houston. The thought had no more than formed before guilt pricked his conscience. In the final moments before the outlaw had hit his horse and left Sam dangling by his neck, regrets had filled his thoughts. He'd begged God for a second chance so he could make things right.

Now, it looked like he'd get it. He'd make the time count. He'd mend bridges with his father, the tough Stoker Legend.

Family was there in good times and bad.

Despite his better qualities, Stoker had caused problems for him. Sam had driven himself to work harder, be quicker and tougher, to prove to everyone his father hadn't bought his job. Overcoming the big ranch, the money, and the power the Legend name evoked had been a continuing struggle.

Captain O'Reilly opened his desk drawer, uncorked a bottle of whiskey, and gave his coffee a generous dousing. “Want to doctor your coffee, Sam?”

“Don't think it'll help,” he replied with a tight smile.

“Suit yourself.” The hardened ranger put the bottle away. The white scar on his cheek had never faded, left from a skirmish with the Comanche.

Sam studied that scar, thinking. Although Sam had intended to keep quiet about the woman he may or may not have bumped into on the way over, out of fear of being labeled a lunatic for sure, he felt a duty to say something. He wouldn't voice doubts that he'd imagined it. “Cap'n, I saw something that keeps nagging. I collided with a young woman a few minutes ago. All I said was sorry, but a man grabbed her arm and shoved her into the alley between the mercantile and telegraph office. I saw fear in her eyes. When I followed, they got on a waiting horse and rode off. Can you send someone to check it out?”

Sam winced at how quickly doubts filled O'Reilly's eyes. The captain was wondering if this was one more example of Sam breaking with reality. Hell! If he'd conjured this up, he'd commit himself into one of those places where they locked up crazy people.

O'Reilly twirled his empty cup. “After the bank robbery a few weeks ago, we don't need more trouble. I'll look into it.”

“Thanks. I hope it was nothing, but you never know.” Relieved, Sam took a sip of coffee, wishing it would warm the cold deep in his bones.

“When's the train due to arrive, Legend?”

“Within the hour.” Sam would obey his orders, but the second his forced sabbatical was over, he'd hit the ground running. He'd dog Luke Weston's trail until there wasn't a safe place in all of Texas to even get a slug of whiskey. He'd heard the gunslinging outlaw spent time down around Galveston and San Antone. That, Sam reckoned, would be a good starting point.

O'Reilly removed his boots from the desk and sat up. “I seem to recall your family ranch being northwest of here on the Red River.”

“That's right.”

“Ever hear of Lost Point?”

Sam nodded. “The town is west of us. Pretty lawless place, by all accounts.”

“It's become a no-man's-land. Outlaws moved in, lock, stock, and barrel. Nothing north of it but Indian Territory. Jonathan Doan is requesting a ranger to the area. Seems he's struggling to get a trading post going on the Red River just west of Lost Point, and outlaws are threatening.”

“I'll take a ride over there while I'm home. Weston would fit right in.”

“No hurry. Give yourself time to relax. Go fishing. Reacquaint yourself with the family, for God's sake. They haven't seen you in a coon's age.”

“Sure thing, Cap'n.” The clock on the town square chimed the half hour, reminding him he'd best get moving. Relieved that O'Reilly had softened and allowed him to still work a little, Sam set down his cup. “Appears I've got a train to catch.”

O'Reilly shook his hand. “Get well, Sam. You're a good lawman. Come back stronger than ever.”

“I will, sir.”

At the livery, Sam hired a boy to fetch his bags from the hotel and take them to the station. After settling with the owner and collecting his buckskin gelding, Sam rode to meet the train. He shivered in the cold, steady downpour. The gloomy day reflected his mood as he moved toward an uncertain future. He was on his way home.

To bind up his wounds. To heal. To become the ranger he needed to be.