[Montacroix Royal Family Series 03] - The Outlaw (5 page)

He knew that as soon as they discovered him missing, they'd be after him. He also knew that there'd be a hefty price on his head. He was, after all, a very convenient scapegoat.

His trial had been nothing more than a kangaroo court. A parade of witnesses had taken the stand, each placing his hand on the Bible, before swearing to some aspect of the Indian's guilt.

That they were lying under oath had not seemed to bother them. He suspected they'd been paid to put aside any fears of divine retribution. Such behavior didn't surprise him; he'd already discovered that white men were willing to do just about anything for money.

Which was what those killings were all about.

The Anglo ranchers, who conspired to steal land that had once belonged to his people in order to graze their cattle, had all the forces of the United States government behind them. With guns and laws, they succeeded in having the Dineh rounded up and consigned to a small corner of the world Wolfe's mother's people had originally claimed.

Not so long ago, the Navajo had roamed the land as far as the eye could see. Now there were houses. And towns, like Whiskey River. And all because the white man had discovered precious metals and coal in the distant, purple-hazed mountains.

The whites wanted the mountain timber for their houses, and the grassland, home to the elk and the deer, for grazing their cattle. That it belonged to Indians did not sit well with these white newcomers. These men who made their fortunes at the expense of others.

And now, the very same ranchers who'd stolen the Dineh's land were being vexed by a new group of settlers. Families who'd come West, foolishly believing that they could farm this arid, high desert rangeland. They were determined to conquer the land; diverting streams, pumping the water with their windmills, and with their sharp plows, ripping open the earth until she bled. The final straw had come when they'd begun stringing barbed wire over what had been open range.

That such intruders had to go had been obvious to the ranchers. It was, admittedly, preferable that they leave willingly. But those who stubbornly dug in their heels were treated by the ranchers to harsher methods.

And if the Indians could be blamed, so much the better.

Everyone knew what was happening. Wolfe suspected that there were even those white men who considered murder for profit wrong. Unfortunately, they hadn't been on his jury.

He didn't have a plan. There was, of course, always Mexico, although that was too obvious for his liking. Another possibility was to make to California, where he could become lost in the mining camps and gold-fields of the Sierra Madre.

He could go to Alaska, that place where some old-time medicine men professed his people had once lived. Or to New York, where he had powerful friends in the publishing world who'd help him attain honest legal counsel, rather than the drunken, half-wit who'd been assigned his case by the territorial governor. The lawyer had been recommended to the governor by a coalition of Whiskey River ranchers who had their own reasons for wanting Wolfe Longwalker to hang. His stories depicting native life, which had so caught on back East where the laws were made, did nothing to further the ranchers' cause.

He was not without choices, Wolfe reminded himself as he galloped his mare, hell-bent for leather, away from Whiskey River. The thing to do was to get to the reservation where he could hide out in the canyons until he decided which option was best.

The rain was pouring from the blackened sky, making visibility difficult. But he was a man of the land, accustomed to such powerful Father rains.

Wolfe would later decide that it was his inattentiveness that caused him to ride into the path of that black buggy.

His mare saw it at the same time he did. Wolfe pulled up hard on the reins at the instant the mare rose back on her hind legs. Only the immense power in his inner thighs kept him from being flung headfirst over the horse's head.

Unfortunately, the driver of the buggy was not so lucky. Its horse reared, as well, causing the carriage to overturn. The horse broke free of its harness and tore off into the rain.

Cursing, Wolfe dismounted and walked over to the woman who'd been thrown free.

She'd landed beneath a tree, on a thick layer of pine needles that had fortuitously cushioned the blow. When he rolled her over, a faint sense of recognition tugged, but concerned by her unconscious state, Wolfe didn't stop to dwell on it. Kneeling beside her, he bent down and felt the soft breath coming from her pale lips. He picked up her wrist to check her pulse. Her blood-beat was thready, but even.

A knot was rising on her forehead, which explained her unconsciousness. He combed his fingers through her wet hair, looking for scalp wounds and finding none. Turning his attention to the rest of her, he ran his hands first down her arms, then her legs. When his probing touch drew a response, he took her ragged moan as a good sign and unbuttoned her denim and suede jacket.

Beneath the jacket she was wearing a silk shirt. It crossed his mind that the combination of rough denim and silk was an intriguing, if unorthodox, choice. It also made it more difficult to pinpoint exactly who— and what—she was.

Most of the women who wore denim in territorial Arizona were miners' wives, who labored long hard days working hardscrabble claims alongside their husbands.

Silk was reserved for whores and the occasional cavalry commander's wife who quickly learned that the fabric was highly impractical in a place where, too often, the laundry was beaten to near death in huge copper kettles over a fire.

The fact that this woman was not wearing a wedding band suggested she was no officer's wife. And her complexion was too smooth, her skin too soft, her scent too subtle for a whore.

Her blouse was fastened with tiny pearl buttons that echoed the pearls adorning her earlobes. Having traveled among the royalty of Europe, Wolfe recognized the pearl earrings to be of excellent quality. Nearly as excellent as the icy diamond she was wearing on the fourth finger of her left hand.

Whoever this woman was, she was obviously wealthy. Which meant, Wolfe determined grimly, that when she didn't arrive wherever she'd been headed, people would undoubtedly begin searching for her.

Frustration laced with impatience roughened his touch as he continued to probe for injuries. When his fingers pressed against a rib, she flinched. When they moved down her side, she moaned.

But still her eyes did not open.

Assuring himself that his interest was solely that of the Good Samaritan, Wolfe unbuttoned her silk blouse. Rocking back on his heels, he gazed in surprise at the skimpy band of flowered lace that barely covered her breasts in lieu of a more proper camisole.

Her torso was bare. Her flesh was as smooth as her silk blouse and distractingly fragrant. From what he could tell, her ribs were not broken, but merely bruised.

When his fingers brushed against the sides of her breasts, her lids flew open and he found himself suddenly staring down into a pair of eyes that were as crystal blue as the lakes in the territory's high country.

Again a faint memory stirred in the far reaches of his mind, one Wolfe could not quite grasp.

She stared in disbelief at the man glaring down at her. "I don't understand—"

"Your buggy ran in front of my horse." Wolfe knew he sounded overly defensive, but didn't apologize. "It overturned and you were thrown out."

"My buggy." Noel thought about that for a moment and decided this had to be another dream. "And you're Wolfe Longwalker."

"You've got the wrong man," he lied gruffly.

"No." She studied him, her solemn gaze moving slowly over his face. "It's you."

"What do you want with Longwalker?"

"I want to help him."

It was his turn to study her. She appeared to be telling the truth. But there was still the unpalatable fact that if this mere woman could locate him out in the middle of nowhere, the posse would undoubtedly be close behind. Before he could respond, her eyes fluttered shut again and her hand fell to her side. Wolfe shook her shoulders in an attempt to rouse her, and failed.

"Hell." Frustrated, he stood up, his hands braced on his hips and stared down at her. Nearby, his mare whinnied, as if reminding him that they didn't have all day.

The woman was a pitiful sight. Her long yellow hair was wet and matted, bruises marred her face and her bottom lip was rapidly swelling from a cut she'd received in the accident.

She was also too thin for his personal taste. Her breasts, barely covered by that immodest scrap of lace and silk were too small to make a decent handful, and her complexion, even for an Anglo, was too pale. Yet, even as he assured himself that he felt no attraction for this unconscious female, something about her inexplicably moved something deep inside him.

Sympathy? Perhaps.

Responsibility? Absolutely.

He glanced up at the sky, at the drenching rain that showed no sign of stopping. He looked back toward town, half expecting to see the armed posse riding toward him. But there was only the towering red rocks, the green trees and, of course, the rain.

Finally, he returned his gaze to the woman. To leave her here, at the mercy of the inclement weather, not to mention the wild animals that roamed the range, along with whatever else fate might have in store for her, would be unconscionable.

On the other hand, to take her back to Whiskey River, where she could obtain the medical attention she needed and deserved would ensure his recapture. And his execution.

His vexatious conscience warring with a deep-seated instinct for survival, Wolfe swore viciously. First in his native Navajo. Then in the language of the Anglos he'd learned to use to his own advantage in his writing.

Finally, knowing he had no other choice, damning whatever gods—or, more likely, devils—had dropped her into his life, he scooped up the troublesome female and flung her across the back of his patiently waiting mare. Viewing the leather satchel lying near where she'd landed, he picked it up, as well, glanced inside it and saw that it seemed to contain books, which made him wonder if she could be a schoolteacher.

He thought about the thin-lipped missionary teachers he'd suffered during his years away in boarding school. Then he thought of this woman's enticing undergarments. If she was a teacher, things had definitely changed since his school days.

Cursing himself for a fool, he swung up behind her and began riding in the direction of the Road to Ruin.

He'd hand off the woman, whoever she was, to Belle O'Roarke.

And then, his duty done, he'd get back to the business of saving his own life.

4

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Had the Road to Ruin been situated in the red-light district known as Whiskey Row, Wolfe wouldn't have risked returning. But Belle O'Roarke, to escape city council regulations, had opened for business several miles outside Whiskey River.

Her whores—often "fallen girls" from respectable households back East—were famous for being the prettiest, the most well-mannered, the best-dressed— or underdressed—and most important, the cleanest girls in Arizona Territory.

Breaking with tradition that tended to separate the establishments catering to various sins, the Road to Ruin had a saloon, a gambling hall and a bordello all operating under the same roof.

The piano player was pounding out Scott Joplin's ragtime when Wolfe carried his still-unconscious charge up to Belle's kitchen door at the back of the two-story frame building.

The madam herself opened the door at his first knock.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" she asked, her eyes wide in her rosy face. "I figured that if you did manage to escape, you'd hightail it for the border."

"I was on my way out of town when I got sidetracked."

"So I see." Belle folded her arms across her abundant bosom, draped in emerald satin, and eyed the woman filing over his shoulder. "I don't suppose she's meant for me?"

"I don't care what you do with her," Wolfe growled as he entered the steamy warmth of the kitchen that smelled of fresh-brewed coffee, wood burning, bacon frying and wet dog. "Just take her off my hands so I can get the hell out of here."

"Who is she?"

"I don't know."

Belle grabbed hold of a handful of wet hair and jerked Noel's head up. "That's a helluva knot on her head. What happened?"

"The fool ran her buggy into the path of my horse."

"She was by herself?"

"If she'd had a man to take care of her, I wouldn't be here," Wolfe said grumpily.

"You didn't have to stop in the first place," Belle reminded him.

"Yes." Wolfe sighed. "I did."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Belle threw back her head and laughed. A ribald laugh that started way down in the gut and bubbled out as rich and warm as the hearty beef stew bubbling away on the back burner of the cast-iron stove.

"You always have had a tendency to play Sir Galahad."

Wolfe hated being flattered for something he considered a deep and vastly embarrassing personal flaw. "Why don't you just tell me where to put her?"