Renegade Riders
Dawn MacTavish
LEISURE BOOKS
NEW YORK CITY
UESTION OF
C
OURAGE
“You’re a coward, Trace Ord. Oh, you’ll face down Jared, guns blazing, but you’re afraid of what you feel, afraid to reach out for the future we could have together.”
He was so close. His body heat scorched her, and his raw male scent was dizzying. His hot breath puffed in her face. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. The mere thought of it and she was aroused. So was he. The proof of it pressed heavily against her belly, and his eyes were dark and hooded with passion. If he would only kiss her…
He didn’t. Instead, he scooped her up in his arms and plopped her down on Duchess. Mounting Diablo, he pointed her down off the mesa toward the valley below and rode off.
Her shout chased him. “You’re a coward, Trace. But I’m strong enough for both of us.”
R
enegade Riders
is the earliest of my sister’s works, before Dawn decided Regency and paranormal romances were where her heart belonged. Her love for the Old West came from our father, who loved the novels of Zane Grey. She took his passion for those stories of the West and made it her own, and
Renegade Riders
was written as a tribute to him—and to our mother, too, as the heroine is named after her.
Since Dawn died before she had a chance to edit this book, I wish to thank her close friends Deborah MacGillivray, Diane Davis White, and Monika Wolmarans for helping me with that process. Their efforts were a true labor of love for my sister.
I especially wish to thank Chris Keeslar and Dorchester Publishing for giving Dawn her dream and for putting out this book, preserving Dawn’s story for her many fans. I hope everyone enjoys my sister’s very first novel, for it is special in so many ways.
This book is also dedicated to Miss Fuzz, who cared for and defended Dawn for many years.
Diane “Candy” Thompson
New York
Canyon country, Arizona Territory, 1875
T
race
Ord holstered his smoking gun. The horse thief he’d just shot wasn’t mortally wounded. Judging from his build, the would-be rustler couldn’t be more than a boy, so he hadn’t aimed to kill.
He whistled for Diablo, the mustang with which the thief had nearly ridden off—without a saddle, no less. Impressive. Trace had to give the boy that. If he hadn’t come back to camp from hunting when he did, and then drilled the hombre with one shot, the low-down varmint would’ve been halfway to Utah by now. Diablo could run like the wind; Trace could testify to that. Hadn’t it taken him five long years and more than one broken bone to capture and break the stallion?
Red rock gravel crunched under the soles of his spurred boots as Trace climbed down from the rocks he’d scaled to take the shot. The last blaze of a fiery copper sunset was disappearing behind the rim above. Like a descending window shade, it robbed light from the canyon floor every night with a crushing disregard for what ever was left undone. His captive would have to wait. Diablo was spooked, milling aimlessly, ready
to bolt. Trace approached with caution and practiced skill. He wasn’t about to risk losing the horse now, not with night coming on so quickly and him with nothing but a stubborn pack mule to give chase.
“Come here, you black imp of Satan!” he bellowed at the beast. His voice rang back in echo, ricocheting off the darkening canyon walls.
The high-stepping horse pranced toward him, snorting, breath visible in puffs from flared nostrils in the cool spring air. His hooves clattered on the table of flat rock as he advanced, bridle dragging, head bobbing, black tail tossing and sweeping—the longest tail Trace had ever seen on a mustang, wild or otherwise. What a sight! Even now the beast thrilled him.
However, he’d been a wild horse wrangler long enough not to be fooled by the glamour. He’d learned the hard way that, while it was possible to bend a mustang to your will, there would always be a bit that remained wild. There was always the elusive part that pricked up its ears to answer the call of another wild horse riding the wind, the ingrained drive to recapture freedom. Trace had a healthy respect for that, so, while he handled his mustangs with playful banter and gentle whispers, he never let a beast he’d broken think it had gotten the better of him.
Fondly but firmly, he stroked the dusky horse’s rippling neck and withers. “What? You forget who’s boss around here?” he asked. Snatching the bridle, he wound it around a clump of brush jutting from a crevice in the rocky wall, narrowly missing the prickly needles of a reddish-tinted
bisnaga
cactus in the same fissure, jerking his hand back just in time. “Now see what you
nearly made me do?” he complained. “You stay put, you ungrateful cayuse.”
That accomplished, Trace strode to the body sprawled facedown on the canyon floor a few yards away. He squatted next to it. All that remained of the day was a flare of azure, rose, and gold on the horizon, and the wide brim of his Stetson cast purple shadows over the inert figure. He pushed the hat back for a closer look. No blood on the man’s back. The bullet must still be in him.
He rolled the horse thief over, dislodging a dustcovered tan sombrero and revealing the culprit’s face and hair—long, wavy hair the color of the sunset. Staring down at the unmoving form, Trace grimaced. “By damn, a woman. If that don’t beat all. I’ve shot a woman!” And she was armed. Out of self-preservation, he relieved her of the gun in her holster and then felt for a pulse in her neck. “Thank the good Lord, fool woman’s still alive.”
Blood was seeping from a hole in her shirt at the shoulder, and a sizable lump was forming on her forehead where she’d struck a rock when she fell off Diablo. Both needed attention. Trace lifted her into his arms, snatched the horse’s bridle, and strode off toward the lee of the canyon wall and his camp.
Trace had shot men before. A renegade rider couldn’t live past thirty in the Territories without coming up against some bandit, some cardsharp or rustler or claimjumping varmint itching to throw lead. Not in post–Civil War Arizona. But a woman? Never in his thirty-nine years had he ever succumbed to that, by accident or otherwise. A man of principle in general, he had an
ingrained respect for the gender that was a by-product of his Southern planter upbringing. No matter what stamp he put on it, what he’d just done—albeit lawful—was a stain on Trace’s reputation that couldn’t be blotted out. That sorry realization played havoc with his equilibrium.
He cradled the woman to his chest, plowing through the sage and scrub in his path, evicting unsuspecting critters along the way, his heart keeping a ragged rhythm with his long-legged stride while he pondered her situation. What was she doing way out here alone on foot at sunset, and without an outer garment to protect her from the cool canyon night? Only a fool ventured forth after sundown in canyon country dressed as she was. And why in the garb of a man? What event had pushed her to become a horse thief? That was a hanging offense. Was she running to something, or away?
There was a more pressing matter, too. What had to be done had to be done quickly, now, while she was still unconscious. This woman was in need of medical attention, and Trace was the only living soul in a day’s hard ride in any direction. He’d dug out his share of bullets over time—some from his own body—but he was no doctor. Nevertheless, there was no one else to save her. The one thing for which he was thankful was that he hadn’t aimed to kill. Shooting a woman was bad enough; killing one was something his conscience would never forgive, horse thief or no.
Trace hadn’t put up a tent. He never did in spring or summer, when the weather was good. Camp consisted of a fire to cook over and ward off predators, and a blanket roll, with his saddle as a pillow. Fortunately, he’d
put that in place when he built the fire earlier, so he could now lay the woman down upon the bedding. He had nothing to ease the coming pain but whiskey, and precious little of that; it had been a while since he’d ridden to civilization for supplies. He hoped she didn’t wake up.
Though a lantern was part of his gear, he couldn’t remember when he’d last lit the thing. He did so now, and carried it closer. The canyon had quickly grown black as coaltar pitch, and there was no moon, so he’d need all the light he could get. His fingers trembled as he adjusted the wick to a proper level and then placed the light down by her shoulder.
He tossed his Stetson atop his saddle and reached for his pack to take out a narrow-bladed knife kept for just such a situation. As he stared at it, he grimaced at the prospect of it cutting into her flesh. A cold oily roiling began in the pit of his stomach. With a long sigh, he next unstrapped the bowie knife from his thigh and hardened himself to what he must do. He leaned down and thrust both blades in the coals.
She had lost a lot of blood. Her blue plaid shirt was soaked with it. He unbuttoned the garment and gingerly stripped it away. The camisole beneath was also saturated. Trace hesitated, working his fingers nervously, then reached out and pulled it off, proprieties be damned. He sucked in a breath.
“Sweet Jesus…” The words of awe came unbidden.
The woman’s breasts were full and round. Her skin was translucent and delicate, like pearl glistening in moonlight. For modesty’s sake, Trace snatched another blanket and covered her. As he did, her tawny nipple
grazed his wrist, its tumescent roughness in the cold night air causing a wash of scalding heat through his loins. The sensation rocked him back on his heels. Considering the urgency of the situation, his reaction took him by surprise. He tried to shake it off the way a dog sheds water—unsuccessfully. Lust surged through him. How could he ever have mistaken her for a man?
He focused again on his task. The bullet in her arm was likely lodged against the bone, which was why it hadn’t passed through. There was no choice; it had to come out. Then the wound needed to be cauterized, to stop the bleeding and prevent infection.
“Damn it!” He looked up at the night sky in frustration, almost in supplication. “This needs a doctor.” But there was no way around it; she might die if not properly treated.
He snatched his smaller knife from the fire, poured water over the blade, and waited for the hissing, spitting steam to evaporate. Without further hesitation, he pushed the thin, razor-sharp blade into the wound. Probing for the bullet, he glanced up at her ashen face, fearing she might somehow awaken.
Beads of sweat formed on his brow, trickled down his face. He wiped them away, trying to keep his vision clear. The woman didn’t stir. He took note of the lump on her brow, larger now than when he’d first laid her down, the bruise already darkening from red to blackish purple. That, too, needed attention, but it would have to wait.
He swallowed hard as his knife struck metal. Carefully, he dug around the bullet, meanwhile pressing down with the fingers of his left hand alongside the
entry hole. The hardest part was working the bullet free without causing more damage. Fortunately for her, the bullet wasn’t too deep and hadn’t ricocheted off bone and plunged deeper into her body.
“Thank the good Lord for small miracles.”
Trace breathed a ragged sigh of relief, again thanking God when the bullet came free without too much effort. She’d lost so much blood that he wanted to minimize the amount of time he poked around. Reaching for his bottle of rotgut whiskey, he pulled out the stopper and poured some over the wound. Hesitating a second, he next put the bottle to his lips.
“I think I earned that,” he said after downing a slug. Then, taking a clean bandana from his pack, he folded the cloth and pressed it to the wound. His eyes strayed to the fire, and he laughed, shaken. He’d been so relieved to have the bullet out, for a moment he’d forgotten the ordeal wasn’t over. “Damn. Wish I’d taken a bigger drink.”
His stomach muscles flexed as he pulled his bowie knife from the fire. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the glowing blade against the woman’s oozing wound and gave a slow count of three. The smell of singed flesh hit his nostrils, and he had to swallow back bile. The woman finally stirred, writhing against the press of red-hot metal, but she moaned and lapsed back into unconsciousness without ever opening her eyes. The sound of her agony ran through Trace like the Yankee saber that had pierced his side when he rode with the Nathan Bedford Forest’s cavalry during the War Between the States. Only, this was worse.
A strange mix of euphoria and desperation moved
Trace. Almost dizzy with it, he marked it as concern for the woman. Removing her boots and bathing her face with cool water from his canteen, he hacked off the head of a nearby cactus, stripped off his kerchief, and soaked it in the cactus juice, making a compress that he applied to the lump on her brow. Even so, his edginess was far from spent. The night was cool—too cool for the way she was dressed. Ignoring his body’s reaction to touching her bare flesh, he eased her into his spare shirt and then tucked both blankets around her. When that was done, he set about gathering enough dead wood to erect a crude lean-to out of his rain slicker, a shelter for her from the wind. Only then did he permit himself to sink down cross-legged beside the fire.
Reaching for the bottle, he took another drink: a small one, just a swallow to still the memories clamoring inside his head. He would not sleep, not until he was certain the woman was out of danger.
Her face was ash white in the firelight; the full, bowed lips bore no trace of color. In stark contrast were the ribbons of strawberry blonde hair spread out like a fan about her. He recalled its fragrance, like blooming wild clover. It wouldn’t leave his nostrils. Not even the pungent sagebrush fed to the campfire could chase it.
Somewhere he’d heard that people who suffered a blow to the head should not be allowed to sleep; they often didn’t wake up. Where had he heard that? At his mother’s knee? Among the Navajos? He couldn’t remember. And, truth or not, he wouldn’t chance waking her; he didn’t have enough whiskey to quell her pain.
He almost laughed. If she were a man, none of this would be happening. Horse thieves weren’t coddled in
the Territories. What would he have done in that case? Probably not what another man might have. Torturing and killing were both distasteful to Trace Ord. Such tactics were abhorrent to him, though he’d watched many men swing from the end of a rope, seen them pinioned over red ant hills in the desert or staked out in the blazing sun for vultures, seen all manner of debasements for stealing another man’s horse. Surely she must have known the consequences of taking such an action. What could have possibly driven her to it?
After a while he began to nod off, each time jerking back awake. When the fire started to dwindle, he fed it more scrub until it flared to life again. He crept close to the woman often, and felt her face for fever. Her skin remained cool to the touch, thankfully, and the gentle rise and fall of her breasts was steady—good signs. She was young, and evidently of sturdy stock. Despite her frail appearance, she was unmistakably a lady of quality.
Admittedly, Trace was hardly a good judge anymore. In the near decade since the war, he’d had scant contact with women. Once…Well, he remembered gentler things, like lacy doilies and the sweet scent of violet water, but those had been a lifetime ago. These days, the sorts of women he found were in parlor houses, saloons, and cantinas. They asked for little from a man, and they left him with different sights and smells, ones he would just as soon dismiss from memory once he was out the door.
He based his conclusions about this woman on those distant memories, the ones he pondered on rare occasion when sitting fireside and listening to the mournful
cry of a distant coyote. He’d noticed her fingernails were clean and trimmed, her hands soft and unspoiled. They hadn’t the telltale markings of hard labor, and she wore a wedding ring. Why did his heart twist at that discovery? He doubted her fine skin had ever been slathered with a whore’s paint, or that she’d ever smelled of anything stronger than wildflowers or rosewater—which made her current situation even more bizarre.
