Soiled Dove (13 page)

Loretta laughed. “Are you suggesting Miss McIlhenney might be fornicating with six men? Then I can understand why the ladies in town might be jealous.”

“She’s hardly a lady and has quite a violent temper. I think we all saw a demonstration of that this evening.”

“She was defending me, for Christ’s sake,”

Lorettta fumed, “while everyone else in the café, including you, cowered at their tables. I, for one, appreciated it very much. She and her men will be gone tomorrow and that will be the end of it.”

Loretta picked up her pace toward Cyrus’ house.

She knew that although Cyrus was a good man, he wasn’t a particularly brave one. It hadn’t been Cyrus who stepped forward when Clement Garner acted inappropriately. In fact, not a single man came to her rescue. Only Clare McIlhenney, an intriguingly intense woman, had.

BY THE TIME Clare opened the door to her room at the hotel she had sobered up considerably. She propped her rifle next to the bed and began stripping her clothes off. She would have to wear the same clothes the next day, but prepared a hot bath anyway.

Despite the spring weather, the nights were still cool. The window was slightly ajar to allow a cool breeze into the stuffy room. Goose bumps appeared on her skin, hardening the dark nipples of her breasts as she stepped into the tub and sank into the warm embrace of the water. She stared into the water as it gently lapped against her body, her fingertips idly tracing the outline of the scar on her shoulder.

IT WAS A beautiful day. The sky the bluest blue
eighteen-year-old Clare McIlhenney had ever seen,
stretching overhead like a clear ocean of air, unmarred by
even a wisp of a cloud as far as her eyes could see. She
couldn’t recall ever seeing a sky so clear. Terrance
McIlhenney found a shaded grove of trees to stop for the
day. Clare’s eight-year-old brother, Stillman, was absorbed
in a game of pitching stones into a small circle drawn on
the ground with a stick. While her father fed and watered
their horses, her mother kept watch over their dinner
cooking over an open campfire.

Clare promised to return within the hour and set off to
explore the area near their camp. Her father said they were
within a day or two of their destination. It had been a long
and tedious journey. They were forced to leave most of
their personal belongings behind when they left
Pennsylvania. It seemed they left behind more of the life
Clare had known at each river crossing and before each
steep canyon descent. She glanced over her shoulder at the
horses her father purchased in Pueblo to replace their
exhausted oxen. They left the wagon train they had
traveled with for the past four months and turned south,
leaving behind new friends along with the memories of the
trials along the road west.

Clare plucked a tender shoot of prairie grass, put it in
her mouth and sucked the sweet taste of it. Every step
brought back another memory of their long journey. It had
been an unnecessary ordeal, she thought. She had done
nothing to be ashamed of, or at least nothing shameful
enough to warrant her parents’ sudden move across the
continent in search of a new beginning. They never spoke
of their hasty decision to leave their home, but Clare knew
she was the reason. Sometimes, when she was alone, she
could still smell a hint of lavender similar to the scent of
Annalee’s favorite toilet water.

A smile tugged at her lips whenever she thought of
Annalee Sullivan. Clare couldn’t blame Annalee for her
misfortune. The young woman had been desperate to
defend herself and her honor. It was nothing more than a
single, chaste brushing of their lips, much as sisters might
do. Except they weren’t sisters. Annalee’s mother nearly
fainted at what she imagined would have happened if she
hadn’t abruptly entered the room in time to prevent her
daughter from being defiled by a pervert such as Clare
McIlhenney. The venomous disgust in Mrs. Sullivan’s
voice when she spat out the word made Clare cringe.

Pervert!

A small break in the rocks ahead drew Clare’s attention
away from the past and she climbed up the rise to reach it.

It was too dark to venture far into the cave and she stood a
few feet inside the entrance to allow her eyes to adjust from
the bright sunlight outside. She had only taken two or
three tentative steps inside when she heard the loud report
of gunfire. She whirled around and ran from the cave
toward their camp as fast as her legs would carry her,
hiking her long skirt up to prevent it from becoming
snagged on low brush. It didn’t seem as if she’d walked so
far. She stopped to catch her breath and get her bearings,
making certain she wasn’t running in the wrong direction.

She topped a small rise and looked down to see her father
firing his Henry repeating rifle while sheltering Stillman
and her mother. Four men fired over the top of a ravine a
few dozen yards from the McIlhenney camp, their horses
milling behind them.

Clare raced down the low lying hill toward their
wagon, but before she reached it she saw her father fall.

Her mother picked up the rifle and continued to fire toward
the men without much accuracy. She skidded to a stop next
to her mother, took the rifle from her shaking hands, and
pushed her back to protect Stillman.

“Tend to father,” she said as she took aim around the
front of the wagon and squeezed off another shot. It hit the
dirt at the lip of the ravine, causing the men to duck. She
used the seconds until the attackers recovered to reach
under the seat of their wagon and grab the box of
ammunition her father kept there. As she reloaded the rifle
chamber she heard Stillman sobbing behind her. A quick
glance over her shoulder told her Terrance McIlhenney was
dead. She didn’t have time to grieve even though tears
forming in her eyes blurred her vision. She never saw the
man coming around the side of their wagon until a bullet
ripped through her shoulder and spun her toward him. She
saw her mother grasp Stillman and shield him with her
body seconds before she saw the life disappear from her
mother’s eyes.

She tried to bring the rifle up to defend her brother,
but a blinding pain shot through her scalp. She heard
Stillman call out her name, seemingly from far away, as
darkness fell over her.

Clare didn’t know how much time had passed when she
regained consciousness. She squeezed her eyes shut again
attempting to block out the throbbing pain in her shoulder
and along her forehead. The sky above was the same
brilliant, cloudless blue it had been earlier. The sound of
feet shuffling in the dirt startled her and she turned her
head toward the sound. She saw the blurry image of a man
leaning over her mother’s body and her hand reflexively
tightened around her rifle. She grabbed a spoke on the
nearby wagon wheel, biting her bottom lip as pain stabbed
at her arm. She managed to sit up and lean against the
wheel, propping the rifle on her knees.

“Get away from them,” Clare ordered in a raspy voice.

Despite her bravado, her hand trembled as she leaned
against the wagon wheel, barely able to hold the heavy
rifle.The man’s eyes widened when he turned and saw the
rifle pointed at him. “You’re alive!” the stranger said as
his hand moved quickly over his chest to make the sign of
the cross.

“No thanks to you. You murdered my family,” Clare
spat.“Let me help you, senorita. You’re hurt. I didn’t shoot
anyone except those two,” he said, pointing to two bodies
sprawled on the ground nearby. “The others, they run
away like the cowards they are.”

Clare stared up at the strangely dressed man. He was
shorter than her father. Hell, he was shorter than she was.

Not more than five-and-a-half feet tall. He wore blue and
red striped pants, partially covered with leather over his
thighs and shins. Despite the summer heat, he wore a
blousy, pale yellow long-sleeve shirt and a leather vest. A
pair of revolvers hung from his waist and the largest hat
Clare had ever seen hung down his back revealing shaggy,
black hair. The skin of his face was dark and a black
mustache that needed trimming draped across his upper
lip. He stood over Clare and smiled in an attempt to win
her trust, and avoid being shot himself. She noticed his
teeth were amazingly white against his skin and dark hair.

“I am Ino Valdez,” he offered.

Clare rested the rifle on her knees and squinted up at
him, trying to decide whether she could trust this stranger
who had appeared out of nowhere. She was scared and
wanted to trust him. “Clare McIlhenney,” she managed
while finally trying to stand upright.

Ino rushed to her side and grasped her arm to help her
stand. Blood trailed down Clare’s cheeks from the grazing
wound along the right side of her forehead and her left arm
was virtually useless. Ino propped her against the water
barrel on the wagon and went quickly to the tailgate. He
returned a few minutes later with a quilt and an armful of
supplies. “Let me see your shoulder, senorita. The graze to
your head can be cleaned fine, but I am sure the shoulder is
much worse.”

Clare nodded and used the rifle to steady herself as she
lay down on the quilt. Ino started to reach toward the
neckline of her dress. He drew his hands back when Clare
brought the rifle up again. “I won’t hurt you, senorita. I
have to see if the bullet is still inside,” he said.

She nodded and swallowed hard. He unbuttoned the
neckline and bodice of Clare’s simple dress and pulled the
material away as gently as he could. He rolled her onto her
right side and checked for an exit wound. “It’s still
inside,” he muttered.

He rolled her onto her back again and covered her body
except for the wound site. Clare blinked rapidly and looked
up at him, her dark brown eyes determined. “Have you
ever removed a bullet before?” she asked.

“Si.” He reached down and picked up a bottle of
whiskey he’d found in the wagon. He twisted the bottle
open and lifted her head slightly. “Drink this. It will still
hurt, but you won’t care as much,” he said as he lowered
the bottle to her parched lips.

The taste of the liquor burned her mouth and she
coughed, causing pain to shoot through her shoulder. Ino
continued to encourage her to drink until her saw her eyes
beginning to become unfocused. “I am sorry, senorita,” Ino
muttered. He downed a healthy swallow of the whiskey
before pouring the remaining alcohol over her wound. As
the whiskey burned into her shoulder, her scream died on
her lips as she passed out.

Clare groaned as she began to awaken once again. She
felt a cool, rough hand press against her forehead. Her eyes
snapped open and she tried to bring the rifle up to fire.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, his hand pressing against
the barrel of the rifle.

“You’re still here?” she asked.

“Si. I couldn’t leave you here alone for the coyotes,” he
said with a shrug. “Wouldn’t be right.”

“Thanks.”

“And your honor is still intact,” he added with a
smile. “You thirsty or hungry?”

“Just thirsty.”

Ino lifted Clare’s shoulders slightly and pressed a
canteen to her mouth. “Where were you and your family
headed?”

“Trinidad,” Clare answered as she lay back down
carefully. “My father bought some land about twenty miles
outside of town from a land agent in Pennsylvaia so he
could start a ranch.”

“Now what you gonna do?”

“Start a ranch,” Clare said. “And catch the bastards
who killed my parents and brother.”

“They long gone,” Ino said. “Where is this land your
papa got?”

“It’s on the deed, I guess.”

“You rest the next day or two. Then I take you to
Trinidad. Let the doc check my sewing. You can find out
where the land is there. Someone will buy it from you.”

“It’s not for sale,” Clare snapped. “It’s all I have
now.”

Ino scratched the stubble along his jawline. “A woman
can’t own land unless she’s got a man.”

“My father is dead, I inherit it.”

“Then I wouldn’t tell no one your papa is dead.

Homestead it maybe and live there a long time. Like a
squatter, you know. Then maybe you can keep it.”

Clare chewed her lower lip. “When we get to Trinidad,
you can check at the land office and find out where the
boundaries are for me. Tell them whatever you have to.”

“I’m heading home to Texas,” Ino protested.

“What you got there?”

“Well, nothing, but I wasn’t planning to settle down.”

“I ain’t asking you to marry me! Just to tell a little lie.