The Rogue (14 page)

Holt dodged the right hook Guy swung at him and it glanced off his shoulder. He backed away, but Diana knew he wasn’t retreating due to cowardice.

“I am not going to fight you, Guy.”

“Take back what you said!” Guy was deaf to all but his need to avenge the insult to Diana, blind to the fact that she stood on the sidelines.

When Holt failed to respond in the way demanded, Guy charged him like a young fighting bull. In the grip of a strange paralysis, Diana was unable to move or call out. Holt defended himself easily, always backing away, always retreating. The blows that landed seemed to inflict little damage. It soon became apparent, even to Diana’s inexperienced eye, that it was not the first brawl Holt had been in. She could hear Guy grunting from exertion and frustration. A lucky swing slipped through Holt’s defenses, solidly striking his jaw and sending him spinning to the ground.

“Get up!” Panting, Guy taunted him. “Get up and fight!”

Propped up on an elbow, Holt shook his head as if to clear it of ringing bells. He moved his jaw experimentally and looked at Guy. “I said I wasn’t going to fight,” he repeated calmly and slowly pushed to his feet.

Instantly Guy was attacking, the taste of success making his assault more fierce than before. Twice Holt was unable to block Guy’s punches, his head snapping back under the connecting forces of them. Diana’s
widened eyes saw Holt swing, the blow more instinctive than deliberate, and Guy went down.

The control of her legs returned to Diana’s power and she ran the last few steps into the camp, all her attention on the prone figure on the ground.

“Guy!” She felt a flood of guilt for not having tried to stop the fight before he was hurt.

Holt staggered into her path, blocking her from Guy. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, coming from a cut inside. He had taken more punishment from Guy’s desperate swings than Diana had realized. His eyes had darkened to the color of ominous thunderclouds.

“Stay away from my son.” There was a rasping quality to his hard voice. “Haven’t you done enough? You’ve finally got what you always wanted—an open break between me and Guy. Keep away from him.”

Her dark head moved in silent denial, but she didn’t attempt to come any closer. Holt turned and knelt beside the inert figure, rolling Guy onto his back. The fire cast burnished gold lights on his rumpled brown hair as he bent over his unmoving son.

The walls of her stomach constricted sharply when she saw the bloodied and swelling face, so young and vulnerable in its unconscious state. And all because he had defended her honor. Diana felt sickened, as unworthy as Holt had claimed she was.

“He’s hurt.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Holt snapped.

She couldn’t simply do nothing, not when it was her fault that Guy was lying there. “I ... I’ll get some water.” She walked to the nearest canteen.

As Diana started back with it, the sound of shuffling footsteps heralded Rube’s return. He entered the camp carrying an armload of wood. At the sight of Holt bending over Guy, he stopped, bowlegged, and stared.

“What happened? I heard a bunch of commotion goin’ on, but I never figure— Is he hurt?” Rube dropped the armload on the dwindling wood pile and hurried over.

Holt took the canteen from Diana’s hand, dousing his handkerchief with the water. “He fell.” His look dared Diana to dispute his explanation.

“He fell, you say,” Rube repeated and peered over Holt’s shoulder. “Ain’t never seen nobody hurt like that from no fall. Looks to me like somebody hit him. Yep, knocked him plumb out.”

“Rube, did anybody ever tell you that you talk too much?” Holt muttered savagely. “I said he fell. Now leave it at that.”

“All right, all right, he fell,” he agreed with affronted dignity. “Nobody tells me nothin’. Always keepin’ secrets. Ole Rube, he don’t need to know. But I ain’t blind, I can see.” He received another silencing look from Holt. “But if you say he fell, he fell. Who am I to be callin’ you a liar?” He moved off, still grumbling to himself.

There was a groan and Guy’s head moved slightly as he fought to regain consciousness. His eyes opened but it took several seconds before they lost their glazed look. When they focused on Holt, the light of battle leaped back into his expression. Guy started to rise, but Holt pushed him back.

“Take it easy. You had a bad fall.” He stressed the last word to impress it on Guy’s mind and glanced pointedly to Diana and Rube.

It was the sight of Diana that prompted Guy to contain his anger. “I’m all right,” he insisted impatiently and took the handkerchief from Holt, wincing as he pressed it to his split lip.

Holt straightened, moving away, knowing Guy would reject any expression of concern. Carefully, Guy sat up; he was still a bit groggy. Diana felt a surge of maternal desire to comfort him, but she controlled it. She didn’t want him misinterpreting her concern, nor did she want him to learn she had witnessed his defeat.

She didn’t move to his side, but asked, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

His gaze, sullen and bitter, strayed to Holt and
returned to stare at the handkerchief he held. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

His look reminded Diana of Holt’s accusation that she had ripped their tenuous relationship. They had battled over her, a rift that would not soon be bridged. She hadn’t meant it to happen. Years ago, she might have wished it, but she had been a child then with the malevolent dislikes of a child.

“It’s going to be a long day tomorrow,” Holt announced to everyone in general. “It’s time we all turned in.” But it was issued to end the conversation between Diana and Guy. AH three knew it.

“Diana,” Guy’s voice was suddenly earnest.

She shook her head. She didn’t want a conversation, not when he was so emotionally charged. Diana didn’t know what he was about to suggest, but she didn’t want to hear it.

“You should rest.”

Without giving him a chance to protest, she walked to her bedroll, aware that the length of Holt’s separated hers from Guy’s. From her bedroll, she watched Guy and Rube follow suit, with Holt being the last.

The stars were brilliant overhead. She stared at them for a long time, listening to the silence. Her gaze strayed to the still form of Holt. He wasn’t sleeping, although his eyes were closed. She still disliked him, but the night’s event had tempered even that. Diana shut her eyes.

A hand touched her shoulders. Diana awakened slowly to see Holt bending above her. At the look of alarm that sprang into her eyes, his mouth quirked briefly. The half-light of dawn revealed a discolored mark along his jaw.

“Fix breakfast,” he ordered. “We’re going to break camp in an hour.”

Groaning, Diana pushed the blanket aside and rose. Both Guy and Rube were already up and moving about, graining the horses and gathering the saddles. There was little time for idle conversation under Holt’s schedule. Breakfast was cooked and eaten with equal
haste, the dishes cleaned and packed away. They were on the horses and riding toward a coral sky a few minutes short of an hour. The air was still cool, vaporous clouds forming from their breath.

At mid-morning, Holt reined in his horse and let his gaze follow the direction the tracks were leading. “There’s a waterhole in that canyon, isn’t there, Rube?” he asked.

Rube paused and looked around. “Now that you mention it, I think there is. Yep, there is. That must be where them wild horses water. It’s the only place for miles around that I know of. What’re we gonna do? D’ya think they’re in there now?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible. We’ll make a wide circle and approach from the upwind side this time, so they won’t catch our scent.”

An hour later, Diana had her first glimpse of the white stallion. They had approached the waterhole from the north, pausing at the canyon rim. Milk-white, as symmetrically proportioned as any of the Major’s blooded Arabians, the stallion stood apart from the grazing mares. A proud sentinel, noble and free.

“He’s magnificent,” Diana murmured.

“He’s fantastic,” Guy said with equal awe.

“He’s a thief,” Holt reminded them. “Those are the Major’s mares down there.”

His remark heightened the tension that had been present all morning. Diana tried to ignore it. With difficulty, Diana tore her gaze from the stallion to glance at the mares. The familiar white-legged chestnut Nashira was there, along with the prize-winning Cassie. The third mare was a buckskin of good but indiscriminate breeding.

“Find someplace to tie the pack horse,” Holt issued the order to Rube. “We’ll make our way down that slope. The trees will hide us for a while. Once we’re in the canyon, we’ll scatter the mares and keep them separate from the stallion. We should be able to manage them easily if he’s out of the way.”

Dismounting, Rube passed the reins of his horse to Diana while he led the pack horse to a nearby tree with a patch of grass beneath it. Momentarily distracted by Rube’s movements, Diana wasn’t conscious of her horse’s chest expanding. Too late she remembered that the Arabian gelding she rode was the son of the chestnut mare below. Her horse had caught the familiar scent, and with a whickering neigh, he called to her. Holt’s reflex was lightning-quick, reaching out to clamp a hand on the horse’s nose.

The damage was done. The stallion’s head came up, turning in their direction to test the air. His head tossed, as if in irritation that he was unable to catch any scent. He looked at them outlined on the rim. Diana held her breath, knowing if he ran, they would lose the mares, yet at the same time hoping he would flee.

With a mighty snort that seemed to echo through the canyon, the stallion wheeled and raced toward the mares, bunching them together. Cassie, the mare newest to his domination, resisted his attempt to drive her from the grass. He nipped her savagely into obedience.

In a whirl of motion, he sent them racing for the canyon mouth. The stallion brought up the rear, preventing any of the three mares from turning back. Diana stared at the right front and rear legs, moving forward in perfect unison, in opposition to his left side, a fluid, effortless gait, totally natural.

“He is pacing,” she whispered, as if she had needed the proof of her own eyes to believe it.

Diana turned in her saddle as Holt released her horse’s nose. He lifted his hat and raked a hand through his hair in irritation before setting his hat back firmly on his head.

“Are we going to follow them?” she asked.

He seemed to consider the courses of action open to them before answering. “No. The stallion is already spooked. We can’t hope to get close to him until he
settles down. They will come back here. I agree with Rube. As far as I know, it is miles to the nearest water.”

“But they might not come back until tomorrow,” Diana pointed out.

“Whenever he brings them back, we’ll be waiting for him.”

“How can you be so sure?” Guy challenged, his rebellion now spreading to other areas.

“Horses are creatures of habit. They don’t wander from their range. They simply run in circles. The white stallion will be back.” Holt reined his horse away from the canyon rim. “We’ll make camp in that arroyo and wait. We’ll be out of sight, and as long as the wind stays from the south, he can’t catch our scent. Rube”—he turned to the man on the ground—“you stay here and watch, but don’t let yourself be seen. One of us will spell you in a couple of hours.”

“All right, but leave me a canteen. It’s gonna get hot up here in the open when that sun gets up another notch. My tongue’ll be hangin’ out if you don’t leave me somethin’ to drink. Say, you want me to go down there and fill our canteens?”

“No,” refused Holt. “I don’t want any human smell around that waterhole. We should have enough to last through tomorrow.”

“What if he hasn’t shown up by then?” Guy questioned.

“That’s a decision that can wait until tomorrow. Bring the pack horse,” Holt led out.

Giving her canteen to Rube, Diana followed, leading his horse. Guy was behind her with the pack horse. It was a winding, twisting trail down to the arroyo, farther away than it had appeared. The air seemed dead inside, hardly a breeze stirring to ease the baking directness of the sun.

The horses were picketed in a patch of shade. As soon as they had established an orderliness to the camp, the three of them sought the sliver of shade along the wall of the arroyo. Holt stretched out on the
sloping ground, using a saddle for a pillow and tipping his hat over his face. Sitting, Diana hugged her arms around her knees.

“That stallion was something else, wasn’t he?” Guy was next to her, on his side, an elbow propping him up. “He was a wild spirit.”

“Yes, he seemed—” Diana began.

Holt cut her off. “Don’t romanticize him. The stallion is a rogue. He’s turned his back on his own kind.” He didn’t move from his reclining position, his hat tipped forward, arms folded across his flat stomach. “When an animal does that, he’s trouble.”

“What are you suggesting?” Guy demanded, and electrical undercurrents crackled in the air. “That we shoot him? Destroy him?”

“No,” Holt answered with measured deliberation. “I’m suggesting we get our mares back and hope it ends there.”

“Will it?” Diana questioned.

“I don’t know.” He changed the subject. “It’s been a long time since breakfast. Why don’t you start lunch?”

“Why don’t you leave Diana alone? Let her rest.” Guy seemed compelled to argue with everything Holt said. “If you’re hungry, you fix it.”

With commendable control, Holt answered evenly: “It was her idea to come along as camp cook.”

“I am hungry, too,” Diana lied in an attempt to stop an all-out battle.

“Well, let him—” Guy was still prepared to argue.

“I prefer to eat my own cooking,” she insisted and rose.

“I’ll help,” he offered.

Firmly but politely, Diana refused him, insisting she could manage on her own. The weight of his devotion was growing heavier with each minute. It was a relief to escape it, even with so minor a distraction as fixing lunch.

They ate the hash she cooked in silence. When they’d finished, Diana gathered the plates together.
Holt rose to walk over and help himself to the coffee in the pot.