Tracker’s Sin (9 page)

She bit her lip. She couldn’t afford to lose him now. He was their only hope, and he real y couldn’t know how bad town had gotten lately.

Vincente was always tel ing how the gringos delighted in flexing their power in senseless violence.

Keep him safe, Lord. I need him.

For more than just her son’s protection. Something deep within her recognized Tracker.

Ari checked the watch pinned to her blouse. A gift from her husband, Vincente said. It was a plain watch with no engraving. A simple gift. It

could have belonged to anybody. Her husband must not have been a very romantic man. She wondered if she’d been happy with him. Was that what her

memory was hiding? she wondered. An unhappy marriage? Did they worry that she’d remember interference on their part, and take her son away from

them? She would never do that. Family was everything, but so was the memory of that family.

She couldn’t take this anymore. She couldn’t just sit around watching the days bleed, one after the other, into a senseless future because

she had no past.

Ari hitched Miguel up on her hip. If she wanted to change what had always been, she needed someone strong enough to take her where

she needed to go. That would be Tracker. The man she hoped would be her hero. The man getting drunk right now.

She sighed. There was nothing she could do about his drinking. Town was dangerous.

She’d just turned to go home when another gunshot sounded, fol owed by three more. Her heart skipped a beat. Shielding her eyes from

the sun, she saw something even more terrifying: a rider was between her and the house.

She stopped dead. So did the rider. Backlit by the sun as he was, she could only make out his silhouette. There was nothing soothing

about it. The rifle braced on his thigh, his long hair blowing about his face… Lights flashed behind her eyes. She pul ed Miguel tight to her chest, holding

his face to her in case he screamed. Any sound would be dangerous. They were like wolves in their ability to find her when she ran. Any sound was

betrayal. She kissed Miguel’s head. She had to keep him safe. She couldn’t let them get her son. Had the rider seen her?
Please don’t let him have seen

see me.

There was no safe place to hide here. No one to help her. But Tracker was in town…

The rider turned, facing her. Oh, my God, she had to run! A scream wel ed, but she smothered it. She couldn’t fal apart. Couldn’t let him

get her. She had to protect Miguel. She had to escape.

Spinning on her heel, she ran, her heart thundering in her ears. Or was it the sound of his horse? Was he going to run her down? She ran

faster, her skirts tangling around her legs, slowing her.

Please God, don’t let him catch me. Not this time. Not this time.

She ran until she couldn’t run anymore, chanting Tracker’s name like a talisman with every step, pushing herself when her body

demanded she quit, not stopping until a hand on her arm spun her around.

“Que pasa, hija?”

The lights stopped flashing. Ari blinked and looked around at the col ection of buildings and people. She’d run al the way to town. A

middle-aged woman stood beside her, holding her elbow. She had kind eyes. Ari had been tricked by kind eyes before.

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

The woman clucked her tongue and told her in Spanish to go home. That it wasn’t safe for her to be here in town. One glance around

confirmed it. Even as she assessed her position, men lounging about buildings straightened and took notice. Their gazes crawled over her skin, lingered

in her hair, dismissed the baby in her arms.

Fear shivered down her spine. A man with a dirty sombrero pushed back from his face stepped off the wooden walk. Another fol owed

suit.

“Tracker.” She had to find Tracker.

I’m going to get a drink.

Lifting her chin, fil ing every step with a confidence she didn’t feel, Ari locked her gaze on the cantina, pretending she didn’t see the men

along the way who fel into step beside her. Licking her lips, she hugged Miguel closer. Josefina was right. She didn’t know what she was doing, and now

she’d endangered her baby.

“Venga aquí, muchacha,”
a man on the left cal ed. Another picked up the cal , while a third added encouragement. She wasn’t going

anywhere near him. She wasn’t going near any of them. Miguel fussed. She kissed his head and kept walking, whispering Tracker’s name like a prayer.

She took the steps to the cantina in a near run, her heels making staccato taps on the wood. No one stopped her from going in. No one

stopped her once she was inside. The minute it took for her eyes to adjust to the dim light was the longest in her life. The stench of stale sweat, whiskey

and tobacco burned her nose and lungs. She coughed. Miguel fussed again. Wooden chairs creaked as men turned to stare at her.

In almost a panic, she searched for Tracker. He was in the back right corner, a bottle of whiskey set in front of him on a rickety-looking

table. In his hand, he held a ful glass. His hat was pul ed down over his eyes. Not by a twitch of muscle did he indicate he saw her. She needed him to see

her.

Hurrying across the floor, doing her best to steer clear of everyone as she maneuvered between the tables, she was vividly conscious of

how loud her heels sounded against the plank floor. Her heart pounded in her ears and her breath caught in her lungs.

Please don’t let him be drunk.

If Tracker was drunk it was going to be very, very bad for her. She looked over her shoulder at the line of men forming a wal between her

and the door. If he wasn’t drunk it was going to be very bad for both of them. She reached his table. He didn’t move.

“Tracker?”

Was it her imagination or did he draw a deep breath? He raised his head, and through the shadows cast by the oil lamps on the wal she

could see his eyes. There was no comfort there. His gaze flicked left and then right, calmly taking in, in a split second, everything that terrified her.

“Yeah?”

She had to suck in two more breaths before she found her voice.

“I thought about it, and I’ve decided what matters.”

“So?”

Betting everything on a hunch, she leaned over and slid the shot glass out of his reach. Drawing one more breath, she met his gaze and

held out her hand. A plea. An invitation. “I’ve come to take you home.”

5

T
o Ari’s surprise, Tracker’s fingers closed around hers, then threaded between them until they were palm to palm. He got to his feet with that easy grace

that was so much a part of him, and brought her hand to his mouth. His lips were warm and firm, but she didn’t have time to appreciate the sensation

before he tugged her behind him. A glance around revealed why. The men who’d been fol owing her through town were now lined up in the center of the

cantina, watching them.

“I’m sorry.” It seemed she was always saying that to him. She hugged Miguel.

“Don’t worry about it, sweets.” His smile wasn’t much comfort. It merely added to the overal sense of danger.

A trio broke away from the pack. Tracker turned and his quiet “Stay back,” blended seamlessly with the tension fil ing the room. Ari looked

around for a weapon.

“I don’t have any quarrel with you, Indian. We just want the woman.”

Ari grabbed the whiskey bottle off the table.

“I’m not particularly interested in what you want,” Tracker drawled.

“She’s not worth dying for.”

“She’s mine, and what’s mine stays mine.”

“And who are you?”

“Tracker Ochoa.”

A ripple of unease went through the crowd. A few of the men shook their heads and stepped back. Even here at the edge of Mexico,

Tracker’s reputation carried weight. But along with the fear, Ari could see excitement on the faces of others. Again the force of a reputation, but this time it

was working against them. She held little Miguel close and kissed the top of his head. What had she done?

“Tracker?”

“Nothing to be worried about, sweets. The boys and I are just going to have a chat.”

Chat? It was going to be a massacre.

“I’m sorry.”

Tracker palmed his pistol but didn’t draw it. Ari wanted to scream at him to pul it from the holster. She tightened her grip on the bottle.

“Nothing sorry about a woman coming to get her man, is there, boys?” Tracker was saying.

The “boys” gave her looks that varied between resentment and lust.

“She your woman,
señor?
”

There was the barest of hesitations before Tracker nodded. “And the baby’s my son.”

“The Moraleses claimed him as their grandson.”

“They were doing me a favor.” He cocked the hammer back. “You al understand how some men might be tempted by my absence.”

“
Sí.
She’s a very pretty
puta.
”

In a blink, Tracker’s pistol was in his hand. A shot rang out. The speaker grabbed his ear and yelped.

Tracker smiled that scary smile. “The next one to speak disrespectful y about my wife wil be eating a bul et.”

The man’s friends grabbed his arms and pul ed him aside. Ari counted. There were seven enemies stil standing. She had one bottle.

How many bul ets were in Tracker’s gun? With the muzzle of his pistol, Tracker pushed his hat back. “Anyone else want to keep me from my lunch?”

The crowd parted, leaving a clear path to the door.

“Sweets?”

“Yes?” Ari took a step forward, placing her hand in the middle of Tracker’s back, concentrating on the feel of hard muscles beneath her

fingertips. She’d never been so scared.

“We’re leaving. Is Miguel ready?”

He was in her arms. How much readier could he be? “Yes.”

“Let’s go then.”

Going meant entering that crowd. Giving the men an opportunity to swarm them. Before Tracker took his first step, she leaned her

forehead against his back. She probably wasn’t supposed to show weakness, but she was terrified, and she needed that momentary contact for strength.

“While you’re back there, sweets, do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Take that pistol out of my waistband and carry it for me, would you? I’m a bit tired.”

“My hands are ful .”

He turned, saw the bottle and smiled. “We won’t need the whiskey.”

Because she would have the gun. With a shaking hand, she set the bottle on the table.

Hostility fil ed the expression of every man that remained. They wouldn’t hesitate to kil Tracker, her baby and eventual y her. Ari didn’t

have to remember her past to know that. The future was in every hard, greedy gaze that fastened on their corner of the room.

She slipped her hand between Tracker’s back and the warm metal of the gun and pul ed the weapon free. “No. We don’t.”

She expected a cutting remark. She didn’t expect the approval in Tracker’s voice as he said, “You just take care of that gun for me, and

it’l al be fine.”

She didn’t see how anything could be fine, even if they survived this. She was always doing something crazy, because it drove her crazy

that she couldn’t remember anything before eleven months ago, and her mind was always in such turmoil. She didn’t bother trying to explain al that to

Tracker. Al she said was, “Good.”

They started moving forward, one step at a time into that lecherous, hostile crowd. As they came abreast of the men, she forgot to

breathe, expecting al of them to reach out and grab her. Her hand tightened on the pistol and she pointed it at the one staring at her the hardest. He had

close-set eyes. She didn’t trust men with close-set eyes. He threw his hands up and backed off. It wasn’t enough.

“You have a filthy mouth.” She lowered the gun and pointed at his groin.

He backed up farther. “I meant no offense.”

“I was offended.”

“Keep up, sweets,” Tracker calmly interjected.

She couldn’t make her feet move. She was stuck in the moment of power. A hand on her arm dragged her forward. “You want them dead?

”

Yes.
Images of men—dark-skinned, light-skinned—flashed behind her eyes. Al of them with the same lust-fil ed expression on their

faces. Al of them waiting to hurt her. She stumbled against Tracker’s side. Yes, she wanted them dead. Al of them. Every leering one.

“Yes.”

Without missing a beat, Tracker took aim. Men dived aside, reached for their guns. Dear heavens. He was serious.

“No!”

“Make up your mind. My supper’s getting cold.”

It was up to her. It would be so easy to say “dead.” Faces flashed in front of her mind, laughing, sneering, al male, al dark, al of them

familiar, yet she didn’t know a one. As each face flashed in front of her mind’s eye, panic rose. And the flickering lights began. She quickly shut the door

on the memory, but the panic lingered. As if he could read everything that happened behind that door, Tracker cocked an eyebrow at her. If not for the scar

on his face, he would’ve been a very handsome man.

“Home?”

She nodded. “Yes, I came to take you home.”

No, that wasn’t what he’d asked her. It didn’t seem to matter. His hand squeezed her arm and tugged.

“Let’s go then.”

No one said a word as they walked through the cantina. She had no doubt, if it were any other man leading her out of there, that bunch

would have fal en on them like a pack of ravening wolves, not being satisfied until they’d torn them apart and there was nothing left. But Tracker walked

through the crowd of men as if he was looking forward to have one step in his path and chal enge him. Since cowering wasn’t going to get her anywhere,

Ari borrowed a bit of Tracker’s bravado, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, keeping the gun up, despite the ache in her wrist. It was surprisingly