Wyoming Woman (17 page)

She left the elderly cook grinning as he stoked the fire in the stove and set a kettle of soup on an open burner. Josh had been a favorite of his from the time the boys were big enough to toddle into the kitchen and tug at his apron.

Crossing the parlor, Rachel felt a wave of dizziness. She'd intended to go back upstairs to her family, but the warm, steamy air in Josh's room had been rank with the odors of disinfectant, herbal potions, blood and sweat. A breath of air would do her good, she told herself as she walked back toward the kitchen and slipped out the screen door, onto the back porch.

The cool night breeze rushed over her as she sank down on the stoop. Closing her eyes, Rachel gulped it into her lungs, filling her senses with the sweetness of prairie grass and damp earth. Everything would be all right, she told herself. Her dear, lighthearted Josh was not going to die at the age of eighteen with his adult life unlived. Jacob would not be torn apart by the loss of his twin—a loss that could have thrown him into a spiral of despair and self-destruction. Her parents would not spend their day in quiet mourning, weighed down by the knowledge that they would never know their son as the man he would have been, never see his work, never laugh with his wife or cradle his children in their arms. There would be no sad grave on the hillside where each member of the family would go alone to weep.

But some things had not changed, Rachel reminded herself. A crime had been committed against her family, and there would be no rest for any of them until justice had been served.

Tomorrow, as soon as he felt that Josh was well enough to be left, Morgan would be on the trail of the shooter who had nearly killed his son. And the first place that trail would lead him would be to Luke Vincente's ranch.

And then what?

Rachel clutched her arms around her rib cage, shivering with sudden dread. The wisdom in her father's words—that a woman in love is the worst judge of a man's character—had not been lost on her. How well had she come to know Luke in the short time they'd spent together? Could love have blinded her to who and what he really was?

She stared up at the waning moon, her mind playing out what the next day might bring. If Luke was guilty of shooting Josh, he would be expecting Morgan to come with enough men to take him. He would be armed and ready, and if they cornered him he would not go down without a fight. Any way that fight went, Rachel knew that people she loved could die.

If Luke was innocent, he would be unprepared. Unaware of what had happened, he could expose himself to danger. Tempers would flare as his protests went unheard or disbelieved. In the end, he could be shot dead on the spot or dragged off to spend the rest of his life behind bars.

Only one person was in a position to keep more blood from being spilled—Rachel herself. She would have to go to Luke now, and talk with him before it was too late. If he was innocent she would warn him, and she would remain to stand with him, shielding him from her family's anger until the truth could be heard.

If he was guilty… A chill passed through Rachel's body as she thought of the loaded revolver her father kept on a hook in the back of his wardrobe. She would take the gun with her; and if she discovered that Luke Vincente had shot her beloved brother, by all that was holy, she would bring him to justice herself!

Swiftly and silently she stole up to her room, where she scribbled a note and left it on her pillow. Then, slipping back downstairs, she took the gun from her parents' bedroom, crept out the back door and sprinted for the barn.

 

Luke stood alone on the front porch, peering through the darkness. Every small sound—the cry of a bird, the crackle of dry grass—galvanized his raw nerves. His eyes burned with exhaustion. His finger trembled on the trigger of the rifle he balanced against the crook of his arm.

Knowing there was bound to be trouble, he had sent them all off into the hills—the sheep, the dogs and the two young herders that Miguel's death had placed in his care. Sebastian had entreated Luke to come away with them. Ignacio had pleaded with
equal fervor to be allowed to stay and fight at his side. But Luke had ordered them both away for their own safety. Now he stood alone, not knowing where the danger would come from, but certain that it would come.

Last night he had tipped the fragile balance that held all his enemies in check. Now he could do nothing but wait and see who would be first to ride against him.

Would it be Lem Carmody, using his son's humiliation as an excuse to get rid of Luke once and for all?

Would it be Morgan Tolliver, driven to action by the fact that Luke had dared lay hands on his daughter?

Would it be Miguel's murderers?

It was this last hope that had kept him here, against a fool's odds. He had flung down the gauntlet at the party, knowing it might be his only chance to draw the killers out of hiding. If they rose to the bait and came for him, he planned to stay out of sight, to watch and listen for any sign that would give away their identities. Once he knew who they were, he could take his evidence to the law. If the law refused to act, then it would fall to him to avenge his friend's death any way he could.

It was a dangerous game he was playing—a foolhardy game, some would say. But he could think of no other way to accomplish his promise without bringing harm to Miguel's tender young sons. As for his own safety…a wry smile twitched at the corner
of Luke's mouth. It would not be the first time he had gambled all he had, and lost.

As the moon drifted behind a wispy veil of clouds, his thoughts drifted to Rachel and what their life together might have been like if things had been different. He imagined waking up to the warmth of her body in his bed, the amber glow of dawn on her face as he roused her with kisses. He imagined loving her, filling her with his seed, holding their children in his arms and watching them grow up. It was a beautiful dream, he told himself, but it was all of Rachel he would ever have. The path where life had led him was too rough and dangerous for her to follow.

The death scream of a rabbit, taken by some night predator, yanked his thoughts back to the present. Too edgy to stay on the porch, he slipped down the steps and checked the buildings that surrounded the open yard. His horse stood saddled and bridled beneath the eave of the nearest shed. Chickens dozed in their coop. The two milk cows stood together in the fenced pasture—safer there for the night than in the barn. Everything was quiet. Maybe too quiet.

His pulse exploded as his ears caught the sound of hoofbeats, still distant but moving rapidly closer. Straining his ears, he moved into the inky pool of shadow at the side of the house. There was only one rider, his senses told him. One rider, galloping fast, making no effort to hide or sneak. Still, a man couldn't be too cautious. Luke sank deeper into the shadows and waited, the rifle cocked, his finger on the trigger.

His throat jerked as the rider wheeled into the yard, and he recognized Rachel. Dressed in a mud-stained shirt and denims, with her hair blowing wild in the moonlight, she had never looked more beautiful to him. But she could not have chosen a more dangerous time to come.

Still wary, he lingered in the shadows, watching as she flung herself out of the saddle and raced toward the house.

“Luke!” She mounted the porch steps, calling his name in a breathy whisper. “Where are you? I need to talk to you!”

Luke had left the house dark and the front door locked, but she seemed to sense he was nearby. She rattled the doorknob and pressed her face against the window, her efforts ending in a little sob of despair.

“Luke, please…”

“You shouldn't have come here, Rachel.” He stepped around the corner of the house, startling her, so that she gasped as she turned to face him.

“I had to come,” she said, her voice turning steely. “There's something I have to know.” She stepped into the moonlight. Only then did Luke see the glint of a revolver in her hand. Shocked into silence, he stared at her.

“My brother was shot this morning, while he was mending the fence along your property,” she said, and Luke suddenly realized that it was blood, not dirt, that streaked her clothes. “He's alive, but barely. Somebody said they saw you do it.”

So it had come to this. Luke groaned, aching for what she'd been through. “Somebody lied,” he said.

“How do I know that?” she demanded.

“Because you know me. You know I wouldn't hurt you or anyone you loved.” He took a step toward her. His gaze holding hers. “Put the gun away and get out of here, Rachel. After what happened last night, I'm expecting some dangerous company. This is no place for you to be.”

“Right now the only dangerous company you need to worry about is Rachel Tolliver.” Her knuckles gleamed white where they gripped the gun. “My father won't be going anywhere until he knows Josh is out of danger. And Lem Carmody slunk off with his tail between his legs when my father refused to ride with him. It's just you and me, Luke, and I want the truth.”

“The truth?” He took another step toward her. She inched backward, the pistol still leveled at his chest. “Lord, Rachel, I wouldn't hurt your brother. I didn't even know he'd been shot until you told me.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. “You killed a man once—an evil man, in self-defense to be sure, but all the same—”

“I killed an evil man in self-defense?” Luke felt the burst of bitter, angry laughter—laughter that startled him as much as it did her. “Rachel, my sweet, you never heard the rest of the story, did you? Never mind, you're going to hear it now. And once you do,
maybe you'll understand why I have nothing to hide from you.”

The gun barrel wavered, then steadied. “I believe we left off where Cynthia's father attacked you with his cane,” she said. “You were struggling with him, on the landing, and he'd pushed you back against the balustrade.”

“That's right,” he said, wondering how many times she'd gone over the story in her mind. Doubtless, she'd pieced together what she knew to create a satisfactory ending. Well, by damn, the real ending was a lot less satisfactory, and she was going to hear it now.

“Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cynthia come out of her room,” he said. “She was dressed in her robe, and I expected her to fling herself between us and try to stop the fight, but she only stood and watched, staring at us with those beautiful, cold blue eyes of hers.” Luke shuddered as the next memory came. “Her father had gone red in the face. His eyes were bulging. All at once he made a choking sound and clutched at his chest. One hand fumbled in the pocket of his dressing gown and came up empty.”

“He was having a heart attack!” Rachel exclaimed, her eyes huge in her pale face.

“His weight was still holding me. I shouted at Cynthia to get help, or find his medicine if he had any, but she just stood there, staring at us as he reeled away and toppled over the rail to the marble floor, eighteen feet below.”

“He died of a heart attack!” The gun had dropped to Rachel's side. “Luke, you were innocent!”

Luke shook his head. “He died from the fall, Rachel. His neck was broken. While he was still lying there, Cynthia sent for the police and calmly told them that there'd been a fight, and in the course of the struggle, I'd pushed her father over the balustrade. I went to prison for manslaughter and counted myself lucky the charge hadn't been murder. Cynthia went to Paris, with her father's money and the Tennessee gambler she'd loved all along. As far as I know, she's living there still.”

“But she set you up! She used you, Luke!” Rachel made a move to go to him, but the bitterness in his eyes held her in check. “How can you go on thinking of her? How can you let such an evil woman haunt you?”

“It's not Cynthia that haunts me.”

She stared at him. “What, then?”

“At the trial, the prosecution brought out the good deeds the dead man had done—the charities his money had supported, his honesty, his kindness…”

“But all those years he'd been forcing himself on his daughter! He deserved to—” Rachel's jaw dropped as the truth struck home. “Oh, Luke!”

“When my lawyer brought up this matter, the prosecution countered with medical evidence of a riding accident the victim had suffered when his daughter was two years old. The accident had left him impotent, with no hope of recovery.”

Luke gazed into Rachel's stricken face, knowing
she held his naked soul in her hands. He was asking her for his life—not because he feared she would shoot him but because he knew that if she walked away, his life would be over.

“There was no excuse for what happened except pure, blind stupidity,” he said. “My temper and bad judgment caused the death of a good man. That's what haunts my nightmares and wakes me up in a cold sweat. That's what I can't forget or forgive. And if you think I would ever again take an innocent life, Rachel, you can point that gun at my heart and pull the trigger.”

She gazed up at him, her lips soft and open. He could feel the struggle in her, the pull of old loyalties, the terrible weight of consequences.

“Once I asked you to choose,” he said. “I'm asking you again, for the last time. If you decide to stay, I'm not in a position to promise you anything except that I'll love you forever, and that I'll work my fingers bloody to provide for you and our family. The timing couldn't be worse, I know. But maybe together you and I can put an end to this crazy war that's become living hell for us all.

“If you go, it will be to a better life, safe and familiar, with all the good things you deserve.” He raked his hair back from his forehead, his knees threatening to give way beneath him, he wanted her so badly.

“I know it's not much of a choice,” he said. “But I'm asking you to make it, Rachel. Here and now. Choose.”