Cherished (2 page)

What had Kincaid been thinking of, letting
this man catch up with him at all? There was something so
implacable and dangerous about the bounty hunter that it made her
forget all about the brilliance of the ambush Kincaid had devised.
Cole Rawdon wouldn’t be a man to go down easy. For the first time
since she’d met and fallen in love with Reese Kincaid, she began to
fear and doubt.

“Took you long enough to track me, Rawdon,”
Kincaid taunted as the other man came slowly forward, pausing at a
distance of ten feet away. Kincaid was intimidated by no man,
though he felt a surge of annoyance at Rawdon’s coolness. Kincaid
couldn’t wait for him to realize he was trapped. He wanted to wipe
that damned self-confidence right off the son of a bitch bounty
hunter’s face. “You must be losing your touch,” he added. “Right,
Garnet?”

The girl made no answer. She was uneasily
studying the canyon entrance, looking for some sign of the other
three men. It seemed to Garnet that they should have been here by
now.

But Kincaid was too preoccupied with baiting
the bounty hunter to notice the delay. “You started out real good
from Tucson, but you kept lagging behind, boy. I tried to let you
catch up a couple of times, just to get killing you over with, but
you were too pokey for me. Garnet was waiting for me, and I was
real eager to get here. You don’t blame me, do you, Rawdon? I bet
you’d ride like hell for a woman like Garnet, too, if one would be
dumb enough to have you.”

“I wonder if the lady would let you touch her
if she knew what you did to those women on the stagecoach before
you killed them,” Cole commented in his quiet voice, dagger-edged
with ice. “You’re real good with a knife on innocent women, but how
are you with a gun against a man?” He heard the redhead’s sharp
intake of breath that told him she didn’t know anything about the
passengers’ murders, but he didn’t take his eyes off Kincaid long
enough to spare her a glance. “Guess you didn’t tell your
ladyfriend about that.”

“Those folks got what was coming to ‘em. They
tried to get away. And you’re going to get what’s coming to you,
Rawdon. Real soon.”

Rawdon’s eyes narrowed. “The only thing I’m
going to get is the reward for your worthless hide, Kincaid.”

“Hey, Weeks—ya hear that?” The outlaw raised
his voice to a shout. “This here boy thinks he’s going to get a
reward! Haw! Haw!”

“Throw down your guns, Rawdon—we got you
covered!” Weeks called from inside the cabin.

“I’m giving
you
a chance to throw
down your gun, Kincaid. You, too, Weeks. It’s the only chance
either of you will get.”

From the cabin came the hearty cackle of Ed
Weeks’s laughter. It was echoed by the jeering chuckles of Kincaid.
Through it all, Cole stood perfectly still, at ease yet prepared.
His muscles were ready, his brain was prepared for what would
happen soon. Very soon. Deep within his heart was an iciness more
solid and cold than the snow that never melts at the very peaks of
the Rockies.

“You’re downright stupid, boy!” Kincaid was
shouting at him now, his face flushed and sweating with excitement,
split by a huge, evil grin. “You’re about to meet your Maker, and
you don’t even know it. You’ve been out-thunk, outsmarted, and
out-tricked, plain and simple. You’ll never see the sun set on this
day.”

“Sounds to me like you’re stalling, Kincaid.
You expecting someone?”

The bounty hunter’s unperturbed countenance
made Kincaid’s face darken to purple rage. Where the hell were
Slade and Burr and Murphy? They should’ve been here by now. He
wanted to see the bounty hunter
sweat
, gawddammit. Hell,
he wanted to see him bleed. He’d make him beg for death before he
was done with him. What were those idiots waiting for?

“Slade! Come on down! Burr! Murphy! Get your
butts down here. We got ‘em!” he called. There was no answer. Only
the cry of an eagle circling far, far above. “Murphy! Slade!”

Rawdon watched as Kincaid’s face underwent a
dramatic transformation. Red-hot fury and smug triumph faded away
and with them went all the color in the fleshy cheeks. Kincaid was
left staring at the empty walls of the canyon towering above them,
peering in disbelief at the canyon entrance where nothing moved, no
one came. He was ash-gray now, and shaking. But not only with fear.
A new, animalistic rage swept over him, a rage born of the urge to
survive, to kill, to conquer and smash to bits any enemy.

“Murphy! Slade! Burr!” he called once more,
desperately. Then he brought his gaze swiveling to Cole Rawdon. The
black depths of his eyes shone with virulent hatred. “You
gawddamned son of a bitch,” he rasped. “What the hell did you do to
them?”

“Nothing near as bad as what I’m going to do
to you, Kincaid.” The cool glint of the bounty hunter’s eyes filled
the outlaw with stark terror.

“Weeks! Now!”
Kincaid bellowed, and
went for his gun.

Cole Rawdon moved faster. Like lightning he
had a Colt in each hand, and like lightning he fired them each in a
different direction. One bullet ripped through Kincaid’s heart; the
other slammed through the cabin window and plunged into Ed Weeks’s
brain. The roar of the two guns thundered through the sunlit
canyon, echoing from rock to rock. Then came silence, but for the
high, keening screams of the woman.

Garnet, filthy and half naked, threw herself
down beside Kincaid’s body, shrieking at the top of her lungs. When
Rawdon approached, her grief turned to terror for herself, and she
gasped and stared up at the man looming over her, consumed by
hysterical, helpless fright. But he only walked past her into the
cabin. It took less than a second to see that Weeks was as dead as
a man could get. By the time Rawdon came out again into the light,
the woman was quieter, huddling over Kincaid’s bloodied body,
sobbing on her knees in the dust.

Rawdon glanced at her, then away. He felt no
pity for her. He had stopped up all his emotions a long time ago.
He would not harm her, but he would do or say nothing to comfort
her. Her grief, her loss, were none of his concern.

Kincaid was dead, and Ed Weeks with him. The
rest of the gang had been captured, and it shouldn’t prove too
difficult forcing them to reveal where the stagecoach loot was
hidden. All in all, Cole Rawdon thought as he looked at Kincaid’s
blood seeping into the dirt floor of the canyon, it had been a good
morning’s work.

But as always, he took no pleasure in the
killing, and his face was grim and worn when at last he had buried
the dead, and left that desolate place behind. The woman stayed of
her own accord, but Cole left her Kincaid’s horse before riding out
to gather up his prisoners.

The Kincaid gang had proved no more difficult
than most of the others to track and bring down. As Rawdon rode the
narrow track that led up and out of the canyon, he realized that,
even with the reward money from bringing in the Kincaid gang, he
was still damned short of having enough to buy back Fire Mesa—if he
really wanted it back. Did he? Or was it just that he didn’t want
the home robbed from him in his childhood to be sold to that greedy
bastard Line McCray? It would serve his father right if Fire Mesa
was lost forever because of his drunken gambling. But his father
was long dead, buried with his shame, as was Grandfather, he who
had once ruled Fire Mesa with such pride and iron strength. Perhaps
it was better to let the land go, to forget the glorious wild hills
and buttes of his childhood, to remain a wanderer, belonging to no
one and no place. And yet, when he thought of Line McCray building
a railroad through his grandfather’s land, his jaw clenched with
fury.

He’d need a pile of money to outbid McCray.
And he’d need it soon.

Fire Mesa ...

With sheer effort of will, Cole pushed all
thoughts of the beautiful, vast Arizona spread from his mind, and
forced himself to think instead about dealing with his prisoners.
He was here, today, in this godforsaken New Mexico Territory
beneath a hell-blazing sun, with three hombres to transport and the
Apache up in arms over treaty violations. Reality was here, now,
harsh and full of danger. Fire Mesa was the past, a memory, distant
and unreal, part of his life that had brutally ended twenty years
ago on a day of death and destruction.

Fire Mesa was a dream. Or was it, Cole
wondered, his eyes dark with memory, a nightmare?

Colorado,

April 1873

The dusty Kansas Pacific railroad car chugged
across the Colorado plains with the steadfast determination of an
ant crawling across a vast park lawn. Juliana Montgomery,
fetchingly attired in plumed hat, a turquoise taffeta traveling
dress, silk gloves, and dainty half-boots, sat with clasped hands
and rapt, glowing face, watching the scenery glide past her window.
Absorbed as she was by the newness and beauty of her surroundings,
Juliana had no way of knowing that every mile crossed brought her
nearer and nearer to the giant trap that had been carefully laid
out for her. She had no inkling of the fate her aunt and uncle had
decreed for her, not a single premonition or qualm of unease. Her
heart was light and happy, filled with hope, as she took in the
endless, rolling plains and crystal skies of Colorado, drinking in
the wild splendor of land, sun, and sky unbroken by human
habitation.

Magnificent
, she thought on a little
breath of wonder as she gazed out at the spring-bright plains. She
had never seen such a boundless expanse of land: the prairie seemed
to roll on and on forever, the buffalo and grama grass adorned here
and there with beautiful wildflowers and shrubs. Beneath a
lemon-drop sun, lovely sand lilies and coral-colored wild geraniums
burst forth in riotous profusion. Scotch thistle appeared in
scattered clumps, festooned with their gay purple tassels, and she
was fascinated by the variety of cacti that rolled past: the
conductor had pointed out to her the creosote bush and the yucca
with its blaze of creamy flowers blossoming forth from bladelike
leaves, and the deep red of an occasional prairie cactus shimmered
against the pale green of the plains grasses. There were graceful
cottonwoods and in the river bottoms, alongside the shallow green
waters of the South Platte, she had spotted wild iris and cattails
waving in the wind.
Lovely
. Compared to the tame,
carefully cultivated gardens she had known these past nine years in
St. Louis, the colorful blaze of wildflowers and cacti set against
that rough prairie were a delight for the eye and the soul.

“Isn’t it breathtaking?” she murmured, her
heart lifting at the wild beauty of the scene. Her cousin Victoria,
dozing beside her, merely grimaced.

“You keep saying that,” she complained.

Juliana’s gaze never left the window. “Look,
the mountains in the distance—they must be the Rockies. Oh, surely,
Denver cannot be far.”

In the seat across the aisle from them,
Katharine Tobias, Juliana’s aunt, worked her painted silk fan
frantically against the stifling heat. She was a handsome, imposing
woman with upswept dark hair, piercing mahogany-colored eyes, and
wide shoulders. She was tall, with regal bearing and a proud
carriage—and absolutely no sense of humor. “Well, at least the
scenery here is far more interesting than those dreadful boring
plains in Kansas. I do admit fearing I would never again see
anything but green grass and dull yellow sunflowers.”

Uncle Edward set aside his sheaf of papers
and removed his spectacles. He rubbed the red spot on the bridge of
his nose and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We’ll be in Denver
by suppertime,” he prophesied with relief. A man behind him blew
his nose loudly, into a big square handkerchief. Edward ignored the
interruption. “You girls had best catch a few winks now if you want
to be rested up for tonight. I don’t want you feeling peaked when
we attend Mr. Breen’s party.”

“Yes, Papa.” Obediently, Victoria leaned her
head back and closed her eyes once more, all too eager to blot out
the blinding sun, the jerking motion of the coach, and the heat and
dust of the day. But Juliana was still staring out the window,
transfixed, a dreamy smile playing about the edges of her pretty
mouth.

Well
, Edward reflected as he set his
spectacles back in place,
let her soak up the western scene if
she has a mind to. If everything goes as planned, this untamed,
uncivilized land she’s so enamored of will shortly be her new
home.

With his spectacles on he could see her more
clearly, and he was not displeased with her appearance. Far from
looking the least bit peaked, his golden-haired niece was the
picture of glowing feminine health. Even in her wilted travelling
dress of stiff taffeta buttoned up to her throat, and with damp
tendrils of hair clinging to her temples, Juliana looked as lovely
as any of those wildflowers that charmed her so. The train was
unbearably hot and dusty, and everywhere one looked women were
fanning themselves, men perspiring and licking dry lips, and the
odor of sweat positively clung to the air. Yet Juliana still
glowed, her skin as fresh and lovely as a summer peach, her pale
hair shimmering in the sunlight. Edward’s smile deepened as he
studied her. The girl could dazzle, no doubt about that. With her
lush cloud of sun-drenched hair, her winged brows and slender,
enchantingly curvaceous figure she looked like a fairy-tale
princess. Even the pale dusting of freckles across her small,
straight nose, and the full mouth just a shade too wide for fashion
only added to her loveliness, for they saved her from cold, classic
perfection, and imbued Juliana’s elegant, chiseled features with a
warmth and unconscious sensuality that added immensely to her
appeal. Her laugh was low, husky, her smile as bright and
captivating as a summer’s day. A beauty, everyone said, and they
were right, but unfortunately his niece was a headstrong,
troublesome beauty, flawed by her own willful spirit as well as her
family’s questionable background. Though she was the toast of St.
Louis society, ardently courted by scores of smitten beaux, it was
common knowledge that no young man of breeding and wealth would
marry her.