Cherished (44 page)

I believe enough for both of us. If only
I could explain that to him. All I need is a chance.

Maybe, if Line McCray walked into Cole’s trap
and gave up without a fight, she would get it.

* * *

Hoofbeats broke the burning stillness of the
afternoon, firing across the dry dust of the land like rifle
shots.

“Sounds like company,” Tommy chirped,
shooting an eager look at Cole as he bolted toward the window.

“Better lay down the welcome mat,” the bounty
hunter returned calmly.

Gray Feather took up his position at the far
left parlour window; Wade and Tommy each moved into place behind
curtains along the rest of the main floor.

Cole paused in the hall, trying to shake off
the ghosts drifting around him. He had been here to see Wells that
one day he’d left Juliana, but they’d talked outside. It was the
first time he’d come back inside this house since the day his
parents and sister had been killed.

Wells had made changes over the years, yet
the rooms—two parlours, kitchen, study, and the winding oak
staircase—were all eerily as he remembered, and he knew the sunny
bedrooms above would be familiar too. A few pieces of furniture
remained, tugging at his memory: the armchair where his grandfather
had sat when they played chess, the little Queen Anne desk in the
parlour where his mother had copied down favorite recipes for
Caitlin’s future use, the delicately painted seascape over the
mantel, peach and yellow and blue shades—sunset colors, his mother
had always said—all blending together in a tranquil scene. The rest
was different. Different furnishings, different knickknacks. Yet it
was home, unmistakable, immutable.

He was surprised to find that the ghosts felt
friendly, at peace. The memories conjured up the moment he had
stepped across the threshold this morning were not memories of
death, as he had feared, but memories of life—of the days when this
had been a grand and happy house, when his grandfather had run the
ranch with his unique brand of wisdom and vigorous energy, and the
wild horses had stormed through the canyons and arroyos like
thunder, and when delicious cooking smells and his mother’s and
sister’s laughter had filled the air with feminine delight.

McCray’s voice outside in the yard blasted
away the sweet, distant memories of his youth. Cole’s senses jerked
back to the present, and every muscle went tense, alert with that
keen-edged vigilance, that ice-cold deadly concentration that was
second nature to him.

“Wells, come on out here,” McCray
bellowed.

Pompous ass.

“We’ve got to have ourselves a little
talk.”

Not glancing sideways at Wade, Tommy, or Gray
Feather, Cole opened the front door and strode out.

Sunlight slanted across the open yard,
outlining in bright citrine relief the shock on Line McCray’s face
when he saw not the stooped, gray-haired man of slight build and
watery voice whom he expected, but the tall, black-garbed bounty
hunter who nailed him with a look of pure scorn.

One of McCray’s riders went for his gun, his
motion a blur in the sultry air. Cole drew faster, and shot the man
between the eyes. The rider catapulted backward off his horse with
a low, keening groan of agony, then died in the dust without
another sound. Seven others, among them Lucius Dane and Knife
Jackson, froze in the silence of the yard. Sweat broke out on a
number of leather-skinned faces as they stared at the compelling
figure that was Cole Rawdon.

Each one smelled in that instant the stench
of his own imminent death.

Rawdon was not a man to take lightly. Tall,
muscular, his reckless face as hard as a bullet, he skewered them
all with that vividly intense blue gaze.

“Wells is gone, McCray. He sold out to me
days ago. Said he’d rather sell to a dog than to you, matter of
fact.”

Fury and incredulity darkened McCray’s face,
turning his skin a mottled purple. He jerked a shaking hand at his
string tie, trying to think past his outrage. He had encountered
Rawdon before on occasion, but never like this, as enemies,
opponents, ready to spill blood. He wanted to ask the man why in
hell he had snatched that girl out of jail, why he was trying to
buy this property out from under his nose, why he was making
McCray’s life miserable, but Line was too busy thinking about that
dirty, cheating, back-stabbing Joseph Wells to bother.

He struggled for a moment with his emotions.
“We had a deal,” he rasped, his voice trembling with the hot fury
flicking inside him. “He agreed to sell to me.”

“Free country.” Cole shrugged. “Man can
change his mind.”

He remembered Wells’ relief when he’d ridden
up, approaching slowly, letting the memories and feelings wash
back. He had tried not to look at the corner of the yard where his
mother had died. Wells had come out to greet him, smiling, wiping
his brow against the heat of the day.

“Never wanted to sell to McCray, but he
scared off any other buyers,” he’d explained. Then he’d shaken his
head. “Burned down one fellow’s barn that was interested. Dirty
bastard.” He had shrugged. “I need to go east for some specialized
medical treatment, doctor says New York or Philadelphia is the best
place. Don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

Cole had told him quietly he couldn’t match
McCray’s price.

“Hell, I don’t care about that, boy. I’d
rather sell to you than to anyone—you’ve got a claim to this
property no one else on this earth can match. I never felt quite
right, the way I won it from your pa. I’ll take what you’ve offered
for it—it’ll do just fine. Won’t McCray be sore, when he finds out?
I shore as hell don’t want to be the one to tell him.”

And Wells had chuckled, slapped him on the
back, and packed up that very afternoon.

He’d be halfway to Philadelphia by now, Cole
figured. But McCray was here, mad as hell, and there were two ways
this whole thing could end. Either he could scare McCray into
backing off, vamoosing out of Fire Mesa and Plattsville, leaving
the Montgomerys and Josie safe or—

Or there’d be a lot of dead bodies rotting
under the sun on Fire Mesa today.

Lucius Dane kicked his horse forward, his
face working nervously. The sheen of sweat made his ashen skin seem
to ripple. “Rawdon, why the hell are you mixed up in this? I’ve
heard about you—you never stay in one place long enough to shine
your boots. Why the hell do you want this ranch?”

“I reckon, Dane, I should have shot you that
night when you got yourself locked up in your own jail cell.
Puzzles me why I didn’t.”

“How much?” McCray rasped. “I’ll buy the
place from you. Right here and now. Name your price.”

“Fire Mesa is not for sale.”

McCray’s mouth was an ugly slash in his face.
“Every damn thing on this earth is for sale! Name your price, I
said!”

Cole returned his frantic gaze with an
expression of contempt. “Listen up, McCray, because I’m only going
to make this offer once. I’m prepared to let you and these fleabag
vermin of yours ride out of here alive—if you clear out of Arizona
for good.”

“You’re prepared ...” McCray sputtered.
“These men could shoot you down right now, Rawdon, no matter how
fast you are. You can’t beat all of us!”

A gunshot blew his hat off his head as he
finished speaking the words. Wade Montgomery’s voice yelled, “He’s
not alone, McCray! We could cut you down like lumber right now,
unless you swear to get the hell out of the territory.”

“Montgomery!”

“You bet your ass!” Tommy shouted, firing
rapidly into the air to punctuate his words.

Rage then surged through Line McCray in a
torrential rush that swept aside caution and good judgment. A part
of his brain told him to back off, to retreat, keeping his enemies
hemmed in while he sent off a man to the river to summon Breen for
help. Reinforcements would help him wipe out these hombres once and
for all. But it stuck in McCray’s craw to rely on Breen—the
Montgomerys and this damned bounty hunter had pushed him far
enough. He sensed the tension in all of the men around him, and
knew that none of them—with the possible exception of Dane—were
cowards. They’d follow him, and he’d never led them wrong yet. He’d
reward them richly for victory—their only alternative was death.
They’d fight like hell when he told them to start shooting. All he
had to do was say the word.

One glance at the implacable set to Cole
Rawdon’s face triggered the fuse of McCray’s frustration. He’d wipe
out these bastards here and now—John Breen be damned.

“Kill ‘em, boys!” he roared, spurring his
mount forward with a vicious kick. Then he was shooting at Cole
Rawdon, along with every other man on his side, but Rawdon dived
forward into the dust and fired from the ground, the spray of his
bullets killing the two men on either side of McCray, and missing
McCray’s head by inches.

Pandemonium broke out as gunfire erupted from
inside the house and from the rocks behind McCray’s outfit as well,
panicking the riders. They started shooting wildly at windows and
doors, then lunging for cover all about the yard as the deafening
shots exploded in a cacophony of death. Horses shrieked in terror,
and the fight was a blur of noise and action, grunts, shouts,
shots, confusion.

From inside, Gray Feather killed a man just
as he was jumping through the dining room window.

Tommy saw Lucius Dane sprint behind the shed,
and went after him.

Cole, meanwhile, with a revolver in each
hand, was working his way backward into the house.

Three of McCray’s men suddenly made a run for
the hill over which they had climbed just before descending toward
the ranch house, and a mighty explosion followed them. Yancy waved
an arm in triumph as the stick of dynamite he’d thrown from high in
the surrounding rocks found its mark.

How many left? Cole crouched beneath the
parlour window beside Wade and cast a glance around the yard.
Bodies strewn everywhere. No sign of McCray. An unnatural silence
descended.

Tommy crept around the shed, his boots making
practically no sound in the dust. He listened, his own breath light
and quick. A soft shuffling. Dane. Springing around the corner, he
confronted Dane and fired. Lucius Dane fired back. The sheriff’s
shot zinged into the dirt, but Tommy’s was true. It struck Dane
straight through the heart, and he toppled face first into the dirt
without uttering a sound.

The next instant, McCray and Knife Jackson
both converged on Tommy at once, firing in rapid succession. He
dropped to the ground, grunting at the pain slicing through his
arm. A fountain of blood sprayed from his shoulder and down the
expensive sleeve of his shirt.
Damn
. Rolling sideways to
dodge the bullets, he sprang into a crouch and fired again, but
even as his finger squeezed the trigger he saw that he was too
late. Both McCray and Knife Jackson were very, very dead. Standing
ten feet away, side by side, Cole Rawdon and Wade stared back at
him.

“I had ‘em. Didn’t need any help, but as long
as you’re here, damn it, Wade, look what that bastard did to my
shirt.” His handsome young face, beneath the scowl, was pale.

When it was over, one of McCray’s men
escaped. The other seven lay dead beneath the glare of an amber
sun. Gray Feather, too, had been wounded, a bullet piercing his
chest, but Yancy, who’d seen a good many such wounds in the war,
announced that the Apache would survive.

“And so will this varmint,” he said as he
gave Tommy a playful punch in his good arm. “But we’d better load
them both on a wagon and get them to the doc in Plattsville.”

They loaded up the bodies, too, in another
wagon for burial in town, since Cole didn’t want McCray and his
outfit resting permanently on his land.

Wade offered to drive them into Plattsville,
alongside Yancy.

“With McCray dead, as well as that weasel
Dane, things should start getting back to normal in Plattsville,”
he reflected, wiping an arm across his perspiring face. “And I
don’t think anyone’s going to hold it against us that we killed
‘em.”

“Hell, no, Montgomery, you and your brother
will be heroes,” Cole assured him.

It was true. He’d seen it happen many times.
Despite the fact that the Montgomery gang was wanted by the law,
killing McCray had freed the townspeople from the unscrupulous
businessman’s tyranny. The folks in Plattsville, once out from
under his filthy thumb, would welcome the Montgomerys now with open
arms, probably give a dance in their honor.

“This means Josie can go home finally,” Wade
remarked, handing Tommy and Gray Feather their water canteens
before the wagons set off.

Tommy’s eyes lit thoughtfully. “In that case,
I might want to stick around these parts awhile.” He took a long
swig of water. His blue eyes fastened on Cole, standing quietly
beside the wagon as Yancy took up the reins.

“You’re a pretty cool customer, Rawdon. I’ve
only got one bone to pick with you.”

“What’s that, Montgomery?”

“You made my sister cry.” Both Cole and Wade
stared at him. It was the last thing they’d expected from the
happy-go-lucky, good-natured Tommy.

“You thought I didn’t notice,” Tommy told
Wade as he shifted more comfortably into the hay scattered through
the wagon to cushion their ride to town. “But I see more than you
give me credit for. I’ve seen her when she thought no one was
looking. And I know those tears are all Rawdon’s fault. Hell,
anyone can see Juliana’s out of her head in love with him.”

Cole’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what
you’re talking about.”

“For once, he does,” Wade retorted. “Well,
Rawdon, what exactly are your intentions toward our sister?”

Cole couldn’t believe this. The two of them,
confronting him, demanding to know about his feelings toward
Juliana. He’d never answered to any man for anything in his
life—now these two young outlaws, every bit as stubborn and
outrageous as their sister—were trying to pin him down, make him
sweat, get him to answer their questions.