Daisies In The Wind (34 page)

“Not intentionally, of course, but I was
pretty scared when that fellow showed up in Boston.”

“Hmmm. Like you were scared of us, right?”
Homer asked slowly, his strange pale eyes taking shrewd stock of
her, despite the quantity of whiskey he’d imbibed. “You don’t seem
to scare that easy, kid.”

“I got an idea.” Russ peered over his
shoulder to make certain no one else in the saloon could hear what
he was about to say. “Let’s say that maybe that there solicitor did
miss finding one of Bear’s secret bank accounts. And maybe that’s
why you never got ‘em, Reb. Maybe there was one stash, say, that
Bear forgot to tell him about, or that he never had a chance to
tell him about.”

They’d swallowed it, Rebeccah thought
triumphantly, keeping her gaze downcast so they could not read the
satisfaction in her eyes. They’d bought the entire fabricated
story. And what was even better, they were starting out on a wild
goose chase of her design, one that should easily draw them away
from this place by tomorrow, when Wolf might be expected to catch
up with them. If she could arrange it so that he caught them out in
the open, taking them by surprise with no one else around to
interfere, the odds of both she and Wolf coming out of this alive
zoomed upward.

Only too eager to entice them along the path
she’d chosen, Rebeccah nodded. “That could be it,” she said slowly,
bobbing her head up and down, letting eagerness creep into her
voice. “That would explain everything.”

“Let me think,” Russ mumbled, scraping back
his chair. His eyes were bleary from the whiskey he’d drunk as he
stretched his bow-kneed legs before him and squinted with
concentration. “Now, Bear had a bunch of aliases, and I knew ‘em
all. Let’s see, there was Jonah White—that was the one he used in
Texas. He went by the same handle down in Arizona and New Mexico.
But in Abilene, at the First Main Bank, he liked to go by Edward
Tatley. Remember, Homer?”

“Shore do. Took it from a young feller who
tried to join the gang years back and got shot by a marshal first
time he pulled a job with us. Edward Tatley, that was his name.
Bear thought it had a nice ring to it.”

Rebeccah shuddered inwardly and changed the
subject. “The solicitor showed me the list. Both of those names
were on it.”

She didn’t want to make it too easy for them.
Her father’s third alias, Bill Watson, was the one she would claim
not to know. She knew he had used that name frequently when
traveling through the Montana Territory, particularly when doing
business with the Independence Bank of Butte, where he’d kept his
stock certificates. But if she pretended that papers from the Butte
account weren’t included among those in the solicitor’s possession,
Russ and Homer would assume that the deed and map might be there.
If she could lead them toward Butte first thing in the morning,
away from this outlaw den, Wolf would have a better chance of
surprising them in the open.

And before that even happened, she thought
with a flutter of hope, she might find a chance to escape.

So when they mentioned Bill Watson, she
feigned ignorance.

“That name wasn’t on the list I saw! That
could be it!”

Russ and Homer sat up straighter in their
chairs. Russ gave a squeal of triumph. “Last few years Bear spent a
lot of time down in Butte. He’d disguise himself and head into
town—did a pretty good job of it, too, remember, Homer? Did some
business down there with the Independence Bank. Always went by the
handle of Bill Watson.”

“Yep, we never could tell if it was Crystal
McCoy who kept him coming back to Butte or that there bank business
he was always tending to—I used to think it was Crystal, but now
... hell, we won’t know until we get our hands on whatever he’d got
hidden in that there vault.”

“Crystal?” Now Rebeccah was genuinely
surprised. She’d never heard the name Crystal McCoy. “Was she a
dance-hall girl or something?”

Russ and Homer chortled. “Crystal McCoy is a
lady,” Russ said, tipping back another cup. “Owns the Double Barrel
Saloon. And the sawmill. Rich as hell. First we thought Bear might
have left the mine to her, but that wouldn’t have made no sense.
Crystal didn’t need a mine—she’s about the richest gal in the
Territory. And she didn’t want nothing from him nohow. So we
figgered pretty quick that Bear would only have left it to you—his
pretty little schoolgal, the apple of his eye.”

Homer belched and then squinted at Rebeccah
over the rim of his cup. “Bear and her were thinking about gettin’
married. ...”

“Married!”

Homer guffawed at the stunned look on her
face. “You mean Bear never once said nothin’ about her to you?
Well, he sure made a point of getting himself into Butte right
regular. Even thought about giving up some of our stage jobs just
so he could stay close by Crystal McCoy.”

“He was jest about ready to go straight for
her,” Russ snorted, “but before he could make up his mind to it,
that posse plugged him.”

“That settles it,” Homer grinned, leaning
back in his chair. “That deed and the map leading to the mine have
gotta be in the bank vault in Butte, waiting for Mr. Bill Watson.
First thing in the morning we pay that Independence Bank a little
visit.”

“And we’ll split the proceeds of the mine
three ways?” Rebeccah asked sternly. They would expect that of
Bear’s daughter. “Fair and square?” she demanded.

“You bet, Reb. We wouldn’t cheat Bear’s
daughter out of nothin’—‘specially since she’s growed up to be such
a looker.”

Russ winked at the other outlaw and then
playfully pinched Rebeccah’s cheek. “Ain’t that right, Homer?”

Bell snickered. “Sure is. Everything
equal—fair and square.”

They’re probably planning to shoot me the
moment they get their greasy paws on those documents
, Rebeccah
concluded. But she was counting on things never getting near that
point.

“Come on, Reb, ain’t you beat after that long
ride? You come get some shut-eye in the back room with us. Don’t
worry, we got bedrolls. You kin have that nice bed all to your
lonesome. Unless you want some company?”

“Isn’t there another room where I can stay in
this hovel—alone?” she fired back.

Russ shook his head, barely able to suppress
his drunken excitement. “Even if there was, do you think we’re
going to let you out of our sight? Bear taught us a few things over
the years, kid, and one of ‘em was, don’t trust no one.”

“And that means even a pretty little thing
like you,” Homer added softly, and this time Rebeccah didn’t at all
like the way his strange milky eyes roamed appreciatively over
her.

“What’s the matter, honey, don’t you like us
no more?” he continued, seeing the apprehension in her face. “When
you was a little girl, we were the ones who taught you how to cheat
at poker, and how to spit, and all sorts of useful things. Don’t
tell me you forgot.”

“Don’t
you
forget that if either one
of you comes near me tonight, I’ll find a way to kill you before
you touch me—and you know I’ll do it,” she said coldly, and the icy
glint in her eyes left no doubt of her determination.

That threat, the dead-serious resolve behind
it, and the derringer still hidden in her boot, were all that stood
between her and those two mangy animals, Rebeccah knew. She prayed
it would be enough. Still, her knees trembled as she rose, and Russ
took her arm to lead her toward the hallway at the rear of the
saloon.

Suddenly the door to the hideout saloon
crashed open. A man burst in without warning.

He had a silver-handled Colt .45 gripped
purposefully in each fist.

“Nobody move!” he ordered in a tone of such
iron command that nobody did.

Wolf! Rebeccah froze between Russ and Homer.
The outlaw den was a marble tableau of silent, motionless shock. No
one appeared to breathe as every man there assessed the situation
and swiftly debated the wisdom of holding still versus that of
trying to draw on the heavily armed, tough-looking stranger
commanding them to obey his shouted order.

Wolf smiled thinly, and now that he had their
undivided attention he continued in that same deadly-chilling tone,
his ghost-gray eyes scanning each man and seeming instantaneously
to take his measure. “I want the woman—and the two men that brought
her. No outsiders have to die tonight—unless they want to,” he
added coldly.

Rebeccah didn’t even dare to breathe. Wolf
was either very sure of himself or very foolish. How cool he was,
she marveled in awe, even as her heart hammered with sick fear. If
he didn’t succeed in facing them all down, he’d have to take them
all on—all six of them. One man against six?

She felt her throat closing in terror.

Suddenly there was no more time for fear or
wondering or even hope. Homer Bell, cussing, went for his gun.

Wolf yelled, “Rebeccah, get down!” and at the
same moment, with cold purpose, he fired.

Blood bloomed across Homer’s chest, bubbled
from his lips, and he crashed to the floor, twitching. Biting back
her screams, Rebeccah dove under the table. She was never sure
later exactly what happened next.

Another outlaw in the saloon opened fire;
there was an explosion of deafening gunshots, the stink of
gunsmoke, the thud of another body. And a death scream.

Rebeccah had her derringer out. She saw Russ
go for his gun, drawing on Wolf, who had leaped forward in a half
crouch, then a spin, firing and dodging bullets with a cool,
astonishing agility beyond her comprehension. In a flash she aimed
the derringer, but even before she could fire, Wolf wheeled toward
Russ and shot first. Gaglin slumped to the floor right beside her,
blood spouting in a crimson fountain from his temple.

On her hands and knees, staring into his
sightless eyes, Rebeccah bit her lips against rising hysteria.

She heard someone—the bartender? one of the
other outlaws?—say in a low tone, “Don’t try anything, Huff, that’s
Wolf Bodine!”

Then she heard Wolf’s voice, just as
purposeful, drawling, “Mighty wise of you, fellows.”

He edged toward her table, still with his gun
trained on the remaining three men. With a sudden movement he
tossed aside the table under which she crouched and, still training
one of his revolvers on the bartender and the remaining two
outlaws, he reached down a hand.

“Come on, we’re getting out of here.”

Somehow, then, they were out in the
blizzarding night and Wolf was lifting her into the saddle. In one
quick motion he had untethered Russ’s horse and was holding its
reins, and then he vaulted up behind Rebeccah and spurred Dusty to
a gallop.

“Did they hurt you?” he shouted into the
wind, as the sorrel’s long legs gathered speed and the whirling
snow blanketed their shoulders and whipped against their eyes and
cheeks.

She shook her head, nestling deeper into his
arms, letting herself go limp with relief and weariness.

“We’re not going far,” Wolf yelled. “I know a
place where we can spend the night!”

“Wolf.” She stirred suddenly, and raised her
voice, calling to him over her shoulder. “Is Toby all right?”

“Toby’s fine,” he yelled back, and they both
leaned low over Dusty’s mane as they swung under a cluster of
low-hanging branches as the horse veered onto a twisting, wooded
track.

They rode in silence then through a belt of
forest, emerged to follow a short burst of rolling land, then
twisted their way along a steep, treacherously snow-covered ravine.
Then once more they were flying along beneath slender silver
birches. A rabbit bolted through the white night, its tracks
quickly swallowed up by the endlessly twirling snow. At last they
snaked their way through a convoluted trail that led between two
walls of rocks, then rode downward into a hidden gully. There,
tucked behind a copse of pine, sheltered on all sides by rock, was
a small cabin, barely noticeable in the dimness, blending into the
trees that surrounded it.

Wolf rode to the rear of the cabin. He halted
Dusty before a half-hidden lean-to amid the brush. With her help he
tethered both horses in the lean-to, then paused a moment,
listening. When he was satisfied that there was no pursuit, he
turned back to Rebeccah.

She looked half frozen and utterly exhausted,
her normally pale skin bright from the cold. Shivering, her sable
hair glistening with snow, she looked as if she would sink down to
the earth at any moment with exhaustion.

Wolf slipped a strong arm around her waist,
alarmed as she sagged against him.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

Looking up into his strong, dearly handsome
face, so filled with concern, she felt a surge of powerful love
bursting through her. She didn’t know how much longer she could
hold it back. He had rescued her—again. He had risked his life to
save her. He must have ridden for hours through the dark and the
snow, despite all weariness, doubt, and the battering of the
elements, tracking Russ and Homer somehow, with relentless
determination and skills she could not even begin to imagine. He
had found her, killed for her, and brought her to safety.

“I’m fine—no, I’m perfect—now that I’m with
you,” she heard herself whispering, a catch in her voice, and with
a sweet ache inside of her she reached up shaking fingers to touch
his cheek.

She felt his body tense with some powerful
emotion—a reaction to her words, or her touch, or both. His eyes
lit with a vivid silvery-gray intensity, pinning hers so
powerfully, she could not look away. Then Wolf swept her into his
arms and carried her with no apparent effort and a great deal of
lithe grace into the hidden cabin.

Wolf set her down on the floor of the
pitch-black cabin, but his hands lingered around her waist, as if
he was reluctant to let her go. His eyes quickly accustomed
themselves to the darkness of the cabin. Moving away from her at
last, he busied himself with matches and a kerosene lamp, which sat
on a long table near the stove. He turned up the wick until the
cabin was flooded by a soft yellow glow.