Defiant (21 page)

“You have them now, and that's all you need.”

There was a silence, long and painful. He wanted to tell his feet to move, but they were still fastened to the ground. He felt, rather than saw, her move closer. Smelled her. The scent of flowers still clung to her despite the long day, the dust, the hard ride. Flowers and woman. Moisture had plastered her blouse to her body, outlining the swell of firm breasts, the trim line of her waist. A curl had escaped the long braid that had confined that fine auburn hair, falling alongside her cheek.

He felt his loins tighten with need. He wanted to touch that hair, rub his hand down the slightly flushed cheek, lock his arm around the damp body. He wanted to feel her and taste her and revel in her womanliness. Christ, he wanted to bury himself in her.

Her gaze held his. “Does that mean you're leaving?”

“I never intended to stay. You know that.”

“But so soon?”

“You don't need me any longer.”

But she did. In more ways than one. “Tucker and Ed won't stay if you leave.”

“I'll talk to them.”

“A month,” she bargained.

He couldn't take a month of this, and he knew it. He wouldn't be able to keep his hands off her that long. His eyes met hers. “I'm going up to Ute country for a couple of days. There's things I need to do.”

“When?”

“I want to check out the country tomorrow. If everything looks all right, I'll leave the next day. I'll have to borrow Jeff's horse.”

She stood there, biting her lip, looking vulnerable. She rarely looked vulnerable, but now she did, and tenderness swept through Wade like a tidal wave. He softened his voice. “You have to have more horses. I'll bring some down.”

“That's not the only reason,” she said. There was the barest note of accusation in her voice. And something else he couldn't define.

“No,” he replied. “I owe them, too.”

“They're Indians,” she said flatly. “They're burning out farmers, ranches. The paper—”

Wade felt her words like a blow to the stomach. He'd never met a woman as compassionate, as accepting, as Mary Jo Williams. If she felt this way, there was damn little hope for his friends.

He turned back to the barn, walking away from her.

“Wade!” He ignored her voice, but then her hand was on his arm, and he couldn't stand her touch. It burned him. He turned back, and he knew he looked angry. He could almost see her flinch.

“I want to understand,” she said. Her face was earnest, pleading. But he recalled the abhorrence on her face when she'd first seen his eagle necklace. His son's treasure. Wade's one memento.

“Then go with me,” he said recklessly, the words leaving his lips before he'd considered them. “See these … savages for yourselves. Isn't that what you called them?”

A stunned look crossed her face, and he immediately regretted that strange impulse. Why in hell did he care what she thought?

But he did. It astounded him how much.

He watched her struggle with herself. He remembered her telling him about her sister, the neighbors in Texas. Part of him understood. God knew, he had certainly reacted when someone had killed those he loved. But another part of him kept thinking about Chivita's gentleness, Manchez's fairness and generosity. Manchez, who was like his own brother, who
was
his brother.

“All Indians are not alike. Just like all whites aren't alike,” he said softly. “I've seen whites that put Indians to shame in their ferocity.”
And I was one of them
.

I am one of them
. He couldn't forget the last months, his deliberate hunting of the miners.

“What about Jeff?” Mary Jo finally said.

“He'll enjoy it.”

She stepped back, fear flitting across her face. “I … can't.”

“The Utes love children.”

“He's all I have, Wade.”

“And he'll grow up hating people he doesn't understand just like everyone else around here,” Wade said bitterly. “It was a bad idea, Mrs. Williams. Forget I mentioned it.”

He started toward the barn and this time he didn't turn around and she didn't stop him.

“Where's Wade?”

Mary Jo wondered when her reluctant foreman had become Wade to Jeff.

“He needed some rest,” she said, as she put beans and bacon in a skillet. It wasn't much, particularly for the two new men, but she would add some fresh bread and preserves, and a pie she'd baked yesterday.

It was an effort to cook. She wasn't hungry. In fact, the thought of food made her ill. She tried to believe it was the meal she'd had earlier at the Abbots. But deep down, she knew that wasn't true.

She kept seeing that last expression on Wade's face. A mixture of resignation, disappointment, and even something close to rejection. The disappointment had hurt the most. But she couldn't help her feelings toward Indians. She couldn't put Jeff in danger.

“He was great today, wasn't he?” Jeff said. “I've never seen anyone ride like that before. King Arthur never did those things for me.”

“King Arthur has to learn, just like you need to learn your sums,” she said.

“Aw, Ma.”

“Off to your books,” she said.

“I want to go see Wade.”

“No,” she said sharply. Too sharply. He looked as if she'd just hit him.

She went over to him, put her hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry, Jeff, but he needs some rest. This has been a hard day for him. His shoulder still pains him a lot.”

“Jake will cheer him up.”

“I think Jake would rather eat.”

“No he wouldn't,” Jeff demurred. “He missed Wade.”

Jake's tail thumped heartily as if in agreement.

“When did he become Wade?”

Jeff shrugged, just as Wade always did, and a pang struck Mary Jo anew. Consciously or unconsciously, her son was picking up Wade Foster's mannerisms.

“In the morning,” she said with finality, and Jeff reluctantly dropped the subject.

Wade left at daybreak, before anyone else was stirring. He didn't want to answer questions.

He saddled King Arthur and led him out of the barn, then mounted and walked him out the worn gate just as the first rays of sun hit the hills and bathed them in golden glory. Ordinarily, he might have appreciated it, but right now he had only one thing in mind: finding Clay Kelly.

Kelly would be camping near water, he knew that. He didn't like dry camps. Kelly was a man who enjoyed comforts, and that meant coffee in the morning, plenty of fresh, cold water to drink, and a place to bathe. Kelly was somewhat of a dandy.

Jake had been shot downstream, and so had the calves. That meant Kelly was probably upstream, closer to Last Chance. He wouldn't have left evidence close to his camp but would have killed, taken what he could carry, and then gone back to his camp using the Cimarron to cover his tracks. Kelly had always been careful.

Perhaps, Wade thought, he had just moved on. Maybe he'd just stayed a few days on his way farther west. Maybe he had no plans for Last Chance or the people of Cimarron Valley. Wade's instinct, though, told him otherwise. He felt trouble deep in his bones.

Over the years, Wade had left his mountain lair occasionally and gone into small towns for supplies. He'd always listened to gossip, listened for the sake of the Utes, and for his own safety. He'd read newspapers, though often they were a week, even a month old. It was through the newspapers—and wanted posters—that he kept abreast of Clay Kelly, as well as the James gang.

He'd liked Frank and Jesse James and Cole Younger. Perhaps because they'd taken up arms for the same reasons he had. But Kelly had gone to war for the gold and booty and women. When Wade had ridden with him, they'd seldom exchanged words. Wade had avoided him, except for one occasion in Lawrence when he'd stopped Kelly from rape. Kelly might have killed him then. Sometimes, Wade had wished he had done just that.

The sun climbed in the sky, and Wade stopped briefly to water his horse. Kelly would have picked a heavily wooded site on a hill or incline where he could more effectively look for intruders. One near the Cimarron, or another nearby stream.

It was noon before he saw a likely-looking place. A hill with a ridge of trees. If Wade knew Kelly at all, there would be a trail on the other side. Kelly never trapped himself.

He stared at the hill for a long time. There was no sound. No wisp of smoke. No movement in the brush. Yet he felt human presence.

Wade had left his gun at the barn. He was still too ineffective to use it, so he figured it was better to leave it, and the threat or challenge it carried, back at the Circle J. He hesitated a moment longer. But he had come this far, and he might as well play out the hand. He whistled, a long, clear note, then two short ones. He waited. Then repeated the signal.

The very air seemed to still with tension. The few lone buzzards visible in the sky circled, as if waiting for a particularly tasty dinner.

Then he heard a return whistle. Two long notes, a short one. He answered with three short ones.

A rider appeared on the crest of the hill, a rifle in his hands. He rode slowly toward Wade, pointing the barrel at him. Wade raised his one good hand, keeping the reins in them, and using his legs to control King Arthur, who was now skittish.

As the rider approached, Wade saw he was the man with Kelly the other day in town. But he didn't recognize him from the war days. The man drew abreast. The gun was leveled at Wade.

“I don't have a gun,” Wade said.

The man leaned over and patted his saddlebags, then eyed Wade's arm in a sling. “Who in hell are you and what do you want?”

“I want to see Clay Kelly.”

“Don't know no Kelly.”

“Then whoever it was you were riding with in town.”

Dark soulless eyes stared at him. “You tell anyone what you saw? Or thought you saw?”

Wade shook his head. “No.”

“What do you want with … him?”

“We used to ride together eleven, twelve years ago.”

“Do tell,” the man said. “What name you go by?”

“I've changed names,”

The man chuckled. “Haven't we all.” He lowered the gun slightly but it would take only a slight movement to bring it back up. “You still haven't told me what you want.”

“It's between him and me.”

“And me. He told me to check you out.”

Wade sighed. Kelly was as cautious as ever. No doubt he had a rifle aimed at his heart right now. Would he remember Wade's face? He doubted it. Wade had sported a youthful beard then. “Allen. Tell him it's Sergeant Brad Allen.”

“I'll do that. In the meantime, you stay right here and don't move a finger. There's several rifles pointed at you right now.”

Wade nodded. He lifted one of his legs and hooked it around the saddle horn. He wished he knew what in hell he was doing. Maybe he should have gone for the sheriff when he'd spied that hill, but then he would have a lot to explain. How he had recognized Kelly. Why he hadn't gone directly to the sheriff. Too many things.

If Clay Kelly was just passing through, this would be the end of it. They would drink to old times and old comrades, though it would curdle his stomach to do so. If Kelly had plans for the bank, then Wade would face more difficult decisions. If, indeed, he rode away alive.

He waited for what seemed hours. And then he heard the whistle again, and a man on a bay horse appeared and signaled him to ride up.

Wade tightened his knees, and King Arthur started up the incline. Wade made sure his good hand was visible. The climb was short but rough, and it took several minutes before he reached the lone rider at the top.

Clay Kelly looked older, gray flecking his dark hair, but he wore the same jaunty smile that Wade remembered. “Allen?”

“It's Smith now,” Wade said. He endured Kelly's searching gaze, the sardonic twist to his lips, as he noted the arm in the sling.

“There's a lot of Smiths around. What happened?”

“Someone was a better shot than I was.”

“Is that someone still alive?”

“No.”

“Then I guess he wasn't a better shot.”

Wade shrugged.

“How did you find me?” Kelly asked.

“I saw you in town. I remembered how you used to think.”

“For old times' sake?” Kelly said with a trace of a sneer.

“No,” Wade said. “Self-preservation. Something happens in this valley, the law will come looking for newcomers. I can't afford that. The sheriff found a body not too far away from here, but they haven't associated it with me. I don't want them to. Not until I'm ready to leave.”

“In other words, don't hunt your woods.”

“Something like that.”

“Brave words from a cripple.”

“I could have turned you in, and rode away before they knew who I was.”

“But you wouldn't do that, would you, Allen? You're too damn squeamish.”

Wade felt the fingers of his left hand tense as he struggled to keep emotion from his face. “No one with Anderson was squeamish.”

Kelly shrugged, and Wade wondered whether he even remembered the episode in Lawrence. Kelly had been drunk that day. A lot of them had been.

“What happened to you after Centralia? We thought you were dead.”

“I was injured,” Wade said. It was no lie. He'd been badly injured that day, though not physically.

“I wondered,” Kelly said. “There were posters out on you. But you just seemed to disappear from the face of the earth. The rest of us were hunted.” He eyed Wade suspiciously. “You wouldn't have your eye out for a reward?”

“And exactly how would I collect it,” Wade asked, “without swinging next to you?”

“That's right,” Kelly said, and some of the hostility left his eyes and his legendary charm appeared. But Wade knew the charm went skin-deep and no further. “Come have a drink to old times and Bloody Bill. He was killed, you know, not long after Centralia.”