Moon Racer (3 page)

The screen door whooshed open, jarred against
the house, then slammed shut, and Frances
appeared. Aggressively wiping her hands on her
stained apron, the middle-aged, sturdily built
woman looked formidable until Abby saw the
concern reflected in her faded blue eyes. The
housekeeper never failed to speak her mind and to
give the family her opinion on any given subject.
And from the frown of disapproval Abby saw on
Frances's face, she knew she was about to receive
the benefit of that advice.

"I see where your mind's taking you, young lady. I
knew when I told you about Nate Johnson's horse,
you was gonna try and break him. Were you listening
when I told you he'd already throwed Curly and
Red? Brent says the animal can't be broke, and he's sending him back to the Circle J with his regrets."

"Brent also says that I shouldn't argue with a
mule, a skunk, or with you, Frances."

"Abby!"

She had never been able to get around Frances
with flattery, but she always made the attempt.
Cunningly, she tried to smile, but the best she could
manage was a slight curve of her lower lip. "Your
biscuits were delicious, as usual, and your grape
preserves were the best I ever tasted. Is that the
same recipe you used last year?"

Frances's hands went immediately to her hips.
"Don't think I don't know your tactics by now,
Abigail! Never you mind about my preserves-you
aren't gonna ride that horse if I have any say about
it."

Abby's mouth settled into a firm line before she
said, "Mr. Johnson will pay good money if we
break that horse. Brent gave up too easily."

"Lord have mercy, Abby, you're eighteen years
old! You've gotta quit strutting 'round in britches
and acting like you could stand toe-to-toe with the
menfolk. Don't you think it's time to start acting
like a lady?"

Abby had a vague memory of her mother's gentle
instructions. Mama had urged her to sit straight with
her hands folded in her lap, to stand tall and not
allow her shoulders to slump. She remembered her
mother saying how important it was for a lady to
always have a lace handkerchief with her. There
were other instructions her mother had given her on
proper behavior, but Abby just could not remember them all, and she certainly had no use for a lace
handkerchief. Her brothers needed her help around
the ranch, and she had no time for such niceties
anyway.

"You'll never catch a husband behaving the way
you do. When a man's looking for a wife, he wants
someone who is soft and sweet and kinda humble."

Abby raised her chin stubbornly. "I wouldn't
give you that," she declared, snapping her fingers,
"for a man who would require me to be sweet and
witless." She smiled guilefully. "Besides, why
would I need a husband telling me what to do when
I have you for that, Frances?"

"Harrumph. I blame Brent for the way you turned
out. He let you run wild, doing whatever pleased
you. He used a light hand with you 'cause you lost
your ma."

"I didn't lose my mama; Papa killed her," she
said bleakly.

Frances shook her head. "Have a care what you
say, miss-your pa's done his time."

"Papa may have served his time according to the
law, but how can I forgive him for what he did?"

The housekeeper's eyes softened when she reflected on all Abby had endured during her young
life. Although Frances had not worked for the family
until after Beth Hunter's death, she knew the way
people hereabouts treated the young girl-they refused to let their daughters befriend her, and they
certainly wouldn't allow their sons anywhere near
her. Frances had watched Abby pull further into herself each time someone in town snubbed her. She had buried her anguish deep so her brothers
wouldn't notice how hurt she was by the rejections
of their neighbors. Now, as if Abby's life hadn't
been complicated enough, her father had been
released from prison, giving their neighbors another
reason to turn their backs on her. Frances suspected
that Abby chose to wear trousers to play down the
fact that she was a woman. It was no wonder she
didn't realize that she was on the verge of being
beautiful; there was no one around to admire her.
But Frances was determined to guide the young,
motherless woman, if she could get through to her.

"Look at how happy Brent and Quince are now
that they're married, and Brent about to be a father.
Don't you want that same kind of life for yourself,
Abby?"

"I'd rather be like my brother Matt, who has no
responsibilities and will probably never come
home, and why should he? At least he doesn't have
to worry about foreclosures in England."

Frances touched Abby's shoulder. "Someday a
man will come along who'll be worthy of you, and
you'll want to change to please him."

"I like horses better than men you feed them,
water them, give them a good rubdown, and in
return they give you all their affection."

"That's not far off from what a husband would
do for you if you rubbed him down."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Abby
said crisply.

The housekeeper looked at her suspiciously.
"You aren't gonna try and ride that horse, are you?"

Abby stepped off the porch, adjusting her battered
hat at just the right angle to protect her eyes from the
sun. "I haven't made up my mind yet. But if I do, he
won't throw me like he did Curly and Red."

She didn't need to see Frances's face to know she
was scowling at her. She did hear the loud huff as
the housekeeper stomped back into the house,
letting the screen door snap shut behind her.

The high-pitched cry of a hawk penetrated the
silence of the land as the winged predator rode the
wind currents on a quest for small game. Moments
later the hawk's cry was muffled by the thundering
hooves of three horses, ridden by uniformed
soldiers who wore the insignia of the Sixth Cavalry.

The eldest of the trio, Sergeant MacDougall, was a
man of medium height who had a shock of white
hair that had once been as red as a rooster's comb.
He tugged his cap low over his forehead; much to his
disgust, he knew his skin would still bum if exposed
to the punishing Texas sun. For twenty years he had
lived the nomadic life of a cavalryman, had fought in
many fierce campaigns, and was thankful he had
lived to tell about them-which he did often, in
glowing and exaggerated terms. His hitch would be
up in another two months, and he'd decided that he
was too old to reenlist this time. There was a small
stretch of land back in Tennessee he wanted to buy
so he could spend the rest of his years sitting on the
front porch swapping tales with his neighbors.

His bushy brows came together across his nose
and formed a frown when he glanced at Private Da vies, who was one of his newest recruits. The lad
was not yet accustomed to the discipline of army life.
He was straight off a Georgia farm and as raw as
they came. It was always the same with the new
ones, but MacDougall knew he would either make a
cavalryman out of the lad or break him completely.

The sergeant's gaze moved to the commanding
officer, who rode between them. Maj. Jonah Tremain
sat high in the saddle, his blue eyes squinting against
the brightness of the sun. There was a restlessness in
the major that didn't fit with the usual West Point
polish, and he carried himself with an aloofness that
intimidated most men but not the sergeant.

MacDougall didn't generally like officers, but
this one was different. He was tough when he had
to be and set strict standards of discipline for his
men to follow. MacDougall had fought in three
campaigns with Major Tremain. He knew the
officer never asked a soldier under his command to
do anything he wasn't willing to do himself. He
always stood shoulder-to-shoulder with his men and
went right into the thick of battle with them. Oh, he
was a strictly by-the-book officer, all right, but he
didn't mind getting a little dirt on himself.
MacDougall had asked for, and been granted, a
transfer from Fort Griffin to Fort Fannin when the
major had been given the command there.

At the moment Major Tremain had a lot of problems on his young shoulders. Fort Fannin was a post
needing a strong man at its head. The previous commander, Captain Gregory, had been cashiered out of
the army and was now doing prison time for corrup tion. The real trouble was that three of the payrolls
destined for Fort Fannin had been stolen, and Major
Tremain was determined to find out who was behind
the robberies. So far the investigation had not turned
up any of Captain Gregory's accomplices, and the
captain wasn't talking from his prison cell.

Sweat rolled down MacDougall's face, and he
cursed silently. He wished the major, who kept his
coat buttoned to regulations, would begin to feel the
heat and allow them to shed theirs.

As if Jonah had read MacDougall's mind, he held
up his gloved hand for them to halt. "Let's get
comfortable for now. However, I'll expect the two of
you to be in full uniform when you ride into Diablo."

Jonah unfastened the brass buttons and slipped
out of his blue uniform coat. Folding it neatly, he
secured it to the back of his saddle. He watched as
the other two men did the same.

"Major, sir," the private stated, loosening the top
button of his shirt as well, "I never knew Texas was
this green till I saw Fort Fannin."

Jonah dismounted at the edge of the cliff and
propped a polished black boot on a limestone
boulder. He glanced at the hills that seemed to roll
one into another for as far as he could see. "I know
what you mean, Private-this part of Texas took
me by surprise when I first saw it."

"I don't like it much here," Davies stated. "It's
too hot, and nothing like back home."

MacDougall scowled as he wiped his mouth after
taking a drink from his canteen. "You aren't here to
like or dislike anything, soldier-you're here to do just what the major wants you to do and nothing
more."

"Yes, sir." The young recruit's glance went
nervously to his commanding officer. "Major, sir,
can I ask how far it is to this town we're going to?"

"Diablo should be no more than a few miles ahead,
Private." Jonah rested his arm on the saddle, then
leaned closer to MacDougall so the younger man
couldn't overhear. "This is where we part company.
I'll meet you in Diablo in two or three days.
Meantime, poke around town in an unofficial
capacity. I still have a gut feeling the payroll robberies
are somehow connected to someone in Diablo."

MacDougall nodded. "I wonder how many more
men besides Captain Gregory are involved? It sure
seems that the information about the shipment is
coming out of Diablo."

"I have come to that same conclusion. I can't tell
you any more than that not yet, anyway. I can tell
you that I want your uniforms visible in Diablo.
Let's see if we can shake the trees and make
someone nervous."

"I'll make sure we're noticed, all right, sir. You
can depend on it."

MacDougall watched Jonah hoist himself into the
saddle, then met his piercing blue eyes. "When you
see Quince Hunter, would you mind giving him my
regards, sir? And tell him since he quit scouting for
us, I hardly ever lose at poker."

Jonah gave him a brief nod. "Should you need
me for any reason, I'll be at the Half-Moon Ranch.
Ask around; anyone can give you directions."

MacDougall and Davies saluted as they watched
the major ride away.

"I'm glad he's gone. It makes me nervous when
he's 'round," Davies admitted, dabbing the sweat
from his brow. "It seems to me he thinks mighty
highly of himself."

MacDougall whipped around and glared at the
private, his voice cracking like a whip. "You have a
lot more to be nervous about with me, trooper. If I
ever hear you speak ill of Major Tremain again,
you'll be looking through the bars of a guardhouse
from the inside out."

"Sir, I didn't mean no disrespect," Davies said
quickly, glancing down at the ground. He knew that
the major had brought Sergeant MacDougall with
him when he was transferred from Fort Griffin, and
he should have realized that the sergeant would
defend their commander.

"That gentleman," MacDougall said as he
watched Jonah disappear behind an oak grove, "is
one of the finest officers you'll ever serve under. If
you weren't such an undisciplined, misguided
chawbacon, you'd know that. When we get back to
the fort, I'll see that you have extra duty so you can
think about your attitude."

Davies lapsed into silence and mounted his horse.
He'd have to be on his best behavior during the rest
of this assignment so he could convince the
sergeant that he was worthy of the Sixth Cavalry.

Jonah slowed his horse to a canter. It was only midmorning and already as hot as hell. He had a mo mentary reprieve from the heat when a high-flying
cloud lingered between him and the sun. He took in
the scenery, appreciating the wild, untamed beauty
of the land that was infused with the brilliant colors
of an artist's palette.

A feeling of unease had been stirring within him
all morning, and he felt as if something was about
to happen-something he would have no control
over-something that would change his life forever.
He had experienced this same sensation only one
other time the day he'd almost lost his life in an
Indian battle. He suddenly nudged his horse into a
gallop and prayed that another cloud would pass
between him and the sweltering sun.

By nature Jonah was not superstitious, but he
could feel his life hurtling toward something. The
feeling lingered, troubling his mind.