Salvation's Secrets (The Loflin Legacy Prequel) (6 page)

Charles finally caught up with Seth. “Let’s
see if we can track these rustlers and give Earl proof it wasn’t
Lone Eagle.”

Unable to stop the urge to get back at
Charles, Seth pulled hard on Sarge’s reins. “Now you want to
reason? Thought you said it wouldn’t make no difference. Earl
wouldn’t believe it wasn’t them.”

“We don’t have much time or many options.
It’s worth a try.”

Soundless but for a slow release of breath,
Seth reined Sarge in and stared hard at Charles. “Why are you doing
this?”

Charles pursed his mouth over the question.
“I guess I don’t wanna see you hurt. Come on, Seth. You know this
could be messy.” He steered his roan into the lead. “Besides, you
aren’t any good at negotiations or tracking. You go off halfcocked.
You need me.”

Huffing out a breath, Seth spurred Sarge to
catch up. “You arrogant, mule-headed fool.” Peering sideways, he
shook his head. “Seems to me like you care ‘bout my hide even if we
ain’t blood.”

Charles cut him a dark glance from beneath
his weathered Stetson. “Ain’t got too many I care about. So what if
you are one of ‘em? Seems to me you ought to be grateful for the
help, blood or not.” Charles galloped ahead allowing Seth time for
consideration of his friend’s gesture. Truth be told, he didn’t
have many he could depend on either. Maggie, Jake and Ty all loved
him. Yet, who could he count on in a fight or defending his woman?
The thought of her brought such a pain to his chest, he rubbed
without being mindful of why. The why didn’t matter, it’s simply
the way things were. He loved Celia. If he wasn’t totally mistaken
she loved him too. The struggle to remain unscathed by the path
he’d chosen could get them both killed. Yes, he needed Charles’
help and was thankful to call him brother.

***

Word spread fast regarding the cattle
slater. Tyler was abuzz with the incident. Gossip grew at a steady
pace and soon the Comanche were the enemy of all settlers, black or
white, Spanish or Texan.

Charles traveled into town one evening after
a long day of tracking. His clothes, covered in trail dust, hung in
sweat stained wrinkles over his aching muscles. He and Seth had
searched every inch of ground north of the slaughter. Tomorrow
they’d search south if the weather held out. Thinking back, he
revisited the threats Earl had for Lone Eagle the night after the
discovery of the dead cattle. He’d sat comfortably leaning on his
saddle horn while six men pointed rifles at Lone Eagle and the
warriors gathered nearby. Like lighting a match under dry wood,
Earl had laid down the law. The Indians were to ‘
move on…to get
off Loflin land and never return
’. The scene swam like rancid
meat in his gut. The whole thing was wrong.

Nearing the saloon, he slide from the roan’s
back and wrapped the rein around the nearest post. A drink and a
bath were first, followed by a lovely young thing called Carmela.
He smiled inwardly as he decided he might even forgo the drink to
get a glimpse of her tender flesh sooner than later.

The smoke hung thick in the air of the dimly
lit saloon. A tinkling piano and the murmurs of patrons all there
for one reason slid past his consciousness like mist in the wind.
The Silver Spur proved the best of three saloons in the town of
Tyler. The booze wasn’t watered down and the girls didn’t rip you
off while you slept. So Charles planned on some much needed
relaxation in the arms of an amply busted girl with a smooth hand.
A wave from Sam, the bartender had Charles making his way across
the crowed floor full of bodies, tables and liquor to the bar. The
dark oak top ran the length of the room and was smooth to the
touch. Sam prided himself on keeping a gleaming waxed shine on the
surface and whiskey moving all the time for the men saddled up to
rest booted feet on the low slung brass rail below. Charles passed
several on his way to the bartender.

“Hey, Sam. Whiskey and leave the
bottle.”

Sam nodded. With a jerk of his head
sideways, he flicked a glance at two well-suited fellows standing
at the far end of the bar. One wore chops and a handlebar mustache.
Portly, the one stood a good six foot tall with broad shoulders.
The perpetual scowl he wore earned him the nickname Grump. Charles
recognized him as the foreman for the Triple M Ranch. His companion
was the son, of the owner, Jesus Martinez. The son, named Carlos,
was clean-shaven with dark skin and Spanish features. His aloof
arrogance had always irritated Charles. Not believing Carlos was
honorable, Charles kept a close eye on him.

“They’ve been asking for you.” Sam eyed
Charles coolly, continuing to wipe the glass in his hand. “Want to
hire you before this thing with the Comanche gets outta hand.”

Charles shoved his Stetson back a fraction
and gazed at the men at the end of the bar. They worked for one of
the most powerful men in the area besides Earl Loflin. He wasn’t in
favor of pursuing their offer because he wasn’t entirely convinced
the Comanche didn’t have something to do with the incident on
Earl’s land. Agreeing to take care of the problem would put him in
jeopardy of having to defend his actions to Seth, which bothered
him more than he wanted to admit. Still, the courteous thing to do
was decline their offer without delay. Gathering his bottle and
glass, Charles strolled down the bar to where the two stood,
leaning heavily on the bar top.

“Gentlemen.” Being as there was no sense in
ruffling feathers if one could help it, he raised his empty glass
to them in a salute. “Sam says you wanted to see me.” His mouth
turned up at the corners, yet his eyes locked in on the foreman’s
face. You could tell a lot by what a man held in his eyes.

“Harrington, you gonna take that job I
offered you or not?” Grump’s leather vest strained over his belly
as the drink he saluted Charles with went down his gullet without a
pause.

Carlos, smiled smugly. His dark eyes burned
into Charles face with something akin to disdain. Nudging Grump
with an elbow he said, “Gringo is not sure he wants to take your
offer, amigo.” He nodded as he considered the man standing in front
of them. In his eyes was contempt. “Maybe he’s lost his edge. I
told you he wasn’t the one for this job.”

“Shut up, Carlos. Can’t you let me finish
before you start spouting off at the mouth? Christ, drink and
listen for a change.”

Cutting a hard glare at Grump, Carlos leaned
heavily on the bar and slammed back his whiskey.

Charles eyed the two carefully, yet left
them to work out their differences without interjecting. Carlos’
behavior demonstrated what Charles had always thought, the boy was
too full of himself. Patience needed a cool head, not a hot
mouth.

“Harrington, I want you to take care of
these rustlers. They’re destroying our herd.” Slamming down his
glass, Grump lifted a sleeve, wiping his mouth. “I know the sheriff
is looking into the slaughter of all the cattle on Loflin’s place.
He waved a hand in dismissal. That’s fine but we gotta take care of
our own.” Turning to the bar, he poured himself another whiskey.
“The boss wants you to locate those thievin’ Injuns and kill them.
Jesus is paying five grand. You up for the job, Harrington?”

“Not this time, Grump.” Charles let the
weight of his answer settle before offering his opinion. “The
Comanche aren’t responsible for the cattle killings.”

Grump’s eye narrowed in consideration. “You
got a better idea, boy?”

The derogatory rub grated on his already
frayed nerves like salt in an open wound. Now wasn’t the time to
let on. Instead, he lifted his chin a hair past level and stared
down the challenge. “I can prove the Comanche didn’t do it. You
willing to let me?” Unperturbed he’d thrown the gauntlet back in
the man’s face, Charles leaned a hip against the bar and threw back
his whiskey letting the burn take away the edge of Grump’s
needling. Wiping a hand across his mouth, he waited.

“Gringo has gone loco, amigo. He sees
things, which aren’t there. Let’s get the hell outta here. I feel
an urge for a whore tonight.” Carlos’ upper lip curled in base
consideration before he threw back another shot and slammed down
the glass.

Grump’s arm came up, slapping Carlos across
the chest. “Not so fast. Let’s hear what he has to say, ‘ey
Carlos?” With a nod, he waited for Charles to continue.

“It’s a set up and an old one…you make it
look like Injuns and everybody believes it’s an attack. The real
rustlers get away scot-free while the Comanche die for their
crimes. I’ve seen the proof. Injuns don’t use guns, least the ones
I know don’t. The thieves you’re looking for aren’t too bright
either. Why slaughter and leave good meat when a Comanche will use
every bit of the kill down to the bones. You know I’m right.”
Pausing to down another shot, Charles waited for Grump to absorb
his information.

“Okay, you got yourself a deal, boy. Prove
it weren’t no Comanche and the money’s yours. Agreed?”

Charles wiped his hand across his chest
before shaking Grump’s in agreement. “I’ll start tomorrow night.
I’ll get your proof. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have someone
waiting for me.” With a quick tip of his Stetson, he left the two,
making his way up the stairs to Carmela’s door.
Why hadn’t he
simply declined their offer?
The thought of harm coming to Lone
Eagle’s tribe had an unease writhing in his gut and the need to
defend rearing its head. The apprehension over this one rode his
conscience without letting up. Unable to pinpoint the “why” of it,
he slipped inside the soiled dove’s room and forced his immediate
concerns to the back of his mind in exchange for the soft arms,
which waited.

***

Morning broke with a dark rumble of thunder.
Carmela’s long, silky leg rested across his while her arm circled
his ribs. Her breath was warm on his back and she moaned in her
sleep. Charles wasn’t sure if she dreamed of him or a more fanciful
lover. She dreamt of pleasuring a man though because her hips
ground gently against his ass. Unbidden, he mouth creased in a
knowing smile. Carmela loved her job and there was no denying she
was good at sharing her body with a man. She gave good head and
satisfied a man’s urges in a variety of ways. He’d been taught at
an early age what a woman wanted, so he’d never had trouble
satisfying those he bedded. If truth be told, he’d never had a
complaint from a woman except when he couldn’t stay. He’d love
another romp with her. He had work to do. Charles never stayed
long, there was no need. It was sex and when she began to make
demands, he always managed to slip the noose women inevitably had
planned.

His job called. Gun slinging wasn’t a
reputable occupation to be sure. The word murder reared its
unwanted head again with the thought of killing a man over
something as useless as stealing cattle. Since he’d killed his
father at the ripe old age of fifteen, Charles understood how
meaningless life could be behind a gun.

His jaw set over the thought. No way to
prove he’d been defending himself, he ran from the bloody scene of
a hay hook sticking out of his father’s back and the sightless eyes
staring up at him from the dark pool of blood surrounding his
father. Even though he’d been beaten as a matter of routine, he
couldn’t justify the death of his father by his own hand. Somewhere
deep inside, a small voice always reminded him of how evil had
penetrated his life. The repeated notion he’d started down a road
of no return forced him from the bed and the sleepy eyed woman
giving him a bleary, yet sultry look.

“You have to go so soon?”

Her voice left his dick throbbing. Spanish
and sex gave him a hard on no matter what bothered his mind. “Yeah.
I’ve got a job to do. I left you money on the nightstand.” Reaching
out, he ran a finger along the slim, pert nose of her lovely face.
“Don’t go poking every trail mite that waltzes in here, okay? You
know I don’t wanna catch the ‘Great Pox’”. She smiled all seduction
and sweet sin. His dick lurched.
Damn she was good!
Gripping
his cock in his hand, he groaned aloud. Time was wasting. Turning
from the sight of her luscious curves, he snatched up his pants,
shoving in one leg and the other. “Work to be done,” he growled.
Wanting to prove the Comanche weren’t responsible for this latest
rash of attacks wasn’t going to be easy and made enemies to boot.
He was burning daylight.

***

Wide open spaces loomed before him. He
scanned the terrain with a vague sense of annoyance. As far as the
eye could see belonged to his father, Earl Loflin, a man as hard
and unforgiving as the ground under the hooves of Seth’s horse,
Sarge. He loved this land and never wanted to live anywhere else
except Texas. Shooter Creek Ranch had been his home from birth.
Now, something was missing. Restless since their meeting with Lone
Eagle, Seth’s unease grew. Red Bear and the others were ready to
fight. The fact Earl had used force to make his point in accusing
them of cattle rustling didn’t set well in the camp. Trouble
brewed. What worried Seth more was Lone Eagle’s lack of response.
He seemed almost compliant. Celia was subdued and quiet too.

Glancing at the sun dipping low in the
western sky, Seth ran a hand over his chest, just under his heart
where a certain longing festered. Putting a name to the yearning
did no good. He’s discussed the matter with Maggie, the housekeeper
and Loflin boys surrogate mom since the death of their maw some
eight years back. She’d told him in her best Irish brogue,
‘You’ll be finding the answer when the time is right, lad’.
Jake Long, Shooter Creek’s foreman and Seth’s mentor said basically
the same,
‘You’ll find what you’re looking for without trying.
Give it time’.
Time!
Time to pack away the craving he
couldn’t identify. “Jake’s right. I’ll stumble on this thing,
whatever it is.” Leaning in, he gave Sarge an affectionate pat on
the neck. “Right boy?”