Velvet Thunder (26 page)

“Mr. Diamond, are you all right?”

Heath nodded, but accepted the chair Josiah offered him nonetheless. How many more innocent bystanders would die before Judge Jack was stopped?

He wanted to rush into the courthouse and arrest Jack, Rachel, and anyone remotely involved with them. Actually he wanted to kill them, but that would make him no better than they. He could charge them with the death of the two miners found in the cave on Sandy's property, Marshal Reno, Layard Shackelford, the three innocent men at Delgado's, and for shooting Sandy and him as well, not to mention grand larceny, conspiracy, and Lord knows what else.

But the time wasn't right. He didn't have the evidence to put them away for life. He would continue his surveillance and in the meantime try to keep as many people alive as he could.

He left the office in a semidaze brought on by blinding rage. In his present frame of mind it was just as well that he didn't notice Judge Jack, Rachel, and Sims standing on the boardwalk outside the courthouse.

 

 

“I should have killed that bastard the first time I saw him,” Sims growled.

Judge Jack shot him a derisive look. “As I recall, you weren't too anxious to draw on him face-to-face.” He paused for effect. “And it wouldn't be wise to shoot him in the back in broad daylight. Or any other time without my permission.”

“Can't we arrest him? He killed those men,” Sims said.

“If he hadn't taken care of the fools who shot Reno, I would've killed them myself. I wonder who hired them? Men don't usually kill a marshal without good reason,” he finished as if he were speaking to himself.

“Unless there's money to be made,” Rachel pointed out.

The judge waved Sims away and turned to Rachel. He looked like a man with a bone to pick. “Or a secret to hide.”

She looked affronted at his accusing tone, splaying her hand over her chest. “Are you implying that I had something to do with Reno's death?”

“Did you?”

She looked him full in the face. “Of course not. You told me that you would handle the marshal. I took you at your word.” When he was still clearly skeptical, she stepped closer to him and placed a beseeching hand on his forearm. “Honest, Jack. I had nothing to do with this. I wouldn't cross you. I swear.”

He shook off her arm. “See that you don't!” He left her staring after him.

The muscle in Rachel's jaw twitched. She was furious at Jack's high-handed manner, yet frightened nonetheless. He was a man who didn't issue idle threats. But she was a woman who didn't cotton to submission. And she certainly didn't enjoy intimidation.

Squaring her shoulders, she lifted a stubborn jaw. What she needed was insurance, perhaps an alternate plan—more to the point—a strong ally, a predator. Her gaze settled on Pilar Manchez's boardinghouse, her mind on one of the men therein.

The smile that lit her face did not reach her cold eyes.

Stevie sat in Pilar's antique rocking chair, her new daughter slumbering against her breast. She was humming a soft lullaby that brought poignant memories of her mother to mind.

Standing in the doorway to her bedchamber, mesmerized by the tender scene, Heath was certain he had never seen such a heartwarming vision. The picture she presented was sufficient to drive all thoughts of Donn Pedro from his mind.

“Are you just gonna stand there? Or did you have something to say to me?”

Stevie's soft voice surprised Heath. He pushed away from the door jamb and closed the distance between them. “You're not sore at me?” He was still uneasy about the look that she had witnessed between him and Rachel. Kneeling at her side, he covered her hand as it stroked the baby's head. Unconsciously, he dipped his head and placed a kiss on the infant's tiny cheek.

“No, I'm not sore. I'm furious.” She was unable to meet his eyes. Emotion lodged in the back of her throat at his tender treatment of the baby.

“You don't sound furious.”

“Oh, but I am. I truly am.” She paused as if she didn't care to finish her thought. “But I'm also glad that you're safe.” She cleared her throat twice. “That your dead body wasn't brought back thrown over a saddle.” Her voice quivered on this last. The thought of Heath, so big, so strong, so full of life, lying cold and still on Warrior's back, was almost her undoing.

He noticed that her eyes were unnaturally bright. “Honey—” he began.

“Shhh. Let me finish.” She met his gaze then, bewildered and exasperated. “Why do you have to go chasin' after every man on the dodge?”

“Because it's my job.”

“Can't you quit? It's so dangerous . . .” she trailed off.

His heart swelled. She was concerned for his safety. Her next words stopped him cold.

Not wanting Heath to know just how frightened she was for him, she maintained control of her emotions and runaway tongue. “Just go home, Heath Turner.” She stiffened in the chair, pulling away from his touch. “Back to New York, where you belong. Before you get killed.”

Heath was stunned. She was telling him to leave. And it was obvious that she didn't plan to go with him. Had he noticed the pain darkening her ebony eyes, he would have taken heart. But he didn't. All he heard was the woman he loved telling him good-bye, with little or no emotion in her voice.

If he lost Stevie, he would lose the children as well, children he barely knew but thought of as his own. Somehow he had begun to think of Stevie, Winter, and the baby as his family. And a man without his family was truly lost.

He allowed himself to wallow in self-pity a grand total of ten seconds. Then, with the Turner stubborn streak a mile wide and spreading, he tamped down his hurt and swallowed his pride. Women like Stevie came along once in a lifetime. He would fight for her. She was worth it. “Trying to get rid of me?” he taunted thickly.

Stevie's eyes snapped with fire. “I'm trying to keep you alive.”

He rose to his full height. “Thanks for your concern. But I can take care of myself.” He walked to the open window and looked out at the red hills in the distance. Even this stark, open wilderness had begun to feel familiar, downright homey. “I've managed on my own so far.” Why was he saying one thing and thinking another? He lifted his arm to rest against the wall. He winced at soreness caused by fighting a man the size of a mountain.

“What's wrong? Are you hurt? Has your wound opened up?” Stevie asked all at once. Quickly, she surged to her feet, placed the sleeping child in a cradle beside her bed, and joined Heath at the window. She unbuttoned his shirt. “Let me see.”

Unbuttoning his shirt was such a natural, unconscious act for her that he was momentarily nonplussed. Her inconsistent messages, verbal and otherwise, had him slightly off balance, as usual. “As much as I'd like you to take my clothes off, sugar, I hardly think this is the time or the place. And I haven't opened my wound. I'm a little sore, that's all. One of the desperadoes at Delgado's fell on me.” This last was spoken with a self-deprecating chuckle. “The lumbering ox.”

“Is anything broken?”

“Just bruised, I imagine.” He shrugged like the big, tough cowpoke he was and almost groaned at the pain.

She saw the agony clearly etched on his face. Her hands fisted on the fabric covering his chest. “This proves my point.”

Sensing he was losing control of the conversation, he said, “Honey, it's nothing. Just let it drop.” Heath knew he'd said the wrong thing before she started raving. But it was too late to recall his blase reassurance. So he endured her tirade with grace.

“How can you say it's nothing?” Her voice rose in volume and intensity with every word. “You could have a—a broken rib. You could puncture your lung, you idiot! You could die. Now do you see what I mean?” She gestured wildly, speaking to the ceiling. “You're just not cut out for life in the West,” she accused him.

If Heath had not been so insulted by Stevie's conclusion, he would have been amused. “I beg to disagree.” He gripped the sill at his back so he wouldn't be tempted to shake some sense into her.

“You can beg all you want, but I'm right and you know it.”

Heath shook his head. Had he ever won an argument with Stevie? He wasn't certain how the talk had turned to his ineptitude in the West, but he was as offended as Hades at the grossly unflattering implication. Much to his dismay, Stevie was about to make it worse.

“Who do you think you are? The Rough Riders, Texas Rangers, and Fifth Cavalry all rolled into one?”

Typical of Stevie when she was on the scrap, she didn't wait for him to answer. Not that anyone could find an intelligent response to such an outrageous charge anyway.

“Well, you're not, Heath Turner. You're a fancy easterner who got bored with civilization.” She tossed her hands in the air and threw her head back on her shoulders. “So bored, you needed to flex your great big muscles”—she actually flexed her slender arm, brandishing the slight hump she called a muscle in his face. Heath almost took a nip out of it—“and tame the Wild West in one fell swoop. You came out here, the law in your holster, a badge on your chest, champing at the bit to take on all the bad men west of the Pecos.”

She regarded him with such anger that he feared she might shoot him for no other offense than crossing the Mississippi. But he saw much more in her eyes. Anger, yes, but also fear and something that looked a heck of a lot like love. He grew unnaturally calm. This infuriated her even more.

“They'll kill you, you stupid clod, just see if they don't!” She bit on her lower lip and hugged herself to keep from flying into a million pieces. “Well, say something!” she ordered him.

He stood silently, staring down at her; an exceptional specimen of a man, perfectly proportioned, deep-chested, leanloined, splendidly muscled, arrow-straight. She was shrieking at him like a banshee and terrifying the baby to death—the baby, who was now wide awake and crying, thanks to her hysterical outburst.

He walked over to the cradle and took the infant in his arms gently. She quieted at his touch. Carrying the babe, he returned to Stevie, moving as graceful as a panther, his muscles rippling smoothly under his skin.

His larger-than-life presence called her unflattering assessment into question. Embarrassed at her irrational outburst, she surrendered and stepped into his open embrace.

He looked down into her upturned face. His eyes told her that she had exhibited no more sense than a snake has fleas, but he loved her anyway. And he understood the cause of her attack—whether she did or not. She was frightened for him. And dammit all, she loved him!

He wanted to make her admit both her fear and her love. But he decided to wait until she did so voluntarily. “I'm just a lawman doing what I'm paid for.”

She tightened her grip on him. Oh, you're much more than that, she thought. But she said nothing.

Heath smiled and hugged her tightly. He knew her mind as well as his own. “I love you too,” he whispered in her ear. Then straightening, he asked, “Have you named her?” He clearly referred to the child in his arms.

“Mmm-hmm. I call her Summer.”

He smiled. “Well, she
will be
Winter's sister.”

“I thought it seemed logical.”

His smile faded. “Hon, have you seen Pedro?”

“You've come to tell him about Reno?”

He nodded.

It was obvious to Stevie that Heath dreaded the duty he was about to perform. She slipped her arms around his waist again, a wordless offer of support. “He's at the creek with Winter. Blue took 'em on a picnic. They shouldn't be gone long. You can wait here.”

Heath flicked a glance at Stevie's bed. Sensual heat crackled in the dry desert air like lightning in a spring thunderstorm. “I'd better go. If Pedro comes into town, he might hear that the marshal's been killed. It's my place to tell him.”

“You're a good man, Heath Turner.”

Heath waved away her praise. “I promised to bring Reno back alive. I failed. The boy's my responsibility now. I owe him.”

His eyes told her that his responsibilities didn't end with the orphaned Mexican child. She knew that he considered her, Summer, and Winter his responsibility as well. She wasn't quite certain why he felt that way. But she was awfully glad that he did. This last thought caused her a moment of uneasiness. Shrugging it off, she reached for the baby. “I'll take her to Pilar. I'm goin' with you.”

“Let's take the baby with us. I'll carry her.”

“Okay. I'll get her shawl.” There was definitely a smile in her voice.

Heath heard it and didn't mind at all.

 

 

Heath and Stevie stood side by side, watching Winter and Pedro chase butterflies beside the creek. Blue was nowhere in sight, but Stevie knew she was nearby, undoubtedly sitting in the shade, watching the boys with an eagle eye, hiding from any townsfolk who might pass by. The saloon girl turned nanny absolutely doted on the boys. She would give her life for them, of that Stevie was certain.

The tranquil display lulled Heath into a momentary sense of well-being. Childish laughter bubbled musically in the summer air, as musically as the brook beside which the boys romped. Even though their world was teeming with violence, the orphaned children had found a haven of peace.

It was a sight that would melt the heart of the most resolute cynic. But cynicism was not a characteristic shared by Stevie and Heath. They carried within their souls the seeds of hope—hope for the future, hope for a family of their own, hope for a world that would be safe for them all. Unknowingly, the frolicking children watered those seeds and brought new hope to life.

“I wish they could always be this happy.” Stevie's heartfelt sigh broke the idyllic spell the children had woven.

“I do too, sugar.” He placed Summer into her arms. “Let's get this over with.” On leaden feet he moved into the clearing.

“
Señor
.” Pedro was excited to see the tall man who had promised to bring Ted Reno home. He could hardly contain himself as he and Winter ran to meet Heath. “The marshal, he is at the jail?”

Heath knelt between the boys. Stevie stood silently at his side, Summer in her arms, a hand resting lightly on Winter's head.

Winter was young, but he sensed that something was terribly wrong. His mother was wearing her sad face. He moved even closer to her reassuring warmth.

Pedro knew something was wrong as well. The man called Lucky Diamond was stiff, though his face was kind. “Where is Reno?” Pedro asked again.

Heath tried to hide the tremor in his hand as he raised it and grasped Pedro's shoulder. “I'm sorry, son. He's gone.”

Pedro drew in his breath sharply. Tears pooled in his black eyes. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He was a man now. Marshal Reno had told him so many times. And men did not cry. He would shame the marshal's memory if he did. “He's not gone,
señor.
He's dead,” the brave boy corrected Heath. His voice was flat, lifeless.

Had Pedro sobbed hysterically, it would not have been as pitiful as the boy's valiant attempt to fight back tears. The child widened his eyes, bit his lower lip, and took deep, cleansing breaths. He was clearly devastated. Yet not one tear touched his cheek.

Not until Heath pulled his frail, trembling body into his embrace. “Go ahead son,” he whispered against Pedro's sun-warmed hair. He cupped the child's head with one broad hand and covered his narrow back with the other. “It's all right.”

Pedro couldn't hold back any longer. He pressed his face against Heath's shoulder and sobbed.

Winter whimpered, frightened at his friend's emotional outburst. Stevie bent to her knees and Winter hid his face against her chest. Her thin printed shirt absorbed the Indian child's tears.

Blue watched the heartrending sight from beneath a shade tree. Unable to bear it, she turned her back on the scene and leaned her cheek against the scratchy bark. Self-consciously, she dried her eyes with the end of her apron.

Why did good people have to be hurt? she wondered. First Jeff, then Marshal Reno, and now Donn Pedro.

Judge Jack was the answer.

 

 

Heath, Stevie, and the children headed back to town in silence.

Winter and Donn Pedro walked hand in hand no more than two paces in front of the adults. They didn't want to get too far away. It was as if the boys thought Heath and Stevie might disappear if they were out of sight. And it frightened them.