Wyoming Wildfire (Harlequin Historical) (11 page)

Risking a slight movement, she eased up the edge of the tub and gulped the fresh night air into her lungs. For a few moments she lay there, terrified of emerging from her hiding place. If the three men were close enough to see or hear her, she would get no second chance.

At last, when nothing happened, she raised the tub, uncurled her cramped body and crawled out into the open. The town was dark and quiet now, the only sign of life a skinny dog sniffing at the rubbish in the alley. It raised its head as Jessie crept past, but made no sound. For that, at least, she was grateful.

The pinto was waiting in the overgrown box canyon where she’d left it. Jessie dragged herself wearily into the saddle and sagged over the horse’s neck. The cabin was a long way off, and the narrow trail,
which wound through heavy timber, over rock slides and along steep ledges, would be dangerous at night.

She stroked her pinto’s mottled neck, grateful for its calm presence and rock-steady gait. As the path wound upward, her head began to droop. The past few days had been all she could bear, and now the strain was catching up with her. She was exhausted.

For the first few miles, where the trail wound among the high ledges, Jessie forced herself to stay awake. She sang every song she’d ever learned, from church hymns to bar ballads, making up words where her memory failed. She recited the poems she’d learned in school, such as “The boy stood on the burning deck…” When all else failed, she pinched her own cheeks until they stung.

For a time her tactics worked. But as the path leveled out into upland meadows and forests, she could feel herself slipping into a delicious fog. Matt’s image seemed to float before her, his eyes tender and filled with yearning. She could feel his arms around her, cradling her close as he had that night in the cabin. His mouth found hers, and she drifted with him, drowning blissfully in his kisses as she dreamed of the years they would have together. She would stay with him, love him. As long as he was at her side, she would have the courage to face whatever life brought them.

Only then, as the rosy mist began to clear, did she happen to glance down. She and Matt were standing
on a narrow ledge, with a black empty space yawning below them.

Now, suddenly, there were cruel hands, evil hands, seizing her body and limbs, tearing her away from Matt’s embrace. She clung to him as the dark force pulled them apart. Finger by desperate finger, she lost him. As she tumbled into darkness, the last thing she saw was his face. Strangely, he was smiling.

Jessie opened her eyes to a chilly dawn. She was lying on her back in the long grass, gazing up through the budding branches of an aspen. Above her, the clouds streaked the pewter sky with shades of amethyst, rose and amber.

Dazed and disoriented, she lay there blinking into the pale light. The dream lingered around her like a shroud.

Her mother, a true believer in dreams, would have warned her to heed this one. But what did it mean? Nothing good; Jessie was certain of that. But was it a warning that Matt would betray her if she turned to him? Or had she woven the dream herself, from the warp of her fears and the weft of her yearnings?

The calls of awakening birds filled her ears as she struggled to sit up. The slightest motion shot agony through her beaten body. What had she done to herself?

The breathy snort of a horse, coming from just be
yond her head, jerked Jessie wide awake. Had she been followed? A grunt of pain exploded between her teeth as she rolled over into a crouch, ready to fight or run.

But it was only the pinto standing over her, its soft white muzzle almost brushing her face. Fifty yards away, across the grassy meadow, she could see the run-down trapper’s cabin with her mare securely tethered outside.

Overcome by emotion, she flung her arms around the pinto’s neck and pressed her face against its warm cheek.

“Spade, you dear old rascal!” she whispered. “You brought me home! You’d probably have put me to bed if you’d known how, wouldn’t you?”

The distant nicker of another horse reached her ears. That would be Gypsy, wanting attention, Jessie thought. She had always spoiled the beautiful mare.

Untangling herself from Spade, she rose gingerly to her feet. She could see Gypsy dancing anxiously at the end of her tether, but the mare was paying no heed to her mistress. Her whole body was straining toward something at the far side of the clearing.

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Jessie followed the direction of the mare’s agitated gaze. Only then did she see them, emerging like ghosts from the misted trees into the meadow—the green-broken mustangs she’d freed from the ranch.

She watched them fan out into the long grass, ears pricking, nostrils flaring. One of the mares, who’d been about to foal, had a tiny colt at her side, a gangly little blue roan that melted Jessie’s heart the instant she set eyes on it.

Holding out her hand, Jessie whistled softly, trying to coax them closer. They nickered and stretched their necks toward her, as if expecting a treat, but they kept their distance, as if held back by some unseen force.

Then, as the savage, bugling scream reached her ears, thrilling her to the marrow of her bones, Jessie understood.

Her gaze followed the sound to a sight that stopped her heart. Standing guard on a knoll above the meadow, mane and tail bannering in the wind, was the black stallion.

T
he storms had moved on, leaving the plains and mountains carpeted in green velvet. Lupine and Indian paintbrush dotted the hillsides. Clover, violets and buttercups flowered on the plains. On the high slopes below the pines, the aspen groves were fully leafed and the columbines were coming into bloom. The late spring days were warm, the skies a blazing, cloudless blue.

In Sheridan, the day of the opening race had arrived. The first race day was always a festive time. After the long, isolating winter, it provided a chance for ranch families and townspeople to gather, relax and celebrate.

The morning was set aside for travel and preparation. At two o’clock the races were held on a patch of open flatland outside town. The picnic, with games, music and a charity bake sale, went on all af
ternoon, followed by a dance that lasted into the night.

For Matt, this would be the first chance to see so many citizens of his district together. Meeting and observing people was important. The more he knew about his neighbors, the easier his job would be when some problem arose among them.

On a whim, he’d entered himself and Copper in the race. The big chestnut had power and speed and loved nothing better than to outrun every horse in sight. If they won, Matt figured on making a few friends by donating his fifty-dollar prize to the fund for the new school building. Even if they lost, the race would give him one more way to make new acquaintances.

All in all, he expected to have a good day—except for two troubling matters that gnawed at him constantly. He’d found no more clues to the murder of Allister Gates and—even more unsettling—he’d failed to find Jessie.

After the funeral he’d ridden back to the burned-out ranch and searched through the ashes. His hunch had been correct. Jessie had cleared out, he’d concluded with dizzying relief. And the empty kerosene jug in the yard confirmed that she’d likely torched the place herself.

He had searched for her until darkness forced him out of the mountains. Even on the damp, muddy ground, he’d found no hoofprints leading away. The
earlier storm would have washed them out when she left, he realized. And judging from the evidence, she hadn’t come back.

Duty had called him back to Sheridan the next day. But everywhere he went her memory had haunted him. He’d caught imaginary glimpses of her walking down the street, browsing in the General Store, and riding away from him in the twilight. He’d begun to curse the times he started at the sight of a petite figure or a head of dark curls, only to realize he was staring at a stranger.

Even now, Matt scanned the midday crowd. Looking for Jessie had become a habit that, he feared, would stay with him for the rest of his life.

He’d been looking for Morgan Tolliver as well, even though he was braced for the cold rebuff that would come when Morgan learned there was no news. Now, however, it was getting close to race time, and there was still no sign of Morgan. Maybe something had kept the Tollivers at home, Matt reasoned.

As he turned down a side street toward the livery stable, where he’d left orders to have Copper saddled and waiting, he heard a shout.

“Marshal Langtry!”

Matt swung around as a husky female voice called out to him. To his surprise, he saw Lillian and Virgil hurrying toward him. Virgil wore shirtsleeves and a
leather vest, but Lillian was dressed in full widow’s regalia, complete with a black parasol. He’d never seen a woman look so radiant in mourning, Matt observed wryly. Widowhood must agree with her.

On his first full day back in Sheridan, he’d wired the U.S. Marshal’s office in St. Louis, asking them to have someone check the history of the woman who’d married Allister Gates last summer. He’d had his suspicions about Lillian all along. A look at the woman’s past might tell him whether those suspicions were well-founded. But time had passed, and he’d heard nothing back. Maybe he ought to contact them again, he thought as she hurried toward him.

“We’ve been…wanting to…talk with you, Marshal.” Lillian was out of breath. Her bosom heaved becomingly. “It seems we’ve had a prowler at our house.”

“A prowler?” Matt felt his stomach clench in dread of what was coming next. “What sort of prowler?”

“Nobody I’ve seen,” Virgil said grimly. “But whoever it is, he’s been to the house at least twice. The night after the funeral he climbed a tree outside Lillian’s bedroom window. When I heard him and came outside with a shotgun, he ran. The second time was just a few nights ago. I didn’t hear anything, but there were tracks under the windows, like somebody’d been trying to look in.”

“What sort of tracks?” Matt asked, sick with the certainty of what he’d hear next.

“Small. Like this,” Virgil grunted, indicating the length between his two big hands. “Some kid, I’d bet, sneaking around, looking for something to steal or a chance to spy on a woman.”

“Have you talked to Heber Sims?” Matt forced his face to assume a look of calm concern. “As Felton’s marshal, I’d think he’d be the one to handle this.”

“Heber?” Virgil snorted. “Hell, that old geezer couldn’t catch a one-legged rooster! You were out to our place asking questions before the funeral. We figured you might have some ideas.”

“I was looking into a murder. It shouldn’t take a U.S. Deputy Marshal to chase down a prowling boy.” Matt spoke around the knot in his throat. It had to be Jessie who was spying on the house. Lord, if he could get his hands on the woman and shake some sense into her…

“We heard what happened to that horrid boy who shot Allister,” Lillian said. “You knew he was dead when you came to see us. Why didn’t you tell us then?”

“Because I hadn’t yet reported it to the sheriff,” Matt responded brusquely. By now, Frank’s death was public knowledge, and he’d taken his own licks for losing a prisoner. Lillian’s question was natural enough, but her demanding tone irritated him.

“Didn’t Frank Hammond have a sister?” Lillian asked. “I recall seeing a dark-haired girl with him in
town. Pretty little thing, for a common sort. Maybe you should have arrested her, too, as an accomplice.”

“There was no reason to detain Miss Hammond,” Matt said stiffly.

“No reason, hell!” Virgil exploded. “She burned down that ranch—burned down my property! I was planning to put the place up for sale. Now it’s just ashes, and the land isn’t worth spit!”

“Do you have any proof she did it?” Matt spoke above the pounding in his ears.

“Proof! The place was on fire when my boys came up to look things over. They saw her riding away. Chased her all over the blamed mountain. Finally lost her in the rain! Just let me get my hands on that little bitch! I’ll show you proof, Marshal!”

“First race in five minutes!” The bullhorn call echoed down the street. People who’d lingered too long shopping and visiting rushed toward the race grounds. Virgil seemed ready to bolt with them, but Lillian lingered, her hand firmly gripping his sleeve.

“About that prowler, Marshal—” she began, but Matt cut her off.

“As long as he’s just a boy, and he’s not doing any harm, I’d say, don’t worry about him. Cover your windows at night. When he gets tired of having nothing to see, he’ll likely stop coming around.”

Lillian’s smile was artificially bright. “That sounds like sensible advice, Marshal. Thank—”

“Come on, Lil! We’ll miss the race.” Virgil’s size and momentum were dragging her away. Matt watched them go, his gut churning. At least he knew Jessie was alive. But the rest of the news was even worse than he’d feared. She was living like a hunted animal, playing hide-and-seek with some dangerous people. He had to find her and get her to the Tolliver Ranch before she took one chance too many and found herself up to her pretty ears in trouble.

His first impulse was to dash off and start scouring the mountains, but he’d done that before. This time he’d have to play it smarter, pick up her trail somehow or set a trap. Maybe he should offer to help Virgil and Lillian with their prowler after all. But right now, Matt reminded himself, he had a race to run.

There would be three qualifying quarter-mile heats before the final race. Matt had drawn the third heat, so he still had time to get to the race course. But because of Virgil and Lillian he would miss seeing the first race. As he mounted his horse, the distant gunshot, followed by wild cheering, told him that race was already over.

By the time Matt reached the racing ground, riders were lining up for the second heat. Spectators, many of whom had bets going, clustered in droves around the track. Horses milled behind them, snorting and dancing. Farther back, out of harm’s way, the bake-sale booths were set up, and families picnicked
on the grass. Where the wagons and buggies ringed the vast meadow, children played tag while horses drowsed in their traces.

There were eight riders in the second heat. Two of them would qualify for the final race. The starting gun popped, and eight horses exploded down the track. The quarter-mile race, run at breakneck speed, lasted less than half a minute. The crowd whooped as the two cowboys who’d led all the way turned and rode back down the track, grinning and waving their Stetsons.

Matt’s heat was next. Wrenching his thoughts away from Jessie, he struggled to focus on the race. He felt Copper tense with anticipation as the riders lined up. The big chestnut loved to run and seemed to know exactly what to expect.

The riders leaned forward in their saddles and took off at the starting gun. Matt gave Copper his head and let him run his race. They sailed over the finish line a half-length ahead of the second-place horse.

Matt glimpsed money changing hands as they trotted back toward the starting line. He could see Virgil at the side of the track, standing next to Lillian.

“Marshal!” Virgil called out. “How much d’you want for that horse?”

Matt forced a grin as he rode past. “I’d sooner sell my own brother—if I had a brother!”

Virgil had to be wishing he had the black stallion to race today, Matt mused. If Frank and Jessie hadn’t reclaimed the horse, this would have been a day of triumph for the Gates Ranch. Even Copper, fast as he was, would be hard put to hold his own against that four-legged bundle of black lightning. Jessie had been right to set the stallion free. No man who craved fine horses could lay eyes on the creature without wanting it. To possess such a horse, some men would kill—and some would die.

Would a man do the same for a woman? Glancing behind him, Matt saw that Virgil was resting his hand against the small of Lillian’s back. Allister had been dead for less than a fortnight, and the two of them were already showing affection in public. But that alone proved nothing. They could be sleeping in the same bed—and likely were. But that didn’t make them murderers. Except for Jessie’s version of what had happened, the evidence still pointed to Frank Hammond—or to Jessie herself.

The call went up for the final heat, the run for the money. Still preoccupied, Matt wheeled Copper into place at the starting line. Horses danced and snorted. The picnic blankets were deserted as the crowd pressed close to the track.

Struggling to focus on the race, Matt glanced up and down the line of horses and riders. On his right were the two cowboys who’d placed in the second
heat. On his left was a well-dressed older man, most likely a rancher, whose horse had finished behind Copper in the third.

The two winners of the first race, which Matt had missed, were on the far left. With the rancher and his horse blocking Matt’s view, they were more difficult to see. On the near side, he could make out a wiry, blond cowboy. In the leftmost place was a scruffy farm boy. Dressed in patched overalls and a muddy felt hat, he was mounted on a buckskin mare that seemed far too fine for such a poor lad.

Matt’s mouth went dry as he recognized the mare and the slight, bedraggled figure in the saddle. He swore under his breath.

He was looking at Jessie.

Jessie hunched lower over Gypsy’s neck, making herself as small as she could. What had possessed her to think she could ride into Sheridan, win the race, collect her prize money and gallop away without being recognized? True, she needed the cash badly, and could think of no other honest way to get it. But desperation must have clouded her judgment. Now it was too late to hide.

Nervously she pulled Gypsy back a few inches, hiding behind the two riders who separated her from Matt. She had hoped he might be busy, or at least that she’d be able to avoid him. But she should have
known better. Not only had Matt seen her—and undoubtedly recognized her—she was actually racing against him.

Tensing her body, she waited for the starter to raise his pistol. She’d held Gypsy back in the first race, deliberately coming in behind the blond cowboy. This time the mare would be running full out.

Gypsy wasn’t as fast as the black stallion, but she was fast enough. Jessie had watched the other horses run, and she felt confident her mare, a blooded quarter horse, could outrace them—all except for Matt’s superb gelding. Gypsy was as agile as a cat, but the rangy chestnut had the advantage in power and length of stride. On a longer track, Matt’s horse would soon have outpaced her. But in this short race, Jessie calculated, the mare had at least an even chance.

She could feel Matt’s gaze on her as she leaned into the stirrups, waiting. Part of her, she realized, had
wanted
to see him today, had hungered to see him. But now that he was here, she didn’t even trust herself to meet his eyes.

As if things weren’t bad enough already, she glimpsed the flutter of a black parasol and saw Virgil and Lillian standing at the edge of the track. Jessie’s heart plummeted. The pair didn’t know her well and wouldn’t recognize Gypsy. But she knew Lillian had seen her with Frank in town. If they got a good look
at her, even her cropped hair might not be enough to disguise the fact that she was Frank’s sister.

Cold sweat trickled between her flat-bound breasts as the starter pointed his pistol at the sky. Run the race, that was all she could do. She tensed, feeling Gypsy’s taut body beneath her. Then, at the sound of the shot, they were off.

The mare’s lightning start put her ahead of the other horses, but Matt’s big chestnut was moving up even with them. She could see him out of the corner of her eye as they thundered neck and neck down the quarter-mile track. Jessie pressed forward, urging the mare to a blazing gallop. But now, seconds from the finish line, the gelding was easing ahead, and Jessie knew that Gypsy had no more to give. They were going to lose the race by a nose.