Wyoming Woman (6 page)

Rachel exhaled slowly and allowed the strained conversation to slip into silence. She did not trust her self to ask the question that was screaming in her mind. It was horrific enough, the acts that had been committed against a helpless sheepherder. But what if the old man were to die of his injuries? Then the crime that Luke, in his disgust, had called boyish mischief would become a crime of murder.

The rain was pouring around them now in a steady drizzle. Rachel could scarcely remember when it had begun to fall. The lamb in her arms shuddered itself awake and began to struggle, bleating for its mother. The jangle of sheep's bells echoed through the dark ness.

“How much longer?” Rachel raised her voice above the sound. She was cold and wet and sore, and she wanted nothing more than to leave this man who had opened the door into a world of nightmares. She wanted to be home, with her parents and her brothers. She wanted to hold each one of them in her arms and forget this miserable day had ever happened.

“Not much longer.” Luke's answer, coming so long after her question, startled her. “Look ahead. You can see the light.”

Struggling with the lamb, Rachel leaned to one side and peered around Luke's broad shoulder. Through the rainy darkness, her straining eyes caught a glim
mer of light. Soon, she thought. Soon there would be food and warmth and an end to this interminable ride.

The dogs had caught the scent of home. They raced ahead, hurrying the tired sheep. Luke nudged the horse to a brisk trot, but the animal needed no urging. Mud splattered under its hooves as it surged into the darkness. Strands of wet hair whipped Rachel's face as she clung to Luke's silent back.

They passed beneath the shadow of a high gate, but Rachel could see little of the buildings that lay beyond. The light they had seen appeared to be coming from a single window in the low, dark house. Nothing moved within that small square of brightness, but as the sheep swept across the yard, the gate to a fenced pasture swung open. Rachel glimpsed a stocky figure in a woolen poncho and wide-brimmed sombrero standing at the gatepost.

When the dogs had driven the last sheep into the pasture, the man closed the gate and slipped the latch, then turned and limped toward the horse. Rain dripped off the brim of his sombrero, blurring his face as he stood in the mud, gazing up at Luke and Rachel.

“Déme el cordero, señorita.”
His voice was young. His hands reached upward.

Rachel hesitated, unsure of what he wanted.

“Give him the lamb, Rachel,” Luke said quietly. “He'll take care of it now.”

With a sigh, Rachel eased her wiggling burden into the young man's arms. Her nose tested the air for the welcoming aromas of coffee and hot food. Luke had said there would be a meal waiting, but she could
smell nothing except the rain and the pungent odor of wet animals.

No womanly figure had emerged onto the porch with a lamp. No children had come tumbling out of the house to run to their father's arms. Rachel felt a bewildering surge of relief. She'd been wrong, or so it seemed, in assuming that Luke was married. But why should that make any difference to her? He was not one of her conquests. She did not even like him, let alone love him. Why should she care a fig whether he had a wife or not?

Luke and the young man were conversing in Spanish. The words meant nothing to Rachel but she found herself straining to hear every nuance of their tone and expression. Rain dripped off the wide straw brim of the young man's sombrero as he stood in the mud with the lamb cradled in his arms. A lightning flash revealed a square face with deep-set eyes and blunt features. From beneath the sombrero, straight black hair hung in lank strings. Muddy water pooled around his bare feet.

Luke's voice cracked with strain. His questions were urgent, demanding. The young man answered him quietly, his eyes dark and liquid through the misty rain. Watching them, Rachel felt invisible, like an outsider staring at a scene through a glass windowpane. This was their world—Luke's world. She was not part of it, nor did she wish to be.

They finished speaking. Cradling the lamb, the young man turned and walked back toward the house. The two dogs trotted after him like shadows.

Luke swung his weary mount toward the looming outline of the barn. Rachel waited for him to say something to her, but he had fallen silent, almost as if he had forgotten she was there, sitting behind him on the horse. Unaccustomed to being ignored, she cleared her throat and spoke.

“Luke?”

He stirred as if she had awakened him from a dream.

“What's happening?” she demanded. “What were the two of you talking about for so long?”

The whisper of the rain filled the silence between them as he guided the horse through the open door of the barn. They passed into a warm darkness, filled with the soft stirrings of animals in their stalls and the familiar smells of hay and manure.

Letting go of the saddle, Rachel slid off the horse's rump and dropped to the straw. Her legs quivered beneath her as she willed herself to stand erect and thrust her face up toward him through the deep shadows.

“I realize I don't belong here,” she said. “But after all that's happened this afternoon, I believe I have a right to know what's going on.”

Luke swung out of the saddle. He moved slowly, almost painfully, as if he had aged twenty years in the time since he'd last mounted the horse. Rachel could hear the sound of his harsh breathing in the darkness. His tall, craggy silhouette loomed above her as she stood waiting, holding her ground.

“The man who came out to meet us is Sebastian, Miguel's older son,” he said. “He told me that just an hour ago—” Luke sucked in his breath as if gathering his strength. “An hour ago, his father died.”

L
uke heard the sharp intake of her breath. She swayed toward him as if she were about to collapse, but when he reached out and caught her elbow to steady her, she twisted away and stumbled backward, falling against a wagon loaded with straw.

Sheet lightning glimmered through the open door of the barn, transfixing her pale face and wildly tangled hair with an eerie blue light. Her eyes were huge, as if she had just received a terrible shock and was about to burst into racking sobs.

To Luke, this show of emotion was both puzzling and disturbing. The news of Miguel's death should have evoked no more than a murmur of polite sympathy from this cattleman's pampered daughter. The old man meant nothing to her. She could not possibly understand what a crushing blow his loss would be to his sons, to the ranch and to Luke himself.

What was happening here? Could the woman know more than she had told him? Luke was too weary to even think about the possibilities.

Steadying her weight against the wagon, she pushed herself fully erect. One hand passed across her face, her small fingers raking back the sodden tangle of her hair. When she looked up at Luke again, the expression of panic was gone. Her features had rearranged themselves into a mask of composure. Only her eyes, illuminated by the storm outside, showed traces of shock and fear.

“I'm…truly sorry for what happened,” she said in a shaky voice. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Not likely.” Luke bent and unfastened the cinch, then lifted the saddle off the horse and laid it over the side of a stall. “Just stay out of the way until I can see clear to get you home.”

“I know the way!” She was too eager, he thought, too frantic. “Give me a fresh horse, and I'll leave now!”

Her words were lost in a violent thunderclap that shook the ground beneath their feet. The sky split open to let loose a deluge of rain. Water streamed in solid gray curtains from the eaves of the barn. She flashed Luke an anxious glance in the darkness. He shook his head. It was no secret that he would be relieved to have her gone. But no one could be turned out in such a storm.

Hands moving swiftly, he slipped off the buckskin's bridle and turned the horse into its stall. Sebastian, he noticed, had left some oats and fresh water for the hungry animal. Even in the face of tragedy and grief, there were chores to do, animals to tend. Life continued—thank heaven for that, Luke thought.
But without Miguel's humor and wisdom, life would not be the same.

“Give me a towel. I'll rub him down.” Rachel's voice startled him out of his reverie. He glanced toward her, startled by her offer.

“I grew up on a ranch, remember?” she said. “I probably know more about horses than you do. Give me a towel.”

He tossed her a clean cotton rag. “Here. Make yourself useful.”

She caught the rag deftly, then turned away without a word. He could hear her breathing in the darkness of the stall as she began rubbing the water from the buckskin's wet coat. It was a decent thing to do, offering her help, Luke thought. Under different circumstances, he could have almost liked her for it. But he didn't want to like her. Especially not now.

“They'll be needing you in the house,” she said. “Go on, do what you need to. I'll be fine here.”

A protest sprang to Luke's lips, but he bit it back as he realized she was right. Sebastian and Ignacio would need his support, and Rachel's presence would only be an intrusion. For now, at least, it would be better if she remained in the barn.

“I'll be back as soon as I can,” he said, turning to go.

“Take your time. I'm all right.” Her voice came out of the darkness of the stall. She was not all right, Luke knew. She was cold, wet, hungry and exhausted, but right now he had even more pressing concerns.

Thrusting her from his thoughts, he strode out into
the stormy night. The single lamp, set in the kitchen window, flickered through the pouring rain as he slogged his way across the muddy yard. With each step his heart grew heavier. He ached for Sebastian and Ignacio's loss. And he ached for his own.

Luke had never known his father. His half Cherokee, half Cajun mother had been a servant in one of the great homes of Baton Rouge. When it became evident that the pretty sixteen-year-old was with child, she'd been dismissed and shunted back to her family in the bayou. “You got highborn blood in your veins, boy,” Luke's mother had told him more than once. But that was all she would say about the man who had sired him.

Luke had been fifteen when his mother and grandparents had died of yellow fever. With no family to hold him, he had drifted like a piece of wreckage caught in the muddy torrent of the Mississippi. As he struggled to survive, two dubious talents had emerged—a gift for winning at games of cards and dice, and a rugged, sensual magnetism that attracted women of all classes. It was this second gift that had ultimately led to his downfall.

After the time in prison, it had taken five years of hard labor in the mines before he had enough money to buy a herd of sheep and four dogs from a Colorado rancher. Miguel and his two sons had worked for the rancher. They had hired on to help Luke move the sheep to Northern Wyoming, then stayed to become part of his ranch.

Luke had been grateful to find competent herders.
Only after months of riding behind the dogs, staying up nights for spring lambing, fighting drought, fire, coyotes, disease and cattle ranchers, did Luke realize that Miguel, Sebastian and Ignacio Montoya had become his family.

For Luke, the inhuman attack on Miguel had been like an attack on his own father. He had hoped the old man was strong enough to recover from the beating—told himself that he
was
recovering. But that was not to be. Miguel was gone. And the murdering bastards who'd killed him were as free as meadowlarks.

Bracing himself for the shock of death, he mounted the porch. The dogs—three collies and a big, surly mongrel—were huddled beneath the jutting eave. They raised their heads as Luke passed, but did not spring up to greet him as they usually did. The sensitive animals seemed to understand what had happened and, in their own quiet way, were grieving for their old friend.

The kitchen was cold and silent. The dying glow of dark-red coals glinted through the grate of the stove, casting eerie shadows on the walls and ceiling. Luke followed the dim flicker of lantern light down the hallway to the bedroom where Miguel's sons had kept their death vigil. He should have been here, too, Luke lashed himself. But someone had been needed to bring in the remaining sheep for shearing, and so he had taken two dogs and gone out onto the range. He had returned late, with an unwanted guest, at the worst of times.

Luke's throat tightened as he stepped into the bed room. The boys had done their best. They had laid their father's body out in the plain, clean work clothes that were the best he had. They had combed his unruly bush of iron-gray hair and crossed his work-roughened hands like a saint's across his chest. But the bruises could not be hidden. Hideous blotches of blue, red and purple covered his once-handsome features like a smashed and swollen mask.

Choking on his own grief, Luke touched the rigid hands with his fingertips. At first light, while the boys dug the grave, he would build a rude coffin from the planks in the wood shed. Then they would bury the old man on the hill behind the house, where golden poppies and spires of Indian paintbrush would cover his grave in the springtime. It wasn't much of a memorial, but under the circumstances, it was the best they could do.

“I will kill them for this.” Ignacio, Miguel's fiery younger son, spoke in Spanish from the shadows be yond the bed. “What they did to my father, I will do to them, one by one. I will show them no mercy. Honor demands it.”

Luke gazed into the youth's blazing eyes, under standing his pain but all too aware of where such angry words could lead. “Your father would want you to live, Ignacio,” he said softly. “He would never ask you to throw your life away for something that can't be changed.”

“But the honor of our family—”

“There's no honor in a wasted death.” Luke's voice rasped with anger too tightly reined. “We can honor your father's memory by not giving in to the bastards who killed him. That's what he would have wanted.”

“And what about justice?” The young man's voice was razor-edged, his eyes like two hot coals in the darkness. “Who will give us justice? The law?
Que chiste!
I spit on the law!”

Luke gazed across Miguel's deathbed at the fiery eighteen-year-old boy who reminded him so much of himself at that age. Was Ignacio destined to make the same kind of mistakes, maybe worse? Not if he could help it, Luke vowed. It was up to him, now, to look out for Miguel's sons and keep them safe. He owed that much to his old friend.

Sebastian had come inside and was standing quietly in the bedroom doorway. Luke glanced toward him, then back at Ignacio, feeling the weight of what he was about to say.

“Listen to me, both of you,” he said. “I swear to you, Sebastian and Ignacio, that if you promise to respect the law, I will find your father's murderers and bring them to justice. Whatever it takes—I swear it on my life.”

“And on the grave of our father.” Ignacio's voice was a hoarse whisper in the darkness.

Luke gazed down into the old man's bloodied and battered face. “On his grave,” he rasped, choking back tears. “I swear it.”

 

Rachel had finished rubbing down the horse. Now she huddled in the darkness of the barn, wet, shivering and hungry.

Luke had said he would come back. But either he had been delayed or he had simply forgotten about her. Either way, she was growing more miserable by the minute.

She should saddle a fresh horse and leave, she thought. That would be the smart thing to do. Taking her chances in the storm was a less terrifying prospect than walking into that house of mourning with no idea of how much Luke had revealed about her.

Were any members of her family tied to the old man's murder? Rachel's stomach clenched as the faces of her father and brothers flashed through her mind. Kind faces. Loving faces. She could not imagine any of them beating an old man, burning his wagon and leaving him near death. The whole idea was unthinkable.

Driven by desperation, she seized Luke's saddle. Her injured shoulder throbbed as she dragged it down from the stall where he'd left it. A pinto with the scruffy look of a wild-caught mustang, was munching hay in a nearby stall. The horse appeared strong enough to carry her through the storm. All she had to do was get the saddle on it and—

Rachel stopped herself in midmotion. Running away would resolve nothing. Dangerous as it might be, she needed to get into the house, to learn all she could about what had happened and what Luke and the old man's sons were planning to do.

To accomplish that, she would have to play sweet and innocent, to win their confidence. If such a masquerade made her feel lower than a snake's belly, so be it. She owed that much to her family.

And she owed it to her family to reserve judgment, Rachel reminded herself. There were two sides to every story, and she had heard only Luke's. The stubborn sheep man had crossed a lot of lines. She could only imagine what he might have done to bring so much anger down upon his own head.

Quivering with fatigue, she hefted the saddle back onto the side of the stall. If only things were that simple, she thought. Days, even hours ago, they might have been. But now a man had died. The hands that had battered his aging body had committed murder.

Outside, the rain fell like a beaded curtain across the open entrance to the barn. She groped in the darkness for a slicker but found nothing that could protect her. Hesitating, she sighed. What did such a small thing matter when a man was dead and the land she loved had become a battleground?

Icy pellets of water stung her skin like buckshot as she plunged into the storm and splashed her way across the yard. Through streaks of rain she could see the zigzag line of the fence and, beyond it, the pale, shifting forms of sheep.

The house lay off to the right, a low, sprawling shape with an overhanging roof. Turning, Rachel sprinted toward it. As she mounted the split log steps to the porch the four dogs that had taken shelter there raised their heads. The two that recognized her
thumped their tails, but the largest animal, sensing a stranger, sprang to its feet, growling.

“Easy…it's all right, boy,” Rachel whispered, soothing the dog as she edged across the porch. With every step, she prayed the door would be unlocked. When the latch yielded to the pressure of her hand, her knees all but buckled with relief. With the dog dancing toward her on stiffened legs, she made a narrow opening, stumbled into the darkness of the house and shoved the door closed behind her.

For a long moment she pressed her back against the sturdy planks. The sound of her racing heart filled her ears, like a drumbeat in the silence. Her legs quivered, threatening to collapse beneath her. Only the thought of the dog outside kept her from turning tail and fleeing back to the barn.

The room was dark, but she could see well enough to make out a wooden table and a counter where plates, bowls and cups were stacked. Against the wall stood a large iron stove, the fire in its belly burned down to coals that glimmered through the mica panes.

The kitchen and sitting area, with its massive stone fireplace, appeared to take up the front part of the house. Leading to the back was a narrow hallway. As Rachel moved cautiously toward the entrance, she could see a dim light coming from one of the rooms and hear the subdued murmur of men's voices, speaking in Spanish.

Rachel drew back, almost choking on the sudden tightness in her throat. No, she could not walk down that hallway. She could not walk into that room and
face the horror and hatred she knew she would find inside. There had to be another way, a wiser way.

Heart pounding, she returned to the dark kitchen. In the wake of the old man's death, no one had tended the fire in the stove, warmed a meal or made coffee. That much, at least, she could do.