Thirty

Houston landed on top of the dead man with a jarring thud. Stunned, he shook his head and pried Ghost’s hands from him.

Who had fired?

With smoke curling from the barrel of a pearl-handled .45, Yuma Blackstone stepped from the darkness. Moonlight shone on the scalp dangling from his belt.

Fighting to breathe through the fire in his ribs, Houston rose from atop Ghost’s body, staring at the murdering bastard. The image of Lara’s long scar with its raised, puckered ridges crossed his vision. Rage boiled. He grabbed for his Colt, remembering too late that Ghost had knocked it from his grip.

Yuma sauntered forward as sleek as a cat stalking its prey. His bald head brought to mind a sun-bleached skull. A cruel smile curled the man’s lips below the thin mustache. “I should’ve let him kill you, my friend.”

“You should have,” Houston agreed. “Because I’m going to make you suffer every bit as much as you did Lara.”

“The stinkin’ little whore was good for nothing except a moment’s pleasure.” Yuma sneered. “You should’ve heard her moan and cry and beg for more. Lara Boone wanted it.”

It took all the strength Houston had to resist the urge to lunge at him. But the deadly pistol pointed at his heart forced him to show calm. “So why cut her up if she was willing?”

Yuma gave a careless shrug and tugged on the remaining half of his ear. “I always leave my mark on women so they’ll never forget who they belong to.” Excitement colored his voice just thinking about it. “And you know how it is with them and their teasing ways. First they say yes, then they say no. The whores never know their own minds. What was I supposed to do?”

“Why are you stalking her?”

“To get her back. She belongs to me.”

No way in hell. Houston would see that never happened.

Yuma went on. “After Till Boone packed up and moved, I didn’t know where she was, until by chance I saw her at the river crossing. She belongs only to me.”

Houston’s thoughts again went to the knife in his boot. He had to get to it. He didn’t need to pretend to be in pain—it was blinding already. He grimaced and gripped his chest before dropping to one knee.

Using Ghost’s lifeless body to shield his movements, Houston managed to ease the knife from his boot. “Lara is my wife now and I don’t share.”

“I see we disagree, my friend.”

“Most definitely—in every way.” Houston gasped in pain, keeping Yuma distracted. “Why did you kill this man? I assume he was your friend.”

“He was going to steal my pleasure. You are mine. I wish to be the one to bring the sting of death!” Yuma thundered, but something else was in his eyes.

“You were afraid of Ghost,” Houston said softly as understanding dawned. A searing flame tore through his chest as he pulled himself to his feet, gripping the knife behind him. One chance was all he asked for. “You knew the giant would turn on you someday and take your life. Where’s the ruthless outlaw? You’re just a coward.”

“You’re wrong. I fear nothing.”

Houston took a measured step. “I see it in your eyes. You’re afraid of Lara’s little brother, Henry, and you feared Ghost. You also have at least one other man in your ranks capable of taking your life. From what I saw, Digger might just be man enough to kill you, in the daylight or in your sleep. He’s not afraid of you.”

With slow half steps, Houston crept toward his rival. A little closer and he would be within arm’s reach. He kept his focus on Yuma’s glittering, crazed eyes and not on the gun aimed at him. The man’s appearance showed him for the sinister bastard he was. From the thin mustache above his lip, to the shaven head, to the shot-off ear—but most of all, the ruthless smile that promised no remorse for killing.

“Ah, yes, Digger.” Yuma snorted, smoothing his mustache with one finger. “You must’ve been hiding nearby. I can handle him. If you stayed for the fight, you saw I whipped him good.”

“Always in control, right?”

“That’s right, my friend.”

“You keep using that word.” Houston took another step. “Make no mistake, you and I will never be anything more than enemies.”

“I beg to differ.” Yuma laughed. “You and me are more alike than you want to admit.”

Quiet rage colored Houston’s voice. “We are nothing alike. Not now, not ever. Are you going to shoot or talk me to death?”

“In a hurry to die, are you?”

Moonlight caught the flash of the blade as Houston lunged, slashing Yuma’s face. He had only one chance to damage Yuma enough so he couldn’t see to shoot. Houston quickly brought the knife back and ripped a long gash across the first slice, making a bloody X. The next instant, Houston grabbed Yuma’s gun. A bullet burst from the end as he wrapped his hand around the barrel and managed to shove the weapon downward. Though the heated metal burned his palm, he held tight.

Galloping horses burst upon them with the arrival of the drovers. Houston glanced up for a split second. That was all it took for Yuma to leave Houston holding the .45. The man leapt on Houston’s palomino and galloped into the blackness.

Damn it to hell!

“Clay, go after Blackstone,” Houston hollered. “He’s getting away.”

Leading the rest of the drovers, Houston ran toward Yuma’s camp, praying the outlaws hadn’t left. Thorns and brambles tore at his clothes and face. Pain knifed his ribs with each breath and his stride wasn’t as long as it needed to be. He knew he’d be dead now if Yuma hadn’t shot Ghost.

Moonlight illuminated the way across the rocks. Tall juniper rose up like silent sentinels, guarding the arid land’s secrets. Houston gripped Yuma’s six gun, taking comfort in the piece of steel. As battered and stove-up as Houston was, he’d be hard-pressed to win a fistfight. The .45 would do his fighting for him.

Every so often he’d stop to listen, but heard only the haunting silence of the windswept plains and rustle of the grasses.

At last the camp came into view. Houston’s heart sank.

They’d already pulled up stakes and lit out. So there must’ve been a back way after all.

Clutching his ribs and limping, Houston and his men returned to Ghost’s body.

“Who is this man, and what happened to you?” Pony asked.

Houston tried to straighten to his full height but the pain was too great. Bent over and gasping for air, he told them about his fight with Ghost and the chat with Yuma. “By all rights, I shouldn’t be here.”

Virgil put his arm around him. “I’m glad you are. I wouldn’t want the job of telling Lara her husband is dead.”

Clay galloped up and Houston told the story again.

“Glad you sliced the bastard’s face,” Clay said. “Let’s get you back to camp.”

“My Colt. It landed somewhere in the brush,” Houston said.

“I’ll find it,” Virgil said. “Take my horse. I’ll ride double with one of the others.”

“Thanks.” Houston bit his lip against the agony and settled into the saddle. Counting his blessings, he rode slowly toward the herd. With every step the roan took, he let out a string of curses.

He wished to hell he wasn’t in so much misery. The need to have Yuma Blackstone dead burned inside a devil’s fire.

For two cents, he’d go back and finish the job. Dammit to hell!

Next time he wouldn’t fail.

* * *

Lara walked away from the campfire and stared into the darkness in the direction Houston had ridden, as she’d done so often the last hour. But the expanse remained empty and silent except for Frank Farley’s snores. The men had left him bound in his bedroll.

She sighed and drew her shawl tightly around her. Movement at the Ledbetters’ tent drew her attention. For over thirty minutes, she watched women traipse back and forth from the high-topped wagon to Hiram, sitting outside the tent. Each would give him a good-night kiss and an embrace.

A light dawned. They were sharing Hiram, of all things.

Lara clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle the giggle. So that’s why they named all their boy babies Hiram. He was the father to all their children—all eight. She’d heard her father once speak about a man like Hiram in the town of Amarosa. Maybe it wasn’t that uncommon.

She knew one thing—she was not going to share Houston with anyone. He was hers.

It had to be close to midnight, but she wasn’t going to bed until she knew he was safe. She twisted the hem of her apron into a knot, matching the one in her stomach.

Tonight she’d decided to do more than lie in his arms, but maybe her courage had come too late. Maybe he wouldn’t come back to her.

Maybe she was a widow. A frightened sob escaped her.

Caroline walked from her wagon to join her. “I couldn’t sleep. I’m so worried about Nick. Do you mind if I wait with you?”

Lara put her arm around the girl. “Honey, I don’t mind a bit. In fact, I’d love the company.”

“Thanks. I just didn’t want to be alone.” Caroline motioned toward the Ledbetters’ tent. “What do you think about that? I’ve been watching and every last one of those women gave Hiram a kiss and hug before going to bed. And Sarah stayed. The light just went out.”

“They don’t appear to sleep with him at the same time.” A giggle slipped out. “At least I hope not. But yes, I noticed too.”

Caroline drew herself up. “I’ll kill any woman who tries that with my Nick.”

“It must be a very strange feeling to see another woman with your husband. I’m not judging, but I couldn’t live that life.”

“The only thing I’d share would be my fist.” Firelight reflected Caroline’s seething anger. Lara imagined the young girl would be quite a handful in a fight.

She drew the newlywed toward the fire. “Want some coffee, dear? We need to make some for the men anyway.”

“I’ll help you. Gives us something to do besides wait and worry.”

“That it does. Seems like I spend half my time suspended between reality and the unknown.” Lara opened the coffee while Caroline filled the pot with water.

After nestling the pot amid the low flames, they sat down beside each other.

“Do you think our men are all right?” Caroline asked.

“Yes, I do.” Because to let herself imagine the worst would drive her insane. Lara stared out into the darkness, praying no harm would come to the men. She knew those guarding them beyond the light waited as well, hoping for the same thing.

Caroline scooted closer. “I’m glad we have this chance to talk. Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“I don’t mind at all. What is it?”

“How long does it take to get pregnant? Nick and I have been trying night and day ever since we got married and I don’t think it’s working.”

Lara hoped the shadows hid her red face. She had no earthly idea. With her, it had only taken the once. But she couldn’t reveal how little she knew—it would kill her to have the young girl know more than she did at twenty-one. She had to sound wise even if the information was false.

“Uh, I’m not real sure, honey.” Her face burned with embarrassment. “It seems to depend. Every woman is different. You shouldn’t worry. Give yourself three months at least before you start fretting about it. There’s no rush.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with me? Maybe that’s it.”

“Absolutely not.” Lara patted her hand. “This seems very premature. You just got married. Try to wipe it from your mind. That’s the best thing.” After a moment, she added, “A watched pot never boils.”

“But what if there is something wrong? I’ll die if I can’t have our two boys and two girls.”

“Caroline, listen to yourself. Don’t borrow trouble.”

“I’m trying not to.” The young girl moved closer to whisper, “Nick can’t last very long. He gets inside and the next thing I know he’s already done. Maybe there’s something wrong with him. I hate to ask, but is Mr. Legend like this?”

Lara jumped to her feet. She couldn’t have this conversation. She couldn’t even ask her own burning questions of the Ledbetter women when it had come down to it. Though they’d spoken briefly of love, she just couldn’t voice her concerns. How would she know what’s common in lovemaking?

“I think I hear something. Do you?” She was desperate to change the subject.

Caroline cocked her head. “Nope.”

“Okay. Guess I made a mistake. Want some leftover cobbler? I’m starving.” Lara strode to the chuck wagon’s drop-down table where she’d left the dessert. She’d do anything to get Caroline’s mind off that uncomfortable subject.

“Cobbler sounds good.” Caroline rose and joined her.

For the next half hour, they ate their fill of the delicious dessert. Lara gave thanks that the conversation didn’t return to pregnancy or lovemaking.

Finally, she caught the sound of horses and men talking low. Minutes later, the group of drovers materialized and her heart lurched.

Something was wrong. Houston slumped in the saddle, and there was no sign of the palomino he’d ridden out on.

With cold fear racing through her veins, she ran to him and touched his leg. “Tell me what happened.”

Houston glanced down. She couldn’t see his eyes but heard the suffering that rendered his strong voice to barely above a whisper. “Lara, darlin’, now don’t be mad. Just…stove-up…a bit.”

She stood aside while he dismounted then put her arm around his waist and walked him to a blanket. Biting back a low oath, he lay down.

Clay took her aside. “Had a vicious fight with one of them outlaws, ma’am. Might’ve injured his ribs. Just pretty banged up all over, best I can tell.”

“Thank you for getting him back here, Clay. Now excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

While the men removed Houston’s vest and torn, bloody shirt, she filled a bowl with water and grabbed a cloth. She never knew when the drovers left, only suddenly, she was alone with her husband. She ran her fingers over his chest and along each rib. Angry redness and swelling covered one side of his rib cage where a bruise was already forming. It would be as black as coal come morning. Scores of other similar marks marred his skin. Blood that didn’t continue to leak was drying everywhere.

“Oh, Houston, you promised.” She struggled to still her quavering voice and not let him see her worry.

Houston lifted a finger to her cheek and attempted a grin. “I kept my vow. I stayed alive…for you.”

Unshed tears filled her eyes. He meant more to her than her own life. Houston Legend was her North Star that always guided her to safety. Without him, she’d be lost and alone, crashing against jagged rocks.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she spoke. “I can’t feel anything broken but I’m not a doctor. Likely your ribs are only cracked and bruised.”

But it was the nasty, still-oozing cut across his throat that made her quickly swallow a sob before it escaped. A little deeper and he’d have died. She’d come so close to losing him forever. She gently cleaned the injury and kissed it, very thankful the cut wasn’t worse. He would carry a scar, though, no matter how well it healed.

“Tell me what else hurts.”

He raised his scraped knuckles. “Here.”

She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed each knuckle.

“Here.” He indicated a long, ugly scratch along his bicep.

Lara left a trail of kisses up and down the scratch. She liked playing this game.

“Here.” He pointed to his split lip.

Bending, she gently placed her lips to his, being careful not to hurt him.

After a long kiss, she washed blood from his body and tended the multitude of cuts, scrapes, and scratches. He looked as though he’d fought a grizzly and come back a bloody mess. But he was her bloody mess.

Bits of her earlier conversation with the Ledbetter wives flooded back.

“A woman in love can’t bear to be apart from her husband. He’s all she thinks about,” Ruth had told her. “Each time he steps within eyesight my pulse races, heart pounds, and palms become sweaty. You simply know.”

Hannah had added softly, “I knew when mine kissed me and stood up for me against spiteful people who spread their hate. I will stand by his side, no matter what comes.”

“Imperfections don’t matter when you’re in love,” Sarah had said. “Everyone has flaws. Love is wholly accepting someone.”

Suddenly, Lara knew what the strange butterflies, yearnings, and constant thoughts meant.

She was in love with Houston Legend—bruises, blood, and all.