Reed was almost at his side when the animal took a startled jump backward.
"That's all right, boy." Reed reached out a shaky hand, releasing a tense breath when his hand closed around the sagging reins. Throwing the reins over the nervous animal's head, Reed mounted,
then
looked unsteadily around him. Darkness was hovering at the edges of his mind. He needed to get away, quickly, before it was too late.
Reed dug his heels into the horse's sides, squinting against the pain as the animal started forward. Slumped low over his back, he allowed the animal full rein as consciousness dimmed.
Conchita walked into the rear room of the cabin, a cup of broth in her hands. It was morning and Morgan had gone outside to help with Turner. The red-haired woman was sleeping.
A mirthless smile curved Conchita's lips. Turner was having his last revenge. His body had stiffened overnight and his large bulk had become leaden. Morgan's help was needed to dispose of it. Morgan had not liked being called to such a task. He used his gun easily, but he was not accustomed to dealing with what followed.
Conchita raised her chin, recalling the pool of blood she had washed from the floor at Morgan's command. Morgan had shed that blood without flinching. She knew he had shed blood before, but it had meant little to her when she was in his arms.
A shiver of remembered rapture moved down Conchita's spine. She remembered so little when she lay in Morgan's embrace, when his clean, warm body was pressed against hers and his voice, as deep and smooth as velvet, whispered in her ear. She remembered only that he made her feel as no man had ever made her feel, and the simple sound of his voice was enough when he spoke promises of the loving times to come.
But the promises were broken. Morgan had turned cold. He had turned loving eyes to the red-haired woman instead of to her, and she knew that the pool of blood that had stained the cabin floor could just as easily have been her own.
The red- haired woman…
Conchita stood over the bed as the woman turned with a muffled word in her sleep. The wound was not severe. She had removed the bullet and had seen little damage to the surrounding flesh. The woman suffered pain and weakness, but that would soon end. And then Morgan would make her
his own
.
Conchita bore the thought with stinging pain. She had loved Morgan. She had given to him all she had to give, and she had made herself believe that he loved her.
Conchita raised her chin. He
did
love her. She was sure of it. But his love had been stolen from her by lust for white flesh he longed to touch… by red hair that dazzled his eyes… by hunger for a long, slender body unlike her own meager height and rounded curves. If not for the woman lying in front of her, Morgan would
still
love her.
If not for the woman in front of her, Morgan would love her
again
.
The woman stirred and Conchita's hand trembled. It would be so easy. The woman was so weak.
The woman opened her eyes and looked up at her. Her lips moved soundlessly for long seconds before words emerged.
"W-
who
are you?"
Conchita wanted to tell her. She wanted to say she was the woman Morgan had loved. Instead, she leaned over her and held the cup to her lips.
"You must drink if you wish to be well."
The woman refused, questioning again, "Who are you?"
Conchita considered the question. Countless responses flickered across her mind. They were all discarded, and when she responded, the bitter irony of her words silently resounded.
"I am no one."
The sun of mid-morning shone hotly on Walker's shoulders as he scrutinized the foliage along the trail. Turning toward Simmons, who was riding alongside, he spat out, "Where in hell is he? The way he pitched off that wagon, I figured he must've landed somewhere in the bushes along this stretch, but there ain't no sign of him!"
Simmons stared at him. "
There ain't no
sign of my horse, neither."
"Don't talk to me about that horse of yours! He bolted like a jackrabbit in tall grass when my horse reared. I never did see such a skittish animal. He's probably still runnin'!"
"He's a damned good horse. I
ain't never had no
trouble with him. I don't like this."
"What are you tryin' to say?"
"That damned preacher's too big to miss. The reason we can't find him is because he ain't here! I'll tell you what happened. That big fella got up, found my horse, and he's headin' for that Injun mission right now. He'll be back here with help to follow our trail."
Walker laughed. "You mean that big fella rose from the dead and mounted that horse, just so's he could ride to the Injun mission to tell the Injuns there that Injuns attacked his wagon? Well, I wish him luck!"
"He ain't dead and that ain't good!"
"He's dead, all right. We'll find him. Even if he isn't, he couldn't have wandered far. I saw the way he pitched off that wagon. He wasn't in
no
shape to catch a horse as skittish as yours, even if he did see it. He was hit and hit bad. I ain't worried about it."
"You ought to be. It ain't that preacher that's worryin' me. It's Morgan. What do you think he'll do when if we tell him we can't find that preacher's body?"
Walker's smile vanished. The memory of the grave they had dug that morning was too fresh to forget. "We're wastin' time talkin'. Like I said, even if he did get up and wander off, he couldn't get far. We're goin' to have to start scoutin' deeper. We'll find him."
"You'd better be right."
"I
am
right."
His frown belying the confidence of his words, Walker turned his mount into the foliage.
"What do you mean, you can't find him?"
Walker went silent. Morgan was livid. Walker had known he would be.
"I asked you a question."
"Like I said, we couldn't find him."
Walker took an unconscious step backward as Morgan advanced across the cabin, his step heavy with anger. "He's dead. A dead man doesn't get up and walk away."
"He ain't dead, and we couldn't find
no
trace of him. The ground was too hard to leave a trail."
"Go back and get him. He couldn't have gotten far on foot."
Simmons glanced at Walker. Morgan did not miss the look. "He isn't on foot, is he? He's got Simmons's horse."
"We don't know that he has, but we ain't been able to find either one of them."
''Stupid bastards…"
"It wasn't our fault. There's no way any of us could've known he was still alive. What's the difference, anyway? For all he knows, Injuns attacked his wagon. If he makes it as far as here, you can finish the job you started. If he goes to the Injun mission, they'll go lookin' for renegades. If they see the wagon here, we can just tell him that you brought the woman back here to care for, and that you thought the Injuns had taken Farrell off. He won't know the difference. Hell, he was shot, and after a fall like he had, he ain't likely to remember much of anythin' at all!"
"You forgot somethin'. I told Chastity he was dead."
"So? You could tell her you thought he was dead."
"I told her that we put his body in the barn."
"She probably won't remember any of it. And if she does, you can tell her that she was dreamin'. She trusts you. She thinks you're the next best thing to buttered toast. She'll believe anythin' you tell her."
"You got it all figured out, don't you?" Morgan smiled. "I'm thinkin' you puzzled it all out on the way back here for a reason’ cause you realize this whole thing is your damned fault!"
"My fault?"
Walker shook his head. "It ain't
my
fault!"
"If you would've looked for that preacher last night like I said, you could've finished him off, then and there, and we wouldn't be havin' this trouble!"
"It ain't my fault…"
"I'm not goin' to argue with you!" Turning unexpectedly toward the hook on the wall, Morgan snatched up his hat and started toward the door. "Let's go."
Walker and Simmons followed behind him.
Getting up his courage as they reached the door, Walker asked, "Where are we goin'?"
"We're goin' out to finish brandin' those steers. Bartell's already out there. We should be done by the end of the day, and then we're goin' to pack up and drive that herd out of here as fast as we can."
"What about the woman?"
"We're takin' her with us… in the wagon."
"That ain't smart."
Morgan stopped dead, a hot flush rising. "What did you say?"
Walker took a short breath. "I…
I said, that ain't smart.
When that woman's well enough, she's goin' to start talkin'."
"Right.
She'll tell everybody how the Injuns attacked the wagon and took her husband. Then the law'll go out and find him dead somewhere. Because we're goin' to make sure that if we find him on the way, we fix it that he is."
Walker nodded jerkily.
"All right.
That's good."
"You're damned right, it's good. And that's the way it's goin' to be."
Dropping behind as Morgan strode ahead toward the branding corral, Simmons whispered under his breath, "Morgan's plum lost his head over that woman. I don't know about you, but I'm headin' out as soon as that money's in my hand, and I ain't lookin' back."
"Hurry up, you two!"
Walker's head snapped up when Morgan looked back at them. "We're comin'."
Reed opened his eyes slowly. Blue sky above him… the ground beneath his back… the sound of gurgling water…
He heard a rustling nearby and sat up abruptly. His head pounding, he saw the chestnut gelding drinking leisurely at the edge of a nearby stream. He stood up slowly and looked around him.
Wilderness… no sign of habitation in sight.
The horse turned toward him as he approached, allowing him to take the reins. Securing the animal nearby, he lowered himself to his stomach on the stream's bank. He splashed his face and head liberally with the cold water,
then
washed the blood from his temple, his probing fingers ascertaining that the gash there might just as easily have taken his life.
Refreshed, his senses clearing, Reed walked back to the horse and withdrew the rifle from the leather sheath on its side. Checking the saddlebags, he found limited ammunition. He tore a piece from the beef jerky in the bottom of the bag and chewed gingerly. Still unsteady,
he cursed
his wavering steps as he walked to the top of a wooded rise.
Reed caught his breath. Stretched out below him were a cabin, a barn, and a few branding corrals… and standing a short distance from the cabin door, its bulky outline unmistakable, stood the covered wagon.
Reed's heart jumped to a sudden pounding. A crippling knife of pain stabbed simultaneously in his temple, driving him to his knees as he gripped his head, waiting for the pain to cease.
Reed took deep, fortifying breaths as the situation became clear. Semiconscious and hardly able to maintain his seat in the saddle after mounting that morning, he had allowed the gelding full rein. The animal's instinct had prevailed, and it had simply returned home. But fate had intervened, allowing him to slip from the saddle before they moved over the last rise. Trained as he was, the horse had remained close by. Ironically, he had been delivered, with no effort of his own, to a spot within walking distance from the man he had been trailing for more time than he cared to recallbut he was powerless to make his move.
Reed stared at the cabin below. There was no sign of Chastity. He drew back at a stirring of movement in the corral. Two men walked into view, a third following. And there was no mistaking Morgan or the men with him.
But where was Chastity?
The cabin door opened and a woman stepped out. She called, and Morgan started swiftly toward her. He spoke to her sharply,
then
entered the house in a rush.
His gaze fastened intently on the door, Reed held his breath. And he waited.
Seated at the side of the bed, Chastity took deep, strengthening breaths. She was determined to stand. The young woman who was looking after her had attempted to stop her, but she had warned her off. There was something about the way that woman looked at her. Her touch was gentle… but her black eyes were as cold as onyx. Her gaze sliced at her with a silent viciousness that she sensed could easily draw blood.
But she had no time for musings. She needed to regain her strength. She needed to be up so she might leave this place… so she might reach the mission somehow and find someone who would see to it that Morgan paid for what he had done.
Reed was dead…
Reed was dead…
Reed was dead…