Desperate Hearts (15 page)

“
Wait a minute,” he said.
“Didn’t you tell me that Hank led that group—the Moonlighters, the
Moonshiners?”

“
The
Midnighters.”

“
Right. Isn’t it possible
that if the Midnighters were a real threat to the vigilantes they
would’ve wanted Hank out of the way?”

Her head came up at this suggestion, as if
she were drowning and he had thrown her a rope. “Well, maybe.”

“
Sure, no maybe about it.
One of the best ways to weaken or even destroy a group is to take
away its leader.”

“
I guess that could be
true, couldn’t it?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his
arms over his chest. “Hell, yes, it could.”

She looked almost relieved. “I’ve relived
that afternoon every single night in my dreams. It has always
seemed like my fault.” Then her face clouded over again. “No—Tom
killed Hank because of me.”

“
You said that Hardesty
pestered you for years—why didn’t your old man do something about
it?” he asked, sipping his own coffee.

She glanced at the floor again. “I never
told him. It wasn’t something I could talk about.”

He put the cup down and put his elbows on
the table. “God, girl, why not? If I were your father, I would have
taken that mean son of a bitch out to the barn and strapped him
until he learned some respect and decency.”

Shaking her head, she kept her eyes lowered.
“No. It wouldn’t have done any good to say anything.”

“
Why?”

Kyla didn’t answer. She only shook her head
again.

Jace considered everything she’d told him
and came to a single conclusion. Tom Hardesty had taken too much
from her, all of it important—her freedom to be a woman, her right
to choose the man she would give her virginity to, her husband, her
home and security, and very nearly her life. Hell, he may have even
intimidated her father. She was right. Jail wasn’t bad enough for
someone like him. The ghost of a pale, frightened woman in the
Bluebird Saloon rose in his mind.

“
What do you want me to do,
Kyla?” he asked finally, already knowing what her answer would
be.

She looked at him dead on. “I want you to
make him to pay.”

He let his gaze rest on her set face. She
had told him that more than once since they met in Silver City. But
this time there was no mistaking her implication—he could not
assume that she meant anything else.

He nodded, once. “All right. I’ll do
it.”

* * *

Revenge.

The promise of revenge, it turned out, was
powerful medicine. Over the next couple of days, Kyla’s memory of
Many Braids chanting over her became more intangible. It had seemed
so real, but maybe Jace was right: her fevered mind had provided
her with an elaborate hallucination. She knew now that it must have
been her need for retaliation that had brought her back from the
brink of death.

Now her strength flowed back into her. When
she looked in the mirror, she saw a face with healthier color. The
purplish circles under her eyes were fading. And thanks to Chloe
McGuire’s embroidery scissors, even her hair looked a little
better.

Mrs. DeGroot continued to bring their food
to them, but Kyla always made sure she was upstairs before Jace
opened the door to the woman. He said that she had done everything
short of walking in unannounced, so piqued was her curiosity, and
Kyla did not want the woman to see her. Misfortune might be off the
regular wagon roads and trails, but they were not out of danger.
Tom Hardesty would keep looking for her, and she knew that Jace was
right—the fewer who knew the truth of her identity the better.

More than anything else, though, Kyla didn’t
feel quite so alone in the world now. Jace grasped the core of her
anger. He had an idea of the depth of her loss and violation, at
least enough to understand her grudge.

Her partnership with him was an unlikely
one, she admitted to herself. They were not friends, but they had
more than just a business agreement. He had saved her life.
Although he was probably one of the most dangerous men in the
territory, she didn’t fear him as much as before, and that was a
relief.

Now and then she wondered about the man
behind the notoriety. He never talked about himself, so aside from
his name and reputation, he was a mystery to her. Nothing seemed to
matter to him, nothing much moved him from his cool detachment. She
knew the reason for the shell around her own heart. But his?

He revealed part of the answer on the
afternoon following her haircut. She still wore her sling, but now
she was well enough to dress in her new clothes and spend the whole
day downstairs in the chilly kitchen. The shirt he’d bought her was
too big, but it hid her curves better than her old one had. The day
was cold, hinting at a hard winter to come. After Jace threw some
firewood into the stove, they sat at the kitchen table, and she
watched him clean and oil the Henry.

He carefully polished every bit of the blued
barrel, almost lovingly, Kyla thought. His shirtsleeves were rolled
back to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with dark
hair. He had nice hands, she noted, strong hands, broad and
deep-shadowed across the knuckles, with long, dexterous fingers.
The smell of gun grease wafted through the kitchen.

“
I’ve never seen a man so
particular about his weapons,” she remarked, tucking her feet up on
the chair seat. “I still think you’d want something newer, like a
Winchester or a Remington.”

He kept his eyes on the rifle. “This Henry
and I go back a long way. It’s gotten me out of a number of
scrapes.” He turned the flannel polishing cloth. “Besides, a man
doesn’t trade a wife for a new model, why should he do it with his
guns?”

What a peculiar comparison, she thought. Was
it possible that a man like Jace Rankin was married? Vague
disappointment nudged her. “I guess your wife is glad to know
that.”

His face registered mild
horror. “
I’m
not
married. I’ve drifted too long to settle down.” He screwed the
brass cap back on the grease tube. He looked up at her and Kyla
felt a wave of heat roll through her. Those blue eyes . . . He
added, “Anyway, this isn’t the kind of work that lets a man come
home at sundown for a home-cooked dinner with the family, you
know.”

“
No, I suppose not.” Oddly
relieved, she felt sorry for him, too. Being alone in the world was
too hard; she’d had a healthy taste of it herself. She rolled a
cleaning rod to his side of the table. “How did you get started in
bounty hunting?”

He tipped a look at her, but kept to his
polishing. “You’re full of questions this afternoon, aren’t
you?”

She hitched one shoulder. “I was just
wondering. After all, I don’t imagine that many boys tell
themselves, ‘I want to be a bounty hunter when I grow up.’ They’ll
say a sheriff, maybe, or a marshal. Or they’ll follow in their
father’s footsteps on family farms or businesses.”

“
I wasn’t about to do
that,” he muttered, a shadow of profound bitterness coloring his
words. “I wanted to get away from my old man.” After a pause he
added, “And I guess I wanted a reputation that would make people
think twice before they crossed me.”

“
Well, you’ve got that,”
Kyla said, curious about the reason for that desire but afraid to
ask. “I’ve envied it a little. Sometimes I wished that I could make
people fear me just by walking down the street.”

The flannel square froze a moment under his
hand, then continued on. “It was all right. For a while,
anyway.”

Idly, she picked up the gun grease and
turned it between her fingers. “No one is afraid of Kyle, but at
least he gives me more independence than I have as a woman. It’s
easier to fade into the background as a boy.”

He eyed her shrewdly. “Be careful you don’t
lose your true self to the disguise. It’s a dangerous game you’re
playing.”

She sighed and pushed the tube away. “I
didn’t want to look like this but Pa— Oh, men can’t begin to
understand what it’s like to be at the mercy of anyone who’s
bigger.”

He glanced up. “You don’t think so, huh?”
The expression on his handsome face made her blink. His eyes
reflected the jaded experience of an old man’s lifetime. “I know
all about it.”

“
You do?”

He held up the rifle barrel and peered down
its length. “When I was young, taller kids always wanted to push me
around. There are people who can’t resist tormenting someone
smaller. I got the shit beat out of me more than a few times. I was
an easy target for them.” His words trailed off to a mumble. “When
I finally strapped on a gun belt, it didn’t matter that they were
bigger.”

That was a revelation. Jace Rankin seemed
like the kind of man who had brimmed with self-confidence and
authority even in childhood. Who would want to tangle with him?
Kyla shook her head. “Children can be so cruel.”

“
My stepfather wasn’t any
better. In fact, he was worse.”

Kyla sat up in her chair. “God, why?
How?”

“
It was a long time ago
now. I don’t think about it anymore.”

She pressed on. “Your stepfather beat you?
Just because you were shor—because you weren’t tall?”

He stood up suddenly, startling her with the
abrupt anger that flashed in his ice blue gaze. “You’re asking too
many questions that are none of your goddamned business,” he
snapped and leaned toward her. Towering over her like that, he
seemed enormous. It was like hearing a wolf snarl, warning her that
she had come too close. A surge of fear flooded her, and her heart
clenched in her chest. Then in a cooler tone, he continued tightly,
“I’m going out to check the horses. If anyone knocks on the door,
don’t answer it. Just go upstairs.” He pounded out the back door
and down the steps, the Henry resting against his strong
shoulder.

Drawing a shaky breath, she went to the
window and touched her hand to the cold glass, watching as he
crossed the yard to the shop. He scanned the area once, his head up
as if he sniffed the very air for danger.

Unwittingly, Kyla had touched a raw nerve in
him that made him rear. It was as though a door to his soul opened
just briefly, giving her a glimpse of some private hell before it
slammed shut again. Now she felt that she knew even less about him
than before. But then a new suspicion rose in her mind.

Maybe it wasn’t courage that made Jace seem
so brave.

Maybe it was fear.

* * *

In the chill musty gloom of the blacksmith
shop, Jace leaned against a rough post and jammed a hand through
his hair. From her roost in the corner, a cranky hen glared at him
with malevolent beady eyes and squawked to shoo him away from her
babies. The puffs of yellow down cheeped along excitedly, adding to
the racket.

“
Oh, shut up!” he ordered,
and took one menacing step toward the hen, bringing his boot down
hard on the packed earth floor. “I don’t need your opinion.” The
squawking subsided, but the dirty looks did not.

Flopping on a nearby stool, he released a
breath and leaned his rifle against the rough-sawn wall. He’d had
to get out of the house before he said more than he intended.

After all these years, he had thought the
raging bitterness to be long dead, the hatred dulled to
indifference. Yet it had come boiling to the surface, there in
kitchen, prompted by Kyla’s questions. They were innocent enough
but he should have stopped her sooner. And with less bite, he
supposed, thinking of the way she had flinched. But years ago he
had made it a point to avoid thinking about his youth and the
events that ultimately led him to his place in life. In the
process, he had learned to shut off nearly all of his emotions, and
that suited him just fine.

If Lyle Upton were alive, he would probably
be pleased about it, too. Jace regretted that. It meant Lyle had
succeeded. At least he’d stopped himself from telling Kyla about
him.

So she envied his ability to arouse fear in
people on sight? It was a skill that he’d cultivated and honed to
an art, thanks to Lyle. He couldn’t deny its usefulness. But he had
begun to realize its drawbacks, too.

He glanced around the abandoned shop, and
his eyes touched briefly on its cold forge and dry water trough.
The smell of rust and old metal were strong here. Of all places to
seek refuge, he thought, appreciating the irony. He felt uneasy in
any blacksmith shop—they all reminded him of his stepfather.

He never spoke of the man, but in the
kitchen he had been about to blab his whole sorry tale to Kyla,
like some whining crybaby. The words had formed so quickly, so
easily. Maybe because he’d felt comfortable sitting at the table
with her, incredible as it was to believe.

He found himself inexplicably drawn to
her—she prowled his thoughts and dreams. He supposed it might be
because he admired her courage; not every woman could do what she
had done. And beneath her thorny surface he detected a rose, a core
of simple goodness that attracted him like a fire on a cold night.
Basic decency was not something he encountered very often.

He liked talking to her. That was a true
rarity for him. Few of the people he dealt with had much to say
that he wanted to hear. But a man could get tired of the sound of
his own voice in his head.

He’d spent a lot of time over the years
listening to himself think. Listening to the rain. Listening to the
wind wear down the rocks. They were the sounds of being alone.
Kyla’s smoky sweet voice was a welcome change.

Then there were those other things about
her, womanly things: the way she smelled, like new-cut grass, those
big turquoise eyes, the soft curves of her that were no longer
stifled by her clothes. Her boy’s rigging now seemed like flimsy
camouflage, and he wondered how he’d ever been fooled.