Explaining Herself (13 page)

Victoria did not approve of what little she knew about prostitution, but the memory of touching her tongue to Ross Laramie's mouth
—of how quickly she had started to forget, well,
everything
in his arms—flustered her with thoughts about not casting stones.

Still, little though she respected the idea of women renting out their bodies for money, or men paying for it, she saw a gaping disparity between that and the immorality of a lawman demanding money to look the other way.

When she peeked, Ross was still staring, wide-eyed.

She wanted to know what he was thinking badly enough to not say anything for what felt like forever.

It did not work. He just kept on staring.

Finally she asked, "What?"

"How do you know this?"

Hadn't she mentioned the friend with the fallen mother? "I talk to people."

"You talk to the
wrong
people."

She cocked her head. "Oh. You think she's mistaken?"

Ross spun away from her, shaking his head. "No!"

So
he must mean
—
oh!
"For mercy's sake, Ross, I haven't been talking to those women myself! Just to someone who hears things." More things than she'd ever expected. "I thought you would know what to do about it."

"Do?" he repeated, bowing his head over one fist.-

"About what I know. It's not right!"

"No." His agreement relieved her; she'd
known
she could trust him! "But it's none of your business."

Or perhaps not. She put her hands on her hips and circled him, so she could see his face. Not her
business?

Wasn't it her town? Wasn't she a woman too?

He shifted his weight, coiled and balanced as ever.

She noticed, again, the big gun hanging off his left hip. "This sort of thing happens," he told her. "Everywhere."

'You're
defending
him?"

His eyes widened again. "No!"

"Good. Because it's indefensible. What I would
like
to do is write a newspaper article about it, but that would be difficult. I can't exactly interview fallen women." Nellie Bly might
—but Nellie Bly hadn't had to live in Sheridan, Wyoming. With Victoria's father. "And I doubt Sheriff Ward would admit anything to me. But I can't just do nothing."

Evangeline had even said Ward abused the women who couldn't pay.

'Yes," insisted Ross Laramie softly, meeting her gaze. 'You can. You should not be involved in any of this."

Victoria caught her breath.
"Any
of this? Oh, Ross, do you think he's taking graft from other lawbreakers too? Like the rustlers!"

Ross blinked, clearly startled. "From the rustlers?"

"If Sheriff Ward demands bribes to allow one crime, why wouldn't he do the same for another?" Then she remembered why not. "Unless his father hardened him against rustling."

"His father," repeated Laramie, his interest so tangible she could almost feel it burning in him.

It wasn't as enjoyable as him holding her, kissing her
—but for now, she would take it. Until she could convince him to pay a call on her, what else could she do? So she savored the drama of her next announcement. "I found out that the sheriff's father was murdered by a rustler."

Strangely,
that
was the news that made him go pale.

Working cattle was a slow process, done right. Riding the Circle-T's south pasture that next week, meeting
with ranch hands and examining heifers' hooves, gave Laramie plenty of time to think about Victoria Garrison.

And about him being a murderer and a rustler.

He'd already felt sick, the other night by the creek
— sick at his obscene loss of control, sick with wanting to lose control again. And once she mentioned Bram Ward's father that way,
murdered by a rustler,
he'd felt heartsick as well.

No matter how much he admired Miss Garrison, and no matter how familiarly she'd behaved with him, he could never change that he was that killer, that rustler.

At a sharp whis
tl
e, Laramie looked up. He spotted Nate Dawson waving a hat at him, one slow arc, and reined his gelding patien
tl
y in that direction.

Riders who moved fast around cattle only spooked them, and spooked cattle weren't easy to work. Maybe a fellow should work folks the same way. It would better justify that he'd been in Sheridan two weeks now and still had no idea who had seduced his sister, who had betrayed his family.

Slow and steady. He'd waited almost a dozen years for this. A few more weeks, even mont
h
s, wouldn't change things. He could live with the guilt of not keeping his vows a while longer, as long as he stayed away from the boss's daughter.

Kissing Victoria, holding her, he'd been able to forget killing. It shamed him now that he'd wanted to forget.

That, the memory of her in his blood, he wanted to.

Laramie made himself focus on the two heifers and five steers grazing some ways from Dawson's roan. He was no closer to finding the bastard who'd ruined
Julie
than he'd been when he got here. But at least he understood
cattle
—and bad men.

"The dun-colored cow," directed Dawson, as Laramie eased his gelding closer to the knot of cat
tl
e. The animal lifted her head to watch his approach, while the other critters ignored him. "I remember thinkin' she was favorin' her right-front, some weeks back, but she moved quick enough when I got close. Next time I saw her, she was fine."

Laramie dismounted with a creak of lea
th
er and walked toward the cow. It turned to amble warily away from him.

Dawson, still on horseback, roped her in one toss. As if resigned, she stopped, even widi the rope slack. Still, Laramie made quick work of checking her hooves for burn scars, then her udder to guess when she'd lost her calf.

"You're right," he called, straightening. "She's been hotfooted."

"What kind of sorry son of a bitch burns a mama between the toes so's she can't follow her baby?" protested Dawson.

Laramie lifted the rope off the poor old girl's neck, scratched behind her furred ears with his lea
th
er-gloved hands, then returned to Blackie. "That's four so far."

"Four on the ranch?" asked Dawson.

"South range." Mounting, Laramie dug a folded piece of paper and a pencil stub from his pocket and drew another X on his roughly sketched map. In
the
last few days, he'd narrowed his search to the west range, in the direction of the mountains.

It wasn't the revenge he wanted. But, as Victoria had pointed out, Bram Ward might just be in cahoots with the rustlers, turning a blind eye. If so, maybe Laramie could get a lesser form of revenge on the sheriff who grated on him so badly, by finally exposing him for the low-down rustler the Wards had always been.

He might not kill the man, like
he would kill who
ever had betrayed
Julie
. But this was a start. It was something he could manage. And he was being paid to do it.

Besides, Victoria wanted him to.

Laramie tried not to ponder that part too closely.

Dawson was still sighing over the cow. "Bad enough to swing a wide loop. But to torture animals in doin' it..."

Now, that was interesting, and Laramie glanced up from his crumpled bit of map. "Rustling's rustling." Wasn't it?

Dawson looked startled by the low proclamation. That reminded Laramie that, though they bunked together, he was still the hired gun. Dawson was the honest hand.

"I'm not defending the one," the honest hand now insisted. "But it's still a different thing from t'other."

Like Victoria's opinion on graft being worse than prostitution. A lot of folks around here had an interesting habit of weighing crimes.

When Blackie's
head came up suddenly, and Daw
son's roan followed suit, Laramie saw someone riding nearer who, he guessed, would see things in black and white
—whether they were talking about rustling or the man's daughter.

Dawson rolled a cigarette while they waited for Garrison to reach them. "Boss," greeted the hand.

"Boys." Laramie got the feeling Jacob Garrison had been calling his hands "boys" long before his hair had turned white. His steady gray eyes, in the shadow of his black Stetson, slid from Dawson to Laramie
—and lingered on Laramie. "Keepin' busy."

His voice didn't go up at the end, but Laramie recognized it for a question, all the same.

This couldn't be the man Julije had given herself to. Surely, even eleven years ago, he'd been too old for her!

It was Dawson who said, "Laramie here was just lookin' over another hotfooted heifer."

Garrison's solemn expression didn't change. His eyes shone with something like anger, though. Over the theft, or the purposeful injury to the animal? "Who is it?"

Laramie shrugged. Anybody could burn a cow.

The boss's eyes narrowed, as if to ask what he was paying Laramie for if not to find the rustlers.

Laramie thought about kissing the man's daughter by the creek
—and carefully maintained his poker face. "Workin' out of the foothills," he offered instead.

Garrison nodded as if he'd figured as much
—but hadn't wanted to hear it, all the same. The foothills offered too many good places to hide.

Dawson said, "Boss, that's where Miss Laurel and that Marmaduke of hers have their horse ranch. I don't like to think what she might do if she comes across some rustlers."

Garrison said nothing.

"I could ride out there and give her a warnin'," Dawson offered, and Laramie wondered just how deep the cowhand's concern for the married Miss Laurel went.

"I'll go," announced Garrison, and looked back at Laramie. "In the mornin'. You'll come with me."

It had been two weeks since the rancher hired him. Laramie guessed the boss would want an accounting sometime.

He nodded, wishing he knew how to get his own accounting.
Have you always been faithful to your wife? Do you remember a young immigrant girl, hanged herself over ten years back? How well did you and your son know her?

Like trying to hurry cattle, questions like that would only scatter what he needed to learn.

He wasn't Victoria.

But when Laramie led Blackie up to the pretty ranch house's picket fence, after breakfast the next
day, Victoria was the first Garrison out the door
—and she was wearing an extra-long riding skirt and leading a child by the hand.

He hadn't seen her since the Friday before
—since he'd all but mauled her and she'd somehow forgiven him. She looked pretty as the morning, her eyes shining, her lips smiling to show barely crooked teeth, her curly brown hair drawn back in a frothing ponytail.

"I'm coming along!" she announced happily.

Holding her gaze, Laramie couldn't begin to corral all the things he didn't know how to say to that.
How'd you talk your father into this? What about your job? Why would you even speak to met

During his silence, Victoria led the smaller girl, also brown-haired, to the fence where he stood. "So's my sister, Kathryn. Kitty, this is Mr. Laramie."

The younger girl wore spectacles, which gave her a fragile look. Or maybe she'd already been fragile, and the spectacles just emphasized that. Laramie felt particularly aware of the weight of his hip holster, almost embarrassed by it, even if they
were
riding into rustling territory.

From inside the house, an incredible howling started up
—but Victoria just kept walking. After some hesitation, Laramie followed, leading his gelding. "That's my sister Elise. She's upset because she can't come along."

"She was naughty." Kitty reached a little hand toward Blackie's muzzle. "You have a pretty gelding."

The howling from the house stopped abruptly, and the little girl's eyes widened behind her glasses, as Laramie quickly asked, "Would you like to ride him?"

Why he said it, he didn't know. But the way Vic flashed an appreciative smile at him, he felt glad he did.

"Isn't that nice of Mr. Laramie, Kitty-kat? You can sit on Blackie while we're saddling the other horses."

Kitty's hopeful expectation when she nodded and lifted her arms unsettled him. She wanted
him
to . . . ?

He slid his gaze briefly toward Victoria, but she was still beaming at him
—a reaction that ruffled him in even more pleasant and unexpected ways. So he took a breath, gritted his teeth against the pain in his side and shoulder, and lifted Kitty Garrison up into Blackie's saddle. Her yellow calico dress rode up to her knobby, white-stockinged knees, showing high-buttoned shoes that came nowhere near the stirrups. She grabbed the saddle horn, then graced him with a smile surprisingly like her older sister's.