Authors: Lawless
Thirst clawed at him as he continued to stare at the hands that betrayed him. He was useless. Worthless. Self-hatred gnawed at his guts.
He opened the one window in the tack room, breathing deeply of the still air. But that didn’t help. Almost without thought he went to a box where he stored his few belongings and searched out the smooth form of a bottle. It had been there, untouched, for months now. He hesitated, then drew it out. Why not? He was no good for anything, anyway. He put the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow, and then another.
A cigarette. He needed a cigarette. He never smoked in the barn, but…why not. He was careful. He rolled a smoke, and by God, his hands had stopped shaking. He brushed tobacco off his lap and took another pull from the bottle.
He took the glass from the top of the oil lamp and used the flame to light the cigarette. He didn’t put the glass back. He finished the cigarette and very carefully put it out, taking one swallow after another from the bottle, regretfully setting it on the table next to the lamp when there was no more.
That’s all he’d needed. Just a small drink. His eyes closed, and soft snores filled the room, still alight with the unprotected flame.
Hours later a breeze ruffled the plain cotton curtains of the tack room, pushing them toward the lamp. The flickering flame caught the edge of a curtain and started inching upward, reaching out for additional fuel and finding it in the old dry wood of the barn.
L
obo rose before dawn.
It was Saturday, and he had every intention of facing her before she got away again.
He purposely didn’t shave. The more intimidating he looked, the better his chance at success. And he knew exactly how intimidating he could look. There had been more than one occasion when potential opponents ran rather than fought after seeing him.
Lobo had spent the night concentrating. He was good at that. He had concentrated himself out of a hell of a lot of bad spots. Now he concentrated on forgetting that damn laugh and red-gold hair.…
Goddammit, he was doing it again.
Without fixing coffee or eating, he saddled his pinto, which nudged him for attention. He glared at the horse. Even the animal was going soft. He mounted, and with his temper close to exploding although he couldn’t explain why, he spurred the pinto into a gallop.
He reached the small hill, which was becoming altogether too familiar, and he looked once more toward the ranch house. The morning was still gray, the sun just tipping over the horizon, and a hot wind had come with first light.
Lobo felt a sense of satisfaction as he saw smoke. They were awake.
But as he studied the peaceful scene, he saw that the smoke wasn’t coming from the house, but the barn. His knees tightened against the pinto’s side, and he raced toward the house, shouting.
“F
IRE!
”
Willow heard the warning as she was dressing. Leaving the top buttons of her dress undone, she ran to the window and looked out.
She could see the barn, see the wisps of smoke coming from it, and she sped to the door, throwing it open, yelling as loud as she could to wake the others.
Chad immediately appeared, and so did Estelle and the twins. “Take care of Sallie Sue,” she shouted to Estelle as she ran out the front door toward the barn, barely aware of the large pinto and the man swinging down from the nervously sidestepping horse.
He brushed past her without a word and ran into the barn. Willow followed right behind him, terror filling her mind. The man opened the stall gates and flushed the horses out, while Willow ran toward the tack room in the back. She knew Brady was there.
The door was closed, smoke curling out from the crack underneath. She tried to open it, but it was stuck, and she slammed her body against it fruitlessly.
Then she felt herself being pulled away, and she saw the stranger kick the door open. Flames spurted out, and he disappeared into the hole of fire and smoke.
In what seemed like hours but must have been merely seconds, he reappeared, carrying Brady over his shoulder. Brady’s head rolled with each movement.
“Get the hell out of here,” the stranger roared.
“Jupiter,” she cried.
“I’ll get him,” he said. “Just get out of here before you kill all three of us.”
Willow looked around. The hay was on fire, and lit embers were floating everywhere. She could hear the hiss and crackle of the growing inferno, and the heat was terrible. She could also hear the frantic bellow of Jupiter.
“You go out,” she said. “I’ll get Jupiter.”
The man didn’t argue any longer, but grabbed her arm roughly. Willow felt propelled along without choice. When they got out of the smoke-filled barn, she was thrust into the arms of Chad, who had just taken out the two cows and had started to go in again.
“Jupiter,” the boy yelled. Willow saw the man nod impatiently as he set Brady down on the ground. He said, “Get everyone out of the way. When that old bull comes out, he’ll be wild.” Then, pulling his bandanna over his mouth, he returned to the barn.
Willow and Chad dragged Brady toward the fence as she yelled at the others to get on the other side. The whole barn was ablaze now, and Willow knew fear like she’d never known before. The man wasn’t going to make it out-no one could. She ran toward the entrance to tell him to forget Jupiter, when she heard a yell, then the sound of heavy hoofbeats. There was a crash, and then Jupiter charged through the doorway, his eyes red and his back gray with ashes. The man stumbled behind him, his shirt torn and smoldering, and his gloves scorched.
“Get away from the barn,” he yelled. “It’ll collapse in minutes.”
But Willow couldn’t move. “You’re…hurt.”
“Goddammit, get away,” the stranger roared as he leaned down and once more picked up Brady’s still body. They ran toward the open gate, but when they heard a crash, Willow stopped to turn around. The roof had caved in, and flames and smoke reached up into the hazy sky.
They walked toward the others. Estelle was holding tightly on to Sallie Sue, while Chad was trying to hang on to the halters of two horses. The other horse had disappeared, and Jupiter was running toward open range as though he were still a young bull.
The stranger dumped Brady on the ground, and Willow flew toward him. “Is he…?”
“Drunk,” the stranger said with disgust. “It looked like he started the damned fire.”
“Then…it was an accident?” She didn’t want to think anyone would do this to them.
“He smells like a damned saloon,” the man said. “The fire obviously started in his room. What in the hell do you think?”
But she was no longer listening to him. She knelt down at Brady’s side, holding his hand, reassuring him as he started to mumble some words. She just barely heard the stranger’s grunt of disgust. She did notice his dusty boots moving away, and she suddenly realized she had not thanked him. She looked up to see him striding to his horse.
“No!” she said loud enough to stop him.
He turned, his soot-covered face impassive.
“Please don’t go.”
Willow stood. She had no doubt that this was the man who had saved them twice before, and somehow she knew that he meant to disappear as he always had. She also knew in some unexplainable way that if he left now, she would never see him again. And she couldn’t allow that to happen.
Her gaze locked on him. Chad had been correct in one thing: This man was taller than Sullivan, taller than anyone she knew. His hair, though sprinkled with soot, shone when the morning sun hit it, and his eyes blazed with an inner fire, like rare fine stones.
His face was partly covered with blond bristles, and the strong angular features, though harsh, had a touch of vulnerability. Perhaps, she thought, it was caused by his indecision, a kind of bewilderment as if he didn’t really understand what he was doing there.
“Please help me get him inside,” she said, using the only excuse she knew would make him stay. She instinctively realized that if she’d used his own wounds as reason, he would continue his escape.
And escape was how he considered it. She could tell from the way he looked toward the horse, and the horizon beyond it, before lowering his head in a gesture of defeat.
“He’s not worth your trouble,” the stranger said harshly.
“Of course he is,” she replied. “He’s my friend.”
“Then, lady, you sure as hell don’t need any enemies.” His voice was gravelly and harsh, even condemning, and yet Willow felt an inexplicable attraction to him.
Lobo was caught in the silent intensity that seemed to encompass him and hold him motionless. He closed his eyes against the unwanted, unexpected explosion of need within him, against the strange suspension of time that locked them together. He felt like an actor in a play, a puppet directed and controlled by others. Yet he didn’t want to break that hold. Yes, he did, but he didn’t know how.
He opened his eyes again and met her gaze directly. Her eyes
were
blue, as he’d thought. But he’d never thought they could be
this
blue. They were like the mountain sky on a warm summer afternoon just before dusk. Deep and rich and glorious, a color that made him ache inside because it was so damned pure.
She continued to level a look at him that seemed to reach straight inside him. For one of the few times in his adult life he saw no fear, no revulsion for what he was. He felt as if a damned twister had invaded his usually disciplined mind and body. His hand went to his gun, as it always did in moments of confusion. His gun was the only sure thing in his life, his only ally.
He saw her eyes follow the movement, but instead of terror, there was awareness and even understanding that his intent wasn’t to do harm. His hand fell away.
“Please.” Her soft plea broke the silence, and he remembered her request. A damned drunken ex-sheriff, for chrissakes. She wanted him to help a man who years earlier would have run him out of town on a rail.
He looked around. Twins, barely distinguishable from each other, stared at him with wide, awe-struck eyes. The child Sallie Sue struggled to get down from the thin woman’s arms. The woman set her on the ground in an unexpectedly graceful movement, and the little girl ran to him.
She looked up from her small height. “Thank you for thaving Jup’ter. And me.” She turned and ran back to the woman, who regarded him steadily for a moment before turning toward the house.
The schoolteacher waited patiently by the side of the silent man. He hadn’t known women who had such patience. She would have made a passable gunfighter with those level eyes and quiet doggedness. She was waiting for his move, not pushing, just waiting, as if she knew that pleading would drive him away.
His gloved hand went to the back of his neck and rubbed it absently, and he was only barely aware of the burning pain in his fingers. His attention was riveted on the sudden desperation in the schoolteacher’s very blue eyes, and something in him couldn’t deny her.
He strode to where she still knelt and stooped over who had to be Brady Thomas. Roughly he rubbed Thomas’s face, trying to bring some life back into it. Thomas moaned and opened his eyes, squinting against the morning sun.
Lobo put his arm under the man’s shoulders and pulled him up. “Walk, damn you,” he ordered.
Brady attempted to put one foot in front of the other, often stumbling as they slowly moved to the ranch house. Lobo knew it would have been easier to carry the man, heavy as he was, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for Thomas. The man had nearly killed good animals, not to mention destroying the barn. Lobo had no sympathy even though the loss of the barn would make existence on the ranch all but impossible. Brady Thomas had done his job for him, and all he felt was a slow, burning anger against the man.
He didn’t understand why the woman didn’t feel a similar resentment. As he stole a glance at her, all he saw was concern for Thomas.
They reached the house, and he looked at her for directions. She led the way to a small room with one large bed and two smaller ones. Lobo dumped his burden on the large one and started out the door, more aware now of the pain in one of his arms and both hands.
Just outside the bedroom door he looked down at his hands, the half-burned gloves sticking to the skin, the scorched shirt-sleeve barely covering a red arm. He had ignored the pain; it was another matter of concentration. But he knew he had to do something about the wounds before they became infected.
The woman was studying them too. “Those are bad burns,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
Her blue eyes filled with concern. It was unsettling, and he moved toward the front door.
“No,” she said in an authoritative schoolteacher voice. “We have to do something about those burns.”
Lobo didn’t know why he stopped.
Her voice softened. “And I want to thank you. You must be our guardian angel.”
Guardian angel. For chrissakes!
“Chad has told me all about you,” she continued as if she didn’t notice the glower on his face. “And I’ve been wanting to thank you. I’m Willow. Willow George Taylor.”