The Rogue (31 page)

The white stallion wasn’t satisfied to have his pursuer downed. With his ears back and his mouth open, he came again. Rube’s horse scrambled to his feet and out of the way. Rube tried to do the same, but the white stallion was on him, iron hooves pounding him to the ground.

Diana’s tired horse was stretched out in a run, skimming over the sage and grass, whipped by the reins on his flanks. The stallion whirled to face his new threat. For a terror-ridden moment, Diana thought he would attack her. But his blazing eyes turned to the fleeing band of mares, beginning to scatter without his commanding presence. In a flash, his long pacing stride was sending him after the mares, his harem.

As she neared the man on the ground, Diana pulled back hard on the reins. Her horse slid to a stop, momentarily stumbling to its knees before righting itself. In her haste, Diana jumped and fell out of the saddle, unconscious of the sobs that were coming from her throat. She saw Rube move as she ran to him, her legs trembling from the shock of what she’d seen. He was lying on his side, moaning, when she reached him.

“Rube?” Diana carefully rolled him onto his back.

“Don’t move me,” he groaned, choked, and began coughing up blood.

“Oh, my God!” She was completely unaware of the tears in her eyes as she scrambled to her feet and ran to his horse. Grabbing the rifle from his scabbard, Diana
fired it in the air three times in rapid succession. Then she raced back to his side, dropping the rifle on the ground.

“Goddamned stallion,” Rube coughed. “Lie still. Please, Rube, lie still. The others are coming.”

He seemed to lapse into unconsciousness. Not knowing what else to do, Diana ran to her own horse for the canteen. Wetting her handkerchief, she began wiping his face and the blood from his mouth. His shirt was torn and there were marks all over his chest where the stallion’s hooves had struck him.

It seemed forever before she heard the galloping sound of approaching horses. All three—Holt, Don, and Guy—arrived within seconds of each other. Diana rose, knees quivering, to meet them.

“What happened?” Holt snapped out the question as he brushed past her to kneel beside Rube.

Diana wasn’t certain that he listened when she told him. She was surprised at how steady her voice sounded, considering how she felt inside. Although tears still welled in her eyes, she had stopped crying. She was partially aware that Holt was trying to determine the extent of Rube’s injuries, checking his pulse and other vital signs. He was alive. Diana saw Holt rock back on his heels, his hands doubling into fists as he stared at the man.

“Goddamn you, Rube,” he muttered beneath his breath, but the cursing seemed to be for his own helplessness and the frustration it brought.

With eyes still closed, Rube’s mouth twisted in a painful smile. “Screwed myself up, didn’t I, Holt?” He started coughing again, spitting up more blood.

“You’ll make it. Just hold on.” It was an order, impatient and angry. Both emotions were in his expression as he straightened, hard gray eyes regarding Don and Guy in turn. “Take Rube’s horse and ride for the ranch. Get some help out here. And you, Guy, go back to camp and bring back some blankets. You go with him, Diana.”

“No!” She had the horrible feeling he was sending her away so she wouldn’t be around when— Diana refused to finish that thought. Don was in the saddle and spurring his horse toward the ranch.

“Let ’er stay, Holt.” Rube’s hoarse voice unexpectedly argued in her behalf. His right hand made a weak, reaching movement toward her, and Diana bent to her knees beside him, taking his hand and holding it, because she sensed it was what he wanted. Opening his eyes seemed to be an effort. They were glazed with pain when he looked at her. “Your eyes are as blue as heaven. I was always gonna tell ya that from the time ya was a little tyke. Yessir, like heaven.” He started coughing again. She fumbled for her handkerchief and wiped the trickle of blood from his chin. The tears were building up again. “There might not be no angels waitin’ for me where I’m a-goin’, so I’d better have one sittin’ with me on this side of the Beyond.”

“Go on, Guy,” Holt ordered. “Ride!”

Diana glanced up as Guy reined away from them. Holt was stripping the saddles from the three remaining horses. He left them on the ground and carried the saddle blankets over to keep Rube warm.

“You’re wastin’ your time, Holt.” A spasm of pain contorted the wizened features, leathery and gray beneath his tan.

“Ssh!” Diana touched her fingers to his lips. They came away sticky and warm with blood. “Don’t talk, Rube. You’ve got to save your strength.”

“Don’t ya be a-tellin’ me to shut up. Everybody’s always a-tellin’ me to shut up.” He was indignant and hurt. “When a man’s dyin’, he’s got a right to talk. An’ people oughta listen instead of always ignorin’ him.”

“We’ll listen, Rube. We’ll listen,” Diana promised, a tear sliding down her cheek. “But you aren’t dying.”

Again there was that twisted smile, but Rube didn’t correct her last statement. He closed his eyes and seemed to rest for a while, as if the last outburst had taken a great toll on his strength. Holt was crouching on the opposite side of him, sitting on one heel, his
expression unbearably grim. Diana knew her chin was quivering, but she couldn’t control it.

“It’s just as well I never married.” Rube began talking again. “No goddamned daughter of mine would ever have been as perty as you. I used to pretend you was my little girl. Ain’t that a laugh?” He tried to laugh, and he started choking again on his own blood, but he managed to add, “Imagine me thinkin’ I was the Major.”

Diana closed her eyes, squeezing them tight, and felt the tears running down her cheeks. She had never guessed, never suspected, that Rube had thought of her in that light. Why did a person always find out these things when it was too late?

“You’re a good man, Rube.” Her voice was small and taut. “Loyal and dependable. The Major always said so.”

“Hell, you’re a goddamned liar.” He smiled and looked pleased despite the pain that twisted his face.

“Why don’t you rest for a while, Rube? We can talk some more later,” Holt suggested.

“Yeah, we’ll talk more later,” he agreed and seemed to sigh, as if he was very, very tired. His gnarled fingers continued to curl around Diana’s hand, and she made no attempt to disengage them. When he hadn’t moved for several minutes, Holt lifted an eyelid.

“He isn’t dead?” She clutched at Rube’s hand, staring at Holt.

“No. He’s unconscious.”

Diana swallowed at the lump in her throat. “He’s bleeding internally, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” Holt pushed to his feet.

“Isn’t there something we can do?”

“No.” Holt turned away, lowering his head to rub the back of his neck.

Diana maintained her vigil at Rube’s side, holding his hand, hardly changing her position. Her back and shoulders ached and her legs were numb. When Guy returned with the bedrolls from camp, they stripped
the saddle pads away and covered him with the blankets from the bedrolls.

Rube stirred and coughed. “It’s cold. Ain’t nobody . . . gonna start a . . . goddamned fire?” His voice seemed to gurgle when he talked.

“Guy will do it this time,” Diana told him, but he had seemed to drift away. She didn’t know if he had heard her.

A fire wasn’t needed for warmth, but Guy built one, anyway, to have something to do, more than anything else.

Two hours later, Rube died, quietly, without struggling. Diana slipped her hand from the loosened grip of his fingers, her eyes dry as Holt pulled the blanket over Rube’s face.

Stiff and silent, she walked to the fire. She felt cold and sick. Someone put a blanket around her shoulders. She didn’t know who and she didn’t care.

Almost a full hour later, the whir of a helicopter broke the unearthly silence. Diana flew back with Rube’s body and no one questioned why.

A sack of clothes to be given to the Salvation Army sat outside the door of the small apartment. Diana put the last of the canned goods from the cupboard into another sack and carried it outside, as well. She walked back into the two-and-a-half-room unit. She checked the bathroom again to be sure she hadn’t overlooked anything.

In the bedroom, she paused to stare at the brown suit laid neatly on the bed, and a white shirt, the only one Rube had owned. A stringed tie with a liberty-head dollar was on top of the suit, and a pair of boots sat on the floor by the bed, the polish not hiding the scratches of use. Everything there was destined for the funeral home.

The closet and chest of drawers were empty. Diana noticed the small drawer in the night table and walked over to open it. The only thing in it was a dog-eared Bible. Diana frowned. She had never known Rube was a religious man. She couldn’t remember him ever going to church. She opened it and found a name scrawled on the inside cover—Anna May Carter Spencer. His mother?

Sighing, Diana turned to carry it to the kitchen table, where the rest of his meager personal possessions were collected in a basket. Something slipped from the pages of the Bible and fluttered to the floor. It was an
old photograph, a picture of her when she was eight or nine. Diana’s jaw tightened briefly as she replaced the picture in the Bible. She set it on the table instead of in the basket.

Diana tried to remember what she’d thought of Rube when she was growing up, but no impression lingered. She guessed she had taken his existence for granted, never concerning herself with what his dreams might be. If anything, she had probably regarded him as a silly old coot, in an indifferent sort of way. Everyone had dreams.

There were footsteps and the screen door to the far unit of the fourplex opened and closed. Diana glanced around the small, empty room and picked up the basket containing Rube’s belongings. She carried it outside and walked to the last unit.

Her knock on the screen door brought Holt’s response of: “Come in.” He was drying his hands on a towel as she entered. He turned, irritation flitting across his face when he saw her. The gray eyes seemed to look very old and very tired. “What is it?” He hung the towel on a hook.

Diana was too numbed to be upset by his unwelcoming tone. “I have been cleaning out Rube’s place. There are a few personal items here that I didn’t know what to do with.” She set the basket on the table. “There isn’t much: his razor, a pocketknife, his watch, a radio, and a couple of other things—nothing that’s worth very much, but I thought . . .”—she shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans as Holt walked to the table—” . . . maybe there’s something here that some of the boys might like to have. I thought you would know and could see that they got it.”

“Yes, I’ll take care of it.”

She continued to stare at the contents of the basket. “There’s a sack of canned goods, too. The flour was wormy. Stuff like that I had to throw out. There’s some beer in the refrigerator and some butter and eggs. I left it there for the time being. It isn’t much, is it?” Her voice cracked on the last sentence.

“You should have let somebody else do this.” Holt sounded grim, angry with her.

“I wanted to do it.” Diana lifted her gaze to him. “You see, I never knew . . . Rube was just. . .” A shudder quaked through her. She saw the half-movement Holt made toward her, as if to offer comfort. The bone-chilling numbness became too much and she turned to him. “Hold me. Please, hold me.”

There was a second’s hesitation before he gathered her into his arms and rocked her gently. His body heat slowly began to thaw her benumbed state. She began to feel again, with her heart and her mind and her senses. There was pain and guilt and grief. . . grief for a man she had never really known. She wound her arms around Holt’s waist, drawing on his strength. Tears began to gather in her eyes, the first tears she had shed since the accident yesterday.

Now the shock of Rube’s death had worn off and Diana began trembling in reaction as the tears fell. Her face was buried in Holt’s shirt, the dampness on her cheeks moistening the material. The steady beat of his heart was comforting, as was the hand stroking her hair. Aching, Diana pressed closer to the solidness of his support and felt the brush of his mouth against the top of her head.

Spreading her fingers over his shoulder blades, Diana lifted her head to rub her brow against his jaw and chin, like a cat wanting to be stroked and reassured. She felt the warm pressure of his mouth against her temple in response. His caresses of solace continued; he kissed her eyes and the tears from her cheeks. His hands were moving over her body, seeking and massaging away the hurt until there didn’t seem to be an inch of her that hadn’t felt the touch of his hands. His embrace was gentle and healing. Diana shuddered against him in relief.

“It isn’t right,” she said of Rube’s death, her voice breathless as Holt’s mouth nuzzled the black hair near her ear.

“Nothing is right.” His response was muffled by the silken thickness of her hair. “What I’m feeling right now is wrong, but what the hell does it matter?”

With a sweeping mastery, his mouth closed over her lips and parted them. Diana became engulfed in the flame of his passion. It ignited her fiery core and she responded with all the abandonment of previous times.

Lifting her off her feet, Holt carried her into a side room and set her down beside an unmade bed. There, he undressed her and laid her on the bed. The sheets were warm with the smell of him. The mattress groaned as it took his weight. In the next second, Diana was glorying in the feel of his naked torso against hers, the white-hot flame of their desire fusing them together in an explosion of wondrous sensations. The force of it lifted them higher than they had ever gone before. It took a long time to come down.

Even then, neither of them wanted to bring it to a total end. Her head rested in the crook of his arm. Diana was smoking the cigarette Holt had lit for her. The ashtray they shared was on his stomach. Suddenly she found it easier to speak of Rube.

“It all happened so fast. I saw the stallion charge and his horse rear over with him. It didn’t seem like I was that far away. If I had reached him sooner, before the stallion trampled him, he might not be dead now.”