WM02 - Texas Princess (19 page)

They cross through the hil s and no one in town even knows they’re here.”

Stel a looked appal ed. “Apaches? What if they kil us in our sleep? Or maybe the men trying to kil the senator wil come for Miss Liberty and storm the place?” She looked from Sage to Tobin. “The two of you can’t stop them. Either way we are doomed. I can sense it as plain as if it were written on the wal . Death’s coming. It may not be cal ing my name, but I’m bound to get run over in the stampede.”

Sage ignored Stel a completely as she motioned everyone to take their seats at the table. As they began passing huge bowls of food, Sage said calmly, “Teagen says Tobin can take Liberty into the hil s where no one wil nd her and the rest of us wil meet trouble with ries on the porch. We’ve done it before.”

Tobin laughed. “You were a week old, kid, the last time someone stormed this ranch. I don’t remember you ghting from the porch.”

Sage frowned. “I would have if one of you would have handed me a gun. I’m a McMurray too.”

He tugged on her braid. “That you are, little sister. You’re the best of us al . Now, can we eat? I’m starving.”

As everyone began to eat, Stel a shook her head stil seeing only blood in her future.

“Wel , don’t give me a gun. I’ve never touched one and the day I do wil be my last on this earth, I fear. My father used to try and make me learn to shoot. I’d cry so hard he

nal y gave up even mentioning it. When I was old enough to earn my way, he took me to the nearest town and told me to stay there ’cause I wasn’t meant for the country.”

Liberty looked at Tobin. “I’ve red both a pistol and a rie. If there is a ght, you can count on me. I doubt if I could hit anything, but anyone riding in wouldn’t know that.”

Tobin nodded. “I’l see that you have both tomorrow.”

chapter 15

Y

Tobin endured about as much of the women’s

chatter as he could stand. He left for the barn, wondering why Sage wanted to know al about society in Washington, D.C., when she’d never go there, or why Liberty cared that the big frame tied to the ceiling of the dining area was a quilt frame. The princess would never quilt. And Stel a, he’d discovered days ago...Stel a just talked to hear the sound of her own voice. Her bust might be ful y developed, but her brain was the size of a peanut.

In the silence of the barn, the muscles in Tobin’s jaw relaxed. Liberty was safe. There were guards on the bridge. Teagen would be home soon. It would take an army to reach the ranch house and long before then he’d have Liberty hidden in the hil s. He’d kept his promise to the senator and he’d made it back home. Now al he had to do was wait for word from Liberty’s father.

In the meantime, he should be glad Sage had someone to talk to. Unlike Martha, Sage needed people. If she married the young ranger, she’d probably be happy living in Austin. And if the look in Michael Saddler’s eyes when he saw Sage was any indication, the young ranger would agree to live anywhere Sage suggested.

Grinning, Tobin decided he needed to talk with his sister about Michael. It didn’t take an expert to tel that Sage was fal ing in love, but Travis had mentioned more than once that Michael loved being a ranger. Somehow the two facts didn’t quite go together.

Judging by how upset she was over the ranger’s getting hurt, though, it was probably too late for the “don’t fal in love” speech.

As he always did when he worked with the horses, Tobin thought everything through. If Michael’s injuries were bad, maybe Travis could bring him to the ranch to recover. That would give Sage and him time to get to know each other through more than letters. In a year or two, if he measured up, Sage and Michael could think of getting engaged.

When Tobin closed the last stal , he turned to nd Liberty standing in the doorway. The lamplight behind her formed a halo around her. She looked just as beautiful in his old jeans and shirt as she had in her ne bal gown that rst night he’d seen her.

“Hel o,” she whispered, glancing around to see if they were alone.

He didn’t answer. Tobin had known this talk was coming al day from the way she’d refused to look at him at dawn to how she’d avoided even his slight touch. He’d tried not to think of what would happen when they nal y found a moment to themselves, just as he’d forced the memory of what they’d done last night to the back of his mind.

But now he let the memories ood him. If he was about to take the pain of her turning away, he wanted to remember it al rst.

“I thought we needed to talk.” She took a step toward him. “There may be little time now.” Lacing her hands together, she raised her gaze to his.

Uncertainty blended with a bit of fear in her bottomless eyes. Part of him wanted to make it easy for her, but his pride wouldn’t al ow him to move. She’d been the one who came to him last night and now she’d be the one to walk away.

“You told me you never plan to marry and I respect that. In fact, after realizing my mistake in almost marrying the wrong man, I’m considering the life of an old maid myself. Neither of us is naive enough to believe that what happened last night was anything more than two people clinging to each other out of need.”

She was being what she’d been trained to be, diplomatic. She wasn’t apologizing or asking him to. She was simply setting the record straight.

“It was nice,” he repeated her words.

Smiling, she nodded. “Nice.”

He didn’t miss the blush of red in her cheeks. They both knew that what they shared was a hel of a lot more than nice. He gripped the stal gate, ghting not to reach for her.

Straightening, she nal y added, “I never thanked you for saving me. I hid in the attic thinking my father would come, but deep down I knew that if he didn’t I would run to you. I knew you’d help me.”

“You can always run to me,” he said, wishing the Libby he’d held last night would run to him now. But only the proper princess stood before him.

“Thank you for the offer.” She lifted her hand. “I wil always be in your debt.”

When he closed his ngers gently around her hand, their eyes met and Tobin knew they were thinking of other times they’d touched. To anyone who might have walked in, they looked quite formal, but memories ooded over him like a tidal wave. Last night in the darkness he’d memorized how every curve of her body felt. He knew how she breathed, how she slept, how she smel ed. How she felt against his heart.

Without another word, she turned and walked away. Tobin tried to ignore the tightness in his chest. He told himself he was too old to fal in love. They were just two people who met and needed each other one night. Any fool could see they didn’t belong together, but he had a feeling that for the rest of his life when he thought of a woman, he would see Libby. They may have only touched once, but he’d sleep beside her a thousand times more in his dreams.

As his last chore, Tobin l ed water buckets from the wel between the house and the barn. It crossed his mind that he seemed to plan everyone’s life out but his own. What happened with Liberty hadn’t been part of any plan and there could be no future to think about. A senator’s daughter wasn’t likely to fal for a rancher in the middle of nowhere.

After placing the buckets just inside the mud room, Tobin grabbed his rie and began to walk the perimeter of the ranch house grounds. It was a duty either he or one of his brothers did each night. When his father left to ght for Texas, he’d tucked away a letter in his desk drawer with instructions on how to hold the ranch. When the boys found the letter after his death, they cal ed the instructions “the rules.”

The list had saved not only the ranch but their lives as wel . Simple precautions their father had put in place, basic knowledge he’d taught them to use until the rules became routine, never neglected, never broken.

In the moonlight Tobin studied the signs, listening to the sounds in the night, watching for anything out of place that would tel him a stranger hid on McMurray land. The circle he walked lay just beyond the lights of the house where the stars lit the way.

When he nished his rounds, he climbed fty feet up the hil behind the house and perched on a ledge. From there, he could see al the way to the bridge in one direction and far to the north pastureland in the other. As stil as stone he watched the shadows for movement.

With trained eyes, Tobin nal y spotted what he’d been hoping for. Teagen moved across the pasture, heading toward home. Teagen, the oldest, who’d become a man at twelve and never thought of anything since but the ranch and the family.

Tobin watched his brother move closer. At rst Tobin thought Teagen looked tired, for he slumped in the saddle.

149

But as he neared, Tobin stood knowing something was wrong even before he could make out trouble.

Something long and dark lay over the front of his saddle and Teagen’s right arm hung limp from his shoulder. Tobin broke into a run toward the shadowed rider.

By the time Teagen reached the light of the yard, Tobin was there to meet him. Tobin grabbed the horse’s reins when Teagen made no effort to stop the animal.

Teagen’s head lifted and he nodded once to Tobin, then crumbled from his horse as if he’d used the last ounce of energy.

“Sage!” Tobin yel ed as he caught his brother.

The weight of him took Tobin to his knees, but he managed to break Teagen’s fal .

“What’s wrong?” Tobin asked. “Where are you hurt?”

“I’m ne, it’s only a few wounds. Get”—Teagen bit back pain—“the Roak tied in the barn.”

Tobin had no idea what his brother was talking about. “Where are you hurt?” He tugged Teagen’s hat off and felt warm sticky blood covering the scalp.

The back door slammed. Once, twice, three times.

“Stay with me,” Tobin demanded as he heard footsteps stampeding toward them.

“Don’t drift off, Teagen. You’ve made it this far. Stay with me.”

Sage reached them rst, her body dropping to the ground beside Teagen, her hands feeling what the darkness wouldn’t al ow her to see. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“He’s bleeding from somewhere along his hairline, I think,” Tobin said almost calmly as Sage patted Teagen down for other injuries. “Something may be wrong with his right arm. I don’t know what happened. He’s talking out of his head.”

“I am not.” Teagen spit out the words as if each one were an effort. “Get the Roak tied up.”

Tobin and Sage looked at one another.

“What is a Roak?” she whispered.

Tobin started to shake his head, then stopped suddenly. “It’s who, not what,” he said as the word registered in his brain. “I think that’s the name of the lowlifes who live north of here in that old outlaw camp.” As he commented, he remembered that something had lain across Teagen’s saddle.

One glance told him what Teagen carried rol ed up in a blanket. A Roak. One of the band of outlaws some thought were more animal than human. They were so mean not even the Indians would trade with them.

“We’ve got to get him in the house.” Sage stood, trying to hold half her brother’s weight across her shoulders. “If it’s a head wound, we’ve no time to waste.”

Tobin noticed Libby and Stel a standing a few feet away. When he turned to them, Stel a took a step backward.

He met Libby’s frightened stare. “Can you help?”

She nodded once and moved closer.

Tobin lifted Teagen’s arm over her shoulder. “Wil you faint at the sight of blood, princess?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

As her body took part of Teagen’s weight, Tobin whispered, “Can you help carry him?”

“I can walk, damn it.” Teagen sounded angry, which made Tobin smile. If he was mad, he couldn’t be too far gone.

“Good, then get in the house so Sage can stitch that head wound. I’l take care of the Roak. You try not to bleed on our guest.”

Teagen mumbled something. Tobin couldn’t tel if it was directed toward him or the pain.

As the women half carried his oldest brother, Tobin went to the horse and pul ed the As the women half carried his oldest brother, Tobin went to the horse and pul ed the bundle to the ground. He untied the rope. A boy, not quite grown, rol ed from the blanket, ghting like a bobcat even though his hands and feet were tied. He got in three good blows and almost knocked Tobin off his feet before Tobin caught him in a bear hug.

The boy was al arms and legs with little meat on his bones and slipperier than a water moccasin.

“Stop!” Tobin demanded holding the boy so tightly he feared he might break bone.

“Or what?” the youth swore. “You’l skin me alive like your brother promised he would?

Wel , I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of any of you. If I’d have got in another hit on your brother, he’d be dead at the river about now.”

Tobin started for the barn, ignoring the kicks the boy managed to land every few steps.

The kid smel ed worse than a skunk and swore more than any ve drunks. If Teagen had him captured, that could mean only one thing: the boy had been on Whispering Mountain land, and no one, not even a kid, was al owed on their land.

Tobin reached the barn and tossed the captive in the rst stal . He didn’t take the time to see if it was clean. Grabbing a rope, he looped one end around the Roak’s bound hands and pul ed tight, drawing the kid up to a sitting position with his hands high above him. Then, before the Roak could start kicking, he looped the rope around his feet and pul ed his legs straight out.

Roak fought against his bindings and Tobin wouldn’t have been surprised if the wild kid tried to chew his arm off to get away. Al the time he jerked and twisted, he swore using every foul word Tobin had ever heard and a few he could only guess at the meaning.

Frustrated, Tobin pul ed out his bandanna and gagged the boy. “There,” he said in the sudden silence. “You were offending the horses.”

Dark gray eyes stared up at him with enough hate to set the barn on re. Tobin had no doubt that if the kid got free he’d kil them al . After checking the ropes, he pul ed his gun hoping to frighten the boy. “I have to check on my brother, but when I come back, if one rope is undone, I’l tie you upside down next time.”