Explaining Herself Page 12

  Was it rustlers? Of course, they were in cow country; there were more cattle around here than humans. But the shooting part, that did seem significant.

  Laramie whispered, "Speak. Very. Quietly." And she felt guilty again. His words shouldn't tickle like that. Not when they were in a hurry. Not with her sister hurt.

  But they did.

  When she nodded, he slid his hand from her mouth.

  She rose on her knees to brace her jaw on his shoulder, brush her lips against his ear. Her whisper was barely a breath. "Do you think it's the rustlers?"

  His nod was an awkward jerk, his shoulder tight.

  "How do you know they weren't aiming at us? Maybe they're bad shots."

  When she drew back, she saw that Ross had closed his eyes. After a moment, and a long breath, he opened them and bent back to her. "Gut," he admitted breathlessly, with a one-shoulder shrug. "And I did not hear the bullet hit."

  Oh. She returned to his ear. "Then why shoot at all?"

  He nuzzled her hair again to answer. "Warning. They heard us coming."

  When she leaned back to him, his sleek, soft hair tickled her cheek. She liked his scent, even the gun smoke that still clung to his clothing. He may have saved Kitty's life, fast as he could shoot. She would always admire that about him. "Are you going after them?"

  He looked from her to the sound of the fading voices, clearly torn. She wondered how many minutes they'd been crouched in the underbrush. Three? Five?

  "If you think it's safe, I'll ride ahead and tell Mama what happened," she continued quickly. "You can see who they are, why they're shooting at us."

  He wove a hand into her hair and all but buried his face in it to hiss, "What if it isn't safe?"

  "I'll go anyway," she whispered firmly, and didn't shy from his disapproving stare. The rustlers weren't aiming at them; he'd said so himself. And she had to fetch Mama.

  Ross sighed. Hard. "Take the rifle," he instructed against her ear. "Go back for your horse, but make noise once you get there, and while you're riding. Let them know you're just a woman."

  She drew back far enough to flare her eyes at him— well, really!—and he grinned.

  Ross Laramie grinned.

  It was beautiful. He quickly ducked his head, as if embarrassed by his own behavior. Then, his hand still in her hair, his fingers steadying against her scalp, he drew her head close to his jaw again. "If they know you are no threat, you'll be safe. And if they think you are alone, I can keep better watch to make sure of it."

  By now they were kneeling to face each other, cheek to cheek, so she didn't have to move to whisper, 'You won't try to capture them?" They had to get Mama back to Kitty!

  "Not today."

  She drew back to search his dark, angled, intense face. She didn't want him trying to capture the bad men for other reasons, too. "But you'll catch up?"

  "Yes."

  "Promise?"

  At that, he used the hand in her hair to turn her head and he pressed a kiss to her lips—a kiss she'd wanted since the previous Friday, a kiss she'd needed since she caught that glimpse of yellow in the corral. His kiss begged her to be careful, promised mysterious possibilities that had to mean things would turn out all right.

  But of course they would. Ross was here.

  Too soon, he wrenched his mouth from hers, leaned his forehead onto her shoulder, breathed shuddering breaths.

  "Ross," she whispered, and he faced her again, his dark eyes burning. So she kissed him. She didn't know how to do it as well as he, but his lips felt just as firm even so, tasted just as good. Then she drew back and asked, "Did you reload your gun?"

  He stared at her for a long moment, no expression on his face and worlds of emotion roiling deep in his dark, brown-green eyes. But all he said was 'Yes."

  "Then be careful," she whispered. On second thought, she picked up his Spanish spurs, where he'd left them on the ground, showed them to him, and folded the leather straps over to squeeze them into her skirt pocket. Then she crept back toward where her horse waited.

  She needed to get Mama for Kitty.

  She trusted Ross to handle the rest.

  Chapter Twelve

  Laramie wasn't sure what he was doing.

  Obviously Re was creeping like an Indian, if a stiff one, through the wooded foothills; but for once, he wasn't the one hiding. He was the one in pursuit of the "bad men," as Victoria called them. How the hell had that happened?

  But he knew how. Not his current job. Not even that they'd shot at him, bad aim or not. They'd shot at Victoria. For that, they deserved . . .

  They deserved tortures that would take more time than he had, just now. More important matters waited at the Circle-T and the Lorelei.

  Behind him and slightly uphill, Laramie heard Victoria say, "Well, Hucky horse, I guess someone must be hunting. Papa sure will have something to say about that! How about we try not to look like a deer again, huh?" Then she even raised her voice to call, "Hello? Whoever you are out there, I'm not a deer!

  I'm Victoria Garrison, and I want to go home now, so please don't shoot anymore!"

  Laramie felt that amused tightening in his cheeks again. Somehow, she made even talking to herself sound easy and natural. She made quite a bit of sound that way.

  Did you reload your gun ?

  He had, of course. But that even Victoria wanted him to stay armed had to make it less reprehensible, didn't it? And she'd kissed him, full deliberate, which somehow made that less reprehensible too.

  Laramie shook his head and continued creeping. Now was no time to think about kisses, even kisses that lingered on his lips, making serious headway into parts of his heart that he'd thought scarred over years ago. For now, he'd best concentrate on the shooters who, if they had a lick of sense, were hightailing it as far from the main path as possible. It might be easier to look for where they'd crossed, then follow their tracks. But they'd be watching behind them, and he preferred not to get shot. For now, Laramie moved stealthily through the trees, toward what sounded to be an unhappy cow—and angry voices.

  "—that again, I'll kill you myself," warned a man with a gravelly voice.

  A younger voice said, "She didn't see us, did she?"

  "No, but she'll surefire tell her pa. And I don't want the boss thinkin' I was shootin' at one of his girls."

  The boss? "She. Didn't. See. Us."

  "I don't want the boss thinkin' anyone in these hills was shootin' at one of his girls, 'cause he might just come lookin'. And he might just not stop."

  "You'd rather she did see us? A hundred more yards and she woulda, you know. This steer might make her wonder—"

  "Hush!"

  Laramie went still. Apparently the two men—and it sounded like only two—did as well. The cow, for its part, moaned out another protest at its situation.

  "What?" asked the younger voice after a long moment.

  "Thought I heard somethin'," admitted the other man. Then his pitch changed, maybe for the cow. "Get on, you."

  Laramie crept closer still, each footstep a well-considered choice. As he shadowed the rustlers, he saw how the bank shifted here—the rustler's path sloped downward, but a nearby stretch climbed upward. Either he had a hunch or a years-old memory, but Laramie chose the incline. Sure enough, after some hunting he found a rock that jutted out over the rough track. He crawled out onto it, first on all fours, then—gritting his teeth—low on his belly and elbows, and waited as two mounted cowboys eased a steer into tree-dappled view.

  The problem with lying so high was that he could see only the top of them—hats and shoulders, not faces. But he could tell from their size that neither man was Sheriff Ward. Surely the lawman wouldn't be doing his own rustling anymore, even if he was reaping profits from it.

  Ward knew as well as anyone, except maybe Laramie, the dangers of being caught with a stolen cow.

  Frustrated, he looked for clues he could see—noticed clothes, horses, hints of a brand. Something distracted him, something that
felt foolishly like . . . impatience?

  Laramie had seen more men die from impatience than from bullets or knives combined. That wasn't his cow, and this wasn't the reason he'd returned to Wyoming. So why was he considering swinging himself into the path, drawing down on these men, and ending the situation right here? What had happened to his usual composure?

  He didn't have to think hard. Victoria.

  She'd made him promise to catch up, as if he mattered. As if in this small thing, she needed him.

  Laramie could confront the rustlers and maybe survive, maybe not. Or he could follow them wherever they were headed, and lose the afternoon. Or he could accept that they were well off the path, and would pose no more threat to the Garrisons this afternoon, and just hope he got back to this part of the woods while he could still find tracks.

  It was a harder decision than he would have guessed.

  It was hard not to gallop headlong down the hillside; only strict training about abusing one's horses kept Victoria from giving Huckleberry his head. She told herself she wasn't scared of the rustlers, and maybe that was so. But she was scared.

  She was scared Kitty might yet die. She was scared she would say the wrong thing and add to Mama's fears. She was scared because Ross had gone after the rustlers alone.

  And every time Huck stumbled or scattered rock, Victoria was scared she wouldn't get home fast enough.

  By the time she left the woods and rode down the grassy swell of foothills toward the ranch road, Victoria felt downright ill from worry. Before she got in sight of the buildings, she drew Huck to a full stop and wondered if she tried hard enough, whether she could vomit right now and get it over with.

  She wanted to be strong for Mama, and Audra, and Elise. Maybe if she threw up now, she wouldn't do so in front of them. But her stomach refused to cooperate.

  Desperate, she arched her neck back, stared at the sky, which was blurred with tears, prayed for extra strength to do what she had to do in the best possible way.

  That's when she heard the hoofbeats.

  They came on her fast, faster than folks should ride except in a race, and she remembered the rustlers and train robbers and bad men. Suddenly, Victoria was scared for herself after all.

  But she had to get to Mama anyway.

  Dazedly, reaching one hand behind her to touch the rifle stock, she turned in Papa's saddle—and finally felt something other than fear. Because she recognized the black horse galloping out of the hills, recognized the rider leaning low over its outstretched neck, a point of darkness before a cloud of dust.

  It was Ross Laramie, catching up.

  What she felt then was sweeter, deeper, fuller than anything she could remember feeling in her life. He'd kept his promise! Now she didn't have to ride into the ranch by herself. Now she wasn't alone.

  Because of him.

  She turned Huck toward Ross's approach. Ross slowed Blackie as he neared her—no need to spook her mount—which only gave Victoria more time to sit there, grateful and relieved and... and sweet and deep and full.

  Full of him.

  Her reins were in her left hand, so she reached her right hand out to him, fingers spread wide as if that alone would bring him closer, faster. As he neared, Blackie walking now, he reached out too. Their hands closed around each other's, fingers weaving together.

  She wished she were holding more than his hand. She wished she could lean out and wrap her arms around him, slide out of Papa's worn saddle and into Ross's arms.

  As ever, she made do with words. 'You made it."

  He nodded, not trying words at all. Poor Blackie, blowing and lathered, needed to walk this last bit of road; one more reason to ride on.

  That, and to tell Mama what had happened.

  Ross looked a mite lathered himself, his eyes bright with excitement or pain, strands of black hair stuck to his neck and his jaw and his high cheeks. His shirt was damp—but she remembered liking him damp.

  Huck decided the issue by shifting position, which forced Vic and Laramie to either release their grip or tug one or the other out of the saddle.

  Vic felt herself starting to lean out before their hands drew reluctantly apart. Like a greenhorn, she actually grabbed the saddlehorn to catch her balance.

  In more ways than one.

  "I'm glad you did," she admitted, reining Huck toward the ranch. "Oh, Ross, I don't know how to tell Mama. I don't want to alarm her, but I can't lie either, and it is alarming. It is, isn't it?"

  When she dared look toward him, his brightness had darkened some. 'Yes," he agreed.

  "What will I say?"

  "You'll know," Ross assured her with that even, controlled certainty of his.

  "Do you think so?"

  He nodded. She wished they could hold hands again, but they were topping the last tall rise, in sight of the ranch house now.

  "You always know what to say." He ducked his head and added, "It's something I admire about you."

  Victoria caught her lower lip between her teeth. He'd said that before—did she dare believe him? For years, she'd been called a chatterbox, a blabbermouth, a magpie. Was it possible that her words could be admirable?

  She could see the distant figure of her mother in the yard, hanging laundry with Audra, not far from the elm tree with its lone grave. Both women seemed to look up at Ross arid Victoria's approach. Mama stepped around the laundry to see them better.

  Did she always know what to say?

  "Tell me about the rustlers," she begged Ross. "Later on, I mean. Once I know Kitty's all right. You'll do that, won't you? I want to have something else to think about, in case ..."

  But she'd run out of time to focus on anything but how her mother had broken into a run to meet them, clearly recognizing that Victoria was alone with a ranch hand—and riding her father's saddle.

  "I'll tell you," promised Ross. "Once you know."

  Victoria found the right words. Mrs. Garrison, beyond a certain waxen-faced shock upon hearing of the accident, responded with more competence than many women—or men—might. She asked Laramie to get fresh horses so that they could return to the Lorelei at once, and she set about collecting what she might need to save her daughter.

  Laramie roped and saddled horses for the ladies, chose another mount for himself from the ranch's stock, explained—haltingly—to the foreman what had happened, and sent for Nate Dawson. Now that they knew rustlers might cross that path, they would ride with guards.

  Not long after Laramie and Victoria arrived at the Circle-T, they were leaving it. Laramie rode point, then Victoria, then Mrs. Garrison with Elise, then Audra. Dawson took up the rear. Duchess, the dog, tended to run ahead on the path, then double back whenever it suited her.

  They arrived in the early afternoon to the sight of the doctor's horse, hitched to the porch. Ross helped Victoria down this time, despite the sharp tug in his side, and felt guilty for how much he wanted to leave his hands around her waist, wanted to draw her against him and hold her through this. While everyone dismounted, Laurel Pembroke rushed out of the house with what little news she had. "She hasn't woken up yet."

  Laramie thought she was putting a great deal of hope in that "yet." But he'd kept silent for far worse reasons than not kicking that hope for this frightened family.

  Mrs. Garrison ordered her daughters to stay downstairs—even Mrs. Pembroke—and went up to take over the nursing duties. Then the waiting began.

  Everyone except little Elise had a haunted look— more fearful, thought Laramie, than the look of someone facing down a shotgun barrel, because this fear held increasingly less disbelief, increasingly more resignation. Whenever he and Victoria caught each other's gaze, her gray eyes begged him to say something to make it right, but of course he could not.

  Not even the most eloquent words could bring comfort right now, much less his. Not without lying. And he would not lie to her about this.

  The ladies distracted themselves with work, cooking and cleaning. Laramie and Dawson saw
to the horses and tackle, then any other chores they could find. Thaddeas Garrison arrived, breathless and tight-mouthed, to no further news than they'd had; after briefly seeing Kitty and their parents, he made himself useful by taking Elise out to see the foals. Collier Pembroke, who'd sent the doctor ahead, returned with an attractive blond woman, a baby lying on a pillow across her lap, and Laramie learned that this was the oldest girl, Mariah MacCallum.

  She left the baby with her sisters and went upstairs as well, then came down with red eyes and helped cook.

  Laramie found Collier Pembroke seeing to his own mount and asked, "Where should we bury the stallion?"

  Pembroke looked up, his otherwise pretty features pinched. "The stallion," he repeated tightly.

  Laramie hesitated to offer advice to this fancy man, a respected ranch owner, maybe nobility. But the burying had to be done, and if he could get past his guilt long enough to think about it, Pembroke would see that.

  "It's a warm day."

  Pembroke took a long, shuddering breath, then nodded and turned away from his sparse, English patch-saddle and pointed. "Up higher, I suppose. That stand of aspens out there, just before the land turns, if it's not too rocky. It seems fitting."

  Laramie had the strangest urge to put his hand on the Englishman's shoulder, to tell him the accident wasn't his fault. All stallions were dangerous, not just wild ones, but a horse ranch couldn't exist without them. The child knew better than to get close. She'd been little, but Laramie could tell she'd been—was— smart.

  From the looks of that separate corral, and the extra-high rails, Collier Pembroke hadn't been negligent in the stallion's keep. He'd kept it out of kindness. He ought not be suffering for that.

  Yet Laramie was just a hired hand—and barely that. Pembroke didn't know him from Adam, and certainly had no cause to find comfort in his reassurances. So all Laramie managed was, "It'll give us something to do."

  After that, throughout the afternoon, the men took turns with two shovels up on the point. First Laramie and Dawson, Laramie silently gritting his teeth against how that hurt his still-healing wounds. Then Thaddeas Garrison and Pembroke arrived, deepening the grave. Some hours later, a stocky young man who was introduced as Stuart MacCallum arrived at the ranch and hiked up to join them, taking his turn at the shovel.