Beautiful Bandit (Lone Star Legends) (2 page)

“Get moving!” Frank bellowed as the man in the window slowly lowered his gun.

The same question was still echoing in her head as she limped along the hardscrabble path: Surely, he’d believed she’d been involved in the robbery. So, why hadn’t he killed her when he’d had the chance?

If he had, her aching feet wouldn’t be competing with the twinge in her back, and she wouldn’t be cold and tired and hungry. Had she pulled a muscle, falling from the window in the Loma Vista Beer Saloon’s storage room? Or was the pain a result of walking miles and miles in dressy boots not made to withstand rugged terrain?

Kate knew she was living on borrowed time. As she was the only witness to the robbery and murders, what choice did Frank and his gang have but to hunt her down and silence her?

And to think she’d believed he intended to propose marriage! Why, he’d bamboozled her, just as surely as Axel Ayers bilked city slickers with his “pea under the walnut shell” game. Axel’s victims had lived to refill their purses and pockets, but her foolish infatuation had cost four good people their lives, and not even the fact that the nose of a revolver had been digging into her back seemed a good enough excuse for her cowardice.

If she’d refused to participate, if she’d warned Claribel, if she’d tried to grab the gun barrel, or something, Frank probably would have killed her where she stood. But Kate had no family to mourn her, whereas Claribel had a husband and grandchildren, and those poor men had wives and children.

Immediately following the holdup, she’d thought of little else as the Frank Michaels Gang had zigzagged across the countryside to confound the Texas Rangers. The only times she’d been distracted had been at night, when Frank would boast about how quickly he’d taught his little “Katie toy” the price of resisting. Oh, she’d learned to silently endure his torture, but nothing—not threats to slit her throat or promises of fancy clothes—could keep her eyes from exposing her unadulterated revulsion. And so, Frank had taken to blindfolding her each time he violated her, using the same, grubby rag with which he had tied her hands to the saddle horn.

With no family and little hope of ever having one, thanks to what Frank Michaels had done to her, Kate felt like she didn’t have much to live for. But if she really believed that, why had she fought so hard to survive his brutality? And why had she escaped the first chance she got “You’ll have plenty of time to puzzle that one out,” she said to herself, her breath puffing white into the inky air as she slumped, exhausted, to the cold ground, “once you get to Mexico.” She could almost hear the rowdy voices and clinking glasses of the Mexican cantinas Etta Mae’s customers so often talked about. Surely, she could find work in one of them, tickling the keys of an out-of-tune piano and crooning popular melodies for the patrons.

And then, an idea flitted into her head, one so good and so bright that it inspired a tiny smile. “You can learn to live on just a few pesos,” Kate whispered to herself, “and send money to Claribel’s husband, and the wives and children of—”

She couldn’t bring herself to say, “The men who died because of your cowardice.” Instead, she made a solemn oath to do everything she could to make up for what she’d done—or, more accurately, what she hadn’t done—at the bank.

Kate pushed herself back to her feet and pressed on, trying to ignore the cold night air, her parched throat, and her growling stomach, hoping with every agonizing step that Frank wouldn’t be waiting on the other side of the next rise, that the Rangers were too busy looking for Frank to worry about following her.

Because, for the first time since Frank had taken her captive, Kate Wellington had a good reason to live.

3

Josh yawned and stretched the kinks from his neck, wondering when he’d last felt as dog-tired as he did now. “Sure will be good to pull up for the night, won’t it, girl?” he asked his horse.

Callie responded by quickening her pace, as if she understood that several pans of oats and water would be hers when they stopped for the day. She wouldn’t have had to make the trip at all if Josh had taken Pa’s advice. But few things annoyed him more than wasting money, and that’s just what he would have done by purchasing a two-way train ticket to San Antonio.

Josh could have shaved two days off the ride if he’d been willing to push Callie harder. But as much as he wanted to ride under the familiar, wrought-iron gate that spelled out “Lazy N Ranch,” he saw no point in making his loyal mare pay the price for his family’s decision to make a land-for-money deal with Griffen.

Callie’s stomach growled, and, as if on cue, so did Josh’s. Another hour, maybe two, and he’d treat himself to some of the jerky he’d bought on his way out of town. His purchases—coffee, oats, biscuits, jerky, carrots, and matches—would have cost half as much at home. One more reason to thank the good Lord that he lived on the outskirts of Eagle Pass, where the annual church bazaar stood in satisfactorily for big-city noise and activity.

The sun went down, and so did the temperature, making a fire seem mighty appealing. Josh directed Callie toward a flat spot near a small grove of scrub pines he’d spotted.

“Atta girl,” he said, patting her neck as she slowed to a stop. Both his boots hit the dust as he added, “Let’s hope our campfire won’t lure scorpions—or bandits.”

He’d worried about both almost from the moment he’d ridden out of San Antonio. It hadn’t taken long to tell the sheriff what he knew about the holdup at the bank. He’d done his best to describe each man, but that hadn’t been easy, since all but one had had his face hidden behind a bandanna. That was, all but one and the girl.

If the sheriff had asked his opinion, Josh would have told him the gang’s best bet would be to head south, not west. That’s where he’d have gone, anyway. But the sheriff hadn’t asked, and as Josh had watched the posse ride out, he hadn’t been able to help feeling uneasy. Like a dark cloud, the dubious sensation had shadowed him, meaning he’d had to sleep with one eye open every one of the five nights of his trip. Still, it would feel mighty good sliding into his soogan after washing down a biscuit and some bacon with a cup of hot coffee.

It was completely dark when he finally stretched out under the night sky. Callie, her belly full of oats and carrots, nickered from where he’d tethered her to the branches of a scrawny blackbrush shrub, reminding him of the last trip on which he’d bedded down beneath a canopy of stars. It had been two years ago—just over a month after Sadie had joined Jesus—that Josh and his cousins had driven a herd toward a Nebraska packing house. During those sweltering, dusty days, the boys tried to cheer him up by cracking jokes as they yee-hawed and whistled to keep the cows together. At night, the dogies lowed in happy harmony to Daniel’s guitar, while Paul plucked the Jew’s harp and Micah hummed into his harmonica. Ordinarily, Josh would have crooned along, but with Sadie’s passing so fresh in his mind, he’d counted stars in silence, instead.

Now, he tucked his hands under his head and smiled a little, thinking about Sadie’s first Thanksgiving as a Neville. “The good Lord did your mamas a favor,” she’d teased, “putting just one boy under each roof!” Josh’s mother had pointed out that God had more than made up for it by delivering giggling girls to each Neville house—four sisters for Paul, three for Micah, six for Daniel, and two for Josh—all of whom had bonded instantly with Sadie, despite the fact that she’d grown up as the only child of elderly parents.

Pushing himself up on one elbow, Josh used a gnarled whitebrush branch to stir the coals. Sparks floated toward the heavens, and he recalled how much Sadie had loved the stars. “God’s diamonds,” she’d called them.

Callie snorted, then pawed the dirt and whinnied. Josh strained his ears, sitting up all the way to distinguish between normal noises of the night and whatever had spooked his usually unflappable mare. He quickly dismissed the hoots of owls, the symphony of crickets, and the shrill peent of a nighthawk and focused on a sound that fell somewhere between a moan and a sigh, coming from behind a boulder near Callie’s tree.

Instinct made him palm his pistol. Witnessing the robbery and murders in San Antonio had made him edgy and restless. The gang of outlaws could be anywhere, and, after all his family had suffered in order to obtain the banknote hidden in his boot, he had no intention of giving it up without a fight.

Inching along toward the source of the sound, he eased back on the hammer of his gun, wincing at the barely audible click that seemed to crack like thunder in the near silence.

“Please,” came a tiny, frail voice, “please don’t shoot.”

What’s a young’un doing way out here in the middle of nowhere? Josh wondered. But he’d volunteered to help the Rangers round up enough rustlers and bandits to know they had more than just cards up their sleeves. It wouldn’t have surprised him in the least if it was an outlaw imitating a child. “Hands up,” he growled, “and on your feet.”

“I—I can’t.”

He’d already assumed the “ready, aim” position. Now, as Josh took those last few steps, he adopted the “fire” stance, fully prepared to drill the phony-voiced crook full of lead if he had to.

However, it was not a child, but a woman. When he rounded the rock, she was on her knees, facing him, both arms high in the air. She was not much bigger than a child, and Josh couldn’t tell if her head-to-toe trembling was caused by fright—for her bright-green eyes looked twice the size of Callie’s—or if the chill in the air was to blame. Seeing that she wielded no weapon, he lowered his own. “Are you out of your mind, sneaking up on a man in the dark?” he snarled, holstering the gun. “That’s about the best way I know to get shot!”

Hugging herself, she said, “I—I just hoped to come closer to the fire…once you’d gone to sleep, that is. I would’ve been gone before you awoke in the morning.”

How long had she been skulking around these parts, to have worked out a plan to snare a few moments of warmth? She looked oddly familiar, though, for the life of him, he couldn’t say why. “Looks like you’ve been yanked through a keyhole at the end of a rope,” Josh said, helping her up. “What in tarnation happened to you, missy?”

It must have been feminine self-consciousness that prompted her to pat her snarled, coppery hair and smooth her wrinkled, brown skirt. Sweat and grit had stained what had likely once been a fine, white shirt, and those boots—clearly not made for hiking any distance—were covered in trail dust.

He’d never been able to stand seeing a female in distress, even one who looked as though she’d just climbed out of the coal bin. So, he invited her toward the warmth of the flames, and, when she appeared to be limping, he scooped her up in his arms. She weighed hardly more than his saddle, and her pained grimace told him that under the grubby blouse, she hid bruises, maybe even a cracked rib or two.

Dropping to one knee, Josh eased her to the ground near the fire. The instant he draped his blanket over her shoulders, she clutched it tightly to her and leaned so close to the fire that he worried she might topple face-first into it.

“Easy, now,” he said, “unless you want a mouthful of hot ashes.” Uncorking one of his canteens, he held it out to her. “Are you thirst—”

She grabbed it, pressed it to her lips, and gulped.

“Whoa, too much at once, and you’ll end up with a powerful bellyache.”

She quickly wiped the back of one hand across her mouth. “Sorry,” she gasped. “Didn’t mean to behave like an ungrateful pig.”

He shook his head to let her know that she needn’t apologize, noting how odd it was that, so far, she hadn’t looked him square on for longer than an eyeblink.

“I haven’t had anything to drink in days,” she added.

Or a bath, he thought, and probably not a bite to eat, either. He fetched a chunk of jerky and two biscuits from his saddlebag, then held them out to her. “Slow and easy, now, hear?” he said as she accepted them with an eager look in her eyes.

“Thanks,” she said around the first mouthful.

He plopped down beside her, careful not to sit too close, and rested his forearms on his knees. “So, what’s your story?”

Brows high on her forehead, she stopped chewing. “Story?”

“I’ve made the trip between Eagle Pass and San Antonio several dozen times. Saw my fair share of lizards and bobwhites and even a cuckoo or two on the trail, but you’re the first woman. There’s sure to be quite a tale about why you’re out here, all by your lonesome, lookin’ like you do.”

She finished chewing and swallowed, then ran her dirty fingers through her tangled hair. “I….” Frowning, she looked everywhere except at him, as if somewhere deep in the blackness, she’d find an explanation to satisfy his curiosity. “I don’t know how I got out here.”

“Is that so? Well, I don’t mind admitting that sounds more than a mite suspic—”

The tears glittering in her eyes silenced him, and though nothing she’d done or said so far justified it, a long-forgotten sentiment echoed in his heart. He wanted to ease her fear, make her feel safe. “Let’s start with something easy, then. Like, your name?”

Staring into the fire, she chewed her lower lip. “I—I don’t remember.”

“Don’t remember?” he echoed her. Josh had met some addle-brained women in his day, but every last one had at least known her own name! “Did you fall from a horse? Wander away from a stagecoach accident? Get thumped on the head by a robber?”

A minuscule gasp escaped her lips, and, for a moment, she actually looked him square in the eye. In that instant, he knew without a doubt that something sinister had happened to her. Then, just when he thought he might have made some headway, she hid her face in her hands. “What day is it?” she mumbled through her fingers.