How to Lasso a Cowboy (14 page)

The twins had been the adventurous members of the family, and he knew they had been his father's favorites, although Garrett Sinclair had tried his damndest not to show it.

Seth closed his eyes for a moment: seeing the twins together again, racing the road, laughing. Always laughing and pulling tricks on one another and the other members of the family.

Neither he nor his youngest brother had ever resented the place the twins had in their father's heart. It would be impossible for anyone to resent them. They had been so full of goodwill, good cheer, good spirits.

They had died together at the Wilderness, the same battle in which he had been taken prisoner. He had refused to leave them when his own men scattered after his unit was overrun. Thank God they died quickly. He could still hear the screams of the wounded as the fires advanced.

He forced the memories away. No time to think of that, nor of the months of near-starvation that followed.

He was home.

First thing he would do was shake his father's hand, hug his little sister, and take a bath. He hadn't had a proper bath in years. It had taken every penny he could earn, steal, or
borrow to get home. There had been no money for extras such as a hotel or barber or public bath.

He would probably scare the devil at the moment. He had stopped at a muddy stream to try to clean but ended up even dirtier. He had a beard and had cut his own hair. It was long and ragged, but what the hell. Trini could fix it for him.

He leaned down and ran his hand along Chance's neck. He'd named the horse Last Chance and in the last few weeks of traveling together, they had gotten to know each other.

Even now if he tried to run the gelding for long, he would probably kill him. He took it slow and easy, savored the smell of grass untainted by blood, a sky so vast and blue it made him hurt inside, and a sun that looked close enough to touch it. Damn, he had missed that bold and brassy Texas sky.

He stopped at the closed gate, leaned down from the horse and unlatched it, then rode through. He dismounted, closed it, and remounted. Something was wrong. Then he realized what it was. The Sinclair sign was gone.

Still, he could look around and see that other structures needed repair. Perhaps this was far down on the list. Worry knotted in the pit of his stomach. That should have been one of the first things fixed.

The ranch had been in Sinclair hands since before Texas was freed from Mexico. His grandfather had bought a Spanish grant from a family who'd tired of Indian raids. His grandfather had fought off Indians, Mexicans, outlaws. His father had done the same.

The land was nourished by Sinclair blood as well as the river that ran alongside its west boundary. It was the river that made the land valuable.

He reached the well and dismounted. Just then the whine of a shot echoed in the warm afternoon sun. Earth spit up just a foot away. Chance shied away and protested with a loud neigh.

Instinctively, Seth dove behind the well and drew a pistol. He had stolen it from a northern farmhouse. It was the one item he'd needed above all else. For food. For protection in a land that was lawless in the chaos following war.

He glanced around and saw a rifle protruding from a window.

“What's your business here?” came a woman's voice.

No voice he knew
. “I live here.”

“No, you don't. This is the McGuire spread.”

He stilled.

“My name is Sinclair,” he shouted. “My family has owned this place for decades.”

“You alone?”

“Yes.”

“Throw your gun out.”

He would be damned if he would. He would never willingly give up a gun again.
Never.

“Your gun,” insisted the feminine voice again.

She must be alone.

He wondered how accurate the woman's aim was.

He knew Texas women who could shoot as well as any man. It was a necessary skill since women were often alone in their homes while their men were farming or herding cattle.

Where was his father? His brother? His sister?

What in the hell had happened?

He probably should have stopped in the nearby town but he'd been so damned eager to get home.

“Look,” he said. “I don't mean you any harm. I just want to know where my family is.”

“Then drop the gun.”

“The hell I will.”

Silence.

A standoff.

She couldn't get to him behind the brick well, but neither could he move. How long before her husband returned home?

The McGuire spread.

His stomach turned over. His father would never have relinquished this land, not as long as he had a breath in his body. Neither would Dillon, his hotheaded young brother.

“I just want some answers. Where's Major Sinclair?” His father had always been “the Major” to everyone, even his sons.

“I told you. This ranch is ours. Throw your gun out. Then you can leave.”

“My horse is thirsty. So am I. And I'm not leaving until I know what happened to my family.”

Chance neighed plaintively as if he understood exactly what was being said. He wandered a few more feet away.

“Get your water and leave.” The woman's voice was determined.

“Where's the Major?”

The gun wavered again, moving slightly to the left. He turned around and saw the small burial ground under the huge cottonwood tree. It was protected from cattle by a fence made of iron, strong enough to discourage the largest of bulls.

He stood, careless now of the woman's rifle. He put his pistol in his holster and walked over to the cemetery.

He saw a new grave. An unfamiliar one. A simple cross stood vigil over it. He opened the gate and walked in, oblivious now of the woman in his house.

The cross held the words
Major Garrett Sinclair.

His heart ached. So many miles to find yet another grave.

He knelt on the ground and bowed his head. Not in prayer. He no longer believed in prayer. Not after the last few years.

In respect. In love. In sorrow.

Anguish settled in the deepest part of his soul. He thought he had become immune to grief, but this . . . this was like being branded inside.

He had arrived too late. If he had traveled more quickly . . .

If. . .

He closed his eyes against the onslaught of pain. “I'm sorry, Major,” he said. “I couldn't protect the twins. I couldn't bring them back to you.”

Without rising, he glanced around the small fenced area. His grandfather. Two uncles were buried there. One had been a Texas Ranger who had been killed by Mexican bandits. The other had died of snakebite. His grandmother. Several babies who hadn't survived. His mother. Now his father.

No marker for Dillon. Or Marilee.

Relief flooded him, mixed with grief for his father.

Dillon and Marilee were somewhere. Alive. He had to find them. He had to bring together what was left of his family.

Damn, the woman would tell him. . . .

He rose and turned back toward the house. A woman stood on the porch, her hands clutching a rifle. She was tall, taller than most women, and her hair was caught in a long, untidy braid.

Her face was more striking than pretty, possibly because of the determination that hardened the lines. Her eyes were hazel. Cool and yet he thought he saw a momentary sympathy in them. He didn't want her sympathy. He wanted to know what in the hell had happened here.

“Don't come any closer,” she warned. Her hands shook slightly. She wasn't as sure of herself as she wanted him to think.

He ignored her and walked closer. Her dress was a plain gingham that did nothing for her too-thin body. Who would leave her here alone? There should have been a cowhand or someone. Well, that was none of his business. “I want to know about my family,” he said again. “I want to know what happened to my father.”

She seemed to flinch but she didn't take a step back. He knew he looked frightening. Bearded. Dirty. His clothes old and torn.

“I wasn't here,” she said. “They say he tried to shoot a Union soldier.”

“My brother, Dillon? My sister, Marilee?”

Emotion crossed her face. “Your brother is an outlaw. He's tried to kill my father more than once.”

He breathed easier. At least Dillon was alive. Marilee must be with him. Or at least with a neighbor. “Your husband?” he asked. He had assumed she was married to whoever was trying to claim this land.

“My father owns this place,” she said, defiance in her voice.

“The hell he does.”

“The law says he does.” Bright red spots appeared on her cheeks.

He wondered whether it came from defending the indefensible. “Your father didn't pay the taxes. If my father hadn't bought it, someone else would have.”

“How long ago?”

“Five months.”

“Don't get comfortable. Miss . . .”

“McGuire,” she replied in a tight voice.

He gave her a look of contempt. He would ride into town, find friends. He would find his brother and Marilee, then decide how best to dislodge these squatters.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said with sarcasm.

She lowered the rifle slightly. “I'm sorry . . . about your father.”

“Why? You took his land.”

She started to say something, then shrugged. “Get your water and go.”

He started to say to hell with the water, but stopped himself. It was Sinclair—not McGuire—water. His grandfather had built the well.

He could do without, but Chance deserved more. He lowered the bucket into the well water and drew it back out, transferring the contents into a second bucket there for that purpose.

Then he offered it to Chance, who drank thirstily.

“Easy,” he said, curtailing the intake for fear the horse would get sick. He would walk the animal the several miles into town, then find a bathhouse and get cleaned up. A bath. A shave. Fresh clothes. To hell with the cost. He could get credit in town.

Then he would pay a few calls.

He would find his brother and sister.

Then he would reclaim his family's heritage.

If it was the last thing he did.

 
ELIZABETH TOOK A
deep breath as the stranger rode away.

Not a stranger.
Marilee's brother.

Her hand shook as she replaced the rifle on the shelf above the fireplace.

Had she done the right thing?

The intruder had looked dangerous. Even if he was who he said he was, his father had threatened a government official. His brother was an outlaw who had been rustling their cattle. This man had looked more than capable of both.

Marilee was safe here.

Elizabeth told herself she couldn't just hand the child over to someone she didn't even know for sure was related to her young charge.

He would be back, though, if he was who he said he was. He would find out in town that she had taken the youngest Sinclair into his former home.

But she hadn't wanted to let him into the house. She and her father had been threatened repeatedly. And maybe he wasn't even telling the truth. Maybe he was a friend of the past owners, trying only to get inside. She kept telling herself that.

She had heard of the Sinclairs, knew there were three brothers missing, but when they hadn't been heard from for months and months, the town and military officials believed them dead.

Why hadn't he returned earlier if he were really Seth Sinclair? And where were the other brothers? Would they join with the one already outlawed?

If only her father had a few more men, but they'd had difficulty finding good experienced hands. Most local men were Texans to the bone, resentful of the new government and the Northerners who had come south. “Carpetbaggers,” the McGuires and other newcomers had been called more than once. It was a swearword in Texas. She had been told—unkindly—what it meant, that it referred to people who got off a train or a stagecoach with nothing but a carpetbag in hand and ready to steal anything they could from hardworking farmers and ranchers.