Renegade Riders (22 page)

“But what?” Trace finally asked. “I never knew you to keep your mouth shut when you have something riding your mind.”

Preacher exhaled in frustration. “I am damn happy for you, Trace. You know that. You’ve found yourself again through Mae. You belong here. After all you told me…well, it’s easy to see Trevor Guilliard has finally shaken off the horrors of that stupid war—as much as anyone of us ever will. You didn’t belong out West any more than that beautiful gal. The planter’s son is at home here. This is your element. You’re returning to life, to a life where you belong. And you know what? I think you’re going to breed that black son of Satan to a good mare and win that derby for that old man. It’s a good life you’ve found. Be damn happy the good Lord saw fit to give it to you.”

“Now I remember why I called you Preacher,” Trace
joked. “But there’s a place for you here, too.” He spoke the words hoping he could convince his friend, but knew it wouldn’t be enough; the old-timer had wanderlust in his eyes.

Preacher smiled, though the expression was a bit sad. “I thank you and Mae, kindly, but if I spend the rest of my days on that porch playing cards and chess with her grandpappy, you might as well take that shovel propped next to the barn over there and bury me out in the pasture. Trace Ord was running from the war and how it destroyed everything you loved. Mae is the salve for that wound in your heart. She’ll watch your back now, though she’ll use a derringer instead of your Winchester.” He winked and held out his hand. “I never told you my real name in all our travels, though I implied I had a past. Shake hands with John Mercer. I think it’s time.”

Curious, Trace reached out. The two men shook.

“I buried a lot of me back there in the Shenandoah,” Preacher continued. “My oldest boy was killed in the Wilderness. That was damn hard to take. Such an ugly campaign. Then Yanks came through one night. They burned my house and crops, drove off the livestock, and robbed me of everything. I worked my whole life to make that farm something to be proud of, something to leave my sons, and they took it all away.

“My youngest wasn’t even fourteen…” The old man swallowed, his eyes glassy. “He took his brother’s death hard, so to watch them Union soldiers ruin our home was more than he could stand. Tad was the apple of his mother’s eye, so when one of the soldiers snatched the cameo off my wife’s neck, he grabbed an old musket
off the wall…Damn thing was left over from the War of Independence—my pappy fought with Lighthorse Harry Lee, Robert E. Lee’s sire. Tad rushed forward to defend his mama, and that bluecoat captain shot him down like a dog.

“I went crazy, killed two soldiers. That captain drew his long Colt and pulled the hammer back. My wife jumped in front of me, took the bullet. I can still hear him laughing as he rode off, leaving me holding Carrie in my arms. Said I could live the rest of my life knowing what I’d done. John Mercer died that night. I buried him with my family in the light of my burning house. Then I walked away.”

The old man sighed and looked down at the ground before fixing his gaze once more upon Trace. “I don’t really recall much, wandering across the countryside afterward. I guess I went plumb crazy for a time. Years later I came across that captain up near the panhandle. I could see it in his eyes that he didn’t recall my face. Even when I prodded him, he just laughed and said it was war. He wasn’t laughing when I killed him…”

Trace shook his head. “I am sorry for your losses, John Mercer.” There was nothing else he could say.

“I thank you kindly, Trevor Guilliard.” The old-timer gave his hand a squeeze and then released it. “I am fine now. Helping you and Mae get back here sort of put paid to a lot of my sorrows. Only, I cannot live here. Reminds me too much of things that hurt to remember. Out in the territory I found peace. I’m not sure what I want to do now, maybe find a spread like the Lazy C—a good one that might need an old sourdough…”

“I understand.” Trace reached into his back pocket,
pulled out a letter, and unfolded it. “I was kind of thinking along the same lines, and maybe this will be the answer. The Lazy C is now Mae’s. She got this letter from her father. I guess prison is making him sorry for a lot of things he did. He tells her how he’s found religion, though I figure that’s just another lie. I reckon Mae thinks so, too, since she gave me the letter and asked me to deal with it. She doesn’t want to face anything to do with that ranch right now—maybe never. Too many bad memories. Still, I hate to let it go. It’s a fine spread. It would need someone with an even temper and a strong determination to turn it back around. But it could be done.”

“There’s no stock, no hands. Jared’s men will have done claimed all the horses that weren’t returned to the ranchers they was rustled from,” Preacher pointed out.

“Yeah, but I was thinking that maybe White Eagle might like to move his tribe onto the range. There’s plenty of room. It’d be a good home for them. They would be safe and able to stop moving around. You’d get no better horse wranglers—”

“Me?” the old man asked.

Trace nodded. “I figured you were getting a restless urge in your blood. Only, I don’t care much to turn you loose to wander. You might take a fool notion in your noggin to go out to Death Valley. Rounding up those mustangs that got away and breaking them should give you all the adventure you need—wouldn’t you think? I was considering making you a half partner in the Lazy C. You and the Indians can catch Standing Thunder and gather up his herd. You’d have a great start to stock that could equal anything back here in the East. You like the
notion? Maybe if they keep holding this derby going every year, you could bring one of your colts back and race against Mae’s father, maybe even beat the pants off him. That’d sure make up for losing at checkers.”

Preacher paused for a moment, thinking.

Trace jumped to add one more thing: “Perhaps you could even turn your hand to gentling a certain Indian woman. Provided she’ll have you, maybe you can show Breath Feather just what it’s like to be well treated. Her anger might take a wander if someone were to just show her a bit of kindness, and we know she has a fondness for the ways of the whites. There’s no white man I know who has a kinder heart than you. White Eagle will see that. And if Breath Feather doesn’t want you…well, there’s plenty to be done just running the ranch.”

Preacher nodded, a smile crawling across his face. “I like that, Trace. I like it mighty fine. Maybe it will heal my wounds as well. Maybe there’s time yet for this ol’ sourdough to start again. Maybe the two of us can find the happiness you and Mae have. I wouldn’t mind seeing what she thinks of the idea.”

Trace held out his hand to shake again. “We have a deal?”

The old-timer’s leathery hand took his. “Deal.”

A short time later Trace was sitting on the top rail next to the gate, watching Duchess and Diablo rubbing noses. He supposed that was a horse’s equivalent to kissing. For a mare, she was a match for the black stallion. So intent was he on watching the courting couple, he failed to notice the lasso until it descended around his arms and then snugged down. He turned to find Mae reeling in the slack.

“Good grief, she’s gone cowgirl!” he teased as she walked toward him.

Her eyes were flashing as she gave a strong tug on the rope, not enough to pull him off his perch but enough to let him know he was caught. “You’re lucky I was practicing my roping and not my shooting. You have a faraway look in your eye, Trevor Guilliard.” She usually called him Trace, so her use of his real name was pointed. “Ever since I told you we own the Lazy C, I can see the hunger in your eyes. You’re thinking of going back and rounding up those mustangs.”

Trace sighed. “I am. That herd was twice the size I thought it would be. Do you know how much money that would bring us—not to mention the thrill of capturing Standing Thunder?”

Hurt flickered in Mae’s eyes, along with a touch of fear. Her hand whipped out, and in her fingers was the derringer that Preacher had given her. She pointed it out into the distance. “Maybe I’ll need to work on my shooting after all.”

Trace leaned down and brushed his lips against hers, and his fingers closed around her gun hand. “I think you need to give me that. You might accidentally shoot me. Again.”

“Accidentally? No, it would be quite deliberate. It would take you months to heal before you go west again. Maybe by that time you won’t want to go. Let Standing Thunder live free, Trace.”

“I can’t do that,” Trace said. “If we don’t get him, some other wrangler will—someone maybe like Comstock. I won’t see that king of the canyons condemned to such a fate.”

Mae’s lower lip trembled. “Trace, I don’t want to go back. Maybe someday years from now, but…And don’t you dare tell me I can stay here while you go. You’re my husband. If you go, I’ll go.”

“Hush, my little renegade rider. Our trail ends here. As you say, we might want to go back…someday, not now.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“Preacher’s not happy here. I offered him half of the Lazy C to run it. He can go back, get White Eagle and the Indians to round up the wild horses, restock the Lazy C, and Standing Thunder can live free there. He can spend his days keeping his mares happy.”

“Oh, Trace!” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, almost pulling him off the fence.

Regaining his balance he climbed down. Putting one arm around his happy wife, he reached out with his free hand and slid the lock on the gate back, then swung it wide, allowing Diablo into the pasture with Duchess. The stallion and the mare did a victory lap around the field.

“Renegade hearts, all of us.” Trace was thinking about himself and Mae, about Preacher and Breath Feather, about Diablo and Duchess. He wondered who was Standing Thunder’s mate, and if the stallion had discovered her yet. Maybe that would come in time. Shrugging, he smiled and kissed Mae. “Every renegade needs someone to love. I’m so glad I found you.”

COUNTERFEIT LADY

PRISONER OF THE FLAMES

THE PRIVATEER

THE MARSH HAWK

Writing as Dawn Thompson:

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