Cherish (21 page)

Not much say, but a lot of do, that was Pete, a trait apparent not only in his speech, but in his appearance. His faded chambray shirt and saddle-rubbed jeans had seen better days, his Colt .45 had a black, dull-finish grip, and the best that could be said for his gun belt, bat-wing chaps, and kip boots was that they were serviceable, the leather of all three dark with age and worn by hard use. Nothing about the man looked impressive. Yet he was one of the best horsemen Race had ever seen, a damned fine marksman, and, without question, the hardest working man in the outfit.

“I done my best,” Pete said hollowly. “So did all the men.” He grew quiet for a moment, his head cocked to listen to the constant lowing of the cattle. “Can’t be much of a surprise. A body can tell by their bawlin’ that their numbers is down considerable.”

That was true, and Race had expected bad news. He just hadn’t been thinking in terms of over half. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I could tell.” He recalled the decision he’d made earlier that day to forsake the cattle and stay with Rebecca, telling himself that to protect her life he would happily sacrifice his own. Well, he had sacrificed it, sure as God’s favorite color was green. “Son of a bitch.”

“You gonna go tits up?” Pete asked quietly.

“No go to it,” Race bit out. “This finishes me. We only stood to make thirty percent profit after payin’ off
the bank loan that I got to buy the herd. If we lost over fifty percent of them, I’ll be shy just tryin’ to plank down on the debt.”

Pete nudged one of the rocks encircling the fire with the toe of his boot. “Well, shee-it.”

“To settle with the bank, I’ll have to dip into my savin’s. And for a considerable amount. I’ll have to lay off my men.” He looked up at Pete. “We’ll tell ’em come mornin’. I got maybe enough to pay ’em until December, and that’ll be it. Wouldn’t be right, keepin’ ’em on until then and lettin’ ’em go in the dead of winter. Jobs are kinda scarce when the snow’s hip-deep.”

Pete stared into his coffee cup. “I sure hate like hell to see it.” His jaw muscle ticked. “The
bastards
! I swear, every time we’d get them critters soothed down, one of them sons of bitches would fire off a rifle ag’in. Twenty-nine head run themselves to death. Poor dumb things.”

Race closed his eyes. There were few things more horrible than to see a steer that had run until its heart burst. “I’m real sorry I ain’t been out there helpin’ you, old son. Must have been one terrible day.”

Pete released a weary sigh. “You had your work cut out for ya here. And you’re right. I seen some bad’uns in my time. But today took the prize, I think.” The foreman took a loud slurp of coffee. “How’s the girl holdin’ up? I hear she come damned close to bein’ raped and gettin’ her throat slit. Must’ve been tough on her, comin’ so fast on the heels of that slaughter in the arroyo.”

Race bit down hard on his back teeth for a moment. “It was rough on her, no question. I didn’t help matters.”

About to take another sip of coffee, Pete hesitated, his washed-out blue eyes cutting Race a questioning look over the rim of the cup. “What’s that mean?”

Race locked gazes with him. “When I shot the bastard, he fell right on top of her. Blood all over her. Scared the devil out of me, thinkin’ I’d sent her back into shock.”

The words hung in the predawn quiet. Pete’s hollowed cheeks seemed to become more sunken, the facial muscles under his weathered skin stretching tight over the bones. “How’s she doin’ now?”

“Better. Pretty froggy, I think. But she don’t seem will-in’ to admit it.”

“What do you think them bastards is after?”

“Money. What else?” As briefly as he could, Race recounted the story Rebecca had told him. “Somehow the plug-uglies found out they were transporting cash.”

“And you figure they’ll be back.”

Race sighed. “Knowin’ that kinda trash, they’ll keep on until they get their hands on it or until they’re dead.”

Pete slowly dropped into a hunker to be at Race’s eye level. “Dead’s my vote. I reckon that means we’ll have to be on our toes. Unless she’s made of steel, that girl can’t take much more. We gotta make sure they don’t get to her again.”

“They won’t,” Race said in a dangerously silken voice. “I guarant-ass-tee it.” He smiled slightly. “She offered to cover my losses if I’d go get the money.”

“What’d you say?”

Race shrugged. “I wouldn’t feel right about takin’ it. A lot of folks died for it, for one thing, and then it belongin’ to a church, to boot.”

Pete chewed on that for several seconds. “I reckon I’d feel the same way.” He dug in his back pocket for his plug. After tearing a chunk of tobacco off with his teeth, he returned the plug to his pocket, one cheek puffed as he worked his mouth for spit. “Well, let’s just be glad we only lost cows. Coulda been worse. Might still be yet. I bet you’ve a good mind to go huntin’ plug-uglies with blood in your eye.”

“If it wasn’t for the girl, I would. But I don’t wanna leave her.”

Pete nodded. “After today, I can’t say I blame you.” A speculative look came over his face. “You’re uncommon fond of her, ain’t you?”

Race bent his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I reckon I am. Don’t ask me why. I can’t explain it.” He glanced up. “She’s a sweet little thing. And you can tell straightaway that she ain’t puttin’ on. She truly is what she seems to be.”

Pete winked. “You been hit hard. Way you’re lookin’,
maybe you oughta take your losses out in trade.”

Race chuckled. “With Rebecca?” He shook his head. “She ain’t that kind. Couldn’t touch it for no amount of money. The only man who’ll ever lay a hand on that girl will be her husband.”

Pete arched an eyebrow. “You best watch your step, boss. You got a look in your eye I don’t recollect ever seein’ afore.”

“Yeah?” Race thought that over for a second. “Well, I’m feelin’ like I ain’t never felt. There’s somethin’ real special about her.”

“All the more reason to watch your step with her.”

“Watch his step with who?”

Both Race and Pete glanced up to see a sleepy-eyed Tag stepping up to the fire. The boy’s face was streaked with dirt, his hair stiff with dust and standing on end. He fastened curious, big gray eyes on Pete. “You fellas talking about females?” Tag said “females” as if it were a dirty word. “Seems to me that’s all any of you talk about. Johnny and Corey, now you and the boss. I think it’s a waste of time. What’s so special about girls? All they do is fuss.”

Pete winked. “As you git older, son, they start to kinda grow on ya.”

“I didn’t think you liked them none too well,” Tag observed.

Pete chuckled. “Well, now, I reckon I don’t, truth to tell. Not where’s I wanna rub elbows with one over long. But I don’t mind the occasional handshake.”

Tag wrinkled his nose.

“What’re you doin’ up, tyke?” Race asked.

“I’m not a tyke.”

“Sorry. Old man, then.”

Tag scratched under his arm. “I swear, them dead steers got fleas on me.”

“We’ll head out come mornin’,” Race assured him. “You can bathe when we hit the river.”

“Sounds good.” Tag yawned and turned from the fire. “I gotta go see a man about a dog.”

“Stay close,” Race called. “Wearin’ that light-colored
shirt, I don’t want you wanderin’ off from camp.”

“I won’t.”

Race gazed after the boy for a long moment, his smile fading. “I’m gonna hate like hell havin’ to lay him off,” he told Pete. “Don’t know what his mama will do without his pay comin’ in each month.”

Pete sighed. “We’ll work it out. A good number of the men’ll probably volunteer to stay on without pay till you get back on your feet. You’re a fair man, and good jobs is hard to come by in this line of work.”

Pete had no sooner finished speaking than the blast of a rifle rent the air. Both he and Race dove for the dirt. When Race sprang back into a crouch, he’d already drawn his guns. He swung his gaze over the camp. His men were leaping to their feet over by the bedroll wagon and scrambling for their weapons.

“It came in close,” Pete whispered as he duck-walked toward Race, his gun arm swinging first right, then left to cover his boss’s back. “Don’t think it was aimed at us, though.”

Race’s heart caught. “Jesus!” He pushed to his feet. “Oh, sweet Jesus, no!” He broke into a run. “Tag? Tag!”

No answer. Just an awful silence stretching beyond the wagons where the boy had disappeared. Race felt as if he were slogging hip-deep through cold mush, his every stride agonizingly slow, the short distance stretching before him like a thousand miles. To the edge of camp. Past the wagons. Out into the darkness.

Where? He cut left, then veered back to the right, his gaze scanning the grass and bushes. “Tag! Answer me, damn it! Where are you? Tag? Sing out, son, so I can—”

Race reeled to a stop, barely preventing himself from stepping on the boy’s arm. Tag lay sprawled on the grass, face in the dirt. Race dropped as if someone had dealt a blow to the backs of his legs.

Hiding
, he thought dazedly. That was it. Tag had been scared by the rifle shot, that was all. And he was just hiding.

Race grasped a thin shoulder to turn the boy over. “Hey, Tag. It’s all right. You can get up now and come back to—”

Even in the darkness, Race could see the splash of shiny wetness on the front of the kid’s shirt. He grabbed the boy’s other arm to sit him up. “No. Tag?” Tag’s sleep-tousled head flopped sideways. Race found himself staring into unseeing big gray eyes that had been filled with life and intelligence only minutes before. Blood trickled from the boy’s lax mouth. “Oh, Jesus, no,” Race whispered. “Oh, God, no. No!”

And then he screamed it. “
No—oo-o
!”

Wind whistled across the grasslands, blowing particles of
dirt into Rebecca’s eyes as the men filled Tag’s grave. She blinked, seeing everything through a stinging blur of tears, but didn’t bother to rub away the burn. Pain seemed real, at least. Nothing else did. A gust caught her skirts, whipping them high to reveal her petticoats. If the men around her had the presence of mind to look, let them. What did it matter? Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Numb. No arms, no legs, no feet. The one thing she could feel was the huge aching emptiness where her chest should have been, a vacuum that compressed her lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

Her mother…her father…Uncle Luke and Aunt Hester…and all of the others. Now an innocent twelve-year-old boy. Was this land that had held so much promise in faraway Pennsylvania just a place haunted by death and failure?

She would never forget the look on Race Spencer’s face last night when he’d come back to camp, carrying that skinny, half-grown body in his arms. Twelve years old. Rebecca hadn’t known Tag, had never even seen him until that horrible moment when she had rushed across the encampment as Race laid him by the fire. Yet she felt as if her heart had been ripped out.

Race had refused to let her touch the boy. Refused to let anyone touch him. He just kept saying, over and over, “I promised. Dear God, I promised.” Later Mr. Grigsley
had whispered to Rebecca that Race was referring to Tag’s mother—that Race had promised her that he would look after Tag and keep him safe.

God help him, he’d tried. They’d all tried—all of those hard-bitten, hard-riding, well-meaning men. And then along had come Rebecca Morgan, as devastating as any plague. Without meaning to, she had brought nothing but grief to Race Spencer and his men. Financially, he was ruined because of her. His men were out of jobs, or soon would be—because of her. From what she’d been able to gather, he would be letting all of them go as soon as they reached his ranch with the pathetic remnants of his herd. His dog, the pet he so clearly loved, was clinging to life by a thread, which was all her fault. His cook was so battered that he could scarcely walk—because the feisty old man had tried to defend her. And now…now a young boy, who’d never done anything to anyone, had been shot down in cold blood. That was the worst of all. The very worst.

Rebecca bit her lip and dashed her trembling fingers over her wet cheeks. Somehow a ruffian had slipped past the guards who’d been riding in a circle around camp since early yesterday. Even more horrible, all the men had been so frantic to save the child that the killer had slipped away before anyone thought to go look for him.

Now here they were…gathered at a grave in this endless expanse of nothingness, their faces haggard, their eyes rimmed with red, either from exhaustion, or from the endless grit blowing around, or from tears they’d secretly shed. Broken promises and broken hearts. A bright-eyed, full-of-life boy struck down before he’d even had a chance to experience life. And it seemed to Rebecca that the nightmare would never end.

She wished she could speak to Race Spencer, perhaps console him as he had her. Inside, where no one could see, she ached to tell him how very, very sorry she was. But most of all, she wished she could assure him he wasn’t to blame for any of this.

It was her fault. All her fault. Only hers. Her mind stuttered over the pain. And the guilt. If only Race would
shout at her. Or treat her with the scorn she deserved.

It amazed her that none of these men had pointed a finger at her yet. Were they all blind? They still watched over her, still treated her courteously. Even Race Spencer, who looked ravaged and hollowed out, whose eyes had become burning orbs of pain in his dark face, still guarded her safety, assigning another man to stay near her if he couldn’t remain with her himself.

All of them…poor, ignorant fools that they were…guarding and protecting the evil that had come among them.

Since Tag’s death, Rebecca had been able to think of little else. Last night after everything had quieted down, she’d sat by the fire for hours, agonizing over what she should do.

Death was all around her. The air itself seemed thick with it. So thick she could scarcely breathe. On her skin. Clinging to her hair. The taste of it on the back of her tongue.
Death
. Nearly a hundred and fifty steers,
dead
. Seventeen human beings, counting the ruffians,
dead
. Possibly more. She had no idea how many other ruffians might have died in the arroyo. Then there was poor old Blue, who might die yet.

Death…all around her. Hovering, stalking, like a ravening beast.

At some point during the night, the truth had finally come to her. It was so clear to her now—so horribly clear. This wasn’t going to stop. Death could not be cheated, and it had come here to collect its due.

She could scarcely believe that none of these men had figured it out. Rebecca Morgan, the sniveling coward. She had fled and hidden in the brush, covering her ears, closing her eyes, ignoring the screams of everyone she loved, her one concern to save herself. She should have died in the arroyo with everyone else. If not for her unforgivable cowardice, she
would
have died with everyone else. It was obvious. Wasn’t it? Why would one person out of so many be spared? One lone survivor? She had lived, and everyone else had died.

She was marked. That was the truth of it. She had es
caped death, slipped out of its clutches. And now it was following her. A skeletal specter like she’d seen in picture books Elder Ames had shown her once, trying to claim its own, determined to claim its own. And she was still hiding, managing to slip from its clutches, letting others be sacrificed in her place. This wouldn’t stop until she surrendered. It was as simple and terrifying as that, the most horrible part being that she was such a coward, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Every time the shovel rasped as it was plunged into the dirt, she felt as if it cut through her chest. The blade driving in. The fall of dirt. Then the rasp again. The sounds whispered in her mind.
Rebecca
. Then the fall of dirt.
Rebecca
. And another fall of dirt. She stared down into the grave, her vision blurred with tears, glad she couldn’t see clearly, for to see was to feel shame that ran so deep she could scarcely bear it.

She wanted to throw herself on the ground and beg that boy for his forgiveness.

Vaguely aware of sudden movement around her, Rebecca blinked and tried to focus. The grave had been filled in and the men were gathering closer. She struggled to concentrate on what they were saying and realized they were attempting to pray in their clumsy, illiterate way. The echo of their voices penetrated the blur of unreality, and an hysterical urge to laugh struck her. They knew not a single prayer in its entirety.

“
Our Father who art in heaven
.” That voice trailed away. Another chimed in with, “
Give us our daily bread
.” Someone else said, “
Jesus, McNaught, ask for more’n just bread. Beans, maybe
.”

Rebecca blinked and rubbed her eyes. Blinked again. As the figures around her came into focus, she gaped at them.
Beans
? A joke, surely. Only none of them was smiling. Drawn faces, haunted eyes. All of them were staring helplessly at the mound of dirt.

She looked at Race Spencer, who seemed unaware of what was being said around him. He stood at the opposite side of the grave, his legs braced wide apart, and for the first time since she’d known him, his arms hung limply
at his sides, his hands nowhere near his guns.

The wind sucked his black shirt to his torso and whipped his midnight hair across his face, the strands catching on his lips, drifting into his eyes. He stared down at the grave almost sightlessly, a man alone, cast against a backdrop of parched green and sun-baked yellow, his grief stark in his expression.

“My ma used to say the Hell Mary,” Johnny offered. “I can recollect some of it.”

Mr. Grigsley sniffed. “That’s a good’un.”

The only man present, aside from Race, who had removed his hat, Johnny stepped up to the foot of the grave, his mouth quivering and tears filling his eyes. He made what Rebecca surmised was supposed to be a sign of the cross, his fingertips touching his forehead, bypassing his shoulders, and dropping directly to his chest. Then he stood, turning his hat in his hands, his throat muscles convulsing. “Hell Mary,” he said in a taut voice. “Filled with grace and better than all other women. And blessed is your baby, Jesus. Pray for us sinners. Amen.”

“That’s a good’un,” Mr. Grigsley said again. One eye still swollen shut, his face a mass of purple and blue bruises above his gray beard, he brushed a tear from his battered cheek. “I don’t recollect no prayers, and I feel right bad that I don’t, Lord, ’cause this here boy was a good’un and oughta be sent off right.” He sniffed. “But I reckon you know that. About how good he was, and all. So I don’t need to be tellin’ you. I’d just ask that you treat him real fine up there, and don’t let no highfalutin folks be holdin’ the poor sendoff ag’in him. It ain’t his fault he rubbed elbows with such dumb son’bucks. Amen.”

Corey pushed his white-blond hair from his eyes. “I know a supper blessing. I could take out the food part.”

Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears again, only this time not from dirt. She had resolutely refused to pray these last two days. Just the thought of trying made her feel nauseated. If there was a God, He had betrayed her and everyone she loved. Her parents had entrusted their lives to Him, had counted on Him to protect them. Every time she
remembered how her father had held his Bible up before him as if it were a shield, she burned with anger.

But that was her. These men wanted to pray,
needed
to pray. It was important to them to say the right words over this boy whom they had loved. If she could give them that, it seemed the least she could do, even if she had to force out every word.

“Would you like me to say the Lord’s Prayer?” she offered.

Johnny turned aching blue eyes on her. After staring at her for several seconds, he said, “Would you do that for us, ma’am? We’d all be right appreciative.”

Rebecca folded her hands, her gaze fixed on the mound of dirt. “Let us pray.”

She flicked a glance at her companions. Everyone except Race Spencer, who seemed off in a world of his own, was staring at her. Not a bowed head in the bunch. Rebecca nearly commenced, convinced the outward postures weren’t really important. But then it occurred to her that what these poor souls craved was some ceremony.

She felt sure her legs would refuse to bend. But she would kneel. For them. What she felt in her heart didn’t matter. All that counted were the words, the pretense.

She dropped clumsily to her knees. Johnny, who stood closest to her right, made a grab for her, as if he thought she were falling. At the last second, he jerked his hand back and muttered, “Oh, yeah.”

Coughs. Throat clearing. Boots shuffling. Joints cracking. She scanned the group. Everyone but Race Spencer had gone to his knees.

“Don’t pay no mind to the boss,” Mr. Grigsley told her in a half-whisper. “He’s doin’ his own prayin’.”

For a moment, Rebecca gazed at the man at the opposite side of the grave, searching his expression. All she could see was pain—the kind that went too deep for prayers or tears. She wondered if he was going to be all right.

She gulped, then drew her gaze back to her audience. “Your hats, gentlemen.”

Blank gazes. The insides of her cheeks were stuck to her teeth.

“You need to remove your hats.” Bewilderment. “As a sign of respect,” she expounded. “Much as you might remove your hat in the presence of a lady.” Judging by the looks they gave her, none of them had ever done that, either. “It’s customary,” she assured them.

Mr. Grigsley jerked his hat off and shot Johnny a glare. “How come you didn’t remind me! I don’t know how we coulda forgot that part.”

Hats came off. Grimy fingers combed through sweat-dampened hair, stirring up cowlicks of every conceivable color. Rebecca made a show of bowing her head. “Shall we pray?”

“Yes’m,” chorused several deep voices.

Rebecca stared down at her folded hands. Clenched her fingers, then relaxed them. “Holy Father, we gather here this morning to say our final farewells to Tag—” She glanced up.

“Jones,” Mr. Grigsley inserted.

“To say our final farewells to Tag Jones,” Rebecca continued, “a young boy who was friend to most of us, a stranger to me, but whose passing greatly grieves us all.” A lump rose in her throat. She had to gulp it down to go on. “To lose a loved one is never easy, Lord.”

“It sure as hell ain’t,” someone muttered in a choked voice.

She could do this. Rebecca swallowed then grabbed for breath. “It’s especially difficult when it’s someone so young.”

Mr. Grigsley said, “I’d switch places with him in a blink. Ain’t fair. It just ain’t fair.”

It
wasn’t
fair, Rebecca thought. Why this boy, when it should have been her?

“As sometimes happens,” she went on shakily, “Tag Jones was struck down by a violent hand, an innocent who fell prey to the vagaries of Fate. Human as we are and of limited”—she skimmed the down-turned faces all around her—“and of limited knowledge, it is so very difficult to accept that which we cannot understand and to
find peace with that beyond our comprehension. So it is, heavenly Father, that we come to you as little children ourselves to commend the soul of this child, Tag Jones, into your gentle and loving hands.

“In keeping with the teachings of your son, Jesus Christ, our prayer to you in behalf of our dearly departed, Tag Jones, shall be expressed with the words He taught us.” Rebecca then began to recite the words of the Lord’s Prayer. When she came to, “Give us this day, our daily bread,” she looked up to find expectant gazes fixed on her. For the sake of easing hearts, she ad-libbed, tacking on, “plenty of beans, fresh lean meat, and all manner of other good things to eat.”

“He truly loved his peppermint sticks,” Corey informed her helpfully.