Defiant (6 page)

She stirred the broth as she kept her ears open for sounds beyond her bedroom door. He should be finished with his personal needs now. He would need a wash and a shave.

She'd occasionally shaved her husband. It was one of the few personal things he'd enjoyed having done for him. But she hesitated to offer that service to the stranger. It had been an intimate thing between her and her husband; they had even occasionally ended in bed, though he usually preferred night for lovemaking. In some ways, he had been prudish about lovemaking, feeling there was a time and place for it, while Mary Jo thought any place or time was right between husband and wife as long as the desire was there.

The thought brought a hot blush to her cheeks and a yearning to her womanly place. It had been nearly three years since she'd been last loved. Hard work had subdued the need, but now she felt the rush of heat deep inside.

She shook her head in disgust at herself. She couldn't believe she was having such feelings for the first stranger that came limping along. Especially this stranger.

Jeff would be turning over in his grave. So would Ty.

But she just plain couldn't get Wade Foster out of her mind, not those intense eyes, nor that strong, lean body under her bedclothes. Perhaps because of his grief over his son. She'd known grief, but she had never lost a child. And she'd never seen a man so consumed by sorrow.

He was a very disturbing man in many ways, and she was foolish to harbor him without checking with the law.

Perhaps when the storm ended, she would ride to town and make inquiries. If she could ford the stream. If—

The door banged open and Jeff plunged back inside, rain flying in with him. Jake stayed outside, barking frantically.

“Men coming, Ma,” Jeff said. “A lot of them.”

Is anyone after you?

I expect so
.

Almost without thinking, she made a decision.

“Jeff, don't say anything about the stranger.”

“Why?” It was his favorite question, and she always tried to give him answers. This time she didn't know if she could.

She looked at her son, wondering what kind of lesson she was teaching him now. But she had to protect the man they'd rescued. She didn't understand why she felt so strongly about it, but there it was.

She tried the truth. “I think he's in trouble, but I don't think he's a bad man.”

Jeff thought about the answer for a moment. It was
his
stranger after all. He had found him. Well, Jake had found him. And Jake liked him. That made the stranger all right in his book.

He nodded.

Mary Jo hurried toward her bedroom, giving only a brief knock before entering without invitation.

Wade Foster was on the side of the bed, the sheet obviously pulled quickly in front of his privates. His face was drenched in sweat, the color pale, his lips clenched together.

“Men are coming,” she voiced aloud. “Could be a posse.”

He tried to stand, but couldn't. He fell back against the pillow, swearing softly. “I don't want to bring you trouble.”

“No one could know you're here. The rain would have erased any tracks,” she said. “I'll turn them away.”

He stared at her. “Why?”

“I don't know,” she said frankly.

“I don't want you or the boy involved.”

“We already are, Mr. Foster. Now just stay here and be quiet.”

“I don't understand you.”

Mary Jo smiled. “Not many people do.”

A loud knocking came at the front door, accompanied by Jake's renewed barking. She wished she'd had time to hide Wade Foster; she would just have to make sure no one searched the house. Thank God, everyone in this area knew she was the widow of a Texas Ranger and the heir of another. She would be the last person suspected of harboring a fugitive.

Casting a reassuring look at Jeff, she hurried to the door, opened it, and faced the sheriff and six of her neighbors.

“A man was found dead, killed some four miles to the west,” Sheriff Matt Sinclair said. “We're checking all the ranches and farms.” She gave him a warm smile. Since the day that she and Jeff had come to Cimarron Valley, Matt had been kind, attentive, and concerned that she was trying to run a ranch on her own. Others had been contemptuous.

“In this weather?” she asked.

“The dead man appears to be a miner from his clothing, though God only knows what he was doing here.” He cleared his throat, then added reluctantly, “He was shot once in the leg and then in the throat at close range. Cold-blooded killing if I've ever seen one. Just wanted to alert everyone, check if they've seen any strangers around.”

Mary Jo slowly absorbed the news. Wade Foster had tried to warn her, but she hadn't been prepared for the details.

“Do you have any idea who did it?”

“That there's the devil of it,” the sheriff replied. “No one's seen or heard anything. Could be just plain robbery, and the killer's long gone, but I want to be sure everyone's warned.”

“Thank you,” Mary Jo said.

“I don't like leaving a woman and kid alone,” he said. “One of my men can stay with you, sleep in the barn.”

Mary Jo shook her head. “My husband taught me to shoot as good as any man, and I wouldn't be reluctant to do it,” she said. “Jeff here is just as good. And Jake would warn us of any trespassers. But I thank you for the offer.”

“Well, then, if everything's all right …” His voice trailed off.

“Thank you for coming by, Sheriff.” Mary Jo knew she should offer them something, particularly coffee, but it was too risky. She started to shut the door.

The sheriff added, “I'll send someone over every couple of days to check on you.”

“No need.”

“Just to make me feel better,” he said with a slight smile.

Mary Jo tried to smile back, but couldn't. She felt terribly deceitful.

Tell him, something inside her demanded. Tell him about the murderer in your bed.

But no words came. She merely nodded her thanks. As she watched him and the others mount their horses and ride away, she wondered if she had just made the worst mistake of her life.

4

“You don't think he's a killer, do you, Ma?”

Jeff was looking up at Mary Jo with pleading eyes.

Mary Jo hesitated.

A cold-blooded killing if I've ever seen one
. The sheriff's words rang in her head.
Shot once in the leg and then in the throat at close range
.

Wade Foster had admitted killing three men.

Her reply:
Did they deserve it?

She couldn't believe she'd asked that. Did any man deserve to be killed that way?

But Wade Foster rattled her brain. Part of her wanted to run after the posse. Instead, she looked down at Jeff. “I don't know,” she said honestly. “But he's too weak to move or be moved.”

“I don't think he killed anyone,” Jeff said.

Mary Jo wished she shared his certainty. She felt suddenly chilled, and it had nothing to do with the cold wind blowing in the door. She closed it, setting the bar in place.

It was time to get those answers to questions she'd hesitated to ask.

She sniffed the air and smelled the distinct odor of something burning. The biscuits!

Mary Jo moved swiftly to the iron stove. Smoke came pouring out when she opened it. She plucked out the biscuits, most of which were blackened and hard. Two looked less black than the others.

She bit her lip, feeling more than the normal exasperation. She looked down at her hands and saw them shaking, and she knew it wasn't because of the biscuits. She could make more easily enough. It was not as if she had more important things to do, not in this weather.

Except see to the stranger's horse. The posse must not have found it, or Matt Sinclair would have said something, would have been more insistent about searching the place.

What was she doing harboring a murderer? A man who had shot another, not just in hot anger, but with cold-blooded intent. Shot in the throat. And still she worried about the posse finding the stranger's horse and returning. Finding him!

Why was she protecting him? She was jeopardizing her son, herself, everything she was trying to build here.

Mary Jo set down the biscuits and turned to Jeff. “There might be a couple you can salvage.”

“What about the stranger? He needs to eat.”

“I'm making some broth for him.” She heard a note of impatience—or was it fear?—in her voice. She regretted it immediately when she saw Jeff's face.

“I'll take him a cup of milk in the meantime,” she said. “You eat what you can of the biscuits, and I'll cook some ham.” His face instantly brightened. She had to buy the hams, and she used them sparingly.

There was fresh milk from their cow, Circe, one of their first acquisitions on the ranch. Mary Jo poured a cupful from the pitcher and walked to her bedroom, knocking on the door before opening it several seconds later.

Wade Foster was once more sitting on the side of the bed, the bedclothes pulled over his lower half. Sweat stood out on his face, which was white with strain. His mouth was a tight, grim line. He must have been up, probably standing by the door, listening.

“Why didn't you tell them?”

She closed the door and leaned against it. “I don't know.”

His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized her. A muscle in his jaw tightened.

She had to ask. “You said you killed three men.”

The set expression of his face didn't change. He waited, not saying anything.

“The sheriff said he found a man, shot in the throat. Did you—”

“Yes,” he answered flatly.

“Why? Was he going to kill you?”

“He was begging, lady,” he said coldly. “And I walked up to him and put a gun to his throat and fired.”

His eyes became alive with anger and pain and defiance. She could see all of those emotions warring with one another, crosscurrents in a violent storm. “Send your son after that posse, lady,” he said.

“I never met anyone who wanted to hang before.” She tried to keep the tremor from her voice.
Don't show any weakness
. But she knew he wasn't telling the real story. He didn't get those wounds
after
he'd killed the man. He'd been wounded, almost fatally himself, and it must have taken the last strength he had to level a gun and fire it. Why was he trying to provoke her, challenging her to call back the sheriff? Did he
really
want to die that much?

“I'll bet you never met a cold-blooded killer before, either.” His voice rang hard and cold. “That's what the sheriff called it.”

“What do
you
call it?” she asked.

“Just as he said, Mrs. Williams, cold-blooded killing. That miner shot at me, but that didn't make any difference. He was going to die, anyway. He'd emptied his gun, and he was on his knees. And I walked up to him and put a gun to his throat and pulled the trigger. Is your curiosity satisfied now?”

“No,” she said. “I want to know why.”

“What difference does it make? A killer is a killer.”

“It makes a difference to me,” she said. She couldn't be that wrong about someone.

Mary Jo saw that muscle moving again in his cheek. She saw his body tremble with the effort of sitting, of controlling all those violent emotions that had suddenly taken over.

She felt his pain. It seemed to vibrate between them. No one, she thought, could be immune to his agony.

“What did he do?” she asked in a whisper. But deep in her soul she knew, and that was why she hurt for him.
Drew
. His son. The killing hadn't been cold-blooded. He may have thought it was, but it hadn't been.

He had lowered his eyes to the floor. Now, he raised them, meeting her gaze.

“You're a fool to harbor me, Mrs. Williams,” he said. “I've never been good for anyone. Death is my middle name.”

Clearly he wasn't going to say any more. She willed strength into legs that had gone rubbery and she took the few steps over to the bed. “I didn't ask you for anything, Mr. Foster. I don't need anything from you.”
Dear God, let that be true
.

She thrust the cup down at him. “Drink this milk,” she ordered. “You need it, if you're going to get well enough to leave,” she added grimly. “That's what you want, isn't it?”

“I don't understand you,” he said.

“Let's just say I have a weakness for strays, and you don't look in any condition to hurt me or mine.”

“My just being here can hurt you.”

“Not if no one knows.”

“Doesn't anything get through to you, lady?”

“If you think you can leave, go ahead,” she said calmly. He was angry and that was a good sign. Anger was much better than resignation.

He tried to move, and the bedclothes started to fall away. He grabbed them, pulling them back in place. He glared at her.

She was still holding the cup of milk. “If you don't take this,” she said, “I'll remove those covers. At the moment, I'm stronger than you.”

“Hellfire. Don't you ever give up?”

“Not usually,” she said.

“Give me that damn milk.”

She handed it to him, watching as he sipped and then greedily finished the cup. He placed the cup down on the table and slowly sank back down on the bed. “You said there were some trousers?”

She nodded. “I'll check your leg wound later. If the bleeding's stopped, I can make the bandage less bulky and you can wear something of my husband's.”

“Your husband?” he repeated.

“I kept some of his things after he died,” she said softly.

He looked down at the eagle necklace on the table. He'd burned everything else at the cabin. He hadn't wanted reminders, or memories. Even the good ones had been killed by that last blood-soaked scene. It clouded everything, every memory, with red mist. He probably would have destroyed the necklace too if the miners had not stolen it. He'd found it on the first one, before he'd forced out the names of the other two. It had become his talisman for revenge, not for protection.