Dorothy Garlock (13 page)

Oh, my God! What was she thinking? Papa Igor wouldn’t want what happened to leave her a bitter, empty shell.

Feeling more desolate than she had in weeks, Willa was trying to blink the tears from her eyes when suddenly Smith appeared in the trail ahead. He and his horse were standing motionless, watching the wagon approach.

A long quiet settled over the area, broken only by the jingle of the harnesses and the clump of the iron-clad hooves on the hard-packed trail. Even the wind seemed to rest for a while and the puffy clouds stood still. Willa couldn’t take her eyes off the man and the horse silhouetted against the sky.

Smith’s eyes were on the woman on the wagon seat. She was pretty and proud, plucky beyond reason. This was his first look at her when his head was not feeling as if someone were pounding on it with a hammer. If it were true about her papa being hanged, her house burned and her being run out of town, she’d had more trouble during the last few weeks than most women have in a lifetime.

Her face was tanned from the sun, her hair sun-bleached. She was capable, a hard-working woman, despite her fragile
appearance that made a man want to protect her. She had demonstrated
that
well enough when she had thrown the water on him and later when she had attacked him with the skillet. Smith didn’t know much about women, but something about this one interested him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been curious about a woman. These thoughts went through his head as the space between them grew shorter until the wagon was alongside.

Her head turned. Her great eyes held him.

He nodded.

She answered with a scarcely perceptible dip of her head.

“Where’s Charlie?”

“He went on ahead.”

“Go on to where you see a cut off to the left. Wait there.”

He was off before Willa could reply and he quickly disappeared over the rise.

“What’d Smith want Charlie for?” Jo Bell climbed back over the wagon seat and sat down after tossing Willa’s hat on the floor. Willa moved it back under the seat to keep it safe from the girl’s feet.

“I think we’ll be turning west soon.”

“Right into the sun?” Jo Bell complained.

Charlie came racing toward them, his face red with embarrassment. “I went right past the turnoff.”

Shortly after, Charlie led the wagon into a dense stand of aspen and onto a little-used track that headed straight for the foothills. As soon as the turn was made, he came back to the wagon.

“We’re headin’ cross-country. I think I’ll ride ahead and see what’s up there.”

Willa laughed. “Go ahead. We’ll be all right.”

“I don’t like him ridin’ Papa’s horse.” Jo Bell was holding a cardboard fan in front of her face to shield it from the sun.

Willa ignored her. She was watching Buddy, who suddenly
took off in hot and hopeless pursuit of a jackrabbit that had appeared on the edge of the road. It had twitched its long ears to emphasize its disapproval of this invasion of its domain and then whirled back through the trees. Willa laughed. The chase would end, she knew, as all such similar ones had ended—with victory for the pursued. Buddy would enjoy the chase and return.

“It ain’t
his
horse,” Jo Bell said spitefully.

Willa looked at the girl. It was characteristic of her to not let go of a subject until someone responded to her complaint. The corners of her mouth were turned down and her lips were puffed in a pout. Poor Charlie. She was afraid Jo Bell was beyond redemption.

“It’s as much his horse as yours.” Willa tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. “I think your father would be proud of Charlie for taking charge and doing all he can to see you safely to your uncle’s ranch.”

“He’d not be proud of Charlie lordin’ it over me. He’d be mad as the day is long. He’d want me to take charge. He’s told me a hundred times that Charlie isn’t near as smart as me. He said I learned to write my name twice as fast as Charlie did. He said Charlie’d not fit in with quality folk and he’d never amount to a hill a beans. Papa knew all about manners and things like that.”

Willa sighed. It was too bad he didn’t teach some to his daughter. She searched for a way to reach the girl and convince her that her father was a stupid fool to fill his daughter’s head with such nonsense. Jo Bell would have a tough row to hoe if she didn’t change her ways. At least today she had put on a decent dress. She no longer dressed like a child. She was a lovely young woman with her mass of dark, unbrushed curls tumbling around her face and down her back.

“Ain’t there no towns? Why’d Uncle Oliver want to live out here for? There ain’t nothin’ but trees and grass.”

“There’s the blue sky, the clear sharp air, and yonder are the Bighorn Mountains.”

“Why’er they called that?”

“Because of bighorn sheep, I suppose.”

“Ain’t there a town?” Jo Bell asked again, a whine in her voice.

“They talked about a town named Buffalo. I understand that it’s just a little one-horse town—not much there.”

“How far to Sheridan? That’s where the freight wagons were goin’.”

“I don’t know.”

“Ya don’t know much a’tall, do ya, ma’am?”

Willa refused to let Jo Bell draw her into an argument. She whistled a tune Papa Igor had taught her when she was a child, and surveyed the beauty around her.

In the stillness of the woods there was only the muffled sounds of the wagon wheels and the mule’s hooves. The ground was padded with years of dried pine needles. There was no undergrowth beneath the thick foliage that at times intermeshed. The tree trunks were so close together that you could see no more than twenty feet into the forest.

It was dim and quiet and peaceful.

9

W
hen the horseman darted out from among the trees, Willa thought at first it was Charlie. Then a hand was grasping the mule’s cheek strap.

“Whoa—”

Shocked out of her reverie, Willa pulled on the reins, then, recognizing Fuller, the man who had come to the wagon after the burial, she slapped the reins against the backs of the mules to urge them on. He held fast to the bridle and the confused team danced in place.

“Let go!” Willa reached for the whip.

“Don’t do that. I’ll put a bullet in the head of this mule. I waited all day for Smith and that kid to go on ahead.”

“What do you want?”

“To finish the little visit I had yesterday with the young lady.” He rode up to the side of the wagon and tipped his hat to Jo Bell. “Howdy, miss. You’re about the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on.”

“You ain’t sayin’ nothin’ I ain’t heard a hundred times before.”

“What are you wantin’ to hide yourself out here in the sticks for? In town men would line up just to get a look at you.”

“What’ a ya mean?”

“I’d like to take you to Sheridan and show you off.”

Fuller smiled. His protruding eyes, showing white all around the iris, were fastened on Jo Bell’s face. He inched his horse closer.

“You’d better leave. Charlie and Smith will be back soon.” The mules had calmed. Only the fear that he would shoot one kept Willa from putting them in motion.

Fuller ignored her, his eyes on Jo Bell. “I ain’t thought a nothin’ but you since I saw you. You liked me too, didn’t you? Yeah, I could tell you did. You ain’t got no pa now. You need to be took care of. Come with me and I’ll show you the sights.”

“I didn’t either like ya. You ain’t young and handsome. Bet you ain’t rich either.” Jo Bell tilted her head and straightened her shoulders to push her small breasts out. She looked at him, her smile saying that she was teasing him. He caught the message and his nostrils flared like a bull after a heifer in heat.

Willa’s heart leaped with fear.
The stupid girl was flirting
with this dangerous man.

Delighted with her, Fuller laughed. “Ya could name yore price in Sheridan, honey.”

“Doin’ what?” Jo Bell asked in a low breathless whisper.

“Somethin’ I could teach ya to be real good at.”

“I don’t know what yore talkin’ about, sir.”

“Yes, ya do. Ya was born for it.”

“I was born to be took care of by a rich man. My papa said so.”

“Yore papa was right, honey.” He held out his hand. “Come on, sweet thing. I’ll take care of ya real good.”

Jo Bell cringed back against Willa as she suddenly realized the dangerous game she was playing.

“No! Get away. Go on. Get!”

Fuller’s face turned ugly. Then, with the speed of a striking snake his hand lashed out and grabbed Jo Bell’s arm. He would have pulled her off the seat and onto his horse if Willa had not dropped the reins and thrown herself across the girl’s lap. She held onto the wagon frame with one hand and beat at the man with her fist.

“Let go of her!” She clawed at the hand holding the girl’s arm.

A thin, shrill frightened scream tore itself from Jo Bell’s throat.

Fuller pulled on Jo Bell and hit at Willa with the ends of his reins. Even when the leather slashed across her face, she hung onto the girl. Ducking her head, she sank her teeth in the man’s hairy wrist and hung on like a bulldog.

“Shit! You damned bitch!” Fuller yelled and let go of Jo Bell’s arm. He righted himself in the saddle. “I ought to split yore goddamn skull—”

Desperately Willa tried to get her feet back under her so that she could reach for the Derringer in her pocket. In a panic, Jo Bell was lashing out with both her arms and feet, causing them both to fall from the seat.

As Fuller’s frightened horse shied, he spotted a shaggy brown apparition advancing on him. The hair on the dog’s back stood stiff; his upper lips curled away from gleaming fangs in a blood-chilling wolfish grin. Angry growls came from his throat.

“Christ—” Fuller drew his gun and fired as Buddy sprang. The shot blasted the stillness. Buddy dropped. “I told ya I’d shoot that goddamn dog. I’ll fix you later.” His eyes spit pure hatred at Willa. He wheeled his horse, spurred him into a run and headed back down the track.

“Buddy!” Willa grabbed the reins and wrapped them around the brake handle. Jo Bell burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing. Numbed with shock and fear, Willa climbed down and ran to her dog.

“Buddy! Oh, Lord—” She threw herself on her knees beside the faithful animal. The dry leaves were red with the dog’s blood. He whined and tried to raise his head to see the owner of the dear and beloved voice. “You’re alive! Oh, thank God! Lie still! Buddy, oh, Buddy—” She had to stop the blood. There was nothing but her apron. She whipped it off and held it against his side. “Don’t die, Buddy. Please . . . don’t die. You’re the dearest thing in the world to me.”

Over the roaring noise in her ears and the sobs coming from her throat, Willa heard the hoofbeats of a running horse. She dropped the apron and fumbled in her skirt pocket for the Derringer. Crouched over Buddy, the gun in her hand, she waited. Her mind refused to think beyond the fact that Buddy was still alive and if the bastard that shot him was coming back, she would kill him.

To her relief, Smith rode toward her at a fast pace, and right behind him, Charlie. They reined their horses to a stop and jumped off.

“Put that damn thing away before you shoot yourself,” Smith growled. “What happened here?”

“A man tried to jerk Jo Bell off the wagon seat. Then he shot B-Buddy.” Willa’s heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely hear her own voice. She dropped to her knees again, tears flooding her eyes and streaming down her cheeks. “Buddy—” She stroked the dog’s head.

“Who?”

“Fuller. Oh, please . . . help Buddy—”

Smith knelt on the other side of the dog and brushed her
hand away. A growl came from deep in the Buddy’s throat and he bared his fangs.

“I’m not going to hurt you, boy.” Smith spoke in a soft, coaxing voice and caressed the dog’s nose with his fingertips. “I want to see if we can help you. Get scissors to cut away the hair.” He spoke without looking up.

“I’ll get ’em,” Charlie said. “For crying out loud, Jo Bell. Hush up yore damn bawlin’. Ya ain’t hurt, are ya?”

“A lot you’d care. Ya care more for a . . . a old dog than yore s-sister.”