Spirit of the Wolf (27 page)

For the thousandth time, he vowed never to s
ubject her to a lifetime of waiting and wanting, of yearning for what could never be. His life belonged to
those who hunted him.
The only way to loose th
os
e ties that bound him was to prove himself innocent of the murder in Lubbock.
Impossible!

If he t
old her everything, right now, and asked her to run off with him, she'd do it.

But
he
w
ouldn't ask
.
Bess deserved a normal, complete life. A home. Children. And a husband who loved her more than life itself.
Oh, loved her that much and more! So
Chance
looked inside himself for the strength to turn away, right now
. He
wrapped his hands around her waist, intent upon gently pushing her away
, forever
.

They were strong hands. Hands that had hammered nail and tightened barbed wire, hands that had turned almost as tough and leathery as the rawhide tethers he'd used to rein in the snorting thunder of many a wild appaloosa. Those hands had not wavered, no matter how strenuous the task. And yet, when he put those work-hardened hands on this tiny woman to put time and space between them, they trembled, as a crisp autumn leaf shivers at winter's first icy blast. He knew he must let her go, must
make
her go, for his sake as well as hers.

He looked into her eyes then, and read the love there.

All right....he'd let her go. Soon. But not yet. Not just yet....

Hesitantly, he ran his hand down her back, and when he did, a rough callous caught on the finely woven fabric of her housedress. He stopped, pulling abruptly away, embarrassed that his big clumsy hand had damaged the pretty frock.

Yet again, Bess read his heart. "It's all right," she whispered.

But it wasn't all right. Nothing would ever be all right a
bout his miserable life
.

Because he loved her like he'd never loved anyone, like he'd never known it was
possible
to love, and the moment he admitted it,
Chance
knew he was doomed.

Before Bess, he could easily outrun and outwit
every lawman bent on capturing him.
Now, memory of her, of loving her
and
knowing that she loved him, would haunt him all the days of his life. The memories of what was, of what might have been,
would
distract him, and
—

She pressed the offending hand to her
throat
. "See? I'm afraid, too."

Chance
felt the wild thrum of her
pulse
, felt it vibrate through his palm, past his wrist and elbow, straight to the core of him. They were connected, for the moment, by hard-beating hearts, by
love
that coursed from her into him and back again.

In a move that stunned and surprised him, she boldly reached out and grabbed the bandanna wrapped round his neck, drawing him near as surely as his artfully-tossed lasso had drawn runaway calves back to the herd, her soft yet insistent kisses imprinting on his heart as surely as his branding iron had seared ranchers' seals to cattle hide.

His knees buckled and his mind whirled as a sweet, soft moan sang from deep within her, its music moving over him like wind
ripples on a still pond. "You're beautiful,
so beautiful,
" he breathed.

“
Didn't your mother teac
h you it's not polite to stare?”

There wasn't another like her, not anywhere on earth. He considered himself lucky to have been given these precious few months with her, and knew he'd cherish them 'til he drew his last brea
th.

It was almost midnight when
Chance
strolled from the bunkhouse, hands in his pockets. He'd tried to sleep, but images of that afternoon wouldn't allow it.

Mamie pawed the dirt and whinnied, commanding his attention. Smiling, he sauntered toward the corral
and a
bsentmindedly
slung a
coil
of
barbed wire over his shoulder. "What's the matter, girl?" he said softly, leaning over the gate. "Jealous?" The horse bobbed her head, as if to answer in the affirmative. Thoughtfully,
Chance
stroked her nose. "Don't you worry. You'll always be my best girl...."

But Bess...Bess w
ould
always be
his
woman
, he
thought,
looking deep into the starry sky, where Orion and Perseus winked at him from the inky darkness.
Silver in velvet, like Bess's eyes.

M
amie nudged his chest, and when
Chance
turned, hi
s nose brushed his shirtsleeve...the same shirtsleeve where Bess had rested her head mere hours ago. The clean, sweet scent of her still clung to the fabric, and he closed his eyes, filling his nostrils with it.
"Yes," she'd
whispered,
long lashes flutter
ing as she bracketed his face with her palms.

Sudden and intense pain pierced his chest, penetrating his reverie and abruptly snapping him back to the here and now.
Chance
looked down, puzzled at first by the dark circular stains rapidly spreading over the tight weave of his blue cotton work shirt. Instinctively, he drew his palm across the bloodstained garment, only to discover that his palm, too, had been punctured by the razor-like barbs he'd flung over his shoulder.

He jolted when a warm hand rested on his shoulder.

"What in tarnation happened? You're bloodier'n a new-borned calf."

Before Bess, the old farm hand
c
ouldn't have
come
within thirty yards without being detected; ten years as a fugitive
will do that for a man
. "Guess I got a little careless with the barbed wire," he explained, grinning sheepishly.

The grizzled fellow shook his
head, muttering over
his shoulder as he headed for the bunkhouse. "Better wash up them there cuts
, ‘fore infection sets in
."

Chance
hated to admit it, but the old codger was right. From the cock's first crow, it
had
been a difficult day
….

His shin still smarted from the sharp kick of the unbroken horse he'd carelessly approached from behind, and his left thumb still throbbed from a misplaced hammer blow. He'd sliced through his trousers with the baling hook, nearly impaling himself instead of the hay bale in the process, and pulled a muscle in his shoulder while heaving a hundred pound sack of
oats
.

Woodenly,
Chance
walked toward the watering trough, stripped from the waist up
and
hung his shirt on top of the pump
.
Soaking his neckerchief
with
cold water, he daubed gingerly at numerous, stinging punctures
crisscrossing
his chest.
Beneath them, his heart pounded with love and regret.
His pa had drummed an old saying into his head, one
Chance
memorized long before his father died: "When you give a gift with no expectation of getting one in return, you get back far more than you give." It hadn't been a difficult piec
e of advice to understand, even as a boy,
but
he’d
never experienced the impact of its meaning quite as he had with Bess
in the loft. Her
tears
had cut him deeper than the barbed wire. When he’d asked what caused them, she’d grinned and said, “
A woman is entitled to a bit of
…a bit of
dampness at a moment like that."

A moment like that….

Chance
bowed his head and, taking a deep breath
,
grabbed his shirt
and
headed
for
the bunkhouse. It took every ounce of
willpower
to keep from looking toward the second floor of the farmhouse, because if he saw Bess there in her window seat, smiling
at
him, nothing would keep him from breaking down Micah's
front
door, taking the stairs two at a time, and barging into her room.
To hold her one last time as her love wrapp
ed round him like a mother's hug
would be his only request.

It would be
come the dream that would keep him company a
ll the days of his life.

***

Lubbock, Texas....

"I tell you, it
was
him!" The burly Texan jabbed his meaty finger into the seated man's chest.

Sheriff Chuck Carter examined the tip of his toothpick, then stuck it back into his mouth. Crossing one booted ankle over the other on the corner of
the
battered desk, he folded his arms across his chest. "You saw W.C. Atwood, all the way out east?" Carter shook his head and snickered. "You don't really expect me to believe that
, do you?
"

"
Iffin y’don’t, y
ou're a
blamed
fool," Yonker bellowed, pacing like a caged tiger. He threw both hands into the air. "Here's your chance to be a hero
and
make some easy money in the bargain."

Carter didn't move, save to flick his toothpick into the trash barrel across the way. Through narrowed eyes, he glowered at the bigger man. "When I hunt a man down, I go it alone."

Yonker stopped. "
Well, you can’t go this one alone.
Without me," he challenged, bending until he was nose to nose with Carter, "you'll never find him."

Grimacing and leaning as far back as the chair would allow, Carter waved a hand in front of his face. "When was the last time you washed out your pie hole, Forrest? Smells like somethin' crawled down your throat an' died."

In response to the reference to his rotten breath, Yonker's back straightened. "You want Atwood or not?"

Casually, Carter dropped both feet to the planked floor in a single
clunk
. Yonker was
no less than
three inches taller and outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. Still, the man took a step back when the sheriff stood. "You owe it to
Horace’s widow and the good citizens of Lubbock t
o tell me where W.C. is...
if
you know...since it was you who lost the thievin' murderer in the first place. Besides," he added, almost as an afterthought, "if you don't, I'll arrest
you
."

"Me?"

He gave it a moment's thought, then shrugged. "
That’s right. For a
iding and abetting a fugitive, for starters. If you know where he is and don't tell me, it's the same as lettin' him hole up in your house."

Angry defiance thinning his lips, Yonker poked the sheriff's badge. "I don't owe you a
blessed
thing, way I see it," he s
pat. "A snake spooked the horses, just like I tol’ you, and
that’s
why the wagon overturned. Weren't nobody's fault he escaped, least of all mine. But you went and fired me, all the same. Atwood's the reason for it all, so the way I see it, the
low-down killer
deserves to swing.
And I deserve some of the bounty money for helpin’ make that happen.
"

From the other side of the room, a voice asked, "For what? He never kilt nobody."

Though toe to toe, both men
looked t
oward the man who'd interrupted their verbal sparring. The bedraggled fellow continued to push a broom across the jailhouse floor. After a long, silent moment, the sheriff cut him a scathing glare. "You've been singin' that song for ten long years, Joe Purdy," he growled. "Nobody believed you the night W.C. killed Horace Pickett, and nobody believes you now."

Leaning on the broom handle, Purdy gave an exaggerated shrug. "
No harm in me singin’ the song again, then. ‘
If you hang him,
’
" came his slow, soft drawl, "
’
you'll be killin' an innocent man.
’
"

Carter pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and shook his head. A second ticked by before he sighed
.
"
Like I’ve been tellin’ you for years, t
he evidence said otherwise, and
the evidence is what
got him convicted. It's
not
my job to
second-guess the jury. It’s my job to
find him, see he pays the price." Frowning, he added, "Now get back to your sweeping or there'll be no whiskey money for you today
.
"