Sweetwater (42 page)

“Oh, yes. He’s got enough wind for a dozen preachers.”

The horse was struggling to pull the preacher’s buggy through the mire. The pudgy man looked neither left or right. He flayed the horse unmercifully with the buggy whip.

“Stupid sonofabitch!” Dillon gritted his teeth.

“Nothin’ riles Dillon more than somebody beatin’ a horse.”

Another blow caused the horse to swerve and the buggy wheels sank to the hubs in a mud hole. Infuriated, the preacher stood and rained blow after blow on the helpless animal.

Dillon sprang off the porch as if propelled by a slingshot, and although he sank into mud to his ankles, quick strides carried him to the buggy. He reached in and jerked the whip from the preacher’s hand just as he lifted it to lash the horse again.

“Ain’t ya got no brains? You’ll kill that horse!”

With surprising speed, Longfellow turned on Dillon, a small pistol in his hand.

“It’s my horse, damn you.” Gone was the pious look he affected in church. “Give me that whip.”

“Mister, if a man draws on me he’d better shoot quick.”

In an unthreatening manner, Dillon held out the whip, handle first. When Longfellow reached for it, Dillon’s free hand lashed out like a striking snake. The pistol flew out of the preacher’s hand and landed in the mud. The strong young hand that fastened on Longfellow’s coat pulled him until he teetered on the edge of the buggy.

“If ya wasn’t so damned old and so damned soft, I’d give ya a little of what ya was givin’ that horse.”

“Let go of me, you ruffian! I’ll have you arrested.”

“Ya’ll have to pick yoreself up outta the mud first.”

Dillon gave a little tug and then let go of the man’s coat. The preacher teetered for a second or two, tried to get his balance, then fell. He landed, sprawled, in a foot of mud.

“Phew! You landed in a pile of wet horseshit.”

“Get … away from me!” Longfellow tried to get to his feet, slipped and fell back down in the mud.

Dillon glanced down at him, then waded back to the porch of the eatery with a satisfied grin on his face.

“See what I mean?” Cleve said to Travor. “I figure it’s time we got over to the livery, saddled our horses, and rode outta town.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Hartog awakened at daylight and moved out from under the shelter of the overhang where he and the Mexican had stayed the night before, when it seemed likely to rain before morning. He squatted in the bushes, his britches around his ankles. Between the pain in his back and his loose bowels, he had spent a miserable night. This was his fourth trip out from under the overhang. After he finished he went back to his bedroll and eased himself down.

The thought of riding five miles in a pouring rain didn’t appeal to him at all.

“
Señor
, will we not go to Stoney Creek this mornin’?”

“Not in this rain, ya dumb-ass,” Hartog growled.

“Yi, yi, yi—” Mendosa sighed.

“What’s that mean?” Hartog demanded.

“Nothin’,
señor
. Nothin’.”

“Ain’t no hurry. She ain’t goin’ no place. We’ll go tomorrow, if it clears up.”

Hartog stretched out on his back.
That sonofabitchin’ McCall had damn near ruined his back, but he’d pay. I’ll screw that black-haired bitch into the ground then go after him. There are plenty of places along the trail to get a clear shot.

Meanwhile, Hartog didn’t dare let Mendosa know how weak he was. The Mexican would cut his own mother’s throat for a dollar, and he knew Hartog was carrying the money Havelshell had paid him for killing Murphy.

It was the longest, most miserable day of Colleen’s life. Her mind was never far from Travor and what she imagined to be happening in Sweetwater.

Damn!

She hadn’t wanted to care about that two-bit flirt. And more than likely that’s what he was. But he’d crept into her heart, and nothing short of a miracle was going to get him out of it.

Is this the first of a million times I’ll be waiting to see if he comes home full of holes—if he comes home at all?

After Colleen had washed two tubs of clothes, the rain was pelting down so hard that she had to quit or get soaking wet taking the clothes to the pond to rinse them. She was sitting in the shed looking out when Jenny came running down the path from the school and went into the bunkhouse … to Trell.
Lucky Jenny!

Colleen had been reconsidering the advisability of marrying Travor McCall. She was wildly happy when she was with him and wildly miserable when away from him. Travor was vastly different from Trell, who had not felt a need to see what was over the mountain and around the bend.

Travor had wandered over the West like a drifting tumbleweed. How many women had he known? How many had he loved and left behind when he pulled foot? Would he get itchy feet and leave her with a houseful of little ones?

A south wind came up about noon and pushed the rain clouds to the north. The result was a misty, gloomy day. Colleen ventured out of the shed and knocked on the door of the bunkhouse before she opened it. Jenny was wrapped in a blanket and in Trell’s arms.

“Come in, Colleen,” Trell said. “Jenny’s had a shock. She’ll need some dry clothes.”

“What happened?” Colleen came to the edge of the bed.

Trell looked down into Jenny’s face. She nodded, and Trell gave Colleen a sketchy account of Havelshell’s attack on Jenny and his attempt to carry her off. When he came to the part about Whit killing Havelshell as he was beating her, Colleen put her hand over her mouth.

“Oh, Jenny—”

“Havelshell would have killed her. He wouldn’t have let her live to tell that he had tried to carry her off.” Trell’s voice was harsh. He was clearly frustrated at his inability to protect her.

“Whit killed him! Good for Whit!” Colleen gathered up Jenny’s wet clothing.

“He’s just a boy, but he didn’t hesitate a minute,” Jenny said. “I heard this … savage cry, then he was on the agent’s back. I still can’t believe it happened.”

Trell told Colleen that Whit and Head-Gone-Bad were taking the body deep into the reservation with the hope that no one would know what had happened to Havelshell.

“We’ve got to protect Whit,” Jenny added when Trell had finished.

“Old bastard got what was comin’ to him,” Colleen said heatedly. “Pays him back, too, for havin’ my pa killed. Ya don’t want the girls knowin’ about this?”

“Not Beatrice. But knowing Cass, she’s doubtless already wondering why I haven’t come to the house.”

“You won’t be able to hide it from her.” Trell reluctantly loosened his arms so Jenny could move away.

“If you’ll bring me some dry clothes, I’ll explain to Granny and Cass what happened.”

“I’ll bring Beatrice out here. She’s been wanting to come see Trell. I think she’s sweet on him.” Colleen raised her brows.

“She’s not the only one,” Jenny said, and brazenly placed a kiss on Trell’s smooth cheek.

In the afternoon Ike returned with a string of catfish and went down to the pond to clean them. Jenny and Cassandra went to the Indian camp to lead the children to the schoolhouse.

Colleen finished the wash and hung it on the bushes to dry. Her heart was so filled with dread that she could hardly eat the noon meal. Trell was worried too but tried to comfort her by saying that the man Travor was looking for might not even be in Sweetwater.

To keep herself busy, Colleen cut kindling at the woodpile. Her eyes strayed often across the meadow to where the trail to town disappeared into the woods.

“If this sick feelin’ is love, I’m not sure I want any of it,” she muttered and brought the hatchet down to chop a sliver from a chunk of wood.

Ike returned from the pond, took the cleaned fish to the kitchen, then went to the bunkhouse to visit with Trell.

When Colleen glanced again at the edge of the woods, three riders had emerged. She stared. They came closer. When she recognized Mud Pie, she felt an incredible spurt of joy. Paying scant attention to the men riding with him, she only saw Travor. She sank the hatchet in the stump, wiped her hands on the legs of her overalls, and batted the tears of relief from her eyes.

As the men neared she could hear Travor talking to one of the men. He slapped his thigh with his hand as his laughter, his joking, teasing, beautiful laughter rang out. Colleen stood where she was by the woodpile.

He didn’t have a care in the world. He’d been having a high old time while I’ve waited here as wrung out as a wet dish rag!

Sudden and unreasonable anger knifed through her. She looked for someplace to go, but they were already coming into the yard.
I’ll not let that slack-jawed, flitter-headed, tally-whacker see me run or see me cry!
She stood, her feet planted on the ground, her arms folded over her chest, her face set in lines of resentment.

“Colleen!”

Travor had his charming, devilish smile on his face when he swung from the saddle. With his eyes still on her, he looped the reins over the rails. She was intensely aware of him from the top of her head to the tip of her tingling toes.

“That’s my girl,” he announced to the men who were dismounting. Then, “Trell’s in the bunkhouse. Go on in.” He went toward the woodpile where Colleen waited. “Sweetheart—” He stopped speaking when he saw the mutinous look on her face.

“Don’t you sweetheart me, ya … egg-suckin’, slick-talking, mule’s ass!”

Her resolve not to cry crumbled. Tears filled her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She was so angry at him, so angry at herself, that she sprang at him, the heels of her hands hit his shoulders and shoved. Travor caught her wrists.

“Stay away from me or … I’ll strangle ya.”

“Why’er ya mad? What the hell did I do?”

“I ain’t marryin’ ya. I ain’t waitin’ around half my life not knowin’ if yo’re dead or alive. Get yore hands off me or I’ll … I’ll—”

“Stop actin’ up or I’ll shake ya till yore teeth rattle.” Travor’s voice was rough. His hands moved from her wrists to her upper arms. “And you
are
goin’ to marry me just as soon as I can get ya to a preacher. Then I’ll teach ya to behave.”

“Ha! Ya got about as much chance of
that
as ya got pissin’ from here to Sweetwater!”

“Hush up that talk!” Travor gave her a couple of shakes. “I’ll not have my wife usin’ them words.”

“Then get ya a namby-pamby wife. I’ll talk any way I want to.”

“What’s the matter with ya?” Travor’s brows were drawn together in a puzzled frown. “Don’t ya want to know if I found Crocker? Don’t ya want to know why I brought the marshal back with me?”

“Ya brought a …
marshal
? Mercy! What’ve ya done? We don’t need no marshal here …
now
!”

Seeing the anguish on her face, Travor’s frown deepened.

“What do you mean … now?”

“Oh, ya’ve just … got to go and put yore foot in it, don’t ya?”

“Trell sent for the marshal to come because Havelshell was trying to run Jenny off and because he was stealing from the Indians. It’s over now. Havelshell’s dead.”

“I know …
that
!”

“You know? How did you find out? Who’s been here?”

“I’ll not tell
you
nothin’.”

“Colleen, I have the feelin’ yo’re goin’ to make my life hell.” He gazed into her rebellious face and shook his head. “But I can’t live it without ya.” Travor jerked her close and wrapped his arms around her. “I looked forward to bein’ with ya every minute since I left ya. More than anythin’ I wanted to hold you in my arms and see love shinin’ in your eyes for me … only for me. Yore pigheadedness ain’t goin’ to keep me from gettin’ my hello kiss.”

His mouth, firm yet gentle, fastened on her trembling lips, stealing her breath away. The kiss was filled with sweetness … at first. When her lips remained firm, unyielding, he deepened the kiss until they softened. He lifted his head to look at her.

“Colleen, my sweet—”

Their breaths mingled for an instant before he covered her mouth again with his. He kissed her lingeringly, hungrily, but gently, as though she were infinitely fragile and precious. He held her tightly against him, drinking in her sweetness until his senses reeled.

She tried to wiggle out of his arms. “Somebody’ll see us.

“Let ’em look, love.” There was deep huskiness in his voice. “Wasn’t ya just a little glad … to see me?” He watched her face with dark and anxious eyes.

“Ya know I was. I was dyin’ … inside.”

“Crocker’s dead. It wasn’t even close. I told ya he’d be surprised and I’d have the drop on him.”

“It’s … over?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m not sayin’ I’ll not have to do somethin’ like that again.”

“Did ya … see Hartog?”

“He’s not been back to Sweetwater.”

“I was … so worried.” Colleen leaned her forehead against his shoulder for an instant then looked up at him. “I’m sorry I hit ya. It made me mad to see ya actin’ like ya’d been on a picnic.”

“Ya still love me?” he asked anxiously.

“If ya ain’t knowin’ that, yo’re crazy as a coot.” She reached up and kissed him on the chin.

He laughed happily. “I’m the luckiest man alive. Come, meet Cleve and Dillon. I want them to see my girl.”

“No. Go on.” She gave him a gentle push. “A lot has happened since ya left. Trell will tell ya about it. I’ll go get Jenny, then clean up and help Granny with supper.”

Three tall men got to their feet when Jenny appeared in the doorway of the bunkhouse. Her heart had almost stopped when Colleen told her Travor had returned with a marshal. The image of Whit jumping on the back of the man who was going to kill her popped into her mind and she vowed to do whatever it took to protect him.

Her eyes went first to Trell who was sitting on the side of the bed. Then to his brother.

“Travor!” She went quickly to him and placed her hand on his arm. “We were so worried about you.”

“It’s mighty comfortin’ to be worried about by two pretty ladies.”

Travor threw his arm across her shoulders in a casual, intimate way that endeared him to females young and old. Looking at his handsome brother, Trell was reminded of his own scarred face. He had brooded some about it but now a new thought struck him. For the first time in his life he would not be mistaken for his brother. He had an identity of his own.