Tracker’s Sin (3 page)

wal s, but he thought there was a strong similarity to Desi’s voice.

He shook his head and pul ed his hat lower against the morning sun. If he were hunting any other woman, the information he had now

would have been enough for him to act. But this was too important, too personal for reasons he couldn’t begin to define. For this identification, he needed

absolute certainty.

Movement in the window drew his spyglass back around. Disappointment cut like a knife when al he saw was the salt-and-pepper bun

pinned atop the old woman’s head. But then she moved on and the younger woman came into view. From the back she looked just like Desi. She had the

same delicate stature, same hesitant yet chal enging way of standing, as if she needed just the slightest encouragement and she could take on the world.

More importantly, she had the same blond hair that fel in a riot of curls down her back.

His fingers tightened on the spyglass.
Turn around. Turn around.

As if she heard him, she did, turning until he had a clear view of her face.

“Son of a bitch.”

He’d known Ari was Desi’s twin, but somehow he just hadn’t been prepared for the impact. Ari had the same big blue eyes set in a round

face above a surprisingly lush, red mouth. She even had the same stubborn chin. If the two were side by side, a body would be hard put to tel the

difference. He squinted and pul ed his hat brim lower, blocking more of the sun’s rays. With further study, he discerned some differences. Desi was smal

and dainty, but as she’d said, her sister was even more delicate. Maybe Ari wasn’t as tal or maybe she was a smidgen ful er in the cheeks. Or maybe it

was just her spirit that had that delicacy. It was hard to tel anything from this distance. But one thing was sure, Ari didn’t have the look of a woman who’d

been to hel and back. As he watched, she laughed, tossing her head, sending curls bouncing over her shoulders. Tracker slowly lowered the spyglass, the

image of that smile lingering.

Shit.

He took a breath as the ramifications rocked through him. It real y was Ari and she real y was alive. More than that, she seemed happy.

The latter defied reason.

There were eleven of them. And with me gone, there was just her.

Desi’s description of the last time she’d seen her sister whispered through his head the way it often did, bringing the fury that came from

knowing how easy it would be for just one man to force a woman of Desi’s build down in the dirt. How much pain just one man could inflict on such a

delicate woman until she gave up al hope and just did what she was told. When he multiplied that misery by eleven, the rage near drove him insane. He

couldn’t imagine what it’d done to Ari—but not leave a scar at al ? That he couldn’t fathom.

A bird burst out of the large bush set between the house and the barn. It wasn’t the old man who’d startled it; he was stil in the barn. The

hairs on the back of Tracker’s neck rose. The town of Esperanza was expanding wildly because of the rumor of gold in the area, and in the way of growing

towns, the disreputable element was growing the fastest. It wasn’t hard to figure out why someone lurked in the bushes near this particular house. Blond

women in this part of the country were a rarity. Delicate blond women with the face of an angel were a prize. No tel ing what kind of scum had come

creeping around. Looked as if Tracker had arrived just in time to be useful.

He glanced at the house again. The shutters that hung alongside the windows were solid except for the smal gun slits cut into them.

Obviously, at some point in the past, the residents had had to fight for their survival. But whatever habits they’d once practiced had now fal en to the

wayside. Now, the front door was propped open to catch the morning breeze. The man of the house had left his gun behind when he went to the barn.

Clearly, the residents had become complacent, at a time when they should be vigilant.

Tracker raised the spyglass again. He could just make out the figure of a man hiding behind the smal wash shed. Tracker estimated the

distance. More than a hundred yards and not a lick of cover between him and the intruder. That eliminated the hope of a silent attack. He reached for his

rifle. There was more than one way to skin a cat. A quick scan of the surrounding area didn’t reveal any other signs of intruders. So there was just one.

Tracker careful y drew his rifle forward as he watched, keeping it low so the sun wouldn’t glint off the dul metal barrel and warn his quarry. He wet his

pinkie and held it up. Not much wind today. The shot would be easy.

The intruder moved forward. Tracker trained his glass on the man, swore and then relaxed. Son of a bitch. He was nothing more than a

boy. Dark skinned, with shaggily cut black hair and the tan-colored wool clothes of a Mexican. The youth had to have a powerful crush if he’d risk getting

caught spying on a white woman. Even here at the edges of the state, there were white men who would kil him for the offense.

The lad wouldn’t care about that, though, if he was in love. A boy in love had no sense and no control. Tracker remembered back to his

youth, his first il -fated crush. The only thing that had mattered was getting a moment with the woman of his dreams.

The boy needed manners cracked into his skul , but not kil ing. Tracker propped the rifle across his knees.

It was no surprise when Ari came out of the house dressed in a nightgown and wrapper, carrying a pitcher. The boy had to be waiting for

something. Tracker set his teeth as the sun shone through the layers of cotton and revealed the fine turn of her calves. The adobe house wasn’t so

isolated that a woman could go about undressed. His woman sure as hel wouldn’t, especial y in a robe that clung so enticingly to the soft thrust of her

unconfined breasts.

His cock stirred in his pants as the material pul ed tight across her slender hips for a moment. Her ass was surprisingly ful for such a

delicate woman. He did enjoy a woman’s ass, and Ari’s was a work of art. As fast as the thought entered his head, Tracker pushed it aside. A woman like

Ari wasn’t for him. He knew it and the world knew it, and if he dared to forget, someone would put a bul et between his eyes as a reminder.

Ari went to the wel behind the house. She primed the pump with a cup of water from the bucket sitting on the side, and then worked the

handle until the water flowed steadily, standing back a bit so it wouldn’t splash. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or resentful of that. Wet cotton got

temptingly see-through. Ari fil ed the pitcher with water, stood as if listening for something, and headed back toward the house twice as fast as she’d left.

What had she heard that put that pep in her step?

The back door slammed shut behind her. The boy glanced at the barn and then the house, and then took off at a run, looking back over

his shoulder several times. Tracker knew just how he felt. He’d have liked a longer look at those pretty calves, the soft thrust of her breasts against the

robe. He cursed as the seam of his pants cut into his cock. He was too old to be responding like a randy kid.

He inched backward on his stomach until he had the shelter of a smal rise between himself and the house, and then he stood. A soft

whistle brought Buster trotting over. Tracker packed up his gear, anticipation nudging him to hurry. He wanted to swat at it the way he’d swat a fly. He was

a man of calm, a man of patience. He could wait days for the chance of a shot, ignoring cramped muscles, bug bites and weather. Why was it that he

couldn’t wait five minutes to ride down to that little ranch?

He slid his rifle into the scabbard, then paused before mounting up. He touched the letter in his pocket, the one Desi had written. He’d

promised her he’d bring Ari home.

Everyone had assumed Arianne would be grateful to leave whatever hel she was living in for the chance to be with her sister, but she

looked settled here. She might not want to leave the older couple to travel across the state. Whatever had happened since the
Comancheros
had sold

her, she’d clearly found a measure of peace here. People could be funny about peace. They rarely wanted to leave it.

The letter rustled under his fingers. A promise was a promise. If he had to bring Ari kicking and screaming to Hel ’s Eight, he would. She

wasn’t safe here. The attack on Sal y Mae had made it clear that Desi and Ari’s enemies were stil hunting her, and if he’d found her, they could, too.

Swinging up into the saddle, he steered Buster toward the ranch. Leaving wasn’t an option, so he needed a legitimate reason to stay while he checked

the lay of the land. Word in town was the old man was looking for help fixing the place up.

Tracker patted Buster’s neck. “Guess we’l go see a man about a job.”

2

T
he old man was sharper than Tracker had expected. He took one look at him outside the barn door and grabbed up a pitchfork.

“Que quieres aquí?”

Tracker halted just inside the door, keeping a safe distance between the tines of that fork and his midsection while his eyes adjusted to

the change in light. The last thing he wanted was to hurt an old man who’d taken in Ari and given her peace.

He answered in English. “A job. Word in town is you’ve got one available.”

The old man squinted and looked him over from head to toe. Tracker knew what he saw. The scar on his face alone gave people pause.

Coming hard off the trail, dressed in black, his hair long and the scar advertising his way of life like a red flag, he looked like what he was: trouble.

The man didn’t lower the pitchfork. “I am looking for a handyman.”

“I’m handy.”

The old man’s gaze went to the guns on his hips. “With a hammer.”

Tracker didn’t bother to smile. It made people nervous when he smiled. “I’m good with that, too.”

“I do not need here the kind of trouble a
pistolero
brings.”

Tracker’s eyes had adjusted to the interior. There was no one else lurking about as far as he could tel , and the hairs on the back of his

neck weren’t standing on end in warning. That was about as much of a guarantee as he ever got. He relaxed, pushing his hat back from his forehead. “Is

that so?”

The old man showed no sign of relaxing in turn. “That is so.”

“From what I saw last night in town, it seems to me a man with a pretty young woman on the property could use al the help he can get.

With a hammer and other things.”

The old-timer took a step forward, the tines dipping to align with Tracker’s gut. “You wil stay away from
mi hija.
”

Daughter? He cal ed Ari his daughter? That was going to complicate things. “Don’t have any intention of getting close. That kind of trouble

I
don’t need.”

It wasn’t precisely a lie. He was only going to get as close as it took to spirit Ari safely back to Hel ’s Eight.

The old man lowered the pitchfork slightly. “No, you don’t.” He jerked his head toward town. “They would string you up by your
cajones.
”

Interesting. “And who would
they
be?”

“
Los gringos
who came to town last winter.”

“There weren’t any gringos in town last night.”

The old man spat. “They come. They go. But when they come it is
muy malo.
”

Likely a gang of outlaws who were intent on making the town of Esperanza their refuge. “Not the neighborly sort, huh?”

The old one stood the pitchfork on the ground. “No.”

The cow mooed restlessly, clearly unhappy with having her morning milking interrupted.

“Then I reckon a handyman who’s also handy with a gun might be useful.” Tracker held out his hand. “Tracker Ochoa.”

Not by a twitch of an eyelash did the old man show any sign he recognized the name. Tracker wasn’t surprised. Esperanza was very

close to the Mexican border. Not much worry a Texas Ranger’s rep would carry this far. “Vincente Morales.”

Vincente’s hand was cal used and worn from years of work. His grip was lighter than Tracker expected. As soon as he felt swol en

knuckles that indicated arthritis he lessened his own grip. Vincente leaned the pitchfork against the outside of the stal .

“This getting old, it is not for a coward.”

“You looked pretty damn intimidating wielding that pitchfork.” Tracker took a step forward and indicated the cow. “Mind if I finish this up?”

“I would be grateful.”

Tracker readjusted the stool near the animal. “She got any preferences?”

“No. Abuelita is a good cow.”

Tracker set his hat down and leaned his forehead against the animal’s side. It’d been a long time since he’d milked a cow. He hated the

damn things, but he couldn’t sit by and watch an old man with pained hands struggle with the chore. It took only three seconds to figure out that there were

some things a man didn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried. Milking a cow was one of them.

Two tugs and the milk hit the bucket in a hard stream. The old hound moaned and looked hopeful. Tracker smiled and squirted in the

dog’s direction. His aim was a bit off but the hound compensated, licking the milk off his whiskers with slow swipes of his big tongue. Vincente chuckled.

Tracker caught his eye. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No. He can no longer hunt rabbits. It is one of his few pleasures.”

“A body’s got to have his pleasures.”

“Sí.”

The barn fel quiet, the only sounds being the hound scratching and milk splashing into the bucket. Vincente broke the silence.

“The job does not pay much. A room here in the barn and supper.”