Tracker’s Sin (4 page)

Tracker cocked his head so he could see the man. “Your wife a good cook?”

Vincente patted his rounded bel y. “Very.”

Tracker bent his head and hid his smile. He could see Caine saying the same thing about Desi forty years down the road. Then he

chuckled. It’d be worth living that long to see Caine with a bel y. “That’l do.”

The cow was about dry. She stomped a hoof, signaling the end of her patience. Tucker squirted the last of the milk into the bucket and

leaned back. Too late he remembered the other reason he hated cows. Her tail whapped him in the face, the bristly hairs stinging, adding insult to injury.

“Son of a bitch.” He jumped to his feet, barely missing spil ing the milk. The cow turned her head and stared at him reproachful y, as if he’d

done something wrong.

“Don’t look at me like that!” He rubbed his cheek. “I’m not the one swinging wildly.”

He grabbed the bucket in case she was one of those cows that delighted in making a waste of an unpleasant task by kicking over the

container.

Vincente laughed outright and handed him the lid. “There wil be danger for you here.”

Tracker laid it in place, fitting the notches between the bucket’s handles. “From the unneighborly sort?”

“No.”

Grabbing his hat, he settled it back on his head. “Nothing new in that.”

“Why do you want this job?”

“My reasons are personal.” Tracker straightened. “Why are you offering it?”

“Who says I am?”

“Me.”

“And who are you that I should care what you say?”

He took a stab in the dark. A sick man with two women to protect had to be nervous. “A man you can trust.”

“I do not know this.”

Tracker shrugged. “Doesn’t change the truth of it.”

Vincente stared at him, squinting to see in the low light of the barn. “But you expect I wil learn?”

He shrugged. “Most people find me a right handy man to have around.”

The old man studied him for a few more seconds and then nodded. “Yes. I think I wil , too.” He motioned to the door. “We wil try you today.

You may put that by the back door of the house.” He patted the cow’s flank. “I wil get Abuelita settled.”

“Wil do.”

“Come right back.”

Tracker nodded, used to men not wanting him around their womenfolk.

He made it to the barn door before Vincente cal ed out, “I tel you not to linger because my wife has been nervous of late, and she is not

such a good shot.”

“She the shoot-to-kil type?” Tracker respected that. No one should pick up a gun without being prepared to kil .

“It would be better that she was, but she has a soft heart and bad aim.” Vincente smiled. There was a world of love in that smile. “I am

afraid she would aim for your foot and hit your heart. I do not want to be in church so much as it would take for her to repent.”

Tracker chuckled. “I’l keep that in mind.”

“Gracias.”
The lightness left Vincente’s expression. “Later, if I decide you can stay, I wil introduce you.”

“Then I guess I’l have to work today to impress you.”

“Because you don’t want a bul et in your heart?”

Tracker shook his head and cal ed back, “Because it’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal.”

The old man shook his head and gathered up Abuelita’s lead rope. “It is lonely for a man as he gets older,
sí?
”

Not for Tracker. He couldn’t let life get lonely. “For some.”

Vincente slapped the cow’s rope against his boot, punctuating his mocking tone when he said, “For some, huh!”

The last thing Tracker needed was an old man playing matchmaker. It was bad enough that Tia wouldn’t accept reality. “Yes,” he retorted.

“For some.”

“But not you?” Vincente asked as he led the placid cow out of the barn.

“No. Not for me.”

“Huh!” Vincente’s snort carried clearly as he led the cow to the fenced pasture. “Drop off the milk and we wil get to work.”

The old man might be arthritic, he might be going blind, but he was a man on a mission, and that mission seemed to be to get as much

work out of Tracker as he could. The first job of the day was to get a sizable new garden area ready for his wife, which involved plowing up the hardpacked earth. It’d been a dry spring, and the ground was ful of rocks. The only tool the old man had was a weighted plow. With no horse to pul it, the only

option was for Tracker to do the pul ing. Apparently, judging from the cut-down harness, this had been the system for years.

After one brutal trip down the length of the marked-off area, Tracker was seriously considering hooking Buster’s temperamental ass up to

the makeshift harness. But the gelding had a fierce reaction when it came to pul ing things, and since Tracker wasn’t going to be around long enough to

replace the plow, he grudgingly slid the harness over his shoulder and dragged the blade back down the next row.

“You sure your wife needs a garden this big?” he asked as he passed Vincente, who was hauling rocks out of the area with a net spread

between two sticks tied together. It was an ingenious device that took the stress off the old man’s hands.

“
Sí.
Absolutely.”

“Going to be an awful lot of canning.”

“Yes. She wil be pleased.”

Was she going to be pleased or was Vincente? Tracker wasn’t certain. But one thing a garden this big would ensure was that a woman

would have enough goods to eat or trade, whether there was fresh meat or not. He watched as Vincente again missed a rock with the net. Just how bad

was the man’s vision?

He looked up at the sun. It was going to be a warm day. “Then I guess we’d better get it done before the sun blisters our hides.”

Vincente grunted as he dragged a rock over the plowed dirt. “
Sí.
It wil be hot today.”

After two hours, Tracker was sweat drenched, thirsty and hungry, but the new garden spot was plowed and Vincente seemed happy.

From the house came the ringing of a bel .

“Ah! Breakfast is ready. We must clean up.”

Tracker shrugged out of the harness, more than ready to be done with the damn thing. “I thought the job came only with supper.”

“It does, but twice my Josefina looked out the window and saw you plowing.” Vincente took the harness from his hands and tossed it over

the plow handle. “Her soft heart doesn’t let a man go hungry. There wil be a plate for you and she wil chide me if you do not eat it.”

Tracker could eat a horse, but having breakfast meant meeting the family, and he wasn’t ready to meet Ari yet. Wasn’t ready to substitute

the il usion of his fantasies for harsh reality. His fascination with the woman had to end sometime, but not this morning. “Women can be the bane of a

man’s existence.”

Vincente slapped him on the back. “So speak the young.”

It’d been a long time since anyone had cal ed Tracker young.

“When you are older you wil see they are the blessing God puts in a man’s life to ease his way.”

“Uh-huh.”

Vincente shook his head. “You young people today have no appreciation for the way things should be. Trying to change what you cannot,

and running away from what you should be embracing…”

Tracker headed up the path to the wash shed and hazarded a guess as to what he should be embracing. “A woman? I’ve embraced

more than my share of them.”

“A
good
woman.” Vincent put a lot of emphasis on “good.”

It was easy for a man who fit somewhere to hold such beliefs. “My father was Indian, my mother Mexican. There aren’t many
good
women

who want to hitch their wagon to that mix.”

“You do not need many. Just one.”

“Uh-huh.” The old one was up to something. Whatever it was, Tracker wanted to nip it in the bud. “Vincente?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever you’ve got in mind, drop it.” The last thing he needed was a half-blind, arthritic old man picking out his love interest.

Vincente huffed. “I merely point out the truth.”

“Thanks.” Tracker primed the pump as Vincente scooped out some soap from the tin on the ledge. He let the older man wash first. “But

I’m happy with what I’ve worked out.”

“You are not happy.”

“I’m as happy as I’ve ever been.”

Vincente muttered something under his breath as he finished washing and pul ed his shirt back on. “When you are done, come up to the

house.”

Tracker looked at the little home in the wel -tended yard. Smel ed the scents of wood smoke and sausages on the breeze. Inside, two

women had a table set, coffee brewing and food ready. When Vincente entered, there’d be pleasant conversation, maybe laughter. There’d be love.

Tracker wasn’t going within a hundred feet of that house. Not this morning. He felt too raw inside to sit there and watch what he would

never have.

“Wil do.”

He waited until Vincente reached the house before pul ing off his shirt. It took only a few pumps of the handle to get a strong flow of water

going. Vincente was lucky to have such a rich supply. Tracker dunked his head in the spray. The wel water was surprisingly cold. Frigid. But after the initial

shock, it felt damn good on his overheated skin. He grabbed the soap and blindly scrubbed, pumping the handle a few more times, letting the water pour

over his head and neck, enjoying the moment. When the temperature turned more chil ing than refreshing, he stood, flipping his hair back over his

shoulders.

A shriek loud enough to split his eardrums spun him around. He palmed his knife as he turned, ready for the threat.

He knew who it was before he shook the soap out of his eyes. Ari stood there in a pretty blue dress, her mouth open, a look of shock on

her face.

He reached for his shirt. The plate of food in her hands fel to the ground, spattering her skirt. Ari’s gaze never left the knife in his other

hand. Her throat worked furiously, but no sound came out.

Shit.
She was stil screaming, Tracker realized. Screaming for al she was worth, but not a sound passed her lips. He left the shirt where it

lay and took a step back. He couldn’t go far with the shed wal behind him and her in front.

“You must be Ari,” he said in his softest voice, wincing at the deep rasp that made it sound like a growl. “Hel o.”

His softest voice wasn’t soft enough, because she kept up that horrible pantomime of a scream. Tracker tucked his knife hand behind his

back. It didn’t make a difference.

Tracker cast a quick glance at the house. The back door didn’t open. No one came to the rescue. There was just him and Ari and her fear.

Shit! Sam should be here. He was much better with hysterical women. Women trusted Sam even when they shouldn’t. It was those blue eyes of his and

that devil-may-care smile. But he’d met his match in his wife. They’d been to hel and back, but they’d come out together and they were happy.

“Vincente!” Tracker yel ed.
“Venga aquí!”

No response came from the house, but Ari took a breath and launched another one of those soundless screams. He fol owed the

trajectory of her gaze.
The knife.
She was aware he stil held it behind his back. He didn’t want to speculate on why, but he couldn’t help a quick check of

her hands, her neck, her face. Not that there had to be scars where a man could see. Tracker knew too wel how creative a Comanchero could get with a

knife and an unwil ing woman.

He moved his hand from behind his back, watching her expression as the weapon came into view. It didn’t change. Just because the

knife had been out of sight didn’t mean it had been out of mind.

“Sorry about the knife. I forgot.” Hel , now there was a calming thing to tel a terrified woman. He looked toward the house. Stil no one

coming. Very slowly he reached down and slid the knife back into its sheath, attempting a smile.

“It’s just your luck to get scared out of your bloomers by a man who doesn’t know what to do with your fears.”

He didn’t real y think she heard him, which was probably a good thing. He was pretty sure decent men didn’t refer to a woman’s

bloomers. Tia would have had his head if she’d heard, because lord knows, she’d tried to teach him better. Sometimes he just had a hard time

remembering the rules.

Ari didn’t respond to his smile or his words. She just kept staring at the knife in its sheath, stil screaming in rasping pants of soundless

terror.

Time to try something else. Grasping the knife between his forefinger and thumb, Tracker made a big production of removing it. She

stopped breathing altogether. Holding his hand as far away from his side as he could, he reached back and set it on a ledge behind him.

“It’s okay, ma’am. No one’s going to hurt you.” Least of al him. How could anyone hurt a woman like that? Tracker had had the same

thought when he’d first seen Desi huddled in Caine’s coat over a year ago, wearing her fear like a second skin. Now, looking at Ari, he experienced it al

over again. She was so delicately formed, she made him think of fine china. The kind a man was afraid to touch, but felt compel ed to because the sheer

fragility of it demanded cherishing. Protecting. Because what it represented was what kept every man hoping.

He stepped to the left, away from the knife.

Ari’s focus switched from the blade to his face. Tracker debated trying another smile, but as wild as he must look to her, al dark and

scarred, he opted for remaining expressionless. At least she’d stopped screaming.

As she panted for breath, he had a chance to study her more closely. Each angle of her face was cut with precision, the fine grain of her

skin reflecting the sun like cream, the blue of her eyes shining with the brightness of a summer sky. Her lips were plump and soft and as silky looking as a