Wanted (23 page)

She was sleeping. Her hair was spread out over the pillow, and her face was relaxed. Her arm looked awkward handcuffed to the bedpost, and he felt that peculiar mixture of guilt and something stronger, something that stirred a part of him never disturbed before. He didn't want to think it was his heart.

He had sometimes wondered whether he even had one. He'd never really had anyone to love, unless he counted various Rangers who had tossed around the role of piecemeal fathering. But they kept dying on him, and he'd steeled himself against caring too much, against counting on anyone.

The war had made him even more of a loner. Too many of his friends had been killed. You couldn't hurt if you didn't care. He'd tried desperately not to care; he'd tried so hard that he thought he'd succeeded until the day he'd learned Callum had been killed. Rough and demanding Callum, who had never once touched him with affection, but who had been his one constant. For the first time that he could remember, he'd cried. He'd gone into the prairie like a wounded animal and cried like a baby. He had never done it again. He'd never allowed himself to care again.

And now he did. But he cared for a woman who'd tried to kill him, and who would probably do it again—who would always hate him for doing what he had to do.

God help him, he cared. The sudden understanding was so strong, it nearly gutted him. He'd denied it until now, had convinced himself it was only lust. But his heart had never stilled before just by looking at a face. He'd never felt so damn weak in the knees, so awkward when he was around her. He'd tried to cover it with abruptness, with indifference, by banishing her. He couldn't do that now. Not without putting all three of them, including her, in more danger than she'd ever considered.

He knew Whitey. Unfortunately, he'd never been able to prove anything against the man, not in Texas, but Whitey Stark always left bodies behind him. And not always just those who were wanted.

His fist tightened around the doorknob. More days with her. And nothing was going to improve. If anything, the hostility between him and her brother had festered into a powerfully malignant thing.

He started to walk in, to wake her, and then decided to let her sleep while he went down to pay the bill and offer a small bribe to the night clerk to forget he ever saw them. Thank God he hadn't stabled the horses in the public livery. The decision to stay there had been the right one, he realized, even though he admitted now to himself that his motive had been as much to give Lori some comfort before shipping her off to Denver as to throw off any pursuit.

Morgan hadn't taken off his gunbelt. His hand went to it now, almost automatically, reassuring himself it was there. He gave Braden a fast, warning glance. His prisoner was sitting up, his feet on the floor, his eyes alert and watchful.

Morgan slipped from the room. It must be around two, he thought. The saloon down the street had just closed.

The clerk looked up, obviously surprised.

“Bob Dale,” Morgan identified himself. “We'll be leaving early in the morning,” he said. “I'd like to settle now.”

The clerk nodded, gave a sum, and Morgan paid it without comment; then he added several bills. “My wife … well, we just got married, and her pa isn't too happy about it. I'd appreciate it if you just forget about us.”

The clerk's eyes widened. “Of course, sir.”

“He sent some men after her. No telling what he might say. He's tried every trick known to mankind,” Morgan added confidentially. “You see he wanted … Elizabeth to marry his business partner. An old man … and …”

The clerk nodded with understanding.

Morgan smiled his gratitude. “Do you have a back door?” He already knew they did. He always checked such matters. He also knew it was locked.

The clerk nodded. “It's locked, though.”

“Can you unlock it?”

The clerk hesitated. Morgan added another bill to the pile. At the rate he was going, he would be broke before long.

The clerk grinned. “I'll unlock it now. Good luck to you and your missus.”

Morgan gave him a rare smile.

Lori woke reluctantly. It had taken her a very long time to fall asleep. Now she didn't want to leave that state of oblivion.

“Lori.” The voice was insistent. “Lori.”

The voice was deep, like Nick's, but the intonation was different. Harsher. She moved. Something had changed. And then she knew what. Her right wrist was free.

She kept her eyes shut another minute, knowing what she would see before she saw him. She felt weighed down with sleep, or lack of it. She didn't know which. Surely, it couldn't be dawn yet. It couldn't be time for the stage.

Dread filled her at the thought of leaving Nick.

“Lori!”

She opened her eyes. The Ranger was standing there, fully dressed, the gunbelt in place as always. Why did he always have to look so confident, so powerful?

Lori stretched in the comfortable bed. Wallowed in it, actually. She kept her gaze away from him. Yet instinctively, she knew she was provoking him. Or something else. Sweet Mary and Joseph, she wanted a reaction from him. Some kind of reaction—
any
kind.

“Lori.” This time his voice was lower. Even harsher. Rather strangled, in fact.

“Do you always walk into ladies' bedrooms?” she asked sleepily.

He grunted an unintelligible reply.

Lori looked toward the window. Only darkness came from behind the curtains, not the first rays of sun.

“We're leaving,” he said abruptly. “Get ready.”

“What time is it?”

“Early morning.”

“Very early,” she guessed.

He shrugged, as he did so many times when he didn't want to answer a question. Her gaze fixed itself on his, and she sat up, hugging the quilt to her. She didn't need to. She was still clothed in the shirt she'd been wearing for the last few days. “What's wrong … Nick …?”

His gut tightened again. Nick. Always Nick, goddammit. Why did she care about the murdering bastard? It didn't make him feel one damn bit better that he was jealous of her blood relative. “Bounty hunters,” he said. “Rode in an hour ago.”

She stiffened. Despite what she'd said a day ago about Morgan not being any better, she knew her brother stood little chance with any bounty hunter.

“Where are we going?”

“South. Along the river. Too many tracks out of town for them to follow, and the creek bed will keep our signs to a minimum.”

“How did they find us?” She felt fear for the first time. She hadn't felt it in Laramie. She'd been too angry, too determined to free Nick—too sure of her ability to do that.

“I don't know,” he answered honestly. “They might just be checking all the mining towns. We lost time during the snowstorm.”

And because she had shot him. She was grateful he didn't remind her. She merely nodded. She'd learned by now that there was no arguing with him. Once he'd decided on something, there was no reprieve. She wondered briefly if he ever bent and decided he didn't. He'd crack wide-open first. If, she thought bitterly, there was anything inside him to crack.

He abruptly left, leaving her to pack what few things she had. She hesitated as she looked at the dress, then rolled it up in the bedroll. She didn't want anything from him … but it
was
something else to wear, and she didn't doubt she might need it. Despite the bath she felt dirty and grungy in the clothes she had been wearing. She had kept them on last night, purely in self-defense. The Ranger gave her privacy only up to a point.

She wondered now whether he'd had any sleep at all, wondered if there was a way to take advantage of that possibility. And then she warned herself against underestimating him again. As long as he had the gun and the irons, he had the upper hand.

Until Pueblo.

In just a few minutes she joined the two men in the other room. Nick had a days-old beard; the Ranger still had not permitted him to shave. Her brother was wearing his coat, but his hands were cuffed in front of him, though his ankles were free. The Ranger gave him one pair of saddlebags to place over the handcuffs in case they ran into anyone. Then Morgan Davis eyed her warily for a moment. “I hope you know what's at stake,” he said.

Lori nodded, her hands loaded down with her bedroll. The Ranger also gave her Nick's, and he took his own in his left arm, leaving his gun hand free, Lori noticed.

“We'll go out the back to the hotel stable,” he said. “You two go first. To the right and down the back stairs.”

Lori felt the weight of too little sleep. Her mind was muddled with the lack of it. So was Nick's, she noticed; his steps lagged, the usual energy drained from him. She wondered how the Ranger could be so decisive, his eyes so alert, and she silently cursed him for it.

She and Nick exchanged glances. He gave her a wry smile, and her heart ached. There was defeat in that smile, something she rarely saw in him. She knew it was partly because of her. He'd wanted her on that stage as much as the Ranger did. She hadn't told him she'd had no intention of going all the way to Denver. She wasn't going to leave the two men alone, not after seeing the anger between them nearly explode last night.

Lori knew now that the Ranger would not shoot her brother in cold blood. She also knew, though, that Nick was reaching the point of doing something reckless, of not giving the Ranger a choice, or what the Ranger saw as a choice. She reached the stairs and started down them. All three of them were silent, careful in their steps. Doing as the Ranger ordered. Resentment boiled up in her, and she measured the steps. Perhaps if she stumbled … Nick could back into the Ranger, and the two of them, she and Nick, could …

“Don't even think about it, Lori.” His voice was low, almost inaudible, and Lori swallowed. Had she hesitated a moment? Or did he already know her that well? She didn't bother to deny it, just kept moving, balancing her load to open the door.

In minutes they were riding out of town at a gallop. An opportunity lost, but at least, Lori thought, she wasn't on the stage.

And there was Pueblo.

Whitey Stark swore. He stared at the note at the telegraph office. He had missed them again, and this time only by hours. Still, he had what he needed.

“Pueblo,” the copy of the telegram said.

He was surprised the Ranger had permitted the girl to send the telegram. But, then, in Whitey's opinion Morgan Davis was often a fool. The Ranger had a code of honor Whitey didn't understand, would never understand, and because he didn't, he held it in contempt. A weakness. Whitey distrusted weakness.

And he hated Morgan Davis. Davis had foiled several of his intended captures. Whitey had been close three times to nabbing a wanted man, spending months in tracking, only to find that Davis had beat him to it.

Now five thousand dollars was at stake. So was his pride.

He had been tailing Morgan a month earlier, knowing that the man was after Nicholas Braden. An acquaintance had told him a Ranger had been asking questions in Harmony. Whitey had thought he would trail Morgan, save himself time and trouble. He'd even played with the thought of shooting Davis and taking him back as Braden, but he didn't dare do that in Texas. He didn't want the Rangers on his back the rest of his life. He wanted it to look as if Braden had shot the Ranger, and then he, Whitey, had killed Braden. He had to kill them both.

Everything had gone well enough, until the Ranger had backtracked once and found him. He'd disarmed Whitey, taken his rifle and his treasured pistol with the pearl handle, and thrown them into a river. Whitey hadn't been able to find them, even after days of searching. That pistol had been important to him. He'd taken it off a gunfighter he'd killed, and it represented his prowess, his power. Davis had not only humiliated him but had taken his most prized possession.

He'd had just enough money to purchase a new pistol and rifle, neither near as fine as the ones he'd had. And he'd recruited Curt Nesbitt, whom he'd worked with before, and Curt's brother, Ford. Curt and he had the same philosophy. No value in taking a wanted man alive. Whitey had made it clear, however, that he would have the pleasure of shooting the Ranger, and that he would take two thirds of the bounty. The woman would be a bonus, and then they would have to kill her, too.

Whitey turned away from the telegraph office, where he had bribed the operator. A clerk from the Hotel de Paris, the man had said, brought in the telegram.

The Hotel de Paris! He never would have suspected Morgan Davis would stay there. He hadn't even checked there, by God, though he had checked the other hotels, the sheriff's office, which was empty, and the town doctor, who reported no callers. Morgan Davis was a hell of a lot smarter than Whitey had thought. Still, the Ranger had made a mistake. The telegram was a big mistake.

Whitey studied his own map, every town anywhere close to the mountain trails that led to Pueblo. He and the Nesbitt brothers would separate, cover each of those trails. The woman would slow the Ranger down. So would his prisoner. The telegram had promised as much.

Daniel Webster visited the Denver telegraph office as he had done every day since that telegram arrived more than a week ago. He ignored the stares that always accompanied him. He had learned long ago not to care.

Andy was in the saloon, getting knee-walking drunk again. He'd been consumed by guilt ever since his brother was almost hanged for saving his hide. Daniel had some sympathy but not a lot. It was time that Andy grew up.

Daniel approached the counter, which came to just about the top of his head. He stood on tiptoes. “Any messages for Jonathon Braden?”

The operator handed him a telegram with a smile. Daniel smiled back. The telegraph operator had stared at him years ago when he'd first come in, but now, again like so many others, he had discovered that Daniel was like everyone else and treated him that way. He'd even interfered several times when another customer had cruelly teased Daniel about his tiny size. Some people never accepted Daniel. Some took great pleasure in taunting him, calling him a freak, to make themselves feel superior.