Caine's Reckoning

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“And they thought ‘best’ was a guardian for a grown woman?”

She shrugged. “The town fathers felt I had wayward tendencies.”

“By wayward, I take it they felt you were forward with men?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you do to make them think that?”

Her expression grew tighter, more defensive. “Nothing.”

He believed her. Desi was more likely to remove a man’s balls than to delight in the fact that he had them.

“For a circuit judge to make a decision like that about a grown woman there had to be proof of a need.”

Nothing moved on her except her mouth. “They had a lot of proof.”

He didn’t miss the emphasis on they. “Who are ‘they’?”

“The town fathers,” she said with no emphasis on anything, as if reciting the facts. As if she expected him to believe the nonsense she was spouting.

“Why is it so important to you that I believe the worst of you?”

“It saves time.”

He took the canteen back and handed her a piece of jerky, settling her more comfortably against his chest. She could try until hell froze over, but he was never going to believe she was the forward type who needed a guardian to keep her behavior in check.

“Well, time I’ve got plenty of, so I guess it doesn’t matter if you waste a bit of it.”

Los Santos wasn’t as big as San Antonio, but it shared the same Franciscan heritage reflected in the fact that the church overshadowed every other building in the complex. The steeple could be seen for miles, and when the setting sun glinted off the inlaid tiles around the towers as it was doing now, it served as a beacon, drawing folk in from near and far.

Partial walls protected the town’s most vulnerable sides, but not much else stood in the way of defense. The size of the town itself was its best defense. Ten miles west of San Antonio, situated on a broad bend of the same river and boasting close to one hundred residents—all heavily armed—not many saw it as a prime target. Not when there were so many other smaller settlements and ranches cropping up on the outskirts. As they approached, the church bell rang and residents poured into the street.

“There’s Bert!” Mavis cried as a broad, hatless man came out to the middle of the street. She stood in the stirrups and waved her arms. After a second, the man shielded his eyes against the glare and then turned and shouted before running toward them, sunlight flashing off the star pinned to his chest.

Abigail and Sadie just as eagerly searched the crowd, standing in their stirrups until they, too, spotted their loved ones. Waving and crying, they yanked at their reins until Sam and Tracker turned their horses loose and let them gallop ahead to meet their kin.

In contrast, Desi didn’t even look up, just turned her face into his chest and took slow, even, very careful breaths. Caine brushed her hair off her cheek, dipping his fingers to the base of her neck, sliding his thumb around to the hollow of her throat, feeling the rapid beat of her pulse. For all that she sat calm and composed, she was terrified.

Tracker rode up beside him. He jerked his chin at Desi.

“She doesn’t look none too happy to be home.”

Caine nodded, curving his hand over her shoulder, the rounded point fitting precisely into his palm. “I noticed.”

“I don’t see anyone stepping forward to greet her.”

“It’s only been a minute.” Though he knew what Tracker was getting at. It seemed hard to believe that anyone missing Desi wouldn’t be at the forefront of the watch for her return.

“I don’t like the feel of this.”

He didn’t, either. “She’s got a guardian appointed by the circuit judge.”

Sam rode up on the other side, the same concern in his gaze as in Tracker’s.

“The padre that sent us after her?”

“No. Mavis’s brother.”

Tracker snorted. “Now, why doesn’t that make me all warm and toasty in my gut?”

Probably for the same reason it didn’t make him. The women had reached the men. There was a lot of cheering and hugging as everyone crowded around, wanting to hear the details of their rescue. A man separated from the crowd, the brightness of his white shirt against his paisley vest almost blinding as it reflected the rays of the setting sun. He stood apart from the crowd, legs spread, arms folded across his chest. Waiting.

Sam pushed his hat back off his brow and rested his forearm across the horn of his saddle. A body would have thought him completely relaxed, unless they noticed the repetitive opening and closing of his fingers. Anyone familiar with a gunslinger’s habits would recognize what he was doing. Sam wasn’t getting a toasty gut, either. “Looks like someone’s waiting on her return.”

Tracker spat his disgust. “A gambler.”

“Could just be a fancy dresser,” Sam offered, testing the fit of his revolver in the holster strapped to his leg.

“Yup.” Caine pulled his rifle from the scabbard and rested it across the saddle between the pommel and Desi’s hip. She cut him a startled glance. He squeezed her shoulder. “Is that your guardian, Desi?”

She didn’t turn her head, didn’t answer, but her respirations came two beats faster than normal. Finally, she nodded.

Tracker frowned. “What kind of judge gives guardianship of a young lady to a goddamn gambler?”

None that Caine knew. “Any chance you remember the name of the judge who heard your case, Desi?”

She would never forget. Not the way he had sat up on the church altar as though he were God on high. Not the way he’d acted the all-knowing, benevolent wise man, nor what had come after. “Judge Harvey Clayton.”

All three men swore at once.

“Well, that puts a clearer shine on things,” Sam muttered.

Caine rested his chin on her head and continued to stroke her arm with his fingers while, with every clop of the horses’ hooves on the wet ground, they got closer and closer to James. Desi closed her eyes and worked harder at getting her hands out of the gloves. By keeping her wrists apart after Sam had retied her, and letting her hair drip on the leather, she’d managed to stretch the ties some as they absorbed the water.

She risked a glance out of the corner of her eye. James was waiting and he wasn’t happy. He only stood that way when he wasn’t happy. Oh, God, she needed to get free. She worked her hands more frantically inside the gloves, pulling so hard the ties cut into her skin through the leather. She bit her cheek against the pain.

Caine’s strong hand settled over hers, engulfing her hands and wrists in the warmth of his touch. Again she got that conflicting message of threat and comfort. He squeezed, defeating her efforts with disheartening ease. She looked up. She couldn’t read a thing in his expression, partly because of the glare of the sun, and partly because he was just too good at hiding what he was thinking.

She tugged at her hands. Another squeeze and a shake of his head told her he knew what she was doing. The horse stopped. She heard James approaching. She’d sat and waited too many times like this not to recognize the sound of his tread. He always scuffed his foot on the third step.

Caine straightened. The rifle barrel pressed into her hip as he changed the angle.

“Ranger.”