Caine's Reckoning

“Well, I sure as he—” he caught himself in time “—heck do.”

Sam flicked the match to the ground and took a draw on his smoke. “The women claim they won’t go if she goes with them.”

“So?”

“Just checking how you feel on that.”

Beneath his hands, Desi’s bones felt as delicate as bird wings. It was hard to believe she’d fought as hard as she had or been so successful with so little, but sometimes it wasn’t the size of the dog in the fight as much as the size of the fight in the dog, and this woman had plenty of fight. He admired that. “Tell them when I say mount up, they’ll mount, or they’ll walk tied behind, but one way or another, they’ll go.”

A strident screech from one of the other women snapped his head around. From the pitch he would have assumed the camp was under immediate attack, but in reality, the only one who looked threatened was Tracker. Even from where he stood, Caine could see the anger roll off the women flanking him. The vehemence. Hands waved, fingers pointed, and then, as if it would add emphasis to their point, the women moved in.

Tracker drove the three women back with a slice of his hand and a sharp utterance Caine couldn’t make out. Turning on his heel, he stalked toward them, his long black hair fanning behind him, emphasizing his irritation. He touched the brim of his black hat in deference to Desi as he got close, his expression displaying none of the anger Caine could see simmering under his skin. “This the one the padre was concerned about?”

“Yup. Desi, this is Tracker Ochoa.”

Caine couldn’t blame Tracker for the shake of the head. It was hard to reconcile Father Gerard’s description of “a fragile flower of womanhood” with the hellion who had held off three men with nothing more than sheer grit.

“Hell of a fight you put up, ma’am.”

Desi ducked her head. Her “Thank you” was a wisp of sound as she all but disappeared into the coat. If she was hoping to dispel interest, Caine could have told her she was angling down the wrong path. The contradiction of all that fire banked behind a wall of demure shyness was the perfect recipe to raise a man’s interest. Tracker’s more so than most. For all that he was one scary son of a bitch, he was the softest man Caine had ever seen when it came to women.

Tracker jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The ladies demand to talk to—” he lifted his nose and pitched his deep baritone to a high falsetto “—whomever is in command.” The irritation in the imitation reflected Tracker’s sentiments on the matter. Whereas Desi had earned the big man’s respect, the other women had apparently stirred up nothing but disgust.

“Appears to me they’re not in a position to demand anything.”

“Give them a chance, they’ll argue that into the ground.”

Caine didn’t intend to give them any chance at all. Giving Desi’s shoulder one last reassuring squeeze, he stepped back, settled his Stetson on his head and bit back the anger that rose too swiftly these days. “Then I guess this is their lucky day. I’m available.”

Desi breathed a sigh of relief as Caine took his hands off her shoulders. He was simply too much, from the way he watched her with those intense green eyes that seemed to uncover everything she wanted hidden, to the way his chin squared beneath his generous mouth. Everything about him was raw and untamed and uncompromisingly masculine. The lines that bracketed that mouth could indicate either a tendency to frown or smile. Truth be told, she couldn’t imagine so intense a man smiling, but at the same time he didn’t have that negative feel to him that she associated with bitterness. The hat he kept pulled low over his coffee-brown hair only heightened the impression of power. Angled low over his brow, it shaded his eyes and emphasized the command set into the rugged structure of his face. He wasn’t strictly handsome, but she bet there wasn’t a woman in the territory who didn’t stop and speculate when he passed. He had a presence that just screamed danger, while at the same time that innate strength beckoned with the seductive lure of safety. Both messages were delivered with equal strength, leaving it to the imagination which trait would be the one a woman would find in her bed should she be reckless enough to extend an invitation.

Not that she would ever extend an invitation. Desi shivered. The last year had cured her of all girlish illusions to the true nature of men, and as soon as she located her sister, she was going to find at least one place in this world where she could live her life in peace.

Desi watched as Caine crossed the clearing to talk to her fellow captives, his long legs eating up the distance with amazing ease, his muscled buttocks, perfectly outlined by the straps of his chaps, flexing with every step. Nothing in the easy roll of his gait or the set of his wide shoulders indicated impatience, but he was impatient. She’d felt it in his touch a second before he’d stepped away. Part of her hoped he’d unleash that frustration on Mavis, who seemed to feel it was her God-given right to be judge, jury and executioner over all that came into her domain.

Desi grabbed another fold of the coat into her fingers, the lingering warmth from Caine’s body welcome, the surge of his scent not as unpleasant as it should be, and watched as Mavis drew herself to her full height. Tall for a woman, with big bones and an hourglass figure that men admired, Mavis had presence and she was used to getting her way, in one manner or another.

Her two friends, Abigail and Sadie, stood in her shadow, as always, adding their will to hers, blindly following her lead. As one they stood, watching the big Ranger’s approach. From the expression on Mavis’s face, he was about to get an earful. The woman wanted Desi gone—had been campaigning for it for a year—and clearly saw this as a chance to obtain their goal.

Desi would have gladly granted Mavis’s wish, but there’d never been an opportunity. Until now. This was her chance. She couldn’t mess it up. A shudder came out of nowhere, a debilitating mixture of cold and panic starting in her core and radiating outward.

“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” the blond man said, the kindness in his drawl at odds with the hard implacability of his expression. “There isn’t a soul born who can tell Caine Allen what to do. Those women can fuss all they want, but when the dust settles, you’ll be riding with us.”

That was not what she needed to hear right now. “I don’t want to go back there.”

All that statement got her was a raised eyebrow from the sandy-blond man as he blew out a stream of smoke, along with a “Can’t say that I blame you” from the savagely handsome, completely terrifying Tracker.

She stood, checking the sway in her movement through sheer force of will. Between James’s efforts to starve her into compliance and the fight with the outlaws, her strength was going fast. “I need some privacy.”

Her blush wasn’t entirely faked. No matter what she’d learned to think of as normal in the last year, discussing her bodily functions was not one of them.

Tracker’s hand immediately enveloped her elbow. “This way.”

She couldn’t help her instinctive flinch. His expression went from impassive to stony with a twitch of an eyelid, but he didn’t say a word, just drew her along with him. She went, her lip between her teeth. She had an unreasonable sense that she’d hurt his feelings. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t him—the fact that he was obviously Indian, or his scars. She resented any man’s touch, but she didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. These remnants of softness left over from before had to be squashed before it killed off her last opportunity, because if she didn’t escape now, the only way out from the hell of her existence would be death. Either by her own hand or another’s. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t continue this way anymore.

Guiding her across the uneven ground as if she were the finest of ladies at a social rather than a scandalous woman naked beneath a coat, Tracker helped her over a log, steadying her on the other side, keeping her close as he took her to the copse of trees where the outlaws had tied their horses. The snorts and whickers were welcome indicators that the horses were still there. Maybe her luck was changing.

She stopped before he could guide her through the thicket at the edge. “Thank you.”

He released her elbow. “Give a holler when you’re done, and I’ll come help you back. No need for you to pick up any more bruises than you’ve already got.”

He’d been holding her elbow because he was worried she’d fall, not because he was keeping her hostage…? The realization broadsided her. Desi ducked her head, hoping Tracker would take the gesture as one of embarrassment at the subject matter rather than guilt at her assumptions. “Thank you.”

Casting one quick glance over her shoulder, she stepped through the bushes, making sure he wasn’t following. Tracker stood where she’d left him, leaning against a thin tree, tossing that ugly knife in his hands, flipping it end to end before catching it. Desi shuddered, imagining him in a rage, and ducked through the brush. She had no intention of calling for him. This was her chance, and she was taking it.

2

“You cannot expect decent women to be seen in the company of someone like her.”

The way the older woman, Mrs. Hatchet, referred to Desi set Caine’s back teeth to grinding. And it wasn’t because of the nasal twang to her voice or the highfalutin way she pronounced her words. It was her absolute belief that because she had a husband to shield her that she was better than other women who’d run up against the hard truth of this land. Specifically, Desi.

“Lady, what I expect is silence and obedience.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the open range beyond their sheltered spot. “In case it’s escaped your notice, we’re in the middle of Indian country. Those gunshots are going to attract every Comanche out there, so what I expect is for you to use the next few minutes getting ready to ride, because as soon as we gather what we can off those bodies, we’re lighting out.”

“You’re robbing the dead?”

If a man had made such an accusation, he’d have punched him in the mouth for both the insult and the stupidity behind it. But the insult came from a woman, which tied his hands. “I’m taking what we need to survive.”

Caine spun on his heel. Son of a bitch, he was never taking a wife if he had to put up with crap like that on a daily basis. He expected to see Desi waiting for him with Tracker and Sam. She wasn’t. Sam was at the edge of the trees, checking out the action on a revolver while Tracker was efficiently going over the rest of the possessions looking for anything useful.

“Where’s the woman?”

Sam flicked his used-up smoke into the stream, a genuine grin on his lips. “With the horses.”

“What’s she doing there?”

“Escaping.” Tracker dumped out a saddlebag. “I figure we’ve got about twenty minutes before she sweet-talks that big mustang into opening its mouth for the bit.”

This he had to see. Caine cut through the scrub brush to the horses. Evidence of Desi’s attempts was everywhere. A bridle dangled from a horse already tacked out in a nose band. A saddle lurched off the side of a hardy paint mustang with the conformation of a runner. He stepped up to the brown-and-white paint, patting the deeply muscled chest that said he could go for miles without foundering. He ran his hand down its spine, murmuring soothingly as it fussed and gathered his scent, studying the tracks in the muddy ground as he righted the saddle.

Bare footprints littered the mud in mute testament to Desi’s frustration. Sure as shit, she didn’t know anything about tack, but that hadn’t lessened her determination. The tracks spun in a circle, deepened as she’d put her weight squarely on both heels, and then took off in a straight line. The depth and distance between the prints indicated she’d been in a hurry.

Caine looked up the rise. He flipped the paint’s stirrup onto the saddle, kneed him gently to warn him to cut the crap when he sucked in wind and tightened the cinch when he blew out. With an easy leap he was in the saddle, a smile on his lips as he studied those tracks. Damn, if she hadn’t had the guts to light out on foot.

He spun the paint around and urged him up the rise. The outlaws might have been stupid, but they’d known good horseflesh. The paint responded as if he hadn’t just finished a hard ride, driving fast up the hill, eager to run, dancing in a circle when Caine pulled him up at the top.

It wasn’t hard to find Desi in the scraggly sea of winter dead brush. The bright sun shone off her blond hair like a brilliant white-gold beacon. He shook his head. She was heading due west, straight into Indian country. Caine gave the paint its head, smiling as the horse plunged down the rise. A man just had to admire the amount of gumption that drove a woman to take control of her future despite the odds or a poor sense of direction.

He was about forty feet behind Desi before she looked back. He had an impression of big blue eyes in a white face and a startled expression before she took off, bare feet flying across the ground, hair streaming behind her. Caine leaned over the cow pony’s neck. The animal surged forward. Human or cattle, it didn’t matter to the horse. He knew his job. Chase, catch and maintain. He did it well, dispelling the myth that paints made poor cow ponies.