Книга - Wyoming Wildfire

Wyoming Wildfire
Elizabeth Lane


HELLBENT ON JUSTICEJessie Hammond was driven by the need to clear her brother's name. Nothing–and no one–would stand in her way. Not even handsome Deputy Marshal Matthew Langtry, who suspected her of harboring dark secrets….Matt Langtry was a lawman who knew trouble when he saw it. And Jessie Hammond, feisty, determined, and dangerously desirable, was directly in his sights. She made him want things. Permanent things–like a home and happiness. But could such things be found in the arms of a wildfire woman?









“I couldn’t shoot him—” she gasped. “I wanted to…


“I wanted to kill Midnight for destroying Frank. And I wanted Virgil Gates to find the body. I wanted him to know that he hadn’t won.” Her hands clenched on Matt’s chest.

“But I couldn’t do it.”

Matt’s arms tightened around her. She was so wounded and alone. Her vulnerability tore at his heart. His protective instincts surged. He found himself wanting to fight her battles and keep her from harm. Without conscious thought he let his lips nibble along her hairline, tasting the sweetness of her skin.

For a moment her breath seemed to stop. She gave a tremulous little sigh and began to melt against him. Then, abruptly, she stiffened in his arms. Bracing her hands against his chest, she shoved him away. Shards of ice glittered in her violet eyes.

“Maybe I should have shot you instead,” she said coldly.




Acclaim for Elizabeth Lane


Her Dearest Enemy

“A pleasurable and well-executed tale.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Wyoming Woman

“This credible, now-or-never romance moves with

reckless speed through a highly engrossing and

compact plot to the kind of happy ending we read

romances to enjoy.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Bride On the Run

“Enjoyable and satisfying all round,

BRIDE ON THE RUN is an excellent Western

romance you won’t want to miss!”

—Romance Reviews Today

Apache Fire

“Enemies, lovers, raw passion, taut sexual tension,

murder and revenge—Indian romance fans are

in for a treat with Elizabeth Lane’s sizzling

tale of forbidden love.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub




Wyoming Wildfire

Elizabeth Lane







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For Powderpuff,

Who left her pawprints on my heart

1982–2005




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue




Chapter One


Felton, Wyoming,

May, 1887

J essie Hammond belly-crawled her way up the muddy bank that rose above the wagon road. Her right hand clawed for purchase on the rain-soaked ground. Her left hand gripped the handle of a long-barreled Colt Peacemaker. The hefty single-action revolver was loaded and Jessie knew how to use it. Only last week, she’d downed a prime buck at a hundred yards with a shot through the heart. But she didn’t intend to fire the weapon today. Not unless she had to.

Digging into the mud with the toes of her worn riding boots, she heaved her way onto the level ground at the crest of the bank. Keeping low, she inched forward through the rabbit brush to the edge, where the ground dropped off fifteen feet to the road below. She anxiously scanned the road’s rutted surface.

Last night’s storm had flooded the wagon tracks and turned the indentations to gleaming puddles. Fresh hoofprints would be easy to spot because they wouldn’t be filled with water. Jessie saw none. Unless the lawman had chosen to take her brother the twenty miles to Sheridan by a different route, she had managed to arrive here ahead of them.

Jessie had watched from behind the Felton general store that morning as Heber Sims, the elderly town marshal, had opened up the makeshift jailhouse and allowed the tall U.S. deputy to lead the manacled prisoner to the spare horse. Jessie knew that Heber would be relieved to see Frank gone. There’d been talk of a lynching, and if a mob had stormed the jail, neither the old man nor the rickety clapboard building would have been strong enough to stop them.

As the two men were mounting up, Jessie had sprinted for her own horse, sneaked quietly out of hearing, and then cut hell for leather across the open hills to intercept them on the road. It was a desperate risk she was taking, but she had to stop the federal deputy from locking Frank up in Sheridan. She had to convince him of the truth—that her brother was innocent of murdering Allister Gates.

The Gates brothers’ ranch occupied a choice spread of land bordering upper Goose Creek. While not as wealthy as the Tollivers, who owned the vast acreage to the north, the family was certainly well-off. Allister, a big, affable man in his early fifties, had looked after the ranch’s financial interests while Virgil, a decade younger, ramrodded the work.

Allister had been well-thought-of by the townspeople and neighboring ranchers. The whole community had been thrown into shock two nights ago by the discovery of his body, sprawled facedown in the horse corral owned by the Gates with a bullet through the back. Frank’s rifle, with his initials, F.H., carved into the stock, had been found lying a few feet away.

Marshal Sims, flanked by two nervous deputies, had come for Frank just as he and Jessie were finishing breakfast the next morning. They had clapped the handcuffs around Frank’s wrists, giving him no time to resist.

“Since when is it a crime for a man to steal back his own horse?” Frank had argued as they led him toward the marshal’s buggy. “Far as I’m concerned, it’s Allister Gates you should be arresting, not me.”

Only then had the marshal told Frank that he was under arrest for Allister’s murder.

Frank’s young face had turned as white as bleached bone. “No!” he’d screamed as the deputies dragged him into the buggy. “I only took the stallion! Allister made me drop my gun, and I rode off without getting it back, but the man was alive when I left the place! I swear it by all that’s holy! On my parents’ graves, I swear I didn’t kill him!” His frantic gaze had swung toward Jessie, who stood frozen in shock. “Help me, sis! Tell them! Make them listen!”

The memory of his cries tore at Jessie’s heart as she crouched in the tall brush, waiting. What she was about to do would likely get her arrested, too. But once Frank was locked up in Sheridan, she would be all but helpless to aid him. With the evidence that stood against him, he could be tried and hanged in a matter of days, giving her no time to clear his name. She had to act now, before it was too late.

A spring breeze skimmed her face, fluttering one jet-black curl that had tumbled loose from beneath her old felt hat. Nervously she tucked it back beneath the brim. She’d disguised herself as a boy because she didn’t want to be recognized. But she’d begun to wonder how well her masquerade would work. Even with her hair out of sight, she didn’t look much like a male. The bandanna over her face would help a little, as would the baggy flannel shirt and muddy bib overalls she wore, but making her voice sound convincing would be more difficult.

Clearing her throat, she rehearsed the words she’d planned to say. “Unbuckle your gun belt, Marshal, and throw it up to me. Do it nice and easy, and you won’t get hurt. Now, unlock those handcuffs, and…”

Jessie sighed and shook her head. She sounded like an actress filling in for the villain in a bad melodrama. She wouldn’t need a gun. The marshal would likely be overcome by helpless laughter.

But this was no laughing matter, she reminded herself. And it was too late to change her plans now. She could hear the sound of horses coming up the road from the south. A moment later, two mounted figures, riding side by side with a loose rope connecting their saddles, appeared around the bend in the road.

Frank sat astride a docile-looking bay. His head was bare and his hands were manacled behind his back. He looked rumpled, unshaven and terrified. He was nineteen years old, with his whole life ahead of him. Right now that precious life lay in Jessie’s hands.

The deputy marshal, who moved along beside him on a classy, long-legged chestnut, was a stranger. Like the horse he rode, he was lean, athletic and ruggedly handsome. His eyes were narrowed and alert beneath the brim of his Stetson. His hand rested lightly on the grip of his holstered revolver. The six-point silver star of his office gleamed on his leather vest. Studying him, Jessie could sense the tension that fueled his steel spring reflexes. Such a man would be hard to take by surprise. But surprise was essential if her plan were to succeed. Jessie pulled the bandanna over the lower part of her face. She would wait until they’d passed her hiding place. That would put her at the marshal’s back, giving her a slight advantage when she made her move. What happened after that would be anybody’s guess. But if Frank got away unharmed, she would count it as a victory.

As she crept toward the edge of the bank her index finger settled against the familiar steel curve of the Peacemaker’s trigger. Her thumb eased the hammer back into firing position. She didn’t want to hurt the deputy, but she would do whatever it took to rescue her brother. She could only pray that, when the time came, the lawman would listen to reason.



United States Deputy Marshal Matthew T. Langtry cast a sidelong glance at his prisoner. Frank Hammond didn’t strike him as a killer. The poor devil was painfully young and scared spitless. What was more, he didn’t appear to have a mean bone in his body. Bringing in vicious lawbreakers generally gave Matt a sense of satisfaction. He felt no such satisfaction this morning, only an uneasy premonition that something wasn’t right.

The aging town marshal had given Matt the facts of the case. Frank Hammond and Allister Gates had been at odds over the ownership of a valuable horse. Gates had taken custody of the horse and put it in his corral. Late in the night, young Hammond had come to steal the horse back. Gates had tried to stop him, but somehow Hammond had escaped with the horse and vanished into the darkness. Gates had been found in the corral, shot in the back. The bullet, cut from his body by the undertaker, was matched to Hammond’s rifle, which had been left at the scene.

A tidy little story, Matt mused. Almost too tidy. But that was none of his affair. This wasn’t even his blasted case. Newly arrived at his own post in Sheridan, he’d been paying a courtesy call on Johnson County Sheriff Frank Canton, when word came in that a prisoner needed to be brought in from Felton. Being new to the area and wanting to see more of the country, Matt had offered to go.

All he needed to do now was deliver Frank Hammond to the jail in Sheridan and hand over the legal paperwork. Then he could get back to the paperwork that had piled up on his own desk. Hellfire, if he’d known that working for the federal government involved so damned much paper, he’d have thought twice before taking the job.

But this murder case…against his better judgment, it was pulling him in. The Felton marshal’s story had left a lot of holes to fill. For example…

“Where’s the horse you stole, Frank?” he asked, thinking aloud. “The stallion?”

“Hid.” Frank’s blue eyes flashed beneath his thick, black brows. “And I didn’t steal him. He’s mine, bought and paid for. My sister’s got the bill of sale at home. She can show it to you.”

“Your sister?”

“Jessie. We’ve got a homestead back in the hills. The two of us have worked it since our folks died four years ago. Land’s too poor for crops, so we breed and break horses. We were betting everything we had on that stallion and the colts he could sire. Allister Gates had no right to take him!”

“Did you kill Allister?” Matt’s gaze drilled into the pupils of Frank’s bloodshot eyes, probing for the truth.

“No!” Frank shook his head vehemently. “I swear it by the Almighty, I’d never—”

“Stop right there, Marshal. Unfasten that gun belt and throw it up here!” The throaty voice rasped out from behind and above them, on the high bank.

Matt swore under his breath. One glance at Frank Hammond’s transfixed, hopeful face was enough to give Matt a fair idea of who was up there; and the faked masculine snarl bore out his suspicions. He knew a woman’s voice when he heard one.

His hand tensed on the grip of his holstered Smith & Wesson .44. He could turn swiftly and hope to get the drop on her. But that would be a risky proposition, and he sure as hell didn’t want to end up shooting her.

“I said take off that gun belt, Marshal.” The husky, oddly sensual voice was raw with strain. “I’ve got your back in my sights, and at this range I never miss!”

Matt decided to gamble. “Don’t be a fool, Jessie,” he said. “If you want to save your brother, let me take him in. I’ll do everything I can to make sure he gets a fair—”

The report of the six-shooter exploded in Matt’s ears, blasting the Stetson off his head. He sat stunned, his ears ringing. The hellcat wasn’t bluffing. She could shoot.

“Mind what I say, or the next bullet will be lower.” She was speaking in a flat, cold tone now, making no effort to disguise her voice. “Toss the gun belt up here. Then climb down off your horse.”

Again Matt chose to stall. “You’ve already broken the law, Jessie—aiding a fugitive, assaulting a federal officer and Lord knows what else. You can’t help your brother if you’re in jail. Back off now, before anybody gets hurt, and I’m willing to forget what you’ve—”

“Just do it.” He heard the click as she thumbed back the hammer. “I don’t want to shoot you, Marshal, but I’d rather spill your blood than see my brother hang for a murder he didn’t commit.”

“If he runs, nobody will ever believe he’s innocent.”

“They don’t believe it now. Half the town is out to lynch him—and I’ll bet money the judge in Sheridan won’t believe him, either. This is the only way. Now, toss me the gun belt before you make us both sorry.”

Frank cleared his throat. “Better do as she says, Marshal. Jessie’s got a mean temper, and she’s a helluva good shot.”

Matt’s curses purpled the air as he unbuckled the gun belt. He didn’t like being bested by anyone, let alone a female. This incident would go on his record and make him the butt of some merciless ribbing. But he didn’t want to shoot either of these young people. And he sure as blazes didn’t want to get shot himself.

The belt and holster fell free. Turning toward the high, brushy bank, he swung it back and tossed it upward. The throw was short, as Matt had intended it to be. It bounced off the high slope of the bank and dropped into the sludge that the storm had washed along the road’s lower edge. The last thing he wanted was to make it easy for her.

The rabbit brush moved as she rose to her feet, giving him his first good look at her. If it hadn’t been for the sight of the cocked Peacemaker pointing straight at his chest, he might have smiled, or even chuckled. By now he knew better.

She was a little thing, not a shade over five foot one. Aside from that, he could see almost nothing of Jessie Hammond. A battered old felt hat hid her hair and forehead, and the lower part of her face was masked by a crimson bandanna. Whatever figure she might possess was lost beneath a faded flannel shirt and a baggy, mud-streaked pair of bib overalls. Something about her reminded him of a little girl playing dress-up in her grandfather’s old work clothes. But there was nothing make-believe about the cocked pistol in her hand.

“That wasn’t funny.” She jerked her head toward Matt’s gun belt, which was already settling into the ooze. “I ought to shoot you right now.”

“I can get it for you.” Matt squinted up at her, wondering whether the black powder bullets in his pistol would be too wet to fire by the time he got his hands on the gun. He’d hoped she might make the mistake of climbing down to the road, but she stayed above him, keeping the advantage.

“Never mind. Get off your horse.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Matt eased out of the saddle and dropped to the ground.

“Now get your key and unlock my brother’s handcuffs.”

“Sorry. The key’s hooked to the gun belt.” It wasn’t true, but it gave him an excuse to stall while he plotted his next move. Strangely enough, he’d begun to enjoy this little sparring match.

“He’s lying, sis,” Frank said. “I saw the tricky bastard put the key in his pocket.”

Her eyes flashed above the red bandanna. Even at a distance, Matt could see that they were the color of violets, almost purple, and framed with luxuriant ebony lashes. “Don’t play games with me, Marshal!” she snapped. “I’m running out of patience, and my trigger finger’s getting itchier by the minute!”

“Whatever you say, lady.” Matt fumbled in his pocket, thinking that he’d give a new saddle and his Sunday hat to know what was underneath that silly costume of hers. If the rest of Jessie Hammond matched those eyes…Lord Almighty!

His fingers found the small key and the ring that held it. Still he hesitated, stalling as he searched for some way to salvage this debacle.

He glanced up at Jessie, then back at her brother. “You know, Frank, if you ride out of here, you’ll have a whole troop of vigilantes on your trail. And if they find you before the law does, you’ll be swinging on a rope before you can say your prayers.”

“I’ll be swinging anyway,” Frank muttered. “At least, if I run, I’ll have a fighting chance. Do what she says, Marshal.”

Matt sighed as he pulled the keys out of his pocket. “I just wish you’d—”

The rest of the sentence died in his throat as he sensed a slight tremor in the mud beneath his boots and heard, from beyond the bend in the road, the rumble of galloping horses—many horses—coming from the direction of the town. Matt’s instincts slammed into high alert. Only one thing would bring a large band of riders onto the road this morning.

“Vigilantes!” Frank’s face had gone chalky. Still handcuffed, he leaned forward in the saddle and, gripping with his knees, jabbed his boots into the side of the horse he was riding. The startled bay shot off the road and up the hill, with Frank clinging Indian-style to its back.

Roped to the other horse’s saddle, Copper, Matt’s chestnut gelding was yanked into motion. Copper snorted, jumped, and broke into a gallop, keeping even with the bay. Matt swore as his prisoner and both horses vanished over the top of the wooded ridge. He could hear the riders approaching the bend in the road. Seconds from now they would be in sight.

Jessie stood on the high bank, her pistol arm hanging slack as she stared after her brother.

“Get out of here, damn it!” Matt snapped, lunging for his gun. “You’re the last person I want those hotheaded fools to find!”

He found the gun belt in the muddy roadside ditch and jerked his pistol out of the holster. When he looked up again, Jessie Hammond had disappeared behind the top of the bank. He hoped she’d have the good sense to run. If the vigilantes failed to find Frank, they could turn their fury on his sister. Whatever happened after that was bound to be ugly.

He took a split second to examine the gun. The leather had kept the weapon relatively clean of mud, but it hadn’t kept out the moisture. There was no way of knowing whether the bullets would fire except to pull the trigger, and there was no time for that. Any second now, the riders would be thundering around the bend—and right now he had a fast decision to make.

The high-minded course of action would be to face them down and use his authority as a federal marshal to turn them back. But when the vigilantes saw him on foot, without his prisoner, they’d likely guess what had happened. If they picked up Frank Hammond’s trail, they’d be off like a herd of banshees and Frank would be as good as dead.

If, on the other hand, he took the coward’s way out and hid, they might gallop right on past, thinking he and Frank were ahead of them on the road. With luck, they’d ride all the way to Sheridan, break up and head for the saloons to cool their thirst. That would give him time to round up Frank and bring him in by another route.

There were times when cowardice made more sense than bravery. This was one of them.

The riders were getting close. With a hasty glance toward the bend in the road, Matt clawed his way up the steep bank, dived between two clumps of rabbit brush and tumbled headlong over the top.




Chapter Two


A grunt of surprise exploded between Matt’s lips as his body collided with something soft and yielding. His pulse slammed, but before he could right himself and look around, he felt the cold jab of a muzzle between his ribs.

“Lay one finger on me, Marshal, and I’ll blow you to kingdom come!” The voice was so close that he could feel the warm breath in his ear. Matt muttered a few choice words no lady should ever hear—but then he’d seen no evidence that Jessie Hammond was any kind of lady.

“I thought I told you to get out of here!” he growled.

“I’ll get out of here when I’m ready. Right now, I need to see what’s happening.”

“Then put that damned gun away before it goes off. Believe me, I wouldn’t lay a finger on you for a month of paydays.” Matt could hear the riders coming closer. The last thing he needed now was for this trigger-happy hellion to start more trouble.

Moving cautiously, he eased himself away from the steely pressure of the gun. She made no move to stop him as he inched toward the top of the bank. “Stay where you are and keep still,” he hissed.

Instead of obeying, she crawled up alongside him. “I want to see, too,” she whispered through the bandanna that still covered most of her face. “You won’t recognize the rotten skunks. I will.”

He couldn’t argue with that, Matt conceded. But even if he’d chosen to, there was no more time. He heard her breath catch as the band of mounted vigilantes exploded around the bend in the road. There were about twenty riders, he calculated, all of them masked, armed and, from the looks of them, well fortified with whiskey. Why they’d waited this long to come after Frank instead of busting down the jail was anybody’s guess. Maybe they thought there’d be too many witness in town.

Behind those drawn-up neckerchiefs were the faces of farmers, ranchers, hired hands and townspeople—husbands, sons and fathers. Half of them would be scared to death, Matt reminded himself. But even the most law-abiding citizens could be swept away by the violent madness of a lynch mob. In their present condition these men were as dangerous as a pack of rabid dogs.

“The brute in the lead is Virgil Gates, Allister’s brother,” Jessie whispered, close to his ear. “I’d know that big, ugly piebald horse of his anywhere. And I can pick out a half-dozen of the cowhands who work on his ranch, and a few no-accounts from town who’d ride anywhere for a bottle. The rest of them are likely from other ranches around here. I don’t—”

“Shh!” Matt hushed her with a jab of his elbow. His heart froze as he realized the riders were slowing down, most likely to let some stragglers catch up. He’d been hoping—almost expecting—they would just ride on down the main road. If they stopped here, there was a real danger they’d notice the trail of fresh hoofprints where Frank had fled up the hill with the horses.

The bullnecked man Jessie had identified as Virgil Gates reined in his horse. Matt held his breath as Gates lowered his mask, pulled a silver whiskey flask out of his pocket and raised it to his mouth. A few of those with him did the same. It took a lot of liquid courage to hang a man.

Jessie wriggled upward, trying to see. Fearing she might move too far or loosen a rock, Matt grabbed the seat of her overalls and held her down. She squirmed against his fist. Blast the woman. He could have managed fine without her interference.

Time crawled as Virgil Gates stoppered the flask, shoved it into his pocket, wiped his mouth on the back of his hands and adjusted the thick coil of rope that lay over his saddle horn. “Let’s go, boys,” he said, motioning with his arm.

Jerking his mask into place, he spurred the big piebald to a gallop and headed down the road toward Sheridan. The rest of the mob thundered after him in grim silence, as if weighed down by the awful thing they’d set out to do.

Dizzy with relief, Matt watched them go. With luck, they’d be miles away before they realized their quarry wasn’t ahead of them. For now, at least, he was free to deal with other problems.

He groaned out loud as he felt the thrust of Jessie Hammond’s pistol against his ribs once more. “What the hell—”

“I want the key, Marshal.” Her breathy voice rasped in his ear. “The key to the handcuffs. Give it to me now, and you’ll be free to walk back to Felton.”

“And if I don’t?” Matt stalled, knowing he had to beat her at her own game. If Jessie was demanding the key, she likely knew where Frank was headed. More important, she almost certainly had a horse hidden nearby—a horse he needed.

“You can give me the key now, or I can take it off your dead body. It’s all the same to me.”

Matt sighed. “You’re not much of a bluffer, Jessie. If you were capable of murdering me, you’d have done it by now.”

“You don’t know that for sure. And I wouldn’t have to kill you. I could hurt you so badly that you’d wish you were dead.”

“One shot would bring those vigilantes right back here.”

“Not fast enough to catch me. Now stop dithering and give me that key!” The Peacemaker jabbed harder against his ribs.

“You know where it is.” Matt’s muscles tensed like coiled springs. “If you want the key, just reach into my pocket and get it. Go on.”

Caught off guard, she shifted against him to reach the pocket. For the space of a heartbeat she was vulnerable. That was all the time Matt needed.

Twisting sharply, he made his move. His body exploded upward, hands flashing to catch her wrists. She gave a little cry as the force of his weight struck her, flipping her sideways onto her back, with his weight above her.

She lay on her back, glaring up at him with those deep lilac eyes. Her hat had tumbled off, revealing a spill of night-black curls, but the bandanna remained in place over her nose and mouth. “Get off me!” she sputtered. “Let go of me now, or I’ll scream!”

“Go ahead.” Using his weight to pin her against the slope, he locked one hand around her wrists while his other hand pried the Peacemaker from her fingers. To control her hands, he had to straddle her impossibly tiny waist with his knees and lean forward. The body beneath him felt small but voluptuous through the baggy denim overalls. The pressure of her jutting breasts against his belly sent waves of erotic awareness ripping down into his loins. To his chagrin, Matt realized he was fully aroused. He swore under his breath, hoping she wouldn’t feel him against her and get the wrong idea. He liked his ladies in satin and perfume—more important, he liked them willing. And right now, the only things he wanted from Jessie Hammond were her gun, her horse and her cooperation.

She had stopped struggling and gone rigid beneath him. She knew, all right—probably wanted to kill him for what he couldn’t help. The sooner he got off her the better. But there was one temptation, heaven save him, that Matt was unable to resist.

He had to see that face.

Releasing the hammer on the Peacemaker, Matt thrust it into his belt. Then, still pinioning her wrists, he used his free hand to tug away the red bandanna, revealing the lower part of her face.

He stifled a reflexive gasp.

If Frank Hammond’s sister had been as plain as mud, he thought, it would have made everything easier. But she was far from plain. And as Matt filled his gaze with the sight of her heart-shaped face, lush lips and straight little nose, crowned by those unearthly violet eyes, he knew that he was in danger of tumbling over the edge of reason. The heavenly powers were too prudent to have created such a face—only the devil could have done it.

“Let me up.” Her whispery voice raked his senses. “No tricks, I promise, as long as you agree to listen to my story.”

“You can tell me your story while we ride after your brother.” Matt sat back on his heels. “Come on. Let’s go.”

She’d begun to struggle again. “But I haven’t got—”

“Don’t lie to me, Jessie. You and your brother raise horses—that’s what he told me. And you didn’t get clear out here on foot. Now take me to your horse. We can ride double till we come up with something better.”

Rising, he jerked her none too gently to her feet. She was the sister of an accused killer, desperate to free her brother, he reminded himself. To save Frank Hammond’s life, she would lie, steal, seduce—and maybe even put a bullet through an unwary lawman’s heart. Show even a moment’s weakness, and she would pounce on it like a cat. He could not afford to lower his guard, even for an instant.

“Where’s the horse?” His grip tightened on her arm, easing only when she winced and pointed down-hill toward a wash, where willows trailed over a sluggish stream.

“What are you going to do?” She stumbled over her boots as he pulled her roughly down the hill.

“I’m going to find your brother, make certain he’s safe, and take him to Sheridan for trial. That’s my job. If I want to keep it, I have no choice.”

“What if I could prove to you that Frank didn’t kill Allister Gates?” She stumbled, twisting her ankle as she went down on one knee. Matt forced himself to keep moving, dragging her along until she regained her footing.

“Can you prove it?”

“I could try! That’s more than you’ve done!” She wrenched herself loose and stood facing him, her raven hair bannering in the wind. “Look at the facts! Frank dropped the rifle. Anybody could’ve picked it up and used it to shoot Allister!”

“I’d wager that’s exactly what his lawyer will argue. Reasonable doubt.” He seized her arm again, yanking her against his side as he strode down the grassy hillside. “It’s a fair defense and it might work. But I won’t be on the bench or in the jury box. My only duty is to bring him in.”

“You’re heartless!” She flung the words at him. “Frank’s never harmed a soul in his life! Why, I’m more capable of killing Allister Gates than he is.”

“Now that I can believe.” Matt cast her a sidelong glance and was seared by the blaze of fury in her eyes. “I have to ask,” he said. “Did you kill him?”

“Of course not! And neither did Frank!”

“So who did? You must have given the answer some thought.”

She frowned, the black wings of her eyebrows shifting pensively. “It had to be someone at the ranch, someone who was close enough to see the rifle and seize the chance to kill Allister before he went back into the house…maybe a cowhand with a grudge, or even Virgil. He had the most to gain from his brother’s death.”

“But you have no proof.”

“No. No more proof than you have against Frank.”

They had reached the stand of tall willows where Jessie had tethered the horse, a sleek buckskin mare that nickered and pricked its ears at their approach. It was a beautiful, spirited animal, Matt thought, not unlike its owner. But Jessie Hammond had too much spirit for her own good. From the moment he’d first heard her voice, the woman had caused him nothing but trouble. He’d be crazy to take her with him when he could just as easily trail Frank on his own.

For the space of a breath he weighed the idea of leaving her behind. It was a tempting notion—he would have no trouble following the horses’ tracks without her. But no, he concluded, he needed her with him. She could tell him things he needed to know, and if it came to a showdown with Frank, she might prove useful—providing he could keep the little hellion under control.

Deciding to test her, he released her arm and turned to free the mare’s tether. “I’ve decided not to take you with me. You can walk back to town from here and find a way home. When I get my own horse back, I’ll see that this one is returned to you.”

“No!” The word exploded out of her. “I don’t care if you are a lawman, I won’t let you take Gypsy without me! And I need to be there when you find Frank. He’ll be scared. He could even be hurt! I’ve always been there to look out for him. I can’t fail him now!”

Even after what he’d already experienced, Matt was startled by her vehemence. And the fact that she’d looked out for Frank was a revelation. He’d assumed, perhaps because of her diminutive size, that she was younger than Frank. Now, studying her determined features, he realized she must be in her early twenties—a fiercely protective older sister.

“Take me with you!” she insisted, seizing Matt’s arm. “You need to understand what’s happened and why Frank has to be innocent. I can tell you everything. Please—I promise not to give you any more trouble!”

He’d believe that when pigs could fly, Matt thought. But at least it was a step in the right direction. “You can ride behind me. If you go for the gun or the key or try any other tricks, you’ll find yourself on the ground. Understand?”

She nodded. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

He inclined his head in a mocking bow. “Deputy Marshal Matthew T. Langtry, at your service, ma’am.”

“And I suppose the T stands for Texas. I could butter a biscuit with that drawl of yours, Marshal.”

“Whatever you say.” Matt swung into the saddle, hoping she would dismiss the subject of his name. But as he reached down to pull her up behind him, she probed deeper.

“Now you’ve got me curious. What does the T really stand for?” Her husky voice had taken on a teasing note. “Thadeus? Terwilliger?”

Matt sighed. “Close. It’s Tolliver.”

“Oh?” She settled herself into place behind the saddle, her hands resting lightly against his ribs. “Are you related to the Tollivers who live north of here? The ones who own the biggest spread in the county?”

“Being from Texas, I don’t rightly know.” Matt nudged the mare to a silky-smooth canter. He’d been asked the same question before and had given the same answer. He’d done enough quiet checking to know that the late Jacob Tolliver, who’d founded the ranch a generation ago, had brought most of his cattle up from Texas. Jacob had left the place to his sons, Morgan, who was half Shoshone, and Ryan, who’d recently sold out his share and moved to the Canadian border.

Matt knew little else about the family except that they were well respected. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know more, or to know them. And the very last thing he’d ever want to do would be to ride onto the Tolliver ranch, knock on Morgan Tolliver’s front door and announce, You don’t know me, but I have reason to believe I might be your long-lost bastard half brother!

Especially when he could be wrong.

But never mind the Tollivers. Right now he had his hands full with an escaped prisoner, a liquored-up lynch mob and an unpredictable hellion who’d do anything to save her brother. It was up to him to keep all hell from breaking loose.

Spurring the mare to a gallop, he cut off the main road and headed for the ridge where Frank Hammond had disappeared.




Chapter Three


J essie clung to Matt Langtry’s waist, leaning outward to see past his broad shoulders. They had followed Frank’s trail over the first ridge and up the long slope into the high brush. The going was slower here, with the trail obscured by thickets of scrub oak and big-tooth maple, dotted higher up with pale stands of aspen.

It didn’t take a skilled tracker to see that the two horses had been out of control when they’d passed this way. In spots where the trail was clear, the brush was broken and trampled, the earth scarred with the prints of galloping hooves. Frank was an expert rider, but with his hands manacled behind his back, he would be able to do little more than cling to the horse with his knees. He could easily be thrown, or worse, caught by a stirrup and dragged over the rocky ground. The thought of what could happen triggered a spasm of horror in the pit of Jessie’s stomach.

But she couldn’t help Frank by worrying, she reminded herself. Her best chance of getting him out of this mess now lay in pleading his case to Matt Langtry. If she could make the tall federal deputy see the truth, or even win his sympathy, he might be persuaded to help her find out who’d really killed Allister Gates. But how persuadable would Matthew Tolliver Langtry be?

If she’d met him under different circumstances—at a dance, say, or a church supper—she might have been drawn to his chiseled features, gold-flecked brown eyes and rangy, athletic body. She might have flirted a little, laughing and tossing her hair, wanting to catch his eye, wanting him to smile and walk her way. Wanting him to reach out and touch her.

Even now, where her nipples brushed the back of his leather vest, the awareness of his body was like a subtle electric current that tingled along her nerves, pulsing deep and hot where her thighs nested against his long legs. It might be possible to imagine more, or even to make it happen. But Jessie’s actual experience with the male sex had been limited to a few groping kisses from eager farm boys—kisses from which she’d always pulled away feeling flustered and ashamed. She was anything but an accomplished seductress. Trying to charm a man like Matt Langtry with her scant feminine wiles would only make her look like a fool.

Matt was a man intent on his job, and there was only one weapon in her meager arsenal that had any chance of moving him.

That weapon was the truth.

“You have to believe my brother is innocent,” she said, plunging to the heart of the matter. “I’ve known Frank all his life. He could never have murdered Allister Gates.”

“I know you’d like to believe that.” Matt guided the mare around a clump of juniper, his eyes scanning the ground. “But you can’t know for certain unless you were there.”

“I was there!”

Jessie felt his body jerk against her. To his way of thinking, she’d likely made herself an accessory to horse stealing and possible murder. But never mind that. She would do whatever it took to save her brother.

“Oh, I don’t mean right there,” she added hastily. “But I was close by. Frank and I rode Gypsy as far as the Goose Creek ford, about a quarter mile from the Gates house. After we crossed, I let him off so he could go in on foot and get Midnight—the stallion. Then I waited for him, maybe twenty minutes, before I heard him coming back.”

“Did you hear anything else?” Matt Langtry’s voice was flat and tough, the voice of a lawman questioning a suspect.

“Not voices. I was too far away for that. But I would have heard a gunshot. I was listening the whole time, and I didn’t hear one. Allister wasn’t shot until some time after my brother left him. I’d swear to that on a stack of Bibles!”

“Go on,” he said, his tone betraying nothing.

“We rode hard and didn’t get a chance to talk until we were in the hills. That was when Frank told me that Allister had come out to the corral and caught him leading Midnight from the barn. Allister had a pistol, and he ordered Frank to throw down the rifle. Frank did, but before Allister could pick the rifle up, Midnight reared and struck him in the head. Allister went down. Frank said he was groaning and moving, so he couldn’t have been too badly hurt.”

“So Frank just jumped on the stallion and galloped away?”

“That’s right. He didn’t realize he’d forgotten the rifle until I asked him what had happened to it.”

“Why did he take the rifle in the first place?” Matt’s question was sharp, almost contemptuous.

“For protection, of course! Frank would never set out to harm anyone!” Jessie battled the urge to shout at the man and pummel his back with her fists. Why did he seem so determined to believe in Frank’s guilt? Was it because that belief made his job simpler and eased his own conscience?

“Don’t you understand?” she exploded. “I waited and listened the whole time Frank was gone! There was no gunshot!”

“Would you be willing to swear to that in court?” His question chilled her.

“Certainly. It’s the truth.”

“Is it, Jessie? Do you think the jury will believe a sister who’d do anything, even perjure herself, to save her brother’s life?”

Jessie swallowed the bitter taste of her own fear. “Right now, the important thing is, do you believe me.”

He didn’t reply.

Jessie sank into an uneasy silence as they wound their way up the slope. The sun shone high and bright in a cloudless sky, and the aspens wore baby leaves, small and pale and new. A scrub jay scolded from the top of an ancient pine tree. It would have been a beautiful day, Jessie thought, except for the worry that blackened her spirits, casting its pall over everything she saw.

What if Matt Langtry insisted on taking Frank in? How could she stop him?

Each idea that came to mind seemed more ludicrous than the last. But one thing was certain—whatever it took, she had to stop the marshal from taking her brother in to Sheridan. If she failed, Frank would never make it home alive.

“Tell me about the stallion,” Matt Langtry said, breaking the silence. “Why were your brother and Allister Gates fighting in the first place?”

“Midnight is a full-blooded Arabian,” Jessie said, thinking how their purchase of the fiery, pitch-black animal had set loose a deluge of bad luck. “We found him almost a year ago through a newspaper advertisement. The owner had lost all his money and had to sell out his stables. Frank mortgaged the ranch for the cash to buy the stallion and ship him by rail from Kentucky. We were hoping to make good money racing him in Sheridan, putting him out to stud, and then later selling his colts from our mares.”

“I take it things didn’t work out that way.”

“No.” Jessie suppressed a sigh. She’d tried to talk Frank out of buying the stallion, but her brother had set his heart on having the beautiful horse, and in the end she’d gone along.

“It was almost as if the horse was cursed,” she said. “We had one delay after another. First the papers were lost in the mail. Then Frank came down with scarlet fever and was too sick to go to Kentucky and fetch the horse, and I couldn’t leave him. By the time we got Midnight home, it was late November. The racing season was long over, and the mortgage was due on the ranch. We tried to sell off some of our other horses, but nobody wanted to buy them and feed them over the winter, when they wouldn’t be able to use them until spring.

“Allister Gates was in Laramie on business when Frank unloaded Midnight from the train. Allister made an offer to buy the stallion on the spot, but Frank refused to sell him for any price. So Allister found another way.”

“I see.” Matt Langtry’s response was noncommittal, serving as little more than punctuation for the story. Jessie could not see his face, but she was certain his expression would reveal no more than his words. The last thing he’d want would be to feel sympathy for Frank Hammond, she reminded herself. He was only waiting for her to supply him with Frank’s alleged motive for killing Allister. Well, fine. He could wait till hell froze over. The coldhearted bully would get no more help from her!

He was taking the mare on a fast climb now, paying scant attention to the trail the horses had left. Above them, the slope ended in a long, rocky ridge that would give them a view of the surrounding hills. With luck, they might be able to see where Frank had gone.

“Let me guess the rest of the story,” he said. “Your ranch fell into foreclosure. Allister pulled a few strings, redeemed it from the bank for a song, and claimed the stallion as part of the property.”

“But he went too far!” Jessie insisted hotly. “We mortgaged the land and the buildings on it. Allister had no right to the horses, especially the stallion! At the time we signed the loan papers, we didn’t even own Midnight!”

Matt exhaled thoughtfully. “I’d have to agree with you there. A good lawyer could have saved you and your brother a lot of grief.”

“Lawyers cost money. We didn’t have any money. But Frank had every right to take the stallion away. That’s what he told Allister. Unfortunately, the man wouldn’t listen.”

They were approaching the top of the ridge. Maybe she should take care of the marshal now, Jessie thought—get the gun, or grab a rock somehow and knock him out. Then she could take the key and her pistol and be gone before he came to. Frank had to be somewhere close. If she could find him and unlock the handcuffs, he’d be free to ride for the safety of the mountains.

To accomplish that, however, she would have to act fast and decisively. Matt Langtry was a powerful man. Her only hope would be to take him by surprise.

Rimrock, higher than a man’s head, jutted like a row of monstrous teeth along the ridgetop. Matt guided the mare through an opening between the stone spires. Jessie was glancing around for a loose rock she could reach and use as a weapon when she felt him stiffen against her.

“Down there,” he said softly.

Thoughts of an attack fled from Jessie’s mind as she peered past his shoulder, following the line of his gaze far down the slope.

Two brown horses, Matt’s tall chestnut and the bay he’d brought along for Frank, stood side by side on the rim of a deep gully.

Both their saddles were empty.

Please God, no! Jessie leaned forward against him, her hands digging into his sides, as the mare rocketed down the slope. Please let Frank be all right, she prayed silently. If he’s hurt, please don’t let it be too badly.

She leaped to the ground as Matt pulled the mare to a halt. Stumbling forward, she passed the horses and reached the lip of the gully ahead of him.

Scoured out of the earth by centuries of spring runoff, the gully was a stone’s throw across and more than fifteen feet deep. Its crumbling sides were dangerously steep, its dry bottom scattered with gravel bars, round boulders and clumps of sage. The bleached bones of an animal, most likely a calf or sheep, lay partly buried in mud and sand.

Unable to trust her quivering legs, Jessie dropped to her knees and leaned over the edge. Her eyes searched frantically in both directions, as far up and down the gully as she could see. Maybe Frank wasn’t down there. Maybe he’d fallen earlier, and the horses had run on without him, finally stopping here, where they couldn’t cross. Maybe he’d crawled out of sight and was hiding somewhere, scratched and bruised but alive.

He had to be alive, had to be safe. Sweet, gentle Frank had never hurt anyone in his life. Surely God wouldn’t allow him to come to harm.

She felt a light touch on her shoulder and realized that Matt Langtry had crouched beside her. Silently he pointed to a spot directly below them, half-hidden by the branches of a scraggly juniper. Only then did she see the faded blue of a trouser leg and the dark shape of a boot.

“No!” She flung herself over the edge and onto the slope, sliding and tumbling downward to reach her brother. Scrambling to stay upright, Matt followed her. His boots set off showers of dirt and rocks where they dug into the crumbling bank.

“Stay back, Jessie!” he barked. “Let me get to him!” But she paid him no heed. Her only thought was for Frank, who lay sprawled below her on his back, his manacled arms pinned awkwardly beneath his body. With his hands free, Frank might have been able to break his fall. As it was, he had tumbled helplessly down the steep slope, battering his head and body on every obstacle he passed.

As she clawed her way closer, she could see his face. His eyes were open, staring vacantly into the blinding glare of the sun. A thin trickle of blood had formed and dried at the corner of his mouth.

Even before she touched him, Jessie knew that her brother was dead.



Seconds later, Matt reached the bottom of the slope. He found Jessie cradling Frank in her arms, rocking him like a child. Her black curls had tumbled over her face, hiding her expression, but the keening sobs that rose from her throat told Matt all he needed to know.

He swore silently as he took in Frank’s glazed eyes and the unnatural set of his head on his broken neck. This was the last thing he’d wanted to see happen. He had been responsible for the safety of his prisoner, and he had failed in his duty.

Not only that, but after Jessie’s account, he’d almost begun to believe that Frank could be innocent. Now the question of his guilt would be nothing but empty debate. Frank was dead—as dead as he would have been at the end of a hangman’s rope.

Reaching down, he touched Jessie’s shoulder. Through the thin fabric of her shirt, her flesh was taut and quivering. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll help you get him up to the horses.”

“Don’t you touch my brother!” She turned on him, spitting out the words. “He’s not your prisoner anymore. This is over, no thanks to you, Marshal! Go away and leave us alone!”

Her tear-reddened eyes blazed wounded fury. Matt knew she blamed him for this tragedy. But if she hadn’t held him up at gunpoint and forced him to dismount, he would have remained at Frank’s side. With any luck at all, the two of them could have eluded the vigilantes together.

It was Jessie’s interference that had caused Frank Hammond to bolt off alone. But this was no time to point that out.

“You can’t stay here, Jessie. And neither can Frank, unless you want to leave him for the buzzards and coyotes. We need to get his body back to town.”

“No!” The cry exploded from her throat as she clung fiercely to her brother. “I won’t have him paraded down Main Street for people to stare at! Frank isn’t a convicted criminal. He doesn’t belong to you, and I won’t let you have him!”

“Your brother was arrested, Jessie. He died as a fugitive.” The words came out sounding cruel, but some things had to be said. “We have to follow procedure—”

“Hang your damned procedure! So help me, I’ll kill you before I let you take him!”

Matt hesitated, weighing his choices. It wouldn’t set well with the sheriff, reporting Frank Hammond’s death without bringing in the body. But right now there were more urgent things to consider. Jessie was half out of her mind with grief. Leave her alone, and anything could happen. He had one tragedy on his conscience. He didn’t need another.

“All right. We’ll do this your way. Tell me what you want.”

A look of surprise flashed across her face. Then, as if through an act of will, her features arranged themselves into a calm mask. “I want to take him home,” she said. “I want to bury him on the hilltop above the ranch, next to Mama and Papa. That’s what Frank would want.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. I’ll tell the sheriff what happened, fill out the paperwork and hope for the best.”

She nodded grimly, offering him no thanks. “Get these miserable handcuffs off him. If you hadn’t forced him to wear them, Frank would still be alive.”

Matt made no reply. It was standard procedure to handcuff a prisoner during a transfer. But Jessie would have no interest in hearing that.

Taking the small key from his pocket, he crouched beside her. Together they turned Frank’s body onto its side. For her sake, he worked gently and carefully. Frank was beyond hurting, but he knew Jessie would feel the slightest strain, twist or pinch as if were happening to her own flesh.

When the manacles were removed, Jessie lowered Frank’s body to the ground. Then, with her mouth set, her eyes brimming, she stepped back and allowed Matt to lift her brother in his arms.

Frank Hammond had not been heavy in life. His lanky teenaged body, still in the process of growing, was little more than bones and sinew. Matt needed no help carrying him out of the gully, laying him across the saddle of the spare horse and lashing his body into place. It was a shame neither of them had brought a blanket. It might have been easier on Jessie if they’d been able to wrap him.

Anxious to be done with this sad business, he swung onto the back of his chestnut gelding and waited while she mounted her mare. Without a word, she moved in front of him and headed south, keeping below the ridge. Matt savored the glint of sunlight on her raven curls as he rode a few yards behind her. He found himself missing the grip of her hands at his waist and the lightly electric pressure of her breasts against his back.

Jessie would not have an easy time of it, with her brother dead and her ranch gone. With no resource except her beauty, she could easily go the way of too many pretty girls and end up making her living on her back.

By all the fires of hell, Matt vowed, he would shake the life out of her before he’d let her do a thing like that!

His own vehemence startled him. Years ago a retired sheriff, who’d been a friend and mentor, had warned him that getting involved with any woman on a case was a surefire recipe for trouble. Matt had always followed that advice. He would continue to follow it, even now.

Especially now.

Jessie Hammond was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, and only six or seven years his junior. She was spunky and tender, with a vulnerability that roused all his protective instincts. But he wasn’t about to become involved with her. He was only concerned for her welfare. And besides, this wasn’t even his damned case!

Or was it?

Once again Matt ran her story through his mind—the ill-fated purchase of the stallion, the foreclosure on the ranch, the seizure of the horse and the fight with Allister Gates. If there was one common thread that ran through Jessie’s retelling, it was that Frank had been the one in charge. Frank had mortgaged the ranch. Frank had bought the stallion. And Frank had been the one to go and take the horse back.

That, Matt realized, was what bothered him. He had met both the brother and the sister. Frank had been quiet, almost timid, scarcely capable of violence, let alone murder. The bold one of the pair had been Jessie. Willful and audacious, she might have deferred to her brother as the man of the family, but in a crisis, she would have been the one to act—or at least to push him into action.

Matt stared at her proud, slender back, struggling against the flow of his thoughts. What if both Frank and Jessie had lied to him? What if she’d gone with Frank that night, to cover him with the rifle while he took the stallion? If Allister had tried to stop them, it would have been Jessie who’d stood in his way.

And it would have been Jessie who’d shot him.




Chapter Four


T hey rode single file over unmarked ground. Jessie led the way on her mare, her rigid shoulders betraying her tightly reined emotions. Matt followed a few yards behind her on his tall chestnut, leading the bay with Frank Hammond’s body slung over the saddle. He had hoped Jessie would talk to him, maybe tell him more about what had happened. But she hoarded her secrets as she hoarded her grief, locked in some deep place he could not reach.

Let it go, logic tempted him. With Frank Hammond dead, the murder of Allister Gates should be a closed case. Frank was beyond punishment, and if this dark sprite of a woman had fired the fatal shot, then dropped the rifle in the confusion of getting away, the consequences would haunt her to the end of her days. Surely justice would be served well enough.

The argument made all the sense in the world. But Matt had sworn an oath to uphold the law, and he did not take that oath lightly. He had lost a prisoner entrusted to his care. That meant he no longer had the option of walking away. Whatever the cost, it would be his duty to uncover the truth and to act on that truth.

Even if getting to the truth meant destroying Jessie Hammond.

They were moving deeper into the hills that formed the skirts of the Big Horn Mountains. The aspen groves were giving way to the forests of pine that carpeted the slopes as far as the timberline. Above them, still blanketed in snow, rocky peaks jutted against the sky.

Matt had assumed she was leading him back to her ranch. But no one would build a homestead on this steep, remote landscape. Jessie, he suspected, was taking him someplace else.

“I’m new to these parts,” he called out, breaking the long silence. “Which way is your ranch?”

“You mean the place that used to be our ranch.” Her reply was blade thin, blade sharp. “It’s due east of here, in a hollow on the other side of that long ridge. We’ll pass the graveyard on the way down. But right now we’re taking a side trip. There’s something I need to do.”

The steely undertone in her voice warned him against asking her more. As she spoke, she swung the mare left and cut down the hill toward what looked like an overgrown box canyon. Matt followed her, taking care to see that the steep descent didn’t cause her brother’s body to slip off the horse. Damn, but he’d be glad when this grim errand was done and Frank was planted in the family graveyard where she wanted him.

But even then, the trouble would be far from over. Matt couldn’t walk away from this mess now; he was in too deep. Justice demanded that he learn the full truth about Allister’s death. For that he would have to win Jessie’s trust, even if it meant betraying her later.

They had reached the box canyon he’d seen from above. The mouth was narrow and overgrown, its entrance hidden by a high tangle of oak brush. Inside, stream-fed alders reached almost to the top of the sheer rock walls. Fingers of water from hidden springs trickled over the grassy floor.

Not until the mare nickered, and the gelding began to snort and toss its head, did Matt realize what the canyon held.

Through the trees, he could make out flashes of motion and the glint of sunlight on an ebony coat. Then, as he followed Jessie into the clearing, he heard the challenging scream that only a stallion would make. The sound raised gooseflesh on the back of his neck.

The horse had been hidden in the deepest and narrowest part of the canyon, penned in by a sturdy six-foot log fence. It bugled again as they came closer, stamping its hooves and tossing its elegant head.

Arabians were a small breed as horses go, and this stallion was no exception. But the sheer power of its compact body, the delicacy of its spring steel limbs, the grace of its arched neck, tapered muzzle and high, plumelike tail almost took Matt’s breath away. He had always appreciated fine horses. Copper, his own superb chestnut gelding, was his proudest possession. But without a doubt, this fiery stallion was the most magnificent horse he had ever seen.

Nervous as a cat, it snorted and danced away from the fence as they approached. It would take a rare natural gift to bond with such a high-strung animal, Matt thought. Had young Frank Hammond possessed such a gift?

But the answer to that question no longer mattered. Frank’s gifts, and whatever might become of them, had ended in tragedy at the bottom of a rocky gulch.

As Jessie swung off her mare and walked up to the gate, the stallion raced away in a burst of speed, its tail flying like a banner, its nostrils drinking wind. This horse had cost the lives of two men, Matt reminded himself. Was it possible that such a beautiful creature could bring tragedy to anyone who possessed it?

Tethering the two geldings at a distance, Matt dismounted and walked toward the fence where Jessie stood. The stallion, which had been approaching her cautiously, snorted and dashed away.

“Virgil Gates is going to want that stallion,” he said. “If the papers on the mortgage and the sale are in order, I’d be willing to witness that the horse is legally yours. Then, maybe, you could strike a bargain with Virgil—the stallion for the deed to your ranch. Then, at least, you’d have a roof over your head.”

Jessie shook her head vehemently. “I don’t do business with the devil. Virgil’s not going to get his hands on Midnight. Nobody is.”

Her tone was gritty and cold. Caught off guard, Matt stared at her.

Her eyes blazed back at him, steely with determination. “You have something that belongs to me, Marshal. My pistol. I want it back.”

“Don’t be a fool, Jessie.”

“You have no right to order me around. What I do with my own property is none of your business.”

“But, for the love of heaven, the horse—”

“My brother’s dead because of this horse. So is Allister Gates. Now give me the gun.”

Mute with horror, Matt drew the Peacemaker out of his holster. Jessie was acting out of grief and rage, but she was right about one thing. He had no legal right to stop her from shooting her own horse.

She could turn the gun on him as well, he realized. But if he wanted to win her trust, he would have to take that chance.

Keeping the muzzle pointed downward, he offered her the grip. She took the pistol from him and turned away without a word. Stunned, he watched her walk to the gate and unfasten the twisted length of wire that held it closed. Dragging the clumsy structure partway open, she walked into the enclosure. Matt heard the click as she thumbed back the Peacemaker’s hammer. He cursed himself for not having had the foresight to remove the bullets.

Planting herself a few paces from the opening, she gave a low whistle. The stallion pricked up its ears, nickered and trotted toward her. Matt held his breath, knowing better than to interfere. If the horse sensed danger, it might rear and crush her with its hooves. But to his amazement, the creature appeared completely trusting. It stopped in front of her and lowered its exquisite head, as if waiting to be stroked.

Now it remained only for Jessie to point the muzzle of the gun at the spot below the stallion’s ear and pull the trigger. Her free hand rose and stroked the satiny neck. Matt couldn’t see her face from where he stood, but he could see that she was trembling. Stop! he wanted to shout at her. You don’t have to do this! But the words froze in his throat.

Jessie raised the gun, her finger tightening on the trigger. For a moment time seemed to stop. Then, abruptly, she moved to one side, exposing the open gate. The pistol bellowed as she fired.

Matt heard the stallion scream. Its body hurtled past him, almost knocking him down as it flashed out of the gate. As he reeled sideways, the awareness sank in that Jessie had shot into the air.

Dizzy with relief, he watched the black horse thunder down the canyon and disappear. It would be all right, he told himself. The Big Horn Mountains were vast and deep, dotted with high, grassy meadows where wild mustangs ran free. With luck, the stallion would find a new life there among its own kind, and no one would ever lay a rope around its elegant neck again. But Jessie Hammond had just thrown away the last chance of redeeming her ranch.

Torn between outrage and jubilation, Matt turned back toward Jessie. In freeing the stallion, she had committed an act of reckless audacity—an act of mercy, an act of love. He did not know whether to shake her, hold her, or simply turn his back and walk away.

In the corral, Jessie had crumpled to her knees. Matt reached her in a few strides and bent down to clasp her shoulders. As he lifted her to her feet, the pistol dropped from her limp fingers and fell to the ground.

She sagged against him, her throat jerking. “I couldn’t shoot him—” she gasped. “I wanted to. I wanted to kill Midnight for destroying Frank. And I wanted Virgil Gates to find the body. I wanted him to know that he hadn’t won.” Her hands clenched on Matt’s chest. “But I couldn’t do it. I looked at Midnight and I—couldn’t!”

Matt’s arms tightened around her. She was so small and wounded and alone, her vulnerability tore at his heart. His protective instincts surged. He found himself wanting to comfort her, to fight her battles and keep her from harm. Without conscious thought, his lips nibbled along her hairline, tasting the sweetness of her skin. She was as soft and warm as a child.

For a moment her breath seemed to stop. She gave a tremulous sigh and began to melt against him. Then, abruptly, she stiffened in his arms. Bracing her hands against his chest, she shoved him firmly away. Shards of ice glittered in her eyes.

“Maybe I should have shot you instead,” she said coldly. “Heaven knows, you’re more to blame for Frank’s death than that wretched stallion!”

Spinning away from him, she scooped up the gun, checked the hammer and thrust it into the pocket of her baggy overalls. Then, without another word, she stalked to her mare and sprang into the saddle.

For the next half mile she barely stayed in sight. Matt followed the flash of her red plaid shirt through the trees, cursing as he trailed behind with Frank’s body. He had taken on the simple errand of bringing in a prisoner, something he’d done without mishap hundreds of times in his career as a lawman. Now he found himself dealing with a dead body, a possible unsolved murder and a woman who was driving him crazy!

Only one thing was certain. If he had the sense of a mule, he would keep his horny hands off Jessie Hammond. She might be as tempting as a fresh plum tart with cream, but her kind of trouble was the last thing he needed—especially if he ended up having to arrest her for the murder of Allister Gates. Feigning friendship to get her to talk was part of his job. But making love to her could be the worst mistake of his life.

He could see her now, paused on the ridge above him, glancing back over her shoulder as she waited for him to catch up. Well, let her wait, Matt thought. He’d had enough of her games. It was time he stopped panting after her like a schoolboy and did his job. He had two deaths to investigate, and Jessie was his only link to the truth. He would get to that truth, he swore, no matter what it cost him.



Jessie watched Matt Langtry as he wound his way up the slope. He moved the horses at a deliberate pace, taking care with Frank’s body on the turns. He did not look up at her.

She forced herself to keep still and wait for him, even though her nerves screamed with the urge to race on ahead. To keep running would only make things more awkward between them. Sooner or later she would have to stop and let him catch up. It might as well be now.

Still trembling, she raked her windblown hair back from her face. Her fingertips brushed the spot along her hairline where his lips had nibbled a brief path. The sweetness of that small caress had almost undone her. She had wanted nothing more, at that moment, than to sink into his arms, bury her face against his shirt and cry her heart out.

No one had held her in a comforting way since the death of her parents in a blizzard four years earlier. Frank had been the focus of her love between that time and now, but there had been no outward affection between the two of them. They had been partners in survival—close in spirit, but private and proper in terms of physical affection.

Only when Matt had pulled her against him and brushed that light caress along her hairline did Jessie realize how lost she’d felt and how hungry she was for the strength of a man’s arms.

Terrified by the rush of emotion, she had pushed him away and lashed out to protect herself. Matt Langtry’s actions had tipped the scales against her brother’s life. If he’d manacled Frank’s hands in front instead of behind, or if he’d given her the key when she’d demanded it, this tragedy would never have happened.

How could she forgive him for that? How could she let him touch her, when her heart screamed against what he’d done and what he stood for? The law was always on the side of rich landholders like Allister and Virgil Gates. Poor farmers and homesteaders didn’t stand a chance.

Holding the mare in check, she waited for Matt to bring the horses up onto the ridge. Her heart crept into her throat as he came closer. It was easy to hate him at a distance. But when he was near she felt confused and vulnerable. It was all she could do to keep from kicking the mare and bolting off at a gallop, just to get away from him.

As he came abreast of her, he cast an impersonal glance in her direction. His face was as expressionless as a granite slab. He had chosen to ignore her, she thought. Fine, that would make everything easier.

Avoiding him with her eyes, she nudged the mare to a brisk walk. He stayed at her side, moving in close enough for conversation. It seemed he wasn’t going to make things easy after all. Jessie’s heart slammed against her ribs as she waited for him to speak.

“How well did you know the Gates brothers?” It was his lawman’s voice, flat and relentless in its demand for answers.

“I hardly knew them at all,” she answered truthfully. “I knew who they were, of course. I’d seen them in town and on the road. But I don’t recall exchanging a word of polite conversation with either Allister or Virgil. Ranchers and homesteaders don’t exactly socialize in these parts.”

“Or any other parts that I know of. What about your brother? What kind of dealings did he have with them?”

“None—until last fall when Allister laid eyes on the stallion. As I told you, he made Frank an offer in Laramie, and Frank told him the horse wasn’t for sale at any price. That’s the last we heard until the week when the Felton marshal served us with notice that the Gates brothers had redeemed our mortgage and we had three days to clear off the property. Later that day, Allister came by with a half-dozen cowhands from his ranch and took the stallion.”

Even as she spoke, Jessie was amazed that she could tell the story so calmly. There had been nothing calm about that afternoon. The men from the Gates Ranch had galloped up to the house armed with pistols. They’d caught Frank outside, unarmed except for the heavy double ax he’d been using to break up a stump. Holding him at gunpoint, they’d put a lead on Midnight and taken the stallion out of the corral. Jessie had rushed outside in time to stop her brother from hurling his ax at Allister, which would have surely gotten him shot.

“You have no right to take that horse!” she’d shouted as Allister’s men led the stallion down the trail. “He’s not part of the ranch. He’s ours.”

Allister Gates had shot her a contemptuous look, spat in the mud and ridden away.

Frank had been beside himself. It had taken all Jessie’s persuasive powers to keep him from getting his rifle and going after Allister Gates right then. But that didn’t mean he’d murdered the man. If he had, he would never have been able to keep it from her.

She glanced back over her shoulder to where her brother’s body lay slung across the bay horse. Now that Frank was dead it would be all too easy to blame him for killing Allister. Case closed. Frank was beyond judgment, but his name would be forever tainted with the stain of murder. And the real killer, whoever he was, would go unpunished.

Whatever the cost, Jessie vowed, she would not allow that to happen. She owed it to Frank and to their parents’ memory to clear his name. And the one man who might be able to help her was riding at her side. No matter how much she might resent him, she could not afford to drive him away.

“What can you tell me about the Gates family?” the marshal asked, breaking the silence. “Did Allister leave a wife? Any children?”

“That’s a story in itself,” Jessie said. “The Gates brothers were both bachelors, and since Allister was in his fifties and Virgil in his forties, nobody expected that to change. Then, last summer, Allister made a trip to St. Louis and came home with a wife.”

Matt gave a low whistle. “You’re right. That is a story in itself. What’s she like?”

“Younger—a widow, I’d guess. Nice looking. And she knows how to dress. I’ve seen her in town a few times, but that’s all. I can’t say I know her.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Lillian—I heard someone call her that.”

“Lillian.” He repeated the name thoughtfully, as if he were tasting each syllable. Maybe the marshal had an eye for rich, good-looking widows, Jessie thought with a stab of irritation.

Impatient, she seized his arm. “Don’t you see? Now she owns half the ranch. And Virgil owns the other half. If he marries his brother’s pretty widow, he gets it all! Virgil had a lot more motive for killing Allister than poor Frank ever did!”

“So how do you explain the fact that Allister was shot with Frank’s gun? Nobody could have known the gun would be there.”

“No, but Virgil could have found it and seen the perfect opportunity to kill Allister and let Frank take the blame. Or it could have been someone else—maybe one of the ranch hands who had a grudge against Allister. Heaven knows, he wasn’t the most likable man in the world.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”

The coldness in Matt’s voice hit Jessie like a slap. For the space of a breath, she weighed the wisdom of telling him about Allister’s behavior when he came for the stallion. No, she decided, that would only lend weight to the case against Frank.

“I know him by reputation. From all reports, Allister Gates was an arrogant, abrasive man.”

“But I’ll wager he wasn’t stupid. Allister had to have known the horse wasn’t his to take. My guess is, if you’d called his hand, he would have given the two of you a choice—the horse or the family homestead.”

“And he was betting we’d choose to give up Midnight rather than lose the ranch. Allister didn’t need our land, and neither does Virgil. But now he’ll take the place. It’s that or lose his money.”

Matt exhaled wearily. “You should have kept the stallion, Jessie. With Frank gone, you might have been able to trade with Virgil and keep your home.”

Jessie shook her head, fighting tears. “Frank died for that stallion! I won’t dishonor his memory by giving up Midnight to Virgil Gates!”

They were coming over the last ridge now. Gazing down into the narrow valley below, Jessie could see the cabin, with its outlying clutter of sheds, corrals and pens that had been her home for the past fifteen years. It was a poor and shabby place—calling it a ranch bordered on a joke. But she’d been happy here. The years of poverty and backbreaking work had been sweetened by the harsh splendor of this mountain country, the warmth of family love and the beauty of horses. Her father had spent some time among the Shoshone and had learned the skill of “Indian breaking” a horse with gentleness and trust. Horses broken by Tom Hammond were valued by cowhands and ranchers all over the county. Even the big roan that Morgan Tolliver favored had come to him by way of the Hammond Ranch.

Tom had passed his horse-breaking skills on to his children. But his unexpected death had left them ill-prepared to handle the business of horse selling. Worse in terms of the future, more blooded horses were being imported from the East and bred on the big ranches. There was less demand for the wild-caught mustangs that had furnished their livelihood for years.

Jessie and her brother had been at the point of selling out when Frank had seized on the idea of buying a prize stallion. Midnight had become his dream, then his obsession. Now there was nothing left.

“Where will you go, Jessie?” Matt Langtry asked her. “Have you made any kind of plans?”

Jessie stared down the hill at the ruin of her world.

“No,” she said, swallowing the ache in her throat. “Frank and I were given three days to clear off the property. That time will be up tomorrow night. But I’m not leaving the county. Not until I know who really murdered Allister Gates.”




Chapter Five


T he Hammond family graveyard lay on a flat knoll above the ranch. Amid the scattered clumps of mallow and blue-eyed grass, Matt could make out five graves. Two of them were adult sized with names and dates carved into crude wooden slabs. The other three were nothing more than weathered, overgrown baby mounds with no markers. Stillborn children, Matt guessed. A woman giving birth could have a bad time in this isolated spot, especially in winter, with no doctor or midwife able to get through the snow.

Would it have been Jessie who attended her mother? He pictured her frightened young eyes in the lamplight, her small hands doing what needed to be done. Swiftly he willed the image away. Life had toughened Jessie Hammond. He admired her strength and courage. But that didn’t mean he could afford to sympathize with her, let alone like her. Until the murder of Allister Gates was resolved, he would have no choice except to view her as a suspect.

Jessie had left him here and ridden on down to the ranch to put away her mare and get a shovel. She had made a point of telling him that the graveyard was outside the boundary of the homestead. They wouldn’t be burying Frank on property that belonged to Virgil Gates—or to Lillian Gates, Matt reminded himself. Now, that was a situation that warranted some checking into.

Looking off the knoll, he could see Jessie coming back up the path on foot. She moved with a determined stride, balancing two shovels under her left arm. In the crook of her other arm she carried a rolled bundle wrapped in a sheet of oilskin.

Above her, boiling black clouds spilled across the sky. Sheet lightning danced above the western peaks, followed by a distant echo of thunder.

“Here.” She flung one of the shovels at him. “Unless we want to finish in a storm, we’ll need to get this grave dug in a hurry.”

“Fine. Let’s get to work.” Matt jabbed his shovel into the sod to mark the edge of the grave. He would have been willing to do the job by himself—Lord knows, he’d dug graves alone before. But Jessie was right about the coming storm and, for all her doll-like size, she’d proved she was no weakling. Maybe the effort of digging would release some of the grief and anger she held so tightly in check.

“Do you have any place to stay when you leave the ranch?” he asked her as they scooped away the rocky earth. “Any family? Friends?”

“Are you making me an offer?” She shot him a scathing glare.

“Not unless you want to share a single bed in a boardinghouse.” Matt saw color flood her cheeks and couldn’t resist adding, “Of course, if we could work it out with my landlady, I’d be happy to accommodate you.”

She lowered her blazing face. “Don’t be smart with me,” she muttered. “I don’t need your help, or anybody else’s. I can manage just fine by myself.”

“Can you?” Matt thrust his shovel into the ground and scooped up the rocky soil. “I’ve known other pretty women who thought they could manage by themselves. I don’t even want to tell you what became of them when their luck ran out and they had no place to go.”

“Then don’t tell me. I can guess. And it’s not going to happen to me. I’m strong and I’m good with horses and cattle. I’ll find work.”

“If you can find anybody who’ll hire a woman, especially the sister of the man arrested for killing Allister Gates.”

Her head jerked upward, eyes wide and angry. For the space of a breath, Matt thought she might swing the shovel at his head. Then her shoulders sagged. “Frank was innocent. I’ve told you all the reasons why. But you still don’t believe me, do you?”

“What I believe doesn’t count for much. It’s what other people believe that’s going to determine how they treat you.”

“You’re saying I should leave? Make a new start someplace where nobody knows me? Maybe change my name?” The blade of her shovel crunched into the dirt. “I happen to be proud of my name, and I’m not about to see it stained by lies and deceit.”

Behind her, lightning flickered across the sky. Thunder growled as the fast-moving storm crept closer. Dirt flew from their shovels as they flung their efforts into finishing the grave ahead of the rain.

The grim line of Jessie’s mouth was softened only by the satiny fullness of her lips. She worked intently, stabbing her shovel into the ground with a force driven by pain and fury. Matt had no doubt she meant what she’d said about clearing her brother’s name. He’d known plenty of women in his life, but never one who possessed such dogged determination as Jessie Hammond.

One question gnawed at him. If she’d shot Allister why would she be so bent on clearing her brother, especially when it would be easy to let him take the blame? Was she the virtuous young woman she appeared to be? Or did that china-doll face and those melting amethyst eyes hide the heart of a back-wood Jezebel who’d do anything—lie, seduce, even kill—to get what she wanted?

He studied her furtively, his attention lingering on a bead of perspiration that had pooled in the hollow of her throat. He found himself wondering what it would be like to lick that bead away, savoring the salty taste of her sweat as he nibbled his way upward to her mouth…or downward to the cleft between those luscious breasts….

Matt jerked himself back to reality. Fantasizing about Jessie might be delicious, but after a while, he knew, it wouldn’t be enough. He would want her. And he couldn’t have her, not as long as she was a suspect in his murder investigation.

For now, he could only regard her as an intriguing puzzle.

By the time the grave was deep enough, the storm had moved in. Black clouds, split by crackling thunderbolts, seethed overhead. The air was heavy with moisture.

There’d been no time to prepare a coffin. But now Matt saw what Jessie had brought up the hill, bundled in the oilskin sheet.

Placing the bundle on the ground, she unfolded it with careful, tender hands. Inside was a beautifully pieced patchwork quilt. Noticing the lack of wear around the edges, Matt judged that it must be new—a treasure in this rough place.

Jessie looked up at him, fighting back tears. “It’s a wedding-ring quilt. My mother made it for the girl Frank would find and marry one day. But now there’ll be no girl, no marriage, no children. Only this.” She rose to her feet and turned toward the horse that carried her brother’s body. “Help me lay him on it,” she said.

Matt knew better than to protest, even though this seemed a waste of so much loving work. Frank would have rested just as well in the oilskin or the bare earth and never known the difference. But if it would ease Jessie’s heart to wrap him in the quilt meant for his bride, who was he to argue against it?

With Matt cradling Frank’s head and shoulders while Jessie supported the feet, they eased the lanky body off the horse and laid it out on the beautiful quilt. Sensing that she wanted to do the rest alone, he stepped back and watched as she crossed his hands over his chest and tucked the quilt around him. When everything but his face was covered, she bent and kissed his waxen forehead. “Sleep tight,” she whispered, as she must have done countless times when her brother was small. Then she folded the quilt over his face and rose to her feet.

As she did so, raindrops spattered around them, drenching their hair and clothes. Hurrying now, they used the oilskin to lift the body and lower it into the grave. Then Matt reached down and pulled the waterproof ends over the quilt.

“Go on,” he said. “Take the bay down to the house and get dry. I can finish up here.”

Water streamed off her hair, beading on her ebony brows and lashes as she shook her head. “We can’t just leave,” she argued. “Not without saying words over him.”

Matt sighed. This was the part of burials he always dreaded most. And standing here in the rain didn’t make things any pleasanter. “Go ahead,” he muttered. “Say whatever you need to, but make it fast.”

“You first.”

Matt bit back a growl of protest. Meeting Frank Hammond had set loose a whole string of calamities, and the last thing he felt like was finding something good to say about the poor young fool. But Jessie was waiting, so he clasped his hands, bowed his head and fumbled for some words that wouldn’t add to her anguish.

“Lord, only you know what was in this boy’s heart, and only you can be his judge. We ask you to see the good in him and to welcome him home. Amen.”

She shot him a startled glance, and he realized he should have said more. But never mind. He was done, and now it was her turn. He might as well let her talk as long as she wanted. They were already soaked to the skin and couldn’t get any wetter. He watched her in silence as she stared down at the bundle in the open grave.

“I know people will say you’ve gone to a better place, Frank,” she began. “But you were in a good place right here, and you left it too soon. You missed the chance to finish growing up, to get married, to have children, and to grow old on this earth. And you left with people accusing you of something I know you didn’t do.”

She paused, swallowed and licked a tear from her lips. “It’s too late to undo the wrong and bring you back. But I’m not going to let it rest, Frank. Whatever it takes, I’m going to bring Allister’s killer to justice and clear your name. I swear it on your grave, and on Mama and Papa’s graves.” She drew in an anguished breath, like the sound of tearing silk. “That’s all I have to say, I guess. Except that I love you. I didn’t say it much when you were alive—I mostly just scolded and bossed you. But I’m saying it now, just in case you’re someplace where you can hear…”

Her voice trailed off as she turned away and picked up the shovel where she’d left it thrust in the ground. Dirt and rocks spattered on the wet oilskin as the first scoop of earth dropped into the grave.

Matt followed her example, digging deep and hard into damp soil and flinging it down into the hole. He wanted to be done with this sad business and get out of the rain. Better yet, he wanted to wake up in his own bed and realize that he’d dreamed this entire hellish day and had never known Frank or Jessie Hammond.

Jessie worked beside him in silence, her hair hanging over her face in curly black strings. Her soaked flannel shirt clung beneath the baggy overalls, giving him glimpses of her voluptuously curved little body. Matt tore his eyes away. This was a funeral, not a damned peep show, he reminded himself. He’d be smart to keep his eyes, and his thoughts where they belonged.

After the grave was filled and smoothed over, they mounted in the drizzling rain and rode down the hill. Matt was spattered with mud from head to toe and so cold that his teeth were chattering. He knew that Jessie must be the same. Yet she sat like a queen in the saddle, head erect, spine ramrod straight, ignoring her own misery. She was a proud thing. Too proud, he thought. With no family, no home and no money, she was going to need help. The sooner she accepted that fact, the better off she would be.





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