Читать книгу Wyoming Wildfire - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 9

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.