Читать книгу Tracker's Sin - Sarah McCarty - Страница 7

The old man was sharper than Tracker had expected. He took one look at him outside the barn door and grabbed up a pitchfork.

“Que quieres aquí?”

Tracker halted just inside the door, keeping a safe distance between the tines of that fork and his midsection while his eyes adjusted to the change in light. The last thing he wanted was to hurt an old man who’d taken in Ari and given her peace.

He answered in English. “A job. Word in town is you’ve got one available.”

The old man squinted and looked him over from head to toe. Tracker knew what he saw. The scar on his face alone gave people pause. Coming hard off the trail, dressed in black, his hair long and the scar advertising his way of life like a red flag, he looked like what he was: trouble.

The man didn’t lower the pitchfork. “I am looking for a handyman.”

“I’m handy.”

The old man’s gaze went to the guns on his hips. “With a hammer.”

Tracker didn’t bother to smile. It made people nervous when he smiled. “I’m good with that, too.”

“I do not need here the kind of trouble a pistolero brings.”

Tracker’s eyes had adjusted to the interior. There was no one else lurking about as far as he could tell, and the hairs on the back of his neck weren’t standing on end in warning. That was about as much of a guarantee as he ever got. He relaxed, pushing his hat back from his forehead. “Is that so?”

The old man showed no sign of relaxing in turn. “That is so.”

“From what I saw last night in town, it seems to me a man with a pretty young woman on the property could use all the help he can get. With a hammer and other things.”

The old-timer took a step forward, the tines dipping to align with Tracker’s gut. “You will stay away from mi hija.”

Daughter? He called Ari his daughter? That was going to complicate things. “Don’t have any intention of getting close. That kind of trouble I don’t need.”

It wasn’t precisely a lie. He was only going to get as close as it took to spirit Ari safely back to Hell’s Eight.

The old man lowered the pitchfork slightly. “No, you don’t.” He jerked his head toward town. “They would string you up by your cajones.”

Interesting. “And who would they be?”

“Los gringos who came to town last winter.”

“There weren’t any gringos in town last night.”

The old man spat. “They come. They go. But when they come it is muy malo.”

Likely a gang of outlaws who were intent on making the town of Esperanza their refuge. “Not the neighborly sort, huh?”

The old one stood the pitchfork on the ground. “No.”

The cow mooed restlessly, clearly unhappy with having her morning milking interrupted.

“Then I reckon a handyman who’s also handy with a gun might be useful.” Tracker held out his hand. “Tracker Ochoa.”

Not by a twitch of an eyelash did the old man show any sign he recognized the name. Tracker wasn’t surprised. Esperanza was very close to the Mexican border. Not much worry a Texas Ranger’s rep would carry this far.

“Vincente Morales.”

Vincente’s hand was callused and worn from years of work. His grip was lighter than Tracker expected. As soon as he felt swollen knuckles that indicated arthritis he lessened his own grip. Vincente leaned the pitchfork against the outside of the stall.

“This getting old, it is not for a coward.”

“You looked pretty damn intimidating wielding that pitchfork.” Tracker took a step forward and indicated the cow. “Mind if I finish this up?”

“I would be grateful.”

Tracker readjusted the stool near the animal. “She got any preferences?”

“No. Abuelita is a good cow.”

Tracker set his hat down and leaned his forehead against the animal’s side. It’d been a long time since he’d milked a cow. He hated the damn things, but he couldn’t sit by and watch an old man with pained hands struggle with the chore. It took only three seconds to figure out that there were some things a man didn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried. Milking a cow was one of them.

Two tugs and the milk hit the bucket in a hard stream. The old hound moaned and looked hopeful. Tracker smiled and squirted in the dog’s direction. His aim was a bit off but the hound compensated, licking the milk off his whiskers with slow swipes of his big tongue. Vincente chuckled.

Tracker caught his eye. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No. He can no longer hunt rabbits. It is one of his few pleasures.”

“A body’s got to have his pleasures.”

“Sí.”

The barn fell quiet, the only sounds being the hound scratching and milk splashing into the bucket. Vincente broke the silence.

“The job does not pay much. A room here in the barn and supper.”

Tracker cocked his head so he could see the man. “Your wife a good cook?”

Vincente patted his rounded belly. “Very.”

Tracker bent his head and hid his smile. He could see Caine saying the same thing about Desi forty years down the road. Then he chuckled. It’d be worth living that long to see Caine with a belly. “That’ll do.”

The cow was about dry. She stomped a hoof, signaling the end of her patience. Tucker squirted the last of the milk into the bucket and leaned back. Too late he remembered the other reason he hated cows. Her tail whapped him in the face, the bristly hairs stinging, adding insult to injury.

“Son of a bitch.” He jumped to his feet, barely missing spilling the milk. The cow turned her head and stared at him reproachfully, as if he’d done something wrong.

“Don’t look at me like that!” He rubbed his cheek. “I’m not the one swinging wildly.”

He grabbed the bucket in case she was one of those cows that delighted in making a waste of an unpleasant task by kicking over the container.

Vincente laughed outright and handed him the lid. “There will be danger for you here.”

Tracker laid it in place, fitting the notches between the bucket’s handles. “From the unneighborly sort?”

“No.”

Grabbing his hat, he settled it back on his head. “Nothing new in that.”

“Why do you want this job?”

“My reasons are personal.” Tracker straightened. “Why are you offering it?”

“Who says I am?”

“Me.”

“And who are you that I should care what you say?”

He took a stab in the dark. A sick man with two women to protect had to be nervous. “A man you can trust.”

“I do not know this.”

Tracker shrugged. “Doesn’t change the truth of it.”

Vincente stared at him, squinting to see in the low light of the barn. “But you expect I will learn?”

He shrugged. “Most people find me a right handy man to have around.”

The old man studied him for a few more seconds and then nodded. “Yes. I think I will, too.” He motioned to the door. “We will try you today. You may put that by the back door of the house.” He patted the cow’s flank. “I will get Abuelita settled.”

“Will do.”

“Come right back.”

Tracker nodded, used to men not wanting him around their womenfolk.

He made it to the barn door before Vincente called out, “I tell you not to linger because my wife has been nervous of late, and she is not such a good shot.”

“She the shoot-to-kill type?” Tracker respected that. No one should pick up a gun without being prepared to kill.

“It would be better that she was, but she has a soft heart and bad aim.” Vincente smiled. There was a world of love in that smile. “I am afraid she would aim for your foot and hit your heart. I do not want to be in church so much as it would take for her to repent.”

Tracker chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Gracias.” The lightness left Vincente’s expression. “Later, if I decide you can stay, I will introduce you.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to work today to impress you.”

“Because you don’t want a bullet in your heart?”

Tracker shook his head and called back, “Because it’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal.”

The old man shook his head and gathered up Abuelita’s lead rope. “It is lonely for a man as he gets older, sí?”

Not for Tracker. He couldn’t let life get lonely. “For some.”

Vincente slapped the cow’s rope against his boot, punctuating his mocking tone when he said, “For some, huh!”

The last thing Tracker needed was an old man playing matchmaker. It was bad enough that Tia wouldn’t accept reality. “Yes,” he retorted. “For some.”

“But not you?” Vincente asked as he led the placid cow out of the barn.

“No. Not for me.”

“Huh!” Vincente’s snort carried clearly as he led the cow to the fenced pasture. “Drop off the milk and we will get to work.”

The old man might be arthritic, he might be going blind, but he was a man on a mission, and that mission seemed to be to get as much work out of Tracker as he could. The first job of the day was to get a sizable new garden area ready for his wife, which involved plowing up the hard-packed earth. It’d been a dry spring, and the ground was full of rocks. The only tool the old man had was a weighted plow. With no horse to pull it, the only option was for Tracker to do the pulling. Apparently, judging from the cut-down harness, this had been the system for years.

After one brutal trip down the length of the marked-off area, Tracker was seriously considering hooking Buster’s temperamental ass up to the makeshift harness. But the gelding had a fierce reaction when it came to pulling things, and since Tracker wasn’t going to be around long enough to replace the plow, he grudgingly slid the harness over his shoulder and dragged the blade back down the next row.

“You sure your wife needs a garden this big?” he asked as he passed Vincente, who was hauling rocks out of the area with a net spread between two sticks tied together. It was an ingenious device that took the stress off the old man’s hands.

“Sí. Absolutely.”

“Going to be an awful lot of canning.”

“Yes. She will be pleased.”

Was she going to be pleased or was Vincente? Tracker wasn’t certain. But one thing a garden this big would ensure was that a woman would have enough goods to eat or trade, whether there was fresh meat or not. He watched as Vincente again missed a rock with the net. Just how bad was the man’s vision?

He looked up at the sun. It was going to be a warm day. “Then I guess we’d better get it done before the sun blisters our hides.”

Vincente grunted as he dragged a rock over the plowed dirt. “Sí. It will be hot today.”

After two hours, Tracker was sweat drenched, thirsty and hungry, but the new garden spot was plowed and Vincente seemed happy. From the house came the ringing of a bell.

“Ah! Breakfast is ready. We must clean up.”

Tracker shrugged out of the harness, more than ready to be done with the damn thing. “I thought the job came only with supper.”

“It does, but twice my Josefina looked out the window and saw you plowing.” Vincente took the harness from his hands and tossed it over the plow handle. “Her soft heart doesn’t let a man go hungry. There will be a plate for you and she will chide me if you do not eat it.”

Tracker could eat a horse, but having breakfast meant meeting the family, and he wasn’t ready to meet Ari yet. Wasn’t ready to substitute the illusion of his fantasies for harsh reality. His fascination with the woman had to end sometime, but not this morning. “Women can be the bane of a man’s existence.”

Vincente slapped him on the back. “So speak the young.”

It’d been a long time since anyone had called Tracker young.

“When you are older you will see they are the blessing God puts in a man’s life to ease his way.”

“Uh-huh.”

Vincente shook his head. “You young people today have no appreciation for the way things should be. Trying to change what you cannot, and running away from what you should be embracing…”

Tracker headed up the path to the wash shed and hazarded a guess as to what he should be embracing. “A woman? I’ve embraced more than my share of them.”

“A good woman.” Vincent put a lot of emphasis on “good.”

It was easy for a man who fit somewhere to hold such beliefs. “My father was Indian, my mother Mexican. There aren’t many good women who want to hitch their wagon to that mix.”

“You do not need many. Just one.”

“Uh-huh.” The old one was up to something. Whatever it was, Tracker wanted to nip it in the bud. “Vincente?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever you’ve got in mind, drop it.” The last thing he needed was a half-blind, arthritic old man picking out his love interest.

Vincente huffed. “I merely point out the truth.”

“Thanks.” Tracker primed the pump as Vincente scooped out some soap from the tin on the ledge. He let the older man wash first. “But I’m happy with what I’ve worked out.”

“You are not happy.”

“I’m as happy as I’ve ever been.”

Vincente muttered something under his breath as he finished washing and pulled his shirt back on. “When you are done, come up to the house.”

Tracker looked at the little home in the well-tended yard. Smelled the scents of wood smoke and sausages on the breeze. Inside, two women had a table set, coffee brewing and food ready. When Vincente entered, there’d be pleasant conversation, maybe laughter. There’d be love.

Tracker wasn’t going within a hundred feet of that house. Not this morning. He felt too raw inside to sit there and watch what he would never have.

“Will do.”

He waited until Vincente reached the house before pulling off his shirt. It took only a few pumps of the handle to get a strong flow of water going. Vincente was lucky to have such a rich supply. Tracker dunked his head in the spray. The well water was surprisingly cold. Frigid. But after the initial shock, it felt damn good on his overheated skin. He grabbed the soap and blindly scrubbed, pumping the handle a few more times, letting the water pour over his head and neck, enjoying the moment. When the temperature turned more chilling than refreshing, he stood, flipping his hair back over his shoulders.

A shriek loud enough to split his eardrums spun him around. He palmed his knife as he turned, ready for the threat.

He knew who it was before he shook the soap out of his eyes. Ari stood there in a pretty blue dress, her mouth open, a look of shock on her face.

He reached for his shirt. The plate of food in her hands fell to the ground, spattering her skirt. Ari’s gaze never left the knife in his other hand. Her throat worked furiously, but no sound came out.

Shit. She was still screaming, Tracker realized. Screaming for all she was worth, but not a sound passed her lips. He left the shirt where it lay and took a step back. He couldn’t go far with the shed wall behind him and her in front.

“You must be Ari,” he said in his softest voice, wincing at the deep rasp that made it sound like a growl. “Hello.”

His softest voice wasn’t soft enough, because she kept up that horrible pantomime of a scream. Tracker tucked his knife hand behind his back. It didn’t make a difference.

Tracker cast a quick glance at the house. The back door didn’t open. No one came to the rescue. There was just him and Ari and her fear. Shit! Sam should be here. He was much better with hysterical women. Women trusted Sam even when they shouldn’t. It was those blue eyes of his and that devil-may-care smile. But he’d met his match in his wife. They’d been to hell and back, but they’d come out together and they were happy.

“Vincente!” Tracker yelled. “Venga aquí!”

No response came from the house, but Ari took a breath and launched another one of those soundless screams. He followed the trajectory of her gaze. The knife. She was aware he still held it behind his back. He didn’t want to speculate on why, but he couldn’t help a quick check of her hands, her neck, her face. Not that there had to be scars where a man could see. Tracker knew too well how creative a Comanchero could get with a knife and an unwilling woman.

He moved his hand from behind his back, watching her expression as the weapon came into view. It didn’t change. Just because the knife had been out of sight didn’t mean it had been out of mind.

“Sorry about the knife. I forgot.” Hell, now there was a calming thing to tell a terrified woman. He looked toward the house. Still no one coming. Very slowly he reached down and slid the knife back into its sheath, attempting a smile.

“It’s just your luck to get scared out of your bloomers by a man who doesn’t know what to do with your fears.”

He didn’t really think she heard him, which was probably a good thing. He was pretty sure decent men didn’t refer to a woman’s bloomers. Tia would have had his head if she’d heard, because lord knows, she’d tried to teach him better. Sometimes he just had a hard time remembering the rules.

Ari didn’t respond to his smile or his words. She just kept staring at the knife in its sheath, still screaming in rasping pants of soundless terror.

Time to try something else. Grasping the knife between his forefinger and thumb, Tracker made a big production of removing it. She stopped breathing altogether. Holding his hand as far away from his side as he could, he reached back and set it on a ledge behind him.

“It’s okay, ma’am. No one’s going to hurt you.” Least of all him. How could anyone hurt a woman like that? Tracker had had the same thought when he’d first seen Desi huddled in Caine’s coat over a year ago, wearing her fear like a second skin. Now, looking at Ari, he experienced it all over again. She was so delicately formed, she made him think of fine china. The kind a man was afraid to touch, but felt compelled to because the sheer fragility of it demanded cherishing. Protecting. Because what it represented was what kept every man hoping.

He stepped to the left, away from the knife.

Ari’s focus switched from the blade to his face. Tracker debated trying another smile, but as wild as he must look to her, all dark and scarred, he opted for remaining expressionless. At least she’d stopped screaming.

As she panted for breath, he had a chance to study her more closely. Each angle of her face was cut with precision, the fine grain of her skin reflecting the sun like cream, the blue of her eyes shining with the brightness of a summer sky. Her lips were plump and soft and as silky looking as a rose petal. He remembered a poem he’d read once where the author compared his love to a red, red rose. Ari was like that. A beautiful flower that flourished no matter how much shit had been thrown at her. He might never know how much, but the Moraleses had started her healing, and being at Hell’s Eight would finish it. There was no judgment there, just acceptance. A lot of lost souls came to Hell’s Eight and found peace. Ari would, too. She had a sister and a niece to love her. A family waiting to claim her. All Tracker had to do was get her there.

Looking into her terrified eyes, he remembered that silent scream that couldn’t find a voice, imprisoning her in a memory from which he couldn’t save her. Tracker wanted to promise her that he’d hunt down the men who’d done this to her, and make them pay. But Caine had already made that promise and Hell’s Eight had already fulfilled it. That left her with a stranger’s word on something she likely wouldn’t believe. Not that Tracker didn’t think she wouldn’t appreciate knowing it someday. Just not today.

“Ma’am.” Where the hell was Vincente and his wife? “I don’t have the knife anymore. And my gun belt is clear over there by your feet.”

She blinked. For a heartbeat Tracker thought he saw sanity in Ari’s eyes. She licked her lips. Her gaze locked with his and then went to the gun belt.

He read her intent before she dived, but he wasn’t fast enough to catch her before she got her hands around the pistol. If his reflexes had been a hair slower, he wouldn’t have gotten there in time to stop her from blowing his brains out. He caught her hand, gun belt and all, letting their momentum roll them over, taking as much of the force of the fall on his shoulder as he could.

“Let go. Those guns have a hair trigger.”

She sank her teeth into the back of his hand. He swore and held on. One wrong move and she’d kill them both.

“Dammit! Let go!” What she lacked in muscle she made up for in wiggle. It was all he could do to keep her finger off the trigger. He pressed her down into the dirt, using more and more of his weight until she went limp beneath him.

“Ma’am?”

Ari didn’t respond. Tracker carefully removed the pistol and gun belt from her grip. She didn’t fight. He stood. She continued to lie in the dirt at his feet.

He’d thought it odd that she didn’t have scars from her ordeal. She did. He’d only been able to see what was uncovered. And all it had taken to bring them out was one fool, half-naked Indian reaching for his knife. Hell.

You’re ugly enough to scare a bad woman decent.

Once again his father had been proved right. The older Tracker got, the more he began to accept that the insults his dad had tossed out in Tracker’s youth were actually truths he’d been too stubborn to accept. The proof lay prostrate on the ground at his feet.

It wasn’t right that Ari lay in the dirt like trash thrown aside. Looking at her there, her skirt hiked around her thighs, her beautiful blond hair a tangle around her shoulders, he grimaced. It was easier than it should be to imagine her time with the Comancheros, to envision the hell she’d been through. They’d probably walked away from her, leaving her just like that when their lust was spent. Left her to rot in the devastation of her soul, this woman who had been created to be cherished.

Tracker wasn’t any different from the Comancheros. Faced with Ari’s reaction, faced with his own demons, he wanted to walk away, too. Instead, he found himself kneeling, sliding his hand beneath her head, lifting her to his chest.

“It’s going to be all right, Ari. I promise.”

Her hair smelled like sweet flowers and heaven, her skin like vanilla and spice. Innocence and passion, a hint of who she might have been if she hadn’t been stolen, raped, sold. Looking toward the house, making sure no one watched, Tracker rested his forehead against hers.

“A lot of people have been looking for you a long time, little one.”

No one harder than him, for reasons he didn’t understand, except that he was driven. He took a napkin from where it had fallen and wiped at the smudge of dirt on her cheek. It felt right to be the one caring for her. Goddammit, he was losing his mind. This was dangerous. She was dangerous. It had to stop. Now.

“Goddammit, Vincente, I know you can hear me. Get out here.”

In Tracker’s experience, women in a swoon didn’t stay out long, and he didn’t want to trigger another bout of hysteria when she woke in his arms, en route to the house. So he sat there and held her, and pretended that he could make it all right, while he gave her a minute or two to come back to herself. After all she’d been through, she deserved that minute. And it was the only thing he could give her.

The screen door slammed. Vincente and a plump woman hurried out of the house. As soon as they reached Tracker’s side, Vincente was apologizing and the woman was fussing. Tracker handed Ari over to Josefina and glared at her husband. “Why?”

“I did not think she would have such a reaction. She has been doing so well lately.”

“She’s not your daughter.”

Vincente shook his head. “Our daughter died in childbirth. Our hearts were so empty, and then we found this one and it was another chance.”

A second chance to love. Not many got them. “So you loved her so much you sent her out here to be scared out of her wits?”

“No. I know who you are, Ranger.” Vincente took the napkin, wetted it and handed it to his wife. “There was no danger to her.”

“Just to her sanity.”

“Yes, but we hoped…” The old man sighed. “She is such a good daughter, a good mother. It is only when the bad times haunt her that this happens.”

Tracker’s breath caught. “Mother?”

“She was pregnant when we found her.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“It has not been easy.”

“She loves the child?”

“With all her heart.”

How the hell could Ari love a child who had to remind her of the hell she’d survived?

Josefina looked up as Ari moaned. “She’s waking. You should leave.”

“I can’t.”

“You must.”

Tracker looked at Ari. He’d promised to bring her home, no matter how he found her, sane or crazy. “Not without her.”