Читать книгу Tracker's Sin - Sarah McCarty - Страница 8

They settled on a compromise. Tracker retreated to the barn, and the Moraleses took Ari to the house. He watched as she stumbled between them up the path, clearly disoriented, yet trusting the older couple in a way that suggested they’d done this many times before. As they made their way to the back door, Josefina kept her body between Ari and Tracker. She tossed wary looks over her shoulder at him as she shielded Ari protectively. What was more interesting, though, were the glares she shot her husband. Obviously, the woman blamed Vincente for the incident, which reinforced Tracker’s own sense of being set up. Shoving his hat on his head, he swore and closed the barn door. He hoped the old woman gave the old man hell and indigestion.

An hour later, Tracker sat on the bed in the small but comfortable bedroom at the front of the barn, still stewing. The old one owed him an explanation. The vague excuse he’d tossed out at the washhouse wasn’t going to cut it. Tracker disliked being anyone’s pawn. He disliked people who tried to manipulate him.

The Ari he’d met at the wash shed was the woman he’d been expecting to find—traumatized by her experiences, tortured by her memories, rekindling her past in everyday events. A woman broken by tragedy. He’d thought he’d prepared himself for the reaction she might have to his appearance. After all, her attackers had been men like him. Men who wore their violent history in their eyes, on their skin and in their dress. Men who killed as easily as they laughed. Men who did what they wanted and to hell with the consequences. But Tracker could have avoided seeing that woman if Vincente had handled the introduction differently. Why the hell had the old man forced the issue? Had he wanted Ari to fear Tracker?

He grabbed his pistol from his gun belt where it hung by the head of the bed. Grains of sand clung to the metal. Desi said there was a difference between him and the Comancheros, and maybe there was. He wasn’t one to prey on the weak, but he’d done things in the name of revenge that would scare her curly hair straight and take the look of respect from her eyes. Things that kept him taking bigger and more dangerous bounties, because they took him to places where he was comfortable, places where there was no right and wrong, just a man’s ability to come out on top in a fight.

Tracker yanked his saddlebags toward him. He was very good at coming out on top.

Lately, the line between an outlaw and himself had been growing vague in his mind. As the years passed, killing had become easier in some ways, yet harder in others. Tracker could still pull the trigger, but it bothered him more that whenever such a deed was done, justified or not, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Right was right and wrong was wrong; that’s the way it was out here. The way it had always been. So why wasn’t he comfortable settling with that anymore? Why did every bounty he took now involve a moral debate inside himself if it went sour? Why was it getting harder to live with pulling the trigger? Why was he now seeing the faces of the men he killed, reliving the battles at night when he should be sleeping? Shit. Tracker was who he was. Better than he could have been, not as good as he should have been. He was an Ochoa. Outlaw, killer, bounty hunter, Texas Ranger.

He tugged his cleaning kit out of a saddlebag. The smell of gun oil blended with the scents of hay and cow as he opened the oiled leather wrap. All familiar, all comforting. He took another breath, seeking the edge that the familiar gave him against the anger seething inside.

Laying the cleaning rod aside along with the rags, he began disassembling the gun. It was a daily ritual and as soothing as the scents around him. It was also necessary. Dirty guns misfired. Misfires on the other guy’s part were a good thing. Misfires on his end of the battle were dead-before-his-time bad.

The outer barn door opened. He could tell from the sound of footsteps crossing the floor that the owner was small. He could tell from the swish of skirts that the owner of those footsteps was female. Josefina with his breakfast, no doubt.

“I’m in my room,” he called out.

It was as natural as breathing to prop his rifle across his lap just in case. It was rare that a woman came to his room intent on murder, but it had happened a time or two. Such occurrences tended to make a man wary. And he’d seen the anger in Josefina’s eyes. Clearly, she wasn’t ready to give up her daughter, though apparently Vincente was. The why of that was a puzzle to be solved. As was how they knew Ari’s name. A woman with no past would nave no name.

There was no response. Maybe Josefina didn’t speak English. “Estoy en mi quarto.”

The footsteps halted just outside his door.

The hair on the back of his neck stirred. A tingle went down his spine. “You can come in. I’m decent.”

Metal rattled against china. Whoever was outside his door was nervous. He cocked the hammer on the rifle.

“Come in.”

The door swung open.

“Hello.” The distinct Eastern tones gave away the identity of who stood in the door. Ari. Tracker tilted the rifle downward and slowly replaced the hammer as shock ricocheted through him. He blew out a breath.

Ari stood in the doorway, a napkin-covered tray in her hand. She was the last person he expected to see. Tracker stood and leaned the rifle against the wall. He took off his hat. “Hello.”

The tray rattled. Ari licked her lips. Her gaze didn’t meet his, and her voice shook along with the tray. “I wanted to bring you your breakfast.”

She was lying.

“Why?”

She blinked and licked her lips again. The plates again rattled on the tray. He took a step forward and removed his breakfast from her grasp.

He smiled. “My stomach might cut my throat if a second breakfast lands on the ground.”

Her gaze flicked to his before retreating back to the floor. Shit, it was always a mistake to smile.

“I’m sorry.”

It was a common statement, expected even, considering what had happened. He hated hearing it from her. As he placed the tray on the small pine dresser to the right of the door, he took the opportunity to study Ari from the corner of his eye. She wore a pink calico-print skirt, with a white, buttoned-down blouse. Nothing was out of place. Every button was buttoned; her shirt was evenly tucked inside the waistband. Her shoes were freshly polished. It was almost as if, through impeccable grooming, she’d tried to erase the craziness of earlier. Hell, she’d even managed to tame the intriguing wildness of her hair, corralling it into a neat braid, coiled up in a tight bun anchored at the base of her neck.

A few rebellious tendrils tickled her nape, bringing his eye to the long, elegant line of her throat and the daintiness of her ears. He didn’t normally notice a woman’s ears, but Ari’s were cute, with lobes that just begged to be nibbled. His gaze naturally traveled down the side of her neck, following a tempting path to the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. He wanted to sprinkle kisses along that path, touch that too-fast pulse with his tongue, take her in his arms and promise her again that everything would be all right. Son of a bitch, what was it about the woman that made him think in terms of suicidal acts? He wasn’t some sort of knight in shining armor. He was a fucking outlaw turned lawman. No better than he had to be in any situation. He had nothing to give a woman like her.

Tracker straightened. Ari’s glance cut to the rifle, to his face, then his hands. He knew how they looked to her. Sun darkened and scarred, they were as ugly as his visage. About the time the urge to tuck them out of sight got overwhelming, she looked away. Even her embarrassed blush was pretty.

“My parents told me…”

The flush on her cheeks became fiery. He waited for her to continue. She cleared her throat and smoothed her palms down her skirt. He wondered if they were sweating. She tried again.

“My parents said I had an…episode with you.”

Her uneasiness was rubbing off on him. He took a step back toward the bed, giving her some room to breathe. “That’s one way to put it.”

She kept giving the pistol wary glances. “Did I hurt you?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re wiggly but not lethal.”

She went still, blinked. He could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, see her searching for a memory. Saw the moment she gave up searching. “Oh, good.”

He could let it go or bring it out in the open. He opted for the latter. “You don’t remember what happened?”

She shook her head. Her gaze left his and her lip slid between her teeth. She looked very young right then. Too young and too innocent to have been through what he knew she had. “No.”

“Did Vincente and Josefina fill you in?”

Her hands, which had been smoothing her skirt, now clutched it. “No. They used to try, but I’d go craz…” She shook her head, took a breath and started over. “I’m sorry. I thought I was getting better.”

“This has been going on awhile?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

This time when she looked at him, it was with resentment. With a snap, she shook out her skirt. As if snapping material snapped her spine into place, she stood up straight and looked him dead in the eye. This was the Ari who haunted his dreams.

“I owe you an apology, Mr. Ochoa, not an explanation.”

“Sorry. I kind of take it personal like when a pretty woman tries to shoot me.”

The color left her face and she swayed. He grabbed her arm. Christ, she didn’t have enough bulk to keep his fingers from meeting.

“I tried to shoot you?” she whispered.

“Whispering doesn’t change the fact.”

Her fingers touched his. “I won’t faint.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“It’s just a shock.” She licked her lips. “Hearing what I do when I get like that.”

He studied the paleness of her cheeks, the shadows darkening her blue eyes. He considered saying something outrageous just to get the blush back.

“You really don’t remember what you do, do you?”

“No.”

He released her arm. “That has got to be as scary as he—heck.”

Her right hand moved to cover the spot he’d touched. To remove or to hold on to the sensation? Tracker shook his head, disgusted with himself for the weakness that had him hoping it was the latter.

“It can be.”

“And that’s your explanation?”

She shrugged and gathered handfuls of her skirt with her fingers, gathering her composure as she did so. She was obviously humiliated. “I’m sorry I behaved oddly, and I’m sorry if it scared you.”

The last was said in a rush. She turned on her heel and headed out the door.

“I wasn’t scared,” he called after her. Ari could leave him many ways, angry, happy, but not humiliated.

Her footsteps stopped. There was a swish of skirts as she turned, and then the sound of her footsteps coming back. And damned if they didn’t sound angry. She stopped in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. He wondered if she would still stand that way if she knew how uncertain it made her appear. Maybe she wouldn’t even care. Compared to crazy, uncertainty was quite a step up.

“You weren’t?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I could say because you were scared enough for the both of us.”

Her eyelids lowered. At her left temple, a curl was working loose, he noted absently. “But you won’t.”

It was an order. A rather intriguing one, considering how scared she’d been before.

“No, I won’t.”

“Then why weren’t you afraid?”

He gave her the truth. “Because I’m one mean son of a bitch.”

She didn’t blink at the curse or the declaration. “I see.”

Did she? He doubted it. He waved her to the lone chair in the room. “So now that I’ve come clean, why don’t you?”

“About what?”

About how she’d ended up here. About how she’d kept her name. About how in a part of the state where lawlessness was rampant and blond women were money on the hoof, she existed peacefully with only an old man for protection.

“How about starting with how long you’ve been here.”

“A little over a year. Ever since my husband was murdered.”

Pretending nonchalance he didn’t feel, Tracker slid the tray off the dresser and onto his lap. There were beans, rice, scrambled eggs sausages and tortillas on the plate. He forked a bit of each into a tortilla. “You were there?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

She licked her lips again, leaving them moist and shiny. They were redder and more swollen than before, as if she’d been chewing on them. They would look just like that after a man’s kiss. His kiss, Tracker admitted to himself. No matter that she wasn’t for him, he wanted Ari like hell on fire. Just another one of life’s little jokes.

Straightening her skirt around her legs, Ari took one of those deep breaths he’d learned meant she was struggling for composure. The breath pressed her small breasts up against the cotton of her bodice. It was too easy for Tracker to imagine what they’d look like naked. He wondered if her nipples would be pale or dark, or maybe as red as her lips. He liked the thought of them being red from his attentions.

He mentally shook himself. He was little more than an animal. A woman like Ari would never look twice at a man like him, even before the events of the last two years. And after? Shit. She’d run like hell.

His cock couldn’t care less what his brain said, however. It responded to her in a purely primitive manner, swelling and stretching to life.

Ari motioned to the tray in his lap. “Your food is getting cold.”

“You avoiding my question?”

“What if I am?”

He took a chance that pretending disinterest would make her comfortable. “Then I’ll rein in my curiosity and stop asking.”

For a moment he wasn’t certain it would work. She crossed her ankles left over right. And then right over left. She licked her lips. Checked her bun. Sighed and then said, “I don’t know what happened.”

“You don’t remember?”

She shook her head and looked away. “I had a blow to my skull. I can’t remember anything before I opened my eyes and saw Vincente and Josefina looking down at me.”

That was convenient for the Moraleses. Tracker folded the tortilla around the contents. “Not even your husband?”

He took a bite of the tortilla. She shot him a glare. “I’m not crazy!”

He chewed and swallowed. “I didn’t say you were.”

She frowned and bit her lip. Her teeth were very white against the ruby-red flesh. If she kept biting her lips like that they were going to be raw. “Only a crazy woman couldn’t remember her husband.”

It was just a whisper, but it contained so much pain. He wanted to reach out and hold her, and tell her it was a blessing she couldn’t remember, a gift she should hold on to, because the truth was too horrible to be borne. Instead, he took another bite, chewed and swallowed, before saying, “Head wounds can be tricky.”

“That’s what the doctor said.”

“At least you have your child.”

Her whole expression softened. “Yes.”

Tracker set the tray aside. “How old is your baby?”

“Six months. He’s just beginning to crawl.”

The last of Tracker’s hunger left him. Six months was too old. Ari would have had to have gotten pregnant when she was with the Comancheros.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like the food?” she asked.

“I’m just feeling a bit off my feed. It was a hot morning for plowing.”

“Pappa is determined we have more garden space.”

“I noticed.”

Ari shifted in the chair, clearly wanting to leave, but just as clearly held in place by another desire.

“Something on your mind?”

She nodded and took one of those betraying breaths. Threading her fingers together, she clenched them until the knuckles showed white. “My parents are going to ask you to leave.”

“I figured that.” Nothing like having your daughter falling into a fit at the sight of the new handyman to clinch a decision.

“I don’t want you to go.”

It was his turn to blink. “Why?”

“I heard my parents talking. I know who you are.”

Who he was seemed to be pretty important to these people. “And who’s that?”

“You’re a Texas Ranger. One of the meanest.”

“I guess that would depend on who you talk to.”

She looked disappointed, and more than a little skeptical. Her gaze lingered on the scar slicing down his cheek. “You’re not mean?”

“Mean enough to get the job done.”

“I need you to be very mean.”

“I’ll ask you again—why?”

“My father is in trouble.”

“He didn’t make any mention of it.”

“He wouldn’t. He likes to think he can handle everything, but he’s old now and he can’t fight the way he used to.” She glanced at Tracker, fear in her eyes. “The men who would hurt him are vicious killers. They have no consciences or souls.”

“How do you know?”

She shook her head as if bewildered. A curl fell loose from her bun, bouncing against her cheek. She shoved it behind her ear. “I just do.”

He bet she did, even if she was talking to him as if he couldn’t trigger a bad memory if he wanted to.

“I know enough to know that if things continue the way they are, those men are going to kill my father. He knows it, too. That’s why he wants the garden bigger. So Mama and I can support ourselves.”

“Would those men be the gringos who came to town last fall?”

“You’ve met them?”

Tracker shook his head. “Haven’t had the pleasure yet.” But he would. It was a bit too coincidental that trouble of that type came to the small town where Ari had taken shelter after the Moraleses had found her. As a matter of fact, a lot of the circumstances surrounding Ari’s rescue were convenient.

She frowned. “If you do, you’d better be good with those guns.”

It’d been a long time since someone had questioned Tracker’s skill. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She licked her lips again. His cock hardened, pressing painfully against the seam of his pants. He barely bit back a “Stop doing that.”

She stood up so fast her skirts swayed. “I want to hire you.”

He stood, too. Another interesting tidbit. “I’m a Texas Ranger. We’re not for hire.”

She put her hands on her hips, determination giving her a confidence he hadn’t seen before. “We’re not in Texas, though, are we?”

Technically, the area was in dispute. “Close enough not to abandon the principles I serve, no matter how pretty the woman is who asks me.”

She made a slashing motion with her hand before running it over her hair. More tendrils threatened to break loose with the next pass of her palm. “I don’t want you to kill anybody.”

To give his hands something to do besides reach over to let one of those curls entrap his finger, Tracker picked up his gun and began reassembling it. “What do you want me to do?”

Her arm dropped to her side. “I just want to scare those men so they leave my father alone.”

It wasn’t the first time Tracker had been asked to scare somebody, but it was probably the first time he believed the person asking really thought it could be done without anybody getting killed.

“Why do they bother him?”

A tinge of red on her cheeks, a hint of tears in her eyes, and she said, “Because of me.”

“Why?”

The blush of embarrassment deepened and she looked away. “Men think I am…available.”

“Because of your son?”

“Yes.” Her expression tightened and her hands fisted. “I think they threatened him.”

“Vincente?” The old man didn’t strike Tracker as the type to cower at a threat.

“No.” Her gaze dropped to his pistol. Her fingers clenched and unclenched as if it was all she could do to keep from grabbing it from him. “My son.”

That put a whole new spin on the issue. “Did Vincente tell you that?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you. The baby is the family’s most vulnerable point. It makes sense for a man to threaten it to get what he wants.”

“I’d go to them if I thought it would keep him safe.”

She would, too. Tracker could see it in her eyes. Even if she couldn’t remember, she had to be scared shitless at the thought, but he didn’t doubt for a minute that she would sacrifice herself for the safety of her son. She had the same fighting spirit as her sister. Likely the same recklessness, too. He’d have to keep an eye on that.

“It won’t.”

“I know.”

But if the gang turned up the heat enough, if she got desperate enough, she might see it as her last hope.

“Please. I don’t want them to hurt my family. I owe them so much. I wasn’t…well after the murder. They thought I was going to lose Miguel.”

“Miguel is your son?”

“Yes.” She took a step closer and placed her hand on Tracker’s arm. The heat of her touch seeped slowly through the leather of his shirt. “Please.” Another step brought her skirts around his legs. “Help us.”

He placed his hand over hers, pressing just firmly enough so she couldn’t let go. “What are you offering me if I do?”

The pulse in the hollow of her throat beat double-time. The fresh scent of soap blended with the acrid smell of fear.

She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. Tears trembled on her lashes. “Whatever you want.”

He slid his palm up her arm, trailing his fingers up the side of her neck before working them through her hair, to anchor them beneath the bun. It would take so little to tug her hair free of the constraint. So little to break her. He let his thumb skim down until he found the hollow of her throat.

Take her up on her offer, the devil that sat on his shoulder urged. Tracker was tempted. Her pulse throbbed against his thumb in silent reprimand. She offered, the voice continued.

Yes, she had. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d traded services for sex. It likely wouldn’t be the last. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

Her big blue eyes widened and locked on his. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her lips trembled. “Please.”

He caught a tear with the edge of his thumb, halting the downward spiral. Son of a bitch. He needed a kick in the ass. A man didn’t pass up opportunities like that.

“You loved Miguel’s father very much.”

“Vincente and Josefina are my family.”

Interesting way of skirting the statement.

“They’re not mine,” he retorted.

She grabbed his wrist. Her short nails stung as they dug deeply. “I’m begging you for your help.”

“And you just naturally went for my base nature. Because a man like me wouldn’t have a higher one.”

“No!”

“That’s okay, sweets. I’m willing to be as low as you want me to be.”

“I don’t want you to be anything! I just want you to help my family.”

“Then why don’t you just ask for my help?”

She pushed at his hand. “I did.”

He tipped her chin up so she had to look at him. Had to know with whom she was dealing.

“You tried to hire me. You begged me, but you never asked me with any expectation that I would agree.”

“Why would you?”

Christ, she’d just got done hauling out his reputation, but when it came to seeing him, she didn’t see a decent human being. “Yeah. Why would I?” He let her go. She stepped back immediately, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

“Are you going to help us?”

There was a smudge on the pristine white of her shirtsleeve where he’d held her.

“I’ll help you.” The jury was still out on whether he’d help the Moraleses. Something about their story struck a sour note.

He grabbed his hat off the bed.

Ari stood in the doorway, blocking his way. “What are you going to do?”

“Go to town.”

Her eyes grew big again. “But you don’t have any help.”

Grasping her shoulders, he turned her around and nudged her ahead of him. “I’m not going to solve your problem today.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” He grabbed Buster’s tack. The bridle jangled as he dragged it off the rack and carried it over to the stall. “I’m going to get a drink.”