Wyoming Wildfire

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.