Wyoming Wildfire

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.