4

“You don’t think he’s a killer, do you, Ma?”

Jeff was looking up at Mary Jo with pleading eyes.

Mary Jo hesitated.

A cold-blooded killing if I’ve ever seen one. The sheriff’s words rang in her head. Shot once in the leg and then in the throat at close range.

Wade Foster had admitted killing three men.

Her reply: Did they deserve it?

She couldn’t believe she’d asked that. Did any man deserve to be killed that way?

But Wade Foster rattled her brain. Part of her wanted to run after the posse. Instead, she looked down at Jeff. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But he’s too weak to move or be moved.”

“I don’t think he killed anyone,” Jeff said.

Mary Jo wished she shared his certainty. She felt suddenly chilled, and it had nothing to do with the cold wind blowing in the door. She closed it, setting the bar in place.

It was time to get those answers to questions she’d hesitated to ask.

She sniffed the air and smelled the distinct odor of something burning. The biscuits!

Mary Jo moved swiftly to the iron stove. Smoke came pouring out when she opened it. She plucked out the biscuits, most of which were blackened and hard. Two looked less black than the others.

She bit her lip, feeling more than the normal exasperation. She looked down at her hands and saw them shaking, and she knew it wasn’t because of the biscuits. She could make more easily enough. It was not as if she had more important things to do, not in this weather.

Except see to the stranger’s horse. The posse must not have found it, or Matt Sinclair would have said something, would have been more insistent about searching the place.

What was she doing harboring a murderer? A man who had shot another, not just in hot anger, but with cold-blooded intent. Shot in the throat. And still she worried about the posse finding the stranger’s horse and returning. Finding him!

Why was she protecting him? She was jeopardizing her son, herself, everything she was trying to build here.

Mary Jo set down the biscuits and turned to Jeff. “There might be a couple you can salvage.”

“What about the stranger? He needs to eat.”

“I’m making some broth for him.” She heard a note of impatience—or was it fear?—in her voice. She regretted it immediately when she saw Jeff’s face.

“I’ll take him a cup of milk in the meantime,” she said. “You eat what you can of the biscuits, and I’ll cook some ham.” His face instantly brightened. She had to buy the hams, and she used them sparingly.

There was fresh milk from their cow, Circe, one of their first acquisitions on the ranch. Mary Jo poured a cupful from the pitcher and walked to her bedroom, knocking on the door before opening it several seconds later.

Wade Foster was once more sitting on the side of the bed, the bedclothes pulled over his lower half. Sweat stood out on his face, which was white with strain. His mouth was a tight, grim line. He must have been up, probably standing by the door, listening.

“Why didn’t you tell them?”

She closed the door and leaned against it. “I don’t know.”

His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized her. A muscle in his jaw tightened.

She had to ask. “You said you killed three men.”

The set expression of his face didn’t change. He waited, not saying anything.

“The sheriff said he found a man, shot in the throat. Did you—”

“Yes,” he answered flatly.

“Why? Was he going to kill you?”

“He was begging, lady,” he said coldly. “And I walked up to him and put a gun to his throat and fired.”

His eyes became alive with anger and pain and defiance. She could see all of those emotions warring with one another, crosscurrents in a violent storm. “Send your son after that posse, lady,” he said.

“I never met anyone who wanted to hang before.” She tried to keep the tremor from her voice. Don’t show any weakness. But she knew he wasn’t telling the real story. He didn’t get those wounds after he’d killed the man. He’d been wounded, almost fatally himself, and it must have taken the last strength he had to level a gun and fire it. Why was he trying to provoke her, challenging her to call back the sheriff? Did he really want to die that much?

“I’ll bet you never met a cold-blooded killer before, either.” His voice rang hard and cold. “That’s what the sheriff called it.”

“What do you call it?” she asked.

“Just as he said, Mrs. Williams, cold-blooded killing. That miner shot at me, but that didn’t make any difference. He was going to die, anyway. He’d emptied his gun, and he was on his knees. And I walked up to him and put a gun to his throat and pulled the trigger. Is your curiosity satisfied now?”

“No,” she said. “I want to know why.”

“What difference does it make? A killer is a killer.”

“It makes a difference to me,” she said. She couldn’t be that wrong about someone.

Mary Jo saw that muscle moving again in his cheek. She saw his body tremble with the effort of sitting, of controlling all those violent emotions that had suddenly taken over.

She felt his pain. It seemed to vibrate between them. No one, she thought, could be immune to his agony.

“What did he do?” she asked in a whisper. But deep in her soul she knew, and that was why she hurt for him. Drew. His son. The killing hadn’t been cold-blooded. He may have thought it was, but it hadn’t been.

He had lowered his eyes to the floor. Now, he raised them, meeting her gaze.

“You’re a fool to harbor me, Mrs. Williams,” he said. “I’ve never been good for anyone. Death is my middle name.”

Clearly he wasn’t going to say any more. She willed strength into legs that had gone rubbery and she took the few steps over to the bed. “I didn’t ask you for anything, Mr. Foster. I don’t need anything from you.” Dear God, let that be true.

She thrust the cup down at him. “Drink this milk,” she ordered. “You need it, if you’re going to get well enough to leave,” she added grimly. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand you,” he said.

“Let’s just say I have a weakness for strays, and you don’t look in any condition to hurt me or mine.”

“My just being here can hurt you.”

“Not if no one knows.”

“Doesn’t anything get through to you, lady?”

“If you think you can leave, go ahead,” she said calmly. He was angry and that was a good sign. Anger was much better than resignation.

He tried to move, and the bedclothes started to fall away. He grabbed them, pulling them back in place. He glared at her.

She was still holding the cup of milk. “If you don’t take this,” she said, “I’ll remove those covers. At the moment, I’m stronger than you.”

“Hellfire. Don’t you ever give up?”

“Not usually,” she said.

“Give me that damn milk.”

She handed it to him, watching as he sipped and then greedily finished the cup. He placed the cup down on the table and slowly sank back down on the bed. “You said there were some trousers?”

She nodded. “I’ll check your leg wound later. If the bleeding’s stopped, I can make the bandage less bulky and you can wear something of my husband’s.”

“Your husband?” he repeated.

“I kept some of his things after he died,” she said softly.

He looked down at the eagle necklace on the table. He’d burned everything else at the cabin. He hadn’t wanted reminders, or memories. Even the good ones had been killed by that last blood-soaked scene. It clouded everything, every memory, with red mist. He probably would have destroyed the necklace too if the miners had not stolen it. He’d found it on the first one, before he’d forced out the names of the other two. It had become his talisman for revenge, not for protection.

The woman was looking at him with an understanding that bewildered him. “I don’t want a dead man’s clothes,” he said rudely. “I want my own.”

“They’re nothing but rags. Unless you have something in your gear.”

He shook his head. He hadn’t taken anything but food. He hadn’t thought beyond finding those miners.

“Your horse. Anything on it that would identify you?”

He was startled again. She could have been a lawman herself, he thought wryly. “The bridle. It’s beaded. I don’t want the Utes blamed.” Christ, he hadn’t even considered that until now. “I have to get—”

He tried to sit again. And managed it only with supreme effort. Then he swallowed his pride. “I … will … take those clothes.”

Mary Jo was fascinated with the contradictions in him. He had just admitted to cold-blooded killing, yet he was ready to risk his life and the pride that appeared even more important to him, so someone else wasn’t blamed for his crimes. She didn’t know anyone who cared an owl’s hoot over what happened to Indians.

“How far do you think you’ll get?” she asked.

“As far as I have to,” he said. “And I’ll go naked if I have to.”

He would try, she realized. He wouldn’t get much farther than the door, but he would try. And she and Jeff would have to drag him back.

“I’ll go,” she said. “The posse apparently didn’t find your horse. How far is it from the man you killed?”

Man you killed. How easily she’d said the words. Forgive me, Jeff.

“A couple of miles. After I was shot … after I killed him, I didn’t realize my pinto had also been badly hit. He just kept going, bleeding to death, and I wasn’t even aware …” The lines in his face seemed to deepen. “He was … so gallant. And now he’s dead. But I won’t be responsible for more, dammit.” He stood, uncaring now if he were covered or not, then swayed as he took a step.

Still, he was magnificent. Taller than she’d thought, with a rider’s lithe grace and tightly muscled thighs.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll get you those trousers.” Just putting them on would sap what strength he had. She wouldn’t help him, and he would discover on his own that he would never reach that horse. Even if he did he could never manage to remove the riding gear, not with that arm.

He wasn’t listening to reason. Sheer will and determination were driving him, but neither could be sustained. He’d lost too much blood, had been too badly injured.

She ached for him. Something inside her didn’t want him defeated. He had called his horse gallant, but she was seeing the man’s gallantry now.

She didn’t want him dead. All thoughts of sending for the posse had disappeared from her mind. His urgency became her urgency.

Only for a fleeting second did she question why. The answer came even quicker. He needed her. No man had ever needed her before. Not Jeff. Not Ty. They’d wanted, but they’d never needed. Even her son needed her less now.

She hadn’t realized how much she wanted that need.

But she mentally thrust away that idea. She couldn’t afford that kind of thinking.

She fetched the trousers, throwing them to him. Wade Foster caught them with his good hand, and she left once more, pulling the door closed behind her. He would have to discover his weakness on his own. She wouldn’t increase his humiliation by watching.

Jeff looked at her anxiously. “How is he? Did he say anything about the posse? He didn’t kill that man, did he?”

Mary Jo closed her eyes for a moment, trying to decide what to say. She had already lied to him. She couldn’t do it again.

“Yes,” she said, “but the man was shooting at him, and Mr. Foster … well, he had good reason.”

Jeff’s frown smoothed out. “Like when Pa had to shoot someone?”

“Something like that,” Mary Jo said, hoping it was the truth.

“I knew it,” Jeff said, a smile coming to his lips. “But why doesn’t he just tell them?”

“He’s too sick,” she said gently. “They would have taken him to jail while they checked, and I don’t know if he would have survived the trip.”

Jeff accepted the explanation. Because he wanted to, she knew.

“Would you go saddle my horse for me?” she asked.

“Why?”

“I need to retrieve some of his things from his horse. I want you to stay here and look after him.”

He nodded and flew out the door, calling Jake to follow him. Jake cast a woebegone look at the closed bedroom door, then followed. The stranger had two advocates in this home. Two good ones, in her opinion.

Wade damned his weakness and the trousers. They wouldn’t go past the bandage on his leg. He swore and just looked at them for a moment. Then he tried to pull them once more, automatically using his right arm. The pain nearly annihilated him. He breathed slowly, one deep, steadying breath at a time.

How long since he’d last eaten? Four, five days except for that milk. Now he was paying for that neglect.

He used his left hand to untie the now rust-colored bandage on his leg. It took him a very long time, but finally it came loose and he unwrapped it. The wound was raw and ugly, seeping a yellow-reddish discharge. The skin around it was red and puffy.

He needed part of the bandage to remain. If only he could cut it. His knife. Where was it? He couldn’t find it, and he was damned if he was going to call her. He had seen the doubt in her eyes, knew she thought he would fail.

To hell with her. He used his teeth to tear the bandage, then he had difficulty wrapping the smaller piece back around the wound. Finally, he just threw it on the floor, and stuck his wounded leg in the trousers. He stood, pulling up the trousers with his left hand. He swayed. He was so dizzy.

He got the trousers over his hip, but buttoning them was another problem. He sat and then tried to button them as despair flooded him. What if he never regained use of his arm?

He finally managed to twist the last button into the hole. The trousers were tight. A dead man’s clothes. Fitting, somehow.

Wade stood. Dizziness assaulted him. The world was whirling around him, or maybe he was whirling. He didn’t know. He tried to take another step. He had to retrieve the halter, the beaded halter that his wife had given him.

The dizziness increased. He tumbled to the floor, falling on his right arm. Agony stabbed him. Damn, he could still make it. He had to.

But as he tried to rise, he admitted defeat. Once more, he couldn’t protect the people he cared about.

Jeff had not yet come back when Mary Jo heard the noise from the bedroom. She opened the door and her gaze quickly found him on the floor. He was trying to sit. His breathing was labored and harsh, but he wasn’t giving up. He kept trying, even as pain-filled eyes looked up at her.

“Say it, dammit.” His voice was raspy.

Why did she understand him so well? She kneeled down, offering her hand to him. “You had to find out for yourself,” she said, keeping sympathy from her voice.

He stared at her hand as if it were a poisonous snake. She wondered whether he had ever accepted help in his life.

“Take it,” she commanded. “Unless you want to wait until Jeff gets back.”

His eyes were full of frustration, but he finally held out his left hand and struggled to his knees. A groan escaped his lips, but he immediately cut it off. Giving him her shoulder to lean on, she managed to get him back to the bed.

“I will get your gear,” she said.

He turned his head away from her.

“Jeff will bring you some broth in a little while,” she said softly. “Eat as much as you can.”

He didn’t acknowledge her words.

She returned to the kitchen and finished frying ham, then set a plate for Jeff, and watched him eat. She had no desire to hurry. The task before her was nasty at best.

“I don’t know how long it will take,” she said, ignoring the bites he sneaked down to an eager Jake. She should lecture him on dog food and people food, but Jeff had been so good these last few days, so grown-up in his attempts to be helpful with the stranger.

Part of her was proud. The other part hated to see him grow up, knowing he would leave one day. She swallowed her rebuke and looked away as if she hadn’t seen.

“Take Mr. Foster a bowl of broth,” she said, “in about an hour. It should be ready then. Check first, though, and see if he’s sleeping. If he is, let him sleep. He needs the rest.”

He nodded. “You sure I can’t help you?”

She shook her head. “Someone needs to watch him, all right? And if anyone comes by …?”

“I know,” he said impatiently, but his eyes were full of excitement. It was heady for him, this small conspiracy they shared. Or was it so small? Her son had watched her lie to a lawman, protect a man who confessed to being a murderer. She must be crazy.

A tingle of apprehension ran through her. Dear God, she prayed silently, let me be doing the right thing.

She put on her long coat and a floppy felt hat. It was still raining, and she wondered whether it was going to rain forever. At least no one else would be out in this mess, only the posse and it was gone. She hoped.

Mary Jo had no problem finding the horse. As she thought, there were no tracks. Despite her brave remarks to both Jeff and Wade Foster, she had to force herself to dismount and approach the animal.

The birds had been at it, and the stench was strong, even with the rain. She immediately saw the halter. It was elaborately braided, colorful and distinctive. Undeniably Indian. She already wore gloves, but she wrapped a thin rag around them before taking the halter off.

She knew she couldn’t get the saddle off, not with the horse lying on it, but she could retrieve one of the saddlebags. Using the knife she brought with her, she cut the leather strap between the bags, taking the one not hidden by the horse’s body. She then eyed the dead animal one more time for anything that looked Indian. That seemed to be Wade Foster’s greatest concern. The saddle blanket looked well worn and ordinary. The saddle and stirrups were the same. Satisfied that none of the items could be linked with Utes, she mounted her horse. She hoped the cold rain would wash the smell of death from her.

She wondered whether it would ever wash off her patient, or even whether he wanted it to.

She looked down at the halter. Why did Wade Foster care so much that Indians not be blamed for his actions? Comanches had taken her sister, massacred her best friend and family. The Utes here in Colorado had been accused of similar atrocities, including the setting of numerous forest fires to kill settlers. Feelings against Indians ran as high here as they did in Texas.

What connection did Wade Foster have with Indians?

Chivita. Was it a Mexican name? It couldn’t be Indian. She’d heard of white men who took up with Indian women, but she’d never met one. And he’d said his son’s name was Drew.

Mysteries. So many mysteries surrounded him.

Jeff poured a bowl of soup and buttered a piece of bread, then carefully placed both on a tray, along with a glass of milk and a spoon.

He went to the bedroom door, knocked lightly so as not to wake the stranger if he was asleep. There was a grunt in response.

Jeff opened the door cautiously. He had seen little of the stranger in the past few days, and he couldn’t quite forget the sheriff’s words, despite his brave words to his mother.

The stranger was lying on the bed, wearing a pair of trousers. His face was rough with bristle and he looked tired. But he seemed to relax as Jeff entered.

“I’ve brought you something to eat,” Jeff said hesitantly. “Ma’s gone out to see about your things.” He paused. “You’re wearing Pa’s trousers.”

The stranger’s eyes flickered slightly. He tried to smile, but he wasn’t very successful. Jeff set the tray down on the table next to the bed. “It’s real good, Mr. Foster,” he said with no little pride. “My ma was the best cook in Texas. She used to cook for the whole Ranger company down there.”

Wincing, the stranger struggled to pull himself up and lean against the pillow. His eyes never left Jeff, and Jeff felt a little disconcerted. They seemed to be searching for something, and Jeff didn’t know what.

Jeff picked up the bowl and spoon and sat on the side of the bed. “Can I help you, Mr. Foster? I know that arm must hurt a whole lot.”

A hardness suddenly gleamed in the man’s eyes, but then it was gone. His chest rose with a small sigh. “I would be grateful, boy,” he said. “If I tried, I might just ruin these fine trousers of your pa’s.”

But despite the soft words, Jeff saw the fingers of the stranger’s good hand ball up in a tight fist. Jeff understood. He was a man too, and men didn’t like needing help. He sure didn’t, when he’d been sick last year.

So he didn’t say anything, just spooned some broth and carried it steadily to the man’s mouth. They finished the broth in silence and then the man closed his eyes. Jeff started to go, then hesitated. “There’s some milk and more bread too, when you want.”

The stranger opened his eyes. “Tell me about your pa,” he said unexpectedly.

Jeff began to fidget. There was nothing he liked better than to talk about his pa, but his mother had warned him not to wear out the stranger. Jake had moved over to the bed, and put his head on it, obviously waiting for the stranger to acknowledge his presence. “Jake likes you,” Jeff said. “He doesn’t like all that many people. He’s part wolf, you know. I think he believes you belong to him, since he saved you, like the Chinese people do.” Nervousness made the words all run together. It was exciting to have a man to talk to, especially one he had helped save. “Ma told me about the Chinese. She read it someplace. She’s always reading when she can.”

The stranger looked confused by the rapid flow of words, but one side of his mouth turned up slightly, and Jeff felt his chest expand with pleasure. He remembered the man’s original question. “My pa was a Ranger, one of the best there was. So was Ty.” Suddenly his pride seeped away, gone in that sense of loss he’d had since Ty died.

“Who’s Ty?” the stranger asked.

“He was courting my ma. He was killed last year. He left this ranch to us. I miss him real bad, just like my pa. I’m going to be a Ranger too someday, just like them. Ma doesn’t want me to, but—”

“But Mr. Foster needs some rest.”

Jeff turned around sheepishly at the sound of his mother’s voice. “But Ma, he asked about—”

“I know,” she said. “I heard.” She was still wearing her coat, which was dripping water. She took off the floppy hat, and her hair fell down her back. She used one arm to wipe rain from her face; the other carried a braided bridle and a saddlebag. A strong stench accompanied her into the room.

Jeff’s gaze fastened on the bridle, then he looked back at the patient. “I’ve never seen a bridle like that.”

The stranger’s eyes had moved to meet his mother’s. Jeff felt an odd presence in the room, like electric tension in the air before a storm. The stranger wasn’t smiling, nor was his mother.

“My wife made it,” he said simply, his eyes glinting with challenge. Then he turned away, facing the wall, closing off Jeff and his mother as readily as if he’d slammed a door in their faces.

Jeff looked up at his mother. She was biting her lip as she sometimes did when she was uncertain about something. But then she put her arm around him and guided him out of the room, gently closing the door behind her.