Chapter 28

Susannah couldn’t sleep that night. Her mind kept hearing Rhys’s words, each painful one of them spoken with such harsh reality that she doubted none of them.

She understood Rhys better than she had before, which obviously had not been much at all. But she realized she could probably never understand him completely; the forces that drove him were ones she simply couldn’t comprehend.

Until the war, she had always felt safe, even in a land that could be so unforgiving. Her father and brother had always protected her, and then Mark. Even during the war, she knew she had their love, if not their presence. She had never felt an absence of love.

It had been that love that enabled her to grow, the deep inner knowledge that others loved her and trusted her and believed in her, and it had been that fountain that led her to do what she had done: to keep the ranches going, to go to Richmond, to bring Wes back, to fight those who would rip the beloved heritage from her.

Rhys Redding had never had the gift of someone else’s trust or caring, not even, apparently, of friendship. He’d never had anyone but himself. She wanted to cry for that boy, for the man, but the grief for him was too deep for simple tears, too scorching to extinguish in such a way.

So was the grief for herself, because she wondered whether it was too late for him to ever surrender the world of aloneness he had built for himself, that apparent belief that total self-reliance was his only road to survival, and that any personal attachment was doomed to disaster.

Understanding wasn’t a solution. It only made her comprehend the enormity of the problem. It amazed her to discover he thought he wasn’t good enough for her, while she’d felt, deep in her soul, he couldn’t love a Texas girl in trousers when he’d probably his choice of beauties in England.

But this new revelation frightened her even more than her old belief. She knew her brother’s blind stubbornness in that regard, the fact that he wouldn’t, couldn’t, accept the fact that Erin loved him for what he was, despite that he had only one leg.

Why were men so impossibly stupid?

Susannah still felt the power of Rhys’s lips on hers. So hungry, so wanting. But they had not made love last night, although both their bodies had obviously disagreed with the decision Rhys made. It certainly hadn’t been hers, even though she knew that many eyes were on the barn, unlike several nights ago when they’d made love, oblivious to the world and believing the world oblivious to them.

After that long, painful kiss, Rhys untangled himself, gave her a crooked smile, and said he had better take her home. She didn’t want that, but all his shields were back in place, his face erased of any emotion. Only the muscle that twitched in his throat showed the cost of his restraint. Or, she wondered, was it regret that he had said so much?

And then she discarded the latter thought. No matter the strain, Rhys Redding never said anything he didn’t intend. He had meant to scare her away, perhaps even to remind himself of the barriers between them. They weren’t barriers to her, but she knew now how strong and impenetrable they were to him. If only she could make him believe they were less than paper, flimsy and without substance. Only his belief made them strong.

Susannah believed one thing, however. He wouldn’t disappear again, not as he had, not after that remorse he’d felt, not now that he knew how she felt. Not without telling her.

That, at least, had changed.

Wes did not say anything when she walked in later, but merely looked at her flushed face and announced he would take Erin home. And tell the other ranchers that Susannah was safe.

She nodded and went to her room, wishing that Rhys was with her.

But then she had much to think about. She could be just as Machiavellian as he as long as she knew the rules of the game. And she was beginning to learn them.

Lowell Martin spent the morning watching one rancher after another pay his taxes. They lined up in front of the tax office, their faces wreathed with smiles. There was a celebration at the one saloon.

Gossip told him where the money had come from, gossip and his spies at some of the ranches. The Nighthawk again.

Damn, where did that infernal varmint get the money? And why would he give it away? Unless he was trying to create some kind of legend. Like Robin Hood, or some such nonsense.

It didn’t make sense. And Lowell Martin didn’t like things that didn’t make sense. He also knew that legends were dangerous. He had used fear to drive people out. He knew that hope could make them stay and fight.

He’d planned everything so carefully. And when the notes had disappeared, he played his other card: urging the military occupation forces to collect past due taxes. He wanted this valley. He wanted to take from all those who’d looked down on him and his family when he was a boy, who’d snickered when he’d married, who had laughed at his ambitions.

They didn’t laugh now. He had more than any of them. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to rub their faces in his success. He wanted them to come to him and beg, while he coldly refused any mercy. He had planned to own the valley.

And he would have. He would have become the most important man south of Austin—if it were not for the Nighthawk.

Who was he?

His spies knew nothing. The ranchers were as mystified, apparently, as he himself. Sam? The Ables? His mind ran through the names again and again. Still, nothing really made sense. None of them had the kind of money necessary to pay all the taxes. And all taxes had been paid except for Susannah Fallon’s and Wes Carr’s.

But then, they were considered outcasts now. Just as he had been.

His fist clenched on top of the desk. Every move he’d made had been checkmated since the Nighthawk had appeared. Lowell had to discover the identity of the Nighthawk, had to get rid of him, for the rest of his plan to succeed.

But how?

He remembered when his brother had been shot—right after Susannah Fallon. The note: “Kind for kind.” The masked man evidently felt some particular … protection for women.

Perhaps that was it. A trap. Baited by a woman.

And he knew exactly which one. He doubted whether the ranchers would go to the U.S. Army for help. They certainly, and rightfully, didn’t trust the captain here. And the sheriff, hell, Lowell owned the man several times over.

Lowell would suggest that his wife stay at their house in town, her old house, because she would be safer there after two intrusions here by the Nighthawk. And then he would bring her, his bait, back here. And wait for the Nighthawk.

He didn’t even think twice that he might have another motive, an even more personal one.

He called his brothers in.

Erin MacDougal gave a light clucking to the horses pulling her old buggy. It was a practical vehicle, not like the fancy carriage the family often used before the war. Now that carriage seemed … farcical in light of the poverty they all suffered.

She smiled to herself as she thought of Wes Carr, the hours they had shared anxiously awaiting Susannah’s return. He had paced on his one leg and crutches, and then had sat next to her, clutching her hand, holding her as he once had.

He had kissed her, a kiss born of anxiety and worry, the need to be comforted. Sharing. She had seen the love in his eyes, the need, and for the first time since he’d returned, he’d given into it, had reached for her with a desperation that echoed her own.

And then when Susannah had returned, he had turned to Erin again, sharing his elation, even surrendering to her unspoken suggestion that he leave Sue and the English stranger alone. She had known that was what Sue wanted, just as she had wanted Wes.

She hugged the next memory, when they had gone inside and he had balanced himself against the wall, his arms going around her and bringing her to him, whispering, “Thank you for being here,” just as his lips closed on hers.

She loved him so. She loved the dark blue eyes, and the unruly light brown hair now made bright by the sun. She loved the strength in his face, and the character that had driven him to go his own way during the war, to defy his neighbors for his belief. She loved the way he coped now, finding his own way of coming back, without ever compromising.

The only thing she didn’t like was his stubbornness in believing that his missing leg somehow made him Unfit for her. She couldn’t seem to convince him that she didn’t care a fig whether he had two legs or one. He was still Wes Carr, the finest, most wonderful man she had ever known. She still grew warm and fuzzy with his kisses, and still wanted to explore the deeper mysteries of man and woman with him. His missing leg was a badge of honor to her, nothing more, except for the pain she knew it caused him.

Lost in her thoughts, in the memory of his smile last night, she didn’t hear the approaching sound of hoofbeats. She was going into town with several baskets of eggs to sell to the general store, and perhaps on the Way back she would stop at Susannah’s ranch. She had been driving herself into town every week, since everyone at the plantation had so much work to do. There was no need to worry. There had been no incidents on this road, and she had a rifle with her.

But then she heard the sound, and something inside her mind rang with alarm. She looked behind. A man dressed all in black was moving up on her. He was riding a black horse, and in his hand—dear God, in his hand was a pistol, and in that moment she knew he was going to shoot. She whipped the reins on the back of the horse, asking them to run for her, and they did. The sound of a shot came, and the horses bolted forward even faster, and she lost control. The carriage wobbled on its wheels, careening back and forth on the road as the horses raced out of control, and then she felt it overturning, and she went spinning out, tumbling over and over again.

The note arrived at the MacDougal plantation near sunset.

“We have Miss MacDougal. We will exchange her for the outlaw who calls himself the Nighthawk.” It then gave directions to an abandoned shack in the middle of the hill country and directed the Nighthawk to appear at sunset the next day. “If anyone other than the Nighthawk comes, we will kill her,” the note continued.

As with Susannah’s disappearance, men spread out from the MacDougal ranch with the news. Sam himself rode to inform Wes.

Wes was at supper with his sister, and the Englishman, Redding. Sam barely gave him notice now, but handed the note to Wes. No matter what he himself thought of Wes Carr, Sam knew how Erin felt about him, and not even his own dislike could break his sense of obligation to his sister-in-law.

Wes read the note and passed it to the Englishman, whose jaw tightened perceptibly. Wes’s own fist tightened on the table. “I know that shack. There’s no way to approach without being seen.”

Sam nodded. “I know. I considered calling the other men together and storming it, but—”

“She might be killed,” Wes finished for him, a muscle throbbing in his throat.

Sam nodded. “We found her overturned buggy. The horses were gone.”

Wes sent a quick glance over to Rhys, as Sam hesitated, then continued, “Do you have any idea at all who this … Nighthawk is?”

Wes shook his head, avoiding Sam’s eyes. “No, but from what I’ve heard of him … he’ll exchange himself for her.”

Sam’s face creased with indecision. “We couldn’t ask that, not after everything he’s already done. The Martins will surely kill him. They can’t afford—”

Wes had another proposal. “Or one of us could pretend to be the Nighthawk,” he said slowly. He looked at Susannah, whose face was white beneath the light tan.

Sam nodded. “I’ve thought about that.” He hesitated a moment, then added grimly, “There’s … a meeting at noon tomorrow. My place.” He swallowed hard. “If you want to come …” He left the half-invitation hanging in the air as Wes nodded.

The three of them waited to speak until they heard the departing sound of Sam’s horse. The pain lines in Wes’s face were etched even deeper, his blue eyes bleak. “If anything …”

It was Rhys who answered, his usually melodic deep voice harsh. “It won’t,” he said, making it clear he planned to meet the terms.

“No,” Wes said sharply. “I’ll go. She’s my … girl.”

Rhys looked meaningfully toward the area of Wes’s missing leg. “I have a chance. You don’t,” he said brutally. “It’s my game, not yours. I set everything in motion. I’ll finish it.”

“You can’t. Not by yourself.”

“Do you believe they will kill her?”

Wes nodded. He wasn’t sure about Lowell, but he wouldn’t take a chance on Hardy. If Hardy was any place around at sunset, and something went wrong, Wes didn’t doubt for a moment the middle Martin brother would kill Erin. And take pleasure in it.

“Then let me take care of it. I have a few tricks of my own.” Rhys’s face hardened. “If I have to tie you down, you’re not going. I want your word.”

Wes buried his face in his hands, trying desperately to think, trying not to give in to total despair. He had never run away from a fight, particularly when someone he loved was in danger. But part of him knew Rhys was right. Wes knew he didn’t have the speed or agility that might be required to save Erin. And despite himself, he did have a peculiar faith in Rhys Redding.

“Go to the meeting, Wes,” Rhys said, using his Christian name for the first time. “You can do more there—”

“As a cripple, you mean,” Wes said bitterly.

“No,” Rhys said. “That’s not what I meant. And you’re only a cripple if you allow yourself to be.” He stood, his dark hawk eyes raking over Wes and then gentling as they moved to Susannah’s pale face.

“Where is this cabin? I want to take a look at it.”

Wes stood, using the table to balance himself. “I can do that, at least,” he said. “Take you to it.”

“If you do as I say” Rhys said, and Wes reluctantly nodded.

“I’ll go, too,” Susannah said.

“No,” both men said at once. It was the first time Susannah had ever heard them in harmony, and she felt her anger rise again.

“Why?”

Rhys went over to her, and looked down, his eyes cautious. “Because someone should be here in case anyone comes by with more news,” he said logically. “And three people riding at night are more noticeable than two—or one,” he added, making it clear he would drop Wes off somewhere along the way. His hand went up and touched her cheek. “I don’t doubt your ability or courage … it’s just that you’ll be more help here.” He grinned. “I’ll bring Wes back safe.”

“You will come back?” she asked. “Tonight?” She knew how dangerous tomorrow would be. She couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing him again before then.

A muscle moved in his cheek. “I’ll come back,” he promised, realizing as he did so that it was probably the first promise he’d made to someone else that he fully intended to keep.

Lowell watched the slender form in the large bed. She looked so small, the auburn hair spread across the white sheet in disarray. He could have killed his brother when the men came in, carrying the unconscious girl.

His orders had been specific. Hardy was to dress in black and threaten the girl, and then his men were to come along and “save” her from the outlaw. She would be brought to his ranch to recuperate; a drink would be laced with a sedative that would keep her asleep until the Nighthawk was killed.

When she awoke, she would be grateful to him, and the death of the Nighthawk would be blamed on bounty hunters, who used the girl’s disappearance to apprehend him. He planned to explain that the note he’d sent to her family must have “gotten lost.”

He didn’t care if none of the ranchers believed him. The sheriff would, despite his diminished authority, and so would Captain Osborn. And perhaps even Erin, in light of his “kindness.” Perhaps, she would even see, in this house, that he could have made her a fine husband—perhaps still could, if he could get rid of his wife.

He had certainly not meant to have her hurt, not like this. He almost called the doctor, but that would ruin all his plans. He would wait, see if she woke in the next hours. In the meantime, Hardy was at the cabin with twenty of his men. The Nighthawk wouldn’t escape them this time.

Wes took Rhys most of the way to the old abandoned shack, deserted years ago when its well dried up. When they got within a mile, Rhys told Wes to wait with the horses; he would go the rest of the way on foot and look for a way to take the cabin safely without endangering Erin.

Rhys swore at the full moon, so bright as it hung large in a cloudless night. He snaked through the grass quickly for about half a mile, and then he saw the sentries. Every few feet, on treeless hills that apparently had been cleared for farming. Bloody Christ, there must be nearly two dozen of them. He dropped to the ground and crept closer until he saw the top of a shack, smoke coming from the chimney. He didn’t dare go further. The men were too close to ambush without giving himself away. And risking Erin MacDougal’s life.

He retreated, his mind working out every possibility. There weren’t many. The likeliest was his death in exchange for the girl’s life.

For the first time he could remember, his life meant something. In the past few weeks, it had been filled with a richness that so bewildered him he kept running from it. He smiled mirthlessly. It was just like his own personal devil to give him something to live for, and then jerk it away as he reached to grab it.

But he had started this, and he wasn’t going to allow someone else to pay for his misjudgment. He erred when he hadn’t considered that the Martins might retaliate by taking a woman. He’d always paid for his own mistakes. He didn’t even stop to think that maybe, just maybe, that thought had a shade of nobility in it.

Susannah was waiting for them when they arrived back. It was almost dawn. Wes, grim and tight-lipped, went to bed, curtly refusing even a small glass of brandy.

Rhys took a glass of whiskey, downed it, and started for the door. Susannah stopped him. “You really are going tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Rhys looked down at her. Her violet eyes, usually so clear and bright, darkened, becoming so deep he knew he could get lost in them. Perhaps he already had. “Please don’t,” she said, not waiting for an answer. “Don’t go.”

“What do you suggest?” he said.

“The military … the law …”

“You know Martin has them in his hands,” he said softly. “I told you I play games. And I always finish the ones I begin.”

“This isn’t a game.” She wished she had never heard that word. She remembered the first time he had used it, in the woods, months ago now, when he was trying to frighten her off. Then it intrigued her. Now it terrified her. “If you ride in there alone …”

His hand touched her cheek with a tenderness that made her ache. It didn’t surprise her anymore, that light touch, which by its own restraint reflected a side within him that gave the lie to that unemotional exterior he tried so hard to preserve. “Ah, Susannah, don’t you know I always have another move? I have nine lives, remember. It would take more than a man who kidnaps women to kill me.”

“Don’t go,” she whispered again, her eyes begging him, reaching into the guts of him and tying them into knots. He suddenly knew what real pain was.

He wasn’t going to do this. He had vowed he wouldn’t. She looked so stricken, so … sad. No one had even given a bloody damn before whether he lived or died, and it was achingly painful to realize that someone did now. Bittersweet. But that was too mild a word. He relished the brief, sweet caring while realizing it came too late. Much too late. And Christ, it hurt. He wanted to wrap himself in it, to taste everything he had missed.

Rhys swallowed. It was like seeing a glimpse of heaven before being dropped into hell.

He shouldn’t make it worse by kissing her, touching her. Still, he couldn’t help himself. His head bent and he kissed her, a long, searching, giving kiss that held a good-bye in it.

But she refused to take it. Her arms went up around his neck, pulling herself to him, her lips locking him to her in another way, in a desperate attempt to meld him to her for eternity. His body strained, and reacted and felt the reckless, urgent need, the powerful yearning that was at once torment and exquisite sweetness. He swallowed, tasting, savoring the gift he knew she was trying to give him, and something inside him swelled with a pleasure so complete that it threatened to consume him, even without another word, another touch.

He was loved. Loved in a way he’d never thought possible, for his own somewhat flawed self. Completely flawed. He held her tight, taking moments that made his entire misspent life worthwhile, that gave all those empty years meaning and value because in some way they had led to this.

He laid his cheek on her hair, that dark hair that always smelled like spring flowers and felt like silk. He was barely aware of moving, of following her lead, of walking into her bedroom and then lying down on the bed with her, moving with her, loving her, giving to her.

Holding her for possibly the last time.

Holding. Loving. A word, an emotion, an act that he now knew was no myth.

The meeting at Sam’s house drew forty men. They stood, their eyes angry, their stance defiant. All were determined to do something.

Wes was offered a chair but refused it, standing against the wall on his crutches. He couldn’t sit, not now, not when Rhys Redding had disappeared. The Welshman had been gone when he awoke this morning, and Susannah’s eyes had been red, her face drawn.

Wes hadn’t asked questions. He didn’t have to. He had only to look at Susannah to know how in love she was, how terrified she was for the man who still remained a mystery to him. He’d felt anger toward Redding, but then that anger had leaked from him. Redding was offering his life for the woman Wes loved. And Susannah was a grown woman, who knew the risks.

In fact, he thought as he envisioned Erin in his mind, he admired his sister’s courage and love and determination. If only he, Wes, had had that unselfish commitment, then perhaps Erin would be safe with him. His hand tightened around the crutch handle. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her. He hadn’t denied Erin out of unselfishness, but out of selfishness and fear. He had been unwilling to risk anything, particularly rejection, while Susannah had been willing to risk everything.

He listened grimly to men who used to be friends as they argued bitterly over what to do. And he couldn’t say what needed to be said, that a stranger was planning to give his life for one of them. The Nighthawk’s identity wasn’t his secret to divulge.

There was something he could do, dammit. And he planned to do it. But first he had to convince these men not to do anything reckless, not to go after the Martins and possibly get Erin killed in the attempt.

“If we attack, Erin could be killed,” Sam warned.

“We can’t let the Martins get away with this,” said another. “It’s time to act, by damn.”

“But how?”

“Perhaps the Nighthawk …” ventured Andy Able.

“We don’t even know if the Nighthawk, whoever he is, will get word,” another answered impatiently.

“Even if he does, why should he risk his life? Unless he’s one of us.” For the hundredth time in the past few weeks, gazes traveled from one man to another, seeking to unveil a secret. Who among them …?

The meeting had gone on an hour, and still there was no decision.

Then the call came from one of the black servants who’d remained with the MacDougals. “Rider coming.”

They crowded the windows, all but Wes. He knew he couldn’t maneuver between the bodies, and he also sensed what was coming. He should have known. Rhys Redding never left loose ends. He wanted to handle this on his own, and he would make sure he did.

But not if Wes could act first.

The thud of a rock was heard on the porch, and he heard the men exchanging words. “It’s him.”

“The Nighthawk.”

“Must be.”

“But who?”

“Don’t recognize him. Not him or the horse.”

One of the men opened the door, retrieved the rock, and untied the message attached to it.

“Do nothing,” it said. “I’ll meet the terms of the demand.”

The words were read, and there was silence. “We can’t do that,” one man said. “We can’t let him go in alone.”

“Did you notice anything familiar about him?” another man interrupted.

“Only that he’s a superb rider,” said another.

“I don’t understand … How did he know about the meeting?”

There was a long silence. How did he know? Word had been quietly spread among friends and neighbors, every man warned not to say anything, even to wives and ranch hands. They hadn’t wanted word to get to the Martins. Again, searching looks passed from man to man. Someone here had to know something.

But no one answered the silent query, and the debate continued.

“Now what do we do?”

“We,” said Wes, “don’t do anything.”

All the men turned and looked at him, hostility shining in their eyes. “We can’t just sit back—”

“She’s my fiancée,” Wes said sharply, proclaiming that fact now to himself as well as to the others. “I’ll go.”

There was a sudden silence, all movement suspended, even a shuffling of feet.

Wes continued slowly. “All they want is someone dressed in black. That’s all they know.”

“They’ll kill you,” Sam said.

“They can try,” Wes said. Then he added grimly, “The Confederate Army tried for four years.”

One man looked down at Wes’s leg. “Looks like we damn near succeeded.” But there was no more hostility in his voice, or in the faces of the other men in the room.

Wes suddenly grinned. “Someone told me ‘damn near’ doesn’t count.”

Sam hesitated, the coldness in his eyes warming. “They will know it’s not you. The Nighthawk has two legs.”

“So do I,” Wes said. “I—I’ve been practicing on a wooden leg. Dressed and on horseback, no one would know. Neither would they know how long I’ve had it.”

“But the Nighthawk—”

“I’ll make damn sure I get there before he does,” Wes said grimly. “Hopefully, they will release Erin before he gets anyplace close. Some of you can wait down the road for her, and warn him off.”

“I don’t like it,” Sam said. “I don’t like anyone walking into a trap like that.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Wes said. “Just stay out of it, at least until Erin’s safe.” He smiled grimly. “Then you can act like the cavalry if you want.… I might even be glad to hear that Reb yell.”

But it was unlikely Wes Carr would hear it. They all knew it. Carr would be dead with the first sign of trouble.

Wes didn’t wait for more debate. He used his crutches to move to the door before there were any more protests. He didn’t want to give them a choice. Besides, of them all, he knew he, as the Yank lover, was the most expendable in their minds. If his experience in the past months was any sign, he didn’t think there would be naysayers to that proposition. So why give them a chance to rake over their conscience? “Just don’t do anything until Erin’s safe,” he repeated as he reached the door, opened it, and clumped out.

After Rhys left that morning and Wes a few hours later, Susannah made her own plans. She simply wasn’t going to allow Rhys to walk into death. She still felt his tenderness cloak her like a gentle early morning fog. She knew he was saying farewell in the only way he knew, and she wasn’t going to have it. She simply wasn’t.

She went through every closet in the house, looking for black clothing, finally finding some and sitting down to make a few alterations. She found a knife, and she remembered how Rhys had hid his under his trouser leg. She made herself a band for each leg. She also found the tiny derringer Rhys had given her on the journey from Virginia, and tucked it in the back of her trousers.

Susannah doubted the Martins would kill the Nighthawk on sight. They would want to know about him. When they discovered she was a woman, they might not search her. If she could somehow take one or two of them off guard, hold a gun against them and force them to release Erin …

If only she had some luck.

She only knew she couldn’t sit and wait any longer. She loved her Nighthawk and, by God, she was going to fight for him.

Sam Harris felt ridiculous. The black pants were too short, but they were the only ones he could find, a pair that once belonged to his father-in-law. The shirt was an old one and barely covered the chest which had expanded in the past months through plain, hard physical work. Work once done by slaves, and now by himself.

The meeting had broken up in disarray, no one able to agree, particularly after Wes Carr had left. The only agreement was that storming that the cabin was not a wise idea. One man’s suggestion that they contact the U. S. military authorities met with derision. The captain had already sided with the Martins.

Once the other men had left, Sam went out to water the stock. The more he thought about the situation, the madder he became. Erin was his sister-in-law, his responsibility. No damn Yankee lover was going to take that away. Neither was some mysterious stranger who had offered his family aid when they needed it.

He hadn’t gone to war, not because of lack of courage, but because he knew the MacDougal family needed him, and the Confederacy needed the cotton and food he produced. It had galled him to see men ride off, to hear of their deaths, while he was safe at home.

Well, now perhaps he could do something. Thanks to the Nighthawk, his family had some security. The least he could do now was assume his rightful responsibility. If he left now, he could reach the cabin before Wes. Or the Nighthawk.

Feeling like a damn fool in the borrowed clothes but better about himself than he had in years, he selected the darkest horse in the corral and mounted.

At last … he was going off to his own war.

Andy Able looked disgustedly at his choice of mounts. Not a black among them. He finally selected a bay. He swung his dark-clad leg aboard and started out the barn door when his brother walked in, also dressed in black. They stared at each other, and then grinned.

Andy waited while his brother saddled and mounted a dark gray gelding.

Oley Olsen groaned as he lifted an ancient leg on the back of the dark brown mare that was nearly as old as he was.

Hell, his last hooray. He didn’t have anyone left. He’d even considered shooting himself a few days earlier, when he thought he would be forced from this land which he had fought for and which held the grave of his wife. And then a stranger in black had miraculously given him a reprieve.

He didn’t have much time left, anyway. His heart was bad, and the doc said he had a year at most. The idea of substituting himself for the Nighthawk had come to him at the meeting, but he didn’t say anything for fear someone would laugh, or even physically keep him from going.

He’d fought the Comanche, and he’d fought Santa Ana twice. Those pisspot upstart Martins weren’t nothing. He made sure his shotgun, old Bess, was loaded, and he kicked his Sara Jane into a loping trot.

Cal Thornton, whose farm bordered the MacDougal plantation, rummaged around the tack room for a black hat. Any kind of black hat.

He looked down at the watch his father had left him. The watch and the farm. That was all, but he had taken the farm and made it into something to be proud of, until the war came. Like his friends, he had gone off to the march of drums, believing he would be back in a matter of weeks. Instead, months went by and then years.

His baby died, and then his wife. Of loneliness, he believed, not pneumonia as he’d been told. He’d blamed the Yanks, and in his lonely bitterness he’d blamed Wes Carr.

But hours ago, he’d seen courage he had to admire. Carr was the only one among them who’d been ready to sacrifice himself for one of the families which had reviled him, the only one ready to pay back the man who had saved them all.

Cal had made a mistake about Wes Carr. Now he owed a debt. One he planned to pay.

Jesus whipped his horse with the riding crop, The note Señor Redding had given him was safely in his pocket.

All the way to Austin, to the leader of the U. S. soldiers. He wouldn’t reach there until afternoon. So late.

He didn’t know what the señor was planning, but Jesus sensed it was dangerous. Very dangerous. He dug his heels even deeper into his mount.