I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him. That one recurring thought, with Carter Brown’s face on it, tightened Riley’s white-knuckled hands around Pride’s reins. And kept him sane as he and his father and Smiley Rankin, about thirty minutes out from the Lawless barn, sat immobile atop their horses, atop a tallgrass-capped hill. And watched Skeeter nose and nervously circle a patch of ground.
Repeating his pattern of the past half hour, the redboned dog lifted his nose high in the late-autumn air and sniffed. His black and wet nose fairly wriggled as he tested the air for a scent revealed only to him. Suddenly, the big hound stilled, his muscles shivered under his loosely hung coat of fur. Knowing what this signaled, Riley tensed, gripping his prancing gray gelding’s belly with his thighs and knees.
In the next moment, and with a keen, bird-flushing, rat-scurrying bay, the hound announced his victory. A triumphant grin stretched his bewhiskered black muzzle as he turned sharply to his right and settled into a loose-jointed lope over the prairie’s rocky terrain. On a course forever pointed away from the Lawless homestead, Skeeter ran, his long ears flapping in the wind like drying laundry.
Riley marveled at the dog’s stamina. For weeks on end, the faithful hound had mourned atop Old Pete’s grave, risking the cold and the wind, and refusing to leave it or even to eat. They’d all feared he would waste away and die before the month was up. Obviously, they were wrong. But still, today was the first time Riley could recall seeing the hound show any sign that he cared about living—except for when he tried to rip poor old Abel Justice apart for daring to pay his respects inside the Lawless family cemetery.
Skeeter bayed again, pulling Riley back to the moment. Under the low brim of his Stetson, he squinted at the big hound up ahead. The dog’s healed shoulder wound, gleaming bone-white and arrow-thin against his reddish fur, bore witness to his rightful stake in this manhunt. A grim smile split Riley’s face. Could it be that all this time Skeeter, probably under cover of night, had been stretching his legs and hunting his own supper, making himself strong and whole again so he could be a part of this final retribution?
No, Riley chided himself, that was just plain fanciful thinking. Dogs had no notion of hate and revenge … did they? Was Skeeter that intelligent, that conniving even, to stay out all night and then return before daybreak to take up his self-appointed post atop his master’s grave? Had he fooled everyone—including Carter Brown?
Riley found himself hoping so. Found himself again in the grip of some newly forged hardness in his soul, born of the cold acceptance that, to love someone like he loved Glory, rendered him capable of taking the life of anyone who dared threaten hers. And take it without mercy. Without regret.
For Riley, shooting or not shooting the tracker no longer hinged on whether or not Glory and Ma and Miss Biddy were alive. Either way, that worthless scum was dying. Today. In fact, to him, Carter Brown had been a walking dead man from the first instant he’d put a hand on any of the three women Riley loved.
Just then, Skeeter bayed again and wrenched Riley back to the sting of the waning November afternoon’s frigid air on his chafed cheekbones, back to his awareness of the aching soreness in the stiffened muscles across his shoulders. Slowing Pride, Riley sat up tall in his saddle, focusing on the dog. Skeeter took another sharp turn to the right and bounded toward a far hill, a rocky one particularly higher than the surrounding dun-colored swells.
Its very difference captured Riley’s attention, had him throwing up a cautionary hand to his father and Smiley when they bunched in their saddles, preparing to send their mounts after the dog. “Hold on,” he called out.
The two older men hauled back on their reins, setting off an agitated prancing in their horses, already poised for a burst of speed. Ben Thorne didn’t like it any better than his mount did. “Why’d you stop us? Skeeter’s found something over that hill.”
“He sure enough has,” Smiley Rankin seconded. “That caterwaulin’ of his means he’s treed his varmint.”
“I hear him, too,” Riley assured them. Indeed, the dog’s throaty barking carried to them on the wind, and held an unmistakably triumphant note. “No one wants to find the women worse than me—or put a bullet into Carter Brown. But what are we riding into? It could be a trap.”
“Well, hell, son,” Ben entoned, yanking his felt hat off his head and hitting his thigh with it—a signal, Riley knew, of his father’s anger or impatience. “If trouble was waiting over that hill for us, that dog would already be shot dead.”
Riley stuck to his guns. “Maybe not—not if it is Brown and he wants Skeeter to lead us right into an ambush.”
Ben had no comeback for that. He blinked and stared at Riley, as if he hadn’t thought of that, and then resettled his hat on his head. Riley then turned to Smiley. “You know the lay of this land better than anyone. Anything in particular over that hill?”
The foreman frowned as he directed his attention to the far hill. After a reflective moment he said, “Seems to me there’s a falling-down, old, deserted squatter’s shack setting under them oaks. Ran them dirt farmers off years ago.”
Riley tensed. “Then this is it. That shack is exactly what Brown would need to keep the women corraled—and to keep a lookout.”
Along with Ben, Smiley sat straight up in his saddle and stared at Riley. “Danged if that ain’t so.”
“Wait here,” Riley said, already dismounting. He handed his reins to his father. “I’m going to sneak a peak over the top there and see what’s going on. Just watch for my signal.”
Not waiting for an answer or an argument, Riley took off at a sprint. The crisp afternoon’s cold air frosted his lungs and had him breathing hard by the time he reached the slope. Scrabbling up its near side, he dropped to all fours and then finally down onto his belly to slither to the top. Once there, he yanked his tall Stetson off and held it at his side while he risked a peek over the hill’s crest. He swept the scene below with a quick, assessing glance. The only thing moving was Skeeter, who wagged his tail and bayed at the rough-cut door of a pile of sticks some would call a cabin.
But no horses out front. And no men. Or bodies. Calling that good, Riley next considered the sparse stand of blackjack oaks that crowded against the shack’s walls. Leafless, spiny branches reached for the sky. But under them … was the Lawless buckboard wagon. Then something moved. Riley tensed, looked closer. A horse. A roan horse. And another one next to him. Looked like they were hitched together. Biddy’d had two roans pulling the wagon yesterday. His heartbeat picked up. The women were here.
Riley scooted a few feet back down the hill, scraping his hands on sharp rocks in his haste and sending loose gravel sluicing down ahead of his boots. Ignoring the stings of pain in his palms, he turned on his side and signaled for his father and Smiley. Waiting until they reined in at the hill’s bottom, Riley told them, “They’re here. That old buckboard and the team are out back in the trees. But no other horses. And Skeeter’s barking at the front door.”
Smiley Rankin nodded, frowned, and rubbed at his stubbly jaw. “That bloodhound wagging his tail?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Then turning to Ben Thorne, Smiley drawled, “Toss your son his reins. We can ride right in. Skeeter’s tail would be stuck plumb up in the air stiffer’n an arrow, if he smelled trouble.”
Heartened by the foreman’s words, and willing at this point to take any good news at face value, Riley came to his feet and accepted the reins from his father. He quickly mounted Pride and took his unopposed position at the head of the threesome as they wheeled their mounts to circumvent the hill. When they approached the cabin, Riley pulled his gun from its holster. Similar noises from the two men flanking him told him they had taken the same precautions.
Remaining vigilant, even in the face of Skeeter’s relaxed stance and swinging tail as he turned his big head to stare back at them, the men rode in slowly, warily. When no shots rang out, when no one challenged them, they dismounted and looped their reins over a left-leaning hitching rail. And then just stood there, unwilling to meet each other’s gazes. Riley thought he knew why. He was no more anxious than they were to face what might await them inside.
“Well,” his father said matter-of-factly, drawing his and Smiley’s attention to himself, “we ain’t accomplishin’ nothing standing out here. What’s in there won’t be changed none in a few minutes.”
“True enough,” the Lawless foreman chimed in.
When neither man still moved, Riley turned on his heel and, his pistol in front of him to lead the way, stalked to the shack’s closed door. The crunching of the gravelly dirt behind him told him that his father and Smiley followed him. When he reached Skeeter, Riley leaned over, patted the waiting dog’s shoulder, and mouthed, “Good boy.” But only by suspending further thought and denying his roiling emotions could he make himself grip the door’s crude handle and begin slowly to tug it down.
Not hampered by any such reticence, Skeeter excitedly pressed his furry body between Riley and the door. Taking a deep breath, telling himself he was ready for anything, Riley pushed it open, burst inside, and directed his pistol in a sweep of the dim, dank one-room interior. Skeeter bounded off to the left, toward what sounded like muffled cries coming from a corner obscured from view by the open door. Before Riley could even turn in that direction, though, his father and Smiley charged in behind him, taking up their positions to either side of him.
Then, it registered—what they were seeing directly in front of them. For a moment, to Riley, the muffled cries and Skeeter’s whining yelps held no more meaning than a distant babbling brook might have. Because it was the blood spattering the back wall and running in a thick smear down the rough-cut wood, ending at the body slumped in a dead sprawl on the earthen floor, that held his senses prisoner in those first few seconds.
Finally, he sucked in a breath—laden with shock and no small amount of relief. “Son-of-a-bitch,” he muttered. “Carter Brown. He’s dead.”
“That’d be my guess,” Smiley Rankin offered over Riley’s shoulder. “A bullet to the forehead’s been known to do that.”
As if the sound of the older man’s voice broke a spell that gripped him, Riley blinked and exhaled. Turning, suddenly aware of the significance of the muffled cries filling the room, he holstered his gun and rushed with Smiley and his father to the room’s far corner, where Skeeter backed off when the two older men quickly knelt in front of the struggling women to untie and ungag them.
Fury at seeing his mother and Biddy lying there, tearful and helpless, pumped through Riley’s veins. Only relief that they were alive could supplant the knee-weakening emotion. But the trouble wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. His first thought when he saw Carter Brown dead was that, by some miracle, Glory had shot him. But that couldn’t be. Because she never would have left Biddy and Ma here like this. That meant … someone else was involved. Carter Brown had a partner. Who was it? That was all he wanted to know. Who was it, and did he have Glory?
In only an instant, but what seemed an eternity of waiting to Riley, the women were freed of the ropes and the gags. While Smiley helped Biddy to sit, Ben did the same for his wife. Riley’s mouth worked around his emotion as he watched his father gather his mother in his arms and hug her tightly to his chest as she assured him she was none the worse for wear.
To Smiley’s question of what happened, Biddy sought Riley’s gaze. Her apple-cheeked face crumpled with emotion as she sobbed, “’Twas Abel Justice. He’s got Glory, Riley. He was in cahoots with Carter Brown. They had a fuss over money, and he killed him and took Glory.”
Even as his father and the Lawless foreman jerked in shock and turned to look over their shoulders at him, Riley’s senses quickened, honing in on Biddy’s fright-glazed blue eyes. Her words sounded all the more ominous for her voice being hoarse and whispery. Riley’s mind raced through a jumble of questions as he tried to sort all this out. But uppermost was the only question that really mattered at this moment. “How much of a head start does he have?”
Biddy shook her gray-haired head. “I’m not sure. Not long. Ye have to find her, Riley. That man … he—” Her voice broke, tears spilled out over her lashes and tracked down her grime-streaked cheeks. Smiley pulled her to him, gently tugging her head onto his shoulder.
Even though sympathy for the sweet old woman tugged at Riley’s heart, he instantly turned to his mother. “Where’s he headed with her?”
Her broad face strong and composed, she pulled back from Ben and said, “Mexico. He’s taking her to Mexico.”
“Mexico?” Ben Thorne repeated. “Then he’s heading for the Cimarron Cut-Off. That’ll take him to the Santa Fe Trail.”
Nodding, already picturing the trail in his mind, Riley met his father’s black-eyed gaze. And then frowned as he looked deeper. Surprise at what he saw reflected in their dark depths stilled him. Everything that was in Ben’s heart, things Riley’d never suspected, things he knew the proud, stubborn man would never say to him, shone for a brief instant.
Then, Ben’s mouth worked, his square chin dimpled. “I been wrong for a lot of years, son … like you said … about what’s important. I see that now. And almost losing your mother like this? Well, I—You go after Miss Glory. We’ll take the women to the Lawless place and then go call off the men.” He paused for a deep breath and then added, “We’ll wait for you there. Son, I … just know I…”
His voice trailed off. He sought his wife’s gaze. Her soft smile seemed to encourage him. Firming his lips, he turned again to Riley, saying, “Well, you just be careful, you hear? Your mother’ll be worried.”
Moved in more ways than he could name, Riley squeezed his father’s shoulder, and nodded at his mother. “I’ll be careful.” He then straightened up to his full height, adjusted his Stetson low on his forehead, and looked from one face to the other as the quiet foursome stared up at him. “The Cimarron Cut-Off, huh? He’ll never make it.”
Grim and tight-lipped, he turned on his heel. Calls of “Take care,” “God speed, son,” and “Watch yer back” followed him across the room. But accompanied only by Skeeter, Riley stalked out of the shack and headed for Pride. Before this day was done, Riley vowed to himself, justice would not only be served … but Abel Justice would be dead.
* * *
Glory wanted to cry. She wanted to give up, to admit defeat. Her bottom was numb. Her thighs ached. Her complaining spine refused to hold her erect in the saddle. Worse, her nose was running, her heart pounded with fear, and her cheeks burned from the cold wind. Add to that the rubbed-raw skin over her wrists, again roped together and secured around her saddle horn, and she was one sad girl.
She stared at Abel Justice’s narrow back. Hateful man. He’d looped Daisy’s reins to his saddle horn and was leading the little mare at a bone-jarring, teeth-rattling trot over the uneven and rocky terrain. As like as not, Glory feared, Daisy would soon tire and stumble and fall, crushing her in the saddle. Then what? Why, as determined as Abel Justice was to get her to Mexico, he’d probably stuff her broken body into a flour sack and deliver her like that.
Heading west as they were, Glory took note of the pale light cast by the afternoon sun. Judging by its position, she figured they’d left Biddy and Mrs. Thorne behind less than an hour ago. At least the tracker had kept his word about letting them live if she cooperated. Still, he’d not allowed her to untie them. Glory pursed her lips. Hopefully, they’d be found quickly and wouldn’t have to spend the night in that cold, drafty shack with no food and water.
Even though their well-being was uppermost in her heart, her mind also clung to the knowledge that the sooner Biddy and Mrs. Thorne were found and could tell the men what had happened, the quicker they’d come after her.
Thinking of her own rescue, praying yet fearing to see Riley, Glory pivoted her shoulders first one way and then the other, trying to see behind her. Nothing but flat prairie and waving tallgrass greeted her straining efforts. A wave of dejection swamped her spirits, had her slumping in her saddle as she faced forward again. She couldn’t do this, this bumping along for weeks on end. Nor could she face this Señor Calderon in Mexico, much less think about killing him. She was only kidding herself when she thought otherwise.
Shying from that image—herself in a death struggle with her enemy—Glory quirked her mouth around her next admission. She didn’t really want to see Riley riding up to rescue her. His smiling black eyes, set in his handsome face, stared back at her in her mind’s eye. Glory realized she felt warm inside, and tender, just thinking about him. He was so good and noble. And he loved her. So how could it be any worse? Because she didn’t doubt for a moment that as soon as he found out what had happened, he’d be riding after Abel Justice.
No one would be able to stop him, either. He’d rescue her, or die trying. Glory grimaced, feeling the ache of physical pain from just the thought. She couldn’t live if he was killed trying to save her. But as flat and open as this prairie was, offering no hiding places, no defensive shelter, the advantage and the odds went to Justice. All he had to do was wait for Riley to get close enough … and then shoot. As if she could already hear the sharp report of a pistol firing, and see Riley jerking backward off his gray gelding, Glory hunched her shoulders against the stab of tightness in her chest.
No. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She’d rather die. This was her battle. And too many innocent people already had died trying to fight it for her. Well, no more. She’d not have another death on her head. She’d ridden out on her own, on purpose, this morning to prevent that very thing. And tied up and trapped though she might be, nothing in her heart had changed. She’d gotten herself into this predicament, and she’d get herself out. Somehow. Somehow soon—before Riley showed up and got himself shot.
Looking down at the rope around her wrists, Glory reminded herself of her mother’s favorite saying. The Good Lord always helps those who help themselves. Lifting that prayer heavenward, Glory began picking at the rope’s knots. Biting down on her bottom lip in concentration, frowning so deeply her head hurt, she divided her attention between her nail-breaking, frustratingly tedious efforts and Justice’s back. If she got her hands free, she could use the rope, her only weapon, on the man. Maybe surprise him, get it around his neck. And then squeeze real hard.
A sudden memory from her childhood of the only time she’d seen a man being choked—two drovers got into a fight out in the wagon yard and Papa’d broken it up—had her gulping back her distaste. Again she saw that man’s eyes bulging and his tongue poked out, his face turning purple. And remembered her screaming nightmares for weeks after. Could she overpower Justice and hold on until she’d actually choked the life out of him? Glory stole a glance at the back of Justice’s scrawny neck, just visible above his coat’s collar.
No. She shook her head. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t picture herself killing someone. Not in cold blood. But then she thought about what she knew of this man who was knowingly leading her, like a lamb to slaughter, to certain death in Mexico. For money. And he’d killed Mama and Papa. They were still Mama and Papa to her, even if they weren’t her real folks. And he’d killed them. And caused Hannah and Jacey to be in danger.
He deserved to die. That awful truth had her tearing at the ropes, trying desperately, mightily to get a finger under one coil, just one. Her fruitless efforts only fueled her temper, her determination. Maybe if she was mad enough, then just maybe—She gasped. The rope gave. She stared at it, frowning. Did it give, or was it her imagination? She shot a glance at Justice. He rode on, unaware. Keeping her fingertip locked in its lifesaving place, Glory breathed shallowly, terrified the least movement from her would undo this tiny bit of hope.
Then bravely, she looked down and flexed her finger. And almost burst into tears when it slipped easily under the rope. Blinking, grimacing, totally rapt with what she was doing, she crooked her finger and tugged. What she saw slumped her shoulders in relief. The coil she’d managed to loosen was the one that sported the knot, the top one looped over the saddle horn. If she could work it loose and slip it over the horn, then she could get loose. All she needed now was time.
Just then she realized that Daisy was circling and slowing. No! She jerked her head up to see Justice reining in his buckskin and pulling in the slack on her reins. No, not yet. Glory frantically yanked on the rope … and watched the knot draw tighter. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Look what she’d done—her rash actions had only made things worse. Like everything else I’ve done since Jacey left. That thought did it.
Glory stilled and closed her eyes, thinking that maybe she wasn’t supposed to escape. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to live. It was just too darned hard and nothing she did was right. This was hopeless, the whole thing. Opening her eyes, she saw Justice handling his canteen of water. Glory ran her tongue over her dry lips, watching the tracker take a deep swallow and then stare at her.
Refusing to let him see the need in her eyes, Glory cast a secretive look down at her finger looped through the rope. And then, with a complete swing in emotions, nearly burst out laughing. Could she be more pathetic? She looked up at Justice, saw him grimly squinting at her. Suddenly he didn’t look as threatening as he did funny, what with his receding chin, skinny neck, and oversized hat. Glory swallowed convulsively, again to keep from laughing. She couldn’t give in to it. For one thing, she feared she wouldn’t be able to stop. For another, if she laughed at him, he’d most likely shoot her.
So she wisely looked away, seeking the low and distant horizon as a distraction. It then occurred to her that she’d just reaffirmed for her flagging spirit that she did, after all, want to live. Because she’d looked away to keep from laughing, to keep from getting shot. That had to mean something. Yes, it did. It meant for her to live, Justice had to die. She exhaled, bit at her lower lip in concentration. There it was again. She was going to have to kill him.
Could she? Glory considered her … victim. A cold-blooded, merciless killer by trade. Her eyes narrowed, her lips firmed into a grim line. If it came down to him or her, then she could do it. Because she had plenty of reasons to live. She had Biddy and her sisters. She also had the ranch—Mama and Papa Lawless’s dream of a good life for their daughters … including her. She dreamed of making the ranch even bigger and better, and of filling the house again with the sounds of love and laughing children.
Which brought her steadily warming heart around to the love she bore for Riley Eugene Thorne. Right now he was out there somewhere, she just knew it, trying to find her. Because he loved her. It was that simple. Glory raised her chin as she blinked back tears she didn’t want to shed. Who wouldn’t want to live to be with a good man like Riley? Who wouldn’t want to be worthy of him?
“You want a drink?”
A taut jerk of her head and Glory looked into Justice’s brown eyes. No more than ten feet away, having drawn her mare close to his buckskin, his expression was open and asking, a simple question. Glory cut her wary gaze to his canteen, which he held out to her. And decided there was no sense in being stubborn and stupid. So she nodded. “Please.”
Edging his buckskin in even closer, the tracker fitted the canteen’s mouth to hers and tilted it up. Glory drank down gulp after gulp. She hadn’t realized she was so thirsty. Justice pulled the canteen away before she was done. Water sloshed down Glory’s chin and dripped onto her coat. She turned her head and raised a shoulder, clumsily trying to dry the water from her chin, but to no avail. Justice ignored her efforts while he stoppered his canteen and then looped its long strap over his saddle horn.
Done with that, he then didn’t do as Glory expected, which was to set out again, heading ever westward toward the Cimarron Cut-Off to the Santa Fe Trail. Instead, he just sat his horse and stared at her. Her heart picked up speed. What now? Tied up and helpless as she was, all she could do was wait him out. And be ready. A moment later, Justice frowned, lining his leathery brow as if in reaction to some thought or realization that clearly nagged him.
Had he noticed that her finger was crooked around the rope, that she’d been loosening it? Only an effort of sheer will kept Glory’s expression neutral, kept her from glancing down at her saddle horn and thus drawing his gaze there.
“I ain’t got nothin’ against you personally, Miz Glory,” the tracker blurted, breaking the silence.
Glory’s eyebrows winged upward, her mouth dropped open. She stared stupidly for long moments before repeating, “Nothing personal?”
Justice had enough of a soul to look uncomfortable, to lower his gaze to the reins fisted in his hand. He made a pretense of straightening them out.
An overwhelming urge to spit in his face seized Glory. Don’t make it worse, her conscience screamed. Later—when you’re not tied up—then you can fight him. But not now. If he wants to talk, then talk to him. Find out what you can to help yourself. Glory narrowed her eyes. All right, she’d talk to him. But that didn’t mean she had to be polite. Even Biddy wouldn’t require that, under the circumstances.
So, into the taut silence between them, Glory repeated—this time in a voice tight with anger, “Nothing personal? Look at me.” She waited for him to comply before making her point. “I’m tied to a horse and being led to a slaughter. By you. And this is only the latest in a string of sins that you’ve committed against me and my family. If there’s nothing personal in this, then it’s only because you didn’t know anything about me before you came here.”
Abel Justice nudged up his felt hat’s stiff brim. No trace of his former contrition or shame now marred his expression. “That was a mighty fine speech, Miz Glory. But I expect I know more about you than you do.”
Glory tensed. “What do you think you know?”
A smug leer split his lips open, exposing the crooked teeth in his mouth. “I know you ain’t no Lawless at all.”
Glory’s pulse quickened. This was exactly what she wanted him to talk about. “I know that, too. I also know that my real name is Beatrice Parker. That my real parents were killed by Kid Chapelo. And that J. C. Lawless brought me home to be raised as his daughter.” Glory paused, gloating over robbing Justice of his thunder. Seeing on his pinched-up face just how much he didn’t like it either, she added, “But I expect you know that, too.”
Justice eyed her a moment. But then some sly thought sharpened his expression, pulling the skin taut over his cheekbones. “I do—that and more. But here’s something I’ll bet you don’t know. Saving your life near to twenty years ago is what finally cost J. C. Lawless his.”
His words stabbed at Glory’s very soul. Her stomach pitched sickeningly. “You’re lying,” she cried, the words ripping out of her on an anguished sob.
Clearly pleased by her reaction, Justice arched an eyebrow. “Now what reason would I have to lie?”
“You’re just trying to hurt me … to unnerve me. It can’t be true. It—”
“It is true. Every word.”
Just the way he said it made it sound true. She searched his face … and saw the truth in his brown eyes, in his sober expression. Then … it was as if the life drained right out of her, slumping her over her horse’s neck. Glory closed her eyes, tried to will away consciousness. How could she go on living? Mama and Papa dead. Because they’d taken her into their family. Hannah and Jacey would never forgive her.
How could she ever hope to make this up to them? For long moments, Glory thought of nothing. Instead, she concentrated only on feeling alive, on feeling the cold on her face, the heaviness of her braid as it hung down her back, Daisy’s shifting under her as she stamped the ground impatiently. But slowly, Glory became aware that she was indeed thinking, despite not wanting to. She realized too that, somewhere in the space of the last few moments, she’d reached a decision, one that changed everything. She opened her eyes, stared at Daisy’s coarse chestnut-colored mane, and formulated a plan.
She needed to know what Justice knew. Every detail. Then, armed with that knowledge, she’d rid herself of him—and thereby save Riley from having to do it. That part hadn’t changed. Then on her own terms, not like this—tied up and helpless—she’d find and face the man who’d ordered all this tragedy. And then she’d kill him. Or die trying. For Hannah and Jacey. She couldn’t bring back Mama and Papa, but she could avenge their murders. And if she lost her own life in the process? Who would care?
Riley’s handsome face popped into her head. Then she saw him raise his hands to her, as if begging her not to do this. Glory shook her head. No, Riley, don’t try to stop me. I have to do this. Don’t you see? It’s the only way. Just know that I have always loved you.
Done then with her good-byes, Glory raised her head, narrowed her dry and burning eyes, and met Justice’s gloating gaze. She’d gone through so many emotions in the past few moments that she’d almost forgotten his presence. Amazingly, he’d waited her out, hadn’t moved or said a word. Amazingly? Or because he enjoyed watching people suffer? Glory felt she knew which one. “Tell me how you know all this.”
A smirk of superiority lit his muddy eyes. “I’ve worked for Señor Calderon for more’n ten years. That’s how I know. I know everything about you.”
“Then tell me what you know. All of it.”
He pulled back, ducking his chin, looking askance at her now. Perhaps he belatedly weighed the wisdom of sharing his boss’s secrets with her, of giving her this proof of the señor’s guilt. Or perhaps he’d noted the change in her. The dead calm. The quietness. The unblinking stare. Or perhaps she gave him too much credit. Maybe he was just gathering his thoughts. Because he eagerly blurted, “Back then, after J. C. killed Kid Chapelo and pulled you out of that wagon and headed for home, it took a while for word to get back to the old don down in Sonora—”
“The old don? Who’s that?”
“Señor Calderon. He’s a don—some Spanish noble title. Rich as all get-out. Powerful mean, too. As like to shoot you as look at you.”
Some of the dead emptiness lifted from Glory, sharpening her intuition. Here it was. She could feel it—what she’d not been able to figure out before. This Calderon’s connection to her. Before, she’d been trying to figure out his connection to Mama and Papa. But now, thanks to Justice, she knew better. “What does he have to do with me?”
Justice frowned, managing only to look prissy. “I’m getting to it. Now, like I was saying, word got back to Señor Calderon and his daughter. Well, she took to crying and moaning something awful. Carried on like that day and night. Said she didn’t want to live no more.”
Glory thought she could understand the feeling. But not the reason—not for this Calderon daughter, anyway. “Why? I don’t understand.”
“Ain’t it obvious? Because she loved Kid Chapelo. Well, her pa put up with her antics for a spell. But then he arranged a marriage for her to some rich Spaniard. When the man came for her, she’d have none of him. And he sure didn’t want her like she was—all crying and crazylike, so he left. That’s when the beatings began. After one particular beating, she took her own life.”
Justice paused there, as if he expected Glory to be upset or saddened. She was both, but she showed him nothing. He shrugged and went on, this time almost thoughtfully. “Well, that put an end to it for years. Kid Chapelo was scum, and the old don hated him, but his daughter purely loved him, I suppose. But she was the only one. Still, I would’ve thought that his boy’d turn out better.”
Another prick of intuition quickened in Glory. Tidbits of Jacey’s letter began coming back to her. “His boy? What boy?”
“Kid Chapelo’s bastard by Señor Calderon’s daughter. Named him Zant. The old don loves that boy. Raised him himself. But Zant’s a wild one, like his pa—always in trouble. Fought at every turn with his grandfather. Until the last time. About five years ago, I suppose, Zant just up and told the old man he didn’t want nothing to do with him and then rode away. Señor Calderon hunted all over for him. And finally found him in a jail in Mexico a few months back. Paid his way out. But the boy wasn’t grateful. He told the old man he still didn’t want his money and his title. And left again. Shoulda let him rot in jail, if you ask me.”
With that, Justice surprised and frustrated Glory by wheeling his horse, playing out Daisy’s reins, and setting them off at a westward walk. Glory glared at her captor’s back. He hadn’t told her the one thing she needed to know the most. Namely, how any of this was connected to her—directly and with enough force to nurse a twenty-year grudge that evidently just exploded one day. What could have happened?
Obviously there was more to it than what Justice had just told her, some one thing that made this Señor Calderon hate her and all things Lawless. Which brought her thoughts to Jacey. Thinking of that brave little spitfire in Señor Calderon’s clutches, and wondering if she was still alive, if she suffered horribly, evoked a whimpering cry from Glory. In the prairie’s otherwise quiet, marked only by the horses’ plodding hooves, her gasp pierced the air, echoed loudly.
Justice pivoted in his saddle and stared at her. Glory stiffened her spine and met his gaze with a level stare. After apparently satisfying himself that she wasn’t up to anything, he faced forward, toward the west and the lowering sun.
Sighting on it herself, Glory spared a thought for their eventual destination. Sonora, Mexico. It hit her then with considerable emotional force, like it hadn’t before hearing Justice’s tale, that if she didn’t free herself soon, she’d be facing this Señor Calderon in the same circumstances as Jacey already had. A prisoner. And at the mercy of a man with no mercy in his soul.