Trace bolted upright. The girl still slept. Buckskin grazed ten feet away. Nothing in the horse’s demeanor warned of company. Still, something woke him. The fire had gone out, leaving only a few smoldering coals.
Uneasy, he pulled on his boots and grabbed the rifle. Walking softly, he crept up the small rise separating the camp from the road. Scooting on his belly the last few yards, he eased up the hill to see the road. Nothing. Then far to the west, riders. Maybe ten.
Despite the early morning chill, Trace broke out in a cold sweat. Whether the posse was from Shade or not, Trace wasn’t riding on the road. He ran back to camp and threw dirt on the fire and shoved Blue. “Wake up. We got to go.”
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she yawned. “The sun isn’t awake yet.”
“Get your things together.” He yanked the blanket from under her and saddled the buckskin. In minutes, he mounted and held out his hand for the girl.
“I got to go.” She pressed her lips tight, crossing her legs.
“Ahh, hurry. I’ll turn around.” Women.
A few minutes later, a rustle in the brush made Trace whirl the horse around. Blue stopped, as startled as he’d been. “It’s all right. Come on.”
He pulled her up to him and spurred the horse into a gallop.
“The road is back that way?”
“Yeah, but we’re going this direction. Wouldn’t know of any towns, would you?”
“Why aren’t we riding on the road? I think Frank said that Ledbetter was somewhere in this direction. Why aren’t we riding on the road? What’s your last name?”
Not used to being the one hunted, Trace didn’t like the feeling. Where was that town? He couldn’t play fifty questions for long. Shaking his head, Trace kept toward the trees, but the girl’s questions wouldn’t stop. Finally, to quiet her, he whispered. “Trace Logan, and I want to go this way. Good enough for you?”
“Trace, why does your saddle have a T.G. on it if your name’s Logan?”
“It just does.” Great, if the kid can figure the saddle doesn’t belong to him, it wouldn’t be hard for others to find out.
“Trace, Trace is a funny name. What’s it mean? Are you a three? The Mexicans say tres when they count, and it means three.”
“After I was born, my granny said that I looked like they’d traced my daddy. The name T-r-a-c-e stuck.”
She giggled. “Trace, I like the name. What’s your horse’s name?”
“I call him Buckskin.”
“That’s his color. He needs a name. How long have you had him?”
Trace groaned. Maybe she was a pint-sized deputy. “Had him long enough. Cowboys don’t name their horses.”
“But you said you weren’t a cowboy. I want to name him. Let’s see. He’s big and strong. I bet he can run fast. How about Charger?”
“Good name. Charger, it is.”
“Names are important. That’s why Frank married momma. Said he wanted to give me his name Taylor. It’s a good name, I think. That’s how I became Blue Taylor. Before Frank, I was just Blue.”
A sadness pricked Trace’s heart, poor kid. “You know, Blue is a pretty name, but someday you might want a different one. Do you have a middle name?”
“No, just Blue Taylor. Do you have one?”
“Adam is my middle name. But I was thinking. My mother’s name was Irene. How about I give you her name. That way, if you ever get tired of being called Blue, you can tell others to call you Irene.”
“Irene, it’s a fancy name. I bet she was pretty. Are you sure it’s okay if I take her name? She won’t get mad, will she?”
Holding back the all too familiar anger, Trace controlled his voice. “No, she won’t mind. She’s dead.”
Silence fell on the girl. For a moment anyway.
Pushing aside his sadness, he turned his thoughts to the child. “Okay, so you’re Blue Irene Taylor. Your initials spell out B-I-T. That’s what I’m going to call you, Little Bit.”
“How many names does a person have?”
“Little Bit is just for me to call you. A pet name.”
“Gee, for all these years I just had Blue, now I have all kinds of names. I didn’t know it was so easy to get new names.”
Trace patted her hand, hoping she’d quiet. She didn’t. The questions and words tumbled out of her mouth quicker than a pack of dogs after a rabbit. He mumbled at times just to be polite, but he kept his attention focused on the land.
Almost noon, he spotted a few dilapidated buildings that must be Ledbetter. Maybe all of three horses lined the street. The town had the makings of a town going belly up. That could be a good thing as it was probably too small to have a sheriff.
Trace reined Charger toward a building that must be the saloon. The kid had grown quiet the last few miles, and he had to wake her up to get off.
“I’m going to the saloon and check things out. You stay right here and guard Charger for me.”
A little nod and tired eyes met his.
He stepped up to the porch and shoved open the door. Trace let his eyes get accustomed to the dark room. Two men at the bar, another sat at a table, his head down and snoring. Seeing no apparent danger, Trace eased up to the bar, keeping the rifle at his side.
“You have a sheriff here?”
“Nope.” The barkeep narrowed his eyes.
“Is there a church in town? Anyone I could leave a little girl with?”
Sneering, the filthy bartender perked up. “How little?”
Hating the look on the man’s face, Trace shook his head. “Never mind.” He heard a deck shuffle and turned to see the two men at the table with a pile of dollars in front of them. With his stomach growling, Trace walked toward them, hoping to pluck a few pigeons. Once he hit a big enough town, he could get the money he had in the bank. Right now, he was near broke.
Before he made it to the table, he saw a woman came out of the back. She smiled at him. It was one of those been-around smiles of a soiled dove. Trace started to grin as he turned to face her but stopped. He was staring at the grown image of the little girl outside.