Ten

Wondering about Jack Daltry. And his final intentions once they got through this mess. Angel finally admitted she didn’t know where he’d be. Or what he’d be doing in this picture she had in her head. All she knew was the Circle D was not his. It was hers. If he could accept that … then maybe he could stay on. But out in the bunkhouse. After all, she could use his knowledge of the place and the cattle business.

Her nose wrinkled with her immediate rejection of that notion. He’d not stand for living in the bunkhouse while she lived in the house where he’d been born. Well, what was she supposed to do with him, if he wouldn’t just go away? Which she didn’t see him doing. And she sure as hell didn’t see herself marrying him to keep the ranch.

She wasn’t about to marry anybody. Ever. Because she knew what he could then expect of her … in the bedroom. She looked over at Jack Daltry. A hot thrill raced through her, pooling at the juncture between her legs. Dammit. All right, she argued with herself, I don’t have to marry him. But could it be that she wanted him … in that way a man and a woman wanted each other? Ashamed, embarrassed, Angel ducked her head, hating herself for even thinking it. How could she want that? She’d seen what such goings-on with men had done to her mother. It had killed her.

But then, almost as if she couldn’t help herself, Angel again sent a shy glance his way. Under his stiff-brimmed hat, his black eyebrows arched above those thick-lashed Daltry blue eyes of his. His profile revealed the almost straight line of his nose, his high cheekbones, the shell of his ear, and that stubborn jaw. His mouth was set in a straight line as he peered into the distance. It was then that Angel realized a few other things about the man.

She knew his touch. The way his hands felt on her skin. The memory gave her goosebumps. She knew his kiss. The way his mouth fit over hers, what his tongue was like. Angel licked at her lips, caught herself doing so, and sat up straight. Heck, she fumed, frowning and forcing herself to be practical. So what if I liked his kiss?

Not getting any argument from herself on that score, she then felt free to allow herself, for the first time, to dwell on how she knew firsthand what the rest of him looked like. Well, how could she not? she defended herself. How else could she have cleaned up the man, if she hadn’t first gotten him out of his clothes? Well, she couldn’t have, came her answer. And her absolution.

Given free rein, her mind insisted on replaying for her … slowly … just how he’d looked. Tight skinned. Perfectly formed. Long limbed. Impressively muscled. That dark hair on his chest that centered to a vee as it traveled downward below his waist to where his—Angel’s breath caught. She took herself to task for such thoughts of Jack Daltry by recalling, The man had been hairy and dirty and smelly. And drunk. What’s so wonderful about that?

Now she felt better. Or did, until she started considering his character. He seemed fair and honest. And tough. Like his father. His smile was okay. He didn’t mind laughing, either, it seemed. But Jack Daltry had a temper, too. So do you, a nagging part of her mind accused. Angel quirked her mouth, ignoring her conscience, outrightly refusing to admit that she might want not only the Circle D and all it stood for. That she might also want the Daltry that came with it.

Angel’s hand fisted around her roan’s reins. No, she did not want him, she tried to convince herself. He wasn’t a piece of property she could own, anyway. Wondering how he’d take to being considered property, much like women were, got an amused snort from Angel—and brought Jack’s attention to her.

“You all right?”

“I’m fine,” she blurted, her cheeks heating up. He continued to stare silently and solemnly at her. This time, with more deliberation, she repeated, “I said I’m fine.”

Even though his hat shadowed his features, Angel could see his eyebrows arch. “Pardon me. As long as you’re fine.”

Angel felt ungrateful. For what, she didn’t know. But still, she found herself saying—none too pleasantly, so she could live with herself—“I suppose I ought to thank you for seeing to my horse earlier today.”

He chuckled, no doubt because her irritated tone didn’t match her words. But then he quickly said, “No thanks necessary. He was left out in the rain because of my bad behavior.”

Angel stared at him, wondering what he meant, but then realized the bad behavior he referred to was his popping her in the jaw. “Oh. I see what you mean.”

That killed the conversation for a few plodding paces before Jack spoke up again. “I ought to be thanking you, instead. I just recalled that I left Buffalo tied up at the hitching rail my first day home. Since I didn’t find him still there when I sobered up, I suppose you saw to him?”

Angel shrugged. “Who else? He wasn’t near as much trouble as you turned out to be.”

A hearty laugh burst out of Jack, catching Angel off guard, startling her. But an answering grin fought its way to her lips. She bit down on her bottom one, willing away the humor, but failing. Because she liked being able to make him laugh. And he always did. Even when her barbed words were at his own expense. This trait of his made her wish she could be more like him, instead of always being so quick to find offense, so quick to use words to hurt.

She knew why she was that way. The life she’d led before she came here. Words had been one of her only weapons to keep folks from getting close enough to hurt her. Sure, she’d done what she had to do. But still, she wished she could be different. Maybe now, maybe in this new life she had here at the Circle D, she could learn to let her guard down, could learn to laugh. Like he was doing now.

Just then, Jack levered himself up, his palm pushing against the pommel. About midway in his stretching, as the saddle leather groaned under him, he said, his eyes still brimming with hilarity, “Angel Daltry, you’re a hard woman. But still, I’m beholden to you, ma’am.” He then tipped his Stetson to her.

Fighting a bigger grin, fighting her warming up to him that she couldn’t seem to stop, Angel retreated some, sobering her expression. “I guess you had just cause for your drunken actions that first day. I did shoot at you. And it’s not every day you learn”—too late she realized where her words were headed, but could do nothing at this point except continue—“your father’s been … well, you know.”

The humor bled from Jack’s face, as did some of his color. He winced as if against a sudden pain and then turned away, looking straight ahead. Angel wanted to kick herself. In the ensuing heavy silence, she watched his Stetson-shaded profile, watched him look down and eye his pommel as if he’d just now realized his saddle had one.

“I’m sorry,” Angel blurted, even before she knew she was thinking it. Jack looked over at her, frowning as he did. She wondered why this had to be so hard. Quickly, though, before she lost her nerve, she explained. “About your father—I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’ve said it yet. And if I haven’t … well, I am. I’m sorry.” No wonder she never expressed her feelings. Doing so hurt, like a stomachache.

A sudden, unbidden image of her mother came into her mind. She was the one who had taught her that folks were supposed to say something nice about the dead, had taught her good manners. But she’d had no sympathy, no kind words for her own mother. Angel blinked away the image and said, “Your father … he was a good man.”

Jack nodded, looking uncomfortable as he shifted his weight in the saddle and directed his gaze to the far horizon. “Yeah, he was. But there was a time, not so long ago, when I would have disagreed with you.”

Angel’s stomach fluttered. Full of unquenched curiosity, she stared at his profile. This was her opening, she realized. With only a few questions, she guessed, she could probably find out why Wallace Daltry hadn’t left everything to this son. Seth Daltry spoke for himself. But Jack? She watched him now, watched him as he continued his silent scrutiny of the prarie around them.

No, Wallace Daltry’s decision didn’t make any sense to her. With a son like him—Angel recognized the grudging respect for Jack inherent in those words—why leave the Circle D to her? Why come looking for her and save her, only to toss her into the middle of the heartache and mystery here? Just like Jack said, they were missing something—a fact, a bit of knowledge—that would clear everything up. Still, no matter how strong her compulsion to ask Jack what had caused the bad blood between him and his father, Angel knew she wouldn’t. Because to do so invited confidences.

And there was just no sense in getting to know Jack Daltry any better than she already did. Because the day loomed when she’d most likely have to throw him off her land. Just how she planned to achieve that, given their difference in sizes, if not temperaments, she couldn’t even begin to fathom. But another question—how to get him to stay thrown off—occupied most of her waking thoughts, it seemed. Would she have to kill him or marry him to hang on to his father’s legacy to her? Angel didn’t know which idea she hated the most.

A grimace of indecision captured her features. Maybe she could have killed him—she’d certainly been prepared to—on that first day he rode up, when she hadn’t known him yet. But now? Now that she knew his kiss, knew his laugh, knew his touch? Knew how much he was like his father, meaning kind and decent for the most part? Angel’s jaw chose right then to throb and thereby remind her of yet another side of him. And to raise suspicions of him that she’d thought she’d put to rest.

Put to rest? What was wrong with her? Was she not allowed to doubt the man’s sincerity? Angel mentally shook herself, disappointed with what she now realized she’d done. She’d placed on Jack’s head all the respect she’d had for his father. And once there, it was hard to retract. Oh, this was awful. If she stayed, she’d have a showdown with Jack, as sure as the sun was about to set. But there was something else she’d better face: he might not be the one who ended up lying on the ground. It could be her.

And most likely—she eyed the serious six-shooter strapped to his hip—it would be her. She could handle a Winchester, all right. Back at the hotel in Red River Station, she’d sneaked Saul’s away when she could and had taught herself to use it. And now, Jack had let her keep his old pistol, which rode her left hip. But she knew she wasn’t a real gunhand, not like Jack Daltry was. Angel sighed in frustration. For the second time today, she asked herself why then—if it was this hard—why she didn’t just ride away and forget the Circle D?

Because, she realized—and the thought stiffened her spine—for all she knew the papers weren’t here because they’d already been filed, in her name, in Wichita Falls. Maybe she didn’t really have to sign anything at all. Maybe that was what Mr. Daltry’d used to get her here. After all, she didn’t know any of the fine points of the law.

So until she found those papers, or got to the county seat to see for herself if they’d been filed or not, she needed to behave as if she already owned this place. Just the thought, the idea, of owning all this land quickened Angel’s pulse. But there was another reason she couldn’t just ride away. And that reason rode to her left. Angel crooked her neck, pivoting to peer over at Jack and consider again the bad blood between him and his father. For all she knew, Mr. Daltry might not have wanted Jack to have the Circle D because of something horrible—perhaps something to do with Jack.

So who was she to deny the old man his last wish? Angel was too smart to believe he’d just been angry at his sons and, in a vindictive mood, had picked the first ragamuffin he crossed paths with to be his heir. No, there was more to it, she now knew, because of what Wallace Daltry had told her. She wondered if it had something more to do with him and her parents than she’d credited before now. Some huge reason why Wallace Daltry, at the expense of his own sons, owed Tom and Virginia Devlin’s daughter a world of wealth. But what could it be? Until she had that answer … she wasn’t giving an inch.

Well, this is just plain crazy, Angel decided. The more she thought about her predicament, the worse it got. One minute she trusted Jack Daltry. And in the next, she didn’t. One minute she trusted herself with Jack Daltry. And in the next, she couldn’t. What was she supposed to—

“Angel,” Jack snapped, his voice low as he grabbed her arm and reined in his horse. Startled out of her thoughts, her heart pounding, Angel pulled back on her own reins and looked over at him. His features hardened as he exchanged a glance with her and then fixed his concentration straight ahead.

Swallowing the lump of fear in her throat, Angel did the same thing. And found what had riveted his attention. Big, dark birds swooped and circled in the sky. Angel lowered her gaze. And a gasp was torn from her. She put a hand to her mouth, nearly retching. Sick inside, hot and heaving, suddenly sweaty in the day’s coolness, she stared in horror.

Up ahead, a slight but measurable distance away, and scattered over the wet and rolling land like so many broken branches … were broken bodies.

A slaughter had occurred here. And now provided a feast for the coyotes and vultures vying for position and settling among the carcasses. The snarling, snapping, wing-flapping, and screeching were deafening. Angel couldn’t seem to look away. Men. Cattle. Horses. Dogs. All dead. “Oh, my God,” came her sickened whisper.

“Stay here,” Jack said, not looking at her as he released her arm and drew his gun.

“No,” Angel snapped. “I’m going with you. I can help. They’re not going to give up their find easily.”

Jack wasn’t happy with her announcement. He contemplated her from under the low brim of his Stetson. Angel watched the ice-blue chips that were his eyes, saw no emotion, barely any recognition in them. Then he said, his voice flat, not brooking any argument, “That’s why I want you to stay here.”

His voice, chilling her, streaked fear through Angel. But she swallowed and shook her head, saying, “I’m going. How do you intend to stop me?”

Jack stared steadily at her, his gaze, his will, locking with hers. Finally he exhaled, saying, “All right. But stay behind me.”

“I’ll do that,” Angel conceded. Nodding, Jack tensed, readying himself, Angel knew, to send his horse in a galloping foray right into the middle of the feeding frenzy up ahead. “Wait,” she entreated, recapturing his attention. “Who do you think that is out there? I mean the men.”

He blinked, firming his mouth as he turned to stare at the scene spread before them. Angel watched him, saw the hard lines form to either side of his mouth, and waited for his response. Behind her question lay her concern that he might have more family she didn’t know about, family he could find among the victims. She told herself she cared only because she wasn’t about to go through another three days with him being drunk and belligerent.

Finally, Jack gave a constricted shake of his head and turned back to her. “I don’t know who they are. Not by name. We’re too far away. But it’s got to be my hired men and some of my cattle. Jesus, I just hope it’s not the cows we meant to grow our herd with. If it is, I’m ruined.”

He was ruined? Angel’s belly tightened. This was her land. Not his. So if there was ruination to be had, it would be hers. Her mood bleak, Angel kept that observation to herself—now was not the time for that fight—and watched Jack stare at the scene ahead.

After a wordless space of time, he turned to her and said, “Come on. Let’s go.” He kneed his mount, urging Buffalo into a ground-covering gallop over the treacherous, rain-slippery ground.

Taking a breath for courage, Angel put her heels to her roan and followed Jack, her heart pounding in time with her horse’s hooves. All too soon, she was beside him among the carnage and mimicking his actions, firing her pistol into the air and yelling at the carrion eaters as she danced her roan in tight, dangerous circles. The coyotes cringed and snapped, showing blood-reddened muzzles. The vultures shot up in the air amid a flapping of wings and bared talons.

Within moments, though, the creatures had either slunk away or flown away. But only to the edges of the carnage, a chilling reminder of their sly patience, of their hungry intention to return when Jack and Angel left. In the death-quiet aftermath, sickened by all that she looked upon, by the rotting stench that burned her nostrils, Angel reined in her horse and, like Jack, sat there … numbly shaking her head as she tried to take it all in. But couldn’t.

They were all dead. There was no doubt about that. Two men who, given their positions and those of their horses, had been shot right out of their saddles. And the cattle—all cows, that she could see—lay clustered almost on top of each other. Shot where they stood, apparently, with no time even to stampede. And the two cow dogs … Angel swallowed. Dead. Just shot down.

“Goddamm-it! Son of a bitch!” came the hoarse cry off to her right.

Tightly reining in her white-eyed roan, already skittish from the scent of blood and death in its nostrils, Angel turned the horse until she faced Jack. About twenty feet away from her, he was swinging down from his saddle, his face contorted, his gaze intent on the two fallen men. He knelt between them, going down on one knee as he felt first one rain-soaked, torn, and bloodied chest, and then the other. Was he checking against hope for a heartbeat?

Angel wanted nothing more than to stop him, to pull him away, but knew she couldn’t, didn’t dare. She supposed that Jack knew he wouldn’t find any life here, but maybe felt he needed to make the gesture. Because he could see the signs as clearly as she could. What they’d happened onto here wasn’t a first feeding. Angel swallowed the sourness at the back of her throat. She’d seen her share of dead men back at Red River Station. That cow town seemed to grow nothing but misery and death.

But this way of dying—she forced herself to look upon the ravaged bodies of the dead men, men who most likely had been in their prime—was the worst. To have the life forced from you … it seemed to be the worst way to go.

Like Mr. Daltry. Again she saw the older man with that bone-handled knife protruding from his chest. All that blood—the knife! Angel’s breath caught. She hadn’t thought about the blade since she’d pulled it from the old man’s chest, had wiped his blood off it, and brought it with her, only to hide it under her mattress. She couldn’t have said right then why she was thinking of Mr. Daltry now, except that his death was more removed, less immediately dreadful, than the murdered men facing her now.

But the knife. Under her mattress. It’d been such a natural thing for her to do. Because that was where, all her life, she’d kept those few things that meant something to her. And still did. It remained the safest place, since she still didn’t intend to allow anyone close enough to her to share her secrets. Or her bed. Or her life.

Sitting there on her roan, surrounded by the ugliness of death, terrified by the reality of it, Angel recalled her treasures, her comforts. A small and tattered old rag-cloth doll from her childhood. A yellowed scrap of lace from a hat of her mother’s. And her father’s rusted-out pocket watch. Yes, they were all under the mattress, stuffed up against the bed-boards and wrapped in some oilskin … together with the knife that’d been used to kill Jack Daltry’s father.

Fear shot through Angel once more. How could she have forgotten to tell him about the knife? Because now she would look guilty, even to her own way of thinking. But they’d hardly discussed his father’s murder, Angel thought in self-defense. And too much had happened in too short a space of time for her to think of everything. Truth be told, she’d simply forgotten about it.

But now, suddenly the knife loomed large in her mind. She needed to show it to Jack. He might recognize it, might even know its owner … the man who’d murdered his father. Yes, she needed to show it to him before he, for whatever reason, under whatever circumstances, found it himself in her room. Angel worried what he’d think, what he might do, in that event. She’d seen his grief, his temper … so she figured he’d kill her, no questions asked.

Suddenly, Angel knew with gut-tightening certainty what she and Jack had only supposed a few hours ago. Wallace Daltry’s murder and that of his hired hands were related. She put her knuckles to her mouth, rubbing them agitatedly over her lips as she focused on Jack’s hunched figure. She wondered if he suspected what she did, or if he already knew it. She wanted to say something, to ask him, but didn’t dare, fearing that her guilty feelings about the knife might be written plainly on her face.

Just then, as Angel watched, Jack’s fist closed around a torn sleeve, the soggy material wadding, ripping under the onslaught of his grief-strengthened grip. Angel stiffened, forcing herself to be still, to let him work through this. Jack covered his face with his other hand. But still, his muffled cries carried to her. “Who could have done this? Why? Why, dammit? What the hell is going on here? Will somebody please tell me?”

Angel swallowed around the tear-clogged lump in her throat and blinked against the wetness invading her eyes. She wanted to go to him, to put her arms around him. She wanted to comfort him, as she’d never wanted to comfort anyone before in her life. But as hard as it was for her just to acknowledge this compassionate urge in herself, she knew that acting on it would be even harder. Because, her own considerations aside, she simply didn’t know whether or not Jack would appreciate her doing such a thing. She wondered if he’d push her away … like her mother had, more than once.

Angel figured that if she didn’t know him well enough to know how he’d react, it was best if she did nothing. Unable to help, she simply looked away from such raw emotion, leaving Jack his privacy with his fallen friends.

But immediately she wished she hadn’t.

Her gaze lit upon the poor dumb cattle. She grimaced, eyeing the bloated bodies, counting them. Ten head. And the dogs … their bodies lying in sprawling heaps next to the cattle. Those two hadn’t gone down without a fight. That was a cow dog for you. He’d give his life protecting his charges. Angel’s heart, full of a special tenderness for the dogs, went out to them. She’d long admired the breed’s fierce loyalty and hardworking spirit. And the way they loved you whether you deserved it or not.

But the dogs, the cattle, the men, none of them deserved the end they’d met. Someone—more than one someone, given the numbers—had just cold-bloodedly killed them. Angel silently wondered who’d do such a thing, and why. What was worth this? She inhaled deeply, and exhaled just as sharply. What a shame—

A hand grabbed her right arm. “Angel, get down—”

A yelp of fear tore through Angel, her heart pounded against her ribs. Her roan’s head came up, his ears laid flat against his head. Angel pulled back on the reins and saw it was Jack who had grabbed her horse’s bridle and held on, helping her regain control. When she had recovered, she put a hand to her heart and said, “You scared me out of ten years’ growth.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Get down. I need your horse.”

Angel frowned at that. “You need my horse?”

Jack nodded, looking back over his shoulder at the dead men, and then turning again to her. “To get my men, Tex and Calvin, back home. I can’t leave them here. They need to be buried. You can ride behind me.”

Considering his clipped, emotionless tone, Angel eyed first him, then the bodies littering the ground. A good, practical solution. What else could she say? “All right.” With that, she dismounted and, leading her trailing horse as she walked alongside Jack, sidestepped her way around the animals’ carcasses. “What about the dogs? They shouldn’t be left here.”

Without breaking stride, Jack glanced over at her. “The dogs? There’s nothing we can do—”

“I know that.” Her voice hardened. “There’s nothing we can do for your men, either. Except bury them. Those dogs died working for your father, Jack. Doing their jobs. Protecting his property. Same as these men did. Let the vultures and the coyotes have the rest. But the dogs … well, you owe ’em.”

Jack stopped. Angel did, too, halting her roan as she stared up into Jack’s face. He looked away from her. Then, apparently having made his decision, he looked down at her. “All right. Let’s go. It’ll be dark soon. We’ll get Tex and Calvin … and then the dogs.”

With a nod of her head, Angel silently agreed. She was glad he agreed with her, didn’t think she was overly sentimental. Then she spared a glance at the setting sun, since he’d mentioned the day’s end. Sure enough, in less than an hour, it would slip below the horizon. Angel looked for Jack, saw he’d already made his way over to the first of the men. She followed after him.

Working together, in short order they had the two men’s bodies slung over the roan’s strong back. On top of them, tied down by a reata of braided rawhide that Jack pulled from around his pommel, lay the two dogs’ tongue-lolling bodies. A grim load, to be sure, but one her experienced cow pony seemed to take in stride.

Done with their task, her roan tied by a lead rope to Jack’s pommel, Angel now stood beside his leggy brown gelding, reached for his hand and let herself be pulled up behind him. His superior strength lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Settling herself behind him, and then wrapping her arms around his waist, feeling the hard muscle and the warm shirt-covered body under her touch, Angel said, “I’m ready.”

Jack’s only answer was to prod his mount with his heels and set them off for home. Rocking along behind Jack, his every sway her own, Angel took a deep breath, inadvertently inhaling the warm, earthy scents of the man in front of her. She closed her eyes, realizing she’d probably never forget this moment, the musky way he smelled … and how very much she wanted to seek the comfort of his reassuring nearness, to rest her forehead, if only for a moment, against his broad back. But she knew she couldn’t.

*   *   *

On that next sunshiny morning, as Jack stood on the verandah, a mug of coffee in one hand, his other gripping a splintery support beam, he pulled back and hit the beam with his fist. All this standing around was going to kill him. He needed to do something.

What he wanted to do—and the only thing he couldn’t do—was saddle Buffalo and ride hell-for-leather to search for clues to what had happened here. Despite still being bone tired, despite the soreness that cramped his muscles, a soreness from his fight yesterday with Seth and from digging those two graves last night by the light of the moon and the kerosene lamp Angel had held up for him, Jack ached for … just one damned clue.

Anything that would free him from this feeling of being hog-tied. From sitting here and waiting for something to happen … again. Waiting for something to reach out of thin air and grab him around the throat. That’s how vulnerable he felt, how exposed … just standing here, inviting disaster. As his impatience surged, Jack looked out beyond the low brown hills that rolled in gentle undulations away from the Circle D.

Once those hills had called to him, but now they seemed only to mock him. Not so long ago, only a matter of months, he’d craved the opportunities he imagined lay beyond them. But now he knew better. He knew what lay beyond their openness. It wasn’t freedom. No, it was a drunken wasting of time that turned out to have been the last precious months of his father’s life. And now, Jack had to live with knowing he’d squandered every last one of them on cheap liquor, cheaper women, and barroom fights.

He shook his head, wanting to turn away from the memories, from the hills, turn away from the pain he’d caused the old man, away from the last look of sad longing Jack had seen on his father’s face. They had yelled at each other over differences about how the ranch should be run. In light of the fresh graves out back, in light of the slaughter of the breeding stock, and what that meant to the future of the Circle D, what difference did that make now?

Jack uttered another curse. He’d been so stupid, wanting to get away, fighting with his father about how he never took Jack’s ideas seriously. Jack could still hear himself telling the old man that he could just forget it, then. Just forget the Circle D. Do what you want with it. I don’t want any part of it. There’s a whole world out there, and I want to see something of it. And I can’t do that sitting here. You don’t need me. You don’t care what I think, so the hell with you. I’m leaving.

He’d wanted only to prove himself, to earn respect, like any man needed to do. But what had all that independence gotten him? Then go. Just go on, his father had said. But don’t come crawling back to me. Make your own way. Don’t take what I’m offering you, son. Go. And he had gone. And now he’d come back. To this. To an empty ranch. To questions with no answers. To a mystery with no clues. And already, he wanted to leave again. But now, Jack knew, he wanted to get away for different reasons, reasons having to do with answers, with making someone pay for what he’d lost … before he could reclaim it.

Again he looked around the only home he’d ever known. And asked himself what exactly he had lost. Men, cattle, the cow dogs, horses, money … all that. Sad. Senseless. But it was inside himself he discovered his real loss, when his father’s face shimmered in his memory.

Jack closed his eyes, felt the moisture under his lids, and opened them, blinking away the tears. Grimacing angrily, he decided all he needed was one name. Someone who would pay for everything that happened here in the four months he’d been gone. Someone to take his guilt away, he finally admitted, for not being here when he’d so obviously been needed. But no name presented itself. Other than the roll call of the dead. Tex. Calvin. Pa. Dammit, Pa, I never meant to—

Shifting his weight from one booted leg to the other, Jack shied away from the swamp of emotion that threatened to drag him under. Instead, he concentrated on another part of the overall mystery that was the Circle D. Just where in the hell had Lou and Boots, those two old drover setting hens, gotten off to? Hell, they’d never leave here. Jack’s expression hardened. Not of their own free will.

Don’t think about it, he warned himself. Because, given everything else that had gone on around here, whatever their fate had been, it couldn’t have been good. Using his free hand, Jack scrubbed at his jaw and chin, not sparing the fresh cut Seth’d given him yesterday … as if the physical pain could take away that of the soul. But he knew better. He also knew that with everyone else dead or missing … only Angel was left. She was his only link—and a weak one. She didn’t seem to know—or wasn’t telling—anything. Which one is it? Does she not know? Or is she just not telling?

Frustrated, agitated, locked into this forced inactivity that kept him standing on the verandah, Jack felt more like pitching his mug of strong, black coffee than sipping at it. But he continued to stand there. On the verandah. Staring at the chickens. Even those happily occupied birds out in the yard seemed to mock him with the direction and purpose in their lives, seemed to say that even they knew what to do next. Jack narrowed his eyes, venting his sour thought. Yeah, keep on pecking. You’ll be Sunday dinner soon enough.

Just then, the front door opened behind him. Jack turned around, knew who he’d see. Angel Devlin. She stepped outside, a mug of steaming coffee cupped in her hands. She nodded when she saw him looking her way. Jack returned her greeting, noting—as she turned to close the door behind her—that she was all but swallowed up in his clothes from yesterday. Her long black hair hung thick and loose, curling at the ends that brushed her waist.

Jack swallowed his hiss of wanting … of wanting to run his hands through that hair, of wanting to feel it on his body, brushing over his naked skin …

Her sudden graceful movements broke Jack’s reverie. Careful of her mug, and flinging her hair back over her shoulder with her other hand, she settled herself in one of the two wooden rocking chairs that adorned the verandah. Then she glanced up—and caught him staring. “Mornin’,” she said, making it sound less like a pleasantry and more like a statement of fact.

Embarrassed to be caught staring, and still burning for her, but chuckling at her early-morning bad mood, Jack came back with, “Yes, it is.”

Angel shot him a pissy glance and sipped at her coffee. But then, and without any preamble, as if she’d been inside and thinking, and had come outside only to ask him, she said, “Those men we buried last night, next to your father … Tex and Calvin? Who were they, Jack? How well did you know them?”

Jack stared at her, cocking his head, and wondered why she was asking. But deciding that talking to her was much better than entertaining his own thoughts, Jack stepped over to the other rocker and lowered himself onto it. Sitting next to her, careful of his coffee, but with his attention focused on the prairie landscape in front of his house, he shrugged, saying, “I knew ’em well enough, I suppose. They rode the grub line. Good men. Hard workers. Been showing up together every spring for the last three years and right on time for the drive up to Abilene. Why?”

Now she shrugged. “No reason, really. I was just wondering. Wondering if they had any family who might want to know.”

Well, that surprised him for its thoughtfulness. Jack considered her, and the constant surprise that she was. One minute she was damning the whole world and in the next, she was playing nursemaid to it. Interesting. He sipped at his coffee and then said, “I don’t know. Didn’t know them that well, myself. My father hired the men. He might’ve known that answer but…” A sudden catch in his emotions had Jack’s intended words—he’s gone now—trailing off unsaid.

“It doesn’t matter,” Angel said. “Just an idle thought.”

Jack doubted if she’d ever entertained any thought for idle purposes, but kept that observation to himself. In the ensuing quiet that seemed to invite his belated appreciation for the budding spring day, Jack rocked his chair back until he could stretch his legs out in front of him. Resting his booted feet atop the porch rail and nestling his coffee mug in his hands, he again looked over at Angel, noting now the tired look hovering around those black eyes of hers.

Damned if he didn’t feel responsible. Again he saw her standing there last night, uncomplaining, holding that heavy kerosene lamp while he dug the graves, saw her helping him lay the blanket-rolled bodies into the deep holes, saw her trudging listlessly back to the house, heard her mumbled good-night. As if he couldn’t stop himself from asking, Jack heard himself saying, “You sleep okay last night?”

She turned her head, staring at him, arching a black-winged eyebrow. “Yeah. Why?”

Her standoffish attitude had Jack feeling pretty silly for asking. “No reason. Just an idle thought,” he drawled, using her own words and trying to keep himself from staring openly at her surprisingly delicate, dark-haired beauty. She was one of those women you could look at every day of your life, he decided, and never tire of the sight of her.

For a stretch of time after that, during which she sipped at her coffee and rocked her chair, its repetitious squeaking somehow reassuring, Angel said nothing else. Jack waited, figuring something bigger was on her mind. Then, looking straight ahead, she said, “Doesn’t look much like rain today.”

A faint smile tugged at Jack’s lips. He glanced at the clear blue sky, at the hot yellow sun shining down from a cloudless sky. True. It didn’t look like rain today. But curiosity had him wondering what was going on in that mind of hers. Because she didn’t talk just to pass time. Hell, she spoke only when she had something to say. And answered him only when she felt like it, it seemed. And so, he looked over at her and cut to the heart of it. “What’s wrong, Angel?”

With a sharp turn of her head, she was looking into his eyes. “Nothing.”

Jack nodded, took a sip of his coffee, and called her bluff. “Liar.”

Her black-winged eyebrows dropped low, matching the frown of her expressive mouth. She leaned forward a bit in her chair. “What did you just call me?”

Jack narrowed his eyes, cutting her no quarter, but loving how her black hair, like so much soft velvet, fell forward, all but shielding her face from his view. “You heard me. I called you a liar. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

With an unconsciously feminine move that had Jack’s blood stirring, Angel swung her head in such a way that her hair slipped over her shoulder and trailed down her back, out of her way. Even glaring at him, as she did now, she was one striking woman. Then she blurted, “First you take that back—calling me a liar—cowboy.”

Jack chuckled. Cowboy. So they were back to that. “Can’t. Because I was right. You are lying. So, speak your mind.”

She firmed her lips together until her bottom one was in danger of poking out. Jack was willing to bet a gold coin she did that as a kid, poked that bottom lip out. “All right, I will,” she said, acting like she wasn’t giving in. “There’re some things around here I don’t understand.”

“Only some things?” Jack remarked, squinting as he took another sip of his coffee. “Hell, you’re one up on me, then. Because I don’t understand even one blessed thing going on around here. But give me a for-instance.”

“All right,” she said again. “For instance, your mother.”