Fifteen

Following the noonday meal that next day, a sunny but dampish one with a light wind, Angel pulled off her apron and wiped her hands on it, intent on escaping the house, and its many quiet rooms that seemed to mock her, to tell her she’d lost, that she didn’t belong here. She needed to get away, away from Jack’s weighted stares, his blue and questioning eyes. Away from Boots’s incessant chatter and Lou’s simple grinning ways.

Instantly, she regretted that thought. It wasn’t the two old men. It was Jack. His life didn’t appear to have changed any as a result of what they’d done last night. And who was he, anyway, to tell her what she did or didn’t feel? What’d he know about anything, about her? Nothing, that’s what. Nothing at all. And he was wrong. Because she did feel … had felt something. Wasn’t she changed today? The blood smudged on her thighs last night proved that her life was now and forever different.

And it was that realization, minus a concrete understanding of what it meant for her and Jack, what came next, what he might expect, that made her want to run away, to be alone with her aching muscles and her troubled thoughts. She needed time to sort things out for herself, to see how she felt about them. And to decide what she was going to do about them. If anything.

Turning to the kitchen window, which looked out onto the barn, its service court, and the horse corral, Angel crossed her arms under her bosom and stared. What she saw brought a reluctant grin to her face. She chuckled, shaking her head. Jack sure lost that battle. Because there they all three were. Lou and Boots had filed out, right behind Jack, after eating a meal of beans and corn bread with her. Angel recalled the darting glances the two old drovers had shot her and Jack, who’d done no talking to each other. She remembered the men’s subdued conversation, their lowered voices. As if she were asleep and shouldn’t be awakened.

Those two old coots sure acted hell-bent on helping Jack make his preparations to leave, when the truth was they weren’t doing much more than getting in his way and slowing him down. Then it occurred to her, they probably meant to do just that … slow him down. Angel’s grin widened. She could respect that. Why, at lunch they’d even insisted he sit a spell, long enough to go over with them what was and what wasn’t missing after all the goings-on around here, and what needed to be done in his absence.

Of course, Jack had protested at every turn. He’d told them to rest, had said he didn’t need any help. May as well have saved his breath, Angel decided. Because Lou and Boots had followed him right outside, out to the barn, still stubbornly intent on helping him. As she watched, they were leading Jack to the barn, pointing and gesturing for all they were worth. Must be time to figure out what was and what wasn’t missing.

As if it matters, was Angel’s desultory thought as she finally turned her back on the scene outside and leaned against the sink behind her. She focused on the drop-leaf table across the way, but didn’t really see it as she gave herself over to her thoughts. And found herself agreeing with Jack. What good would it do, he’d asked, to have a list of items needing replacement, if there was no place to bring them to? Because nothing was settled. They could all still be killed, and the Circle D could still just dry up and blow away.

Angel huffed out her breath, forcing herself to think the thought … Jack’s leaving. But I’m not. She was staying put, right here. And there was the crux of the problem. All their lovemaking last night hadn’t changed a thing … except her and her plans. Not that she’d … participated out of any hope of changing his mind about her owning the Circle D. She wasn’t one to use feminine wiles to get her way. In fact, she wasn’t even sure she owned a feminine wile. Or if it would work, if she had one and tried to use it. What the heck am I thinking? Move on, Angel.

All right. Adding to her frustrations was her demoralizing realization—arrived at after listening to Jack and his two old drovers, from hearing Boots’s seemingly endless list of concerns and details to be seen to—that even at the best of times, she couldn’t hold this place together without Jack, or someone like him. She didn’t have the know-how, the years of experience, or even the muscles it took to make a go of a cattle ranch. What had she been thinking? She ought to just leave, was what she ought to do.

But she wouldn’t. And how had he extracted from her a promise to stay put? Then she remembered. He’d done so after the second time they’d … made love, and before she’d gotten up, insisting on sleeping in her own bed. She’d expected him to say otherwise, but he hadn’t raised a fuss. He’d said “Fine … go”—and something about her being as independent as a hog on ice—to her argument that she wasn’t used to sleeping with anyone and saw no need now to start doing so.

To her way of thinking, it’d been bad enough she’d given herself to him. She stopped at that thought … why had she given herself to him? How had that happened? One minute they were arguing downstairs, and the next they were naked upstairs and in bed. Well, however it had happened, she didn’t have to compound her mistake by spending the night in his bed and risk getting caught by Lou or Boots the next morning. Not that she cared what they thought. It just would have been … embarrassing. And none of their business.

So, was last night a mistake? Angel asked herself for about the tenth time today. Probably, she decided, and that led her to the next question for herself. If last night was a mistake, then could what they’d done together be called lovemaking? Because … was love ever a mistake? Grimacing, Angel put a hand to her forehead and rubbed hard. All these silly thoughts. Where were they getting her? Certainly not any closer to being outside.

And not any closer to answering the one notion that nagged her the most. And that was … no words of love, of loving each other, had passed between them. No words about today, about what last night meant for the future. But had she really expected such assurances? Angel now asked herself, thinking about it as she opened the kitchen door and stepped out back, breathing in the clean, fresh air. After all, it wasn’t as if she loved Jack Daltry.

She closed the door behind herself and stood there on the enclosed landing a moment, considering her own question. Do I love Jack Daltry?

No, she decided, shaking her head. She didn’t. But instantly another part of her mind—or was it her heart?—lodged a protest. Well, okay, she amended, she didn’t suppose she loved him. But maybe she did. She quirked her mouth, thinking further. How would I know? I don’t know what love feels like, now do I? I’ve never loved anyone.

The distant, fading echo of her father’s gentle laughter haunted her a moment. He’d died so long ago, killed by that stray bullet as he’d walked past a saloon brawl in Red River Station. She was five when that happened, but she supposed she’d have to say she loved him. Didn’t all children love their parents?

Angel sighed, thinking now of her mother. Okay, as a child she’d loved Virginia Daltry. She had memories of her mother’s many tendernesses and her caring ways. Her quiet spirit and soft voice. But that was before Tom Devlin had been killed and Virginia’d taken to a life of whoring. Angel flinched at the cold, ugly word. Could it be, as Wallace Daltry had said, that her mother hadn’t had a choice? That she’d had to sell her body, and her soul, to feed the child that Angel’d been back then?

It made sense, she now admitted … for the first time. But Angel suspected she’d always realized that. Just hadn’t allowed herself to believe it. And why hadn’t she? Because—she took a deep breath, as if doing so would help her handle the truth, as well as her own private guilt—she’d not been able to pull her mother out of that life. She’d barely made enough money at the hotel to support herself. And the one time she’d haltingly asked Saul if she could have her mother stay there and work, he’d said “I don’t want her kind around here. Got enough troubles as it is without the likes of her on the premises.”

The likes of her. Her kind. His words ate at Angel, then and now. She recalled it was that day she really understood how other folks saw her mother—indeed, how they saw her, Virginia’s daughter. It was after that—again Angel saw herself on that day, a skinny, ashamed fourteen-year-old—that she’d taken a step back from her mother, wouldn’t accept her money, had hardened her heart toward her. Had left her there to die.

Angel grimaced, letting go of her disturbing thoughts. What good did they do? She couldn’t undo what had happened. And then made up her mind to enjoy her moments of solitude. Dressed again in Jack’s denims and his chambray shirt, she put one foot in front of the other, as if an act of will was required, and ambled down the back steps. As her booted feet touched the rain-squishy ground, she realized she wasn’t done fretting over the question in her heart. Because here she was thinking about it again. Did she love Jack Daltry?

Suddenly angry with it all, she thought, No, I don’t. But again, and immediately, her heart protested, thumped leadenly in her chest, stopping her and forcing her to turn her head toward the barn, to seek him out.

And … there he was. Her breath caught. Framed in the open doors of the hayloft, with a knee flexed, his arms crossed over his chest, stood Jack Daltry. And he was watching her. Even from this distance, she felt the weight of his stare, felt certain she could feel the blue of his eyes darkening as they had last night. Her gaze riveted to his, time and distance no barrier, Angel stood frozen.

Then … he turned away, disappearing into the barn’s dark interior. In the same instant, Angel slumped, felt weak and clammy, as if she’d just been released from a spell he’d cast over her. Her heart now thumping, she wanted to turn and flee. But innate dignity and a huge dose of pride forced her to turn, head held high, and to stride evenly toward her destination. The meadow carpeted in bluebonnets. The wolf flower.

And suddenly, she was among them. As soon she walked into the field of silky-haired leaves and delicate blue blooms, Angel felt better, felt her cares begin to slip away. She didn’t know how far or how long she’d walked among them—just that she was, exhilarated by the sunshine, by the quiet, by the openness—when an unbidden thought stopped her where she stood, shattered her. He was right. As if possessed of a will of their own, Angel’s hands found her face, covering it. I did try to get through the lovemaking without feeling anything. Why? Is it because of Mama?

Mama? Angel gasped, lowering her hands, staring straight ahead, right through the undulating ocean of flowers sifted by the breeze. She hadn’t called, or even thought of, Virginia Devlin as Mama since she’d been about ten years old. So why now? Maybe because now she was a woman herself? Because now she knew what it was like to be faced with hard choices? Because now she knew what it felt like not to choose well?

Not to choose well. Angel squeezed her eyes shut. She knew what that meant. Last night. Jack Daltry. Their … lovemaking. And that was exactly what it was. Love. She knew it now. And did it ever hurt. Oh, Mama, help me! The wail tore through her, echoing in her soul. As if she had no bones to hold her up, Angel dropped to her knees. The dampness in the ground, like so much blood, seeped through her denims, chilling her.

Close to giving up, to giving in, Angel fell forward, her palms flat on the ground, her hair cascading forward over her shoulders, brushing against her hands. She couldn’t love Jack Daltry. She couldn’t. There was too much about him, about his family and hers, about his father and her parents, that she didn’t know. But the horrible twisting in her gut told her that whatever it was, whatever had happened all those years ago … was bad. Why else would her mother not accept Wallace Daltry’s help? What could Jack’s father have done to the young Virginia?

And if he’d done something so awful that her mother’d taken to whoring, then why was she here, accepting the man’s guilt-offering? Angel looked up. With the sun’s heat beating against her back, she stared into the distance, just above the flowers’ heads. A guilt-offering. That’s what this was—the Circle D and Wallace Daltry’s insisting she come here to take over the place. But hadn’t she thought as much, and even questioned him about it while they were still back at Red River Station? What had he said?

Oh, yes. He’d said something about the answers being here at the Circle D. He’d said he’d tell her once they got here, once she signed those papers. The missing papers. Did they even exist? And if they did, where were they? Seth. Angel gasped, sat back on her haunches, her hands gripping her knees, her gaze taking in the world but really seeing a hateful face, a raised fist … a threat against her. That murdering little bastard. Seth. He had them. She knew it, as surely as she knew she was sitting here and staring at—

Angel’s heart almost stopped, her throat all but closed. Chills raced over her body. She couldn’t seem to draw a breath.

The white wolf sat in front of her, had appeared out of thin air, for all Angel knew. Perhaps she’d been here a while because she was sitting, reposed on her haunches and so close Angel could reach out and touch her. If she dared. But she didn’t … this was a wolf, after all. A big one. A flesh-and-blood creature of the wild. Angel could see that much because the animal’s tongue lolled, her ears pricked, her fur was lifted by the restless wind. Unblinking, she stared deep into Angel’s eyes.

Terrified though she was, Angel refused to believe that this fantastic creature was the Comanche woman, Old Mother, who’d raised Jack and Seth. It just couldn’t be. People did not turn into animals. Or come back, like ghosts, to live inside them. They just didn’t. So how to explain what sat before her now, as plain as day, and seemingly willing to give her time to think this through? The amazing part was that she could think at all, Angel decided. But still, she did.

She hadn’t heard of this particular white wolf, or its connection to the Daltrys, but she had heard before of all-white animals occurring among types that weren’t prone to be white. Like the white buffalo, which was a sacred Indian legend. Just like this white wolf is, according to Jack. And to that Comanche brave who brought Boots and Lou home.

Well, real or legend, Angel decided, it just didn’t matter. Because there was still a wolf in front of her that could, solely with its keen blue-eyed gaze, hold her riveted in place.

“What—” Startled at herself, Angel swallowed the rest of her words, watching as the wolf’s ears pricked forward. Was she letting Angel know she was listening, waiting for her to speak? Well, this is just plain crazy, Angel chastised herself. Had she actually been going to speak to a wolf? Did she think it would answer? But then again, the urge overwhelmed Angel, and this time, she gave in to it. “What do you want?”

The wolf’s response again stunned Angel. She smiled … Perhaps it was more of an animal grin, just a lifting of her black muzzle that revealed more of her white and sharp teeth. Whatever it was, the wolf’s blue eyes brightened, squinted pleasantly; her ears stood straight up, twitching. And then she stood, wagging her tail with an elegant grace as she backed up several paces. She was leaving.

“No,” Angel blurted, a hand out, all but imploring the wolf not to leave. And why she didn’t want her to go, Angel didn’t know, couldn’t say. She … just didn’t want her to, was all. As if the wolf understood, she stopped, tilting her head … watching Angel. As Angel stared into the blue eyes considering her, she recalled Jack doing the same thing a little bit ago. Amazingly, the wolf’s eyes reminded her of Jack’s—they were the same blue … held that same quality of sizing someone up that his gaze had.

The wolf blinked. Angel jerked, seeming to come to herself. She held a hand over her thumping heart, calling herself addled as she wondered if maybe she had sun sickness. But that wasn’t possible. It wasn’t near hot enough, and she hadn’t been out here long enough. Or had she? Was she just too sick to judge time, to know if any of this was really happening? That niggling doubt had her coming to her feet and pivoting around, seeking the barn, perhaps seeking Jack. Or just seeking reassurance that the barn and the ranch were still there, that any of this was real, that she wasn’t sick, wasn’t dreaming.

But everything was as she’d left it, was as it should be. Including the sun’s position. It hadn’t moved. Jack was nowhere to be seen, probably still inside the barn. But still she had her answer. She was wide awake, not suffering an illness. And this wolf was real. She turned to face the white-furred creature again, half expecting her to be gone. She wasn’t. She was still there.

Before she knew what she was doing, Angel put a hand out, took a step toward the wolf, wanting—she didn’t know what, except to touch her, to stroke her fur. Somehow, Angel knew that she needed to do that. And she also knew it would feel good when she did. The wolf remained where she was, her countenance sobering, her ears alertly pricked forward … again, waiting. Angel took another step. The wolf wagged her tail with a slow, mesmerizing sway that compelled Angel, made her want to cry.

But still, holding her breath, Angel reached out again, this time close enough to touch the wolf. Her fingers just brushed the soft and sun-warmed fur of the animal’s square and regal head—

“Angel?”

A startled yelp accompanied Angel’s spinning around to face Jack. Wide-eyed and speechless, she stared. Where had he come from? her mind screamed. She’d just looked a moment ago. He hadn’t been there—

“You’ve been out here a while, Angel. What are you doing? Were you picking more flowers?” His blue eyes squinted against the sun’s brightness.

Angel shook her head, found her voice. “No. Not the flowers.” Then, she just had to know. “How’d you get out here without me knowing it?”

Jack frowned, as if confused. “I just walked out here, Angel. Like anyone else would.”

She was having none of that. “But I just looked back toward the barn, and I didn’t see you. That’s where you were when I came out here.”

A frown marred his features. “I left the barn a while ago. But I don’t see why this is—”

“Just tell me.”

A silent moment passed, then Jack, clearly humoring her, drawled, “All right. I came around the other way, on the other side of the house, where the bunkhouse is. I was talking with Lou and Boots and looking things over out there. Satisfied?”

For some reason, she wasn’t. It disquieted her to be taken by surprise like that. But she kept that to herself and said, “Yeah.”

“Good.” Then a half-smile tried to capture his features. “What’s been holding your attention out here for so long?”

For so long? She’d thought it’d been only minutes. “The wolf,” she said, feeling suddenly out of place again, out of time.

Jack shifted his stance, tensed. “The wolf? What about her?”

“She was here.”

Wide-eyed, Jack stood up straighter. “What?”

“She was here.” Angel pointed behind herself, half turning to where the wolf had been. Not surprisingly, given Jack’s interruption, she was gone. Angel’s hand drooped to her side. She stared at the trampled indentations the creature’d made, and was glad for them. They told her she wasn’t crazy.

“Angel?”

Again she turned to Jack, desperate for him to believe. “She was here. I saw her. I touched her, Jack. Look there”—Angel now pointed to the trampled flowers—“she did that.”

Jack glanced where she pointed, but his gaze immediately returned to her. His expression, as well as his tone of voice, could only be termed disbelieving. “You … touched her? The white wolf? You touched her?”

Angel frowned with a sudden spate of temper. “Isn’t that what I said? Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because she’s—No one’s ever—” Jack cut off his own words to eye her, to look her up and down. “She let you get close enough to touch her?”

Beginning now to doubt herself and her experience, given Jack’s response, and feeling a bit silly, Angel stood taller, pretended the knees to her denims weren’t muddy, and quipped, “I said I touched her, didn’t I, cowboy? But then you came along and spooked her into leaving. So what is it you wanted? Why’d you come all the way out here?”

He was quiet a moment, his expression hesitant, his gaze not quite connecting with hers. “I’m ready to go. I’m leaving now.”

The simmering anger that had carried Angel out here came to a boil. She stiffened … but fought to keep her feelings off her face. Feigning indifference, she shrugged, saying, “So … go.”

Jack squinted, crinkling the skin at either corner of his eyes. “That’s all you have to say? After last night? Just ‘Go’?”

Angel raised her chin a notch, thinking of all that had happened, thinking of how her lingering fears and doubts had made her call out for her mama. “Last night doesn’t have anything to do with this. Besides, it doesn’t seem to be stopping you any.”

Jack’s eyes darkened. He stood there, glaring, his lips pressed together. “I don’t want to go, Angel. I have to.”

She knew he did, and she even understood why he did. “I know that. Seth has to be stopped. It’s that simple.”

He nodded, looking a bit relieved as he looked down at his boots, as if his blood ties to his brother shamed him. Suddenly, somehow—perhaps it was the play of the sunshine off his skin—he looked … all too human, all too capable of being hurt or killed. Angel wanted to cry. She just couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to him, of maybe never seeing him again. And she hated worse that she’d be bothered by that.

Desperately close to giving herself away, afraid she might beg him to stay, and wanting him gone if he was going to go anyway, Angel blurted, “What’d you expect me to do, Jack? Burst out crying because you’re leaving?” He glanced up at her, his blue eyes clear, light … easily hurt. Angel swallowed and went on. “Did you come out here thinking I’d beg you to stay? Well, not me. You got the wrong girl. You need to go, so … go. Saddle up. Ride away.”

He exhaled, shook his head, saying, “I didn’t want to leave like this, Angel.”

“That’s too bad, isn’t it? Because the truth is, I don’t give a damn what you do, Jack Daltry.” With that, she pushed past him, leaving him standing there in the meadow. Among the wolf flowers.

*   *   *

About a half day’s southwesterly ride away from home, and stiff with caution, Jack sat his horse, holding Buffalo’s reins tightly as he surveyed the square, squat, rough-cut wood shack Seth sometimes used as his hideout. About fifty yards away, all but hidden among the afternoon shadows cast by a sheltering patch of mesquites and scrub oaks, the place appeared deserted. No horses outside, no movement inside. But still, he couldn’t take the chance on being wrong. If Seth was here … then so be it. Jack knew what he had to do. And if Seth wasn’t, perhaps there was some clue inside as to where the kid was.

He admitted that Seth had chosen his hideout well. The shack itself and the surrounding trees could hide any number of men and their mounts among them. Jack had known them to do just that. And on more than one occasion when he’d ridden out to confront his brother. So even now, he knew, it could be that he was being watched. And, goddamn, he hoped he was. He hoped that little son of a bitch was here. Just the thought of again facing Seth, given what he now knew his younger brother had done, given how it made his heart break to imagine Seth plunging that bone-handled knife into their father’s chest, lifted Jack’s lip into a snarl.

Righteous rage threatened to explode through him. He struggled to contain the emotion, gripping the reins tightly, his body tensing enough to make his legs hurt as they circled Buffalo’s ribs. I’ll crush the little bastard. Just kill him without a second thought. He again swept the hideout with his gaze, searching for a glimpse of his brother. Come on, show yourself, Seth. I’ll smell you out, you stinking rat.

To Jack’s feverish mind, the shack, the surrounding trees, even the very earth the ugly little house sat on, seemed to give off the stench of corruption that followed Seth, like an animal leaving its scent, like a skunk defining its boundaries.

His jaw clenching, his nose twitching against the odor, real or imagined, Jack forced a calmness on himself. Because riding in hell-bent could get him killed. He needed a cool, calculating mind to deal with his brother. And so, he sat there, thinking about how best to proceed. He decided that Seth wouldn’t shoot him on sight. No, he was like a coyote playing with a wounded rabbit. Seth’d want to mess with his head, see what he knew. Which would give Jack a chance to get close enough to—he surprised himself to realize he couldn’t complete the thought, even as determined as he was to see this through to its deadly end.

His breath left his body on an exhalation rife with sadness. Kill my own brother. Shit. Even thinking all this, though, Jack knew and accepted that it was time to act on his beliefs. Time to stand by his principles. Even when the easiest thing to do was to turn Buffalo around and ride away. That made more sense. But Jack knew he wasn’t going to do it. He couldn’t. Better to die trying than to live regretting. So, tugging his Stetson down lower on his forehead, Jack urged Buffalo from the cover of the stacked jumble of huge marble-shaped boulders he’d hidden behind.

Approaching the shack, keeping a careful watch for any movement, for a flash of sunlight glinting off gunmetal, Jack rode cautiously in, even though logic told him the place was empty, that neither Seth nor his gang of murdering thugs was here. But still, a part of Jack hoped his brother was here, that he was inside. And that the little scum would take a potshot at him. It’d be easier that way. Just shoot him. No entanglement, no words. Just simple gut reaction. Get it over with. And go home to Angel.

His last thought made him tense up. He gripped Buffalo with his legs, hauling back on the reins. What had he just said to himself? Go home to Angel? He stared at the shack, blinking, seeing instead a sweet, fine-boned face with black eyes and even blacker hair falling down across those eyes … eyes that sparked fire in his soul. And knew it was true. He wanted to go home to Angel. She was a part of him already. Son of a bitch. Jack notched his Stetson up, slumping in the saddle.

Now what? He may have held her body next to his, he may know what it was like to be warm and naked with her, may know what she felt like inside, but he still didn’t know what was in her heart, what she wanted from him, what she felt for him. But he also knew … it didn’t matter how she felt about him. Because how he felt about her would keep him going, would get him through this day—and the next and the next, if he needed them—until Seth was dealt with and he could get back to her. Then he’d tell her everything he was feeling.

And what was he feeling? Jack didn’t try to kid himself. He was too old, too experienced for that.

He loved her. Plain and simple. Soul deep and heart-stoppingly so. With every fiber of his being … he loved her. Whether she felt the same or not for him, it really didn’t matter. It wouldn’t change how he felt. It couldn’t. Jack knew you didn’t ask for love, didn’t go looking for it. It was there … or it wasn’t. Couldn’t court it, couldn’t woo it, couldn’t hope to win it. Especially in Angel’s case. No, he had no illusions with her. A woman like her did the choosing. And a man like him would be blessed to have a woman like her. Strong and warm. Smart and funny. Determined. Stubborn. With so much love to give.

Again Jack exhaled, wondering why his heart wasn’t soaring with his realization, wondering why he wasn’t at least feeling happy inside. But he thought he knew the why of it even as he thought it. Again … Angel Devlin. She was also a hard woman, for all her tender years. She needed saving, he knew that. She needed tenderness and patience and understanding. She needed him. Now, how to make her see that?

Buffalo’s impatient stamp brought Jack back to the moment, back to his squinting consideration of the shack. First things first. Seth. And then Angel. Stroking his mount’s shoulder to reassure him, feeling the warm, hard muscle, the coarse hair under his hand, Jack straightened up, again urging his big-boned brown horse forward. Again he told himself that Seth might not be here, and probably wasn’t, but there might be some clue left behind that would direct him in finding his brother.

But truth be told, Jack now admitted as he reined Buffalo in at the shack’s entrance, he was so torn by what he wanted to happen that there still remained a part of him that wished like crazy that he didn’t have to face his brother at all, ever again. He found himself hoping that Seth might harbor some fear for his older brother’s reaction to his killing their father, that he might have just ridden away, never to return. Because to kill your own brother, no matter what he’d done … well, it just wasn’t right. But letting stand the horrible wrong he’d done wasn’t anything to be abided, either. Or forgiven.

As Jack dismounted and looped the reins over a crude hitching rail, as he kept an eye on the closed front door, he further admitted that this was quite the predicament Seth had handed him. One he had to end. So, exhaling, feeling the thudding of his heart, firming his lips and his resolve, Jack drew his gun and approached the door, hating that he knew enough of the world to know he’d face Seth again. And soon.

He opened the door, his gaze drawn immediately to a rickety table situated directly in the middle of the square room. Atop the table was a stack of papers … held in place with a long, bone-handled knife stabbed right through their middle. Jack’s heart leaped, thumped wildly. The papers. No doubt, the missing ones from the ranch. The knife … Seth’s own skinning knife. Jack suspended further thought, didn’t dare form any conclusions. Not yet.

Hating like hell to do so, but knowing he had to, Jack stepped inside, walking slowly, mechanically, up to the table. As his gaze roved over the display, his features hardened, his chest hurt. Seth knew he’d come here, knew he’d come looking for him. And had left this for him to find. Holstering his gun, Jack then planted a hand atop the papers, and with his other grabbed the wicked blade’s hilt, toggling it back and forth to loosen it and finally pull it free. With a vehemence born of fearful suspicion and towering temper, Jack flung it out sideways, his motion inadvertently embedding it in a wall.

He stared at it a moment and then picked up the papers, wanting to verify for himself that these were indeed the ones missing from home. But the top one caught his attention, freezing him in place as he read it. She’s right. Angel’s right. Pa did mean for her to have the Circle D. Goddamn. What he held in his hand was a document changing ownership of the Daltry land. It was made out to Angel Devlin. And it named her Wallace Daltry’s heir. But why?

Jack flipped to an attached piece of paper, found a letter to Angel … in his father’s handwriting. He skimmed the words, and finally had to clutch at the table, had to stop reading it. When he did, and as he held the papers up, another note, on a torn fragment of paper, fell out, floating to the crude wood floor. Jack bent over, picked it up, read it. It was in Seth’s handwriting. The first lines read … “Me and Angel Devlin. And then, me and you.”

Angel! Jack’s stomach turned, shock and fear making him ill. He looked again at the note, read the remaining words. They too were for him. But not as important as Jack’s instant calculations. Could he get home before Seth got there? Could he stop him? Could he save Angel? He didn’t know. Because he had no idea how long ago Seth’d left here. Damn him! Such rage as he’d never known gripped Jack. He’d played right into his brother’s bloodstained hands.

Seth’d drawn him out, had caused him to leave vulnerable everything he loved. Son of a bitch! Angel’d called this one, too. Clutching the wad of papers in his hand, Jack jerked around, already running. He had to get home to her as fast as Buffalo could carry him. He couldn’t spare himself or his horse. They’d have to ride on, even through the darkness.

Because Jack knew he had to get to Angel … before Seth did.