The Touch of Fire by Linda Howard
The marshal considered that. Another damn puzzle. “Now, why should that matter to you?”
“It doesn’t,” Rafe said grimly. He shrugged his wide shoulders, trying to ease the pressure on the joints. The rope was tight, and securely knotted. There was no way he could slip out of it.
Atwater continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “You’ve killed so many men, what would one more matter to a bastard like you? Pardon me, ma’am. You’ve left quite a string of dead men behind you, startin’ with that poor Tilghman feller back in New York. Supposed to be a friend of yours, at that.”
“He didn’t kill Tench,” Annie protested. Her mind felt paralyzed. She thought she should be doing some-thing, but she didn’t know what. Atwater had sat down about fifteen feet from Rafe, still holding that shotgun with both hammers jacked back, ready to shoot. He seemed to be considering killing Rafe right now and saving himself the trouble of taking him back to jail. He wouldn’t receive a bounty, of course, since he was a marshal, but by his lights justice would have been served. Why go to the trouble of a trial? “He was framed. This isn’t about Tench at all.”
“Don’t matter,” Atwater said. “He’s killed enough since then. Reckon I could add Trahern to your list, too, McCay, but I didn’t much like the bastard. Pardon me, ma’am.”
“Rafe didn’t kill Trahern, either,” Annie said. She was totally without color, even her lips were white.
“Annie, shut up!” Rafe snapped, but he might as well have saved his breath.
“I killed him,” she said softly.
Atwater’s eyebrows rose. “Do tell.”
She was twisting her hands, and suddenly wished violently that she had Rafe’s spare pistol in her skirt pocket right now. “He was going to ambush Rafe,” she said in an agonized tone. “I had a pistol in my pocket... I’d never fired a weapon before. I couldn’t pull the hammer back when I tried . . . but then he was going to shoot and somehow I did shoot it, I don’t know how, while it was still in my pocket. It caught my skirt on fire. I killed him,” she said again.
“She didn’t do it,” Rafe said sharply. “She’s just trying to take the blame for me. I did it.”
Atwater was getting damn tired of this. He didn’t like it when outlaws turned out to have noble streaks. Tarnished his image of them.
Not that he hadn’t known women to try to take the blame for something their men had done; the law was going to treat a woman different than it would a man in most cases. Few women ever actually went to prison. But in this case he didn’t think the doc was trying to take the blame for something McCay had done, because that tale of her skirt catching fire just wasn’t something anyone would make up. No, McCay was the one trying to take the blame, because he was afraid for the doc.
But now the doc had confessed to killing a man, and that annoyed him, because as an officer of the law he was expected to do something about it. He considered it for a minute, then shrugged. “Sounds like an accident to me. Like I said, I didn’t think much of the bastard. Pardon me, ma’am.”
Rafe closed his eyes with relief. Atwater scowled.
Annie scrambled closer, her eyes both earnest and desperate. Atwater cocked his head warningly, and lifted the shotgun. Off to the side, Jacali muttered a dire threat if he harmed the white magic woman.
“None of this is about Tench,” Annie said. “Tench was just an excuse.” Atwater turned his full attention on her, and she ignored the way Rafe was glaring at her. She suspected he thought it was useless to try to persuade Atwater, though perhaps he did feel the knowledge would endanger the marshal’s life too. Rafe’s streak of gallantry could take her by surprise, running side by side as it did with his steely implacability when he’d made up his mind to do something.
She started at the beginning. As she told how it had all happened, the improbability of it struck her and she almost faltered. How could anyone believe such a tale? Even the most trusting of persons would need to see the documents Rafe had locked away in a bank vault, and Atwater didn’t look trusting at all. He was glaring at Annie, then at Rafe, as if even listening was an insult to his intelligence. His drooping eyelid drooped even more.
When she finished he stared at her in silence for a full minute, then grunted. The gaze he turned on Rafe was baleful. “I hate to have to listen to bullshit like that,” he barked. “Pardon me, ma’am.”
Rafe merely glared back, his jaw set and his mouth a thin, grim line.
“The reason I hate to listen to it,” Atwater continued, “is that liars try to sound reasonable. No point in lying if no one’s goin’ to believe you. So when somebody tells me something that no self-respectin’ liar would ever come up with, that makes me curious. I purely hate to be curious about somethin’. Interferes with my sleep. Now, there ain’t no doubt you done killed yourself a bunch of men in the last four years, but if what the doc here says is true then I’d have to consider it self-defense. And I did wonder just who this Tench feller was that he’d be worth the ten thousand dollar price on your head, seein’ as how I’d never heard of him if he was supposed to be so all-fired important. That’s a mite curious in itself.”
Annie swallowed hard, not daring to look at Rafe. The marshal seemed to be thinking out loud, and she didn’t want to interrupt him. Hope surged wildly through her, making her dizzy. Dear God, please let him believe her!
“So now I’ve got all these curious things naggin’ at me. What in hell am I supposed to do about it? Pardon me, ma’am. The law says you’re a murderer, McCay, and as a lawman I’m supposed to bring you in. The doc says there’s some people after you paid to make sure you don’t ever make it to trial. Now, I figure I’m paid to make sure justice is served, but now I’m not so sure I’d be servin’ justice if I bring you in. Not to say that I could do it,” he said dryly, eyeing the big Apache warrior who was standing outside again, still holding the rifle and glaring at them with black basilisk eyes. It looked like the Indians weren’t taking too kindly to McCay being tied up. He turned back to Rafe. “Why’d you spend so long helpin’ these Indians? I wouldn’t’ve caught you if you hadn’t stopped.”
Annie drew in an agonized breath. Rafe wanted to stomp Atwater for distressing her. “They needed help,” he said curtly.
Atwater rubbed his jaw. Probably the doctor had persuaded him, and now she was all tore up about it. He looked at the black-bearded outlaw again and saw the anger in those funny-looking eyes. Well, he’d seen it before. Something about women could sweeten the hardest man, and this rough gunslick was definitely sweet on the doc. She was pleasant on the eye, for certain, but it was more than that. Those big dark eyes of hers made him feel funny in the pit of his stomach, an old trail hound like him. If he were twenty years younger, he might get all testy on her behalf too, especially if she ever looked at him the way she’d been looking at McCay.
Well, hell, here he was faced with a dilemma. Not only did that tale of hers intrigue him, but when added to the other little things that had bothered him, like there being such an unusually large bounty and the evidence of his own eyes that McCay wasn’t the cold-blooded killer his reputation made him out to be, he had to consider the possibility that the wild story just might be true. He’d give it even odds, which meant that to serve justice he had to check it out, something easier said than done. He sighed; just as well he hadn’t signed on as a marshal because it was an easy job.
Even getting out of this camp could prove to be a mite tetchy. That big warrior was scowling, and brandishing his rifle. It wouldn’t do to get him riled.
Atwater made his decision. He sighed wearily as he got to his feet. Now his life was all complicated again, and he suspected it was going to get even worse.
He stalked over to Rafe and slipped his knife from his belt. Annie struggled to her feet, biting back a protest. “These Apaches look a bit testy,” Atwater said. “Maybe they don’t like you bein’ tied up, but maybe they don’t like whites, period. Hard to tell. On the chance that what they’re objecting to is the rop
Rafe’s eyes were bright and hard. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
There was no point in waiting until the next day to leave the camp. Their horses were well rested, and truth to tell, Rafe was just as glad to get away before any more of the warriors recovered. Several of them were well enough anyway to gather outside as Rafe saddled the horses, and all of them were armed. A few of the squaws also came outside, but most of them remained in the wickiups with the invalids who still needed care. Under Atwater’s eagle eye, Annie slipped in to see the baby for a moment, and was rewarded by a smile that revealed the two little teeth. She was still feverish, but chewing energetically on a piece of leather. The mother shyly laid her hand on Annie’s arm and said something, a rather long speech that conveyed her thanks by tone and wasn’t dependent on the understanding of words.
The warriors watched enigmatically. The biggest of them, a man who was almost as tall as Rafe, wondered if he would ever understand the white eyes. There was enmity between their peoples, yet the white warrior and his woman, the magic woman, had worked hard to save the band. The warrior even remembered lying almost naked while the white warrior cooled him with water, which was a thing that was beyond believing. And the magic woman . . . never had he known such a touch. Her hands had been cool, yet hot underneath, and so soothing he could almost feel the peace spreading through him. She had given him rest, and eased his struggle against the fever burning him alive. And she had saved Lozun’s baby, when Jacali had said the child was so near to the spirit world there had been no breath left in her body. The white woman’s magic was true, and the white warrior knew her worth, guarding her well. That was good.
Then this other white man had come, and pointed his weapon at the white warrior, and tied him with rope like a captive. Jacali had been enraged, and had tried to get him to shoot the new intruder, but he had waited, wanting to see what would happen. The three white people had sat down and made many of their strange-sounding words, and then the old one had cut the ropes from about the white warrior and now they were riding out together. Yes, the white eyes were truly strange people. As grateful as he was to the magic woman, he was glad to see them go.
But they would be traveling east, through the land of his people, and perhaps they would need his protection. There were few white eyes the People could call “friend”; it would be a dishonor to him if he allowed them to be killed. So he gave the beaded amulet and his words to Jacali, and she carried them to the magic woman whose pale hair framed her face like the sun. The old white eyes knew some of the words of the People, and he gave them to the magic woman as Jacali spoke them. And the magic woman smiled. Beside her, the white warrior watched everything with his sharp eyes, guarding his woman as he should.
The warrior was glad to see them ride out of his camp.
Annie turned the beaded amulet over and over in her hands, tracing the intricate pattern. It was an exquisite piece of work, and Atwater had explained that it was the equivalent of a safe-conduct pass. That wasn’t it literally, but it was as close as he could come. The explanation satisfied her.
It would take them weeks to get to New Orleans; they had to cross the whole of New Mexico, Texas, and Louisiana. Atwater had mentioned taking the train, but Rafe had sharply vetoed the idea, which had completely soured the lawman’s mood.
When they were out of sight of the Apache camp, Atwater abruptly swung the shotgun on Rafe. As he hadn’t returned Rafe’s weapons, there wasn’t a damn thing Rafe could do about it except face the marshal with cold fury in his eyes. “Don’t reckon I need to worry about getting to New Orleans,” he said.
“Oh, we’re still goin’,” Atwater said. “It’s just that I don’t quite trust you to stay put. Now, I did warn you that I don’t take kindly to bein’ made a fool of, but people have been known not to take my warnings. I’m goin’ to remove temptation from your path, so to speak. Put your hands behind your back.”
Rafe did, his face set. Annie wheeled her gelding close by and Atwater gave her a warning look. “Keep your distance, ma’am. This is the way it has to be.”
“But there’s no need,” she protested. “We want to get this settled a lot more than you do. Why would we run?”
He shook his head. “No use arguin’. Don’t reckon I’d be much of a lawman if I took every outlaw at his word when he swore not to run.”
“Let it drop, Annie,” Rafe said tiredly. “It won’t kill me.”
She knew that, but she also knew from experience just how uncomfortable it was, and Rafe had tied her hands in front of her rather than behind. She thought of trying to ambush Atwater herself, but they needed him; he had the authority to get things accomplished, and surely even the people who were after Rafe would think twice before shooting a U.S. marshal.
When they made camp that night, Atwater didn’t even release Rafe so he could eat; Annie had to feed him. She was exhausted after the long days of taking care of the Apaches, and could barely stay awake long enough to eat her own meal. As soon as the dishes were cleaned she got a blanket and rolled up in it between the two men. Rafe’s hard face told her that he didn’t like the new sleeping arrangements at all, but she could hardly snuggle up against him with Atwater there. She held her breath, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he chose to bed down within arm’s reach of her, and she gave a little sigh of relief that he would be so close.
He lay down on his side, facing her, his bound hands behind his back.
“Will you be able to sleep?” she asked with soft concern in her drowsy voice.
“I’m so tired I could sleep standing up,” he replied. She wasn’t certain she could believe him, but she was too tired to make certain. She wished she was closer to him. After these weeks of being with him, she felt lost without those hard arms wrapped around her while they slept. It helped that he was at least close enough to touch if she should reach out her hand.
She went to sleep easily, but Rafe lay awake for a while, thinking, trying to ignore the ache in his arms and shoulders. He wondered if she was pregnant. He thought she was, but would have to wait impatiently until nature confirmed it. The conviction that she carried his baby only intensified the twin instincts of possessiveness and protectiveness. If he had his way, she would never sleep more than an arm’s length from him again. Taking care of Annie was the most important job he’d ever had in his life.
They were going to New Orleans. The reality of it was a little hard to take. He had spent so many years running, consumed by bitterness and his sense of betrayal, that the sudden reversal was disorienting. Of course, the ropes biting into his wrists and the uncomfortable strain on his shoulders reminded him that not everything had changed, after all. As far as Atwater was concerned, there was something here that needed investigating, but he still considered Rafe an outlaw. Atwater was a funny man, hard to figure. He had a reputation as a real hard case, as willing to bring his man in dead as alive, as long as he brought him in, but the marshal had simply listened to Annie’s explanation and decided, just like that, to see if maybe it was all true. It felt strange, after those years on the run, but for the first time Rafe had a sense of real hope. When Atwater saw those papers in New Orleans, he’d know that Rafe was telling the truth, and since the marshal had federal connections he could probably do something to get the murder charges dropped.
Atwater lay awake, watching the stars overhead and thinking. What in hell had he gotten himself into, agreeing to take McCay to New Orleans to check out that story of his? This was Rafe McCay, not some farm boy; sheer practicality told him that he’d have to untie the man occasionally, and if McCay took it in his head to escape Atwater had no doubt he’d find a way to do it. Damn it, why didn’t he just take the outlaw to the nearest town and lock him up? He could manage to get McCay a hundred miles or so, but hell, New Orleans had to be around a thousand miles away. This was definitely not one of his better ideas.
But he’d committed himself and he knew he wouldn’t change his mind, even though he also knew he couldn’t, by himself, keep McCay from escaping somewhere during those thousand miles. After all, he had the doc to help him, and the only way Atwater could prevent that was to tie her up too, and that would bring up more problems than he thought he could handle. Besides, she wasn’t a criminal, even though she’d been riding with McCay, so it wouldn’t be right to treat her like one.
Why not just accept that somewhere down the line he was going to have to trust McCay and untie him? They sure as hell couldn’t ride through a town with the man trussed up like that; people took notice of things like that, and attracting notice was something Atwater didn’t want to do. Well, he’d think on it some. Right now he didn’t feel certain enough in his mind to let McCay loose.
It wasn’t the most comfortable thought for a lawman to have, but Atwater had learned years ago that the law and justice weren’t always the same thing. He remembered a woman who had died a few years back when some drunk cowboys, hoorahing a town, had raced a freight wagon down a street in El Paso and run over her. The law had said it was an accident, and let the cowboys go. The grief-stricken husband had taken his rifle and killed several of the cowboys. The man had obviously been deranged with grief and hadn’t known what he was doing. Atwater figured that was justice.