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Defiant

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

Cimarron Valley, Colorado, 1877

Wade Foster wanted to die, but the devil was being damned unaccommodating.

Wade decided a lifetime ago that living was a worse hell than any Old Scratch could devise. He should have died several times over if there had been any justice in the world. He'd courted death often enough, but then some demon always jerked him back from the final descent.

He stifled a groan now as he looked up at the sun. He might actually achieve his wish this day.

If only dying weren't so painful!

He had two bullet holes in him, one in his leg, one in his gun arm. The leg wound was no problem, except it bled whenever he moved, but his arm was a damnable mess. The bullet had ripped nerves and at least part of the bone. The arm was pure agony and hung uselessly at his side.

Not that it mattered. He was done for. He had no place to go, his leg wouldn't hold him, and he seemed to be in the middle of nowhere with his horse dead.

The pinto lay not far from him. It had been hit in the ambush, and Wade had used his last bullet to give it a merciful death. He'd loved that horse.

But everything else he loved was gone, too. He was used to loss. At least he'd thought he was. He thought he'd become immune to the terrible grief that threatened to swallow him whole.

This last act of his, this final vengeance, should have dulled that piercing, lacerating pain inside that never ceased, not even in his sleep—but it hadn't. Instead victory, if it could be called that, had made the pain sharper because now he had nothing to replace it: no one to hate, no one left alive to focus his rage upon. Only himself.

He closed his eyes, wishing numbness would take over, would wash away the hurt from his body and from his soul. Why did it take so long to die, for the blood to seep from his body, for the dehydration to drain what life lingered? If he had the guts, he'd use the knife to speed the process, but he would probably just mess that up, too.

He'd managed to ruin everything good in his life, from the time he'd stayed too long in town, sneaking a glass of whiskey at fifteen while his family was being slaughtered, to ten months ago when once more he'd indulged a whim while his Ute wife and son were killed. He'd avenged both acts. The last murderer of his wife lay dead just over a knoll.

Wade should feel some measure of satisfaction. But he felt so empty. He had nothing to look forward to, not here on earth, and certainly not where he was headed.

He moved slightly, and the pain in his arm was blinding. It crawled up his shoulder, the way fire consumed dry tinder. Finally, he was swallowed in its fury and the bright scarlet of pain faded into the blackness of oblivion.

"Jake!" Jeff heard the panic in his own voice and tried to control it.

But the wind was blowing hard now, clouds were frothing above, and he'd learned enough about the lightning-quick changes of weather to worry.

"Jake," Jeff called again. The dog had bounded after a rabbit and had been gone an hour. He swallowed hard. There had been reports of a big cat in the area, lured down from the mountain by livestock, and fear tugged at him. He couldn't lose Jake.

"Jake," he called again, and this time was rewarded by a series of barks. They were different from the excited, joyful sounds that usually poured from Jake. More urgent.

Jeff knew he shouldn't be this far from the ranch, not alone, not without his rifle. But then his ma too often treated him like a baby. He was twelve. Old enough to take care of himself, old enough to be called Jeff, like his dad.

The barking became more frantic, and Jeff's fast stride became a lope as he headed toward the sound. That inner voice kept warning him, but he disregarded it. Jake might be in trouble. A trap, maybe. There were still old traps around here, left behind by mountain men who had moved on long ago.

He reached the top of a hill and looked down. Jake was circling something on the ground, pausing now and then to bark again. Jeff wished he had his rifle, but he wasn't going to retreat now. His pa wouldn't have been afraid. His pa hadn't been afraid of anything.

Jeff approached cautiously. Jake looked at him expectantly, ran over to him and then back to his prize.

A body! Jeff hesitated, then took several steps forward. A man was lying on the ground, his clothes covered with dried and congealing blood. Jake sat down, put a paw on the man's shirt as if to declare ownership.

Jeff took another step forward. The man looked dead, but then Jeff saw a slight rise of the chest. He stooped down, touched the stranger's shoulder.

"Mister?"

No response came, not even a groan.

Jeff touched the skin. It was clammy. He looked toward the darkening sky and saw buzzards gathering above. His gaze searched the landscape, then he saw the still body of a horse not far away. He had to get help.

"You stay here, Jake," he ordered, not knowing whether the animal would obey. Though the dog tried hard to please, he, like Jeff, often ignored rules and instructions.

Jake seemed content to stay next to his precious find. Jeff hoped he would stay that way, keep the buzzards away from the stranger.

Jeff started running. Ma would know what to do. She always did.

Mary Jo looked up at the threatening sky and wondered whether she should saddle her mare and go looking for Jeff. She hated to do it. He had reached that age when he still needed mothering but resented it.

She didn't want to be too protective, but she had lost too much during the past few years to surrender her fears.

She looked toward the mountains. She loved this valley. Cimarron Creek flowed clear and fast several hundred yards from the ranch house, and nearby the Black Mountains rose in jagged splendor. She had been so beguiled by this place, she abandoned her plans to sell the ranch and take Jeff East.

It had also been a compromise with her son. He had fought bitterly against leaving the Ranger station, even more bitterly at the thought of going East. He still wanted to be a Ranger, and though he'd had to leave El Paso, at least he remained in the West and still had his horse and dog.

Mary Jo prayed every day she hadn't made a mistake, that she wasn't risking something more important than this piece of heaven. But it was such a good place to rear a son, open and free. She hoped Jeff would so love this land that he would forget his oft-stated desire to be a Texas Ranger.

Ranching was hard work. But she was used to hard work. She had worked from sunup to sundown at the Ranger station, but that had been for someone else. Now she worked just as hard, but this was for herself and Jeff, and she saw results daily. The garden was flourishing, and so was the little livestock they had.

The one problem had been hired help. The wealth of this land lay in cattle, and she needed hands to develop and run a herd. There were no fences, only open range, and a woman and boy couldn't handle the branding alone. She'd found few men willing to work for a woman who were worth their salt.

She looked toward the hill where she'd last seen Jeff and Jake playing. He had helped her finish mending fences around the chicken yard, and then she'd given him leave to explore with Jake while she cooked dinner.

But he had been out of sight now for a long while, and the sky overhead looked ominous. She was just about to saddle her mare, Fancy, when she saw Jeff running toward her, stumbling as he came.

She knew instantly something was wrong. Jake wasn't with him, and the two were constant companions.

She ran out to meet him, catching him as he started to fall. Winded, he couldn't speak for a moment, then stuttered, "A stranger ... hurt real bad ... about a mile ... north of the old road."

"How bad?"

"He's unconscious." Jeff was regaining his breath. "His shirt and trousers are real bloody, Ma. He needs help bad. There's a dead horse nearby, and buzzards are circling."

Mary Jo didn't hesitate any longer. She couldn't leave someone to die, and she had a rudimentary knowledge of medicine. She'd doctored her share of Rangers over the twelve years she'd been married to one and the two years after her husband's death. She'd worry later about who the stranger was.

"I'll get the buckboard," she said. "You get our rifles, and that box of bandages and medicines. And some water."

Jeff nodded and dashed inside as Mary Jo went to the barn. She led two of their four horses outside and hitched them to the buckboard. Jeff joined her, placing the medicine box inside the wagon bed along with a canteen and one of the rifles. He held the other rifle in his hands.

"Where's Jake?" she asked.

"He's with the stranger," Jeff said proudly. "He found him."

"This man? You've never seen him before?"

Jeff shook his head.

A shiver snaked down Mary Jo's back. She wished there was a man around, that she had not let the last one go when she'd found him drinking in the barn. The fact was, no one else was around to help. The next ranch was hours away, and the only decent doctor was over a hundred miles away.

Her lips pressed together. Maybe Jeff was exaggerating the extent of the man's wounds. She felt a chill, a blast of suddenly cold wind, and she looked up. The sky was almost black. The storm wasn't far away. She urged the horses to a faster pace, looking frequently at Jeff for guidance. He gestured at a turnoff, and the wagon creaked and jostled in protest as she drove away from the road.

Mary Jo saw the buzzards wheeling in the sky, and she snapped the reins. She heard Jake's anxious bark, then Jeff's cry, "Over there."

She saw the horse, then the man several hundred feet away. The animal was obviously dead, and she gave it scant notice. She pulled up the wagon next to the still form on the ground and jumped down, followed by Jeff. Jake was running back and forth excitedly.

"Stay near the buckboard," she told Jeff as she leaned toward the back and retrieved the canteen.

"But—"

"If you want to help," she said, "get Jake."

"But—"

"Please, Jeff." He nodded reluctantly and whistled for Jake who reluctantly slunk over to him.

Mary Jo knelt down next to the man and felt the pulse in his neck. He was still breathing but just barely. Blood was everywhere, covering and stiffening what once must have been handsome deerskin shirt and trousers.

She'd seen men in deerskin jackets before, but none in trousers trimmed with rawhide lacing. And around his neck, he wore a rawhide string of black beads with a silver eagle inside a seven-pointed star. Mary Jo's gaze moved to his hips, to a well-used gun-belt. The holster was empty, but there was a knife in a sheath.

As her eyes skimmed over his body, she noted the lean strength of him, the corded muscles apparent under the shirt and tight trousers. His hair, longer than what she became accustomed to seeing at the Ranger station, was matted with sweat and dirt and blood. Pain had etched furrows in a face that was hard-looking and deeply browned by the sun. She had no time to notice more. She moistened his lips with water from the canteen, then she shook him gently.

A groan of protest escaped his lips.

Mary Jo swallowed. He was a big man. His present condition did nothing to eliminate the impression of strength. And the two bullet wounds did not recommend him as an upstanding citizen. Neither did the clothes, which looked more Indian than white. Did she dare bring him into her house?

Mary Jo quickly brushed aside the momentary hesitation. He was obviously too weak to harm anyone. She could send Jeff to the next ranch and ask that someone summon a marshal.

Getting him home was the first concern.

She had to be careful. Any jostling could start the blood flowing again, and he had already lost a substantial amount. She checked his arm. The wound was ugly, with the bone partially shattered. Particles of it mixed with the blood, some of it blackened, some glistening white amid the red.

She tore a piece of cloth from her petticoat, dampened it and washed around the wound. She bound it with yet another piece, then bound the arm to his shoulder to stabilize it.

Her attention shifted to his leg. There was a hole in his trousers, but she couldn't see the wound. She took his knife and, with the wicked-looking blade, cut the trouser leg. A quick examination showed the bullet had passed through without the kind of damage his arm had suffered. She bound that wound, too.

Then she eyed the man again, wondering how to get him into the buckboard. She splashed water on his face, tried to jar him back to consciousness, but nothing worked.

She looked up at Jeff. He was wiry and strong for his age; together, they might get him into the buck-board.

Mary Jo walked over to the horses and guided them close to the stranger. To her son she said, "Help me get him into the buckboard. You take his legs and be gentle."

He nodded. She leaned down, grabbing the man between his shoulders, and lifted. Dear Lord, he was heavy. Slowly, she and Jeff hauled him into the wagon.

"You cradle his head and shoulders," she told Jeff as she lifted her now bloodstained skirt and climbed up onto the wagon seat.

The wind had picked up, chilling the air, and she felt the first few raindrops on her skin. Big, thick, heavy ones. Mary Jo clicked the reins, and the horses started to move. She prayed that the worst of the storm would hold off until they got home. She'd seen these storms before, knew how vicious they sometimes became.

It was the longest trip she'd ever made, each minute seeming like an hour, with the stranger's pain-carved face vivid in her mind. She thought she heard him groan, but it was hard to tell for sure now that the wind was screeching through the trees.

Jake was running alongside, barking encouragement, oblivious to the rain beginning to pelt down, but Mary Jo felt it soak her dress and run in rivulets down her face.

The log ranch house had never looked so welcoming. She drove up to the door and hurried down from the seat to tie the ribbons to the hitching post in front. She rushed back to the wagon bed, wiping the rain from her eyes.

The stranger had not moved. Jeff looked at her with anxious eyes, his hands holding the man's shoulders. "He's awfully still, Ma."

She nodded. She ran to the door and opened it wide, paying little mind to the sheets of rain pouring on the wood floors. Lightning streaked through the sky, dancing in accompaniment to great roars of thunder.

Mary Jo and Jeff somehow managed to carry the man inside and into Mary Jo's bed. He was soaked. His blood was running pink over what remained of his deerskins.

Jake shook himself, showering everything with rainwater. Mary Jo sighed.

"Heat some water on the stove," she told Jeff, "and start a fire in here." She hesitated. "You'd better get the horses inside the barn, too."

Jeff paused. "Will he be all right?"

Mary Jo went over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was the only sign of affection he believed manly. Hugs, he said, were for babies. "I don't know," she said. "He's hurt pretty bad."

"I want him to be all right."

"I know, love," she said. "So do I." And she did. She didn't know why this stranger's fate had become so important, but it had. Perhaps because she'd put so much effort into helping him. Perhaps because Jeff had already known too much death. "The water," she reminded him.

She lit one of the kerosene lamps and placed it on the table next to the bed.

Dear Lord, he was pale. There was something vulnerable about a man downed by illness or wounds, especially a man like this. The knife, the way he wore his gunbelt, indicated he was probably dangerous. She had seen enough of such men over the years to recognize the breed.

Who was he? And how had he gotten the wounds? She'd heard of no trouble around here. No outlaws. No recent Indian trouble. She swallowed hard. This man was obviously trouble. And yet ... She brushed aside a lock of her damp hair, and drew a chair next to the bed.

She started untying the thongs at the top of the stranger's shirt before realizing she would have to tug the shirt off over his head. She couldn't do that without jostling the wounded arm. She would have to cut the shirt off. The pants would have to go, too.

And then he would have no clothes at all.

She took the knife from his belt, then, holding her breath, she cut the deerskin shirt open. She managed to pull it off the uninjured arm but had to cut off the cloth pasted to the right arm with blood.

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Excerpted from Defiant by Patricia Potter. Copyright © 1995 Patricia Potter. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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