The Lone Texan Page 3

  A widow without being a wife is doubly lost.

  The sun slipped behind a cloud as though the day outside her window was reflecting her mood. Sage straightened her spine. Melancholy was not a cloak that fit her shoulders. She would not wear it well or long.

  A knock rattled the thin door, making Sage jump. Bonnie wouldn't have knocked on the door to their suite, and anyone else would not be happy to find a dog in the best room of the hotel.

  Sage wrapped the mutt in the sheet and carefully carried him into the second of the two bedrooms, not wanting the two animals in sight of one another. All she'd seen the black cat do was sleep, but it would be her luck that Bullet would decide to wake, just to pester the dog while he was feeling bad.

  The dog didn't move when she laid him in the sun by the window. "Stay," she whispered as another knock sounded. "Please, stay."

  The animal put his head on his paw and closed his eyes as if content to do as she asked.

  Rushing through the sitting room, she pulled the door wide, already planning how fast she would get rid of whoever it was.

  The blood froze in her veins as she stared at the man before her. "Barret?" She tried to breathe as panic rose. In the dimly lit hallway, her husband stood before her.

  "No, miss. No” The man waved his hand as if he could take her fear away. "I'm not your Barret come back from the dead. I'm not him”

  Sage tried to breathe. Of course he wasn't Barret. She'd buried him back in Boston, and she didn't believe in ghosts. She'd washed his cold body and dressed him in a fine wool suit. She'd walked beside his casket all the way to the cemetery so he wouldn't be alone. Then she'd placed him in the ground beside his mother and father and stood watching as the undertaker covered the coffin with six feet of dirt.

  "I'm Shelley, miss. Shelley Darnell Lander." the man in shadow announced. "Barret was my brother."

  Sage took his offered hand, noticing the softness of his skin. Barret's hands had been rough and often cracked from constant washing, not smooth. She examined the man standing before her. He wore a tan suit, wrinkled and stained at the cuffs. Barret changed into clean clothes sometimes three or four times a day. He didn't believe in walking into a new patient's room with the blood of another on him.

  "Mr. Shelley Lander," she managed as she tried to think of the few times Barret had mentioned his brother. Worthless, he'd called Shelley. Worthless as warts on a leopard. Apparently all the Lander family strived to mold meaningful lives, except Barret's older brother, who embarrassed them all by wasting his life in saloons.

  The replica of her dead husband strolled past her and into the seating room as if he'd been invited. "I tried to catch you before you left the ship. I wanted to explain why I'd missed the funeral and offer my protection on your journey home.”

  Sage left the door wide open and followed him to the settee. "I don't need protection," she said, thinking of the derringer tucked in the folds of her traveling skirt. Since she'd been involved in a stage robbery years ago, Sage made sure all her petticoats and skirts had a pocket big enough to conceal a weapon. "I thank you for your kindness.” She tried to think of something to say. "And I'm very sorry for the loss of your brother."

  As she studied him in the light, she was amazed at how different the two men were. He was a muddy water reflection of her husband. Barret's eyes had sparkled with intelligence; Shelley's were dishwater blue. Barret's movements were driven with purpose. Shelley swayed as he walked, as if he couldn't quite make up his mind about which direction to take.

  He waved his hand, offering her a seat on her couch before taking his place as if he were the one entertaining. "Lovely suite, my dear." He looked slightly embarrassed. "I hope you don't mind me calling you dear. I feel as if I already know you for, after all, you were married to my brother."

  Sage had never been one to tolerate fools, but she hesitated, telling herself that though she may have lost her teacher and husband, the poor man before her had lost his brother. In the years she'd known Barret, to her knowledge, Shelley had never visited, but the two must have been close as children.

  "I didn't know of his death in time to come to the funeral. He wrote me that he was ill, but I'd had a dozen similar letters over the years?" Shelley looked like he might cry. "This time I ignored the letter. I could have done little even if I'd rushed to his side, but I'll never forgive myself for not being there for you, you poor, poor child.”

  "I managed?" Sage answered. She had ignored the "my dear' but the "poor child" was laying it on a little too thick. "How did you find me?"

  He seemed surprised at the direct question. If he'd expected to find a weeping widow, he'd come to the wrong place.

  "I have a friend in Boston who posts me now and then. I've been in Galveston for almost a year now, so when I heard about my brother's death and that his widow would be returning to Texas, I began to check the logs of each passenger list coming. My place of business is very near where the ships dock. I knew there would be a good chance you'd be passing through this harbor, and I wanted to be here to offer you my shoulder. My brother might have tried to forget I existed, but I make a point to do my duty.”

  Sage wasn't sure she wanted any part of the man before her. Something in his manner told her he wasn't quite the respectable businessman in town, and he didn't look strong enough to be able to work for a living. He fit more into the down-on-his-luck-gambler category or worse, one of the men who posed as investors and sold free land to immigrants.

  She decided to play along. If he was mourning Barret, she owed him a bit of comfort. "Would you like some tea, Mr. Lander? I asked for some to be sent up when I arrived."

  He smiled. "Oh. call me Shelley, dear. We are family, you know.”

  She could almost see him settling in like a hen on a full nest.

  He leaned back, relaxing. "I'd love some tea.”

  Bonnie banged her way through the door with a jug of milk and a half loaf of bread about the time a maid arrived with the tea tray. The tall nurse took a look around the room as if she thought she might be in the wrong place. When her gaze rested on Sage, the doctor shook her head slightly.

  Shelley didn't fool the nurse for longer than a blink. "You look like Dr. Lander.” she said. "So I'm guessing you're a relative.”

  Sage shifted her gaze back and forth from the milk to the bedroom door, hoping Bonnie would take the hint.

  Shelley stood and bowed. "I'm Barret's brother, and you are right. I've come to pay my respects to his widow. And you, madam, must be my poor brother's widow's traveling companion."

  "No, sir. I'm her nurse.”

  Shelley dropped back on the couch with a look of horror. He grabbed Sage's hand. "Oh, you poor, poor child; you're ill.” Sage frowned. There it was again, the poor child label. "No." She pulled her hand away. "I'm a doctor, like your brother, and Miss Pierce is my nurse. She works for me.”

  Shelley looked like he might argue but instead wisely kept his mouth closed for once.

  Bonnie sidestepped toward the bedroom as the maid set up the tea. "Well," she said a bit too loudly, "you two enjoy your tea and visit. I'll just take my snack"-she lifted the jug and bread- "into the bedroom.”

  Shelley watched her go, huffed twice, and returned to his seat. "Odd creature.” he said as he began pouring tea with hands that didn't look like they'd been washed in a week.

  The place is thick with them, Sage thought.

  As she watched the man eat all the finger sandwiches, she fought the urge to ask him how he made a living. As far as she knew, Barret's people were educated but relatively poor. As a doctor, her husband had worked more days for free than for payment. He would have had little money to send to a worthless brother. The gentleman bred in Shelley was tarnished as well as his manners.

  Sage leaned back on a pillow and waited to see if he'd prove himself a fool.

  Shelley liked to talk, even if he didn't have much to say. He rattled on about the history of Galveston as if he were a native Texan. Finally, w
ith all the tea gone, he decided it was time for him to leave.

  "I know that you'll be needing someone to advise you, and I want to offer my services. You're very young, and women have no mind for business, so if you'll allow me, I'll be your guide through the stormy seas to come.”

  "Thank you” Sage said, not bothering to tell him that she'd been handling her own affairs since she turned eighteen and began to share equally in the profits of the ranch.

  Shelley walked to the door, then turned back to her with a sad expression on his face as though he dreaded having to tell her something. "One thing, my dear sister. I know you think you have lots of money from my brother's estate. I'm sure he left you well provided for, but I must begin my duty by asking if you think it wise to book such expensive accommodations. I could find you more reasonable lodging for a third the price."

  Sage considered saying that she'd paid for his brother's funeral, but she couldn't be so unkind. "Thank you, Mr. Lander. I'll give it some thought."

  She closed the door before he could think of more advice and leaned against it for good measure.

  Bonnie stepped from the bedroom, making no pretense that she hadn't been listening. "Odd duck, don't you think?"

  Sage laughed. "I do. Maybe we can manage to stay out of his way for the next few days. Once we get supplies and I take care of some banking, we'll be on our way to Whispering Mountain, and Mr. Shelley Lander will have no idea where we've gone. It's a big state. He'll have to find his tea somewhere else."

  "Sad, really.” Bonnie whispered. "Him living and the good Dr. Lander dying. Maybe it's true what they say that the good die young.”

  The memory of her first love, a tall, handsome Texas Ranger who'd been killed, came flooding back in painful waves. "Yes. Very sad."

  CHAPTER 4

  DRUMMOND LISTENED AS THE RANGERS WENT OVER the plan one more time in detail. He didn't really need to know everything. He just had to know who to shoot.

  "We'll meet back here in half an hour.” Captain Harmon said. "I want all men sober and ready to ride. Have weapons fully loaded and fresh horses saddled. We'll ride hard through the night.”

  A half-grown kid stood between the desk and the stove. Fear and worry blended among the streaks of tears on his cheeks. The captain put his arm on the boy's shoulder and told him he had to eat and drink something, or he'd never make the ride with them. The boy nodded and dropped on the chair behind the desk, but he didn't seem to notice the food before him. He stared at the men in the room, searching each one's face as if looking for one who might save his family.

  The Rangers collected their gear. Not one spoke to Drum. He wasn't one of them; he never had been. They respected him, spoke to him when they had to, but not one invited him to join them. He was an outsider they sometimes needed. He signed on for the same dangerous missions they did. He risked his life, like each one of them, but not one would mourn him if he didn't come back alive.

  Drum told himself he didn't care. Friends had never been a luxury he could afford. Words like family or friend or loved ones were not part of his world. He'd do this job and be paid well if he lived. Then he'd go on with his life the only way he knew how: alone.

  After the captain dismissed them, Drum slipped through the back alleys of Galveston unnoticed. If he only had a half hour left in town, he didn't want to waste it. The moon sliced between the buildings, leaving most of the alley in total darkness. He didn't slow; he knew his way well in the shadows and moved without a sound.

  Within minutes, he'd stepped out onto the roof of the Patterson Grand Hotel and swung along the ledge to Sage's room. He knew where she'd be: the best room in the place. Not because she'd asked for it but because her brothers would have demanded it.

  All the lamps were out, but there was enough moonlight to guide him through the window to the only third-floor room that faced the gulf. He stepped into what looked like a little living area. Trunks and scattered clothes lay atop most of the furniture.

  Drum swore he could smell Sage in the air: the hint of honeysuckle she used in her hair, the lavender soap. He crossed the room, the rug muffling any sound.

  The tall woman who'd been traveling with Sage slept in the first bedroom. He could see the top of her head with hair twisted into rag knots. Her clothes were neatly organized in rows on the other bed in the room. A huge black cat slept on one pile.

  Drum silently moved on. A washroom came next, with porcelain glowing in the light and ladies' underthings hanging on thin strings crisscrossing the room.

  He walked on down the hallway. The door to Sage's room was open only a crack, but he could see her asleep.

  Moving silently closer, he drank in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst. She wore the same kind of white nightgown he'd seen her wear when she was eighteen. It buttoned all the way to her throat and had puffy sleeves that covered her as completely as a nun's habit. Her hair was braided in one long braid resting over her shoulder. As always, she slept soundly and at peace.

  He grinned, remembering how she used to sleep with her hair free and wild all over her pillow. After he'd met her. he'd returned from time to time to Whispering Mountain just to check on her. He told himself it was just to see her, to make sure that the girl who'd let him outrun the law when he'd been fifteen was still safe. In truth, he risked his life just to stand near and watch her sleep. If her brothers had caught him, they would probably have taken turns killing him. But it had been worth it. Sage looked like an angel when she slept.

  In those years, when he felt like he fought against all the world, those few moments watching her sleep were the only calm he'd known.

  Drum fought the urge to touch her now. She'd always been a sound sleeper. Would she wake if he just brushed her cheek?

  When she'd left for Boston he'd still been a boy; but he was a man now, and Drum knew touching her cheek would never be enough. He leaned over Sage and kissed her softly on the lips.

  She moaned as if talking in a dream.

  Smiling, he kissed her again, this time letting his mouth explore the curve of her lips.

  She opened her mouth and sighed. Every muscle in his body fought to pull her up to him. "Someday.” he whispered in promise. "Someday we'll finish this kiss." He'd made up his mind a long time ago that they'd go slow, drinking in passion a drop at a time, so they'd never get their fill. He planned to still be making love to her when both their hair had turned gray and their grandchildren were sleeping upstairs. He didn't want to own her, or take her, or have her, he wanted to be with her so completely that one of them couldn't fall asleep at night without touching the other.

  He frowned. It wasn't easy telling a woman how he felt about her when she was busy yelling at him.

  A movement in the corner caught his attention.

  When he stepped away. the dog she'd saved slowly stood from his bed in the corner. Drum knelt and patted the mutt. "Take care of her until I get back," he whispered to the dog.

  He crossed the little room and slipped out the same window he'd entered. For a few minutes his mind was at peace. Sage was close. He knew he meant nothing to her, but it didn't matter. His thoughts were on her as he saddled up with the half dozen Rangers and rode out along the shoreline. For once, he didn't feel the loneliness of the ride. He had the taste of Sage on his lips, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn't cold as stone.

  They rode until almost dawn before anyone said a word. Drum knew they were close when Captain Harmon pulled his huge bay up beside him.

  "Work in as close as you can, son” he whispered to Drum. "You have to take out both the leaders, or we'll have a full war on our hands. There aren't enough Rangers within riding distance to fight all the raiders if they get pissing mad and have someone to direct them in a fight. Our only hope is to take out Franky Bellows and the man they all call Scar, then hope the others aren't smart enough to organize before we have them rounded up and tied down.”

  Drum nodded. Captain Turner Harmon was a law-abiding man; he wou
ldn't order a man to shoot someone if there weren't other lives at stake. Drum had enough details about each man that there would be no question who his targets were.

  Turner hesitated. "If the other border raiders fight, there's a chance you'll be caught in the crossfire. I'm hoping the hostages will huddle down, but if we hit them as the sun comes up, the boys won't be able to tell you from the raiders”

  "I know” Drum had been in this situation before. The Rangers needed a good shot to start the battle-a very good shot-but if he were close enough to shoot the leader in the middle of his men, he'd be among the raiders when they started to run. "Don't worry about it. Cap." Drum grinned at the captain. "Just take care of my horse. I don't much like the idea of having to walk back to Galveston."

  "I've got to make sure the boy stays well out of the fight. Holding your horse should keep him busy." The captain nodded and moved on to the other men.

  Ten minutes later, the sky was about to color when Roak slipped silently around one of the outbuildings and climbed into the rafters of a lean-to. He had a clear view of the rundown settlement. The homestead looked more dugout than ranch house. A few small sheds, maybe slave quarters for a dozen men, maybe smokehouses, and the skeleton of a barn still smoldering from the raid that probably happened less than twenty-four hours ago.

  He pulled his weapons, checked his loads more from habit than need, and waited.

  The place reminded him of a few camps he'd stayed in when he'd been little. His mother traveled with outlaws. He'd been born in one of the camps, though she'd never said where. She'd had several miscarriages and stillbirths after him. He'd often wondered if the babies had died or if she just hadn't bothered to wake them up at birth. She couldn't take care of herself or him, much less another child.