Read Online Jodi Thomas by The Tender Texan - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: The Tender Texan
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him. His age was hidden in weathered wrinkles, but his movements told of a man not yet out of his forties.
“Thanks, mister, but I’m not your son.”
“True.” The stranger looked straight at Chance with an honest smile. “Name’s Tobin Taylor.”
There was an unwritten law that one man didn’t ask another too many questions. Most people in Texas weren’t too free with personal information, but Chance wanted to know more of this man who walked among the Indians as their friend. He offered his hand. “Chance Wyatt. I’ve known Walks Tall for years. We spent some time at a mission home in San Antonio as boys. His folks were killed by white men, mine by Indians.”
Watching his words register on the stranger’s face, Chance continued, “There was a time when I thought we could be friends, but the hatred over his folks’ deaths festered in him. Within a year we were fighting about everything. Guess the only thing we ever agreed on was running away from that home.”
Taylor showed no interest in Chance’s story. His face bore the look of a man who’d lost interest in everything except staying alive. He turned and checked the girth on his horse. After a moment he glanced over his shoulder; his eyes looked past Chance to Walks Tall. “I’ll ride over to the other camp.” His words were spoken in the Indian dialect. “I’ll bring Medicine Man’s widow back. She’s the only one around who Walks Tall is goin’ to let set that arm.”
Mounting his horse, the man looked back at Chance. His eyes were hard with a lifetime of seeing and not living. “Oh, by the way, son, I saw your woman running toward the woods.”
Every muscle in Chance tightened to the breaking point, but he tried to keep his face calm and his walk unhurried as he headed toward the creek. The cold water stung his face and chest as he dipped waist-deep into the stream. He whistled sharply and Cyoty trotted over. Chance wiped his face with the shirt that had been tied to the saddle, shoved his arms into his vest, and strapped his gun on before he turned back to see if the stranger was watching.
With relief he noticed the man called Tobin Taylor was gone. Chance’s body exploded into action, swinging onto Cyoty’s back and heading for the woods. Why had she run? What if she were in trouble? His mind spun in fear. Why didn’t she stay in the tent like he’d told her to?
Anna ran along the stream, following its crooked path, hoping it would lead her to civilization—if there was such a thing in this wild and hostile land. Her heart pounded noisily in her chest and she didn’t take the time to notice if the moisture running down her face was sweat or blood. If she didn’t get away fast, there would be more than a few drops of blood to worry about.
From behind her Anna heard a horse thundering closer at a steady, terrifying clip. “Run,” the pounding seemed to urge her on. “ Run !”
As the noise grew, Anna threw herself blindly into the brush. She crouched in the thick tangle of branches, afraid to breathe. Dried weeds and leaves blended with the tall brown grass to shield her from view, and she clenched her waist as a dull pain spread through her abdomen. She had no energy to run, no breath to calm her, no strength to fight the rumbling hell that moved closer to her even in the damp shadows of the brush.
The horse’s snorts were very close now. Someone was moving the brush aside. The stomps of the animal and the jingle of spurs blended with the snap of leather as the rider twisted off his saddle and moved closer.
Anna closed her eyes as tightly as she could, as though not seeing what was coming would prevent her pursuer from seeing her. The memory of Chance falling as the Indian’s arm slapped against his skull filled her mind, blocking her pain.
A branch near her head moved. Pushing hard against the twigs at her back, Anna waited. In her mindless terror, she barely felt the stabs of the brush against her.
“Anna?” a
“Thanks, mister, but I’m not your son.”
“True.” The stranger looked straight at Chance with an honest smile. “Name’s Tobin Taylor.”
There was an unwritten law that one man didn’t ask another too many questions. Most people in Texas weren’t too free with personal information, but Chance wanted to know more of this man who walked among the Indians as their friend. He offered his hand. “Chance Wyatt. I’ve known Walks Tall for years. We spent some time at a mission home in San Antonio as boys. His folks were killed by white men, mine by Indians.”
Watching his words register on the stranger’s face, Chance continued, “There was a time when I thought we could be friends, but the hatred over his folks’ deaths festered in him. Within a year we were fighting about everything. Guess the only thing we ever agreed on was running away from that home.”
Taylor showed no interest in Chance’s story. His face bore the look of a man who’d lost interest in everything except staying alive. He turned and checked the girth on his horse. After a moment he glanced over his shoulder; his eyes looked past Chance to Walks Tall. “I’ll ride over to the other camp.” His words were spoken in the Indian dialect. “I’ll bring Medicine Man’s widow back. She’s the only one around who Walks Tall is goin’ to let set that arm.”
Mounting his horse, the man looked back at Chance. His eyes were hard with a lifetime of seeing and not living. “Oh, by the way, son, I saw your woman running toward the woods.”
Every muscle in Chance tightened to the breaking point, but he tried to keep his face calm and his walk unhurried as he headed toward the creek. The cold water stung his face and chest as he dipped waist-deep into the stream. He whistled sharply and Cyoty trotted over. Chance wiped his face with the shirt that had been tied to the saddle, shoved his arms into his vest, and strapped his gun on before he turned back to see if the stranger was watching.
With relief he noticed the man called Tobin Taylor was gone. Chance’s body exploded into action, swinging onto Cyoty’s back and heading for the woods. Why had she run? What if she were in trouble? His mind spun in fear. Why didn’t she stay in the tent like he’d told her to?
Anna ran along the stream, following its crooked path, hoping it would lead her to civilization—if there was such a thing in this wild and hostile land. Her heart pounded noisily in her chest and she didn’t take the time to notice if the moisture running down her face was sweat or blood. If she didn’t get away fast, there would be more than a few drops of blood to worry about.
From behind her Anna heard a horse thundering closer at a steady, terrifying clip. “Run,” the pounding seemed to urge her on. “ Run !”
As the noise grew, Anna threw herself blindly into the brush. She crouched in the thick tangle of branches, afraid to breathe. Dried weeds and leaves blended with the tall brown grass to shield her from view, and she clenched her waist as a dull pain spread through her abdomen. She had no energy to run, no breath to calm her, no strength to fight the rumbling hell that moved closer to her even in the damp shadows of the brush.
The horse’s snorts were very close now. Someone was moving the brush aside. The stomps of the animal and the jingle of spurs blended with the snap of leather as the rider twisted off his saddle and moved closer.
Anna closed her eyes as tightly as she could, as though not seeing what was coming would prevent her pursuer from seeing her. The memory of Chance falling as the Indian’s arm slapped against his skull filled her mind, blocking her pain.
A branch near her head moved. Pushing hard against the twigs at her back, Anna waited. In her mindless terror, she barely felt the stabs of the brush against her.
“Anna?” a
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