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Authors: Shirl Henke Henke
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complicate his plans when they returned to San Luís.
He waited patiently with his horses while Wolf gathered the outlaws' mounts and Maggie and Eden finally approached the campfire, apparently ready to ride. Colin looked at Eden, who still seemed afraid to meet his eyes. Frustration gnawed at him that a stranger—this woman in particular—could gain his only child's confidence when he could not.
He considered whether or not to say anything about Lazlo's escape, then decided it might push Eden over the edge again. He brought her horse over. “Here's Sunglow, Eden. Can you mount up all right? We won't go far—just away from this place.”
She darted a glance at her father and tried to smile. “It's all right, Father. I can make it,” she said in a husky voice. She swung up onto the palomino mare, then looked at him for a moment. “I should tell you about Lazlo...”
“It's all right, Eden. Well find him. Don't you ever think of the bastard again. He's a dead man.” His face was fearsome in the dying light.
“He is a dead man. I killed him,” Eden replied.
“She put a centipede inside his boot and it bit him deep in his instep. He rode out not an hour before we got here,” Maggie added as she swung up on the horse Wolf offered her.
A grimly proud smile touched Colin's face. “That so, Babygirl? It was better than he deserved, but I'm glad you did it. It's all right.” He patted her knee awkwardly. “It's all going to be all right.”
“Thank you, Father...for coming after me...” Her voice broke and she turned her head away and kneed the mare to trot slowly away from the dying fire, riding after Maggie and the half-breed who led a string of outlaw horses. Helplessly, Colin McCrory followed them.
Chapter Four
Bart Fletcher paced furiously across the Tabriz carpet on his office floor, glancing now and again out at the deserted street below as he passed the big front window. Finally, he poured himself a stiff drink of good smooth Madeira. It cost him a fortune to have it shipped across this godforsaken wilderness. The soothing, sweet, tart liquid rolled across his tongue and down his throat.
He was breaking the rules, of course. Bart ran a saloon, but he never drank before five in the afternoon. Not until today when he returned from that ghastly tooth butcher in Hermosillo, his jaw still throbbing, only to learn that Maggie had ridden out with Colin McCrory yesterday. He took another long drink and cursed the rotten timing.
All of this was Judd Lazlo's fault. Emilio told him that the accursed banditti had shown up after he had left town. Maggie had made short work of Lazlo.
That brought an unwilling smile to Fletcher's face. His Megs could always take care of herself. “Riding around out there with McCrory and some breed gunman, it's a bloody good thing,” he muttered as he drained the glass.
Still, her absence worried him. Lazlo was a mean one, and as for McCrory... God, he hadn't thought of that damned scalper in nearly twenty years. One of Jeremy Nash's charming collection of cutthroat misfits, men who made Attila the Hun seem just the sort one would prefer to invite for afternoon tea. Nash's group of mercenary Indian killers had split up, most either dead or drifted out of Mexico in the early sixties. But now McCrory was back—and he had enlisted Maggie in his cause. That made Fletcher nervous.
Maggie. His beautiful, bright Megs with China blue eyes a man could drown in and a body so lush she could seduce an Ottoman sultan. Maggie with her warm sense of humor and even warmer heart—except where men were concerned. Oh, she was an easy touch when a down-and-out prospector gave her a sob story, and she took in everything from stray cats to broken-down old whores. But her personal life had always been
He waited patiently with his horses while Wolf gathered the outlaws' mounts and Maggie and Eden finally approached the campfire, apparently ready to ride. Colin looked at Eden, who still seemed afraid to meet his eyes. Frustration gnawed at him that a stranger—this woman in particular—could gain his only child's confidence when he could not.
He considered whether or not to say anything about Lazlo's escape, then decided it might push Eden over the edge again. He brought her horse over. “Here's Sunglow, Eden. Can you mount up all right? We won't go far—just away from this place.”
She darted a glance at her father and tried to smile. “It's all right, Father. I can make it,” she said in a husky voice. She swung up onto the palomino mare, then looked at him for a moment. “I should tell you about Lazlo...”
“It's all right, Eden. Well find him. Don't you ever think of the bastard again. He's a dead man.” His face was fearsome in the dying light.
“He is a dead man. I killed him,” Eden replied.
“She put a centipede inside his boot and it bit him deep in his instep. He rode out not an hour before we got here,” Maggie added as she swung up on the horse Wolf offered her.
A grimly proud smile touched Colin's face. “That so, Babygirl? It was better than he deserved, but I'm glad you did it. It's all right.” He patted her knee awkwardly. “It's all going to be all right.”
“Thank you, Father...for coming after me...” Her voice broke and she turned her head away and kneed the mare to trot slowly away from the dying fire, riding after Maggie and the half-breed who led a string of outlaw horses. Helplessly, Colin McCrory followed them.
Chapter Four
Bart Fletcher paced furiously across the Tabriz carpet on his office floor, glancing now and again out at the deserted street below as he passed the big front window. Finally, he poured himself a stiff drink of good smooth Madeira. It cost him a fortune to have it shipped across this godforsaken wilderness. The soothing, sweet, tart liquid rolled across his tongue and down his throat.
He was breaking the rules, of course. Bart ran a saloon, but he never drank before five in the afternoon. Not until today when he returned from that ghastly tooth butcher in Hermosillo, his jaw still throbbing, only to learn that Maggie had ridden out with Colin McCrory yesterday. He took another long drink and cursed the rotten timing.
All of this was Judd Lazlo's fault. Emilio told him that the accursed banditti had shown up after he had left town. Maggie had made short work of Lazlo.
That brought an unwilling smile to Fletcher's face. His Megs could always take care of herself. “Riding around out there with McCrory and some breed gunman, it's a bloody good thing,” he muttered as he drained the glass.
Still, her absence worried him. Lazlo was a mean one, and as for McCrory... God, he hadn't thought of that damned scalper in nearly twenty years. One of Jeremy Nash's charming collection of cutthroat misfits, men who made Attila the Hun seem just the sort one would prefer to invite for afternoon tea. Nash's group of mercenary Indian killers had split up, most either dead or drifted out of Mexico in the early sixties. But now McCrory was back—and he had enlisted Maggie in his cause. That made Fletcher nervous.
Maggie. His beautiful, bright Megs with China blue eyes a man could drown in and a body so lush she could seduce an Ottoman sultan. Maggie with her warm sense of humor and even warmer heart—except where men were concerned. Oh, she was an easy touch when a down-and-out prospector gave her a sob story, and she took in everything from stray cats to broken-down old whores. But her personal life had always been
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