Wild Texas Rose by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online Page B

than a rifle, the carbine was easier for her to handle — and she did know how to handle it. She knew how to handle all firearms. Not too long ago, the territory had been Indian country, and every man, woman, and child west of the Pecos knew how to shoot.
    But she’d never had to kill a man before. As she loaded the holster belt with cartridges and strapped it on, she realized she’d never been angry enough to kill a man before.
    Now she was.
    Back in the stable, she selected Rooster, a six-year old sorrel with stamina, patience, speed, and an unflappable nature. All qualities she needed, both for tracking and in case the … the criminal tried to ambush her.
    In the light of the moon, the hoof marks shone like beacons leading away from the stable. It surprised Rose that the thief had left so clear a trail through the grass — he never had before. What did it signify? Had he been in a hurry? Or was he planning an ambush?
    No matter. Her daddy had taught her some tricks he’d learned from his stint with the Texas Rangers. Tricks the Comanches used. No man would get the drop on her.
    The trail led north, deeper into the mountains, and it soon became clear that, once away from the ranch compound, the bandit felt the need for caution. He made numerous attempts to disguise the trail — riding down creek beds that trickled with water from the fall rains, cutting across ash flow tuffs where hoof marks scarcely showed. Rose had to stop frequently and scour the ground for clues.
    The night added a surreal sense to her mission, cloaking her in darkness, yet also cloaking anyone who might threaten her. She moved stealthily from shadow to shadow, from ponderosa pine to gray oak, avoiding the open places where the moon betrayed all movement. About two hours before dawn, she was rewarded by the sound of two horses moving toward her. Leaving Rooster on the flat, she took her firearms and scrambled up the shadowed side of the canyon. Just in time, she crouched behind a boulder that had tumbled free of the palisade cliff. She quivered with strain: her eyes, her muscles, her nerves anticipated action. Yet her stomach churned like a rock in a stream.
    Then, as casually as if he were riding down a Dallas street, Thorn came around the bend. He was leading Starbright on a tether and whistling under his breath, and his offhand manner replaced Rose’s apprehension with a spitting rage. Cocking the lever to feed a cartridge into the breech, she rose, fit her carbine into her shoulder, and stepped out from behind the rock, taking aim with the care of a sharpshooter.
    “Don’t!” Thorn’s command echoed back and forth across the columnar walls, and he brought his horse up short. On the leading rein, Starbright wasn’t so cooperative, and Thorn struggled with her for a moment. When he had control, he looked up at the place where she stood in the shadows and begged, “Darlin’ Rose, don’t shoot me.”
    That voice. That whiskey-smooth, coaxing voice. How many times had she done as he asked? How many times had she been sorry?
    Jolted from her first, burning rage, she hesitated an instant too long and felt the rush of blinding fury fade. “You dirty thief. How did you know it was me?”
    “I’ve been watching for you — although I didn’t expect you quite so soon.” He pushed back his hat so she could see his face, and he grinned so wickedly her trigger finger itched. “I’ll have to see what I can do about helping you sleep.”
    Same song, different verse. Did the man think of nothing else? “You’re mighty bold for a man who’s about to have lead fired into his heart.”
    “Are you as good a shot as you ever were?” he asked.
    “Better.” It wasn’t a boast. It was the truth.
    “Then you’d better do it now, before you lose your nerve. Here” — he brought his horse around, presenting his broad chest — “this is a better target.”
    She sighted down the barrel, held her breath, settled her finger on the trigger,