Selected praise for
SARAH McCARTY’S

award-winning HELL’S EIGHT series

CAINE’S RECKONING

Romance Reviews Today Best Erotic Historical Romance

“Sarah McCarty’s new series is an exciting blend of raw masculinity,

spunky, feisty heroines and the wild living in the old west…

Ms. McCarty gave us small peeks into each member of the Hell’s Eight

and I’m looking forward to reading the other men’s stories.”

—Erotica Romance Writers (9/10)

“Intense, edgy and passionate, this is old-school historical romance

at its finest.”

—RT Book Reviews (4.5 stars)

SAM’S CREED

“McCarty continues her Hell’s Eight series with this solidly

plotted tale. There’s wonderful chemistry between Sam and Bella,

and the witty banter between them makes the story come alive.”

—RT Book Reviews (4 stars)

“Readers who enjoy erotic romance but haven’t found an author

who can combine it with an historical setting may discover

a new auto-buy author…I have.”

—All About Romance

TUCKER’S CLAIM

RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice for Best Erotic Historical

“What really sets McCarty’s stories apart from simple erotica

is the complexity of her characters and conflicts. The third installment

of her Hells Eight series is historically accurate…and definitely spicy,

but it’s a great love story too.”

—RT Book Reviews (4.5 stars), TOP PICK!

“If you like your historicals packed with emotion, excitement and heat,

you can never go wrong with a book by Sarah McCarty.”

—Romance Junkies

A Hell’s Eight Adventure
Sarah McCarty

www.spice-books.co.uk

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To Vann—the man who makes me laugh no matter how dark the day. May your life be filled with love, sunshine and laughter for all the rest of your days.

Chapter One

April 5, 1858

Dear Ari,

I don’t know how to start this letter, except to say thank God you’re alive.

So much has happened in the last year. Not all of it good, but some of it so special, there aren’t words to describe it. I’m married. Happily so, to a man of whom Papa would never have approved. He doesn’t have money, doesn’t have social position, and doesn’t care a fig about mine, but he is everything I never dreamed big enough to desire when we used to sit under the apple tree imagining the perfect husband. A heart that knows no limits, a sense of honor that can’t be compromised, and a love for me so rich, I’ll never be poor. He’s Hell’s Eight, and if you’re still living in the Texas territory when this letter finds you, you know what that means. If not, you’re in for a treat. The men of Hell’s Eight are a breed apart. A standard on which to build legends, for all they’ll scoff at you if you tell them so.

My husband’s name is Caine Allen, and he’s the one insisting I write this letter. He believes in family and in my intuition, and though everyone says you’re dead, he says my gut feeling is good enough for him, and he’s promised finding you will be Hell’s Eight’s number one priority. He can be high-handed at times, but in the best ways.

I’m sorry I can’t introduce you to the man handing you this letter, but you see, I’ve made seven copies and entrusted them to seven different men: Tucker, Sam, Tracker, Shadow, Luke, Caden and Ace. Like my husband, they’re Hell’s Eight and I’m asking you to put yourself in their care because each one of them has made a promise to me, one they’ve sworn to uphold.

They’ve promised to bring you home, Ari. Home to Hell’s Eight, where there’s no past, no recriminations, no judgment, just peace and a place where you can breathe easily. After what we’ve been through, I know it sounds like a preacher’s description of heaven, illusive and unreal. But I promise you there is a way out of hell and if you haven’t already found it, I’ll help you.

Trust no one but them, Ari, because Father’s solicitor, Harold Amboy, is the one who arranged for us to be ambushed initially, and he has men hunting for you, too. He intends to control Father’s money through one of us. But you can trust any of these men. Absolutely and completely, with everything you hold dear.

I’m crying as I write this. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I can’t forget how we parted. My nightmares, which must have been your reality. The sense of helplessness as I stare at the night sky, wondering if you can see the same stars, wondering if you’re healthy, happy, and most of all safe.

Do you remember the game we used to play as children when things didn’t go our way? How we’d find a patch of daisies dappled in sunlight, link our hands in our special way and then just spin until we didn’t care about anything else? I so want to see you again, Ari, find a patch of daisies, grab hands and spin until laughter takes over and all the bad falls away. Though it’s irrational, because I have no idea how long it will take the men to find you—days, months, years—I have to say this.

Hurry home, Ari. I’ve planted a patch of daisies and it’s waiting.

“So you’re going after her?”

Tracker nodded in response to his twin brother’s question, then yanked the square knot tight on the rawhide, securing his bedroll to the back of the saddle. Desi’s letter to Ari rustled in his pocket, a subtle prod.

Tin rattled against tin as Shadow stuffed his plate and cup into his saddlebags. “We’ve got a better lead,” he said, pointing out the obvious for the second time since they’d set up camp the night before. “The Saransens down Cavato way actually have a blond woman confirmed, living in town.”

Tracker looked at Shadow. It was like gazing in the mirror. His twin had the same height, same broad shoulders, the same sharp planes to his face that lent a cruel edge to his expression. The latter came from their father. The only softness in his face was that full mouth, a gift from their Mexican mother. The same deep brown eyes with the cynical edge that came from knowing everything had a price.

Tracker and Shadow had learned young how to blend into the world around them so they’d be invisible to the “marks” their father wanted them to rob. A pity they’d never been able to hide from him. Tracker jerked the knot again, remembering the spew of bile that had rained down in insults and beatings if their father’s standards weren’t met.

As the older brother by twenty minutes, he’d tried his whole life to protect Shadow from the harshness of their world. He hadn’t been successful. Shadow had suffered at the hands of their father. He’d suffered at the hands of the Mexican army that had wiped out their town when they were just boys. He’d suffered in the days after the massacre as he and the seven other orphaned boys had almost starved to death, searching for a place to belong. In the end, they’d made their home together, found acceptance in each other. And in the years since, those eight boys had grown into the most feared men of the Texas plains. Tracker and Shadow had family in Hell’s Eight, but any respect they garnered outside the confines of Hell’s Eight land they’d earned with their blood. In this country, the only respect a man held was that which he took. And he and Shadow had taken more than their fair share.

“Deep thoughts, brother?”

Tracker shook off the melancholy and smiled as he slid his rifle into the scabbard. “I was thinking that Caine would be pleased with where Hell’s Eight has landed.”

Caine was the leader of the group that those eight starving boys had become. He’d taken them from outlaws to lawmen, and Caine’s wife was the reason Tracker was on the hunt now.

“He always said we’d get strong first and then we’d get even, and damned if he didn’t make that come true.”

“Hard to believe we’re now the ones people call on when they have trouble.” Tracker still wasn’t comfortable with that. He’d rather stay in the background with no ties, no expectations, handling what needed to be handled calmly and efficiently, without any notoriety.

Shadow chuckled and shook his head. “Yeah, especially since we were so good at being trouble.”

They had been that. Tracker had never felt so free as in those early years when they’d ridden outside the law, taking justice into their own hands, slipping in and out of the shadows, doing what needed to be done with an efficiency that would have pleased his father. But things had a way of changing, and now Hell’s Eight was the law, bound somewhat by the rules of society. He grimaced. Hell, they’d gotten so damn respectable that it chafed. The bounty they’d just settled being a case in point.

He pictured again the smarmy smirk of John Kettle as he stood before the judge, hearing his not guilty verdict. The man was as guilty as sin. Tracker and Shadow had buried the bodies of the woman and child he’d killed, before they’d tracked him down. In the old days they would have just killed the son of a bitch in a quick dispensation of justice. Instead, they’d followed the law and brought him to the county seat. But while the woman and little girl were still dead, their killer was walking free, because justice had caved beneath the money and influence of John Kettle’s family.

Tracker spat. “Things are changing, brother.”

Shadow grunted, knowing exactly what he was talking about. “We should have just gut shot the bastard.”

“Next time we will.” He wasn’t a man naturally given to playing by the rules, especially when they weren’t working. Things might be changing, but he wasn’t. He liked things clean and neat, with no messy loose ends. John Kettle was a loose end, and sooner or later Tracker would have to clean it up. The bastard killed for the pleasure it gave him. That kind of sickness inside a man only got worse, not better. He would kill again. And again. And again. Until someone stopped him.

“Amen,” Shadow muttered.

A warm breeze blew up, lifting Tracker’s long hair off his neck in a subtle warning. Goose bumps rose along his skin. His senses sharpened and that inner voice that so often saved his ass issued an alert. He traced the breeze’s path backward. South. The sense of inevitability that had been haunting him since the day he’d met Caine’s wife, Desi, increased. The woman who might be Ari was south. So was his destiny. He gripped the stock of the rifle, letting the familiar feel of the sun-warmed wood anchor him. The letter rustled. Damn, he wasn’t sure he was that eager to meet what was coming.

It was too much to hope Shadow hadn’t sensed the tension flowing through him.

“What is it?”

Tracker didn’t know what to make of the inner prodding, the overwhelming sense of destiny crashing in on him. “A feeling.”

Shadow swore. Their whole lives they’d had a strange connection, strange feelings. What happened to one often was felt by the other. It had kept them alive more than once. Shadow finished tying on his saddlebags. “I’m going with you.”

Tracker didn’t want his twin anywhere near the disaster that had to be his destiny.

“No.”

Glancing from beneath the wide brim of his black hat, Shadow said, “You may be twenty minutes older, but you don’t tell me what to do.”

The hell he didn’t. “We made Desi a promise to find her sister.”

“Yeah, so? We’ll give the Cavato lead to someone else.”

“Who would you suggest? Cavato is in Indian territory. It would be suicide for most men to get within ten miles of there.”

“I’d say Zacharias and his men, if he weren’t still stove up from that run-in with Comanches.”

“They could do it.”

Zacharias and his vaqueros were from Sam and Bella’s ranch. Tougher men had never been bred, unless it was Hell’s Eight themselves. Hells’ Eight owed them a debt that could never be repaid. Zach and his men had volunteered to sacrifice themselves in a near-suicide mission, standing against Comanches to buy Tucker the time he needed to get his pregnant wife to safety. Everyone thought they’d been killed. It’d been quite a shock to have them ride up, bloody and near death, at their own funeral.

“I’ll be glad when Sam’s connections get us what we need to put an end to the attempts on Desi’s life.”

Tracker nodded. “And Ari’s.”

“Yeah. Amazing what men will do for money.”

And Ari and Desi were worth a lot of money to someone back east. From what Sam and the rest of them had deduced, the whole family had been slated to be murdered on their trip west, but the killers had gotten greedy when they’d seen the girls. Instead of killing them, the attackers had sold them to Comancheros. Both girls had suffered horribly. Desi’s suffering had ended when Caine had found her standing all but naked in a creek, fighting four men with that hellion spirit. But Ari’s suffering probably continued.

No one knew if Ari had survived, but Desi’s gut said she had, and that was enough for Hell’s Eight. They each carried a letter that contained a promise to bring Ari home to her sister. And no member of Hell’s Eight ever went back on a promise. None of the men really expected to find Ari breathing, except maybe Tracker. Perhaps it was because he was a twin himself and understood that strange connection between close siblings that surpassed logic. Or maybe, he admitted only to himself, it was because of something else, something deeper. But he knew Ari was alive, and he knew he would find her. The only thing in question was whether he would find her in time. Inside him a clock ticked, and lately the tick was becoming louder, as if time was running out.

He glanced south again. Ari was waiting and she needed him. He wouldn’t listen to anything inside that said more than that. But he still didn’t want Shadow anywhere around what his gut said was going to be his end.

“We can’t afford to wait for Luke, Caden and Ace to hit the rendezvous points and pick up their messages. If the woman in Cavato is Ari, you need to get there before she’s sold or stolen again.”

“Yeah.” Shadow’s face set in that blank way that said he was accepting what he couldn’t change. “And if she’s not Ari?”

Tracker patted Buster’s flank. “I’ll do what I think best.”

“Tia said if we bring home another mouth to feed who can’t cook, we’re not getting another biscuit for the rest of our lives.”

Tracker grunted. “Then we teach them to cook on the way to Hell’s Eight.”

Shadow snorted and picked up his horse’s reins from where they dangled to the ground. “Says the man who’s always ducking the women trailing behind him.”

Tracker looped the reins of his roan around the horn of his saddle. Buster lost a bit of his lazy slump. There was nothing the horse loved more than covering ground, and since he had a stride as smooth as butter, there was nothing Tracker loved more than riding him. “I don’t want their gratitude.”

It made him uncomfortable, made him feel like a liar. He wasn’t a hero. There just wasn’t much else a man could do when a woman looked at him with hope fading from her eyes as she realized he was there to save someone else, not just give her something on which to hang that hope. A ride to a safe place. A chance to start over. Not all took it, but some did. And those who did he brought home to Hell’s Eight. From there they did what they wanted. Went home to family, went off to new beginnings or stayed under the group’s protection. Something Shadow knew, because he’d brought just as many women to Hell’s Eight as Tracker had. The difference was that the women didn’t imagine themselves in love with Shadow. Tracker wished he knew the secret of keeping them at arm’s length. He was getting damn tired of being the butt of jokes.

Leather creaked as Shadow swung up into the saddle. “You might as well enjoy it, since you can’t escape it.”

“No.” He wasn’t a ladies’ man and never had been.

“Women have touched us for less clear reasons.”

“Yeah.” He recalled the way Desi looked at Caine. The way Sally Mae looked at Tucker. The only greed in either woman’s eyes was that of a woman in love who wanted her man. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been looked at with love. Any softness he’d received in his life, he’d paid for. He was damn tired of paying. He was getting damn tired of a lot of things.

Buster tossed his head and snorted impatiently. Tracker agreed. It was time to leave. He swung up into the saddle.

Shadow stopped him. “Tracker?”

He gathered up the reins. Buster pranced with impatience. “What?”

“You don’t have to go.”

He blinked. “I gave my word.” For the longest time the Ochoa word hadn’t been worth shit, but now it stood strong. He wasn’t going to be the one who dragged it back into the dirt.

“Desi will understand.”

“I doubt it. She loves her sister.”

“She also loves you.”

He shook his head. “It’s not the same.”

Shadow adjusted his hat against the glare of the morning sun. “What is it with finding Arianna, Tracker?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You told me once that you had a feeling she’d be the end of you.”

“I was drunk.” The dreams had been getting stronger lately, coming nightly, yanking him from a sound sleep with a sense of urgency and doom. He’d tossed back the whiskey in an attempt to escape them.

“You never drink, but when the last one wasn’t Arianna, you went on a two-day bender.”

“I’d been a month on the trail with five women who did nothing but argue. I was just cutting loose.”

“You hate drink and what it does to a man.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not as foolish as the next when I get off the trail.”

“Bull.”

He didn’t need this from his brother. Not now. “Let it go, Shadow.”

“Not if finding Ari means I lose you.” Shadow’s horse shifted with the tension in the man.

“There’s no ‘if’ about it. I’m going to find her.”

“And if it means your death?”

He’d made his peace with that possibility a year ago. It wasn’t that hard. The pain in Desi’s face as she spoke of the last time she’d seen her sister, the agony in her voice as she’d exposed her guilt, the hopelessness as she’d begged Caine to help her…Like Caine, he’d do anything to remove that pain from her. Despite all that she’d been through, Desi was the purest soul Tracker had ever seen. An angel with blond hair and blue eyes. An angel who had seemed so familiar the first time he saw her that he’d thought he recognized her, until he’d gotten closer. So close, his instincts had whispered, but not the one.

And then she’d revealed the existence of her twin, and that sinking sense had come with the loss of inviolability. Then the dreams had started. Arianna called to him in those dreams, begged him for help. And he could help her; he knew that as well as he knew saving her would destroy him. He imagined Desi’s face when her sister came home. Going out a hero wasn’t a bad way to go. He met Shadow’s gaze and held it. He didn’t want to leave any doubt that he went to his end with peace in his heart. “Then I’m making the trade.”

Shadow shook his head. The breeze that raised the long, silken hair that lay on Tracker’s back barely disturbed his brother’s. “I’m not.”

Tracker couldn’t help that. “Your destiny lies elsewhere.”

It was a shot in the dark, but the twitch of Shadow’s eyelids revealed what he’d suspected. His brother had demons of his own to wrestle with in the dark of night, when there were no distractions.

“Promise me you’ll watch your back.”

Tracker nodded. “As well as you watch yours.”

“That will be damn good.”

“Understood.”

Shadow wheeled his horse to the west and nudged him into a canter. As one, man and horse blended seamlessly into an easy rhythm. Tracker watched until his brother grew small in the distance before turning Buster south and urging him into his own ground-eating lope. His destiny waited.

His destiny rested in a little run-down adobe house about a mile out of the town of Esperanza. Evidence of past prosperity was all around the property. A barn big enough to house several horses stood just off to the right. Several corrals surrounding the structure were in various states of collapse. Only the fences near the house were maintained. The home itself clearly had been built for a family, and remnants of happier times remained in the faded red paint on the shutters. However, the only people Tracker had seen coming and going from the house since he’d arrived last night were a stooped, elderly Hispanic man, a small elderly woman, presumably his wife, and a blond woman Tracker had seen only from the back, through the window. By the lack of hoofprints around the exterior, he was pretty sure those were all the residents.

He trained his spyglass on the window again, hoping for a better look at the blond woman. All he saw was the back of a wooden chair, a cup on a table and the edge of a black iron stove. Impatience, a foreign emotion, gnawed at his calm. He wanted—no, needed—to see the young woman who lived there. His gut said it was Ari. He needed it to be Ari. He was sick of the dreams, sick of the apprehension, sick of the fairy tales his imagination wove around her. The woman had lost her family to murderers, her virginity to Comancheros, and probably her sanity to God knew what else. Whatever he found, Ari wouldn’t be a woman who tiptoed into his dreams at the end of nightmares, held out her hand in invitation and looked at him with softness. He’d be lucky if she still had a thread of sanity.

He shifted his position slightly. There wasn’t much cover around the house, which was good from a defense standpoint, but was hell on his knees, as it forced him to crouch. There was only so much cover sagebrush could provide a man his size. And only so much strain his twice-busted legs could take without screaming a protest. He forced the growing discomfort from his mind and resumed his surveillance. He needed to know if the woman was a guest or a prisoner. It wasn’t uncommon for women to be sold as slaves this far from the law. And it wouldn’t be a surprise, based on what she’d been through, if Ari saw that as a step up.

Movement to the left caught his eye. He turned the spyglass on the back door. The old man stepped down into the yard, steadying himself on the doorjamb a few seconds before straightening his spine and heading toward the barn, where the milk cow was housed. An aged hound strode alongside. It was clear to Tracker that the old man was ill, but didn’t want the other residents of the house to know. Tracker made a note of the routine and added it to his mental list. From what he could see, it wasn’t a violent household. He’d crept close enough to the house last night to hear some conversation. He’d caught only a bit, revolving around the care of the rosebush out front, before the hound had caught his scent and growled a warning. That fragment of conversation had been enough to give Tracker a hint of her voice. Soft and sweet, with Eastern overtones. It was hard to tell through the walls, but he thought there was a strong similarity to Desi’s voice.

He shook his head and pulled his hat lower against the morning sun. If he were hunting any other woman, the information he had now would have been enough for him to act. But this was too important, too personal for reasons he couldn’t begin to define. For this identification, he needed absolute certainty.

Movement in the window drew his spyglass back around. Disappointment cut like a knife when all he saw was the salt-and-pepper bun pinned atop the old woman’s head. But then she moved on and the younger woman came into view. From the back she looked just like Desi. She had the same delicate stature, same hesitant yet challenging way of standing, as if she needed just the slightest encouragement and she could take on the world. More importantly, she had the same blond hair that fell in a riot of curls down her back.

His fingers tightened on the spyglass. Turn around. Turn around.

As if she heard him, she did, turning until he had a clear view of her face.

“Son of a bitch.”

He’d known Ari was Desi’s twin, but somehow he just hadn’t been prepared for the impact. Ari had the same big blue eyes set in a round face above a surprisingly lush, red mouth. She even had the same stubborn chin. If the two were side by side, a body would be hard put to tell the difference. He squinted and pulled his hat brim lower, blocking more of the sun’s rays. With further study, he discerned some differences. Desi was small and dainty, but as she’d said, her sister was even more delicate. Maybe Ari wasn’t as tall or maybe she was a smidgen fuller in the cheeks. Or maybe it was just her spirit that had that delicacy. It was hard to tell anything from this distance. But one thing was sure, Ari didn’t have the look of a woman who’d been to hell and back. As he watched, she laughed, tossing her head, sending curls bouncing over her shoulders. Tracker slowly lowered the spyglass, the image of that smile lingering.

Shit.

He took a breath as the ramifications rocked through him. It really was Ari and she really was alive. More than that, she seemed happy. The latter defied reason.

There were eleven of them. And with me gone, there was just her.

Desi’s description of the last time she’d seen her sister whispered through his head the way it often did, bringing the fury that came from knowing how easy it would be for just one man to force a woman of Desi’s build down in the dirt. How much pain just one man could inflict on such a delicate woman until she gave up all hope and just did what she was told. When he multiplied that misery by eleven, the rage near drove him insane. He couldn’t imagine what it’d done to Ari—but not leave a scar at all? That he couldn’t fathom.

A bird burst out of the large bush set between the house and the barn. It wasn’t the old man who’d startled it; he was still in the barn. The hairs on the back of Tracker’s neck rose. The town of Esperanza was expanding wildly because of the rumor of gold in the area, and in the way of growing towns, the disreputable element was growing the fastest. It wasn’t hard to figure out why someone lurked in the bushes near this particular house. Blond women in this part of the country were a rarity. Delicate blond women with the face of an angel were a prize. No telling what kind of scum had come creeping around. Looked as if Tracker had arrived just in time to be useful.

He glanced at the house again. The shutters that hung alongside the windows were solid except for the small gun slits cut into them. Obviously, at some point in the past, the residents had had to fight for their survival. But whatever habits they’d once practiced had now fallen to the wayside. Now, the front door was propped open to catch the morning breeze. The man of the house had left his gun behind when he went to the barn. Clearly, the residents had become complacent, at a time when they should be vigilant.

Tracker raised the spyglass again. He could just make out the figure of a man hiding behind the small wash shed. Tracker estimated the distance. More than a hundred yards and not a lick of cover between him and the intruder. That eliminated the hope of a silent attack. He reached for his rifle. There was more than one way to skin a cat. A quick scan of the surrounding area didn’t reveal any other signs of intruders. So there was just one. Tracker carefully drew his rifle forward as he watched, keeping it low so the sun wouldn’t glint off the dull metal barrel and warn his quarry. He wet his pinkie and held it up. Not much wind today. The shot would be easy.

The intruder moved forward. Tracker trained his glass on the man, swore and then relaxed. Son of a bitch. He was nothing more than a boy. Dark skinned, with shaggily cut black hair and the tan-colored wool clothes of a Mexican. The youth had to have a powerful crush if he’d risk getting caught spying on a white woman. Even here at the edges of the state, there were white men who would kill him for the offense.

The lad wouldn’t care about that, though, if he was in love. A boy in love had no sense and no control. Tracker remembered back to his youth, his first ill-fated crush. The only thing that had mattered was getting a moment with the woman of his dreams.

The boy needed manners cracked into his skull, but not killing. Tracker propped the rifle across his knees.

It was no surprise when Ari came out of the house dressed in a nightgown and wrapper, carrying a pitcher. The boy had to be waiting for something. Tracker set his teeth as the sun shone through the layers of cotton and revealed the fine turn of her calves. The adobe house wasn’t so isolated that a woman could go about undressed. His woman sure as hell wouldn’t, especially in a robe that clung so enticingly to the soft thrust of her unconfined breasts.

His cock stirred in his pants as the material pulled tight across her slender hips for a moment. Her ass was surprisingly full for such a delicate woman. He did enjoy a woman’s ass, and Ari’s was a work of art. As fast as the thought entered his head, Tracker pushed it aside. A woman like Ari wasn’t for him. He knew it and the world knew it, and if he dared to forget, someone would put a bullet between his eyes as a reminder.

Ari went to the well behind the house. She primed the pump with a cup of water from the bucket sitting on the side, and then worked the handle until the water flowed steadily, standing back a bit so it wouldn’t splash. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or resentful of that. Wet cotton got temptingly see-through. Ari filled the pitcher with water, stood as if listening for something, and headed back toward the house twice as fast as she’d left. What had she heard that put that pep in her step?

The back door slammed shut behind her. The boy glanced at the barn and then the house, and then took off at a run, looking back over his shoulder several times. Tracker knew just how he felt. He’d have liked a longer look at those pretty calves, the soft thrust of her breasts against the robe. He cursed as the seam of his pants cut into his cock. He was too old to be responding like a randy kid.

He inched backward on his stomach until he had the shelter of a small rise between himself and the house, and then he stood. A soft whistle brought Buster trotting over. Tracker packed up his gear, anticipation nudging him to hurry. He wanted to swat at it the way he’d swat a fly. He was a man of calm, a man of patience. He could wait days for the chance of a shot, ignoring cramped muscles, bug bites and weather. Why was it that he couldn’t wait five minutes to ride down to that little ranch?

He slid his rifle into the scabbard, then paused before mounting up. He touched the letter in his pocket, the one Desi had written. He’d promised her he’d bring Ari home.

Everyone had assumed Arianne would be grateful to leave whatever hell she was living in for the chance to be with her sister, but she looked settled here. She might not want to leave the older couple to travel across the state. Whatever had happened since the Comancheros had sold her, she’d clearly found a measure of peace here. People could be funny about peace. They rarely wanted to leave it.

The letter rustled under his fingers. A promise was a promise. If he had to bring Ari kicking and screaming to Hell’s Eight, he would. She wasn’t safe here. The attack on Sally Mae had made it clear that Desi and Ari’s enemies were still hunting her, and if he’d found her, they could, too. Swinging up into the saddle, he steered Buster toward the ranch. Leaving wasn’t an option, so he needed a legitimate reason to stay while he checked the lay of the land. Word in town was the old man was looking for help fixing the place up.

Tracker patted Buster’s neck. “Guess we’ll go see a man about a job.”

Chapter Two

The old man was sharper than Tracker had expected. He took one look at him outside the barn door and grabbed up a pitchfork.

“Que quieres aquí?”

Tracker halted just inside the door, keeping a safe distance between the tines of that fork and his midsection while his eyes adjusted to the change in light. The last thing he wanted was to hurt an old man who’d taken in Ari and given her peace.

He answered in English. “A job. Word in town is you’ve got one available.”

The old man squinted and looked him over from head to toe. Tracker knew what he saw. The scar on his face alone gave people pause. Coming hard off the trail, dressed in black, his hair long and the scar advertising his way of life like a red flag, he looked like what he was: trouble.

The man didn’t lower the pitchfork. “I am looking for a handyman.”

“I’m handy.”

The old man’s gaze went to the guns on his hips. “With a hammer.”

Tracker didn’t bother to smile. It made people nervous when he smiled. “I’m good with that, too.”

“I do not need here the kind of trouble a pistolero brings.”

Tracker’s eyes had adjusted to the interior. There was no one else lurking about as far as he could tell, and the hairs on the back of his neck weren’t standing on end in warning. That was about as much of a guarantee as he ever got. He relaxed, pushing his hat back from his forehead. “Is that so?”

The old man showed no sign of relaxing in turn. “That is so.”

“From what I saw last night in town, it seems to me a man with a pretty young woman on the property could use all the help he can get. With a hammer and other things.”

The old-timer took a step forward, the tines dipping to align with Tracker’s gut. “You will stay away from mi hija.”

Daughter? He called Ari his daughter? That was going to complicate things. “Don’t have any intention of getting close. That kind of trouble I don’t need.”

It wasn’t precisely a lie. He was only going to get as close as it took to spirit Ari safely back to Hell’s Eight.

The old man lowered the pitchfork slightly. “No, you don’t.” He jerked his head toward town. “They would string you up by your cajones.”

Interesting. “And who would they be?”

“Los gringos who came to town last winter.”

“There weren’t any gringos in town last night.”

The old man spat. “They come. They go. But when they come it is muy malo.”

Likely a gang of outlaws who were intent on making the town of Esperanza their refuge. “Not the neighborly sort, huh?”

The old one stood the pitchfork on the ground. “No.”

The cow mooed restlessly, clearly unhappy with having her morning milking interrupted.

“Then I reckon a handyman who’s also handy with a gun might be useful.” Tracker held out his hand. “Tracker Ochoa.”

Not by a twitch of an eyelash did the old man show any sign he recognized the name. Tracker wasn’t surprised. Esperanza was very close to the Mexican border. Not much worry a Texas Ranger’s rep would carry this far.

“Vincente Morales.”

Vincente’s hand was callused and worn from years of work. His grip was lighter than Tracker expected. As soon as he felt swollen knuckles that indicated arthritis he lessened his own grip. Vincente leaned the pitchfork against the outside of the stall.

“This getting old, it is not for a coward.”

“You looked pretty damn intimidating wielding that pitchfork.” Tracker took a step forward and indicated the cow. “Mind if I finish this up?”

“I would be grateful.”

Tracker readjusted the stool near the animal. “She got any preferences?”

“No. Abuelita is a good cow.”

Tracker set his hat down and leaned his forehead against the animal’s side. It’d been a long time since he’d milked a cow. He hated the damn things, but he couldn’t sit by and watch an old man with pained hands struggle with the chore. It took only three seconds to figure out that there were some things a man didn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried. Milking a cow was one of them.

Two tugs and the milk hit the bucket in a hard stream. The old hound moaned and looked hopeful. Tracker smiled and squirted in the dog’s direction. His aim was a bit off but the hound compensated, licking the milk off his whiskers with slow swipes of his big tongue. Vincente chuckled.

Tracker caught his eye. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No. He can no longer hunt rabbits. It is one of his few pleasures.”

“A body’s got to have his pleasures.”

“Sí.”

The barn fell quiet, the only sounds being the hound scratching and milk splashing into the bucket. Vincente broke the silence.

“The job does not pay much. A room here in the barn and supper.”

Tracker cocked his head so he could see the man. “Your wife a good cook?”

Vincente patted his rounded belly. “Very.”

Tracker bent his head and hid his smile. He could see Caine saying the same thing about Desi forty years down the road. Then he chuckled. It’d be worth living that long to see Caine with a belly. “That’ll do.”

The cow was about dry. She stomped a hoof, signaling the end of her patience. Tucker squirted the last of the milk into the bucket and leaned back. Too late he remembered the other reason he hated cows. Her tail whapped him in the face, the bristly hairs stinging, adding insult to injury.

“Son of a bitch.” He jumped to his feet, barely missing spilling the milk. The cow turned her head and stared at him reproachfully, as if he’d done something wrong.

“Don’t look at me like that!” He rubbed his cheek. “I’m not the one swinging wildly.”

He grabbed the bucket in case she was one of those cows that delighted in making a waste of an unpleasant task by kicking over the container.

Vincente laughed outright and handed him the lid. “There will be danger for you here.”

Tracker laid it in place, fitting the notches between the bucket’s handles. “From the unneighborly sort?”

“No.”

Grabbing his hat, he settled it back on his head. “Nothing new in that.”

“Why do you want this job?”

“My reasons are personal.” Tracker straightened. “Why are you offering it?”

“Who says I am?”

“Me.”

“And who are you that I should care what you say?”

He took a stab in the dark. A sick man with two women to protect had to be nervous. “A man you can trust.”

“I do not know this.”

Tracker shrugged. “Doesn’t change the truth of it.”

Vincente stared at him, squinting to see in the low light of the barn. “But you expect I will learn?”

He shrugged. “Most people find me a right handy man to have around.”

The old man studied him for a few more seconds and then nodded. “Yes. I think I will, too.” He motioned to the door. “We will try you today. You may put that by the back door of the house.” He patted the cow’s flank. “I will get Abuelita settled.”

“Will do.”

“Come right back.”

Tracker nodded, used to men not wanting him around their womenfolk.

He made it to the barn door before Vincente called out, “I tell you not to linger because my wife has been nervous of late, and she is not such a good shot.”

“She the shoot-to-kill type?” Tracker respected that. No one should pick up a gun without being prepared to kill.

“It would be better that she was, but she has a soft heart and bad aim.” Vincente smiled. There was a world of love in that smile. “I am afraid she would aim for your foot and hit your heart. I do not want to be in church so much as it would take for her to repent.”

Tracker chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Gracias.” The lightness left Vincente’s expression. “Later, if I decide you can stay, I will introduce you.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to work today to impress you.”

“Because you don’t want a bullet in your heart?”

Tracker shook his head and called back, “Because it’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal.”

The old man shook his head and gathered up Abuelita’s lead rope. “It is lonely for a man as he gets older, sí?”

Not for Tracker. He couldn’t let life get lonely. “For some.”

Vincente slapped the cow’s rope against his boot, punctuating his mocking tone when he said, “For some, huh!”

The last thing Tracker needed was an old man playing matchmaker. It was bad enough that Tia wouldn’t accept reality. “Yes,” he retorted. “For some.”

“But not you?” Vincente asked as he led the placid cow out of the barn.

“No. Not for me.”

“Huh!” Vincente’s snort carried clearly as he led the cow to the fenced pasture. “Drop off the milk and we will get to work.”

The old man might be arthritic, he might be going blind, but he was a man on a mission, and that mission seemed to be to get as much work out of Tracker as he could. The first job of the day was to get a sizable new garden area ready for his wife, which involved plowing up the hard-packed earth. It’d been a dry spring, and the ground was full of rocks. The only tool the old man had was a weighted plow. With no horse to pull it, the only option was for Tracker to do the pulling. Apparently, judging from the cut-down harness, this had been the system for years.

After one brutal trip down the length of the marked-off area, Tracker was seriously considering hooking Buster’s temperamental ass up to the makeshift harness. But the gelding had a fierce reaction when it came to pulling things, and since Tracker wasn’t going to be around long enough to replace the plow, he grudgingly slid the harness over his shoulder and dragged the blade back down the next row.

“You sure your wife needs a garden this big?” he asked as he passed Vincente, who was hauling rocks out of the area with a net spread between two sticks tied together. It was an ingenious device that took the stress off the old man’s hands.

“Sí. Absolutely.”

“Going to be an awful lot of canning.”

“Yes. She will be pleased.”

Was she going to be pleased or was Vincente? Tracker wasn’t certain. But one thing a garden this big would ensure was that a woman would have enough goods to eat or trade, whether there was fresh meat or not. He watched as Vincente again missed a rock with the net. Just how bad was the man’s vision?

He looked up at the sun. It was going to be a warm day. “Then I guess we’d better get it done before the sun blisters our hides.”

Vincente grunted as he dragged a rock over the plowed dirt. “Sí. It will be hot today.”

After two hours, Tracker was sweat drenched, thirsty and hungry, but the new garden spot was plowed and Vincente seemed happy. From the house came the ringing of a bell.

“Ah! Breakfast is ready. We must clean up.”

Tracker shrugged out of the harness, more than ready to be done with the damn thing. “I thought the job came only with supper.”

“It does, but twice my Josefina looked out the window and saw you plowing.” Vincente took the harness from his hands and tossed it over the plow handle. “Her soft heart doesn’t let a man go hungry. There will be a plate for you and she will chide me if you do not eat it.”

Tracker could eat a horse, but having breakfast meant meeting the family, and he wasn’t ready to meet Ari yet. Wasn’t ready to substitute the illusion of his fantasies for harsh reality. His fascination with the woman had to end sometime, but not this morning. “Women can be the bane of a man’s existence.”

Vincente slapped him on the back. “So speak the young.”

It’d been a long time since anyone had called Tracker young.

“When you are older you will see they are the blessing God puts in a man’s life to ease his way.”

“Uh-huh.”

Vincente shook his head. “You young people today have no appreciation for the way things should be. Trying to change what you cannot, and running away from what you should be embracing…”

Tracker headed up the path to the wash shed and hazarded a guess as to what he should be embracing. “A woman? I’ve embraced more than my share of them.”

“A good woman.” Vincent put a lot of emphasis on “good.”

It was easy for a man who fit somewhere to hold such beliefs. “My father was Indian, my mother Mexican. There aren’t many good women who want to hitch their wagon to that mix.”

“You do not need many. Just one.”

“Uh-huh.” The old one was up to something. Whatever it was, Tracker wanted to nip it in the bud. “Vincente?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever you’ve got in mind, drop it.” The last thing he needed was a half-blind, arthritic old man picking out his love interest.

Vincente huffed. “I merely point out the truth.”

“Thanks.” Tracker primed the pump as Vincente scooped out some soap from the tin on the ledge. He let the older man wash first. “But I’m happy with what I’ve worked out.”

“You are not happy.”

“I’m as happy as I’ve ever been.”

Vincente muttered something under his breath as he finished washing and pulled his shirt back on. “When you are done, come up to the house.”

Tracker looked at the little home in the well-tended yard. Smelled the scents of wood smoke and sausages on the breeze. Inside, two women had a table set, coffee brewing and food ready. When Vincente entered, there’d be pleasant conversation, maybe laughter. There’d be love.

Tracker wasn’t going within a hundred feet of that house. Not this morning. He felt too raw inside to sit there and watch what he would never have.

“Will do.”

He waited until Vincente reached the house before pulling off his shirt. It took only a few pumps of the handle to get a strong flow of water going. Vincente was lucky to have such a rich supply. Tracker dunked his head in the spray. The well water was surprisingly cold. Frigid. But after the initial shock, it felt damn good on his overheated skin. He grabbed the soap and blindly scrubbed, pumping the handle a few more times, letting the water pour over his head and neck, enjoying the moment. When the temperature turned more chilling than refreshing, he stood, flipping his hair back over his shoulders.

A shriek loud enough to split his eardrums spun him around. He palmed his knife as he turned, ready for the threat.

He knew who it was before he shook the soap out of his eyes. Ari stood there in a pretty blue dress, her mouth open, a look of shock on her face.

He reached for his shirt. The plate of food in her hands fell to the ground, spattering her skirt. Ari’s gaze never left the knife in his other hand. Her throat worked furiously, but no sound came out.

Shit. She was still screaming, Tracker realized. Screaming for all she was worth, but not a sound passed her lips. He left the shirt where it lay and took a step back. He couldn’t go far with the shed wall behind him and her in front.

“You must be Ari,” he said in his softest voice, wincing at the deep rasp that made it sound like a growl. “Hello.”

His softest voice wasn’t soft enough, because she kept up that horrible pantomime of a scream. Tracker tucked his knife hand behind his back. It didn’t make a difference.

Tracker cast a quick glance at the house. The back door didn’t open. No one came to the rescue. There was just him and Ari and her fear. Shit! Sam should be here. He was much better with hysterical women. Women trusted Sam even when they shouldn’t. It was those blue eyes of his and that devil-may-care smile. But he’d met his match in his wife. They’d been to hell and back, but they’d come out together and they were happy.

“Vincente!” Tracker yelled. “Venga aquí!”

No response came from the house, but Ari took a breath and launched another one of those soundless screams. He followed the trajectory of her gaze. The knife. She was aware he still held it behind his back. He didn’t want to speculate on why, but he couldn’t help a quick check of her hands, her neck, her face. Not that there had to be scars where a man could see. Tracker knew too well how creative a Comanchero could get with a knife and an unwilling woman.

He moved his hand from behind his back, watching her expression as the weapon came into view. It didn’t change. Just because the knife had been out of sight didn’t mean it had been out of mind.

“Sorry about the knife. I forgot.” Hell, now there was a calming thing to tell a terrified woman. He looked toward the house. Still no one coming. Very slowly he reached down and slid the knife back into its sheath, attempting a smile.

“It’s just your luck to get scared out of your bloomers by a man who doesn’t know what to do with your fears.”

He didn’t really think she heard him, which was probably a good thing. He was pretty sure decent men didn’t refer to a woman’s bloomers. Tia would have had his head if she’d heard, because lord knows, she’d tried to teach him better. Sometimes he just had a hard time remembering the rules.

Ari didn’t respond to his smile or his words. She just kept staring at the knife in its sheath, still screaming in rasping pants of soundless terror.

Time to try something else. Grasping the knife between his forefinger and thumb, Tracker made a big production of removing it. She stopped breathing altogether. Holding his hand as far away from his side as he could, he reached back and set it on a ledge behind him.

“It’s okay, ma’am. No one’s going to hurt you.” Least of all him. How could anyone hurt a woman like that? Tracker had had the same thought when he’d first seen Desi huddled in Caine’s coat over a year ago, wearing her fear like a second skin. Now, looking at Ari, he experienced it all over again. She was so delicately formed, she made him think of fine china. The kind a man was afraid to touch, but felt compelled to because the sheer fragility of it demanded cherishing. Protecting. Because what it represented was what kept every man hoping.

He stepped to the left, away from the knife.

Ari’s focus switched from the blade to his face. Tracker debated trying another smile, but as wild as he must look to her, all dark and scarred, he opted for remaining expressionless. At least she’d stopped screaming.

As she panted for breath, he had a chance to study her more closely. Each angle of her face was cut with precision, the fine grain of her skin reflecting the sun like cream, the blue of her eyes shining with the brightness of a summer sky. Her lips were plump and soft and as silky looking as a rose petal. He remembered a poem he’d read once where the author compared his love to a red, red rose. Ari was like that. A beautiful flower that flourished no matter how much shit had been thrown at her. He might never know how much, but the Moraleses had started her healing, and being at Hell’s Eight would finish it. There was no judgment there, just acceptance. A lot of lost souls came to Hell’s Eight and found peace. Ari would, too. She had a sister and a niece to love her. A family waiting to claim her. All Tracker had to do was get her there.

Looking into her terrified eyes, he remembered that silent scream that couldn’t find a voice, imprisoning her in a memory from which he couldn’t save her. Tracker wanted to promise her that he’d hunt down the men who’d done this to her, and make them pay. But Caine had already made that promise and Hell’s Eight had already fulfilled it. That left her with a stranger’s word on something she likely wouldn’t believe. Not that Tracker didn’t think she wouldn’t appreciate knowing it someday. Just not today.

“Ma’am.” Where the hell was Vincente and his wife? “I don’t have the knife anymore. And my gun belt is clear over there by your feet.”

She blinked. For a heartbeat Tracker thought he saw sanity in Ari’s eyes. She licked her lips. Her gaze locked with his and then went to the gun belt.

He read her intent before she dived, but he wasn’t fast enough to catch her before she got her hands around the pistol. If his reflexes had been a hair slower, he wouldn’t have gotten there in time to stop her from blowing his brains out. He caught her hand, gun belt and all, letting their momentum roll them over, taking as much of the force of the fall on his shoulder as he could.

“Let go. Those guns have a hair trigger.”

She sank her teeth into the back of his hand. He swore and held on. One wrong move and she’d kill them both.

“Dammit! Let go!” What she lacked in muscle she made up for in wiggle. It was all he could do to keep her finger off the trigger. He pressed her down into the dirt, using more and more of his weight until she went limp beneath him.

“Ma’am?”

Ari didn’t respond. Tracker carefully removed the pistol and gun belt from her grip. She didn’t fight. He stood. She continued to lie in the dirt at his feet.

He’d thought it odd that she didn’t have scars from her ordeal. She did. He’d only been able to see what was uncovered. And all it had taken to bring them out was one fool, half-naked Indian reaching for his knife. Hell.

You’re ugly enough to scare a bad woman decent.

Once again his father had been proved right. The older Tracker got, the more he began to accept that the insults his dad had tossed out in Tracker’s youth were actually truths he’d been too stubborn to accept. The proof lay prostrate on the ground at his feet.

It wasn’t right that Ari lay in the dirt like trash thrown aside. Looking at her there, her skirt hiked around her thighs, her beautiful blond hair a tangle around her shoulders, he grimaced. It was easier than it should be to imagine her time with the Comancheros, to envision the hell she’d been through. They’d probably walked away from her, leaving her just like that when their lust was spent. Left her to rot in the devastation of her soul, this woman who had been created to be cherished.

Tracker wasn’t any different from the Comancheros. Faced with Ari’s reaction, faced with his own demons, he wanted to walk away, too. Instead, he found himself kneeling, sliding his hand beneath her head, lifting her to his chest.

“It’s going to be all right, Ari. I promise.”

Her hair smelled like sweet flowers and heaven, her skin like vanilla and spice. Innocence and passion, a hint of who she might have been if she hadn’t been stolen, raped, sold. Looking toward the house, making sure no one watched, Tracker rested his forehead against hers.

“A lot of people have been looking for you a long time, little one.”

No one harder than him, for reasons he didn’t understand, except that he was driven. He took a napkin from where it had fallen and wiped at the smudge of dirt on her cheek. It felt right to be the one caring for her. Goddammit, he was losing his mind. This was dangerous. She was dangerous. It had to stop. Now.

“Goddammit, Vincente, I know you can hear me. Get out here.”

In Tracker’s experience, women in a swoon didn’t stay out long, and he didn’t want to trigger another bout of hysteria when she woke in his arms, en route to the house. So he sat there and held her, and pretended that he could make it all right, while he gave her a minute or two to come back to herself. After all she’d been through, she deserved that minute. And it was the only thing he could give her.

The screen door slammed. Vincente and a plump woman hurried out of the house. As soon as they reached Tracker’s side, Vincente was apologizing and the woman was fussing. Tracker handed Ari over to Josefina and glared at her husband. “Why?”

“I did not think she would have such a reaction. She has been doing so well lately.”

“She’s not your daughter.”

Vincente shook his head. “Our daughter died in childbirth. Our hearts were so empty, and then we found this one and it was another chance.”

A second chance to love. Not many got them. “So you loved her so much you sent her out here to be scared out of her wits?”

“No. I know who you are, Ranger.” Vincente took the napkin, wetted it and handed it to his wife. “There was no danger to her.”

“Just to her sanity.”

“Yes, but we hoped…” The old man sighed. “She is such a good daughter, a good mother. It is only when the bad times haunt her that this happens.”

Tracker’s breath caught. “Mother?”

“She was pregnant when we found her.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“It has not been easy.”

“She loves the child?”

“With all her heart.”

How the hell could Ari love a child who had to remind her of the hell she’d survived?

Josefina looked up as Ari moaned. “She’s waking. You should leave.”

“I can’t.”

“You must.”

Tracker looked at Ari. He’d promised to bring her home, no matter how he found her, sane or crazy. “Not without her.”

Chapter Three

They settled on a compromise. Tracker retreated to the barn, and the Moraleses took Ari to the house. He watched as she stumbled between them up the path, clearly disoriented, yet trusting the older couple in a way that suggested they’d done this many times before. As they made their way to the back door, Josefina kept her body between Ari and Tracker. She tossed wary looks over her shoulder at him as she shielded Ari protectively. What was more interesting, though, were the glares she shot her husband. Obviously, the woman blamed Vincente for the incident, which reinforced Tracker’s own sense of being set up. Shoving his hat on his head, he swore and closed the barn door. He hoped the old woman gave the old man hell and indigestion.

An hour later, Tracker sat on the bed in the small but comfortable bedroom at the front of the barn, still stewing. The old one owed him an explanation. The vague excuse he’d tossed out at the washhouse wasn’t going to cut it. Tracker disliked being anyone’s pawn. He disliked people who tried to manipulate him.

The Ari he’d met at the wash shed was the woman he’d been expecting to find—traumatized by her experiences, tortured by her memories, rekindling her past in everyday events. A woman broken by tragedy. He’d thought he’d prepared himself for the reaction she might have to his appearance. After all, her attackers had been men like him. Men who wore their violent history in their eyes, on their skin and in their dress. Men who killed as easily as they laughed. Men who did what they wanted and to hell with the consequences. But Tracker could have avoided seeing that woman if Vincente had handled the introduction differently. Why the hell had the old man forced the issue? Had he wanted Ari to fear Tracker?

He grabbed his pistol from his gun belt where it hung by the head of the bed. Grains of sand clung to the metal. Desi said there was a difference between him and the Comancheros, and maybe there was. He wasn’t one to prey on the weak, but he’d done things in the name of revenge that would scare her curly hair straight and take the look of respect from her eyes. Things that kept him taking bigger and more dangerous bounties, because they took him to places where he was comfortable, places where there was no right and wrong, just a man’s ability to come out on top in a fight.

Tracker yanked his saddlebags toward him. He was very good at coming out on top.

Lately, the line between an outlaw and himself had been growing vague in his mind. As the years passed, killing had become easier in some ways, yet harder in others. Tracker could still pull the trigger, but it bothered him more that whenever such a deed was done, justified or not, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Right was right and wrong was wrong; that’s the way it was out here. The way it had always been. So why wasn’t he comfortable settling with that anymore? Why did every bounty he took now involve a moral debate inside himself if it went sour? Why was it getting harder to live with pulling the trigger? Why was he now seeing the faces of the men he killed, reliving the battles at night when he should be sleeping? Shit. Tracker was who he was. Better than he could have been, not as good as he should have been. He was an Ochoa. Outlaw, killer, bounty hunter, Texas Ranger.

He tugged his cleaning kit out of a saddlebag. The smell of gun oil blended with the scents of hay and cow as he opened the oiled leather wrap. All familiar, all comforting. He took another breath, seeking the edge that the familiar gave him against the anger seething inside.

Laying the cleaning rod aside along with the rags, he began disassembling the gun. It was a daily ritual and as soothing as the scents around him. It was also necessary. Dirty guns misfired. Misfires on the other guy’s part were a good thing. Misfires on his end of the battle were dead-before-his-time bad.

The outer barn door opened. He could tell from the sound of footsteps crossing the floor that the owner was small. He could tell from the swish of skirts that the owner of those footsteps was female. Josefina with his breakfast, no doubt.

“I’m in my room,” he called out.

It was as natural as breathing to prop his rifle across his lap just in case. It was rare that a woman came to his room intent on murder, but it had happened a time or two. Such occurrences tended to make a man wary. And he’d seen the anger in Josefina’s eyes. Clearly, she wasn’t ready to give up her daughter, though apparently Vincente was. The why of that was a puzzle to be solved. As was how they knew Ari’s name. A woman with no past would nave no name.

There was no response. Maybe Josefina didn’t speak English. “Estoy en mi quarto.”

The footsteps halted just outside his door.

The hair on the back of his neck stirred. A tingle went down his spine. “You can come in. I’m decent.”

Metal rattled against china. Whoever was outside his door was nervous. He cocked the hammer on the rifle.

“Come in.”

The door swung open.

“Hello.” The distinct Eastern tones gave away the identity of who stood in the door. Ari. Tracker tilted the rifle downward and slowly replaced the hammer as shock ricocheted through him. He blew out a breath.

Ari stood in the doorway, a napkin-covered tray in her hand. She was the last person he expected to see. Tracker stood and leaned the rifle against the wall. He took off his hat. “Hello.”

The tray rattled. Ari licked her lips. Her gaze didn’t meet his, and her voice shook along with the tray. “I wanted to bring you your breakfast.”

She was lying.

“Why?”

She blinked and licked her lips again. The plates again rattled on the tray. He took a step forward and removed his breakfast from her grasp.

He smiled. “My stomach might cut my throat if a second breakfast lands on the ground.”

Her gaze flicked to his before retreating back to the floor. Shit, it was always a mistake to smile.

“I’m sorry.”

It was a common statement, expected even, considering what had happened. He hated hearing it from her. As he placed the tray on the small pine dresser to the right of the door, he took the opportunity to study Ari from the corner of his eye. She wore a pink calico-print skirt, with a white, buttoned-down blouse. Nothing was out of place. Every button was buttoned; her shirt was evenly tucked inside the waistband. Her shoes were freshly polished. It was almost as if, through impeccable grooming, she’d tried to erase the craziness of earlier. Hell, she’d even managed to tame the intriguing wildness of her hair, corralling it into a neat braid, coiled up in a tight bun anchored at the base of her neck.

A few rebellious tendrils tickled her nape, bringing his eye to the long, elegant line of her throat and the daintiness of her ears. He didn’t normally notice a woman’s ears, but Ari’s were cute, with lobes that just begged to be nibbled. His gaze naturally traveled down the side of her neck, following a tempting path to the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. He wanted to sprinkle kisses along that path, touch that too-fast pulse with his tongue, take her in his arms and promise her again that everything would be all right. Son of a bitch, what was it about the woman that made him think in terms of suicidal acts? He wasn’t some sort of knight in shining armor. He was a fucking outlaw turned lawman. No better than he had to be in any situation. He had nothing to give a woman like her.

Tracker straightened. Ari’s glance cut to the rifle, to his face, then his hands. He knew how they looked to her. Sun darkened and scarred, they were as ugly as his visage. About the time the urge to tuck them out of sight got overwhelming, she looked away. Even her embarrassed blush was pretty.

“My parents told me…”

The flush on her cheeks became fiery. He waited for her to continue. She cleared her throat and smoothed her palms down her skirt. He wondered if they were sweating. She tried again.

“My parents said I had an…episode with you.”

Her uneasiness was rubbing off on him. He took a step back toward the bed, giving her some room to breathe. “That’s one way to put it.”

She kept giving the pistol wary glances. “Did I hurt you?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re wiggly but not lethal.”

She went still, blinked. He could almost see the wheels turning in her mind, see her searching for a memory. Saw the moment she gave up searching. “Oh, good.”

He could let it go or bring it out in the open. He opted for the latter. “You don’t remember what happened?”

She shook her head. Her gaze left his and her lip slid between her teeth. She looked very young right then. Too young and too innocent to have been through what he knew she had. “No.”

“Did Vincente and Josefina fill you in?”

Her hands, which had been smoothing her skirt, now clutched it. “No. They used to try, but I’d go craz…” She shook her head, took a breath and started over. “I’m sorry. I thought I was getting better.”

“This has been going on awhile?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

This time when she looked at him, it was with resentment. With a snap, she shook out her skirt. As if snapping material snapped her spine into place, she stood up straight and looked him dead in the eye. This was the Ari who haunted his dreams.

“I owe you an apology, Mr. Ochoa, not an explanation.”

“Sorry. I kind of take it personal like when a pretty woman tries to shoot me.”

The color left her face and she swayed. He grabbed her arm. Christ, she didn’t have enough bulk to keep his fingers from meeting.

“I tried to shoot you?” she whispered.

“Whispering doesn’t change the fact.”

Her fingers touched his. “I won’t faint.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“It’s just a shock.” She licked her lips. “Hearing what I do when I get like that.”

He studied the paleness of her cheeks, the shadows darkening her blue eyes. He considered saying something outrageous just to get the blush back.

“You really don’t remember what you do, do you?”

“No.”

He released her arm. “That has got to be as scary as he—heck.”

Her right hand moved to cover the spot he’d touched. To remove or to hold on to the sensation? Tracker shook his head, disgusted with himself for the weakness that had him hoping it was the latter.

“It can be.”

“And that’s your explanation?”

She shrugged and gathered handfuls of her skirt with her fingers, gathering her composure as she did so. She was obviously humiliated. “I’m sorry I behaved oddly, and I’m sorry if it scared you.”

The last was said in a rush. She turned on her heel and headed out the door.

“I wasn’t scared,” he called after her. Ari could leave him many ways, angry, happy, but not humiliated.

Her footsteps stopped. There was a swish of skirts as she turned, and then the sound of her footsteps coming back. And damned if they didn’t sound angry. She stopped in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. He wondered if she would still stand that way if she knew how uncertain it made her appear. Maybe she wouldn’t even care. Compared to crazy, uncertainty was quite a step up.

“You weren’t?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“I could say because you were scared enough for the both of us.”

Her eyelids lowered. At her left temple, a curl was working loose, he noted absently. “But you won’t.”

It was an order. A rather intriguing one, considering how scared she’d been before.

“No, I won’t.”

“Then why weren’t you afraid?”

He gave her the truth. “Because I’m one mean son of a bitch.”

She didn’t blink at the curse or the declaration. “I see.”

Did she? He doubted it. He waved her to the lone chair in the room. “So now that I’ve come clean, why don’t you?”

“About what?”

About how she’d ended up here. About how she’d kept her name. About how in a part of the state where lawlessness was rampant and blond women were money on the hoof, she existed peacefully with only an old man for protection.

“How about starting with how long you’ve been here.”

“A little over a year. Ever since my husband was murdered.”

Pretending nonchalance he didn’t feel, Tracker slid the tray off the dresser and onto his lap. There were beans, rice, scrambled eggs sausages and tortillas on the plate. He forked a bit of each into a tortilla. “You were there?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

She licked her lips again, leaving them moist and shiny. They were redder and more swollen than before, as if she’d been chewing on them. They would look just like that after a man’s kiss. His kiss, Tracker admitted to himself. No matter that she wasn’t for him, he wanted Ari like hell on fire. Just another one of life’s little jokes.

Straightening her skirt around her legs, Ari took one of those deep breaths he’d learned meant she was struggling for composure. The breath pressed her small breasts up against the cotton of her bodice. It was too easy for Tracker to imagine what they’d look like naked. He wondered if her nipples would be pale or dark, or maybe as red as her lips. He liked the thought of them being red from his attentions.

He mentally shook himself. He was little more than an animal. A woman like Ari would never look twice at a man like him, even before the events of the last two years. And after? Shit. She’d run like hell.

His cock couldn’t care less what his brain said, however. It responded to her in a purely primitive manner, swelling and stretching to life.

Ari motioned to the tray in his lap. “Your food is getting cold.”

“You avoiding my question?”

“What if I am?”

He took a chance that pretending disinterest would make her comfortable. “Then I’ll rein in my curiosity and stop asking.”

For a moment he wasn’t certain it would work. She crossed her ankles left over right. And then right over left. She licked her lips. Checked her bun. Sighed and then said, “I don’t know what happened.”

“You don’t remember?”

She shook her head and looked away. “I had a blow to my skull. I can’t remember anything before I opened my eyes and saw Vincente and Josefina looking down at me.”

That was convenient for the Moraleses. Tracker folded the tortilla around the contents. “Not even your husband?”

He took a bite of the tortilla. She shot him a glare. “I’m not crazy!”

He chewed and swallowed. “I didn’t say you were.”

She frowned and bit her lip. Her teeth were very white against the ruby-red flesh. If she kept biting her lips like that they were going to be raw. “Only a crazy woman couldn’t remember her husband.”

It was just a whisper, but it contained so much pain. He wanted to reach out and hold her, and tell her it was a blessing she couldn’t remember, a gift she should hold on to, because the truth was too horrible to be borne. Instead, he took another bite, chewed and swallowed, before saying, “Head wounds can be tricky.”

“That’s what the doctor said.”

“At least you have your child.”

Her whole expression softened. “Yes.”

Tracker set the tray aside. “How old is your baby?”

“Six months. He’s just beginning to crawl.”

The last of Tracker’s hunger left him. Six months was too old. Ari would have had to have gotten pregnant when she was with the Comancheros.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like the food?” she asked.

“I’m just feeling a bit off my feed. It was a hot morning for plowing.”

“Pappa is determined we have more garden space.”

“I noticed.”

Ari shifted in the chair, clearly wanting to leave, but just as clearly held in place by another desire.

“Something on your mind?”

She nodded and took one of those betraying breaths. Threading her fingers together, she clenched them until the knuckles showed white. “My parents are going to ask you to leave.”

“I figured that.” Nothing like having your daughter falling into a fit at the sight of the new handyman to clinch a decision.

“I don’t want you to go.”

It was his turn to blink. “Why?”

“I heard my parents talking. I know who you are.”

Who he was seemed to be pretty important to these people. “And who’s that?”

“You’re a Texas Ranger. One of the meanest.”

“I guess that would depend on who you talk to.”

She looked disappointed, and more than a little skeptical. Her gaze lingered on the scar slicing down his cheek. “You’re not mean?”

“Mean enough to get the job done.”

“I need you to be very mean.”

“I’ll ask you again—why?”

“My father is in trouble.”

“He didn’t make any mention of it.”

“He wouldn’t. He likes to think he can handle everything, but he’s old now and he can’t fight the way he used to.” She glanced at Tracker, fear in her eyes. “The men who would hurt him are vicious killers. They have no consciences or souls.”

“How do you know?”

She shook her head as if bewildered. A curl fell loose from her bun, bouncing against her cheek. She shoved it behind her ear. “I just do.”

He bet she did, even if she was talking to him as if he couldn’t trigger a bad memory if he wanted to.

“I know enough to know that if things continue the way they are, those men are going to kill my father. He knows it, too. That’s why he wants the garden bigger. So Mama and I can support ourselves.”

“Would those men be the gringos who came to town last fall?”

“You’ve met them?”

Tracker shook his head. “Haven’t had the pleasure yet.” But he would. It was a bit too coincidental that trouble of that type came to the small town where Ari had taken shelter after the Moraleses had found her. As a matter of fact, a lot of the circumstances surrounding Ari’s rescue were convenient.

She frowned. “If you do, you’d better be good with those guns.”

It’d been a long time since someone had questioned Tracker’s skill. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She licked her lips again. His cock hardened, pressing painfully against the seam of his pants. He barely bit back a “Stop doing that.”

She stood up so fast her skirts swayed. “I want to hire you.”

He stood, too. Another interesting tidbit. “I’m a Texas Ranger. We’re not for hire.”

She put her hands on her hips, determination giving her a confidence he hadn’t seen before. “We’re not in Texas, though, are we?”

Technically, the area was in dispute. “Close enough not to abandon the principles I serve, no matter how pretty the woman is who asks me.”

She made a slashing motion with her hand before running it over her hair. More tendrils threatened to break loose with the next pass of her palm. “I don’t want you to kill anybody.”

To give his hands something to do besides reach over to let one of those curls entrap his finger, Tracker picked up his gun and began reassembling it. “What do you want me to do?”

Her arm dropped to her side. “I just want to scare those men so they leave my father alone.”

It wasn’t the first time Tracker had been asked to scare somebody, but it was probably the first time he believed the person asking really thought it could be done without anybody getting killed.

“Why do they bother him?”

A tinge of red on her cheeks, a hint of tears in her eyes, and she said, “Because of me.”

“Why?”

The blush of embarrassment deepened and she looked away. “Men think I am…available.”

“Because of your son?”

“Yes.” Her expression tightened and her hands fisted. “I think they threatened him.”

“Vincente?” The old man didn’t strike Tracker as the type to cower at a threat.

“No.” Her gaze dropped to his pistol. Her fingers clenched and unclenched as if it was all she could do to keep from grabbing it from him. “My son.”

That put a whole new spin on the issue. “Did Vincente tell you that?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Yes, I believe you. The baby is the family’s most vulnerable point. It makes sense for a man to threaten it to get what he wants.”

“I’d go to them if I thought it would keep him safe.”

She would, too. Tracker could see it in her eyes. Even if she couldn’t remember, she had to be scared shitless at the thought, but he didn’t doubt for a minute that she would sacrifice herself for the safety of her son. She had the same fighting spirit as her sister. Likely the same recklessness, too. He’d have to keep an eye on that.

“It won’t.”

“I know.”

But if the gang turned up the heat enough, if she got desperate enough, she might see it as her last hope.

“Please. I don’t want them to hurt my family. I owe them so much. I wasn’t…well after the murder. They thought I was going to lose Miguel.”

“Miguel is your son?”

“Yes.” She took a step closer and placed her hand on Tracker’s arm. The heat of her touch seeped slowly through the leather of his shirt. “Please.” Another step brought her skirts around his legs. “Help us.”

He placed his hand over hers, pressing just firmly enough so she couldn’t let go. “What are you offering me if I do?”

The pulse in the hollow of her throat beat double-time. The fresh scent of soap blended with the acrid smell of fear.

She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. Tears trembled on her lashes. “Whatever you want.”

He slid his palm up her arm, trailing his fingers up the side of her neck before working them through her hair, to anchor them beneath the bun. It would take so little to tug her hair free of the constraint. So little to break her. He let his thumb skim down until he found the hollow of her throat.

Take her up on her offer, the devil that sat on his shoulder urged. Tracker was tempted. Her pulse throbbed against his thumb in silent reprimand. She offered, the voice continued.

Yes, she had. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d traded services for sex. It likely wouldn’t be the last. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

Her big blue eyes widened and locked on his. Tears spilled down her cheeks. Her lips trembled. “Please.”

He caught a tear with the edge of his thumb, halting the downward spiral. Son of a bitch. He needed a kick in the ass. A man didn’t pass up opportunities like that.

“You loved Miguel’s father very much.”

“Vincente and Josefina are my family.”

Interesting way of skirting the statement.

“They’re not mine,” he retorted.

She grabbed his wrist. Her short nails stung as they dug deeply. “I’m begging you for your help.”

“And you just naturally went for my base nature. Because a man like me wouldn’t have a higher one.”

“No!”

“That’s okay, sweets. I’m willing to be as low as you want me to be.”

“I don’t want you to be anything! I just want you to help my family.”

“Then why don’t you just ask for my help?”

She pushed at his hand. “I did.”

He tipped her chin up so she had to look at him. Had to know with whom she was dealing.

“You tried to hire me. You begged me, but you never asked me with any expectation that I would agree.”

“Why would you?”

Christ, she’d just got done hauling out his reputation, but when it came to seeing him, she didn’t see a decent human being. “Yeah. Why would I?” He let her go. She stepped back immediately, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

“Are you going to help us?”

There was a smudge on the pristine white of her shirtsleeve where he’d held her.

“I’ll help you.” The jury was still out on whether he’d help the Moraleses. Something about their story struck a sour note.

He grabbed his hat off the bed.

Ari stood in the doorway, blocking his way. “What are you going to do?”

“Go to town.”

Her eyes grew big again. “But you don’t have any help.”

Grasping her shoulders, he turned her around and nudged her ahead of him. “I’m not going to solve your problem today.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” He grabbed Buster’s tack. The bridle jangled as he dragged it off the rack and carried it over to the stall. “I’m going to get a drink.”

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