Slocum and the Rancher's Daughter Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Teaser chapter

  Entrapment . . .

  “Don’t make a move.” Phelps stepped out from behind the house-sized rock with a gun in his hand. “Well, if it ain’t Slocum and Bob.”

  The only other sound Slocum heard was the spill of water over the small falls. His heart sunk. How had he walked into such a trap?

  “Stand there,” Phelps said, and slipped around, taking her gun first. Then, with it in his waistband, he slipped behind Slocum.

  Time to take action. He drove his elbow backward and threw Phelps off balance. Then Slocum whirled and caught the barrel of Phelps’s six-gun and drove it skyward.

  He drove his fist into Phelps’s midsection, and the outlaw gasped for breath . . .

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  SLOCUM AND THE RANCHER’S DAUGHTER

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / November 2008

  Copyright © 2008 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  eISBN : 978-0-515-14545-8

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  Prologue

  In leg irons and handcuffs, the three prisoners walked stiffly out of the courthouse into the glaring sun. A guard armed with a shotgun prodded them along. The woman’s brother Searle never even looked in her direction. His head down in defeat, he climbed into the barred prison wagon, chained between the other two men.

  There was no justice in Arizona Territory—least of all in the court system of Saguaro County. Searle hadn’t stolen any horses. Those broncs with the blotched brands were planted on him by the man who owned them, Charles Worthington. Why would Searle steal WT horses anyway? He owned lots better horseflesh than Worthington’s broom-tails.

  Maybe the governor up in Prescott would believe her. Trouble was she didn’t dare leave their outfit for that long. No telling what would happen to the place the minute she turned her back—no, she’d have to write him a personal letter.

  She was heartbroken as the driver and armed guard climbed on the seat of the prison wagon. With a shout, the wagon pulled out powered by four stout mules, leaving behind a cloud of dust.

  Searle, I’ll do all I can. I promise to hold the place together. With a cluck to the hip-shot team, she put a dusty boot on the dashboard and reared back on the spring seat to rein them around in a circle. It was time to stop feeling sorry for herself and get back to the ranch—there was lots to do. And with Searle gone, there was no one but her to work the place.

  The notion made her sick to her stomach. She kept the cow ponies trotting with an occasional clucking or a slap on the butt with a line. The tireless horses were in good condition to hitch or ride. They were used for working cattle and driving. That was her late father’s idea. An animal had to earn its keep or he got rid of it. Maybe if he was still alive he’d have gotten rid of her—for letting that two-bit sheriff Jesse Gantry and Worthington railroad her brother into Yuma Prison. Perhaps a better lawyer would have built a better defense. She slapped Curly on the hip with the rein for lagging a little. When he was back in stride, she nodded in approval. The heat waves distorted her vision of the distant purple hills. She wouldn’t be home until near dark at the rate they were traveling through the rolling brown bunchgrass and cactus. Nothing would free her from the guilt she felt over her brother’s conviction.

  She’d never cried—not when they buried Pa—not when she’d had to shoot her favorite horse Scooter because he’d broken his leg in a bad fall. For sure she would not cry over this either—she’d get Searle out of prison—he was innocent. Starting to shake with fury, she
sat up straight on the seat. It might be different if she’d ever been a little girl—she’d always been more boy than girl and she could run that ranch. She’d hold things together—for three years if she had to. That was her brother’s sentence.

  The setting sun was at her back when she drove the buckboard down off the last ridge. The windmill creaked loudly in the hot afternoon wind that swept her face as she urged the horses on for the last quarter mile. Under the tall rustling cottonwoods sat the low-walled adobe house with the shake roof, along with some sheds, haystacks, and corrals. Beyond were the golden-stubble fields of winter barley. With limited irrigation water and a winter rain or two, they’d managed to grow a small crop of winter grain for hay. The marginal water supply wasn’t enough for any more crop production than that.

  She swung the team in a semicircle to let the hot wind sweep the dust behind her away from the house and herself. When the reins were tied off, she bailed off the seat, and froze at the sight of the man.

  He stood by the corral, sucking on a grass stem. With his back to the rails, he looked at her mildly. On his shirt, the deputy badge beaten out of a ten-centavo piece flashed in the sunset. From under the dusty black felt hat, some of his wavy black locks had escaped and stood out from his leathery tanned face. His dark eyes were like a wolf’s as he looked her over like she was a bitch in heat. His mouth was a straight line without any mercy. He stepped out to intercept her, catching her arm.

  She shrugged him off and stalked on by toward the house. A pain of deep regret knifed her—why did she leave the .44/40 in the buckboard? Because he was the law. The law didn’t harm people. You didn’t shoot lawmen.

  He hurried after her and caught her arm, and she tried to twist away.

  “Where’re you going so fast, bitch?” he asked through his teeth, as he held on to her arm.

  His viselike grip hurt, but she’d give him no pleasure by showing it. “Let go of me!”

  “Not so fast. You don’t have anyone around here that I can see to protect you.” He acted like he was surveying the place. Then he jerked her up close to his mouth, which stank of sour whiskey. “You need a man.”

  “I damn sure don’t need you, Claude Phelps.”

  “You need a man,” he repeated, twisting her arm harder.

  “Like hell I do.” She drew back and hit him in the face with her doubled-up fist.

  The blow jarred him enough that she slipped loose from his hold. She began to run hard for the house. Escape was her goal. As she looked back at Phelps, two powerful men came out of nowhere, one on each side, and caught her by the arms. A part-time deputy named Carson had her right arm, and another badge toter named Yodder had her left. The pain in her shoulders was excruciating as they forced her forward hard with their other hands, putting painful pressure on the sockets.

  “All right,” she said in surrender. Anything to get them to let up.

  “Well?” Carson asked Phelps.

  “Strip her clothes off and tie her on the bed. The fun’s about to begin.” His raw laughter echoed in her ears. He opened the door and they dragged her struggling inside the dark house.

  The hopelessness of the situation roiled her guts enough to make her want to puke all over them. They were all lawmen. Deputy sheriffs . . .

  Chapter 1

  In the first light of dawn, he set the saddle on the ground and studied the ranch buildings and the stubble fields beyond them. His gritty eyes focused on the creaking windmill. Water. He could use some. The evening before, he’d had to put down his good horse who’d colicked, and he’d been on the move ever since to locate something to drink. Packing the saddle on his shoulder in the hope of finding another mount, he’d left his bedroll behind cached in a tree.

  Surely, the rancher who owned this spread had a pony to sell or to loan him. If worse came to worst, he might get a ride in a buckboard to the nearest town. He was a man with few choices—being afoot in this desert country was dead serious. That was the reason he’d hiked all night under the stars.

  He set the saddle down on the horn. It could stay right there till he needed it. He’d packed the double-rigged kac far enough. Rambling down the wagon tracks in his high-heel boots toward the house, he noted other tracks in the dust. Three riders had left there, and from the fresh horse apples, they had left recently. Maybe the owners had ridden out? No matter. He’d drink their water till they got back.

  Then he heard flies buzzing, and stepped away from the wagon tracks to look for the source. The flies were feasting on a dead black-and-white cow dog that he found lying in the knee-high grass. The animal had been shot several times. Why would anyone shoot a dog like that? They sure must have wanted him dead.

  At the stock tank he found a gourd dipper, and put it under the pipe’s spout of water that the windmill pumped into the large tank. Sipping on the cool refreshment, he slaked his thirst. Not bad-tasting water in a land of gyp.

  A horse snorted, and he saw a team hitched to a buckboard. They were pinned to the corral by the buckboard behind them. Why were they still harnessed? Out of habit, he shifted around the Colt on his hip.

  He backed the horses out of their position and decided they needed a drink. Speaking softly to them, he began to unhitch them from the wagon. He bent over and unhooked the singletree from the horse on the right. Putting up the traces, he patted the first horse on the rump and slipped behind him to undo the other one. Then he went to take off the tongue.

  He glanced at the house. There was no activity. Three riders had left there earlier, a shot-up stock dog lay beside the road, and a team had obviously been left hitched for a while. It didn’t add up to much he could sort out.

  The horses drank deep from the mossy tank and he felt they’d be all right. Neither acted too greedy. They were good stout bulldog horses that could scramble up a steep talus-strewn slope and down the other side.

  “Don’t move a muscle.” The cold words made him freeze. “Who in the hell’re you?”

  “I’m afoot. Lost my horse last night and found these horses over there in a fix when I got here.” He indicated the corral. “They needed a drink.”

  “Phelps leave you behind?”

  “Ma’am, I came in here afoot. I ain’t seen a soul since early yesterday.” He was anxious to catch sight of the female source of the voice, but his hands remained frozen and his back remained turned.

  “Phelps left you.”

  “I don’t know any Phelps and he sure never left me. My saddle is sitting a hundred yards up the road where I set it. Above where that dead dog is at.”

  “Dead dog?” Her gasp was loud enough that he spun around and saw her pale face. She stood about five-eight. She was dressed in a billowing long-tail nightshirt, and he could tell little about her figure. But her brown eyes drilled holes in him and she tried to swipe the short brunette hair back from her face with her gun hand.

  “Yes, there’s a black-and-white stock dog dead up there. He was all shot up.”

  “Those bastards—”

  “You must have some tough enemies.”

  “I do. What’s your name?” Her left eye was black and her cheek under it looked swollen. She’d came out second best in a fight, he figured.

  “Slocum.”

  She nodded as if digesting it. “What do you do?”

  He wiped his wet upper lip on his calloused palm. “I can do about anything. Grease that windmill for one thing.” He motioned toward it.

  Her eyes narrowed as if gauging him. “You looking for work?”

  “I could use some.”

  “You might not want to work for a woman.” She paused like she was waiting for his answer.

  “It pays the same?”

  “I guess. Thirty a month and food.”

  Slocum nodded and indicated the team. “Good. I’ll just put them horses up.”

  “Yes—” Her gun pitched forward and slipped from her hand. Her knees buckled under the nightshirt, and he moved in to catch her as she started to fall. Holdin
g her in his arms, he headed for the house.

  She started coming around. “Put—me—down.”

  He looked down into her bleary eyes and shook his head. “Take it easy. I’ll put you on the bed.”

  “No!” she screamed, and began to fight him.

  She fought like a furious hellcat, but he managed to stand her on her feet. But once she was out of his arms, her eyes flew shut and she wilted again. This time, he managed to deliver her to the rumpled bed. He wondered about the ropes on the head of the bed.

  Stepping back, he waited for her to revive. What could he do for her?

  Finally, half sitting up with one arm bracing herself, she swept the hair back from her face and looked at him as if she’d faint again. “Who’re you?”

  “Slocum.”

  “No, I mean who are you?”

  “Just a fella drifting through. You want to tell me what’s happened here?”

  She rubbed the tops of her legs under the nightshirt. “I got taught a lesson here last night.”

  “What lesson?”

  “Oh, what the hell. Three of Saguaro County’s finest deputies raped me last night in this bed.”

  “They did what?” Slocum narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m not going to repeat it.”

  “Three deputies—the three that rode off earlier?”

  “You saw them?”

  “I read their tracks. I’ve done some scouting.”

  She dropped back, using her hands behind her for support. “The prison wagon took my brother Searle to Yuma Prison yesterday. When I got home, they were waiting here like buzzards. Claude Phelps, Yodder, and Carson.” She exhaled and scooted for the edge of the bed. “There’s no sense crying over spilt milk. You put the horses in the corral. I’ll fix us some breakfast.”