Tracker's Sin

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.