Renegade Riders by Dawn Mactavish

Author:Dawn Mactavish [MacTavish, Dawn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Western
ISBN: 9780843963229
Publisher: Leisure
Published: 2009-12-31T13:00:00+00:00

At sundown, Trace Ord was in a blind rage as he arranged his gear in the bunkhouse. One by one the others straggled in. Jared Comstock was not among them; the boss had herded Mae into the main house when they arrived and had not emerged since. Worry over what might be happening between them at that very moment all but paralyzed Trace’s mind with fear. He dared not show it, though.

Trace hadn’t seen Preacher, but that wasn’t unusual since the old man had a cot in the cookhouse. No matter the temptation, it wouldn’t do to arouse suspicion by running straight to the old man. Instead, he stretched out on his bunk in the corner, pulled his Stetson down over his eyes, and listened to the hands talk. He felt as if he were dozing in a nest of rattlers.

Damn her! Mae had sacrificed herself. Of course, though he hated to admit it, she’d been right. Once they were spotted, there was no way he could stand and fight with her in the line of fire. But he had to find a way to get her out of there quick. And then…well, the only way she would ever be safe from Comstock was if Trace saw him and his rustling outfit in jail—or dead. He favored the latter option.

“Has a nice ring of finality to it,” he muttered to himself.

A poker game was forming in the corner of the bunkhouse. Feigning sleep, Trace wasn’t invited to participate. A rider called Ben watched from his cot. Will Morgan, Chip McVey, and three others were at the table. One was a tall, lanky rider named Wally. There was an older ranch hand with a handlebar mustache and grizzled forearms who walked with a limp and answered to the name of Jeb, and lastly came a mean-looking youth known as Michael Slade—the only one Trace knew by reputation.

Slade’s face was deeply lined, his skin like tanned leather. Clean-shaven and fierce-eyed, and the only thing people knew about him was the rumored notches on his Colts. He was reputed to be one of the fastest gunslingers in the territory. He sported an air of casual regard, but Trace recognized that mask for what it was. The youngster’s guns were tied down, slung low on his hips and within easy reach. Those eyes moved about alertly, as quick as his hands.

Trace took great care not to attract any notice. He had a bit of a reputation himself. Gunslingers made it their business to know who was a threat, who was competition. He was fast enough for word to have reached Michael, and that possibility made him uncomfortable. He had to ignore the nagging feeling that things were falling apart.

He hadn’t lain there long before the bunkhouse door came crashing in. Jared Comstock’s tall, lanky figure appeared, blacksnake in hand. With a flick of his wrist, he lashed out the whip with a blood-chilling crack. It wrapped around Will Morgan’s neck twice and yanked him backward onto the floor, chair and all.

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