Wyoming Wildfire. Elizabeth Lane
swept away by the violent madness of a lynch mob. In their present condition these men were as dangerous as a pack of rabid dogs.
“The brute in the lead is Virgil Gates, Allister’s brother,” Jessie whispered, close to his ear. “I’d know that big, ugly piebald horse of his anywhere. And I can pick out a half-dozen of the cowhands who work on his ranch, and a few no-accounts from town who’d ride anywhere for a bottle. The rest of them are likely from other ranches around here. I don’t—”
“Shh!” Matt hushed her with a jab of his elbow. His heart froze as he realized the riders were slowing down, most likely to let some stragglers catch up. He’d been hoping—almost expecting—they would just ride on down the main road. If they stopped here, there was a real danger they’d notice the trail of fresh hoofprints where Frank had fled up the hill with the horses.
The bullnecked man Jessie had identified as Virgil Gates reined in his horse. Matt held his breath as Gates lowered his mask, pulled a silver whiskey flask out of his pocket and raised it to his mouth. A few of those with him did the same. It took a lot of liquid courage to hang a man.
Jessie wriggled upward, trying to see. Fearing she might move too far or loosen a rock, Matt grabbed the seat of her overalls and held her down. She squirmed against his fist. Blast the woman. He could have managed fine without her interference.
Time crawled as Virgil Gates stoppered the flask, shoved it into his pocket, wiped his mouth on the back of his hands and adjusted the thick coil of rope that lay over his saddle horn. “Let’s go, boys,” he said, motioning with his arm.
Jerking his mask into place, he spurred the big piebald to a gallop and headed down the road toward Sheridan. The rest of the mob thundered after him in grim silence, as if weighed down by the awful thing they’d set out to do.
Dizzy with relief, Matt watched them go. With luck, they’d be miles away before they realized their quarry wasn’t ahead of them. For now, at least, he was free to deal with other problems.
He groaned out loud as he felt the thrust of Jessie Hammond’s pistol against his ribs once more. “What the hell—”
“I want the key, Marshal.” Her breathy voice rasped in his ear. “The key to the handcuffs. Give it to me now, and you’ll be free to walk back to Felton.”
“And if I don’t?” Matt stalled, knowing he had to beat her at her own game. If Jessie was demanding the key, she likely knew where Frank was headed. More important, she almost certainly had a horse hidden nearby—a horse he needed.
“You can give me the key now, or I can take it off your dead body. It’s all the same to me.”
Matt sighed. “You’re not much of a bluffer, Jessie. If you were capable of murdering me, you’d have done it by now.”
“You don’t know that for sure. And I wouldn’t have to kill you. I could hurt you so badly that you’d wish you were dead.”
“One shot would bring those vigilantes right back here.”
“Not fast enough to catch me. Now stop dithering and give me that key!” The Peacemaker jabbed harder against his ribs.
“You know where it is.” Matt’s muscles tensed like coiled springs. “If you want the key, just reach into my pocket and get it. Go on.”
Caught off guard, she shifted against him to reach the pocket. For the space of a heartbeat she was vulnerable. That was all the time Matt needed.
Twisting sharply, he made his move. His body exploded upward, hands flashing to catch her wrists. She gave a little cry as the force of his weight struck her, flipping her sideways onto her back, with his weight above her.
She lay on her back, glaring up at him with those deep lilac eyes. Her hat had tumbled off, revealing a spill of night-black curls, but the bandanna remained in place over her nose and mouth. “Get off me!” she sputtered. “Let go of me now, or I’ll scream!”
“Go ahead.” Using his weight to pin her against the slope, he locked one hand around her wrists while his other hand pried the Peacemaker from her fingers. To control her hands, he had to straddle her impossibly tiny waist with his knees and lean forward. The body beneath him felt small but voluptuous through the baggy denim overalls. The pressure of her jutting breasts against his belly sent waves of erotic awareness ripping down into his loins. To his chagrin, Matt realized he was fully aroused. He swore under his breath, hoping she wouldn’t feel him against her and get the wrong idea. He liked his ladies in satin and perfume—more important, he liked them willing. And right now, the only things he wanted from Jessie Hammond were her gun, her horse and her cooperation.
She had stopped struggling and gone rigid beneath him. She knew, all right—probably wanted to kill him for what he couldn’t help. The sooner he got off her the better. But there was one temptation, heaven save him, that Matt was unable to resist.
He had to see that face.
Releasing the hammer on the Peacemaker, Matt thrust it into his belt. Then, still pinioning her wrists, he used his free hand to tug away the red bandanna, revealing the lower part of her face.
He stifled a reflexive gasp.
If Frank Hammond’s sister had been as plain as mud, he thought, it would have made everything easier. But she was far from plain. And as Matt filled his gaze with the sight of her heart-shaped face, lush lips and straight little nose, crowned by those unearthly violet eyes, he knew that he was in danger of tumbling over the edge of reason. The heavenly powers were too prudent to have created such a face—only the devil could have done it.
“Let me up.” Her whispery voice raked his senses. “No tricks, I promise, as long as you agree to listen to my story.”
“You can tell me your story while we ride after your brother.” Matt sat back on his heels. “Come on. Let’s go.”
She’d begun to struggle again. “But I haven’t got—”
“Don’t lie to me, Jessie. You and your brother raise horses—that’s what he told me. And you didn’t get clear out here on foot. Now take me to your horse. We can ride double till we come up with something better.”
Rising, he jerked her none too gently to her feet. She was the sister of an accused killer, desperate to free her brother, he reminded himself. To save Frank Hammond’s life, she would lie, steal, seduce—and maybe even put a bullet through an unwary lawman’s heart. Show even a moment’s weakness, and she would pounce on it like a cat. He could not afford to lower his guard, even for an instant.
“Where’s the horse?” His grip tightened on her arm, easing only when she winced and pointed down-hill toward a wash, where willows trailed over a sluggish stream.
“What are you going to do?” She stumbled over her boots as he pulled her roughly down the hill.
“I’m going to find your brother, make certain he’s safe, and take him to Sheridan for trial. That’s my job. If I want to keep it, I have no choice.”
“What if I could prove to you that Frank didn’t kill Allister Gates?” She stumbled, twisting her ankle as she went down on one knee. Matt forced himself to keep moving, dragging her along until she regained her footing.
“Can you prove it?”
“I could try! That’s more than you’ve done!” She wrenched herself loose and stood facing him, her raven hair bannering in the wind. “Look at the facts! Frank dropped the rifle. Anybody could’ve picked it up and used it to shoot Allister!”
“I’d wager that’s exactly what his lawyer will argue. Reasonable doubt.” He seized her arm again, yanking her against his side as he strode down the grassy hillside. “It’s a fair defense and it might work. But I won’t be on the bench or in the jury box. My only duty is to bring him in.”
“You’re heartless!” She flung the words at him. “Frank’s never harmed a soul in his life! Why, I’m