Читать книгу: «The Man From High Mountain»

CHAPTER ONE

TWICE A DAY THE DOCTOR came by her room. He was an old man, a country doctor, with a monk’s fringe of hair around his head. His hands were gentle as they probed her bandages, especially the large, tight one holding her arm securely against her chest. On the third day, Taylor Matthews realized there was more in his eyes than concern. Through a still-lifting fog of painkillers and relaxants she finally recognized what it was late that afternoon.

His bright blue gaze held pity.

She turned her face away so he wouldn’t see her tears, but he’d seen everything already and knew exactly what she was doing. When he finished changing all her dressings, he rested his hand against her shoulder, his touch cool against her skin.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Matthews.” His voice was surprisingly deep. It echoed against the bare walls of the tiny West Texas hospital. “If it’s any consolation, your husband died very quickly. The round went right through his heart. I doubt he felt a thing.”

She moved her head against the pillow, squeezing her eyes tighter, her hair whispering against the crisp linens. From behind her eyelids, a burst of bright light accompanied the movement along with a stab of sudden sharpness. She welcomed the pain—it took her mind off everything else. She felt the pinprick a moment later, and welcomed it, too. Blessed oblivion.

Just before she went back to sleep, someone came into the room and sat down. His step was odd, out of sync somehow, as if he too was wounded and here for care. Her eyelids were too heavy now to lift, but she didn’t have to see the person to sense his presence. It spread over her room and filled the corners with a quiet and calming awareness. The sensation was comforting, almost as if she knew it was all right to go to sleep now because she wasn’t alone anymore. He would stand watch over her. She was safe.

She drifted off, but the memories went with her.

THE DAY HAD BEEN WARM for fall, the West Texas sun so close to their heads Taylor had thought she could reach up and touch it. Climbing out of the ancient pickup, she’d gazed over the dusty barren landscape with dismay, half wondering, with affection of course, if Jack had finally lost his mind.

She’d never seen a place so lonely and desolate.

“What do you think, hon?” Her husband of ten years, Jack Matthews, stood beside her like a child on Christmas Eve, waiting for her to open his present. Impatiently, he gave her his own opinion before she could answer him. “Isn’t it great?” He held out his hands. “And look at that view! You can see for miles—and everything you see, we own!”

She turned then to look at him. His dark blue eyes, eyes she’d loved for so long, were staring into the distance, but she knew he wasn’t seeing the enormous ranch he’d just bought. He was seeing the succession of mobile homes and dirty apartments and temporary shelters he and his brothers had lived in as children. He was seeing the hard life and the missed opportunities and the mother buried at the county’s expense. He was seeing how far he’d come—from being a kid who owned one shirt to being a successful businessman who had now fulfilled his final dream. Owning a three-section ranch flat in the middle of West Texas. One thousand, nine hundred and twenty acres to be exact.

She swallowed the words she’d been about to say and put her arm around his shoulder. “It’s beautiful, sweetheart. Truly gorgeous. I love it!”

He turned to her, his eyes sparkling. “Do you really?

“I do,” she insisted loyally, nodding her head up and down. “It’s absolutely perfect. Ranch heaven. I couldn’t have picked a better place myself!”

Reassured by her words, as she knew he would be, he stepped away from the truck, the gravel beneath his boots crunching in the total and absolute isolation. The silence around them was overwhelming. Twenty miles off the main highway, they’d come at least fifty miles beyond that from the nearest town, High Mountain—which was, in fact, little more than a general store, a sad motel, and one lone Mexican food diner.

She glanced uneasily toward the guide at the rear of the truck. She hoped he was as good as he was supposed to be. What if they got lost? What if someone got hurt? They could be out here for days and see no one, absolutely no one. She studied the tall, slim man, understanding now that their lives literally depended on him.

He hadn’t said two words to her after their introduction, but Jack had been totally at ease with Cole Reynolds. Usually cautious around strangers, Jack had been impressed with the taciturn man, telling Taylor last night that Cole knew the area better than anyone around. He was part Jumano Indian, Jack had explained, and had lived in the area all his life. Chattering about the details as they’d gotten ready for bed, Jack had seemed to enjoy the fact that their ranch was so huge they needed a tracker to lead them in.

“Once we get the roads paved, we’ll be fine,” he’d said, slipping between the covers, “but until then it’s best if we let Cole help us. He’s terrific—we definitely won’t get lost with him in charge.”

She walked to the back of the truck where the guide was unloading supplies. She paused by the bumper. “Need some help?”

At her voice, Cole Reynolds glanced up and met Taylor’s gaze. She told herself she was being silly, but looking into his endlessly dark stare was like peering into a bottomless pit, and something tripped over her nerves. His eyes were so black she saw nothing except her own reflection. Suddenly rattled, she shifted her gaze. The skin that was stretched over his high cheekbones and bladelike nose was burnished into a deep rich tan. The dark hair that curled around the planes of his face only served to emphasize the copper tones.

“I’d like to do something,” she said, repeating her offer just to break the tension she felt under his silent gaze. “May I help?”

“No thanks,” he said curtly. Reaching back into the truck, he pulled out another pack, the muscles of his back straining beneath the white T-shirt he wore, the faded denim of his jeans stretching across his buttocks. He straightened. “You’re gonna have enough to do once we start walking. You’d better wait in the shade by the truck for now. Conserve your energy.”

His answer made perfect sense, and there was no hint of condescension in his voice. He was quietly competent and interested only in doing his job. Still, Taylor felt herself react. She had a sixth sense about people and something told her there was more to this man than the calm, cool exterior she saw. She wondered nervously what it was.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Reynolds?” She spoke lightly, making her voice hold amusement. “Think I can’t make it?”

The guide continued to pull gear out of the truck. After a moment he stopped and straightened completely. She hadn’t realized how tall he was until then. Six feet plus, she figured.

“I think you’re from Houston, I think you’re not accustomed to this kind of heat, and I think you’re in for a shock about just how rugged this part of Texas is.” He stared at her a second longer, then reached into the back of the truck for a beat-up black cowboy hat. Tugging at it, one hand in the front, one in the rear, he settled it onto his head. “That’s what I think.”

She didn’t quite know what to make of his answer. “Well, if that’s the case, why did you agree to bring us out here?”

“It’s what I do.” The soft words, spoken in his West Texas drawl, hovered in the air between them. “I take people places they can’t get to on their own. Then I bring them back.”

“Are you two ready?” Jack appeared suddenly at Taylor’s side, rubbed his hands and grinned engagingly. “I am. Can’t wait as a matter of fact.”

Grateful for the interruption, Taylor turned to her husband and smiled. “Think you’ll feel that way tomorrow?”

He leaned over and kissed her on the nose. “No. By then, I’ll want a hot bath and a pitcher of margaritas. But right now, I’m ready to see my ranch.”

They spent the next half hour strapping on their backpacks and getting ready, Cole explaining the terrain they’d be crossing and what to watch for, including rattlesnakes. They had a lot of ground to cover. There was a deep water spring in the southwest corner and Jack wanted to check on the old ranch house that was supposed to be somewhere near the western edge, too. They set out, Taylor quickly forgetting about the man leading them as her husband eagerly began to show her his “spread,” as he laughingly called the ranch.

By noon, though, Taylor’s feet were screaming and she was a nervous wreck from imagining snakes under every rock. Just as she was about to give in and request a stop, Cole raised a hand and pointed to an outcrop of rocks ahead of them in the distance.

“That’s the edge of the canyon. We’ll stop there and eat lunch. Rest for a bit.” He turned around and glanced at Taylor. His voice was noncommittal. “Okay with you, Miz Matthews?”

She answered breezily. “Whatever...”

He nodded once and continued to walk, the picture of competence. Something about him bothered her, but he definitely knew what he was doing, she had to admit that. Jack was right—they wouldn’t get lost with Cole Reynolds in charge.

They reached the rocks within minutes. As she peeled off her pack, Jack came to her side. “Walk over to the canyon with me,” he said. Glancing at Cole who was preparing their lunch, Jack smiled, the expression lifting his mouth and crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I want to show it to you by myself.”

She forgot about her feet as she saw the enthusiasm in his expression. A surge of love came over her, and she took her husband’s hand. “I’d like that.”

She’d expected something different, but the sight that greeted them when they reached the edge stole Taylor’s breath. As if a giant had taken a hatchet and chopped open the earth, a red slash, at least a hundred feet wide, gaped at their feet, going on for miles and miles. The gorge was deep, too, so deep even the noontime sun didn’t dispel the shadows in the bottom. In the eerie silence she could hear the faint sound of rushing water at the bottom and a jingling sound, almost like a horse’s halter. They edged closer until they were standing right on the rim, on one of the rocky ledges surrounding the very perimeter. Taylor felt dizzy.

Jack pointed downward. “That’s the Rio Diablo. The ranch got its name from the river. El Rancho del Diablo—The Devil’s Ranch.” Tilting his head to indicate the land on the other side, he spoke again. “And that’s Mexico.”

“It’s beautiful.” Looking around the stark and lonely landscape, Taylor realized for the first time she meant what she’d just said. The land was beautiful. Bleak and barren, it stretched on forever, the red rocks and few gnarled trees standing out starkly against a sky that particular shade of blue that burned into your eyes when you stared at it. The quiet was thick enough to taste, and the air so thin it carried sound like a ribbon of silk in the wind. Overhead a hawk circled lazily, his cries piercing. Taylor had become a determined city girl after growing up in Montana, but there was something about Diablo. It was unexpectedly exhilarating, even though it was intimidating, too.

She turned to Jack to say so. To tell him she loved him and how happy she was he’d bought this present for himself, this ranch that represented so much.

And that’s when the first shot rang out.

For just a moment, she was puzzled. The noise was foreign to her, abrupt and scary, disturbing the silence unexpectedly and not making sense. Staring at Jack, she frowned and started to ask him what it was—then the second shot sounded and a sudden bloom of red appeared on her shoulder, the one next to Jack’s. She looked at her shirt with a baffled expression, then comprehension came. And with it, pain.

“My God,” she said, wonder filling her voice. “I—I think I’ve been shot.”

Another crack broke the silence, this one zinging past her ear. Taylor screamed then, and Jack threw himself in front of her, his frantic hands on her shoulders pulling her toward the ground, realizing a second too late the direction from which the shots were coming. “Get down,” he yelled. “Get down!”

Before they could move, the gun sounded again. His body in front of hers, Jack pitched forward, a searing pain exploding in Taylor’s shoulder at the very same moment—one bullet hitting him then her. She cried out and staggered as Jack’s fingers curled painfully into her arms, his sudden weight coming against her and dragging them both into the red dust. She tasted it, like blood, on her tongue.

“Jack!” Refusing to see the mingling blood and the emptiness coming into her husband’s eyes, she screamed his name again. “Jack! My God, Jack!”

Fading fast, he looked into her eyes. “I love you,” he whispered.

COLE WAS BESIDE TAYLOR within seconds. Kneeling, he said nothing, but moved fast. Rolling Jack off her, he took a handful of Taylor’s collar and yanked her back and up, away from the edge of the canyon.

“No!” Struggling against the blackness that threatened to overcome her, she cried out. “Stop...stop! We have to get Jack.”

“You’re hurt. I have to get you out.” Cole’s voice was ragged, panting.

She fought him, kicking at his legs and pounding his chest with her fists, a flash of pain ricocheting off her arm and slicing down the rest of her body. “No,” she screamed again. “I want Jack. Jack—”

Cole ignored her cries. Slipping his arms beneath her own, he scooped her up and began to run.

The fifth shot got him.

With a grunt of pain, he fell heavily, Taylor going down with him. He was moving again within seconds, scrambling backward through the dust and scrubby cactus. Taylor continued to fight him, sobbing as she shrieked, a fiery pain fueling her grief and confusion and anger.

They reached a half-dead mesquite tree, and dragging her into the scant protection it offered, Cole finally stopped. Groggy and growing weak, Taylor had only one thought: She had to get to Jack. On her hands and knees, crying and wounded, she reached out and grasped one of the rough branches of the mesquite. The rough bark bit into her skin, scraping it raw. Ignoring this new pain, she used the limb to pull herself upright and staggered out into the open, taking two steps back the way they’d come.

A final shot rang out.

SHE CAME TO BRIEFLY. Someone was standing beside the bed, someone tall. She forced her eyes open as he touched her hand. Dark eyes met hers, then her eyelids fluttered down again. Before she went completely under, details, like passing headlights, flashed into her mind. An endless, agonizing ride to the hospital with an empty seat beside her. The doctors and nurses murmuring quietly. Pain, pain that made black dots dance in front of her eyes and buzzing noises sound in her ears. And finally the terrible, terrible knowledge coming to her that her life, as it had been, was over.

Her husband was dead.