“You go. I have to at least get a look at them.” She turned.
“Deb, stop!” Gwen hissed. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I know it’s too late to save anyone, and I promise you I won’t let them see me. But maybe I can see them. I can be a witness to this crime and help hunt down a pack of killers.”
A crackle sounded, and Deb whirled around toward the noise. Then came the smell of smoke. The outlaws were burning the evidence of their crime.
Gwen was barely visible as a dark shape in the shadows of the tall grass. But Deb sensed her tension. Gwen wanted to tackle her and drag her to safety. Deb’s blood almost hummed with energy fueled by fear and anger. If Gwen felt the same, maybe Gwen could carry both children and haul Deb along.
Maddie Sue whimpered again, louder this time. Gwen made a low sound of distress, then caught Maddie Sue’s hand. “Let’s go, honey. And Deb, I need you.”
That was the plain, bald truth, and it affected Deb more than concern for her own safety.
“Be careful. We all need you. I’ll be praying every second you’re gone.”
“Thank you. I’ll be praying for all of us.” Deb moved away from her sister, feeling as if she were ripping the very fabric of her skin. She glanced back to see Gwen stepping deeper into the grass.
Could they get separated in here forever? Might she be seeing her sister and those two sweet children for the last time? Even though Deb was heading for a group of vicious murderers, she found herself worrying about Gwen as her little sister vanished into a land she knew nothing about. A land where it took strength to survive, and so far in her life, Deb hadn’t known a man stronger than Abe Scott, so sometimes even strength wouldn’t save you.
Maddie Sue whimpered again, and then there was only silence.
She crept toward the wagon train, the noise of the men a perfect guide. The talking and raucous laughter from the camp grew louder. She saw the flicker of flames and knew the swath of tall grass was thinning.
She breathed as silently as she could, knowing that if she could hear the men, they could likely hear her.
That’s when she realized she saw more than the fire. The eastern sky was lightening. In the first blush of dawn, men looted the wagons. She counted three who appeared against the backdrop of flames and tried to judge their height and build.
She edged closer to the trail, praying she wasn’t visible.
As she stood straighter, looking for details so she could describe the men’s appearance for others, a face appeared in flickering firelight. The face of a killer. She craned her neck for a better look at all three of them. She smelled smoke again . . . and something else. Something she’d never smelled before.
Burning flesh.
Something Trace Riley had smelled before and had hoped and prayed to never smell again.
Wolf snarled and crouched low to the ground, his ears laid back, his teeth bared. Black, Trace’s mustang stallion, tossed his head until the bit jingled.
“Easy, boys.”
He was worried about Wolf. “Stay with me.” He didn’t put it past the dog—who looked more wolf than dog, and probably was—to go charging up the trail on the attack. He liked to rip throats out first and think later.
But as was his way, Wolf minded and stayed at his master’s side, inching along with Trace, his low growl mingling with the gusting wind and swaying trees, which nearly provided a roof for the high-country trail. Black’s muscles bunched, and his ears went back to match Wolf’s. Trace wasn’t sure if the two critters knew what it was they were smelling or if they just sensed Trace’s tension.
Wolf and Black weren’t alone in readying themselves for trouble.
Trace’s hands got rock-steady, and his eyes sharpened until every blade of grass, waving in the breeze, became clear. Every puff of wind, and each scent born on it, tested and considered. His rifle filled his hand without a conscious decision to reach for it.
Every one of his senses came alive. He was wide awake to an unseen horror.
He judged every tree and rock along the heavily wooded trail that straddled the spine of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, where California met Nevada right down the middle of Lake Tahoe. Every one of those rocks and trees made a fine hiding place.
Kicking the mustang into a gallop, Wolf loping along at his side, Trace reached the top of the trail, looked down into a hollow that opened to a wide grassy clearing in the forested land, and saw the smoke—a low smudge along the ground. When the smoke rose, the brisk cold wind instantly dispersed it, which was why he hadn’t seen it before he could smell it.
And then he recognized what was burning. A wagon train, or what was left of one, in a circle. Except for the flames, the scene was as silent and still as death itself. He wanted to turn away, run. But he could no more run from this massacre than he could run from his own past.
Trace reined in his stallion and waited in a silence broken only by the buffeting wind and Wolf’s threatening rumble. Whoever had done this was long gone. The fire was nearly burned down to nothing. But Trace had lived a long time in a hard land and survived against odds so long he’d be the envy of every riverboat gambler in the world.
He studied the trail. He’d been on it awhile now and there’d been no tracks, nor had he met anyone. No sign of anyone traveling his way, not even hours ago. But there were recent tracks headed east; he could see that even from here.
Reluctantly, he kicked his horse down the trail into the hollow. He had to know what happened and see if there was anyone left
