Chase the Wind (Apache Runaway Book 2) Read online

  “I know. It was fun at the dance tonight, wasn’t it? Dusty looked so handsome.”

  Ryder grunted. “Yeah. He’s a good-lookin’ kid, and he knows it, too. Did you see the way those fool girls swarmed around him? Especially Johnson’s daughter.” He looked up at the sky and frowned. It was after midnight and his son wasn’t home yet.

  Jenny laughed softly. She couldn’t blame the girls for following Dusty. Except for his eyes, which were green instead of blue, Dusty looked just like his father, the same thick black hair, the same wide shoulders and long, long legs. The same heart-stopping smile.

  Ryder drew back a little. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, except Dusty looks just like you.”

  And once again her thoughts turned to her other son, her little lost lamb. Had Cosito grown up to look like his father?

  “Jenny?”

  “I’m all right.” She leaned against him, grateful for his love and understanding, for the unfailing strength of the strong arms around her.

  * * * * *

  Dusty slid his arm around Elizabeth’s Johnson’s waist and drew her up against him. “Warmer now?”

  Beth snuggled against him. “Much. I heard something funny today.”

  “Oh?”

  She nodded. “I overheard my dad talking to Mr. Carson. Mr. Carson said your father used to be a gunfighter. Is that true?”

  “Yeah. According to my mother, he was the best there was.”

  Beth laughed softly as she ran a finger over the badge pinned to Dusty’s vest. “I guess you’re not exactly following in his footsteps.”

  Dusty shrugged. “Not exactly.”

  “Does your father ever talk about those days?”

  “No.” He grinned. “My mother does, though. Sometimes, when my dad’s out working in the fields, she gets to talking about the old days before they came here.”

  “Did they have a lot of adventures?”

  “More than their share, I’d say.”

  “I’d like to hear about them. Life is so dull here.”

  “It won’t be dull for long if I don’t let you go in soon.”

  Beth laughed softly. “Kiss me good night?”

  “What do you think?” Bending, Dusty kissed her gently. “See you at church tomorrow?”

  “I’ll save you a seat.”

  “See you tomorrow, then.”

  “‘Night, Dusty.”

  “Good night.”

  Whistling softly, Dusty walked down the path toward the street. He turned and waved, then swung into the saddle and headed home.

  He’d been courting Elizabeth for almost four months, and it was getting harder and harder to say goodnight. His dreams were filled with images of Beth, her long honey-colored hair falling loose over her bare shoulders, her brown eyes warm with desire. Just thinking about her made him ache.

  Urging his horse into a lope, he tried to think of something else, but the scent of Beth’s perfume lingered in his nostrils, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else. He hadn’t proposed yet, but they’d talked about marriage and Dusty was certain that, when he finally popped the questions, she would say yes.

  He was still thinking of her when he reached home. He unsaddled his horse, tossed it some hay, then left the barn.

  “’Bout time you got home.”

  “Hi, Dad. Mom.”

  Ryder grinned at his son. “How’s Elizabeth?”

  “Pretty as a spring flower.”

  “Did she ask you over to Sunday dinner?”

  “No, but she will.”

  Jenny shook her head. “You seem mighty sure of yourself.”

  Dusty shrugged. “She’s invited me every week for the last four months.”

  “Could be we’ll be having a wedding soon, Jenny girl,” Ryder remarked.

  “Do you love her, Dusty?” Jenny asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And does she love you?”

  “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “Well, she’s a lovely girl,” Jenny said. “I’d be proud to have her in the family.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Dusty gave his mother a hug. “See you in the morning. ’Night, Dad.”

  “Night, Son.”

  Jenny leaned against Ryder, her head pillowed on his shoulder. “The house will seem empty when they’re both gone.”

  Ryder nodded. “You can’t keep them home forever.”

  “I know.”

  “Cheer up, Jenny girl. You’ll always have me.”

  She smiled up at him as he swung her into his arms and carried her inside. Whatever else happened in her life, she would always have Ryder. And someday soon, God willing, she would have grandchildren.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she let out a sigh of contentment as Ryder carried her down the hallway to the bedroom and shut the door, closing out the rest of the world.

  Chapter Two

  Mounted on a stolen horse, Chase the Wind left the reservation without a backward glance, everything he owned stowed in his saddlebags.

  He had said a final prayer at his stepmother’s grave, said his goodbyes to a few close friends, and ridden into the darkness. With luck, he would never see the reservation again.

  He felt a rush of excitement as he urged the horse into a lope. He was going on a pilgrimage of sorts, back to the land of his birth. And perhaps, if Usen smiled on him, he would find someone who knew his mother.

  Chapter Three

  Dusty sat back in his chair, his feet propped on his desk, idly admiring his new Justin Boots. They were Texas-made and about the best footwear he’d ever owned. The most expensive, too.

  Glancing out the window, he saw Beth Johnson enter the millinery shop across the street. Lordy, but that girl was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

  Grabbing his hat, he stepped out onto the boardwalk, his back propped against the jailhouse wall, his gaze fixed on the door of Patterson’s Millinery Shoppe.

  He pushed away from the wall and crossed the street as Beth emerged from the store.

  “Hey, Miss, can I carry your packages and walk you home?”

  “Why, that’s mighty kind of you, Sheriff,” she replied, handing him a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Do you extend this courtesy to all the girls?”

  “Just the pretty ones with hair the color of summer honey and eyes as brown as beaver fur.”

  Beth felt a wave of color sweep into her cheeks. “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “What’d you buy?”

  “A new hat,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “It’s peacock blue with black feathers and white lace. Wait until you see it! It’s beautiful.”

  “So are you.”

  “You mustn’t say such things,” Beth said primly. “It isn’t proper.”

  “Says who?”

  “Mama. She says you’re just trying to sweet-talk me out of my innocence.”

  Dusty scowled inwardly. Theda Johnson had made it perfectly clear that she was dead set against a match between her only daughter and Ryder Fallon’s son. Oh, she was polite enough when Beth invited him to dinner, but he knew Theda thought her daughter too good for the likes of him. If Theda Johnson had her way, Beth would marry someone like Ernest Toombs, the banker’s son.

  “Are you, Dusty?”

  He glanced at Beth, realizing she’d asked him something. “What?”

  “Are you trying to sweet-talk me?”

  “No. I wouldn’t tell you lies, Beth. My mama taught me better than that.”

  Beth sighed. Dusty Fallon was the most handsome man she’d ever met. He was tall and dark and well-mannered. If only her mother wasn’t so set on her marrying Ernest Toombs. Not that Ernest wasn’t a nice young man. It was just that he was so…so boring. All he ever thought about was money—how to make it, how to save it, how to make more. He never wanted to do anything fun, like run barefoot in the rain, or go skinny-dipping in the river. He didn’t like to read and thought it scandalous that she’d read The Strange Ca
se of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Ships That Pass in the Night. Ernest thought it improper for a lady to read novels and had told her, more than once, that if she had to indulge her passion for reading, she should stick to Vogue, The Ladies’ Home Journal and the Bible.

  Beth placed her hand on Dusty’s arm and smiled up at him. “Will you come to Sunday supper?”

  Dusty hesitated a moment, dreading the thought of spending another afternoon under Theda Johnson’s baleful eye, and then he nodded. He’d endure a dozen like Theda Johnson to be with Beth. “We’re having turkey and all the fixin’s.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “And apple pie. I’m making it myself.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Well, here we are,” Beth said.

  “Yeah.” Dusty glanced up at the big white house. Beth’s father was the richest man in the valley. He’d been a banker back East and had come west for his health. Their home, built on a large lot at the end of Main Street, was reminiscent of Southern-style mansions, with six white columns and a wide veranda that spanned the front of the house. A shiny black carriage was parked at the carriage block; a dozen blooded horses grazed alongside the house. He half expected Theda Johnson to come running out of the front door to rescue her daughter from his evil clutches.

  “See you Sunday,” Beth said, taking her package from his hand.

  “Sunday.” He let his fingers slide over hers, wishing he dared steal a kiss.

  Beth stood at the gate, watching Dusty walk away. Her mother might think she was going to marry Ernest Toombs, but Beth knew it was never going to happen. Beth craved excitement, not security. And when a woman wanted excitement, she didn’t pick a plow horse, she chose a stallion.

  And Dusty was the finest stallion in the valley.

  * * * * *

  Ryder drew his horse to a halt, his head cocked to one side as he heard the sound of gunshots coming from behind the house.

  Instinctively, his hand went to the gun on his hip and then he grinned self-consciously. Old habits died hard, he mused as he urged his mount toward the back of the house.

  Rounding the corner of the house, Ryder reined his horse to a halt. For a moment, he stared at the thin curl of blue-gray smoke rising from the barrel of the Colt in his son’s hand. There’d been a time, years ago, when he had worn his own gun as if it were as much a part of him as his hands and feet. It wasn’t a life he wanted for Dusty.

  Dusty turned around, reaching for the box of ammunition sitting on an upended crate behind him. “Hi,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

  “Doin’ some practicing, I see,” Ryder remarked, gesturing at the cans lined up on the corral fence.

  Dusty grinned sheepishly, like a kid caught smoking behind the schoolhouse. “I thought, well, even though we don’t get much action in town, I thought I should…you know.”

  “Yeah,” Ryder said. Dismounting, he dropped the reins to the ground and took a place beside his son. “How’re you doing?”

  Dusty jerked a thumb in the direction of the cans. “See for yourself.”

  Ryder grunted softly. “Not bad.”

  “Not good, either.”

  “Let me see you draw.”

  Feeling a trifle self-conscious, Dusty holstered his Colt, then drew and fired. One of the cans toppled off the fence.

  “You’re jerking the trigger,” Ryder remarked. “Cock the hammer as you draw so the gun comes out of the holster ready to fire. Just be sure you don’t shoot yourself in the foot.”

  “That’s real funny.”

  “You won’t think so if it happens,” Ryder said dryly. “Listen, drawing your weapon and cocking it should all be one smooth motion. Don’t draw, cock, aim and shoot. It slows you down. You need to pick your target and know where your first shot’s going before you even draw your weapon.”

  “How about a demonstration?”

  “Shit, I haven’t fast-drawn my gun in twenty years.”

  “You know what they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.”

  Ryder shook his head. “I don’t know,” he muttered, and then, in one swift motion, he drew his Colt and rapid-fired five rounds.

  Dusty whistled softly as five cans flew off the fence. “That’s shootin’.”

  Ryder grinned, inordinately pleased with himself. By damn, he still had it. “Well, that’s what I was talking about.”

  Dusty holstered his Colt. “You never told me how you got to be a gunfighter.”

  “I was never really a gunfighter. I was a gambler who just happened to be fast with a gun.” Ryder shook his head. “I found an old Colt’s Dragoon when I was just a kid. I remember I practiced drawing that old gun for hours on end, until I could draw and fire that old Colt with the same speed and accuracy as I had once had with a bow and arrows. I admit, I killed my share of men. Maybe more than my share. But I never thought of myself as a gunfighter.”

  “Do you think I could learn to shoot as good as you do?”

  “That’s up to you. Just remember, once you take a man’s life, he becomes a part of you whether you like it or not.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Like I said, I’ve killed men. And sometimes, late at night when I can’t sleep, I see their faces.”

  Dusty nodded, his expression suddenly sober.

  “One other piece of advice. If you draw that gun on a man, you’d best be prepared to kill him. Don’t try anything fancy, like winging him, or shooting the gun out of his hand. Most times, you’ll only get one shot, so you’d best make it count.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Good.” Ryder slapped his son on the shoulder. “You going over to the Johnsons’ again tonight?”

  “Yep. Six sharp for Sunday dinner.”

  “Old Theda still givin’ you a bad time?”

  “Same as always.”

  “If you marry Beth, you’ll be marrying her mother, too, you know.”

  “I know,” Dusty replied mournfully.

  “Well, I guess your mother and I can stand it if you can.”

  Dusty watched his father swing into the saddle, then glanced at his watch. Four o’clock. He’d best get cleaned up if he hoped to be at the Johnsons’ on time.

  * * * * *

  Dusty held Beth’s chair for her, then took a seat beside her, uncomfortable, as always, in her mother’s presence. He had the feeling that Theda Johnson watched his every move, waiting for him to commit some horrible breach of etiquette that would prove him to be the savage she thought him to be.

  He stifled a grin as he stared at the silverware laid out beside his plate, and silently blessed his mother for teaching him which fork to use with which dish.

  Dusty bowed his head as Walter Johnson said grace, asking the Lord’s benediction on the food, the hands that had prepared it, his family and especially his daughter. He felt a wave of heat climb up the back of his neck as Mr. Johnson pleaded with the Almighty to bless his daughter with wisdom at “this important time of decision making in her life”.

  Beth slid a glance at Dusty, her eyes begging his forgiveness for her father’s rudeness.

  “So, young man,” Walter Johnson said, “how are things going at the sheriff’s office?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  “Do you plan to spend the rest of your life as a small-town sheriff?”

  “Daddy!”

  “Hold your tongue, Elizabeth,” Johnson said, his gaze on Dusty.

  “I’m not sure what I plan to do with the rest of my life, sir. I’ve only been the sheriff a week.”

  “True, true, but a young man has to decide on a career early in life,” Johnson remarked, glancing at his daughter. “A man needs security if he intends to settle down and raise a family.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Banking is a respectable occupation.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dusty slid a furtive glance at Theda Johnson. She was watching him over the rim of a crystal water goblet, no doubt waiting for him to say
or do the wrong thing.

  “I might be able to get you a position at the bank.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I think I’ll stay where I am for the present.”

  “As you wish,” Johnson said curtly. “Mother, pass me some of those potatoes, please.”

  The rest of the meal passed in near silence. When it was over, Johnson insisted Beth play the piano.

  Dusty sat in a spindly-legged chair covered in rose damask, his back straight, his face carefully impassive. He applauded politely when Beth finished playing.

  “That was lovely, Elizabeth,” he said formally. He bowed in Theda Johnson’s direction. “Thank you for dinner, ma’am.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Fallon,” Theda replied stiffly.

  “Thank you for having me, sir. Good evening.”

  “Goodbye.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Beth said. As soon as they were outside, she grabbed him by the hand. “I’m sorry, Dusty. They were horrible.”

  “I’d like to disagree,” he replied with a smile, “but I can’t.”

  “I’ll be shopping in town tomorrow,” Beth said, smiling up at him. “Will you be in your office?”

  Dusty nodded.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” Placing his hands on her shoulders, he kissed her good night. “’Til tomorrow.”

  Beth watched him walk down the porch steps, waved when he paused at the gate and glanced back at her.

  She stayed on the veranda for a few minutes, wishing her parents weren’t so snobbish. All her life, she’d been told to be aware of her position in the community, that it was important for her to behave like a lady, that she had a duty to be a good example. As much as she cared for Dusty, she doubted her parents would ever allow her to marry him. And if she refused to marry Ernest, she knew her mother would follow through on her threat to send her back East in hopes Beth would make a “good match” by marrying into one of the respectable Boston families.

  But that was next year, she mused as she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. A lot could happen in a year.

  Chapter Four

  The desert surrounded him, endless shimmering waves of sand that seemed to go on forever. Reining his big buckskin mare to a halt, Chase lifted his face to the sky. The sun seemed brighter here, the sky more blue.