“Why didn’t you tell us you needed help?” she asked. “We could’ve sent a couple of the ranch hands over to do the work. My father would have paid them.”
“I know, dear.” Mary quartered a peeled potato and dropped the pieces into the cooking pot. “But you know I don’t like accepting charity, even from my own family. Tanner needed work, and I …” A smile creased her cheek. “To tell you the truth, I liked the young man right off. And I enjoy his company over supper at night. It’s nice having somebody to talk to.”
Clara forced herself to take a long breath before she spoke. “How long does he plan to be here?”
“We haven’t talked about it. But once he’s made a little money, I expect he’ll move on. He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man to take root in one place.” Mary glanced into the pot. “I believe that’s enough potatoes for now. Give me a minute to put them on the stove, dear. Then we can go on with our visit.”
She pushed forward to rise from her rocker, but Clara had already picked up the pot. She stood, laying her knife on the porch rail. “I’ll do it, Grandma. You stay and rest.”
Swinging through the screen door, she strode into the kitchen. The interior of the house was shabby but comfortable. Mary could have bought new dishes and furniture, but the chipped plates, scarred table and mismatched chairs held precious memories of her husband and children. As Mary was fond of saying, the pieces were old friends and they served her well enough.
In the kitchen, Clara covered the potatoes with water, added a pinch of salt and set the pot on the big black stove to boil. Her grandmother would be waiting outside, but the quiet house held her in its calm embrace, urging her to linger. Savoring the stillness, she wandered into the parlor, where framed photographs of Mary’s family covered most of one wall.
Clara knew them well. Here was Reverend Ephraim Gustavson, her mother’s younger brother who’d gone off to Africa to be a missionary. And here, on the left was a ten-year-old photograph of her own family—her mother, Hannah, and her handsome, serious father, Judd, with their three children. The two younger ones, Daniel and Katy, were almost as fair as their mother. In their midst, Clara looked like a gypsy changeling. But then, her paternal grandfather had been dark. He’d died long before Clara was born, but she’d seen his picture. Tom Seavers had looked a lot like his younger son Quint—Clara’s adored favorite uncle.
Here was Uncle Quint in the photograph taken on his wedding day. He was devilishly handsome with dark chestnut hair, twinkling brown eyes and dimples that matched Clara’s. His bride, Aunt Annie, was Mary’s second daughter. More delicate than her sister Hannah, she had dark blond hair, intelligent gray eyes and a practical disposition that balanced her husband’s impulsive ways.
Clara worshipped her aunt and uncle and looked forward to their rare visits. Never blessed with children, they lived a glamorous life in San Francisco and had traveled all over the world. They always came to the ranch laden with exotic gifts and thrilling stories. On their last visit they’d brought Clara a bolt of white Indian silk, exquisitely embroidered in silver thread. “For your wedding, dear, whenever that might be,” Aunt Annie had told her.
Clara’s mother had put the treasured fabric away for safekeeping, but every now and then Clara would lift the bolt from the cedar chest, touch the silk with her fingertips and wonder if it would ever be used. Many of the girls she’d known from school were already married. But she’d always been more interested in horses than in boys. The idea of pledging herself to a man for the rest of her life had always seemed as far-fetched as walking on the moon. Not that she wasn’t popular. At the town dances, she never lacked for partners. But none of the local boys, even the ones she’d allowed to kiss her, had piqued her interest. They were nice enough, but not one of them had offered a challenge to her way of thinking. In fact, they hadn’t challenged her at all. They had no curiosity, no desire to test the limits of their small, safe lives. On the other hand, a certain blue-eyed hired man …
The sound of muted voices from the front porch yanked her attention back to the present. At first she thought Tanner had come back to talk with Mary. But she was halfway out the door when she realized that the speaker wasn’t Tanner. By then it was too late to reach for Mary’s shotgun.
At the foot of the porch, two grubby-looking men sat bareback astride a drooping piebald horse. The man in front held a cocked. 22 rifle, aimed straight at Mary.
And Tanner was nowhere in sight.
“Go back inside, Clara.” Mary’s voice was low and taut.
“Come on out here, sweetie.” The man in front grinned beneath his greasy bowler hat, showing gummy, tobacco-stained teeth. “Let’s have a look at you.”
Clara walked past Mary as far as the porch railing. She could almost feel the two men eyeing her. She could sense their dirty thoughts, like hands crawling over her body. Her nerves were screaming, but she knew better than to show fear. She kept her head up, her gaze direct.
“That’s a good girl,” the man in the bowler chuckled. “How about unbuttoning that shirt and giving us a show?” When Clara hesitated, his voice lowered to a growl. “Do it, girlie, or the old lady gets it right between the eyes.”
Hands trembling, Clara fumbled with her shirt buttons. The .22 was a small-caliber weapon, mostly good for rabbits and vermin. Hard-core murderers would likely be carrying a more powerful gun. Still, at close range a well-aimed shot could be deadly. She couldn’t take chances with her grandmother’s life.
“Come on, honey, we ain’t got all day. Let’s see them titties.”
Clara’s fingers had unbuttoned the shirt past the top of her light summer union suit. The thin fabric left little to the imagination, but she had no choice except to keep going. Fear clawed at her gut. The men wouldn’t be satisfied with seeing her breasts, she knew. It would be all too easy for one of them to drag her down and rape her while his partner held the gun on Mary.
And then what? Would they murder both women to hide their crime, or maybe just for the pleasure of it? Perhaps the gun was only for show, and they did their real killing with knives or ropes.
Where was Tanner when they needed him?
Her fingers had reached her belt line. The shirt gaped open to the waist. The man with the gun was leering at her. “The underwear, too, missy. Go on, don’t be bashful!”
Clara groped for a shoulder strap. She was dimly aware of the second man, his long legs wrapping the horse’s flanks. He had pale hair and the dull-eyed look of a beast. His tongue licked his full, red lips in anticipation. Her stomach clenched.
“Stop this!” Mary’s voice shook. “Go inside the house. Take whatever you need, but leave my granddaughter alone! She’s an innocent girl!”
“Save your breath, lady. You ain’t the one giving orders. We’ll have our fun with honey pie, here, and take anything we want. And since I get first pick, I’ll be taking this smart little red pony you got tied to the hitching rail. He should make right sweet ridin’. Almost as sweet as—”
“No!” Driven by a blast of rage, Clara sprang between the gunman and her grandmother. One hand snatched up the knife she’d left on the porch railing. Brandishing the blade, she defied the gunman. “Don’t you touch my horse!” she hissed. “If you come near him or my grandmother, so help me, I’ll cut you to bloody ribbons!”
The man’s jaw dropped. For an instant his greasy face reflected shock. Then he grinned. “Why, you feisty little bitch! I’ll show you a thing or—”
“Drop the gun, you bastard!” Tanner’s voice rang with cold authority as he stepped from behind the toolshed. “Drop it and reach for the sky, both of you!”
Tanner had spoken from behind the two men. Now he moved forward to where they could see the .38 revolver in his hand. The .22 thudded to the ground as four hands went