Now, as he’d done too many times to count when confronted with white prejudice, he masked his disappointment behind a hard stare. If he was making her nervous, he didn’t much give a damn. His own unease at being here was only increasing, the longer she remained silent.
Amelia was clutching a crumpled piece of paper between her fingers, and kept looking at it, as if she couldn’t quite make up her mind about what to do with it. She didn’t immediately satisfy his curiosity, but instead, asked him in a small voice if he knew how to read.
The cold fury he thought he felt for this woman dissipated into weariness. What difference did it make what the ignorant savage knew or didn’t know? “Well enough,” he replied gruffly.
She handed him the paper, careful not to let his fingers touch her. When he unwadded it, he could see a message printed in uneven block letters.
Miss Summer, If you want proof that your Injun stole all them beeves, meet me at midnight at the old Paxly place near the three oaks.
His gut clenched at the damning words. Somebody was going to a lot of trouble to pin the blame for the stolen stock on him—and dragging Summer into it. A note like this would only make her believe the worst about him—and somehow that hurt more than knowing her sister hated him enough to plot his downfall.
“Did Summer give you this?” he asked Amelia.
“N-No, she doesn’t know about it yet.”
The relief he felt was absurd, considering the danger he was in. “Then where’d you get this paper?”
“I…I found it…lying on the front porch, tied around a rock. I thought…you would want to do something about…” She faltered, as if unable to continue the lie.
He looked at her a long moment. “About destroying the evidence, you mean.”
“Y-Yes.”
“That’s right kind of you, Miss Amelia. You wantin’ to help me and all.”
His tone was cool, drawling, and made her flush. The note was a setup, Lance knew. Amelia Truesdale hadn’t suddenly had a change of heart and become willing to embrace him as her brother-in-law. If he went to the Paxly place, he’d be walking into a trap. He knew it, as sure as whites hated red men.
But he no longer was certain he cared how this trouble ended. His life here was over. His dream of building a place with Summer was just that, a foolish dream. Clearing his name was likely beyond his reach with so many of the good citizens of Williamson County in league against him. So he’d settle for what he could have. Finding out who was behind the thefts—and making sure whoever it was paid.
“Why the change of heart?” Lance asked Amelia softly, without emotion.
“What…what do you mean?”
“A week ago you did your best to get me run out of the county, telling those lies about me in front of the entire community. Why are you suddenly willing to help me out now?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, Amelia covered her mouth with one hand while her eyes filled with tears. “I…I…” With a broken sob, she turned and fled from the room.
Lance stood looking after her for a long while, slapping his hat against his thigh, weighing his choices.
He rode cautiously through the darkness, his guns loaded, his knife loose in the scabbard at his waist. The old Paxly homestead had been deserted some twenty years ago, burned out by raiding Comanches, but the land, which had been bought up by John Weston, now made up the southwest corner of the Sky Valley spread. The three oaks mentioned in Amelia’s note were a familiar landmark to anyone in the county, since they’d been planted beside the graves of the Paxly family.
There was enough moonlight to see by. Lance’s gaze swept the surrounding hills, noting any of a dozen places that would make a good location for an ambush. He didn’t think they would spring one on him yet, though. They would wait to catch him with the evidence.
There were still three hours to go till midnight, but he’d decided not to wait. Prewitt and his gang—if it was Prewitt—would likely be prepared for him in any case, not knowing if and when he would show, but any element of surprise was better than none.
He’d ridden straight from the Weston house, passing the cabin he’d shared with Summer without stopping, ignoring the light burning inside that told him she likely was home. The need to see her one last time had burned in him like fever, but he’d refused to acknowledge it. He didn’t think he could take facing her again, not with her suspicion, the pleading accusation in her eyes. The last time had near killed him.
Too, if he went near her, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from holding her one last time. And then he would have to tear himself away. And when he tried to leave, she would ask questions. She would want to know where he’d been, where he was going, and then there would be explanations to make, her reaction to deal with. If she knew what he planned, she might try to stop him. And he didn’t want her to stop him.
His jaw clenched, Lance kept his horse at a steady walk as he rounded a rocky outcrop. Up ahead lay the meadow with the three oaks where the Paxlys were buried. It was surrounded by hills that offered plenty of places for a man to hide. He didn’t want to hide, though. He wanted to draw Prewitt out. If he was going down, he would go down fighting. And if he was going to die, he intended to take Prewitt with him.
The cold gust of wind blew in his face, carrying with it the scent of livestock. A prickle of awareness traveled up hi
s spine at the smell. Silently Lance slipped his six-shooter from its holster and thumbed back the hammer.
He heard the cattle moving restlessly in the dark before he saw them. There had to be two or three hundred head, grazing peacefully. He would bet his life they would be marked with Harlan Fisk’s brand, and maybe others as well.
He skirted the herd slowly, keeping away from the long, wicked horns that could rip a horse’s belly with a single stab. It was maybe a minute later when his instincts told him he wasn’t alone with the steers. He brought his horse to a halt, waiting.