A footstep sounded at the doorway. “What in the world are you doing, Mr. Smith?” Sally stood with her hands on her hips.
Luke turned toward her. “I was thinking I might come downstairs for breakfast for a change.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise.”
“I’ve got to get up and start moving around again sometime. The sooner I do, the sooner I’ll get better.”
She gave him a stern look for a moment, then shook her head and laughed. “I’ve seen Smoke act exactly the same way, and arguing with him never did any good, either. I swear, if I didn’t know better—” She stopped short, and a puzzled frown came over her face.
To keep her from thinking too much, Luke said hurriedly, “If you’d just pick up that rifle and hand it to me . . . I’m not sure I’m ready to do a lot of bending yet.”
“All right.” She went over to the bed, picked up the Winchester, and gave it to him. “You want your hat, too? It’s in the wardrobe.”
“A gentleman doesn’t wear his hat indoors. I know I may not look like one, but I strive for a certain standard of civilized behavior.”
“No offense, Mr. Smith, but you’re an odd man.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Keeping the rifle in one hand and the other on the wall for support, Luke followed Sally down the stairs. As they reached the kitchen, he heard the sound of numerous horses leaving the ranch.
Her face tightened at the sound. Smoke and the other men were riding off for the showdown with Simeon Baxter and his hired gunmen. She knew her husband was going into danger, but what woman ever truly got used to it?
Sally brought Luke a cup of coffee and a plate of flapjacks, bacon, and eggs, and he dug in with gusto. His appetite had come back as strong as ever, and Sally’s good cooking had already put some meat back on his bones.
As he ate, he asked, “Did Smoke get any sleep last night?”
“Not much,” Sally admitted. “He was upset about the men who were killed. He was up early this morning, well before dawn, digging graves for them in the little graveyard we have here on the ranch. Pearlie went out to help him, but Smoke would have done it by himself.”
“He’s a good man,” Luke said.
“The best I’ve ever met, by far,” Sally agreed. “And I thank God every day that the two of us found each other.”
Luke would have liked to think he had something to do with the way Smoke had turned out, but that wasn’t likely. Kirby had been only twelve years old when Luke went off to war, so he hadn’t had much chance to mold the boy into the man he had grown up to be. Their father had more to do with that, along with the old mountain man called Preacher. Luke hoped to hear a lot more about him before his visit to the Sugarloaf was over.
And it was only a visit, no doubt about that. Even if he told Smoke the truth and Smoke invited him to stay at the ranch, Luke knew that wasn’t going to happen. Smoke sure as hell didn’t owe him a home, and after all the years of drifting, Luke didn’t think he was even capable of settling down.
After breakfast, he said, “I think I’ll go sit out on the front porch for a while, and take the rifle with me. I believe the sun might be good for me.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll clean up in here, and then I might come out and join you.” Sally paused, then added, “I’m really curious about something, Luke . . . but we can talk about that later.”
He frowned as he made his way to the porch. He had an idea what Sally wanted to talk about, and it wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have just yet. Not until he’d discussed it with Smoke, anyway.
She might not give him any choice, though, he thought as he carefully sat down in one of the rocking chairs on the porch and slowly cocked his right ankle on his left knee. After the way she had taken care of him, he didn’t think he could bring himself to lie to her.
His head was so full of those thoughts he almost didn’t notice the wink of sunlight on something metal in the trees about two hundred yards away from the ranch house. But his instincts still worked and shouted a warning to him. He hadn’t stayed alive by ignoring what his gut told him.
He threw himself forward, landing on the porch on his knees, just as a rifle cracked in the distance. He felt the wind-rip of a bullet passing close beside his ear.
CHAPTER 32
Two hundred yards was too far for a handgun, so Luke drew his rifle and fired a shot in the direction of the hidden rifleman, aiming high so the bullet would carry a little farther. Ignoring the pain lancing through his side, he rolled toward the doorway as another shot blasted. He didn’t want the wound on his side to break open and start bleeding again, but that pain was better than being a sitting duck.
The slug struck the rocking chair he’d been sitting in, and a chunk of wood flew off the back of it.
“Mr. Smith!” Sally cried as she jerked the door open. “Luke!”
He dived at her, tackling her around the knees and taking her down as a bullet plowed into the door. They scrambled farther into the house, and Luke kicked the door closed behind them.
“Luke!” Sally gasped. “I heard shots! What—”
A rumble of hoofbeats sounded outside, and Luke knew Smoke had miscalculated . . . and so had he. Neither had realized Baxter’s attack on the ranch the night before was just a feint. Baxter had counted on some of his men being killed, and on Smoke recognizing them. He’d been trying to goad Smoke into rushing over to the neighboring spread and taking most, if not all, of the Sugarloaf crew with him.
“It’s Baxter,” Luke told Sally in a taut, grim voice. “He’s come for you. He figures with you as his prisoner, Smoke won’t have any choice but to do what Baxter tells him.”
“Men have tried that before,” Sally informed him. “Smoke killed them. He’ll kill Baxter.”
“More than likely,” Luke agreed as the rush of hoofbeats came to a stop outside the house. “If I don’t kill him first.” He jerked his head toward the stairs. “Get up there. I’ll stop them.”
“You’re one man against two dozen, and you’re wounded!” Sally protested. “You can’t—”
“Go!” Luke told her as he climbed to his feet. He didn’t have anything to lose, making him more dangerous than any number of men Baxter could muster.
Sally didn’t understand that. She stood up beside him, and suddenly threw her arms around him and came up on her toes to brush a kiss across his gaunt cheek. “Luke,” she whispered, “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I think I know—”
“Just go,” he cut in, “while you still can.”
A man shouted orders outside. The gunnies knew Baxter wanted Sally alive, but they also knew at least one man with a gun was inside. Luke figured they wouldn’t come in shooting for fear of hurting her, but they would rush the place, counting on the force of numbers to overwhelm any opposition.
Sally squeezed his arm and turned to run to the stairs. As she started up, Luke faced the door, squaring himself to the opening and bracing his feet. He had both guns drawn and pointed at the doorway, waiting grimly to start their thunderous song.
He didn’t have long to wait. Something crashed against the door and it flew open. Hard-faced men with guns in their hands rushed into the room, and at the sight of the tall, lean man dressed in black waiting for them, they raised the weapons to open fire.
They were too late. The revolvers in Luke’s hands were already spouting flaming death.
As it always did at such moments, everything else faded away for Luke. The world receded until there was nothing left in the universe except him and the men he was trying to kill . . . the men who were trying to kill him. The roar of guns was like the bellow of great primordial beasts, the clouds of powder smoke rolling through the room like the eruption of ancient volcanoes, and the blood flowing the bright crimson of man like going all the way back to the dawn of time.