After the captain dismissed them, Drum slipped through the back alleys of Galveston unnoticed. If he only had a half hour left in town, he didn't want to waste it. The moon sliced between the buildings, leaving most of the alley in total darkness. He didn't slow; he knew his way well in the shadows and moved without a sound.
Within minutes, he'd stepped out onto the roof of the Patterson Grand Hotel and swung along the ledge to Sage's room. He knew where she'd be: the best room in the place. Not because she'd asked for it but because her brothers would have demanded it.
All the lamps were out, but there was enough moonlight to guide him through the window to the only third-floor room that faced the gulf. He stepped into what looked like a little living area. Trunks and scattered clothes lay atop most of the furniture.
Drum swore he could smell Sage in the air: the hint of honeysuckle she used in her hair, the lavender soap. He crossed the room, the rug muffling any sound.
The tall woman who'd been traveling with Sage slept in the first bedroom. He could see the top of her head with hair twisted into rag knots. Her clothes were neatly organized in rows on the other bed in the room. A huge black cat slept on one pile.
Drum silently moved on. A washroom came next, with porcelain glowing in the light and ladies' underthings hanging on thin strings crisscrossing the room.
He walked on down the hallway. The door to Sage's room was open only a crack, but he could see her asleep.
Moving silently closer, he drank in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst. She wore the same kind of white nightgown he'd seen her wear when she was eighteen. It buttoned all the way to her throat and had puffy sleeves that covered her as completely as a nun's habit. Her hair was braided in one long braid resting over her shoulder. As always, she slept soundly and at peace.
He grinned, remembering how she used to sleep with her hair free and wild all over her pillow. After he'd met her. he'd returned from time to time to Whispering Mountain just to check on her. He told himself it was just to see her, to make sure that the girl who'd let him outrun the law when he'd been fifteen was still safe. In truth, he risked his life just to stand near and watch her sleep. If her brothers had caught him, they would probably have taken turns killing him. But it had been worth it. Sage looked like an angel when she slept.
In those years, when he felt like he fought against all the world, those few moments watching her sleep were the only calm he'd known.
Drum fought the urge to touch her now. She'd always been a sound sleeper. Would she wake if he just brushed her cheek?
When she'd left for Boston he'd still been a boy; but he was a man now, and Drum knew touching her cheek would never be enough. He leaned over Sage and kissed her softly on the lips.
She moaned as if talking in a dream.
Smiling, he kissed her again, this time letting his mouth explore the curve of her lips.
She opened her mouth and sighed. Every muscle in his body fought to pull her up to him. "Someday.” he whispered in promise. "Someday we'll finish this kiss." He'd made up his mind a long time ago that they'd go slow, drinking in passion a drop at a time, so they'd never get their fill. He planned to still be making love to her when both their hair had turned gray and their grandchildren were sleeping upstairs. He didn't want to own her, or take her, or have her, he wanted to be with her so completely that one of them couldn't fall asleep at night without touching the other.
He frowned. It wasn't easy telling a woman how he felt about her when she was busy yelling at him.
A movement in the corner caught his attention.
When he stepped away. the dog she'd saved slowly stood from his bed in the corner. Drum knelt and patted the mutt. "Take care of her until I get back," he whispered to the dog.
He crossed the little room and slipped out the same window he'd entered. For a few minutes his mind was at peace. Sage was close. He knew he meant nothing to her, but it didn't matter. His thoughts were on her as he saddled up with the half dozen Rangers and rode out along the shoreline. For once, he didn't feel the loneliness of the ride. He had the taste of Sage on his lips, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn't cold as stone.
They rode until almost dawn before anyone said a word. Drum knew they were close when Captain Harmon pulled his huge bay up beside him.
"Work in as close as you can, son” he whispered to Drum. "You have to take out both the leaders, or we'll have a full war on our hands. There aren't enough Rangers within riding distance to fight all the raiders if they get pissing mad and have someone to direct them in a fight. Our only hope is to take out Franky Bellows and the man they all call Scar, then hope the others aren't smart enough to organize before we have them rounded up and tied down.”
Drum nodded. Captain Turner Harmon was a law-abiding man; he wouldn't order a man to shoot someone if there weren't other lives at stake. Drum had enough details about each man that there would be no question who his targets were.
Turner hesitated. "If the other border raiders fight, there's a chance you'll be caught in the crossfire. I'm hoping the hostages will huddle down, but if we hit them as the sun comes up, the boys won't be able to tell you from the raiders”
"I know” Drum had been in this situation before. The Rangers needed a good shot to start the battle-a very good shot-but if he were close enough to shoot the leader in the middle of his men, he'd be among the raiders when they started to run. "Don't worry about it. Cap." Drum grinned at the captain. "Just take care of my horse. I don't much like the idea of having to walk back to Galveston."
"I've got to make sure the boy stays well out of the fight. Holding your horse should keep him busy." The captain nodded and moved on to the other men.
Ten minutes later, the sky was about to color when Roak slipped silently around one of the outbuildings and climbed into the rafters of a lean-to. He had a clear view of the rundown settlement. The homestead looked more dugout than ranch house. A few small sheds, maybe slave quarters for a dozen men, maybe smokehouses, and the skeleton of a barn still smoldering from the raid that probably happened less than twenty-four hours ago.
He pulled his weapons, checked his loads more from habit than need, and waited.
The place reminded him of a few camps he'd stayed in when he'd been little. His mother traveled with outlaws. He'd been born in one of the camps, though she'd never said where. She'd had several miscarriages and stillbirths after him. He'd often wondered if the babies had died or if she just hadn't bothered to wake them up at birth. She couldn't take care of herself or him, much less another child.
A boy of about four or five opened the door to the dugout and walked across the shadows to the well. For a moment, the place looked peaceful in the dawn, except there were too many horses and saddles in the makeshift barn, too many still-smoking campfires around for a family. Bloated remains of a cow lay thirty feet away. Drum smelled whiskey in the air along with urine. If any family lived here, they were long gone or dead by now.
If the raid happened yesterday, the men would probably round up anything of value along with the stock and head south within a few hours. If the Rangers hadn't ridden all night, there was a strong possibility they wouldn't have caught up with the raiding party before the border.
Two men stepped out the doorway. One, slightly shorter than the first, half dragged a woman behind him. He wore gun belts across his chest with pearl-handled guns strapped into holsters. As he walked, he favored his left leg. "Franky." Drum silently checked off traits from a list and leveled his rifle.
The two outlaws walked toward his hiding place, both looking around as if they were seeking somewhere to talk. The pair stopped at the corner of the lean-to. Drum could see the crescent scar on the taller man's cheek: the final piece of identification.