Tracker's Sin. Sarah McCarty

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СКАЧАТЬ in a nightgown and wrapper, carrying a pitcher. The boy had to be waiting for something. Tracker set his teeth as the sun shone through the layers of cotton and revealed the fine turn of her calves. The adobe house wasn’t so isolated that a woman could go about undressed. His woman sure as hell wouldn’t, especially in a robe that clung so enticingly to the soft thrust of her unconfined breasts.

      His cock stirred in his pants as the material pulled tight across her slender hips for a moment. Her ass was surprisingly full for such a delicate woman. He did enjoy a woman’s ass, and Ari’s was a work of art. As fast as the thought entered his head, Tracker pushed it aside. A woman like Ari wasn’t for him. He knew it and the world knew it, and if he dared to forget, someone would put a bullet between his eyes as a reminder.

      Ari went to the well behind the house. She primed the pump with a cup of water from the bucket sitting on the side, and then worked the handle until the water flowed steadily, standing back a bit so it wouldn’t splash. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or resentful of that. Wet cotton got temptingly see-through. Ari filled the pitcher with water, stood as if listening for something, and headed back toward the house twice as fast as she’d left. What had she heard that put that pep in her step?

      The back door slammed shut behind her. The boy glanced at the barn and then the house, and then took off at a run, looking back over his shoulder several times. Tracker knew just how he felt. He’d have liked a longer look at those pretty calves, the soft thrust of her breasts against the robe. He cursed as the seam of his pants cut into his cock. He was too old to be responding like a randy kid.

      He inched backward on his stomach until he had the shelter of a small rise between himself and the house, and then he stood. A soft whistle brought Buster trotting over. Tracker packed up his gear, anticipation nudging him to hurry. He wanted to swat at it the way he’d swat a fly. He was a man of calm, a man of patience. He could wait days for the chance of a shot, ignoring cramped muscles, bug bites and weather. Why was it that he couldn’t wait five minutes to ride down to that little ranch?

      He slid his rifle into the scabbard, then paused before mounting up. He touched the letter in his pocket, the one Desi had written. He’d promised her he’d bring Ari home.

      Everyone had assumed Arianne would be grateful to leave whatever hell she was living in for the chance to be with her sister, but she looked settled here. She might not want to leave the older couple to travel across the state. Whatever had happened since the Comancheros had sold her, she’d clearly found a measure of peace here. People could be funny about peace. They rarely wanted to leave it.

      The letter rustled under his fingers. A promise was a promise. If he had to bring Ari kicking and screaming to Hell’s Eight, he would. She wasn’t safe here. The attack on Sally Mae had made it clear that Desi and Ari’s enemies were still hunting her, and if he’d found her, they could, too. Swinging up into the saddle, he steered Buster toward the ranch. Leaving wasn’t an option, so he needed a legitimate reason to stay while he checked the lay of the land. Word in town was the old man was looking for help fixing the place up.

      Tracker patted Buster’s neck. “Guess we’ll go see a man about a job.”

      Chapter Two

      The old man was sharper than Tracker had expected. He took one look at him outside the barn door and grabbed up a pitchfork.

       “Que quieres aquí?”

      Tracker halted just inside the door, keeping a safe distance between the tines of that fork and his midsection while his eyes adjusted to the change in light. The last thing he wanted was to hurt an old man who’d taken in Ari and given her peace.

      He answered in English. “A job. Word in town is you’ve got one available.”

      The old man squinted and looked him over from head to toe. Tracker knew what he saw. The scar on his face alone gave people pause. Coming hard off the trail, dressed in black, his hair long and the scar advertising his way of life like a red flag, he looked like what he was: trouble.

      The man didn’t lower the pitchfork. “I am looking for a handyman.”

      “I’m handy.”

      The old man’s gaze went to the guns on his hips. “With a hammer.”

      Tracker didn’t bother to smile. It made people nervous when he smiled. “I’m good with that, too.”

      “I do not need here the kind of trouble a pistolero brings.”

      Tracker’s eyes had adjusted to the interior. There was no one else lurking about as far as he could tell, and the hairs on the back of his neck weren’t standing on end in warning. That was about as much of a guarantee as he ever got. He relaxed, pushing his hat back from his forehead. “Is that so?”

      The old man showed no sign of relaxing in turn. “That is so.”

      “From what I saw last night in town, it seems to me a man with a pretty young woman on the property could use all the help he can get. With a hammer and other things.”

      The old-timer took a step forward, the tines dipping to align with Tracker’s gut. “You will stay away from mi hija.”

      Daughter? He called Ari his daughter? That was going to complicate things. “Don’t have any intention of getting close. That kind of trouble I don’t need.”

      It wasn’t precisely a lie. He was only going to get as close as it took to spirit Ari safely back to Hell’s Eight.

      The old man lowered the pitchfork slightly. “No, you don’t.” He jerked his head toward town. “They would string you up by your cajones.”

      Interesting. “And who would they be?”

      “Los gringos who came to town last winter.”

      “There weren’t any gringos in town last night.”

      The old man spat. “They come. They go. But when they come it is muy malo.”

      Likely a gang of outlaws who were intent on making the town of Esperanza their refuge. “Not the neighborly sort, huh?”

      The old one stood the pitchfork on the ground. “No.”

      The cow mooed restlessly, clearly unhappy with having her morning milking interrupted.

      “Then I reckon a handyman who’s also handy with a gun might be useful.” Tracker held out his hand. “Tracker Ochoa.”

      Not by a twitch of an eyelash did the old man show any sign he recognized the name. Tracker wasn’t surprised. Esperanza was very close to the Mexican border. Not much worry a Texas Ranger’s rep would carry this far.

      “Vincente Morales.”

      Vincente’s hand was callused and worn from years of work. His grip was lighter than Tracker expected. As soon as he felt swollen knuckles that indicated arthritis he lessened his own grip. Vincente leaned the pitchfork against the outside of the stall.

      “This getting old, it is not for a coward.”

      “You looked pretty damn intimidating wielding that pitchfork.” Tracker took a step forward and indicated СКАЧАТЬ