“The son ain’t any less scary-lookin’ right now than the father,” Terrel added. “I reckon that’s what made them a team to deal with when they were marshals in Oklahoma. I didn’t know a man could tote that many weapons neither.”
The three men hung back as they talked, steam coming from their mouths because of the cold air.
“I still say the look in his eyes is more intimidating than the way he’s armed,” Vance added.
“The whole thing is a shame,” Cole grumbled. “Ain’t a finer woman than that man’s wife. I don’t blame him for wantin’ to kill those men. I want to kill them, too.”
Jake rode in the lead on Midnight. One of the men had managed to find the horse before they left. Part of his tail was burned off, but the horse was fine otherwise.
Those men left behind would bury what was left of Pepper once the barn ashes were cool enough to sift through them. It was a job none of them relished. Teresa would clean up the mess left at the house. Jake had ordered two of the men to take at least two weeks’ worth of heating wood and supplies up to the line shack in the northwest quarter of the J&L. “Randy wanted me to take her back there for months, and I kept putting it off,” he’d told them darkly. “I’ll damn well take her there when we get her back, and we’ll stay there as long as it takes to—” He never finished.
After the few words Cole and Vance exchanged, no one else spoke. Even Stephen and Little Jake and Ben were somber, Little Jake’s countenance almost as dark and menacing as his grandfather’s. Cole admired their determination. All three boys had bruises and stitches—Stephen with a swollen lip and nose, Little Jake with a bruised cheek and a bandage around his forehead from the bad cut there, which had also puffed out into a mean bump. Ben had a black eye and could hardly pull himself up on his horse because of a badly bruised arm and shoulder.
The ride was eerily quiet because of how the snow muffled the sound of their horses’ hooves. There was only the squeak of saddles and the occasional snort of one of the horses, whose nostrils flared and steamed against the cold air. Rodriguez led two spare horses packed with supplies, including clothes for Randy and a rabbit-fur coat she favored. Jake insisted on bringing it, afraid she wasn’t being kept warm enough.
Jake kept up a steady pace for the next two hours, not saying a thing, keeping his eyes either straight ahead or looking down at tracks. Lloyd rode right beside him, thinking how the men they were after had left a trail that was too easy.
Jake finally slowed up, looking around.
“They didn’t try hiding their trail even a little,” Lloyd spoke up. “It’s a setup. Mom is just the bait for the bigger prize.”
“Me,” Jake answered in a deep growl. He dismounted and studied the tracks closer. “Hard to tell which horse is carrying your mother. She’s so small her weight doesn’t make much difference when with a man on a big horse.” He stayed knelt beside the tracks for a moment, then cleared his throat and wiped at his eyes. “Jesus,” he said in a near whisper. “You could break that woman in half so easy, Lloyd. She could have broken bones.”
“Pa, stop torturing yourself. Mom is way stronger than you give her credit for.”
“You know the Buckleys, Lloyd. You were there when I killed Brad’s father for abusing a fifteen-year-old girl. And your mother isn’t fifteen. She’s fifty, Lloyd. Fifty! No one would ever guess it to look at her, but it’s a fact. How many women are that beautiful at fifty?” He rose, wiping at his eyes again. “The fact remains she might not…make it through something like this. I know every tiny inch of her body and how easily she bruises. For God’s sake, even her bones are tiny.” He remounted. “God knows if they’re keeping her warm enough,” he added.
“Pa, don’t forget that when we went after Evie, they had a good three- or four-day start on us. This is all fresh. We’ll find her a lot quicker than we found Evie. And it looks like they’ve kept a pretty steady pace themselves, which means they haven’t had time to stop and—” He didn’t finish.
Jake paused to light a cigarette. “It’s like Gretta said in that courtroom, Lloyd. Some men don’t need much time.” And your mother isn’t made for that. You have to treat a woman like her with gentleness. How many times had he worried he’d hurt her? He’d left little bruises on her bottom once from grasping her too tightly when making love to her. She said she never noticed, but that had always bothered him. He knew an older woman needed special handling. Things hurt that never used to hurt. He knew every inch of her body and every sound she made, and he damn well knew things were a little different. He hadn’t missed one beat with her, and the thought of men manhandling her made him crazy.