Tracker's Sin. Sarah McCarty
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coffee brewing and food ready. When Vincente entered, there’d be pleasant conversation, maybe laughter. There’d be love.
Tracker wasn’t going within a hundred feet of that house. Not this morning. He felt too raw inside to sit there and watch what he would never have.
“Will do.”
He waited until Vincente reached the house before pulling off his shirt. It took only a few pumps of the handle to get a strong flow of water going. Vincente was lucky to have such a rich supply. Tracker dunked his head in the spray. The well water was surprisingly cold. Frigid. But after the initial shock, it felt damn good on his overheated skin. He grabbed the soap and blindly scrubbed, pumping the handle a few more times, letting the water pour over his head and neck, enjoying the moment. When the temperature turned more chilling than refreshing, he stood, flipping his hair back over his shoulders.
A shriek loud enough to split his eardrums spun him around. He palmed his knife as he turned, ready for the threat.
He knew who it was before he shook the soap out of his eyes. Ari stood there in a pretty blue dress, her mouth open, a look of shock on her face.
He reached for his shirt. The plate of food in her hands fell to the ground, spattering her skirt. Ari’s gaze never left the knife in his other hand. Her throat worked furiously, but no sound came out.
Shit. She was still screaming, Tracker realized. Screaming for all she was worth, but not a sound passed her lips. He left the shirt where it lay and took a step back. He couldn’t go far with the shed wall behind him and her in front.
“You must be Ari,” he said in his softest voice, wincing at the deep rasp that made it sound like a growl. “Hello.”
His softest voice wasn’t soft enough, because she kept up that horrible pantomime of a scream. Tracker tucked his knife hand behind his back. It didn’t make a difference.
Tracker cast a quick glance at the house. The back door didn’t open. No one came to the rescue. There was just him and Ari and her fear. Shit! Sam should be here. He was much better with hysterical women. Women trusted Sam even when they shouldn’t. It was those blue eyes of his and that devil-may-care smile. But he’d met his match in his wife. They’d been to hell and back, but they’d come out together and they were happy.
“Vincente!” Tracker yelled. “Venga aquí!”
No response came from the house, but Ari took a breath and launched another one of those soundless screams. He followed the trajectory of her gaze. The knife. She was aware he still held it behind his back. He didn’t want to speculate on why, but he couldn’t help a quick check of her hands, her neck, her face. Not that there had to be scars where a man could see. Tracker knew too well how creative a Comanchero could get with a knife and an unwilling woman.
He moved his hand from behind his back, watching her expression as the weapon came into view. It didn’t change. Just because the knife had been out of sight didn’t mean it had been out of mind.
“Sorry about the knife. I forgot.” Hell, now there was a calming thing to tell a terrified woman. He looked toward the house. Still no one coming. Very slowly he reached down and slid the knife back into its sheath, attempting a smile.
“It’s just your luck to get scared out of your bloomers by a man who doesn’t know what to do with your fears.”
He didn’t really think she heard him, which was probably a good thing. He was pretty sure decent men didn’t refer to a woman’s bloomers. Tia would have had his head if she’d heard, because lord knows, she’d tried to teach him better. Sometimes he just had a hard time remembering the rules.
Ari didn’t respond to his smile or his words. She just kept staring at the knife in its sheath, still screaming in rasping pants of soundless terror.
Time to try something else. Grasping the knife between his forefinger and thumb, Tracker made a big production of removing it. She stopped breathing altogether. Holding his hand as far away from his side as he could, he reached back and set it on a ledge behind him.
“It’s okay, ma’am. No one’s going to hurt you.” Least of all him. How could anyone hurt a woman like that? Tracker had had the same thought when he’d first seen Desi huddled in Caine’s coat over a year ago, wearing her fear like a second skin. Now, looking at Ari, he experienced it all over again. She was so delicately formed, she made him think of fine china. The kind a man was afraid to touch, but felt compelled to because the sheer fragility of it demanded cherishing. Protecting. Because what it represented was what kept every man hoping.
He stepped to the left, away from the knife.
Ari’s focus switched from the blade to his face. Tracker debated trying another smile, but as wild as he must look to her, all dark and scarred, he opted for remaining expressionless. At least she’d stopped screaming.
As she panted for breath, he had a chance to study her more closely. Each angle of her face was cut with precision, the fine grain of her skin reflecting the sun like cream, the blue of her eyes shining with the brightness of a summer sky. Her lips were plump and soft and as silky looking as a rose petal. He remembered a poem he’d read once where the author compared his love to a red, red rose. Ari was like that. A beautiful flower that flourished no matter how much shit had been thrown at her. He might never know how much, but the Moraleses had started her healing, and being at Hell’s Eight would finish it. There was no judgment there, just acceptance. A lot of lost souls came to Hell’s Eight and found peace. Ari would, too. She had a sister and a niece to love her. A family waiting to claim her. All Tracker had to do was get her there.
Looking into her terrified eyes, he remembered that silent scream that couldn’t find a voice, imprisoning her in a memory from which he couldn’t save her. Tracker wanted to promise her that he’d hunt down the men who’d done this to her, and make them pay. But Caine had already made that promise and Hell’s Eight had already fulfilled it. That left her with a stranger’s word on something she likely wouldn’t believe. Not that Tracker didn’t think she wouldn’t appreciate knowing it someday. Just not today.
“Ma’am.” Where the hell was Vincente and his wife? “I don’t have the knife anymore. And my gun belt is clear over there by your feet.”
She blinked. For a heartbeat Tracker thought he saw sanity in Ari’s eyes. She licked her lips. Her gaze locked with his and then went to the gun belt.
He read her intent before she dived, but he wasn’t fast enough to catch her before she got her hands around the pistol. If his reflexes had been a hair slower, he wouldn’t have gotten there in time to stop her from blowing his brains out. He caught her hand, gun belt and all, letting their momentum roll them over, taking as much of the force of the fall on his shoulder as he could.
“Let go. Those guns have a hair trigger.”
She sank her teeth into the back of his hand. He swore and held on. One wrong move and she’d kill them both.
“Dammit! Let go!” What she lacked in muscle she made up for in wiggle. It was all he could do to keep her finger off the trigger. He pressed her down into the dirt, using more and more of his weight until she went limp beneath him.
“Ma’am?”
Ari didn’t respond. Tracker carefully removed the pistol and gun belt from her grip. She didn’t fight. He stood. She continued to lie in the dirt at his feet.
He’d thought it odd that she didn’t have scars from her ordeal. She did. He’d only been able to see what was uncovered. And all it had taken to bring them out was one fool, half-naked Indian reaching for his knife. Hell.
You’re ugly enough to scare a bad woman decent.
Once again his father had been proved right. The older Tracker got, the more he began to accept that the insults his dad had tossed out in Tracker’s youth were actually truths he’d been too stubborn to accept. The proof lay prostrate on the ground at his feet.
It