Instead, she let an uneasy laugh escape. "Besides," she went on quickly, "you don't like Buck Russell. We both know the only reason he would ever marry me is to get his hands on the Diamondback!"
Duncan let his eyes drift slowly over his daughter, taking in the rich mane of chestnut hair that tumbled down her back. Her shoulders were stiff with pride, the tilt of her chin defiant. Her eyes were snapping, as blue as the summer sky outside. She was a beauty, all right. Oh, not the conventional kind; she wasn't frail and fragile. He thought of how she'd grown up right before his eyes, and somehow he'd never even noticed until lately—or perhaps he hadn't wanted to. But Abby was full of fire and passion, just like her mother—the kind of woman that drove a man to heaven and hell and back again. . . The kind that made each day better than the last.
Duncan plucked his hat from the peg on the wall. He stared at Abby, fingering the wide brim in his hands. "I'm not so sure about that," he said slowly. "I don't think there's a man alive wouldn't give his soul to get his hands on a sweet little thing like you, daughter." He saw her eyes go wide with shock and knew he'd startled her with his bluntness. A grim smile etched his lips. "But Buck Russell knows how to run a ranch, Abby. And at least the Diamondback would be in good hands when I'm gone."
When I'm gone. It was odd, the effect those words had on her. Pa... dead. The chill that slipped over her penetrated clear to her bones. She shivered. She didn't like to think of it. Nor could she ever remember him speaking of his own death before.
Now, hours later, that same prickly sense of unease ran up her spine. All at once the wind began to lull. There was a peculiar stillness in the air, as if the entire world held its breath. Even the blue jays ceased their screeching.
Abby's hands tightened around the wooden railing of the porch. Something was wrong, she thought vaguely. Her reaction was more instinct than conscious thought.
The sound of drumming hoofbeats reached her ears. It was then that she saw a buckboard rounding the last bend in the road. Hazy clouds of dust spiraled skyward behind it. Hitched to the back was a strawberry roan that looked just like Brandy.
Abby stood as if paralyzed. Some strange force beyond her control held her rooted to the floor of the porch, like an ancient tree. She could only watch with a horrifying sense of inevitability as the buckboard drew nearer to the house.
There was a tall male form stretched out in the back, limp and prone.
Her first thought was that she'd never seen a dead man. Her second was that this was a dream ... A dream? Dear God, a nightmare..!
Because the man was her father.
Nor was he dead.
There was a low moan as the buckboard rolled to a halt. It was that sound which finally galvanized her into action. Abby flew down the stairs and climbed into the back of the buckboard. She sank to her knees and cradled her father's head in her lap.
A thin aborted cry tore from her lips. "Pa! Oh, Pa—" A crimson stain darkened the front of his shirt. His skin was as white as snow. Her heart lurched. "Pa, what happened? My God, what happened?"
Lucas hovered across from her, his leathery face lined and anxious. "We got worried when he didn't show at the branding site. Grady and I rode out to see where he was. We found him out near Sparrow Creek. He's been shot, Miss Abby. Grady and I. .. we did our best to stop the bleeding ... I sent Grady into town after the doc..." Lucas swallowed, unable to go on.
At that, Duncan's eyelids fluttered open. Abby stared into blue eyes so like her own. Only Pa's were dull and clouded with pain.
"It's too late," he rasped.
"Don't say that! Don't even think it!" The words were torn from deep inside her, a cry of outrage, a fervent plea.
Duncan's lips twisted, more grimace than smile. "You'll never change, will you, Abby?" His feeble tone tore at her heart. "Always ... have to have... the last... word."
Abby began to shake all over. "Pa," she whispered.
His breath was rattling in his chest. "Got to listen, Abby... Stringer Sam . .."
"Stringer Sam! Is that who did this to you? Did he shoot you, Pa?"
His eyes closed once in silent assent. His lips barely moved as he spoke.
"Honey, you got to listen. Last night when you were gone after that calf, Dillon came by ... Had a prisoner in jail by the name of Rowdy Roy who was hooked up with Stringer Sam's gang... Seems Roy knew where Sam's hideout is. Dillon got Roy to tell him, so he rode out late last night to find ... the hideout. Dillon said he'd catch Stringer Sam ... if he had to wait forever. This morning Sam rode out here... after Dillon ... I wouldn't tell him where he was... only Sam—he laughed and said he already knew ..."
Abby's head was spinning. "Pa, wait! He knew that Dillon went after him?"
Pa nodded.
She groaned. "How?"
"Sam said Rowdy Roy turned tail on him... so he hunted him down ... He broke into the jail last night and killed Roy and the two deputies... But before he did, Roy told Sam he'd already let Dillon know where his hideout was . .. that Dillon intended to ride out after him today ..."
Comprehension dawned with a sickening rush. Sam had come here to the ranch to kill Dillon. Instead he'd found Pa.
"Abby, if Dillon manages to find Sam's hideout ... he doesn't know that Sam's right behind him ..."
Oh, God, she thought, sickened. Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins.
Her mind traveled d fleetingly back, to the time nearly three years ago when Dillon, based at Fort Bridger, had still been scouting for the U.S. Army. Both she and Pa had been surprised—but very pleased—when Dillon wrote to say he was engaged to be married. Rose had been the daughter of a captain stationed there.
The wedding never took place.
With a twist of her heart, Abby recalled how he and Rose had boarded a stagecoach headed for Laramie. Not far from the fort, the coach had been robbed—by none other than Stringer Sam. Beyond that, Abby knew little. Dillon had always been very close-mouthed about the details.
But Rose and the driver had been killed. Stringer Sam had shot Dillon and left him for dead. But Dillon had survived. He'd recovered at Fort Bridger, then spent the next year in search of Stringer Sam, to no avail. Pa had begged him to give up the search and come home. Eventually, Dillon had, only because Pa had asked him to.
But he was a changed man, moody and bitter. Abby recalled how Pa had once confided that he suspected Dillon had taken the post of Laramie marshal in the hopes that it might someday put him on Stringer Sam's trail.
Dear God, it had.
Abby shuddered. It was a miracle that Dillon had ever survived—Stringer Sam had left him there to die!
Now the outlaw had done the same to Pa. A dizzying fear swept over her. Surely Dillon couldn't be so unlucky a third time .. . But there was a saying—that bad luck came in threes.
Pa moaned. "Don't want you to lose Dillon, too. Got to have someone to look after you."
Abby stifled a sob. She could see him straining desperately to breathe, trying vainly to drag air into his lungs, struggling to hold on. He clutched at her fingers.
"Abby," he gasped. His chest was heaving, his breathing a mere trickle. She had to drop her head close to his lips in order to hear. "You have to find him ... Find Dillon and warn him before Sam kills him, too." His fingers twisted around hers. His expression was tortured and imploring. "Promise me, honey. Promise... me."
Tears streamed down her face. "I promise," she choked. "Pa, I promise."
His eyes closed; the grip on her fingers grew slack.
"Pa," she screamed. "Pa!"
This time Pa didn't hear.
Abby was only dimly aware of Lucas leading her into the parlor. There she clung to Dorothy.