Renegade Riders by Dawn MacTavish Page B

blasting, into the Lazy C Ranch. He usually was a patient man, but this waiting was awful.
    The following day he rode to the Outpost. No one in the town seemed to know of anyone named Ahern. His casual questions met with stony stares, closed mouths, minimal answers. He assumed this was because it was a company town, and everyone was heedful that the company was Jared Comstock. Buying supplies, Trace made a lot of noise to spread the word that he was heading back to canyon country, searching for wild mustangs; then he rode out in that direction, inviting many curious stares. He left late in the day, which allowed him to double back under the cover of twilight and return unseen to his campsite.
    Trace chafed to take action. This waiting wasn’t getting him anyplace. It was all he could do not to immediately ride to the Lazy C, reclaim his horse and get to the bottom of the mystery of Mae. If she was Jared’s wife, then so be it. He’d take his horse, ride away, and never spare her another thought. He’d find proof of Comstock’s rustling, send for the ranchers who’d hired him, and tell them to fetch a U.S. marshal.
    But he couldn’t get that haunting face out of his mind. He knew animals well, and guessed people weren’t much different. He’d seen fear in Mae’s brown eyes. Something pretty bad had pushed her to run away in the middle of the night, with no gun, food, or proper clothing, and to become willing to risk being shot as a horse thief.
    He hoped Preacher was being careful. The old man was smart but often talked too much. One slip, and Jared would be all over him. This was Trace’s job. Hewas used to working alone, which had the benefit that he didn’t have to worry about others. This time, if anything happened to Preacher it would be his fault.
    “One more day, Duchess,” he said, patting the sorrel’s neck as he made his final evening check before turning in. “Then I’ve got to make some sort of move.”
    Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of motion: a horse and rider traveling at a gallop, as if the devil were on their heels. Not eastward toward the Outpost, though. And it didn’t ride like Preacher.
    His heart leapt. Was it Diablo? He didn’t hesitate. He mounted Duchess and spurred her down the sloping trail through fallen rocks, finally breaking free into the grove below. Running his horse flat out at twilight was hazardous when he didn’t know the land, and he prayed she didn’t find a prairie dog hole. He leaned forward in his saddle, steering the mare to intercept the other rider.
    Diablo ran like the wind. That had Trace worried. He had always said there was no match for his stallion. Of course, that had been before Diablo was abused by Jared Comstock. He had to give Duchess her due; she ran with her full heart. And she was gaining.
    Trace grimaced. Could his mustang be so altered, or had he misjudged the sorrel beneath him? To ride a horse, you could either break or gentle him. He’d witnessed both methods. Gentled, Diablo had kept his spirit. He had a feeling Jared Comstock would break a horse, grinding him down until he lost all fight. But if Comstock had ruined his horse, Trace was going to kill him.
    As Duchess pulled within range, Trace put two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle—a commandhe’d taught the horse to obey, a summons that had always worked in the past. This time, though there was a slight hesitation to the horse’s gait, Diablo’s rider slapped the end of his reins like a whip and once more the stallion sped ahead.
    Trace leaned low over Duchess’s lathered neck, driving her to her limit. Once more the mare nearly closed the distance. There was no moon; twilight was quickly shifting to full darkness. As his eyes adjusted, however, the rider came into focus and Trace loosed a string of oaths. Without hesitation, he ripped the lasso from his pommel, whirled it over his head, and threw it, the circle dropping over the mustang’s long,