The Ruination of Essie Sparks (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 2) by Barbara Ankrum
Authors: Barbara Ankrum
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shooting that morning.
There was only one reason that battle still haunted his dreams. It was the look in that scar-faced, half-breed's eyes that he'd never forgotten. Their eyes had met over the heads of the two small children he'd had in his arms. Laddner had raised his gun to shoot them, but that bastard had shouted at him in perfect English, "Shoot them and I will string your insides along the banks of the frozen river, you son of a bitch."
English, spoken by that savage, had shocked him momentarily. Long enough that the half-breed turned tail with those two and ran. He disappeared into the thicket of snow-covered lodges toward the bluffs where the rest of the tribe hid out and picked off half a dozen of the fine men from K Company. Even so, he would have shot them all, had his gun not suddenly jammed. Had the tables been turned and Gray Eyes had the bead on him, no doubt he wouldn't be here today, tracking the redskin.
But what was he doing here, all these years later, hauling white women off into the wilderness? If it were up to Laddner, he'd chase the bastard down alone. Screw the other idiot guards who wouldn't be able to find the ground with their hats if they threw them down. No, tracking this particular renegade was personal. Not because of the woman. He could care less about Essie Sparks or her virtue. She would get what was coming to her.
No, he had a score to settle with that half-blood savage on Lorenzo Ayers' behalf. And settle it he would.
He turned in his saddle to see the squat figure of Reverend Dooley approaching on horseback at a run. He was a little out of control, as usual, riding like a jack-stick toy. With arms and legs flailing, tugging the reins up by his chin, he looked precarious enough to fall at any minute from the animal who clearly knew he held the upper hand. Dooley was holding onto his flat-brimmed hat for fear of losing it as his horse raced to catch up with the ones parked near the banks of the creek, tugging grass.
Indeed, the horse skidded to a halt beside the creek and dropped its head down for a long drink, and the panting Dooley, who'd managed not to fly over the horse's neck, immediately parted company with the animal and put a safe distance between them.
He bent over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "Blasted animal!" he muttered.
"Reverend?" Laddner tilted a look at the man.
"He got a taste of freedom this morning and now he's a maniac."
There were few things more loathsome to Laddner than a man who couldn't control a dumb animal. "I'll send one of my men to ride back with you. You shouldn't have come out here on your own, sir."
Mollified by Laddner's apparent concern, the reverend waved a hand and straightened. "In truth, I despise the beasts and wish we weren't so confounded dependent on them. But they are a necessary evil, aren't they?"
Idiot. "Yes, sir."
"Any sign of them yet?" The Reverend Dooley shaded his pale blue eyes from the morning glare and peered up the creek at the men studying the banks on either side. The sun hovered high overhead in the blue August sky. They'd already lost the morning, gathering up the horses and hitting a dead end in the box canyon where they'd found the herd.
"In all these tracks here"—he pointed to the muddy bank—"there's only one set that's unshod. That belongs to the one carrying both the renegade and Mrs. Sparks. So far, we've found no sign of him crossing with the other horses here, so I believe he headed straight up this creek to throw us off. Sooner or later, we'll find where he got out."
The reverend whistled. "Impressive, Mr. Laddner. I didn't realize I'd hired a tracker."
You have no idea who you hired. No idea at all. "Yes, sir. Never had a redskin outsmart me yet. Not in the military and not now. I'll find him."
"And the boy?" he asked a little warily. "I need him back. Accounted for."
Laddner found the reverend tiresome, mostly because the man was a half-wit, but also because he was more
There was only one reason that battle still haunted his dreams. It was the look in that scar-faced, half-breed's eyes that he'd never forgotten. Their eyes had met over the heads of the two small children he'd had in his arms. Laddner had raised his gun to shoot them, but that bastard had shouted at him in perfect English, "Shoot them and I will string your insides along the banks of the frozen river, you son of a bitch."
English, spoken by that savage, had shocked him momentarily. Long enough that the half-breed turned tail with those two and ran. He disappeared into the thicket of snow-covered lodges toward the bluffs where the rest of the tribe hid out and picked off half a dozen of the fine men from K Company. Even so, he would have shot them all, had his gun not suddenly jammed. Had the tables been turned and Gray Eyes had the bead on him, no doubt he wouldn't be here today, tracking the redskin.
But what was he doing here, all these years later, hauling white women off into the wilderness? If it were up to Laddner, he'd chase the bastard down alone. Screw the other idiot guards who wouldn't be able to find the ground with their hats if they threw them down. No, tracking this particular renegade was personal. Not because of the woman. He could care less about Essie Sparks or her virtue. She would get what was coming to her.
No, he had a score to settle with that half-blood savage on Lorenzo Ayers' behalf. And settle it he would.
He turned in his saddle to see the squat figure of Reverend Dooley approaching on horseback at a run. He was a little out of control, as usual, riding like a jack-stick toy. With arms and legs flailing, tugging the reins up by his chin, he looked precarious enough to fall at any minute from the animal who clearly knew he held the upper hand. Dooley was holding onto his flat-brimmed hat for fear of losing it as his horse raced to catch up with the ones parked near the banks of the creek, tugging grass.
Indeed, the horse skidded to a halt beside the creek and dropped its head down for a long drink, and the panting Dooley, who'd managed not to fly over the horse's neck, immediately parted company with the animal and put a safe distance between them.
He bent over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "Blasted animal!" he muttered.
"Reverend?" Laddner tilted a look at the man.
"He got a taste of freedom this morning and now he's a maniac."
There were few things more loathsome to Laddner than a man who couldn't control a dumb animal. "I'll send one of my men to ride back with you. You shouldn't have come out here on your own, sir."
Mollified by Laddner's apparent concern, the reverend waved a hand and straightened. "In truth, I despise the beasts and wish we weren't so confounded dependent on them. But they are a necessary evil, aren't they?"
Idiot. "Yes, sir."
"Any sign of them yet?" The Reverend Dooley shaded his pale blue eyes from the morning glare and peered up the creek at the men studying the banks on either side. The sun hovered high overhead in the blue August sky. They'd already lost the morning, gathering up the horses and hitting a dead end in the box canyon where they'd found the herd.
"In all these tracks here"—he pointed to the muddy bank—"there's only one set that's unshod. That belongs to the one carrying both the renegade and Mrs. Sparks. So far, we've found no sign of him crossing with the other horses here, so I believe he headed straight up this creek to throw us off. Sooner or later, we'll find where he got out."
The reverend whistled. "Impressive, Mr. Laddner. I didn't realize I'd hired a tracker."
You have no idea who you hired. No idea at all. "Yes, sir. Never had a redskin outsmart me yet. Not in the military and not now. I'll find him."
"And the boy?" he asked a little warily. "I need him back. Accounted for."
Laddner found the reverend tiresome, mostly because the man was a half-wit, but also because he was more
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