Soul of the Wildcat (2 page)

Willie Barnett's shit-eating grin widened. “Looks like you got yourself a new partner there, Ranger Do-Right.” He smacked his lips. “At least this one is easy on the eyes.”

Speaking for the first time, Skeeter Barnett nodded in agreement. “That's one nice-lookin' woman.” He snorted a giggle. “I could take a piece o' that, easy.”

Dakoda scowled and tried to look menacing. Her gaze skimmed the scrawny outlaw. A battered felt hat covered a stream of stringy hair that probably hadn't seen a washing since the day he was born. His deeply scarred skin was caked with at least ten layers of sweat mixed with the dirt of hard trail riding. Downwind from him, she could smell the stench of human neglect.

Dream on, lice boy
, she thought, breathing through her mouth. There was no way in hell she was taking her hand off the grip of her gun. Her other hand hovered near the cuffs.

“Shut up!” Refusing to be baited, Gregory Zerbe took a step closer to the outlaws, making damn sure any shot he took would be a fatal one. “As much as I'd like to pull the trigger and put you vermin out of your misery, the law won't let me.”

Hearing his words, both men cackled. Agitated by the sound of their laughter, the angry cougar lunged violently against the cage. As it threw its head back, its dangerous jaws gaped open, releasing a long, loud roar. The shriek it unleashed was deafening.

Dakoda's heart rate bumped up several notches. For some reason she had the feeling the great cat was trying to speak to them, warn them. Bashing its huge body against the bars, it unleashed an earsplitting yowl.

Dakoda held her ground, refusing to be intimidated.
Something isn't right
…she thought wildly.
Come on, Greg. Let's cuff them and get going
.

She didn't have the chance to say what was on her mind. By the set of their stance, it was clear the Barnett brothers weren't going down without a fight.

“The law?” Bug eyes bulging, his features twisting into a scowl, Willie Barnett scoffed, spitting more slimy tobacco juice toward his captors. “What makes you think the law exists in these here mountains?” Without waiting for an answer, he poked a defiant finger into his own chest, and replied, “The only law out here is the law we make. You hear me, ranger man? Out here, we are the ones who make the rules.”

Gregory Zerbe was losing patience. “You and what goddamned army?” he snapped.

A lazy voice drawled from directly behind Dakoda: “How about this goddamned army?”

They had company.
Unexpected
company.

Fear rocketing through her veins, Dakoda reached for her gun. She whirled. Straight into the sights of a double-barreled shotgun. A double-barreled shotgun pointed straight at her gut.

The man holding the gun smiled. “Be still, little girl,” he advised in a low, even voice.

Her heart skidding to an immediate halt, Dakoda froze, not daring to move a single muscle.
Oh shit
. Though her fingers were wound tightly around the grip of her weapon, and she'd even had it half drawn, she somehow managed to suppress the instinct to pull it out and take her best shot. Given that the man holding the shotgun stood barely a foot away, it was clear she'd lose.

Oh, yeah. She'd lose.
No doubt there
. And losing meant dying. That was something she wasn't ready to do.

The stranger grinned at Gregory Zerbe. “Looks like we got ourselves a little standoff. You got mine and I got yours.”

“I can see that, Rusty.” Clearly familiar with the newcomer, Zerbe held his own weapon rock steady. “But there's no reason anyone has to get hurt.”

“We'll see…,” Rusty warned vaguely.

Without really wanting to, Dakoda eyed her captor. Unlike the other outlaws, he had a strangely pale complexion. He was tall and thin, and his long red hair was tied back at the nape of his neck.

Nobody moved, except to breathe. Strangely, the cougar had also gone quiet. Almost as if the animal understood the danger of the situation.

The redheaded stranger made a gesture with the barrel of his weapon. “Now you be a smart little girl and get your hand off that gun.”

“Just take it slow, Dakoda,” Zerbe advised.

“Okay.” Forcing herself to stay calm, Dakoda withdrew her hand. “We all want out of here.”
Alive
, her mind filled in.

A thin smile parted the newcomer's lips. “Maybe. Maybe not.” A strange glint behind his pale blue gaze said he didn't care if neither of them walked away.

“I think it would be best if we just made a trade and let things be today,” Zerbe suggested. “You boys go your way and we'll go ours.”

Dakoda silently agreed. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, they had no backup. They were on their own, with only their own wits to survive on. A false step could be a fatal one. The notion of her career ending in these lonely mountains wasn't pleasant. Killing two rangers and hiding the bodies would be damn easy.
The remains would probably never be found
.

Such a grisly thought was hard to ignore. She shouldn't be thinking that way but couldn't help it. That's just the way her mind worked.

Willie Barnett broke in. “I agree with Ranger Do-Right, Rusty. We don't want no trouble here today.” Surprising, considering who was speaking.

More antsy than the others, Waylon Barnett didn't agree. “We got the drop on them, goddamn it,” he argued.

Dakoda's pulse skipped a beat at the innuendo behind his statement. Full of deadly threat. Three outlaws easily outnumbered two rangers. The odds were not good or fair. But nothing about life was fair. You just took the hand life dealt you and did the best you could.

Right now the anticipation of getting out alive was a very slim one. There were no promises or guarantees anyone would walk away.

Rusty nodded and grinned. “That's pretty much true, Ranger Do-Right. My little queen here is awfully pretty. I'm sure you'd hate to see her guts splattered.”

Keeping her hands in place, Dakoda tried not to wince. Guts splattering didn't sound pleasant at all. Were that to happen, she'd probably be dead before she hit the ground.

Somehow Gregory Zerbe remained rock steady. “I'm reasonable enough not to want anyone killed today,” he said slowly.

Shooting the uniforms a glare, Waylon Barnett jabbed a finger at the rangers. “Let 'em go today and they'll just come back tomorrow.” He speared his brother with a glance. “Both of us got warrants, and you're just gonna let them walk away?”

“I'm willing to settle this peaceably,” Zerbe interrupted.

The scarred outlaw ignored him. Tension rolled off him like a foul odor. Though he didn't look as if he possessed many brain cells, the few he did have were obviously working together. And the idea they were forming had already occurred to Dakoda. No doubt Gregory Zerbe had also followed the track.

“That's stupid, man,” he bellowed. “I don't know about you boys, but ain't no way in hell I'm gonna be sittin' in one of their jails.”

Ice drizzling through her veins, Dakoda shut her eyes, sure she'd be hearing the blast of gunfire any second.

Fortunately, a saner head prevailed. Sucking up a mouthful of tobacco juice, Willie Barnett spat a thick brown wad toward Zerbe. “Oh, hell. Let 'em go, Skeeter.” He grinned though a mouthful of stained teeth. “They ain't very good trackers if they didn't even figure out Rusty was guardin' our tails.”

Of course they'd had no damn idea there was a third man. It was a mistake not to be made a second time. That is, if they ever got a second chance.

Though he kept his weapon level, Rusty slowly stepped back. “You heard the man,” he said, motioning for Dakoda to rejoin her partner.

Dakoda hurried over toward Zerbe. As she did so, the cougar stood up on its hind legs, placing its great paws against the bars. She couldn't be sure, but Dakoda was fairly certain she saw something akin to envy in its amber gaze.

She'd be walking away.

The cougar would have to be left behind.

Her throat tightened. Cutting the men loose meant losing the cougar.

Damn it all to hell.

His own weapon in place, Zerbe followed her lead as she edged toward the direction from which they'd arrived. “I'll be back, you bastards,” he muttered under his breath. “Count on it.” Walking away wasn't something Zerbe easily accepted.

Dakoda winced.
Now
wasn't the time to antagonize these men. “Let's go, Greg,” she urged quietly. “There will be another day.”

“Just get gone,” Rusty urged. “The faster, the better.”

Just as it seemed everything was under control, the event took a turn for the worse.

Waylon Barnett clearly wasn't agreeing with the plan. Rushing up to his cousin, he grabbed the shotgun. Something brutal and cruel twisted his features as he lifted the gun and aimed.

“No, Skeet! Don't!” Willie Barnett lunged at his brother. He might have been a poacher, but he wasn't a murderer.

That didn't hold true for Waylon Barnett. Glaring at them with vicious intent, he pushed past his brother and leveled the shotgun squarely at the two rangers.

Realizing the danger, Gregory Zerbe suddenly gave Dakoda a body-jarring shove, sending her flying toward the ground.

Dakoda stumbled, landing flat on her side. A soft rush of air broke from her lungs when she hit the hard ground.
What the hell is he doing?

Reacting instinctively, she rolled aside, struggling to climb to her feet. Her heart pounded fiercely. Her lungs burned with the need to drag in a breath of air, but she couldn't seem to make herself breathe.

Her gaze swung toward the man who was determined they wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon. Her eyes widened, adrenaline seared her veins.
Surely he isn't
—She braced herself against the inevitable. Her stomach performed a slow roll of anxiety. A series of horrible images slithered into her mind. Worry morphed into sheer, unrelenting panic.

A single loud crack split the air.

BLAM!

The shotgun roared, blasting liquid fire directly at her partner.

Time unexpectedly turned into a surreal slow-motion blur as the unstoppable assault of double-ought buckshot shredded Gregory Zerbe's guts even as the force knocked him backward. His body hit the ground hard, falling in a lifeless heap. Blood pooled around his mutilated corpse, forming a gruesome halo.

Dakoda's mouth dropped open. The odor of fresh gunpowder clotted her throat, as choking as the fear bubbling up from her belly. Shock radiated through her. Tears burned behind her eyes. It was all she could do not to scream. If she started, she was afraid she'd never stop.

Fighting to keep her wits, she scrabbled on hands and knees to the fallen man's side. Hands cupping his cheeks, she searched his face. His fathomless gaze collided with hers when she looked into his eyes. A single look was all she needed to know he was dead.

Dakoda made a noise in a voice she didn't recognize as her own, a keening wail burbling up from her throat. “Greg—no!” She paused a moment, panting, trying to pull her thoughts together, but fear sent her brain cells scattering like ashes in a high wind. How the hell had this happened? Why had it happened?

She had no answer.

All she knew for sure was that Gregory Zerbe was dead.

Murdered in cold blood right before her very eyes.

Bitter acid welled up from Dakoda's gut. She forced herself to swallow, determined not to vomit. Her body felt paralyzed. Numb. Nothing in her training had adequately prepared her for this. She forced herself to reach for calm before hysteria started to take root.

A man's hand suddenly closed around her arm, pulling her to her knees. Fingers like steel bands dug into her skin. Her gun was snagged from its holster, effectively disarming her.

Dakoda instinctively reared back. She cried out in shock, jerking away from the numbing clasp, but it still held tight. Her gaze zeroed in on the man Gregory Zerbe had identified only as Rusty.

A chill invaded Dakoda's bowels, tightening like fingers determined to tear her insides apart. Terror temporarily blanked her mind, a whiteout of pure, unadulterated fear. For a second or two she couldn't breathe. The cold continued to tear at her heart, ripping away piece after tiny piece.

The tall redhead jerked her arm again, attempting to drag her to her feet. “Nothin' you can do to help him now,” he said coldly.

Dakoda's fear darkened and curled, a fresh rush of rage eating through her inertia like battery acid. She gathered the last reserves of her energy in a concentrated burst. “Rot in hell, you murdering bastards!” Her voice was sharp edged, nearly frantic.

Rusty's face revealed no regret whatsoever. He released a short laugh. “Goddamn, I can't believe you killed him, Skeet,” he drawled, giving the dead man a prod with one scuffed boot.