Chapter One
Dusk loomed on the horizon, and the serenity along the trail fostered Adam's smile. He considered extending his well-earned day off, scanning the landscape for an inviting spot to camp for the night. Rounding the bend, his eyes were drawn further down the path to a dense patch of sage, its foliage shaped peculiarly.
With a gentle tug, Adam reined Sport to a slower gait. He surveyed the trail, and the hair on his neck prickled. With a gently nudge, Sport continued on, and Adam's right hand sought the comfort of his holster. Up ahead, gouged into a patch of sagebrush, he spied a burrow that would have gone unnoticed by most passersby.
Standing in the stirrups, he craned his neck, shielding his eyes against the glare of the setting sun. The tension of his stance concerned Sport, and the chestnut pawed nervously at the ground. "Easy, boy," Adam whispered, reaching down to stroke the horse's thick, chocolate mane.
Sport nodded, and Adam dismounted, intent on a closer look at the tamped brush along the mouth of the nearly hidden hollow. Crouching at the low-lying entrance, he marveled; the cavity in the mysterious undergrowth was too big for a rabbit, too small for a bear. He propped his elbow on his thigh and scratched at the back of his neck. Who or what made this, and why?
At the mouth of the opening, a shadow danced by, and Adam stretched his neck, studying the thick, frothy clouds forming in the sky. A breeze caressed the back of his head and curled across his cheek and, once again, Adam peered into the clearing. Something just didn't add up. He rose, his hands on his hips. "The only thing on the other side of this grove of trees is . . ."
A sound in the distance silenced him. His head snapped sharply to the left, his hand moved immediately to his gun. Quickly, he gathered Sport's reins and led the horse toward the fork on the trail. "We'll go in the back door," he said softly. "Seems as if we've got company."
Adam's senses were razor sharp as he walked Sport along the narrowing path. The mounting cloud-cover ebbed and flowed, shifting the shadows, testing Adam's senses. More than once he stopped abruptly as the sun cast shapes on the ground before him. Twice he bristled as the wind danced among the trees and rustled leaves and branches.
When they came to another opening in the brush, Adam crouched, examining the snapped twigs and matted grass leading into the woods beyond. Quickly, he tethered Sport to a low-hanging branch, patting him on the shoulder before walking toward the breach. Hesitating, Adam stepped forward, and hesitated again. I've been by here hundreds of times, but this . . . this is new. Touching his holster, he inhaled and cautiously made his way into the woods.
Three minutes slipped away, leaving behind cracked boughs in the underbrush and footprints in the spongy soil. The sounds of birdsong and the drone of insects faded in Adam's mind leaving an eerie silence interrupted by nothing but his heartbeat and the puzzle buzzing in his head. What was the source of the sound he'd heard?
The snap of a thick twig under the weight of his boot brought Adam to a sudden halt, and he squatted, drawing his pistol slicker than a gunfighter on his best day. After several tense moments, Adam noticed the jagged edge of the twig sticking out from beneath his boot. He smiled, shook his head, and slipped his gun back into place. You're getting jumpy in your old age!
He rose to his feet and snatched the broken twig from the ground. I'm hot, I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm chasing noises in the woods! He shook his head. I've never been prone to hallucinations. He couldn't help smiling. That's Hoss's department. He slipped off his hat, wiped his brow on the forearm of his sleeve, and slapped it back atop his head. Onward and upward.
Following the path for several more yards, he heard a rustling in the distance. He slowed, his senses alert to every sight, sound, and smell. Peering through the low-hanging branches, he froze at the sight awaiting him in the brush up ahead.
What the . . . It's a kid! Can't be more than six or seven years old. Adam grabbed hold of a thick bough and gently coaxed it downward. Through scrunched eyes, he saw the child sitting on the ground in front of a makeshift tent. Old sheets and a piece of wood for a support. Adam hunkered down for a better view. Tattered hat, torn clothing, bare feet. What's he doing out here?
He watched as the child, his back to Adam, mumbled and moaned, working fervently on something yet to be seen.
"I just came from town," Adam thought, "and no one mentioned a missing boy."
"I don't wanna do this anymore!" the child shouted, bounding to bared feet, broken glass scattered in the grass. With fisted hands, the child stomped beneath the suspended tarp.
Adam's instincts took hold. He holstered his pistol and started toward the tent.
Inside, the child waved a hand, the sun reflecting against shiny metal.
What was this child doing with a gun? Adam dropped down once again and listened to the frustrated voice coming from the tent.
"I'm hot!" The child brandished the gun in the air.
Adam cringed. No one's taught him how to handle . . .
"I'm tired!" the child shouted, tossing the gun on the ground.
Adam inhaled through pursed lips. He's gonna hurt himself or someone el-
"I'm hungry!" The child pounded a fist against one thigh.
Adam's fingertips rubbed against his pistol grip. That boy's working up quite a lather.
"And I'm . . ." the child's strangled words faded as trembling hands slid the gun beneath a threadbare quilt. "I'm scared."
Faint mews and pulsing shoulders touched Adam's heart, and he released the grip on his gun and quietly sank back on his haunches. As he watched, the child skidded into the corner of the tent, dropped a weary head against drawn knees, and fought in vain to stifle tears of desperation. Slowly, Adam rose and made his way closer, and when the child's cries blossomed into sobs, Adam hastened his steps. Moving past the last low hanging branches, he folded his hands across his chest and called out, hoping to lessen the child's impending alarm.
"Hello in the tent," Adam said, dipping his head to see inside.
The child twisted sharply, diving forward, frantic to reach the gun hidden within reach.
"Easy now," Adam said softly, "I'm not going to-"
The child spun around, gun in hand, and leapt onto bared feet, swollen eyes staring at the pointed barrel.
Adam froze, raising his hands and his brows. "Whoa, now." He locked eyes with the boy before taking two steps backward.
The child stood on trembling legs, head shaking fiercely. "I'm not going with you!" His ragged hat fell to the ground.
"You're not a . . . You're a . . ." Adam stammered.
"And you're . . . You're not him," the girl whispered, gaping up at the man dressed from head to toe in black. With one tentative step backward, she slipped her finger against the trigger and shook her head. "I won't go. I won't let you take me back. I just want to find my momma!"
Her voice radiated both fear and anger, and had it not been for her finger curled tightly against the trigger, Adam's instinct would have been to rush protectively to her side. Instead, he raised his hands higher and stood his ground.
The waif's penetrating eyes locked onto his and moments later, Adam watched as her anger tempered, leaving apprehension behind.
She tilted her head questioningly, and the slight movement caused her to wobble.
As her hand dropped to her side, the gun zigged and zagged, and although Adam's protective nature begged him toward her, the gun held him fast to his spot.
Through deep brown eyes, she stared blankly as the gun fell with a thud, and when her legs gave way, Adam lunged forward, just as the frail little girl crumpled to the ground.
"Easy there," Adam said, kicking the gun away and catching the unconscious girl in comforting arms. Pulling her tightly against his chest, he gently brushed strands of mud-caked hair from her forehead. He drew a sharp breath at the sight of numerous bruises, including a severely blackened eye. Adam's stomach roiled, anger rising in his core. His jaw tightened, but his eyes softened as he watched her chest rise and fall against the tattered cotton nightshirt. "Who could . . ." he began, the unthinkable fading into private thoughts. What kind of monster could do this to a child?
"A doctor," Adam said, his glance rushing over the crude camp. "I need to get you to a doctor. Virginia City's too far. I-I need to get you to the Ponderosa."
Holding the girl securely, Adam knelt and reached for the quilt near the back of the tent. As he shook it open, letting it fall against the ground, a small, folded paper tumbled next to Adam's boot. Laying the girl on the quilt, he wrapped her in its meager warmth, slid his arm beneath her, and hugged her once again against his chest. As he started to stand, he caught sight of the paper, and a nagging voice encouraged him to snatch it from the ground.
Adam quickly made his way through the brush and back to Sport. Gently, he placed the bundled girl across his saddle and slowly mounted behind her. Shifting her onto his lap, he let her head slip into the crook of his arm. "Let's go home, boy," Adam said quietly, and when Sport rounded the first bend along the trail, Adam opened his palm, the folded square staring up at his questioning eyes. With one hand, he managed to spread it open, and after a quick look at the unconscious girl, Adam read aloud. "Wanted dead or alive. Jubal Crocker."