Luke's Cut. Sarah McCarty

don’t have time to repack all this,” Tucker noted, holding out a badly dented pot as he approached.

      Rascal bounded up to Tucker the way all animals and children did. Women, however, were usually intimidated by his dark looks and the scar slashing across his right cheek that lent him a sinister air. Josie just gave him a big smile.

      “I’m fine with leaving the cooking equipment and we can take my clothes out of the trunk.”

      Tucker turned the pot before tossing it to one of the hands. “That’s good.”

      “Truth be told, I got this wagon off a peddler.” She handed the bowls to Luke. “It was one price for everything.” She said it as though it was pure luck the peddler had been selling everything lock, stock and barrel.

      The bowls were almost rusted through in places. “I hope you didn’t pay much.”

      “Oh no, I bargained.” With a tug, she pulled her bonnet back up. The brim obscured her expression. She still held the horse’s ridiculous hat. Bending down, she gave Rascal a pat. He wiggled and flopped over.

      “You bargained?” he asked. She didn’t look as if she could bargain her way out of a feed sack.

      Tucker chuckled and started stripping the remaining items from the wagon. “The way I hear it, there was a man down in Parson’s saloon whining about how he was fleeced by some good-looking filly.”

      Josie’s smile widened to satisfaction. Luke noticed she was more free with her expressions when she felt hidden in some way. “Why, thank you, Mr. McCade.”

      Tucker tipped his hat. “Always happy to pass on good news. And just call me Tucker.”

      Luke wanted to knock the bonnet from her head and expose that smile, that woman. “I didn’t know you had such talents.”

      “Imagine that.” Focusing on Glory’s hat, she straightened the brim before heading to the front of the wagon.

      Tucker snorted. Luke cut him a glare before following. He motioned to the weed-adorned monstrosity. “You know, it’s darned undignified to make a horse wear that thing.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      The horse was too tall for her to position it properly. Luke folded his arms across his chest. If she asked nicely, he might help her.

      She waved the hat. Instead of spooking, the horse lowered its head. She settled the hat over Glory’s ears, carefully working the right, then the left through the holes. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled. “It seems, Mr. Bellen, there are some things about which you don’t know everything.”

      * * *

      FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, excess trunks and cooking equipment were stacked by the house, the wagons were in line, the women were ready and there was nothing left to do but leave. Luke looked around, a mixture of unease and anticipation roiling in his gut. The anticipation was for him. The unease for the women. Here was safety. Ahead lay danger. And he was leading Tia and Josie right into it. He pulled his hat down over his eyes.

      “I’m not happy about this,” he muttered to Caine.

      Caine nodded. “For the record, neither am I.”

      But it didn’t make a difference. The trip was happening. Luke turned his horse and moved to the head of the small caravan. Zach’s vaqueros fell into place, surrounding the wagons. Warriors who’d give their lives to protect the women. He had to believe it was going to be enough.

      From the porch, Rascal barked. And then howled. Tucker hushed him with a tug on the impromptu rope leash. Behind him, he heard the goodbyes. Before he got too far, Caine stopped him with a sharp whistle.

      “Don’t forget where your home is.”

      Looking back at Caine, Luke saw all there had been, all there could be. And the reality of what was. He didn’t know if he’d ever be coming back.

      He touched his finger to the brim of his hat. “I won’t.”

      Caine held up his hand. Right behind Caine was Ace. And behind him, Tucker. And then Ed. Solid men to the last. Dependable. His family. “If you do, we’ll come looking for you.”

      And that was the beauty of Hell’s Eight. Even when they were apart, they were never alone. He tipped his hat. “I’ll hold it against you if you don’t.”

      There was so much more he wanted to say, but all the words had been spoken and now it was only down to the doing, as it had been so many times before. But with this departure there wasn’t a bounty or the need for revenge to drive him down the trail. There was only this aching need for...something. Just something.

      And it was time to go find it.

      With a wave of his hand, he put the caravan in motion.

      The journey had begun.

       CHAPTER THREE

      FOUR HOURS LATER, Josie came to a conclusion. Luke might not be the only one who knew less than he thought he did. She’d awoken that morning, tingling with anticipation for this exciting adventure, but reality was beating her up. She sighed.

      The wagon that had looked so perfectly suited to her needs was actually little more than an elaborate instrument of torture. The seat bruised her posterior. The reins chafed her hands even through the light gloves she’d put on, and the small overhang she’d thought would protect her from the sun did nothing but trap the heat. Worse even, the constant bouncing and swaying upset her stomach to the point where she was in danger of embarrassing herself by vomiting.

      Gripping the reins, she took a deep breath. She refused to further embarrass herself. After the fiasco that morning, she couldn’t afford to look more incompetent. Luke was just itching for a reason to send her back and they were still close enough to the Hell’s Eight compound to make that feasible. Wagons, she’d discovered, had a more plodding pace than riding horseback. She tucked a stray hair under her bonnet. A trickle of perspiration slid down her back toward her already soaked corset. A glance at the sun showed it wasn’t yet noon. How was she going to stand the full afternoon sun? How was everyone else able to stand it so easily?

      The left wheels hit a rut. The wagon bounced over it, then swayed before settling. Her breakfast rose to her throat. Beside her one of the vaqueros asked, “You are well, senorita?”

      Forcing a smile, she lied. “Fine, thank you.”

      The tip of his hat was as much an indication of skepticism as it was good manners, but he rode on without further comment. For that she was grateful. Being a bastard in a small town had made her a spectacle her entire life, her every move subject to conjecture. The experience had left her with a complete aversion to being the focus of anyone’s attention. She much preferred being invisible.

      She waited until the vaquero was out of earshot before groaning and fanning herself with her journal. How could she have been so foolish as to have underestimated the rigors of the journey? Driving a wagon over established roads was rough enough, but over open countryside? It was a nightmare.

      She sighed and answered her own question. At the time, she’d just assumed all she’d have to do was sit in the seat, point Glory in the right direction, and follow everybody else. She hadn’t given a thought to the pounding the wooden wheels rolling over rough terrain would deliver to her spine or how the raucous noise from her remaining hanging supplies would jar her nerves.

      She also hadn’t thought of how exposed to the elements she would be sitting on the hard seat or how much the wagon just...swayed. All the time. Back and forth. Lightly. Or more aggressively when the wheels hit a rock. Like now. Her teeth snapped together. She gave a fleeting thought to her equipment only to have it die under a wave of nausea. She swallowed hard. Her fingers twitched on the reins, but she knew they couldn’t stop. Zach and Luke set a pace that was, in her mind, brutal, but in their minds undoubtedly not fast enough.