Free Bleeding Texas by William W. Johnstone

their father was concerned, especially if there were any Creels involved. Ned Fontaine let his dislike of the family color all of his opinions.
    â€œAnyway,” Fontaine continued with a curt gesture, “the boy’s going to be bruised and sore, and his pride is certainly wounded, but other than that he’s fine. Some of the men dumped a bucket of water over his head, and he came around right away. I told them to get him cleaned up and take him back out to the ranch.”
    â€œAre we leaving, too?” Samantha asked, trying to keep the despair out of her voice.
    â€œYes, I think so. We don’t really belong here with these ruffians.”
    Samantha sighed, causing her father to frown.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” he asked. “Did you want to stay?”
    â€œI don’t see other people very often . . .”
    She couldn’t explain to her father that she’d been hoping to dance with Lee Creel tonight. He had promised that they would.
    Of course, she was logical enough to know that it was probably better if they didn’t. That would be just asking for more trouble, and there had already been enough of that tonight, thanks to Danny.
    She summoned up a smile and went on, “But that’s all right. We can go. It is awfully warm in here.”
    Fontaine grunted agreement and took her arm to lead her out of the schoolhouse.
    Samantha glanced around and asked, “Where’s Nick? I don’t see him.”
    â€œI don’t know. He can come back in his own good time.”
    Samantha started to ask why it was all right for Nick to stay at the dance but she had to leave. She bit back the words before they came out, knowing they would just annoy her father. Anyway, the answer was obvious.
    Nick could do whatever he wanted because he was male, and because their father trusted him.
    After all, Nick practically ran the ranch these days, didn’t he?
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    A few yards away from where Nick Fontaine stood under an oak tree, two of the Rafter F punchers were helping a still-groggy Danny Fontaine into his saddle. Once he was on the horse, Danny swayed back and forth so perilously that one of the men had to grab his arm to steady him.
    As Nick leaned against the rough-barked trunk, he dragged deeply on the cigarette he had rolled. As the coal on the end of the coffin nail flared up, its orange glow cast faint shadows over the harsh planes of his face.
    â€œIt’d serve him right if he fell off and broke his fool neck,” Nick said. “Try to keep him from doing that, though.”
    â€œSure, boss,” one of the men said. “We’ll ride on either side of him so he can’t topple clean off. Mulligan, I’ll hang on to him while you fetch our horses.”
    The other cowboy hurried off to do that.
    A dark shape sidled up to Nick in the shadows under the tree. The newcomer started to say something, but Nick lifted a hand to stop him for the moment. The two men stood there until Danny and his minders had ridden off.
    Then Nick said in a low, angry voice, “That’s twice you’ve missed, Trace. You reckon you deserve a third try?”
    â€œI don’t see how Creel’s not dead,” Trace Holland replied, equally quietly. “He must’ve shifted a little just as I went to put the knife in his back.”
    â€œOr else your aim was off. Either way, Creel’s alive. Was he at least hurt bad enough to lay him up for a while?”
    Holland hesitated, then answered, “The way he walked off under his own power with Morton and that saloon gal, it didn’t really look like it.”
    Nick blew smoke out his nose and stood there stiffly for a few seconds before he muttered, “I’m tired of this.”
    â€œI’ll get Bo Creel, boss, I swear it—”
    â€œI’m not talking about your feeble attempts to kill Bo Creel. I’m talking about this whole damned dance we’ve been doing with his family