Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance) (11 page)

Once more, she reached over and laid fingertips against Rane’s exposed cheek. The fever still raged. He gave off more heat than a pot-bellied stove.

She stared at his dark head and bit her lip. She’d never known anyone like him. Was he brave, or simply too arrogant to believe in his own mortality?

He was a hard man, sometimes deadly. This was the image he cultivated. Still, at times she’d seen glimpses of...what? Softness? No. Goodness? Perhaps. He’d become a mass of contradictions. Brutality and gentleness. Ugliness and beauty. Inconsistencies that threw her into turmoil.

For reasons she didn’t fully understand, he’d chosen to stand between her and an army of money-hungry ruffians. He claimed to have his own purpose. But what could possibly be worth such a price?

Finally, giving in to the lure of the man and his heat, Angel lifted the cover and slipped in next to him.

Lying there shivering, he seemed so harmless. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer. Like a child in need of comfort, his dark head came to rest against her chest. He moaned softly and slid his arm across her waist. She snuggled closer, pulled the thin blankets over his shoulder, and tucked them against his back. For several moments, he continued to tremble at regular intervals, chilling from the fever raging through his blood.

After a while, he stilled and Angel knew he’d fallen into a deeper sleep.

His face, completely relaxed and pillowed against her breast, fascinated her. So perfect and yet so overwhelmingly male. His too-hot breath saturated the front of her shirt, scalding and moist against her skin.

Since Rane had imposed himself on her life, she seemed to grow more sentient with each passing day. Her senses had never been so keen. Had she ever before experienced such stormy and tearing emotions? Had her heart ever beat so wildly?

Impulsively, she pulled her hand from beneath the covers and lifted it to his face. Gently, she raked the hair back from his temple, letting her fingers glide into the silken mass. The tendrils at the nape of his neck felt thicker, coarser. Like the man, a blending of textures that enticed her to explore and savor.

Resting her cheek against his head, she continued to hold him and felt a strange sense of contentment. Of rightness.

Exhaustion pulled her to the blurry edges of sleep, to that place where dreams merge with reality. She saw her father, right down to the worry etched into his weathered face. “Oh, Pa. I did what you wanted. Look at me! I look like Mama now.”

Instead of giving her a smile or greeting, he shook his head. “You’re still driving me to drink,” he said. Then he turned from her, pulling away, farther and farther.

A sob lodged in Angel’s throat, choking off her denial. She’d done what he wanted, turned herself into a lady.

Then the dream faded and the gauzy light grew harsh. It glared, nearly blinding, and she completely lost sight of her father. She looked down and saw instead the grit and blood smeared on the manly trousers she wore.

****

Rane floated somewhere between heaven and hell.

Hammers pounded at his temples from the inside. For a moment he thought the pain ripping through him resulted from a belly full of bad whiskey. Had he spent the night drinking and carousing? To further the notion, a female body lay pressed so close not even air penetrated between them. How had they ended up like this? He sure as hell couldn’t remember.

Stifling heat drenched him in sweat. By slow degrees, he registered the fact that he was fully dressed, right down to his holstered Colt, and several layers of blankets covered him. He started to move and throw off the suffocating load of wool, until a stab lanced through his shoulder. The pain stopped him dead and sucked away his breath.

For several minutes he lay still, drawing in careful breaths, until the agony eased. He forced his eyes open. A rumble rolled through the empty pit of his stomach. He raked his tongue over his teeth and wished he had a drink to wash the stale dryness from his mouth.

Slowly, awareness leached through his senses. He realized he lay on the ground, not in a bed. The first gray light of morning was seeping into a ravine rather than a bedroom.

Right against him, Angel slept with her tempting little butt spooned to the front of his body. They fit together perfectly. Maybe a little too perfectly. Evidently, he was growing accustomed to sleeping next to her, to having her body cupped so intimately to his.

His arm rested atop the side of her trim waist and curved possessively across her stomach. Wedged beneath her, his hand had gone numb. He tried to move it, then changed his mind.

Her breast overflowed his splayed fingers. He sucked in a ragged breath and held it. Closing his eyes, he tried willing the sensation back into his rogue digits.

Deliberately, he slid his hand upward. The cotton shirt separating her skin from his touch frustrated him. Gently, he savored the firm, yet pliant feel of her flesh through the cloth. His strokes grew bolder as he applied soft friction to her sensitive tip. He was rewarded when her nipple hardened and thrust into the center of his palm.

Instinct, he knew. But her reaction gave him a measure of satisfaction and deepened his breathing.

She stirred slightly, and he stilled. Arching her back, she pressed herself more fully into him and moaned. The soft sound reminded him of a cat’s contented purr. He wanted to moan right with her.

No slack remained in the front of his trousers. Her sweet, firm buttocks, his own body, and the heavy gunbelt buckle trapped his expanding bulge on every side. All combined, the exquisite pressure was nearly more than he could bear.

He gritted his teeth.

Lifting his head scant inches, he used his chin to rake aside her heavy braid and expose her pale throat. Even in the gray, muddied light, he could see the steady throb of her pulse. He lowered his lips to the spot and covered her with his mouth.

The heavy rhythm of her heart trembled against the sensitive inner sides of his lips. Her taste filled his mouth. Salt and sweetness. The texture of warm velvet. No trace remained of the floral fragrance she had worn. Nothing but pure female bombarded his senses. The primal male within him reared his head and roared to life. The savage urge to claim her had him strung so tightly, he thought his skin would burst.

Another kittenish moan ended on a sigh. Hot anticipation surged through him like a heady slug of hundred proof liquor.

He lifted his head higher and ventured a peek at her face. Disappointment washed over him. The damned woman was still sound asleep!

Heaving a frustrated breath, he stopped stroking her. Willpower. Where was it when he needed it? Summoning his last shreds, he removed his arm and carefully rolled to his back.

A chill crept over his exposed skin and the white fog of his breath surprised him. Hell, he was burning up. He shoved fingers into the rumpled hair over his forehead and sucked in a long, cold breath.

“¡Sangre de Cristo!”
he muttered. “I should have been a priest!”

****

Angel carefully peeled the scrap of linen away from Rane’s wound. The skin looked puckered and red, but there was no trace of the infection she’d drained several times during the past two days. The depth of her relief, which made her want to cry and shout at the same time, surprised her.

She sat back on her heels. “Your wound is healing.”

“About time,” he mumbled.

He’d acted surly all morning and even refused the meager breakfast of canned tomatoes she’d offered. There was little else left in their packs.

“You might be a little happier about it,” she said.

His dark head snapped up. “Happy? The moment we cross the border, then I’ll be happy.”

So, he planned to take her into Mexico. She tucked the information away. Not that it mattered any longer.

He relaxed against the bedrolls stacked behind his back, lifted the nearly empty bottle of whiskey in his hand and poured a swallow into his mouth. She’d gotten used to the sight of him drinking. He’d nearly worked his way through the second bottle.

Breathing hard, he swiped the back of a hand over the stiff blue-black whiskers on his chin. One thing she regretted. She’d never get the opportunity to see him clean-shaven.

“Anyway,” she said, “I’m glad the infection is gone. For a while, I thought you were a goner.”

Though his chest continued to rise and fall, she sensed a stillness settle over him. He turned his head and looked directly at her for the first time since she’d sat next to his makeshift bed. Grazing over her lips, his dark gaze narrowed, then lifted to her eyes and locked.

“Would you have cared?”

The low, husky tone of his voice sent a warning hum along her nerve endings. It was a loaded question, or so it seemed to her. How could she answer?
Of course, I would have cared.
Flippant. Off-handed. Nothing more than common human decency, the same as she would feel toward any poor suffering soul.

No, that was a lie. If it had been Jed Wiley lying there burning with fever, she would have ridden away with barely a backward glance. Her feelings for Rane ran far deeper than common kindness. She
did
care. Too much. And each time she found herself thinking about him, her purpose grew hopelessly tangled with other intangible desires.

Especially when she remembered the things she’d already experienced because of him. With him. During idle moments when her mind wandered, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from reliving certain events, over and over. Like the passionate kiss they’d shared on the side of the ridge. Lying next to him each night, holding him safe. And other things. Dreams, mostly, of an erotic nature that went beyond anything she’d ever imagined.

Was this his plan? To seduce her to the point of willingness? To prey on her sympathy and basic feminine instincts until she followed him without a fight? Raw heat jolted through her. Well, she’d be damned if she’d give him that satisfaction!

She’d already formed her decision during the night. Clenching her jaw, she shoved to her feet and glared down at him. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said with all the coldness she could muster.

Without bothering to wait for his reaction, she snatched up a pair of canteens and stalked to the stream. With each step, she nurtured her anger, fed it. Oh, yes. Anger would make this so much easier. She uncapped the canteens and soused them both beneath the clear water.

“Angel?”

She concentrated on the gurgle of bubbles as the canteens filled and shut out the sound of his voice behind her.

“What are you doing?”

She clamped her lips. No. She wouldn’t answer him. She capped the brimming vessels, slung the straps around her shoulder and stood. Without looking at him, she continued along the floor of the ravine.

The paint mare was rested, and she’d made sure both horses had been well fed on the abundant grama grass in the area. She dropped the canteens into the dirt, snatched up a saddle blanket and slung it across the little mare’s back.

“Angel!”

She squeezed her eyes closed and refused to turn around. Hefting the saddle in both hands, she lifted it in place and started fastening straps, working as fast as she could. The bridle came last.

Both bedrolls were tucked behind Rane’s back. No matter, she’d just have to survive without that small comfort. She wasn’t about to walk back there and attempt to take one of them out from under him.

On the ground where the saddle had lain, the gleam of metal winked at her. The revolver she’d taken from his saddlebags their first night in the ravine. She’d almost forgotten that she’d hidden it under the saddle. Now, she had need of the gun again.

She bent down and wrapped her hand around the walnut grip. Boots crunched on the ground behind her. Then, the sound ceased.

Her heart beat so wildly she heard it in the sudden silence. Steeling herself, she straightened and turned.

Rane had walked within ten feet of her and stopped. His dark brows ruched over the bridge of his nose, his expression tacitly questioning. He spread his hands wide and that devilish smirk appeared on his lips. “Was it something I said?”

He dared to mock her! She straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “It’s everything you’ve said, and everything you’ve done.”

He wasn’t looking at her face. His attention focused somewhere lower.

Angel glanced down. When she’d turned, she’d lifted the gun in her hand without even realizing. Now, the lethal weapon pointed directly at him. She didn’t lower it.

“Where are you going, Angel?”

He spoke softly, as he might to a child who’d accidentally picked up a loaded gun.

“Home,” she replied with conviction. “I’m going home, Rane.”

His gaze lifted, and the hard as flint expression she had come to recognize settled in his eyes. “I can’t let you do that.”

Angel tried hard to mask the dread surging through her. “You can’t stop me this time.”

Again, his dark eyes flickered over the Colt in her hand. “Do you intend to shoot me? If so, it might be easier if you cock the gun.”

Was he daring her? Or trying to distract her? Perhaps both. Her pounding heart sped even more and echoed in her ears. Did she dare call his bluff?