Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance) (9 page)

Mere inches separated them. She tilted her head, and his ragged breath cascaded over the edge of her jaw. A spark of...exactly what, she couldn’t guess, gleamed in his dark eyes. One side of his lips quirked into the little smirk she’d come to recognize. She knew he intended it to be ugly, but it still jolted her heart off-kilter.

“You bastard!”

“So, the wildcat shows her true face at last,” he drawled.

She’d show him wildcat. She opened her mouth to scream.

He jerked her forward, crushing her breasts against his chest. Shock raced through her and sucked away her breath. She tried to pull back, only to have him swoop in and plant his mouth on hers.

Her intent—thoughts of screaming, escape, hurting him—all shattered into sparkling fragments and scattered on the wind. The entire universe suddenly narrowed to one focus: his lips grinding against hers.

At first, he just held her like that, in a bruising crush meant to smother her cries. Then it changed. His mouth opened over hers, hungry and commanding. She felt the knotted tension in his body, the rapid-fire bursts of his breath against her cheek.

She had wished for this.

Only a few times in her life had she been kissed, and never with such unrestrained, savage urgency.

Her fevered blood responded. She opened her mouth to him, and he swirled inside with a low moan trapped in his throat. Unable to resist, her tongue joined with his in a slow, sinuous dance. Tension gripped her body and sent her straining toward him, seeking his male hardness as though pulled by a magnet.

Her clinging hands smoothed over the corrugated planes of his ribs. She didn’t know when or how it happened, but he had released her wrists at some point. His arms were now wrapped around her, one hand spread against the small of her back, holding her so close only the fabric of their clothing separated them.

But, not close enough. The wondrous thrust and glide of his tongue, the slow stroke of his hands, the hard pressure of his thigh crowded between her legs demanded even more. A sweet, achy sensation tightened her breasts and pooled low in her belly.

The newly turned out Miss Evangeline Clayton, lately of New York, where she’d spent two grueling years learning to deport herself like a lady and the proper way to deter a gentleman’s unwanted advances was helpless to defend herself against the disreputable gunfighter's scandalous assault on her senses.

Worst of all, she wished he’d never stop.

“Well, now. Ain’t this damn cozy!”

The gruff voice intruded like the buzz of an annoying gnat.

For Rane, it must have sounded more like a giant bee. He jerked away from her as if stung and spun around.

The sudden emptiness staggered Angel. Unsteady, she turned.

On the rockslide behind them stood Buck Sweeney, grinning down at them like they were the sweetest sight he’d seen in a while. A few feet away stood another man. Evidently, the owner of the second horse they’d seen over by the waterhole.

Buck took another step down the talus slope. The motion sent sunlight skipping along the barrel of the pistol in his hand. Angel darted a glance at his companion. With sinking dread, she saw that both men had their weapons pointed straight at Rane.

Chapter Six

Angel froze, afraid to move, afraid to even breathe too deeply.

Buck Sweeney held his cocked pistol at waist level and shifted to a hipshot stance. The oily smile on his face beamed confidence. “Make one move toward that Peacemaker, greaser, and you’ll be makin’ yer peace with the big
jefe
up yonder.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Rane slowly lift his hands and hold them palms outward.

“Just don’t get spooked,
gringo
.” Rane’s accent had grown thicker. He gave the “r” an extra tumble before he rolled the insulting word off his tongue.

Buck flashed a mouthful of teeth as discolored and sturdy as a mule’s, the beast Angel had always associated with him. “Afternoon, Miz ‘Vangeline.” He didn’t take his eyes off Rane for an instant.

Angel swallowed and drew in a shaky breath. “What are you doing here, Buck?”

“Why, lookin’ for you, naturally.” To Rane, he added, “Right handy of you to bring her to us.”

“Yeah, you made it almost too easy,” Buck’s companion said. “The two of you was makin’ enough noise over here to wake the dead. Too bad for you, your brains fell in your pecker, boy.” The man threw back his head and cackled like a hen that had just dropped an egg.

“Shut up, Arch,” Buck ordered.

They intended to kill Rane. The reality exploded in Angel’s mind with a blinding, white flash. It churned like sickness in her stomach and nearly buckled her knees. Her heart kicked in so hard she felt the vibration clear to her boots.

She no longer cared who Buck and his partner worked for. Somehow, she had to stop them.

Buck flitted a glance in her direction. “Walk over there and get his gun,” he said, waggling the business end of his six-shooter in Rane’s direction. “Bring it here to me.”

Angel didn’t move. “What do you intend to do with him?”

Buck bridled, as if the question surprised him. “Well, what would you
like
fer me to do?”

“Let him go.”

Buck plastered a frown on his unpleasant mug. “That might not be too healthy.”

Arch cackled again.

“Shut the hell up!” Buck snapped. He gnashed his big teeth. “I swear to God, Arch, that laugh of yourn would peel the hide off a wooden Injun.” He motioned with the pistol once more. “Go on. Get his gun.”

Moving with deliberate slowness, Angel turned and stepped directly between Rane and the two pistols aimed at his chest. She doubted Buck and his crony would risk a shot while she stood in the line of fire. After all, she wouldn’t be worth much to them dead.

Even so, knowing where their guns now aimed, her back muscles knotted with tension.

The transformation she saw in Rane sent icy shivers racing up and down her spine. The wind played with a sable strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. The elflock gently lifted, moved, a soft contrast against his features that now looked as though they had been sculpted from cold stone.

The absence of expression in his eyes ran her blood cold. They had gone flat and black, until no spark of warmth or emotion remained. The eyes of a deadly predator. Just as they had looked the first time she’d seen him.

Beneath his bronzed skin, a blue vein pulsed at his temple. She looked closely at his uplifted hands, trying to detect if they trembled, if the angry pounding of his blood set up a vibration.

They were as steady as a dead man’s.

He had the ability to mask his anger and control it. She’d never known anyone with such iron discipline. Would it give him the needed edge?

She halted before him, mere inches away. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

“What’s the holdup?” Buck demanded.

Rane didn’t move so much as an eyelash. Looking beyond her shoulder, he kept watching the two men behind her. “Don’t touch my gun,” he said softly.

“What should I do?”

“Start walking. Walk away from me, but don’t get behind me. If this goes badly, take the horses and make a run for it. Ride straight south, you’ll find the stage road.”

“No more talkin’ over there,” Buck yelled. “Get his gun and get the hell over here!”

“I have a score to settle first,” Angel called over her shoulder.

With that, she reached up and clutched the front of his shirt, wrapping it in her fist until it threatened to rip. Rane dared a fleeting glance at her face and found her blue eyes luminous with unshed tears. She was trembling, frightened, her breath heaving in and out of her chest in quick pants. Then she seemed to draw herself up and said, “Damn you! Don’t you dare let them kill you!”

“Go,” he ordered.

She released him and stepped aside. Rane listened to the sound of her footsteps, retreating, slow at first, then faster and faster, crunching on the gravelly sand.

“Hey, what the hell! Come back here!” Buck yelled.

Both men watched her, puzzled, and looked like they might run after her at any second. And it was just the distraction Rane had hoped for. He held his breath and waited for their reaction. He was gambling with her life that the bastards wouldn’t shoot her. They wanted her for the bounty. But if he was wrong...

He dropped his hands. “Buck!”

Buck turned, bringing his gun in line for the shot. His face twisted, bracing for the repercussion.

Rane snaked the Colt from his holster and fired.

A dark spot appeared on Buck’s forehead, snapping his head back. He dropped straight down on the rockslide like a hewn tree.

Arch was backing up the slope, slipping, shooting wild as he went.

A slap against Rane’s shoulder nearly spun him off balance. Hot wetness spurted across the left side of his face. He righted quickly and fired a second shot and a third with sixteen inches of flame igniting from the end of his gun barrel.

Arch clapped a hand over his chest and dropped to his knees. He hung there for seconds, reeling, then fell to his side on the rocky slide.

Echoes of gunshots rolled across the land like reverberating thunder. Then, there was silence and all that remained was the acrid stench of burnt powder. Rane had fired three shots, all in a space of five seconds.

“You all right?” He called out the question to Angel without taking his eyes from Arch’s prone body.

“Yes.”

She was safe. Still on guard, he approached Arch, walking right past Buck without a glance. The man had a bullet hole in his forehead and posed no further threat.

Crouching at Arch’s side, he pulled the man’s hand from his chest. A plate-sized splotch of blood had bloomed on the front of his shirt. Rane placed his fingers against his throat, feeling for a pulse, and found none.

He stood, resigned, and shoved the Peacemaker down into his holster.

Angel waited in the distance, clutching her arms against her stomach. He motioned her forward and stepped out to meet her halfway. Only then did he allow himself to let down his guard, to feel again.

He ran his tongue across his lower lip and tasted the coppery taint of blood. His blood. White-hot talons dug into his shoulder with each movement. He clamped his teeth, fighting nausea. He’d been shot.

****

Angel knelt in the cool mud at the edge of the waterhole and dipped up handfuls, splashing her feverish face with the blessed wetness. She hung there a moment and stared at her rippled reflection, at the image of a woman who seemed a stranger, and clenched her trembling hands into fists against her thighs.

God, help me. I can’t do this.

Behind her, Rane rummaged through the saddle packs slung across the backs of the horses that had belonged to Buck and Arch. Using his right hand, while his left hung useless at his side, he discarded one item after another, as if he searched for something in particular.

“¡Salud!”

Evidently, he’d found it. Angel looked over her shoulder. A whiskey bottle dangled from his hand. He moved away from the horses, found a spot next to a fallen slab of stone and eased to a sitting position on the ground.

Angel sat back, away from the lapping water, and picked up the white petticoat she’d worn on the stage. He’d kept it. For the past two days it had been stuffed inside his saddlebag. She ran her hand over the fine linen, wrinkled now, and remembered the day she’d stepped onto the train platform in New York. An educated society belle. It seemed long ago. Tears welled in her eyes as she gripped the garment between her hands and ripped.

Gunfighter. The epithet repeated, over and over, in her mind. Except for the wound on his body, the events of less than an hour ago—the fact that he’d killed two men—had left no outward mark.

He’s used to it. It has no meaning to him.

She still marveled at the feat she’d witnessed on the far side of the ridge. His blurring speed and deadly aim. The daring deeds of quick-draw artists such as Billy the Kid and Wild Bill Hickok had gained popularity in the dime novels back east in recent months. Out of curiosity, she’d read a few of them. The books all made the gunplay sound very noble and romantic. But she’d just seen the harsh reality.

The memory of his caress plagued her. How could the touch of his hands thrill her so when they were capable of ending a life with such dispassion?

“You ready?” he called.

Angel swiped at the tears brimming on her eyelashes and gathered the torn strips of linen in her arms. She stood and turned, and nearly stumbled back into the pool. He had removed his shirt and tossed it over the stone he used as a backrest. Dark blood smeared his chest and oozed bright red from the wound high on his left side.

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

His dark, pain-filled eyes bored into her. “You’re a strong woman, Angel. Don’t go soft on me now.”

No, she wouldn’t go soft. She was still a long way from home. And God only knew what she might have to endure before she got there. Shoving aside her instinctive revulsion, she crossed the distance and knelt beside him on the sand.