Nights with the Outlaw (3 page)

Clint balled his fists. His mind went to his mother, and her disastrous second marriage to Nelson Harmon. Nelson had been looking for two things, a hideout and new recruits. He'd gotten both.

Doreena turned to him. “I'm going to be honest, Clint. I need your gun. I need a man who can shoot like you do. You name your price, and I'll find a way to pay you.”

Although his gut reaction was to say yes, he shook his head. “My gun's already hired out.” He'd meant to just say no, but his crazy-acting heart was smothering rational thoughts.

“Oh,” she said calmly. “To whom?”

“A marshal in Missouri.”

“Then why are you in Nebraska?” she asked.

Clint tossed a few answers around in his head, but he had to be honest with her. She deserved that. “I'm an outlaw, Doreena.”

She arched a brow quizzically. “An outlaw who hires his gun out to a marshal? That's a bit contradictory, isn't it?”

The teasing hint in her voice enticed a smile from him, but he swiftly squelched it. Nothing about his situation was humorous. “Part of my early release from prison includes finding two men I used to ride with and bringing them to justice.”

“Oh,” she said solemnly.

The silence grew thick and heavy; the only thing unaffected was the little flicker in the hills. Clint wanted to explain his outlaw ways, but that would be self-justification. There was no excuse for who he was, what he'd done.

“Prison, huh?” she asked, several long minutes later.

“Yes,” he answered, regret practically stitching his throat closed.

“Well,” she said a few minutes later as she stood. “The offer still stands. I want your gun. Outlaw or not.” She stepped off the porch, adding, “Sleep tight. Morning comes early.”

Clint tossed and turned all night. The narrow bed had nothing to do with it; he'd slept on worse—the hard ground included. Shoving aside the blanket when the sun finally peeked through the windows, he flipped around to sit on the edge of the cot and tugged on his boots. He'd leave today, find Martin and Henderson and then head west.

The thought vanished when he pulled open the door. Leaping down the steps in one bound, he caught up with Doreena near the pigpen and grasped the handle of one of the heavy buckets she carried.

“Good morning.” Her smile rivaled the sun.

“Morning,” he answered. “Here, I'll take the other one, too.”

“No, I got it,” she insisted. A couple of steps later, she dumped the contents of her pail between the fence slats. Hogs, snorting and grunting, rushed toward the trough as the slop splattered against the wood.

He dumped his bucket and then followed her back to the barn. The next trip they each carried two buckets. “Where's Tristan?” Clint asked.

“Still sleeping,” she answered, emptying another bucket.

“Shouldn't he be helping with the chores?”

“Yes, but it's more work to fight with him than it is to do the chores.” She waited until he'd dumped both of his pails before turning for the barn again.

Clint bit his tongue. It wasn't his place to tell her how to treat her brother, but it irritated the pants off him that the kid was still sleeping while she hauled bucket after bucket of slop to the hogs. Anyone with her determination deserved help.

“Did you think about my offer?” she asked when they entered the barn again, heading toward the water pump and feed bags where they'd mix up four more buckets of slop.

“I'll stay and help for a short while, but I won't hire on as a gun,” he said before he had a chance to contemplate an answer.

Her obvious disappointment was like a kick to the belly. For a moment his mind went to his mother, and how different things could have been if she'd asked someone else to help out around their place—someone other than Nelson Harmon. Pressure built in his chest. He could afford to dally a few days. Besides, a part of him said Martin and Henderson were nearby.

He set down the buckets. “I'll do some scouting, find out who's camped in the hills.”

“I told you, I've tried. You won't find them.” Distress clouded her eyes.

The urge to ease her burdens pulled at him, tugged his heart in every direction. He stepped forward to lightly grip her upper arms, and was somewhat taken aback by how his fingers and palms tingled at the connection. “I know you have,” he stated, “but I might know a few tricks you don't. I'll find them. I promise.”

Her solemn gaze roamed his face, as if she searched to see if he told the truth or not. A new desire grew in his chest, an urge to fold his arms around her and hold her close. It was odd. He hadn't wanted to hug anyone for years.

He dropped his hands to his sides. “I don't give out promises easily, Doreena, but I will find them and discover what they're up to.” A vow to keep his hands off her should have come next, but his tongue planted itself against the roof of his mouth, refusing to emit those words. Which told him clearly that he should hightail it. Ride as fast and far away from Doreena Buckman and her sea-colored eyes as he could.

Mules couldn't have pulled him away from the smile that appeared on her face. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Looking into the depths of her eyes was like catching a glimpse of paradise—a place he'd thought he'd never see. It was a moment before he could think—move. He touched the tip of her nose with his index finger. “Let's get the rest of these hogs fed.”

The fluttering in Doreena's stomach had raced down her legs, making her quivering knees almost incapable of holding her upright. Clint turned back to the feed bags, and she tried to understand what was happening inside her. As if she didn't have enough going on, her body now decided to act as if it had never encountered a man before. She'd been around men her entire life.
But
, her mind disputed,
never one like Clint
.

Not only was he fine looking, he radiated compassion and a sense of loyalty to his fellow man. She'd thought deep into the night, and a part of her, a large part, didn't believe what he'd told her. He may have done time, but Clint Turnquist wasn't an outlaw.

He caught her staring, and the smile he cracked had her cheeks tingling.

“I can do this. There's no need for you to help.” He hefted two buckets.

She pushed off the wall. “No, I'll help,” she insisted, if for no other reason than to be near him. It was where she felt safest, which was just one of the things that told her he wasn't an outlaw.

Once the chores were completed, she led him to the house, knowing Sarah would have breakfast on the table.

“That pen could use a bit of reinforcement.” He nodded toward the large paddock that had held the herd Joe and Dobbs had driven to the train.

“Pigs are tough on their pens,” she admitted. “Dobbs and Joe will see to it when they return.” For a second she caught a glimpse of a future that had Clint working beside her, building the ranch back into a profitable venture.

He held open the front door for her to enter. The smell of flapjacks and bacon filled the air. Side by side, and with her heart skipping around, she and Clint walked into the kitchen and washed their hands before they took their seats.

Tristan, already consuming the food, pointed his fork at Clint. “You can give me some lessons as soon as we're done eating.”

Doreen bit her lip and stayed silent, wondering how Clint would handle Tristan. Clint lifted a brow. “Oh?”

“Yep. Teach me the trick to shooting that coin.”

“There's no trick,” Clint replied, taking the platter she passed his way. “And lessons can't teach it.”

“Then how'd you learn it?” the youth demanded.

She watched and waited while Clint covered his jacks with syrup. Tristan needed guidance from a man—only heaven knew how hard she'd tried with her brother.

“It takes coordination. Once you have that, it just comes,” Clint said.

“I'm coordinated.” Tristan twirled his fork, as if proving his dexterity.

“Eye-hand coordination.” Clint chewed his food and swallowed before adding. “I'd be willing to teach you that.”

“You would?” Tristan asked.

The same question rolled around in Doreena's head.

“Yep, as soon as breakfast is over.”

Mind ticking over, Doreena kept her gaze on Clint. He glanced her way and winked. The action had her heart thudding.

The meal proceeded with Jeb and Clint talking about repairing the pen, and as soon as their plates were empty, the two headed toward the back door.

Tristan stopped them with a shout. “Hey, what about my lessons?”

“Come on.” Clint waved a hand.

“I'll get my six-shooter,” Tristan said.

“You won't need it,” Clint assured him, already walking through the open doorway.

Doreena carried the dishes to the sink and peered out the window. All three men soon disappeared around the corner of the house. Usually, household chores didn't bother her, but today, knowing Clint was outside and she wasn't, they seemed a nuisance. Less than an hour later, she decided the rest could wait and walked out the back door to where the sounds of hammers echoed.

In awe, she stopped to stare for a moment. Tristan was nailing the boards together alongside Clint and Jeb. Her brother didn't even look her way, but Clint did. A smile pulled on his lips as he set his hammer down and walked across the pen, meeting her near the gate.

“How on earth have you managed that?” She gestured toward her brother.

“Eye-hand coordination. If you can't hit a nail on the head, you'll never shoot a coin out of the air.”

Tristan let out a yelp, and shook one hand, before he started hammering again. Astonished, Doreena pointed a finger at Clint. “You're quite amazing, Clint Turnquist.”

“So are you, Doreena Buckman.”

A rush of warmth flooded her system, and when he winked at her, a tornado set down inside her, stealing the very air she breathed.

He nodded toward Tristan and Jeb. “They have this covered. Do you have time to ride with me to where we saw that light last night?”

A bubble of excitement popped inside her windpipe. “Yeah.” She sucked in air, and repeated more clearly, “Yes, I do.”

He twisted about. “Then let's go.”

Her work dress wasn't the best for riding, but she'd done it before, and once she had the skirt twisted about her legs, they trotted out of the barn.

As the well-worn path out of the yard narrowed, Clint steered his mount left. “Let's go this way.”

“But the light came from over here.” She pointed to the right.

“I know,” he said, “we'll circle around to there.”

She nudged Scout into the tall grass. “This'll be a roundabout way.”

“I know, but whoever's watching will think we aren't headed their way,” he explained.

She studied Clint for several seconds, taking in his confidence. “I bet you've outsmarted a fox or two.”

He shrugged. “It doesn't always work, but I'm counting on it this time.”

“Me, too.” The significance of her agreement filled Doreena. She'd been cautious of people for a long time, but here she was, barely a day after meeting the man, riding across the countryside with him and counting on him to solve her burdening problems. It should be perplexing, but in short, her intuition told her Clint Turnquist was the answer to her prayers. And she believed it.

They rode through the open prairie, side by side, silently, until she asked, “Do you have any family?”

His back stiffened.

She hesitated, but then couldn't stop from continuing, “You said your mother died, but is there anyone else? Siblings? Your father?”

“He died when I was little.” Clint tipped his hat brim, glancing at the horizon before adding, “So it was just the two of us.”

“How'd she die?”

They came upon a cluster of trees that lined the creek, and Clint picked a trail near the underbrush.

Having lived on the ranch her entire life, Doreena knew most every inch of her property, yet, she'd never traveled the creek bed, didn't know exactly how it twisted and curved through the land. “You don't have to tell me. I was just curious,” she added, following in his wake.

At a spot where the trees hung over the water, Clint steered them across the shallow creek and up the bank on the other side. “She had consumption,” he said finally when they rode side by side again.

“My mother, too,” Doreena offered.

Clint glanced her way. She shook her head, not wishing to recall the past, yet it was there and wanted out. “She was sick for so long, a part of me wished it would just end for her.” Fearful he'd think she was callous, she quickly admitted, “I've never told anyone that. It's not something I'm proud of.”

He reached over and laid a hand atop hers. “I know just how you felt. It was the same for me.”

“It was?”

“Yes, it was.” He squeezed her hand. “And a part of me was glad when she died, knowing it was over for her.”

His touch was much more than simple comfort; it held a deep connection she'd never felt before. “Me, too,” she whispered. “Me, too.”

After giving her hand a final squeeze, he let loose and kneed his horse ahead. She followed, pressing her warm and tingling hand to her chest, lost in thought. Had she just confessed her most personal sentiments to a stranger? He didn't
feel
like a stranger. More like a friend she could tell anything to, and not be condemned.

A short time later, after rounding a sharp bend, Clint twisted and held a finger to his lips. The action made her pulse quicken. He eased out of his saddle and gestured for her to do the same. “We'll walk from here,” he whispered, tying the horses to a tree.

“Wh—”

“Shh.” His fingers clasped hers and he pulled her in his wake. The touch sent her blood racing. Bramble brush and taller hardwoods grew close together and cast dark shadows. Their trek was uphill and the rocky ground treacherous at times. Doreena held on to his hand more firmly and depended on his skills more and more as they climbed.

Open land and bright sunshine appeared between the trees when he knelt down, tugging her with him. He touched his lips with a finger again before pointing through the trees. The covertness of their actions heightened her senses and dulled them at the same time. Her gaze didn't follow to where he pointed. It stayed on his lips. They were full, and she wondered what they'd feel like upon hers. What they'd taste like.

A tap on her cheek forced her to turn her head. His arm went around her shoulders, pulling her close to see between the thick branches. Their shoulders pressed together, and her temple touched his cheek.

She sucked in air at the humming inside her.

“Shh,” he whispered again. “Look.”

Far off, in the direction he'd pointed, two men sat beside a small fire. In all the years she'd traversed the land, she'd never seen the little hidden spot. A small overhang created a cave of sorts near the top of the hill. The men were reclined against the rocks, and two barely distinguishable horses were staked in the large grassy area between the hill and the creek.

She turned to Clint. This time he put his finger against her lips and then tapped her ear.

His touch had her heart pounding so hard, it was impossible to hear. The two men conversed casually, but she couldn't decipher words. She held her breath, but not even that helped her hearing. After several minutes, Clint gestured it was time to leave.

He picked their return path as silently and cautiously as he had earlier. “Be very quiet,” he urged almost soundlessly when they returned to their horses.