Outlaw (12 page)

She couldn't know how her touch affected
him, couldn't know how long it had been since he'd known a woman's
care. And he shouldn't want it. He knew better, had every reason to
distrust it, and yet...the warmth of her skin against his felt too
good to refuse.

"Oh, Mason!" Amelia whispered. "I didn't
know." She slipped her thumb beneath the binding, lifting it away
from his skin for a closer look.

For a moment he was content to simply let
himself watch her, taking in the smooth, straight line of her nose,
the delicate arch of her eyebrows, the graceful curve of her temple
and cheek. For once, she was too absorbed in what she was doing to
scrutinize Mason's every move. He could watch her freely, and
did.

Her hair looked soft as chick's down,
curving in ringlets to her shoulders. Without her fancy, fussy pink
dress, Mason realized, Amelia looked younger than before. Fresher.
Prettier.

He longed to trace the freckles that dusted
the top of her nose and cheeks, to cup her face in his hands and
smooth away the worry that made her look so solemn. He could scarce
believe it. A woman like her, worried over someone like him?

It was more than he deserved.

If he'd been a man for sighs and regrets,
Mason would have said Amelia O'Malley was his penance; that after
losing Ellen, there was nothing more for him to hope for. But
thoughts like that were for poets—or poet bandits—and he was
neither one.

Oh, Twirly Curls believed he was, and Mason
meant to let her go right on believing it. For now, it was safer
than revealing who he really was.

By the time the lie wasn't needed—by the
time he regained what the Sharpe brothers had stolen from him—Amy
would be gone from his life.

"They can't do this to you," she said, still
staring at the chains that bound him. A tear gathered at the corner
of her eye and traveled down her cheek. A moment later Mason felt
it fall onto his bare wrist, warm and wet and almost faint enough
to believe he'd only imagined it. Just like he'd imagined a woman
could care for him again, after all he'd done.

He wrenched his hands away, wincing as the
motion made the bindings rub against his abraded flesh. "It doesn't
matter."

"But I—"

"I found your key," he said, overriding her
protests, "on the mountain that night, and kept it for safekeeping.
I meant to give it to you before."

"Mason, you're hurt! I—"

"I can't give it to you now," Mason went on
doggedly. That wasn't gratitude he felt at her concern for him, it
wasn't. The last damn thing he needed was another woman depending
on him. Yet he'd called her to him. He didn't know what the hell he
wanted anymore, not since Amelia had sung her way into his life and
turned it upside-down.

"But you can take it." He lifted his chin,
giving her free access to his neck and chest so she could lift away
the gold chain and key. "It's yours."

Amelia stared, first at his wrists and then
at his neck. Her fingers flexed, then her gaze flew to his. "I'm
putting a stop to this."

Turning away, she stepped to the cell bars
and rapped sharply on them. "Guard!"

She yanked her hand away. "Ouch!" Sucking
her bruised knuckles, Amelia looked around for something else to
strike the bars with. There was nothing.

"Curly—"

"Guard!" she tried again, louder this time,
ignoring Mason's protest. Her spine straightened, regal as a
queen's, as she waited for the lone man who'd been assigned their
watch to appear.

Finally he did, entering the room on legs
that seemed too long for his body, carrying a rifle over his
shoulder. His hair fell in filthy reddish waves to his shoulders,
half covering his gaunt, hairless face. Mason doubted the boy had
ever wielded a razor in his life, much less a firearm.

It was his final humiliation. They'd set a
gawky boy to watch over him. Mason wished he could sink straight
into the warm brown adobe brick. Either that, or pound the
daylights out of the damned insolent upstart. Right this minute,
the boy stood grinning at Amelia like a half-wit, lacking only for
his tongue to hang out a little farther to complete his resemblance
to a mongrel dog after a bone.

"Ma'am?" The boy's Adam's-apple bobbled as
he swallowed hard. His gaze seemed glued to Amelia's bosom. He
talked straight to it. "What can I do for you, Miss...uh, Miss
Bandit, ma'am?"

Mason ground his teeth, fighting the urge to
cuff their guard.

"I'll thank you,
boy
, to address me
as Miss O'Malley."

Amelia's voice could've frozen them both to
the spot. Mason sat up straighter, eyeing her with renewed respect.
Curly Top might not know a
mesa
from a mountain, but
maybe—just maybe—he'd underestimated her other useful
qualities.

"S-sorry, Miss O'Malley, ma'am. Ma'am." The
boy thrust his head forward, then down, in an awkward attempt at a
bow. "I—"

"That will do." Amelia's fingers
shook—whether from nervousness or anger or some other emotion,
Mason didn't know. As though to hide that fact, she pressed her
palms together, fingertips splayed in a thoughtful pose. The boy
quit bobbing, and she rewarded him with a faint smile.

"You must never address your superiors so
familiarly," she admonished.
His superiors
? A statement like
that took more grit than Mason had given Twirly Curls credit
for.

"It's impolite," she was saying now.
"Furthermore—"

"I know," the boy interrupted, staring at
the ground as he spoke. "The schoolmarm always used to tell us that
at school. But—"

"Address me directly, and look at me as you
speak," Amelia instructed sharply, moving nearer to the cell bars.
Obediently, the boy raised his head.

"Sorry, Miss O'Malley."

Mason's mouth dropped open. If Curly Top
kept on the way she was, she'd have the boy locking himself into
their cell next.

It wasn't a bad idea.

"This man requires medical attention," said
Amelia, stepping back a few paces to indicate Mason. She
straightened her stance and looked down her nose at the boy.
"Release his bindings at once, and then bring a physician."

The boy shook his head. "We don't have no
physi—physi—no doctor here at the station, ma'am. I mean, Miss
O'Malley, ma'am," he added quickly. "And I can't release him. He's
an outlaw, ma'am! The stationmaster would like to have my hide if I
unlocked that cell."

He backed away, gripping his rifle tighter.
The stock slid across his palm with a squeak, and the weapon's
barrel wavered in the air above his shoulder. He was nervous.
Scared of a woman's scolding.

Mason frowned. This wasn't just any boy
they'd set to guard him—this was a boy too young to shave, too
inexperienced to handle his gun properly, and too afraid to stand
up to a female prisoner. Mason would wager he had no more than
seventeen years in him, if that.

Perfect.

"Then bring me some clean water and cloths,"
Amelia snapped. "I'll not stand by while this man is mistreated. Do
you comprehend me,...?"

"Uh, Jody," the boy supplied, glancing
quickly toward the door. Afraid he'd be discovered talking with the
prisoners? Watching out for the stationmaster?

"Perhaps I should speak with the
stationmaster instead," Amelia said, patience worn thin evident in
her voice.

The boy turned toward her, a guilty flush
coloring his pockmarked cheeks. "Uh, everybody's in the
zaguan
, eatin' dinner. 'Cluding the stationmaster. I—"

"Snap to it, boy!" she commanded, sounding
for all the world like a mean old schoolmarm about to rap his
knuckles with her ruler. "Every second you delay, this man is
suffering."

"But—"

She sighed. "Then bring me the
stationmaster. Interrupt his meal, I don't care. Whatever you
decide, be quick about it."

The boy wavered, visibly torn. A moment
later, he threw up his hands and stomped off, muttering something
beneath his breath. As soon as he'd left the room, Amelia turned to
Mason. Her eyes looked bright, and her hands still trembled, but
her face was well and truly lit with a proud, lopsided smile.

"Don't worry," she told him quietly. "He'll
be back with everything I asked for, you'll see. I'll take care of
you, Mason."

Mason leaned back.
She'd
take care of
him
? He felt like shuddering at the notion. First a child to
guard him, then a woman to take care of him? He had to get out of
that cell before he was reduced to being spoon-fed like a damned
infant.

"What if he brings the stationmaster
instead?" he asked her.

"He won't."

She whirled away before he could see her
expression, leaving Mason more irritable than before. He was
escaping from that cell no matter what he had to do to accomplish
it.

Within minutes the boy returned, clutching a
bundle of white cloths against his chest and a worn key ring in his
fist. He stopped at their cell door, beating the keys against his
thigh. "You sure 'bout this, ma'am? Uh, Miss O'Malley? That's a
dangerous outlaw in there with you."

Mason bared his teeth. The boy retreated a
pace, jangling the keys faster.

"Of course," Amelia snapped, assuming her
schoolmarm's demeanor like a clean-starched coat. "This man hasn't
harmed me, now has he? He needs medical care, and I intend to see
that he receives it." She paused. "Or are you the sort of person
who'd leave another to suffer needlessly?"

Her tone suggested such a man belonged in
the pits of hell—or at least in the Arizona Territory in the
summertime without a canteen of water. Mason suppressed a grin. The
boy didn't.

"No, ma'am." The keys shook as he brought
them close and unlocked the cell door. It creaked forward into the
room, leaving their guard waiting nervously in the opening.

Mason tried to look less threatening. Maybe
a smile? He gritted his teeth.

The boy's mouth dropped open. He didn't move
an inch.

"What's the—" Amelia glanced from the boy to
Mason. "Oh, for heaven's sake! Come in here, boy, and make it
quick."

"He—he's—I think he's growling at me, Miss
O'Malley," the boy protested with a sideways glance at Mason. "I
don't think—"

"He's in pain," Amelia explained, laying her
hand on the boy's forearm to draw him forward. "That's why we must
help him."

At her touch, the boy's mouth went slack.
Gazing at her adoringly, he obediently followed her into the cell.
When he got within a foot of Mason's cot, though, his wits
returned.

"I dunno about this," he protested,
squinting suspiciously down at the cot where Mason waited, tense
beneath his shackles.

"He won't hurt you," she assured him. "I
can't treat him if you don't unlock the bindings."

The boy's head raised sharply. "I ain't
scared of him, ma'am. It's you I'm worried about, Miss
O'Malley."

Mason rolled his eyes.

Amelia patted the boy's sleeve. "I'm sure
you'll watch over me admirably, Jody."

The boy pushed his chest forward. "Yes,
ma'am!"

Mason held up his wrists. A moment later the
boy had unlocked the bindings, then stepped back toward the cell
door. Cool air rushed over Mason's wounds, making them sting. He
knew an instant of gratitude—followed swiftly by regret at what he
was about to do.

Rising from the cot, he grabbed Amelia. He
glimpsed her face, pale and surprised, before he turned her around
and hauled her back against his chest.

"Mason! What are you—"

"Shut up." Using his left arm to hold her
tight in front of him, Mason raised his other arm and wrapped his
fingers around her throat.

"You—" he nodded roughly toward the guard
"—get out of my way."

The boy looked rooted to the spot.

"Are you insane?" Amelia struggled against
him, jabbing her elbow painfully into his belly. "I was trying to
help you! I—"

Mason tightened his fingers against her
throat, just hard enough to make her quit talking. "I said, move!"
he growled at the boy.

"Uh, uh—" The boy glanced around wildly, his
hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. His fingers flexed
only inches from the rifle slung over his shoulder. As though just
then remembering he carried it, the boy's head snapped downward
toward the weapon.

"I could break her neck right now," Mason
said softly.

A smothered cry came from Amelia. He was
glad she couldn't speak. Mason didn't want to know what this
desperate act would cost him.

Abandoning all thoughts of his rifle, the
guard sidled aside, his gaze fastened on Amelia. Mason passed
though the doorway, keeping Curly Top in front of him like a
shield. He'd guessed correctly. A boy like that wouldn't endanger a
woman—and he wouldn't have the first notion how to save her.

"Get inside," he told the guard, nodding
toward their open cell door.

"Uh—uh—" The boy swallowed hard, frowning
indecisively toward Amelia and then Mason.

"And give me your rifle, too."

Resigned, the boy swung his weapon,
stock-first, toward Mason. He shuffled inside the small cell.
"Station master's gonna have my hide for this," he muttered. "He
was wanting that re-ward."

His mournful, worried gaze shifted to Amelia
again. "I—I'm sorry about this, ma'am."

A garbled reply came from Amelia. Mason
slammed the cell door shut and locked it, then glared through the
bars at the boy.

"Never trust a woman," he told him.

Keeping one eye on their guard, Mason paused
beside the squat wooden table outside their cell. He scooped up his
own rifle and left the guard's weapon out of reach, pocketed his
pistol, and shoved his ammunition belt toward Amelia. She slumped
beneath its weight, then straightened, clutching it tight against
her middle.

"Mason, please—"