Outlaw (13 page)

His fingers tightened until nothing remained
of her protest but a faint, strangled plea.

"No."

He reached the doorway and glanced outside,
squinting at the bright light after two day's captivity. The yard
looked all-but deserted. With luck, the stables would be the
same.

Still holding Amelia, Mason squinted over
his shoulder at the guard. "You know what I'm wanted for?" he
asked.

Trembling, the boy swallowed hard. He
nodded. "We—we got the wire from Gila Bend this morning," he
said.

Damn. The sheriff had wasted no time—the
Sharpe Brothers' lie had taken root and spread faster than Mason
had expected. Doubtless word of his latest escape would fly
quickly, too. He had to hurry.

"Not stage robbery," Mason said, backing up
with Amelia held tight.

"No." The boy retreated into the cell
corner. "M—murder," he stammered. "Murdering a woman."

Amelia cried out, her body fairly vibrating
with fear against his chest and legs. Now she knew what he was
accused of. That knowledge would cost him her trust and more—but
nothing could be more important than reclaiming his son.

Mason squeezed his arm closer around her
waist, struggling to ignore the part of him that urged him to
release her. He stroked Amelia's neck, feeling her pulse beat wild
beneath his fingertips.

"If anyone follows me," he told the guard.
"I'll kill her."

Another cry from Amelia. Mason couldn't
listen. Tightening his fingers again to keep her from crying out
for help, he stepped into the sunshine and turned his face south,
toward Tucson.

I'm coming, Ben
, he thought.
Hang
on
.

Chapter Eight

Amelia had a confused impression of
cloud-strewn blue sky, muddy adobe walls, and hot air swirling
around them before Mason shoved her up against the outer wall of
the building they'd just left. The back of her head thudded into
the wall, then her whole body pitched forward. Mason's ammunition
belt dropped from her hands.

He caught it seconds before it would've hit
the ground. Still holding it, he pressed his hand into her belly
and loomed over her. Amelia's breath left her. Dimly, she
registered the bite of the prickly textured adobe through her
clothes and the uneven dirt beneath her feet before Mason's body
squashed her harder into the wall. It felt as though he wanted to
push her straight through the wall back into the cell on the other
side.

"Be still," he commanded, his gaze sweeping
down to hold hers. Desperation darkened his eyes and straightened
his mouth into an unforgiving line.

Before she could do so much as nod, the
sound of footsteps reached her, coming from just beyond the
shadowed coolness of the building they leaned against. Only a faint
scuffling against the soil, they sounded loud in the stage
station's noontime stillness. Closer, slowing...then faster.
Finally the sound faded. Amelia sagged—whether with relief or
despair, she couldn't tell.

How could she have misjudged Mason so
sorely? How had she believed he wouldn't hurt her? His hard,
callused palm against her throat proved that belief wrong beyond a
doubt. Worse, she'd brought it all upon herself by tricking the
guard into releasing him. Stupid, stupid...

She had to find a way to make Mason leave
her behind. Anything else was foolhardy. Even prison would surely
be preferable to being abducted by an escaped outlaw—an escaped
outlaw
murderer
.

Mason, a murderer? Amelia's mind recoiled at
the thought, but still their guard's fear-filled admission of
Mason's crime echoed in her mind. Was it true? Had he really killed
a woman?

Her knees quaked. If not for his arm holding
her up, she felt sure she'd have fainted clean away already. No
wonder he hadn't wanted to admit who he really was!

His chin brushed against the top of her head
as he looked around the station, probably seeking the best escape
route. She couldn't tell for certain what he was looking at,
because his shoulder pinned her to the wall, making it impossible
to see much beyond him. Amelia tried to remember what she'd seen of
the stage station when they'd been brought in, but all she could
recall were high, thick walls and a cluster of long, windowless
adobe buildings.

Would anyone come to her aid if she
screamed? All she needed was for Mason to loosen his hold on her
throat just a little bit, and then...

"This way."

He grabbed her arm and dragged her through
the dusty square toward one of the buildings. Just outside it stood
several buckboard wagons, a canvas-covered wagon with a yoke of
oxen, and a single deserted Wells Fargo stagecoach. The passengers
were probably all inside for the noon meal, along with the stage
station hands. Mason couldn't have timed his escape better if he'd
planned it.

Or maybe he had—and used her to accomplish
it.

He peered into each conveyance as they
passed, then doubled back toward the canvas-covered wagon. They
stopped at its rear, then he tossed his rifle and ammunition belt
through the drawstring-tightened opening in the canvas.

"Get in," he said, taking his hand from her
throat to motion toward the steps at the wagon's rear. He gave her
a little shove forward.

Too surprised to move at first, Amelia
hesitated at the back of the wagon. He'd released her! Her throat
felt sore, and a bump was probably growing on the back of her head,
but she was free. She started trembling harder. Should she run, or
simply yell for help?

Run.

She turned, drew a big breath past her
burning throat—and Mason caught her. Grabbing her around the waist,
he growled and hefted her into the air. Amelia shrieked. A second
later, she tumbled into the back of the wagon amidst barrels and
blankets and farm tools.

She could only lay there, stunned and
staring, as he climbed in after her. Only the haziest light
penetrated the thick canvas, but Mason's fearsome expression was
plain even through the gloom. His lips curled back, baring his
teeth, and his eyebrows angled sharply downward. His fists
clenched, closing over empty air, but Amelia would've bet every
last book in her J.G. O'Malley & Sons satchels that he wished
it was her neck laid bare between his hands. She whimpered.

"Another sound from you," he warned in a
harsh whisper, "and it's the last one you make."

She scooted backward, burrowing deeper into
the things piled beneath her in her haste to get away from him. He
didn't pursue her, though. With one last, snarling look, Mason
turned away from her and started rummaging through the things that
filled the wagon bed.

"I'm getting out of here," he said as he
cast aside a patchwork quilt and a barrel of something that rattled
when it moved. "And you're going to help."

Help? Help him, and then likely be killed
for her trouble? Amelia started to say so aloud, but a look from
him silenced her. Suddenly Mason seemed twice as violent as he ever
had. He'd probably break her arm just for fun if she disagreed with
him. And this was the man she'd let kiss her, only a few short days
ago!

Her father and brothers were right—Amelia
Josephine O'Malley did
not
belong in the west, not in any
capacity and certainly not as a book agent. She didn't even have
the first idea where her book satchels were.

Mason thrust a limp bit of calico toward
her. "Put this on."

Automatically, she took it. Beside her,
Mason strapped on his gun belt while she examined the thing he'd
given her. She turned it over in her hands.

A sunbonnet?

"But why would I—"

"Just do it." He lifted his pistol to the
shaft of light shining in through the opening in the canvas, opened
the barrel, and peered inside. Pushing some bullets from his gun
belt into his palm, Mason started to load the ammunition.

When she hesitated, he snapped the loaded
chamber closed and leveled the weapon at her. "I said, put it
on."

"All right!" With trembling fingers, Amelia
raised the worn sunbonnet over her head and smoothed it over her
hair. She ran her fingers down the bonnet's strings, trying to
gather them into a knot beneath her chin. Her hands refused to
cooperate. Clumsily, she dropped the strings and had to start over
again.

Swearing, Mason pocketed his gun, then
pushed her fingers aside and grabbed the ties himself. Amelia
hardly dared breathe while he drew them taut, tugging the bonnet
all the way onto her head. Frowning, he pulled the bonnet's sides
toward her cheeks, then took up the strings again.

Suddenly, he stopped, his gaze centered on
her bare neck. The bonnet strings dangled from his still fingers,
their soft frayed fabric ends brushing against her skin just above
the bodice of her dress. Amelia felt one of them touch the hollow
of her throat. Then, guided by his hands, it slid upward over the
place that ached most from the bruising pressure of Mason's
fingers.

His knuckles caressed her throat, his touch
soft as a warm breeze. "Swollen," he whispered, his voice turned
thick...with sadness?

Their eyes met, just for a moment. In the
dark depths of his she saw regret, and compassion...and an
overriding sense of desperation unlike anything she'd ever
experienced. Whatever was driving Mason, it was something that
mattered intensely to him, something he'd risk his life and soul to
find. And in that moment Amelia knew, beyond all doubt, that he
couldn't have murdered anyone. How could he, when simply bruising a
woman caused him such pain?

Mason closed his eyes briefly, ending their
contact as though it had never begun. When he opened them again,
his gaze was level and sure.

"I'm sorry, Amy," he said.

"Mason, I—"

"There was no other way."

I understand
, she wanted to say.
I
forgive you
. But the sound of masculine voices and shuffling
footsteps outside cut short her words. Shaking his head to warn her
into silence, Mason swiftly gathered up the bonnet strings again
and tied them in a snug bow beneath her chin. That done, he laid
his hand on her upper arm.

"Get up there," he told her, indicating the
front of the wagon with a curt motion of his head. Through the
wider canvas opening there, Amelia just glimpsed the brown-haired
heads and bulky bodies of the oxen team. They shifted restlessly in
their traces, waiting for the wagon's owner to return and set them
on their journey again.

"Up...there?" Amelia shook her head,
resisting the slight pressure of Mason's hand against the small of
her back.

"Keep your bonnet pulled forward to hide
your face and drive straight out of here," he said. "If they see
me, we'll never make it. You have to do it."

"No! No, Mason—I've never driven a team of
oxen! I've never even driven a wagon before," Amelia protested in a
frantic whisper. At the thought her heart beat faster, making her
feel half-swooney. "I can't do it! My brothers wouldn't even let me
drive their phaetons, and they were half the size of this. I—"

He caught her chin in his hand and turned
her to face him.

"You can do it."

Mutely, Amelia shook her head. She'd kill
them both! If those two beasts took it into their animal heads to
run away with the wagon, she'd never, never be able to stop them.
Didn't Mason understand that? Wide-eyed, she stared back at
him.

He met her gaze unflinchingly. Mason
understood what he was asking of her—and he meant to get it.
Tenderly he brushed his thumb along her jaw, a silent demand that
she listen—and accede to him.

"Please," he said. "I need your help."

A masculine voice rang out from the other
side of the canvas, then more voices joined his. It sounded as
though they came from one direction—the stage station, most likely.
The afternoon meal must be finished.

She clenched her fists, meeting Mason's gaze
again. "If I kill us both with this fool plan of yours," she
whispered, "don't say I didn't warn you."

Mason's smile flashed at her, briefly
lighting all the murky depths of the wagon. "If you do kill the
pair of us, I doubt I'll have much to say about it from six feet
under."

"I can't believe you'd joke about this!"

"Just go. Past these walls and a few miles
south, and we're safe. I'll take over from there."

"All right." If he'd take over later, she
could find the courage to get them started.

It took less time than Amelia expected to
climb through the jumbled supplies piled inside the wagon bed, then
lower herself onto the plank seat supplied for the driver. There,
sunshine beat relentlessly, hard enough to have turned the seat
gray and splintered. The heat, combined with a good dose of plain,
bullhead fear, made perspiration trickle between Amelia's shoulder
blades, dampening the back of her borrowed dress.

Tugging her sunbonnet forward, she examined
the wagon's fittings as nonchalantly as she was able. No one would
guess she didn't belong with the rig, she vowed—at least not from
her demeanor.

Something nudged her side. "Put these
on."

Amelia glanced down to see Mason's hand tuck
something between her elbow and waist, where she could grab it
easily. A pair of men's leather work gloves. She pulled out the
stiff, mud-splotched gloves and put them on, grateful for the extra
layer of protection and camouflage. Having the correct
accouterments could only make her disguise more believable, she
reasoned.

"It's not a garden party!" Mason hissed from
behind her. "Get moving."

She realized she'd been staring at the
gloves while she contemplated their escape plan, and stopped.
Lowering her head, Amelia listened to the rest of Mason's
instructions. Doubtless he was better equipped to deal with such
things as subterfuge and jail breaks than she was.