Outlaw (15 page)

As far as she knew, he'd lost all his
possessions—save those on his back—that day. Yet not a single word
of recrimination had passed his lips, not in the whole time they'd
spent locked up at Maricopa Wells. To look at him now, she'd almost
believe Mason didn't care how much he'd lost—as long as he regained
whatever it was he sought so desperately.

But what was it?

Mason scanned the countryside surrounding
them, then guided the oxen away from the road toward a low,
cactus-dotted hill nearby. He settled the traces loosely in his
hands and rested his elbows on his thighs. Then, as though sensing
her gaze upon him, he turned his face toward Amelia.

His appearance had changed since she'd met
him. Then, his expression had seemed inscrutable to her, his
demeanor wild and frightening. Now, she recognized the pleasure in
the faint upward tilt of his lips, the fierce gladness to be free
in the brightness of his eyes. And she was glad to have helped make
it happen.

Two days spent in their makeshift jail cell
had given Mason the beginnings of a soft brown beard. He'd lost his
hat, too—his hair blew wild in the wind, tossed back starkly from
his face. Seeing it, something loosened within Amelia. She felt a
sense of carelessness, of revelry, such as she'd never known. They
were free. Free! And she'd helped bring it about.

She untied her sunbonnet and flung it into
the wind.

"What's the matter with you?" Mason asked,
staring over his shoulder toward the spot where her sunbonnet had
vanished.

Grinning at him, Amelia set to work removing
her hairpins. One by one, she pinched them from her fingers toward
the desert beyond.

Mason frowned. "You've gone daft," he
announced, aiming another sideways look at her.

She aimed a hairpin at the top of his head,
and missed. Luckily, she still had more ammunition holding the
thick chignon at the back of her head.

They reached the hill, their destination.
His face grim, Mason steered the wagon into a sheltered gully
behind it. Here, desert bushes grew close together in the powerful
sunshine, and birds chattered and flitted amongst them. Clouds high
in the sky divided the light into shafts of shadow and gold. Amelia
aimed her last hairpin toward a pincushion-looking cactus as they
passed through a shadowed spot, then started unwinding her
hair.

"Stop that," Mason ordered.

"No." She dug her fingers into her scalp and
shook her hair free, unmindful of the tangles that would surely
result. The wind lifted the wavy blond strands of her hair like
caressing hands. Amelia felt ringlets stream behind her head,
across her lips, into her eyes, and couldn't stop the smile that
rose to her lips at Mason's astonished expression.

"Amelia—"

He must be worried, to address her by her
given name.

"We made it!" she cried, launching herself
at him. He caught her with a muffled exclamation, and she wrapped
her arms around his neck. "We made it, we made it!"

She felt like laughing aloud. Beneath her,
Mason squirmed. He transferred the traces to a single hand and
called for the oxen to stop. Slowly, the wagon quit jouncing. They
both lurched forward. Amelia buried her face in the warm crook of
his neck and held on.

Mason grabbed her arms and set her away from
him with a suspicious scowl. "What's wrong with you?"

"Are we safe here?"

He cocked his head. "For now," he admitted.
"We're a ways from the road, and hidden behind that hill."

Leaning forward, Mason set the brake and
wrapped the traces around it. Dust motes flickered in a shaft of
light shining on the lever, and without the clamor of the wagon and
team's movement surrounding them, everything seemed hushed in their
hiding place.

Nevertheless Mason frowned, clearly
preparing another argument. "I don't think anybody followed us,
but—"

"But we're safe!" For once, Amelia was the
one to interrupt him. "Safe because of
me
!" She tucked a
hank of errant hair behind her ear, feeling as though her chest
might well explode with the sense of pride she felt.

"I was so scared back there, Mason. I
thought we were going to be captured at any moment. Do you know, my
knees still haven't quit knocking?" He scowled, still not
understanding, she guessed. "I've never been more afraid in my
life, but I—"

"But you did it." He crossed his arms over
his chest, gazing at her with an odd mixture of tolerance and
confusion.

"Yes!" She threw herself toward him again.
This time, her target was his waist. She wrapped her arms as tight
around his middle as she was able, and squeezed. Mason's hands,
hovering someplace over her head, settled lightly on her
shoulders.

"See? I told you I'd take care of you," she
said against his chest. His shirt felt soft and warm against her
cheek, heated by the strong male body beneath it. "Remember? Back
at the jail, I told you I'd take care of you."

She stroked his back, feeling the muscles
there flex and smooth beneath her palm. His hands slid from her
shoulders, moving hesitantly toward her waist. If she'd ever
wondered how a man might hold a woman gone loony, now she knew.
Mason seemed almost afraid to touch her, lest the craziness was
catching.

Amelia sighed, too buoyed by her recent
success to let his suspicions that she was addled bring her spirits
low.

"You know," she confessed, touching her
fingertip to one of his carved horn shirt buttons, then another,
"I've never taken care of anybody before."

Mason grunted. She figured it was a sign of
agreement and went on. "I never even thought I could. I'll admit
it—you're the first person I've ever rescued. But who knows what
I'm capable of?"

If she could pull off a jailbreak and rescue
a desperado, surely she could manage to track down her J.G.
O'Malley & Sons satchels and deliver her book orders to Tucson.
Why, it would be simple compared with what she'd already
accomplished today! She'd never felt more confident in her
life.

His hands stilled. "You—rescued
me
?"

"Well, yes," Amelia replied.

Mason shook his head above her. His reaction
wasn't really all that surprising—what sort of man would just come
right out and admit a woman had rescued him? None, in her
experience. Her father and brothers never would have, not in a
million years. Still, after all she'd been through, Amelia didn't
think her contribution ought to be ignored.

"Twice!" she added.

His chest rumbled with laughter. Indignant,
she pushed away from him and lifted her chin to explain. "Yes,
don't you remember? The first time I saved you was when that
horrible man was shooting at you from the stagecoach—"

"Mmm-hmm," he replied noncommittally,
raising his eyebrows as he waited for her to recount the second
instance of her rescuing him.

His open skepticism was galling.

"And the second time was when I drove us out
of the stage station," she went on.

"Mmm-hmm."

He sounded for all the world like one of her
book customers listening to her sales talk. Bored. He turned on the
seat beside her, lifting his leg and then lowering it on the other
side so he straddled the wood. His hands rested open on his thighs.
She was right in the open vee of his legs.

"Thereby saving us!" Amelia finished, her
gaze straying to his thighs. Feeling her cheeks flush, she looked
upward again. "You can't deny it."

"Ahh," he murmured, nodding. He captured a
wavering strand of her hair, and smoothed it gently over her
shoulder. "I see what you mean."

Suddenly, she had the distinct impression
Mason wasn't listening to her at all. Unsmiling, he delved both his
hands into her unbound hair, stroking his fingers against her
scalp. His eyes closed, affording her an excellent opportunity to
observe him, without his knowledge, as much as she wanted.

Or to re-state her case for having rescued
him.

Except she didn't want to. His hands moved
in her hair, gently tugging the long strands, smoothing them away
from her face and stealing her will to assert her claim at the same
time. The breeze, cooler now, lifted the ends of her hair in
counterpoint, wrapping blond strands around Mason's hands. He
captured them, smiling.

"Even your hair's willful," he murmured,
smoothing the strands in place again.

Willful. The word called to some hidden,
devilish place inside Amelia, secretly thrilling her. Today, now,
she did feel willful. Willful and brave and exhilarated. Together
they'd risked everything to escape...and won.

Mason's thumbs stroked across her temples,
igniting warmth that followed his touch over her ears and down to
the sensitive skin just behind her earlobes. How did he manage to
impart so much sensation with a simple touch? It was all Amelia
could do not to sway toward him, lulled by the mesmerizing feel of
his hands.

He flicked each tiny lobe, teasing them with
the faint pressure of his fingertips. She shivered in response, a
nonsensical reaction if ever she'd had one, but Amelia lacked the
will to consider it further. He stroked her again, and goose bumps
prickled over her bare arms, startling her.

Her breath caught and held. Hearing it,
Mason smiled faintly, then circled her earlobes with his fingertips
once more. Pleasure followed his touch, spiking clear to her
toes.

"Thank you, Amy," he whispered, repeating
the small caress. "Thank you for helping me."

He should have sounded humble, admitting
she'd saved him. She should have rejoiced in the acknowledgement,
having only moments before argued to gain it. But neither of those
things were true. Mason's words had the sound of a wish, not a
concession. And somehow the touch of his hands made Amelia feel
anything but argumentative.

"I want to help you more," she told him, the
idea growing and taking shape within her even as she spoke it
aloud. "I want to help you find—"

"No one can help me," he broke in, shaking
his head against her automatic protest. His fingertip traced the
curve of her ear, making her eyelids flutter closed and all other
thoughts flee. "No more than your touch helps me now. You're
so...my God, so sweet, Amy. Mmmm, so...good."

His words ended on a groan, and his fingers
grew taut in her hair. Alarmed, she looked up at him. Was she
causing him pain somehow, despite all he'd said?

"Mason?" Bravely, Amelia dared to touch his
cheek, then sweep her hand deeper into the thick softness of his
dark hair. His head tilted part way back, exposing the straight,
solid line of his throat. He swallowed hard, like a man mustering
courage for a battle—or a man surrendering to the inevitable.

"Am I hurting you?"

With a choked exclamation, Mason closed the
small distance between them. His hand covered hers, big and
callused, blunt-fingered and strong.

"Hurting me?" His face neared hers, and his
eyes opened. "Only as much as it hurts to know what I'll never
have, Curly Top. Only that."

His eyes glittered, savage with need and
something akin to regret. At the emotions she glimpsed in their
depths, Amelia felt a nearly overpowering urge to run. Run as fast,
and as far, as she could. Whatever was happening between them here
would change her, was already changing her. It felt unknown, and
exciting. It felt inescapable.

"
Run, Amy
," he said roughly, his
voice an uncanny echo to her thoughts. His hands raised to the
sides of her neck, his fingers caressing circles within the wispy
hairs at her nape. "Run, or send me away." His gaze roamed over
her, touching her face, her neck, her eyes...her lips. "I'll go if
you ask."

"Oh, Mason..." Her belly tightened, feeling
as though a thousand butterflies were trapped inside. She became
aware of her heartbeat, thudding with painful slowness against her
breast.

"I...I can't," she said, kneading his hair
in her hand. Its spiky length prickled between her fingers. She
wanted to close her eyes, to scream, to drag him closer. The
warning in his expression stopped her.

"You don't know what you're saying," he
murmured, but he believed her well enough to wrap his arm around
her waist and pull her closer.

Inexplicably, tears stung her eyes. Why
tears, why now? Her emotions felt all jumbled-together, yet
jubilant. Mason's hand flattened hard against her spine as though
he felt it too, as though he could barely keep from crushing her to
him.

"I—I know this feels right," she said,
biting back a moan as his upper arm brushed against the side of her
breast, sending a renewed jolt of pleasure through her. He
shouldn't be touching her this way; it was scandalous, she knew.
And she didn't care.

"Ahhh, Curly Top. Just because it feels good
doesn't make it right."

"It doesn't make it wrong, either," she
insisted. How could something that made her feel so cherished, so
valued, be wrong? She refused to believe it.

Mason's intense, brown-eyed gaze swept over
her face, taking in her features as though they were the most
mesmerizing he'd ever seen.

"Pretty," he murmured, and the single word
made her heart race faster. He smiled, and her heart turned
over.

"...but willful. I was right about you," he
said, stroking her cheek. "You're a danger to a man like me."

His approving look made the damning words
into a compliment. The pressure of his thighs capturing hers made
them into a lie. This was all his doing—not hers. Amelia couldn't
have resisted him if she wanted to. He made her blood feel heated
clear to boiling.

His knee rubbed against her hip; the ball of
his thumb brushed over her lower lip. "I think your madness is
catching," Mason said. "I can't stop touching you."

Amelia quivered. "If this is madness, I've
got it, too," she whispered. "Oh, Mason—what are you doing to me?
I've never felt anything like this, not even when you kissed
me!"