Outlaw (16 page)

Around them the wind's momentum increased,
swirling her skirts and her hair, its turbulence echoing the
wildness of her feelings. The air felt heavy, suddenly moist with
impending rain.

Wordlessly Mason smiled and leaned forward.
She felt his beard soft against her jaw, then the warmth of his
mouth took his hand's place at her earlobe.

"I feel it, too," he said, his lips moving
against the soft outer arch of her ear. "It's
your
doing,
Amy."

She gasped as the tip of his tongue tickled
her ear, then retreated. He moaned, low in his throat, and the
sound vibrated against her neck. "I suppose next you'll want a
reward. And I won't be able to say no."

The sun slipped behind a cloud, sending
shadows and a deepening coolness around them. Compared with the
wind, Mason's body felt twice as hot beside her. The fresh scent of
rainfall nearby mixed with the pungency of sagebrush and soil.
Dimly, Amelia realized a storm was gathering.

"Re...reward?" she whispered, not caring at
that moment if the wind rushed down and swept them up where they
sat, if only Mason would stay with her.

"For rescuing me."

Mason kissed her earlobe, then the curve of
her jaw. Pleasure swept from the places his lips touched, swirling
in a hot current that made her clench fistfuls of his shirt for
support. Dizziness threatened to swamp her, but it was sweet, so
sweet.

"What you did took courage—" he trailed more
kisses along her jaw, nearer and nearer to her lips "—more courage
than I gave you credit for."

Amelia shook her head. "I drove the oxen in
circles, I almost k—killed the wash women, and that station hand
nearly c—caught us," she protested.

Oh, but his lips felt good! It was hard to
speak with him kissing her throat like that. Her voice sounded
breathless and husky, even to her own ears. "I—I was scared the
whole time."

Mason's hands flatted along her cheeks,
tilting her face upward. "The fear is what makes it
courageous."

His mouth covered hers, sending a shudder of
pleasure through her. His lips slid along hers, warm and inviting,
and it felt as though every ounce of sensation in her body was
centered in the union of their mouths. Breathlessly, Amelia curved
her hand along Mason's neck and held on. His need, his urgency,
buffeted her...and thrilled her.

Courageous...she'd never done anything more
courageous than return Mason's kiss. Tentatively she touched her
lips to his again. His low groan was her reward. His arms tightened
around her, holding her ever closer, crushing her breasts against
his chest.

Her senses reeled with the leathery, musky
scent of man, with the vibrant feel of his hard-muscled body
beneath her fingertips. Gently his tongue stroked hers, softly and
then with mounting intensity as they became caught up in the
kiss.

So this was what all the fuss what about,
Amelia thought disjointedly. No wonder poets wrote of true love; no
wonder people were said to die of a broken heart. At that moment,
she understood everything. One taste of this could never, never be
enough. Despite everything that separated them, at that moment she
knew the truth.

She was falling in love with Mason.

Smiling, filled with wonder at the
realization, Amelia eased him down to meet her again. He closed his
eyes and trembled beneath her palms. His kiss was giddy pleasure
she knew she'd never get her fill of. Bliss.

Mason's hands moved to her waist, cradling
her. His thumbs caressed her, skimming lightly over her ribs,
arousing more sensation there. His knuckles grazed the underside of
her bosom, and beneath her dress and chemise Amelia felt her
nipples pucker with thrilling sensitivity. Her plain borrowed
chemise suddenly felt two sizes too small.

He smiled at her, and the tenderness in his
gaze was nearly her undoing. She had to tell him how she felt.

"Mason, I think I'm falling in lo—"

A raindrop plopped onto her head; another
landed on her cheek, followed quickly by a third.

"What?" She raised her open palms skyward,
frowning, momentarily distracted from her declaration by the
surprise of rain on a mostly sunny afternoon.

Another fat drop fell onto her bare
collarbone and traveled downward toward the neckline of her dress.
Mason followed its progress with his fingertip, a rakish grin
lighting his face. Amelia felt his warm, callused fingertip trace a
wet trail an inch below her blue-checked neckline, and nearly
forgot what she'd been about to tell him.

She stopped his finger and held it tight in
her fist. How else to tell him such important news? If he kept on
the way he was, she wouldn't have a thought in her head aside from
the wicked ones already there.

She took a deep breath. "Mason, I lo—"

More rain fell, harder now, battering atop
the wagon's canvas cover. Suddenly, it became a downpour. Amelia
could barely see for the rainwater coming down on them. The sky had
darkened so much that the hillside looked muddy and indistinct
beside the wagon.

She swiped at her eyes, then, without
thinking, tried to shake the water from her fingers. Mason
laughed.

"You won't be able to shake your hands dry
in this," he said, shielding his head from the downpour. Somewhere
nearby, thunder boomed—followed by a bright white flash of
lightning. He grabbed her hand, nodding toward the covered rear of
the wagon. "Get back there. We've got to get to higher ground."

"But—"

"Go." Typically, he didn't give her a chance
to explain. A final nod toward the wagon bed, then Mason bent to
unwind the traces and get the oxen in motion.

Her declaration would have to wait for a
better time. Sighing, Amelia climbed obediently behind the driver's
bench into the wagon bed. The wagon lurched forward a few inches,
headed around the incline beside them. Rain pattered on the canvas
cover, gaining intensity with each passing minute.

Just as she'd almost cleared a place to sit
amidst the supplies, the wagon slid backward, pitching her hard
onto a barrel. The wind seemed to change directions, sending new
torrents of rain into the wagon.

This wasn't one of the gentle spring showers
Amelia was used to back home in the States. This was a full-fledged
storm—and the middle of a gully was probably the worst place for
them to be.

Mason swore, flinging rainwater backwards
from his sodden shirt as the worked the traces, trying to urge the
animals forward again. At this pace, they'd end up further down the
hill than they'd begun.

"Are Arizona Territory storms always like
this?" Amelia shouted from beneath the canvas.

"Yes," he called back through gritted
teeth.

Water sloshed against the wagon wheels,
splattering muddy liquid onto the bench beside him. She stared at
the gritty brown spots it left behind, beginning to feel afraid for
the first time. What if the gully filled with rainwater? What if it
just kept on raining?

"Let me help," she said, shouting to be
heard over the increased noise of the rain.

"No! Get back."

He rose and wrapped the traces around the
mud-splashed bench, leaving as much slack in the lines as he could
without letting them droop behind the animals. Turning, Mason
leaned into the covered part of the wagon, bracing both big hands
on the edge. Water dripped from his hair, his nose, his
chin...every stitch of clothing he had on had been soaked in mere
minutes.

He grabbed her arm, moving his face close to
hers. Between the gloom beneath the canvas and the darkening,
storm-clouded sky, Amelia could barely see him.

"I'm going out to lead them up the hill," he
said, breathing heavily from the exertion of controlling the oxen.
"Stay here and hang on."

"No! Mason, you can't—"

But he was already gone.

Chapter Ten

Outside the wagon stinging rain drove hard
at Mason, drenching his clothes, his hair, his face. His shirt and
pants stuck to his skin, but somehow water still managed to drip
beneath his collar and run cold down his spine.

Stream tendrils curled from his body and
were whipped away instantly. The wind buffeted the rain in wet gray
sheets, making it damn near impossible to see where he was going.
Swearing, he ducked his head and pushed onward against it. At least
the rain might wipe out their tracks, making it harder for anyone
from Maricopa Wells to follow their trail.

Just ahead, the oxen kept their heads low,
too. Their huge bulky bodies dripped rainwater into the
fast-growing puddles beneath their hooves. When he reached them,
the sharp smell of wet animal hair was almost enough to make him
retch. Ignoring it, Mason grabbed the end of the wooden yoke
nearest him and urged the oxen forward.

They moved a few feet, their hooves slipping
in the thick brown mud. They snorted and blew, straining to pull
the wagon around the side of the hill to higher ground. The
arroyo
they'd stopped beside was the worst possible place to
be in a storm like this one. If the rain kept up like it was, he
knew, the dry stream bed would fill and overflow with lightning
speed. Men and animals had been killed trying to cross the
deceptively shallow-looking water. Mason didn't intend for he and
Curly Top to be among them.

He squinted through the rain toward the
arroyo
, only a few feet ahead. Already dirty brown water
rushed past, swirling with dead mesquite branches and tumbleweeds.
The parched desert ground couldn't absorb the onslaught; the water
level rose even as they neared it. Hoping the wagon bed—whoever it
belonged to—was watertight and the oxen were strong enough, he
pressed forward. He had to cross now, else wait behind it until the
storm had passed and risk being trapped there.

He reached the swift-flowing water and waded
in. Even though he'd expected it, the force of its icy current took
his breath away. The team pulled mightily, muscles working in
unison. Giving thanks for dumb strong beasts, Mason gritted his
teeth and started forward beside them.

His feet sunk ankle-deep in
arroyo
-bottom muck; it sucked at his boots as he slogged
forward. The filthy water seethed and eddied, nearly knee-high,
trying to drag him downstream with the current. The first pair of
wagon wheels rolled into the water, making the wagon slump and
sink. The oxen faltered, stopped by the dead weight of the partly
stuck wagon.

"Hah!" Mason screamed, desperate for them to
move. Move to the other side, dammit! Slowly, they pulled the wagon
over the
arroyo
. The wheels slurped free of the muck and
spewed water as they rolled faster.

The rain drove harder, making the whole
world sound liquid. It beat against the canvas wagon cover like
Indian war drums and pattered through the thin-leafed plants
nearby. He should've anticipated a monsoon rain, should've made
accommodations for it.

It wasn't his brain that had been making
decisions for them, Mason knew, and cursed himself for it. He'd put
his woman and himself both in danger, and risked finding his son,
to boot. Regret ate at his gut. Was he doomed to endanger everyone
around him?

His feet hit the stream bank. Slipping,
grabbing the yoke for balance, Mason climbed up the edge. They were
going to make it. The rear wagon wheels struck the muddy bank,
slid, then jerked forward. Their iron cladding was obliterated by
muck; more mud churned beneath as they spun, seeking purchase.

He swiped the water from his eyes and looked
toward Curly Top. He had to let her know everything would be all
right. Peering through the rain toward the front of the wagon,
Mason scanned the front and both sides.

Amy wasn't there.

She had to be. With a parting slap on the
nearest ox's shoulder, he left them to haul the wagon higher on the
arroyo
bank and turned back. Still nothing. Had she climbed
further into the back of the wagon? With the sun disappeared behind
the swollen black clouds, it was hard to see within.

A flash of movement just downstream caught
his eye. A garbled sound got his feet working before Mason was sure
what he was running to.

Amy. Floundering in the midst of the rushing
arroyo
, trying to get to her feet. She was a blur amidst the
rainfall. Her arms windmilled against the storm, lashing into the
flowing water as she tried to catch her balance. Mason remembered
the mud sucking him hard into the stream bed, and ran faster.

His foot struck a wet prickly pear cactus.
He fell to his knees, felt the long sharp spines pierce his soaked
pants clean through to his right knee and thigh, and pushed himself
upward again. The spines worked deeper into his flesh as he ran,
hot needles sending pain through his leg. Another abortive cry came
from Amelia, only a wagon's-length away now.

He spied her, on her knees in the water.
What in the hell was she doing out in the
arroyo
when he'd
told her to stay in the wagon? Her unbound hair was plastered to
her head and neck, her face white beneath a smudged coating of mud.
Rain beat upon her, making her next cry sound choked. Coughing, she
lunged toward a passing tree branch—and missed.

"Mason!" she cried. "Mason!"

His heart seized like a fist in his chest.
He knew she hadn't seen him yet, hadn't even looked his way, yet
Amy had called for him to help her.
Believed
he could help
her.

Something else swirled past, a dark lumpy
shape in the water. She surged toward it, lugged it closer...and
screamed. Hysterically, she beat at the water, trying to make
whatever it was flow downstream. Unbalanced by the effort, she
flailed sideways. The current knocked her shoulder-first into the
water.

Mason reached the water's edge just as
Amelia came up sputtering. The thing she'd grabbed—a dead coyote,
he saw now—flowed over a half-submerged clump of barrel cactus and
disappeared.