Outlaw (21 page)

He stepped backward and snatched his hat
from her hand. "Let's get it over with then."

Twenty minutes later, Mason sat on a rock
beside their covered wagon. Amy, shears and comb taken from the
wagon in hand, circled him. Finally she stopped, her eyes narrowed
in concentration.

"At this rate you won't get done 'til
midnight," he grumbled, looking up at her, feeling exposed and
foolish under her eagle-eyed scrutiny.

"Hush," she said, smiling. "I'm making a
decision. You're just afraid I'll cut crooked and make you look all
funny."

He snorted. "Nothing could make me look
funny."

"Want to bet?"

She moved closer, coming to stand between
his legs where she could reach his head better, and raised the
comb.

Mason's hand clamped onto her wrist. "Just
make sure it's longer than my whiskers were yesterday," he
ordered.

Amy nodded. "Yes, sir," she said, giving him
a mock salute with the comb. "Anything else?"

Don't stand so close
, he thought. But
that was idiotic—she had to be close to him to cut his hair. He'd
just have to ignore the inviting sway of her breasts practically in
his face, the womanly curve of her hip near his hand, the warm
softness of her skin, only inches away.

This haircut was going to kill him.

"No, nothing else," Mason said, gritting his
teeth. He clenched his hands over his knees, his arms
arrow-straight. "Go ahead and do it."

"This won't hurt a bit," Amy said as she
leaned closer. Her fingers delved into his hair, dug into his
scalp, massaged. He felt the comb slide along the top of his head
as she made a part, then the comb's hard tortoiseshell teeth swept
his hair away from his face.

Her fingertips moved across his head with
gentle, deliberate precision, deftly arranging his hair to suit
her. Mason wanted to close his eyes, to surrender to her care, to
let himself enjoy the feel of her hands on him. Instead, he grit
his teeth harder. What kind of man was he, to be moved by a touch
as simple as this?

Sighing, Amy paused and lowered her palms to
his shoulders. The movement made her breasts sway gently, right at
eye-level. The poorly fit bodice of her latest borrowed dress gaped
open slightly, revealing the smooth hollow between her breasts,
hinting at the round, sensitive softness beneath her dress.

Closing his eyes briefly, Mason tried to
think of something, anything, except how much he wanted to fill his
hands with her softness. Anything except how much he wanted to undo
each of those tiny pearl buttons, to see her bared before him. His
blood raced, pulsing with heat.

He swallowed hard and turned his head away,
feeling his self-control retreat further with every moment that
passed. How long did a damn haircut take, anyway? How much longer
was he supposed to endure this?

Dimly, he became aware that Amy had stopped
combing. She frowned down at him, the long scissors blades resting
casually on her shoulder.

"I really can do this, Mason. Please relax.
You're stiff as a board."

He grunted and clamped his hands tighter
onto his knees. Part of him was stiff as a board, and it sure as
hell wasn't his hair.

Pursing her lips, Amy moved from between his
legs to stand behind him. Her skirts trailed over his knee, leaving
behind the scent of soap and flowers and woman. She started combing
again, her hands sliding and tugging slowly through the hair at the
back of his head. Wisps of cut hair drifted down, gathering at his
feet. Mason shifted atop his rock, trying for a more comfortable
position.

Only one comfortable position came to mind.
Him, pulling Curly Top down with him on that rock. Touching her the
way he longed to do, making her
need
the way he needed now.
Thrusting into her sweetness until they were both spent and
breathless. Making love to her, haircut be damned.

Hell. Mason stared blankly toward a cholla
bush in the distance, waiting for his head to clear. Behind him,
Amy still stroked and combed, oblivious to all he'd been thinking.
The snick-snick of the scissors sounded in his ear as she worked,
underlaid by the low-pitched melody of the song she was
humming.

She was innocent. Inexperienced. And she was
leaving him behind as soon as they reached Tucson.

He was a wanted man. An outlaw without a
future. And she'd be better off without him.

Mason still wanted her.

He cleared his throat. "Almost done?"

She laughed. "I've just gotten started! You
do want it to look nice, don't you? That takes a little time."

More time than Mason had, if the state he
was in now was any indication. His pants felt two sizes too small.
He squirmed atop the rock, trying in vain to relieve some of the
pressure.

Amy snipped a bit more, then stopped.
Resting her forearms on his shoulders, she leaned over him from
behind to get a glimpse of his face. Her hair swept across his
cheek, followed closely by the warm fullness of her breast against
the top of his shoulder. Mason groaned.

"Why, Mason, I swear a person would think
I'm torturing you, the way you're behaving!" she said, staring at
him curiously.

Torturing him
. Curly Top couldn't
possibly know how right she was. It might've been enough to make
him laugh, except for the desire that kept him nearly rigid with
the effort of keeping it in check.

Instead Mason stared straight ahead. "I'm
fine."

A muscle in his jaw ticked with fatigue,
worn out from keeping his teeth clenched. Opening his mouth wide,
he stretched his jaw to relieve the tension, then clamped it shut
again.

"No, you're not." Amy's brows furrowed. "You
think I can't do this, don't you?" she asked, her voice
quavering.

"No."

"It's true! Do you think I haven't noticed
you scooting away from the scissors every time I come near?"

He was too dumbstruck at the depth of her
misreckoning to say anything more at first, and so she just went
right on talking. Each carefully pronounced syllable was like a
knife, carving the hurt she felt deeper into Mason.

"Do you think I haven't seen you making
those pain-filled faces when you think I'm not looking?" she asked,
waving the scissors. "That I haven't seen—"

"Curly Top, no. I—" How could he tell her
the truth? Tell her how he wanted her, wanted to make love to her,
wanted to keep her with him and make her his own—despite his better
judgment?

He couldn't. He never spoken such things
aloud in his life, not to any woman. And even if he could have, it
was plain Amy didn't feel the same yearning, the same need, that he
did. Plain that he'd hurt her without knowing it, and he didn't
know how to set it right.

"It's not your fault," Mason began, groping
for the words to explain away at least part of what she'd so sorely
misunderstood. "It's just that you...that I—"

"I know, I know." She pushed herself upright
again, using his shoulder for leverage. Gripping the scissors
tightly, she leveled him with a look that held more hard-won
knowledge than he'd imagined she'd have reason to keep. It sent her
hurt twisting straight into his soul, gave him a glimpse of her
life before. Mason didn't like what he saw.

"I can't help being the way I am," she told
him, the words sounding oft-repeated. "It's not my fault you don't
have faith in me. Isn't that what you were going to say?"

She started combing again, snipping faster
this time. Hearing tears in her voice, Mason started to turn his
head to tell her she was wrong. Her hands clamped tight over his
ears, holding him still with a strength he never would've guessed
Curly Top possessed.

"I've heard it before," Amy said. "You don't
have to tell me again."

Regret choked him. Was it her father who'd
put these notions into her head? Her brothers who'd told her how
they lacked faith in her? Mason wished he could wring all their
damned gentleman necks for hurting her.

If only he were better with words, but all
his explanations only made things worse. He'd never been much for
talking. Until now, he hadn't cared.

"But you agreed to my disguise plan," Amy
went on, combing and cutting with a vengeance, her voice a bit
stronger now, "and I intend to hold you to your word."

She moved in front of him again, then paused
to peer critically at the front of his hair. Her gaze studiously
fixed on the task at hand, Amy lifted a long hank that hung across
his eyebrow and snipped it.

Mason caught her hand and slipped the comb
from it. As it fell into his lap, he twined his fingers with hers
and pulled their joined hands against his chest, forcing her to
look at him.

"I want you to do it."

Flushing, she tried to tug her hand away.
"You don't—"

Mason held fast. "I want you to do it," he
said again. "I believe you'll do a good job."

She stared at him, her eyes blue and wide
and suspicious.

He caressed her hand, felt his heart beating
faster beneath her touch, and added, "Hurry up before I change my
mind and haul you down here for a kiss, instead."

Chapter Fourteen

"You're bluffing," Amelia said, the scissors
going slack in her hand. Of all the things Mason might have said to
her, this was the very last one she'd expected.

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe
he truly had faith in her—or at least in her ability to give him a
decent haircut or cook a palatable meal. More than ever before, it
seemed so important that he find her capable. If only for a little
while, Amelia wanted to feel trusted. Needed.

But could she trust Mason, an outlaw and a
man she'd only known for days—however familiar he seemed to her
now?

He squeezed her hand, making her doubly
aware of the work-roughened strength of his grasp. Mason could pull
her down for a kiss, and would if he took a mind to, she realized.
The proof was there in the cocky angle of his half-shorn head, the
hot glimmer in his eyes, the quickening of his heartbeat beneath
their joined hands.

And she wouldn't be able to stop him.

"Do I look like I'm bluffing?" Mason asked,
stroking his fingers lightly over her knuckles.

The heat of his body seared through his
shirt, warming her far more than the waning sunlight did.

"You—you look like a hungry cat
contemplating a goldfish bowl," Amelia stammered, trying to pull
her hand away again.

He confused her so much! One minute he
looked as though he'd just as soon have left her at the roadside
waiting for the stagecoach that had abandoned her. The next, he
seemed as though she hurt him somehow. And the next, he was
laughing at her. She wished mightily Mason would just make up his
mind how he felt about her and have done with it, once and for
all.

He gave her a lazy smile. "I guess that
makes you the prize goldfish."

"And you the tomcat," she said, feeling her
mood lighten a little. "On the prowl after a poor, defenseless
little creature." She made a tsk-tsk sound, teasing him.

Unsmiling, Mason slid his hand down her
wrist in a slow caress. The subtle friction of his palm over the
tender hollows of her wrist and along the underside of her forearm
set every inch of skin he touched atingle. She stared at his
sun-browned hand, amazed that such sensation could be engendered by
so simple a touch.

To her surprise, he released her hand. But
his attention remained solely, compellingly, on her. Slowly his
gaze roved over her hair, her dress, her body, and finally came to
rest on her face.

It was, she realized, another caress. Amelia
wanted to gasp at the intimacy, the heat, of it. Her belly
tightened with anticipation and her knees felt quivery, just
standing there. Even though Mason hadn't so much as leaned toward
her, the look he gave her put Amelia in mind of the times he'd
kissed her.

It made her want him to kiss her again.

Now.

"A beautiful creature, that prized
goldfish," Mason said, his eyes never leaving hers. His lips
quirked upward, just faintly, leaving no doubt what he meant by his
words. "Not defenseless at all."

"Oh?" she asked, trying to sound more casual
than she felt standing there between his legs, close enough to feel
his body heat warm her skirts.

Suddenly she had a greater understanding of
how that goldfish might feel beneath a tomcat's patient, predatory
scrutiny.

Afraid her trembling hands might betray her
feelings, Amelia folded her arms tightly across her chest, letting
the scissors poke out beneath her elbow.

"And what defense, pray tell," she asked,
"does a tiny goldfish have against a tomcat?"

Mason's smile widened. But it was the
yearning in his eyes that made her heart lodge in her throat. She
knew she should move, should get on with her work and retreat from
whatever this was awakening between them. It felt dangerous,
seductive.

And far too compelling to turn away from
unexplored. Amelia could no more step away at that moment than she
could turn the desert green with a simple wave of her hand.

"The goldfish lures that tomcat," he said,
his voice low. "Whether it means to or not."

Mason clamped his hands roughly on his
knees, flexing his fingers as though seeking purchase on something
more ephemeral than flesh and bone.

"He can't help but want something so
tempting."

"Mason...."

He raised his gaze to hers. "Even knowing
it's not his to take."

She couldn't move, couldn't think.
Mason...wanted her? Could that really be what he meant? Stricken,
Amelia could only stare at him at first.

"Mason, I—"

"It's nearly sunset," he broke in, frowning
up at the sky. Straightening his arms again, his spine rigid, Mason
said, "You'd better finish up."