Outlaw (39 page)

"Curly Top—"

"Go," she croaked, "before it's too
late."

Too late. It was already too late. Too far
past a time when they might have been together.

Blindly Mason grabbed her, hauling her into
his arms even as he cursed the fate that had made him an outlaw.
Because of it he was a wanted man. Because of it, he'd become the
worst possible man for a woman like Amy to love.

And the only man forced to return her love
in silence. How could he begin to tell her what was in his heart,
when it could only hurt her more?

He couldn't.

Mason held her closer, and Amy leaned
against him—at least for the moment.

"I never wanted this," he murmured against
her hair, and anguish tore through each bitter word. "Never wanted
to hurt you. That's what it would be if I—"

"No!"

She shook her head, her denial vigorous.
Instantaneous. And, Mason was sure, ill-considered.

"That's what it would be," he went on,
overriding her, "if I forced you into a life on the run. I'm an
outlaw, Amy. I—"

"But we can fix that, Mason!" She raised her
head, gazed up at him with hope bigger than the moon in her eyes.
"I can help. I've thought of little else for days. If we—"

"No."

Her lips pressed together, plainly holding
in a sharp reply. She stared past him, looking over his shoulder as
he went on.

"Life with an outlaw is no life for you,"
Mason said, raising his hand to her cheek. He caressed her, trying
to urge her to meet his eyes. At least then she might know the
truth of his regret.

The truth of his love.

"Mexico isn't—"

Her fingers tightened hard on his shoulder.
Her eyes widened, her face going even paler than it had when Amy
had first seen him behind Ben, and Mason quit talking to look over
his shoulder at whatever it was that had her so upset.

At exactly the same time, a group of men
stepped beyond the
ramada's cantina
over the picket fence
into Levin's Park.

The sheriff and posse. Only a few yards
away—and coming straight for them.

Chapter Twenty-Six

"They're coming this way!" Amelia cried,
digging her fingers into Mason's arm.

Oh, Lord—why this, why now? Hadn't things
already been awful enough, with Mason barely able to look at her?
Every time he had, he'd seemed as though he wanted nothing more
than to run in the opposite direction.

Was he angry at her? Ashamed at having left
her behind? Amelia didn't know—and didn't care. Joy had filled her
at first sight of him. Even though her thoughts were muddled with
the shock of finding Ben, of coming face-to-face with Mason again,
the only thing Amelia wanted was to be with him, wherever and
however she could.

Except Mason was going to Mexico with Ben.
No matter what she said, he wouldn't take her with him. His blunt
refusal to even listen to her had cut Amelia to the quick.

Life with an outlaw is no life for
you
.

How could she argue with that—especially
with the posse nearly close enough to hear their conversation?

Beside her, Ben quit patting her arm to
stare at the sheriff and his men, now clustered beneath a tall
cottonwood at the edge of Levin's Park. His eyes grew big.

"Are they still after you, Pa?" he asked,
looking up at his father. "Why don't you just tell them you didn't
do anything wrong?"

"I can't, son." Mason faced them again, his
expression hard and determined in the moonlight. "Come on."

Catching hold of Amelia with one hand and
Ben with the other, he hauled them at a run toward a bushy mesquite
tree in the distance.

Fear of his capture made Amelia's strides
clumsy. She stumbled over rocks and gullies, and reached the tree
panting with exertion. Mason shoved her and Ben into the dried
leaves and curly mesquite pods beneath it, then crouched at the
edge, watching the posse advance.

"But you always say tell the truth, and you
won't get into trouble," Ben insisted in a small, confused voice.
"That's what you always say, Pa."

"This is different," Mason whispered.

His whole body strained forward, half-hidden
by tree branches, every muscle taut with readiness. Amelia sensed
the hard strength in him, the determination that drove him, and
knew that no matter what, Mason would not give up until he got Ben
to a safer place.

"Now shush," Mason told the boy. "Stay back
there, and don't make a sound."

"All right, Pa."

Amelia put her arm around Ben, drawing his
little, shivering body close. "Are you scared?" she whispered.
"Everything's going to be all right, I'm sure of it."

"I know," he whispered back, big with
bravado. "Nobody can beat my Pa. He's the very meanest of the mean
wildcats."

"I think so, too," she said, realizing it
was excitement that set Ben shivering, not fear. At least that
would be one less trouble for Mason to worry over. Spreading her
fingers amongst the strong-smelling dirt and leaves beneath the
tree for balance, Amelia leaned forward and looked toward the
posse.

Their conversation drifted toward her,
snatched between music from the
plaza
and fireworks popping
in the distance.

"You sure she's the one, sheriff?" asked
one. "I ain't missing the
fiesta
just 'cause you want to
meet a pretty girl."

Throaty masculine laughter met that remark,
echoing among the group. Leaves and twigs broke beneath their
slowly advancing footsteps. More conversation followed, then came
the sheriff's voice.

"Hell, no," he said, his voice a bit
slurred. Intoxicated? she wondered. The
cantina
had served
whiskey and other drinks, as well as
enchiladas
. "I ain't
sure," he went on. "But if it means we find Kincaid, I'm game to
try just about anything by now. I want this damned thing
finished."

Amelia gasped. Lightning-fast, Mason's hand
covered her mouth. He lowered his head until their eyebrows almost
touched.

"Quiet," he whispered.

His warning gaze shifted to Ben, too, and
the boy nodded. Then Mason's focus returned to Amelia, and she
wanted to tremble at its razor-edged intensity. Dear heaven, she'd
never seen him this way. His determination to protect his son—at
all costs, she was sure—nearly scared her witless.

"Curly Top, I need your help," he said.

She nodded mutely, stealing a glance at the
sheriff and his men. They'd stopped for the moment, talking about
something.

"You take Ben—" his nod toward the boy made
it plain he expected his obedience "—and head 'round behind the
cantina
. I'll make sure no one follows you, and catch up
with you later."

Ben watched them both, his eyes shining with
adoration at his father. He said nothing, but plainly the boy had
no worries about Mason's safety.

Amelia, on the other hand, had many. They
doubled when Mason drew his pistol from his gun belt and checked
its ammunition. Images of him crouched behind that mesquite,
desperately holding back the posse with nothing but one gun and
luck on his side, filled her mind. Outnumbered so sorely—and in the
dark, no less—he'd be hurt or killed for certain. Captured, at the
least.

"No! You can't stay here alone," she
whispered harshly, covering his hand with her own. Beneath their
joined fingers, Amelia felt the cold barrel of his gun, and her
fear increased. "Come with us! We can still sneak away, and not be
found—all of us."

"No." With one eye on the sheriff and his
men, Mason shook his head. "But if they're busy with me, they can't
get to Ben. Or you." He moved his hand from beneath hers, readying
himself. "I'll meet you at San Agustín church. Do you know it?"

Miserably, Amelia thought back on her
travels through Tucson and remembered the church bells tolling,
remembered passing by San Agustín's elegant, white-stuccoed face as
she'd walked toward the newspaper office to deliver a book order.
"I know it. But I still think—"

"It's the only way." Lowering his weapon,
Mason faced her. He spoke rapidly, intently, his gaze focused on
Amelia as though to make sure she understood. "If I'm not there
before sunrise, take Ben to James and Juana. They'll know why."

"Pa!" Ben's small voice whispered through
the dark. "I don't want to go to Picacho Peak. I want to go to
Mexico with you!"

Mason swallowed hard. Putting one hand to
Ben's shoulder, he squeezed gently and said, "You will, son. Now go
with Miss O'Malley. Do whatever she tells you and be a good boy,
understand?"

Ben hung his head, seeming reluctant, but
not afraid. "Yes, Pa," he muttered.

With one final squeeze and a kiss on his
head, Mason released him. The boy scooted back within the
mesquite's sheltering branches to wait, quick as a mouse and at
least as silent.

Somewhere nearby, a bottle smashed. Breaking
twigs and voices coming nearer foretold the posse's continued
approach.

Amelia realized she'd been holding her
breath, and released it with a whoosh. Her heart hammered so loudly
it seemed she could hear nothing else. "Mason, I don't think—"

"Will you do it, or not?" he whispered
harshly. His eyes, darker than the night, bored into hers. Amelia
wanted to help him, wanted to make sure he and Ben got away
safely—but was this truly the only way?

She could think of no others.

She nodded, and was rewarded by the flash of
gratitude that lit Mason's face. "Thank you," he said.

Tears gathered in her throat. The knowledge
that she might never see him again made her soul ache. Amelia
looked at him. "Be careful," she whispered. "Ben needs you, and—and
so do I."

His gaze softened. Despite everything, Mason
looked—for the moment—happier than she'd ever known him. "Curly
Top, I—"

"Wellll," came a slurred, unfamiliar voice
behind them. "Now ain't this touching?"

Amelia jerked her head up, gripped with
shock. A gray-haired man garbed in a sloppy suit towered behind
Mason's crouched form. He smirked down at them.

"Uncle Nathan!" gasped Ben.

Nathan.
Uncle
Nathan—one of the
Sharpes who'd taken Ben away. Almost without thinking, Amelia moved
to shelter the boy.

"So there you are, you little prick," the
man said meanly.

He narrowed his eyes to peer beneath the
mesquite, and Amelia knew whatever protection she could offer Ben
would never be enough against a man so filled with hate. Despair
ripped through her. The sheriff and his posse on one side—this
cruel Sharpe brother on the other—what more could possibly go
wrong?

"I knew I'd find you sooner or later," the
man went on, sneering. "And right here with your no-good liar of a
father, too."

His gaze shifted to Mason. His body tottered
right along with it, forcing him to sidestep drunkenly to regain
his balance. Whiskey fumes poured from him, as though he'd bathed
in the stuff sometime in the past. No wonder Ben had been able to
get away—his uncle had probably been too drunk on
fiesta
liquor to notice his absence at first.

The Sharpe brother shuffled from foot to
foot. "Came out here for a piss, and look what I see," he said,
eyes narrowed. "The man every bounty hunter in town is hot to
find."

He smiled. "I been looking all over for you,
Kincaid."

"Congratulations, you bastard," Mason said
through gritted teeth. "You saved me the trouble of hunting you
down myself."

He leveled his gun and took aim. "
Get
away from my son
."

Amelia's body quaked, shivering with fear.
Sharp mesquite branches dug into her back, scratched her arms as
she pushed Ben further behind her. Dear Lord, would Mason shoot the
man right here, in front of everyone?

Then he truly would be an outlaw—separated
from the son who needed him forever.

"Mason, no!" she whispered harshly. "He—he's
not worth it! He—"

"Quiet," Mason snarled, not looking at
her.

His hand holding the gun looked rock-steady.
He kept the weapon leveled straight at the Sharpe brother's heart.
Glancing over his shoulder, Mason looked toward the advancing
posse, then back at the man beneath his gun. In a terrible instant,
Amelia knew what he planned. Her whole body went cold.

"Take Ben and go," he gritted out. "Remember
what I said."

The Sharpe brother sniffed down at them.
"Really, Kincaid. You won't shoot me right here, in cold blood. Not
in front of your boy."

"No!" Amelia cried again. Mason's face
looked a mask of determination, of vengeance impatient to be
satisfied. It left no doubt he'd do what he said. He straightened
slowly to his full height, his gun never wavering from its
target.

"That's why he's leaving," Mason said
quietly. "Go," he told Amelia.

Trembling, she gathered Ben's hand in her
own. "Please don't," she whispered, making ready to run. "Think of
Ben. Think of Ellen," Amelia said urgently. "Don't make them right
about you, Mason."

"
Go
!" he said, cocking his weapon. He
jerked his head toward the
cantina
. "Go."

Nathan Sharpe raised his hand. "Oh,
sheriff!" he yelled, waving furiously. "Sheriff, over here!"

Dumbstruck, Amelia stared toward the posse.
So did everyone else. She saw the sheriff's face swing toward them,
immediately alert. His hand snapped to his gun belt.

She had to act now. In an instant, a way to
do so struck her.

"Mason!" she yelled. He turned—startled,
Amelia thought, since she was no longer whispering. With the
moment's surprise it gained her, she thrust Ben's hand into his
father's. "Take Ben and be safe," she urged.

Before he could react, Amelia gathered all
her strength and threw herself shrieking toward the Sharpe brother.
He staggered beneath her weight, then toppled in a whiskey-soured
heap to the ground. She grunted, the breath knocked from her with
the impact.