Outlaw (4 page)

He reached out, caught hold of her wrist,
and dragged her to him. Tucking one arm behind her knees, he lifted
Amelia into his arms. She caught a whiff of tobacco, felt the
strength of him as he hoisted her upwards against his chest. It was
like being held against a wall of solid stone—warm, solid,
impassive stone. He grabbed her satchels, then started to walk.
Useless as the effort probably was, Amelia wriggled in his arms,
trying to free herself.

She succeeded. He dropped her onto the
ground with bone-jarring quickness and stood over her, looking
down.

"Don't fight me."

Amelia nodded, growing more frightened by
the second. This wasn't the romantic bandit of her dime novels and
periodicals. This was a flesh and blood man—a very big man—and he
looked dangerous.

He pulled her up again, but this time he
didn't carry her. He kept his arm around her waist and half-dragged
her with him, carrying both her satchels in his other hand. Her hip
bumped against his as they walked; her new dress dragged across his
boots, blown by the wind, dangerously close to being trod upon. His
arm tightened, nearly encircling her waist as he hauled Amelia over
the rocky, uneven ground. She wondered if he could feel her body
trembling.

His hand rested warm against her ribs, his
big gloved fingers curled intimately just beneath her bosom. The
rough leather rubbed faintly against the bodice of her dress.
Amelia tried to stand straighter. He won't hurt me, she told
herself. He won't hurt me. It became a litany in her mind. She
tried to remember everything she'd ever read about stagecoach
robbers in general and the poet bandit in particular. It wasn't as
reassuring as she'd hoped.

They hadn't gone very far before they came
to his horse. The animal's reins were tethered to what looked like
a scraggly bush and its saddle, silhouetted by the rising moon,
rose up some ways above Amelia's head. She took an automatic step
backwards.

Her captor's hand on the small of her back
stopped her. His breath teased the nape of her neck. He gave her a
little push forward. "Get on. I'll ride behind you."

He hefted one of her satchels and began
lashing it to the saddle, then the other. His action made his
intentions all too plain—he meant to take Amelia with him. She
couldn't begin to imagine why.

"Why?" she cried. "What are you going to do
with me? You can have all my money,"–the words came faster and
faster, the more panicked she felt—"just leave me my books. I've
got to get back to the—"

"Get on."

"Please! I—"

He stared down at her from his much greater
height, making Amelia feel—for once in her life—petite and
delicate. She was too afraid to savor the novelty. His mouth
tightened, straight and unsmiling.

"I could put you on myself," he said. His
expression told her she wouldn't enjoy the experience.

"No, no—see? I'm getting on right now," she
babbled, scared nearly witless as the outlaw moved toward her.

With some help, Amelia managed to put one
foot into the stirrup and pull herself upward. The bandit boosted
her up from behind. Before she could protest, her bottom landed
painfully in the saddle. Amelia clutched the pommel with both hands
to keep from falling, her gown hiked humiliatingly to her knees.
Her stockinged legs dangled gracelessly down both sides of the
horse's hairy body.

It was just the opportunity she needed.

"Yah!" she shouted, pressing her legs
against the horse to urge it toward the road—and safety. Instead
the stupid animal sidestepped, ducked its massive head, and
snorted. Frantic, Amelia screamed louder and slapped her hand down
on the horse's neck. It didn't move.

An instant later, the poet bandit swung up,
a solid, silent presence in the saddle behind her. His arms wrapped
around hers, but before they could encircle her Amelia leaned down,
groping for the reins. She felt herself slide lower, out of control
and unbalanced by her haste to get away.

The outlaw caught her just before she
toppled headlong into the underbrush. Then he pulled her back tight
against him and set the horse into motion.

He said nothing. They rode at a pace that
terrified Amelia, straight into a wind that had turned so cold,
tears streamed from her eyes. She was too scared to let go of the
pommel and wipe them away. They passed swiftly between
ever-thickening clumps of bushes, over rocky hills that threatened
to send the horse skidding dangerously backward. Gradually she
realized they were traveling upward, probably into the
foothills.

She remembered watching the mountains from
the stagecoach window, remembered watching from the road as the sun
sank behind those scrub-brush-covered slabs of granite. They
weren't what she'd expected to find in the Arizona Territory, a
place she'd imagined as nothing but sand dunes and cactus.

Neither was the poet bandit.

His arms felt tight around her, but his
attention was all for the ride. His chin pressed close against her
temple as the outlaw leaned forward in the saddle, guiding the
horse across a moonlit path Amelia couldn't discern. Silently he
pressed his muscular thighs into the horse's sides, turning their
mount in a new direction.

The steady clomping of the horse's hooves
quickened as they rode faster down the new path. Wind whistled past
her ears, making them ring. Amelia clung to the pommel as the
outlaw's stubble-covered jaw scraped across her skin, leaving a
prickle of warmth behind. She wanted to ask him again where they
were going, but she didn't dare.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed
before they stopped. Amelia sat numbly atop the horse, her fingers
feeling frozen to the pommel, as the poet bandit dismounted. The
saddle leather creaked, relieved of his weight as he jumped lightly
to the ground and held up his arms for her. Amelia wasn't at all
sure she could move. It felt twice as cold, sitting atop the horse
alone.

A flicker of hope came to life inside her.
Moving slowly, she unwrapped her stiff fingers from the pommel and
leaned forward. All she had to do was grab the reins and—

"Get down here."

His hand closed around her forearm, yanking
Amelia sideways. He'd guessed what she'd been thinking. Despair
washed over her as the bandit hauled her from the saddle. Being
rescued by the poet bandit would have been one thing—being abducted
by him was something else entirely. How would she ever get
away?

As soon as the toes of Amelia's balmorals
touched the ground, the outlaw released her. Her legs refused to
hold her. With a startled cry, Amelia reached out wildly, caught
hold of her escort's sleeve, and righted herself. He didn't even
sway. His face impassive, the outlaw worked to loosen the knot
holding one of her satchels to the saddle. Straightening gingerly,
Amelia looked around.

They were in a clearing, bordered on two
sides by red-brown rock and shielded by more of the bushes she'd
noticed earlier. Wind swept through their meager-leafed branches,
tossing them in the moonlight. Behind her, the rest of the mountain
rose in heaps of boulders, looking as though the whole thing might
tumble straight down if she so much as sneezed. It was too dark to
see much more.

She was standing in the outlaw's hideout,
Amelia supposed. The place looked as desolate as she felt.

The rough woven texture of the poet bandit's
duster sleeve against her fingertips reminded Amelia she was still
clutching a fistful of the stuff. With dignity, she released him,
then headed for the rock she'd seen. The outlaw let her go. Why
wouldn't he? Amelia thought, feeling a sting of helpless tears
behind her eyes. She couldn't get far in the dark, in the
mountains, without a mount.

Her knees felt approximately as solid as
marmalade as Amelia limped toward the sheltered space near the
middle of the rocks. She sank to the sandy ground, glad not to be
riding anymore and unmindful of the damage to the bustle of her
dress. She was sure it was crushed beyond repair already. Across
the clearing, the outlaw dropped one of her J.G. O'Malley &
Sons satchels to the ground. It landed with a crackle atop the
dried undergrowth. The horse shifted and snorted as the bandit went
to work on the second bag.

She didn't know what to do. Why had he taken
her with him? Amelia wanted to believe he was the gentleman bandit
the newspapers portrayed him to be. She wanted to believe that when
it was light enough to travel he'd take her to Tucson, where she
could deliver her book orders as planned. Reality was the gun in
his belt, the coldness she'd seen in his eyes, and the masculine
strength that enabled him to do whatever he wanted to do with
her.

She looked up. His back was to Amelia; she
watched as he unsaddled the horse, his actions smooth and assured,
then set the saddle and blanket aside next to her satchels. He ran
his hands over the horse's neck, rubbed it down with the cloth he
held, and checked its hooves for stones. His voice carried across
the clearing as he talked to the animal, too low for Amelia to make
out the words—and more soothing than her peace of mind allowed her
to admit.

When he'd finished, he walked wordlessly
toward Amelia's resting place with a bundle of branches and set
about laying a fire. She heard him strike a match, smelled the
acrid odor of phosphorous just before the fire crackled into life.
A few feet away, the outlaw crouched low beside it, his face hidden
by his hat. Then, in the light of the flames he looked up at her
for the first time since dragging her from his horse.

His gaze dipped over her, taking in her
hair, face, and new pink Polonaise dress in turn. She had the
uncomfortable feeling he was measuring her, but whatever his
reaction, it was indecipherable from his expression. Amelia
stiffened, pressing her back tighter against the chilly, jagged
boulder behind her.

"P-people will be looking for me, you know,"
she blurted out, unable to stop herself.

The bandit nodded, slowly. He looked so
unconcerned that she added, "They're probably looking for me right
now."

He rose and walked nearer, stopping where
the hem of her dress lay across the ground. His big boots very
nearly touched the ruffled white lace edge. He was closer than she
wanted, but with the boulder at her back Amelia couldn't move away.
She twisted her hands in her lap. He towered over her, stealing her
breath.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said.

Goose bumps spread along her arms at the
low, rumbling sound of his voice. Amelia didn't feel reassured.

"Let me see your ankle."

Amelia yanked both feet back beneath her
skirts and shook her head. His suggestion was scandalous. With
another quick, menacing grin the outlaw knelt on the ground, closed
both hands around her calf, and easily lifted her injured ankle
onto his lap.

After the cold ride and the even colder
ground she was sitting on, his body was shockingly warm. He'd
removed his gloves, and his hands felt hot, callused, and strong.
Amelia tried to pull her leg away, but he held fast. His hands slid
over her dark cotton stockings down toward her ankle, probing
gently.

"Tell me your name," he said.

Her pulse raced like a frightened rabbit.
His thumb found the hollow behind her ankle bone and stroked over
it.

"Tell me your name."

She pressed her lips together. Since he
didn't look up to see it, though, her gesture of defiance was
wasted.

"Amelia O'Malley," she finally replied. Each
syllable came out grudgingly, like slivers chipped from the icy
boulder at her back. Without even a nod to indicate he'd heard her,
he pressed his thumbs downward and continued his examination.
Amelia had a fleeting, but extremely satisfying, image of herself
kicking him in the chin. As though he'd somehow guessed her
thoughts, the outlaw's fingers tightened.

She squealed. "Ouch! That hurts."

He released her ankle. "I don't think it's
broken."

He sounded oddly hoarse. Amelia said nothing
as she whipped her foot beneath her skirt again with
lightening-speed. Truly, a broken ankle would be the least of her
troubles right now.

She expected him to move away, but the
outlaw remained exactly where he was, silhouetted by the campfire
behind him.

"You made it worse trying to run from
me."

He pinned her with a look that said exactly
how stupid he thought running away from him was.

"I was hardly running. I had to hop most of
the way."

He turned his head, almost as though he were
hiding a smile. Impossible, Amelia decided.

"I need to go back to the road," she felt
brave enough to say. "I have urgent business to attend to."

The outlaw quirked an eyebrow. She thought
of her father learning that the Arizona Territory book orders had
never been delivered—and who was at fault. Her.

"You must take me back!"

She'd already failed at the usual feminine
pursuits. Amelia had honored her family with neither marriage nor
children, and likely never would. If she failed at this mission,
too, her father's low opinion of her would be confirmed. Amelia
needed
to deliver those books. She pushed out her lower lip
and glared at the man standing in her way, her fear of him
momentarily forgotten.

The outlaw shook his head. "You're in no
position to give orders, lady."

His tone chilled her. Maddeningly, he stood
without another word and went to the fire. He took something from
his shirt pocket and turned it in his hands, but it was too dark
for Amelia to see what it was.

The silence lengthened. Amelia's temporary
bravado fled. Every bird beating its wings above the spindly
branched bushes, every rustle beyond the bright circle of the
campfire made her jump. She'd gone too far. She guessed the outlaw
was deciding what to do with her, and the thought made her
shiver.