Outlaw (5 page)

He lifted a burning twig from the fire.
Amelia watched the glowing tip of it move closer to the bandit's
face, burnishing his features with firelight. For a handsome
man—and he undoubtedly was that, she realized—he still seemed every
inch the outlaw.

The twig burned low and the outlaw tossed it
back into the fire in an arc of reddish light. The smoky scent of
tobacco reached her, borne on a breath of cold wind. It had been so
warm until sunset.

She lifted her head and called out to him.
"If you take me back, I won't tell a soul who you are," Amelia
promised.

The outlaw gazed at her, his expression
inscrutable. "You don't know who I am."

Amelia hugged her knees to her chest, her
conviction wavering. Some road agents were known to be ruthless
killers—was he one of them, or was he the gentlemanly poet bandit
after all? He hardly appeared a gentleman now. The firelight
glinted off the gun he wore at his hip and the shadows turned his
profile hard and uncompromising. There was no way around it. She'd
been a fool to step off that stagecoach, and now she was paying the
price.

"Here."

Just as she glanced up, the outlaw lifted
his arm and something sailed through the air in her direction. She
cupped her hands to catch it and was rewarded with what looked like
two pieces of flat tree bark.

"There's water in the canteen," he offered.
With a motion of his boot-clad foot, he indicated a round,
leather-strapped container on the ground beside the fire.

Amelia looked at the canteen, then at what
he'd given her. It had the texture of old cracked shoe leather. She
took a hesitant sniff. Dried salted beef. She had read about it in
Tales of a Mountain Man in the West
, but she'd certainly
never thought to find herself presented with some.

"Thank you," she called out. The bandit
tossed his cigarette into the flames and began to eat. Emboldened
by his example, she licked at one of her pieces. It tasted of salt
and gamey meat.

"You'd be warmer by the fire."

Her spirits rose. His concern was
heartening. A ruthless desperado wouldn't have cared if she froze
to death, Amelia told herself. Perhaps her companion only looked
mean, for the sake of his reputation. She got to her feet, still
clutching the beef strips in one hand, and half-limped toward the
fire.

It was blessedly warm, at least on the side
of her that faced it. The flames crackled, sending an occasional
spark popping into the sky. She managed to bite off a piece of the
beef, but it was devilishly hard to chew. She glanced over at
him.

He was watching her. Amelia looked away,
chewing madly, trying to keep splinters of the tough meat from
poking out the corners of her mouth. She swallowed, then glanced at
him again.

At some point, he'd taken off his hat. The
outlaw seemed different without it; a shade less frightening,
maybe. His hair looked dark and untidy, his face clean-shaven
except for a faint shadowed beard. His eyes, dark like his
collar-length hair, glittered at her across the campfire.

Amelia gasped and quickly recalled her
earlier estimation—his expression looked ominous as ever.
Wordlessly, he picked up the canteen and handed it to her, then
walked away, pulling a whiskey flask from his coat pocket as he
went.

The canteen smelled of horse. Amelia was
just thirsty enough not to care. She wrinkled her nose, unscrewed
the cap, and took a sip. It tasted warm, but good. After a furtive
glance to make sure she wasn't being watched, she tipped back her
head and gulped some more.

A few minutes later he reached over her head
to take back the canteen. Surprised at his unexpected reappearance,
she choked on a mouthful of warm water; it dribbled in a most
unladylike fashion down her chin and soaked into the bodice of her
dress.

"I didn't hear you come back," Amelia
managed to croak, swiping a hand at her mouth. Her eyes darted to
the stoppered whiskey flask in his hand. She couldn't tell if he'd
drank any of it.

"Obviously."

The outlaw's gaze fastened on the place
where her sodden pink bodice clung tight to her skin. She couldn't
decipher his expression, but it made a blush warm her cheeks all
the same.

Chagrined, Amelia looked away and plucked
ineffectually at her clothes. The water seeped beneath the fabric
to wet her chemise as well. She couldn't believe she'd blushed at
his gaze. She was all of twenty-one years old and a spinster—surely
she had no cause to simper and blush at a man's scrutiny.

His eyes met hers. "There's no fresh water
nearby," he explained in a voice suddenly turned huskier than
before. "That's all there is."

"Oh." She nodded. "Oh, I'm sorry." Her head
bobbled like a marionette. Amelia made herself stop and looked up
at the night sky instead, pretending great interest in the
stars.

He put his hand on her arm and turned her
around. She had to look up to see his face. Something in the
outlaw's eyes, some gentling of his expression, drew her closer.
She waited breathlessly for him to speak.

"I can't take you back," he said.

She could only stare at him for a second,
absorbing his words. He wasn't taking her back? "I...I'm sure if
you just take me back to the road, then—"

"No. I've lost too much time already."

"Well, you could leave me here and
I'll—"

"And you'll do what?" he interrupted meanly.
"Why the hell do you think I went back for you in the first place,
lady?"

He glared down at her, bigger, taller,
stronger than she was. The firelight shadowed his face, making him
seem twice as menacing as before.

"I don't know," Amelia whispered. Judging by
the look on his face, whatever the reason, it was fearsome. He
turned away and she followed him toward the lone mesquite tree
where the horse was tethered, stumbling over the rocks and clumps
of cactus. Dear heaven—in terrain like this, a person could step on
an innocent-looking pile of rocks and wind up skidding halfway down
the mountainside in no time!

By the time she reached him again Amelia was
breathing hard. The outlaw, obviously finished with their
discussion, set aside one of her J.G. O'Malley & Sons satchels
and picked up his bedroll.

"I've only got one blanket. We'll have to
share it."

"No!" Things were going from bad to
worse.

"We're riding out at sunrise tomorrow and we
both need some sleep first."

"I can't go with you! I—I can't sleep with
you! It wouldn't be right. Please, I—"

"Suit yourself," he replied, not looking at
her as he headed back toward the fire.

Amelia would have sworn the temperature
dropped at least ten degrees at that moment. The wind swished
through the mesquite branches and raised goose bumps on her arms.
The horse nickered behind her. The crackling warmth of the fire
reached brightly into the air. Beyond it, the poet bandit spread a
blanket on the ground, apparently engrossed in the task at
hand.

He left her with no other choice. It was,
Amelia decided, the perfect opportunity to make her escape.

Chapter Three

Still wearing his boots and doing his best
to ignore the woman—who was busy muttering to herself across the
campsite—Mason Kincaid stretched out on the old striped woolen
blanket that had been his bed for the past month. It was worn thin
in spots and smelled vaguely like horse sweat, but a cushion of
cleared sand beneath made it comfortable enough. A wanted man could
hardly complain about the conditions of lawlessness.

Mason reached his arms overhead and folded
them beneath his neck, waiting for the muscles in his back and
shoulders to unknot themselves. Above him the night sky stretched
wide, veiled in clouds that hid the moon. When he breathed, the
spring-cold air held no hint of rain, though, and Mason was
glad.

Dry weather would make it that much easier
to track down the Sharpe brothers in the morning. If he made an
early start, he might even catch up with the lazy sons of bitches
while they were still snoring in their bedrolls at one of the stage
stops nearby.

Catch up with them and reclaim all they'd
stolen from him.

He might have had them already if not for
Amelia O'Malley. Hell. Mason didn't know what had possessed him to
double back and pick her up by the side of the road. He'd been a
half mile away when he'd heard her screaming after that stagecoach
driver like a scalded cat. He'd gone back for her without thinking,
knowing the driver wouldn't return. Knowing she couldn't survive
alone.

He wondered why she'd gotten out of the
stagecoach in the first place. Maybe she was touched in the head.
Maybe all those fussy blond curls in her hair were wound too tight;
they'd addled her brains. Whatever the reason, he was stuck with
her, at least for a while.

She was pretty enough, if a man liked his
women all decked out in gee-gaws like a fancy cake. Mason didn't.
And for a little woman, she'd looked plump as a stuffed sofa in
that ruffled pink dress she'd had on. He'd wager Amelia O'Malley
had more than bustle to thank for a backside like hers. No, she
wasn't the kind of woman he liked at all, he told himself.

And if he'd noticed the way the spilled
canteen water made her dress cling a little tighter on top, if he
was wondering what she'd look like with her prissy-looking blond
hair undone, well...He was a man. A man noticing a woman like that
was only natural.

Mason pulled the blanket higher and rolled
over, willing himself to sleep. He needed it, wanted it...and knew
just as plainly that tonight he wasn't going to get it. Again. He
might as well pack up and head after the Sharpes, he decided; make
up for the time he'd lost going after Amelia O'Malley. Even better,
he'd pack her up and take her down to Gila Bend before she started
screaming again. If he wasn't going to sleep he'd have plenty of
time to do it.

He sat up, raked his fingers through his
hair, and looked toward the stand of creosote bushes where she'd
been pouting over sharing the blanket. Then he looked near the
rocks, the horse, and beside the fire. She was gone.

Aww, hell. Mason grabbed his hat and went to
look for Miss Fancy Pants.

Her trail wasn't hard to spot. Only a loco
bear crashing through the creosote, palo verde trees, and clumps of
burr sage would've left a clearer sign. Except a loco bear didn't
wear fancy pink dresses. A few yards from the campsite, Mason
plucked a wisp of white lace from a stand of cholla and rubbed the
fabric between his fingertips. It was soft, soft like a lady's
skin...soft like Ellen used to be, in his memories.

Frowning, he ducked beneath a branch and
went on. He didn't want to think about Ellen, about home, about his
life...before. The damned Sharpe brothers had made sure none of it
would be left to return to.

Amelia O'Malley's trail ended at the top of
a boulder-strewn ridge. Mason paused beside a one-armed saguaro,
peering into the darkness. Below him, the ridge sloped into a
pitch-dark valley; the undergrowth was crushed, leading downward,
but he doubted Miss Amelia would've taken that way—at least not
intentionally.

To his left, a copse of mesquites leaned
whistling in the wind. On his right, the rocky face of the mountain
rose up, boulder piled upon boulder. It wasn't as solid as it
looked, Mason knew—irregular caves and sheltering overhangs dotted
the mountainside. Miss Hoity Toity could be hiding in any one of
them.

The woman brought nothing but trouble. It
would serve her right if he just left her out there—in one of those
caves, or down in the valley below. Mason sighed and gauged the
slope of the ridge again. If she'd fallen down there, it wouldn't
do a damn bit of good for him to go down after her.

Unless she'd gotten stuck halfway down.

Unless she was hurt at the bottom.

Hell. Shaking his head at what he was about
to do, Mason headed for the ridge, turned his back to the night
sky, and started to climb down. He'd only climbed a few steps
before he realized it was a lot steeper than it looked. No sooner
had the realization come to him than a root gave way beneath his
foot, sending him skidding down the ridge on his knees.

Mason grabbed with both hands. He'd be
damned if he'd break his own neck chasing after a blasted fancy
woman with more curly hair than sense. His fingernails scraped the
dirt, seeking purchase. Nothing to catch hold of. Grunting, he
landed on his belly and slid another few feet before his fingers
touched something solid.

Another root. Great. Mason decided to take
his chances, and grabbed it. This one held.

Spitting dirt and pebbles, he inched his way
to a more stable position. He glanced over his shoulder at the
valley below, wishing he'd brought a rope. Who would've thought
little Miss Corkscrew Curls would get so far?

"
Aaaaamazing Grace, how sweeeeeeet the
sound..."

The melody floated across the ridge, echoing
faintly in the mountains beyond. A hymn? He was hearing things.
Mason cocked his head and listed again.

"
A wretch like meeeee...
"

Amelia O'Malley. It had to be. What other
woman would be loony enough to sing hymns—even quiet, quavery
ones—in the middle of a mountainside? The sound grew tear-choked
and mournful, like a cat wailing after its mate. A sick cat. Mason
gritted his teeth and climbed in the direction of the wail. It was
his first stroke of luck all day.

Running away from the poet bandit was a
mistake. Amelia O'Malley was plumb-certain of that now. She'd
thought she could find the trail they'd followed and go back to the
road by herself, then catch the next passing stage. It hadn't
seemed all that complicated when the outlaw guided the horse up the
mountainside. Instead she'd gotten herself lost.