Outlaw (7 page)

Unfortunately, she couldn't dismiss his
voice as easily.

"Hurry up," he called after her.

Amelia's throat tightened. She blinked
rapidly, hardly able to see as she unscrewed the canteen's cap so
she'd have water to wash her face with.

What did you expect
? She chided
herself—
breakfast in bed
? She was a captive, with no say at
all in how her abductor treated her. She was lucky he hadn't
ravished her while she slept—or abandoned her, which somehow
frightened her even more.

Feeling grumpy, Amelia crouched down,
tipping the canteen toward her open palm. An instant before the
water sloshed from the canteen, she recalled the bandit's words.
That's all there is—there's no fresh water nearby
.

Her lips tightened. She was in the west now,
Amelia decided—she'd just have to learn to adapt to western ways.
Instead of splashing her face with a whole handful of water, she
wet her petticoat hem—her underclothes, at least, were still
somewhat clean—and scrubbed her face with it. Then she swished some
water in her mouth, attended to her personal needs, hastily
re-pinned her hair, and marched into the clearing again.

"Took you long enough," the outlaw
remarked.

Amelia heaved the canteen at him. It landed
a good yard away from his boot-clad feet, sending up a little puff
of reddish dust.

He scooped up the canteen. When he
straightened, amazingly, he was smiling at her. "You always so pert
in the morning?"

Dear Lord in heaven, he was one of those
people who awakened cheerfully.

"If I'm so much trouble, Mister...Mister
whatever-your-name-is," Amelia replied, hands on her hips, "why
don't you just take me back where you found me?"

Something in his expression softened. His
brown eyes met hers. For an instant, she thought she saw compassion
there. Just as quickly, it was replaced with a look of plain
determination.

"I've got no time to take you back. I've got
somebody to meet, and a lot's depending on it."

It was a veritable speech coming from him.
He turned his back to her and headed for the other side of the
clearing, returning a moment later leading the horse.

Amelia sighed and gave up. She could tell
when she was licked; her father got that same look on his face
every time she asked him to let her join J.G. O'Malley & Sons.
A man, having chosen a path, would rather die than change his
mind—however unreasonable it made him seem. If the outlaw wouldn't
take her back, she'd just have to bide her time and hope for
another, better opportunity to escape.

The outlaw mounted, then helped her up into
the saddle.

"You could at least tell me your name,"
Amelia muttered as she settled in behind him. Tentatively, she
wrapped her arms around his waist.

They sat that way for a moment, the horse
shifting and blowing beneath them, anxious to be off. Still the
outlaw made no move to spur the animal forward. What was the
matter? She stared at the thick brown hair waving beneath his hat
brim, wishing it was his face that greeted her, instead of the back
of his head. At least then she might have had a chance at guessing
his thoughts.

Finally he glanced over his shoulder at her.
This close, Amelia could see the faint shadow of his beard and the
twitch of a tiny muscle in his jaw.

"My name is Mason," he said. "You can call
me Mason." Then he set the horse in motion.

Chapter Four

Mason didn't know what had possessed him, to
tell Miss Twirly Curls his real name. All her infernal singing and
chattering must have done something to his brain. He eased slightly
in the saddle, the leather creaking beneath his thighs, and sneaked
a look at her.

She smiled. Smugly.
I knew you'd tell
me
, her expression said.

Well, hell. Mason turned around, half his
brain feeling bamboozled by feminine wiles and the other half
struggling to think about something besides how good it felt to be
held by a woman—any woman—again. As they rode east toward the
foothills, he tried to concentrate on the trail ahead of them,
instead of the rhythmic bouncing of her breasts against his back.
It was damn near impossible. He sighed.

Her arms tightened around his waist. "My
full name is Amelia Josephine O'Malley," she said, sounding
magnanimous, "but you can call me Amelia."

"The hell I will."

"What?"

Mason guided the horse slowly down the
craggy trail. The poor animal would be useless for anything but a
long, clover-munching rest in a field after this, thanks to the
extra weight it was carrying. They'd have to stop someplace and
find another mount, else he'd never catch up with the damned Sharpe
brothers.

Squinting against an orange shaft of light
from the rising sun, Mason tried to ignore the tapping of Amelia
Josephine O'Malley's foot against his calf.

"Why can't you call me Amelia?" she asked
again.

"Doesn't suit you," he said.

She stiffened behind him, wary—but curious.
"Why not?"

"Haven't given it much thought."

"Well, what would suit me, then?"

She wiggled in the saddle, trying to peer at
his face. The movement made her breasts jounced double-time against
his back. Mason tried to think about something else—like why he was
grateful for his saddle's low cantle, which kept Miss Fancy Pants
from getting any closer to him on the bottom than she already was
on top.

She tossed her head, and the flowery smell
of whatever she used on her hair filled his nostrils. Mason
breathed deeply.

"Chatterbox," he suggested, frowning as he
slid closer to the pommel. It didn't help, because she moved
forward right along with him. He wondered if Miss Amelia feared
he'd drop her into the sagebrush if she didn't maintain a death
grip on him all the time.

The idea had a certain appeal. It would
undoubtedly make tracking the Sharpe brothers easier if he didn't
have a woman along for the ride. She'd delayed him too long
already. The last thing he wanted was someone who needed taking
care of.

She made a disgruntled sound. "Chatterbox?
That's hardly charitable, Mister Mason."

"Just Mason. And outlaws aren't supposed to
be charitable."

She was silent for a moment. "You don't seem
like an outlaw in the daytime," she remarked. "Even your black
clothes don't appear as fearsome as they did. Are they an
affectation, or do they serve another purpose, too—like hiding? I
suppose it must be difficult to evade—"

"I'm not hiding."

"You seem to be hiding. That was your
hideout back there, wasn't it?"

Mason ground his teeth. "If I don't seem
much like an outlaw to you now," he said, keeping his voice
purposely low and menacing, "it's because you haven't given me a
reason to act like one. Yet."

Her hands went slack. Good—maybe he'd scared
her into being quiet.

It lasted all of five minutes.

"Are you planning to rob another stagecoach
today?" Amelia asked.

They'd reached the upper foothills. Here the
palo verde and mesquite trees grew further apart, and cholla and
saguaro took their places. Hazy in the distance, the Maricopa
Mountains foretold the western approach to Maricopa Wells. Between
them wound the Gila Trail—the road leading to the Sharpes, if he
were lucky.

"I didn't rob the stagecoach yesterday,"
Mason told her.

"Of course you did," she protested, wrapping
her hands around his middle again as she warmed up to her subject.
His muscles tightened, all his attention centered on the good
feeling of her arms holding him. Briefly Mason closed his eyes,
savoring it.

"I saw you holding a gun on the driver," she
said. "The poor man looked scared to death."

His eyes opened. The poor man had been the
first to draw iron, but Mason doubted it would change her mind if
she knew that.

"I was looking for someone," he said,
wanting, needing, her to hold him tighter, to press against him
and...

"You didn't find them?"

"No."

"Who were you looking for? Was it—" she
paused, humming slightly, tapping his calf again as she considered
her question, "—your wife?"

Ellen. She was lost to him now.

"No."

Mason leaned forward, forcing Amelia's arms
to loosen. Blond, sweet-smelling temptation like her he didn't
need.

"You're not married, then?" she asked, her
hands resting lightly around his middle. "If you don't mind so
personal a question, I mean. The periodicals I've read seem divided
on the issue. Some say you have a family, in hiding, and you've
resorted to thievery to support them. Others say you're a
modern-day Robin Hood, stealing from the big stagecoach lines and
giving the money to unfortunates."

Her notion that he was the infamous poet
bandit had resurfaced. Mason grinned, glad she couldn't see his
face. He hadn't set out to impersonate a known outlaw—but Miss
Hoity Toity had no need to know the truth.

"What do you think?"

She sighed. "I think it's romantic, either
way."

He laughed. "Where are you from, Curly Top?
Are you sure you're old enough to be out on your own?"

"I'm from Big Pike Lake, Michigan, if you
must know," she told him, accompanying her statement with an
indignant sniff. "And I'm plenty old enough to be on my own—I'll be
twenty-two next month."

"That explains it."

"Explains what?" Amelia leaned sideways to
look at his face, nearly toppling them both out of the saddle with
her sudden movement. She clenched a handful of his shirt to steady
herself, and said, "If you're insinuating that I'm ignorant about
life in the West, Mister Mason—"

"Just Mason." Next, she'd have him tipping
his hat, he thought sourly. The woman was dead-set on formality for
some reason.

"—then you're wrong."

The measure of pride he heard in her voice
made Mason smile, despite himself.

"I'll have you know I read all about the
West in my novels before I came here. This is my territory, for the
time being, at least."

"Your territory?"

"I'm a book agent with J.G. O'Malley &
Sons," she said, pride resonating in her voice. "Covering the
entire United States and every one of its territories with the
finest volumes and periodicals of all sorts—"

She went on at length about gilded spines
and classic literature, barely pausing for breath. Her talk had the
sound of a well-practiced spiel. Mason could almost believe Curly
Girl really was engaged in commerce. Finally, she stopped.

"It's not a woman's place to conduct
business," he said flatly, turning the horse westward.

He examined the gullies and rock piles they
passed, looking for a sheltered place to stop and make camp. It
wasn't a woman's place to conduct business—but it was
definitely
a woman's place to cook. As long as he had a
woman along, Mason figured he might as well make use of her. The
least he deserved for rescuing her was a good, woman-cooked
meal.

"It's my place, Mr. Mason, I assure you!"
she said. "I'll have you know, I'm a very good book agent."

"If it takes this much talking to folks, I
don't doubt it."

"Whatever do you mean by that?"

"Just that you're an exceptional fine
talker, Curly Top," Mason said, grinning. "Folks probably buy books
just to shut you up."

"
What
?"

Amelia shifted behind him, inadvertently
rubbing her breasts against his back. He wouldn't have believed so
much heat could travel through so many layers of dress, duster
coat, and shirt.

"Never mind," Mason said, trying to think of
something besides how soft, how warm, how...tempting the woman
behind him was.

"This J.G. O'Malley—is he your husband?"

If he was, he ought to be shot for letting
her traipse across the Territory alone. A woman like her wasn't
equipped for more than tea parties and gossip. Navigating the
forty-mile desert between Gila Bend and Maricopa Wells took more
than mouthiness, two bags of books, and a lacy dress. Men had died
crossing that stretch—women, too.

"He's my father."

Mason waited to hear the rest of her
explanation. None came. He couldn't believe she wasn't saying more.
When he wanted her to quit jawing, she never would. "And...?"

"And he's expecting me to make a number of
deliveries in Tucson," she said, sounding exasperated. "That's why
I have to get back to the road. I have to catch another stagecoach.
I have to—"

"No." His hands tightened on the reins. He
could take her to the next town, but not back to the road. "Your
book deliveries will have to wait."

Amelia gasped, her fingernails digging into
his ribs. "My books! You didn't leave my satchels back in the
mountains, did you? All my books are in them."

Mason thought of the twin rubber cloth
satchels he'd strapped to the horse's flanks like two ten-pound
saddlebags. Yet another burden the poor beast shouldn't have had to
bear.

"I brought them," he said. "Thought they'd
make good kindling."

Another gasp. She lowered her voice. "You
wouldn't dare."

He let his silence speak for itself.

"You're barbaric," Amelia muttered, leaning
back in the saddle again. "Barbaric."

"Maybe so," Mason agreed. He rolled his
shoulders to ease the kinks out of his muscles and gazed across the
land, scanning the territory for movements that didn't belong
there—movements that might betray the presence of an enemy. A
lawman. The posse that was surely after him by now.

The Sharpes.

It was second nature for him to be cautious;
he was a wanted man. All the same, he felt doubly so today, with
Miss Curly Girl mounted behind him.

"Definitely so," she insisted.