The Angel and the Outlaw (8 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” J.T. replied, and sitting cross-legged on the bed of furs, he began to eat.

Brandy picked up the moccasins she had been working on and bent her head to the task. But she couldn’t keep her gaze from straying toward J.T., couldn’t help noticing the way the buckskin stretched over his broad shoulders and chest, the muscular length of his thighs.

Mercy, what was wrong with her?

“Brandy. Brandy?”

“What?”

“Would you like to go for a walk with me?”

“A walk?”

J.T. nodded. “I’ve been cooped up long enough. I want to stretch my legs.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Will you come?”

Wisdom, discretion, good sense, all told her to say no. But the memory of his voice asking for her forgiveness, expressing his thanks, tugged at her heart. She had the feeling that he hadn’t known much kindness in his life. And so, against her better judgment, she said yes and placed her hand in his.

At the touch of his fingers closing over hers, warmth spread up her arm and wrapped around her heart.

He helped her to her feet, but didn’t release her hand.

Outside, he turned downriver, her hand held firmly in his.

“Pretty country,” Brandy remarked, needing to break the silence between them.

“Yes, it is.” J.T. paused beneath a tree and turned to face her. “You saved my life. I’m grateful.”

“I did it as much for myself as for you.”

“I know, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m in your debt.”

He gazed at her for a long moment, lost in the clear gray depths of her eyes. This close, he could smell the soap she had bathed with, the tangy scent of sage, the smoky odor of the fire. Her hand was small and soft. He had a sudden, irresistible urge to take her in his arms and kiss her.

And he did.

Gently, yet firmly, he drew her close, bent his head, and slanted his mouth over hers. He felt her stiffen, heard her gasp of surprise. And then her arms went around his waist and she was leaning into him, kissing him back.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the outline of her mouth in silent entreaty. On a ragged breath, she opened her mouth and he had his first taste of her sweetness.

“Brandy…” He murmured her name and then kissed her again. Her body was soft and pliable, her breasts warm against his chest. His hand slid up her back; he felt her shiver as his fingers caressed her spine and massaged her nape. He rained gentle kisses over her cheeks, her brow, the length of her neck, his fingers threading through the heavy fall of her hair.

“J.T…” Her conscience tried to swim to the surface, to break through the heavy drug-like haze that his kisses had spread over her senses. She knew she should make him stop, but her body refused to obey, refused to end the delicious sensations that were sweeping though her, making her heart beat fast, teaching her soul a new song.

When he took his mouth from hers, she felt lost, adrift.

Her eyelids fluttered open and she stared up at him, her lips bereft.

“Brandy…”

She made a soft sound in her throat, and J.T. swore under his breath. He’d done a lot of despicable things in his life, bedded a lot of women—bedded them and forgotten them—but Brandy deserved better.

Surprised at his own actions, he put her away from him. “Brandy, we’d better stop.”

She blinked up at him, knowing he was right. Knowing she didn’t want him to stop.

“Come on,” he said, and taking her hand in his once again, he continued walking downriver, his thoughts turned inward. In the eyes of the Crow, Brandy was his wife. He wished now that it was true, that he had the right to lay her down on a bed of soft grass and make her his. But it wouldn’t be right. She belonged in another time, another place, and he had only a year to live. Making love to her now would only complicate things.

They walked in silence until they came to a flat-topped rock located beside a bend in the river.

“You want to rest a while?” he asked.

“All right.”

She sat down, and he sat beside her, close, but not quite touching.

“What does the J.T. stand for?” Brandy asked after a while. “The history books didn’t say.”

“John Tokala.”

“Tokala?” Brandy frowned a moment. “That’s Lakota for fox, isn’t it?”

J.T. nodded. “My mother thought I should have a Lakota name to remind of who I was, so she named me after her grandfather.”

“Have you ever lived with the Sioux?”

“No.”

“So you never knew your maternal grandparents. What about your father’s family? Did you ever meet any of them?”

“No.

“I’m sorry.”

J.T. shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied gruffly. But it did.

“Have you ever wanted to find your mother’s people?”

“What for? I don’t know them, and they don’t know me.”

“Maybe your grandparents are still alive.”

“Forget it, Brandy. I don’t have time to go hunting for them.”

“Why not?”

Why, indeed, he mused bleakly. But he couldn’t tell her he was living on borrowed time, that the days were passing much too quickly.

Closing his eyes, he lay back on the rock.

Brandy smiled ruefully. Sooner or later, she’d find out what it was he refused to tell her.

As the days passed, J.T. found that, much to his surprise, he liked living with the Crow in spite of the fact that he couldn’t speak the language. They were a warm, generous people, readily accepting him because he was Brandy’s husband. Of course, they didn’t know he was a thief and a cheat. On occasion, he wondered how they would feel toward him if they knew he was half-Lakota, but there was no reason to tell them.

As his wound healed, his awareness of the woman whose lodge he shared grew stronger. When they were outside, she accorded him the respect and attention she would have given her true husband. Alone in their lodge, she was cool but polite, making it clear that he was
not
her husband in any way, shape or form.

He accepted her restrictions without complaint. After all, but for her intervention, he would have faced a cruel death.

Tonight, with his blankets spread across the fire from hers, he tried to concentrate on being grateful, but her nearness was a constant temptation. In the shadowy darkness of the lodge, he could see her curled up in her blankets, her back toward him, her long black hair falling over her shoulder. His memory of the kiss they had shared at the river replayed over and over in his mind, reminding him of her sweetness, her softness, the way she had melted in his arms.

If he crossed the lodge to her bed and slipped in beside her, would she scream and send him away, or would she admit she wanted him, too, and let nature take its course? And if they did make love, what then?

J.T. swore softly. He had nothing to offer her—no home, no security, nothing. Not even time.

Brandy sighed as she heard J.T.’s breathing soften into the deep, regular rhythm of sleep. She had been all too aware of him watching her in the darkness. She was, in fact, too aware of him too much of the time. During the day, while he rested and regained his strength, she wandered through the village, making friends, watching the women as they worked. There were no easy tasks. Everything the Crow required to survive had to be made from scratch.

If a woman needed a new dress, her husband had to kill a deer or an elk, then the woman had to skin the carcass, scrape the hide, soak it, tan it, cut out the pattern, and sew the pieces together. Cooking utensils were made from wood or horn, moccasins were made of buffalo hide, sinew was used for thread, a buffalo paunch was often used as a cook pot. Walking among the lodges of the Crow gave Brandy a new appreciation for ready-made clothes, for aluminum pots and pans, for stainless steel flatware, for toilet paper. She wondered if the people of the ’90s truly appreciated the modern conveniences they so took for granted.

She had no trouble filling her days. Like the other Indian women, she had to gather wood and water, cook and sew, clean her lodge. Apite helped her make a new dress out of doeskin bleached almost white, and then Brandy decorated the yoke with blue trade beads. It took hours, but it was easier to keep thoughts of home at bay when she was busy, better to think of the work at hand instead of the man who shared her lodge.

J.T. Cutter. He crept into her thoughts more often than she cared to admit, especially at night. She was all too aware of the man sleeping on the other side of the fire. She supposed it was only natural to have tender feelings for someone you had nursed through a bad time. After all, she had seen to his every need, comforted him. There was nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.

She turned over, staring at his broad back. Why, of all the men on earth, did she have to be attracted to J.T. Cutter? He wasn’t her type at all. He wasn’t even from her century! And yet every time he looked at her, she went all soft and fluttery inside. If only she didn’t find him so outrageously attractive. And yet, maybe that was only natural, too, since he was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen. If only he hadn’t kissed her! If only she could forget how good his arms had felt around her, the taste of his kisses, the heat that had unfurled within her.

He stirred in his sleep, rolling onto his back. In the dim light cast by the glowing coals, she could see his profile, as harsh and beautiful as a Montana landscape. A wordless cry escaped his lips and she wondered if he was having another nightmare. She had a sudden urge to go to him, to take him in her arms and rock him, as a mother might rock a child. Only J.T. Cutter wasn’t a child, and there was nothing maternal in her urge to hold him in her arms.

Forcing her thoughts from J.T., she wondered what was going on in Cedar Ridge. If she didn’t get back home soon, what would happen to her house, her animals, her job? She wondered if anyone had notified her parents that she was missing, and what they would think? And what about Gary? Good heavens, what if everyone assumed she was dead, the victim of foul play, and her parents sold her house! She had to get back home before it was too late.

Thoughts of going home immediately brought J.T. back to mind. Somehow, she knew he was the answer to getting back to her own time.

“What’s the matter, Brandy? Can’t sleep?”

“Can’t you?”

“No.”

“Is something wrong?” She sat up, concerned that his wound might be bothering him.

“No,” he replied softly, “nothing’s wrong.”

“Then why are you still awake?”

“Why are you?

She felt his gaze on her face, felt her cheeks grow warm as she recalled that she had been thinking of him only moments before. He was the real reason she couldn’t sleep, and it had nothing to do with her need to go home. He filled her with a strange restlessness, a yearning she didn’t dare acknowledge. But she couldn’t tell him that.

Slipping out from under the covers, Brandy tossed some wood on the coals. Pulling a blanket around her shoulders, she sat on the furs that served as her bed. “Why can’t you sleep?”

“Bad dreams.”

“Again?”

J.T. nodded. The memory of that rope around his neck haunted his dreams almost every night, though some nights were worse than others. He rolled over on his side, his head resting on his arm while he watched the fire come to life.

“I should think your nightmares would stop, after a while.”

“I reckon.”

“Maybe it would help to talk about it.”

J.T. grunted softly. “Maybe, but who’d want to listen?”

“I would.” She hesitated a moment. “Were you guilty of stealing that horse?”

“Yeah. They caught me dead to rights.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Why?” J.T. shrugged. “I wanted it, so I took it.”

“But you must have known it was wrong.”

“You’re not gonna start preachin’ at me, are you?”

“No, I’m just trying to understand what made you do it.”

“He was a beautiful horse. You should have seen him. Big black Appaloosa stud. Perfect conformation. There was no way I could ever afford a horse like that, so…” He shrugged again.

“You took it.”

“Yeah, and if they hadn’t shot him out from under me, I’d have gotten away with it.”

“You don’t sound very remorseful.”

“I’m sorry they killed that stud.”

“But not sorry you stole it.”

J.T. frowned. “It’s a little late for regrets now,” he muttered, thinking that he’d paid the ultimate price for taking that stallion. And then, unbidden, came the memory of Gideon’s voice, reminding him that he had twelve months to redeem himself. No doubt the first step on the road to redemption was an admission of guilt, followed by a sense of remorse for one’s sins, and a desire to make restitution. But there was no way in hell he could make amends for stealing the Appaloosa, even if he was so inclined, which he wasn’t.

“J.T.?”

He looked up. For a moment, he’d forgotten she was there.

“Would you do it again?”

“Not if I knew how it was going to end.”

Brandy made a small sound of derision. “So, you’re not sorry you stole the horse, just sorry you got caught.”

A crude oath escaped J.T.’s lips. “Dammit, Brandy, I don’t need you preachin’ at me.”

“Somebody needs to!”

“Yeah? Well, it’s too late.”

“It’s never too late to change, to start over.”

“Isn’t it?” He felt the anger drain out of him as he stared past her. Even if he wanted to make a fresh start, he doubted if a man could change his whole life in twelve months. Hell, less than that now. How long had they been here? Two weeks? Three? How many precious days had he lost while he was unconscious? What with being sick and all, he’d lost track of the days.

“What is it, J.T.?” she asked quietly. “What is it that haunts you so?”

“Nothing. At least nothing I want to talk about.”

He lifted his gaze to hers. Looking into the smoldering depths of his eyes was enough to make Brandy’s heart beat faster, to make her insides quiver like jelly. It took but one look into his eyes to know what he wanted, what he was thinking.

His voice was soft and low and dangerously seductive as he held out his hand. “Come here.”

Brandy tightened her hold on the blanket. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please, Brandy?”

There was a note of vulnerability in his voice now, a hint of desperation in the depths of his eyes. Knowing it was a mistake, she went to sit beside him, the blanket still clutched around her shoulders.

Her mouth went suddenly dry as his fingers stroked her cheek, tunneled through her hair, slid down to her neck. Then, his hands lightly holding her shoulders, he drew her toward him.

He was going to kiss her. He didn’t close his eyes, and neither did she. This close, she saw there were tiny flecks of gold in the dark brown depths of his eyes. And then his mouth was slanting over hers. His lips were warm and firm and hungry, and yet he kissed her with such tenderness, it made her want to weep.

The blanket pooled around her hips as her hands sought his shoulders. Heat from his kisses spiraled through her, putting an end of all coherent thought. Her eyelids fluttered down; she felt his arms wrap around her waist, felt his tongue slide over her lower lip. The touch sent shivers of delight racing along her spine. And then he was drawing her down beside him, molding her body to his. And she was straining toward him, wanting to be closer. His tongue found hers and she gasped with pleasure.

“J.T…” She moaned his name as his hands caressed her back and thighs. Strong, calloused hands that played over her flesh as lightly as a master violinist plucked the strings of a beloved instrument. And her heart sang at his touch.

“Brandy, let me…”

A dim, hazy part of her mind bid her to say yes, but some other part—her conscience, perhaps—urged her to say no, reminding her that he was an outlaw, a man with no scruples, no future. But more than that, she didn’t belong here. Would never belong here.

With an effort, she opened her eyes. He was gazing down at her, his dark eyes luminous in the light of the fire.

“Brandy…” His knuckles caressed her cheek. “You’re so beautiful.”

“J.T…”

“I need you.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her lightly, sweetly, urgently. She was as intoxicating as brandy itself, smooth, heady, filled with fire, making a man forget all sense, all reason.

“J.T…listen, please…ohhh.”

Her protest died, unspoken, as he kissed her deeply, passionately. Never, in all her life, had she been kissed like this. Right and wrong had no meaning now. Time and place had ceased to matter, and there was nothing in all the world but the man who held her in his arms, cherishing her with his lips, adoring her with his hands. His whispered words spun around her like warm velvet, telling her she was beautiful, desirable. Her body came to life everywhere he touched, until she was on fire for him, until nothing else mattered.

J.T. held her against him, lost in the wonder of her touch, in the sweet surrender of her lips to his kisses. He had not expected her to yield so readily, had not expected to be filled with such a sense of protectiveness, such tenderness. He had made love to many women in his life, and none had ever complained. Yet never in his life had he been
in
love. He realized now that he was in danger of losing his heart to the woman in his arms.

His hand slid under the loose-fitting dress she slept in, encountering warm silken flesh. She murmured a soft, wordless sound of pleasure and then he heard another voice, echoing like thunder, in his mind:

Thou shalt not!

J.T. snatched his hand from Brandy’s flesh as though he’d been struck by lightning.

“Gideon!” J.T. swore under his breath. Did that wretched angel watch every move he made? He glanced around the lodge, but there was no sign of a bright light, no hint of any angelic presence lurking in the shadows.

Brandy looked up at J.T., startled by the abrupt withdrawal of his hands and lips. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“You did, too. You said Gideon. You called his name once before.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.” Brandy sat up, suddenly aware of just how close she had come to doing something she would likely have regretted come morning.

J.T. swallowed hard, wondering how he was supposed to keep his hands to himself when she was always so near, when he wanted her so much. Even now, he was sorely tempted to pull her into his arms again, to satisfy the awful need pulsing through him.