The Gunfighter and the Heiress (15 page)

Natalie quickly closed the curtains when Crow approached. She wheeled around to distract him until the seven men bedded down for the night. She hoped and
prayed they hadn't rented rooms in
this
hotel. That had disaster written all over it.

“I'm leaving first thing in the morning,” she blurted out. “If you want me to sign papers for legal separation and divorce, then fetch Bart.”

“He hasn't had time to draw up the documents.”

She flicked her wrist dismissively. “I'll sign a blank paper. I expect Bart to be fair.”

He gave her The Stare but she looked the other way. “You are not leaving here alone, Nat, and that is that.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, raised an eyebrow, and then met his hard look. “This is not your decision.”

“It is if I decide to take you back to Fort Worth for questioning about a jewel theft in New Orleans.”

Natalie's temper hit a rolling boil in the blink of an eyelash. She was leaving. Now. Tonight. Scowling, she tried to veer around the solid, immovable object that was Donovan-hardheaded-Crow. He snaked out an arm to latch on to her, causing her to stumble sideways.

“You are staying here, sunshine. Like it or not.”

“Which I don't.”

“Doesn't matter. Hell's Fringe is full of demons lurking in the darkness. You aren't setting foot on the street again.”

Van stared into her upturned face, watching the sparks fly from her obsidian eyes. His gaze dropped to her lush lips and he felt the fierce, ill-fated attraction bombard him. He'd been fighting one conflicting emotion after another the whole livelong day. He wanted this firebrand but he didn't trust her. He desired her but he couldn't forget that she had lied to him—and probably still was.

When she shoved the heels of her hands against his chest to knock him off balance so she could dart off, Van grabbed her with both hands. She raised her knee to gouge
him in the groin—exactly as he'd taught her to do, though he hadn't planned to be the recipient of one of those disabling blows.

He spun sideways so that her knee connected with his hip. She swore at him, then tried to stamp on his foot, but he shifted again to counter every move he'd taught her.

“You won't win,” he assured her gruffly.

She went perfectly still in his encircling arms. Then she tilted her face to his and stared at him with those black-magic eyes rimmed with long curly lashes.
Famous last words,
he thought when he felt her body melt provocatively against him. She was forcing him to battle his worst enemy—himself. Van knew before his lips involuntarily slanted over hers that he was about to taste sweet defeat. As angry as he was with her, his uncontrollable desire for her ultimately won out.

Her arms slid over his shoulders and she arched into him. Then she opened her lips to invite him deeper. He closed his eyes, groaned in surrender and plunged his tongue into her mouth to share her breath and savor the pleasure of her kiss. His hands moved with a will of their own as he mapped her luscious curves. He resented the clothing that deprived him of seeing her satiny flesh.

When he felt her fingers working the buttons of his shirt, he shrugged off the garment. “Turnabout is fair play, sunshine,” he said roughly. “Shirt for shirt. Breeches for breeches.”

She smiled impishly and he reacted as he always did—he nearly melted in a fiery pool of desire. She unfastened his breeches, eased them down his hips an inch at a time and then left them in a crumpled heap on the floor. He returned the favor, then savored her curvaceous body with hungry eyes.

“I have a fantasy of my own that I want to play out,”
she insisted as she walked him across the room until the back of his knees collided with the edge of the bed.

When she urged him to sit, he sat. Then she knelt between his legs and erotic desire hammered at him. She pressed her lips to his chest as her hand closed around his throbbing erection—and he struggled to draw breath.

“What fantasy do you want to fulfill, sunshine?” he wheezed with what little air was left in his lungs.

She slanted him a sly glance then bit him lightly on the belly. “You're about to find out….”

Then she kissed and nibbled her way down his abdomen to take him into her mouth. Van groaned in sweet torment when she nipped at him with her teeth, then flicked at him with her tongue. He had never granted a woman intimate privileges with his body, but he granted Natalie her fantasy because he was helpless to stop her when the pleasure she gave him rippled through him in constant waves.

She stroked his aching length with her fingertips while she suckled him lightly. Van swore the top of his head was about to blow off when she kissed and caressed him again and again. Fire blazed across his flesh and sizzled though his bloodstream. He could feel himself drawing ever nearer to the crumbling edge of self-control. When he reached for her, she whispered the same words he had said to her the previous night.

“Don't distract me.”

He swore he was going to pass out when her fingertips trailed down the inside of his legs, then moved up again to cup him in her hand. Her thumb stroked leisurely from base to tip while she drew him into her mouth and traced his throbbing length with her tongue and teeth.

“Have mercy…” he choked out when wild need blazed through him, burning him alive.

“Give no quarter, show no mercy,” she murmured
against his rigid flesh. “We may be celebrating our pending divorce, but I vow you will never forget your first wife. I'm saying my own version of fare-thee-well to my one and only husband.”

Van moaned in sweet torment while she worked her erotic magic on his ultra-sensitive body. She left him blind with need and he swore he was going to die from unappeased desire any minute. Then she straddled his legs. When she settled exactly upon him, he became the flame pulsing inside her.

“You should be against the law,” he growled as he arched helplessly against her.

“You already think I am,” she whispered as she linked her fingers behind his neck and moved in perfect rhythm with him. “I see no crime in enjoying you one last time before we part company. Do you?”

Her voice faded when he twisted sideways, taking her to her back in one swift, fluid motion. She peered into his bronzed face, watching the golden flames from the lantern cast light and shadows on his angular features.

Natalie asked herself why she was so bold and brazen with him. How could she yearn for him beyond reason when she itched to pound him over the head for fueling her temper with his cynicism? She couldn't explain her fierce, uncontrollable desire for Crow any more easily than she could fly to the moon. Despite his dark suspicions about her, she still wanted him once more before she walked out of his life and lured her enemies away to protect him from harm.

She didn't know if she would survive Marsh and Kimball's attempt to dispose of her. But they would
not
harm Donovan Crow, she promised herself fiercely. He had burrowed into her heart and breathed life into her soul.

Her thoughts sailed away like a ship skimming the
sea in a brisk wind. She stared into Crow's fascinating silver-blue eyes and knew without question that she was experiencing her greatest adventure. The feel of his muscular body moving intimately against her, burning like a living flame inside her, took her higher and higher still.

Sensation after indescribable sensation swamped and buffeted her. She swore she was soaring in motionless flight, flying past the stars to grasp that one spectacular feeling she had discovered only when she was one with this raven-haired warrior she had married.

Her breath lodged in her throat when infinitesimal pleasure exploded around her. She dug her nails into his forearms and held on for dear life as she spiraled out of control. Her body sizzled like a meteor blazing across the heavens to its own fiery destruction as rapture consumed her.

“Damn you, sunshine,” she heard Crow growl against the side of her neck. His muscular body shuddered and vibrated against her while he held her as tightly as she clung to him.

“Damn you, too, Crow,” she whispered back and then she smiled in satisfaction as ecstasy streamed through her.

Impulsively, she pressed a feathery kiss to his shoulder, his high cheekbone. Then she ran her hand down his spine to map his muscular hip. A few moments later, he eased down beside her. Ten minutes later, the sound of his methodic breathing assured her that he had dozed off.

Natalie knew she had a small window of opportunity to escape before Crow woke up. That was all the head start she would need.

W
ithout daring to breathe, for fear she would wake Crow, Natalie inched off the bed. She rummaged through his saddlebags for the strands of rope he carried to secure prisoners. Working quietly but carefully, she tied one wrist then the other to the bedposts while he lay facedown in the tangle of sheets.

She stopped dead still when he shifted slightly. He didn't wake—Thank God!—so she staked him out. She didn't want to be on hand when Crow awoke to discover she had left without his permission and left him a prisoner in his own room.

I don't need his permission,
she reminded herself as she dressed quickly, then borrowed his boot pistol and bowie knife—that lay scattered on the floor like casualties of war.
Besides, what I need from him, he can't give.

After she extinguished the lantern, she plucked up her satchel and carpetbag. On second thought… She quickly switched a few articles of clothing from the carpetbag to the satchel and grabbed traveling money to tide her over. She purposely left behind the tattered bag filled
with priceless jewels and most of the bank notes. In case her attempt to lead Marsh, Kimball and the small army of assassins away from Crow ended badly for her, the Robedeaux-Blair jewels would be safe in his hands.

Silently, Natalie exited the bedroom and scurried across the sitting room. She stepped into the hall, then dashed toward the metal fire escape. She wasn't sure where to find the bastards who were hot on her trail, but she presumed Kimball's compulsive gambling habit would lure him back to one of the saloons before the night was out. Once Kimball recognized her, he would alert Marsh and she would ride north, drawing the men behind her.

Natalie's well-laid plans blew up in her face when she stepped onto the elevated outdoor landing of the fire escape to see Marsh and the two men who had knocked her off the boardwalk ascending the metal steps. Exploding into action, she lowered herself like a battering ram and barreled into them.

The tall henchman with a pointed beak and close-set eyes doubled over and cursed when she slammed her satchel into his gun, knocking it loose. Fingers interlocked, she lifted her clasped hands to deliver a teeth-jarring blow to the underside of his chin. When his head snapped backward and he bit his tongue, Natalie shoved him with her shoulder on her way past him. He slammed into the railing and flipped over. He hung on for dear life and tried to anchor his legs to the banister before he finally took the short way down to the ground.

Natalie relied on every tactic Crow had taught her and devised a few of her own to fight her way past the second hired assassin who blocked her path. When he made a grab for her, she bit a chunk out of his hand, then kicked at his pistol with the toe of her boot. She landed a blow to his groin. He covered himself as he went down hard on the
step and curled into a tight ball. Natalie used his back as a springboard to launch herself at the stork-legged Marsh, who brought up the rear. It was where he belonged—the ass.

Marsh yelped when she slammed her satchel into his billy goat goatee, sending him stumbling down a step. When they were face-to-face, his soulless gray eyes narrowed on her, then widened in recognition. Swearing foully, he tried to clamp both hands around her throat and choke the life out of her. Natalie hooked her boot heel around his leg and jerked hard. Marsh squawked as he toppled sideways and latched on to the railing to steady himself.

Natalie leaped past him, dodging his outstretched hand when he tried to lunge at her. She flew down the remainder of the steps and raced away from Wildhorse Hotel as fast as her churning legs could carry her. She headed directly for the livery stable and burst inside to toss a bridle on the strawberry roan. She was tempted to “borrow” Durango, but she figured Crow was going to be furious enough with her, without taking his beloved horse—one he loved far more than he would ever love her.

Natalie scooped up the saddle draped over the top rail of the stall and tossed it on her horse. She hurried around the corner to the alley, then fastened the girth. Casting apprehensive glances over her shoulder at irregular intervals, she tied her satchel in place, then mounted the gelding. She skirted through the alley behind the livery stable and Turner Hotel, then veered back to Main Street.

Hunkering over the horse's neck, she peered through the doorway of one saloon then the next until she spotted Kimball playing poker and puffing on his pipe in the Lookout Saloon.

“Thurston, are you looking for me?” she called out loudly, then removed her cap so he would recognize her.

His blond head snapped up and he bolted to his feet, jarring the table and spilling drinks on the cards. The men at the table cursed him, but he was too intent on glaring at her to pay them any mind.

Natalie bowed mockingly from the saddle and shouted, “Catch me if you can!”

She swatted the strawberry roan on the rump with her hat. The horse raced off as Kimball darted around the tables to burst outside. Natalie made tracks from town, following the road north to Dodge City—wherever that was. She had no idea how far she would have to ride to find shelter, but she had been taught to cover her trail so she veered off the trodden path toward the creek. She reined her horse into the water to make the tracks difficult to follow. Guided only by the light of the moon, she walked the horse upstream until the water became deep. Then she went ashore to weave her way through a thick grove of willow trees.

If she could locate one of the stagecoach stations used to exchange horses she might be able to hitch a ride through no-man's-land—the strip of land beside the Indian Territory and between Texas and Kansas. Crow had mentioned that the place was jumping alive with outlaws. She could only hope the stagecoach had hired several heavily armed guards to fend off attacks.

Natalie allowed herself a few moments to bid a final fare-thee-well to her husband and sent a prayer winging heavenward that her plan to lure Marsh and company away would protect Crow from harm. If she had to sacrifice herself to ensure he survived this disastrous assignment, then so be it. She loved him, after all….

“Oh, dear God!” she choked out when the realization hit
her like a hard slap in the face. “Well, so much for avoiding sentimental attachments during this misadventure.”

Natalie was thankful she hadn't made that exasperating epiphany while she lay in Crow's powerful arms. If she had blurted out the confession he didn't want to hear she would have embarrassed and humiliated herself beyond words. She predicted Crow would have recoiled…and run for his life.

Ah well, she told herself optimistically as she skirted the creek that glowed like a ribbon of silver in the moonlight. She couldn't complain that she hadn't had one great adventure already, short-lived though it might be. She had ventured into the wilderness. She had been tested thoroughly. She had faced overwhelming temptation with Crow and she had fallen in love for the first and only time in her life. In addition, she had done more living in the two weeks since she had left New Orleans than she had in twenty-two years.

Natalie drew in a deep breath and expelled it slowly as she zigzagged through another copse of trees. She knew she would never live to see twenty-three, not if Marsh had anything to say about it. Her only hope was that Bart would pursue her suspicions about Marsh poisoning her mother. That bastard should pay dearly for his crime. If she died at his hands, she didn't want it to be in vain.

 

Avery Marsh swore viciously as he scraped himself off the metal step at Wildhorse Hotel, then checked himself for serious injury. He put weight on his left leg and rubbed his throbbing ankle.

He glanced up to see Fred Jenson struggling to pull himself back to the landing—and failing. The henchman cursed the air blue when his leg slipped, his arms gave out and he dropped like a rock to the ground. Avery peered
over the rail to see Jenson rolling in the dirt, holding his left knee.

Taylor Green climbed onto all fours, still gasping for breath. The blow Natalie had delivered to his groin had made it impossible for him to stagger to his feet. He, too, was swearing colorfully.

“Now you've met Natalie Blair,” Avery muttered as he used the railing to steady himself while he hopped down the steps on one foot.

Jenson lifted his head to stare at Avery in astonishment. “That was the heiress? That's the same brat we plowed into on the boardwalk earlier this evening.”

“You did?” Avery croaked.

“Yeah, but we didn't know the kid was a female in disguise.”

The walking wounded hobbled down the alley to reach the street. Avery cursed sourly when he saw Kimball sauntering down the boardwalk, puffing on his pipe. The man didn't have a scratch on him.

Kimball waved his arms in expansive gestures when he noticed Avery and the henchmen hobbling toward him. “You won't believe who I saw.”

“Natalie in another disguise,” Avery said, scowling.

Kimball looked them up and down. “What the blazes happened to you?”

“
Natalie
happened to us,” Jenson growled. “She fights dirty.”

Kimball's eyes popped. “She did this much damage before she galloped out of town, headed north?”

That was not the news Avery wanted to hear. He was tired from the long journey from New Orleans. His ankle pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. The last thing he wanted was to climb aboard a horse and chase off into the darkness to locate that cunning troublemaker. However, a
lot of money was at stake. He couldn't afford to wait until dawn to hunt her down.

“Go rent four horses from the livery,” he demanded.

“Me?” Kimball crowed. “I'm not a lackey, I'm—”

“The only one who can walk without limping,” Avery snapped in interruption. “Get at it, Kimball. But fetch us a few bottles of whiskey to ease our pain first.”

Annoyed at being bossed around, Kimball put his nose in the air then spun on his well-shod heels. “I should never have agreed to this scheme,” he grumbled. “There are easier ways to marry a fortune in New Orleans, without chasing all over creation for a woman I never wanted in the first place.”

Avery glared at Kimball's departing back. The man was worthless. Kimball didn't know it yet, but he would never return to his precious New Orleans to enjoy the social season. He had already outlived his usefulness.

In fact, after Kimball retrieved the whiskey and horses, he wouldn't be necessary at all.

He fished into his pocket, then handed Jenson several bank notes, compliments of the Blair fortune. “We'll only need three horses…and just as many riders,” he said with a meaningful glance.

Jenson nodded grimly, then hobbled across the street to wait for Kimball at the livery stable.

 

Van was spitting mad when he awoke to find his wrists anchored to the bedposts. He was facedown—and naked. “Damn it to hell!” he growled into his pillow. He jerked against the restraints—and received nothing for his efforts.

He managed to turn over onto his back, but his wrists were crisscrossed and he had no leverage whatsoever. He lay there until he exhausted every curse in his
repertoire—all of them directed at Natalie. Since she had closed the thick curtains and doused the lantern, he couldn't see anything—except red.

She had used him again. She had made him a slave to his irrational desire for her, then tethered him like a horse and slipped away to only the devil himself knew where.

Van swore a few more times, not that it helped. He tried to contort his body a dozen different ways but it was a waste of time. He'd save all his energy for the time he got his hands on that sly vixen, he promised himself.

He lay there for what seemed hours, though it was likely only thirty minutes before he heard Bart's trademark rap at the door of the sitting room.

“You'll have to kick open the door!” he called out.

“Why?” Bart said from the hallway.

“Just do it!” he barked impatiently.

It took two hard thrusts from Bart's boot heel for him to gain entrance to the suite. “Where the devil are you?”

In hell.
“In bed.” Damn Natalie for leaving him in this embarrassing predicament.

He heard Bart stumbling around in the dark and barely made out his lean form when he reached the doorway.

“Are you feeling all right, Van?” he asked in concern.

“Hell, no! Light the lantern on the table to your left.”

That done, Bart pivoted toward the bed—and burst out laughing when he realized Van was wrapped in the sheet with his arms crossed over his head.

Van swore again.

“Don't tell me. Let me guess. This is Natalie's doing, right?”

“Just untie me,” Van demanded sharply.

“Sure. Would you like me to hand over your breeches, too? Oh, here they are on the floor. Hmm, wonder how that happened.”

“You are not funny,” Van grumbled. “When I find her…and I
will
find her…I'm going to kill her with my bare hands.”

“Better not. I'd have to testify against you in court. Plus, you'll lose all the fortune in her dowry, if she does turn out to be the real Robedeaux-Blair heiress.”

Van had never been so humiliated in his life. That minx had picked a fine way to celebrate their pending divorce, hadn't she?

He blew out a relieved breath when Bart had finally had his laugh and untied him. “Get those divorce papers ready and make it snappy,” he demanded curtly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I want—”

He forgot what he intended to say when he noticed that Natalie's satchel and
his
bowie knife and boot pistol were missing. The tattered carpetbag lay at the foot of the bed. Clamping the sheet around himself, Van walked over to root around in the bag.

“Holy hell!” Bart croaked when Van lifted a necklace that dripped oversize diamonds and rubies and a fistful of large denomination bank notes.