Wed to the Texas Outlaw (12 page)

But they were wrong. Despite his reputation, regardless of who the public judged him to be, she knew better.

She had not been the only one naked a short time ago.

Boone's soul had been bared to her. What she'd seen was a man who regretted his past, who feared he would never be free of it.

One who wanted redemption, needed absolution.

In capturing the outlaw gang, it wasn't only freedom he was trying to earn.

“I think—yes, I'm quite certain,” she murmured, “that I love you.”

Chapter Nine

J
ust because Melinda decided to become a protectoress, a woman of derring-do, did not mean that she no longer appreciated the rustle of fine petticoats around her ankles or a touch of lace at her wrists.

There was no reason that a woman could not look her best while shooting a gun.

Climbing down the loft ladder, she spotted the deputy sitting beside the stove.

He thumped his tail. She knelt beside him then kissed him between the ears. He tasted dusty but it didn't matter, he was a brave, loyal friend.

“How are you feeling?” In answer, he licked her hand. “Rest as long as you want to. I'll bring you something to eat.”

When she stood, Billbro stood with her, revealing an empty can of meat.

“I see that you've already been fed.”

Earlier this morning, before daylight, she had turned over on the bed to find Boone gone, the hollow in the straw where he had lain cool to the touch.

Looking out the loft window, she had seen him carrying a lantern into the tack shed.

Walking past the barn mirror, she gave it a passing glance, spotted a strand of hair that had come loose from the bun at her nape. She tucked it behind her ear then stepped outside.

The sky was beginning to lighten. Clouds on the eastern horizon streaked in pink and orange.

Given the early hour she doubted that Boone had taken the time to eat.

Walking slowly across the yard to keep to the dog's pace, she wondered if the afternoon would bring rain. She hoped not, she had skills to acquire.

Deputy Billbro lowered his big body gingerly down onto the front porch. She was relieved to see that he was alert, his nose twitching, sifting the scents of the early morning.

Inside the house the fireplace was snapping warm and the kitchen stove already lit.

Stanley sat at the table with a mug cupped in his hands, his head drooping over it. He must have kept watch all night long.

He glanced up when he heard the scrape of the iron skillet that she set on the stove.

“That coffee smells like heaven.”

“Just this side of,” he answered, blinking the sleepiness away. “There's more.”

She poured a cup and set it on the small table beside the stove to sip while she prepared pancakes for everyone. One could only guess that Mrs. Coulter must be ravenous after what she had been through.

And not just the new mother, she realized. All of them had been through a great deal and would need energy to face what was still to come.

She'd better fry some potatoes, as well.

“I didn't realize you could cook.”

“Mama could be a hard woman, appearance was everything to her. But she did make sure that we were not mere ornaments. We all learned the womanly skills,” she explained as she poured dollops of pancake batter onto the skillet. “But, Stanley, I've come to a revelation having to do with what is womanly.”

“If something happened in private last night, no one need know about it. The marriage can still be annulled with no one the wiser.”

“Stanley Smythe! Kindly keep your mind out of my straw bed. I'm a married woman and will make my own decisions in that area of my life. But you can put your mind at ease. I'm as unsullied as the day I was born.”

“I'm relieved to hear it.”

“What I have concluded, though, is that I am going to grow proficient at shooting a gun, and you should, as well.”

“There is no need for you to even hold one, since you will be out of harm's way at all times.”

“If you believed that, you would not have spent the night sitting on the porch with a rifle across your lap.” She scooped up a stack of pancakes, added a mound of potatoes then set it in front of him. “It would be good if you knew how to use it.”

He arched a brow then stuffed his mouth with food.

It had to be said that there was some satisfaction in silencing a lawyer.

“Good morning. Breakfast smells wonderful.” The doctor entered the kitchen, rubbing a hand through his mass of thick hair while carrying the baby. “Thank you, Mrs. Walker. I can't recall the last time I've had something to eat.”

“Can you shoot a gun, Dr. Brown?” Melinda prepared him a plate, set it in front of him then took the baby.

“Until lately I've never felt the need. I meant to get one when the Kings began threatening me. I never had time to make that purchase let alone learn how to use it.”

“I'm going to ask Boone to teach me to shoot. You should join us.”

In her opinion, anyone depending upon Boone for safety ought to be willing to help.

“Maybe not your mother, little Diana. What a pretty baby you are.” Melinda nuzzled Diana's soft hair, breathed deep of the newborn scent.

“Have you tended Bird King? Under the circumstances, no one would blame you for ignoring him,” she said. “If you don't want to set his arm, I'll see if I can manage it.”

“Sure did want to ignore him. Couldn't, though. I splinted the arm earlier this morning.” He chewed a mouthful of potatoes, closing his eyes as though the common food was a treat.

That must have been why Boone went to the tack room so early, to make sure the doctor was safe.

“Boone's brother would have done the same.”

“I'm confused about a lot of things.” Dr. Brown set down his fork. “Boone Walker. He's a killer and yet here he is, the only one standing between me and murder. I don't understand.”

“How could you possibly, without knowing that my husband is not at all who he is portrayed to be, nearly not, at any rate.” Melinda swayed back and forth, rocking the baby even though the child was not fussing. “The truth is that he has been deputized to bring down the King gang.”

The doctor arched his brows, looking stunned for a moment. “It makes a certain sense. A killer after killers. Do you trust him to do this, Mr. Smythe? What if he turns on us? Hightails and runs?”

“I do trust him.” Stanley lifted his arms, indicating that he would like to hold the baby. She was quite a popular lady. “So much so that I had his case reviewed by Judge Harlan Mathers. Mr. Walker's first trial was a farce. Mathers should have overturned the verdict upon first review. The one and only killing my client committed was in self-defense. The others were made up by folks who love sensationalism.”

“I hardly know what to think about that. On the one hand, I reckon I can relax, but on the other I suppose I'd feel better if we were being defended by a man of experience.”

“That's exactly why we all need to learn to defend ourselves. Boone is only one man against that gang,” Melinda pointed out.

“He never should have been put in this situation.” Stanley shook his head. “I argued against it, but here we are. What time are we attending those shooting lessons, Melinda?”

* * *

Boone wished the sun would set.

At the first sign of twilight, he was calling this shooting lesson off.

He'd thought Melinda's idea of turning law-loving folks into marksmen, and in a single afternoon, was unachievable. Couldn't hardly turn her down, though, not when she pleaded with him with sincere blue eyes.

It might have been possible had she been applying her feminine wiles, trying to sway his decision with a charm that no woman he had ever seen could match.

But, no, she had won him over by sheathing that weapon and presenting her request in all sincerity.

Since he was helpless against that sort of persuasion, here he was explaining to Stanley for the tenth time the correct way to align the sight on his rifle to the target.

“Yes,” Stanley said. “I've got it now. I see.”

The bullet missed the can setting on top of the corral post and exploded in the dirt.

He clapped the lawyer on the shoulder. “You've nearly got it!”

It wasn't that the lawyer wasn't willing. Hell, he was putting all his effort into learning, but chances were that whatever caused him to need glasses also prevented him from having an accurate aim.

Given time, the doc might make a decent shot. Not now, though. Boone sensed that every time Brown aimed for the can he saw a beating heart, one that he had taken an oath to protect. Even if his mind told him to shoot to prevent a greater harm, everything he had ever stood for would slow him down, maybe get him killed.

When things came to a head, Boone would make sure the doc was not in the line of fire.

“Boone!” Melinda lifted her rifle to her shoulder. Her back was straight, her gaze focused. The ruffles of her sleeves fluttered in the breeze. “Come position my arms. I don't think I've got things quite right.”

Hell's curses! She might not have things right this time, but once he showed her she would. He would instruct her and she would learn, first try.

Melinda was smart. Her eye was sharp. Even more distressing, her nerves were steady. Of them all, she was the best.

The hell of it was, in spite of the fact that he would need her dependable shot, when the pot began to boil, he would make sure she was far from the danger.

“Are you woolgathering?” She glanced at him with a frown. “I doubt we have time for that.”

She was right. They might have hours, they might have days. Distractions of any kind could not be afforded.

Coming to her, placing one hand at the nip of her waist and the other under her arm, he faced the biggest distraction of them all.

The scent of flowers rose from her hair. The heat of her skin seeped from under her blouse and warmed his fingers. His wife was properly covered, from the lace branding her fair-skinned throat to the ruffles dusting her boots.

Melinda could be wrapped head to toe in a burlap bag and all he'd see was the way she had looked in the dusky light of the barn this morning. He had eased out of the bed in the predawn to meet Doc in the tack room, but halfway to standing he'd stopped and simply stared at her.

The strap of her camisole had slipped off her shoulder. Sweet cream is what her skin looked like. Silky blond hair had fanned her face and across her throat. He knew it was silky because he had touched it. Her fingers, too, where they were twined in the strands.

Giving his mind a mental shake, he adjusted her aim, slightly over and up.

Stepping back, he watched with pride as the can flew off the post. Why he should be the one to take pride in her accomplishment, he couldn't quite figure.

He reckoned it had to be because she was his wife. Without warning, his gut twisted.

A temporary marriage was what they had both agreed upon. That's how it began and how it would end. Melinda was much too fine a woman for the likes of him.

Melinda shot the can off the post a dozen times in a row. Stanley's shots came closer to the target by a few inches while the doc continued to look green every time he pulled the trigger.

“Time to call it a day,” Boone announced.

Even though it wasn't quite twilight, it soon would be. With shadows growing long, it would only make it harder to teach the impossible.

“I'll do better tomorrow, once I've slept on the matter,” Stanley declared. Boone was pretty sure he also uttered a curse under his breath. Slump-shouldered, the lawyer walked toward the house.

“I reckon I'd better see to Mrs. Coulter and the baby.” The doc caught up with Stanley in four long strides.

“Now teach me how to shoot the pistol,” Melinda declared.

“It's getting dark and it smells like rain's on the way.”

“What if I need to know how to use this?” She cradled the weapon in her hands. “Before daylight or in a rainstorm?”

“Use the rifle.”

“What if the rifle isn't at hand and the pistol is?”

He sure wished the rain would slide in quicker. Being alone with his wife was beginning to give him ideas that were not appropriate.

In the past he'd never appreciated the value of a chaperone. He did now, if only for the distraction. If Stanley were here Boone might not be staring at his wife's lips, wondering if they tasted as sweet as they looked.

Hell.

“We'll do our best with what we have.”

“Fine, go back. Get warm by the fire. With what I've learned so far, I'll figure it out on my own.”

“Or shoot your fool foot off.”

He stood behind her and lifted the weapon, her hands cupped in his. He breathed in her scent, felt the silky texture of her skin under his callused fingers. “Bend your elbows just a bit.”

“Why two hands? In the dime novels it's only one.”

She turned her head to glance up at him, her eyes wide, her gaze full of curiosity. Why did her lips have to be so peachy-looking, so moist? And what was that half smile—an invitation?

Maybe, but only in his imagination.

“Two hands are steadier. Now, part your legs.” Hell's curses! “Slowly squeeze—”

The shot exploded. The can flew off the post then tumbled across the dirt.

“I like this, Boone.”

She glanced at him again. This time her eyes had a simmer to them. Her breath came quicker. He knew because her back was against his chest.

He could only wonder if she felt the runaway gallop of his heart.

“Try it again,” he said. This time he let go of her hands. Didn't step away, though.

“Are my legs spread correctly?”

He nodded because his voice was trapped in his throat, nearly strangling him.

Looked as if he'd be taking the night watch and the midnight watch. Predawn watch, too.

* * *

An hour into the midnight watch Boone shrugged the large oilcloth higher around his shoulders, tugged his Stetson lower.

Sitting on the bench, covered by the roof of the house's front porch, he wasn't exposed to the full force of the rain, but it blew in at him when the wind gusted just so.

By rights, it was the doc's watch, but the doc wasn't fighting the battle that Boone was. Not the battle against the Kings, he didn't mean that. It was a battle against himself. The man he used to be against the man he wanted to be.