When The Heart Beckons (13 page)

“I’m sure it’s not what you’re used to back
in good old St. Louis but it’ll have to do,” he told her as he
helped her to sit up. But this time, as he did so, the blanket
slipped down, leaving her all but naked from the waist up, her
creamy breasts nearly exposed except for the wispy lace of her
camisole.

Steele’s gaze slid automatically and
intently to the lush ivory mounds peeking over the thin lace even
as Annabel yanked the blanket up and over her shoulder with her
good hand. But she had not missed the disconcertingly intense gleam
in Steele’s eyes. Flushing, she began to realize for the first time
how he must have had to tear her blouse in order to bandage the
wound.

I do hope Brett appreciates everything
I’ve gone through to find him
, she thought suddenly. Gritting
her teeth, she reminded herself that sacrificing her dignity was a
small price to pay to save Brett from Red Cobb—and possibly from
Roy Steele, too.

“There’s another shirtwaist in my
carpetbag,” she managed to say in a calm tone, as she awkwardly
used her good hand to hold the blanket in place. “Would you please
get it for me?”

He grunted something she couldn’t quite make
out. All of the sudden he was incoherent, she thought in
exasperation. But he did walk toward Sunrise, who was grazing along
with his horse and those belonging to Curtis, Moss, and Willy. When
Steele returned she saw thankfully that he had the bulging
carpetbag in tow.

Rummaging through the bag, he accidentally
pulled out a pair of silk drawers instead of the shirtwaist.
Annabel gasped in chagrin as the firelight illuminated them. “You
... you ... put those back!” she sputtered.

Steele grinned. It transformed his face,
lightening all the taut lines that gave him such a harsh aspect,
making him look suddenly like a mischievous little boy.

“Take it easy, Miss Brannigan. Reckon I’ve
seen a pair of ladies drawers before,” he commented drily.

“Well, you haven’t seen mine—and ... and you
won’t ever see them again, so ... so ... you just put them
back!”

To Annabel’s relief he did stuff the drawers
back inside, but the infuriating grin stayed on his face. A moment
later, he yanked out the fresh white shirtwaist, and along with it
tumbled Aunt Gertie’s diary.

“What’s this?”

“Never you mind. May I have the shirtwaist
please?”

But a mood of devilment seemed to have come
upon him now and he withheld both items from her grasp, holding
them just beyond her reach, studying the bound leather book and the
lace-collared shirtwaist with equal interest.

“Sure. After I see what this is ... a diary?
Yours?”

“No. Now give me that!” Reaching forward to
grab it from him, Annabel’s felt a fresh wave of pain from her
wound as the bandage tore loose. She grabbed it instinctively just
as blood oozed out between her fingers.

“What are you doing?” Steele demanded
furiously. He instantly dropped the shirtwaist and the diary down
beside the plate of food and grabbed Annabel before she could sink
back in pain. “Why can’t you just sit still?” he fumed, “Now I’m
going to have to bandage it again, and it might hurt, but you
deserve it.”

“Your ... fault,” she gasped. “You wouldn’t
give me the shirtwaist or the diary ...”

“Don’t talk, Sit still and take this like a
man ... er, like a woman ... whatever. Go ahead,” he said roughly,
as he drew a roll of bandages from inside his own saddle pack a few
feet away, “Cry if you want, I don’t give a damn.”

“Mr. Steele, one thing you’ll learn about me
is that I never cry,” Annabel flung out, but she had to bite back
tears as he worked at rebandaging the wound. It had begun to throb
again and she concentrated on taking deep breaths and keeping the
tears from rolling down her cheeks until Steele was finished.

He glanced at her pale face, at her lips
that were quivering with the effort of suppressing tears. “Here.
Drink this. Don’t argue, just drink it,” he ordered, handing her a
flask from his pack.

“Is it whiskey?” she asked doubtfully,
eyeing the flask with a mixture of both doubt and curious
anticipation.

“No, it’s arsenic.” Impatience flicked
through his voice. “Of course it’s whiskey. Drink up.”

He held the flask for her as she drank,
coughed, sputtered, and at last swallowed.

“Drink some more.” Steele ruthlessly put the
flask to her lips again. “It’ll dull the pain.”

The fiery liquor burned through her throat
and insides quickly. She felt only a faint flush of embarrassment
when he helped her slip on the shirtwaist and his fingers began to
move deftly over the buttons.

He’s certainly done this before—worked
at a lady’s delicate little buttons
, Annabel thought as his
hands slid expertly past her breasts down toward her belly.
Only he’s probably much more accomplished at unfastening
buttons than the other way around.
A faint pink blush stole up
her neck. It was difficult to breathe. She told herself this must
be the liquor. The liquor was also making her very warm, despite
the evening chill. And deliciously relaxed.

“Thank you,” she heard herself whispering
when Steele had finished. He refrained from attempting to tuck the
long blouse into her skirt.

“You’re welcome.”

He moved away from her, tossing a few more
twigs into the glowing embers of the fire. Annabel ate in silence,
watching the sparks and flames. Occasionally, she glanced at Roy
Steele, who had busied himself with the horses, not only his own
and Sunrise, but the horses belonging to Moss, Curtis, and Willy.
By the time he’d returned she had finished the jerky and biscuits
and taken a few sips of the coffee. The whiskey was making her
sleepy.

“There’s just one thing I need to know,” she
murmured, fingering the spine of Aunt Gertie’s diary, which was
lying beside her.

Steele came around the campfire and stood
over her, staring down expectantly.

Above, the sky glittered with a million
diamond bright stars. They bathed the rocks and mountaintops in a
faint eerie glow that glimmered like quicksilver.

“I’m listening.”

“Why are
you
looking for Brett
McCallum, Mr. Steele?”

Silence. A rabbit or some other creature
darted through the brush beyond the rocks. Then Steele answered
her, his voice dry and hard. “That’s my business.”

“But I told
you
... that’s not
fair!”

“Don’t expect life to be fair, Miss
Brannigan. You’ll be doomed for disappointment.”

“You can’t ... want to kill him ... like Red
Cobb,” she blurted out, suddenly wondering if she’d been wrong
about him all along, if she’d made a terrible mistake. Roy Steele
seemed to read her mind.

“And if I do?” he asked coolly.

“I’ll ... have to kill you first.”

He knelt beside her. He was staring at her
hair. “I believe you would. At least you’d try.” As he spoke, he
reached out and gently tugged a hairpin from her chignon. “Even
after all I’ve done for you,” he mused sardonically.

“Well, I wouldn’t
want
to kill
you,” she said defensively. “I’m very grateful to you—but I won’t
let you hurt Brett. I won’t ... what are you doing?”

“Removing these damned pins. Surely you
don’t sleep with them all stuck in your head like that.”

“No, of course not, but I’m perfectly
capable of taking care of my own hair, Mr. Steele.”

Yet the feel of his large hands gently
removing the pins and freeing her luxuriantly springing curls made
her insides quiver with an achingly sweet longing.

“Are they all out?” she asked faintly.

“Yes.”

“Are you satisfied now?”

“Yes.”

But he wasn’t. God help him, he wasn’t. He
felt about as unsatisfied as a man could get. She was even lovelier
now than before, if that was possible. A tall, slender angel with
hair the color of fire splashing down around those adorably
fine-cut features. Her eyes glimmered like mysterious oriental
jewels, and there was a promising softness about her full mouth
that was driving him wild.

She was too delicate, too fine and beautiful
for this rough land. He leaned forward. He didn’t know what he was
doing.

Walk away
, a voice inside of him
commanded.
Before it’s too late
. Getting involved with
this woman would be the worst move he could possibly make. A fatal
move.
Damn it, think about who she is. Walk away.

But she drew him like a powerful magnet
stronger than the pull of gravity. He leaned in closer, intoxicated
by the soft, wildflower scent of her. He was about to kiss her.

“Why are you really looking for Brett?” she
breathed, and set one slender restraining hand upon his chest, as
if that would hold him back if he really chose to plunge
forward.

He caught her hand in his, his fingers tight
around it. “You never give up, do you, Miss Brannigan? In that
respect, if no other, the two of us are alike.”

He snaked his arms around her so suddenly
she could do no more than blink before he brought his lips down on
hers. His hand still imprisoned hers tightly, his strong fingers
enclosing her long, slender ones like an iron glove.

Against all of his instincts, all of his
intentions, all of his cool common sense, he kissed her. A long,
hard, ravaging kiss that was nothing if not thorough.

Annabel’s senses soared as his mouth came
down fiercely upon hers. She had never ever been kissed like this
before. She knew she should be outraged, but instead she felt ...
awestruck. Dizzy. Excited with a sweet, spiraling joy that swept
through her entire body.

Her suitors back home had each become
amorous on the day they made their proposals to her, obviously
hoping to woo her with passion, but nothing had prepared her for
the onslaught of dizzying sensations Roy Steele rained down on her
with his hard demanding mouth and bruising kisses. For he didn’t
just kiss her once and let her go, no, that would have been bad
enough ... he kissed her many times, at first hungrily, fiercely,
and then he paused for only a fraction of an instant, giving her
time to catch her breath, but not much—no time to speak, or think,
or protest, before he kissed her again, more deeply, exploringly,
possessively, his tongue forcing her lips apart and thrusting
inside her mouth with arrogant demand, like a general taking
command of the battlefield.

The stars swam above, insects hummed below,
the campfire hissed and crackled in the tiny starlit clearing, but
Annabel found herself so firmly held and kissed and mesmerized by
the gunfighter who had wrapped his arms around her that she was
aware of nothing but the rough feel of his body against hers and
the scorching sweetness of kisses that robbed her of all reason.
Steele gave her no chance, no time, no breath to protest.

Not that she wanted to.

After that first startling moment, Annabel
found herself caught up in a rush of deliciously indecent feeling.
Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he must feel it against
his own implacable chest. Her mouth burned beneath his, and the
flames seemed to spark a wildfire deep inside her soul. She never
even realized when she began kissing him back, but she was suddenly
leaning against him, parting her lips beneath the onslaught of his,
fervently returning those sumptuous kisses which made her knees
feel like butterscotch pudding and her brain reel as if she’d just
fallen headfirst off a cliff.

And then a loud popping noise exploded in
the clearing and Steele dropped her like a sack of coal, spun
around, and in one fluid movement went for his gun.

But there was no one there. It was only a
long twig falling suddenly into the fire, popping as the flames
consumed it in one great orange burst.

“Hell and damnation,” Steele swore. He
holstered his gun, closed his eyes a moment, and then glanced back
at the woman sitting shaken by the fire.

What in hell had he been thinking—worse,
what in hell had he been
doing
? Of all the women on earth,
she was the last woman he could get involved with—the very last
one. Not that he was involved, he told himself hastily, taking a
deep steadying breath. It had just been a passing inclination, a
weakness of the flesh. Instinct—a primal physical attraction to
this vulnerable and damnably appealing woman—had temporarily won
out over reason and good sense. That’s all.

But you can’t afford for that to
happen
, he reminded himself, and with smooth habit, assumed
the old familiar mantle of cold ruthlessness again. He slipped it
back on as easily as most men slipped on a pair of comfortable
overalls. So that when he turned back to Annabel Brannigan, he
looked every inch of who and what he was, of who and what he had
made himself into during all these rugged, solitary years roaming
the West.

Roy Steele, merciless gunfighter. Dangerous
loner. Killer of all who crossed him or got in his way.

Annabel stared at him in horror, confusion,
and dismay. Chagrin at how shamelessly she had kissed him poured
through her. Her disloyalty to Brett was shameful. She felt herself
choking on the humiliation of it. And there was something else.
Disbelief at the transformation in him. That noise in the clearing
had summoned forth the real Roy Steele. The cold-eyed man who moved
with the speed and danger of a panther, who held his gun with such
frightening steadiness, who sneered at the world through eyes that
lacked all human warmth and pity. The man who had so frightened her
in Justice and Eagle Gulch, the cruel emotionless gunman who had
threatened her in Lily Pardee’s boudoir and who killed men with the
same dispassionate ease some men killed mosquitoes.

Oh, God. Why had she let him kiss her? Why
had she kissed him back?

She was in love with Brett!