Wildfire in His Arms (6 page)

Degan kicked the coil of rope toward Dawson. “Tie the end of that around your ankles. If it's loose, you probably won't like how I tighten it.”

Another flare of anger across the brow, tight across the lips, and the boy was taking his sweet time in getting a knot tied. Degan was too tired to push it. As soon as Dawson was hog-tied, he'd be getting some sleep.

“Why did you stick around Helena, kid? Because of the girl?”

“What girl?” Dawson asked without glancing up.

“You visit more than one in town?”

Bristling, Max tried to stand up, but couldn't manage it with his feet already tied. “If you hurt Luella—”

“Do I look like a man who would hurt a woman?”

“Hell yeah, you do!”

“When I can find out what I need to know without half trying?”

“Because you look dangerous?” Max snorted. “Looking like it don't mean much out here.”

Degan shrugged. “I merely had words with her. She didn't volunteer much. In fact, she tried to mislead me about where I could find you.”

Dawson grinned at that. “She's a good friend—and she knows I'm innocent.”

“She doesn't know any such thing, simply believes what you tell her.”

“But I am innocent.”

No belligerence was in the boy's voice, just a sad tone that struck Degan oddly. But then he guessed this was probably how the boy had convinced Luella and anyone else who might recognize him that he wasn't guilty. He should save the performance for the jury.

“Innocence doesn't show up on wanted posters. Is your lady­love the only reason you stuck around here too long, or were you planning to rob another bank in the area?”

“I was making my way to Canada, but when I heard they mostly speak French there, I changed my mind. I can speak Spanish, but not French. Maybe I should go to Mexico instead.”

“Where you're going is jail. You have figured that out, right?”

“I ain't stupid, fancy man,” Dawson snarled.

That was debatable. Breaking the law entailed a measure of stupidity—or desperation. At least for men. But boys like this could also do it simply for fun, because they were too young and reckless to consider the consequences. Max Dawson was finally going to figure that out.

“Get up on your knees.”

“Why?”

Degan didn't answer, he just waited. It wasn't his habit to talk this much. Ever. The most he'd said in years to one person had been recently to Tiffany Warren when she'd been masquerading as the Callahans' housekeeper. But then Tiffany had reminded him of so many things he'd given up. And she'd been full of questions, despite how nervous she was around him, so it had been hard not to talk to her.

But Dawson had been something of a curiosity from the moment Degan had seen him escaping through the brothel window in Helena, so full of exuberance and laughter. A happy outlaw. But again, Degan figured young love accounted for that contradiction.

The boy finally rolled to his knees. Degan knelt behind him to test the knot that had been tied, then wrapped the rope around Dawson's feet a few more times.

“Your hands now.”

A few minutes later he had Dawson effectively hog-tied, with the rope extending from his tied feet to his tied hands, a few loops around his neck, and tied off at his feet again.

“Do you have any idea how uncomfortable this is?!” Max yelled furiously when Degan pushed him over so he could lie on his side.

“Can't say that I do. But then I don't break the law, don't get taken by surprise, and I sure as hell wouldn't be shouting about it like a girl. So shut the hell up, Dawson.”

“You're not taking me in right now?”

“In the morning. I've barely gotten any sleep these last four days since I started searching for your sorry ass.”

Degan grabbed the boy's rifle before he left the shack to bring his horse up to it for the night. The palomino would warn him if anyone approached, not that he expected company. If Luella had known where Dawson was staying, she would have been up here to warn him long before now.

Reentering the shack, Degan saw the boy was exactly where he'd left him, lying in the bed of leaves, though he'd lifted his feet as high as he could to loosen the pressure of the rope around his neck. He hoped the kid didn't strangle himself before Degan fell asleep. There'd be no danger of that if the kid would just lie still, so Degan wasn't going to loosen those ropes. He sat down and gingerly leaned his back against the wall, afraid the shack might tumble over if he leaned too hard against it. But he was asleep in moments.

T
HE SOFT CREAK OF
wood woke him. Degan opened his eyes to see Dawson tiptoeing out the door with his saddlebags in hand, coat donned and hat on. Degan's failing to check the pile of leaves the outlaw had been using as a mattress proved just how tired he'd been after tying up his prisoner. Any number of things could have been hidden under it. Obviously another knife.

“I wouldn't if I were you,” he growled.

The boy still did, bolting out the door. Degan swore and gave chase, nearly tripping over the saddlebags that had been dropped just outside the door. He didn't draw his gun even with such a clear target in the moonlight. He'd never shot a man in the back and wasn't going to start now. And he had a feeling Dawson was too desperate to stop for a gun right now, even if it was fired.

The boy didn't head for his horse. Turning the animal around in the small cave where it was hidden would waste too much time. He was simply running down the hill for freedom, zigzagging through the trees, probably hoping Degan would lose sight of him so he could hide, then double back for his mount. It might have worked. There were enough trees to hide behind. But the kid was short and Degan's legs were long.

He got a handful of the long doeskin coat that was flapping behind the boy and yanked on it. That should have stopped him, but Dawson slipped his arms out of it, leaving the coat in Degan's hand while he kept on running. Degan tossed it aside and closed the distance between them again. He got his hand on Dawson's vest this time, but damned if the kid didn't do it again, slipping his arms out of it so Degan was left with just the stiff leather—and the sound of the kid's laughter floating back at him. So Dawson had planned that one, unbuttoning the garment as he ran? Incredible! This was starting to feel like a joke with Degan as the punch line.

He hadn't chased anyone like this since he was a child playing with his younger siblings. Since coming West, he'd never encountered a situation where he
had
to chase anyone. And his gun could put a stop to this nonsense, but he still didn't draw it. But he wasn't falling for Dawson's tactics again when the kid was probably already unbuttoning his shirt for a third slip.

“Give it up, fancy man!” Max yelled without looking back. “You ain't catching me!”

Degan tackled the boy to the ground. It probably knocked the breath out of him, considering their weight difference. The kid was so still now it might even have knocked him out. Or was he thinking up some other trick? Degan was done playing children's games.

Dawson's tan hat had rolled farther down the hill when they'd hit the ground. Degan got off the boy, grabbing a handful of spiky blond hair, pulling Max to his feet. The kid came up swinging his fists. Degan shoved him back to the ground and, getting down on one knee, held him there at arm's length while he searched for the knife the kid had used to cut the ropes. The boy was resisting with fists and knees now. The fists couldn't reach Degan's face and he barely felt them as they struck his chest, but the knees jabbing him in his side were getting annoying. Then Max changed tactics and just tried to get Degan's hand off his belly, but that didn't work either.

“I could have slit your throat while you slept but I didn't!” Max snarled at him.

“Two points for you, kid.”

“For your life? That's a hundred damn points if you ask me!”

“I'm not asking.”

The knife wasn't in the boy's belt, so it was probably in one of his boots. Degan figured he could either knock the kid out and carry him back to the shack to find it, or risk getting a boot to his face if he removed the boots here. For the trouble Dawson had caused him, he opted for the knockout, and he was in a good position to deliver the blow with one hand still holding Dawson down.

But Max saw the punch coming and used all he had left to avoid it, trying to turn on his side and covering his head with both arms. With the sudden movement, Degan's palm slid up a few inches and touched something soft.

That brought him to his feet fast. “What the . . . ?”

The kid was still cowering on the ground—like a girl. Oh, hell no. There had to be a money pouch or something else strapped to Dawson's chest that would account for what he'd felt. He was
not
dealing with a damn girl.

“Get up,” Degan growled.

The kid did with a wary look. Degan clamped his fingers around the back of Max's neck and, keeping him at arm's length in front of him, walked him back up the hill. Degan didn't collect the discarded garments they passed on the way. His thoughts were bordering on furious, which was pretty damn disconcerting since he hadn't been this angry in years.

He shoved Max into the shack before he let go. The lantern was still burning, and fear was in Max's dark eyes now. About damn time.

“This is what is going to happen now,” Degan said in a low tone. “You are going to remove your shirt.”

“The hell I will!” Max backed away from Degan until the wall got in the way.

“If I have to do it, there won't be any buttons left on your shirt. If it's the only shirt you've got, too bad. I'm not interested in you, just what's under your shirt.”

“So I've got a pair, so what? You don't need to see them when you already felt—!”

“No more pretenses for you or assumptions for me, kid. Show me or I show myself. Your choice.”

Degan saw a flash of blue in the dark eyes glaring murderously at him. He might have been startled by the appealing hue if he wasn't so angry and frustrated. If Max was a girl, what the hell was he going to do with her?

The shirt was unbuttoned slowly. If there weren't still murder in her eyes, he'd think she was trying to entice him. She pulled one edge of the black shirt to the side, revealing a breast. It wasn't large, but decently plump and incredibly beautiful to his eyes, which warned him he'd been a fool to go so long without having a woman. She started to uncover the other breast. He must have been staring too long. If she hadn't been trying to seduce him to begin with, she was now. He ought to take her up on the offer, show her what happened when she played with fire. Not that she'd get what she wanted out of it.

He turned around. “Cover yourself.”

Whether she did or didn't, she leapt at his back, slamming both fists into it before yelling, “Happy now, you son'bitch? Doesn't change a damn thing and you know it!”

Didn't it? Degan wondered. Maybe not. Max Dawson, female, was still an outlaw wanted for murder and bank robbery. What would John Hayes do under these circumstances? His job, of course, and that was to apprehend and bring in the individual so a court of law could decide the matter of guilt or innocence.

The fists pounding on his back didn't budge him, and since he was blocking the shack's only exit, he didn't turn around right away to confront her. He'd give her time to button up her shirt and himself time to forget what that shirt was covering. When he did turn, she was pacing back and forth across the shack's measly ten feet of space, kicking the cut ropes, kicking the pile of leaves, the only two things on that side of the shack to kick.

The lantern was in the front corner to Degan's right, the coil of rope to his left, but she didn't go near them. She was staying away from him now, as far as she could get. It was a good thing he'd brought a long coil of rope. He was going to have to use the rest of it now.

“Take your boots off.”

She stopped to give him another glare before she sat down hard and reached for one of her boots. “Sure! Why not? This shack doesn't stink enough already?”

Two knives fell to the floor when the first boot came off. A third fell with the second boot. Degan shook his head incredulously. He knew one of those knives had been stashed under the leaves. She wouldn't have been able to reach her boots when she'd been tied up. She definitely took precautions, carrying so many weapons.

He looked at her feet and saw dingy gray socks with holes. He wondered if she ever willingly took her boots off. For that matter, he wondered if she ever bathed. He figured she must because she didn't smell bad. But she obviously hadn't washed in the last day since the rain. Her mud-caked face was like a mask, and not a pretty one. Did she know how she looked? Did she even have a mirror?