The Lady and the Outlaw

by Joyce Brandon

  An urgent whisper at his side jarred him back to the present. Maria was tugging on his arm. He glanced down at her face, at the dusty Phoenix street, the fiesta crowd that was milling and pushing and shouting, and then glanced back at his sister. Once he had gotten over his hurt and rage, he had tried to be fair to Jenn, but there was no way he could justify what she had done. Was it any wonder that the railroad that he and Doug and the rest of the gang lived off of, like it was their own private little money tree, was owned by Kincaid?

  His head buzzed with a dull, puzzled anger…

  Jennifer Van Vleet Kincaid. My sister the whore, he thought. Part of him rose up in anger at his blasphemous words, but the embittered part of him swelled up and silenced the protest. How he had loved her, worshipped her. The way only a little brother can love and worship an older sister.

  “Hey, Ward,” Doug whispered. “What’d I tell you? Ain’t she somethin’?”

  Chapter Four

  Ward’s head snapped around, and Doug recoiled at the look of fury on his friend’s face.

  “All right, all right. Sorry I brought it up,” Doug mumbled, stepping back to disappear into the crowd.

  Ward dragged in a deep breath, willing himself to relax. He was as surprised as Doug had been at that blind and heedless instinct to defend his sister’s honor, that is, if a woman who married the man who had stripped her of family and fortune could still have honor.

  Or perhaps, he thought bitterly, the act of marriage cancels out all the rest. Was that the way it worked? Did a man have a right to feel betrayed when another person, even a sister, chose to live life on her own terms? Even when he didn’t understand or approve?

  Ward’s lips twisted into a wry smile. When had Jenn ever sought approval? His or anyone else’s? She might look like a wisp of silver, without substance, as innocent and pure as a vestal virgin, in her fashionable white brocade, but she was as spirited as any female he had ever known. She had spent her life in training to be a ballerina. And when she wasn’t dancing she was singing, because she could not decide which was her first love. Physically, she was as strong as spring steel. Mentally she was as determined as any woman on earth to have her own way. Her wide purple eyes could flash with imperious scorn, melt icebergs with their poignant appeal, or tantalize, seduce, bewitch. Now he thoroughly understood why Kincaid had carried her from the carriage to the sidewalk. The man was no doubt besotted with her.

  Maria nudged him again, and he felt like a fool standing in the hot sun, eulogizing his treacherous, beautiful sister…But self-righteousness also sickened him. Wasn’t it possible that Jenn’s only error had been one of judgment? What gave him the right to stand aside and judge her, then to inflict his childish punishment by running away? Jenn had once loved him completely.

  He was remembering a time when their nanny had jerked him up by the arm and begun to whip him across his bare thighs with a belt. He could not remember the reason for his punishment or how old he had been. He only remembered that Jenn, her face tight with rage and determination, had thrown herself between him and the stinging blows of that belt, screaming invectives at the woman. In anger, the nanny had turned on Jenn and punished her soundly. Their combined screams had attracted head cook’s attention, and the nanny was fired, but Jenn had carried welts for days.

  Maria stamped her foot, demanding his attention. He looked down at her, but his voice failed him.

  “Ward, mio.” Maria pouted, a note of demand in her voice.

  “Come on,” he said, his own voice harsh, strained. Part of him was being pulled toward his sister, irresistibly, but another part, even stubborner than the other, took Maria’s arm and guided her through the crowd. If Jenn had loved him, she would have at least checked to see if he had survived the beating of Kincaid’s thugs; she would have tried to find him long before now. Kincaid’s finely wrought network of hired talent could find anything it set out to locate.

  “Let’s go find us a nice quiet place,” he said abruptly, burning with the sudden desire to forget Jenn and all the memories that went with her. Forgiving those who trespassed against you was for saints and the dying; if Jenn had seen him and recognized him, he might not have been able to turn away. But she hadn’t.

  “But where?” Maria demanded, smiling.

  That was a good point. They were in the middle of the fiesta crowd in the hottest part of the day. It wasn’t going to be easy to find some privacy. He had a room at the Rancher’s Hotel, but women weren’t allowed in the rooms.

  Maria’s family had a covered wagon tied up next to the livery stable. The whole family shared it at night, but now, at midday, it was deserted. Her parents were avid Catholics and were probably attending one of the many masses at the old Spanish mission, celebrating Mexican independence, the purpose of the fiesta days.

  “Come,” she said, scampering up into the deep well of the wagon. Ward stepped on the small platform and leaped easily inside. He knelt on the pallet that covered the floor of the wagon, cleared it of strewn garments, and Maria slipped eagerly into his arms, lifting her lips to be kissed.

  Maria was seventeen, and she didn’t know how old this caballero Ward was. She only knew that he was so rubio and so handsome that she had been unable to resist him. Now his warm mouth was on her face, burning into her lips, her cheeks, her eyes. She was breathless and weak with the unexpected trembling he had started in her helpless body. Never had she felt anything like this when the young men of her acquaintance had managed to steal a kiss. Never had her body trembled and collapsed the way it did now.

  His tongue teased her lips and darted into her mouth, causing ripples the length of her body. One warm hand slipped from her back, where his fingers were pressing against her spine, leaving a burning trail to her breast. His fingers caressed the sensitive engorged nipples, and she moaned in her throat at the heat that surged into her belly. His kiss deepened, and his hand slipped down to stroke her smooth inner thigh. Heat flooded Maria, but a small voice, the voice of her dear mama, interrupted her. An internal argument ensued, and the part of her that liked the way Ward’s lips and his hands made her feel argued with much eloquence against her mother’s imagined voice, which was loud and insistent, even though it was losing the argument on every point.

  She struggled against him. “No, Ward, mio, please…”

  He laughed softly and forced her down onto the pallet. “Hush. You want half of Phoenix looking in this wagon, seeing us like this?”

  “No, Ward, no, I can’t,” she panted, beginning to struggle against him.

  Ward lifted his head and looked into the girl’s eyes. “For Christ’s sake,” he grumbled. “Why not?”

  “Please,” she begged him. “Don’t do that!”

  Ward’s hand was on her thigh, beneath the thin cotton skirt. Her skin was soft and pliant beneath his touch. Her eyes pleaded with him even while they told him yes. Only moments ago she had led him in here. Moments before that she had pressed her hungry little body against him as if she were as eager as any female he had ever bedded. Now she was saying no.

  Ward sat up abruptly, a thought forming in his mind. “Are you…Have you done this before?”

  “N-no,” Maria whispered, tears beginning to slip down her cheeks.

  “Damn! Have you seen my hat?” he demanded, cursing the luck that would cause him to pick a virgin out of all the available women in Phoenix.

  Heartbroken, Maria threw her arms around his neck, clinging tightly to him. She was trembling all over, and the tears were wetting his neck. He held her for a moment, stroking her dark hair. “Wipe your face,” he said, brushing the tears off her cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know…I thought I could do it,” she said, breaking into new sobs. He pulled her close and soothed her until her broken sobs subsided.

  “You can hit me if you want to,” she said, sniffing.

  He laughed in spite of the warring emotions that still seethed within him. Between this little vixen and the
Kincaids, he was having one helluva day. Hitting her would serve no purpose and was not something he would even consider. If he was angry at anyone, it was at himself, not the girl. While Doug Paggett and his men might think him an irrepressible cocksman, he alone knew he had thrown back more fish than he had kept, though he wasn’t above letting the false attributes circulate, since they added to his image. Now he pulled away, gently but firmly.

  “I’m so ashamed,” she said.

  He noticed a pair of trousers that had been flung almost out of the wagon in their original haste to make a place on the pallet. He tossed them back into the pile of clothes beside the pallet, then took her hands and pulled her to her feet. He wiped her tears again and teased her until she was smiling, then laughing in his arms.

  “Next year at fiesta time, you be here,” he said, threatening her playfully. “Then, if you don’t behave yourself…” He put his fist to her jaw pretending to hit her. “Next year,” he warned.

  She laughed, nodding her pleasure.

  “And if I don’t find you, I will come looking for you, comprende?”

  Maria nodded and hugged him as tightly as if he had just saved her life.

  Chapter Five

  “Magnifique, mademoiselle, you will be zee most elegant young lady in zee fiesta parade,” Annette breathed, stepping back after she had buttoned the last of the long row of tiny gold buttons.

  “I have carefully weighed my uncle’s request, and while I agree that every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason, I cannot indulge his whim in the matter of this parade,” Leslie said, turning to admire the gown in the full-length mirror. They were in an elegant suite of rooms at the Bricewood West, which was a paragon of grandeur compared to the dusty squalor of Phoenix.

  Annette sighed, dazzled by her mistress’s delicate language as well as the striking picture she made in the golden gown. Leslie was taller than average, elegantly slender, with a face that reflected the sweetness of a sunny disposition combined with a charming vagueness that came from preoccupation with her own thoughts. After three years in the same house with her, Annette realized that Leslie Powers lived almost entirely in her imagination. Her wide-apart lime-green eyes reflected both the innocence of her genteel upbringing and intelligence honed by fourteen years of intensive schooling. Thanks to Margaret Powers, Leslie had received a fine education from serious and demanding instructors who did not subscribe to the common view that a woman’s primary responsibility was to marry, raise children, and be charming at table. Leslie had graduated from Wellesley College at the top of her class, proficient in algebra, biology, chemistry, Latin, history, French, English composition, and geography. She had also excelled in a variety of art classes where she’d mastered everything from color and light to neo-classical traditions.

  Most young women her age exchanged endless visits with other young women, received young men into chaperoned parlors, and contemplated marriage. Their dainty fingers were curled around china cups at tea with friends, who whispered, giggled, and gossipped among themselves. Leslie rarely walked out with a young man more than once. She had been introduced to handsome young stockbrokers, barristers just out of law school, and even a dapper young physician. And while Leslie was polite in her responses, her manner always revealed that although she was not bored, she was certainly not eager. Few young men possessed the composure to cope with such indifference.

  And like most people dedicated to their work, Leslie was never happier than when her surroundings managed to take care of themselves without her help. She had known a moment of ecstasy when she entered the Bricewood suite and saw a small sign beside the light key which said, “This room is equipped with electric light. Do not attempt to light with match. Simply turn key on wall by this sign. The use of electricity for lighting is in no way harmful to your health, nor does it affect the soundness of your sleep.”

  She and Annette, both accustomed to electricity in large eastern hotels, had smiled with superior glee at the time. Now she turned, surveying her slender figure in the mirror, dabbing with a slender, graceful hand at the glow of perspiration on her smooth brow. While she was too well cultivated and gently reared to speak all her thoughts, even to her maid, she personally believed there was something sinister about her uncle’s request.

  “Oui, breathtaking, mademoiselle,” Annette exclaimed, clasping her tiny hands under her chin in admiration. She was only three years older than Leslie, and her guileless blue eyes were filled with rapture at the elegant vision of her mistress before her. “And,” she said, knitting her straight tawny brows in a frown, “your uncle eez a very determined man.”

  Leslie Marlowe Powers lifted her firm chin and turned to look over her shoulder to see herself at another angle. The gown her uncle had practically ordered her to wear was beautiful—there was no question of that. It was the most extravagant creation Leslie had ever seen, obviously an antique, probably from the romantic era of Madame de Pompadour’s court, when female fashions were distinguished by full sleeves and skirts, square, low-cut necklines, and narrow waists. The inlay in the bodice was intricately and lavishly embroidered and piped in thick gold thread; truly a dress fit for a queen. Even the gold slippers were perfect, including the way their soft, costly leather molded itself to her feet like a caress.

  “That is true,” she sighed. “He is singular in his desire to control my activities. Unfortunately I am equally determined not to ride in the parade.”

  But there was a note of regret in her voice, and looking into the mirror, she could see that her cheeks were flushed with color. The lime-greenness of her eyes fairly leaped out at her from the mirror. She was excited by the opportunity to wear such a magnificent gown. Weeks of being deprived of suitable companionship must have undone her, else she wouldn’t be considering it. She wasn’t usually obstinate, but her uncle’s plan to display her in this fashion had repelled her. He had made elaborate plans and preparations: outfitting his riders with fancy charo suits, silver-studded saddles, and blooded horses. The horse he had chosen for her was a pure white Arabian—so she could “gleam like a little jewel,” he had said. Her reason warned her that, to her uncle and Dallas Younger, this was not just a casual, frolicsome event…

  Usually she would not have had even a passing interest in wearing this gown, but she had been on the ranch for three weeks, and frankly, she missed the opportunities to wear fine gowns and be appreciated by young men she admired. There was some tension as well over Dallas Younger and his unwanted attentions. When he wasn’t working away from the ranch house, he dogged her steps, making sly, insinuating remarks.

  The plump Frenchwoman was about to reply when they heard a loud knock on the door. Annette whirled as if she had been caught in some mischief and rushed to the door. “Who is zere?” she demanded.

  “It’s us.”

  “It eez your uncle, mademoiselle.”

  “Let him in.”

  Mark Powers and Dallas Younger shuffled into the room and stopped in the middle of the oriental rug in front of the horsehair sofa. Leslie was instantly aware of Younger’s eyes on her body and felt herself flushing with a renewal of the irritation she felt when he was near her. The man had made life miserable for her since her arrival. He had apparently decided that she was going to be his woman, and he seemed perfectly capable of ignoring her feelings in the matter.

  He was a rough-hewn giant, well liked and obviously respected by other rough men. He was built like a lumberjack, with slightly more refinement of feature, so that to the casual eye he appeared quite handsome, but there was such an air of careless arrogance about him that Leslie mentally recoiled. He was a man perfectly capable of ignoring her wishes, and she was too accustomed to having her opinions considered to find such thoughtlessness attractive.

  Now he was devouring her with his dark eyes. Frowning, she glanced from Younger’s ruddy face to her uncle, her expression demanding that he reprimand his foreman, but Uncle Mark did not appear to take notice.

  Power
s cleared his throat. “Well, now,” he said, taking in the sight of her, “you do me proud—real proud!”

  Leslie’s eyes widened in surprise and frustration. She needed his protection, and all he gave her was his approval of how she looked in the gown he had provided.

  Mark Powers was a stocky man with an open, usually friendly face and an infectious smile that he used to his advantage. He had a wide, short neck to match his stocky build, and a face with small features—nose, mouth—even his eyes were small. And while he might look like pictures she had seen of her father, she knew from her mother that the resemblance ended there. Her father had been an honorable man. She had only known Mark Powers for a few short weeks, but she felt no sense of security from his guardianship.

  For although she had not been mistreated, Powers routinely made decisions for her that he fully expected her to abide by. She had decided that he was conservative, quiet, a little sneaky in his relations with people, not particularly intelligent, but a man who had done well because he didn’t let his affairs become too complicated. He could be easily embarrassed—he was not a man who relaxed with people until he knew them quite well. He presented such a neutral image to the world that he affronted no one, except her.

  In dealing with her, he had been both generous and as tight as the bark on a tree, which suggested to her that he was subject to moods. His moods seemed dictated by how her desires might conflict with the welfare of what he considered “his ranch.” If spending money enhanced his or the ranch’s image, he was generous; if it did not, he was deaf to her needs. He was a hard worker, rising before dawn and tending to the business of the ranch until late in the evening. He was liked by his contemporaries, but known intimately by no one. She knew he thought himself a good uncle.

  “Thank you, Uncle Mark,” she said, temporarily thrown off guard by the look of pride in his eyes. She would deal with Younger’s rudeness later, with her uncle in private.