“Hey, remember me?”
Ward grunted. “What the hell are you doing? Writing an article?”
“I’m here at your insistence, not my own, and I’m bored. You don’t need to be ashamed of your past. There’s no way you could impress me.”
The look he gave her was one of bitterness. “What do you want to hear? That I’m lower than a mineshaft? Well, I am. I rode with the Jackson Hole Gang in Wyoming, fought with McSween in the Lincoln County range wars, enforced illegal quarantines. Rob the T and P at least once a month. I do whatever pays the best until it stops paying, then I move on.”
“So who’s paying you to kidnap me?”
“Once in a great while I do charity work,” he said grimly.
“Charity work! If this is your idea of benevolence…” She was speechless. Finally recovering, she asked, “Is there nothing too low for you?”
“I don’t dig post holes,” he said, grinning suddenly.
“You mean you don’t do anything that consists of honest toil.” She shook her head and the wind picked up tendrils of her dark hair and fanned it over her face. She brushed it back with a slender hand. “I despise men who can’t do anything useful. Being an outlaw is another way of avoiding responsibility, or not doing the drudgery that each one of us has to do for survival.”
Ward laughed. “You look like you know a lot about drudgery. Your smooth, white hands have never pushed a plow.”
Leslie flushed. There was too much truth in his words. She decided to change the subject. “Is that El Paso accent of yours real?”
“It’s real enough, I guess.”
“You must have attended school somewhere. Did you graduate?”
Now he picked up the rag he had been using as a towel and wiped his face. “I almost graduated from Harvard, but I was expelled three months before,” he said, grinning, because he knew she wouldn’t believe the truth.
“I suppose there are ways you could have heard of Harvard…Where did you really go to school?”
“Long Branch Saloon, class of ’82.” There was a kernel of truth in his words. His career as an outlaw had started in the street in front of the Long Branch in Dodge City six years ago…
“Ahhh,” she sighed. “It suits you somehow.”
“So does your outfit.”
She looked down at her torn riding habit and back up at him in surprise. “What?”
“You’re the kind of woman who can inspire a man to rip the clothes off her back.” His eyes narrowed, and she saw muscles in his cheek bunch and writhe. “It’s almost dark, little one. Come here,” he said, tossing the rag away from him.
She swallowed and her frosty lime-green eyes widened. She could feel her heart thumping heavily in her chest, much faster than it should, and fought to control the fear, or whatever, that was causing her distress. She instinctively backed away from him, scooting off the blanket. She did not want a repeat of what had happened last night. She could not explain what had happened to her in his arms. It defied logic and reason as she knew it. A stranger had taken over her body, some dark demon-creature that knew nothing of traditional morality, personal pride, integrity.
Now, sitting tensely before this man she had hated, this man who had killed innocent men and forced himself on her, she felt breathless. She swallowed and flushed and looked away from the sharp light in his piercing blue eyes. She stood up, either from nervousness or in preparation to bolt, and he took a step toward her.
“If you run I will put the rope back around your neck. If I put it on again, it stays.” His voice was quiet and unemotional, but she knew he meant it.
He was too close to her. Too close. Leslie licked her lips, and for the second time since he had taken her, he saw tears sparkle in her eyes. She had eloquent eyes, and now he could read her torment plainly. She was almost too direct; it would be impossible for her to lie successfully.
“That’s not fair,” she whispered, turning her back.
“Kidnapping is inherently unfair,” he said softly, moving to stand before her, so close she could feel the threatening warmth of his body. “It won’t do you any good to run or fight,” he said softly, coaxingly. “It’ll just make it harder on you.”
Leslie heard him with relief. At last! Something she could recognize in all that vague and fearful confusion. She turned defiantly, her eyes flashing. “I should be like you? Do whatever is easiest? Most convenient? Well, I’m dreadfully sorry, Mr. Gunfighter, Mr. Train Robber, Mr. Kidnapper, but I can’t take the easy way out just because it might save me some pain or inconvenience. I have integrity, and I’m going to fight you, because not to fight would fill me with shame, and I can abide anything except that.”
Ward reached out and touched her cheek, and, amazingly, she didn’t draw back. Then she closed her eyes, as if from weakness, and he could feel her pulse begin beating wildly. Trembling started in her stomach, near her spine. He was so close she could feel the heat from his body.
“Please,” she whispered.
Ward saw and understood—not completely or with definition, but at a more fundamental level. He felt a sudden resentment. He should teach her a lesson, all about lust and hypocrisy, but she was too vulnerable. Most females had no well-thought-out philosophy. If you took away their belief or their habit of obedience, they were adrift in a rudderless ship on a vast, bewildering sea.
He wanted her, but not enough to risk being responsible for her downfall. She reminded him of too many things he’d thought he had left behind. This girl with skin like satin represented all that he had fled eight years ago.
“Don’t bother to run. I’m not in the mood for war.” He caught her arms and dragged her over to the blankets. She began to fight against him, but he was incredibly strong. He tied her hands behind her, gagged her to stop her outraged cries, and then tied her feet while she glared with hate over her shoulder at him. When she was trussed up like a Christmas package, he lay down beside her and began to stroke and caress the smooth curve of her slender back. He smoothed the hair off her face and felt her become still, watchful, under his hand. He knew what she expected. Why disappoint her? He lowered his head and kissed her throat and the firm swell of her breast. There was enough cruelty in him to enjoy the shudder of fear that rippled through her.
It cost him something to leave her—to relinquish that satiny warmth—but he covered it well. “Sorry I can’t stay with you, but I’ll be back soon. You’ll be safe. I wouldn’t leave you if there was any real danger.” He covered her and left, and it was full dark before her anger left her to be replaced by uncontrollable terror.
Dallas Younger posted three guards for his remaining seven men to sleep in peace. They didn’t expect a visit tonight. No one would dare pull a stunt like that two nights in a row.
“Harris, Leonard, Sanders, you got first watch, and I don’t want any fallin’ asleep, you hear? You keep moving and keep an eye on each other. Anything out of the ordinary and you call out, you hear?”
“Gotcha, boss.”
“Right!”
“Hell yes!”
“Keep in plain sight of each other so’s there can’t be any slipups!” Younger warned.
It was almost midnight, with chill winds moaning out of the hills, when a bank of slow-moving clouds obscured the almost-full moon that had arced overhead. Sanders, who had walked out the farthest from the campfire, heard the tiniest sound, whirled around, ready to cry out, and felt his nose and mouth covered by a hand with the grip of steel.
Neither Harris nor Leonard saw Sanders drop. Harris had reached down to pick up a billet of wood. He did that every time his path crossed one. It paid off. No one ever had to make a special trip looking for twigs and branches when he was around. He had mentioned what a good idea this was to the other two, but they never paid any attention to anything. He straightened and searched out his two comrades, exactly as he was supposed to do.
He saw Sanders straighten up, adjusting his rifle to carry it more comfortably, and continue
the arc he had been making from the fire out to the east and then back toward the horses, then to the fire again. Sanders was too damned predictable to be a good sentry! That’s the first kind a mad-dog killer like that Cantrell would go after! Himself, he just did something different every time. He wasn’t taking any chances on getting his throat cut!
Harris adjusted his armload of firewood and watched with tight-mouthed disapproval as Sanders lit a cigarette and Leonard, who was always out of tobacco, walked over to join him. Harris was of half a mind to wake Younger and tell him they were messing up! Damn them! They couldn’t even obey a simple directive! Harris was an old army man himself, until he had been found guilty of rape and murder. But it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t known they counted those filthy squaws as people. They should warn a man—not just decide to hang him for one lousy mistake. He’d done the only thing he could have done under the circumstances, and that was to kill three guards and escape. He still couldn’t figure out what all the fuss had been about. He’d been a good soldier—damned good! The girl had only been an Indian! A damned Crow, at that! Wasn’t worth a damn! Certainly wasn’t worth a good soldier’s life!
Those damned clouds covered the moon again, and Harris couldn’t decide if he should risk getting Dallas Younger awake and all hot under the collar about the way Sanders and Leonard were messing up, probably getting together to nip on the bottle Leonard always kept hidden!
They were still out there together. Probably getting drunk! He should wake Younger, but he was hell on men when he was mad, and he hated being waked up in the middle of the night. And everything did look all right. Harris saw Sanders coming toward him, and he could tell he’d been right about the bottle. Good thing he hadn’t gotten Younger up—they had decided to share with him!
The man he thought was Sanders took a full swig of the whiskey and passed him the bottle. Harris tilted his head back, and let the fiery liquor burn a warm trail down to his stomach.
“That hit the spot!” he said gratefully, passing the bottle back. He adjusted his armload of billets carefully.
Sanders tucked the bottle into his hip pocket; Harris turned to resume his path back to the fire with his billets and found himself caught in a vise of steel, his mouth and his nose clamped shut. He clawed for his gun and felt a white-hot pain at his throat—the last memory he would ever have.
Man and wood crumpled to the ground, and Cantrell slipped noiselessly to the sleeping forms scattered around the campfire. He searched each sleeping face until he found Younger, bent down and pinned a note, which he had written while it was still light, onto Younger’s shirt, and then slipped back into the night.
Seven down. Seven to go. Then Younger.
With difficulty Ward Cantrell found the place he had left the girl. There was no stream to follow tonight and no moonlight now to help him. It surprised him that he felt such urgency to get back to her. He knew she was safe there. He had spent years sleeping in the desert, mountains, plains, and nothing had ever threatened him, except an occasional flea or tick. She was probably crying again, and it gnawed at him, making him impatient with himself, but he had no choice.
His decision had been made for him days ago. He would abide by it even if it meant his own death. The men who could do what he had seen at that small farm, to unarmed women, an old man, and a boy, deserved to die. He would kill them without pity or mercy. He felt no guilt—no more than if he had killed a rabid skunk. The only requirement he had was that they be awake and that Younger, who had led the raid, know what was coming so he could sweat about it. It was too bad the girl got hurt, but she couldn’t be allowed to change anything.
He found her and his camp when he was almost ready to give up and wait for morning. If her horse hadn’t whinnied, he would have missed them altogether. She was ice cold and completely unresponsive. He quickly untied her, undressed her and himself, and held her as close as he could, kissing her face, her eyes, her mouth, until he felt her begin to respond.
Any remorse he had would be not for the men he had killed but for this slender female who trembled uncontrollably in his arms…She was sweet and curving, delicate and pure. He made love to her while she was still clinging to him like a trusting child, and that even managed to twinge the conscience he didn’t think he still had.
Chapter Seventeen
He woke her before dawn, and this time, because she was naked and she knew she’d been fully clothed when he tied her up, she knew that something had happened. The dream again, but apparently it wasn’t all a dream.
Cantrell saw her sweet mouth tighten into an angry line. “You tricked me,” she said, looking cross and irritable.
“Correction. I took advantage of you. That’s what I’m supposed to do,” he said patiently. “You’re a hostage, a victim. Or had you forgotten?”
Flushing angrily, her pretty chin came up in that stubborn way she had. “I thought there was supposed to be honor among thieves, or some such code.”
“You asking to join me? Or are you trying to lay down rules of conduct for relationships with hostages? A guide for all us uneducated types?” He tilted his head back and looked at her through narrowed eyes, his expression wavering between bitterness and anger. He had awakened in a strange, rancorous mood. “Might as well forget it,” he said grimly. “Most of us don’t read anything but our own wanted posters, else we would be into real crime—be lawyers, politicians, and railroad tycoons—where the real money is.”
“I guess we’re lucky you can’t read. You’d be really dangerous if you could,” she said caustically, beginning to jerk on the clothes he had belatedly tossed her.
The small rolling hills had turned into mountains. She was seeing real trees now—fir, spruce, pine, and oak—scattered but slowly, very slowly, becoming dense, forestlike. They were leaving the desert behind, climbing into more heavily wooded sloping terrain that looked wild and uninhabitable. They moved slowly, picking their way through the brush and rocks. The air was rich with pine and musky animal smells. Occasional pine cones littered their path. The sun was still high overhead, but mostly they rode in the shade.
Now she was seeing small furry animals—jackrabbits, the riders on her uncle’s ranch had called them. And more slithery things. Cantrell didn’t talk much, but as they rode he occasionally shot at a jackrabbit. She noticed with chagrin that he did not miss. Maybe he didn’t try the hard shots. Soon there were four rabbits hanging from the horn of his saddle.
When the sun began to sink below the horizon, she noticed that he changed course. They were going east now.
“Where are we going?” she asked tiredly. She had been drooping in the saddle for miles.
He turned and looked at her for practically the first time. Her pretty face was streaked with dust and sweat beneath the protecting hat he had taken off one of the men he had killed. She had braided her long black hair and wrapped it around her crown. Wispy hairs framed her dirty face. She looked exhausted, and he realized for the first time that she had been subjected to a ride that would have killed most women. “You’ve had a pretty rough time of it, haven’t you?” he asked softly. This first sign of compassion from him unnerved her. A lump formed in her throat, and she just sat there, too sore and tired to move, wondering what he was thinking.
Ward was thinking about what he had to do that night and that he didn’t want to leave the girl tied up on the desert again. Her reaction to it was too damaging. He could tell she didn’t understand any better than he did what happened to her, and the effect lasted into the next day. Besides, if something should go wrong and he didn’t make it back…That creamy white skin was too good for buzzards. It was time to get rid of her anyway. If Younger caught up to them, there would be a hail of gunfire…Every time they had stopped to rest the horses, he had scanned the horizon, and each time Younger was nearer. He’d been a fool to save her boyfriend for last.
They rode until the sun was setting. Leslie dragged in the saddle, too weary to complain and too stubborn to beg hi
m to stop. He grunted, and she looked up, amazed to see a small adobe house with a thatched roof squatting under a band of cottonwoods. Three days without ever seeing another person had almost convinced her they were alone in the world—that there was no other life in Arizona—if they were still in Arizona.
The adobe hut was built next to a natural artesian seep where water bubbled up and sparkled like liquid black pearl in the dusk. The family that spilled out of the rude shelter, once they saw that Cantrell came in peace, looked more Indian than Mexican. The man had a pointed head with a black thatch of hair that looked as stiff as straw. The woman had small, sullen eyes and thin, corded arms. There were four children with round, solemn eyes. They looked like chicks peering from behind the mother hen’s drab feathers.
Cantrell negotiated with the man in a guttural Mexican dialect. Money and two of the rabbits changed hands. The man spoke rapidly to his wife, and she quickly gathered some things from the house. The man hitched a small burro to a cart and the family clamored into it.
“What are they doing?”
“They’re leaving.” He walked over to stand beside her horse. “Follow them. They’ll lead you into town.”
His eyes were unreadable. She could feel her heart begin a heavy, muted pounding in her chest. This should have sounded like deliverance, but it felt like rejection. “What if I don’t want to be led to safety?” she asked, her voice low.
The Lady and the Outlaw Page 12
