The Lady and the Outlaw

by Joyce Brandon

  “I don’t think so. Does it bother you?”

  “I’ve answered questions today no one has dared ask me before.” He paused. “I’ve told you things I didn’t tell my attorney.”

  “Winslow? I can understand that.” She laughed and mimicked Winslow’s stilted speech and mannerisms.

  When they stopped laughing, Leslie leaned against the tree they were standing under and looked up at him. Cantrell’s eyes darkened.

  “So when are you going to take charge and kiss me?” he challenged.

  “What happens if I don’t?”

  “Then I might risk life and limb to kiss you.”

  “I’m not that fierce,” she whispered.

  “That sounds like something Sitting Bull might have said to Custer.”

  “Do you feel like Sitting Bull?”

  “Custer.”

  “Ohhh! Poor thing.” She sighed. “Forgive me if I don’t fully believe you.

  “What was the happiest time in your life?” she asked to change the subject.

  “You ask more damn questions…”

  “Do I?” she teased. In that second, with his eyes narrowed against the sun and his jaw clenched in mock consternation, he looked every inch the sturdy, capable army captain. Why hadn’t she guessed? Perhaps because she knew so little about real outlaws? Had she supposed they were all so clean-shaven, so articulate and capable?

  Listening to him as he told her about one of the early settlements he’d been to, she could detect the hint of his almost vanished eastern accent. Or had he perfected that El Paso drawl so thoroughly that only the most suspicious listener would catch the almost imperceptible New England twang?

  “There was no law there,” he said slowly. “No occupation but labor, no government, no taxes, no public debt, no politics, only an old man who kept records in a ledger of births and deaths, performed the marriage ceremonies, baptized the children, and granted the divorces on request.”

  “Why did you like it so much?”

  “It seemed like heaven to me. By the time I got there I had been running so long…They were so innocent, so cut off from civilization that they hadn’t even heard of me.”

  “Why didn’t you stay there?”

  “Nothing lasts forever.”

  His voice was quiet and deliberately expressionless, just as it had been when he had told her about Simone and his friend Snake. She had a heavy, smothering pain around her heart. Was it for the pain he had suffered? Or only because the sun striking the smooth, healthy teak of his skin made her want to put her lips against the sensuous smooth swell of his insolent bottom lip?

  Of a sudden she took off her wide-brimmed straw hat and threw it into the air with all her strength. It sailed smoothly upward, caught a draft from the mountainside, and flipped over and over, bouncing wildly on an air current, causing her to cry out. “Oh, my hat! My hat!”

  He laughed and strained upward with his arms in a futile, enthusiastic way, shaking his head.

  She began to run after it, and he followed, laughing at the playful shrieks she uttered unconsciously, bobbing and darting under the diving, soaring hat, talking to the hat as if it were deliberately defying her. Unexpectedly, it came slicing downward, right at her. She dodged and squealed. By the time he reached her side she was kneeling, bending forward to retrieve the battered straw. Her neck, exposed by the hair falling to one side, gave him a sharp pang. Her breasts swung slightly in her blouse, the slender arching curve of her back was beautiful and strong. She wore no stays.

  She looked up into the dark, warm look in his eyes, and her excitement stilled. She stayed on her hands and knees, looking at him, her eyes going tender before her usual defiance reasserted itself. She tossed the hat at him, and he caught it, going down on one knee. She grabbed for it, but seeing her intent, he darted away, keeping it from her. She darted around him in a mad, playful fashion, laughing. She was small and agile, quick as lightning. He pushed her aside, but she came leaping back at him, making up in energy what she lacked in height and weight. She almost fell, then shrieking with delight, she stumbled away from him only to surge back, floundering tumultuously, wild with joy. They dodged and darted, laughing until they were both breathless, then collapsed on the grass.

  The hat lay beside them on the matted, tussocky grass, forgotten. “Oh, that was wonderful!” she sighed.

  “You half killed me,” he groaned.

  “Poor thing…”

  “Look who’s gasping for breath.”

  “Is this a case of the pot calling the kettle black?”

  Panting, he rolled over and pinned her loosely, his hands on either side of her breasts. “Dallas Younger couldn’t have caught you.”

  “No,” she said, becoming still, knowing what he meant, surprised that he had worried about her situation with Younger at all. He didn’t move, but her hands, sliding around his lean waist, felt the slight tremor inside him. His body, usually so like a weapon, hard and implacable against her, relaxed. The heavy feeling in her heart melted. Her blood, roused from the romp and the long walk in the warm sun, surged deep inside her, making her aware of herself as a woman, aware of her power and his.

  “I’m glad,” he said softly. “I hated the thought of you at his mercy.”

  His sincerity touched her. Her heart felt crushed in a burning grip, so that she was speechless.

  “I should have known you would whip him.”

  “I didn’t humiliate him too badly.”

  He grinned broadly, his eyes lighted with mischief. “He was lucky to get away with his life.”

  She laughed, enjoying his obvious pride in her accomplishment, arching backward, her small breasts touching his chest, burning into him like fire-tips.

  His lips on her throat, soft and warm, did not surprise her. His words were tortured, almost inaudible: “Leslie…love…”

  The river rushed noisily beside them. The air was clean and fresh, smelling of pine and resin and river smells. The sun was warm on her skin.

  Kissing her softly, shakily, he undressed her as if she were not the same woman he had been intimate with in the past. He was gentle, filled with a queer, blind clumsiness. She too was changed. Naked and with open eyes, she received him solemnly, with a sort of blind submissiveness. Their coupling was like submersion in warm water. She was lost, drowned, then caught up in a tornado and whirled around until her senses reeled. She clung to his sweat-sheened back, as if her life depended upon maintaining some connection with him, his warm skin, his hungry mouth.

  They lay locked in fierce possession, clinging together as if unwilling to intrude on the mysterious stillness in their bodies. Did she sleep?

  “Did you sleep?” His words sounded like an echo of hers.

  “I don’t know. Did you?” she whispered.

  “No.” He rolled off her, bringing her with him so that she lay atop him. “I would have crushed you.”

  They lay quietly, not talking, not wanting to. She fully understood the pain he could inflict now that she knew she cared for him. She didn’t say love, even in her mind, but a small warning, like some muted bell, sounded deep inside her, back near her spine, in darkness, like the chill of a foghorn along the frozen eastern coastline.

  As if he sensed the change in her, he kissed her, then disentangled himself and pulled on his pants and boots.

  “Wait here.” He was back in moments, his hands filled with tiny, yellow flowers that he scattered over her half-dressed body. “You deserve roses, long-stemmed red roses, but this is the best I could do.”

  “It’s wonderful; it couldn’t be better.” She smiled, gathering the tiny flowers in her hands to breathe their fragrance, her strange mood completely dispelled.

  The ride back to Phoenix ended much too soon. Was that because she didn’t know if she would ever see him again? Or because riding back was like returning to confusion after experiencing a glimpse of clarity?

  Was it the look on Jennie’s face when Ward nodded his curt good-bye to her?
The sudden flicker of controlled anguish in her lovely violet eyes before she lowered them and took her husband’s protective hand? Had Jennie deliberately waited up for them? Did Mrs. Lillian perhaps say something she shouldn’t have? But Jennie didn’t look envious or resentful. She seemed genuinely happy to see them.

  Watching him ride away from the Kincaid house, into the enveloping darkness of midnight, so tall and lean and straight, so manly and up to his duty, she felt that dim, muted bell in the depths of her sounding again, and she shivered.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Yoshio met Ward at the door, his typically Japanese face clouded with worry. “I tly to stop her. I tell her you be gone a rong time, maybe not come back at all, but she insist she have to see you.”

  “Who?”

  “Brond Tlinket,” he said, smiling at his own savvy.

  Ward grinned at the mispronunciation. “It’s okay. I’ll see her.”

  “That for sure,” he said firmly, bobbing his head. “You see prenty of her. No choice. That’s what I’m dying to tell you. She in your bed.”

  “In my bed?”

  Yoshio nodded, the tortoiseshell glasses hiding the expression in his dark eyes. “You want Yoshio to wake you in the morning?”

  “I’m not staying. As soon as I pack I’ll be gone until next Saturday, if all goes well. You get to bed.” He knew Yoshio went to church on Sunday mornings. He had confided that he was Buddhist but that he enjoyed the ritual in the other church as long as he didn’t listen to the words.

  “Ward.” Sandra pushed the door open, waiting for him.

  “Hi, Trinket.”

  “I waited and waited for you. I thought you cared about me.” She was naked and crying, Kincaid’s robe wrapped carelessly around her slender body. “I know you didn’t invite me here or anything, but I needed to talk to you.” Her long blond hair was loose around her shoulders. Her eyes were red and swollen. She looked so pitiful that he didn’t stop to wonder what had unsettled her so. His words were gentle, meant to be consoling.

  “You were playing with fire. I had to stop you. Dallas Younger is mean in a way you can’t even comprehend. He isn’t playing games, Trinket. He plays for keeps.”

  “Liar!” She jerked away from him, screaming that word from the very depths of her, her teeth bared, her movements violent. “No! You bastard! You rotten bastard! You tricked me! You’re just like all the rest! Tricking me! Using me! I know what you’re trying to do! You’re like my father, like all those sanctimonious self-righteous bastards who try to keep me from finding happiness. You make a thousand rules so that no one can remember them all and then punish a man for nothing.” She sobbed angrily for almost a minute before she started again, this time jerking free of the hand he put out to restrain her, to pace back and forth shouting and waving her arms.

  “Life is a joke! You know that? All I want, all I ever wanted, is to be happy! To have someone who wants me! Me! Is that so much to ask!? To have someone of my very own! Someone who wouldn’t push me away.” She fairly spat the words.

  “Hey, I haven’t lied to you…” He reached for her, to gentle her the way he would a riled-up horse, and she leaped at him, her nails curved into claws. Pain flashed like fire through his cheek. He slapped her hard, then pinned her arms before she could rake his other cheek with her nails.

  “What the hell has gotten into you? Stop this nonsense, dammit, or I’ll turn you over my knee. I care about you, or I wouldn’t have even bothered with you. I meant what I said. You stay the hell away from Younger. He’s a dead man anyway, as soon as I get him on my turf instead of yours,” he growled, holding her struggling, naked body.

  She changed instantly, like a child who gratefully accepts her punishment and then, relieved of both the guilt of the misdeed and the pain of the scolding, is reborn in innocence. “Do you really care?” she asked, snuggling against his chest, slipping her arms up to cling around his neck. “Can I stay with you? I need you, Ward. Please? I’m sorry about your face. I didn’t mean to…” New tears flooded her swollen eyes. She sounded like a child. Looked like one with her clenched fists pressed tightly against her trembling lips. He let his guard drop, pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his cheek. Blood stained the whiteness. What the hell had gotten into her?

  “I’m a working man, Trinket. I’m leaving town now. I won’t be back for at least a week,” he said gently, trying not to show the impatience he felt. “Behave yourself, and stay away from Younger.”

  He disengaged himself, took her small hand in his, and led her to the bed. She followed eagerly until she realized he wanted her to dress herself.

  Ignoring her, he strode purposefully around the bedroom he had used, gathering his few personal belongings. Sandra, fully dressed now, watched with baleful resentment. His mind was miles away. He was eager to bring this job to a quick conclusion. He had most of what he needed now—men he trusted at his back. It was just a matter of time and a little luck. All they had to do was catch Younger and some of his men with stolen cattle.

  Sandra couldn’t read his thoughts, but she didn’t need to. She could tell what was important to her—he had forgotten she existed—if he had ever known it…Her face, if he had bothered to look at it, was a mask of betrayed femininity.

  He stopped to survey the room, checking to see if he had forgotten anything. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his cheek where blood was trickling.

  “I’d like a cigarette,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes.

  He rolled one for her, lit it, and passed it to her.

  “Thanks,” she said, inhaling deeply.

  He watched, fascinated. He’d rarely ever seen a woman smoke. She did it with perfect ease.

  “Did you have something on your mind tonight?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just didn’t want to be alone. Before, I just pretended with everyone. They all think I’m pretty and stupid. I hate it,” she said with sudden vehemence, curling in on herself, like a flower closing. “I just want someone to love me for myself.”

  Ward reached out and touched Sandra’s bowed head. Buoyed by Leslie’s magic, he felt magnanimous toward the world, especially the pitiful, lost girls. “That’s what we all want, Trinket,” he said gently. “It isn’t easy to find.”

  Sandra shook her head. “How can you say that? Every woman in town is in love with you.”

  Ward grinned. “That’s not real. I’m a novelty to them—nothing more.”

  Sandra frowned. “A rugged western bad man who looks smashing in a dinner jacket?”

  Ward shrugged. “That’s all it is…”

  “Do you love Leslie Powers?”

  His blue eyes darted away. “I’ve got nothing to offer a woman,” he said grimly, meaning it.

  “You do love her,” Sandra said knowingly.

  “The timing is all wrong.” He knew exactly how important timing was. He had seen perfectly planned train robberies turn into disasters because of timing that was off a few seconds one way or the other. Timing was everything.

  He had a debt to pay to society that might take years. Leslie wouldn’t wait for him while he moldered in some prison.

  “That is the dumbest reason I’ve ever heard of. If you love her, you love her. You’ll just have to find some way to overcome the bad timing.”

  Was this the same girl who had just raked her nails down his left cheek? He put questions about Sandra’s strange behavior out of his mind. Just as he should Leslie if he didn’t want to risk the sort of pain he had suffered when Simone died.

  “You said that Younger might kill me…Was that just to keep me away from him?”

  “No, it’s true.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “No, I can’t,” he said, turning to look at her.

  She searched his eyes, saw the level honesty there, and shrugged. “So could you be wrong about him?”

  He nodded. “I could be, but I doubt it. Just do me the favor of keeping away from Younger until I know, okay?�
� he asked.

  Her eyes skittered off to one side, unable to meet his. He sighed. “Then try to protect yourself at least. Don’t be alone with him.”

  Her eyes were enormous in her face. “I’m not sure I can promise either, Cantrell.”

  “Well.” He sighed. “At least you’re honest.”

  Sandra smiled shakily. “Surprised me as well,” she admitted. Something flickered in her gray eyes. She took off the necklace she wore and put it in his hand. “Keep this.”

  “Hey, I don’t wear necklaces,” he protested.

  “I know, but I don’t want to be forgotten. If you have to keep it, it’s always going to be in the way, so I know you won’t forget me.”

  “You’ve got that right,” he said ruefully.

  “Will you keep it?”

  “You sure ask a lot.”

  “I need a lot.”

  “All right,” he said grimly.

  “Just tell her it’s from a friend. She’ll understand,” she said, reading his mind. Smiling, she picked up her coat and turned to leave.

  “I’ll walk you home,” he said.

  “No thanks. I can walk myself. Besides, if my father saw me coming in at this hour with a man, he’d have a conniption.”

  Ward was tired enough that he wanted to accept the out she had given him, but his conscience wouldn’t let him. “I’ll walk you as far as your yard. He won’t see me.”

  “You shouldn’t be nice to me. I don’t deserve it,” she said, her gray eyes clouded with something akin to remorse.

  The moon had set and the sky was dark except at the horizon, where it was turning murky pink. Stars looked like tiny pinpricks of light overhead, already fading. The wind was chill and dogs howled occasionally. Sandra sneaked in the back way, through the kitchen.

  “Coming in sort of late, ain’t you?” the cook asked, looking up from where she was lighting the tinder in the wood stove to begin her Sunday baking.

  “Don’t nag me! I’m sick and tired of everybody in the whole world always telling me what to do!” she snarled viciously but quietly, for fear her father would hear and come down. “If you say one word about this, I’ll get you! You hear me, you old witch?”