The Lady and the Outlaw

by Joyce Brandon

  Summers felt Leslie stiffen in his arms and cursed savagely to himself, That smart-aleck bastard!

  “Don’t listen to them, darling. They think all men are as vile and corrupt as they are,” he said smoothly.

  “You aren’t going to kill them, are you?” she asked, searching his face for any sign.

  “Of course not. I’ll hold them here until help comes. But you must go, darling. I’m counting on you to bring help.”

  “I lost my horse. I don’t know if I can find it again,” she said, stalling for time.

  “Take mine.”

  Reluctantly, Leslie walked to his horse and mounted, still holding the gun she had forgotten she had. She rode up beside Tim, he smiled to reassure her, and she slowly walked the horse around the end of the big Conestoga.

  Summers heard the horse break into a gallop and breathed a sigh of relief. As obedient as she was beautiful. A few more minutes to give her time to get out of earshot and then he could kill them and end his problems forever.

  The rumble of the herd diminished to a low roar. They had stayed a quarter-mile away at the nearest point. Now the bawl and moan of the cattle was almost gone. None of the others knew him as Younger’s boss—only these three.

  Younger could tell by the oily glitter of Summers’s eyes that he was almost ready. Younger had faced at least as many men over a gun as Cantrell. He shot a look at Ward and saw that he knew too.

  “Hey, Cantrell, if I rush him, do you think you can drag one of those guns up in time to kill the bastard before he kills my baby?”

  Summers laughed softly. “Don’t waste your time. I’ll shoot Cantrell first, then drop you like a pole-axed steer. You may be big as a bull, but you can’t survive a bullet through the forehead.”

  Dallas shrugged. “Reckon he’s got us dead to rights.”

  “Looks like it,” Cantrell drawled.

  “Where the hell did you learn to sound like a Texan?” Dallas asked suddenly.

  “I studied a little French in school,” he said, grinning. “Anyone who can learn a French accent can master a Texas drawl.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  Summers sneered. “You two going to hell as friends?”

  “You ready to send us?” Ward asked. “You think Leslie is far enough away by now so she’ll never know? What are you going to tell her, anyway?”

  “That you tried to rush me, of course.”

  “How are you going to explain killing Trinket?”

  “A stray bullet,” Tim said smoothly. “A terrible, tragic accident.”

  Sandra began to whimper and moved closer behind Younger. “That’s okay, Sweetface. He’s gotta go through me first,” Dallas drawled.

  Summers sneered. “Now aren’t you gallant? I’m going to shoot Cantrell first. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.” He aimed the gun at Ward’s broad chest and began to squeeze the trigger slowly. There was a look of triumph in his cold black eyes. His lips lifted in a smile.

  “Say good-bye, Cantrell.”

  Ward dived for his gun. Dallas charged toward Summers. There was a crash of gunfire just as Ward’s hand reached the smooth handle of the Colt, and he knew he was too late, but strangely he felt no pain.

  He continued the motion, came up into a crouch, ready to fire. Summers toppled forward as if he had broken in two at the middle. Younger stopped, as startled as Ward.

  They both turned at the same time and saw Leslie, her face pale and glowing, her eyes wide and staring, before she crumpled forward in a dead faint.

  Ward walked over and turned Summers with a kick of his booted foot. With the gun trained on Younger now, he knelt and felt Summers’s throat for a pulse. Finding none, he took Younger’s gun out of the dead man’s hand and stuck it under his belt. He slowly straightened, facing Dallas.

  Dallas Younger took a deep breath. He and Cantrell had been working up to this meeting for a long time. He kissed the girl and put her away from him. It was time to die, and he didn’t relish waiting around for it.

  “Cantrell,” he said softly, contemptuously, “you know if I was holding that gun, you’d be dead by now.”

  Ward grinned. “Well, you’re not holding the gun, are you, Dallas?” he asked softly.

  “What’s the matter. Cantrell? You too yellow to shoot me? Or just too vain? Don’t want folks to know you killed an unarmed man?”

  There was admiration in Ward’s blue eyes now—and respect. The man had more guts than he’d expected. Maybe those stories about Texans and their courage weren’t just tall tales after all.

  “Well,” Ward drawled softly, “I have an extra gun here.” He tossed Younger’s gun at him. Dallas caught it smoothly, his handsome face breaking into a grin. He looked at Ward, then down at the gun, fondling it slowly, almost lovingly, brushing the dirt off before he slipped it into the empty holster on his right hip.

  Cantrell, gun under his belt, walked to where his gunbelt lay, leaned down, and dragged it up. He strapped it around him, holstered the gun and then faced Younger, his stance seemingly relaxed, his right hand hanging casually at his side.

  “I’m waiting, Younger,” he said quietly.

  Sandra’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a sob. They were crazy! Both of them! Only moments ago they were chatting quietly, conversationally, about joining forces to take Summers; now they were facing each other coldly, their eyes narrowed and glittering with their intent.

  The tension was too heavy, too stifling. Sandra couldn’t move—could barely breathe. “No, Ward, please,” she stammered. “No, Dallas, honey, no, please,” she pleaded.

  “Hush, Sweetface,” Dallas said softly, holding up his left hand in a signal for her to stop pleading. His eyes never left Cantrell’s eyes. That was where the first sign always showed—not in the hands.

  They faced each other tensely for long seconds, then Ward dragged in a slow breath and relaxed visibly, straightening only slightly, but it was enough. Younger saw the change and knew what it meant. He too had the gunman’s instinct to kill, but the moment had passed. There was relief mixed with regret. Now he would never know who was faster. Too late for regrets, though. Younger dismissed Cantrell, turning abruptly to face the girl who was frozen in fear.

  “You coming with me?”

  Sandra looked at Ward, then at Dallas. There was the slightest hesitation before she nodded.

  “Well, come on, Sweetface. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

  Ward grinned. “I wouldn’t go south if I were you. There’s a posse waiting for that herd.”

  “Much obliged,” Younger said, taking the girl’s arm.

  Ward watched them leave. He sighed. He’d never make a good ranger. Kincaid would be disappointed.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Leslie woke up slowly. Her eyes blinked, then focused and she could see. Stars floated like diamonds in an inky black sphere; the rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves against the earth drummed in her ears, and cold wind whipped her feet. She slowly became aware that she was on a horse, being carried across the saddle, wrapped in a blanket and cradled like a babe in strong arms. Her cheek rested on a rough vest that smelled of dust, leather, and sweat, but through all that she recognized the man who held her. There was a scent: a faint, salty, lemony, musky smell that had an irresistible appeal for her. It seemed to pervade her senses—even her ability to think.

  “Ward…”

  “So you’re awake at last.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Into the mountains. You’re a hunted outlaw now, just as I am.”

  “Ohhhh!” That pitiful little cry constricted his heart.

  “Then I…killed him?” she asked softly.

  “Yes.”

  Leslie groaned and turned her face into his chest, burrowing there as if to hide from that terrible truth. She had killed the man she was going to marry to save an admitted killer, kidnapper, train robber, and probably rustler.

  The enormity of it staggered her. But fearing that
Tim was going to kill Sandra, Dallas, and Ward, she had dismounted, slapped the horse into a run, and hurried back to the wagon. She had watched and heard everything until she had mustered her courage in time to pull the trigger and send that bullet slamming into his body. Remembering the stunned disbelief on his pale face when he looked at her with the knowledge of his own death full upon him…She would never forget that…

  Shuddering, she turned her face and burrowed it into Cantrell’s warm body. Ward held her close against him while she fought the revulsion and sickness that came with realization, but he knew that struggle well, and that no one could share it with her. He pulled the blanket closer around her and brushed a kiss on her smooth forehead.

  Far off thunder rumbled, and finally Leslie wriggled around until she was riding astride in front of him. Pulling the blanket tight around her, she watched the sky and the sparkles of lightning. How long did she ride thus, shuddering with the memory of her evil deed?

  They rode until almost dawn, Leslie alternately sleeping and struggling with her conscience and Ward watching the trail for signs he recognized. At dawn, when the sky was slowly turning pale gray, he found what he was looking for: a small one-room cabin he’d built two years ago when he was in need of solitude. It sat on a level shelf halfway up a mountainside, almost hidden by tall trees. He dismounted and helped Leslie down to stand beside him.

  “Where are we?”

  “Mountains north of Phoenix. If we get lucky and those clouds dump some rain, we’ll be safe from pursuit. No one will find us except by accident. We’ll be safe until spring.”

  “Spring?” she asked incredulously, looking from the lowering black clouds to Ward’s face. He was serious. She had never seen him more distant. She could tell by the bleak coldness of his eyes that she could never go back. She was a hunted outlaw now, just as he was. His expression confirmed the finality of it.

  Why did she do it? She knew what Ward Cantrell was. She knew he expected to die a violent death. She knew it when she walked through that armed camp in Buckeye. She had sensed it in him when he had first kidnapped her. She shivered in the cold, knowing it would be easier to say why she kept breathing. She could no more allow Tim to shoot Ward than she could hold her hand over flaming coals until it burned off.

  Ward led the horse behind the cabin. Dawn changed the gray to blue above the towering pines and firs. A grove of aspen trees surrounded by gold, silver, and red leaves carpeted the mountain with warm color; lofty blue-green firs soared upward to be obscured by swirling blue mists, damp viridescent spears piercing the sky. The air was cold, thin, moist. Pine trees scattered pine cones like acorns. The air was redolent with the resiny smells of pine, fir, sage; the earth beneath her feet was spongy with dead pine needles—brown and slippery. The horse snorted from behind the cabin, and it was an eerie, heavy sound in all that stillness. A bird answered from high overhead and Leslie shivered again.

  “Come inside. I have a fire started,” he said gently, taking her arm. She was still in shock; it showed in her eyes and the way she moved.

  Leslie looked up, her eyes solemn. “Why are you doing this? Helping me escape?”

  “You saved our lives. Why not?”

  Leslie gasped. She had forgotten the others. “What happened to Sandra and Dallas Younger?”

  “They escaped.”

  “But Sandra…Why did you let him take her?”

  “It was her choice.”

  “She chose it? She wanted to go with that animal?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  “How could she? He’s so rough, so…so…crude!”

  “Some women like their men rough,” he said quietly.

  “But…she can’t possibly find happiness with a man like that! He’ll never be true to her; he’ll never be able to give her anything.”

  Ward shrugged. “Maybe that’s enough for her.” He turned and walked into the cabin. Leslie followed slowly, wondering what he was thinking about.

  Ward was wondering if Dusty and Doug had cut off Cedar Longley and the herd, if Kincaid would get the note he left on Summers’ body, and if that would be enough to save Leslie and himself. Summers was a respected man in Phoenix. Would anyone, even Kincaid, be willing to believe that Summers was a crook? This paralleled too closely the events in Dodge City. Was that why he had carried her into the mountains instead of returning to Phoenix? Was history about to repeat itself? This time at Leslie’s expense? Or would they assume he killed Summers?

  “Ward?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  He spread the blankets on the floor in front of the fire and told her to lie down. He covered her with more blankets and then carried in the saddlebags and began unpacking utensils and food to make a meal. Apparently he had raided the chuckwagon. He had everything he needed, and soon she smelled bacon, coffee, and biscuits.

  They ate in silence. Leslie had to force herself to take the first few bites and then her appetite came alive and she was ravenous. She’d had only muffins since breakfast yesterday and was half-starved. She ate until she was embarrassed.

  “It’s a good thing I cooked plenty,” Ward said, grinning.

  That was the first real expression she’d seen on his face. He was unusually quiet and thoughtful. He seemed to be waiting, locked away with his own thoughts. Was he remembering when they had been together in Buckeye? Immediately afterward, when she was safe at home, in her room, surrounded by friends who cared about her, alone and miserable nonetheless, she had remembered the tension in that armed camp, the grim faces of the men, and wondered if that flash of hardness she kept seeing was bitterness. But why should he be bitter? Why should his cool blue eyes look as bleak and cold as a winter snowscape? What did he want from her?

  She shook her head miserably. He had never offered her anything. He had tricked her and taken advantage of her—what did he expect?

  Ward caught himself frowning into the fire and forced his muscles as well as his face to relax. This wasn’t going to work. His instinctive reactions—so deeply distrustful of authority—had sent him off into the mountains instead of back toward Phoenix, where she belonged. Except he wasn’t sure he could go back there, ever. Would they believe him about Summers? The town so far hadn’t been exactly receptive to ideas of his innocence. It was only their word against Summers’ reputation as a leading citizen. Even with Leslie insisting she had shot Summers, they might not believe her. They could conveniently assume it was another attempt on her part to protect him. He knew the way they’d slandered her after that confrontation in the jail.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yes you are.”

  “What would you like me to be thinking about?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head sadly and then lifted her chin. Her green eyes flashed with the richness and depth of emeralds. “You know what I would really like?”

  Ward shook his head. With her eyes sparkling and midnight-black hair foaming out around the pale oval of her face she was Leslie Powers, the imperious lady again—not a trace of shock left to pale those sweet-curving cheeks.

  “No, what?”

  “Just one time, Ward Cantrell, I want you to tell me the truth.”

  His face looked grim and purposeful, as if he could walk away from her and never look back. But part of her didn’t care. It felt reckless, willing to say anything and take the consequences.

  Clutching the blanket around her, she faced him defiantly. “All right! What’s on my mind is that I thought you loved me. Then I went to Buckeye and you made love to me in the bedroom you shared with Sandra.”

  “Is that why you?…”

  “I saw her necklace on your vanity. And tonight she was wearing it!”

  His voice was low, expressionless. “She gave me the necklace in Phoenix because she was convinced she was going to die. She said she wanted me to keep it so someone would rememb
er her after she was gone. I gave it back to her because it looked like I had the lifespan of a snowball in hell.”

  His husky words sobered her. “She wasn’t with you?”

  “That’s right. She was with Younger. Your damned lover took her to Younger.”

  “Tim?” she asked, frowning. “Why would he do that?”

  “To frame me. So you and everyone else would believe I kidnapped her. He wanted me dead. Summers killed Powers and the Mendozas.”

  “Ohhh…Tim?” She felt weak suddenly. Weak and stupid. But she had to know everything. “But there was another girl in Buckeye. I saw her shawl…”

  “If there was a shawl there,” he said gently, “it belonged to Juanita Castenada, the owner’s daughter. She was married last month…before she moved away.”

  Pale and lovely in the firelight, Leslie was supremely doubtful of Cantrell’s motives, his integrity, probably even his parentage, and yet, in spite of her misgivings, he felt compelled to protect her splendid, brave spirit. Even though she obviously didn’t trust him, he was determined that he wouldn’t let her make a fool of him again. He reached out and touched her cheek. “There was no female in that room or any other with me except you.”

  Cantrell’s touch weakened Leslie’s resolve against him, and she resented that it should be so. She didn’t reply. She was watching his eyes, wishing she could read them more clearly. Part of her was vibrating to his nearness and his restrained anger. But another part of her was equally determined to get at the truth. She was tired of worrying and waiting. “Were you lying to me about Jennifer Kincaid?”

  “Which time?”

  “How many times did you lie to me about her?” she demanded angrily, clutching the blanket around her. “When you said you were not romantically involved with her!”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “But there were other lies?”

  “You accused me of some things that weren’t true and I allowed you to believe they were. I don’t think you can blame me for that.”

  “Will they hang us?” she demanded suddenly.

  He poked at the fire, a grunt of laughter escaping from him in a gust. “I suppose it depends on who we run into first, but with Summers out of the way, maybe the mob will lose its steam.”