THE RENEGADE AND THE HEIRESS

by Judith Duncan

  He picked up the poker out of the wood box and opened the door of the stove. "We've got a hard ride ahead of us tomorrow."

  She lifted her head and looked at him, the lamplight setting her hair on fire, making her eyes seem dark and bottomless. Finn felt her steady gaze right down to his bones, and he abruptly looked away, a strange flurry in his chest. Her gaze was so penetrating it was as if she could see right through him, and that made him uneasy. No one had seen through Finn Donovan for a very long time.

  Careful to avoid looking at her, Finn stoked the fire then closed the door on the stove, sticking the poker in the corner of the wood box. He indicated the bunk, trying to keep his tone easy. "You look like you've run out of energy, Red. It might be a good idea if you called it a night and climbed into bed."

  There was a brief pause, then out of the corner of his eye, he saw her look at the bunk. "Hold on," she said, an unexpected, bossy challenge in her voice. "If that's my bed, just what are you going to use?"

  Her tone caught him by surprise, and wry humor pulled at his mouth. After she'd tried to slug him with a rock, he might have known he'd get some lip. And his gut told him that he had to win this one, or she'd test him at every step. Erasing all expression from his face, he turned and faced her. He didn't say a word; he just stared at her with that inflexible stare he had learned in prison. She folded her arms and stared right back at him, an ornery set to her jaw.

  "I'm not taking your bedroll, Mr. Donovan. I'll sleep in the chair."

  He folded his arms and stared back at her. It took about ten seconds of a silent standoff, but she finally let go a long sigh and conceded. "Fine. I'll sleep in the damned bed." She stomped across the room and sat down on the edge of the bunk, then her shoulders sagged and she closed her eyes. It seemed to take all the energy she had as she wearily combed her hands through her hair. She let go another sigh, then looked up at him and tried to smile. "You think I'm acting like a spoiled brat, don't you?"

  The corner of Finn's mouth lifted, and he leaned his shoulder against the wall. "Under the circumstances, I think it's allowed."

  She tried to smile, but couldn't quite pull it off. Her voice was unsteady when she spoke. "Are we safe until morning?"

  He continued to watch her, another strange feeling filling up his chest. His voice was husky when he answered her.

  "Yes. We're safe until morning."

  "Okay then," she whispered, then without looking at him, she kicked off her shoes and slid her feet into the sleeping bag and lay down, pulling the covers over her shoulder. Turning on her side, she tucked her hands under her face and watched the fire flicker through the grate in the stove. Finn had to fight the urge to cross the room and tuck the sleeping bag around her, to brush that wealth of hair back from her face. Fragile. She looked so fragile. And alone. And if there was anything he understood, it was how it felt to be alone. Tightening his jaw, he forced himself to turn away.

  It was going to be a long night.

  He jammed on his Stetson and picked up his vest, then headed for the door. A damned long night.

  By the time he returned from outside, she had fallen asleep, her breathing soft and even, her hands still tucked under her face. It was like before—when it hit him that she was like something out of a fairy tale, something otherworldly. He hardened his jaw and turned away. He had never been given to that kind of whimsy, and he sure in hell wasn't going to start now.

  The fire had burned down by the time he decided to retrieve the spare sleeping bag from its container. The containers held the emergency rations he had topped up the day before, and were used as a deterrent against mice and other marauders. His shoulders ached with weariness as he set it on the floor.

  The sleeping bag removed, he nudged the chair closer to the stove and opened it up. His body wanted to lie down, but for some reason, he didn't want to use the other bunk. And he knew if he slept on the floor, by morning the cold would have penetrated every muscle in his body. And he'd be stiffer than hell. So the chair was it for the night.

  Draping the open sleeping bag across him, he stretched out in the big old willow chair, again propping his feet on the fender of the stove. His expression somber, he crossed his arms and watched her sleep, a strange sensation unfolding inside him. He had no idea why he was so damned certain, but he would bet his life she was all that she seemed to be—honest, direct, untainted—with a survival instinct that no amount of money could buy.

  Resting his head against the high back of the chair, he assessed her features. She wasn't what he would consider beautiful, but there was a certain quality to her face that appealed to him. A depth of character, maybe. And, from the angle of her jaw, there was also evidence of a whole lot of Irish bullheadedness.

  Finn's expression hardened as he considered her survival. It was probably that strength of will, that bullheadedness that had kept her alive today. It made his gut knot, thinking what might have happened to her if Rooney hadn't spotted her.

  A log fell in the stove, the flare of light burnishing her hair, making it come alive, and Finn locked his jaw together, feeling suddenly hollowed out inside. Dragging his gaze away, he studied the toes of his boots. It was a miracle that he'd found her. Except he didn't believe in miracles. Nor did he believe in second chances. But he did believe in atonement. And maybe she was his. Because somehow or another, he was going to have to keep her safe.

  This one, he had to keep safe.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  «^»

  By morning, the clouds had settled lower, and it had started snowing again, the thick, fresh blanket obliterating the sharp contours. Dawn seeped over the jagged horizon, casting the landscape in a purple hue, the dull light eerie and filled with gray shadows.

  The new snow squeaked under Finn's boots as he approached the cabin, his rifle in one hand and a pail of water in the other. It was a drab morning, heavy and overcast and muffled in silence, the clouds so low that they nearly touched the ground. Hoarfrost coated the trees and glittered on the fresh blanket of snow, but in spite of the whiteness, everything was cast in a dreary, monochrome gray.

  The brim of his hat shielding his eyes from the denseness of the spiraling flakes, Finn paid attention to his footing as he negotiated the slippery rocks that spanned the shallow stream. Unshaven and hung-over from lack of sleep, he considered what he was faced with. Under the circumstances, he couldn't have asked for better conditions. With the heavy skies, he was assured of several more inches of wet snow—enough to cover all their tracks. His only concern was that with this kind of weather moving in, it could get really ugly before the day was over. And if that happened, it would make for very tough going, especially with a greenhorn along. But on the plus side, it also meant that any search aircraft would be kept on the ground, which significantly lowered their risk of detection. Providing it didn't get a whole lot worse than this, and taking into account how much she was going to slow them down, they could still make it from here to his place in nine or ten hours—providing she could take that kind of physical punishment. And it would be punishing. The ride back would be no picnic. Even with the falling snow, he was going to make damned sure their trail was nearly impossible to track. And that would mean some hard riding.

  The horses were in the makeshift corral, their haunches turned into the storm, their long winter coats dusted with snow. He had fed them each a flake of hay before he went down to the creek, and he had given Rooney his morning ration of kibbles. But the dog was nowhere to be seen—likely off chasing rabbits. Finn stepped under the overhang of the log cabin, a gust of wind sending a flurry of snow under the eaves. There was a sharpness in the air that hadn't been there before, and Finn compressed his mouth. The bite in the wind was a sure sign it was going to get ugly. He wasn't looking forward to the next few hours, that was for damned sure.

  Pressing down the latch, Finn stamped the snow off his boots and opened the door, the flame in the kerosene lamp wavering in the draft. He had left tha
t lamp burning all night. He knew what it was like, to wake up in pitch black, your heart pounding, not knowing where you were.

  He closed the door silently behind him, then propped his rifle against the wall and set the pail by the stove, his gaze shifting to the bunk. She hadn't moved since he'd gone out. With the flap of the sleeping bag pulled over her head, the only indication there was actually a person under the mound of sleeping bags was that he could see the toes of one foot. If she was that huddled in, he doubted she was going to appreciate the chill in the brisk mountain air.

  He shucked his coat, then opened the door on the stove and added another log, the crackle and snap of burning resin perforating the silence.

  A muffled voice came from the bed. "I'm not going to like getting out of bed, am I?"

  Finn closed the stove door and latched it, then set a pan of water on to heat. He glanced back at the bunk, a touch of humor hovering around his mouth. "I think we can safely assume that."

  "Damn." She pushed back the flap and struggled up on one elbow, her hair absolutely wild around her, her dark green sweater crushed and wrinkled. She scrubbed her hand across her face, then opened her eyes really wide, as if trying to get them to stay that way. She looked at him, a disgruntled tone in her voice when she spoke. "Don't you ever get cold?"

  "No."

  She flopped back down and pulled the sleeping bag up over her shoulders, snuggling deep in the warmth. "Great. I had to hook up with an ice man." Then, as if recollection had come back in a rush, she abruptly rolled onto her back and covered her face with her hand, a tremor running through her.

  Finn knew from experience that the worst thing he could do was to give her time to reconnect with the horror of what had happened to her. He spoke, his voice clipped. "We've got bad weather moving in. If we're to stay ahead of it, we're going to have to hit the road pretty damned quick."

  He watched her struggle for control, and he saw her physically pull it together. His earlier estimation of her climbed up a notch. She also had one hell of a lot of grit.

  Her face fixed like cast wax, she rose up off the bunk, her shoulders square, her chin held high as she slipped her feet into her shoes. "Excuse me," she said, her tone royal. "I need to make a trip outside." Her whole body stiff with indignation, she picked up his coat and put it on, then went to the door. "If you can give me ten minutes, I'll be ready to go."

  With far more force than necessary, she slammed the door shut behind her, and Finn heard all the snow slide from the tin roof. Then he heard her swear. Great. Now both her shoes and her coat would be wet. Resting his hands on his hips, he let out a sigh and looked at the ceiling. Okay. Maybe he'd been a bit sharp. And she'd been through a hell of a lot. It wouldn't have killed him to be a little nicer. He let out another sigh. It was going to be a damned long day.

  She was gone longer than he expected, and he had coffee perking and a pot of instant porridge steaming by the time he heard her at the door, cooing to Rooney. Finn dropped his head, priming himself to be nicer. And in deference to her sensibilities, he had gotten a tin bowl out of the plastic storage container, so she wouldn't have to eat out of the pot again. And he'd even mixed up a small portion of powdered milk.

  The door swung open and he looked up, expecting a haughty, royal entry. Framed by the gray light from outside, the snow falling behind her, she huddled in the warmth of his coat, a guilty look on her pale face. I'm sorry," she said, her voice uneven and sounding as if she meant it. "I can be a real pain sometimes."

  It was the look in her eyes—that solemn, imploring look—that made Finn's pulse stumble, and he found his chest suddenly tight. An odd kind of intimacy crackled between them, suspending time. It was as if this had happened before, as if they had known each other a very long time. The sensation upended his equilibrium, and he curled his hands into fists, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. It was all he could do to force air into his lungs and dredge up a warped half smile. "Under the circumstances, I think that's allowed."

  She stared back at him, time still weirdly suspended, then she turned abruptly and closed the door, and more snow slid off the roof. "No, it's not," she said, her voice even more unsteady. "There is never an excuse for bad manners."

  Finn experienced a flash of unexpected insight. And he knew, from that one comment, that Mallory O'Brien had grown up being brutally honest with herself. And probably with anyone she came in contact with. Needing to alter the mood, he spoke, his tone clipped. "Sure there is."

  She turned and looked at him, a startled expression in her eyes; then she gave a soft laugh. Finn felt the effects of that chuckle down the entire length of his spine.

  Watching him, she folded her arms and tipped her head to one side, amusement still dancing in her eyes. "Really? You might change your mind on that. You don't know the levels of rudeness I can sink to."

  He held her gaze a moment, then looked away, finding it far too easy to get lost in her eyes. "Breakfast is ready," he said, his tone gruff. "And there's warm water in the washbasin on the stove. It's about all I can offer."

  Her voice was subdued when she answered. "Warm water sounds like heaven." Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, Finn did up the bottom two snaps on his vest, then picked up the rifle. "There's a towel on the washstand, and there's brown sugar and powdered milk on the table, coffee in the pot." He settled his hat on his head and reached for the door. "I'm going to water the horses and get them ready to move out."

  Once outside, he blew out a deep breath, his heart still pounding, his body far too hot. He didn't know what in hell was wrong with him, but it had to stop. He had to stay focused, damn it—her life could depend on it.

  Sobered by that thought, Finn watered the horses in the creek, guessing that the temperature had dropped by another few degrees. He led them back to the corral, then brushed the snow off them and rigged up a hackamore for Trouper. The packhorse didn't even have a halter on, and since Finn would be breaking trail with him, he needed some method to guide him. He figured he'd killed maybe twenty minutes, maybe half an hour when he went back to the cabin.

  He didn't know what he expected, but it definitely wasn't for the bedrolls to be perfectly rolled and stacked neatly on the floor, the dishes washed and packed in the storage container, the towel neatly folded and laid by the repackaged food she had placed by his saddlebags. From the pricey clothes she had on, from her jewelry, he hadn't expected that kind of capable efficiency. It hit him again that he only knew what she had told him, and that had been damned little. And for some reason, that suddenly irked him.

  His face felt wooden when he tipped his head toward the stacked supplies, acknowledging her effort. "Thanks," he said, avoiding her gaze. Crouching down by the gear Trouper had been carrying, he undid one waterproof kit bag and started pulling extra clothes out. "The wind has picked up and it's going to get damned cold before the day's over. So I want you to put this stuff on. We need to get as many layers on you as possible."

  She didn't say anything as she picked up the stack of clothing he'd piled on the floor, a faint scent of soap he had left out for her snagging his senses. He clenched his jaw, giving himself a moment; then he eased out his breath very carefully. Too close. She had gotten far too close.

  His shearling coat appeared on the pile of gear as he pulled another item of clothing out of the waterproof kit bag. He handed her back the coat. "You'll need that as well."

  "No," she said, her tone quiet—rebelliously quiet. "I won't."

  He looked up at her, getting nailed with a hot rush as his gaze slid up her long, long legs, the cashmere sweater clinging to the shape of her breasts. He turned away and closed his eyes, forcing himself to take some even breaths. Hell. He hadn't had this kind of slip in years—and he didn't know why it was happening now. Over the years, he'd learned to shut everything down. Especially that. Sexual encounters had always been on his terms—not something that snuck up on him and nailed him from behind.

  He took another deep breath and fixed h
is gaze on her, giving her a don't-mess-with-me look. "Yes," he said, his tone short and abrupt. "The last thing we need today is you experiencing another bout of hypothermia."

  She jammed her hands on her hips, pulling the fabric of her sweater tight. "Oh, of course," she said, her tone snippy as she looked down her nose at him. "And just where would I be if you fell off your horse and froze to death? I'd be dead, that's where I'd be. So it's pure common sense that you wear the coat."

  For some reason, Finn wanted to grab her and shake her, but he ground his teeth together and literally counted to ten. Then he spoke, his own tone measured and quiet. Dangerously quiet. "I have another coat," he said, lifting up the lined mackinaw he had just pulled out of the bag. "You will wear that one."

  She gave him one of her heated looks, snatched it out of his hand and tossed it on the bunk. "Fine," she snapped.

  Finn started stuffing things back in the kit bag, his annoyance escalating. It was going to be a damned long day if she argued with him over every damned thing. He pulled the flap over the zipper on the bag and snapped it shut, and was just setting the bag to one side when he saw her try to pull one of his polar fleeces over her head. She winced and grabbed her shoulder, her face turning ashen. Without saying anything, Finn got to his feet and crossed the room. Hell. He should have checked her over better—she'd probably got hammered up pretty bad when the plane crashed.

  He removed her hand and gently probed the shoulder socket, her skin warm and very soft beneath his touch. "Have you ever dislocated it before?"

  She went very still under his touch, and he was sure she quit breathing. "No," she said, her voice uneven. Then her chest rose and she spoke again, her voice a little stronger. "I think I must have jammed it against something in the crash."

  Finn's insides started to heat up, and he felt suddenly very shaky. Light-headed and shaky. Exposed and shaky. His first instinct was to back away. Getting a grip, he locked his jaw and carefully checked her collarbone and shoulder. Trying to keep his touch impersonal, he pressed his hand against her shoulder blade, finding the scapula intact. The heat from her body made his fingers tingle, and his pulse turned heavy. Too close. Much too close.