Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Angel’s muddied hands fisted. The earth squished through her fingers. She stared unseeing at Lily Daltry’s grave. Miss her mother? Like hell. She hadn’t shed a tear yet over Virginia’s passing. And she wasn’t about to start now. Angel blinked, set her hands in motion again. But still, it was silly—this flower thing she’d done—and it seemed especially so now that the man’s son had caught her here on her knees packing moist earth around the bunched stems of the blue flower clusters.

  To her further dismay, her efforts went for naught. When she released them, the flowers drooped over, sagging to lay their tiny heads, with the yellowish centers, on the raw earth that held them in place. Angel gave up, sighing as she sat back on her legs, her muddied hands braced against her denim-covered thighs. By now, Jack Daltry stood quietly behind her. Yep, she could feel him. Her tempered flared. Damn him. Ducking her head, she cut her gaze to her left and saw the toes of his boots. She wondered what he was thinking, but didn’t feel compelled to look up into his face to find out.

  Instead, without preamble, she broke the silence between them, speaking over her shoulder. “What kind of flowers are these? I’ve never seen them before.”

  A wordless moment ticked by while Angel wondered if she’d surprised him by realizing he was there. Then, “Bluebonnets,” he said. “Some call them the wolf flower.”

  As it always did, Angel’s heart thudded at the sound of his voice. She now suspected that it wasn’t only fear of him that caused its erratic beat. “Bluebonnets,” she heard herself repeating. “That’s nice. I like that. But the wolf flower? That’s strange.”

  “I suppose.”

  Something in his voice made Angel pivot to face him. Looking up at him, she shaded her eyes with her hand. He didn’t like her being out here by the grave. It was written on his face. She thought she could understand how he’d feel, thinking what he did about her. But still, she was of half a mind to point out to him that she was the one who’d carried his father’s body home. She was the one who’d dug this hole. She was the one whose back and arms had ached with the effort, whose legs had given out with the constant working of the shovel. And she was the one with splinters in her palms from the tool’s wooden handle.

  But what good would it do? Instead, she heard herself blurting, “The bluebonnets … they’re pretty. Not much of anything like them grows up around Red River Station.”

  “I know.”

  Angel nodded, returned her gaze to the flowers, and sighed. “I suppose you do. Well—” She pushed off the ground with that matter-of-fact word, her back to him, and stood. “I also suppose you’d like to be alone with … your father.”

  Rubbing her hands together, trying to rid them of the muddy earth that clung to her skin, she turned again to Jack Daltry. She met his gaze—his eyes as blue as the flowers she’d stuck on his father’s grave—and froze at the stricken look on his face. Slowly, her arms sagged to her sides. She waited for him to speak.

  He didn’t at first. Then he gestured to indicate the grave behind her. “I suppose I ought to make a headstone of some sort.”

  Angel bit at her bottom lip and actually felt sorry for the man. “I suppose,” she managed to say.

  Slowly, his gaze shifted to her. He frowned, as if he hadn’t realized until this moment that he was talking to her. “Why’d you do all that?”

  Confusion reigned in Angel’s mind. “Do all what?” Did he mean dig the grave? Surely he knew she’d had to, that his father was—

  “The flowers. Why’d you do all that?”

  “Oh … that.” Again, Angel wanted to kick herself for having gathered the bluebonnets. She narrowed her eyes, tried to tough it out … but couldn’t. She gave up, and turned toward the meadow where she’d found the pesky flowers. She shrugged as she crossed her arms under her bosom. “I don’t know. Seemed like the thing to do.” Then, with bravado, she pivoted to face him and said, “I can pull them up, if you—”

  “No. It’s okay. His entire demeanor shifted. “It was … nice of you to do that.”

  Well, she hadn’t expected that. And it caught her off guard. Her breath caught, and again she looked away. “I owed him,” she managed to get out.

  “For what?”

  Angel took a deep breath, raised her chin. When she felt more in control, she turned to him and said, “For stopping this.” She rubbed at the fading rope burns that still ringed her neck.

  He nodded his head slowly. “What happened?”

  Unlike the last time he’d asked her that—when she’d told him to keep his nose out of her business—Angel gave a nonchalant shrug that belied the terror she’d lived through, and answered him. “Some drovers meant to lynch me.”

  He winced. “Damn. I figured it was something like that. But, you’re a … a woman. What’d you do?”

  Too late, Angel realized she’d steered the conversation in the wrong direction. Sweat sprang up at her nape and under her arms. She needed to choose her words carefully. “I … well, I killed a man. Defending myself.”

  Jack Daltry pulled himself up straight. Angel’s gaze flitted to his hip. No gunbelt. But still she rushed on. “Not your father. Remember—I said he put an end to the lynching.”

  “Why would he—” he began but stopped, shifting his gaze to a point behind her. Then he nodded, looking down at her again. His expression showed sadness mixed with pride. “Yep. That sounds just like him. Always interfering. Is that how he … well, how he—”

  “No,” Angel had to tell him. “No. It was on the way here that it happened. I woke up that last day on the trail—it was just the two of us—and … there he was. He’d been—” The words wouldn’t come at first. Her mouth worked, she frowned, mustered her courage. “He’d been stabbed. I don’t know—”

  Jack Daltry exploded, grabbing her arm, shaking her. “There was just the two of you—and he’d been stabbed? Don’t play with words to try to save your skin. You killed him—is that how you repaid him for saving your life?”

  His accusation, as much as his hand on her, angered Angel. “I did not kill him,” she yelled into his face, shoving futilely against the granite wall of his chest. “Would I have brought him home and buried him, if I had? Would I even be here, facing you? Think about it, you stubborn fool. I said he’d been stabbed—because that’s the truth. I woke up and found him like … like that.”

  “What the hell difference does it make what you say?” he snarled into her face. “You could be lying. Lying about everything. Would you even know the truth if it bit you on the ass, Angel Devlin?”

  He’d used her full name—no doubt to invoke her mother’s reputation. “You mean because I’m a whore’s daughter?” Angel raged. “Is that it? You think because my mother spread her legs for every man with the price that I’d be worthless, too? That I’d be a liar and a murderer? Is that what you’re saying?”

  His face an ugly mask, he growled, “Yeah, by God. I think it is.”

  A cry of outrage erupted from Angel’s innermost depths. With all her strength backing her, she balled up a muddy fist, reared back, and came around swinging, aiming for his jaw. But Jack Daltry caught her wrist before she could connect. And such was the immovable force of his grip that Angel was sure he’d jarred all her bones loose.

  He held her and thrust his face toward hers. “Don’t you ever try to hit me, you hear me? I’ll take you apart.”

  With mounting fear and no caution left in her soul, Angel snapped right back. “And what about you? Are you going to hit me? If you do, you better make damn sure I don’t get up. Because I won’t just take you apart, Jack Daltry. Trust me, I’ll see to it that you’re the second man I kill.”

  His grip on her wrist tightened, as if in response to her words. Then, he released her. But only to clutch her one-handed around her neck. Angel gasped, her hand clawing at his as he increased the pressure. His voice no more than the low growl of a predator, he crooned into her ear. “Was my father the first man you killed?”

  “No,�
� Angel had to whisper as she stiffened against his hold. She emphasized each word with a deliberation born of desperation. “I didn’t kill your father.”

  The need for air forestalled any further words. She tried to gulp in a breath, but couldn’t. Still, she forced herself to keep her gaze locked with Jack Daltry’s. She refused to yield, refused to look away. She could tell by the look on his face that he didn’t see her, that he wasn’t thinking, that he was beyond caring that he was slowly killing her. Angel felt the numbness creeping into her limbs, felt her knees give. If he didn’t soon release her, she’d—

  His head jerked suddenly, as if coming to himself, and his expression reflecting his shock and disbelief. He looked down at her, his eyes focusing, changing color, lightening. His grip instantly loosened. “Son of a bitch! What am I doing?”

  Angel sagged, choking, gasping for air. To her surprise, Jack Daltry gripped her arms, helped her settle to the ground beside his father’s grave. Then he squatted in front of her, rocking back on the ball of one booted foot as he brushed her hair out of her face … and apologized. “Good God, Angel, are you all right? I’m … I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve never handled a woman that way. Never. I just—I don’t know. It must be what happened to my father. I’m sorry.”

  Angel heard him, but didn’t want his apologies. Or his hands on her. But she couldn’t speak, couldn’t say a word. And so she sat there, helpless and terrified … with tears streaming down her face.

  In the next moment, Jack Daltry gripped Angel’s chin, gently raising her head until she looked into his eyes. “I’m so damned sorry, Angel,” he said softly.

  Glaring at him, Angel took a ragged breath, tried to speak. “Go…” Her voice was no more than a rasp, the one word only a gruff croaking sound. With both hands, she clutched at his sleeve, felt the hard muscle and warm skin under her fingers, knew his strength, and yet sought his blue-eyed gaze, clinging to it.

  Finally, shoving his arm away, she managed, “Go to … hell, Jack Daltry.”

  Six

  As Angel watched, Jack Daltry’s eyes widened. But then his mouth turned down, as if in defeat. Releasing her, resting his forearm on his thigh, he considered her for a wordless moment. Through the fringe of her too long bangs, Angel observed him, much like a cornered mouse does the cat overtaking it.

  “I deserve that,” Jack said, “And I expect I will go to hell, Angel. But somehow I think you’ll be there to greet me.”

  Angel’s eyes glittered with hatred. When she finally was able to take a deep, fairly normal breath, she raised herself up and said, “Oh, I’ll be there, all right—if only to hold the fiery gates wide open for you.”

  He chuckled, shook his head. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?”

  Angel shifted her weight, suddenly uncomfortably aware that they’d just turned some sort of corner. Whether it was for better or for worse, she could only wait to find out.

  “We’re both stubborn as the day is long,” he continued. “Both ready to kill the other one at the drop of a hat. But … okay, Angel, I believe you. I don’t think you put my father in there.” He pointed to the mound behind her. “Except for the burying part. And you’ve made your point about being here, too. You’re not leaving. And I’m sure as hell not leaving.”

  Again, he stopped. He looked intensely serious as he stared off into the distance. Thoughts and emotions shadowed his face, flitting across its planes, much as a stray storm cloud chases across the prairie. Fascinated despite herself—he had-just tried to kill her—Angel watched him, telling herself she did so because she needed to. She needed to be aware of his every word, his every move. But instead, she found herself gazing at the chiseled features of his face. And how they all fit together into such a pleasing picture.

  When he suddenly turned back to her, settling his gaze on her face, Angel blinked, hating the burst of heat on her cheeks that gave her away. “Go on. You sound like you’re leading up to something,” she blurted.

  He nodded. “I am.” Then, gesturing vaguely with his hands, hands that only moments ago had been around her neck, he seemed to wilt, like the bluebonnets on his father’s grave. “I tell you, Angel, I don’t know anything anymore. I have no idea what’s going on around here, where everyone is. Hell, I can’t even account for my own behavior.” He ducked his head, sliding her a chagrined look. “What a bastard I am. Damn. I can’t believe I—”

  As he stopped himself and shook his head, Angel knew he meant her, the way he’d just treated her. He was truly sorry. The realization gut-punched her. And got her attention, as did his intimate opening up to her. There was no way she could have anticipated this. No way she would ever have thought he’d seek forgiveness from her, much less understanding. But what was she supposed to do with his confidences? Was she supposed to say something, somehow make him feel better? The man had just tried to choke the life out of her, so what did she owe him?

  Suddenly Jack turned to her, saying, “Oh, the hell with it. I’m just going to spit it out. Look, Angel, whether I like it or not, right now I need you. I need answers. And I think you have them—at least, some of them.” He arrowed her a questioning look, as if asking her to verify at least that much.

  Angel swallowed, raised her chin. She’d never expected to live long enough to hear him—or any man—say he needed her. Even if it was only temporarily. And even if it was only for the knowledge she possessed. But denying that this revelation meant anything to her, she focused on his unasked question, saying, “I have those answers.”

  He nodded at her, but again looked uncertain of himself. Or was he uncertain of her? Did she unnerve him as much as he did her? “I thought as much,” he went on. “And while I don’t have any idea what you’re doing here, or why you feel you own the place.…” Another pause.

  Angel tensed. Was this an opening for her to explain herself? In silence, she stared back at him. No, let him play his cards first.

  Finally, he said, “Fine. What I’m leading up to is this … we need to come to some kind of an understanding. One that won’t have us at each other’s throats, like a couple of fighting dogs, every time we’re within touching distance of each other. You agree?”

  Angel’s gaze roved over the man’s face, from his wide forehead, to his blue eyes and high cheekbones, from his almost straight nose to the firm set of his mouth and chin. She refused to admit how affected she was by the sight, but her breath left her in a sigh—and reminded her he awaited an answer from her. “I’m for that,” she said, managing a deliberate drawl, despite her accelerated pulse. “So, what’re you proposing?”

  “I’m proposing that we declare a truce for now. That I quit trying to throw you off the place and quit trying to kill you.” His voice softened, lowered, with his next words. “And that I start listening to you and believing you.”

  Angel cocked her head, considered his words. They were a declaration of respect. For her. The man was getting too close for comfort. Angel pulled back, if only emotionally, and spoke with forced bravado. “I like the sound of that, cowboy. But what do I have to do?”

  He narrowed his blue eyes. “For starters, you can quit calling me cowboy and Mr. Daltry. The name’s Jack. As for the rest of it … what you have to do”—he shrugged his broad shoulders—“I don’t really know, to tell you the truth. Well, except just that … tell the truth.”

  Angel made a derisive sound. “I’ve been doing that all along,” she let him know. But then she added “Jack,” to soften her response, to test his name on her lips.

  An emotion flared in his eyes—surprise? Or something else?—but just as quickly died, leaving Angel to wonder if she’d seen anything there at all. Finally, he nodded, distracting her with his frown, as if he didn’t like their alliance, despite its being his idea. Well, neither did she. But he was right. The truth of what he said made a mutual understanding necessary. Because she didn’t have the strength to battle him every time he walked past her.

  So, like i
t or not, and unless she wanted to walk away—which she didn’t—she had to agree. “All right,” she conceded. “We have a deal. But I want to add something.”

  Another shrug, another gesture with his hands. “Fine. Shoot.”

  “Exactly. You keep your damned hands to yourself. Because the next time you lay so much as a finger on me, the deal’s off. And I will shoot you.”

  An eyebrow rose, a slow grin spread across his face. “Deal,” he finally said, holding his hand out. “Shake on it? And then I won’t ever touch you again.”

  Angel stared at his hand as if it were a coiled snake. Then she raised her head to look into his eyes. Their blue depths glittered with a dare, one Angel couldn’t let pass. She shifted her weight and wiped her right hand on her … well, his … denims. Then she held it out, meeting his grip. “Deal.”

  His handshake was warm and firm, not too much pressure. But still it seemed to travel up her arm, raising gooseflesh as it went. The deed done, her mouth suddenly dry, Angel tried to pull her hand away. But his fingers tightened around hers. She stiffened, barely stifling a gasp of surprise.

  “In this new spirit of honesty, Angel,” he said, “I have to tell you … keeping my hands to myself may be the hardest part of the bargain for me.”

  * * *

  The sight of Angel Devlin in his kitchen stopped Jack in the doorway. Now why in the hell had he said that earlier? he wondered. About not being able to keep his hands to himself. He’d just said that to tease her, maybe shake her up some. But now … taking care not to give himself away to her as he rested a shoulder against the doorjamb and folded his arms over his chest … he wasn’t so sure that he’d been teasing.

  Grinning, not feeling the least bit guilty about essentially spying on her, Jack gave in to the sheer pleasure of watching her. With her back to him, she went busily about preparing a meal. And innocently excited Jack beyond anything he’d ever felt. It was true. He did itch to touch her. And what man wouldn’t? he thought. She was a beautiful sight to see. Eyes and hair as black as night. Skin a light tan and soft-looking. Her body ripe with womanly curves that took his breath away.