Outlaw's Bride

by Maureen McKade

  MAUREEN MCKADE

  OUTLAW’S BRIDE

  AVON BOOKS

  An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

  “I’M A MAN WHO SAYS WHAT’S ON HIS MIND.”

  Beaudry continued in a husky voice, “And right now, you’re on my mind.”

  Mattie’s cheeks reddened and she leaned back, well away from him. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do. You’re a widow—you know about a man’s needs, and you’re a powerful temptation.” When shocked indignation widened her eyes, he grabbed her wrist. “Listen to me before you run off in a huff. I want you, Matilda St. Clair, but I won’t take anything you don’t want to give.”

  “Then you won’t be getting anything!”

  Her spirited reply made him chuckle. “Even when you’re saying no, those eyes of yours blaze like lightning, tempting even the saints. And I ain’t no saint, lady.”

  “I may be a widow, but that doesn’t mean I’m easy pickings for a drifting man,” Mattie said stiffly. “And you don’t have anything I need—or want.”

  Dedication

  For my critique group—

  Karen, Paula, Pam, Deb, and Carol—

  for the encouragement, laughter, and friendship.

  You all helped more than you know.

  Thank you.

  In memory of my grandfather,

  who possessed the soul of a cowboy.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  “I’m a Man Who Says What’s on his Mind.”

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Other Works

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Late July, 1887

  Green Valley, Colorado

  Tall, dark, and very, very dangerous.

  That was Matilda St. Clair’s first thought when she saw the black-clad stranger leaning in her boardinghouse doorway, his long fingers curled around a low-slung gunbelt.

  He lifted one hand and tipped back his wide-brimmed hat, allowing the latigo string to hold it as it slipped down his back. Cool green eyes and long blond hair added to the aura of danger that fitted him as snugly as his dark trousers.

  Apprehension shivered down Mattie’s spine and she tightened her grasp around the broom handle. She met his stoic gaze without flinching, though her heart slammed against her breast. “May I help you?”

  “Are you Matilda St. Clair?” he asked.

  His deep, tobacco-roughened voice caressed her like velvet across bare skin and Mattie blinked the disturbing sensation aside. She nodded curtly. “I’m Mrs. St. Clair.”

  His languid gaze roamed from her face down to her toes and back up. Though angered by his bold scrutiny, Mattie couldn’t help but wish she’d worn something other than her faded black skirt and patched blouse. She smoothed back the damp tendrils from her forehead, then was annoyed at herself for that small feminine vanity.

  “My name’s Clint Beaudry, and I’m looking for a room,” he said with a slight Texas drawl.

  “For how long?”

  “A couple days”—he shrugged negligently and his hair brushed across his shoulders—“maybe a week.”

  Mattie coolly studied Beaudry’s whipcord-lean body in turn, from his scuffed boots to his tanned, rugged features. Her gaze paused on the conchostudded belt around his slim hips and the gleaming revolver in the holster tied down around a muscular thigh. Her mouth grew dry at his blatant virility and she damned her body’s unwelcome reaction.

  Clint Beaudry was definitely dangerous, in more ways than one.

  Mattie swallowed back the rise of bitterness. “What business are you in, Mr. Beaudry?”

  A corner of his mouth quirked upward, giving his features a boyishness at odds with his deadly weapon. “I’m in between jobs right now.”

  Mattie tightened her grip on the broom until her knuckles whitened. “You’re a hired gun.”

  His expression hardened. “No, ma’am. My gun isn’t for sale.”

  Mattie wanted to believe him, but the tied-down holster told her otherwise. “I won’t have a killer staying under my roof.”

  His eyes narrowed and he spoke in the coldest voice she’d ever heard. “I’m not a killer.” He glanced around. “Besides, from what I’ve seen, you can’t afford to be picky.”

  Beaudry’s arrogance sparked Mattie’s temper, and she raised the broom as if wielding a sword. “How dare you come into my house and tell me how to run my own business. Get out!”

  “I’ll pay double your rates,” he said, as if she hadn’t even spoken.

  Money would be of little concern to him. A man like him thrived on the power of the gun he carried—the power of life and death. She met his insolent gaze, which only made her angrier. Raising her chin defiantly, she said, “Not at any price.”

  He took a step toward her and her heart leapt at the intensity in his face and eyes. “Look, you need the money and I need a room. Simple as that, ma’am.”

  Simple? Nothing was simple with a man like him.

  His piercing gaze didn’t waver and Mattie had the terrifying feeling he could see straight to her soul. She averted her eyes, taking in her comfortably furnished front room, from the knickknacks and framed pictures to the needlepoint pillows on the sofa and chairs. For the past ten years, this had been their home, thanks to Ruth Hendricks and her generosity. Beaudry’s money would allow her to make a few needed repairs around the place.

  Blood money.

  Mattie shook her head and dragged her attention back to the gunman. “You heard me, Mr. Beaudry. I said no and I meant it.”

  Something that looked suspiciously like admiration flared in his eyes, then a grim smile lifted his lips. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  He reached back to bring his weathered black hat onto his head. Touching the brim with two fingers, Clint Beaudry left.

  “Who was that, Ma?”

  Mattie whirled around to see her ten-year-old son standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen. “What have I told you about listening in on folks’ private conversations, Andrew St. Clair?”

  The boy slipped his hands into his overalls pockets. “I didn’t mean to. I was just getting a cookie when I heard him.”

  Mattie’s temper ebbed, and she walked over to her son. “I didn’t mean to yell at you, sweetheart. That man made me a little nervous, then you startled me.”

  “I saw him sitting out in front of Billy’s Saloon a little while ago.” Andy’s hazel eyes lit up. “Everyone was makin’ a wide circle around him, like they was scared of him.”

  “Were scared of him,” Mattie corrected as she brushed his long bangs off his forehead.

  “Why do you think they were scared?”

  “Because he’s a dangerous man.” She started sweeping, trying to banish the disturbing stranger from her mind. “Have you filled the woodbox in the kitchen?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Andy paused, then looked at Mattie questioningly. “Why didn’t you want him staying here?”

  “He carries a gun and uses it to hurt people.”

  Andy’s eyes saucered. “Like one of them fast guns in a dime novel?” />
  Mattie laid a hand on her son’s shoulder and spoke firmly. “You know what I think of those stories, Andy.”

  “I know, Ma, but they’re fun to read.”

  Worry squeezed Mattie’s heart as she gazed at her son, who looked exactly like her husband Jason, the man Mattie had foolishly fallen for—hook, line, and wedding ring. Thank heavens Andy had taken after her in temperament. She only hoped he would grow out of this fascination he held for gunmen. “Are you going fishing?”

  Andy’s face lit up. “Gotta. Herman said they were bitin’ good this morning. He came back with a whole string of trout.”

  “Just be home before supper.”

  “Can I take some cookies?”

  “To use as bait?” Mattie teased.

  Andy grinned. “Nah. Herman said the fish are crazy for worms.”

  Mattie made a face. “Yuck. Fine, but only two cookies. And you can take two for Herman, too.”

  “Thanks. He says you make the best oatmeal cookies ever.”

  “Tell him flattery won’t get him any more.”

  “I will, but he won’t believe me, since he only got one last time.” Andy dashed into the kitchen, leaving Mattie shaking her head tolerantly.

  Herman was seventy-five if he was a day and had a bad habit of telling Andy more than his share of tall tales. He’d been living at the Hendricks’s place for years. The old man had obviously thought the world of Ruth. When she had passed away four years ago, Herman had remained, extending his friendship and loyalty to Mattie and Andy.

  She walked across the room to the fireplace and gazed at the shiny music box that sat on the mantel. With a shaking hand, she lifted the lid and the achingly familiar strains of a waltz surrounded her. In her mind, Mattie pictured her mother and father, forever young in her memory, dancing to the music box’s melody.

  She closed her eyes and her parents’ image was replaced by the gunslinger, dressed completely in black, which made the contrast of his green eyes and blond hair all the more striking. Men like Beaudry attracted trouble like honey attracted bears and she would have been courting danger if she had allowed him to stay.

  Mattie dropped the lid back in place, silencing the music. She had chosen the wrong man to waltz with, and would never make the same mistake again.

  The following morning, Clint Beaudry tightened the saddle cinch on his sorrel mare and drew a hand along the horse’s cream-colored mane. He’d spent the night under the stars instead of renting a room above one of the noisy saloons. Listening to the working girls cater to their customers in the neighboring rooms hadn’t appealed to him. Hell, for that matter, none of the whores had appealed to him, either. After a month of no female companionship, he should have welcomed the feel of a woman’s soft body, but he hadn’t wanted any of them.

  As he rolled up his bedroll, his thoughts took him to the widow woman at the boardinghouse. Now, there was a lady he wouldn’t have minded taking for a tumble between the sheets.

  Those sparking violet eyes of Mrs. St. Clair’s had set his blood near to boiling and damn near set his hide ablaze. He smiled, recalling her ripe curves and passionate fury, and imagined she’d be a lively bed companion if he could get past her self-righteousness. She had even turned down his impetuous offer of twice her going rate. His impulsiveness must have been provoked by those riveting eyes and the hope that he could slip into her room when only the moon lit the night. Just imagining her lying beneath him, her black hair fanned across a pillow and her eyes clouding with desire, made him grow hard with lust.

  Sighing, he reluctantly banished the erotic image from his thoughts. It was a damned shame she was as cold as an undertaker at a hanging. He tied his blanket to the back of the cantle and took one last glance around the camp to make sure he hadn’t left anything behind—not that he owned much. For the past year he’d traveled light and far. There was little need for anything but the clothes on his back, his gun, and his traveling gear—except for maybe a glass or two of whiskey in a friendly saloon and the occasional company of an agreeable woman to satisfy his needs.

  He stuck his boot toe through the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle, then lifted his gaze to the blue sky and touched the brim of his hat respectfully. “Maybe today, Em.”

  Since his wife’s death a year ago, he greeted every day the same. One of these days his swiftness would fail him and he’d join Emily. Until then, he would pursue the man who had raped and murdered her … to hell, if he had to.

  The leather creaked beneath his shifting weight as he tapped his heels against his horse’s belly. Dakota leapt ahead, as eager as Clint to be on the trail again.

  Suddenly Clint felt himself catapulted forward, like he’d been struck in the back with a tree branch. He fell across Dakota’s neck and slipped to the ground, hitting the earth face down with a bone-jarring thud that knocked the air from his lungs. Struggling to breathe, Clint sucked in air mixed with mud and coughed. Agony stabbed through him. He managed to turn his head slightly so he wasn’t eating dirt and tried to catch his breath.

  Warm moistness seeped across his torso and back, and Clint figured the bullet had gone right through him. No doubt about it—he was hurt bad, maybe even dying. What cowardly bastard had shot him in the back?

  The sound of a horse’s hooves made him freeze. Had the bushwhacker come back to finish the job? Clint painfully reached for his Colt. He clutched the weapon’s butt and hoped he had the strength to pull the gun from its holster.

  He listened to the person dismount, and through nearly closed eyes he spotted a pair of shiny black boots approaching him. He prayed his would-be murderer would figure he was dead.

  “Looks like I got you before you got me, Beaudry,” the stranger said. He nudged Clint with his toe and Clint barely restrained the moan that threatened to escape.

  The man squatted down beside him and laid a hand on Clint’s shoulder, and Clint held his breath. His ruse must have worked because the man withdrew his hand and straightened. He grunted something, then turned around and strode back to his horse. Leather creaked and the man’s horse passed within a few feet of Clint. It was a palomino—like the one the man who’d killed Emily had ridden.

  Hatred gave Clint the strength to roll onto his back, but not the power needed to raise his Colt. The receding rider and his golden horse doubled and blurred. Violent shivers overtook Clint and the Colt slipped from his numb fingers. To be so close to vengeance and have it stolen away…

  Pain ebbed and flowed through his body, and consciousness wavered. He didn’t want to fight anymore. He was tired of battling the darkness … the pain.

  No, not yet. Not until I make the bastard pay.

  Andy jiggled his fishing line and sighed heavily. He glanced over at Herman, who sat with his back against a tree and a fishing rod in his gnarled hands. The old man’s eyes were closed and he could have been sleeping, but Andy knew better.

  Nothing was biting, and he wished he’d gone into town to play marbles with Buck and Josh instead. He shifted his numb backside and stifled another sigh.

  “Stop movin’ around like a hen on a griddle there, boy. Remember, you gotta be smarter’n them trout in order to catch one.”

  Sometimes it seemed Herman could see straight through his eyelids.

  “We’ve been here since before sunrise and we haven’t had a single nibble,” Andy complained.

  “That’s ‘cause them critters know we’re here. If we stay real quiet, we’ll trick ’em into thinkin’ we left.”

  Andy didn’t think so and felt ornery enough to argue. “I reckon they took off upstream to spawn or whatever they do.”

  “That’s in the spring, not the summer. Nope, they’re down there. I can smell ’em.”

  Andy sniffed the air, but all he could smell was fishy water and Herman’s pipe tobacco. But if Herman said the fish were here, then they were. The old man had an uncanny sense when it came to fishing. Still, it would be just Andy’s luck that Herman was wrong today.


  The sound of a gunshot nearby interrupted a gray jay’s scolding and sent a squirrel into a chattering fit above them.

  Herman opened his eyes. “Hunters.”

  “How do you know?”

  Herman removed his pipe and used a finger to tamp down the smoking tobacco in the bowl. “It was a rifle shot and that’s what folks use when they go huntin’,” he explained patiently. “Now, iffen it was a revolver, I’d be a mite suspicious. Course I remember a fellah once who used a Navy Colt for huntin’—could hit a prairie chicken from a hundred yards.”

  Andy tried to imagine such a feat, but couldn’t. His ma wouldn’t even let him touch a gun, much less shoot one. He was ten years old—nearly a man. Most of his friends already knew how to use a rifle and some of them had handled a revolver, but all Andy had was a pocketknife his ma had given him for Christmas two years ago. If I had a pa, he’d teach me how to shoot.

  He glanced at Herman—maybe he would show him how to shoot.

  Herman sat up straight and his white eyebrows drew together. “There ain’t been a second shot.”

  Andy looked at Herman, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “Usually there’s a second shot to put the critter down.” The spry old man rose and tucked his pipe in his overalls bib pocket, then pulled in his line.

  “What’re we gonna do?” Andy asked as he copied Herman’s motions.

  “You stay put. I’m gonna go see what that hunter got.”

  Andy shook his head. He wasn’t going to stay behind and miss any potential excitement. “I’m coming, too.”

  Herman fired him a warning look, which Andy ignored. He wouldn’t let Herman treat him like a baby, too.

  Carrying his fishing rod, Andy followed the old man across a path through the sparse woods. A few minutes later, Andy heard a horse nicker and the path opened to a small clearing. Herman stopped abruptly and Andy nearly bumped into his back.

  “Damn,” the old man muttered.

  Andy stepped around him and stopped, shocked. A man lay on the ground with blood staining the green grass around his body. Andy put a hand to his mouth, hoping he wouldn’t lose his breakfast.