Fires of Paradise

by Brenda Joyce

  At the door to the jail cells, he stopped, jerking her body up even closer to his, so he could snarl in her ear: "Either you start moving, or I'm going to hurt you."

  Lucy moved. He propelled her and she ran. She didn't doubt for a moment that he'd hurt her; she sensed he was at the limit of his patience. They ran into the prison. Fred was hog-tied and gagged and locked in Shoz's cell. Lucy expected Shoz to throw her inside with him. She was stunned when he hauled her out the back door instead, into the shadows of the alley outside.

  Wild thoughts went screaming through her mind, impossible ones. Why hadn't he left her behind, in the cell with Fred? Where was he taking her? She stumbled as they raced down the alley, away from Bragg Avenue with its steady stream of carriages, buckboards, and passersby. He held her upright. Hysterical fear filled Lucy. She realized he was going to use her as a hostage to help him escape from town. There was no other explanation, was there? A hostage ... a hostage . . . The word was imprinted on each hard beat of her heart.

  But surely he would let her go as soon as he made good his escape! Wouldn't he? She looked back toward Bragg Avenue, where there were so many people going about their business, all oblivious to the drama being played out in the small, shady alley between the false-fronted buildings. If only someone would notice them!

  They ran down the length of the alley until they came to the next street. They paused behind some garbage cans, waiting for a dray to pass, regaining their breath. Across from them was a smith, a metalworker, a tailor, and a German cabinetmaker. So was a horse, saddled and tied in front of the blacksmith's.

  "Just my luck," Shoz said.

  Lucy darted a glance at him, to see if he was being earnest or snide, but she could not tell. She understood, though. He would steal the horse, the one, single horse, so this was where they would part. From here he could escape without her. She would only slow him down; she would only be a liability. Her heart soared, and if she hadn't been gagged, she would have shouted in relief.

  The dray passed. With a half smile, one hard but triumphant, Shoz darted across the street—and dragged Lucy with him. Before she knew it, he had thrown her on the bay gelding and was leaping up behind her. And then they were galloping down another alley—and out of town.

  They did not slow down or stop until they had put a few hills and gorges and a good ten miles between them and

  Paradise. Lucy tried to protest at first, which was no easy feat with the gag; before she could remove it, he had tied it in place. He ignored her. If they hadn't been going so fast and his grip on her hadn't been so firm, she would have tried to leap off. Her mind was in a frenzy. Why had he taken her with him? Why had he abducted her? Why?

  It did not make sense. He should have left her in town. He could go faster and farther alone. He no longer needed her. Unbidden, the sarcastic words he'd hurled at her in the cell echoed in her mind: "Happy with your revenge?"

  Revenge. There was no other logical explanation. And revenge wasn't logical. It was a deed of passion. It was horrible, it was ugly, it was terrifying. He was an escaped convict, a horse thief, an accomplice to murder—or maybe even a murderer. Lucy was trembling.

  An hour later he urged the lathered bay into a stream bed. They had been heading west. He jumped off, pulling Lucy down as well. She nearly collapsed in his arms.

  He pushed her away from him with a hard, uncompromising expression on his face. She caught herself from falling again and looked at him. Their gazes met. He was pale beneath his bronzed skin, his soft blue shirt completely soaked and sticking to his skin. Lucy stood beside him, knee-deep in the stream, despairing and afraid to move. Yet his gaze was steady, not the gaze of a crazed killer seeking vengeance.

  He didn't make any moves toward her. Her heart slowed, and some of the stiffness left her shoulders. Cautiously, her hands unsteady, Lucy reached for the gag. This was the first chance she had had to remove it since he had bound it. As she fumbled with the knot, her eyes never left him. Her heart sank when he abruptly grabbed her hands, but he only turned her around and deftly released the gag.

  Lucy took great big lungfuls of air, aware of him behind her, aware, for just a moment, of his thighs brushing her buttocks before he stepped away. And then she was cupping the cool water in her hands and pouring it into her mouth. Never had she been thirstier in her life.

  When she was sated, she splashed her face and looked for her kerchief to dry herself, only to remember that he had used it to gag Fred. This made her straighten slowly, stiffly, listening for him behind her. He was utterly silent— she could only hear the horse blowing softly. Lucy turned so she could look at him.

  He was watering their mount, stroking the bay's sweaty neck. He lifted his gaze to catch her staring, and she abruptly turned away. Her soaking skirts were heavy around her legs, and she regretted the layers of clothing she wore. She pretended not to look at him but knew that he was filling their canteen. This moment of respite had done much to calm Lucy's shattered nerves. She had to face him sooner or later. There was a question she must ask—no matter how much she dreaded hearing his answer.

  "You ready?"

  She moved about awkwardly to face him, dragging her skirts with her. His tone was weary, and he was leaning against the bay's flank—as if too tired to stand upright without support.

  Lucy stared. He had been shot ten days ago. How long could he keep up this pace? Would he kill himself? If he was very weak...

  "Don't start thinking," he said. "Or planning."

  "Where are you taking me?"

  He levered himself off the horse and took her arm and the horse's reins, leading them downstream. "I advise you to shed that skirt, princess. Let's go."

  He hadn't answered; instead, he was pushing her forward, into the shallower water by the bank. Still, it came to mid-calf, making it impossible to walk with her skirt and petticoats twisting around her ankles and calves. She stumbled forward, and then balked. "Please, Shoz! I have a right to know!"

  He paused and leaned against the horse. "Why did you take me?" Lucy cried. "It doesn't make sense!"

  "Damned if I know," he muttered. He was sure that taking her with him was going to prove to be a big mistake.

  "What?"

  "Let's just say you're my ticket out of here." "You're already free! Leave me here! I'll just slow you down! Please! You don't need me anymore!"

  For the past half hour he had been asking himself what the hell he was doing abducting Lucy Bragg. He should have left her in Paradise, and he knew it. She would slow him down. Yet he hadn't exactly been thinking when he'd abducted her, he had been acting. With an instinct, a primitive, territorial instinct as old as time.

  He saw her white face and her stricken blue eyes and told himself he was an utter jackass if he let himself feel sorry for her. There was only one person he should be thinking about, and that was himself. He was a fool. Her being a pretty piece was no reason for him to abduct her, nor was revenge, not when the stakes were so high. His life, his freedom. He should leave her here. He could probably escape the posse that was certainly being formed this very minute. If he weren't weak from the gunshot wound, he knew without a doubt that he could escape across the border. But he was weak, and he did have doubts.

  "Let me go, Shoz," she was saying. "It's not too late to let me go!"

  "I'm taking you with me to the border," he decided abruptly. Just in case the posse caught up with him on this side of the Rio Grande.

  "The border! Mexico? You're going to Mexico?"

  "I sure as hell don't mean Louisiana."

  "And then you'll let me go?"

  He eyed her. Her face was wet with sweat, her hair mostly up, but a few tangled knots had come down to straggle around her face. She was wet up to her armpits, her jacket open—he had to enjoy just for a moment, how her shirt clung to whatever newfangled contraption she wore beneath it. Too bad he wasn't in better shape. Too bad they were in such a rush. Too bad. Despite the betrayal, despite her lies, despite her revenge�
��he wouldn't mind finishing their business, and taking some of his own revenge.

  But his back hurt like hell.

  "Yes," he said. And knew he was more than just a fool. Not for making the promise, but for feeling regret.

  "Yes!" she echoed, stumbling on her skirts for the hundredth time.

  Quick as a wink, he had the carving knife in hand—and

  he sliced off her skirt and petticoats at the knee.

  She gasped, staring down at her white-stockinged calves and at the delicate lace ruffles of the hem of her drawers just below her knees.

  "Let's go," he growled. He'd seen her legs before. Still, they were great legs.

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide and stunned.

  "Just walk," he said, pushing her on.

  She walked.

  And his mind was made up. He would keep her until they got to Mexico and had crossed the border. She would be his insurance, his ticket to freedom. And then he would get rid of her. Send her home, or to the nearest town. But until then, she would keep the Braggs and half the Texas militia from stretching his neck. She would be a bargaining chip if they managed to catch him.

  He hoped.

  Her safety, for his freedom.

  Chapter 18

  They hadn't stopped to rest, not once.

  Since they had left the stream bed hours ago, they had trekked across rock flats and through narrow desert gorges. The going had been so rough for a while that they had both walked, Shoz pushing on ahead of Lucy, leading the horse, Lucy stumbling after him. Now, hours later, it was twilight. They were both astride the horse, and had been for some time, heading south through an endless stretch of sage-studded desert. For the first time, Lucy glimpsed a stand of saguaro.

  She felt anew the welling of despair. They had been traveling since midmorning; surely the posse chasing them would never catch them now. They were far from Paradise, far from the ranch. The Mexican border must be very close. And when they crossed it? Would he really leave her? And what about tonight? Were they ever going to stop?

  She couldn't go on. She just couldn't. Her body was bruised; every part of it ached. She knew that if she did dismount, she would barely be able to walk. "Shoz! We have to stop—I can't continue another moment like this! I need a rest!"

  "Soon."

  Lucy gripped the pommel, hard. She had exercised the utmost self-discipline and until now hadn't asked him to stop, not once. But now her pride was in shreds. She was hot and sweaty, sticky and oh so dirty, but mostly, she was exhausted and she desperately wanted to rest. On impulse, she suddenly threw her leg over the pommel and slid to the ground.

  To her horror, her knees gave out and she collapsed in a heap in the sand.

  The horse kept going, as if Shoz were oblivious to her disappearance. A few yards past her, he pulled to a halt. Lucy looked up at him with a stifled sob. He sat very still, slouched, gazing down at her. For the first time in hours, she saw his face and his eyes, and she was shocked. There was no interest in his expression there, nothing vital at all. There was only blank indifference as he regarded her, and he was whiter than a sheet. She had ceased sweating at sundown, but sweat poured off his face, actually dripping from his chin.

  He looked ill.

  Lucy forced herself up.

  He made a sound, and turned the horse slowly around. The bay plodded back to her. Lucy bit her lip. "Get up," he said.

  Lucy stared. He was ill, most likely with fever, and she was almost certain she could escape—either on foot or, later, by stealing the horse. She hesitated, filled with the immense possibility confronting her.

  "Lucy."

  She gnawed her lip, then approached. "Let's stop," she said. "Please."

  He nodded once and slowly slid off the gelding. He paused there, leaning against the animal's flank.

  Lucy trembled. He was hurt; he needed rest and someone's care. It was obvious. But her chance for escape was imminent. She didn't go to him.

  He tied the horse to a stunted mesquite. Lucy watched, not moving. He uncinched the girth, pulled the saddle off, and its weight as he placed it on the ground nearly brought him down on top of it. He slid down beside the tack, leaning back on it. His gaze found hers.

  Lucy stood very still, wetting her lips. This was her chance. She was a good rider, and as a child, she'd ridden bareback every summer, so the lack of a saddle was no deterrent. She would jump on the horse and head north, straight north.

  And leave him here alone, on foot, too sick to even move, much less walk.

  He would probably die. Lucy doubted the sheriff would find him, not the way he'd kept to stream beds and rock flats, not the way he'd swept their trail clean with brush. She was certain the sheriff would never track this man, who seemed to be well versed in the art of hiding his trail. Instead, he would stay here, alone, and die.

  Just for a moment his gaze was lucid as it searched hers, and Lucy was certain that he knew she was thinking about escape. But then he dropped his head, eyes closed, and began to sleep.

  Now she could go.

  She didn't.

  In that precise moment, she made up her mind, more the fool she. She could not leave him alone, on foot, to die. She could not. He was a thief, yes, and maybe a murderer, but there hadn't been a trial and there hadn't been a conviction. To use Nicole's words, he was "a bad sort," but he was a human being. There was no doubt in Lucy's mind that she was crazy not to take advantage of his condition, but she just couldn't. He had abducted her, but he hadn't hurt her. Besides he had said that he would let her go once they crossed the border—and the border had to be less than a day's ride from here. Tonight she could not leave him alone.

  She dropped to her knees beside him, studying him and reaching for the canteen. "Go easy," he said.

  Taken by surprise, she almost dropped their precious water. His eyes were still closed; he appeared to be asleep. Lucy flushed. To think she had almost abandoned him, sure that he was incognizant of his surroundings.

  "No water until tomorrow," he added without moving.

  Lucy handed him the canteen. He took it and drank a few sips. Lucy removed it from his hands and took a long drink. She touched his forehead to check his fever. His eyes flew open, startled. He was warm, but she couldn't be sure if it was a low temperature or not, and that in itself was a good sign.

  She rummaged in the saddlebags, found a few tins of beef and beans and some jerky, and forced him to accept the latter. He ate without interest, his eyes closed, but she ate hungrily. All the while she watched him. He slept deeply.

  Exhaustion overcame Lucy, too. She stretched out beside him, on her side, her cheek on her arm. The ground was hard and uncomfortable, and without a blanket or pillow, she was sure she would never be able to sleep, especially when she began to worry about her family, and how they must be reacting to her abduction. But she was so fatigued, sleep came instantly. Some time later she woke up, cold and shivering. A thousand stars glittered overhead, an owl hooted, and she could hear Shoz's even, deep breathing beside her. She was still exhausted, and without giving it much thought, she crept close to him and curled next to his big body, almost but not quite touching him, just for his warmth. This time sleep did not come so easily.

  Shoz woke up when the sun was almost high in the sky, with Lucy in his arms.

  He blinked. Her body was spooned into his, her buttocks nestled in his groin, and his arms were around her, his mouth against the nape of her neck. What the hell! He searched his mind, trying to remember just what they had done last night. It took him a moment to become fully awake. They hadn't done anything—he had been exhausted from the long, hard day. It was just that he had never woken up with a woman in his arms before, and the assumption had been automatic.

  She felt good. He craned his neck to look at her. He should have smiled, or even laughed, but he didn't. She was a mess. Miss Lucy Bragg had a propensity for looking better than any woman he knew—or worse. Now was one of those times when she looked as bad as a woma
n could. She was dirty, from the tip of her nose right down to her pretty little stockinged feet.

  But somehow, she was sexy as hell. Worse, she felt sexy as hell.

  He was aware of the beginnings of arousal, meaning he had slept well and replenished his body's strength during the night. If they didn't have such a long day coming up ... He sighed. If he messed with her now, he would be in a helluvalot more trouble than he already was.

  It was a grim thought. The first thing the Braggs would want to know when they got Lucy back was if he had touched her. Lucy wasn't a liar. She wouldn't cry rape out of spite, and he sure as hell wasn't going to give her a better reason. As tempting as she was, he'd keep his hands to himself.

  As he got up, thoughts came rushing back to him. One demanded priority, and as he saddled and fed the horse, he turned to look at her, this time with no need to disguise either the interest or the curiosity he was feeling. Last night she could have left him. Either on foot or with the horse. But she hadn't.

  He inhaled sharply. His heart was beating as hard as if he'd run a race. Why hadn't she left him? Because she was afraid to try and return to Paradise through this desolate land alone? Lucy might be a spoiled princess, but she had grit, obstinacy, and she also had courage. Her grit was real, although mostly untested; her determination was like a mule's, what little he'd seen of it; but her courage came from ignorance and naivete. She wouldn't consider the hardship of traveling north without him for a moment, she would just do it, spurred on by desperation and determination. Fear of hardship wouldn't stop her from escaping him. Then why?

  He finished saddling the horse and eyed her. The question was too immense; there were possibilities that actually caused a roiling in his gut. Damn! Damn her! He decided he didn't care why she hadn't left him, there were many possibilities. Maybe she couldn't ride bareback, maybe she'd just been too damn tired. Or maybe from this particular trial and tribulation, she had learned some common sense and was afraid of riding north alone. Hell! What did he care anyway?