by Brenda Joyce
"I'm not misreading your signals!" he said, furiously. Lucy was stunned by his anger. "Is this what you want, princess?" he sneered.
His horrible tone hurt her and brought sharp tears to her eyes. She didn't have time to dwell on it, however. He kissed her. Hard, hurtfully, violently. There was nothing nice about it, and Lucy protested, her hands going to his shoulders, trying to push him away. It was like trying to budge a boulder.
He was bruising her mouth terribly, and just when she thought she couldn't stand it, everything changed. His mouth went very still, and she thought he cursed. And when he kissed her again, it was whisper-soft and barely there, a teasing touch of his mouth, as gentle as he had been rough before. A burning need sparked in Lucy's veins.
His hand was caressing her side as he kissed her. She clung to him, strained for him, mated with his tongue. Such fierce need stabbed her, she felt faint.
The bay snorted. Shoz went still. Lucy whimpered and kissed his jaw. Shoz's big body went hard and stiff and he suddenly grabbed a handful of her hair, stopping her. "Enough."
It was like being underwater and coming up for great gulps of air. Lucy inhaled, watching him. He watched her back, his gaze blazing. "You would tempt a saint," he said roughly. "And I'm not a saint."
"I know," Lucy said.
He grimaced. "What in hell are you up to? What's your angle?"
Lucy blushed. This was much more difficult than she had imagined. How to entice him delicately? She touched his cheek. "Shoz, we're never going to see each other again."
His eyes widened. "So this is your way of saying goodbye?"
Her color deepened and she nodded. "Just what in hell are you asking for? Do you know what you're asking for?"
"We've already done it once."
He didn't say a thing, he just stared.
"And no one found out then. They won't find out now."
"Got this all thought out, do you?"
"Yes."
"No crying rape to Daddy?"
"Of course not. I would be ruined." He slipped off the horse, bringing her with him. Lucy found herself in his arms, thigh to thigh and chest to chest. "If you wanted it, why in hell didn't you just say so," he said roughly. Lucy couldn't respond. He'd clasped her buttocks and lifted her against his huge arousal. His body pushed her backward, against a tree. His mouth was already devouring hers.
Lucy clung to his broad shoulders while he kissed her and rubbed himself against her. She heard him curse, gasping. She herself could barely breathe, could barely stand up. His body rocking so suggestively against hers was nearly unbearable, and Lucy found herself grasping his buttocks to anchor him closer. One of his hands was suddenly under her skirts and between her legs, beneath her drawers. He rubbed her there, slickly, fast, opening her thighs by pressing one of his own between them.
"I hope you're ready," he said hoarsely. " 'Cause I sure as hell am."
Lucy barely digested his words, because his touch was both heaven and hell. He grabbed one of her legs and wrapped it around his waist. She didn't understand—not until he was thrusting hard and deep into her. She cried out in surprise, but he ignored her, lifting her other leg so she was riding his waist, her back against the tree. She clung to his shoulders. He pounded into her. Her cry had changed into a soft keening.
In her mind, and maybe she did utter her thoughts, she begged him for release. She begged him for more. In her ear he murmured something indistinct, encouraging, a promise. She felt his palm pressing down on her swollen mons, and then nothing mattered, because she was exploding like the Fourth of July fireworks.
"God," he groaned, burying his face in her neck. Lucidity was rapidly returning, and Lucy felt him convulsing inside her. She was also aware of her back pressed hard against the tree, her nails digging into his shoulders, her legs locked around his waist. He relaxed against her, leaving her, and then he let her feet slide to the ground.
Lucy found she couldn't stand and she sank to the ground, regaining her breath. When she looked up, she saw him staring down at her, one shoulder against the tree, as he zipped up his fly. He didn't smile. He just stared.
Lucy stared, too, limp, exhausted, sated. His expression was impossible to read. She looked for condemnation or contempt, but did not find it. She really couldn't believe how they had done it. She wasn't sure, but it seemed more shocking than the last time. And—even more stunning.
A rough smile curled his mouth. "Don't look so surprised. That's been coming for a long time."
Lucy looked away. In one way, physically, she felt completely satiated. But in another way, an indefinable way, she did not. Inside her, there was an elusive yearning.
He levered himself off the tree. “I'm real sorry we wasted the past few weeks fighting, princess, real sorry." Then he smiled. "But that was really good. I sure as hell couldn't have asked for a better good-bye."
His words jerked Lucy right back to reality.
He scowled at her expression. "Come on, get up. There' no way in hell we can dally around here—as much as I’d like to. Or have you forgotten? I'm a wanted man, and we're not far enough from the border for comfort. For my comfort. I want to make Las Casitas way before dark."
Before dark. All of reality intruded. Slowly, Lucy got her feet.
Chapter 20
He was angry.
Angry and frustrated; in fact, he felt downright mean. There was no reason for his mood, and he damn well knew it. If anything, he should be feeling pleased as all hell; after all, he had gotten what he'd wanted, and he'd wanted Lucy Bragg for a long time. He wasn't used to waiting for what he wanted, just like he wasn't used to his near-infatuation, or should he say obsession? It was just lust, but that didn't matter. He'd just satisfied his lust, so she should be out of his system and his mind, right? Well, she wasn't. Far from it.
He was sorry he had taken her hostage, sorrier still he hadn't let her go hours before at the Rio Grande, or even sooner, outside of Paradise. He was sorriest of all that he had just banged the hell out of her.
His body was taut with tension. Fortunately, the foolish girl had not tried to initiate any conversation as they rode toward Casitas. It was fortunate because he would have bitten her head off.
She acted hurt. He swore, not caring if she heard. He lad never promised her roses, and if she thought a roll in he sack meant something more, then she was a fool.
Like he was. Because what he kept remembering most avidly wasn't her naked body or her passion, oh no, it was low she'd touched him once, on his forehead, two days ago, to see if he had a fever. As if she cared.
It had been a very long time since a woman had cared about him.
And the traitorous thought intruded, again: Keep her. Don't let her go.
He was insane!
Shoz wrenched the bay to a halt, the horse protesting with a snort. Instantly he was contrite, relaxing the reins and stroking the animal's neck. The rangy mustang had the courage of the finest, purest-bred racer. He crooned softly in Apache.
Ahead, in the dusty twilight, a few adobe huts and smoking chimneys were visible. Not a soul stirred on the wide, dusty main street.
"This is Casitas?" he heard her ask tremulously.
"Don't worry," he responded. "They've got a telegraph. And a hotel. Of course—" he wanted to be nasty "—it's not what you're used to, princess."
She didn't answer, but he felt her stiffening in reaction to the cruelty in his tone. Good, he thought savagely. Good! Do I give a damn if you hate me? He swore to himself that he didn't.
Abruptly he lifted her and set her on the ground without dismounting himself. He stared at her.
"You're leaving me here?" she croaked, her gaze anxious.
His gaze was derisive as it swept her. "You can't go in to town like that."
Automatically she crossed her arms over her bosom, to little avail. She wore her navy jacket open, as it had lost half its buttons during their run from the law. Her shirtwaist and underclothes were plastered indecently to h
er. And then there was her knee-length skirt and petticoats, and her long, sleek calves and ankles were utterly nude.
She'd taken her hair like a rope and knotted it, with the tail hanging long and loose over her shoulder. She was a far cry from the Society princess of Paradise and New York. She was the sexiest thing Shoz had ever seen.
Her temper ignited and sparked. "You're the one responsible for my clothes!" she shouted, tears forming in her eyes. "Or should I say, my lack of them!" She brushed angrily at her eyes.
He relaxed insolently in the saddle. "Having regrets, are we?"
"Yes! No!"
"Make up your mind." She took a deep breath. "Yes." There was a challenge in her expression.
He chose to ignore it. "Wait here. If someone comes for God's sake, hide in the cactus, okay?" She glared at him.
He ignored the look and wheeled the bay, cantering to the village. Was she really regretting what they'd done— at her invitation? He chastised himself for being such a fool. Of course impulsive Miss Lucy was having second thoughts about what had happened. Now that she was stuffed full with what he'd given her. He was angrier than ever. He didn't want to believe it.
He slid off the bay in front of a building slightly larger than all the others in town. It was a saloon. There were a few rooms in the back for rent. Usually the whores took their clients there, but occasionally a weary traveler would rent one for a night. He took note of the four horses tied to the hitching rail in front, not liking so large a crowd in attendance. He walked in.
The floors were wood planking, covered with dust and grime. There was a long bar and a few rickety tables. Smoke hung in the air. The place smelled of refried beans, unwashed bodies, cigarettes, and sex. The owner, Fernando, was a big, fat Mexican. As always, he was behind the bar, drinking tequila. A villager Shoz recognized, a middle-aged reed-thin peon, was at the bar with him. The four riders sat at one table.
When he walked in, silence descended.
Shoz went to the bar. He'd already taken stock of the four riders. They all wore crossed bandoliers, carried their rifles, and had knives on their persons. They were banditos, typical ones, dangerous ones. How could he leave Lucy here?
He couldn't. Not alone. Fernando couldn't protect her, wouldn't even try. She'd be raped no matter what kind of dress she wore, raped again and again until she died.
Damn! His frustration increased. He couldn't leave her here, alone, waiting for her family to come and fetch her. And there was no way he could spend the night with her here, guarding her. Not when they were so close to the border. Casitas was not a safe hiding place. There was no other town near by on this side of Death Valley. Unless he went out of his way to drop her off somewhere else, he'd have to take her with him. And he had no intention of going out of his way. It was too dangerous. His only intention was to seek the safety of his impenetrable hideout. Which meant he was taking her to Death Valley.
The Braggs could search high and wide, but they'd never discover them there in the eastern Sierra Madres. Never.
Lucy's reunion with her family would have to wait. When it was safe, he would send her down to one of the towns on the Gulf, or even escort her himself. The decision made, Shoz felt all of the hot tension draining from his body. He didn't dare question why; after all, he was, as usual, reacting to the spin of Dame Fortune's wheel.
With the money he'd taken from the deputy in Paradise when he'd trussed him up, Shoz bought and downed two whiskeys, sheer heaven. He and Fernando went into the back to discuss business, and when Shoz left the saloon, he had a revolver tucked into his belt, a stiletto knife in his boot, a rifle and a small sack of supplies in one hand. The four riders watched him leave intently.
Lucy wasn't where he'd left her. His exasperation was light, despite the urgent need to get going. Where was the chit? Had she finally decided to run away? Her sense of timing stank!
The thought struck him that some cutthroat had found her, or a rattlesnake. He plunged through thick stands of cactus to find her, unable to call out her name, well aware that his heart was thundering from fear, not fury. He pulled to a halt. Very intently, he listened to the descending night.
He could hear, far away, the yelping of a pack of coyotes. Closer, he heard the softest, slightest movement, something softly brushing stone. He whirled, but only chased an opossum into hiding.
Had she run away from him? Alone, barely dressed, fled into the Mexican wilderness? Or had some damn bandit found her? A feeling of helpless outrage assailed him and he clenched his fists. He urged the bay on, into an expanding circle.
Periodically he stopped to listen. And then he heard her—soft gasps. Maybe pain. The gun in his hand, he galloped toward the sound, and some dozen yards away, he burst through an outcropping of boulders. He found her with her back against one, sitting on the ground, alone—crying.
His first thought was that someone had hurt her, and his rage foretold murder. He was off the bay, about to grab her, but she had seen him and risen to her feet, wiping her eyes.
"What happened?"
Her glare was directed at him, full force.
"What in hell happened?" he demanded, releasing her.
"Nothing."
He stared, unable to believe her words, not when she was crying, hidden here, and it had taken him half an hour to find her. "You're lying. Why are you lying? What happened?' '
"Nothing!" she screamed.
Shoz stepped back. He had told her to hide if she saw someone, but apparently she had been hiding from him. And crying. He told himself he didn't care, didn't give a damn, damned if he did. "Why are you crying, Lucy?" The problem was, he knew why she was crying, and secretly he hated himself.
"Why am I crying?" She laughed hysterically. "You kidnap me and drag me across half of Texas and all the way into Mexico and you ask me why am I crying?"
"You weren't crying yesterday."
"No." Her mouth trembled. "I wasn't crying yesterday."
Another image of her touching his forehead swept him, followed by a flashing remembrance of their recent love-making. "If you play with fire," he said harshly, "you risk getting burned."
She stared at him. Her chin lifted. "Don't flatter yourself."
This he could handle. Her fighting anger was infinitely preferable to her hurt and tears. "Get up," he said, mounting.
She held out her hand and he swung her behind him. He urged the bay into a canter, for the first time heading east.
Lucy clung to him. "Where are we going?" she gasped. He could feel her full breasts against his back. "Casitas is back there!"
"Unless you want a fate worse than death, I can't leave you there—and I sure as hell don't dare spend a night so close to the border."
Lucy's mind froze—then it began spinning. "What are you saying?" she cried. "I don't understand!"
The bay plunged into a rocky gorge. "There were four outlaws back there, and frankly, my dear, they wouldn't give a damn who you are just as long as you're a woman. Understand?"
"Oh," she said faintly, her mouth touching his ear as she bumped against him.
He wanted to put distance between them and Casitas, and he pushed the bay, hard. Yet intent as he was, he waited for her unspoken question, and then it came. Tremulously. "If you're not leaving me there, then where are you leaving me?"
"I'm not."
"What?! But you said you were going to let me go!"
"Give it up. You're staying with me."
Chapter 21
The ground shook beneath the hundreds of galloping hooves, the sound filling the air like thunder. A mass of horses and riders raced across the hot Texas desert, toward the Rio Grande. Almost as one, the cavalcade turned slightly and slowed, coming to a rolling halt.
"The Rio."
Rathe turned to his father, his blue eyes blazing. "We can't stop now—we lost too much time as it is."
Derek Bragg, Nick, Rathe, Brett, and Storm rode in front of the fifty-man posse with Sheriff Sanders and four Texas Rangers.
They were an imposing, frightening lot. They were all identically clad, even Storm, in dusty leather chaps, worn boots, wet cotton shirts, bandannas knotted at the throat, and battered Stetsons pulled low. Everyone packed hardware, and lots of it. Rifles were in their scabbards, six-shooters strapped to their thighs. Derek carried a bowie knife—and so did his daughter.
But it wasn't just their sheer number or their cumulative firepower that was so frightening. It was the aura of power, rage, and determination that would make anyone hesitate to cross their path.
Fortunately, Fred had been discovered just an hour after being tied up and locked up in the prisoner's cell. Lucy's disappearance had not been noted yet, and might not have been remarked upon until much later if Fred had not been found so soon. He garbled the entire story. Immediately a posse was formed, and within two hours of Lucy's abduction, the fearsome group had ridden out.
Unfortunately, the consensus was that Shoz would ride directly south for the border, and that was how they had gone, looking for his trail. They hadn't found any sign by that afternoon. They had to backtrack all the way back to Paradise. The man was canny. He'd actually followed one of the Pecos River's tributaries west, first, to throw them off the scent. They knew this for sure because, late in the day, Nick had found sizable pieces of Lucy's skirt and petticoats clinging to the branches of a bush by the bank. Apparently they had been cut off and tossed aside. This obviously meant that, for the moment, they were walking downstream. Rathe had nearly been out of his mind.
A terrible argument had ensued. Would their quarry ride west into the New Mexico territory? Or was he trying to confuse them? Would he head south after all?
At this point, the Rangers they had wired joined them. The posse split up. Half went west, led by three Rangers, the rest headed directly south for the border. Each and every Bragg believed with his gut instinct that the outlaw would run for Mexico, and they all rode south together.
