The Angel and the Outlaw

by Madeline Baker

  “No. Come on, I’ll give you a leg up.”

  “I can manage.”

  “Suit yourself, sweetheart.”

  He stood back, his arms crossed over his chest, while she slid her foot in the stirrup, then struggled to pull herself into the saddle.

  A sound of disgust rumbled in his throat, and then she felt his hands at her waist. Strong, sure hands that lifted her as if she weighed nothing at all.

  When she was settled, he vaulted up behind her. One arm circled her waist, the other reached for the reins as he clucked to the horse.

  “I hate you,” she muttered.

  “Think I care?”

  “I don’t think you care about anything.”

  “You got that right.”

  Brandy stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the viselike grip of his arm around her waist. He had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and she stared at the fine dark hair sprinkled over his arm. She was very aware of his nearness, of his breath feathering against her hair, of his broad chest at her back, of his thighs cradling her hips. Even through layers and layers of sturdy cotton cloth, she could feel his heat.

  They rode for hours, always headed north, toward Montana. The sun was hot and bright and she wished she’d remembered to pick up her hat. The silence between them grew louder with each mile that passed. She was acutely aware of every move he made, every breath he took.

  She hated it. She hated him.

  And she was afraid of him. But she was more afraid of something that grew increasingly more evident as the day went on. Her world no longer existed. She recognized the countryside, but the houses, the telephone poles and electrical wires had all disappeared. The highway was gone, and in its place lay miles and miles of broken terrain and dull red hills.

  Maybe he really was J.T. Cutter…

  She swallowed the panic rising in her throat. If he was J.T. Cutter, then this was 1875 and everything, and everyone, she had known was gone…no, not gone, she amended, just not born yet.

  It couldn’t be…and yet she couldn’t forget that peculiar electrical jolt that had raced up her arm when she touched him, that momentary sense of disorientation as if she was being hurled through time and space…

  “No.” She shook her head, refusing to believe. “No!”

  “You say something?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. He was staring at her, his gaze cool, his face hard and implacable.

  “No.” She felt the blood drain from her face, felt her hands go cold. J.T. Cutter was a bank robber, a horse thief, and who knew what else?

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked gruffly.

  “You really are J.T. Cutter, aren’t you?”

  J.T. shook his head. He’d told her who he was at least twice.

  She couldn’t look at him anymore. Staring ahead, Brandy tried to make some sense of what had happened. She had touched him and somehow, she had been whisked into the past. But why? And how was she going to get back home?

  The town rose up without warning, the same dusty shade of gray-brown as the earth. It took a moment for Brandy to realize that it was real, and just not a mirage.

  She blinked and blinked again, and when it didn’t disappear, she felt a flutter of hope. A town meant people. Maybe she could find a way to escape, or, better yet, attract the attention of the sheriff. Cutter was a wanted man, after all. If she could just get the lawman’s attention, she’d at least be able to escape from Cutter.

  She felt a growing sense of disappointment as they rode down the main street. It was only about a block long, and it appeared to be the only street in town. She glanced right and left, noting two saloons, a shabby hotel, a small mercantile, a livery barn, and a barber shop. A squat square building that called itself the Charon Bank was located next to the sheriff’s office.

  Cutter assessed the bank with practiced ease. A cracker box. If need be, he could be in and out in ten minutes. Fortunately, there were easier ways to get a stake. For him, robbing banks had always been a last resort; it was definitely not something he wanted to try with a woman in tow. Still, it was nice to know the bank was there, just in case.

  He pulled up in front of O’Connell’s Livery and dismounted. A moment later, a short, bow-legged man wearing baggy Levi’s and a tobacco-stained leather apron materialized in the doorway.

  “Something I kin do for you?”

  “You O’Connell?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’m lookin’ to sell my horse.”

  O’Connell grunted as his gaze moved over the pinto. Moving out of the doorway, he checked the gelding’s teeth, ran his gnarled hands down the horse’s legs, checked its feet.

  “How much do ya want for him?”

  “I was hopin’ to get fifty.”

  O’Connell shook his head. “I’m near being horse poor. I’ll give ya thirty.”

  “I need at least forty.”

  “Thirty-five, and that’s if ya throw in the saddle.”

  “Done,” Cutter said. Turning, he lifted Brandy from the back of the pinto, then slid the rifle from the scabbard.

  The livery owner pulled a wad of crumpled greenbacks from his apron pocket and counted out thirty-five dollars. “Nice doin’ business with ya.”

  Cutter grinned as he shoved the money into his pants pocket. One way or another, he’d have that paint horse back.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Go where?” Brandy asked.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.”

  He grabbed her hand and she fell into step beside him, her long skirts swishing in the dusty street.

  Cutter paused at the hotel. “I expect you to behave yourself in here.” She glowered at him in mutinous silence and he tightened his grip on her hand. “You won’t like what happens if you cause me any trouble.”

  “I doubt I’ll like what happens if I behave.”

  “Dammit, woman…”

  She tilted her chin defiantly. “I’m not afraid of you. You’re nothing but a two-bit horse thief.”

  He bent his head toward her, his voice low, ominous. “You had best be afraid, lady. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Brandy stared into his eyes, hard brown eyes that held no hint of softness or compassion. In a rush, everything she had ever read about this man flooded her mind. Too late she realized how foolhardy she was to defy him. He was a bank robber, a killer, an outlaw who had somehow survived a hanging. A man who really didn’t have anything to lose.

  “Don’t push me,” he warned.

  “I won’t.”

  His gaze held hers a moment more, and then he opened the door and stepped into the hotel, pulling her along behind him.

  He led her into a small dining room, found a table in the far corner, and sat down with his back to the wall, the rifle within easy reach.

  Brandy sat down across from him, her hands folded in her lap. Conscious of her untidy appearance, she was grateful that they were the only two people in the room.

  A small dark-haired woman wearing a yellow gingham dress and a white apron came to take their order. Brandy knew a moment of resentment when Cutter ordered for her, but one look at his face stilled all thought of protest.

  Brandy lowered her head, furtively studying him while they waited for their dinner. Dark bristles covered his jaw, making him look all the more formidable. His hair was long and straight, the color such a dark brown it sometimes looked black, as did his eyes. His eyes… She shivered. She had the fanciful notion that she had glimpsed hell in the depths of those eyes.

  He was staring past her, giving her the impression he had forgotten her presence. She watched him rub his neck, saw the faint red line that circled his throat. What had it been like, she wondered, standing on the gallows, waiting for the hangman to spring the trap? She couldn’t imagine the terror, the fear. How long had he hanged there before the rope broke? How had he survived? And why had touching him propelled her into the past? More importantly, how was she going to get back to
her own time?

  The appearance of the waitress with their food interrupted her musings. Brandy stared at the slab of beef on her plate. It was the biggest steak she had ever seen. Beside it rose a mountain of lumpy mashed potatoes smothered in brown gravy and more green beans than she ate in a year.

  She glanced at Cutter, wondering if he really expected her to consume what looked like half a cow, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her and she decided to leave well enough alone.

  Picking up her knife, she cut off a piece of steak and took a bite. It was rare, and delicious. To her surprise, she ate almost half of it, and most of the potatoes, as well. The beans she left untouched.

  “You gonna finish that?”

  She glanced up to find Cutter watching her. “No.”

  He grunted softly, then speared what was left of her steak and dropped it on his own plate.

  When he finished eating a few minutes later, he sat back in his chair, looking relaxed for the first time since she’d known him.

  He smiled at the waitress when she refilled his coffee cup, a lazy, friendly smile. Brandy was surprised by the change it made in J.T.’s face. The harsh lines softened, making him look younger, more vulnerable. More human.

  Then he looked at her and frowned. “You ready to go?”

  “Does it matter?”

  A wry grin twisted his lips. “Not a bit. You catch on real quick.”

  Reaching for the rifle propped beside his chair, he stood up and tossed a couple of greenbacks on the table. Brandy stared at the money, feeling an icy shiver run down her spine as she looked at the bills. They were odd looking, larger than the currency in circulation back home. She had seen similar dollar bills in a museum.

  She felt suddenly lightheaded. No matter how she tried to deny it, she really had gone back in time.

  Brandy stared at J.T. Cutter as he reached for her hand. There was nothing solicitous in the gesture and Brandy didn’t mistake it for anything but what it was—a form of imprisonment.

  He kept her close to his side as they left the dining room and walked into the hotel lobby. At the desk, Cutter asked for a room, paid for it in advance. Keeping a firm hold on her hand, he climbed the stairs and went down the dark, narrow hallway that led to their room, leading her as if she were a child.

  Brandy grimaced as she stepped inside. It had none of the rustic appeal that hotel rooms in Western movies always seemed to have. There were no frilly white lace curtains at the window. No colorful rag rugs on the floor. There was only a narrow brass bedstead topped by a lumpy mattress and a spread that might have once been white; a scarred mahogany highboy with a cracked mirror, and a white enamel bowl and pitcher.

  “Charming,” Brandy muttered as Cutter closed the door behind them. “Just charming.”

  “You say something?”

  “No.” There was no chair in the room, so she stood in the middle of the floor, unwilling to sit on the lumpy mattress lest it put ideas in his head. Not that she looked that enticing, she mused as she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. A man would have to be pretty desperate to be attracted to her now. Her hair was hanging limply down her back, her lipstick was long gone, her face and hands were smudged with dirt. And she smelled. Of horse and dust and perspiration.

  She glanced longingly at the pitcher and bowl, wishing he would leave her alone so she could bathe. But even without asking she knew that was out of the question.

  “Sit down,” he said, gesturing at the bed.

  “No, thank you.”

  “No, thank you?”

  “I’d rather stand.”

  He lifted one dark brow. “What’s the matter, Brandy? Afraid I’ll try to take advantage of you?”

  She blinked at him, alarmed at how sensual her name sounded on his lips, frightened that the thought of molesting her had already occurred to him.

  She retreated behind a wall of defiance. “I suppose it’s too much to expect a man like you to honor a lady’s virtue.”

  “Yeah, I suppose it is. Sit down.”

  It was an order, spoken in a tone that demanded obedience.

  Walking on legs that felt stiff, she crossed the floor and sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands folded in her lap so he couldn’t see them trembling.

  J.T. let out a long, aggrieved sigh. Damn. She really thought he was going to attack her. Not that the idea didn’t have a certain appeal, but even he hadn’t sunk that low. Not yet.

  Muttering an oath, he propped the rifle against the wall, then untied the sash at her waist.

  “What are you going to do?” Brandy exclaimed.

  “Not what you’re thinking.”

  She stared up at him, felt the blood drain from her face as he grabbed her hands and quickly tied them together. Then, using the loose end of the sash, he bound her hands to the headboard.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  She couldn’t say the words, only looked up at him in mute appeal.

  “Shit, lady, I told you before, I’m not gonna hurt you, so just calm down.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  J.T. shook his head, wishing he’d left her in Cedar Ridge where she belonged.

  “Believe whatever you want,” he muttered, and taking up the pitcher, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Brandy stared after him, her heart pounding a mile a minute. Knowing it was futile, she struggled against the binding on her wrists, but it only made the knots tighter. Resigned, she sat with her shoulder against the headboard, her gaze fixed on the door.

  No more than five minutes passed before he returned, the pitcher filled with hot water, two dingy white bath towels draped over his shoulder.

  He locked the door, tossed the towels on the highboy, and poured the water in the bowl.

  “I’m gonna wash off some of this trail dust,” he remarked. “You can close your eyes, or watch, whichever way your stick floats.”

  Brandy stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment as he shrugged out of his shirt and began to remove his boots.

  With a gasp, she closed her eyes, felt a tide of embarrassment wash into her cheeks when she heard his easy laughter.

  She sat there, fuming, listening to the sound of the water splashing against the bowl, her imagination conjuring up numerous images of white cloth moving over taut, sun-bronzed skin.

  Ashamed and angry, she clenched her hands into tight fists, and tried to concentrate instead on how much she hated him. But try as she might, she couldn’t block the sounds of the washcloth being dipped into the bowl, couldn’t help a tiny, wicked part of her mind from wondering if he had removed his trousers as well as his shirt. She took one quick peek, her breath catching in her throat at the sight of his broad bare back, narrow waist, firm buttocks and long, long legs.

  Afraid he’d turn around and catch her staring, she quickly closed her eyes again, her nimble imagination working overtime as she tried to picture what his chest looked like. Was he as hairy as her father, or did he have just a sprinkling of dark hair, like Eddie Crow Killer?

  “You can open your eyes now.” There was no mistaking the blatant amusement in his voice.

  Brandy opened her eyes to find him standing beside the bed, fully dressed.

  He nodded toward the bowl. “You want to wash up?”

  Brandy nodded. The idea of using his dirty water was slightly repugnant, but it was better than nothing. She was surprised when he left the room, returning with a fresh pitcher of water.

  Wordlessly, he untied her hands, then sank down on the bed, his back against the headboard, his ankles crossed, his arms folded across his chest.

  “You’re not… Aren’t you? I mean, you can’t stay here.”

  “I won’t look.”

  She gave him a glance that could have curdled fresh cream.

  He lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “I won’t peek any more than you did.”

  “I didn’t!” she exclaimed, but
the sudden rush of heat in her cheeks betrayed her.

  With a sigh, J.T. rolled out of bed, grabbed the rifle, and headed for the door.

  “Ten minutes,” he said curtly. Stepping into the hall, he closed the door with a bang.

  Brandy stared at the door, wishing there was a chair in the room that she could prop under the door knob.

  Going to the window, she glanced down into the street, but there was no one to call to. She unlatched the window and tried to raise it, but it refused to budge. Just as well, she mused darkly. She probably would have broken her neck.

  She undressed in record time, sighing with pleasure as she ran the hot, soapy cloth over her arms and breasts and belly, then down her legs.

  When she’d finished washing, she wrapped the towel around her, then rinsed out her bra and panties and spread them out in the corner beside the highboy.

  She shook out her dress, sneezing as dust filled her nostrils, then pulled it on, minus all but one of the petticoats. She piled the rest of them on top of her lingerie so that Cutter wouldn’t see her underwear.

  She whirled around when she heard the door open. Like a mouse facing a cat, she stood there, poised to flee even though there was no place to go.

  He hardly spared her a glance as he crossed the room and propped the rifle in the corner. She saw him set his shoulders as he turned around and she knew he was going to tie her up again.

  “Don’t.” The word escaped her lips before she could call it back.

  He didn’t bother to reply, merely grabbed both her hands in his and lashed them together. Leading her as if she were a horse on a tether, he moved toward the bed and gestured for her to sit down, and then he tied the end of the makeshift rope to the headboard.

  She sat there, silently cursing him, until she realized he was crawling into bed beside her. Alarmed, she scooted over as far as she could without falling off the mattress.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded indignantly.

  “Getting some sleep.”

  “Sleep on the floor!”

  “I’m paying for the room. You sleep on the floor.”

  “Oh, you are the most arrogant, vile man I’ve ever known.”

  “I reckon,” he replied equitably, and turning on his side, he closed his eyes.