The Angel and the Outlaw

by Madeline Baker

  “Bad dreams.”

  “Again?”

  J.T. nodded. The memory of that rope around his neck haunted his dreams almost every night, though some nights were worse than others. He rolled over on his side, his head resting on his arm while he watched the fire come to life.

  “I should think your nightmares would stop, after a while.”

  “I reckon.”

  “Maybe it would help to talk about it.”

  J.T. grunted softly. “Maybe, but who’d want to listen?”

  “I would.” She hesitated a moment. “Were you guilty of stealing that horse?”

  “Yeah. They caught me dead to rights.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Why?” J.T. shrugged. “I wanted it, so I took it.”

  “But you must have known it was wrong.”

  “You’re not gonna start preachin’ at me, are you?”

  “No, I’m just trying to understand what made you do it.”

  “He was a beautiful horse. You should have seen him. Big black Appaloosa stud. Perfect conformation. There was no way I could ever afford a horse like that, so…” He shrugged again.

  “You took it.”

  “Yeah, and if they hadn’t shot him out from under me, I’d have gotten away with it.”

  “You don’t sound very remorseful.”

  “I’m sorry they killed that stud.”

  “But not sorry you stole it.”

  J.T. frowned. “It’s a little late for regrets now,” he muttered, thinking that he’d paid the ultimate price for taking that stallion. And then, unbidden, came the memory of Gideon’s voice, reminding him that he had twelve months to redeem himself. No doubt the first step on the road to redemption was an admission of guilt, followed by a sense of remorse for one’s sins, and a desire to make restitution. But there was no way in hell he could make amends for stealing the Appaloosa, even if he was so inclined, which he wasn’t.

  “J.T.?”

  He looked up. For a moment, he’d forgotten she was there.

  “Would you do it again?”

  “Not if I knew how it was going to end.”

  Brandy made a small sound of derision. “So, you’re not sorry you stole the horse, just sorry you got caught.”

  A crude oath escaped J.T.’s lips. “Dammit, Brandy, I don’t need you preachin’ at me.”

  “Somebody needs to!”

  “Yeah? Well, it’s too late.”

  “It’s never too late to change, to start over.”

  “Isn’t it?” He felt the anger drain out of him as he stared past her. Even if he wanted to make a fresh start, he doubted if a man could change his whole life in twelve months. Hell, less than that now. How long had they been here? Two weeks? Three? How many precious days had he lost while he was unconscious? What with being sick and all, he’d lost track of the days.

  “What is it, J.T.?” she asked quietly. “What is it that haunts you so?”

  “Nothing. At least nothing I want to talk about.”

  He lifted his gaze to hers. Looking into the smoldering depths of his eyes was enough to make Brandy’s heart beat faster, to make her insides quiver like jelly. It took but one look into his eyes to know what he wanted, what he was thinking.

  His voice was soft and low and dangerously seductive as he held out his hand. “Come here.”

  Brandy tightened her hold on the blanket. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Please, Brandy?”

  There was a note of vulnerability in his voice now, a hint of desperation in the depths of his eyes. Knowing it was a mistake, she went to sit beside him, the blanket still clutched around her shoulders.

  Her mouth went suddenly dry as his fingers stroked her cheek, tunneled through her hair, slid down to her neck. Then, his hands lightly holding her shoulders, he drew her toward him.

  He was going to kiss her. He didn’t close his eyes, and neither did she. This close, she saw there were tiny flecks of gold in the dark brown depths of his eyes. And then his mouth was slanting over hers. His lips were warm and firm and hungry, and yet he kissed her with such tenderness, it made her want to weep.

  The blanket pooled around her hips as her hands sought his shoulders. Heat from his kisses spiraled through her, putting an end of all coherent thought. Her eyelids fluttered down; she felt his arms wrap around her waist, felt his tongue slide over her lower lip. The touch sent shivers of delight racing along her spine. And then he was drawing her down beside him, molding her body to his. And she was straining toward him, wanting to be closer. His tongue found hers and she gasped with pleasure.

  “J.T…” She moaned his name as his hands caressed her back and thighs. Strong, calloused hands that played over her flesh as lightly as a master violinist plucked the strings of a beloved instrument. And her heart sang at his touch.

  “Brandy, let me…”

  A dim, hazy part of her mind bid her to say yes, but some other part—her conscience, perhaps—urged her to say no, reminding her that he was an outlaw, a man with no scruples, no future. But more than that, she didn’t belong here. Would never belong here.

  With an effort, she opened her eyes. He was gazing down at her, his dark eyes luminous in the light of the fire.

  “Brandy…” His knuckles caressed her cheek. “You’re so beautiful.”

  “J.T…”

  “I need you.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her lightly, sweetly, urgently. She was as intoxicating as brandy itself, smooth, heady, filled with fire, making a man forget all sense, all reason.

  “J.T…listen, please…ohhh.”

  Her protest died, unspoken, as he kissed her deeply, passionately. Never, in all her life, had she been kissed like this. Right and wrong had no meaning now. Time and place had ceased to matter, and there was nothing in all the world but the man who held her in his arms, cherishing her with his lips, adoring her with his hands. His whispered words spun around her like warm velvet, telling her she was beautiful, desirable. Her body came to life everywhere he touched, until she was on fire for him, until nothing else mattered.

  J.T. held her against him, lost in the wonder of her touch, in the sweet surrender of her lips to his kisses. He had not expected her to yield so readily, had not expected to be filled with such a sense of protectiveness, such tenderness. He had made love to many women in his life, and none had ever complained. Yet never in his life had he been in love. He realized now that he was in danger of losing his heart to the woman in his arms.

  His hand slid under the loose-fitting dress she slept in, encountering warm silken flesh. She murmured a soft, wordless sound of pleasure and then he heard another voice, echoing like thunder, in his mind:

  Thou shalt not!

  J.T. snatched his hand from Brandy’s flesh as though he’d been struck by lightning.

  “Gideon!” J.T. swore under his breath. Did that wretched angel watch every move he made? He glanced around the lodge, but there was no sign of a bright light, no hint of any angelic presence lurking in the shadows.

  Brandy looked up at J.T., startled by the abrupt withdrawal of his hands and lips. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You did, too. You said Gideon. You called his name once before.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes.” Brandy sat up, suddenly aware of just how close she had come to doing something she would likely have regretted come morning.

  J.T. swallowed hard, wondering how he was supposed to keep his hands to himself when she was always so near, when he wanted her so much. Even now, he was sorely tempted to pull her into his arms again, to satisfy the awful need pulsing through him.

  Restraint, my boy. That’s something else you need to learn.

  “Yeah,” J.T. muttered irritably. “I’ll work on it.”

  Brandy huffed in exasperation. “Who are you talking to?”

  “No one.” Gently, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “You’d better go back to bed.�
��

  Brandy tilted her head to the side, wondering what it was he refused to tell her. She knew she should be grateful things hadn’t gone any further than they had, and wondered, perversely, why she wasn’t.

  “Goodnight, J.T.,” she said quietly.

  “‘Night.” With a sigh, he settled back in his blankets.

  Sleep was a long time coming.

  Chapter Nine

  “I want to go home.”

  J.T. looked up from the hickory branch he hoped to fashion into a bow. “What?”

  “I said I want to go home.”

  “Why?” They had been with the Crow for over a month now, and Brandy had never mentioned leaving. “I thought you liked it here?”

  “I do, but…” Brandy shook her head, wondering how to explain what she was feeling. She loved living with the Crow, loved the people, their way of life. The people were so close to nature, so at peace within themselves. And yet, as much as she loved it, she didn’t belong here. She had a home of her own, people she loved. People who loved her. She’d been gone almost a month. Her parents would be frantic with worry.

  “But?” J.T. prompted.

  Brandy sat down beside him.”I just want to go home. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “It is for me. I’ve never lived anywhere I called home.”

  “You’re putting me on?”

  J.T. frowned. “Putting you on?”

  “Kidding. Joshing. Joking.” Brandy lifted her hands and let them drop. “Everyone has a home.”

  “I never did.”

  “But…”

  “Never,” he repeated emphatically. “I spent the first ten years of my life living in a saloon or in rented rooms on the wrong side of the tracks. Believe me, those places were never home. After that, we moved to a little shack on the outskirts of Santa Fe. It had four walls and a roof, so I guess you could have called it a house, but it sure as hell wasn’t home.”

  J.T. stared at the length of wood in his hand, remembering the men who had come and gone in a steady stream. His mother hadn’t wanted him around when she was working. He had spent his days exploring the prairie, running along the riverbank, skinny dipping in the summertime, building snow forts during the winter. Nights, he’d snuck into the back room of the saloon, peeking through the cracks in the wall to get a look at the action going on inside. He grew to love the smoky smell, the sound of cards slapping on the table, the clink of glassware, the rustle of greenbacks. He’d had his first taste of whiskey in that back room, snitched from a bottle of rotgut. It had been in that same dingy little room that he’d smoked his first cigar, and gotten royally sick.

  When he got bored with watching the gambling and the dance hall girls, he had wandered through the town, stealing whatever took his fancy. By the time he was thirteen, he was an accomplished thief. He’d never found a lock he couldn’t pick, a window he couldn’t jimmy open.

  And then, when he was fourteen, his mother had died giving birth to a stillborn daughter. They had been living in New Mexico at the time. He had left Santa Fe and gone to El Paso where he’d taken up with a bunch of young toughs. For a few years, he had been happy to drift with them, content to follow their lead, until he turned seventeen and struck out on his own. He had a talent for gambling, and a talent for stealing, and he had indulged them both, living from day to day with no thought for tomorrow until he found himself standing on a crude gallows in a little town called Cedar Ridge…

  “J.T.?”

  He lifted his gaze to her face, then glanced at his surroundings. It occurred to him that this was the first place that had ever felt like home, and it was all because of the woman sitting beside him.

  “J.T.?”

  “I don’t want to leave.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “I like it here. I’m stayin’, if they’ll let me.”

  Brandy stared at him, unable to believe her ears. “Staying?”

  He shrugged. “I got no place better to go. And no one waitin’ for me when I get there.”

  “Well, you can stay if you want, but I’m leaving. One way or another, I’m going home.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “I don’t either, but I’ll get there somehow.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean you’re staying here, with me.” And, just like that, he realized he had made up his mind. If he had less than a year to live, he would spend it here, with Brandy.

  “But…” Abruptly, Brandy bit off the words. There was no point in arguing. She could see by the expression on his face that he had made up his mind. Well, he could stay if he wanted to, but she was leaving. Now. Tonight. Before she had second thoughts. Before her feelings for J.T. grew stronger, more complicated; before she got so used to living in a hide lodge and wearing buckskins that she forgot who she was and where she’d come from.

  “We’ll talk about it later,” she said. “I’m hungry. Do you want something to eat?”

  * * * * *

  She waited until J.T. was snoring softly and then she slid out of bed. Taking a blanket and the parfleche she had packed while he was away from the lodge that afternoon, she tiptoed out of the lodge. She knew she was taking a terrible chance, knew it was dangerous to try to cross the prairie alone, and yet she couldn’t stay. She had to get away from J.T. Cutter before she lost herself in the sorrow that lurked in the depths of his eyes, before she surrendered to the desire that pulsed within her whenever he touched her. Time and again she had reminded herself that he was an outlaw, that he was no fit company for a decent woman, but he had only to look at her, touch her, and all good sense flew right out of her mind. He was strong and yet vulnerable, violent yet tender.

  Taking a deep breath, she forced all thought of J.T. Cutter from her mind. Moving quietly, she lifted the heavy saddle and swung it onto the horse’s back, tightened the cinch, slid the rifle into the scabbard.

  Brandy grinned ruefully as she dropped a bridle over the pinto’s head. J.T. had stolen the horse from a man in Cedar Ridge, and now she was stealing the horse from J.T..

  After tying the parfleche to the saddle horn, she draped the blanket over the pinto’s withers. Gathering the reins, she stepped into the saddle, then turned the gelding toward the river. The soft springy grass would muffle the sound of the horse’s hooves.

  When she was well away from the village, she urged the gelding into a lope.

  It was an eerie feeling, riding alone through the darkness. Every drifting shadow, every bush, seemed alive with menace, yet she rode steadily onward, driven by the need to get as far away from J.T. Cutter as possible. And yet, with every mile came the increased certainty that, without him, she would never make it back to her own time.

  After what seemed like an eternity, she paused to let the horse rest. For a time, she considered returning to J.T. and begging him to take her back to Cedar Ridge, and yet she knew, deep in her heart, that he would refuse. And, deep in her own heart, she could hardly blame him. There was nothing waiting for him in Cedar Ridge but another rope and another hanging.

  Thoroughly discouraged, she slumped over the horse’s neck and cried until she had no tears left. And then, resolutely, she urged the gelding into a trot. She didn’t know for a certainty that J.T.’s presence was necessary for her to get back home. Maybe he hadn’t had anything to do with her being transported through time. And maybe she’d be President of the United States!

  But, come hell or high water, she was going back home.

  She rode until dawn, then took shelter in the lee of a pile of boulders. Wrapping herself in the blanket, the rifle within easy reach, she closed her eyes.

  * * * * *

  She was gone. He’d searched the whole damn village, but no one had seen her. She wasn’t at the river, she wasn’t visiting with Apite or Dakaake or Awachia. No one had seen her since the night before. The most damning evidence of all was the fact that the pinto was missing.

  He considered
asking some of the warriors to help him, but he dismissed the idea, not wanting to waste the time it would take to make himself understood.

  Cursing softly, J.T. caught up a raw-boned bay gelding from the horse herd, filled a waterskin with fresh water, packed a bag with jerky and pemmican. Without a qualm, he picked up a rifle one of the warrior’s had carelessly left outside. He quickly checked the Winchester to make sure it was loaded, then he swung aboard the bay and rode out of the village.

  No one thought to stop him.

  There were no tracks. The Crow horse herd wandered the outskirts of the village, making it near impossible to follow a single set of prints, but there was no doubt in J.T.’s mind that Brandy was headed back to Cedar Ridge.

  He rode steadily for hours, trying not to think about the dangers that could befall a lone woman riding across the plains.

  Her horse could step in a hole and break a leg. She could be bit by a snake or a scorpion, captured by Indians.

  There wasn’t much law in this part of the country, making it a haven for army deserters and outlaws. Even if she made it back to Cedar Ridge, she would still be at risk. A woman alone, especially a young pretty woman, would be easy prey for the despicable men who called Cedar Ridge home.

  J.T. uttered a crude oath. Damn her, didn’t she realize what a fool thing she was doing? There were any number of men, and more than a few unscrupulous women, who wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of Brandy, assuming she made it back to town.

  The sun was hanging low in the sky when he drew rein, giving the bay a rest. He knew he should bed down for the night, that there was less than no chance at all of tracking her in the dark, but he couldn’t stop. Thoughts of Brandy, alone and afraid, had him urging the bay forward. Eyes narrowed, he searched the darkness. Where the hell was she?

  Muttering under his breath about foolish women, he urged the bay into a lope.

  * * * * *

  Brandy squinted as she gazed over her shoulder. Was it her imagination, or was there a rider following her? The setting sun made it impossible for her to see anything but a vague shape on a dark horse.

  Fighting a rising tide of panic, she pounded her heels into the gelding’s sides. If she could just reach that stand of timber, she might be able to hide.