Texas Passion

by Sara Orwig

  Rachel drew back the hammer on the Colt and aimed at another of the men. “I have a pistol now,” she said, thankful her voice sounded forceful and her fear didn’t cause a quaver.

  Watching McKissick, Dan moved carefully, edging toward the wagon to get his back covered.

  “McKissick, get your men and ride out of here now.”

  Lyman turned to look at Rachel. Moonlight was bright enough to see his features, and she felt his eyes bore into her.

  “There’ll be another day,” he said easily. “You and I are headed the same place. You’ll be mine.”

  His assurance frightened her, and she stiffened her back, hoping he didn’t know the effect he had. He turned to mount his horse. “Let’s go, boys.” He held the reins high, keeping his chestnut in check and looking down at Dan. “What’s your name, mister?”

  “Get the hell out of here!” Dan snapped, fighting the urge to pull the trigger and eliminate McKissick.

  “Get Dodd on a horse and let’s ride,” Lyman ordered, glancing again at Rachel. “See you in San Antonio, tiger. We’ll meet again. I get what I want.” He flicked the reins and galloped south. The horses thundered out of the camp, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.

  Trembling from reaction, she ran to kneel beside her father. “Pa,” she said, turning him on his back. When she saw the blood on his temple from the blow, her eyes stung with tears. She dropped the pistol to take Pa’s hand in hers, holding it while she cried. “Pa? Pa?”

  He stirred and groaned. “Josh, get a wet cloth,” she ordered. Abby and Lissa were both in the wagon, their crying becoming muffled sobs.

  Dan Overton knelt to place his hand against Eb Kearney’s throat. “His pulse is strong.”

  Moving, Eb groaned again, and Dan helped him sit up. “My head,” Eb said, touching his temple and wincing as Josh thrust a cold, wet cloth into her hands. “Those men—”

  “We’re okay, Pa,” she said, trying to sound cheerful and keep a quiver out of her voice. She wiped away tears, avoiding looking at Dan Overton, because she hated to cry. She squeezed Pa’s hand. “Mr. Overton came and drove them off.” She looked across Pa at Dan Overton. “Thank you,” she said solemnly, for a moment her animosity vanishing. “You saved us tonight.”

  “They were bound to come.” Dan looked at Rachel. “Do you have any whiskey?”

  Rachel nodded, going to get it out of the wagon and bring it back. Dan reached to take the bottle from her, his fingers brushing hers.

  “Here, sir. Take a drink.” His voice was filled with polite respect as he gently raised Eb’s head, and Rachel stared at Dan Overton. Feeling puzzled and uncertain, she realized he was not acting like a ruthless bounty hunter or a hardened, determined thief. If he wanted their money, now was the time to take it. Instead, he was tending Pa as carefully as if they were father and son.

  In minutes they helped Eb to his feet, and soon he walked around on his own. While the two men talked, Rachel climbed into the wagon to console Abby and quiet Lissa. She sat on the cot and pulled Lissa into her arms to rock her, stroking curls from her forehead, trying not to crush her in her arms too tightly, feeling another surge of mixed emotions over McKissick’s attack and Dan Overton’s rescue.

  “You’re all right, baby. Mam’s here. Shh…go to sleep.”

  “I hate it here!” Abigail whispered while Rachel rocked Lissa in her arms. “I hate everything about it!”

  “It was one incident, and when we get off this trail, we’ll be all right. I shouldn’t have left my pistol in the wagon.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. Let’s go back, please, Rachel.”

  “We’re here and we stay,” Rachel whispered in return, looking down at the baby. Lissa’s damp lashes were dark with tears. Her thumb was in her rosebud mouth and her breathing was even. Rachel still shook. Squeezing Lissa closer, Rachel felt limp with relief. The child was sleeping now, and Rachel turned to tuck Lissa into the small bed.

  “Let’s go back,” Abigail whispered. “Please, Rachel. Don’t be mean and stubborn.”

  “We can’t turn back now. We’re going on, Abby. I want to get rid of Mr. Overton as quickly as I can.”

  “No!”

  Rachel bent over Lissa and kissed her cheek. She glanced over her shoulder to see Abby yank on her wrapper and climb out of the wagon. Where was Abigail going in such haste? Suddenly suspicious of Abigail’s intentions, Rachel climbed out after her.

  “Mr. Overton, thank you for what you did tonight. Your presence was our salvation.” Abigail said, standing beside Pa, looking up at Dan Overton. “Will you ride with us?”

  “We’d be glad to have you join us,” Eb Kearney added as Rachel hurried toward them, her worries returning about Dan Overton’s intentions. His gaze met Rachel’s, and he watched her with a cool look.

  “I know Mr. Overton needs to get on with his travels,” she snapped, glaring at Abigail who raised her chin, “but we appreciate what you did tonight.”

  “Since I’m going at the same speed you folks are anyway, I’ll be happy to travel with you,” Overton answered with obvious amusement in his voice.

  Angry that Abigail had invited him, Rachel frowned. Dan Overton could be after Pa, and she didn’t want him riding with them where he might hear someone say the wrong thing. Worse, Pa didn’t seem to realize the danger at all. He seemed to like and trust the man.

  “Thank you, Mr. Overton,” Abigail said with a smugness that was plain to hear while she glanced again at Rachel. “I can sleep now, knowing you’re with us.” With a satisfied switch of her hips, she returned to the wagon.

  “They were on me before I knew it,” Eb said. “I must have dozed.”

  “I’ll stand watch, sir, but I don’t think they’ll be back tonight. I’ll get my horses.” Dan strode away into the darkness and Rachel stared after him, the suspicion returning that he was a threat to them. Renegade, marshal, or bounty hunter—he could be any of them.

  “Pa, I don’t think it’s safe for Dan Overton to travel with us!” she whispered. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Honey, the man saved us tonight. Give him a chance. He can’t be all bad.”

  “You know what risks we run. He could just be biding his time.”

  Eb glanced over her head into the night in the direction Dan had gone. “I know we need him right now. We’re a target out here, and he knows this country. Rachel, if he hadn’t come along, you and Abigail would be with that band of men now. I’ll be careful around him, but we need his aid.”

  “There’s no reason for him to be so helpful and keep hovering over us unless he wants something. That man isn’t a dogooder. One of those men threatened to kill Abigail and Dan Overton told him to go ahead, but he would kill McKissick.”

  “I’m sure he was bluffing.”

  She felt frustrated with her father’s stubborn refusal to recognize the danger in which he was placing himself. “Please be careful and don’t talk to him too much. The first town, let’s tell him goodbye.”

  “You’re doing a fine job taking care of us, honey,” Eb said with a note of sadness in his voice, “but you could use the help of a strong man. I’m going to bed now, Rachel. Let Dan Overton stand watch since he offered.”

  Pa turned away, and she felt overwhelmed by fear for his welfare. And it hurt to see him defeated. Dan Overton looked as cold as ice on a winter pond. She didn’t believe he was being a good neighbor. And when he told the bandit to shoot Abigail, Rachel thought he meant what he said. Feeling a churning anger, she held the Winchester and sank down beside the wagon wheel, staring into the darkness.

  In minutes he emerged from the shadows, a tall, lean man who moved with surprising silence and with a lithe step. He unsaddled his horse, hobbled it, and then strode toward her, standing in front of her.

  “You’re keeping watch with me?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  He shrugged. “If you’re standing watch with me, there’s a better place. C’mon.” He turned to stride away, and t
hen paused to look back at her. “Are you coming or not? Where you’re sitting, you can’t see the whole camp.”

  Her annoyance increased, and she wanted to tell him to leave her alone, but he was right about her view of the camp. She stood up and followed him, hurrying to keep up with his long stride. A hundred yards from the wagon a slab of sandstone jutted up, jammed against another boulder. With dexterity Dan Overton climbed up and extended his hand to help her.

  Ignoring his hand, she clambered up. Her foot slipped and she started to topple. He caught her, a strong arm banding her waist. “Red, you are stubborn…”

  His arm was gone before her indignant protest could be voiced. Yet she had been acutely aware of his arm steadying her. There wasn’t much space on the shelf of rock, so she sank down a few feet from him. The rock was high enough and far enough from the wagon that she could see around their encampment. She noticed his rifle then, the stock had an intricate design of brass studs and she wondered about the decoration, because she had never seen a rifle like it.

  Dan stretched out his legs and placed his rifle beside him, glancing at her. Her profile was to him, a straight, thin nose that gave her a regal look, a full mouth that offered just the opposite in a sensual invitation. Her lashes were long, thick, slightly curly and he knew too well the devastating effect of her wide green eyes. Her long legs and big eyes could melt a man.

  She had been quick-thinking in danger. A woman who could cope on the frontier. No faint-hearted beauty accustomed to allowing a man to fight her battles. Dan admired her for her coolness under fire, her valiant efforts to protect her family.

  Looking away from her, he shifted and drew a deep breath. She was married. Mrs. Johnson. A husband waited in San Antonio. Unless she was lying. And if she were lying, he had no business getting tangled up with her in any way, not even a few harmless kisses. The thought of kissing her took his breath, and he looked at her full lips again. He felt a twinge of annoyance with himself. She was more of a threat to his peace of mind than McKissick. If he had to take Eb Kearney back to Vicksburg to hang, he didn’t want big green eyes tugging at his heart. And the boy—how old was he?

  Timothy would have been ten this year if he had lived. The old hurt was duller now, but it was still there. The moments when memories came without warning were fewer, far more seldom, but the pain hadn’t gone, and Dan didn’t think it ever would. Solange and Timothy. Part of him was buried with them. Dan turned to look at Rachel.

  “You lived in Atlanta?”

  “We moved to Vicksburg during the last of the war, because Elias had a distant cousin there. Pa almost died of yellow fever. That’s how he lost his voice.”

  “Your father didn’t fight in the war?”

  She turned to look at him, and Dan was aware of the darkness that made the moment intimate, her soft, feminine voice, the white shirt that caught a splash of moonlight with the rise and fall of her full breasts. “He fought the first years and then came home wounded and ill. You’ve seen Pa. He couldn’t go back. He caught yellow fever, and it killed my mother.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Cassandra. Pa called her Cassie.”

  Dan mulled over what she told him now and this afternoon. She said they had lived in Nashville, Atlanta, Vicksburg. War-torn cities with displaced Confederates and refugees and immigrants. Difficult to trace a fugitive. He had picked up their trail in Louisiana after crossing the Mississippi River.

  “How old are your brother and sister?”

  “Abigail is sixteen, and Josh is nine.”

  Nine. One year younger than Timothy would have been. Dan shifted and felt a surge of annoyance. Don’t get to know them. You’ve always gotten your man and taken him back without a qualm. This little green-eyed, red-haired spitfire is getting under your skin, and she can cause you a bushel of trouble.

  “Do you have family?” she asked, wrapping her arms around her knees and resting her head on them to study him.

  “No, I don’t. I’m not a marrying man,” he said, feeling the anger in him grow. He turned away from her and stretched out on the rock, propping his head on his hand, his elbow bent while he stared into the darkness, his gaze searching the land.

  As time passed, his anger cooled. And to his relief, he discovered she was a woman who could keep her silence. Once he glanced over his shoulder at her, wondering if she had fallen asleep. She was staring into the night, her profile to him and he turned away. She was quite a woman, full of grit and spunk, yet able to sit up and keep watch without a constant stream of conversation. And so damned stubborn. Elias Johnson. He wanted to meet Elias Johnson. And when he got to San Antonio, he would wire the Pinkerton office and make inquiries if the older daughter had married and moved to Atlanta.

  He turned to look at her again. Was this the Benton family? Would he have to arrest Eb Kearney? Some things didn’t fit: he was told Peter Benton, widower, had two unmarried daughters, Mary and Emma Benton, and one son, Charles. There was no mention of a married daughter and a baby.

  Eb Kearney was a weak, indecisive man. The little boy had more grit than the father. Dan shifted to look at Rachel. Was he after the wrong family while the real Bentons were eluding him and getting farther away each day?

  Uncertain, he rubbed the back of his neck. The three-year-old called Rachel Kearney, Mam. A three-year old wouldn’t lie. Should he turn back? The thought of leaving the Kearneys disturbed him. As brave as Rachel Kearney Johnson was, she couldn’t take care of her family alone out here. Damn, how had he become so entangled with these people! Keep your distance from her. From all of them. Eb Kearney could be Peter Benton, wanted for murder with a reward on his head. Images of the baby and boy danced before him. The little boy was tough. Dan recalled passing the wagon as he went to the Red Bear saloon and seeing the kid sitting with the pistol held in his small hands, his elbows steadied on his knees. And tonight, the kid had kicked his captor, blazing back at him.

  Feeling a surge of annoyance with himself, Dan looked away from her, staring into the darkness. You have a job to do. Forget the kid, the baby, the woman. Peter Benton killed a man. There’s a ten thousand dollar bonus for bringing him in. That’s a fortune now when money is scarce. Eb Kearney doesn’t look as if he could kill a spider, but if Eb Kearney was actually Peter Benton, he fought some tough battles in Tennessee before he was taken prisoner.

  Dan stared into the night. All was quiet and nothing moved as far as he could see. He spotted small animals scurrying through the grass, an occasional rabbit bounding into view, an owl sweeping across the sky in the distance, its wings spread wide while it glided, a dark shadow drifting through the night. A bad omen according to his mother’s people.

  “Mr. Overton—” Her whisper was barely audible as she placed her hand on his arm. He drew a deep breath, feeling a tingle along his arm and more aware of her touch than thoughts about danger. A current seemed to run from her fingers through him down to the dark center of his maleness. When he turned, she pointed into the night. He sat up and saw something moving toward the camp.

  “Coyotes,” he said. “They’re no danger.”

  “You’re sure it’s not someone sneaking up on the wagon?”

  “I’m sure.” As he watched, the animals veered south and in minutes they were easy to distinguish.

  “Sorry.” She lifted her hand away.

  “Mrs. Johnson, we’re going to be traveling together. You might as well call me Dan.”

  “I prefer Mr. Overton,” she said stiffly.

  Stubborn, stubborn. He sat up and shifted. He wanted to smoke, but the burning tip could be seen for a long distance.

  “What does Elias think about your bringing the family out here alone?” he asked, thinking if there really was an Elias Johnson, he didn’t have any wits or was a mighty sorry excuse for a man.

  “He knows we’re doing what we have to do.”

  She tilted her head to gaze at twinkling stars and Dan looked at her slender throat, feeling a desire to lean
the short distance and kiss her. She’s married. And if she’s not, you’ll arrest her father. He looked away from her.

  “This land takes possession.”

  “What’s that?” He turned, wondering what she said to him.

  “It makes you feel like you belong to it.” She looked into his eyes. “Don’t you feel that way?”

  Surprised, he studied her while his respect for her rose another notch. He felt the same about the land and suspected it was because of his heritage. “I’ve never known a woman to feel that way about it. The frontier is hard on women.” He wondered how she would react if he had said white women.

  “I suppose it is,” she answered solemnly, and he realized he hadn’t seen her laugh. She smiled sometimes when she held the baby, but there never was real laughter.

  Feeling too conscious of her only a few feet away, he shifted and gazed ahead. Moments became hours without a word until she moved. He looked at her and saw her head was on her knees. In minutes she leaned to one side, and she was asleep.

  He scooted close so she wouldn’t fall over as she slumped against him. The touch made his nerves raw. He inhaled the sweet fresh scent of rosewater in her hair. With a sigh he placed his right arm around her, and she settled against him.

  He clamped his lips together. With his arm encircling her, his fingers draped down on her hip, he was too conscious of her sweet scent, her warmth, her softness. Her head was against his shoulder, her side pressed against his. One hand lolled on his thigh, and her knee was bent against his. Every inch that touched him was a flame. He knew she hadn’t slept much since he had been following them unless she slept in the wagon during the day. He looked down at the top of her head. Are you a Kearney and a married woman, or are you a Benton on the run from the law?

  He shifted her carefully, turning her so he could cradle her against his shoulder and wrap his arms around her. She curled against his chest and was still. When she woke up, he might have a wildcat on his hands if she discovered his arms around her. He felt his body responding, desire stirring as he gazed down at her and held her. It felt too good to hold her close.