Renegade's Kiss

by Barbara Ankrum

  She looked doubtful as he handed her the gun with his good hand. It was heavier than she thought it would be. Deadlier.

  "Rest it against the curve of your shoulder," he told her. "Here." He got beside her and nestled the butt where he wanted it. His touch sent heat soaring through her.

  "Now, keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot," he warned. "Otherwise, you could cause an—"

  A round exploded from the barrel, nearly knocking Andrea sideways, and found its way harmlessly into a thicket of underbrush.

  "—accident," Jesse finished, one eyebrow raised in mild alarm.

  "S-sorry," she stuttered on a gulp. The sound roared in her ears and left them ringing. "I-I didn't realize—"

  "—how sensitive the trigger is? It is. Very. Never, never underestimate the danger of a gun like this. It can be your best friend or your worst enemy."

  "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

  "All right. Let's try again."

  She lifted the gun up and pointed it in the general direction of the old log. With his hand over hers, Jesse worked the trigger lever guard, locking another cartridge into place. He stood close to her shoulder, bringing his face down alongside hers. She could smell the soap he'd shaved with this morning, feel the heat from his body.

  "You see this sight here, above the breech?"

  Andrea nodded, unable to focus on it.

  "Line up the target between the two beads here and the single one on the end of the barrel."

  She nodded again and for a moment their eyes met—violet and blue. He looked away quickly, but she could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against her arm. Her heart drummed in her ears. Did he bring her out here for this? she wondered. She couldn't bear it if he kissed her again, only to pull away from her.

  Jesse leaned closer, correcting her aim, her grip.

  "Hold it steady... now... squeeze."

  She did, ever so gently. The gun roared to life again, but her shot pulled wide, striking nowhere near the old log.

  "Darn!" she cried, and rolled her shoulder to relieve the ache caused by the recoil.

  "That's okay. That was a first shot. Let's try again."

  He straightened the gun and settled it against her again. His bandaged hand covered hers. His scent—so masculine, so... Jesse—enveloped her. She didn't want him this close. Nor did she want him to move away. She moistened her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to refocus on the gun.

  "You won't hit anything that way."

  Her eyes flew open and she glared at his grinning face. "I don't expect it will count anyway if you help me."

  He studied her face for a moment before letting go of the rifle and gesturing that she was welcome to try.

  Relieved at the distance between them, Andi brought the gun up against her shoulder once again, the need to prove him wrong outweighing her own confidence. She chose a tin can whose colorful label had half-faded, and sighted down the barrel at it, trying to ignore the feeling of Jesse's gaze on her. Holding her breath, she squeezed the trigger tighter, tighter.

  The bullet exploded from the barrel and blew a chunk out of the log just below the tin, sending it flying.

  She flashed a triumphant smile at Jesse.

  "Not bad," he acknowledged. "Let's see you do it again."

  She did, or tried, over and over again, but couldn't come closer than random chunks out of the old deadwood. The first hit, she admitted, had been a lucky one.

  Two more shots went wild, one stripping a small branch from the willow above the log. Jesse muttered something about scaring dinner out of the trees. She gave him a dirty look.

  By the time she'd emptied the gun, her arms shook and her ears rang like church bells. Angry with herself, she held out the rifle to him.

  "This is futile."

  He handed her the box of cartridges. "Reload it."

  "Me?"

  He nodded. "I showed you how. What if you have to do it and I'm not here?"

  "Jesse, this is a waste of time. The most I'll be able to do is blow dirt in someone's face!"

  "Then hope for that," he said sharply. "These men aren't fooling around, Andi. If they caught you alone..."

  She didn't want to think about that. Nor did she want to think about the way Jesse's eyes held hers with real concern. Grabbing the box of cartridges, she rammed them in one at a time. Then frowning in concentration, she lifted the gun once more to her shoulder. He corrected her hold on the gun one last time and drew her elbow up to the proper angle.

  Taking careful aim, she squeezed the trigger.

  The tin flew off the log with a satisfying ping. Beside her Jesse's mouth dropped open in surprise. Before he could speak, she took a bead on the next tin, braced her feet and fired.

  That tin, too, disappeared off the log. She managed to wing two more of the next five tins. She lowered the gun, waved away the acrid cloud of gunsmoke and sent Jesse a smug look. "Anything else?"

  "Well," Jesse said, taking the rifle from her, "never let it be said that moss grows under your feet, Mrs. Winslow."

  Andrea rubbed her sore shoulder. "Are we finished?"

  He raised an eyebrow. "Don't get too cocky. Shooting at tin cans and shooting at real live men are two different things."

  "I pray I never have to learn that difference firsthand."

  "So do I," Jesse stooped and gathered up the half-full box of cartridges.

  Andrea wandered to a rock protruding from the edge of the water. "Have you?" she asked.

  "Have I what?"

  "Ever shot a man?"

  He hesitated and kept his eyes trained on the rifle. "Yeah."

  "In Montana?"

  "Yeah."

  It didn't surprise her. It was only another piece in the puzzle that had made Jesse the man he was today. Thoughtfully, she trailed her fingers over the sun warmed rock, leaned against it. "I suppose you had your reasons."

  "Killing a man's never an easy thing."

  "But you won't tell me about it?"

  Jesse crossed to the rock, and leaned heavily against it beside her. "It's not something I talk about. A man does what he has to to survive. It's a rough territory."

  There were more places than Montana where dangerous men hid, she mused. Today wasn't the first time she herself had considered what it would be like to kill a man. One particular man. In fact, to her shame, she'd contemplated that very thing a dozen times. But she'd always wondered... would she be able to do it to protect herself? Her child? Jesse?

  She glanced at the scar on his cheekbone, the one that had still been angry and red on the day he'd come home. Now, it was a hairline streak of white against his deeply tanned face. Reaching up, she touched it. "Is that how you got this?"

  He flinched, then seemed embarrassed by his reaction. "I got this from a man named Pierre LaRousse. He was doing his best to kill a couple friends of mine, Creed Devereaux and Mariah Parsons. And me too, while he was at it. He gun-whipped me."

  Anger rose in her, swift and strong, that anyone would try to hurt Jesse. "Is that who you killed? This LaRousse?"

  He shook his head. "Seth Travers had that honor. But I killed several of his men."

  She heard neither triumph nor regret in his voice over the killings. So much she didn't know about Jesse's life. So many parts he'd never shared with her. She wondered about the woman he mentioned, Mariah Parsons. Was she someone he'd been involved with? Loved?

  The sun beat down on them as they sat side by side on that rock. The water in the natural pond gurgled over the little fall and eddied past them invitingly. Andrea felt a bead of perspiration roll down between her breasts. "Remember when we used to go wading here?" she asked.

  Startled out of his private thoughts, Jesse looked up and smiled. "How could I forget?"

  "I thought maybe you had when you brought me out here."

  "Some things," he murmured, looking sideways at her, "you always remember."

  His words sent heat spiraling through her. Just f
or a moment, she wished she could erase those years that had come between them. Put them behind her as if they never existed.

  Impulsively, she reached down to untie the laces on her black high-top work boots. Slipping them off along with her stockings and garters, she lifted her skirts and dipped her bare feet into the boggy edge of the water.

  "What are you doing?" he asked with an incredulous laugh.

  "Wading, of course!" The water lapped at the lacy edge of her pantalets, but she didn't care. The mud oozed between her toes deliriously. "Ahh-h... I haven't done this in years." She eased out deeper where the water crept up to her knees. "Come on in. It's wonderfully cool."

  Jesse grinned, but hesitated near the shoreline. His gaze followed the hemline of her maroon cotton skirt and white petticoat as they inched up around her knees. Water soaked through her thin cotton drawers and clung to her shapely calves.

  "Are you chicken?" she taunted.

  "Me?" He spread five fingers across his chest.

  "Yes, you. Have you grown too old and set in your ways for this sort of thing?"

  "I'm hardly gray-haired yet, Mrs. Winslow."

  With an impish grin, she tucked her hands under her armpits and flapped her arms heading into deeper water. "Bwaa-auuk-buk-buk-buk."

  He lifted one eyebrow in amusement. "You think I'm afraid of a little water?"

  "Bwaa-aaauuk-buk-buk," she chirped a little louder.

  He nodded, grinning broadly now. "Ooo-hh... you're gonna regret that, Andi Mae..." With deliberate motions, he unfastened his gunbelt and dropped it to the ground. Pulling off his knee-high boots and socks, he rolled up his pantlegs and waded into the cool water after her. Minnows scattered at his feet. "You're going to seriously regret that."

  She threw him a look of mock terror and hurried along the shallow edge of the pond. "You're too old to make me worry much," she teased, bunching her skirts higher. "Besides, I always was a better wader than you."

  "Things change," he assured her, grinning with determination. Pushing against the current, he followed, drawn by the playfulness he hadn't seen in her since his return.

  She brushed aside the drooping leaves of a weeping willow branch, and ducked past its meager protection, bracing herself against it. Her eyes flashed with the pleasure of the chase. "Some things change. Some things,"—she let fly a slender willow shoot that nearly caught him in the face—"don't."

  Jesse swept under the branch and stalked after her. "I think you need a dip in cool water to unswell that pretty little head of yours." He made a grab for her but she let out a shriek of laughter and darted ahead of him a few steps.

  "You'll have to catch me first!" Reaching down, she arched a spray of water at him with her flattened palm.

  "Whaaa-hh!" Jesse gasped as the cold spray hit him. He ran a hand over his dripping face. "You play dirty."

  Andi's laugh rang throaty and rich. "How can you say that? The water's perfectly cle—"

  She sucked in a breath as Jesse's retaliatory splash hit her full force in the face.

  Jesse used the moment to rush her, intending merely to lock her in his arms and claim final victory. He would have had her, too, had it not been for that sunken tree root she backed smack up against. She let out a little sound of surprise. Arms windmilling for balance, she teetered backward.

  "Jesse-ee!"

  He reached for her, his fingers finding hers in the last possible second, just long enough to pull him off balance, too.

  He followed her into the thigh-deep water with a splash. Rolling instinctively sideways to avoid sinking her, he found purchase on the muddy bottom with his hands and pushed up. She was already sputtering when his head came out of the water. Her long hair had fallen out of its pins; it hung down her back and lay plastered against her soaked white shirtwaist. She was laughing.

  "You!" she accused, slapping the water with both palms.

  "Me? You deserved that."

  Andrea threw her head back and laughed. "I guess I did, didn't I? Oh! Look at me—how shall I ever explain this to the girls?"

  "You should have thought of that before you cast aspersions on my wading abilities, Mrs. Winslow." Dipping his nose under water he glided to her like a shark with only his eyes visible above the water. He came up beside her and grinned. "Personally, I think you look rather fetching soaked to the skin."

  "How gauche of you to mention it, Mr. Winslow," she said, straightening the cuffs on her sleeves.

  "Ah, you're right. I suppose manners really do have their place in a pond."

  "They certainly do. And if you were a gentleman, you'd help me up out of this compromising position."

  "I would?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Well, then..."

  He rose out of the water, clothes clinging to him like second skin, sun-bleached hair slicked back and wet. The endless work of summer had left him taut and hard—the lines usually hidden by his loose-fitting clothes were suddenly evident. Even his thighs, she thought, looked as if they'd been sculpted out of granite. Water lapped at his legs and sparkled on his skin. He took a step closer to her.

  Andrea stared at the hand he held out to her and had second thoughts. Beyond the amused twinkle in his eyes, she saw something more. Something predatory, hungry. But she was feeling reckless and at the moment, a little wild. So, she reached out and put her hand in his.

  His skin was cool from the water, but his touch was hot. He pulled her effortlessly from the water. So effortlessly, in fact, that her momentum sent her colliding into him. She gasped the moment her nipples made contact with his chest. He was flame and ice at once, friction and smooth solid mass. And the moment her hips pressed up against his she encountered the undeniable hardness at the precise point where their bodies joined. The realization took her breath away and frightened her more than any words he might have spoken.

  Spreading her hands across the wall of his chest for balance, she absorbed the racing thud of his heartbeat, then pushed back. Jesse released her almost reluctantly. The suction of their wet clothes made a naughty sound.

  Yet his eyes held not a trace of apology. Instead, he gazed at her with a look that set her bloodstream on fire. His chest rose and fell unevenly, and his eyes only strayed from hers long enough to drift lazily to the front of her blouse where the water had left it all but transparent.

  "I guess," she said, covering her chest with her arms, "this wasn't really such a good idea."

  He didn't answer. He only stared at her. Shaken, she watched his eyes change color from sky blue to a smoky lapis.

  "Maybe," he suggested, "we should go."

  "Maybe," she agreed, but neither of them moved.

  "Jesse—"

  He put one silencing finger to her lips, then traced his knuckle down the hollow of her cheek and beneath her chin. He tilted her face up to him. "Do you know how you make me feel, Andi Mae?"

  She shook her head, mesmerized by the intensity of his stare.

  "Alive. For the first time in years, I feel like I'm part of something again." His thumb burned a path across her lips.

  She closed her eyes. Weakness stole the strength from her knees. "Jesse..."

  "I want you, Andi. I want you so much I ache with it. So much I can't think straight half the time."

  Her heart raced and plunged like a frightened thing seeking escape. But escape was the last thing on her mind. Pressing her cheek into his cupping palm, she murmured, "This is all wrong—"

  "Is it, Andi? Maybe it's the first right thing I've done in years."

  Jesse's hand slid down the column of her neck and lingered on her throat. His thumb made a slow, languorous circle in the moisture there before it moved to the back of her head to tangle in the mass of wet hair at the back of her neck. Then he drew her closer. She knew she should resist, but didn't, couldn't.

  "Andi—"

  Jesse dropped his head lower so his mouth hovered close to hers, so close she could feel his warm breath fan her lips. He was waiting, she realized. Waiti
ng for her to tell him no. To stop him. The blood pounded in her ears and sang in her veins like a rush of heated wind. Stop him? She might better ask her own heart to stop beating. Whether his confession meant he'd changed his mind about staying or not, she didn't care. If only this one time, if this was all she ever had to take away with her, she wanted him... the way she had wanted him all those years ago—irrationally, passionately, completely.

  She rose up on her tiptoes to meet him, closing the heartbeat of space between them, and brushed his lips with hers. Like a spark igniting into flame, it was all the invitation he needed.

  Jesse dragged her against him. His mouth devoured hers in a kiss like no other he'd given her before. Starving, as if what had passed between them last night had only whetted his appetite. With a slow, heated slide of his tongue, the pressure of his mouth deepened, and Andrea's bones began to melt.

  His hand cupped her hip, drawing her tight up against him. Sliding her upward along his thigh, he created an unbearable friction that sent fire thrumming through her veins. She heard herself moan as his hand slid to cover her wet breast, then lifted it upward like a precious gift toward his seeking mouth.

  Through the wet fabric of her shirtwaist, he covered her nipple with his mouth, sucking and nipping, while his fingers fumbled with the tiny buttons that ran down the front of her shirtwaist. She'd left her hated corset off today, as she did most days when she'd be stooped over the garden. Now she was doubly glad she had.

  Pushing the fabric aside, he slid his hand beneath the flimsy lawn of her camisole and cupped her naked breast. His thumb raked across the aroused nipple, which beaded like a small pebble between his thumb and forefinger. "So pretty, Andi. So perfect."

  "Kiss me, Jesse. Please kiss me."

  Leaving a moist trail of fire behind, his mouth slid from nipple to throat, where he tortured the tender spot just below her ear. "Where? Here?"

  "Yes," came her choked reply as she rolled her head back.