Once an Outlaw

by Jill Gregory

  Emily gripped the bars and pulled as hard as she could. She shook them, rattled them, kicked them.

  She wanted to scream in frustration. She was trapped in there, in this cell. With Clint.

  Another groan from the cot had her whirling around.

  Clint’s eyes opened. Lying on his back, he stared blankly up at her. “What the hell… happened …”

  “You tell me!” Incensed, Emily glared at him. “Are you in on this too?”

  “In on… what?” He sat up slowly, looking dazed. “What are you doing here, Emily?”

  “Joey told me you were hurt—that I had to come immediately—” She broke off, biting her lip. Why would they do this to me? she wondered, fury churning through her and, with it, shock. Her family hated Clint Barclay. What possible reason could they have for tricking her and locking her in a jail cell with him for the entire night?

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  Slowly, as she watched, a frown darkened his face and the familiar keenness returned to his eyes.

  “Reckon… Lester tricked me. He found me at the party—told me that Deputy Stills had just ridden in from Denver. He said Jenks had escaped from jail in Denver and Hoot McClain was organizing a posse. Said Stills wanted me to meet him here and… oh, hell.”

  He groaned again, this time in disgust.

  Emily stalked to the farthest end of the cell, which was only about five feet away from where he sat on the cot. “So you came here and then what?” she asked, her stomach doing little nervous jumps and flips.

  “I came in the door fast, looking for Stills—then someone hit me over the head and that’s all I knew. Must’ve been Pete,” he muttered. A dangerous glitter entered his eyes. “I’ll have their hides, the both of them,” he growled.

  “You’ll have to stand in line. I’m going to kill them,” Emily muttered. “With my bare hands.” She drew a ragged breath. “Why did they do this to me? Why?”

  Clint looked at her as she stood, her back to the wall as if she wished she could melt right through it and get as far away from him as possible. But she couldn’t. She was so near—only two steps away. He suddenly didn’t feel like horsewhipping Pete and Lester anymore. Emily wasn’t going anywhere and neither was he.

  “I don’t have a clue why they did it,” he said, rising to his feet. The pain in his head was already easing—Pete Spoon must not have hit him that hard after all. But the pain in his heart was still as intense as ever.

  “But I’m sure glad they did,” he added, and took a deliberate step toward Emily.

  She suddenly looked like a cornered doe. “Stay back,” she warned him, alarm shooting through her. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “Emily—”

  “The last place I want to be is here in this cell with you.”

  “But you came here—fast—when you thought I was hurt.”

  “I… I…” Emily bit her lip as he took another step toward her. Her body felt heated, her face flushed. Being close to Clint Barclay always had an unsettling effect on her, but never more so than at this moment, when she knew she couldn’t get away. It was difficult to breathe and even harder to think when he was gazing at her that way, his eyes glittering in the gloom, the faint glow of the lamp just barely illuminating the strong handsome planes of his face, the firm line of his mouth, those keen hot blue eyes.

  “I thought you were dead, actually, and I… I wanted to gloat,” she told him in a cold tone.

  His brows shot up. “Gloat. Ahuh.”

  Emily suddenly couldn’t remain still another moment. She darted forward past Clint to the opposite side of the cell where shutters enclosed the high window. Reaching up, she tried to unlatch them.

  “I’m getting out of here. Someone’s going to come down this street, someone leaving the saloon or going to the hotel—and they’ll hear me if I scream—ahhhh!”

  Clint seized her around the waist and yanked her away from the window before she could unlatch the shutters.

  “Forget it, Emily. This is what you get for not letting me talk to you all night. It’s justice in a way.”

  “Justice! I didn’t commit any crime. I demand to be let out.”

  Blue fire suddenly ignited in his eyes. “You think you didn’t commit a crime? I say you did.”

  Suddenly Clint’s arm snaked around her waist so that she couldn’t twist away. His other hand cupped her chin and tilted it up so that she was gazing directly, inescapably, into his eyes.

  “You’re a thief, Miss Spoon. The worst kind of thief.”

  “I never stole anything in my entire life!”

  He tugged her closer still. His fingers burned her skin.

  “That’s a damned lie.” His voice was thick, husky. “You stole from me. You stole my peace of mind. My concentration. My regard. My heart.”

  Emily couldn’t speak. Her lips parted, but not even a whisper emerged for she was hearing the words he’d just spoken in her mind—over and over again.

  “You don’t have a heart.”

  “Want to bet?”

  She moistened her lips. “Don’t try to … to sweet-talk me. After what you did—”

  “I did what I thought was best, Emily—at the time. I didn’t want you mixed up with Ratlin and Jenks and Frank Mangley and his damned foreman. We had a plan and you weren’t part of it and—”

  “You knew what I was thinking! That night when Uncle Jake rode off and you dragged me inside the barn—you knew what I suspected!”

  “That he was up to his old ways again.” Clint’s eyes were solemn. “Yep, I reckoned that’s what you thought. But it seemed safer to let you think that a little longer until—”

  “You bastard!” She shoved him away from her as a lump rose in her throat and tears sparkled on her eyelashes. Her voice throbbed. “I was torn in two! I wanted so much to believe in him, and in Pete and Lester, but that shook my faith and my loyalty—I didn’t know what to do—and then there was everything I was feeling for you!”

  “I know, Emily,” Clint said grimly. “But don’t you see? By then it was almost over and it seemed better to—”

  “To what?” she interrupted furiously. “To let me believe that they were going back to their old ways? Only worse? Because that’s what I thought, you know! When I overheard Uncle Jake talking to Ratlin and Jenks, I thought he and Lester and Pete were up to their necks in murder. Do you know how that felt? Can you imagine? I was trying to escape, so I could turn them in—my own family. I was going to turn them in—to you!”

  She broke off on a sob and drew in deep trembling breaths as she fought for control. Pain seared him as he saw the anguish in her face. He hadn’t thought about it exactly like that, hadn’t realized the true depth of the situation she’d been put into. All he’d wanted was to keep her safe, but he’d hurt her—they’d all hurt her with the secret. Not physically, but in a place more tender and vulnerable than blood or flesh could touch.

  “I’m sorry, Emily. So … very sorry,” he muttered.

  Studying her in the feeble light, he took in the shining mass of midnight curls, the creamy fairness of her skin, the full lushness of a mouth that he well remembered tasted of summer berries. But he also saw the faint shadow of the bruises still marring those fine-boned cheeks. The bruises that resulted when Ratlin and Jenks had struck her, hurt her. They had mostly faded but were not completely gone, and the sight of them reminded him that if he’d been honest, if he’d trusted her with the truth, she wouldn’t have followed Jake Spoon that fateful day, wouldn’t have been captured, tied up, terrorized by men intent on murder.

  “I don’t make many mistakes when it comes to my work, but this one was a big one,” Clint said slowly. “And I’ll try to make it up to you, Emily, if you give me a chance.”

  He reached up and lightly, gently, brushed his thumb across the fading bruise.

  She flinched, no longer from pain, only from the effect of his touch.

  “They hurt you,” he said in a low,
tortured voice. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

  Emily couldn’t breathe as she read the sorrow in his eyes. Her chest felt as if it would explode with a heartrending pain.

  “Did he … did Jenks…” Clint cleared his throat, his own heart pounding, “did he hurt you… in any other way?”

  She knew what he meant and a shudder shook her. “He k-kissed me,” Emily whispered, feeling sick as she said the words. “It was disgusting.” She was trembling now, every part of her trembling. “I tried to fight him but my hands were tied … and then Ratlin stopped him, told him that afterward, when the holdup was over… before they killed me … he could … he could …”

  Her voice broke, her face crumpled, and she swayed against him. Clint swept her into his arms, locking her tight against him, as icy pain and a fury unlike anything he’d ever known crashed through him. He wished there were a way he could hold her tight enough to block out every painful memory of her capture, to keep out any hurt or sorrow in the future, to protect her from ever knowing fear again.

  But it was too late. She could never forget… never forgive…

  “I’d like to kill him.” The words tore savagely from him, at odds with the gentle strength with which he held her. “I wish to hell he’d escape—-just so that I could track him into the middle of nowhere and make him pay for ever once touching you!”

  Emily laid her head against his shoulder and wept, letting the tears flow. She’d wept alone before, in brief bursts, out of hurt and anger, but now she wept with all her heart, as Clint held her and let her cry, let her pain seep into him, as if he would take it all away if only he could.

  When at last she drew a ragged breath and the sobs abated, he handed her his handkerchief and waited until she’d dried her wet cheeks, waited as she sank down upon the cot, weary and spent, her dark hair all atangle.

  He knelt beside her, took her hand. “Emily,” he said grimly, a great heaviness in his heart. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I know now you won’t ever feel toward me even a hint of what I feel for you.” He cleared his throat, forcing himself to finish saying what had to be said. “After everything that’s happened, I don’t blame you for hating me—you have every right—”

  “Hate you?” Startled, she stared at him. “I don’t hate you, you stupid idiotic man.”

  His eyes locked on hers. “But I thought—”

  “I’m furious with you. Or … I was,” she added, somewhat puzzled because being there alone with him in this bleak, dim cell had somehow changed everything. The anger that had driven her since her rescue on Bitter Rock had somehow melted away. The barrier between her and Clint might never have been. She’d let out all the pain, all the rage, all the tears, and now they were … gone. Simply gone. Like dry, dead dust and withering weeds washed away by a rainstorm. In the same way that a hard, driving downpour cleanses away the dead, parched land, leaving it clean and refreshed and moist with life, she sat there with Clint and no longer saw a man who had withheld the truth from her—she saw the man who made her feverish with his kisses, whose touch made her come alive. She saw the man who’d dried her tears, locked her in his arms, who’d bought her box lunch in front of the entire town. The man who’d made unforgettable love to her in a hayloft and found her on Bitter Rock when she needed him most.

  A man who tried to do what was right—but could admit when he was wrong.

  The man she loved. And the man she forgave.

  “What was that you said, Clint… about my never feeling what you… you feel for me?” She moistened lips that suddenly felt dry. She felt his hand close more firmly around hers and glanced down at it wonderingly.

  “What… do you feel for me?” she whispered, a tiny feeble hope like a small hot candle flame springing to life inside her.

  The words came easily after all. He’d never said them before to any woman, but he said them to her without hesitation or embarrassment. “I love you, Emily. More than I ever thought I could love anyone.” Straight from the heart, his words were as solid and unyielding as the bars that locked them in the cell. His hands grasped her arms, pulled her close, holding her tenderly, but with an urgency that struck through to her soul.

  “I love you,” he said hoarsely.

  A soaring joy rose in her as she lifted her shining eyes to his—as she saw the love in those keen blue depths, sensed the yearning and the hunger within him. The need that was answered by the need in her own heart. She flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Clint,” she whispered, hope filling her, “I love you too!”

  Clint kissed her, a hard, possessive kiss that left her breathless and eager for more. She clung to him and pressed her mouth to his, nestling her body against him, reveling in the hard strength of him, in the way she fit against him as he lowered her beneath him on the cot.

  “Marry me,” Clint said, unbuttoning her dress, his mouth moving over her cheek, trailing down her throat.

  Emily could barely think as her fingers fumbled at his shirt. “I don’t know … your family … my family … they won’t…”

  “We’re not going to marry them, Emily. Damn it, we’re going to marry each other. Say yes!”

  “Yes!”

  “How soon?”

  “As soon as I can sew a wedding gown—” She never got to finish, for Clint’s mouth descended on hers, his hands began to stroke and entice her, and then they were both lost to thought and reason and any vestige of human conversation.

  They spoke with their hands, with their lips, with their bodies and their hearts. They celebrated the love that had bloomed between them against all odds and all reason. Alone in the lamplit cell, locked away from the town, from the world, they held each other and loved each other through the soft hours of the night and into the pale opal glow of dawn.

  And it wasn’t until the next morning, when they scrambled into their clothes as Pete and Lester showed up to unlock the jailhouse door, that Clint reached into his boot and pulled out a key.

  A spare key to the cells, he explained to an open-mouthed Emily. He always kept it on him—just in case.

  “And you… you didn’t deem it important to tell me about this last night?” Emily gasped as her brother shoved open the door to the outer office and stomped past Clint’s desk toward the cell.

  “Nope. It wasn’t important.” He chuckled softly. “Not nearly as important as spendng the entire night with you—alone in a dark, locked room—with a bed,” her intended whispered into her ear.

  And for once, slipping her hand into his, Emily couldn’t disagree.

  ISSA MCCOY ARRIVED ON THE STAGE on a warm cloudy morning that held a hint of rain. She flew down the steps in a blue-and-peach striped muslin gown and a fetching feathered bonnet, scooping a waiting Joey into her arms as Emily watched in delight.

  Emily’s heart was light as she embraced her friend who looked well, rested and unutterably happy, despite her untidy chignon and wrinkled traveling dress whose hem was smudged with the dust of her journey.

  “How can I ever thank you enough?” Lissa exclaimed, her brown eyes sparkling with tears as she hugged Emily yet again. In her new gown and smart bonnet, she no longer looked like the terrified and desperately poor woman who had fled Jefferson City. Obviously, Emily thought, relieved to see her friend looking so well, Lissa’s grandparents had indeed taken her under their wing, and her circumstances had improved considerably.

  “You and Joey are both safe—that’s all that matters,” Emily told her, pressing her hands. “Oh, Lissa, I have so much to tell you!”

  “Why, yes, I believe you do,” Lissa replied scooping Joey up into her arms as her gaze shifted to the man who stood beside Emily, the dark-haired, incredibly handsome man whose lean features and confident bearing looked oddly familiar.

  She cast a questioning glance at Emily, who blushed rosily. “I’d like to introduce you to—”

  “That’s Sheriff Clint!” Joey piped up, his thin voice carrying all the way down the street to the livery.
“He and Em-ly are getting married and they said I can come to the wedding!”

  “Is that so? Can I come too?”

  A new, deep-timbered voice spoke from the doorway of the stagecoach. The rest of the stagecoach passengers had alighted, and now a tall, powerfully built man strode down the steps with a smooth, easy stride. He was dressed all in black, but for the square silver buckle on his low-slung gunbelt. A dark slouch hat slanted low over grim eyes. But his face …

  Emily froze, staring at that handsome, hard-planed countenance, and beside her, Clint went still as stone.

  “Remember I told you my grandfather was sending an escort with me, to keep me and Joey safe on our journey?” Lissa said quickly, setting Joey down. “This is him—Nick Barclay. My grandfather said—”

  Her voice faded away as Nick and Clint both began to laugh.

  Emily watched in amazement as Clint and his brother clasped one another in a bear hug and thumped each other on the back.

  “And this is Clint Barclay—he’s our sheriff in Lonesome,” she explained a bit breathlessly to Lissa. “He’s also my fiancé,” she added, her cheeks pink as the posies on Lissa’s smart new bonnet. “And unless I miss my guess—your escort is his brother!”

  Amid the excited babble that ensued, introductions were made all around, and Nick grinningly confessed that he hadn’t told the woman he was charged to protect that his brother happened to be the sheriff of the town that was their destination.

  It turned out that Lissa’s grandparents were old friends of Reese Summers, and Clint and Nick had known them both for years.

  Nick Barclay bowed low over Emily’s hand. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Spoon. So you’re getting hitched to my big brother? Brave woman. I can’t imagine what you see in him, but let me say, he’s one lucky hombre.”

  “I intend to make sure he knows that every day from now on,” Emily replied with a saucy smile that drew an approving burst of laughter from Nick.

  “Believe me—I know how lucky I am every time I look at her.” Clint’s arm went around her as he spoke and Emily leaned into him as if her entire body longed for his touch.