Almost an Outlaw

by Patricia Preston

  He hung his gun belt around the bedpost and stripped off his clothes. After he undressed, he pulled back the bedcover and stretched out on the mattress. He thought about Darcy again, wondering what had happened to her husband. If she still missed him. If she still loved him.

  He groaned and rolled over. Forget her, he told himself. In a few days, he would have Midnight Dancer back and he’d be on his way home to his ranch. A place where he was surrounded by lush meadows covered with blooming wildflowers, wide creeks shaded by strong oaks and deep canyons where wild horses ran free.

  With thoughts of home, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. But not too soundly. His years at war had trained him not to sleep too deeply. Not if he wanted to live, so his brain remained alert for the least bit of noise even as he slept. Thus the moment someone knocked on the door of his room, he was awake and on his feet.

  He grabbed two things: his gun and his pants. He yanked on his pants and cocked the Peacemaker as he walked over to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Branson,” she answered quietly.

  He eased the hammer of the pistol down as he made note of her new last name. Mindful of his state of undress, he cracked the door. She stood in the dim light of the hallway. Black lace and honeysuckle. The neckline of her lacy black bodice dipped low and a beaded comb sparkled in her blonde hair. She held a man’s white shirt.

  “Captain,” she addressed him. “I’ve finished your shirt and I’m delivering it as promised.” She gave her head a nod, urging him to agree.

  He looked through the crack in the door. She fidgeted with the shirt as she gave him a nervous glance. He tightened his grip on the Peacemaker. “Are you alone?”

  “I am never alone,” she whispered as if he should know that.

  With a frown, he disregarded all propriety, opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, ignoring her gasp as he caught sight of the two men smoking at the end of the hallway, near the stairs as they watched her. More Pinkertons. With a flip of his wrist, he aimed his pistol at them. “If you want to live, I suggest you get moving right now.”

  The Pinkertons, who definitely wanted to live, headed down the stairs. Satisfied, he turned to Darcy, who looked as if she might drop him herself if she had a gun.

  “Are you out of your mind?” She started in with the kind of tongue-lashing only an angry woman can deliver. “You’re asking to get yourself killed! Do you realize that? There were two of them and they were both armed! Can you shoot two men at the same time? Do you ever think before you act?”

  The doors to the rooms bordering the hallway opened. Angry guests peered out while she went on with her tirade. “What if they hadn’t left? What then? You would have starting shooting here in the hallway? That is insane! Are you crazy?”

  “Shut her up,” one irate guest called.

  Austin clutched her arm and hauled her into his room.

  As Austin shut the door to the hotel room, Darcy knew she should protest. It was not proper. No lady should be in a man’s hotel room. Especially a man who was half-naked! She couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen so much bare masculine flesh.

  “I’m not out of my mind,” he said as he walked over to the dresser. He turned up the wick on the oil lamp and stood in the small glow of light with an annoyed expression on his face. But it was not his face that held her attention. His black pants rode indecently low on his narrow hips, past his navel where a thatch of dark hair surrounded his belly button. Old scars marred his muscular torso. A decent woman wouldn’t look, much less stare as he snatched up his shirt and put it on.

  She pressed her hand against her chest where her heart pounded erratically. Her apprehension shifted from fear for his safety to fear of the longing building inside her. She tried to ignore it as she asked, “How many times have you been shot?”

  “Eleven,” he answered flatly.

  “If you are not careful, that number may become twelve.”

  “I assume you got my message to the Boys?”

  She waved the new white shirt at him, one she had purchased at the men’s clothing store for her ruse, and a piece of scented paper floated to the floor. “I had a note hidden in the shirt,” she said. She picked up the note and tossed it onto the fireplace embers. “You must be more careful. The Pinkertons are being paid well to put an end to the James gang and they will do whatever is necessary.”

  She noticed him studying her with concern. “Have they ever threatened you?”

  “They have never threatened me. They have questioned me before and they have their suspicions, but that’s all.” She hung the new shirt on a wall peg. “I’ll meet you tomorrow morning around ten at Wolf Creek Bridge. Make certain you aren’t followed.”

  “All right,” he agreed.

  She inhaled. She needed to flee the inviting warm room where a rumpled quilt lay askew on a brass bed, and the feather pillow still held the imprint of his head. His boots sat at the foot of the bed, and his saddlebags lay in the seat of an armchair beside the unlit fireplace. Cotton draperies billowed as a breeze came through the open window, bringing with it the faint sound of music from the saloon across the street.

  “I must go. It isn’t proper for me to be here,” she said quickly, avoiding eye contact with him. “People do talk and a scandal is a hard thing to live down.” She knew that from firsthand experience.

  “I’ll see you home,” he said as he reached for his boots.

  “That’s not necessary. It’s only a few blocks to my shop.”

  He looked up at her and spoke bluntly. “A gentleman doesn’t let a lady walk home alone.”

  She nodded and assured herself there was nothing wrong with accepting a polite gesture from an old acquaintance. It had been a long time since she had the pleasure of a gentleman escorting her home. Too long.

  Outside the hotel, Darcy held Austin’s arm as they strolled down the deserted street, walking through moonbeams and mist. The shops were closed, their interiors dark. However, the upstairs of most buildings, where many of the shopkeepers lived, had lamps glowing in their windows and smoke coming from chimney pipes.

  “Where is your home?” she asked.

  “I own a ranch west of Dallas. I was in Texas when the war ended and I had no reason to come back here. Nothing waiting for me but trouble,” he said. “So I bought a spread and started raising horses. There’re lots of wildflowers all over the meadows.”

  She felt a hitch in her chest as she thought back to the summer he had rescued her and escorted her safely back to her mother’s house. On the roadside in front of her home, she had picked a yellow primrose and a black-eyed Susan. She offered the flowers to him and surprisingly enough, he took them and tucked them in his hatband. The small gesture had thrilled her.

  “I still have those flowers you gave me,” he said.

  “What?” She almost tripped over her own feet. “That’s impossible.”

  “I put them inside a book I had with me. Great Expectations by Dickens,” he admitted. “They’re still there.”

  She didn’t know what to say. The infamous Captain Austin Cade had a sentimental streak.

  “This way.” She directed him to an alley that ran behind her shop. “You kept my flowers?”

  “You were the first girl who ever gave me anything,” he said quietly as they reached the small porch stoop behind her shop. The outdoor lantern she had lit before she left was still burning. A single flame cast a fragment of light over the stoop, where a small wind chime occasionally jingled in the breeze. “You were the first girl I ever kissed.”

  His words shocked her. “I’m the first girl you ever kissed?”

  “I’d never had a sweetheart.” He shrugged. “Most fathers didn’t want someone like me near their daughters.”

  In her opinion, those fathers had been wrong about him. She was certain he would have made a wonderful beau. She wished her family had not left war-torn Missouri for California, but after she narrowly escaped being imprisoned, her moth
er had decided it was time to flee the Burnt District where most of the Missouri farms had been reduced to ash. They had headed for San Francisco where her grandparents lived and a new life waited. But, perhaps, if they had stayed in Clay County and if he had come courting, she would not be dressed in black, haunted by her mistakes. She stepped upon the stoop and he followed, crowding her against the door and his body.

  “I want to kiss you again,” he confessed in a husky voice. “I always have.”

  Her cheeks flushed at his frankness. She had to ignore the tug on her heart. “That was a long time ago, you know.”

  “Was it?”

  “A lifetime,” she whispered frantically.

  “Not for me.”

  “It wouldn’t be proper at all.” She relied on her favorite excuse to save her.

  “You want to tell me what is proper?” he asked with a frown. “Darcy, if I’m not to your liking, you don’t have to be polite about it. Just spit it out and be done with it.”

  That gave her the perfect opportunity to get rid of him, but the words would not come. Longing had a way of surviving regardless of how you tried to destroy it. Was she weak-willed? When it came to him, yes, she was not as strong as she needed to be. She had a silly soft spot for the man who had rescued her years ago. One that would not allow her to be callous with him.

  “Writing would be proper,” she said softly. In letters, she could explain how her heart was so full of regret, there was little room left for love. Writing was distant, safe. Perhaps, in the end, she could become his friend.

  “You’ll write to me?” he asked with hope in his deep voice.

  She plucked at her skirt. “Of course. I would be very happy to correspond with you,” she answered and he smiled, obviously pleased. For a moment, she felt incredibly carefree, as if his smile had wiped away all her worries.

  He stroked her cheek. She knew what he wanted. When desire was strong enough, it had the ability to connect one being with another without expression or words. He pressed his hand against her cheek and she closed her eyes as hunger stirred deep inside her belly.

  “Would a goodbye kiss be proper?” he murmured in her ear, his stubble grazing her cheek.

  No, it would not. And she knew he wouldn’t take such a liberty without her permission. She could think of an endless list of things she had done that were considered bold for a female, but somehow none of them seemed very daring compared to permitting this kiss. What is life without adventure? Or, at least, one little kiss?

  “It would be proper,” she whispered, “if no one saw.”

  He put out the lantern so darkness enveloped them. The night was like a cloak, warding off cold reality as he pulled her into his arms. He blew out a puff of air as he hesitated and muttered something under his breath.

  Surprised by his delay, she shifted in his arms. “Perhaps we shouldn’t—” she began, but she didn’t get to finish. Her words of doubt were quickly silenced as his mouth claimed hers. If he intended to quell her misgivings, he succeeded as his wet, deep kiss stirred a passion inside her that had long been dormant. It was as if he was breathing new life into her and she bloomed in his arms.

  Her lips responded to his demands. His mouth rocked against hers, his tongue teased hers. A startling ache seared through her and she gasped, her mouth parting from his. She barely had time to draw in a breath before his hungry mouth was on hers again.

  She had never been kissed so thoroughly and never had a kiss made her need so much more. She wanted things done to her she had never wanted before. Her body longed to be kissed and stroked by him, especially the indecent areas, which were pulsating in reaction to the hardness of his body. She had heard about women being ruined forever by permitting unchaste kisses. Now she knew how that could happen.

  And that she shouldn’t have let it happen.

  She jerked away from him, covering her mouth with the back of her hand as if she could cover up her mistake. “That wasn’t a proper kiss.”

  “I didn’t know there was such a thing as a proper kiss,” he responded, his voice husky in the cool darkness. She felt the warmth of his breath against her cheek.

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  She heard his deep chuckle. “You would have preferred a cold peck?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I prefer,” she countered. She might as well say what needed to be said. “It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m a widow in mourning and there are sacrifices I have to make.”

  Although it was dark, she could tell from his movements he had squared his shoulders. “How long will you be in mourning?” he asked in a harsh tone.

  “How long? My husband is dead because of me,” she admitted. “And I will never be free of what happened. There were some mistakes in life that you carry to your grave.”

  “You think I don’t know that? By the time I was eighteen, I was a hardened killer.”

  “Austin.” She called him by his given name as she placed her hand on his arm. “If I could, I would turn back the clock. I’d turn it back to the moment I handed you those wildflowers. But you don’t get to go back. You know that.”

  She opened the door to the rear quarters of her shop. “Good night, Captain.”

  He gave the chime a tap and musical notes disrupted the stillness. Then he hopped off the stoop. “Darcy,” he called as she waited in the doorway. “Maybe you can’t go back, but you can always go forward.”

  Chapter Five

  At the Wolf Creek Bridge, Austin waited on horseback, his arms folded over the horn of his saddle. Last night haunted him. He had fallen for her years ago, at a time when love was not a possibility for either of them. Now that he was halfway respectable and could provide for a family, she wore another man’s ring. Was she lost to him forever? Damn, if he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up just like Doss. Loving a woman who would never be his.

  A flock of birds scattered from the trees along the bank of Wolf Creek. A sign someone was approaching. He turned to see Darcy appear on a dappled gelding. She was dressed in black riding clothes and a tan hat kept the sun from her face. Leather gloves covered her hands but he knew she had not removed the ring.

  “This way,” she said and headed her horse down the bridge embankment to the creek.

  “You weren’t followed?” he asked.

  “I know how to elude them.”

  Their horses waded through the shallow water as they followed the stream south, deep into the forest. He rode behind her for a while, admiring his view. She rode astride, back straight. Her blond hair was pinned up under her hat. A few stray tendrils brushed her shoulders. He watched her hips bounce in the saddle, wishing he could forget this meeting with the Boys and find a quiet meadow where they could be alone. He wanted to know what had happened to her husband. Why was the man’s death her fault? But most of all, he wanted to make love to her.

  He urged his horse forward and rode alongside her.

  “When do you have to be back at your shop?”

  “No certain time,” she answered. “Emma is there. Why?”

  He pushed back the brim of his hat and gave her what he hoped was a tempting smile. “I thought we might spend the afternoon together.”

  She cocked her head as if what he wanted was clearly evident. “No,” she shot back and gave her horse a kick.

  As she rode ahead, he yanked the brim of his hat down. “Damn it,” he muttered, annoyed more with himself than with her. He needed to quit lusting after her and focus on the true purpose of his trip, which was not to become hung up on a remorseful widow but to get back Midnight Dancer.

  A mile down the creek, Darcy led the way across the bank to a path hidden behind a grove of willows. The trail wove deep into the woods where the scent of red cedar and pine reminded Austin of the years he had spent living in the wilderness. Narrow shafts of sunlight peeked through the limbs of towering oaks and cottonwood trees. Squirrels rattled the branches of a black walnut tree and a couple of robins worked on a new nes
t. There was always activity in the forest. Animals were not like people. They never second-guessed their purpose in life. They never killed unnecessarily. That thought had barely passed when he caught the sound of a rifle being cocked. In less than a second, his pistol was in his hand.

  “Still fast, I see.” Clell Miller’s merry voice came from overhead, and Austin looked up to see the outlaw seated on a couple of boards nailed to a few large tree limbs. Clell, who had been riding with the James-Younger gang since its inception, was on guard duty. He gave Austin a two-finger salute. Austin returned the gesture and rode on to catch up with Darcy, who had reached a clearing in the woods.

  The hideout was a small cabin, with a stone chimney, nestled beneath towering pines. Five saddled horses, ready to ride at a moment’s notice, were tied to a hitching rail. As Austin followed Darcy into the clearing around the cabin, he saw Frank James sitting on the front porch.

  A lanky man with large ears and a long hawk nose, Frank was not as handsome as his younger brother, Jesse. He closed the book he was reading and stood. An avid reader and scholar, Frank preferred English literature, and Shakespeare was his favorite writer. He easily quoted the Bard, much to the despair of his companions. Spouting poetry was not commendable when it came to an outlaw’s image. Austin lifted his hand in a wave to his old comrade. He, Frank and Cole had forged a close friendship during the war.

  At a small table in the shade, Cole Younger was giving his kid brother, Bob, some pointers about playing poker. Cole had a penchant for certain vices, which included poker, whiskey and whores. Much to Jesse’s disgust, Cole indulged in his vices whenever the opportunity presented itself.

  A broad smile lit Cole’s face when he saw Austin. “Saints protect us, it’s the devil himself!” He let out a merry cackle as he put down his cards.

  The door to the cabin opened and Frank’s kid brother appeared. The soon-to-be-married Jesse James wore a double-breasted black shirt and black pants. The leather straps of a shoulder holster secured a pistol beneath each of his arms. Short, slender and clean-cut, the twenty-six-year-old outlaw looked nothing like most Easterners had him pictured. The newspaper sketches of him didn’t portray the outlaw as a young and handsome man who prided himself on a neat appearance