The Outlaw and the Runaway

by Tatiana March

  “Do you have a spare horse, or do we ride double?” she asked.

  “I bought you a horse. The dapple-gray mare from the livery stable.”

  He’d bought her a horse. Celia felt a sinking sensation, like a swimmer caught in an undertow. Instinct told her she was heading for ruination, her moral boundaries already crumbling. But what choice did she really have, except perhaps one method of ruination over another, as the man had so bluntly spelled it out to her a few moments ago?

  And yet, she knew she was not accepting the invitation to join him just because it was her only choice. Her blood was flowing swiftly in her veins, her skin tingling. If she had to give up the dream of a secure, happy future, she would seize the chance of an adventure and make the most of it.

  She gestured toward the quiet street outside. “Where are the horses?”

  “Left them on the edge of town.”

  Celia moved deeper into the kitchen, dumped her carpetbag on the table. “Would you mind fetching them and riding up to the house?”

  “I thought you were hiding from your neighbors.”

  “Some people may have figured out that I’m still here...” She paused, fidgeted with the clasp on her bag. How could she explain the vagaries of feminine pride? She spoke in a low voice, not meeting his gaze. “I want everyone in town to know that I’m gone. That I’m gone with you...a man who cared enough to come and fetch me.”

  Something flashed in his eyes, and Celia knew that Roy Hagan had understood, even without explanations. Curiosity stirred in her anew. What was in his past? What rejections had he suffered that made him so attuned to her plight, and how had he come through those hardships so strong?

  “I’ll only be a few minutes,” he told her, and strode to the back door.

  Celia watched the outlaw melt into the darkness, and then she lit the lamp on the table and carried it into the parlor. In the soft glow of the flame, her eyes traveled over the bookcases, the pictures on the walls. Despite everything, the house contained good memories, and she wished them to remain unsullied.

  Quickly, she returned to the kitchen and packed a burlap sack with whatever foodstuffs she had left in the cupboards. The task completed, she lit another lamp, used it to illuminate her passage to the woodshed in the rear of the garden and carried over two heavy planks of timber. By the time the muted clip-clop of hooves came down the street, she had searched out a hammer and a handful of nails.

  She unlocked the front door, stepped out onto the porch. Ragged clouds drifted across the sky, allowing the moon to play hide-and-seek. Celia stared into the shadows. The moment she could discern the outline of a rider and two horses, the clouds parted, and moonlight fell on the stranger. He had kept his eye patch pulled aside, but now he quickly restored it as he saw the glow from her lamp. He halted by the porch, dismounted and looped the bridle reins of both horses over the porch railing.

  “Could you do something for me?” Celia asked. “I’ve bolted the back door from the inside but the lock on the front door is flimsy, easy to force open. I want you to nail these boards across the door frame to secure the entrance.”

  “A crowbar will pull them loose in no time.”

  “I know. But I want to send the message that this is still my home, not an abandoned dwelling, free for anyone to loot or vandalize.” She held out the hammer and nails.

  “The noise will wake up the town.”

  “That’s the idea,” Celia replied quietly.

  Roy Hagan gave her a rueful smile and shook his head, but he took the hammer and nails and set to work, lining up the first board across the door and hammering the nails into the frame. The pounding echoed in the quiet of the night. A light came on in a window across the street, then in another one. By the time the man had finished, a dozen yellow squares cut into the darkness. He put the hammer and remaining nails away in the saddlebags and turned to Celia.

  “What next?” he asked, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “Curtains are twitching up and down the street,” Celia replied. “I want you to put your hands around my waist and lift me on the horse like I’m the most precious thing you’ve ever handled.”

  “All right.” His fingers curled around her waist and she sailed into the air. For a second, he held her high, as if to boast about his strength. Then he gave what sounded like a groan of pain and settled her in the saddle. After releasing his hold at her waist, he clasped her ankle and fitted the toe of her boot into the stirrup. “Anything else?” he asked in a tone that held a hint of laughter.

  Speechless, Celia shook her head. A sense of humor was the last thing she would have expected from the outlaw, but he seemed to possess an endless capacity to surprise her. “I’m ready,” she told him. “Just lift up my carpetbag and the burlap sack with provisions and fasten them behind the saddle.”

  He did as she’d asked, and then he untied the horses, mounted and set off at a slow walk. Celia lined her dapple-gray beside his buckskin and rode out of town with Roy Hagan, her head high in defiant pride, as if it was Prince Charming himself who’d come for her.

  When they reached the end of the street, the man pulled ahead and Celia fell into line behind him. Moonlight threw eerie shadows, making the desert landscape appear strange and mysterious. There was no sound except the steady clip of the horses’ hooves and the occasional hoot of an owl. The night air was cool and fresh.

  After perhaps three miles, Roy Hagan pulled to a halt. The clouds had thickened, obscuring the moon. For the last mile, they had ridden in near darkness, relying on the keener eyesight of the horses. Celia could hear the rippling of water, could smell the rich scents of damp earth, and she figured out they had skirted around the town, heading north, and were now at the bend of the stream where the water tumbled over rocks to form a small pond.

  The creak of saddle leather and the scrape of a boot made her aware the outlaw had dismounted. An instant later, she felt a pair of strong hands curl about her waist. “This is as far as we’ll go tonight,” Roy Hagan told her. He lifted her down and settled her on her feet, but he did not remove his hands from around her waist.

  When he spoke again, his voice sounded very near. “During the robbery, did anyone in Rock Springs recognize the two men who came to scout out the bank with me?” She could hear the urgency in his tone. “If someone did recognize them, could they remember having seen me in their company earlier and connect me to the robbery?”

  “I don’t know,” Celia replied. “I haven’t heard anyone mention anything, but with my father accused of involvement I’m the last person people would have confided in.”

  The hands around her waist slipped away and the voice drifting through the impenetrable darkness grew more distant. “Just in case, I’d prefer not lighting a fire. And we’ll need to get going again at the first glimmer of dawn. I’ll put your bedroll down and you can go to sleep. I’ll take care of the horses.”

  Boots thudded against the hard earth. Dead leaves rustled, pebbles scattered. Celia could picture the man stomping about, making sure no snakes or other critters had taken refuge in the lee of the rocks.

  “Do we need to post a guard?” she asked. “I’ll take my turn.”

  The outlaw’s soft laughter rippled in the darkness, a strangely carefree sound from a man in his dangerous profession. “Celia, you’re dead on your feet. You’ll be sound asleep the second your head hits the bedroll. Anyway,” he went on, “there’ll be no need to stand on guard. Dagur is a good watchdog.”

  A frisson of awareness skittered along her skin. By not calling her Miss Celia, the outlaw had taken the intimacy one step further. She had expected to call him Mr. Hagan, but his boldness made her change her mind. She would take similar liberties and call him by his given name.

  “Is Dagur your horse?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Does the name mean anything?”
>
  “It’s one of the Norse gods, from the old legends. My ma’s family was from Norway. Dagur is the god of daylight. I named him to remind me that even after the darkest night the dawn always comes.”

  From the somber tone of his voice, Celia knew he was not talking just about the sun rising and falling in the sky. He meant that even after the deepest moment of despair a ray of hope would eventually cut through the gloom.

  “Can we give the mare a name?” she asked. “The owner of the livery stable just refers to his stock by the color. The gray mare, he called her.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to call her Baldur. It’s another Norse god.”

  “Baldur.” Celia tried out the name. “I like that. What is Baldur the god of?”

  “Beauty. And love and forgiveness and peace.”

  Again, Celia felt an unfamiliar warm feeling spreading in her chest. How could the stranger convey so much emotion, so many dreams and hopes and possibilities in a few simple words? Or was it just her imagination? Was she crediting him with poetry and the knightly chivalry of paying homage to a lady’s beauty, when he was merely passing on a piece of ancient folklore?

  “Baldur,” she said softly once more, and made no further comment. Standing still, so she wouldn’t get in his way or stumble on the uneven ground, Celia listened to Roy Hagan go about his chores. Saddle leather creaked, bedrolls rustled. A horse gave a quiet whinny, and then the outlaw was by her side, his fingers curled about her elbow to guide her.

  He directed her a few steps away from the sound of rippling water. With a gentle pressure, he tugged her downward. Celia sank to her haunches and fumbled about. Her searching hands met the folds of a wool blanket—the fine, expensive kind.

  “Lie down here,” he told her. “There’s a boulder behind you, to give you shelter in case the wind picks up during the night.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Right nearby.”

  Celia stretched out on the bedroll and Roy Hagan arranged the blankets around her, like a parent tucking in a child. Something formed a pillow beneath her head. Celia examined it with her fingers and discovered it was his canvas duster, folded into a bundle.

  “How can you see in the darkness?” she asked. “I can see nothing.”

  “It’s my brown eye. Because I keep it covered most of the time, it has grown more sensitive to light. Like a cat, I can see in the night. But bright light hurts it now, so I prefer to keep my brown eye covered during the day, even when there’s no one around to notice the mismatched colors.”

  As Celia listened to the mellow, deep cadence of his voice, her limbs grew heavy and her eyelids refused to stay open. The outlaw had been right about her inability to stand guard. Exhaustion rolled over her, as unstoppable as a flash flood after a burst of rain. His words faded into a distant murmur and then she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  Roy awoke to a faint gray light on the eastern horizon. For a moment, he kept still, watching from between half-closed lids, listening to every sound around him—the ripple of the creek, the early-morning call of a desert sparrow, the soft rustle of some small rodent in the sagebrush.

  Satisfied his surroundings posed no immediate threat, he lifted his blanket aside and eased up to his feet. The cold night air closed around him. He rubbed his hands together to warm his fingers, then put on his hat and strapped on his pair of guns.

  Moving without a sound, he walked over to the creek to check up on Dagur and Baldur, picketed by the water. By the time he came back to the sleeping girl, the first pink hues of sunrise streaked the horizon. Soon, they’d have to get going, but he was reluctant to disturb Celia’s sleep.

  While he formulated a plan for what lay ahead, Roy let his attention linger on the girl, admiring her beauty. Her face was flushed from sleep, her hair a riot of curls, the color more golden than brown in the soft morning light. She must be dreaming, for her lips were moving, as if in silent speech, and he could see a rapid flickering beneath her eyelids.

  What would it be like, to have a woman like that belong to him? To have her share his nights and days, his failures and successes, his sorrows and joys? With a woman like that by his side, a man would want to build something, to make a home. There would be no need to strive for riches, for she would be enough.

  But it was not for him ever to have the chance to find out how it would feel to have a woman like that for his own—or any kind of woman, for that matter. The thought flashed across Roy’s mind, as sharp and painful as the blade of a knife. For a moment longer, he watched the girl, and then he turned away, reluctant to intrude on her privacy.

  Squatting on his heels, Roy held his hand to the hard, night-chilled ground, to check for any vibration caused by horses thundering along the trail. He could feel nothing. Moreover, Dagur remained calm. It seemed unlikely that anyone in town had made the connection between him and the robbery and set off in pursuit. He could let the girl sleep.

  That decided, Roy walked off to collect firewood and water, never straying far enough to let the girl out of his sight. He had breakfast ready by the time she finally stirred. Instead of puffy and disheveled, she awoke bright-eyed, looking as fresh as morning dew.

  “Good morning,” he called out.

  “Good morning.” Her voice was husky from sleep. She shook off the blankets, smoothed her hair and adjusted her elegant riding costume. Then she got to her feet, came to crouch by the fire and held her hands out to the heat of the flames. Watching him from beneath her brows in the shy manner Roy had noticed before, she spoke quietly. “I thought you said we would have to leave at first light. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “Thought you’d like some breakfast before we ride out.” He picked up the soot-blackened pot. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He poured into a cup and held it out to her. “Be careful,” he warned her. “The cup gets hot to hold.”

  Gingerly, she cradled the battered tin cup between her fingertips, took a small sip and nodded her approval. “Very good,” she said, appearing surprised. “I thought cowboys brewed coffee thick enough for a spoon to stand up in it.”

  Roy smiled, a flash of humor mingled with pleasure over the occasion. He’d never sat down for breakfast with a pretty girl before, with the rising sun gilding the sky and a campfire crackling and nature awakening around them.

  “Outlaws do things to their own liking. I prefer my coffee hot and not too strong.” He pulled a cast-iron skillet from the flames, shook a flat, circular bread onto a tin plate and took out his knife to cut the bread into quarters. “I usually make this for breakfast,” he explained as he ran the blade across the plate. “Something between bread and pancake. Learned it from a feller who came from a place called Persia.”

  “It’s a country, between Africa and Asia, near Turkey. They had a severe famine there a few years ago. Two million people starved to death. I guess some of the survivors might have come over to America and brought their customs with them.”

  Surprised, Roy glanced up at the girl. He’d given little thought to her background. He knew she was an Easterner and appeared to be all alone in the world, but was she a high-born lady fallen on hard times?

  “You must have had some schooling, to know such things,” he commented.

  Celia nodded with a hint of pride. “I went to school in Baltimore until I was sixteen. I had hoped to go on to Normal School and become a teacher, but I had to give it up, so I could look after my sick mother.” Her shoulders rose and fell in a casual shrug. “Mostly, I’ve educated myself from books. One of my father’s friends owned a bookstore and he let me take books home provided I was careful to keep them looking like new.” Her lips curved into a rueful smile. “I still get an urge to put on a pair of cotton gloves every time I touch a book.”

  Roy held the pan bread out to her. She took a quarter, nibbled a
t it for a taste, then devoured the rest, taking sips of coffee between mouthfuls.

  “Did you not go to school?” she asked when she was finished.

  “For a couple of years, until I was ten and my ma died.”

  “How did you come to be an outlaw?”

  “Not a sensible career choice, huh?”

  Her smile blossomed fully now, a lovely smile that lit up her features and made her look carefree and young. Roy wanted to see that smile again, so he put extra effort into telling his sorry tale, embellishing the details for a more comic effect.

  “I became an outlaw because I was riding a half-broke horse.”

  “Half-broke horse?” Celia lifted her brows. “You mean a lame one?”

  “A part-wild one.” Roy peered inside the coffeepot. “There’s a drop left. You want any more?”

  When she shook her head, Roy put out his hand. “Can I have the cup? I didn’t think to buy another, so we’ll have to share this one until we get to a store.”

  “Oh?” A blush flared up on Celia’s cheeks. It was something Roy had noticed—despite the honey tan on her face, flashes of color gave away her emotions—pink for embarrassment, pale for fear and bright flags of crimson when she fought to suppress an outburst of anger.

  Roy took the tin cup from her. He felt her watching him as he tipped the last of the thickened brew from the pot into the cup and drank it in a few gulps, his lips pressed against the rim where hers had just been, like a transferred kiss of sorts.

  Between bites of pan bread, he talked, trying to coax one of those smiles out of her again. “I was riding along the trail, minding my own business. I had just left the homestead where I grew up, and I was riding a mustang I’d caught only the week before, a black stallion. He was a devil, but he was a magnificent horse, and he was the one I wanted to take with me.