Diablo

by Potter, Patricia;

  Still, she wanted to see him. Wanted to see whether that touch would create those same trembling feelings …

  Hell’s bells. She threw a pan down on the floor. She’d been making pies as if there were no tomorrow, and Robin was in glutton’s heaven. She was always seized by a frenzy of activity when she was angry or sad or lonely. And now she admitted to all three.

  She was staring at the offending pan when a knock came at the door.

  She brushed her flour-coated hands on her trousers and went to open it, going still with surprise when she stood face to face with the unwanted subject of her thoughts. He looked just as startled, as though he hadn’t expected her. That irritated her. Everything, in fact, irritated her, particularly her racing pulse. O’Brien smiled, that strangely endearing twist of lips, made unique by the crook of the scar, and held out something in his hands.

  “A perch,” he said in response to her puzzlement. “For … Diablo.” The mouth crooked even further in wry amusement.

  She was so mesmerized by the smile that it took a moment to understand. The hawk!

  “Will you give it to him?” he said, and Nicky realized she was still standing in front of the door, barring him from the interior.

  She opened it a little wider. “Robin would probably like to get it himself,” she said. “He’s been asking about you. My uncle thought it best he stay in bed a few more days, but …”

  “Wounds heal fast in a boy.”

  “Did yours?” She hadn’t meant to prolong the conversation, to ask more questions when the last one she asked on the hill had turned him cold.

  “Not fast enough,” he said, but this time his eyes didn’t freeze. They were watching her instead, and the gray seemed to be smoldering. Heat reached out from him, singeing her. She stepped back as if she could avoid the flames, but they went with her, darting through her body, settling in the core of her.

  He stepped back, as if he too wanted to escape those sudden fires, but his eyes remained on hers, and she felt fixed by them, nailed in place by the dark gray, burning intensity.

  “Sis?”

  Robin’s voice jarred her from paralysis, the sense of being consumed alive. She wiped her hands again on her trousers and moved from the door. “Mr. O’Brien brought you something.” She didn’t look at her brother. She didn’t want to see the light in his eyes, didn’t want him to see the pained confusion in hers.

  “Diablo,” he said, and Nicky didn’t miss the excitement in his voice.

  As she hurried to the kitchen, she heard his low, deep voice. “I brought you a perch for the hawk. It’s the first step in training him. First the perch, then your hand. You’ll need a heavy glove.”

  “Come see him.” Robin’s voice was so eager it hurt her.

  Diablo would leave in a few days, like they all did. He would also die, like they all did. A month. A year. But he would die young. A bullet. A rope. She would read it in a newspaper or hear it from one of her uncle’s acquaintances. She wished the thought weren’t so painful. There was so much strength and energy and arrogance in Kane O’Brien; it was nearly impossible to think of him dead.

  She sniffed the aroma from the stove and checked the two pies in the oven. Bent over the open oven door, she welcomed the heat that rushed out to overwhelm the other heat inside her. Almost blindly, she reached for another piece of wood to place in the bottom of the stove. A flicker of flame from the stove reached out, igniting the sleeve of her shirt. She screamed as the flame crept up. In the next second, the door burst open, and she was being thrown to the floor, her body smothered by a larger, heavier one.

  Pain mixed with awareness. Her arm felt on fire, though she saw that the flames were gone, leaving black singed cloth and a reddened arm. She couldn’t stop the whimper that was part pain, part fear.

  “It’s all right.” His voice was low and soothing. He rolled off her, ignoring obvious burns of his own and knelt next to her, his hands gently running over her arm. “Not too bad,” he said.

  Nicky reveled in his care, in the safety and comfort of that confident voice. She hadn’t been touched with such gentleness since her mother died. She looked at his hand, the small blisters already forming where his hand had smothered the flames on her shirt.

  “Nicky?” Her brother’s voice was frantic. “What can I do?”

  “Andy,” she said. “Get Andy. Hurry.”

  Her gaze hadn’t moved from her rescuer, but she heard Robin’s racing footsteps. “Thank you,” she said in a wavery voice she couldn’t quite control. “You’re hurt.”

  “Darlin’, I’ve had a lot worse.” He spoke the words lightly, but pain flitted across his face as he moved slightly. “I think we’d better get some water on those burns.”

  He stood and offered her his good hand. She took it, feeling the strength in it. Then she noticed his gaze had dropped, and she looked down. Her shirt was partly off, the sleeve tattered. She wore a camisole underneath, but it had slipped slightly, showing the swell of one of her breasts and outlining the other. They weren’t large. Lemon size, she’d always thought, compared to the women at Rosita’s who sported ones of more melon proportions. There had been no one to talk to about such things, and she wasn’t sure which was normal—lemons or melons.

  She felt herself growing hot again under O’Brien’s intense regard. She’d blushed more around him in the past month than in her whole life. She tried to pull her shirt back together, wincing at the pain any movement of her arm caused.

  “You shouldn’t hide such a pretty body,” he said lazily, as if he weren’t feeling any pain at all.

  “My uncle …”

  His gray eyes, which had been warm and comforting, changed suddenly. Although he didn’t move, she could feel his withdrawal, see that curtain fall over his eyes. He turned away, toward the sink, and with his gun hand used the pump to draw water. “Come here,” he said, but the warmth in his voice was gone. It was an order, impersonally made.

  She wanted to rebel against it. But his lips were clenched tight, his jaw set. His dark hair was wet with sweat, and she knew he was hurting.

  Nicky moved over to him, allowed him to take her arm and hold it under the pump. The water felt good on the now-throbbing burns. She finally pulled her hand away, and took his burned arm, guiding it under the water as gently as he had hers. She looked up at his face, and saw a number of emotions dart over it before he schooled his expression into blankness. There was a second of vulnerability. No more than that. An instant of recognition between them. Raw need exchanged. Need that had nothing to do with the more sensual feelings she’d experienced before.

  “The kitchen.” Nicky heard Robin’s voice. Then Robin, her uncle and Andy crowded into the kitchen, and Kane O’Brien stepped away from her.

  “What happened?” her uncle asked, even as Andy took her arm to study the burns.

  “Mr.… O’Brien was burned, too, worse than I was,” she said. “He smothered the flames. Look to him first.”

  Andy nodded and stepped toward Diablo.

  “No,” Kane said impatiently, almost angrily. “I’m all right. Just give me some salve and I’ll go to the hotel.”

  Andy shook his head. “Take off your shirt.”

  Kane did so reluctantly. It was only then that Nicky noticed the extensive raw, red splotches across his back, and she realized he must have hit the side of the stove as he’d pushed her to the floor. “Dear God,” she whispered as Andy studied the burns. He had to be in agony.

  Andy shook his head as he looked at Kane’s back. “Those burns could get infected if they’re not treated. You need someone looking after them.”

  “Damn it, I can do it myself.” O’Brien’s voice was low but emphatic.

  “You can’t reach your own back,” Andy retorted reasonably.

  “Do I have to get Mitch in here and tie you down?” Nat interceded, glaring at Kane. “You’re not leaving till Andy gets through with you. You can bunk in Robin’s room.”

  “Damn it,” O�
�Brien exploded. “I don’t … need …”

  Nicky heard the sudden waver in his voice, saw him reach for a chair to steady himself. Then in an act of pure will that left her speechless, she saw him literally shake the weakness away. He straightened, obviously prepared to do more battle.

  “Go get Mitch,” Nat Thompson told an avidly watching Robin. “And you’ll have to go through me to leave,” he told Kane O’Brien. “I don’t take debts lightly, and I owe you for my niece.”

  “You owe me nothing,” Kane said, his eyes angry. But he didn’t try to move. Nicky felt chilled by his cold rage though she didn’t understand it. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was … my fault.”

  For the briefest moment, his eyes softened. Then he shrugged. “I’ll stay if you take care of Miss Thompson first.”

  Thompson nodded. “Andy, look after Nicky first. O’Brien will be in Robin’s room.” He motioned to Kane. “This way.”

  Nicky watched them go, then saw Andy’s eyes on her. “He’ll be all right,” Andy said. “A few minutes won’t matter. Now sit down.”

  Nicky nearly screamed as Andy washed the burns with some solution from the box of medicines he’d brought with him, then gently applied a cool salve. She kept remembering, though, Kane’s fixed expression, his cool dismissal of pain, and she bore Andy’s ministration silently, willing him to hurry so he could get to Kane. Kane with the murderer’s name. Kane, who had somehow become her guardian angel and who obviously bitterly resented being so.

  “I’m not going to wrap it,” Andy was telling her. “But be careful. Keep that arm clean.”

  “I’m fine. Go see about Mr. O’Brien.”

  He looked at her curiously, then smiled slowly. “I’ll take good care of him.” He gave her a bottle. “Here’s some laudanum. If you start hurting too badly, take it. Give some to Diablo. Disguise it if you must. He’s going to hurt a lot, and he doesn’t seem the type of man to make it easy on himself.” He went out the door and left her sitting at the table.

  Kane tried to open his eyes, but they resisted his every effort to do so. Pain throbbed in his arm and back, particularly when he moved. His head felt thick, his eyes sticky and uncooperative. He struggled to remember where he was.

  Then, slowly, it came back through a drugged mind. Sanctuary. Nat Thompson. Nicky. Nicole. Fire. A quiet panic swept him.

  “He’s awake.”

  Robin’s voice broke through his haze. He tried to open his eyes again and this time managed to get one partly open.

  “How long … have I been asleep?”

  “Day and a half,” Robin said. “I’ll get my sis.”

  “No,” Kane tried to say, but the boy was already out the door. He’d been lying on his side. He tried to sit and discovered he was naked, except for the underwear on the lower half of his body. As he heard footsteps, he tugged a cover over him. His arm and chest throbbed. His mouth felt like cotton. He rubbed his good hand over his cheeks, finding them rough with bristle.

  What in the hell did it matter, anyway? Nicky Thompson had been nothing but trouble. She was an obstacle to him, nothing more. He should be in the hotel, damn it. Not here. He didn’t want her gratitude, nor her uncle’s. But he kept getting sucked more and more into the lives of the Thompson family when his goal was to destroy them.

  The door opened again and Nicky—Nicole—came in. She was still in a loose shirt and trousers, but femininity radiated from her. Her smile was tentative, painfully wary, and he realized how many times he’d rebuffed her. Mainly for his own protection. Guilt throbbed even more than the burns.

  “I thought you might want some fresh water,” she said. “And something to eat.”

  “You’re not cooking again?” he said gruffly.

  Embarrassment flooded her face. “No, Uncle Nat won’t let me near the stove. Jeb sent over some soup.”

  He tried to sit, pulling the blanket up with him, but its roughness rubbed against his raw skin, and he winced. Her eyes shone with sympathy. They were so damned brown. He moved his gaze to her arm. It was still red, oozing with the same salve, he imagined, that pasted his arm and back.

  “Are you all right?” he said roughly.

  “Thanks to you.”

  He liked her anger better than gratitude. He muttered to himself.

  “What?” she said, coming closer. He pulled the blanket up higher. Damn but he felt something stirring inside, and it wasn’t his brain.

  “Don’t thank me. I just happened to be there. I tripped.” It was a hell of a stupid thing to say. He knew it the minute amusement started dancing in her eyes. Her face changed, and she grinned. Then laughed. He’d never heard her laugh before, and it sounded like a chorus of bells. The smile was beautiful. He hadn’t seen that one before, either. It had always been tentative, cautious.

  “I thought desperadoes liked to claim deeds of valor.” The last words were right from a book, and Kane understood something else. No wonder Miss Nicole Thompson was such a combination of innocence and sometimes startling wisdom. She must live in books. He’d noticed several bookcases earlier, but hadn’t paid much attention to them, thinking they were probably for show like so many other things in Sanctuary: an attempt at normalcy.

  He muttered again to himself, barely muzzling the curses that wanted to flow from his mouth. Damn, he should be pleased. Robin and Nicky were pawns in his hands now. He had Nat Thompson’s gratitude, the run of his house. And he’d seldom felt lower in his entire life.

  But he took the glass of water Nicky held out to him, and the man part of him tensed and hardened as her good hand touched his and lingered a moment longer than necessary. He forced his gaze away from her and started to drink, then hesitated. It tasted strange. Drugged again?

  Nicky seemed to understand. She shook her head. “Andy said the pain would be bad the first few days. But I won’t give you any more laudanum unless you ask for it.”

  “I only have a few more days at Sanctuary,” he said. “I have to be strong enough to leave.”

  “Uncle Nat said you can stay as long as you want. No charge.”

  Kane was stunned. He knew Thompson had been grateful, but the man was notorious about money. He’d heard tales from the other residents of Sanctuary about his no-credit policy. No matter how wanted a man was, he was escorted out once his money was gone, which was one reason poker was so popular. Winning could mean a few days extra. Kane had already won enough money for several more days. But he didn’t have the luxury of time. He had to learn the location of Sanctuary and get out.

  “I have other plans,” he said curtly and watched the smile disappear from Nicky’s face. Robin’s face also seemed to crumple. “But you haven’t taught me anything about Diablo.”

  “That’s a hell of a name for that hawk,” Kane said.

  Robin’s face flushed. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Kane felt he was kicking a litter of puppies. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, making his voice less harsh. “You shouldn’t name a wild thing. You’re going to have to give him back to nature. Don’t get too attached. Don’t let it get too attached.” As he had years ago with his own baby hawk.

  He finished drinking the water and handed it back to Nicky. “Thank you,” he said. He wanted to say he would move back to the hotel. That’s what he wanted. But if he stayed here, he might have a chance to check Nat Thompson’s room and the desk he’d seen in the main room. Then he wouldn’t have to get the information he needed from Nicky or Robin, he told himself. The result would be the same, though. Lawmen would ride through the valley, shooting everything in sight.

  Christ, his head hurt. Every damn part of him hurt. Including his heart. If he ever got his hands on Masters, he’d kill him.

  “Some soup?” Nicky asked, like that same puppy expecting a kick in the stomach.

  He nodded. He’d eat the damn soup, pretend sleep, and hope everyone left. The sooner he discovered what he came for, the sooner he could leave, the sooner Davy would be released. He
wouldn’t, couldn’t, think about the other result.

  Chapter Eight

  The house seemed immeasurably smaller with Kane O’Brien in it. Diablo, Nicky kept warning herself. But warnings didn’t do any good now. She kept reminding herself that he was a killer and outlaw, but she saw only the man who’d risked himself for her.

  Always watch your back, her uncle had taught her. He’d never told her what to do if a man sneaked up on her blind side and wriggled into places he ought not be.

  She went riding the morning after Kane woke up. She knew she must or she would find herself hovering outside his door, wanting to go in. Afraid to go in. Afraid of all those feelings that were eating her up inside.

  She rode to her hill to watch the sun tip the mountain, but some of the joy was gone. Her private place was suddenly a lonely place. It seemed to echo with his voice, and she remembered every word he said, every touch, every emotion she’d felt when she was with him, even the humiliation, the anger. She tried to bring both back, but the impact was gone. He had risked his life for her without thought. He was suffering because of her. That hurt most of all.

  Who was he? What was he? He was so contradictory she no longer knew. He would turn from kind to cruel in an instant, from warm to cold, from tender to indifferent. She only knew that her heart jumped through hoops when he was near, that her blood warmed and her skin tingled. Even now, she ached for that touch again, for even more. For a kiss. She tried to imagine it but couldn’t. Several men had tried a kiss, despite her uncle’s warning. Two had been dirty and repulsive, and she’d scooted away; one had been seen and caught. Nat Thompson had had him tied, and he’d beat him with an old bullwhip. The third had been a young bandit, and she’d been quite willing to meet him behind the barn, ready to test her womanhood, hungry to explore this thing called a kiss. But the charm had disappeared when his lips touched hers, and the kiss had been savage and frightening and possessive without tenderness. He’d tried to force her mouth open and finally she’d kicked him in the crotch and run. She hadn’t said anything to her uncle, because she’d felt it was her fault, but she’d never been interested in a kiss again.