Diablo

by Potter, Patricia;

  “Pweasure,” she replied, looking this time to Mary May for approval. Mary May knelt, too, and swooped the girl into her arms again.

  “Now where did you learn that, lovebug?”

  “Cuwwy,” Sarah Ann mumbled happily as she buried herself in Mary May’s arms.

  Ben grinned. Mary May had said the lady taking care of Sarah Ann was Mrs. Culworthy. “Cuwwy” was evidently Sarah Ann’s version of “Cully.” But even happily sheltered in her mother’s arms, Sarah Ann grinned over at him. She was as natural a flirt as her mother.

  Mary May finally let go and stood again. “I brought you something,” she said.

  If a beaming smile could get any brighter, it did, and Mary May smiled happily back. She looked years younger, almost like a girl herself. “You stay here with Ben while I get it,” she said. “Is that okay?”

  Sarah Ann turned to Ben. “Are you my papa?”

  Ben nearly choked. He looked up at Mary May, who shrugged slightly, but he didn’t miss a momentary sadness that washed over her eyes. She knelt again. “Your papa died, lovebug. He’s in heaven, looking down after you.”

  Sarah Ann’s face set stubbornly. “I want a papa here, like Lizzy has.”

  Mary May looked helplessly at Mrs. Culworthy.

  Sarah Ann turned back to Ben and cocked her head as if she was considering him for the post. It was an impossibly grown-up gesture, and Ben wondered whether she was mimicking her mother or whether it was just plain female instinct. He also felt as helpless as Mary May looked. He didn’t know much about children, hadn’t even been around one in years.

  Then Mrs. Culworthy stepped in. “I think we’d better see what your mama brought,” she said, and Sarah Ann’s curiosity was suddenly captured.

  The stubborn look became expectant. “What is it?”

  “You’ll see in a minute,” Mary May said. “Mrs. Culworthy?”

  The older woman went to take Sarah Ann’s hand but the child went to Ben instead. “I want to stay with him.”

  Mary May looked helpless again, and Ben felt his heart turn to butter. Mary May was usually anything but helpless. Sarah Ann obviously was her one vulnerability. He leaned down. “And I would like you to stay with me,” he said gallantly, winning a giggle.

  Mary May threw him a grateful look, then hurried to her horse.

  Ben went inside with Mrs. Culworthy and took the chair the woman indicated. Sarah Ann crawled up on his knee without so much as a by-your-leave and her hand touched his face as if exploring it. Her fingers were soft and chubby, as she was, and even through his awkwardness he was quite aware of falling under her spell.

  “Do you know a story?” she asked.

  He didn’t. Not one. He felt terribly inadequate.

  “No,” he said.

  Her face fell, and he felt totally unfit to hold a child. God, it had been so long since he’d been a boy, and even then he didn’t remember being told stories. His mother was always sick, his father was either tending her or at his law offices.

  “Can you play market?” Sarah Ann persisted.

  Feeling even more inept, he raised an eyebrow to Mrs. Culworthy, who looked at him with pity.

  “We’ll teach you,” she said.

  “To market, to market,” Sarah Ann said in a singsong voice, then stopped expectantly. After a moment of silence, she turned to him in disgust. “You’re the horse. You go clip-clop.”

  Mrs. Culworthy signaled with her leg what he was to do. He experimentally moved his leg up and down like a horse and was rewarded with a giggle.

  “To market, to market to buy a fat pig,” Mrs. Culworthy and Sarah Ann responded, “Home again, home again, jiggidy jig jig.”

  At that particularly vulnerable moment, Mary May returned, a package in her hand. She looked at Sarah Ann, then Ben, and he felt an odd and very unfamiliar warmth. Sarah Ann tumbled off his knee and made for the package.

  It was a doll, a beautiful doll with red hair and green eyes, and Ben watched as Sarah Ann cradled it just as her mother had cradled her.

  “Thank you,” she said solemnly, all grown-up again. “She’s beautiful.”

  “She looks like you, lovebug.”

  Sarah Ann looked at Ben, obviously fascinated with him. “You name her.” It was such a transference of trust that Ben felt his heart quake. But he was utterly out of his field. He was competent enough at capturing bad men; he had no idea what to name a doll. Yet, she looked at him so expectantly, he searched his mind for names until he found one he hoped would do. “Susannah,” he said. “Like in the song, ‘Oh, Susannah.’”

  Sarah Ann looked not quite sure. She deferred to her mother, who nodded. “I think it’s a wonderful name.”

  Satisfied, Sarah Ann’s gaze went back to the doll. “Zuanna,” she mispronounced happily.

  Ben felt proud. As proud as if he’d captured an outlaw. Prouder, in fact. He saw Mary May’s gratitude, the sheen in her eyes again, and he felt ten feet tall. He didn’t think he would ever feel quite like this again.

  He watched as Sarah Ann introduced the doll to Mrs. Culworthy and then cuddled it, whispering motherly things to Suzanna. Then she brought the doll back to him. “You hold her,” she demanded.

  Ben took the doll, not quite sure what was expected of him. “She needs a daddy, too,” Sarah Ann told him solemnly. “Even just for a little while.”

  He swallowed hard. He was thirty-eight years old, and until that moment he’d never realized what he’d missed in allowing his job to consume him.

  But now he wondered if he hadn’t missed a sweetness every man should know.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ben and Mary May were on their way an hour later. Sarah Ann had cried, saying she wanted to go, too. Mary May had leaned down and kissed the tears away. “I’ll be back next week,” she promised.

  While Ben had learned the rest of “To Market,” Mary May had talked to Mrs. Culworthy. Worry puckered his companion’s face as she left the house, this time carrying a bag of food prepared by Mrs. Culworthy.

  Ben helped Mary May mount. He was close enough to see the tears in her eyes, though she tried to hide them with a smile. Seeing she was unsuccessful, she turned away.

  Ben didn’t say anything, waiting for Mary May to talk, and finally, after an hour she did.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I tried to dissuade Mrs. Culworthy from leaving, but she has to go, and she hasn’t found anyone to care for Sarah Ann.”

  “Why don’t you?” he asked frankly.

  “I don’t want her shamed,” she said, her mouth frowning.

  “She knows you’re her mama,” he said. “What does she think you do?”

  “I don’t know,” Mary May said with anguish. “I thought about letting her think Mrs. Culworthy was her mother, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand her calling someone else Mama. And then there was always this possibility, that Mrs. Culworthy would leave. She told everyone my husband died, and that I had remarried and my new husband wouldn’t take the child. At least, it’s kept me respectable enough that other children would play with Sarah Ann. But I’ve always feared someone would recognize me. Mrs. Culworthy was a godsend. She protected me and Sarah.”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know how to do anything else, not well enough to support a child. I haven’t been able to save much because I’ve been sending it to Mrs. Culworthy.” Her back was straight, her chin set, just like Sarah Ann’s had been when she’d announced she wanted a father now.

  Ben was silent for several moments. “Her father?”

  “My husband,” she said with just a trace of bitterness. “He died before I knew Sarah Ann was on the way. Killed in a poker game for cheating. I was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. He didn’t cheat well.”

  “He has no family?”

  She shrugged. “He said he came from some … wealthy family in Scotland, but he lied a lot. I never knew what was true and what wasn’t, though he did have
a Scottish accent. And he spoke well. He just couldn’t stay away from gambling. Once when he was drunk, he told me he’d been disowned for gambling something away.” She grimaced. “He was real bitter.”

  “Have you thought about contacting them?”

  She laughed humorlessly. “I don’t know where they live, who they are, or even if they exist. I certainly can’t turn up on their doorstep, even if he had told the truth for once, or especially if he had.”

  “Maybe,” Ben said, “I can help.”

  “I don’t take charity,” Mary May said sharply. “That’s not why I brought you.”

  “Why did you bring me?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just a long ride, and I …” Her voice broke and she looked away.

  Ben wanted to say everything would be all right. But he didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. And he didn’t know what could be done about little Sarah Ann. He was certainly in no position to marry, even if he were of the inclination. And he wasn’t. He’d decided years ago, after his broken engagement, that he wouldn’t marry. He told himself it was because of the kind of life he had: wandering to hell and back in pursuit of lawbreakers. But the truth was, he knew deep inside, he was just plain scared. After his broken engagement, he’d never really trusted a woman again.

  They stopped at dusk to water the horses. The wind was blowing up and clouds were rushing across the sky, which meant there might be rain.

  Ben had been thinking hard about Mary May’s problem. And Sarah Ann’s future. He broached a solution as they ate the sandwiches Mrs. Culworthy made.

  “There’s a reward,” he said, “for outlaws in Sanctuary, for anyone who helps us find the location. It could be a nest egg, a start for you and Sarah Ann. You can find a boardinghouse someplace, or …”

  He stopped at the look on her face.

  “You think I would take money from someone and turn around and betray them?” Fury filled her eyes. Fury and disappointment. Disappointment in him.

  “You didn’t tell them about me,” he countered.

  “I wasn’t sure,” she said, not even trying to deny her connection. She’d already said too much. He’d heard too much.

  “And now that you are?”

  “I wouldn’t tell them about you any more than I would tell you about them,” her voice breaking again. “I wouldn’t take your blood money.”

  Ben stood there, thoroughly shamed. He had become accustomed to using people for his own ends. Wasn’t that what he was doing with Kane O’Brien, no matter what his motives were? When had he become so hardened, so indifferent to feelings? When he’d seen so many people do exactly what Mary May refused to do. Sell out their friends, their relatives, for a pouch of gold? Except O’Brien hadn’t done that. He’d agreed to Ben’s offer only to save his friend. And here was a saloon girl refusing to take an easy way out of her dilemma. What kind of man was he to use either of them?

  “I’m sorry,” he said lamely.

  “Don’t be,” she said bitterly. “Why should you think I would do anything different? You found me in a saloon.” All the old confidence and spirit were gone. There was only wretchedness in her voice.

  He put a hand on her shoulder, and she jerked away. But he wouldn’t let her. His hand caught her arm and spun her around. He saw the naked hurt in her eyes, and knew he had disappointed her by his offer. He lowered his head and touched her lips, the lips that had so welcomed him during the last few weeks. They were cold at first, unyielding, but then they responded, just as her body responded.

  “Damn you,” she whispered.

  He raised the hand and wiped away a tear. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was … trying to find a way to help. I didn’t think.…”

  “I know,” she said. “There’s no reason you should think well of me.”

  “I think very well of you,” he whispered. “You’re the most honest, truly honest, woman I’ve ever met.”

  She stared at him with disbelief.

  His rough, callused hand touched her cheekbones gently. “We really should go.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, but neither made a move toward the horses. Instead, their lips met, and their tongues exchanged fire and then they were on the ground, spending the hurt and anger and worry in a fury of lovemaking.

  Nicky didn’t know why she didn’t give Kane the map she carried. She trusted him, but some instinct, a basic caution she’d learned at Sanctuary, kept her from sharing it. She also knew that if he had the map, he wouldn’t need her, that he would try to send her back to Sanctuary. So she only told him of the landmarks her uncle had mentioned, one by one as if she were remembering them. He didn’t question her, and that made her feel guilty.

  He pushed hard, and that was fine with her. She wanted to get back to Sanctuary as soon as possible. She couldn’t help but worry about her uncle and Robin. Kane was also quiet. He was usually quiet, but now there was a tight, private expression on his face, as if he were lost in some troubled world.

  They stopped for the night at a stream, though it hardly justified that label. Only a trickle of water flowed along a muddy bottom. It wasn’t fit for washing, but provided enough water for the horses. Nicky felt dirty and grimy and not at all seductive.

  She wanted to be seductive. As tired as she was after nearly two days in the saddle, she wanted the intimacy and security of feeling Kane inside her. She sensed him moving farther and farther away from her with every mile they rode. He seldom looked at her. He certainly didn’t smile at her. He definitely didn’t laugh with her. He was sharing none of himself, but instead seemed to be pushing her farther and farther away.

  His remoteness and preoccupation frightened her, and perhaps that was why she didn’t tell him she had a map. She also thought he might send her back.

  When they stopped for the night, they investigated the contents of the saddlebags on the other two horses. Calico’s held a bottle of whiskey as well as a handful of coffee, jerky, and hardtack. Neither of the latter was appetizing, but they were practical.

  It was cool but not cold, and Kane made no attempt to start a fire. After the past few days, she didn’t question that decision. She no longer knew who was friend or foe.

  After they’d watered the four horses and Kane had established a line for them, he’d offered her what food she wanted, then spread out their blankets, obviously making a conscious effort to separate them. Which was, after the past two nights, preposterous to her way of thinking. Still, she watched as he tipped Calico’s canteen several times, diverting his gaze from her.

  The clouds had fled with the winds, leaving a black canvas sprinkled with stardust and a bright chunk of moon. She was tired, weary almost to the point of not being able to function, yet too tired to sleep. She wanted him to hold her, she wanted to go to sleep in his arms with her gaze directed skyward. She wanted to wish on all those stars and know that Kane O’Brien would make all those wishes come true. She wanted all of that, and she wanted it desperately.

  And he obviously only wanted her a safe distance away.

  She scooted over to him. He looked like he wanted to scoot away. He didn’t. He just looked at her warily. Now that they were well away from Sanctuary, he had attached the beard and a moustache which made his emotions even more difficult to decipher than before. She yearned to touch the uncovered places of his face. She craved the feel of his hands.

  She scooted again and held out her hand. “May I have some of that?”

  He went stock-still. “You don’t drink.”

  True enough, she didn’t. At least, she never had. Her uncle had been adamant about it. Drinking women, he’d often said, were not attractive. But then she’d done a lot of things for the first time since she’d met Kane O’Brien. She’d made love; she’d worn a dress for the first time since she was a child; she’d killed a man; she’d left Sanctuary on her own; she’d saved Kane’s life, not that he seemed all that grateful. She’d even lied a little, or at least withheld information. Drinking whiskey didn’t seem a
ll that great a leap toward perdition’s flame.

  “How do you know I don’t drink?” she challenged.

  That stopped him. She watched him ponder the question for a moment, then he handed the canteen to her. She took a long gulp, as he had, and instantly her throat caught on fire, then her insides. She coughed, and most of the contents caught between her mouth and throat came spewing back out. She had never been more mortified in her life.

  She’d also dropped the bottle, and its contents were seeping out onto the ground.

  She was sick, tired, and so humiliated that she felt unfamiliar tears rush to her eyes. She started to rise, but his hand on her wrist held her back, and when she finally had the courage to look at him he held out his arms and she dove into them. With his damnable beard disguising and hiding his mouth, she hadn’t been able to fathom his expression: pity or disgust or sympathy. She didn’t want any of those. She wanted him to care about her like she cared about him. But at the moment, his arms were safe haven, particularly to a body as tired as hers and a mind as completely besotted with the events of the past night and day.

  He held her tight, and she felt herself shiver, then felt tears running unchecked down her face. She hiccuped, and he held her tighter.

  “I shouldn’t have given that to you,” he said softly.

  “You were right,” she hiccuped. “I’ve never had a drink of whiskey before.”

  “I could tell,” he said with a wry smile.

  “And I’m tired,” she complained.

  “I know that too, little one,” he said softly. “We should have stopped much sooner, but you didn’t let me know. You have too much heart for your own good.”

  She snuggled in his arms. They felt so good. He felt so good. Heart. He thought she had heart. The words warmed her all the way through. She felt his arms tighten around her. She looked up at the sky. At least one of her wishes was coming true.

  Nicky closed her eyes and felt loved, and wanted, as sleep closed in like a welcome friend.