Reluctant Enemies

by Vivian Vaughan

  By the time they stopped to camp the second evening, an understanding of sorts, unspoken though it was, had developed between Priscilla and Will. Call it friendship, call it whatever she wanted, it had suffused Will the whole day. Like life-giving rays from the sun above, Priscilla’s presence warmed him, invigorated him, and he managed with little difficulty to push aside the not-so-distant future and concentrate on the one promising night ahead.

  “You’re downright congenial when you get your way about things, cowboy,” he teased. “What happens when someone crosses you?”

  “Like who?” Priscilla filled the coffeepot.

  He settled on the single bedroll she had spread on a bed of pine needles while she carried water from the little mountain stream nearby. He removed first one boot, then the other. “Charlie. Your mama. Red Avery.”

  At his mention of Avery, Priscilla’s hands froze in midair. She turned, glared at him, silently taking him to task.

  “Oh, I forgot,” Will said innocently. “Avery’s a spineless—”

  She glanced away.

  “Is that why you’re marrying him? So you can lead him around by a ring in his nose?”

  Priscilla made a chore of settling the coffeepot into the banked coals. “I thought I taught you not to ask stupid questions.”

  He laughed, drawing her attention again.

  She cocked her head and smiled, suddenly oozing sweetness. “You left out someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Yourself.”

  She might as well have kicked him in the gut.

  “You asked how I react when someone crosses me. What would happen if you crossed me, greenhorn?”

  “As I recall, we’ve locked horns a few times.”

  She grinned, smug. “You haven’t scratched the surface of my wrath, Radnor.” Her expression grew radiant, but her next words eclipsed her sunny smile. “Lucky for you, you’re going back to Philadelphia, so you’ll never know how downright ornery I can get.”

  “Lucky for me.” But he didn’t feel the least bit lucky. This time he was the first to look away.

  Then his luck changed.

  “Will?” She turned an incandescent smile on him—that same ol’ smile that left him short of breath and taut with wanting her. Instead of waiting for a response, she rushed toward him eagerly. When she was within reach, she threw her arms around him with such vigor he toppled backwards.

  Lying atop him, she kissed him, open-mouthed and wet. When he began to respond, she lifted her head. She tugged seductively at a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead; her fingers blazed a trail of passion down his body. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her closer, holding her tightly, as though to prevent her moving—or leaving.

  He reveled in the feel of her—every long, lithe inch of her—stretched out on top of him. His body sprang to life, reminding him of the sunrise they had watched together that morning. Like the morning sky, his body began to glow from the inside out with a fiery expectancy.

  “Oh, Will, aren’t we lucky? We have another night together. One more night. In each other’s arms…to do…all those wonderful things.”

  She kissed him between phrases, then capped off her assault with, “I love it all. The way your lips feel against mine, the way our skin seems to fuse together, the way your hair feels between my fingers, the way your tongue traces wet trails causing me to shiver, the way you can be hard and demanding and gentle all at the same time, the way—”

  “Pris…cil…la…” He drew out the warning.

  Her prattling stopped, hung in the air between them. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, a grin showing nonetheless, as though she were waiting for an announcement of great magnitude.

  “Shut up and kiss me, before your confounded babbling drives me screaming over that cliff yonder.”

  Then of a sudden, while he gazed into the most sincere and loving pair of blue eyes ever to come from the palette of the Lord Above, Will Radnor saw the light. He watched her wet her lips with her tongue, a slow, sensual invitation.

  He’d been set up. Every beat of his heart thrust his chest against her breasts. He’d been set up by the most unlikely of predators, a guileless girl who, before she met him, had wanted nothing more out of life than to be a cowboy.

  No doubt about it. He’d been set up. But holding her like this, with her lilting voice trebling down his spine and her curves fitting his body to perfection, he was incapable of dredging up the will to object.

  By the time they were disrobed and lying in each other’s arms again, Will had decided the best ploy was to make the most of the situation. Her words thudded through his brain—one more night. Tomorrow they would arrive at Spanish Creek. Tomorrow their fantasy would end. Tomorrow he would drop off the edge of the world into oblivion.

  The astronomers of old had been right—the world was flat; it consisted on only one thing—Priscilla. And once she was gone, oblivion.

  So he loved her like tomorrow would never come, drawing forth her passion, her sweetness, taking every drop of her, leaving nothing for tomorrow, for someone else.

  And she loved him like it was the beginning. She curled around him like a kitten, explored his body with the sultry inquisitiveness of the new, playful Priscilla. Priscilla, the seductress; Priscilla, the woman, who had found the mate of her choice and set out to conquer him against odds even she did not know.

  And in the end she was the one who succeeded. For even with the truth pounding on the door of reality, Will could not think about tomorrow. Not with Priscilla in his arms, her lips on his body, his body filling hers. For Will, there were no tomorrows, only tonight, only Priscilla.

  He lay awake long after she had fallen asleep in his arms, pondering this unwelcome development. Somewhere between Santa Fé and this isolated mountaintop, Priscilla McCain had become the very thing she had resisted so long and so vigorously—a woman. A woman who had found the mate she wanted. Will knew her well enough to see it now. He should have seen it earlier.

  Priscilla had tackled this challenge the same way she tackled everything that mattered to her—giving all, withholding nothing, boldly pursuing her goal. It was in her makeup. It was one of the reasons he loved her so much.

  Determining that she could never please her father as a daughter, she decided to become a cowboy, and she had succeeded. Jake McCain was the best damned cowboy in New Mexico Territory.

  And now she had set out to catch a mate. Trouble was, she’d already caught him, days ago, weeks ago. He didn’t know when it had happened, just that it had happened, likely the first time he saw her in that stagecoach, ready to climb on top and take her chances defending it against outlaws. She could have done it, too. She hadn’t needed his help.

  He grinned. Hell, she certainly hadn’t wanted his help. Will shifted a little, careful not to awaken her. His smile faded, as the certainty gnawed and clawed deep inside him, struggling to free itself. His fears before leaving Santa Fé had been realized—he loved her; Lordy, how he loved her. Lying here with her in his arms, still flushed from their lovemaking, he faced that wonderful, terrible fact: He loved Priscilla McCain, daughter of the man who murdered his father. With a certainty that sprang from some ancient truth, he knew, also, that she was the only woman he would ever love. And as hard as he had tried to submerge that love beneath the hatred he’d lived with and nurtured for twenty-three years, the joy of loving her would not be denied.

  He struggled to resist the overwhelming urge to awaken her and tell her so. To tell her the truth. The truth. That he loved her and hated her father. That he had come to New Mexico to destroy her father. To plead with her to understand, to help him work things out so that Charlie McCain wouldn’t succeed in taking another loved one from him.

  It could be done.

  It could be done, if she loved him more than she loved Charlie. But Priscilla would never love anyone as much as she loved Charlie. Likely no one would ever come close. The best a man could hope for was the knowled
ge that her love for her father was a different kind of love than it was for him. That, and the fact that Priscilla had an enormous wellspring of love from which a man could draw.

  Nestled against his side, fitting with a sureness that in itself told the tale, her arms twined around him, she clung like the ancient ivy that grew up the red brick walls in the City of Brotherly Love.

  Somewhere out in the darkness a coyote called. Here in the clearing he smelled the sweet clean scents of the mountains, the fir, the piñon from their fire, and the heady aroma of Priscilla and their lovemaking. He inhaled deeply, as if to consume her by scent.

  Then from somewhere near the far side of the moon came memories, unbidden, unwanted, a stream of memories, chilling the love-fire that had burned so brightly inside him. Memories of his father, lying on the red carpet with his life’s blood pooling darkly beneath him; memories of his father’s cold, lifeless eyes; of the pistol clutched in his father’s hand; of the empty pistol case in Charles Kane’s office.

  Memories of his mother’s tears, so poignant he could feel them yet, scalding in their intensity, ceasing only with his youthful promise to avenge his father’s death.

  Memories of Priscilla the day she saw his pistol. That damned Colt revolver.

  Will’s breathing deepened, became labored. His heart grew heavy with the awful, sickening truth of the matter. It couldn’t be done. Her mother had said it first. It couldn’t be. In despair, he buried his face in Priscilla’s golden hair, and he cried.

  Priscilla felt the warm rays of the rising sun touch her face, but she resisted opening her eyes. The evening before came back in gentle waves of slow, poignant joy. She stretched an arm toward Will, but found his place vacant. Disappointment. Today would be her last chance to prove to him how much he needed her.

  “’Morning, cowboy.”

  Opening her eyes, Priscilla frowned, seeing Will fully dressed. He knelt beside her, handed her a cup of coffee. Steam wafted from the hot liquid. Following the steam, her gaze locked with his. He wore that same old somber expression.

  She bolted to a sitting position, then belatedly grabbed the edge of the blanket and covered her breasts. Her eyes never left his.

  “Drink up, so we can hit the trail,” he was saying.

  As if it were a condemned prisoner’s last drink, she lifted the cup to her lips and sipped.

  “How far’d you say to Spanish Creek?”

  “Midafternoon.” The word fell from her lips like a boulder and sounded hollow when it hit the cool morning air.

  Will’s gaze held hers. “Priscilla, there’s something I need to tell you. I thought about it all night—”

  Oh, Lord, that bad?

  “—and I can’t see any other way. I don’t think it’s wise to tell you, but…” His words trailed off. He took her cup and set it aside. With the tenderest of movements, he grasped her by the shoulders and lifted her toward him. She watched him earnestly, fearing the unknown, even when his lips descended to hers. He kissed her.

  Briefly. “I decided to be selfish. To tell you. Because if you know, maybe…maybe that’ll make a difference later.”

  “Oh, Will.” Her breath came short. “Just say it, please. Get it over with.”

  He grinned, a smile that brought relief to his grave expression, even though it never reached his eyes.

  “Okay. Here goes—”

  A series of rifle shots tore through the stillness.

  Will gripped her shoulders tighter. “Priscilla, I—”

  Another volley of shots stopped him. This time they sounded closer.

  Priscilla kissed him, soundly, quickly, as he had kissed her. “I love you, Will Radnor, so don’t worry about a thing. Whatever it is, we’ll work it out later.” Oblivious to her naked state, she dropped the blanket and began pulling on her clothing. “If we don’t get shot, first,” she added, stomping into her boots.

  Will stared, stunned by the interruption as much as by the ninety-degree shift in Priscilla. Hell, she’d gone from seductress to cowboy in less than a second. He grinned in spite of himself. “You forgot to shake out your boots, cowboy.”

  “There’re some things worse than snakes in your boots, greenhorn.” Suddenly she was all business. “Grab your rifle.”

  “Victorio promised to keep the Haskels off our tail,” Will reminded her. “Those are probably hunters.”

  “Probably can get you killed.”

  She had a point. Somehow he felt relieved. Had the Lord Above intervened to stop his vain declaration of love?

  Another volley of shots erupted, this one longer. Three, four, he counted five shots, echoing back and forth across the canyon. Priscilla had already scooted closer to the cliff edge, intent now on only one thing, protection.

  Will agreed that the shots had come from the east, across the canyon, the trail they would have been riding only minutes later. But Priscilla was right. It didn’t pay to take anything for granted. “I’ll check behind us, to be sure.”

  By the time he returned, creeping bent over so as not to offer a target, she had stamped out the fire and covered it with earth. “In case they’ve been too busy up to now to see our smoke,” she explained. “Are the horses all right?”

  “Humm.” In silent accord Will took up watch from the left side of the camp, Priscilla from the right, lying on their stomachs, their guns trained across the canyon.

  “Think it’s Indians?”

  “I don’t know.” After a minute she asked, “Aren’t we close to that hideout of Billy the Kid’s?”

  Will nodded.

  Rifle fire crackled again, volleying back and forth in the distance.

  “Sounds like one against several,” Will commented.

  “Humm.”

  “Who?” Neither of them had the answer.

  The sun climbed higher. Sweat trickled down Will’s neck and seeped beneath his shirt. Half a foot or so away, a line of ants busily carried food to their home; insects droned in the morning stillness.

  Across the way the battle erupted again. Many more shots this time, uncountable in the rapidity with which they were fired.

  “They’re closing in,” Will observed.

  “We’ve gotta do something.”

  “Do something? What the hell—”

  “Go to his aid.”

  “Whose aid?”

  “Whoever’s in trouble.”

  “Who?” he demanded.

  Priscilla turned her attention from the distant canyon. “I don’t know, Will.”

  “That’s my point. We might be going to the aid of some outlaw or some—”

  “Well, I’m finding out.” She scooted back from the ledge.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I’ll saddle the horses. Keep your eyes peeled. Try to pinpoint his position so we won’t lose time searching for him.”

  While she issued orders, Will rose. Reaching her, he pulled her around. “You pinpoint his position. I’ll saddle the horses.”

  She frowned. “Since when have you been better at saddling horses than I am, greenhorn?”

  In spite of the situation, he grinned at her cocky attitude. “Since I fell in love with you, cowboy.” The words tumbled out of their own volition. Hadn’t he decided not to tell her? He watched her assimilate the shocking pronouncement. Her eyes grew round; they sparkled. If he’d needed confirmation of his feelings for this woman, or hers for him, here it was, in living color. He realized suddenly that his wish list was simple. He wouldn’t require much to keep him the happiest man in the world. Looking into Priscilla’s sparkling blue eyes every morning for the rest of his life would be all the prize he’d ever want or need.

  Rifle fire broke out again, startling him into action. “Get down, damnit. And stay down while I saddle the horses.”

  In the end, he had to push her down, for she stood frozen to the spot, staring at him. Hell fire and damnation, he shouldn’t have told her. Now she would expect, rightfully, all the accoutrements that went alo
ng with such a declaration—commitment, marriage, children—none of which he would be able to give. None of which she would want, after they returned to Spanish Creek.

  The rifle volleys continued. “Well, get busy, greenhorn,” she snapped. “We can’t stand around looking sappy while someone gets himself gut shot.”

  In spite of the situation, Will couldn’t suppress a grin. “Right.” Turning toward the thicket where they’d tethered the horses, he swooped up the bedroll without breaking stride.

  “Be careful back there,” she called. “I don’t want you catchin’ a bullet, now that life’s gettin’ interesting.”

  It had worked! Her plan had worked. Priscilla took up her post, while inside she felt like any minute she might explode from the sheer joy of being alive and in love—and having that love returned. He’d said it! He’d said it!

  What she’d really like right this minute was to ride off in the opposite direction. Ride until they were out of sight and sound of any other human being, whether they were shooting at each other or not. Ride until she and Will were as alone as they had been mere moments ago.

  Ride to some secluded, romantic site, with soft grass and maybe a creek trickling down the mountain, and birds, yes, birds singing from the trees, a private place where they could take off all their clothes and lie in each other’s arms and make love—after she demanded that he say it again. And again. And maybe even again.

  Words mushroomed in her head. Questions: How did he know and when had he realized it and why had he fought loving her so long and hard? Questions, whose answers she would have been frightened to hear only hours ago. Now she longed to hear them.

  Will whistled, drawing her attention. When she turned he held the reins of both their horses, saddled and packed. She scooted toward him. She wanted to throw herself in his arms and demand he tell her again. Yet, something inside her wanted to savor that magical declaration a while longer. Something inside her begged to resist touching him, talking about it—about them—to revel in anticipation of later. To allow that anticipation to build and build throughout the day until by the time they finally came together it would’ve become real. Right now, it felt more like a dream. For a split second, she entertained the notion that he hadn’t said the words at all. That she had wanted to hear them so badly, her imagination had taken charge of her senses.