THE OUTLAW AND THE LADY

by Lorraine Heath

  When he was younger and his days were marked by hard toil and the loving embrace of a complete family, he'd dared to sneak a kiss or two when a pretty girl was willing. But as a man, he'd never known the full flavor of a woman's mouth … until Angela. Her sweet, tempting taste haunted him still. He could easily become obsessed with her, and that obsession would endanger them both.

  "Why did you stay?" she asked softly.

  "I told you. I realized I couldn't go. Since I did not know the man, I could not trust him not to harm you."

  "And if he hadn't knocked me to the ground?"

  "I would have slipped farther into the shadows." And have never seen her again, but he would have thought of her constantly. Whenever he heard a mockingbird or watched a sunrise or wrapped his poncho around his body. Whenever the wind wailed, the leaves in the trees rustled, or he sat alone in his saddle. She would be there, taunting him with dreams that lay beyond his grasp.

  "I don't understand why you risked capture when I've been nothing but trouble."

  "I have a bad habit of always wanting to protect women," he murmured. "Even when they are aggravating." Especially when they intrigued him, challenged him, made him wish he was a rancher, a teacher, a merchant … a simple man with a simple life that allowed him to sleep at night with a woman in his arms.

  "So I assume you've had a lot of women in your life."

  He couldn't determine if she'd issued a statement or asked a question, but he was fairly certain she didn't welcome the thought that he might have had a life filled with women. The realization made him smile. "Not too many."

  "How many?"

  He shrugged. "A hundred. Maybe two."

  A startling realization hit her. It was the first time he hadn't been honest with her. "Did you know that your accent thickens when you lie?"

  "Then my accent must forever be thick."

  "Not really. Sometimes it's as though it's not there at all. That's part of the reason that I thought it was fake that first morning."

  "And the rest of the reason?"

  She shook her head. "I can't quite put my finger on it."

  And he hoped she never would because that one bit of information had the power to unleash all that he wanted to forget.

  "I could have gotten you killed today," she said quietly, leaning back and tilting her face slightly.

  "But you did not. I am an extremely cautious man."

  "You saved me, and I don't even know what you look like."

  She lifted her hand and he quickly wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

  "Let me touch your face," she pleaded gently.

  "No."

  "Are you hideously ugly?"

  Her tart voice made him smile. He much preferred her anger to her sadness.

  "If you know what I look like, querida, I cannot return you to your father."

  "I would never tell anyone."

  "I never thought that I would murder a man. You cannot know what you would do, querida, until you are in the situation."

  "Why did you kill Floyd Shelby?"

  Not even for her would he break the vow he'd taken that long ago night. "He aggravated me."

  "He aggravated you? It sounds as though you weren't trying to get even with Vernon Shelby. What did his son do?"

  The woman's mind was like a steel trap, latching onto the most insignificant of things and twisting them around until she discovered their significance. "It is best to forget that night."

  "But you're not forgetting it. You're on a quest for revenge—"

  "Some things are to be remembered, some forgotten, and that is all I will say on the matter. Now, go to sleep."

  Miraculously, she did as he ordered. He could only assume that her head still ached, and she welcomed the opportunity to escape the pain. Her head dropped forward and he positioned it at a more comfortable angle.

  For one insane moment, he considered pressing her palm against his cheek, even though she'd fallen asleep and would never know. But if she ever touched his face, he feared her caress would reach into his heart.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  With Grayson Rhodes standing beside him, Christian Montgomery watched helplessly beneath the boughs of an ancient oak tree. There, Jessye Bainbridge clung to the scrap of green material that had once been part of her daughter's dress. A woman's tears had the ability to bring him to his knees, but this woman's tears were especially painful to witness.

  Other than his wife, Jessye was the most courageous woman he knew. He had not been surprised when he'd met up with Harry and Gray to find Jessye was with them. It was fortunate that he'd been at the Rangers' Austin headquarters when the telegram had arrived alerting him to Angela's abduction. Since he'd had less distance to travel, he'd been able to begin the search sooner.

  Harry had his arms wrapped around his wife, and Kit could see that he was fighting back despair. The evidence—disturbed ground, a bloody rock, the scrap of cloth—suggested that a struggle had taken place in the clearing.

  "I want this man found, Kit, I want him found, and by God, I want to be the one to kill him," Harry said.

  Kit cast a quick glance at his son, crouched in the center of the clearing, a pensive expression causing deep furrows to crease his brow. A thinker. Spence would make an excellent earl to Ravenleigh, the family estate in England. Four of his men were fanning out on foot, rummaging for evidence. He'd sent two other Rangers, Sean Cartwright and Adam Smith, on horse to search the surrounding area.

  "I brought my best men, Harry."

  Jessye met his gaze, her eyes limpid pools of green. "What do you think happened here?"

  God help him, he should have known she wouldn't be content until she knew all. Kit combed his fingers through his hair. He was in dire need of a haircut, but ever since he'd received word of Angela's abduction, he'd thought of nothing except finding her. "In all honesty, I don't know what to make of this situation, but I don't think Raven has hurt Angela."

  "Why?" Jessye asked, the relief in her voice like a sharp knife to Kit's heart as her fingers tightened around the scrap of cloth. He hated dealing out false optimism, yet he wanted to lessen their worry. He could only pray that it wasn't for naught.

  "If his intent was to attack Angela, why wait almost a week? It makes no sense."

  "Does taking our daughter make sense?" Harry asked.

  Kit shook his head. "No, no, it doesn't. Especially since he hasn't asked for a ransom."

  "Perhaps because he hasn't had time," Gray suggested. "After all, we've determined there's a group of bounty hunters between him and us."

  "Which makes it even less likely he attacked her, not when the men following were at their closest."

  Jessye tightened her fingers around the green cloth until her knuckles turned white. "Why did he rip off a portion of her bodice?"

  "I don't think he did," Spence said.

  Jessye looked at him as she did her own children, with affection. "Two buttonholes, Spence, tell me that this piece came from the bodice of her favorite dress. She'd never tear it off."

  "I'm not suggesting that she did. I'm only saying that Raven didn't." He shifted his body and pointed to the ground. "I believe these grooves were made by spurs when someone rolled a few times."

  Kit, Harry, and Gray exchanged furtive glances.

  "Spence, I don't think we want to travel this line of analysis," Kit said quietly. He had no desire for Jessye to hear any speculative details about what had happened to Angela.

  Spence met his gaze with eyes the same shade of light blue as his own. "I know where you think I'm headed with this, but when a man leaves a woman he's bedded, he doesn't usually roll several times. I think she and Raven stopped here. Perhaps he went in search of food; I'm not sure. But I think she was alone. Another man attacked her. Raven then attacked him, shoved him off her, and the man rolled, repeatedly, his rowels scoring the earth."

  "Possibly," Kit acknowledged. "We'll ask him when we find th
em. And we will find them."

  A movement caught his attention, and he watched Cartwright and Adams ride into the clearing and dismount. "What did you discover?"

  Cartwright approached him. "We located the fire that we spotted two nights ago. Our guess is that it was Raven. We found this."

  Kit took the dirt-covered card he extended.

  "Good Lord," Harry said, as he limped across the clearing, leaning heavily on his cane. He snatched the card from Kit's fingers and skimmed his thumb across it. "It's Angela's." He looked at Cartwright. "Did you find the others?"

  "No, sir. We almost missed this one. Dried leaves were covering most of it," Cartwright said.

  A contemplative expression on her face, Jessye took the card from Harry. "The two of hearts," she murmured.

  "Does that mean something?" Kit asked.

  "I won Jessye's love with that card."

  "You already had my love, Harry, you just earned the right to make me your wife." She met Harry's gaze with her troubled one. "You don't reckon she was trying to tell us that she loves this man."

  "Good God, no! He's an outlaw, Jessye—"

  "You were a scoundrel. That didn't stop me from loving you."

  "A scoundrel and an outlaw are worlds apart. It must have accidentally fallen out of her pocket," Harry said.

  "Harry, from the moment you gave her that deck of marked cards, she insisted on wearing a dress with a pocket so she could carry it with her. If I bought her a dress without a pocket, she'd sewn one in it. Angela deliberately left this card, hoping someone would find it and know what it meant. I'd bet my life on it."

  "All right, let's assume for a moment that Angela didn't lose it, but left it on purpose," Kit said. "I think we can safely assume she doesn't love the desperado. So what message was she attempting to convey?"

  "It obviously has sentimental meaning to your family. Perhaps she just wanted to reassure you that she was unharmed," Grayson offered.

  "'Not to worry, I'm simply traipsing across the countryside with a murderer'?" Harry asked sharply.

  Kit held up his hands. "All right, we don't need to be snapping at each other." He glanced at his son, who was good at deducing. "What do you make of all this?"

  "I agree with Gray."

  If Spence had been ten years younger, Kit would have ruffled his burnished hair for that "ask me why I think as I do" look in his eyes. "Because?"

  "Why didn't he make camp here?" Spence tossed out, before turning to Jessye. "All we've discovered falls in line with my theory. They stopped here. Perhaps he intended to camp here, but then someone attacked Angela. So they moved on and made camp elsewhere. She left the card to let you know that she's okay."

  "Now what do we do?" Jessye asked.

  "I propose that we continue on. Raven will be avoiding any populated areas, but that doesn't mean we have to. One of my men can go to the nearest town and send one telegram to your daughters and one to Ashton to allay their worries a little." He knew his wife would be anxious to receive news regarding their search.

  Jessye wound her arms around him and released a tiny sob. "Oh, Kit, all those years ago, I thought I knew what you and Ashton were going through. I didn't have a clue."

  He hugged her tightly. "We'll find her, Jessye. I won't fail this time."

  She lifted her gaze to him. "You didn't fail last time."

  He stepped out of her embrace, understanding that an argument was not what she needed at this moment, but reassurances. "Let's prepare to ride."

  He walked to Harry's horse and waited for his friend to join him. He knew it grated on his pride that he needed help mounting his horse. He heard Harry's halting footsteps, the cane he used beating out an unsteady tattoo. Then silence.

  "At least we have hope that Angela is alive, and perhaps he isn't treating her too shabbily. There's some comfort in not knowing everything, I suppose."

  Kit turned and faced his friend of many years. "No, Harry. There's no comfort at all in not knowing. It's been fifteen years since my firstborn son disappeared, and there isn't a damn day when I don't wake up and wonder if what I found was evidence he'd been killed. As painful as the absolute certainty will be, it's better to know."

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Angela ran her swollen tongue over her cracked lips. The unmerciful sun beat down with a vengeance. She was grateful for the shade Lee's hat provided. They seldom galloped now, but simply plodded along over unforgiving terrain. She had lost count of the number of days and nights they'd been together. She had to focus all her effort on remaining in the saddle when she desperately wanted to lie down on the ground and sleep until she was an old woman.

  He shoved the canteen into her hands.

  "Drink. Once. Hold the water in your mouth for a while before swallowing," he ordered in a voice that sounded like sand brushed over rocks.

  She welcomed the drops of moisture coating her tongue, knowing she didn't have the luxury of coating her lips. She handed the canteen back to him and heard him put it away. She swallowed. "I didn't hear you drink."

  "I'm not thirsty," he rasped.

  "Lee, you have to drink some water."

  "It is not a hard thing to do without when you have grown accustomed to it," he said.

  "I'm very sorry."

  With his palm, he tenderly cupped her cheek. "I have told you before, you have nothing to apologize for. You are courageous, querida. You make me wish…"

  "What do you wish?"

  "For things that can never be. If I do not see the riders today, tomorrow we'll head home and toward fresh water."

  Home. His home, not hers, although now she had absolutely no fear. She knew as surely as she knew the moment twilight arrived that he would return her to her family.

  He was not a soft man, yet he gave her moments of softness. She sensed he'd been shaped more by the one night he'd watched the murder of his family than all the years that had come before. What would his life be like now if no one had killed those he loved? She had a thousand questions to ask him, and a throat that hurt with each word spoken. The time would come, soon, when she would gain the answers she sought.

  * * *

  A lightning bolt quickly zigzagged across the midnight sky. A slow smile eased over Lee's face as some of the tension that had been mounting for days left him. Thunder resounded.

  "We're in luck, querida. A storm."

  "I can smell the rain."

  "It will be here soon."

  He urged his horse into a gallop. With any luck, he could cover some distance before the first raindrop fell, and the drops that followed would wash away his passing.

  Because he had grown accustomed to being with Angela he had a difficult time imagining riding alone. He knew a time would come when again he would, but he did not welcome it. He wondered about the men who had passed through her life. Although she claimed to have no one waiting for her, surely many men had courted her.

  A raindrop splattered on his thigh. Another hit his hand. Lightning burst through the blackened clouds, thunder boomed, and a torrential rain deluged them. Lee slowed the horse to a walk, swept his hat from his head, and removed hers. "Enjoy the rain, querida."

  She tilted her face up, her head nestled within the crook of his shoulder as though it had been specifically created with her in mind. It amazed him whenever he studied her, which he did with increasing frequency, to realize that every aspect of her complemented him. Where she was soft, he was hard. Where she was curved, he was flat.

  For no more than a heartbeat, a sheet of lightning illuminated her features and he committed each one to memory. The rain hitting her face, her lips spread slightly apart, her tongue darting out to capture the water, the droplets clinging to her eyelashes like tiny pearls.

  The freckles over her nose tugged at his heart, made her seem younger, innocent. But she was no child. She was a woman who had fought, beguiled, and shot him. She had slept in his arms, touched the loneliness in his heart wi
th soft words, and impressed him with her courage.

  All his life, he'd thought he was incredibly strong, and now he was learning that he was humbly weak. Where she was concerned, he seemed to have no willpower, no strength to resist the enticing temptation she offered.

  Skimming his thumb along her cheek, cooled by the rain, he gathered the fine dew of moisture that remained. The heat of her breath warmed his hand. Like a desperate man he slowly lowered his mouth to hers, not with the heated passion that had burned through him before—that had done nothing to sate his desires—but with a patience born of needing one moment in his life where time stood still.

  The rain eased up just enough that the gentle patter mingling with the humming of the slight wind became a melody. Her lips yielded to his. With one arm, he drew her more closely into the curve of his body, while his other palm rested against her cheek, his thumb continuing to stroke the velvety softness. Where before he had thrust his tongue into her mouth, now he entered slowly, relishing each passage of the journey, the various textures, the burning recesses that were in direct contrast to her cool cheek. He didn't know if the sigh he heard had come from her or the wind, but he deepened the kiss, and her responding moan shimmered through him clear down to his boots.

  What had been merely a spark suddenly ignited into an inferno. He pressed her more firmly against his chest, their drenched clothes absorbing the heat from their bodies until he felt as though they wore nothing at all. He could feel her nipple hardening and straining against the fabric of her dress flattened against his chest.

  Lowering his hand, he cupped the firm mound of her breast, his fingers kneading, reshaping, but none of his actions altered her perfection. A guttural growl reverberated through his throat, his breathing grew harsh and rapid. He tore his mouth from hers, bent her slightly, closed his lips around the sweetest bud, and suckled gently through the cloth. She almost came off his lap, whimpering, digging her fingers into his shoulder. He lifted his gaze as lightning revealed a woman entranced, and need shot through him with heart-pounding force.