THE OUTLAW AND THE LADY

by Lorraine Heath

  She nibbled on her lip. "But you're the one instructing him on manners. Who would have thought an outlaw would care about being polite?"

  "I am not your ordinary outlaw," he stated confidently.

  "No, you're not." Neither did she think he was an ordinary man. Why couldn't he have put his talents toward achieving greatness instead of notoriety? Why was he so protective of his identity? "I don't understand how it is that no one knew what you looked like. Weren't you at your trial?"

  "No."

  "How could you not attend your own trial?"

  "Shortly after I murdered Floyd Shelby, I sent Vernon Shelby a letter. I signed my name. I wanted him to know Lee Raven knew what he had done and would make him pay. I also thought it would ensure that they never went after my brothers. I heard that Shelby took the letter to a judge. He was able to get a conviction and a sentence."

  It wasn't unheard of for judges to pass down sentences without actual trials—especially in the less populated areas of Texas.

  Her breathing stilled as he took her hand, turned it slightly, and trailed his fingers across her fingertips. "No calluses." Creating tiny figure eights, his callused fingers journeyed slowly over her palm, eliciting delicious responses throughout her body. "Incredibly soft, white. Hands that have not had to toil in the sun."

  "I worked in the garden with Juanita yesterday." She felt the heat rise in her face with her breathless response. Why did she forget to breathe whenever he touched her?

  "I was not insulting you, querida. I was simply pointing out that yours are the hands of a lady." And his were the hands of an outlaw. A fact she found easy to overlook because they were much more. They were the hands of an older brother who had taken on the role of father, those of a son striving to find justice, those of a man who had risked his own capture to protect her.

  He continued to caress her as though he wanted to memorize every line that cut across her palm, every groove in her fingertip. "What did your fingers see when they looked at my brothers?"

  Unmistakable longing echoed in his voice, and her heart constricted with the knowledge that he'd allowed his brothers to experience what he desired. He wanted her to touch him, but his inability to trust her forced him to hold his desires at bay; and in so doing, he tethered hers as well.

  She lifted her free hand. "Lee, I could show you—"

  "No."

  He took her hand. Now, holding both, he circled his thumb within the center of her palm. "Tell me what you saw," he implored quietly.

  Her throat tightened and she fought back the tears for what they could both never have: the other.

  "Roberto is a worrier."

  "How do you know?"

  "The furrows in his brow are deep."

  "And Jorge?"

  "He was the only one besides Miguel who smiled. The lines in his face seemed fainter, as though he were more carefree—"

  "Reckless. He is reckless."

  "Eduardo is shy. I think he must have been blushing because I could feel his face growing warm."

  "Can you not tell that my flesh heats up whenever you are near?"

  She shook her head slightly. "I … I"—she had noticed how hot his body was, but she'd never dared hope she was responsible—"I just thought you were naturally hot."

  "Touching you, even in a way as innocent as this"—he trailed his finger along her collarbone—"is enough to make my blood boil. My skin grows fevered, as though I were sick … dios mío, you are making me loco."

  Abruptly he stood, and she heard him retreat in the direction of the window. She pressed her palms against her own warm cheeks. She repeated her silent litany—he was an outlaw—but her heart no longer cared. Slowly she rose to her feet and cautiously worked her way to his side. "Lee—"

  "We are having Miguel's party tonight. Tomorrow I'm taking you home."

  "It's not right, Lee," she said quietly.

  "You wanted to go home—"

  "I'm talking about Miguel."

  "What is wrong with him?"

  "Nothing is wrong with him, but everything is wrong with his life."

  "What do you mean?"

  She thought she detected a measure of fear in his voice. Reaching out, she touched his arm, surprised to find him so tense. She wanted to reassure him, but at the same time she felt a responsibility to make him aware of the harm he was causing. "Who does he play with?" she asked gently.

  "He has us," he replied, clearly baffled. "We play with him."

  "But he needs to play with other children."

  "Jorge is like a child. Always getting into trouble—"

  "Jorge is reckless, not a child. Miguel needs someone near his age."

  "You said yourself that we were doing a good job raising him."

  "And you are," she rushed to assure him. "But he acts more like a little adult than a small boy. What happens when it's time for him to start school?"

  "I will teach him. I can read and cipher. I'll teach him what he needs to know."

  "I understand that you're wanted for murder, but you can't punish your whole family—"

  "I am not punishing them! I am trying to protect them."

  "By giving them a life that allows no one else in? How will Miguel learn about the world?"

  "I will tell him."

  "Just like you've told me what you want me to know?"

  "I've told you many things."

  "But not everything. If you trusted me—"

  "It's not a matter of trust; it's a matter of protection."

  "How are you protecting those you love? By hiding them away? What kind of life is this?"

  "It's the best I can give them."

  "But it's not enough, Lee. Their world is as empty as mine."

  "Better it be empty than not exist at all." He brushed past her, and she listened to the heavy tread of his boots as he stormed away. She pressed her palm against the window, desperate to touch the impossible dream: of capturing Lee Raven, not with shackles, but with her heart.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

  « ^ »

  Angela grew dizzy as Miguel, with his small hands pressed against her knees, encouraged her to go round and round. She wore a bandanna over her eyes because no one trusted her blindness completely. She couldn't explain why that fact made her happy, perhaps because the action made her seem like everyone else.

  Although Lee had not spoken to her for the remainder of the day except to bark out that it was time to celebrate Miguel's birthday, she knew he stood nearby, could feel the heat of his gaze on her.

  She stumbled and laughed. "I think that's enough, Miguel. I'll never find the piñata now."

  Miguel giggled. Someone thrust a pole into her hand. Before the person could retreat, she bopped him on the head. Miguel guffawed. She so loved his trills of delight. She would miss him when she left, and she knew that moment was coming sooner than she wanted, probably tomorrow.

  She listened intently for the wind whispering across what Juanita had described as brightly colored streamers dangling from a clay pot. Angela had no plans to hit the piñata hard. She would leave the thrill of actually cracking it open to Miguel, but she did want to tap it just to prove that she was an equal at this child's game. She swung out and sliced the pole through the air … at nothing. She regained her balance and dignity.

  "You moved it up!" she yelled. She'd heard hemp scraping across bark.

  "Of course, señorita," Jorge said. "That is the way the game is played."

  She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath, determined to move more quickly. A few swipes and stumbles later, she was breathing heavily and losing whatever semblance of patience she might have had. She clenched her teeth and swung the stick as quickly as she could with all her might—and it came to a dead halt as she hit an immovable object.

  "Your turn is over, Angela," Lee said in a low voice just before he snatched the pole from her. "Miguel, it is time for you." Lee unwound the bandanna from her head.

  "She w
as funny to watch," Miguel said.

  Lee took her arm and led her aside. "Stand out of harm's way," he ordered.

  As soon as she supposed she was in a safe place, he released her. "Tomorrow, we leave for Fortune. Tonight you will sleep with Juanita."

  His plans should have had her jumping with joy instead of feeling a keen sense of loss. "How long do you intend to remain angry with me?" she demanded.

  "How can you accuse me of being angry when I am granting your wishes?"

  "I know you, Lee."

  "You know nothing."

  "You've avoided me for most of the day," she pointed out quietly.

  "I had chores to do."

  "Liar."

  "Don't aggravate me, Angela," he said in a tightly controlled voice.

  Angela, not querida. He was definitely upset with her.

  "Where is it? Where is it?" Miguel cried out.

  "Lee, I'm not going to tell anyone what I've learned about you or your family."

  "I know that."

  "Then why remain upset with me?"

  He sighed deeply. "Because you made me realize that I have put my family in danger with my selfishness and my quest for revenge. I must find a way to change that."

  "Are you going to give Shelby back his money?"

  "Never." She heard his scorn explode in the single word. "I must simply remove myself from them and continue my quest alone."

  Thwack!

  "I hit it!" Miguel cried.

  "Hit it again, Miguel," Alejandro yelled.

  Thwack! Thwack!

  "Good job!" Alejandro said.

  And she wondered if before her arrival, Lee would have been the one shouting encouragement, and she suddenly realized that he wasn't only withdrawing himself from her, but from his family.

  * * *

  For as long as he could remember, Lee had loved these people who sat beneath the stars with him. He had always foolishly thought that when he was captured, he alone would pay and that they would be left in peace.

  Youth, fury, and pain had blinded him to the truth. Angela saw more clearly than he did. He had thought to keep his family with him for as long as he could. Now, he realized that he needed to separate himself from them and ensure that no one suspected them—ever. Otherwise, he risked betraying the generous hearts of his parents.

  "Lee, play us a song," Juanita said softly, breaking into his thoughts.

  He smiled warmly at her. She so seldom asked for anything that he could deny her nothing. He would have tonight with his family, surround himself with their love, share his own … a night to remember that he would carry with him always.

  He took the guitar that she offered him. Their mother had taught them all to play, but there was little doubt that Lee's voice was the most melodious. He strummed his fingers over the strings before singing Juanita's favorite song.

  Angela wasn't surprised that Lee sang beautifully. She was surprised that he'd chosen such a sad song: "Red River Valley." Yet, she could almost hear him saying farewell himself as his voice carried the words into the night.

  She sensed an underlying current among the older brothers, as though they all recognized that a change was hovering just beyond the horizon. She was certain Juanita was unaware of it. Juanita seemed in a way separate from them. As far as Angela could tell, Juanita never ventured far from the house. And of course, Miguel was still wrapped in the innocence of a child.

  If only she could convince Lee to seek out Kit Montgomery. She was certain Kit would listen to his tale. She didn't think Lee could get away without any punishment at all, but a few years in prison would be better than a noose around his neck. She shuddered with the thought and shoved it out of her mind.

  She wanted to enjoy what she was certain was going to be her last night here. They had celebrated Miguel's birthday. He'd broken his piñata. Her time with the notorious outlaw was coming to a close.

  Swaying gently, she became immersed in Lee's rich voice. She heard no trace of his accent as he sang and wondered again if maybe his accent was fake, designed to throw her off. But this was his family … or was it? Perhaps they'd hired someone … the thoughts began swirling so fast that she became as dizzy as she had earlier when Miguel had spun her around. Something was off, but what?

  Lee's voice drifted into silence, the final chords hummed on the breeze, and her suspicions faded.

  "Dance with me, querida," Lee ordered, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. "What? I can't dance."

  "Play something fast, Alejandro," Lee said as he drew her body flush against his.

  She shook her head vigorously. "I can't dance."

  "If there is one truth I know, it is that you can do anything."

  Alejandro strummed the guitar, the chords rippled through the air, and Angela tightened her hold on Lee, her left hand digging into his shoulder while the fingers on her right hand clutched his, his thighs brushing against hers as he guided her through the rapid steps of the dance.

  If she could see, Lee thought, their gazes would be locked. Her face was angled back slightly so it appeared she was looking at him while he was unable to stop watching her. Her body moved in rhythm to his, as though they were one—exactly as he'd envisioned it. With each beat of the music, the warmth from her body seeped more deeply into his.

  With grace, she glided through the movements as though she knew how he would turn, how he would twist, before he did. Only once did he push her away from him and spin her under his arm before bringing her back to the place where he had the irrational thought that she truly belonged—with him.

  He slowed his steps, no longer following the rhythm of the music, but listening instead to the insistent murmuring of his heart. He tightened his hold on her while his gaze slowly moved over her face, noting her slightly open mouth, her wondrous eyes, the delicate features that masked a determination he admired.

  The music stopped and only then did he realize that he had stopped dancing long before. He watched her chest heaving with her rapid breaths, breaths not created by movement, but by anticipation. Her tongue darted out and touched her upper lip. God help him, he wanted to lift her into his arms, carry her to his bed, and make her his, completely and absolutely.

  Instead, he released her. She staggered back. Within the torches' glow, he saw the confusion and disappointment fill her eyes.

  "The party is over," he snapped. Then he strode away from the house, away from his family, away from the only woman who possessed the power to destroy him.

  * * *

  Sitting on the bed, braiding her hair, Angela listened as Juanita helped Miguel recite his prayers. Calming him after his successful busting of the piñata had been a challenge, one Juanita had handled with incredible patience.

  Angela would miss them, would long for the moments when she was wrapped in the arms of a man who never seemed to view her blindness as a shortcoming.

  They had danced. Never in her life had any man, not even her father, swept her onto a dance floor and guided her movements with his body's subtle directions: the nudge of a knee, the closing of his fingers around hers, his chest brushing against her breasts. Her nipples had tightened with the first stroke and sent desire coiling deep within her. She grew warm just remembering his breath quickening, not from the speed of their actions, but from the intimacy of their contact. For a time, it had seemed as though they were one, inseparable. His heat had become hers. His motions had carried her toward ecstasy. Had her eyes reflected her wanton craving for his touch?

  They must have, for surely that was the reason he'd left abruptly. He'd been wise to banish her to Juanita's bed for the night because she'd been acutely aware of the passion shimmering between them, like the desert sun creating walls of heat, and just like that sun, destroying all that it touched.

  Did he fear his destruction as much as she did? Did he desire her with the intensity that she did him?

  "Goodnight, Miz Angela."

  Angela
snapped to the present. She crossed the short expanse to Miguel's bed. Zoning in on where his voice had traveled from, she knelt, touched the pillow, and detected his nearby warmth. He was already lying down. She combed her fingers through his hair. "Did you have a good birthday?"

  "Sí. I will break the piñata at your birthday," he said with such eagerness that she loathed disappointing him.

  "My birthday isn't for a while yet."

  "How old are you?" he asked.

  "Twenty-four."

  "Juanita, how old are you?" he asked.

  "Seventeen."

  Startled, Angela stopped brushing her fingers through Miguel's hair. She'd touched Juanita's face, knew she was young. But to be seventeen and so isolated. This life seemed almost cruel.

  "When is your birthday? I will break your piñata," Miguel assured Juanita.

  "My birthday is not for many, many months. Now, go to sleep and break piñatas in your dreams," Juanita ordered him gently.

  Angela bent down and kissed his forehead. "Have pleasant dreams, little one."

  He rolled over, and she waited, listening for shallow, even breathing that meant he'd drifted off to sleep. The mattress moaned slightly as Juanita climbed into bed. Slowly, Angela rose to her feet and returned to the bed. She slipped beneath the covers.

  "It is good that you are sleeping here tonight," Juanita whispered. "It is not right for a man to have a woman in his bed if he is not married to her."

  "We only slept," she said quietly, surprised by the stab of disappointment that the truth caused. If he had welcomed her into his bed tonight, she couldn't be certain that all she would have done was sleep. He stirred something deep within her, something more compelling than desire. "Juanita, when Lee and I danced, was he smiling?"

  "No. I have never seen him look as he did tonight," Juanita said, her voice low, as though she feared she was imparting a secret.

  "Angry?"

  "Oh, no. I have seen Lee angry. Tonight it was like he was under a spell."

  Angela shifted on the mattress. "What do you mean?"

  "While you danced, he never took his eyes off you. He watched you as though you were the light in his darkness."