THE OUTLAW AND THE LADY

by Lorraine Heath

  What was Lee feeling? Did he know who he was? Had he recognized Kit? Discovering that Damon was alive after all these years should have been a cause for jubilation, not mourning.

  "I need to speak with Lee," she said. As hard as she tried, she couldn't envision him as Damon. Why hadn't he told her? Had he not realized who he was?

  "I'm not sure that's a wise idea," her mother said.

  "Is he glaring at me?"

  "No," her mother said.

  "Is he looking at me?"

  "No."

  Her heart sank. Not once throughout the day had she felt his gaze on her, and that knowledge chilled her. To have her mother confirm her suspicions—that he was ignoring her—only increased her concern for his welfare. "Did he eat?"

  "No," Spence said.

  A man only fights, querida, when he has a reason to live. So he assumed he had no reason to live, no reason to eat.

  "Spence, will you put some food on a plate? I can get him to eat."

  "I'm not letting you approach him alone," her father said.

  "Isn't he still chained?"

  "Yes, but they have his hands in front of him now instead of behind his back. Seems rather risky to me. Even if he should happen to be … well, whoever he is—"

  "I'll be fine by myself," she interrupted.

  "I've no doubt about that, but still I shall accompany you—"

  "Papa!" she snapped. Reaching out, she wrapped her hand around his. "I love you with all my heart, but I'm not a little girl any longer. I stood up to an outlaw, shot him—"

  "You shot him?" Gray interrupted. "When he attacked you in the clearing?"

  "He never attacked me. That was another man. I shot Lee during my botched escape. Then I tended his wound, fell in love with him, and betrayed him. Believe me, I can handle taking him something to eat by myself." To soften the blow of her words, she brought her father's hand to her lips and pressed his knuckles to her cheek. "Even though you were watching, I grew up."

  Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew the letter that she'd written when the future held promise. "I want you both to read this."

  "What is it?" her mother asked as she took it.

  "A letter I wrote to you when I didn't think I'd return to Fortune." She rose to her feet and extended her hand. "Spence, the plate."

  "Yes, ma'am," he answered smartly as he gave it to her.

  "Don't get cocky."

  "Wouldn't dream of it. I will, however, escort you to the prisoner and then leave you."

  He intertwined his arm around hers before he started walking. As soon as she no longer felt the heat from the fire and knew her parents weren't close enough to hear, she asked, "If I knew why he killed Floyd Shelby and told a judge, would it make a difference in his sentence?"

  "Probably not. Hearsay, and all that. It would be rather like me telling your parents last night that you'd somehow managed to fall in love with an outlaw. I don't think they truly believed it until you told them, just now."

  "Did they look shocked?"

  "Devastated is a more accurate description. I don't think he's exactly what they had in mind for you."

  "Did you talk to him when you took him his food earlier?" she asked softly.

  "I tried, but he took an instant dislike to me."

  She couldn't stop the small smile from playing at the corner of her mouth. "He probably sensed the lawyer in you."

  "I'm not a lawyer yet. You have to be twenty-one to go before the licensing board."

  "You always wanted to grow up too fast," she reminded him. "Did you like him?"

  "Not particularly. He seemed a bit surly, but then under the circumstances, I suppose I would as well."

  "How is your father holding up?"

  "Judging by the uncharacteristic manner in which he's been avoiding everyone, I'd say not too well. Just so you'll know, we have men standing at the perimeter, rifles at the ready." He stopped walking. "Five steps and you'll be at the entrance to the lion's den. Good luck."

  She listened to his retreating footsteps and the pounding of her own heart. She hadn't been this frightened when Lee had first grabbed her outside the bank. Cautiously she strolled forward and then lowered herself to her knees. "I brought you something to eat."

  She heard no clanking of chains and detected no movement of air. She set the plate on her lap. Reaching out with a trembling hand, she searched for his face. As soon as she touched his cheek, he jerked away. Pain ripped through her at his rejection. "Lee—"

  "You knew they were waiting at the river. I saw it in your face, Angela, so don't deny it."

  "Yes, I knew," she whispered, clutching her hands together to stop herself from reaching for him again. "After you had the nightmare, after you drifted off to sleep, I went for a walk. I ran into Spence not far from the house." She leaned toward him. "Lee, all the men you see here were outside waiting for dawn." Tears stung her eyes. "All I could think was that you might be killed. Or Miguel. Juanita. My father."

  "You could have told me."

  "So you could have gotten killed trying to escape? Or killed someone to protect your family?"

  "At least then I might have stood a chance. Your way guarantees me a trip to the gallows."

  She refused to believe he would hang. "When I asked you to leave me to the men who were following you, you wouldn't because you didn't know them. Lee, I know these men. I trust them. You can trust them." Silence stretched between them. "You have the right to be angry, but not stupid." She held out the plate. "You need to keep up your strength."

  The chains clanged as he pulled the plate from her hands.

  "Why did you work diligently to convince me you were Mexican?" she asked.

  "Because in my heart, I am."

  "That first night, after we … made love … were you afraid that I'd figure out who you were if I touched your face?"

  "I thought you might realize what I was not."

  "What was that?"

  "I thought I was not wanted. I'd always assumed I had been abandoned. I didn't want you to know of my shame."

  Her heart constricted at the ravaged echo in his voice. "Do you understand now that you weren't abandoned? I lost you—"

  "No. You must stop blaming yourself for what happened before. For what happened today, you can blame yourself."

  His words stung just as she was certain he'd intended for them to. "Do you remember anything about your childhood?" she asked softly.

  "I remember that I could always beat Alejandro in a scuffle."

  She'd assumed so much about his complexion that she hadn't insisted that he reveal every shade of color, every hue. "What color are your eyes?"

  "Blue. Like a sky at noon when the sun has washed away most of the color."

  Tears welled in her eyes. "Just like Kit's. Just like Spence's. Just like Damon's. They were always so clear. You're Damon," she rasped.

  "No. Damon Rodriguez died the night Shelby attacked his family."

  The breath backed up painfully in her lungs. "Damon? Damon Rodriguez? They called you Damon?"

  "It was my name, all I remembered."

  "When I told you that the child I lost was named 'Damon,' why didn't you tell me who you were then?"

  "Because I didn't know for certain. It could have just been coincidence."

  "But we could have discussed it and determined the truth."

  "What then, Angela? Who I was before does not change the destiny of the man I have become. Instead, people will have to grieve the death of their son all over again. Can you imagine a crueler twist of fate?"

  No, she couldn't, but she'd learned long ago that Fate didn't have a penchant for dealing a winning hand. "If you don't tell them why you killed Floyd Shelby, I will. I lost you once, I'm not willing to lose you again."

  "I have told you I took a vow to take that night to my grave. Betray me once more, and you'll lose me … forever."

  * * *

  Standing within the night shadows at the edge of the camp, Kit watched h
is prisoner. His prisoner. His son.

  And Lee must truly be his son. It was like looking at his reflection in a distant, smoky mirror. Dear God, but Kit would have recognized him anywhere. Fifteen years. And not a day had passed when he hadn't thought of the son that had been lost to him. Inexplicably, he'd never thought of the lad as growing any older.

  He shifted his gaze slightly as Harry came to stand beside him. His trustworthy friend had apparently determined that Kit had wallowed in his misery alone long enough.

  "How will I tell Ashton?" Kit rasped. He squeezed his eyes shut, and a hot tear leaked onto his cheek. "Dear God, Harry, when we found his bloodied clothes, I was certain he was dead. How do I tell her now that I was wrong?"

  "His clothes were tattered and bloody. I drew the same conclusion. You had to put an end to your suffering and hers. It was time to put the hope to rest."

  Wearily Kit shook his head. "The hope never went away. Still, I can't let her watch him hang. I can't let her know now, without any doubt, that our son is dead." He slumped against the tree and dragged his fingers through his hair. "I have spent twenty years enforcing the laws of this state, and my son grew up to represent everything I loathed."

  He pressed his clenched fist against his chest. "It bloody well hurts, Harry. The years with him that were lost to us, the man he is, the man I had dreamed of him becoming the first time I held him within my arms."

  Harry released a great gust of air. "God help me as well, my daughter has fallen in love with the rapscallion."

  Kit grimaced. "She's always loved Damon—"

  "She didn't know he was Damon when she fell in love with him. His accent led her to believe he was Mexican. She had only a vague notion of what he looked like and had no hint whatsoever that he might be Damon."

  "Regardless, her feelings don't change what he did."

  "You've killed."

  Kit's stomach lurched. "Don't travel that path, Harry," he warned.

  "I've killed. By God, my wife has killed. Who is to say his actions were not as justified as ours?"

  "A judge. He has been tried and convicted."

  "I studied him the entire time Angela was with him. I've spent too many years learning to gauge the merits of men, and at the risk of sounding arrogant, I'm damn good at it. Take a closer look at him, Kit. He might be worth saving."

  * * *

  With tears streaming down her lovely face, Angela had returned to her family. Deep inside, Lee wept as well for what they might have shared. He had trusted her, and she had tricked him into being caught by men with the power to destroy him—had she not destroyed him first.

  Angela had spoken time and again of trust. Her treachery hurt all the more because he had confided in her, risked his family, and exposed his heart. He had proposed marriage. The moment should have reflected exultation, not humiliation.

  He could not shake off his shame. The Rangers had been watching when he'd dropped to his knees before her. He had revealed his unbridled love, and these strangers had witnessed the full extent of his betrayal.

  She might succeed in convincing herself that she had done it out of concern for his family and hers, but he would never forgive her for not trusting him to protect those he loved.

  He watched as Angela's mother offered comfort by brushing her daughter's hair. He clenched his hands with the memory of those magnificent strands fanned out over his chest.

  He tore his gaze away from the women and studied the stars. He could connect the bits of light to create images, but he could not piece together all the fragments of his life.

  He refused to accept Angela's claim that he was Damon Montgomery. Although he'd considered the possibility when she'd first mentioned the child's name, he'd quickly dismissed the coincidence. A man with Montgomery's reputation would have found his son—unless he'd been glad to be rid of him. Lee had found that thought too painful to contemplate.

  A movement caught his attention, and he watched Montgomery stride confidently across the camp he commanded with little more than a look or a stance. Lee's heart thundered as the older man neared. Until today, he hadn't realized that in the past few years, he'd seen Montgomery every time he looked into the mirror—only the lines in the Ranger's face ran more deeply.

  Montgomery crouched before him, scrutinizing him as though he wanted to pierce his soul. "Let's take a walk," he said quietly.

  Reaching out, he inserted a key into the shackles' lock. Lee's mouth went dry as he studied the large hands and long, slender fingers that worked to free him. Had they ever been applied to his backside? Held him? Taken his child's hand while the man they belonged to walked beside him explaining the mysteries of the world? They were the hands that should have guided him through life.

  "It's true what they say, you do not wear a gun," Lee said inanely for no other reason than that the silence stretching between them was unnerving.

  "I find pistols cumbersome, but I have a nasty fist that I'm not afraid to use."

  "So do I."

  In the dancing light of the fire, Lee thought he saw pain slash across Montgomery's face. The iron bracelets fell away from his wrists and clanked to the ground. Montgomery stood, and Lee slowly did the same, his muscles stiff from sitting still for so long. One of the men standing nearby with a rifle stepped toward them.

  "No need to follow, Sean," Montgomery said. "We'll be quite all right."

  The two men walked away from the camp, Lee acutely aware of the unexpected sense of familiarity that now overpowered him. He'd always thought that his body bore the scars of truth: he'd been unwanted, neglected, unloved … until a Mexican family had taken him in and embraced him as one of their own. Now, he no longer knew what to make of his conclusions.

  Montgomery came to an abrupt halt and darted a glance at the stars, the tree, and the ground before settling an unwavering gaze on Lee. "Have you any notion as to the reason that you call yourself Lee Raven?"

  Lee thought back to the days after Shelby's attack. He'd dug a shallow grave beside his parents' and put up a marker bearing his real name. As long as Shelby thought he was dead, the man would search for a phantom. Then Lee had combed the recesses of his mind for a name to adopt, a name that would mean nothing to Shelby … but for reasons he'd never been able to comprehend, it meant something to him. "I wanted an alias that couldn't be connected to my family."

  "You failed miserably in that regard, then … or perhaps not. I never spotted the similarity," Montgomery murmured as though lost in thought. He smiled sadly. "Ravenleigh is the name of my family's estate in England. From the moment my first son was born, he was taught that he was the heir presumptive and that someday he would become the Earl of Ravenleigh."

  Lee's stomach clenched. He took two faltering steps back until he slammed against a tree and could use it to support his quaking legs. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "Raven Lee." Lee Raven. The words had become entangled in his memory. The name swirling like a gray mist through his memories suddenly settled into place, and he was a boy listening to his father speak with pride about his family home. Ravenleigh. His heritage. All along, the name he'd chosen had reflected his past more than he'd realized.

  "Before you were Lee Raven, did you go by another name?"

  Slowly Lee nodded. "Damon Rodriguez."

  "Damon," he repeated softly. "Your mother selected the name."

  Your mother. They were the first words Montgomery had spoken that confirmed what Lee had been unwilling to accept, had not dared to admit. Although Angela had told him, he'd refused to believe, but now the truth took root. The man standing before him was his father. No, no, Juan Rodriguez had been his father. He had taught Lee to tend cattle, to show respect toward women, and to love his Mexican heritage.

  "Do you remember her?" Montgomery asked, and within his voice, Lee heard the deep, abiding love he held for his wife.

  "No."

  "Her hair is the same shade as yours. Much longer, of course. Although, you could do with a haircut."


  "Sí." Combing his fingers through his hair, he stilled. He'd seen Montgomery make the same gesture numerous times as they'd set up camp.

  "You speak Spanish."

  "Without thinking. It is the way I was raised."

  Montgomery flinched. Lee didn't know if he'd ever think of him as his father, but perhaps that was for the best. He didn't want Montgomery to see him as his son. He could not imagine the disappointment the man was experiencing to discover his son was an outlaw. And worse, to have thought he was dead once, and to be forced to endure his death again.

  "Do you know how you came to be with the Rodriguez family?"

  Lee swallowed hard. He found it more difficult to trust after Angela's recent betrayal, but he saw no harm in revealing this information. "Juan Rodriguez found me. I was hurt, sick, and hungry."

  "Do you remember anything before that?"

  Like wispy gray smoke, a memory eased past his defenses, but vulnerability, sorrow, and shame traveled with it. He remembered pain, paralyzing fear … but before that … nothing. "No. I'm sorry."

  "No need to apologize. You were very young—"

  "How old am I?" Lee blurted. They'd always celebrated his birthday on the day that they'd found him, but they'd never added years. They'd assumed Alejandro was older because he was taller, but with a full belly every night, Lee had quickly outsized him.

  "Twenty."

  He nodded. He was younger than Alejandro. He should have figured it out. Angela had told him that she was four years older than the boy she'd lost—and he had become exactly what he'd feared he was when she'd told him the boy's name—he was that child. "Angela told me what happened, but I don't remember it."

  "That's probably for the best. I want you to know that I never stopped looking," Montgomery said somberly.

  Lee's gut tightened and he looked away. He had no desire to see the plea for understanding in the man's eyes, the need for Lee to acknowledge that Montgomery was his father.

  "I scoured every Indian village and outlaw hideaway. I gained a reputation for being obsessed with justice when my true goal was to locate my son. Damon—"

  Lee snapped his gaze to Montgomery's. "No, I must remain Lee Raven. That is the man who must go to the gallows. I will not bring shame to the family who raised me … or any other family."