He held her just a trifle longer than necessary, and then he set her on her feet, his lips twisting into that half smile that suggested so little amusement. “An accident, Miss Lori?”
She straightened and looked him straight in the eyes. “What do you think, after forcing me to ride on that horse’s backbone for a day and a half? Every part of me is stiff.”
“That so? Didn’t feel like it to me,” he drawled with his soft, slow Texas accent.
Lori glared at him. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“I don’t think so,” he said with the patient tone one uses with a child.
He left her and tied the reins of Nick’s horse to the lead, then mounted his own horse. He turned back. “You think you can get up on your own, or do you want to walk awhile?”
Lori turned to her brother, put her hand on his arm, which he stiffened, and used it to vault her left foot into the stirrup he relinquished. She settled down behind him.
“I thought you could manage,” the Ranger said, then kicked his mount into a trot without waiting for an answer.
Three hours later they rode into Laramie. Morgan still felt that damn internal fire that had bedeviled him those few seconds Lori Braden had twisted in his arms. Her face had been so close, her eyes wide and surprised and shadowed by dark lashes that contrasted with the honey-colored hair.
He’d wanted to kiss her, dammit. He’d wanted it in the worst hellish way. He hadn’t wanted to let her go. She’d felt good in his arms, soft and supple and not stiff at all. But she’d been soft, he knew, because he’d startled her. There was nothing soft about her feelings where he was concerned. She would as soon stick a knife into his heart, and he didn’t fool himself about that, either.
He wished that she wasn’t a part of this. Outside of the Rangers, he’d seen damn little loyalty in his life, even less selflessness. Too bad—Nick Braden didn’t deserve it. There were altogether too many witnesses in Harmony who’d seen Braden draw on an unarmed man.
As they rode into Laramie, the streets were busy, filled with wagons and soldiers. Fort Laramie, he knew, was north of there, and he wondered if something had happened. General Custer and his men had been massacred just months ago, and he’d heard there were punitive expeditions being readied to confront the Cheyennes and Sioux in northern Wyoming. He wished them luck. He’d had his share of Indian fighting in Texas.
He looked back. Braden sat stiff and proud, even as men and women on the street stared at the three riders moving over the dusty road. Morgan found the sheriff’s office in the center of town, asked a loiterer if the sheriff was in, and dismounted when the man nodded. He again offered his hand to Lori, knowing she would refuse it, then unlocked Braden from the saddle horn, taking his arm and ushering him into the sheriff’s office.
The heavyset man sitting behind a desk glanced up as they entered, then stood as his gaze went from man to man and back again. He immediately assessed the handcuffs and the Ranger’s badge. His eyes rested briefly on Lori, widening with appreciation; but he quickly turned back to Morgan, staring pointedly at the badge.
“Texas Ranger?”
Morgan nodded.
“Long way from home, aren’t you?” His eyes still flickered from man to man, considering them both. “Brothers?” he asked.
“Hell, no!” Morgan’s reply was more explosive than he’d intended, but he was damned tired of this. And he knew he probably looked more like an outlaw than his prisoner did. He had taken no time to shave that morning, and he wore several weeks’ growth of beard. He took the folded poster and a Texas arrest warrant from his pocket and handed them to the sheriff.
“I’m Morgan Davis. Braden’s wanted in Texas for murder.”
“Len Castle,” the sheriff said, identifying himself. “What do you want from me?”
“Keep him in custody until I can get his sister on a stage to Denver. Couldn’t leave her alone out there. I think there’s some bounty hunters on the look for him.”
“You think right,” the lawman said. “Two men through here two days ago, asking about your man. I told them to get the hell out of my town.”
Morgan’s gut tightened. “Man with blond, almost white hair?”
The sheriff nodded. “Said his name was Stark.”
Stark. Whitey Stark. The man who had trailed him weeks ago. Morgan knew he should have killed him then, but he’d been tired of killing over a damned look-alike. It was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat “Which way did he go?”
“He headed toward Cheyenne.”
Which meant, Morgan realized, that Stark was about three days behind him. Morgan had also stopped in Cheyenne, the territorial capital, to search for Braden’s land deed. Stark would find it, just as Morgan had.
“When’s the next stage to Denver?”
“Two days. It runs twice a week.”
“Can you keep Braden that long?”
The sheriff looked regretful. “Court’s next week. I have a full house. But you might try the territorial prison, half a mile down.”
“Hotel?”
“Best one’s down the street. Bill Hickok’s there. So is Bill Cody. Getting ready for one hell of a fight up north.”
“Sioux?”
“And Cheyenne. Got them trapped, I hear. Hope they wipe out every one. I had friends with Custer.”
“We shouldn’t run into any trouble?”
“Not if you’re headed south. There might be a few small bands cut off, but ain’t much to worry about”
Morgan nodded.
“Wish I could help you,” the sheriff said, “but the jail ain’t safe now with so many in it” He shook his head. “Damn railroad brought every sort of riffraff here.”
“If you see those bounty hunters …?”
The sheriff grinned. “I’ll send them north.” He nodded at the girl. “Miss.”
Lori gave him a sweet smile that made Morgan’s muscles tense. He wished to hell he knew what she was thinking. “Sheriff,” she acknowledged, and the lawman’s expression became downright simpering.
Morgan decided not to give her a chance to try something. “Braden,” he said curtly, guiding him toward the door.
They had reached it when the sheriff’s voice stopped him. “You sure you ain’t brothers?”
“Quite sure,” he said, turning around, “since my parents were killed when I was born, and there wasn’t any before me.” He didn’t know why he felt compelled to explain, but then he didn’t care for the sheriff’s slightly accusing voice. He was goddamn tired of being put in the wrong. The injury was done to him, by God, not Nicholas Braden. His life hadn’t been his own since Braden had murdered young Wardlaw.
The warden at the territorial prison agreed to keep Braden for two days. He had space, and Morgan gave him a voucher that guaranteed Texas would pay expenses. He then found the hotel and rented the remaining two rooms, one for himself and one for Lori.
As he left her at the door, she turned and faced him, her face tight with anger. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to keep me there too.”
“I thought about it,” he said mildly. “They do have some women incarcerated there. But I don’t think you can do much with him locked up in there. And you are going to be on that stage Wednesday.”
He had considered handcuffing her to the bed—but, then, where would she go? And she was a woman, after all, a woman who really hadn’t committed a crime.
Lori glared at him with those golden eyes, then opened the door, went in, and closed it without comment. That worried Morgan more than words did. Hellfire, but he would be glad when this was over. He stood in front of the closed door for several minutes, then walked to his own, wishing it were closer. And then he dismissed the thought. There was nothing she could do now. Braden was safely lodged.
He went down to the street and sought the name of the most reliable stabler, then took the three horses there. He gave the owner ten dollars. “No one,” he said, “especially not a young lady, is to be allowed near the
horses.”
The man nodded, his eyes on Morgan’s badge.
Morgan found a bathhouse and then a barber. It felt good being clean again. But he cursed under his breath as he looked in the mirror. Even with the mustache remaining, his likeness to his prisoner was stronger than ever.
He tried to think instead of a good meal—a steak—and some sleep.
Lori Braden came immediately to his mind. He supposed he would have to buy her dinner. He didn’t think she had any money, and he’d planned to pay the stage fare, anyway, providing the driver with some extra money for her expenses.
No expense would be too great to rid himself of her. Still … he suffered a moment’s regret. She had been an intriguing challenge, and she had made him feel alive for the first time in years. He hadn’t realized until now how completely he had buried feelings, any feelings at all.
Since the war? Since Callum had died? Or had Callum simply trained them out of him from boyhood? He couldn’t remember ever feeling much. Not even fear, as a child. Danger and death had been too much a part of his life since he’d started walking. He’d grown accustomed to them, as accustomed as rising in the morning.
He sighed heavily. Goddamn Braden for awakening devils better left at rest.
Lori stared out the window to the street below. At any other time she would have been down there, making herself part of the crowd, eager to become one with it. She had heard of Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill for so many years, she would have liked to see them in person.
But not now. Nothing mattered now except Nick. And besting Ranger Morgan Davis. He wasn’t going to give up. And after seeing the Ranger’s quiet, unflustered efficiency for the last two days, she figured he might just well succeed.
And Nick would die.
Her gaze wandered over the street; then she noticed the Ranger. The way he walked, that easy pantherlike gait, made him seem always on the prowl.
A manhunter.
A shiver ran down her back and through her extremities. It amazed her that the very sight of him created such havoc inside. Hate. That was what it was, she assured herself. Just plain hatred. He’d treated Nick like a criminal, her like a nuisance to be tolerated. He was wrong on both counts. And too much the righteous fool to see it.
But God help her, he was thorough. She would give him that. He knew his business, and he didn’t take chances.
Lori left the window and went to the small carpetbag she had packed. She had few things with her: the shirt and trousers she had worn yesterday, the skirt and blouse she was wearing now, and one dress. There were also a few coins she had managed to slip underneath the dress. There wasn’t much. Nick had left most of what he had with the family, and the rest had been spent on timber and supplies.
Lori changed into her dress made from an attractive light brown-and-white-checked material that highlighted her eyes and molded her slender body. The high neck and puffed sleeves gave her an air of innocence.
She studied herself critically in the mirror, brushing her hair until it fairly glowed in the late-afternoon sun filtering through the window. She then twisted it into a French knot. Perhaps a dress and pretty hair arrangement could do what trousers couldn’t, a smile obtain what anger hadn’t.
Lori would send a telegram telling Papa what had happened, look for her horse, and charm the Ranger.
If the latter didn’t work, she would have to go to the alternate plan.
For that she needed a gun.
For that she needed backbone she wasn’t sure she had.
For that she would have to kill the Ranger.
A sudden tightness squeezed Morgan Davis’ chest as he stared at Lori Braden. He didn’t remember ever seeing a woman quite as pretty, as enchanting, as she looked the moment she opened her door to him. Those golden eyes glowed, and he knew instinctively that they must do that a lot, that she had a zest for life she’d buried yesterday in her anger. He knew he liked those eyes this way a hell of a lot better than when they shot sparks at him.
He warned himself that she was treacherous. But she didn’t look treacherous at the moment She just looked … pretty.
And vulnerable. So goddamn vulnerable. Her mouth smiled, not wholely, but with a wryness aimed to disarm, where a sweet one would have aroused only suspicion.
She was good. She was very good.
She was so good, in fact, that he almost forgot she wanted something from him very, very badly, and it certainly wasn’t his charm or good looks.
Still, he would play along and see where this led. Her nose wrinkled slightly, and he knew he still smelled pungently of some kind of aftershave lotion, though he had tried to wash most of it away.
She tipped her head slightly and studied him.
“Don’t say it,” he warned her, knowing that the resemblance to Nick Braden was stronger than ever now that his cheeks were cleared of dark bristle.
She nodded. “You’re nothing alike, anyway.”
She had already told him as much in not very flattering terms: Nick Braden had a heart; he didn’t.
“You don’t talk alike. You don’t walk alike. You don’t think alike.”
“I hope like hell not.”
“You have nothing to worry about,” she said, a touch of vinegar in the cordiality she was obviously trying so hard to convey. But it was nigh on killing her, and he sensed it.
“I thought you might want something to eat,” he said, his mouth twisting in its own wry smile. He was finding, to his deep dismay, he liked her in several ways. There was an innate honesty to her—at least in her resentment of him—that kept surfacing despite her attempts at charming him. And that damnable loyalty. He respected that most of all.
“How gallant,” she answered with the slightest touch of sarcasm, and he led her down to the crowded hotel dining room.
They both ordered steak, and he was amused at that, too. She ate with the enthusiasm of a cow hand, though he wondered at times whether her concentration on the meal wasn’t partly to avoid conversation with him. When she had no more reason not to look at him, she glanced up, those amber eyes as beguiling as any he’d seen. He expected more defense of Nick Braden, but as usual she surprised him. Cupping her chin in her hands, she focused all her considerable feminine attention on him.
“You … said your parents died when you were born.”
He nodded warily.
“How?”
He put down his knife. “Another one of your ploys, Miss Lori?”
“Maybe,” she admitted with that appealing forthrightness. “But I’m also interested,” she said. And she was. She wished she wasn’t. She wished she didn’t want to know anything about him at all. She shouldn’t want to know anything about him. But she had to know. Some demon inside her was making her ask questions she shouldn’t want answers for.
He studied her closely for a moment, then shrugged. “It’s no secret. They were killed by Indians hours after I was born. They put me in a fruit cellar when the attack started. Rangers found me there later.”
“Is that why you became a Ranger?”
He frowned, as if puzzled by the intrusion into his past, then decided it made little difference whether he answered or not. “My father was a Ranger. The man who found me was his best friend. There were no relatives. No one stepped up to claim me. So Callum decided to raise me rather than send me to an orphanage.”
“Rangers raised you?” It was worse than she imagined.
“Yep. And a series of … sporting ladies.” He waited for her reaction with an amused glint in his eye. It was the first real humor she had seen in him. Yet there was something else too. Not vulnerability—there was nothing vulnerable about this man. But there was the smallest flicker of … a kind of loneliness she had sensed in him before.
Her eyes sparkled for a moment, and he sensed again that vibrancy in her, a passion for life that was totally unfamiliar to him … and intoxicating. And he was even more intrigued. The fact that he’d been raised by whores apparently bothered her no
t at all.
“What else would you like to know?” he said, his lips twitching now with rare amusement.
“I’m not sure I should ask,” she said, mischief in her voice. “I think you’re trying to shock me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table and planting her head on folded hands so she could study him better. “But I think I like it.”
He chuckled. She was the most unpredictable woman he’d ever met. And, at the moment, the most desirable. Yet …
“You said you joined the Rangers in 1861?” she prompted after a moment’s silence.
“Miss Lori, I was a Ranger from nigh on the time I first walked. I curried and fed the horses, I swept the headquarters building, I shined the badges and cleaned the rifles. I never wanted anything else.”
“Never?”
“Never. Rangering was as natural as learning to put pants on, one leg at a time.”
Lori found herself leaning forward. “And during the war?”
“My company was pulled into the regular Confederate Army in sixty-two. After the surrender the Rangers were disbanded for nine years. But I still worked with a number of them, marshaling one cow town after another.”
“Waiting?”
“That’s right” There was a curious look in his eyes now. Skeptical and a bit abashed. Lori knew he had said a great deal more than he intended. “You’re a good listener, Miss Lori.”
“Like you, I learned certain skills when I was young.”
“I wouldn’t think listening would be one of them.”
Sparks were there between them now, live and biting. Intense. Frightening. Lori felt as though she were losing control, floundering in waters she didn’t really understand. Her gaze met his, dueled, and unfamiliar warm currents flooded her body, so very aware of his lean, straight one across from her.
“What would you think would be one of them?”
“I studied the Braden family, Miss Lori. Cardsharping. Selling whiskey as medicine. A swindle here and there. You’re right there in the middle.”
Wanted Page 6
