Cloudcastle

by Nan Ryan

  She stared at him incredulously and felt hysterical laughter threatening to overcome her. "Need them? Dear God, what manner of animal are you?"

  "The bodies will man guns at the windows come morning," he calmly explained. "It's a long shot; it may not fool Victorio but it's worth trying." He stepped away from the table and took off his black leather vest.

  Natalie drew a labored breath. He'd just confirmed her unspoken fears. The Apaches would return. They'd be back come dawn; rested, angered, and ready to finish what they'd begun. She felt her flesh turn cold beneath the sheen of perspiration covering her tired, slender body. Natalie took out her frustration on him. "Quit calling me 'miss.' I'm not a maiden!" The tall, spare man stripped the blousey-sleeved black shirt from his sweat-dampened torso and tossed it over a bench.

  "I beg your pardon, ma'am," he said calmly as he went to the cluttered cupboard at the back of the one-room building and poured water from a big earthen crock into a flat tin pan. Dipping his hands into the tepid water, he brought them up to cover his dirty, bloodstained face.

  As if she were not present, he grabbed up a huge bar of soap, rubbed his hands over it until they were covered with thick foamy lather, and then scrubbed his face vigorously. His back was to her. Natalie immediately noted the three long, ribbon-like scars slicing across his dark, muscled back. Satiny white, they gleamed starkly against his swarthy, sweat-slick skin.

  She bit back a gasp.

  Who was this man? Where did he get such deep, maiming scars? Why had he been handcuffed to the marshal? How many people had he murdered? Would he stop at murdering a woman?

  Natalie's fingers tightened on the heavy Colt revolver.

  The tall southern bandit had finished washing. He turned to face her while he slid long arms into his soiled black shirt. Not bothering to button it, he shoved the long tails down into his tight black trousers and shrugged on the worn leather vest. Natalie's eyes were drawn to the dark curly hair covering his hard chest, beaded with water, glistening in the soft gloaming of light from the dying sun.

  "Now that I'm a little cleaner, allow me to present myself, ma'am, I'm—"

  "I don't care who you are," she cut him off, gaze lifting to his dark, bearded face. "They will be back, won't they?" she questioned, then swiftly lowered her green eyes from the disturbing, dangerous sight of him. "The Apaches; they'll come back and…" She fell silent, waiting for him to speak. He did not, so she slowly lifted her eyes to his. "Won't they?"

  He ran a lean, sunburned hand through his thick, long hair. "They will, ma'am." He swung a long leg over the wooden bench and took a seat facing her. Softly, in that drawling southern accent, he said, "They took all the horses, but if you leave now, you might make it to the foothills by midnight." The clear blue eyes looked at her intently. "Come daylight, you could head for Fort Garland. With any luck a scout might spot you, take you in, and—"

  "I'm not a fool. It's a good twenty miles to the fort. The Apaches would spot me before the soldiers. I'll stay."

  "It's up to you."

  "I know that."

  "Very well," he said, "there's food aplenty; why don't you eat something."

  "I'm not hungry," she replied as she rose from the table, the gun still clutched in her hand.

  Through duck, lowered lashes, Natalie distrustfully studied her strange companion while he went about fighting a lamp and dishing up food as though he had not a care in the world. She noted his compelling deep blue eyes as they flicked intermittently to her; the straight, prominent nose, the full male lips almost hidden by the thick black beard and mustache. His black hair was far too long, curling over the collarless black shirt that stretched across his wide shoulders. The worn vest of black leather reached almost to his trim waist, while tight black trousers of some thick serge fabric clung to his long legs and covered all but the toes of worn black boots. The dead lawman's black gunbelt rode low on his slim hips, the empty holster resting atop a hard right thigh.

  He took a seat and leisurely ate with impeccable table manners, while Natalie stood, stiff and silent, watching. Presently he pushed his plate away, rose, and stood looking down at her. The flickering light from the oil lamp cast shadows on the hard planes of his face, giving him an evil, frightening appearance. Natalie felt her unease rise as they stood swing at each other, neither speaking. It was he who broke the strained silence.

  "In case one of the young Apache braves feels heroic, we'd better put out the lamp." Natalie stiffened.

  Ignoring her reaction, he walked across the floor and picked up the Winchester. "I'll stand watch; you get some rest." He inclined his dark head and Natalie's gaze shifted to the area he indicated. A double bed rested along the western wall, its brightly colored quilt and soft white pillows looking very inviting to the tired young woman.

  Natalie ventured closer to the bed, her eyes seeking a partitioning curtain or screen. There was none. Nothing to close off the bedchamber from the rest of the room. No means of privacy so that she might wash up without being watched by those gleaming blue eyes that followed her.

  Sighing wearily, Natalie sat on the bed. She was tired, so tired, and longed to strip her soiled dress away, wash the dirt from her face, and lie back on the soft mattress. She wouldn't have dared.

  Her companion had carried the lamp with him and taken up his post beside the open front door. Back resting against the hard clay wall, he sat, knees bent and wide apart, the heavy Winchester resting between his legs, barrel pointed toward the ceiling. He fished in his shirt pocket, brought out a cheroot and stuck it between his teeth. With a thumbnail he scratched a lucifer until it flamed up, and he drew upon the cigar. He tossed the match out the door and said softly, "'Night, ma'am."

  Natalie didn't answer. He blew out the lamp.

  It was a dark, moonless night. The station was cast into total blackness. Natalie's straining eyes could see nothing but the red, glowing tip of a cigar moving slowly back and forth to the mouth of a dangerous bad man.

  Chapter Two

  Natalie sat stiffly on the bed in the darkness. She strained to see the bearded face, the wide shoulders of the man who was as much an enemy to her as the Apaches were. She could see nothing.

  There was no moonglow, no starlight to illuminate the hot room. It was pitch-black, the darkness seeming almost tangible. And she was helpless and alone with a hardened criminal who spoke with a despised southern accent.

  Natalie smiled in the darkness. The irony of it all was comical. Her only protection against violent savages was a wanted outlaw who could commit murder with a cold ruthlessness that would scare even the Apaches.

  His polite, menacing calm was Frightening. She had no doubt the tall, bearded stranger had gunned down more than one man without so much as batting a black eyelash.

  The red tip of the outlaw's cigar sailed out the open door and Natalie tensed. Would he decide to take the bed? Would he decide to take her as well?

  The silence was deafening. So still and quiet was the small, hot way station, she could hear her rapid breaths. And his slow, even breathing. Hand tightening on the heavy revolver, she sat, eyes blinking in the darkness, trying vainly to make out his form, listening for any sudden movement from him.

  Minutes ticked away. Nothing happened. Natalie's back ached relentlessly, her head throbbed, her mouth was dry. Perspiration dotted her upper lip and her long, wilted hair clung damply to her stiff neck.

  An hour went by. She reasoned that if he was going to make a move, he would surely have done so. She relaxed a bit, slumping tiredly, fingers loosening on the Colt's steel handle. She squirmed and shifted and finally scooted across the bed so that she might use the wall to support her weary back.

  When she leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes for a moment, her thoughts drifted from this remote stage station that would likely be her tomb.

  The smiling, handsome face of her late husband rose before her in the darkness, and Natalie bit her lip. By nightfall tomorrow, she'd be with him
once again.

  She felt her chest tighten. How young and happy and full of hope they'd been that glorious spring day a dozen years ago when she'd exchanged vows with Devlin Vallance in the flower-filled drawing room of Devlin's stately ancestral mansion in Ohio. She was but a girl of eighteen, Devlin a manly twenty-five on that lovely April day 1860.

  How brief and precious their time together had been before he had ridden away to that bloody war against the hated Confederates. How sweet the laughter-filled days, the love-filled nights . .

  The hoot of an owl nearby brought Natalie rudely back to the present. She winced audibly and felt her heart speed with fear.

  "When the hoot owl calls in the darkness of the night, a potent ghost from the Spirit World has come to claim your soul." Those were the words she'd heard old Tahomah repeat many times over the years. He believed it. She did too.

  "It's a foolish Indian superstition, nothing more," came a deep, drawling voice from out of the darkness, as though the bearded man had read her mind. "I know," she said weakly, wondering how the outlaw knew of the legend. But she did believe and she was frightened. Very frightened. She was thirty years old, in good health, of sound mind, and she didn't want to die. Although her life was not nearly as joyful as once it had been, she wanted to cling to it, to see old age, to watch her unborn grandchildren play happily in the mountain-shadowed valleys of her much home, Cloud West.

  Natalie hardly knew when the tears she'd been fighting back for the past hour started slipping down her cheeks. She was weeping quietly and she felt she might never stop.

  A sound across that dark, hot room made her blink at the tears filling her green eyes. Her strange companion had set the rifle down and was rising to his feet. The leather gunbelt was unbuckled and dropped to the wooden floor.

  Natalie clutched her throat and listened to the man's sure, even steps as he crowed the room. Nearer and nearer the footfalls came until she knew he was standing by the bed.

  She couldn't see a thing but she could feel him. His presence was strong and potent in the dark, hot room. He said nothing, but Natalie knew he was standing directly before her, so close she could reach out and touch him.

  His went was in the warm, heavy air. He smelled of sweat and leather and maleness. She gulped for a breath when the bed groaned as he set down beside her.

  For an in time he was silent beside her, his body heat assaulted her perspiring flesh, his breathing was slow and heavy near her ear. Terrified, Natalie sat stone still, not daring to move a muscle, tears still streaming down her frightened face.

  And then she jumped when she felt them.

  Warm fingers brushed her left cheek and the strange, dangerous man beside her said, "I cannot bear to hear a woman cry. Please don't." Insane though it was, Natalie now found his low, calm voice and his warm, gentle touch strangely comforting.

  She turned more fully toward the sound of that deep, drawling voice and lifted her face so that he could more easily reach her. Then both of his strong hands were on her cheeks and she closed her eyes while his thumbs carefully wiped the tears away.

  "… and a good chance help will arrive," he was saying in low, conversational tones. Natalie believed not a word he said but liked to hear him speak all the same. And she wished… she desperately wished there was a glimmer of light coming through the darkened windows so that she could look into those compelling blue eyes.

  Natalie felt the tension leaving her shoulders and a strange, pleasing lassitude spreading throughout her body. She yawned, feeling drowsy, and her eyelids grew heavy. "Will you do something for me tomorrow?" she asked softly.

  "What?"

  "Will you promise to shoot me so the Apaches won't get me?" She asked it as though she were requesting some small favor, her voice soft and true, and without fear. Lazily she rubbed her cheek against his right palm. "I'm too much of a coward to do it myself." Again she yawned.

  A muscle jumped in his bearded jaw. He knew Apaches well. They buried men up to their necks, then jerked off their heads with ropes. They hung men upside down over low-burning campfires, and watched while the victim took days to roast slowly to death. They cut off men's eyelids, put honey on their faces and genitals, and then staked them to ant hills.

  And when they got their hands on a pretty white woman… "Yes," he said evenly, "I'll kill you." She nodded her thanks.

  She could see nothing, but she leaned toward him and let him continue to brush away her tears. All at once she felt his beard brush her face; she drew a shallow breath and very nearly sighed when his warm lips touched her fluttering eyelids. And still he spoke softly, gently, willing her to believe they would be safe.

  The stage from Yuma is due at Spanish Widow in the morning. His mouth was amazingly soft and tender on her cheeks. "By nine a.m. it will arrive." Those lips kissed a path along her cheekbone.

  For the first time since he'd handed it to her, Natalie released her grip on the heavy Colt revolver. She let it slip to the soft bed and her fingers moved tentatively up to a hard, muscular forearm. Her intent was to gently push this man away, to assure him that she was now all right, that she'd not cry any more.

  "Yes, we'll be rescued, I'm sure," she said, believing her words no more than he did.

  Lightly she laid her hand upon his arm and felt the muscles jump beneath her touch even as his soft persuasive lips continued to kiss her face. Her heart lurched crazily and her fingers tightened their grip upon his shirtsleeve.

  He was breathing more rapidly now as his long arms slowly went around her, pulling her to him. Soon she was pressed close against his hard, muscular frame and his heartbeat drummed against her breasts.

  The lips that had been moving upon her flushed face taken from her and he said into her hair, "I want you." Nothing more. Simply that.

  He was silent then silent and completely still. His arms encircled her, his lips hovered just above her own, his beard brushing her mouth and nose, but he moved not a muscle. He was waiting. Waiting for her to pull free of his embrace, to jump up from the bed, to flee.

  The moment was filled with a new kind of tension between them. Natalie felt her heart hammering and a faint dizziness. She gripped his broad shoulders while thoughts tumbled over each other in her spinning brain.

  Surely she must be going insane! She was sitting on a bed in the darkness at a remote outpost with the arms of a dangerous outlaw around her. And she wanted him.

  God help her; she wanted this bearded criminal whom she should hate and fear to the depths of her very soul. He was deadly, dangerous, a hunted animal whose misdeeds would surely curl her hair if she knew of them. He was unmistakably southern. Most probably one of the legion of Confederate devils who'd killed her beloved husband.

  "I want you," he repeated, and Natalie could not find the strength to say no. Come morning, they were going to die. This hot, dark night would be their last upon this earth. Never again would she hear the wind in the pines outside her bedroom window. Or warm herself before a blazing fire on a cold snowy night. Or eat a sumptuous meal. Or taste imported wine.

  Or make love.

  Natalie felt her stomach Butter violently as her heart pounded. Right or wrong, foolish or wise, she wanted to know this bearded stranger's arms, to surrender to the dark desire his words had stirred.

  If die she must tomorrow, then live she would tonight. "Don't hurt me," she said as his mouth closed over hers.

  As they'd been upon her cheeks, his lips were tender, soft, gentle. He kissed her lightly, as though he were the consummate gentleman, and she a treasured love he'd come to court. Natalie began to relax in his arms and her hand stole up around his strong neck, her fingers touching the long raven locks that curled down over the collar of his shirt. She sighed when he continued expertly to mold her soft lips to fit his. And she felt like laughing giddily from the teasing, tickling beard and mustache that she found so tantalizing against her sensitive face.

  The stirringly sweet kisses continued and it seemed to Natalie th
at the small stuffy room became even hotter. Eyes open or shut, it was the same. She could see nothing She could only feel. And smell. And taste. And hear.

  She could hear the rustling of her skirts as she strained in his arms, the distant call of a nighthawk, the creak of the bed beneath them. She could taste tobacco on his mouth and salt from the perspiration covering his dark face. And the strange, unfamiliar flavor of him, the man, like no one else, unique, frightening, arousing.

  She could feel his hard, powerful body pressing her own, the masterful arms holding her tightly, and the practiced mouth moving upon hers, sending all her senses reeling.

  His lips had hardened with passion, and his mouth had opened wide to deepen his kiss. His tongue plunged rhythmically into Natalie's receptive mouth in a bold, sexual way that made her stomach contract with the beginnings of full-fledged passion.

  While she was lost in the depths of a heated, intimate kiss, he gently lifted her up into his arms. She sat there on his lap in the darkness, his mouth devouring hers, her loosened hair spilling down over his supporting arm. And then he rose with her in his arms.

  He turned and gently placed her upon the bed and lay down with her, his burning lips never freeing hers. They strained together there on that small bed, their clothed, perspiring bodies locked together, their passion flaring white-hot.

  They rolled over and he lay atop her, kissing her, embracing her, his long legs tangling with hers through her full skirts. They rolled yet again and she was atop him. His hands slid down her body sensuously, caressing, stroking, seeking the gentle curves beneath her dress. He moved her legs outside of his and drew her knees up on each side of his slim hips.

  She leaned to him and kissed him, and kissed him, her long red-gold hair failing into his face. And when, in the thick darkness, she felt his fingers upon the tiny buttons on her bodice, she sighed and raised up a little to make his task easier.

  And then she felt those strong hands encircling her rib cage, urging her down to him. His mouth was a searing flame upon her bare, aching breasts and Natalie sighed and happily positioned herself over him so that his lips might remain upon her burning flesh without his having to lift his dark head from the mattress.