Once an Outlaw

by Raine Cantrell

  “You sure are a damn man,” she muttered. “I can see perfectly well that you’re an ornery male who wouldn’t know what was good for you if it sat up and bit you on the…the…well, somewhere! Not only are you male, but you’re wounded. I hate to remind you, but you’re rather quick to jump to conclusions for a man who is dependent upon me for care. It’s obvious to me, as a woman, that you, being a damn man—your words, not mine—wouldn’t know the many uses for pine tar from green apples.”

  Oh, Lord! Button up, Logan. She has a testy tone in that vinegary mouth. Pine tar, for Pete’s sake? Where the hell had she come from? Likely he was on the road to dying with her supposed care of his wound.

  Nodding to herself as she straightened, Jessie was satisfied that he was going to heed her reprimand, and so continued to explain what she had done to his wound.

  “After I dragged your quilt-wrapped body from my doorstep—”

  “What?” Logan’s eyes snapped open. Despite his helpless state, he managed to target her face with all the pent-up anger and frustration inside him.

  “I…said,” she repeated slowly and testily, “that…I dragged…your quilt-wrapped body—”

  “I heard that part, lady.” Damn! Confusion held sway over his thoughts. He remembered the blow to his head. Remembered waking dazed to that blazing sun overhead, but he was as sure as the Lord made this woman to vex man that no one had wrapped him in a quilt.

  That was an act of kindness. Kindness was not a word familiar to the outlaws he’d ridden with. Just witness the way they’d dumped him once he was wounded.

  Or had that been the only reason that they’d gotten rid of him? The ache in his head intensified with the sudden forced concentration of his thoughts.

  Had they somehow discovered his real name?

  No. He dismissed it. If they knew who he was, they would have killed him, not just left him for dead.

  Tapping her high-buttoned shoe with impatience, Jessie said, “Do I take your silence as a wish for me to continue?”

  “Yeah. Go ahead, lady, and tell me.”

  Jessie couldn’t help it. She glanced heavenward and rolled her eyes. Not the most gracious person she had ever come across. Instantly she chided herself for the uncharitable thought. Putting herself in his place, she knew how anxious she would be. With a heartfelt sigh she strove to make allowances for his display of temper due to his wounds and the poor man’s obvious confusion as to how he had arrived on her doorstep.

  As if he had read her thoughts, Logan asked, “Did your husband find me?”

  “No.” As an answer it left something to be desired. Jessie studied the rough, beamed ceiling, the chinked, logged walls, even the wide-planked floor. She stared blankly at the nicks and scratches in the bureau. She avoided the mirror.

  In those few minutes she discovered that her guest had a great deal of patience. He waited. True, he was watching her the whole time, but he didn’t say a word.

  She warned herself to answer him carefully. Pointing out her wedding ring had been an act of protection and, she admitted, feminine pique. Her vanity, the little she had, had taken enough woundings in years past. She knew how plain she was, how her ripe figure did not meet fashion’s dictates. She’d heard as much and more from the few men who deemed her suitable to court when she had lived with her aunt. Harry, bless his departed soul, had never once made a disparaging remark about her looks.

  Her chin lifted. Her mouth firmed with the reminder that she didn’t have to tolerate anything from this man.

  “So,” Logan said when her gaze returned to his, “you’re the one who found me, lady?”

  “My name is Mrs. Winslow. And I already said that I found you on my doorstep.”

  “Little early for Christmas.”

  “I don’t consider you a gift, mister.”

  Jessie fought the temptation to explain at length about her unknown and unseen benefactor. Although her wounded, unwanted houseguest carried no gun, he was a stranger who had revealed a tendency toward a surly nature. Like a man who was used to giving orders. The stray thought distracted her.

  Logan, still watching her, became fascinated with the way she nibbled her lower lip. First she licked the spot, then drew it between small, even teeth. He had just realized that she tended to do this a lot. A nervous habit that gave a little away about Mrs. Winslow. She wasn’t as calm as she appeared. Her remark about him not being considered a gift rankled. Since he was in no position to argue, he was forced to wait patiently until he had her focused attention once more.

  Jessie glared at him. Her unknown benefactor had been goodness itself until yesterday. She wasn’t in a mood to extend forgiveness to whoever it was. Any more of this man’s scowls and she might never be ready to forgive.

  Sensing he was fast losing ground with her, Logan strove for a hopeful expression. He had a feeling that if he pushed too much, Mrs. Winslow might toss him back outside.

  “So, uh, ma’am—”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell me what your husband thinks of you taking me in?”

  Jessie’s gaze turned thoughtful. She didn’t trust his grin. She couldn’t lie to him. She hated lies and the people who told them. Harry had been an accomplished liar. Always promising her it was the last time he’d spend money to buy some phony map. Promising it was the last time he’d go prospecting for gold. That he’d always be around to take care of her. Ha! So much for men and their lies!

  “We’ll have to wait to find out what my husband thinks.” A long wait. Longer than either of us will live.

  Uncomfortable with his omissions of who he was and that she had nothing to fear from him, Logan nonetheless couldn’t abide someone lying to his face.

  “Oh, lady, you’re good, but not good enough. So we’re gonna wait to find out what your husband thinks? There ain’t been a man around here in a long time.”

  If his head hadn’t hurt so much Logan would have laughed. Her mouth dropped open to a soundless O.

  Gotcha, lady!

  Chapter Three

  Jessie rolled over for the third time. Double thick quilts cushioned her body from the hard floor where she made her bed. She still fumed over her inept handling of her guest. She spoke only when necessary, although treating him to a silent study lacked a certain flair. She had refused to admit the truth. Not that it seemed to matter to him.

  The man intimidated her.

  A ridiculous thought when she considered that he was helpless and wounded, but it was nonetheless true. She didn’t like feeling intimidated. All her life she had been dominated by strong-willed people. Now that she was free, or had been until he showed up, she had believed that no one could do that to her again.

  Resentment flared that he had proved her wrong.

  He had told her his name was Logan.

  Right after he thanked her for the soup, her care and giving him her bed.

  He had even sounded sincere.

  No softening, Jessie.

  I am not softening, she argued with herself, I am simply making an observation. He has a very nice smile, too. If there had been any softening going on, the smile had accomplished it. His harsh features appeared a great deal softer, almost handsome. Certainly attractive…

  You’re softening, Jessie, the little nag warned.

  Go to sleep and then maybe I can, too. With that said, she rolled over once again.

  How was a man supposed to get any sleep with her twisting and turning and thumping about on the floor? Those weren’t the only reasons Logan lay awake, but they were the ones he concentrated on. Anything to distract himself from the pain in his shoulder.

  His prissy Samaritan claimed there was no bullet lodged there. Said the wound had bled profusely. Even showed him his bloodstained shirt, which she’d then washed and mended. She hadn’t had much more to say to him after he’d caught her in her lie.

  He didn’t understand why he was still thinking about her. He had more pressing matters that demanded his attention.

&n
bsp; There was something about the way her gaze met his, something about the way she lifted her rounded chin when she challenged him.

  She didn’t lack spirit.

  Spirit was a good thing to have…in a horse. His women he liked accommodating. And she was on the plump side. There again, he usually liked a woman the way he liked his steaks, on the lean side and a little raw. She had an easterner’s bite on her words. Rawness might shock her. Didn’t appear to have a dependent bone in her lush body.

  Quit thinking about her body.

  Guess I’m on the mend.

  Well, remember that her tongue would spur any man who called himself one to move on.

  Is that what had happened to Mr. Winslow?

  If there had been a Mr. Winslow.

  He could still envision her mouth falling open. A rather nice mouth, he recalled. Wide and generous, the type given to easy laughter.

  Dumb, fanciful thought!

  From what he had seen of her cabin, it hadn’t taken much to determine that a man hadn’t been around—if ever—in a long time. The pegs on the wall revealed a woman’s trappings—shawl, gown and a floppy felt hat. There was a small wooden chest beneath the window, carved with pretty birds and flowers. A woman’s possession, for sure.

  He hadn’t spotted a razor strop hanging on the wall.

  No, he decided, there wasn’t a man living here with her.

  Logan lifted his hand and rubbed his bearded face. He felt stronger after two bowls of her chicken soup.

  “Mr. Logan?”

  Her voice flowed out of the dark and startled him.

  “Told you, it’s just Logan.”

  “Logan, then. If you can’t sleep, I could mix one of my headache powders for you.”

  “Didn’t realize I was making so much noise that I woke you.”

  “Oh, you didn’t. I haven’t been asleep. I’ve been thinking.”

  Logan didn’t like the sound of that.

  Jessie ignored his silence and continued. “You never said what you were doing in these parts. You never mentioned how you were shot. Don’t you think you owe me some answers?”

  “I’m not real sure where it is I am exactly.” Keep calm and do a little thinking of your own. Preferably fast.

  “Outside of Apache Junction,” she offered helpfully.

  A ways north of the mine. Logan blocked out the sound of her voice. He couldn’t remember the outlaws ever heading this far north before. Were they going to a new hideout? Or finally meeting with the man behind the robberies? Damn! That he should lie here helpless as a babe when these were the answers he sought.

  Even deep in his own thoughts, Logan became instantly aware that tension rolled across the cabin. Since Mrs. Winslow was the only other occupant, he figured that it came from her.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered, wishing he had his gun.

  “Didn’t you hear it?”

  “What?”

  “The noises coming from outside. I bet it’s the henhouse again.”

  He could barely make out her shadow, up and moving. Sounds of shells being rammed home alerted him to her intent.

  “You’re going out there?”

  “I don’t see anyone else around here willing to protect my property. I need those laying hens.”

  “But—” She had the door unbolted and herself on the other side of it before he struggled to sit up. “Damn! And double damn!”

  Cursing relieved some tension. Every move proved a struggle for him. He couldn’t stop thinking about who might be out there. There was no time to waste. He wouldn’t put it past Monte Wheeler to come back or send someone back to make sure he was dead.

  And she was out there alone.

  His bare foot slammed into a bench near the door. Swearing up a silent storm, he shoved the bench out of his way just as a blast rocked the night.

  “Damn that woman! She’s likely to get herself killed!”

  Head pounding, shoulder throbbing and his foot sending shooting pains up his leg, Logan scrambled to yank the door open.

  Jessie flung herself inside.

  They hit the floor in a tangled heap. Logan lost his breath for a few moments, then his renewed cursing melded with her mutterings.

  The second she attempted to untangle herself he bellowed with pain. The hot shotgun barrel pressed against the bare skin of his arm.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” Jessie tossed the gun across the floor, where it landed with a clatter.

  “Here, let me, ah, let me…” Her voice trailed away.

  With a great deal of gulping, Jessie took stock of the exact position of each body part that belonged to her, and where its counterpart—his bodily counterpart—met hers.

  Her bare feet inched along the inside of his legs. Her knees were cradled between his spread thighs. Their position had gone beyond impropriety to indecent. Her nose pressed against his chest. Hot, damp skin wet her nightgown.

  “Lord,” she muttered, “this is as sticky as divinity fudge.”

  That’s one way of putting it, lady.

  Jessie strained to make sense of his noises. She wasn’t sure where to brace herself so she could get off him. His grumbling held a desperate note. Maybe she was hurting him.

  A year of handling all the chores and repairs on her own had strengthened her muscles. Jessie blessed that strength as she spread her hands on either side of his shoulders and managed to lift herself a bit.

  “Th-thank God. You…were smothering me.”

  Well, it was all fine and dandy for him. But now she could feel herself pressing from the waist down against his body.

  “Look, lady, you need to move.”

  “I know! I’ll go to the right and you move to the left. Ready?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jessie inched her upper body to the right. And froze. Something very warm touched her breast through her nightgown. It was too soft to be his nose, although she felt his breath real close by. That left his mouth dampening the cotton, heating the skin beneath.

  “Tart berries,” Logan muttered under his breath.

  “What?”

  “Start moving, I said.”

  “Yes. I am. Right now.” She flung herself to the side and lay on her back. It had been his mouth, and she forced herself not to reach up and touch the place he had kissed. Kissed? You’re imagining things.

  Oh, no, I’m not. She eyed his sprawled figure next to her in the dark. Tart berries, indeed!

  “What were you shooting at?”

  “The henhouse.” Had he really kissed…

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Logan prompted. He knew he shouldn’t have taken advantage—no, that wasn’t right. He didn’t take advantage. Her nipple was just there. But she’d known. He still heard that funny sound she’d made. Startled, almost. As if she couldn’t believe he’d done that.

  Should she say something? Jessie shook her head. She couldn’t. She simply could not say a word.

  “Are you all right? You didn’t get hurt rushing out there, did you?”

  “No.” That much was true. Jessie had been so mad that she’d hardly felt the stones beneath her bare feet. A strangely warm feeling unfurled inside at the thought that he had cared to ask. She didn’t remember anyone but her brother or his wife expressing concern about her.

  Somehow, she wasn’t surprised when he enfolded her hand in his. She was calmer now, her thinking clear. She knew she should be the one to make a move to get up. His silent comfort, his being someone to share with after being alone for so long, filled a need she wasn’t aware of having until this moment.

  Logan fought a silent battle with himself. His body demanded rest, his mind insisted that he try questioning her. The need to know ruled him.

  “This ever happen before?”

  “A few times. It started a few months ago.” There was something else she should be remembering, but couldn’t seem to focus on what it was.

  Tension seeped out of Logan. It wasn’t Monte, or any of the ot
hers, come back for him. He wished he had the strength to move. The floor was hard and he was hurting. The door remained open. And he couldn’t forget the lush weight of her pressed against him.

  Lured by the dark intimacy, Jessie whispered a confession. “The other times I wasn’t frightened, but tonight I could swear that something growled at me. That never happened before.”

  “Growled?” Logan struggled to angle his head to the side so he could see her. Worry was evident in her voice. “You mean the way a dog growls?”

  “I couldn’t be sure. It all happened so fast. When I hear the hens squawk I usually go outside and shoot the gun in the air. It seems to chase off whoever or whatever is out there. The hens get upset. That means no eggs tomorrow. I just hope I won’t find another of the hens gone.”

  “If you’re still worried, I’ll take a look outside.” Logan knew his offer was ridiculous. If he couldn’t move from the floor, he’d be in no condition to go roaming around outside.

  Jessie was having the same thoughts. Wisely she held her tongue. There was no sense pointing out the obvious to him.

  “I think the best place for you is in bed. Whatever disturbed the hens is gone, or you’d hear my rooster.”

  “You know, I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of you sleeping on the floor. You take the bed and I’ll bunk down—”

  “You can’t. I mean, I won’t let you risk catching a chill. In your weakened state that could bring on a fever.”

  Jessie freed her hand from his. She scrambled to her feet and hoped his night vision wasn’t good. It was silly to worry now, but her nightgown was worn from washing. She felt exposed standing while he lay there, but she couldn’t avoid offering him a hand to get up.

  Logan eyed her extended hand. He wanted to refuse her help. He had thought she was softening a little toward him, but her last words were lightly coated with tartness again. And it went against his grain to need a woman to help him stand. But refusing would only spite himself.

  He drew a deep breath and braced himself for the pain. Catching hold of her hand, he lunged upward.

  Jessie caught him as he stood swaying, wrapping her arms around his narrow waist. She took the weight of the arm he slung over her shoulders. She could almost feel his resistance to leaning on her as she led him toward the bed.