The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1)

by Barbara Ankrum

  Her lips parted in confusion. "After? I don't know what—"

  "The last time you helped me, the price was a trip to Querétaro. What do I have to promise this time? Jump off a cliff, maybe? Run headlong into a stampeding herd of wild Texas cattle?"

  She hugged her arms, watching him warily, obviously stung by his words. "There's no need for sarcasm, Mr. Donovan."

  "Ah, yes, you must have been worried about our bargain, then. Protecting your interests?" He was being cruel and he knew it, but—

  "It wasn't about Querétaro or my brother."

  His eyes locked with hers. "No?" He was suddenly exhausted and breathing hard. "What was it about then?"

  She bowed her head. "It was about you. I was afraid for you." That silenced him and she met his gaze directly. "I didn't want you to die. Do you find that so hard to believe, Mr. Donovan?"

  He didn't answer, only looked at her with something akin to anger twisting in him. Believe that she cared about him? He'd made a career out of looking for the worst in people, cutting away every trace of trust he harbored inside him, until no one could get close enough to hurt him. Yet when he looked at her, at the innocence in her eyes, he hated himself for wanting to believe her.

  "Look," she said, twisting her hands in the fabric of her wrapper, "I know you don't think much of me after all the trouble I've caused you."

  "Aye," he said, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You are a lot of trouble."

  "I know. I've been trouble my whole life. Everyone says so. Even Luke. I don't try to be. It just happens. When I was sitting here with you last night, and you were very ill, it occurred to me that I'd never really told you how sorry I was about everything. I never thanked you for what you did for me back in Pair-a-Dice."

  "For what?"

  "Deke."

  Donovan pulled his gaze from her and aimed it at the window. "Oh, that. I didn't do it for you."

  "For the spilled whiskey, I suppose?"

  "I paid good money for that bottle."

  "I believed that too, at first. But you don't kill someone over spilled whiskey."

  The look he turned on her was hard again. "No. I don't kill men over whiskey, or over a woman, either. I don't kill at all unless I have to."

  "I know," she said. "I mean, I understand that now. I didn't before. I'm sorry I doubted you."

  He swallowed hard and drew the back of his hand over the sweat glistening above his lip. "Don't try to make me something I'm not, Grace. It won't work. You weren't wrong about me. The truth is, if I could have gotten away from you that first night—if not for the bullet—I would've left you and the old man behind in a blink and never regretted it."

  "Oh." Disappointment clouded her eyes.

  He stared at her, forcing himself to look unrepentant.

  "And now?" she asked.

  "Now." He sighed, turning his face away from her. "Now it doesn't matter, does it? I'm weak as a kitten and no good to you or myself."

  "But you will be. As soon as you get your stren—"

  "Will you wake up?" he shot back. "Surely even you can see it's no good. The plan's been doomed from the start. This"—he gestured to his side—"this only seals the bargain."

  Her expression went cool as ice and she pulled herself straight in the chair. "My, you're feeling quite sorry for yourself, aren't you?"

  "What?"

  "Are you going to give up and die, then? Perhaps just languish here until the posse does find you? Then what will happen to James and Evie? Tell me that. Harboring criminals. Fugitives. How well do you think it will go for them, then?"

  He scowled, knowing she was right.

  "Whether you've decided to renege on your promise to us or not, Mr. Donovan, is of no real consequence at this moment. Because right now a man named Ephram Sanders with a grudge as big as all of Texas is determined to see us dead. You are in precisely the same danger as Brew and I. The longer we stay here, the more danger we put your friends in. Is that what you want?"

  He closed his eyes, wishing he could escape into sleep, or something deeper. "You know I don't."

  "Then we'll speak of it no more. As soon as you're able, we will find a boat and get on it. Then we'll cross the Rio into Mexico and take tomorrow as it comes. Agreed?"

  He nodded.

  "Good. I'm going to find you something to eat, and when I come back, you will eat it." She flounced toward the door, that pretty backside of hers swaying in indignation.

  He couldn't stop the half smile of admiration that crept to his lips as he called after her, "Hey, Grace."

  She stopped short and turned back to him with an arched brow, waiting.

  "Are you by any chance a schoolmarm?" he asked.

  From her expression, that was apparently the last thing she expected him to say. "Why, yes. An assistant teacher. However did you know that?"

  "Just a guess. It was either that," he replied, letting his eyes shut, "or an army drillmaster."

  * * *

  James was sitting beside the bed when Reese woke up again. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, except that Grace hadn't returned.

  "Hello, my friend," James said.

  Reese smiled. "James. Sorry for dropping in on you this way."

  "You did drop, didn't you?" He rolled his shoulder with an exaggerated wince. "I think I pulled something carrying your carcass into the house."

  "Sorry," Reese admitted sheepishly. "I don't remember any of it."

  "When you consider you were nearly straddling Saint Peter's pearly gate when you got here, that's no great surprise." The grin faded and he grew serious. "How do you feel?"

  "Like I've been dragged across Texas—under a horse."

  James smiled. "Grace told us what happened. We halfway expected something like this. We'd heard you were making your living by the gun."

  "Did you, now?" Reese wouldn't have thought himself capable of a blush, but nevertheless felt heat creep up his neck. It had never bothered him what people thought of him or what he did. It mattered, however, what James thought.

  "You've got a reputation as a shootist, Reese. Even you must know that. Is that what that kid, Deke Sanders, was testing? His gun against yours?"

  "Something like that." Reese flexed his hand, then shoved it beneath his head and stared at the ceiling.

  "I know you well enough to know he drew on you first."

  "That's a fact that conveniently escaped the attention of every other man in the room," Reese said, meeting James's eyes. "He just happened to be Ephram Sanders's baby brother. Bad luck."

  "Well, you're lucky that girl didn't let you bleed to death out there. And lucky she's so determined to keep you alive. She hasn't slept for more than a few hours since you got here for fussing over you. I reckon she did more to save you than Evie and me combined."

  Reese shook his head. "Grace couldn't afford to let me die. She needs me."

  James shook his head slowly. "She's crazy about you."

  "Crazy abou—? You don't know what you're talking about."

  "Don't I? You'd have to be blind not to see it, Reese. And I say a woman strong enough to do what she did is worth hanging on to."

  Reese snorted. "I don't hang on to women, James. You should know that by now. Anyway, that sort of life is all behind me."

  "Maybe," James said carefully. "And maybe it's time you changed your mind."

  "With Grace, you mean?" He snorted. "She's a wide-eyed, green stripling with an imagination like a steam engine locked at full speed. If she's not recounting some wild scheme from some dime novel adventure she's read, she's lecturing me on the quality of honor and mercy."

  James laughed, and shook his head. "And she's got just enough optimism to possibly—just possibly—knock off that chip of cynicism you wear on your shoulder, if only you'd give her the chance."

  Reese glared up at him. "Chip, eh? Is that what you think of me?"

  James rubbed a hand across the stubble on his jaw. "You came here, so you must have a pretty goo
d idea what I think of you, Reese. You wouldn't be lying in my bed if I didn't believe you were worth that gal's trouble or mine. But I think you've been on your own too long. Havin' a woman, a good woman," he added meaningfully, "changes the way a man thinks about his life. Changes everything. That's all." James slapped his knees and leaned forward. "And that and two bits will buy you a shot of bad whiskey. So what'll you do? Brewster has gone to hire a boat. Are you going to help them get to Querétaro?"

  "I don't know," Reese said honestly. "I'm going to get on that boat and cross the border. After that, I don't know."

  James watched him, and leaned back in his chair. "Would it make any difference if I told you I heard Jake Scully was down that way, workin' with Juarez's forces?"

  Reese shoved himself up on one elbow, his blood suddenly thudding hard against his temples. "Scully's in Mexico? Are you sure?"

  James nodded. "Got it firsthand from a soldier who just returned from there, needed his horse shod. Mentioned Scully's name in passing. The bastard's workin' with the rebels and wearin' U.S. Army blues. Last this fellow heard, Scully was in Tampico."

  Jake Scully in Mexico. The words traveled through him like white heat, blocking out the room and James and the pain in his side. Scully. The old hatred bloomed anew, swelling to fill a purpose he'd nearly forgotten, or rather, nearly given up on. He'd waited seven long years to find him. And there he was, at the end of Grace Turner's road.

  Life was strange.

  "I guess," James said with an odd look of satisfaction, "this means you'll go."

  Reese confirmed it with a silent look.

  "I reckon I don't have to say don't hurt her, Reese. You'll have to answer me and Evie if you do."

  Reese nodded, but wasn't really listening. He was thinking about Jake Scully and Adriana and the blind rage that had driven him for years. That was all but gone. That emotion had gotten him nowhere. What he felt now was closer to a calm acceptance of the inevitable. He would find Scully and made him pay for the bloody mess he'd made of Reese's life. Then maybe, just maybe, he'd find some peace.

  Chapter 11

  Darkness had engulfed the waterfront district three hours ago. The moon, a mere crescent of light, did little to illuminate the scene or lighten the moods of the trio who approached it, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in a two-person hack. A thin mist came off the river. It hovered along the shoreline like a waiting wraith.

  James gave the traces a shake, urging the carriage horse to hurry. Except for the faint music spilling from a distant riverfront cantina, the clip-clop of hooves against the ground and the steady, quiet rush of the river's current were the only sounds that broke the night's quiet.

  An uneasy feeling crawled between Grace's shoulder blades, dampening the back of the blue muslin dress Evie had lent her. She pressed her clasped hands against her heart, willing it to stop pounding. They were driving through the poorer section of town, where the dock workers and transient sailors lived. Where was everyone? Was the waterfront always this deserted at night? And where was Brew? What if something had gone wrong? What if he'd been discovered?

  She tried to push those thoughts from her mind and at the same time ignore the press of Reese Donovan's thigh against her own. But that was hardly possible. With his arm draped around the back of the seat, he was so close she felt like part of him. She could feel his every breath, each rise and fall of his rib cage against her arm. The memory of him beneath her—naked and beautiful—returned, making heat soar to her cheeks. She wondered now if he had any memory of it, of her looking at him or holding him down with her own body.

  If he remembered, he showed no outward sign. He seemed lost in thought, his expression impassive, revealing nothing. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and each time the carriage jolted, the muscle in his jaw jumped.

  "Pull up here, James," he said suddenly, pointing to a ramshackle row of jacales on the north side of the dirt road. The huts seemed deserted, too, but the occupants might have simply retired. It was late, she reminded herself. Past ten.

  James did as Donovan asked. The horse snorted and tossed its head, shaking its harness.

  "Why here?" James asked. "You're a good walk from the spot Brewster arranged."

  Donovan disengaged his right arm from Grace's shoulder and proffered his hand to James. "I know. It's safer this way. I don't want anyone connecting you or your hack to us."

  James regarded his old friend for a long moment before reluctantly nodding and taking his hand. "Good luck, Reese."

  "And to you. I owe you, my friend."

  "No. Now we're even."

  Donovan smiled and climbed out of the carriage. He helped Grace down and she turned to James. "Thank you," she said. "Someday, I hope we'll meet again."

  James touched the brim of the dark hat he wore. "It's a pleasure my wife and I shall anticipate, ma'am. Farewell." He sent a last warning look at Reese before giving the reins a shake. The carriage pulled away and soon disappeared into the mist that swirled behind it.

  "Do you know where we're going?" she asked.

  "I know the place."

  A light came on in a jacale three doors down from where they stood and the sound of arguing voices—a man's and a woman's—came from within.

  "Let's go," Donovan said. The dry, rutted mud from the last rainstorm cracked beneath their feet as they made their way down the road. Above the swirl of fog, stars crowded the black dome over their heads, peeking in and out of the landlocked clouds. To their left, the Rio Grande moved like a living thing in the moonlight. Grace couldn't see the other side. It must be more than one hundred yards across at this point, she thought, and swiftly flowing. Too far to swim.

  They'd been walking for almost five minutes when she realized that Donovan had fallen behind her several paces. She looked back at him in concern. It had been too soon to get him out of bed, but they'd had no choice. "Are you all right?"

  "Aye," he insisted, but he listed slightly more to the left with each step.

  She slipped an arm around him, wedging her shoulder beneath his armpit.

  Reese tried to back off. "I said I'm all right."

  "Sure you are. And I'm the Queen of England."

  He cursed under his breath. "Why don't we just hang a sign on ourselves? Injured Murderer and Cohort-—Take Your Best Shot."

  She shifted her shoulder and started to walk again, slowly, guiding him around a rutted path.

  "Actually," she said at last, "Captain Ace Lawler once used this ploy in Desperadoes of Tyler Flats."

  Reese shook his head in silent amusement. This was the Grace he remembered, piping up at the craziest times with her fractured versions of the West. He had to admit, it was growing on him.

  "Ace Lawler?" he repeated dryly.

  "A Texas Ranger. Maybe you knew him."

  "Never heard of him." He hadn't read any fairy tales lately. Reese scanned the roadway, hearing the sounds of activity ahead: a woman's laugh rose above the faint hum of men's revelry. Beyond the next bend in the road sat La Cantina del Rio, a thriving enterprise near the docks where the lower elements of Brownsville congregated late at night. There was no avoiding it, as Brewster had arranged their meeting only a short distance upriver. To their right, several large warehouses and a feed and grain store sprouted out of the darkness.

  He set his back teeth together. His side burned like a hot poker, but he couldn't afford to let his guard down. He needed his wits about him now. And he needed Grace distracted enough not to fall apart at the first sign of trouble. Which he fully expected any minute.

  "This ploy of Lawler's," Reese pressed, watching the roadway, "exactly how did it work?"

  She looked up at him with disbelief. "You really want to know?"

  "I asked, didn't I?" He kept his gaze locked on the road ahead. The music from the cantina grew louder.

  "Well," she began, a frown working between her eyebrows, "Ace was in a bit of trouble, you see, and being hunted by some nefarious criminal sorts, and a widow woman, Lydia Can
twell, I believe, was helping him escape. When his nemesis approached, Ace pretended to be inebriated and leaned on Lydia until they were out from under the villain's scrutiny. You see, the last thing the villain expected was for Ace to sashay right down the main street like a drunken sailor, so he passed right by."

  "Just like that?"

  "Just like that."

  "Amazing."

  "I thought so," she agreed. "So you see, if anyone sees us, they'll simply think you're some drunken man with nothing to hide."

  "Ah," he sighed. "Now that's cruel, Grace, to tease me with the idea, considering your campaign to keep me sober."

  "It's only a bit of theatrics, Mr. Donovan."

  His hand slid around her rib cage again, his thumb brushing the curve of her breast, sending a rod of steel up Grace Turner's spine. But he couldn't resist. She was so soft there. With his nose buried in her hair, Donovan inhaled her scent. She smelled of soap and the ever-present scent of lilacs, the ones she grew on that farm of hers back in Virginia. He could almost imagine her there, looking as much a part of the picture as those lavender shrubs. Unlike here, where she was as out of place as a peach on a saguaro.

  In the distance, a pair of men mounted on horseback rounded the curve, haloed by the light of the town. The hair on the back of Reese's neck went up.

  In silhouette, neither of them looked familiar, but he pulled the brim of his hat down, nevertheless.

  "How am I doing?" he asked quietly.

  "Fine. Of course," she suggested, "you should keep your head down."

  He leaned closer, feeling the heavy thud of her heart against his arm. "Like this?"

  "Mmm, and your stagger could use a bit of work."

  He didn't have to try on that one. He felt his small reserve of strength leeching out of him like water draining through a hole in the ground. "How's this?"

  She cleared her throat, wilting a bit under his weight. "Yes, that's—" She saw them then. "Oh! Donovan!"

  "Just keep walking."

  "But they're looking right at us," she said in a strangled whisper.

  That they were. A well, sheltered by a palo verde tree, stood fifteen feet away, its wooden bucket and dipper gleaming in the moonlight. The two men were, indeed, looking right at them, pulling their horses on a direct course for interception.