"I'd be obliged if you wouldn't cuss in front of my wife," Quinn told him coldly.
Maura marched forward again. "Quinn, that's enough. You're scaring this boy and I won't have it—"
"Scared? Who the hell are you calling scared— Er, pardon me, ma'am," the kid amended hastily as Quinn's face hardened and he raised the Colt again.
"All right, all right," the boy muttered. He eyed the revolver warily now, and some of the cockiness had faded from his face. "Maybe it is your land. Maybe not. I've been here for a couple of weeks now. Before that, the place looked like no one'd touched it for years. How was I s'posed to know it wasn't just an old abandoned shack? I didn't hurt nothing—hell, there's nothing in there worth enough to hurt—or steal. But anyway, you got a deed that says it's yours?"
Quinn's smile could have frozen a sunbeam. "This gun says it's mine."
"Oh, Quinn, really." Maura spoke in a low tone. "Can't we be civilized about this? Obviously this is a misunderstanding. Anyone can see he means us no harm. There's no danger here, so why don't you just—"
Without warning, the creekbank exploded with shots. Quinn dove for Maura and knocked her to the ground, taking her weight on him as they rolled to the earth. He was shielding her with his body even as he raised the gun and fired at the black-bearded giant on a pinto horse charging toward them through the trees.
The kid had dropped, too, then grabbed his six-shooter and rolled over. He fired at the giant as well, and plumes of acrid gunsmoke thickened the air.
But the rider kept coming and Quinn saw that the giant's shotgun was aimed at the youth sprawled in the dirt.
Quinn squeezed the trigger again. This time the giant reeled backward over the hindquarters of his mount, and toppled to the ground with a crash. The horse neighed, swerved, and came to a shuddering halt near the wagon.
"You got him!" Quinn heard the kid shout.
He shifted his weight and peered down at the woman lying beneath him. Dirt and weeds and brush clung to her hair and around the collar of her dress, but though she looked shaken, she wasn't shot. "Maura. Are you all right? Did I hurt you?"
"N-no. What...happened?"
"That's what I'm going to find out," he told her grimly. "Stay here. Stay down. I'll be back."
He was gone before she could try to stop him, and as she turned gingerly over and lifted her head to survey the scene, she saw that the boy was following right behind Quinn, both of them edging forward with their guns drawn, moving at a half crouch toward the fallen man.
They stood over him. The kid nudged him with his boot.
"He's dead," the youth said with satisfaction. He glanced up at Quinn, and this time his eyes were bright with appreciation. "Nice shooting. Do you know who this is?"
"No, but I've got a feeling you're going to tell me," Quinn growled.
"Ox Morgan. The bounty hunter. The famous bounty hunter."
"I know the name," Quinn said dryly. Ox Morgan was one of the West's more brutal thugs, a bounty hunter who brought nearly every prisoner in dead—or close to it. He was rumored to have captured and killed more than thirty men in the past three years.
"What I want to know, kid, is what did he want with you?"
At that moment Maura made a small sound behind him and Quinn turned to see her standing only a few feet away, staring aghast at the dead man sprawled in his own blood.
"I told you to stay put."
"Who is he?"
"A bounty hunter who was after your friend here, the innocent kid you wanted me to let—"
Quinn broke off as the boy sagged to the ground.
"He's hurt," Maura cried, and rushed forward.
The youth closed his eyes a moment and then opened them with a yelp as Maura touched his arm, where a bullet had nicked him. Blood soaked his shirt.
"I'm sorry," she gasped. "Lie still and I'll help you."
"It's nothing, ma'am," he began to babble. "Nothing at all. Doesn't hurt... a bit." A shudder racked his thin shoulders, and he clamped down on his lips and tried to smile at her. "Matter of fact, I wouldn't mind dying, and going to heaven... if all the angels were as... pretty as you."
"That's quite charming," she said with a shaky laugh, ignoring Quinn's snort. The boy was white as parchment. "But I think we'd better tend to that arm before you lose any more blood."
She glanced up at her husband. "Quinn, I'll need some bandages and boiled water. And the blanket. Judd was shot once and I helped Doc Lindsay patch him up. I think I know what to do."
"Leave him here to rot, that's what you can do."
"Please." The urgent look she threw him was so full of soft appeal that he sighed and stalked off toward the wagon for his saddlebags.
"Alone... at last." The kid managed a wan, wavery grin. And promptly fainted.
Chapter 14
"So what did you do with old Ox?"
Seated at the square pine table in the cabin's kitchen, Quinn didn't bother answering the boy's question, asked between mouthfuls of mashed potatoes. It seemed that the bullet that nicked him in the arm hadn't affected his ability to shovel in huge quantities of food.
"Quinn, um, took care of him," Maura said. "You don't have to worry about him anymore." She scooped the last of the canned beans she'd heated into a bowl and carried them to the table, then at last slipped into the rickety three-legged chair beside Quinn's.
She flushed as she felt his gaze on her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She knew she must look dreadful, but she couldn't understand why Quinn Lassiter kept staring at her all the while she cooked, and as she brewed coffee and browned biscuits and set plates out around the table—in fact he'd been staring at her ever since he'd finished washing up after burying that bounty hunter.
He'd let her tend to the injured young man, brought him back to the cabin in the wagon bed, and then had dragged Ox Morgan off to be buried. She didn't care where—as long as she didn't have to see him again.
In a very short space of time, she and Quinn had brought all of their possessions inside the cabin and done what they could to make it habitable, at least for the night.
She was bone tired, but elated somehow to be snugly ensconced in the cabin, which turned out, thankfully, to be in better shape than its ramshackle exterior had led her to imagine. She was surprisingly pleased with the swept-out, aired-out rooms, the pleasant meal she'd managed to toss together with some of the flour, cured ham, canned goods, and potatoes the youth had bought and stored in the cabin's pantry, and amazed that on her first night in her new home, she and Quinn already had company.
Not that her husband was any too pleased with their guest. But Maura found him endearing, and rather sad. He was so young, and so obviously alone. So full of pride and bluster. There was no doubt that Ox Morgan would have killed him if not for Quinn. Yet the boy couldn't humble himself enough to thank him. At least not yet.
"So you buried him?" the kid asked eagerly. "Where?"
Quinn watched, frowning, as the young man grabbed the platter of ham with his good hand and began to help himself to more. There were only three thin slices left.
"That ham is for Maura. Touch any of it and I'll shoot you in the other arm."
At this the young man had the grace to flush. "Sorry." He pushed the platter toward her. "Here, you go ahead— Maura." He grinned. "That's sure a pretty name."
"She's Mrs. Lassiter to you."
"Quinn," Maura murmured reprovingly, but her eyes were dancing. She'd spent all of her twenty-four years sheltered from male attention and companionship—except for the unwelcome and unfriendly presence of Judd and Homer—and it was quite amusing to have two such different male specimens sitting down to her dinner table.
Quinn, dark, sleek, and deadly as a panther, was being so protective of her that she wanted to whoop with laughter, even as it touched her heart. The tall, chestnut-haired young man, who had not yet favored them with his name, was full of pluck and rough boyish charm.
"Eat something," Quinn ordered.
"Before this scavenger pecks up every crumb on the table."
She ate. And listened as Quinn leaned back in his chair, shot the boy a flint-eyed look that would have intimidated much more seasoned men, and grilled him with a series of questions.
"Let's get to the important matters. Who the hell are you? And why was that jackal Morgan after you?"
"It was all a mistake. I swear it didn't mean nothing, and I didn't do nothing." He popped the last of a biscuit into his mouth and chewed quickly, then swallowed. "Honest, Mr. Lassiter, there were witnesses. It was a frame-up!"
"Your name," Quinn grated. "Start with that and we'll get to the rest later."
"Lucky. Lucky Johnson. From Topeka."
"And just what have you been doing on my property, Lucky Johnson?"
"Hiding out." The boy tossed down his napkin and pushed back his chair. He began to pace around the cabin. Though he held his one arm stiffly, bound up in a sling
Maura had fashioned from her oldest petticoat, he otherwise seemed unaffected by the wound Maura had also cleansed, daubed with salve, and bandaged. He was now wearing a clean green plaid shirt that hung a bit loosely on his lanky frame. His cheeks were a bit sunken, too, as if he hadn't been eating well.
"Ox Morgan's been chasing me clear across the territory! Son of a bitch damn near caught me half a dozen places—oops—sorry, ma'am. I mean, Maura." He gave her a wolfish grin, ignoring Quinn's frown.
"And all I did was kiss one mighty pretty lady. Now I ask you, since when is that a crime?"
"If you forced her to kiss you, I'd damn well say it could be," Quinn said evenly. "And if you forced her to do anything else..."
"Force? Hell, no. I'd never force a lady to do anything. Why would I have to? They're only too eager to—" He broke off hastily as Quinn's mouth thinned warningly, and he threw a quick glance at Maura. "What I mean is, the lady invited me. Really nice and polite, too." He chuckled and threw himself back down into the chair, as if greatly pleased with himself.
While Maura set about clearing the plates, Quinn finally got the story out of him. It seemed that Lucky Johnson had done slightly more than kiss a lady. He'd swept her off her feet and taken her to bed.
Unfortunately, it wasn't his own bed he was caught in—it was her husband's. One Rufus Lummock, who owned the biggest freight company in Denver.
"When he burst in on us, instead of going after me, he came after Tess," Lucky exclaimed indignantly. "That was her name, Tess," he added. A frown settled over his boyish features. "Before I knew what was happening, he dragged her out of bed by her hair and knocked her clear across the room. I grabbed him before he could hit her again, and we lit into one another. Tess was crying and screaming to raise the dead, but I didn't have time to see how she was doing, because suddenly Rufus went for his gun. I wasn't wearing one," he said, then added matter-of-factly, "Wasn't wearing nothin' at all."
"Oh, my." At the sink, Maura put a hand to her throat. "He tried to shoot you? That would have been coldblooded murder!"
"Nobody ever accused Rufus of being a decent sort," Lucky replied darkly.
"Keep talking." Quinn poured himself more coffee, frowning over the story of Rufus Lummock's striking his wife. The boy's description of that brought back memories. Ugly memories. He pushed them away and forced himself to concentrate on the rest of the story.
"So we fought over the gun and I was trying to get it away from him when it went off. Rufus, he up and died on me, and then the sheriff arrested me and charged me with murder—no mind about what Tess tried to explain to him—so me and old Ben broke out of jail—"
"Old Ben?" Soapy plate in hand, Maura paused at the sink and stared at him.
"Yep, Ben Baskin, the bank robber, was locked up with me. So anyways, we escaped, and the sheriff put out a five-hundred-dollar bounty on both of us, and Ox caught up with Ben in Virginia City, and brung him in dead, and ever since then he's been hot on my trail."
"Then I guess you owe Quinn a debt of gratitude." Maura set the last plate on the counter and reached for a dry rag. "He saved you from being killed by that terrible man just as old Ben was."
Quinn shrugged and drained the last of his coffee, but Lucky began to gnaw at his lower lip.
The boy leaned back in his chair, in much the same casual pose as Quinn had assumed. He stuck out his jaw and met the other man's eyes. Rebellion flickered in Lucky's lightning-blue eyes, but it died out beneath the hard silver glint directed at him. He glanced down, and spoke in a mumble.
"I reckon I do owe you. Ox must've spotted me over by Goose Canyon today and followed me back. So, much obliged, mister. Uh, wait a minute." Lucky peered up quickly, and jerked forward in the chair. His suddenly sharp gaze darted from Maura to Quinn and back again.
"Did you say to call her Mrs. Lassiter? It didn't really sink in till now, but you're not..." He moistened his lips, then scanned the tall, dark-visaged man before him in a quick assessment that made his eyes open wider. He swallowed hard. "You're not the Quinn Lassiter, are you?"
"Seems I was the last time I looked."
"But you—you're...I've heard of you. Hell, everyone's heard of you. You're famous."
Quinn stood up from the table, grabbed his coffee cup and Lucky's, and carried them to the sink. "Thanks for supper," he told Maura.
"Where are you going?"
"To check on the horses. And to see if there's anything worthwhile in the barn or the shed. Haven't had a chance to look until now. I won't be long." He turned and eyed Lucky. "You ready?"
"Ready for what?" The boy stood up too. "To ride. You've got a long road back to town and it's getting late."
"You're not thinking of sending him back to town tonight?" Maura protested. "He's wounded!"
"Way too softhearted," Quinn muttered, shaking his head. Then he gave her a level glance. "He's not staying here. He can find himself a cave, or make camp somewhere, or ride to town-whatever the hell he wants, but he's clearing out of here right now."
"Never you mind, ma'am." Lucky grabbed his hat off a peg and started toward the door. His cheeks were flushed, but he struggled to appear indifferent. "Don't let no one ever accuse Lucky Johnson of staying where he isn't wanted. I've imposed myself on you enough, I reckon. Thanks for the fine supper," he told her grandly. "And don't you worry none about me. I can take care of myself."
"But your arm..."
"Doesn't hurt a bit."
"But where will you go? How will you manage?"
"He doesn't need you to mollycoddle him," Quinn said curtly. "If he's old enough to get into trouble with a jealous husband and the law, he's old enough to take care of himself." He strode to the door, yanked it open, and eyed Lucky Johnson expectantly until the young man grimaced, set his hat on his head, picked up his gear with his good arm, and marched out into the night.
Dismayed, Maura stared at the door Quinn slammed shut behind them. Annoyance and irritation vied with the exhaustion that pulled at her. She was not going to put up with Quinn Lassiter's highhandedness. If he thought differently, he was in for quite a shock. All she'd wanted to do was extend basic hospitality to a young man with nowhere to go, someone who needed a roof over his head for this one night, and Quinn had instead almost literally kicked him out the door.
The more she thought about it, the angrier she became.
And when Quinn came back inside just as she finished sweeping the cabin floor, she swung toward him with the broom clenched in her hand and her eyes flashing golden fire.
To her fury, he pretended not to notice.
"You look all tuckered out," he said over his shoulder as he tossed a log inside the blackened hearth. "Why don't you turn in now and we can get a fresh start on this place in the morning."
"I'll turn in when I'm ready to turn in," Maura said tightly.
"Suit yourself." He turned to regard her, his glance surveying her in a long, slow appraisal that made her bones quiver. His silver eyes darkened to smoke in the leaping firelight. "But I'd say you're ready now.
"
"And I say I'm not."
Quinn stalked toward her. "Maura, if this is about that Johnson kid—"
"It's about you. Thinking you can tell me—tell everybody—what to do. I won't have it."
"It has nothing to do with telling you what to do. I only said I didn't want him staying here another—"
"But it was unkind and inhospitable...and..."
Her voice shook, and Quinn saw in alarm that she was close to tears.
"Now hold on," he said hastily. "No need to get all excited. I didn't know you cared so much about some kid who's been squatting on our property and who damn near got us both killed."
"It's not just Lucky," Maura cried. "It's—" She broke off in frustration, struggling to find words to express what she was feeling. Quinn was regarding her as if she were crazy.
"I've lived my whole life with two brothers who pushed everyone away," she choked out. "Everyone who might have been a friend. Everyone who might have tried to be nice to me, whom I might have wanted to get to know. I don't want that kind of life anymore. I want things to be different here. To get to know people in this town. I want to care about them, maybe eventually feel that I ... oh, Quinn, I don't know—that they care about me, that I belong here. That we belong here. I want that for the baby."
He went rigid.
"Didn't you ever want that? Want to feel connected to a place, to people? A sense of belonging?"
He didn't step back from her, but he might as well have. He might as well have retreated a hundred miles away.
"No."
His tone was cool, indifferent, but hard as steel. "I don't like ties."
She felt as though he'd struck her. "That's right. How could I have forgotten?" She turned away and plunked the broom down in the corner.
"Maura—"
"I suggest you hurry up and get this ranch running then so you can get 'untied' from me and the baby as soon as possible."
"That's just what I intend to do."
"Yes, you've made that clear enough." She picked up a damp rag and began to scrub at a coffee spill she'd missed on the table. Her hands were trembling. "But you'll hate it, won't you? Every moment you're stuck here with me, in this house, on this land, you'll hate it. You'll hate me."
Gregory, Jill Page 12
