Outlaw

by Lisa Plumley

  Amelia gasped and quickly recalled her earlier estimation—his expression looked ominous as ever. Wordlessly, he picked up the canteen and handed it to her, then walked away, pulling a whiskey flask from his coat pocket as he went.

  The canteen smelled of horse. Amelia was just thirsty enough not to care. She wrinkled her nose, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip. It tasted warm, but good. After a furtive glance to make sure she wasn’t being watched, she tipped back her head and gulped some more.

  A few minutes later he reached over her head to take back the canteen. Surprised at his unexpected reappearance, she choked on a mouthful of warm water; it dribbled in a most unladylike fashion down her chin and soaked into the bodice of her dress.

  “I didn’t hear you come back,” Amelia managed to croak, swiping a hand at her mouth. Her eyes darted to the stoppered whiskey flask in his hand. She couldn’t tell if he’d drank any of it.

  “Obviously.”

  The outlaw’s gaze fastened on the place where her sodden pink bodice clung tight to her skin. She couldn’t decipher his expression, but it made a blush warm her cheeks all the same.

  Chagrined, Amelia looked away and plucked ineffectually at her clothes. The water seeped beneath the fabric to wet her chemise as well. She couldn’t believe she’d blushed at his gaze. She was all of twenty-one years old and a spinster—surely she had no cause to simper and blush at a man’s scrutiny.

  His eyes met hers. “There’s no fresh water nearby,” he explained in a voice suddenly turned huskier than before. “That’s all there is.”

  “Oh.” She nodded. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Her head bobbled like a marionette. Amelia made herself stop and looked up at the night sky instead, pretending great interest in the stars.

  He put his hand on her arm and turned her around. She had to look up to see his face. Something in the outlaw’s eyes, some gentling of his expression, drew her closer. She waited breathlessly for him to speak.

  “I can’t take you back,” he said.

  She could only stare at him for a second, absorbing his words. He wasn’t taking her back? “I…I’m sure if you just take me back to the road, then—”

  “No. I’ve lost too much time already.”

  “Well, you could leave me here and I’ll—”

  “And you’ll do what?” he interrupted meanly. “Why the hell do you think I went back for you in the first place, lady?”

  He glared down at her, bigger, taller, stronger than she was. The firelight shadowed his face, making him seem twice as menacing as before.

  “I don’t know,” Amelia whispered. Judging by the look on his face, whatever the reason, it was fearsome. He turned away and she followed him toward the lone mesquite tree where the horse was tethered, stumbling over the rocks and clumps of cactus. Dear heaven—in terrain like this, a person could step on an innocent-looking pile of rocks and wind up skidding halfway down the mountainside in no time!

  By the time she reached him again Amelia was breathing hard. The outlaw, obviously finished with their discussion, set aside one of her J.G. O’Malley & Sons satchels and picked up his bedroll.

  “I’ve only got one blanket. We’ll have to share it.”

  “No!” Things were going from bad to worse.

  “We’re riding out at sunrise tomorrow and we both need some sleep first.”

  “I can’t go with you! I—I can’t sleep with you! It wouldn’t be right. Please, I—”

  “Suit yourself,” he replied, not looking at her as he headed back toward the fire.

  Amelia would have sworn the temperature dropped at least ten degrees at that moment. The wind swished through the mesquite branches and raised goose bumps on her arms. The horse nickered behind her. The crackling warmth of the fire reached brightly into the air. Beyond it, the poet bandit spread a blanket on the ground, apparently engrossed in the task at hand.

  He left her with no other choice. It was, Amelia decided, the perfect opportunity to make her escape.

  Chapter Three

  Still wearing his boots and doing his best to ignore the woman—who was busy muttering to herself across the campsite—Mason Kincaid stretched out on the old striped woolen blanket that had been his bed for the past month. It was worn thin in spots and smelled vaguely like horse sweat, but a cushion of cleared sand beneath made it comfortable enough. A wanted man could hardly complain about the conditions of lawlessness.

  Mason reached his arms overhead and folded them beneath his neck, waiting for the muscles in his back and shoulders to unknot themselves. Above him the night sky stretched wide, veiled in clouds that hid the moon. When he breathed, the spring-cold air held no hint of rain, though, and Mason was glad.

  Dry weather would make it that much easier to track down the Sharpe brothers in the morning. If he made an early start, he might even catch up with the lazy sons of bitches while they were still snoring in their bedrolls at one of the stage stops nearby.

  Catch up with them and reclaim all they’d stolen from him.

  He might have had them already if not for Amelia O’Malley. Hell. Mason didn’t know what had possessed him to double back and pick her up by the side of the road. He’d been a half mile away when he’d heard her screaming after that stagecoach driver like a scalded cat. He’d gone back for her without thinking, knowing the driver wouldn’t return. Knowing she couldn’t survive alone.

  He wondered why she’d gotten out of the stagecoach in the first place. Maybe she was touched in the head. Maybe all those fussy blond curls in her hair were wound too tight; they’d addled her brains. Whatever the reason, he was stuck with her, at least for a while.

  She was pretty enough, if a man liked his women all decked out in gee-gaws like a fancy cake. Mason didn’t. And for a little woman, she’d looked plump as a stuffed sofa in that ruffled pink dress she’d had on. He’d wager Amelia O’Malley had more than bustle to thank for a backside like hers. No, she wasn’t the kind of woman he liked at all, he told himself.

  And if he’d noticed the way the spilled canteen water made her dress cling a little tighter on top, if he was wondering what she’d look like with her prissy-looking blond hair undone, well…He was a man. A man noticing a woman like that was only natural.

  Mason pulled the blanket higher and rolled over, willing himself to sleep. He needed it, wanted it…and knew just as plainly that tonight he wasn’t going to get it. Again. He might as well pack up and head after the Sharpes, he decided; make up for the time he’d lost going after Amelia O’Malley. Even better, he’d pack her up and take her down to Gila Bend before she started screaming again. If he wasn’t going to sleep he’d have plenty of time to do it.

  He sat up, raked his fingers through his hair, and looked toward the stand of creosote bushes where she’d been pouting over sharing the blanket. Then he looked near the rocks, the horse, and beside the fire. She was gone.

  Aww, hell. Mason grabbed his hat and went to look for Miss Fancy Pants.

  Her trail wasn’t hard to spot. Only a loco bear crashing through the creosote, palo verde trees, and clumps of burr sage would’ve left a clearer sign. Except a loco bear didn’t wear fancy pink dresses. A few yards from the campsite, Mason plucked a wisp of white lace from a stand of cholla and rubbed the fabric between his fingertips. It was soft, soft like a lady’s skin…soft like Ellen used to be, in his memories.

  Frowning, he ducked beneath a branch and went on. He didn’t want to think about Ellen, about home, about his life…before. The damned Sharpe brothers had made sure none of it would be left to return to.

  Amelia O’Malley’s trail ended at the top of a boulder-strewn ridge. Mason paused beside a one-armed saguaro, peering into the darkness. Below him, the ridge sloped into a pitch-dark valley; the undergrowth was crushed, leading downward, but he doubted Miss Amelia would’ve taken that way—at least not intentionally.

  To his left, a copse of mesquites leaned whistling in the wind. On his right, the rocky face of the mountain rose up, boulder pi
led upon boulder. It wasn’t as solid as it looked, Mason knew—irregular caves and sheltering overhangs dotted the mountainside. Miss Hoity Toity could be hiding in any one of them.

  The woman brought nothing but trouble. It would serve her right if he just left her out there—in one of those caves, or down in the valley below. Mason sighed and gauged the slope of the ridge again. If she’d fallen down there, it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good for him to go down after her.

  Unless she’d gotten stuck halfway down.

  Unless she was hurt at the bottom.

  Hell. Shaking his head at what he was about to do, Mason headed for the ridge, turned his back to the night sky, and started to climb down. He’d only climbed a few steps before he realized it was a lot steeper than it looked. No sooner had the realization come to him than a root gave way beneath his foot, sending him skidding down the ridge on his knees.

  Mason grabbed with both hands. He’d be damned if he’d break his own neck chasing after a blasted fancy woman with more curly hair than sense. His fingernails scraped the dirt, seeking purchase. Nothing to catch hold of. Grunting, he landed on his belly and slid another few feet before his fingers touched something solid.

  Another root. Great. Mason decided to take his chances, and grabbed it. This one held.

  Spitting dirt and pebbles, he inched his way to a more stable position. He glanced over his shoulder at the valley below, wishing he’d brought a rope. Who would’ve thought little Miss Corkscrew Curls would get so far?

  “Aaaaamazing Grace, how sweeeeeeet the sound…”

  The melody floated across the ridge, echoing faintly in the mountains beyond. A hymn? He was hearing things. Mason cocked his head and listed again.

  “A wretch like meeeee…”

  Amelia O’Malley. It had to be. What other woman would be loony enough to sing hymns—even quiet, quavery ones—in the middle of a mountainside? The sound grew tear-choked and mournful, like a cat wailing after its mate. A sick cat. Mason gritted his teeth and climbed in the direction of the wail. It was his first stroke of luck all day.

  Running away from the poet bandit was a mistake. Amelia O’Malley was plumb-certain of that now. She’d thought she could find the trail they’d followed and go back to the road by herself, then catch the next passing stage. It hadn’t seemed all that complicated when the outlaw guided the horse up the mountainside. Instead she’d gotten herself lost.

  Amelia rested her chin on her upraised knees and sighed. Perhaps the animal had a better sense of direction than she did. In any case, she wasn’t moving another inch until daybreak. Maybe then she’d be able to spot the trail.

  At least she’d managed to salvage both of her J.G. O’Malley & Sons satchels. She could still deliver the book orders to Tucson, and maybe even gather a few new ones. She’d make her father proud of her if it took her last breath to accomplish it.

  But that was in the future. Now, wedged securely in her hiding place between two cold, filthy boulders, Amelia thought longingly of hot chocolate, a steaming bath, and a bed with fluffy blankets and feather pillows. Instead she’d made a meal of stringy dried beef and a bed out of sticky, jabbing mesquite branches.

  Even the foliage was dangerous in the Arizona Territory.

  She was sure her poor derrière must be perforated by now—the things had tiny thorns that poked right through her new pink dress. It was ruined for certain, ruined after only one wearing. She didn’t even want to consider the condition of her balmorals, after scrabbling for the past half-hour amongst the rocks and cactus that made up the mountainside.

  Even so, sitting atop mesquite branches was better than just plopping onto the bare ground. Amelia shuddered to think what kinds of things lived and crawled and slithered in the dark. Every once in a while, she heard a tell-tale scuttling—the movements of a desert mouse, perhaps, or a snake. Dear Lord, maybe even a coyote.

  Maybe all three.

  Scooting deeper into the crevice she’d found, Amelia sucked in a big breath and began singing again. As long as she was singing, she couldn’t hear the mysterious screeches and cries amongst the peculiar stringy-leafed trees just beyond her hiding place. As long as she was singing, Amelia felt a little less lonely. And there was no situation that a good song couldn’t improve—at least that’s what Miss Fitzsimmons always told the Briarwood ladies. At the moment, Amelia felt just desperate enough to try it.

  Hugging herself for warmth, she took up her song again. “I ooooonce was lost,” she warbled softly, “but now am found…”

  “Got that right,” growled a masculine voice from somewhere above her. A big hand shot down between the boulders and clamped onto her shoulder. Amelia screamed.

  And kept on screaming.

  The hand’s owner pulled hard. Another outlaw? The mountain must be a blessed den of thieves, she thought crazily. She wriggled backward, then slapped both hands on the boulders beside her for balance. Ughh, they were dusty…and then, slimy. With an involuntary grimace, she whisked her hands away. He pulled her the rest of the way out of the crevice.

  Amelia screamed louder, flailing her arms in a wild attempt to escape. He pinned them to her sides and dragged her back against him, then covered her mouth with his palm. It tasted gritty with dirt, and smelled of tobacco. At her back, his chest felt every bit as solid as the boulders had; so did the bunched-up muscles in his upper arms as he tightened his hold on her.

  “Quit your caterwauling. You’ll have every lawman within fifty miles on us.”

  The poet bandit. She’d have recognized his low-pitched, grouchy voice anyplace. Amelia stilled, trying not to sag with defeat. He’d found her—again. And found her easily, too.

  A powerful wave of homesickness washed over her. Why was this happening to her, of all people? Despite her yearnings for adventure, now that she was faced with it, Amelia felt less like the brave heroine of one of her dime novels and more like a person who belonged safe at home, in the quiet brick house she shared with her family when she wasn’t at Briarwood.

  Amelia just wanted to go home. She wanted to go back to Big Pike Lake, Michigan—back to civilization. Even her four older brothers’ incessant watching over her, their teasing and their insistence on driving her places in their dashing spider phaeton carriages sounded wonderfully homey, now that she was without them, and…and what was that the poet bandit had said?

  She tugged at his hand. Amazingly, he took it away from her mouth.

  “Lawman?” Amelia croaked. “Did you say lawman?” She turned to face him, her gaze taking in the poet bandit’s powerful physique, his unsmiling, rugged face, and the gun strapped to his hip. “Are they after you right now?”

  Don’t be daft, she told herself—of course the law was after him. A person only had to look at him to know he was dangerous. He’d abducted her, for heaven’s sakes.

  His mouth turned up at the corners in an expression somewhere between a smile and a sneer. “I’m a wanted man,” he said simply. “That’s why we’ve got to keep moving.”

  Amelia stepped backward. “Well, I—I knew that,” she warbled, fear and nervousness combining to loosen her tongue. “I just thought they’d given up on catching you, that’s all, with you being so famous for your poetry and such. You have to admit, that kind of thing does sell newspapers.”

  This last was her brother Denton’s oft-expressed opinion, but Amelia felt justified in claiming it, under the circumstances.

  The bandit gave her a funny look.

  “Haven’t I mentioned it?” she asked. “I thought for certain I had. Oh, well.” Amelia drew a deep breath and chattered on about how she’d recognized him back at the stagecoach.

  “I’ve read all about you in the periodicals,” she added helpfully, thinking it couldn’t possibly hurt to butter him up a little. She’d never met a man who didn’t appreciate a kind word about his work. Amelia raised her hands as though spanning the width of a newspaper headline. “The famous poet bandit.”

  He scowled. Amelia’s ho
pes for kinder treatment fled, replaced with a fresh shiver of fear. What could have happened to turn him into a desperado like the poet bandit, anyway?

  “I’m not who you think I am,” he said, giving her a dark, wholly incomprehensible smile.

  It had the disturbing effect of making her insides feel like warm, melted jelly, something Amelia had never in a million years expected to feel in the company of a desperado. To be fair, she had to admit he was a fine-looking man—if a little unschooled in the social graces. A lady bandit would probably find him downright irresistible.

  He wrapped his fingers around her wrist. “We’re going back to camp,” he announced. Then he proceeded to pull her, stumbling with weariness and befuddlement and the effort of juggling her satchels, along behind him.

  “You must be the poet bandit,” she insisted, feeling vaguely combative and too exhausted to care if she angered him. What else could the outlaw do to her? He’d made it all too clear that escaping him was nearly impossible. What was the harm in finding out a little more about her captor?

  “I’m certain you’re the poet bandit.”

  He trudged on, ignoring her.

  She cleared her throat and asked, a little more loudly, “Who are you, then?”

  He stopped, causing Amelia to bump smack into his black canvas duster coat. She stepped backward and tried to raise her hand to rub her nose, but his strong, warm fingers held her fast. The outlaw faced her, holding Amelia’s wrist between their bodies where the chill night air couldn’t penetrate.

  His eyes met hers. “It’s better if you don’t know,” he said.

  His deep, rumbling voice wound its way inside her, raising goose bumps along her arms. Why was he being so mysterious? They trekked a little further, leaving Amelia to mull it over. Of course he couldn’t just come right out and admit to being a famous outlaw; he hadn’t evaded capture this long by telling folks who he really was.

  Deciding it would be wise to play along with him if that’s what he wanted, Amelia addressed her next question to his broad back. “What shall I call you, then?”