by Lisa Plumley
Mason waited to hear the rest of her explanation. None came. He couldn’t believe she wasn’t saying more. When he wanted her to quit jawing, she never would. “And…?”
“And he’s expecting me to make a number of deliveries in Tucson,” she said, sounding exasperated. “That’s why I have to get back to the road. I have to catch another stagecoach. I have to—”
“No.” His hands tightened on the reins. He could take her to the next town, but not back to the road. “Your book deliveries will have to wait.”
Amelia gasped, her fingernails digging into his ribs. “My books! You didn’t leave my satchels back in the mountains, did you? All my books are in them.”
Mason thought of the twin rubber cloth satchels he’d strapped to the horse’s flanks like two ten-pound saddlebags. Yet another burden the poor beast shouldn’t have had to bear.
“I brought them,” he said. “Thought they’d make good kindling.”
Another gasp. She lowered her voice. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He let his silence speak for itself.
“You’re barbaric,” Amelia muttered, leaning back in the saddle again. “Barbaric.”
“Maybe so,” Mason agreed. He rolled his shoulders to ease the kinks out of his muscles and gazed across the land, scanning the territory for movements that didn’t belong there—movements that might betray the presence of an enemy. A lawman. The posse that was surely after him by now.
The Sharpes.
It was second nature for him to be cautious; he was a wanted man. All the same, he felt doubly so today, with Miss Curly Girl mounted behind him.
“Definitely so,” she insisted.
“I reckon a woman likes a man like that,” he told her, rubbing his stubble-covered jaw. “Barbaric.”
Her reply was preceded by an indelicate snort. “That’s what you think, Mister Mason. I’ll have you know, I prefer a gentleman—someone who knows how to treat a lady properly.”
Mason could almost see her freckled, pert nose hoisted in the air. If she could have, he had little doubt Amelia O’Malley would’ve flounced away from him with her frilly, impractical pink skirts flying.
“I know how to give a lady what she wants,” he couldn’t resist saying, punctuating the words with a wicked grin she couldn’t see and Mason couldn’t hold back. “And how to do it properly.”
Amelia sniffed. “That, Mister Mason, remains to be seen.”
It was a challenge Mason could hardly let pass uncontested.
Chapter Five
“Just Mason,” growled the outlaw, and then he twisted in the saddle, grabbed a handful of curls from the back of Amelia’s head, and pulled her to him. He leaned forward, his intentions writ plain upon his face. He was going to kiss her.
She was too surprised to move. She ought to stop him, Amelia knew. But the curiosity bubbling inside her made that nigh impossible. Her heart started pounding, setting a pace that would surely kill her if it kept up for long.
Mason’s lips quirked upward, very nearly smiling, and excitement jolted through her. Her whole body felt atremble, almost as though she were about to faint.
Oh, dear heaven, she couldn’t swoon now. She’d miss her first real kiss.
She had plenty of time to stop him—and none of the will required to do it. It felt an eternity that Mason held her there, watching her, his eyes dark with an emotion she couldn’t begin to guess. Slowly he brought his mouth to hers. She heard herself give a little squeak, seconds before his lips touched hers, and then her mind went blank.
His grip gentled in her hair, his hand spanning the back of her head as softly…so very softly…he touched his lips to hers. Her heart seemed to stop beating for an instant, stilled by the warmth of his mouth, the sensuous glide of his lips, the power of his arms cradling her.
If Mason had meant to prove he was barbaric, he was failing, failing. His touch couldn’t have been more tender. He brought her closer, his fingertips rubbing warm against her scalp, and nibbled gently at her lower lip.
Breathless, half-protesting, Amelia fluttered her hands. Her seeking fingertips caught and held his shirt, and though she knew she ought to push him away, instead she found herself winding the fabric round until it pulled taut against the warmth of the outlaw’s chest beneath. Her knuckles skimmed the hard contours of his chest, sought and found the place where his heart beat wild and fast.
She closed her eyes, wanting to moan, wanting to cry out at the feelings that welled within her. So this was what it was to be desired, to be wanted, cherished….
Mason’s fingers roamed lower, stroking the fine hairs beneath the chignon twisted at the nape of her neck. She tipped her head back, feeling hot sunlight spill onto her eyelids and across her cheeks. The horse shifted beneath them, then settled; it could have ridden away with them both, for all Amelia cared at that moment.
Her lips parted, and coolness washed over her as Mason shadowed her from the sun. His mouth brushed across hers, making her yearn to pull him closer.
“Sweet…so sweet,” he whispered.
She opened her eyes, gazing at him in wonder. Sweet…sweet. The endearment, so heartfelt, warmed her more strongly than the sunshine slanting over them both. No one had ever suggested she was anything but an unfortunate mistake, a girl born into a family of men.
Amelia sighed. Carefully, bravely, she raised her trembling hand to his face, cradled the hard line of his jaw in her palm. She stroked her thumb across the rugged angle of his cheekbone. His color was high, blooming across his cheeks like a fever. Oh, he wanted her, wanted her just as she was, and the knowledge sent Amelia’s spirits soaring.
Closing his eyes, Mason tilted his face into her palm, rubbing against her skin. “Mmmm,” he breathed, “so soft…”
His whiskers prickled, making her twice as aware of the differences between them, of the masculine strength and sureness of him. The appealing roughness of his features, the breadth of his chest and shoulders, the muscular hardness of his arms—all of them intrigued her, made Amelia yearn to discover what secrets could be shared between men and women, for this was a man she held. A man—and an outlaw.
An outlaw who’d abducted her.
An outlaw who’d thoughtlessly dragged her over a mountain and part way across the desert.
An outlaw who’d already admitted he didn’t plan to let her go.
Amelia released him, feeling breathless and uncertain. Did he care even a little for her, or was this what it meant to be ravished? And she—she was enjoying it! She found herself staring at his mouth, and tore her gaze away. Was she wanton, to desire a man she’d only just met?
But what if he’d told her the right of it yesterday? What if the stagecoach never would have returned for her? She might have died alone on that distant road already—if not for Mason.
He raised his gaze to hers, and the tenderness she saw there made Amelia catch her breath. No man had ever looked at her that way before. It doubled her confusion. “Mason, I…”
“Shhh, I won’t hurt you, Amy.” His hands slid to the middle of her back, pressing her closer; his eyelids lowered as his gaze swept to her lips, then held. She quivered as a tiny, forbidden thrill raced up her spine. He wanted to kiss her again, she could tell.
Heaven help her, she wanted him to do it.
She held her breath as he brought his mouth nearer…nearer. His hands flattened against her back, holding her close against the warmth of his body. Her bosom pressed tight against his arm and chest, her breasts aching at the contact, yearning for something she couldn’t name. Amelia’s eyes closed, all her attention centered on the moment when their lips would meet.
She waited, sensing his face only inches from her own, chilled by the shadow he cast over her—and warmed all over by the spell he’d somehow woven. Blindly, she cupped her hand around Mason’s neck, urging him without words to come to her.
He didn’t yield an inch. Surprised, Amelia opened her eyes to see Mason exactly where she’d expected him�
��close enough to feel her breath on his cheek. But his attention had shifted someplace else, she realized. His expression was faraway. As she watched, he cocked his head slightly, as though listening.
“Mason! I—” She hadn’t the faintest notion what to say to him. Heat rose in her cheeks, her heart still pounding wildly from what had passed between them. Had he lost interest in her already? Was it only she who felt the attraction between them? Or maybe her kisses were lacking, that he’d stopped right amidst one and not even missed it?
Shamefaced, she whipped her hand from his neck. Mason caught hold of her wrist, his gaze shifting instantly to her.
“Listen,” he commanded.
Her gaze locked with his. Amelia tried to focus her attention on whatever he’d heard. Bird cries…something skittering across the desert floor nearby…then, faintly, a rhythmic beating. Drums?
“A stagecoach,” Mason said, releasing her wrist. His eyes gleamed—with passion? Or a desperado’s anticipation of the chase? He turned in the saddle. “I’ll help you dismount.”
“No! Why?”
Heedless, he all-but flung her from behind the saddle, forcing her to hold onto him for dear life as she descended to the ground. She landed beside the horse, still clutching his hard-muscled forearm with both hands.
“Why, Mason? Tell me!”
“Stay here,” he said, taking up the reins in his free hand—making ready to leave. She had little doubt he’d ride off with her dragging behind the horse, if that’s what it took.
“No! Where are you going?” Amelia cried. Panic made her voice shrill, but she couldn’t help it. The horse pranced forward, sensing its master’s mood. Both man and beast wanted to be away—now. Its trampling hooves came too close—she released Mason’s arm.
Far away on the leftmost horizon, a rising cloud of dust foretold the stagecoach’s progress. The teams’ thundering hooves sounded louder now, faintly overlaid with the clank of the harness metal.
“You’re going to rob that stagecoach!” Horrified, she backed away from Mason. “You can’t! Not now, not with me here to—”
“I won’t be gone long.”
He pulled a black bandanna from his duster pocket and tied it at the back of his head, concealing his face. Amelia suppressed a shiver. She’d been wrong earlier—he did look fearsome, even in the daytime.
“Stay here.” The horse danced beneath him, despite Mason’s hold on the reins. “I mean it.”
He spurred the horse into motion, riding toward the dust cloud in the distance.
Amelia stared after him, hardly able to believe her eyes. Thoughts of their kiss fled, chased by a tangle of emotions she didn’t want to feel. He’d left her so easily—but what else could come of trusting an outlaw? She was a fool to believe he might behave decently toward her.
Might begin to care for her, a voice within her whispered.
She clenched her fist within the dirty pink folds of her skirt, filled with frustration. He’d seemed less an outlaw before, only a man—a man who could set her atremble with the gentleness of his touch. Now Mason rode with no thought of her, to perform an action Amelia knew—knew—was wrong.
He could be hurt. Caught. Killed.
She cried out, imagining Mason fallen to the ground, wounded, surrounded by vengeful stage passengers. She shouldn’t care for a man who’d abducted her, shouldn’t worry over a desperado’s safety. But still, somehow, she did. Pacing, Amelia shook her skirt free of a spiny, pincushion-looking cactus and stared again toward the stagecoach. He won’t get hurt, she told herself. No one would dare fire upon the poet bandit.
It was small comfort. She remembered the fear of her fellow stagecoach passengers, the lecherous old man and the miner and banker, and knew any one of them might have taken aim at the outlaw if given an opportunity. They simply hadn’t had one. The bandit had remained at the head of the coach, dealing only with the driver.
The driver. A driver who could bear her safely away from the outlaw, a driver who could take her to Tucson to deliver her books! Amelia squinted into the distance, trying to gauge how far it was to the road the coach traveled over.
A mile, perhaps—maybe a bit less, she judged. Surely near enough to run to. Near enough to escape to.
If it made her a traitor to Mason, so be it. What did fidelity mean to an outlaw? This was what she could expect from him—to be seduced and abandoned. He didn’t care for her. And she had to make her own way somehow, take care of herself somehow, else she’d never survive—let alone fulfill her mission.
She’d sworn to deliver every last one of those J.G. O’Malley & Sons book orders, and that’s what Amelia meant to do. Her father and brothers would know she was capable…worthy of respect, and even love. Never mind that her heart clenched at the thought of confronting Mason to do it. If proving her worth meant interrupting a stagecoach robbery first, that’s exactly what she’d do.
Panting from her headlong race across the desert, Amelia skidded to a stop when she saw Mason’s chestnut-colored mare picketed behind a cluster of bushes a short distance from the road. The bushes’ disjointed-looking branches drooped in wide circles to the ground below, each yellow-blooming length growing just closely enough to its neighbor to conceal the horse from the stagecoach beyond.
Her J.G. O’Malley & Sons satchels were still strapped to the saddle, exactly where Mason had lashed them on. Their metal bindings winked at her in the sunlight. She had to retrieve them before going on, else she’d never succeed. Crooning softly, Amelia approached the horse.
“Hello there, girl,” she called soothingly, easing closer. The horse raised its head and looked at her through its placid, dark eyes, still chewing a mouthful of feathery leaves stripped from the nearest of the bushes.
“Shhh, that’s right,” she said. Almost there. “Easy now. I just want my satchels back, that’s all.”
The horse’s ears pricked forward at the sound of her voice. An instant later, Amelia touched the saddle, then the horse’s muzzle. She rubbed it softly. “Good horse. Steady now—I’m just going to untie these satchels—”
Easing sideways, she laid a hand atop the knot fastening the first satchel. The animal didn’t move, so Amelia felt encouraged enough to scoot all the way over to the knot.
Could horses be loyal to their owners? She sincerely hoped not—one whinny would likely give away her presence and her plan alike. Frowning, she peered closely at the thick, complicated knot and bit back a cry of frustration. It looked nigh impossible to untie.
In the distance, Mason called out to the stagecoach driver—probably a command to throw down the strong box, Amelia supposed. Although she couldn’t make out the words, the fearsome tone of his voice carried clearly to her hiding place. How much time did she have? She shuddered to imagine what the consequences might be if the outlaw discovered her trying to escape again.
She had to succeed, had to be away on the stage before Mason returned. But not without her satchels.
Trying to bolster her courage anew, Amelia surveyed the knot. It was probably as easy to untie as a shoelace, she told herself. She only had to find the correct piece of rope to pull, and the rest would come free. With that thought in mind, she caught hold of a likely looking dangling section and tugged.
Nothing happened. Blowing her bangs upward to clear her vision, she straightened her stance and tried again. Digging her fingers into the knot, Amelia pulled hard. The rope slid! It budged mere fractions of an inch, but it was progress, all the same. Working with both hands, she just managed to loosen the center of the knot.
Encouraged, she gripped the topmost hank of rope and tugged with all her strength. Just as it came untied, the horse shifted—and so did her satchel. Its weight pulled the rope against itself, making the twisted fibers hiss and rasp against each other as the knot finally slithered free.
Heavy with books, her satchel plopped to the ground in a flurry of dust, landing halfway atop the sagging picket rope. The horse skittered backward at the suddenly
increased weight, drawing the tether taut. Her satchel snapped free like an arrow released from a bow. Success! Amelia scooped up her satchel and rounded the horse. Only one more knot to go.
From the direction of the stagecoach, feminine wails sounded, mixed with a rumbling undercurrent of men’s voices. Frightened passengers, Amelia supposed. Something about the sound of them sent a shiver of foreboding fluttering through her stomach. Frightened, cornered animals were dangerous. Were people the same way?
She couldn’t think about that now. Doing her best to ignore her churning stomach, she scanned the outlaw’s saddle, looking for the knot fastening her second satchel to it.
There wouldn’t be much time before Mason returned. She had to get on that stage, now, before it was too late. Her jaw clenched with determination, Amelia examined the knot.
Thank heavens, it appeared similar to the one she’d already untied. Dropping her first satchel, she set to work undoing it, trying not to steal glances toward the stagecoach as she worked. What was happening? Was Mason all right?
The rough woven rope abraded her fingers—she could almost feel her knuckles and fingertips reddening from constant contact with it—but, only two broken fingernails later, she’d untied it. She bent to scoop the heavy black case into her arms, then picked up the other one. Hefting them both, Amelia headed toward the road. Toward rescue.
She hadn’t gone three steps into the open desert before the horse whinnied.
It sounded loud as a gunshot in the silence surrounding her. Surely a sound like that would attract the outlaw’s attention. Frantic, her feet seemingly glued to the desert soil, Amelia glanced about for a hiding place. A few feet away, she spotted a tall, spiny cactus—and all-but dove behind it.
The plant’s branches—or whatever they were called on a cactus, she didn’t know—reached for the sky like two thick green arms, high above her head. The spiky plant’s base squatted atop the thirsty desert soil, looking barely wide enough to conceal her. Dropping her satchels, Amelia crouched behind it anyway, afraid to breathe.
When nothing happened, she dared to lean carefully around the inches-long needles protruding from the cactus and peer toward the stagecoach.
