by Lisa Plumley
Oh, dear heaven. Not again!
She waved her hand holding the traces, trying desperately to think up the command to make the oxen stop. Haw meant left, and gee must mean right, so….
“Ho,” rumbled the station hand. Just as though he were Paul Bunyon himself, the animals heard his command and stopped in their tracks. Reaching out, the man seized the lead animal’s harness.
Here it was, Amelia thought. Capture. What had Mason been thinking, to put her in charge of their escape? After all, he’d caught her every time except the last.
Mason’s rifle inched forward. Behind her, she sensed his awareness of their precarious situation, his taut control—and his utter willingness to sacrifice anything to reach his goal.
“Looked like you needed some help,” remarked the station hand in heavily Spanish-accented speech, squinting upward at her. He doffed his battered sombrero, then grinned. He appeared to be settling in for a nice, friendly conversation—at least if his smile and open-handed stance could be believed. Amelia wasn’t sure it could.
“Thank him and get moving,” Mason whispered, nudging her from behind.
“Th—thank you,” she managed to say. Still holding the traces, she slapped her gloved palms onto her thighs, trying to make her legs quit trembling.
“Nice day, ain’t it?” asked the station hand.
Mason groaned. She felt the exhalation of his breath against her bare elbow. Too afraid to speak, she nodded and sat straighter. Loosely she clasped the traces, and kept staring straight ahead. Perhaps he’d think her simply standoffish, and allow her to pass.
But what if the station hand recognized her as the outlaw’s consort? Worse, what if he already had, and was only toying with her until he was ready to spring the trap closed?
“Pretty little mariquita like you needs a man’s help in territory like this,” the station hand went on.
Why, he was making a pass at her! Amazed, Amelia peeped at him from beneath the broad, flat floral edge of her sunbonnet. At this sign of feminine encouragement, he spat into the dirt and grinned again.
“That’s a fine rig, too,” he said, examining her newly stolen Conestoga wagon.
Privately, Amelia gave thanks for the thick canvas cover that hid Mason from his scrutiny. Publicly, she gave the station hand a wan acknowledging smile.
Mason’s rifle edged forward. “Move!” he hissed, the sound low and for her ears alone.
“I could be persuaded to help you out, ma’am,” proposed the station hand, “seeing as how you don’t have any menfolk with you to—”
“No!” Amelia cried hastily. Had Mason’s rifle moved even closer? She pictured his finger on the trigger, ready to shoot their way out of the Maricopa Wells compound if necessary, and felt renewed panic tighten her stomach. “No, but thank you very much for offering.”
The station hand released the lead ox and walked closer. Again he eyed her stolen wagon covetously—and this time, he included her figure in his smirking perusal, too. “You should think about it, mariquita. A man like me could be a big help to a woman alone—”
“I—I’ve got a man!” What? she asked herself desperately. Now what?
The station hand frowned. He was nearly upon her—she was close enough to see the bulge of chewing tobacco that distended his lower lip.
“Curly Top…” whispered Mason.
Think, think, Amelia commanded herself. Nothing came to mind except plain, blind fear of being captured and hung as an outlaw.
“Move right on my signal,” Mason instructed grimly. “Then run like hell.”
He was going to shoot! She had to do something.
“I don’t see nobody with you,” said the station hand. He set one big, booted foot atop the wagon’s edge, preparing to climb onto the plank seat beside her.
“It’s my husband. He’s…he’s got influenza!” she cried. “He’s horribly sick, nearly dead back there,” she added, nodding toward the covered part of the wagon. “The rest of our party’s already died from it,” she elaborated.
“Enough,” gritted Mason, silencing her.
“Ah, sí.”
The station hand dropped from the wagon as though scalded, his face a mask of revulsion. In the west, far from most doctors and hospitals, he’d obviously learned to fear illness. Especially virulent, contagious illness.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am—you’d best be on your way.”
He slapped the oxen, sending them from the station nearly at a run. It was all Amelia could do to hang on. She bounced on the hard plank seat, her feet braced against the wagon for support, and felt like applauding herself for her quick thinking. Influenza! And he’d believed her, too. Despite everything, a smile spread across her face.
The desert flashed by in tones of gold, brown, and muted green; dust churned from the animals’ massive hooves, making her breath taste gritty and her eyes hurt. She squinted against it, determined to get as far away from Maricopa Wells as possible.
Miles passed rapidly. Before very long, Mason shifted behind her, then his hand came forward and grabbed the front edge of her seat. A moment later, his other hand followed the first. Amelia felt the muscles in his arms bunch and strain, then he climbed onto the seat with a grunt of exertion. She didn’t dare look at him, and risk overturning the wagon—or worse.
His hands closed over her contraband leather work gloves. Gently, Mason pried the traces from her grasp. Relieved of the responsibility of driving, Amelia gripped the thick edge of the seat and watched him do it instead.
Mason drove with assurance, like a man well-accustomed to handling a team of draft animals, a ten-foot wagon, and the rutted Territory roads. He’d been skilled with his horse, too. The same horse, she recalled, wincing, she’d made run away on the day of their capture.
As far as she knew, he’d lost all his possessions—save those on his back—that day. Yet not a single word of recrimination had passed his lips, not in the whole time they’d spent locked up at Maricopa Wells. To look at him now, she’d almost believe Mason didn’t care how much he’d lost—as long as he regained whatever it was he sought so desperately.
But what was it?
Mason scanned the countryside surrounding them, then guided the oxen away from the road toward a low, cactus-dotted hill nearby. He settled the traces loosely in his hands and rested his elbows on his thighs. Then, as though sensing her gaze upon him, he turned his face toward Amelia.
His appearance had changed since she’d met him. Then, his expression had seemed inscrutable to her, his demeanor wild and frightening. Now, she recognized the pleasure in the faint upward tilt of his lips, the fierce gladness to be free in the brightness of his eyes. And she was glad to have helped make it happen.
Two days spent in their makeshift jail cell had given Mason the beginnings of a soft brown beard. He’d lost his hat, too—his hair blew wild in the wind, tossed back starkly from his face. Seeing it, something loosened within Amelia. She felt a sense of carelessness, of revelry, such as she’d never known. They were free. Free! And she’d helped bring it about.
She untied her sunbonnet and flung it into the wind.
“What’s the matter with you?” Mason asked, staring over his shoulder toward the spot where her sunbonnet had vanished.
Grinning at him, Amelia set to work removing her hairpins. One by one, she pinched them from her fingers toward the desert beyond.
Mason frowned. “You’ve gone daft,” he announced, aiming another sideways look at her.
She aimed a hairpin at the top of his head, and missed. Luckily, she still had more ammunition holding the thick chignon at the back of her head.
They reached the hill, their destination. His face grim, Mason steered the wagon into a sheltered gully behind it. Here, desert bushes grew close together in the powerful sunshine, and birds chattered and flitted amongst them. Clouds high in the sky divided the light into shafts of shadow and gold. Amelia aimed her last hairpin toward a pincushion-looking cactus as they p
assed through a shadowed spot, then started unwinding her hair.
“Stop that,” Mason ordered.
“No.” She dug her fingers into her scalp and shook her hair free, unmindful of the tangles that would surely result. The wind lifted the wavy blond strands of her hair like caressing hands. Amelia felt ringlets stream behind her head, across her lips, into her eyes, and couldn’t stop the smile that rose to her lips at Mason’s astonished expression.
“Amelia—”
He must be worried, to address her by her given name.
“We made it!” she cried, launching herself at him. He caught her with a muffled exclamation, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. “We made it, we made it!”
She felt like laughing aloud. Beneath her, Mason squirmed. He transferred the traces to a single hand and called for the oxen to stop. Slowly, the wagon quit jouncing. They both lurched forward. Amelia buried her face in the warm crook of his neck and held on.
Mason grabbed her arms and set her away from him with a suspicious scowl. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Are we safe here?”
He cocked his head. “For now,” he admitted. “We’re a ways from the road, and hidden behind that hill.”
Leaning forward, Mason set the brake and wrapped the traces around it. Dust motes flickered in a shaft of light shining on the lever, and without the clamor of the wagon and team’s movement surrounding them, everything seemed hushed in their hiding place.
Nevertheless Mason frowned, clearly preparing another argument. “I don’t think anybody followed us, but—”
“But we’re safe!” For once, Amelia was the one to interrupt him. “Safe because of me!” She tucked a hank of errant hair behind her ear, feeling as though her chest might well explode with the sense of pride she felt.
“I was so scared back there, Mason. I thought we were going to be captured at any moment. Do you know, my knees still haven’t quit knocking?” He scowled, still not understanding, she guessed. “I’ve never been more afraid in my life, but I—”
“But you did it.” He crossed his arms over his chest, gazing at her with an odd mixture of tolerance and confusion.
“Yes!” She threw herself toward him again. This time, her target was his waist. She wrapped her arms as tight around his middle as she was able, and squeezed. Mason’s hands, hovering someplace over her head, settled lightly on her shoulders.
“See? I told you I’d take care of you,” she said against his chest. His shirt felt soft and warm against her cheek, heated by the strong male body beneath it. “Remember? Back at the jail, I told you I’d take care of you.”
She stroked his back, feeling the muscles there flex and smooth beneath her palm. His hands slid from her shoulders, moving hesitantly toward her waist. If she’d ever wondered how a man might hold a woman gone loony, now she knew. Mason seemed almost afraid to touch her, lest the craziness was catching.
Amelia sighed, too buoyed by her recent success to let his suspicions that she was addled bring her spirits low.
“You know,” she confessed, touching her fingertip to one of his carved horn shirt buttons, then another, “I’ve never taken care of anybody before.”
Mason grunted. She figured it was a sign of agreement and went on. “I never even thought I could. I’ll admit it—you’re the first person I’ve ever rescued. But who knows what I’m capable of?”
If she could pull off a jailbreak and rescue a desperado, surely she could manage to track down her J.G. O’Malley & Sons satchels and deliver her book orders to Tucson. Why, it would be simple compared with what she’d already accomplished today! She’d never felt more confident in her life.
His hands stilled. “You—rescued me?”
“Well, yes,” Amelia replied.
Mason shook his head above her. His reaction wasn’t really all that surprising—what sort of man would just come right out and admit a woman had rescued him? None, in her experience. Her father and brothers never would have, not in a million years. Still, after all she’d been through, Amelia didn’t think her contribution ought to be ignored.
“Twice!” she added.
His chest rumbled with laughter. Indignant, she pushed away from him and lifted her chin to explain. “Yes, don’t you remember? The first time I saved you was when that horrible man was shooting at you from the stagecoach—”
“Mmm-hmm,” he replied noncommittally, raising his eyebrows as he waited for her to recount the second instance of her rescuing him.
His open skepticism was galling.
“And the second time was when I drove us out of the stage station,” she went on.
“Mmm-hmm.”
He sounded for all the world like one of her book customers listening to her sales talk. Bored. He turned on the seat beside her, lifting his leg and then lowering it on the other side so he straddled the wood. His hands rested open on his thighs. She was right in the open vee of his legs.
“Thereby saving us!” Amelia finished, her gaze straying to his thighs. Feeling her cheeks flush, she looked upward again. “You can’t deny it.”
“Ahh,” he murmured, nodding. He captured a wavering strand of her hair, and smoothed it gently over her shoulder. “I see what you mean.”
Suddenly, she had the distinct impression Mason wasn’t listening to her at all. Unsmiling, he delved both his hands into her unbound hair, stroking his fingers against her scalp. His eyes closed, affording her an excellent opportunity to observe him, without his knowledge, as much as she wanted.
Or to re-state her case for having rescued him.
Except she didn’t want to. His hands moved in her hair, gently tugging the long strands, smoothing them away from her face and stealing her will to assert her claim at the same time. The breeze, cooler now, lifted the ends of her hair in counterpoint, wrapping blond strands around Mason’s hands. He captured them, smiling.
“Even your hair’s willful,” he murmured, smoothing the strands in place again.
Willful. The word called to some hidden, devilish place inside Amelia, secretly thrilling her. Today, now, she did feel willful. Willful and brave and exhilarated. Together they’d risked everything to escape…and won.
Mason’s thumbs stroked across her temples, igniting warmth that followed his touch over her ears and down to the sensitive skin just behind her earlobes. How did he manage to impart so much sensation with a simple touch? It was all Amelia could do not to sway toward him, lulled by the mesmerizing feel of his hands.
He flicked each tiny lobe, teasing them with the faint pressure of his fingertips. She shivered in response, a nonsensical reaction if ever she’d had one, but Amelia lacked the will to consider it further. He stroked her again, and goose bumps prickled over her bare arms, startling her.
Her breath caught and held. Hearing it, Mason smiled faintly, then circled her earlobes with his fingertips once more. Pleasure followed his touch, spiking clear to her toes.
“Thank you, Amy,” he whispered, repeating the small caress. “Thank you for helping me.”
He should have sounded humble, admitting she’d saved him. She should have rejoiced in the acknowledgement, having only moments before argued to gain it. But neither of those things were true. Mason’s words had the sound of a wish, not a concession. And somehow the touch of his hands made Amelia feel anything but argumentative.
“I want to help you more,” she told him, the idea growing and taking shape within her even as she spoke it aloud. “I want to help you find—”
“No one can help me,” he broke in, shaking his head against her automatic protest. His fingertip traced the curve of her ear, making her eyelids flutter closed and all other thoughts flee. “No more than your touch helps me now. You’re so…my God, so sweet, Amy. Mmmm, so…good.”
His words ended on a groan, and his fingers grew taut in her hair. Alarmed, she looked up at him. Was she causing him pain somehow, despite all he’d said?
“Mason?” Bravely, Amelia dared to tou
ch his cheek, then sweep her hand deeper into the thick softness of his dark hair. His head tilted part way back, exposing the straight, solid line of his throat. He swallowed hard, like a man mustering courage for a battle—or a man surrendering to the inevitable.
“Am I hurting you?”
With a choked exclamation, Mason closed the small distance between them. His hand covered hers, big and callused, blunt-fingered and strong.
“Hurting me?” His face neared hers, and his eyes opened. “Only as much as it hurts to know what I’ll never have, Curly Top. Only that.”
His eyes glittered, savage with need and something akin to regret. At the emotions she glimpsed in their depths, Amelia felt a nearly overpowering urge to run. Run as fast, and as far, as she could. Whatever was happening between them here would change her, was already changing her. It felt unknown, and exciting. It felt inescapable.
“Run, Amy,” he said roughly, his voice an uncanny echo to her thoughts. His hands raised to the sides of her neck, his fingers caressing circles within the wispy hairs at her nape. “Run, or send me away.” His gaze roamed over her, touching her face, her neck, her eyes…her lips. “I’ll go if you ask.”
“Oh, Mason…” Her belly tightened, feeling as though a thousand butterflies were trapped inside. She became aware of her heartbeat, thudding with painful slowness against her breast.
“I…I can’t,” she said, kneading his hair in her hand. Its spiky length prickled between her fingers. She wanted to close her eyes, to scream, to drag him closer. The warning in his expression stopped her.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he murmured, but he believed her well enough to wrap his arm around her waist and pull her closer.
Inexplicably, tears stung her eyes. Why tears, why now? Her emotions felt all jumbled-together, yet jubilant. Mason’s hand flattened hard against her spine as though he felt it too, as though he could barely keep from crushing her to him.
“I—I know this feels right,” she said, biting back a moan as his upper arm brushed against the side of her breast, sending a renewed jolt of pleasure through her. He shouldn’t be touching her this way; it was scandalous, she knew. And she didn’t care.
