Outlaw

by Lisa Plumley

  Mason thought of the screaming children running past him down the alley, and stared at Amy. “Miss O’Malley did that?”

  “Only I held my own,” Ben interrupted quickly. “It wasn’t like I needed to be rescued by a girl, or anything,” he assured his father, his stance reflecting perfect six-year-old swagger.

  Ruffling his hair, Mason smiled down at him. “I know, son. You’re mean as a wildcat with a stepped-on tail.”

  The boy puffed out his chest. “Did you hear that, Miss O’Malley?” he called. “I’m mean as a wildcat!”

  “I’ve never met a braver boy,” Amy said, turning to face them.

  Tears shimmered in her eyes, but her voice sounded nearly carefree—except to Mason. He heard the sorrow hidden behind her encouragement for Ben, and knew that he was mostly to blame for it.

  Regret knifed through him. Love and need made him walk toward her, with Ben trailing at his heels. The boy kept his fingers clenched on Mason’s shirt sleeve as though afraid to release him, and his heart twisted further. How could he have found what he wanted, only to still need so much more?

  He stopped beside Amy and gently nudged her chin upward with his knuckles. “I never figured you for a meaner-than-a-schoolmarm, bully chaser,” Mason said, looking down at her.

  Her lips quivered on a smile, but at the same time, a tear slid a curved path down her cheek. Amy blinked as his hand slid higher to sweep it away, blinked harder as he caressed her cheek. Her smooth, soft skin felt like heaven beneath his fingertips.

  “I—I didn’t know it was Ben, until—until—”

  Her voice cracked, then stopped. She swallowed hard, ducking her head. Tears fell harder, dampening Mason’s wrist.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, wrenching from his grasp. “I thought I could—”

  “Curly Top—” Pain seared through him, ripping away whatever else he’d thought to say. God, he needed her like nothing he’d ever known, needed her love and her smile to light his mornings and her body beside him at night. Needed her. At that moment he’d have taken her to Mexico or anyplace else, just as long as they could be together, but the impossibility of it all stilled his tongue.

  “Pa, you’re making her cry.”

  Ben’s voice sounded affronted. Releasing Mason’s shirt sleeve with a massive frown, he went to stand beside Amy. He patted her upper arm, clearly mimicking her earlier care of him, Mason felt sure. He glared at his father.

  “Amy…” Mason swept his thumb across her cheekbone, encouraging her to look up at him. She did, her eyes wondrous and blue and filled with a love he knew echoed his own.

  “Amy, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

  He felt like he’d never breathe again, never know the forgiveness he sought. Never deserve it. Still he searched for the words to explain. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, and I—”

  Her fingers covered his mouth, tender against his lips. “Don’t, Mason. You can’t help—can’t help—”

  A sob stole the rest of her words, and Amy looked past him as though trying to summon the will to go on. He felt her body quiver beside him, and everything within Mason told him to hold her, to ease her…to love her. He moved to pull her into his arms—and she stepped back.

  “Let’s just say goodbye,” she whispered. “You need to get Ben safe to Mexico like you said, and I—I—”

  Her face crumpled, and her hands fisted at her sides. Amy rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand, her fingers trembling, then blinked up at him.

  “You need to get away,” she said, her composure returning. Her posture stiffened, even though her chin still wobbled with holding in a sob. “And I won’t be the one to stop you.”

  “Curly Top—”

  “Go,” she croaked, “before it’s too late.”

  Too late. It was already too late. Too far past a time when they might have been together.

  Blindly Mason grabbed her, hauling her into his arms even as he cursed the fate that had made him an outlaw. Because of it he was a wanted man. Because of it, he’d become the worst possible man for a woman like Amy to love.

  And the only man forced to return her love in silence. How could he begin to tell her what was in his heart, when it could only hurt her more?

  He couldn’t.

  Mason held her closer, and Amy leaned against him—at least for the moment.

  “I never wanted this,” he murmured against her hair, and anguish tore through each bitter word. “Never wanted to hurt you. That’s what it would be if I—”

  “No!”

  She shook her head, her denial vigorous. Instantaneous. And, Mason was sure, ill-considered.

  “That’s what it would be,” he went on, overriding her, “if I forced you into a life on the run. I’m an outlaw, Amy. I—”

  “But we can fix that, Mason!” She raised her head, gazed up at him with hope bigger than the moon in her eyes. “I can help. I’ve thought of little else for days. If we—”

  “No.”

  Her lips pressed together, plainly holding in a sharp reply. She stared past him, looking over his shoulder as he went on.

  “Life with an outlaw is no life for you,” Mason said, raising his hand to her cheek. He caressed her, trying to urge her to meet his eyes. At least then she might know the truth of his regret.

  The truth of his love.

  “Mexico isn’t—”

  Her fingers tightened hard on his shoulder. Her eyes widened, her face going even paler than it had when Amy had first seen him behind Ben, and Mason quit talking to look over his shoulder at whatever it was that had her so upset.

  At exactly the same time, a group of men stepped beyond the ramada’s cantina over the picket fence into Levin’s Park.

  The sheriff and posse. Only a few yards away—and coming straight for them.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “They’re coming this way!” Amelia cried, digging her fingers into Mason’s arm.

  Oh, Lord—why this, why now? Hadn’t things already been awful enough, with Mason barely able to look at her? Every time he had, he’d seemed as though he wanted nothing more than to run in the opposite direction.

  Was he angry at her? Ashamed at having left her behind? Amelia didn’t know—and didn’t care. Joy had filled her at first sight of him. Even though her thoughts were muddled with the shock of finding Ben, of coming face-to-face with Mason again, the only thing Amelia wanted was to be with him, wherever and however she could.

  Except Mason was going to Mexico with Ben. No matter what she said, he wouldn’t take her with him. His blunt refusal to even listen to her had cut Amelia to the quick.

  Life with an outlaw is no life for you.

  How could she argue with that—especially with the posse nearly close enough to hear their conversation?

  Beside her, Ben quit patting her arm to stare at the sheriff and his men, now clustered beneath a tall cottonwood at the edge of Levin’s Park. His eyes grew big.

  “Are they still after you, Pa?” he asked, looking up at his father. “Why don’t you just tell them you didn’t do anything wrong?”

  “I can’t, son.” Mason faced them again, his expression hard and determined in the moonlight. “Come on.”

  Catching hold of Amelia with one hand and Ben with the other, he hauled them at a run toward a bushy mesquite tree in the distance.

  Fear of his capture made Amelia’s strides clumsy. She stumbled over rocks and gullies, and reached the tree panting with exertion. Mason shoved her and Ben into the dried leaves and curly mesquite pods beneath it, then crouched at the edge, watching the posse advance.

  “But you always say tell the truth, and you won’t get into trouble,” Ben insisted in a small, confused voice. “That’s what you always say, Pa.”

  “This is different,” Mason whispered.

  His whole body strained forward, half-hidden by tree branches, every muscle taut with readiness. Amelia sensed the hard strength in him, the determination that drove him, and knew that no
matter what, Mason would not give up until he got Ben to a safer place.

  “Now shush,” Mason told the boy. “Stay back there, and don’t make a sound.”

  “All right, Pa.”

  Amelia put her arm around Ben, drawing his little, shivering body close. “Are you scared?” she whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right, I’m sure of it.”

  “I know,” he whispered back, big with bravado. “Nobody can beat my Pa. He’s the very meanest of the mean wildcats.”

  “I think so, too,” she said, realizing it was excitement that set Ben shivering, not fear. At least that would be one less trouble for Mason to worry over. Spreading her fingers amongst the strong-smelling dirt and leaves beneath the tree for balance, Amelia leaned forward and looked toward the posse.

  Their conversation drifted toward her, snatched between music from the plaza and fireworks popping in the distance.

  “You sure she’s the one, sheriff?” asked one. “I ain’t missing the fiesta just ‘cause you want to meet a pretty girl.”

  Throaty masculine laughter met that remark, echoing among the group. Leaves and twigs broke beneath their slowly advancing footsteps. More conversation followed, then came the sheriff’s voice.

  “Hell, no,” he said, his voice a bit slurred. Intoxicated? she wondered. The cantina had served whiskey and other drinks, as well as enchiladas. “I ain’t sure,” he went on. “But if it means we find Kincaid, I’m game to try just about anything by now. I want this damned thing finished.”

  Amelia gasped. Lightning-fast, Mason’s hand covered her mouth. He lowered his head until their eyebrows almost touched.

  “Quiet,” he whispered.

  His warning gaze shifted to Ben, too, and the boy nodded. Then Mason’s focus returned to Amelia, and she wanted to tremble at its razor-edged intensity. Dear heaven, she’d never seen him this way. His determination to protect his son—at all costs, she was sure—nearly scared her witless.

  “Curly Top, I need your help,” he said.

  She nodded mutely, stealing a glance at the sheriff and his men. They’d stopped for the moment, talking about something.

  “You take Ben—” his nod toward the boy made it plain he expected his obedience “—and head ‘round behind the cantina. I’ll make sure no one follows you, and catch up with you later.”

  Ben watched them both, his eyes shining with adoration at his father. He said nothing, but plainly the boy had no worries about Mason’s safety.

  Amelia, on the other hand, had many. They doubled when Mason drew his pistol from his gun belt and checked its ammunition. Images of him crouched behind that mesquite, desperately holding back the posse with nothing but one gun and luck on his side, filled her mind. Outnumbered so sorely—and in the dark, no less—he’d be hurt or killed for certain. Captured, at the least.

  “No! You can’t stay here alone,” she whispered harshly, covering his hand with her own. Beneath their joined fingers, Amelia felt the cold barrel of his gun, and her fear increased. “Come with us! We can still sneak away, and not be found—all of us.”

  “No.” With one eye on the sheriff and his men, Mason shook his head. “But if they’re busy with me, they can’t get to Ben. Or you.” He moved his hand from beneath hers, readying himself. “I’ll meet you at San Agustín church. Do you know it?”

  Miserably, Amelia thought back on her travels through Tucson and remembered the church bells tolling, remembered passing by San Agustín’s elegant, white-stuccoed face as she’d walked toward the newspaper office to deliver a book order. “I know it. But I still think—”

  “It’s the only way.” Lowering his weapon, Mason faced her. He spoke rapidly, intently, his gaze focused on Amelia as though to make sure she understood. “If I’m not there before sunrise, take Ben to James and Juana. They’ll know why.”

  “Pa!” Ben’s small voice whispered through the dark. “I don’t want to go to Picacho Peak. I want to go to Mexico with you!”

  Mason swallowed hard. Putting one hand to Ben’s shoulder, he squeezed gently and said, “You will, son. Now go with Miss O’Malley. Do whatever she tells you and be a good boy, understand?”

  Ben hung his head, seeming reluctant, but not afraid. “Yes, Pa,” he muttered.

  With one final squeeze and a kiss on his head, Mason released him. The boy scooted back within the mesquite’s sheltering branches to wait, quick as a mouse and at least as silent.

  Somewhere nearby, a bottle smashed. Breaking twigs and voices coming nearer foretold the posse’s continued approach.

  Amelia realized she’d been holding her breath, and released it with a whoosh. Her heart hammered so loudly it seemed she could hear nothing else. “Mason, I don’t think—”

  “Will you do it, or not?” he whispered harshly. His eyes, darker than the night, bored into hers. Amelia wanted to help him, wanted to make sure he and Ben got away safely—but was this truly the only way?

  She could think of no others.

  She nodded, and was rewarded by the flash of gratitude that lit Mason’s face. “Thank you,” he said.

  Tears gathered in her throat. The knowledge that she might never see him again made her soul ache. Amelia looked at him. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Ben needs you, and—and so do I.”

  His gaze softened. Despite everything, Mason looked—for the moment—happier than she’d ever known him. “Curly Top, I—”

  “Wellll,” came a slurred, unfamiliar voice behind them. “Now ain’t this touching?”

  Amelia jerked her head up, gripped with shock. A gray-haired man garbed in a sloppy suit towered behind Mason’s crouched form. He smirked down at them.

  “Uncle Nathan!” gasped Ben.

  Nathan. Uncle Nathan—one of the Sharpes who’d taken Ben away. Almost without thinking, Amelia moved to shelter the boy.

  “So there you are, you little prick,” the man said meanly.

  He narrowed his eyes to peer beneath the mesquite, and Amelia knew whatever protection she could offer Ben would never be enough against a man so filled with hate. Despair ripped through her. The sheriff and his posse on one side—this cruel Sharpe brother on the other—what more could possibly go wrong?

  “I knew I’d find you sooner or later,” the man went on, sneering. “And right here with your no-good liar of a father, too.”

  His gaze shifted to Mason. His body tottered right along with it, forcing him to sidestep drunkenly to regain his balance. Whiskey fumes poured from him, as though he’d bathed in the stuff sometime in the past. No wonder Ben had been able to get away—his uncle had probably been too drunk on fiesta liquor to notice his absence at first.

  The Sharpe brother shuffled from foot to foot. “Came out here for a piss, and look what I see,” he said, eyes narrowed. “The man every bounty hunter in town is hot to find.”

  He smiled. “I been looking all over for you, Kincaid.”

  “Congratulations, you bastard,” Mason said through gritted teeth. “You saved me the trouble of hunting you down myself.”

  He leveled his gun and took aim. “Get away from my son.”

  Amelia’s body quaked, shivering with fear. Sharp mesquite branches dug into her back, scratched her arms as she pushed Ben further behind her. Dear Lord, would Mason shoot the man right here, in front of everyone?

  Then he truly would be an outlaw—separated from the son who needed him forever.

  “Mason, no!” she whispered harshly. “He—he’s not worth it! He—”

  “Quiet,” Mason snarled, not looking at her.

  His hand holding the gun looked rock-steady. He kept the weapon leveled straight at the Sharpe brother’s heart. Glancing over his shoulder, Mason looked toward the advancing posse, then back at the man beneath his gun. In a terrible instant, Amelia knew what he planned. Her whole body went cold.

  “Take Ben and go,” he gritted out. “Remember what I said.”

  The Sharpe brother sniffed down at them. “Really, Kincaid. You won’t shoo
t me right here, in cold blood. Not in front of your boy.”

  “No!” Amelia cried again. Mason’s face looked a mask of determination, of vengeance impatient to be satisfied. It left no doubt he’d do what he said. He straightened slowly to his full height, his gun never wavering from its target.

  “That’s why he’s leaving,” Mason said quietly. “Go,” he told Amelia.

  Trembling, she gathered Ben’s hand in her own. “Please don’t,” she whispered, making ready to run. “Think of Ben. Think of Ellen,” Amelia said urgently. “Don’t make them right about you, Mason.”

  “Go!” he said, cocking his weapon. He jerked his head toward the cantina. “Go.”

  Nathan Sharpe raised his hand. “Oh, sheriff!” he yelled, waving furiously. “Sheriff, over here!”

  Dumbstruck, Amelia stared toward the posse. So did everyone else. She saw the sheriff’s face swing toward them, immediately alert. His hand snapped to his gun belt.

  She had to act now. In an instant, a way to do so struck her.

  “Mason!” she yelled. He turned—startled, Amelia thought, since she was no longer whispering. With the moment’s surprise it gained her, she thrust Ben’s hand into his father’s. “Take Ben and be safe,” she urged.

  Before he could react, Amelia gathered all her strength and threw herself shrieking toward the Sharpe brother. He staggered beneath her weight, then toppled in a whiskey-soured heap to the ground. She grunted, the breath knocked from her with the impact.

  Beneath her, Nathan Sharpe lay momentarily still. Dazed, she guessed, if the look on his face was anything to go by. So was she. Amelia looked for Mason and Ben, and saw only stars.

  Finally she spotted them, hand in hand just behind her at the edge of the lantern light. Mason’s expression spun through a kaleidoscope of emotions—first astonishment, then understanding. Then wretched indecision. He shifted his weight forward and back, frowning toward her.

  “Go,” she hissed. “Ben’s safer with you.”

  He lowered his weapon, holstered it. And then she had no more time to look. The Sharpe brother flailed beneath her, rolling to get free. Shrieking for all she was worth, Amelia let him roll her into the dirt. She beat her fists against his bony chest.