by Lisa Plumley
“Help! Help!”
“Shut up, you bitch!” he ground out, gasping. She lurched atop him instead.
“Get off me!”
He shoved her aside, sending her scraping amongst the fallen leaves on her backside. Determined, Amelia launched herself toward him again, still screaming for help. His elbow gouged into her stomach. Panting, Amelia whacked his arm away.
“Help! Help, he’s attacking me!”
Choking dust puffed up around them. Amelia coughed and yelled louder. Thank heaven for drunken, clumsy men. Thank heaven for the darkness that would muddle their struggle—and send the sounds of it that much clearer toward the sheriff and his men.
Blessing her good fortune, she dropped backside-first onto the Sharpe brother’s chest, kicking her feet into the air like her brothers always did when they wrestled with each other back home. Then she dug her balmorals into the dirt and bounced again, teetering madly.
Thank heaven for brothers.
“Ooof!” He reared up, suddenly strong with fury and liquor, and sent her flying into the dirt. Swearing, he tackled her. His body weight crushed away her breath. Amelia kicked wildly, the edges of her vision growing dark.
Where was the sheriff? Surely he hadn’t been that far away. Groaning with the effort, she twisted her neck to look toward the cantina.
And saw Mason and Ben melt into the shadows behind it.
Safe.
“Ma’am? Ma’am!” Masculine voices and lantern light surround her. The weight of Nathan Sharpe vanished as one of the posse hauled him from atop her. More dust rose around Amelia, stirred up by the sheriff and his men. Coughing, she lowered her cheek to the ground, trying to catch her breath.
She just wanted to rest. Ignoring for the moment the Sharpe brother’s slurred protests and the lawmen’s gentle inquiries about her safety, Amelia found herself staring toward the cantina. She scanned the empty alleyway behind it, and smiled.
They were safe.
She’d managed to rescue Mason after all, just as she’d promised.
Rescued him straight out of her life, Amelia thought. Crushing sadness replaced her relief at their safety. And then the world went black.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
One week later
Hermosillo, Mexico
The house looked larger than Amelia had expected, especially tucked as it was beside a field greening with new crops, a half-mile or so distant from the main Ruiz farmhouse. Made of adobe with two small glass windows and a broad ramada sheltering the porch and entryway, it looked comfortable and serene.
Exactly the opposite of the way she felt.
Breathing deeply, Amelia fought the urge to fuss with her hair yet again—and smoothed down her skirts, instead.
Her fingers trembled within the pale-pink folds of her new gown, chosen with particular care for the occasion. When she’d taken it from the box to show Juana before leaving Picacho Peak, her friend had exclaimed over its fineness, its fashionable cut, and its becoming color. At the time, Amelia had agreed. Now, on the brink of the biggest risk she’d ever dared take, worrying over something like a dress seemed trivial, indeed.
Would Mason be happy to see her? Would he speak to her at all, or would she only anger him by arriving in Mexico unexpectedly? Since the night of the fiesta, she’d turned those questions round and round in her mind, seeking something to make up her mind.
Only two things remained constant. The first, that she loved Mason Kincaid with all her heart, wherever he chose to live. The second, that Ameila would be unable to forgive herself if she didn’t at least try, one last time, to be with him.
“Are you scared, Señorita?”
Manuel Ruiz, seated beside her as he drove the wagon up the lane to the house, tossed out the question with all the nonchalance of someone with nothing to lose. To her surprise, when she’d returned to Picacho Peak after Mason and Ben’s escape, Manuel had been the first to offer to help her. Over Juana’s good chalupas and coffee, he’d told her all he knew about where Mason had gone.
And then he’d offered to take her there.
“A little scared,” Amelia admitted, glancing over at him. Ahead, the house drew nearer and nearer in the warm morning sunlight. She wiped her damp palms on her skirt. “He never said he wanted me here, Manuel.”
“He would be loco not to,” he said. “I was wrong about you. Mason will see that he was, too.”
Rapping the horses sharply with the reins, Manuel urged them into a trot. Amelia slid and bumped across the seat, trying to catch hold of the edge for balance. Finally she succeeded, and the ride became a little less tooth-jarring.
“I hope you’re right,” she whispered.
A little ways from the house’s front door, Manuel pulled the team to a stop. Dust churned from beneath the horses’ hooves as they slowed and then stopped, snorting and tossing their heads. Setting the brake with his foot, Manuel looked at her.
“Do you want me to go in with you?”
What Amelia wanted was to have the deed already done, to have this uncertainty ended. But that was something no one else could give her. Manuel was kind to offer, but this was something she would have to do alone.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I think I can do it.”
She rose, smoothing her dress with all the meticulous care her trembling fingers could manage. At least a full minute later, she raised her hand to pat down her hair, too.
Manuel’s fingers closed gently on her wrist before she could.
“You look bello,” he said gruffly. “Beautiful.” He nodded toward the house, which remained undisturbed despite their arrival. “Go. If you need me, the main house is only a short walk away.”
“All right.” Amelia stared toward the porch and ramada, trying to imagine herself walking bravely up to that door. Knocking. Seeing her whole life change in an instant.
Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed Manuel’s dusty, bristly cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”
What she needed, she decided, was determination. Amelia summoned all she could, breathed deeply, then climbed from the wagon in a flurry of pink and lace. Heart pounding, she straightened and held up her hands for her baggage.
Manuel frowned. “Are you sure, Señorita?” he asked. “I can always return with your things later.”
“No,” she replied, trying to smile. “If I’m to do this, I might as well do it fully.”
She pulled down the nearest rubber cloth satchel herself, then Manuel handed her the rest of the pieces one by one. A hatbox. Her J.G. O’Malley and Sons satchels. Another hatbox. And several fine leather suitcases she’d borrowed from her brothers for her trip to the west. Before long, a small pile of assorted baggage rested at her feet.
“I hope Mason knows all he is getting,” Manuel said with a grin. “You travel with more things than my burro does.”
Amelia laughed, hefting a suitcase in each hand. “I just hope he still wants all of it,” she said. Especially me.
Glancing over her shoulder toward the house, her expression sobered. “Thank you Manuel. I’ll come to the main house later and tell you know how everything turns out.”
He raised his sombrero. “Good luck,” Manuel said, and then he spurred on the horses and was gone in a trail of dust, leaving Amelia standing alone beside her pile of baggage.
Gripping her suitcase handles tightly, Amelia turned toward the house. Dear heaven, let Mason still want me, she prayed. Otherwise, she’d truly gotten herself into a fix this time.
The knock on the door came just as Mason was setting the noon meal on the table for Ben. He carried the plate, still steaming, to the table and set it down beside the glass of milk already there.
The boy wrinkled his nose. “Scrambled eggs again?” he complained. Picking up his fork with a resigned air, Ben poked a curdy bit of yellow egg. Then he squashed it beneath his fork tines.
Mason sensed what was coming next, but was powerless to stop it. For what had to be the million
th time this week, his son propped his head forlornly in his hands and said, “I’ll bet Miss O’Malley cooks real fine, Pa. Can’t we ask her to visit for a spell? Please? Please—please—please—please—”
The knock had saved him. Mason abandoned his own plate of eggs, swiveling his head toward the sound. He stood. “Those eggs are good for you,” he said, speaking sternly as he crossed the big room that housed the kitchen and living area alike. “Eat.”
Mason stopped at the door, his hand on the latch. His heart hammered. Even knowing that no one would pursue him and Ben all the way to Mexico, even knowing that no lawman could bring him in from Sonora, he still felt the same way every time an unexpected knock came at the door.
Trapped.
Frowning, he yanked open the door. Air rushed in, someone stepped forward—and rapped him sharply on the nose.
“Oh!” Amelia O’Malley shrieked, retreating a pace. “I meant to knock on the door.”
Mason stared, feeling befuddled. Surely he’d gone round the bend. Curly Top couldn’t be there, standing on his doorstep. She was in Tucson—or Big Trout Pond by now, for all he knew. He was in Mexico with Ben. He’d have sworn he was imagining her—except the bridge of his nose still stung.
“Surprise!” she squeaked, rising up on her tiptoes.
Her cheeks colored dusky pink, bright with what he figured was nervousness. Or insanity. She’d have to be half-loony to have followed him all the way to a country where she couldn’t speak the language and didn’t know a soul.
Except him and Ben.
Maybe they were both crazy.
“I—I—” Her lips trembled, a sign Mason recognized well enough as impending tears. “I hope you aren’t mad.”
“Mad?” Mason repeated, feeling dazed. She was really, really there. Curly Top had really come for him. Outlaw or no, Amy loved him well enough to follow him all the way to Mexico—even believing, as she likely did after all he’d said, that he didn’t want her there.
She dropped two suitcases on the porch at her feet. A mountain more lay piled on the path behind her. She looked up at him, and determination showed plain on her face.
Dog-stubborn determination.
Opening the purse swinging from her wrist, Amy withdrew a folded paper and held it toward him. “At least hear me out,” she said.
“Hear you out?” Fully aware that he probably sounded a lack-wit, and caring not in the least, Mason looked from the paper to Amy’s face.
Lord, she looked beautiful. Just as he’d dreamed so many nights over this past week. And now she was here.
“Yes.” She frowned, waggling the paper. “Mason, you’re a free man. The Sharpe brothers dropped their charges. They went back east the day after the fiesta.”
He moved nearer and raised his hands to her arms, stroked the smooth warmth of her skin. Mason looked into her eyes, and all he saw there was love. Love for him.
“All that time,” Amy went on doggedly, speaking quickly as though she was afraid he’d stop her, “the sheriff was looking for you to tell you so. They know you’re innocent.”
She frowned slightly, looking confused. “Aren’t you listening? You’re a free man.” She shook the paper in her hand. “It’s all in this letter.”
“To hell with the letter.”
Mason pulled her close, crushing the paper between them. When he lowered his mouth to hers, it was the sweetest kiss they’d ever shared. Cradling her head in his hands, Mason held the woman he loved, and kissed her as thoroughly as he knew how. Their mouths met, hot and eager and seeking, and with Amy beside him, he knew what it was to finally be loved.
When the kiss ended she leaned back, her body trembling in his arms. Her cheeks reddened even further, and Mason knew this time it was passion—and not nervousness—that caused her to blush. Amy’s gaze, blue and wary, met his.
“James is watching over your farm at the Gila River,” she said hurriedly. “And he’s rounded up a bunch of the station hands to—”
Mason kissed her again, quickly.
“—to start the planting there before it’s too late. And all the wanted posters are gone, and the sheriff even put an announcement in the newspaper to—”
Mason kissed her again, more slowly this time. Eyes closed, he sought the letter in her hand—and tossed it to the floor.
“You’re not listening!” Amy protested, her brows wrinkled with worry. “That’s the proof of your freedom. It’s important.”
“Not as important as this,” Mason murmured, bringing his lips down on hers again. Finally her arms came around his neck. Gradually she kissed him back, and by the time he raised his head again, Amy leaned limply against him. Her fingers stroked the nape of his neck, ticking the fine hairs there.
“Does this mean you’re not mad?”
He kissed her neck, loving the warm, soft feel of her body pressed against him. So familiar. So needed. So beloved.
“I’m not mad.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quit talking.” Mason squeezed her close and kissed her again, trying to impart everything he felt for her with that one moment’s union. Amy threaded her fingers through the uneven strands of his hair, murmuring, between kisses, something about haircuts.
“You’re not listening,” he said, cradling her face in his hands. Mason brought his face close to hers, smiling. “I said, quit talking.”
She gave him a saucy grin that astonished him. “Or you’ll go on kissing me?” she asked. Amy frowned, pretending to consider those consequences. “I don’t know, Mason—”
“Or you’ll miss it when I tell you I love you,” he said. He stroked back her soft curly hair, delighting in the answering love in her eyes, and said it again. “I love you, Curly Top.”
Her eyes shimmered with tears—this time, tears of happiness, Mason hoped.
“That’s all I needed to know,” Amy whispered. “I love you, too, Mason.”
Behind them, a little boy’s whoop rang into the air, startling them both.
“Yippee!” Ben yelled. “No more scrambled eggs!”
Mason laughed, and an instant later, Curly Top joined in. Between the laughter all around him, the woman at his side and the boy dancing a jig in the kitchen, Mason found all he’d ever dreamed of.
A life like this was guaranteed to please.
And he meant, every moment, to make sure it did.
From the Author
Thank you for reading this book! If you enjoyed it, I hope you’ll share your enthusiasm by writing a review online, posting about this story on your blog, Facebook page, or Twitter account, or just telling your friends.
If you’re curious about my other books, please visit my Web site at www.lisaplumley.com, where you can read first-chapter excerpts from all my books, sign up for my new-book reminder service, catch sneak previews of my upcoming books, request special reader freebies, and more.
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Best wishes,
Lisa Plumley
