Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  He approached her sheepishly.

  "I won't soon forget this, friend," she murmured, favoring him with her most stunning smile.

  The boy's brown eyes widened, and she nearly laughed when the keys slid from his fingers to clang in a heap across his boots.

  "Ignore her," his leader barked. "Brand could wake any minute from that knot on his head."

  Fancy's humor ebbed. Savior or not, Wilkerson and his rudeness were beginning to wear on her patience. Rising on tiptoe, she peered over the younger man's shoulder as he opened the cell door. Suspicion needled her spine. The way Wilkerson held himself, the way he snapped orders and stumped around on those bowed legs of his, she couldn't help but think that he bore an uncanny resemblance to—

  "Rawlins?" Applegate boomed. The sheriff squinted more closely into his captor's masked face. "Well, I'll be good and damned. It is you! Who went and put a cockleburr under your saddle, son?"

  Rawlins had the decency to blush; Fancy cursed under her breath. Rawlins! Of all the rotten luck.

  "This isn't a personal matter, Sheriff. Don't make it one."

  Rawlins's pine-green gaze stabbed at his deputy. "Well, what are you waiting for? Drag her out of there."

  Fancy hiked her chin. Her heart was pounding so hard, she could scarcely breathe. Still, she hadn't built her reputation as a high-class sharper by folding under pressure.

  "Forgive my ignorance, Marshal." She managed to sound derisive. "I must be operating under the misconception that kidnapping is still a crime."

  "You think I give a hoot about the rights of some lying, cheating thief?"

  Applegate scowled, his raised hands twitching as if eager to get at Cord's gun. "There's still a law in this land, Rawlins. And U.S. marshal or not, you ain't above it."

  "Don't start preaching to me, Applegate. After what I've seen around town today, I could have your badge. Brand's too."

  "Yeah? Well, we could have your hide!"

  "I reckon you boys'll have to wait in line, then. Now get inside that cell."

  Applegate grudgingly obeyed. Rawlins's deputy extended a hand to Fancy.

  "Come on out, ma'am," the youth said gently. "There's no use in arguing."

  "Oh? And just what does Marshal Rawlins think he's going to do if I refuse? Kill me? Odds are he'll never find his precious minting plates then."

  "I can think of a dozen ways to get my satisfaction," Rawlins said, "and killing you's the least of them. Now get your cheeky little tail out of there, or you'll be walking every blessed inch of the way back to Carson."

  Fancy stiffened, her fingers curling clawlike. Applegate shook his head at her.

  "Go on, girl. You best do as he says. Don't you worry none, though. Me and Brand ain't going to let this rest. There's nothing worse than a Texican who turns against his friends. And Rawlins has got a lot of countryside to travel before he makes the New Mexico border."

  Fancy's eyes narrowed. She didn't take much comfort in Applegate's promise. His vendetta was a personal one, and she knew her freedom mattered little to him. She would have to rely on herself.

  Hiking her skirts, she knocked the deputy's hand aside and swept haughtily past him. When she tried to sail past Rawlins, though, he grabbed her arm.

  "Not so fast, darlin'. I've got a present for you. A couple of silver bracelets."

  He pulled her to his side. Outgunned and outnumbered, she knew better than to resist.

  "Afraid I might get the jump on you again?" she taunted, taking advantage of their proximity to rub her hips against his.

  "You think right highly of yourself for a girl who's been mounted more times than a cowpony," he retorted, snapping his cuffs around her wrists.

  She flinched. His manacles didn't hurt nearly as much as his insult.

  With his arm clamped around her waist and his revolver pressed against her ribs, Fancy stalked outside. She spied a pair of boots lying toes up in an alley, and she guessed that Brand had been dragged there, out of sight. She hoped he hadn't died in the meantime. To pass a dead man lying on the ground could only bring her more bad luck, and she desperately needed a change.

  She considered her alternatives. Since Rawlins and his deputy were both wearing masks, someone might actually come to her aid if she screamed. Of course, she'd have to yell loudly to be heard over the whoops, bets, and curses that accompanied the cockfight raging a block or so away. She wondered next how she would explain her handcuffs to her eventual savior.

  A sudden premonition made the hairs prickle on her arms. She glanced up warily, then barely bit back a gasp. She spied a man-shaped shadow flitting behind a chimney. She tried not to look too closely for fear of arousing Rawlins's suspicions, but her heart soared to think that she had been right. Someone was prowling the jail's rooftop!

  Who else could that someone be but Ned Wilkerson, coming to rescue her?

  Chapter 4

  Cord tightened his grasp, driving Fancy before him over the rutted road. She had proven again and again that a gentle hand couldn't rein her in; still, it chapped Cord's hide to treat a woman harshly. He'd been raised better. So had his brothers. Why, already Zack was casting sheep's eyes at Fancy. Given half a week more, she would have Wes tripping over his tongue. The boys just didn't understand how dangerous she could be.

  "Where do you reckon Wes went?" Zack murmured, glancing anxiously toward the cracked blue lantern that singled out the livery from the neighboring red-lighted cribs. "I don't see the horses anywhere. You don't suppose he ran off to scare up mischief, do you?"

  Cord was wondering the same thing. In fact, he was considering taking a switch to his youngest brother's behind. Then a thump and a muffled jingle pricked his ears. He tensed. When Fancy caught her breath, suspicion galloped down his spine. Cocking his .45, Cord started to turn, but a rifle lever snapped. He froze, instinctively tightening his arm around Fancy. They were fully exposed in the wash of the moon.

  "Drop your guns," ordered a guttural voice from the shadows.

  Cord remembered that voice. "Slade? Is that you?"

  "Mebbe."

  Cord squinted, trying to decipher features in the hulking, heavily shrouded frame. All he could see clearly was a pair of polished boots and the glint of moonbeams off a Henry repeater rifle. He thought he could strike that rifle—maybe even the chest of the man who wielded it—but he didn't dare risk a shootout. Not with Zack by his side.

  "You boys deaf?" Slade threatened. "Or just stupid?"

  Cord hardened his jaw and nodded for Zack to disarm.

  "You been deputized, Slade? Or are you just fond of corset-busting cheats?"

  Slade snorted. "I'm fond of five hundred dollars."

  Cord understood now. It wasn't love of Fancy or loyalty for Applegate that motivated Slade. In fact, Slade probably would have gunned down the sheriff if Applegate had refused to surrender her. Fancy wouldn't have fared much better.

  "Seems like my partner and me saved you a heap of trouble by breaking the girl out of jail." Cord counted on his mask to keep his identity hidden while he stalled and planned. "How about us making a three-way split?"

  Fancy's breasts heaved above his arm. "You're not bargaining with that rabid, trigger-happy butcher, are you?" she whispered.

  "Keep quiet," he whispered back. "And keep those manacles hidden in your skirts."

  "No splits," came Slade's reply.

  "Well, Slade, I reckon I'll just have to kill her then."

  "Kill me?" she repeated, choking. "You wouldn't dare, you lying son of a—"

  Cord's .45 ground into her ribs, and the rest of her oath wheezed into silence. He thanked God for that. She should be smart enough to realize he was trying to save her.

  Then again, the only reason she was footloose was because every lawman she had met recently was as crooked as the devil's backbone. She probably thought he was too.

  "I gotta agree with the whore," Slade jeered. "Dead, she ain't worth a plug nickel."

  "Hell, I don't care about the money
as much as I do my satisfaction," Cord retorted. "She killed my brother. He was the engineer on that Central Pacific train."

  Zack looked so stunned that Cord feared the boy might actually speak out against him. For once, he wished Zack was more fond of yarn spinning, like Wes.

  "Yeah?" Slade's tone was sharp and angry, as if he half believed Cord's bluff. "Well, that don't mean nothing to me."

  "It should, seeing as how my itchy finger could rob you of your bounty."

  "You ain't going to rob me of nothing, mister," Slade said, training his rifle on Zack. "Now throw down your gun. I ain't gonna say it again. I'm just gonna put an extra pair of holes in your pardner's head."

  Cord's gut knotted. Minting plates or no, he absolutely would not risk Zack. He muttered an oath and tossed aside his Colt. At least Wes wasn't at risk too. Unless that shadow creeping up behind Slade belonged to the youngest, hotheaded Rawlins.

  Slade was gloating over Cord's disarmament. "Now send the woman here."

  Fancy shrank against Cord's chest. He clasped her protectively. To send her into that alley would be lower than a snake's belly. And he'd rather be damned.

  "You scared, Slade? You got the gun. Come on out here and get her yourself."

  The manhunter's teeth showed in a snarl. "You don't listen so good, mister. I said, send that whore over here."

  "Shoot, mister," came Wes's sudden, cheerful challenge. "Didn't your mama teach you any manners?"

  Cord choked, spying the glint of a gun behind Slade. The bounty hunter whirled. For a heartbeat, Cord could see nothing in the web of moonlight and darkness. Then gunfire spat. The double report was deafening.

  "Wes!" Zack dived for his .45, his cry ricocheting off the walls. Cord had to grab the boy's collar before he could charge headlong into the alley.

  "Look after the girl," he snapped, thrusting Fancy into Zack's arms.

  Grabbing his Peacemaker, Cord bolted for the jail's porch. His head pounded with the cadence of his pulse as he cocked the gun hammer. Willing himself to caution, he sidestepped with his back against the wall until he could peer around the building's edge.

  "Wes! Can you hear me?"

  "'Course I can hear you. You're shouting in my goldurned ear."

  Cord's heart nearly stalled. There, framed in the feeble light of the jail's back window, Wes stood with a smoking six-gun in his right hand and Slade's rifle in his left. The bounty hunter rocked back and forth on his knees, his teeth clenched and his face ashen as he clutched his bleeding elbow to his chest. Despite his agony, he wore a look of murderous vengeance.

  "Were you hit, Wes?" Cord forced the words past the lump in his throat.

  "Naw."

  Cord didn't know whether to clasp Wes to his breast or to scold him for being an uncurried young fool. He decided against making a scene.

  "Where are the horses?"

  "Behind the jail."

  "Good. Ride to the livery. Tell the stableboy to fetch Doc Tate. We'll wait ten minutes. You know where."

  Wes grinned, saluting with Slade's rifle. Cord took the prize away.

  "Get a move on, boy."

  "Aw, Cord..."

  Slade roused himself from his pain.

  "Cord? Cord Rawlins?" the bounty hunter croaked. His features screwed into a mask of fury. "I'll track you down, you bastard. There ain't a hill too high or a river too wide. I'll snuff you out like a candle in a whirlwind. You and your wise-cracking friend."

  Cord had heard similar threats before. Last December, Diego Santana had threatened to burn his ranch, rape his woman, and murder his children. Cord smiled grimly to himself. If Santana ever got out of state prison, he was going to be sadly disappointed to learn that Cord Rawlins had little more than a horse to wreak vengeance on.

  "Much obliged for the warning, Slade. I'll be sure to keep a chamber loaded just for you."

  * * *

  By the time Wes caught up with Fancy and his brothers at the city limits sign, he was grinning.

  "What are you so chock full of glee about?" Zack grumbled, shifting in his saddle to glare better at his brother. "Hell, you're late again."

  Wes reined in, tossing Fancy a roguish wink. "Seems to me you could keep a civil tongue in your head, seeing as how there's a lady present . 'Sides. Your skull's all in one piece, thanks to me."

  Zack muttered an oath, betraying none of the misty-eyed relief he'd exhibited when Cord had told him Wes was unharmed.

  "If you'd done what you were supposed to do when you were supposed to do it, then no one would have been shot up, and we'd be halfway to Caddo Peak by now."

  "Caddo Peak?" Wes's eyes grew star-bright and eager. "But that's south of here, ain't it, Cord?"

  "Applegate expects us to head east toward Dallas, so I figured we'd ride south a ways, through the hills."

  Wes was practically jumping up and down in his saddle. "Think we'll meet some Injuns?"

  Fancy stiffened in Cord's arms, and he smiled wryly, kicking her skirts out of the way to spur Poco. The odds of running across Comanches weren't good in this part of the country; still, he couldn't resist the temptation to rib her a bit.

  "Maybe," he said.

  Delighted, Wes began whistling some off-key ditty. Zack, who could sing a ballad almost as well as he could rope a steer, threatened to tie his brother's tone-deaf ears in a knot.

  Wes retorted that he would nail Zack's hide to an outhouse wall.

  And so the bickering continued.

  Cord didn't bother to shout at them for silence. He'd learned from experience that anything short of a gag would prove a waste of time.

  Besides, he had plenty to think about. Every lawman in Texas would be gunning for him if Applegate really did spread the word. Wilton Slade would hound him until one of them woke up dead. And then there were Fancy's friends—his enemies. She'd been downright livid when she'd learned he wasn't one of the Wilkerson gang.

  Cord could only guess at the plot she'd been hatching with New Mexico's notorious outlaw clan. If minting plates were involved, then Cord figured he and his brothers would be ambushed at least once before they reached a train depot. He decided he'd have to ditch Zack and Wes before he got them killed. Either that, or he'd have to turn Fancy over to the outlaws.

  Cord's chin jutted at the thought.

  In a pig's eye! No one got his prisoners except the judge.

  He turned his attention back to his renegade. She was quiet now—like the eye of a hurricane. He wondered why she hadn't given away his identity. Maybe she figured he was an easier mark than Slade. Or maybe she was just plain scared of the manhunter. What had she called Slade? A rabid, trigger-happy butcher?

  Cord remembered how Fancy's voice had quavered when she'd sassed him. He wouldn't have called her yellow, though, not by a long shot. The fact was, she'd impressed the devil out of him. He'd seen grown men wet their breeches when a gun was trained on them. Fancy had done little more than cringe.

  He had often wondered what it would take to frighten Fancy Holleday. The law hadn't. Crossfire hadn't. Hell, he sure hadn't. She was quick tongued, and fast thinking, and too damned ornery for her own good. He couldn't remember meeting another woman like her.

  Least of all, Beth.

  Looking back on his marriage, Cord remembered his wife as being scared and crying most of the time. The disloyalty of his recollection made him wince inwardly. But then, memories of Beth never failed to make him writhe with guilt. He should have come home to her more. He should have tried to make her happier. The problem was, he'd been so damned unhappy himself.

  He gave himself a mental kick. Thinking like that was hardly fair to Beth. She'd tried, in her own way, to be a good wife. Looking back, and knowing what he knew now, he couldn't say she'd asked for much. Not really. But the thing that she kept demanding, the thing that she had asked for most of all, was the one thing he should never have given her.

  That was why he kept her picture in his breast pocket. When he got too randy, it reminded him what a bastar
d he had been. Aunt Lally had tried to comfort him, saying he hadn't been wrong to want his wife. He disagreed. He had known the consequences. Beth would be alive right now if it hadn't been for him.

  "It sure is quiet over there. What do you suppose those two are up to?"

  Wes's exaggerated whisper tugged Cord from his thoughts.

  "Nothing," Zack shot back. "Mind your own beeswax."

  "Aw, you're just sore 'cause I'm a hero."

  "Hey, Cord," Wes said gaily, "you aren't nodding off or nuthin', are you?"

  Cord tossed his kid brother a quelling glare.

  "If you want to, we can stop for a spell," Zack said more discreetly.

  "Or Miss Fancy can ride with me," Wes quipped. "It's a far piece to Caddo Peak, and we wouldn't want Poco to get himself all lathered."

  Fancy smiled at the boy, and Wes's grin grew wider. Cord bit back an oath. If Fancy sat in the boy's lap, the only one who would get all lathered would be Wes.

  "Much obliged, boys, but I was thinking we'd ride on a ways. Put in three, maybe four hours. Bed down again about dawn. You game?"

  "Sure, Cord," they said in unison.

  Fancy shot him a glare. Turning back to the road, she gingerly shifted her buttocks. He couldn't help but smile then. It looked as if she'd be saddle sore by sunrise. And a heap less trouble too.

  He knew his amusement was less than gentlemanly. But after all the trouble she'd put him through, he figured she deserved a sore rump at least. Why, even now his body was responding to her in ways that it knew full well it shouldn't. Her cascade of blue-black curls had risen on the breeze and were tickling his nose. He supposed he could put an end to that temptation if he found her a hat.

  But there was also the matter of her breasts. They nudged his forearm with each step of his horse. Her buttocks, God help him, were cuddled against his thighs. Even a saint would have trouble minding his hands. He worried that Beth's picture might not be enough to keep his mind off such a lapful.