His manly odor titillated her from his bedroll too. It wafted through her dreams and often stole away her sleep. She would lie there, staring at the heavens, and feel herself ache. Really ache.
Sometimes she found herself watching him. Sometimes she caught him watching her. He would lie so still that she could hear his breathing. She would gaze into his firelit eyes, eyes as green and deep as the sea, and she would think about reaching out to him. Touching him. The notion would tempt her, but he would always look away.
He would always reject her.
She'd remind herself then that she hated him. She would hammer the words again and again into her brain: I hate him. He killed Diego.
Because of Cord Rawlins, she was loveless and miserable.
Because of Cord, too, she was forced to sit through a bone-chilling downpour. She feared the rain would wash away her trail and keep Wilkerson from finding her. What was worse—far worse—was being trapped with bats and a man she loathed.
On the morning of the third day, the rain tapered to a mist. Cord, who'd been pacing through the night like a caged mountain lion, announced that he would take Poco and scout ahead.
"Need a pardner, Cord?" Zack asked.
"Yeah, you'll need four eyes to see in this fog," Wes added hopefully.
Cord looked her way, and the corners of his mouth began to twitch. She suspected his amusement had something to do with her, and she fumed, adding the insult to the long list of offenses she was building against him.
"You boys aren't bored with deputy work already, are you?"
"'Course not!" they chimed in unison.
Cord hiked a brow. "But you'd leave Miss Holleday alone with these bats?"
Zack and Wes blushed, both glancing at her. Next they peered at the ceiling. Wes fidgeted.
"Aw, Cord. Them bats aren't gonna carry Miss Fancy off or anything."
Cord folded his arms across his chest. He looked the picture of parental authority. "I reckon they won't have to, son. Not if you let your prisoner walk out of here on her own. Are you forgetting the first duty of a deputy?"
Wes dug his toe into a crevice. "Never take your eyes off the prisoner."
"That's right. See that you don't." He squeezed the boy's shoulder. "I'm counting on you, Wes. Zack too."
Hoisting his saddle, Cord shot Fancy a don't-even-think-about-leaving glare before he dissolved into the mist. Zack began to chuckle.
"And you want to round up outlaws like Cord?" he said to Wes. "A fine lawman you turned out to be."
"Shut up, Zack."
The morning heated up. The sun dissolved the mist, and the cave's yellow-gold walls began to gleam. Fancy shed Wes's slicker and stretched her cramped limbs. She might have tried to escape if she weren't so sore, not that she would have gotten far. Cord had camped them miles from the nearest town. As for food, a one-shot derringer was little good for hunting. She would have had to trick the boys, steal their guns, round up their horses, and disappear without a trace.
She was good, she thought dryly, but not that good.
Wes crept closer and sat down beside her. His expression was a tad sheepish, and she suspected he was feeling guilty for his earlier outburst about the bats.
She smiled. To her surprise, it was genuine. She'd tried her damnedest not to like Cord's deputies. Wes had insisted she wear his slicker, though, and Zack had given up his only blanket, and the two of them had vied incessantly over fetching her water, spreading her bedroll, and cooking her meals. In truth, Cord's brothers had made her feel more valued than she had ever felt in her life. She still struggled to harden herself against them, but some treacherous part of her preferred to feel the warmth, not the hate.
"I reckon we'll be riding soon," Wes said.
"I reckon you're right," she teased gently.
His freckles crowded closer as he grinned. He glanced toward Zack, who had leaned his shoulders against the wall. In the sunlight, Zack's chestnut curls most closely resembled Wes's hair, but Zack's chiseled jaw and full, firm lips showed his blood ties to Cord. When he raised his harmonica to his mouth, Fancy spied the Rawlins-family dimples.
"Hope you're not mad, ma'am," Wes said as Zack began to play. "About the bats, I mean."
"Nope. Not one bit."
Relief flooded his face. She couldn't help but notice how it made his shamrock-colored eyes shine—like Cord's.
"Well, bats are really good luck, you know," he confided.
"I once heard of a poker player who tied a bat's heart to his arm with red thread. He said he got the best cards that way."
Zack's music wheezed to a halt. He shook his head, but Wes ignored the warning and gave Fancy a conspiratorial wink. She found herself remembering just how intrigued Wes had been when she'd placed her boot toes outward near the foot of her bedroll. She'd explained rather abashedly that she was protecting herself against nightmares. Wes hadn't batted an eye.
Zack began to play again. Fancy recognized his spritely version of "You Never Miss Your Sainted Mother Till She's Dead and Gone to Heaven."
"I've been meaning to ask you, ma'am..."
Wes tossed his brother another furtive glance and sidled closer to Fancy.
"Yes?"
"Well, um... it's just that I was wondering why you went and robbed that train."
The harmonica made another wheezing sound. "Geez, Wes!"
"Well, shoot. It ain't every day you get to meet a lady train robber. 'Sides. You want to know just as much as I do, so don't you go acting like you don't."
Fancy knew she had blushed. She just didn't know what she should say. Looking from one pair of inquisitive eyes to the other, she saw no reason to lie. Why had she robbed that train? As she took a moment to recall that night—the fear, the violence, the bloodshed—it didn't seem worth all the pain it had caused. Diego was dead, and she was alone. And all because of greed.
"Well..." Folding her hands, she sighed, staring at the red and purple wildflowers on the sunny ledge below. "I suppose I did it for Diego."
"Diego?" Zack hurried forward to sit at her other side. "Who's Diego? Your husband?"
"No."
"Your brother?"
She almost smiled at Zack's innocence. "No, my lover."
"Oh." He reddened.
Wes frowned. "Well, if he loves you, why did he go and make you rob a train? That doesn't seem right."
Fancy winced. She'd heard a truism in that question that she didn't wish to hear.
"Tell me, Wes. Have you ever been in love?"
"Well... no."
"Then how would you know what it's like?"
He hiked his chin. "'Cause I watched Cord. He treated Beth real fine. He didn't ever make her do things that she didn't want to do."
"Geez."
"Geez yourself, Zack. Don't you think Miss Fancy deserves someone treating her fine, like Cord?"
Zack had turned brighter than Wes's freckles. "Sure I do. But it ain't right, you asking her questions like that."
"Shoot, she ain't mad." Wes cast her a worried, sidelong glance. "You ain't mad, are you, ma'am?"
"No."
She smiled in spite of herself. The boy obviously idolized Cord. Personally, she couldn't fathom how anyone could adore the man, but since Zack also worshiped his older brother, Fancy reasoned that kinship must be to blame.
As for herself, she had grown up in an upscale whorehouse, the "mistake" that had interrupted her mother's ability to earn a profitable income. Fancy had never known a brother or sister. She had never known much in the way of maternal love, either, so it was hard for her to understand just how binding a blood tie could be.
"You needn't worry about me, Wes," she said.
"Someone's got to. This Diego feller ain't around, and Cord's still got his head all muddled over Beth."
"Wes!" Zack looked as if he might shove his harmonica in his brother's mouth.
"Well, he does, doesn't he?" Wes said. "Even Aunt Lally says she ain't ever seen a man get so torn up over a woman
's death. For almost two years now he's been mooning around, thinking he killed her."
"Did he?" Fancy prompted, half-hoping to hear the worst. It was high time she dispelled her silly notion that Cord Rawlins had made a good husband.
"'Course not."
"You have to understand, ma'am," Zack interjected quickly, tossing his brother a quelling glare. "Beth was kind of frail—"
"Yeah," Wes said. "You couldn't look slantways at her without her getting sick."
"And she just wasn't suited for fighting coughs and fevers and such."
"Or birthing babies."
Zack drew a sharp breath and punched his brother's arm.
"Ow! What'd you go and do that for?"
"'Cause you're talking like a biscuit head."
Fancy wasn't sure she was following this conversation. "So you mean to say that Beth... er, had trouble conceiving a child?"
Wes set his chin and rubbed his bruise; Zack avoided her eyes as he pushed stones over the hill. The silence lengthened. Fancy could hardly stand it.
"What happened?" she asked softly.
Wes shrugged.
Zack cleared his throat. "Well, um, you see, Beth was reared out Galveston way," he began reluctantly, "and she was kind of genteel. She didn't take a shining to the ranch. The rattlers, coyotes, and scorpions all scared her. She didn't leave the house much in the heat, and I reckon it got lonesome for her sitting around, waiting for Cord to ride home. She used to spend her time worrying about him getting gunned down somewheres, and she started thinking that a baby would keep her busy. She started wanting that baby real bad."
Wes nodded gravely.
"Now, Beth wasn't ever what you'd call hardy," Zack continued. "The doctor told her no babies, 'cause he said birthing might... er, snuff out her candle. Cord told her no babies, too, 'cause he couldn't bear it if she died. But Beth could be real stubborn once she got her dander up. She pleaded, and she begged, and when she saw her tears weren't working, she threatened to pull up stakes and find herself a new husband.
"'Course, Cord couldn't let her do that," Zack said. "So he finally let her have her way. About six or seven months later, the baby came. The boy was stillborn, and... well..." He dropped his eyes. "Beth never left the birthing bed."
"It wasn't Cord's fault," Wes said in a low, fierce voice.
"'Course it wasn't," Zack said.
Fancy was silent. She wasn't sure what she had expected to feel, but sympathy for Cord Rawlins had never been a consideration. It stunned her when it wrapped around her heart. For a moment, she wondered why she grieved for him. After all, he wasn't the only one who'd lost a loved one. Hadn't she lost Diego? And hadn't Cord been to blame?
Still, to lose a son.... And to know that son—his seed—had been the death of his beloved wife.
Fancy repressed a shudder.
Why had Beth done it? Why had she insisted on conceiving a child when she knew the baby would be a death sentence?
Fancy asked herself those questions again and again, but the conclusion always proved the same: Beth must have loved the devil out of Cord. Fancy didn't know if she could be as selfless. She didn't know if she could sacrifice everything for love.
The scrabbling of rocks roused her from her brooding. From somewhere below, she heard a masculine oath. The sound of labored breathing quickly followed, and the boys jumped up, their fingers flexing over their holsters. Cord's head bobbed into view.
"I told you boys to watch her!"
Zack and Wes exchanged dumbfounded looks.
"But Cord, we were watching—"
"The hell you were."
Cord hauled himself into the cave, and Fancy quailed. He loomed over her. His face was florid, and his hands were fisted so tightly, his knuckles were white. For the first time since she'd met him, she knew genuine fear. She scrambled to her feet.
"What is it? What's happened?" she asked.
His eyes glittered like emerald shards. "Don't play games with me, woman. What did you do with the horses?"
Chapter 7
Cord watched Fancy blanch. If he hadn't known her better, he might have believed he'd really scared her this time. He might have felt guilty for it, too, except that he'd seen for himself the slender, female-sized footprints where the boys' horses had grazed.
At first, he hadn't thought it likely that someone as sharp as Fancy would run off her only means of escape. Then he reminded himself how sneaky she could be. He hadn't bothered looking for more proof after that.
"Sorry to disappoint you, Marshal," she answered with an asperity that returned the color to her cheeks. "As delightful as your company has been, I wouldn't have idled my morning away here if I'd had access to a horse."
"She didn't go anywhere, Cord. Honest," Wes said, standing staunchly by her side.
Zack nodded and frowned. "Still, it's not like Shawnee and Trail Boss to wander away. Do you reckon the thunder spooked them?"
Before Cord could answer, a piercing neigh shook the walls of the cave.
Zack caught his breath. "Isn't that Poco?"
Thrashing and snorting accompanied the horse's cries. Wes peered over the lip of the cave.
"Uh-oh. We got company."
Cord's heart leaped. He, too, had spied the slender, breechclouted youth wrestling with the paint. The Indian looked a year or two younger than Wes.
"Hey!" Wes shouted, bristling for a fight. "Take your thieving hands off our horse!"
Cord choked back an oath. He grabbed for Wes's collar, but the boy ducked and charged down the hill. A heartbeat later, Zack had snatched up two rifles and was racing after his brother.
"Zack! Wes! Jesus." Cord drew his Peacemaker. "Stay here out of sight," he snapped at Fancy.
"But there's only one Indian. Surely Zack and Wes can—"
"Comanches don't travel alone. Ever."
He leaped to the ledge below and scrambled around a boulder. To his consternation, Fancy jumped down after him. Her jaw was set, despite the grayish tinge that mottled her cheeks.
"Confound it, woman, I told you to stay put!"
"I'm not staying here alone—especially without a gun."
Cord cursed. She had a point, and he didn't have time to argue. "All right, give me your hand."
She obeyed for once. Her fingers felt like ice, but they didn't quiver as they wrapped around his own. She swung down beside him, and their eyes met. Determination overshadowed the fear in hers.
"Brave girl," he said, nodding. "Stay close, now."
She surprised him when she kept pace, leaping from rock to rock with the grace of an antelope. He'd feared he would have to throw her over his shoulder to make better time, but when he reached the wooded plateau, she was only three steps behind him.
As they ran into the clearing, Poco was bucking harder than a mustang. Shrilling his outrage, the gelding jumped in punishing circles beneath the lowest boughs of a cedar. Cord had taken special pains to train Poco so that rustlers and fugitives couldn't get the drop on him and ride off on his horse. Under different circumstances, he might have allowed himself the satisfaction of watching Poco make short work of his thief.
When the Indian hit the dirt with a thud and an "umpf," though, Cord knew there would be hell to pay.
Wes and Zack stood laughing over the youth.
"Reckon that ol' paint was more than you bargained for, son," Zack said.
"Yeah. I don't guess you've got much future as a horse thief." Wes grinned, sticking out a hand to help the boy up.
The Indian colored a full shade darker. Slapping Wes's hand aside, he bounded to his feet and loosed a barrage of virulent Comanche. Wes tipped back his hat and scratched his head.
"Shoot. I can't make heads or tails of what he's saying."
The Indian shouted again, stomping his feet. Cord feared that the young warrior sought retribution. Although Comanches accorded high honors to braves who stole horses from enemy camps, they accorded even higher honors to warriors who killed enemies in hand-to-hand
combat.
"Back off, Wes," Cord warned.
Shadowy riders began to materialize along the tree line as the young Indian swooped for his ankle sheath. A bonehandled hunting knife appeared in his hand.
"Look out!" Zack raised his gun. "He's got a pig sticker!"
Cord knocked down Zack's rifle. "Dammit, Wes, I said back off!"
"Aw, Cord. I can take him."
"I know, son." Cord struggled to keep his voice even. "But he's not likely to quit while his brothers are watching. You'll have to kill him, and then the whole tribe will be after our blood."
Wes glanced uneasily toward the half-dozen braves and their outmoded Enfield rifles, then his gaze shifted to Fancy. She stood pale and rigid, her hair floating around her shoulders like a storm cloud, her eyes flashing like blue lightning. She stood defiant in the face of the Comanche threat, and for a heartbeat, Cord couldn't remember ever seeing anything so beautiful.
"For Miss Fancy's sake, I'll keep the peace," Wes said at last, retreating two steps.
This show of timidity only enraged the Indian. He began to shout, slicing and jabbing the air. When this challenge also failed, he screwed up his face and spat on Wes's boots. Cord watched his brother's face turn red.
"Ignore him, Wes," Fancy said quietly, moving close behind him. "He's a spoiled, undisciplined child trying desperately to prove he's a man."
The Indian snorted. Pointing at Wes's hair, he called to his comrades in contemptuous tones. They started to laugh. Before Cord could guess the boy's intentions, the Indian shoved Wes out of the way and grabbed Fancy's arm.
Cord's heart nearly stalled. All manner of horrors raced through his mind. He rushed to save her from rape, mutilation, or worse, but in the three seconds that he took to race to her side, she'd spun, blocked the boy's knife, and rammed her knee into his loins. The Indian howled, doubling over.
Rumbles of displeasure replaced the horsemen's mirth. Zack tossed Wes a rifle. Cord hastily pulled Fancy behind him. He could feel the pulse hammering in her wrist.
"Hellfire, girl," he whispered. "Who taught you how to fight like that?"
Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1) Page 8
