She had refused to come clean, though. She had refused to discuss the plates or the outlaws. He figured she was hoping he would be ambushed and she would be rescued. The more likely outcome, of course, was that she would be murdered—along with Zack and Wes. Couldn't she see that he and the boys were the only ones keeping her off of boot hill? Couldn't she have been honest, just this once, and admitted their danger?
His jaw hardened as he fortified himself with the dispassion required by his badge.
Fancy Holleday had broken the law. No one had put a gun to her head and forced her to rob that train. That being the case, it was his job to bring her to justice. She could lie and cry and lure him to sin as much as she wanted. None of it would keep him from handing her over to the courts.
But if anything happened to his boys, anything at all, she'd have hell to pay.
"Morning, ma'am," Wes greeted her as she dragged her feet toward the campfire. He favored her with a dimpled grin as he patted the log beside him. "Ready for some flapjacks? I saved you the unburnt ones. I reckoned you'd be hungry after all those nightmares."
Fancy felt her face heat. Remembering her dream naturally brought to mind how she had tried to enact it, right there by the campfire, with Cord Rawlins. God, she felt like such a cat's paw! She didn't know which was worse: facing him then or facing him now.
"Thank you, Wes," she murmured, taking the plate he offered.
She sat between the boys—and as far from him as she could possibly get. She needn't have worried, though. Cord Rawlins was too decent, too honorable a man to mention how he'd answered her cries, how he'd brushed away her tears—or how he'd resisted the temptation to bed her when she had been weak and willing.
God, how she hated him.
She frowned down at her breakfast. She was too tired to be hungry. She hadn't slept much, thanks to her encounter with Cord. And Zack had ended her doze rather abruptly when he had barked at her to wake.
She glanced at the boy. It wasn't like Zack to be so surly. Most of the time, he was shyly attentive. This morning, though, he seemed so distant. He hadn't spread his coat to keep the dew off her britches; he hadn't offered to roll her bedding; he hadn't even vied with Wes to serve her flapjacks. A twinge of concern stirred an uncharacteristically maternal emotion in her. Was something ailing the boy?
"How are you feeling this morning, Zack?"
"Just dandy," he growled.
He sat grim and rigid, refusing to look her way. She was amazed that his snub should hurt her. She glanced at Cord for some clue to the boy's behavior, but he said nothing. He simply smoked his cigarette and watched her, his eyes narrowed in speculation.
"Don't pay Zack any mind, ma'am," Wes said, sidling closer with the coffeepot. "He went and lost his harmonica last night. 'Course, I say good riddance to the darn thing, but Zack stayed up 'til dawn, bawling like a lost dogie."
Zack said nothing in his defense. Fancy felt herself empathizing. On impulse, she touched his sleeve.
"I'm sorry about your harmonica, Zack."
He recoiled as if he'd been burned. "No, you aren't! Don't go pretending. You aren't our friend. You never were. The sooner Cord's done turning you in, the better!"
She caught her breath.
So did Wes. His face darkening, he reached over and punched Zack in the shoulder. "Take that back, you weasel mouth! I won't have you talking bad about Miss Fancy."
"Wes."
Cord's quiet voice averted what looked like a sure-bet brawl. Zack's fist relaxed. Wiping his hand across the back of his mouth, he fished his toppled plate from the ashes.
"Seems to me you've got some bedding to roll, Wes. Saddle up while Zack eats."
Something in Cord's manner must have made Wes think twice about arguing. He mumbled an apology, touched Fancy's shoulder, and ambled away.
Silence settled over the campfire. Fancy was amazed to feel how fast her pulse was pounding. Zack's harsh rebuke shouldn't have troubled her in the least, yet here she sat, hurting. Worse still, she was hoping that Cord would insist Zack was wrong, especially about turning her in.
Cord said nothing, though. His eyes were cool. The tender caring that she'd spied the night before was thoroughly extinguished. How could she have been so naive? She had almost believed the man when he'd offered to speak to the governor!
The morning clouds burned off. The day grew warmer, but Zack's demeanor didn't. By late afternoon, Fancy was convinced that she, not the missing harmonica, was responsible for the boy's mood.
Wes rode like a champion by her side, quick to deflect Zack's dour looks and sharp comments.
For the most part, though, Zack ignored her. She wasn't exactly sure why his behavior toward her had changed, although she thought her ridicule of Beth might have offended him. Or perhaps he was angry because she had used Beth and the things Zack had said about her to hurt Cord.
How amusing.
At least, that's what Fancy kept telling herself. She told herself, too, that she should use Zack's disapproval to her advantage, but her heart just wasn't in the game. It wouldn't take much skill for a sharper like her to play the boys against each other, now that Wes was taking her side and Zack was taking Cord's.
Besides, Wes wasn't in possession of all the facts. He still blamed Zack's hostility on that "consarned harmonica."
Cord seemed to understand Zack better. When the boys struck a truce long enough to water the horses, Cord pulled her aside, folded his arms across his chest, and fixed her with what she'd secretly come to think of as his gunfighter's showdown glare.
"All right, girl. Out with it. What did you do to Zack?"
Fancy hiked her chin. She was in no mood for his accusations. Dusty, tired, and saddle-sore, she wanted nothing more than a private moment to bathe herself. Instead, she was being harangued by a man clearly impervious to trail hardships.
She swore that Cord grew more handsome the harder the sun beat down on him. She couldn't remember ever seeing teeth so dazzling or eyes so verdant. His six-day growth of beard made him look more ruggedly virile, not grizzled and crusty the way most men would look. The man was simply gorgeous.
And that meant war.
"What did I do to Zack?" She donned her best smug smile, the one that always seemed to rub him raw. "Why don't you ask him yourself?"
"Because I'm asking you."
"Really, Marshal. I'm surprised at you. You can't hope to get a straight answer from me. I'm a lying, cheating thief, remember?"
His jaw hardened. She was amazed to see the proof of her score. Something must really be eating at him for her to have taken the advantage so easily.
"You tried crawling into Zack's bedroll, didn't you?"
She started. She hadn't expected this line of questioning, and it stung far more than she cared to admit.
"Why, I do believe you're jealous, Cord."
"Just answer the goddamned question."
"What lady could refuse such a charming request? And yet if I tell you no, you'd think I'm lying. And if I tell you yes, well... you'd wish that I was."
His eyes slitted. Stalking forward, he reminded her of a puma, all muscle and menace.
"Now you listen to me, girl." He pushed his face down into hers. "You keep your claws out of my boys. Got that?"
Fancy steeled herself against her rising indignation. As if she would lay a hand on either one of his precious brothers! She liked to think she had a few redeeming qualities, and refusing to seduce innocents was one of them. Her own innocence had been forcibly taken at the age of twelve, and she'd always made it a point to turn blushing youths away.
But she wouldn't let Cord Rawlins know that. Let the Texas chawbacon go right on thinking the worst of her.
"Come now, Cord. Where's your sense of humor? A girl like me isn't accustomed to"—she leaned closer, walking her fingers up his chest—"all these lonely nights."
He pinned her hand. She felt his heart hammering beneath her palm. For a moment, as his eyes locked with hers, she kne
w a bittersweet triumph. She'd piqued him. That was all she'd really wanted. Now he would recall his proper little wife, turn a bright shade of red, and save himself from sinning—as he always did—just in the nick of time.
A heartbeat passed. Then another. His heat rolled over her, and she felt herself flush. What was he waiting for? Didn't he know his part of the game? He was supposed to free her now.
She considered jerking loose, then quickly rejected the idea. Retreat was for the fainthearted.
"It's your turn, Marshal. Unless, of course, you plan on giving me the last word."
"Think you've won, do you?"
"Don't I always?"
Suddenly his arm dropped to her waist. She gasped, too surprised to protest when he pulled her length against his. Wiry musculature folded around her, molding her softness to his ruggedness. It was unsettling to admit how good all that potent masculinity felt.
Rallying her wits, she grabbed for his Colt, but he caught her hand with the speed of a gunfighter.
She scowled.
He chuckled.
"Yep," he said. "Just as I figured. Call your bluff, and you get all skittish."
"Skittish?"
"Sure. What would you call it?"
"One breath shy of suffocation. Whoever taught you how to hold a woman? Babe the Blue Ox?"
He arched a mocking brow. "Don't tell me I've bruised your delicate sensibilities."
"Crushed them would be more accurate."
"Well now." His lips twitched, betraying his dimples. "I surely do apologize, ma'am. Reckon I might have been a bit careless at that, you being so fragile and all."
He leaned forward, his eyes aglow with mischief. "Seems like the least I can do is try to patch things up. You just tell me where it hurts," he whispered, pressing his lips to her temple. "Here?"
She tensed in reflex.
"Or here?" he murmured, his lips touching hers.
It was the barest caress, but she felt her pulse leap. For a moment, she couldn't decide whether to protest or yield, but he had already shifted, nuzzling the corner of her mouth. Her lips turned traitor. When they parted, she felt him smile, victorious.
Still, he ignored her invitation. Teasing with featherlight persistence, he trailed kisses along her jawline, down to her pulse, up to her ear. He nibbled leisurely on the lobe, making her belly flip. But when his tongue flicked inside, shooting sparks to the base of her spine, she couldn't bear his assault any longer. She hiked her shoulder to nudge him away.
"You're just one hot little tease, aren't you, Fancy?" he whispered, his mouth hovering a bare inch above her own.
She drew a ragged breath. "Amateur."
"Oh, I reckon I am—next to you. Think you've got something to teach me?"
She felt her heart trip. He wasn't serious, was he?
"You've piqued my curiosity, Marshal. What kind of student would you be?"
"There's only one way to find out."
She fanned her lashes downward to hide her uneasiness. What had happened to the grieving husband? To Marshal Do-Right, ad nauseam? This wasn't the Cord Rawlins she knew. This was a wild card.
Still, she was the mistress of gaming, was she not? She could match any ace he had hidden, and then some. She'd make this one showdown Cord Rawlins would never forget.
Rising on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his. She expected him to stiffen; instead, his mouth slanted, demanding more of her kiss. She obliged. Gripping her buttocks, he ground his hips into hers, and she gasped, feeling his manhood strain hot and hard against her thigh. His heat was electric, shooting up her spine, charging every nerve.
She told herself she had no business liking the way her flesh tingled, or the way her nipples grew taut in response, but desire was like a firecracker bursting in her brain. Her limbs trembled, and her breaths rasped. The thunder of her pulse drowned out the last cries of her reason.
Arching up, she pulled him closer, eager to feel her breasts flatten against his chest, eager to mold her every quivering curve to his sinewy planes.
Cord, too, felt his reason slipping away. He wasn't supposed to be liking this. He wasn't supposed to be enjoying the pert nubs of her breasts as they rubbed and teased, just begging him to taste them, or the sleek, quivering lengths of her thighs, hot and steamy and eager for a ride.
He tried to remind himself this was a lesson. A payback. He'd wanted her to forget about Zack—and Wes, too, since the boy kept trotting after her like a puppy on a string. He'd wanted to set her blood on fire the way no untried boy could. He'd wanted to pretend he wanted her.
The problem was, he hadn't had much practice pretending. Now as he ached to be a part of her, to lose himself in the intimacy that grief and guilt had denied him for so long, he wondered if he had somehow confused his make-believe feelings for his real ones.
An amused "ah-hem" brought sanity crashing down around him. He raised his head, blinking dizzily as his surroundings swam back into focus.
"Hate to barge in on you, folks," Wes said, rocking on his heels.
He was grinning like a small dog with a big bone, and Cord felt his neck heat. He suspected that the boy hadn't "barged in" at all. The little cuss had probably been standing there, watching him and Fancy smacking lips since they started!
Fancy must have thought so too. Suddenly bright red, she rammed her boot into Cord's shin. He yelped, hard-pressed not to hop and curse as she fled from the circle of his arms. He wondered why a professional sinner like Fancy would give a hoot who saw her kissing him.
Unless, of course, he mused a little wistfully, she kind of liked it too.
Chapter 9
"What is it, Wes?" Cord growled, trying not to wince as he favored his left leg.
The boy's eyes danced. "Well, it's like this. I told Zack he was getting all fired up over nothing, but he flat out insisted that you come and see for yourself. You know how ornery ol' Zack can be," Wes added, winking broadly at Fancy.
Cord frowned at their exchange. "See what for myself?"
"Oh, Zack's gotten it into that wooden head of his that we're being trailed."
Cord's heart lurched. A blue norther whipped through him, icing the blood in his veins. He glanced at Fancy. She'd donned a poker face, but she couldn't quite hide the quickened rhythm of her breathing. He bit back an oath.
"Fetch Zack and the horses. Tell him to keep his rifle handy. From now on, I don't want either of you boys wandering off by yourself. You got that?"
Wes's eyes widened. "You reckon it wasn't just a shadow on that ridge?"
"Maybe." Cord ground his teeth to see how cool and unruffled Fancy looked. "We'll find out soon enough."
As Wes hurried back through the trees, Cord rounded on Fancy. She stiffened. He shot her a look that halted the heady rush of her pulse, and for a moment, she wondered how he could be the same man whose hungry kisses had left her starved for more just a minute earlier.
Fancy, my girl, you're getting soft, she told herself darkly. How could you forget, even for a heartbeat, that Cord Rawlins will always think of you as the "lying, cheating thief" he arrested in Fort Worth?
"I reckon you're feeling mighty smart just now," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "what with your friends on the way. So go ahead. Enjoy your little victory, 'cause I promise you: You won't enjoy much about prison."
Now there's the Cord Rawlins I remember—-and hate.
"You have to get me there first, Marshal."
"Oh, I'll get you there all right. Make no mistake about that."
The boys reappeared, leading the horses into the clearing. Cord waved Zack to lead Poco closer.
"Where were the riders?"
"I saw only one—"
"A Comanche?"
Fancy's stomach knotted to consider such a possibility, but Zack shook his head.
"Naw. He was sitting a saddle. The sun flashed off his stirrups. Or his spurs. But he wasn't an Injun, that's for sure. He was wearing a hat."
Cord looked grim as he re-cinched
Poco's girth. "Sounds to me like Miss Holleday's friends sent a scout to look us over."
Fancy suspected Cord was right.
"Now hold on just a minute, Cord," Wes said, rising as usual to her defense. "You can't go blaming Miss Fancy. Zack could have seen a soldier heading back to Fort Graham. He could have seen one of those Mexican peones looking for land to squat. Shoot. He could have seen nothing at all. I got a better eye than Zack, and I didn't see anything flashing up yonder. Don't you think I'd tell you if I did?"
His two older brothers exchanged dubious looks.
"Of course you would, Wes," Cord said. "I'm glad you boys are keeping your eyes peeled. You can't be too careful in this country. That's why I'm going to ride up there and do a little scouting tor myself."
Preparing to mount, he dropped his stirrup flap back to Poco's side. Zack caught his arm.
"What if that isn't so smart?"
Cord frowned up at the boy, who stood a full three inches taller than he. "What if what isn't so smart, Zack?"
The youth reddened. "Well, I was just thinking there might be a couple of outlaws up there."
"You don't think I'm a match for a couple of outlaws?"
"Of course you are," Wes cut in, shooting Zack a quelling glare.
Zack refused to back down. "I just don't think you should go riding alone, is all. Why don't you let me go with you?"
"Much obliged, son, but I need you to look after Wes... And Miss Holleday."
Cord glared at her, and she sniffed. She hoped he'd find a whole army of outlaws up on that hill. Or better yet, that they'd find him.
"That ridge is a good half-hour's ride," Zack argued. "It's only an hour 'til sundown—"
"You cluck louder than an old mother hen," Cord interrupted, hoisting himself into his saddle. "I reckon I know how to keep out of sight. And I'm plenty sure I can handle a gun. I'll be back way before it gets dark. Think you can hold down the fort until then?"
Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1) Page 11
