Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  She winced as his hand skimmed lower, massaging the knotted muscles in her back. She was so ashamed that she could hardly bear for him to touch her there, where she was so hideous.

  "Would it have mattered?" she said brokenly. "You didn't believe Wes's story. You would never have believed mine."

  His arms tightened around her again. In that instant—and perhaps for the first time in her life—she felt safe. Protected. It was strange to feel that way about one's enemy.

  Yet as his breathing matched the rhythm of hers, as their heartbeats mingled, pounding as one, she could summon none of her old malice. He held her for what seemed like the sweetest, most fleeting minutes she'd ever known. And when he sighed, she felt the sensation move through her, shaking the very foundations of her world.

  "I reckon I do owe you," he murmured at last, resting his chin upon her hair. "I owe you a sight more than an apology."

  She swallowed, afraid she'd heard him wrong. "What... are you saying?"

  "Come sunup, you're free to ride out of here."

  She stirred, venturing a glance at him, but tears could make things look so deceiving. She told herself she was mistaken to think his eyes were glistening with anything more than the glaze of hard liquor.

  "Another one of your promises, Marshal?" she asked tremulously. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't take you at your word this time."

  He shifted, and she watched warily as he dug a fist inside his pocket. He rummaged for a moment; she heard the faint clinking of coins, or maybe his tobacco tin, then he took her hand and closed it over something small and hard.

  The key! She caught her breath.

  "A pledge of good faith," he said.

  "Truly?" She searched his rugged, sunbaked features for some covert sign of deceit. "You'll call off your guards? You'll let me ride away?"

  He nodded.

  "But why?"

  A small, heart-stopping smile curved his lips. Raising a hand, he brushed his fingers across her cheek. She flushed to see the glimmer of wetness on his thumb.

  "I can't have Wes hating me for the rest of his life, now can I?"

  Despite their calluses, his hands were gentle when he grasped her shoulders and eased her body from his. She felt chilled without his warmth, and she shivered, noticing with a twinge of hurt how careful he was to keep his eyes focused above her neck.

  "Try and get some sleep now," he said, cracking the door open. "Sunup will come soon enough."

  She nodded, uncertain how to respond. He'd taken nothing for himself, yet their deal was clearly done. He'd let her win. She could ride away and leave Cord Rawlins behind forever.

  She tightened her fingers around the key. Suddenly, she felt so lost. What would she do with Diego gone? Where would she go? She didn't have a family like Cord's to run home to.

  "Cord?"

  He paused on the threshold.

  "Are you sure you want to—" She bit her tongue. Sleep alone tonight? Her face heated as she realized just how close she'd come to humiliating herself again. "I mean... thank you. For the key."

  He stood quietly without moving. The hall was so dark, she could see none of his features clearly except the chiseled outline of his jaw. Her heart quickening, she tried to imagine his expression.

  "Like I said. I'm doing this for Wes."

  Just for Wes?

  Deflated, she listened as he walked down the hall. She found herself hoping that he'd change his mind, that he'd come back for her and finish the loving he'd started.

  The stairs eventually stopped creaking, though, and she guessed he'd settled in the sitting room, where he could sleep off his whiskey on Lally's couch.

  You're being absurdly maudlin, Fancy Holleday, she scolded herself as she closed the door. For heaven's sake, you won! What difference does it make why he gave you the key? You have it now; that's all that matters. For the first time in days, you'll get a good night's rest, and tomorrow you'll be free.

  Free and alone.

  Chapter 12

  The smoking cigarette forgotten in his hand, Cord rested his forearms on the back of the chair. Fancy hadn't answered his knock on the bedroom door, and she hadn't stirred when he'd entered. An aching head and churning stomach had made sleep elusive for him, so he'd straddled the chair at the foot of his bed to wait for her.

  And watch her.

  The first pink rays of dawn crept across her pillow. Brushing her cheek, they stroked some color into a face that looked porcelain white. Sooty lashes and the frame of blue-black curls only emphasized her pallor.

  Christ, she looked too fragile for the ordeal that lay ahead. How old was she, anyway? Twenty-five? That was hardly a lifetime, yet last night he'd realized she must know more about hell than any woman, guilty of any wrongdoing, deserved to know. Worse, the only future she had to look forward to was prison.

  Cord rubbed a throbbing temple. God forgive him. The whiskey was no excuse; he'd been plain stupid. He should never have given her that key. He should never have given her false hope. In a month, maybe two, the price on her head would go up again. The higher the reward, the greater her danger. Soon there'd be nowhere she could hide, no one she could trust. What kind of man would that make him, if he let her ride away?

  He pictured Diego Santana, whipping her. He imagined Wilton Slade, beating her. Not for the first time was Cord glad that he'd killed the bounty hunter. He wished now that he'd ignored his conscience back in December and killed Santana too. God only knew when that gutless Spanish whoremonger would finally be healed enough to stand trial. Even then, his hanging wasn't guaranteed. Hangings never were when a defendant could afford to hire a slick lawyer—or fill the election coffers of a judge.

  In the meantime, Fancy probably didn't have a penny to her name. Brains and raw grit weren't going to be enough to see her through the weeks ahead. How could he convince her to trust him? How could he get her to turn herself and the plates in, so he could go to the governor for her?

  The room slowly brightened. His cigarette burned to a stub. The faint creaking of stairs announced that Zack—or maybe Aunt Lally—had roused for chores. Only then did Fancy stir. Stretching, she yawned. Then she stiffened. She must have smelled tobacco smoke, for her nose wrinkled and she bolted upright, pulling the quilt to her chest.

  "How—how long have you been sitting there?"

  Wide, anxious eyes challenged his, as if she was afraid he might pounce on her at any moment.

  "Most of the morning, it seems like."

  She reddened. Raising a hand, she hastily smoothed back her hair, but something more important than her appearance must have occurred to her. She turned white again, whiter than starched lace.

  "What do you want?"

  "We need to talk."

  He watched the panic flicker through her eyes.

  "We have nothing to talk about," she said harshly. "The deal's done."

  "I wish it were that simple, darlin', but this isn't a card game."

  Her knuckles tightened on the quilt. "You're going back on your word."

  "No. You're still free to go, but..."

  "But what?"

  He averted his eyes. He really hated doing this. "I don't think your running is such a good idea."

  "Forgive my frankness, Marshal, but what you think doesn't concern me. Not in the least."

  He sighed, rubbing out the cigarette butt with his toe. He'd known this wouldn't be easy.

  "Look, Fancy. You and I both know your luck is going to run out. You're worth ten times more than you were in December. Sooner or later, some bounty hunter will track you down, and you're going to wind up—"

  "Not in prison. Not ever."

  He locked his eyes with hers. "What I was going to say," he finished quietly, "was dead."

  A moment passed. She forced a smile. Her expression held none of the saucy bravado he'd come to admire. "Better dead than locked up."

  "You don't mean that."

  "Oh, yes I do."

  He pressed his lips i
nto a thin line. Had Santana locked her up sometimes? Was that why she was so scared?

  "You're talking loco," he said sternly, not quite able to rid his voice of the anger he felt toward Santana. "You can't walk away from dead. But you can walk away from prison. In a year—maybe less if I can work it right—you'll be free. No more running. No more looking over your shoulder."

  "Assuming, of course, I survive whatever pestilence lurks inside those walls. No thank you, tin-star. Like I told you before, I'll take my chances on the road."

  Damn her. And damn himself for caring. When had he started to worry more about trying to keep her safe than about recovering those minting plates?

  He racked his brain for a way to make her see the sense of his plan. Maybe she hadn't fully considered the hardships of the road.

  "You realize this means you'll be on the run from now on. Ever give much thought to what your life will be like?"

  "Pretty much the same, I'll wager, since you killed Diego."

  He frowned. "Diego?" He eyed her in a mixture of bewilderment and surprise. "Santana's not dead. Hell, he hasn't even been tried yet."

  Fancy caught her breath. For a heartbeat, she couldn't have been more stunned than if Cord had thrown a bucket of cold water in her face. Confusion, elation, dread, they raced through her veins like quicksilver.

  Diego... alive?

  Disbelief quickly followed. She remembered the sight of Diego crumpled beside the express car door. He hadn't moved or answered her. True, it had been dark and she'd been frantic, but the sight of his blood had been unmistakable, seeping from his chest and tainting the snow.

  "That's low, Rawlins," she whispered, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. "That's about as low as a man can go."

  He raised his brows. He looked genuinely surprised. "You think I'm telling a windy?"

  "I think you're telling a full-blown hurricane!"

  He smiled, but there was no humor in it, only disappointment. "Now why would I go and lie to you about a thing like that?"

  "You want to get me to Nevada, don't you?"

  He shook his head ruefully. "Darlin', you've been keeping company with too many horse thieves."

  "But I saw you shoot him! In the chest. His blood was everywhere, and—"

  Cord held up his hand. "I shot him in the shoulder. And the leg. Last I heard, he's been keeping himself out of court by pleading pneumonia or some such thing. He's not likely to die, though. Not until he hangs. Or I get him in my sights," he added under his breath.

  Fancy started. Never before had she heard Cord threaten to kill a man. A tremor seized her hands, and she had to clasp them together. She supposed he must have been fond of Captain Hamilton, despite appearances to the contrary. Why else would Cord threaten Diego?

  "Why didn't you tell me he was alive?" she demanded fiercely.

  "I reckon it never came up before."

  "For God's sake, Rawlins, I had a right to know. He was... I mean, we were..." She blushed. She couldn't very well claim they were affianced after she had confessed Diego's preference for younger women.

  But those young harlots never stuck by Diego the way she did. She would always be there for him, no matter what. Diego knew it, too, and that's why he would marry her. He had to. Cord Rawlins certainly wouldn't—not with her tarnished reputation and soiled past.

  "I love Diego," she declared, raising her chin a notch. The gesture always helped her tamp down the uncertainty that accompanied such affirmations.

  "Love him?" Cord's jaw dropped. "How the hell can you say that after he beat you?"

  She winced inwardly. Even so, she reminded herself that a woman on the verge of her twenty-sixth birthday, a woman who had spent her youth whoring to survive, had to overlook certain shortcomings in her only suitor. Diego was her last chance to have a husband, a home, and children—the kind of life she'd been secretly dreaming of for years.

  "My mother beat me too, sometimes," she said defensively. "I didn't stop loving her."

  "My God." For a moment, he sat staring at her, his eyes dark and troubled. "Is that what you think love is?"

  A prickle of doubt inched up her spine. She staunchly shook it off. "Who are you to question my beliefs about love? You still grieve over a woman so spoiled and selfish that she refused to be a mother to your own kid brothers!"

  He drew a sharp breath, his face turning white. Pain pinched his cheeks and hollowed his eyes; Fancy grimaced, instantly regretting her attack. As angry as he had made her by keeping Diego's imprisonment a secret, hurting him brought her none of the satisfaction that it might have brought her two nights earlier.

  "I'm sorry, Cord. I should never have said that." She watched uneasily as his chest heaved with barely restrained emotion. "I only meant to say that feelings can be complicated. You should know that better than anyone."

  His jaw had tightened so hard, she wasn't sure if he was fighting back rage or grief. She hoped the dam held long enough so she didn't have to find out.

  "What do you think you know about Beth?"

  Girl, you have really set yourself up this time. "Nothing." She fidgeted. "It's none of my business."

  "You've made it your business. So answer me."

  She felt her heart skitter. His voice had been quiet, ominously quiet, and laced with a flat, bald grimness. She sensed that saying nothing now would be worse than saying too much. "Well, I've seen her pictures and..."

  "And?" His challenge burned like embers in his eyes. "What did my family tell you?"

  She sank a little lower. The reaction was instinctive. She hardly realized she had done it until she noticed how feverishly her hands were plucking at the quilt. "Only that you loved her. And—" she tried to find words that would stave off an explosion, "and that you blame yourself for how she died. I don't know much about her—or about you, of course," she added hastily, "but it seems to me Beth was lucky. She had a husband who loved her, a big close-knit family, and..."

  She blinked, her eyelids stinging with sudden tears. "She was having the baby of the man she loved," she finished pensively. "I think Beth must have been happy—deliriously happy—in those final hours. And if she wasn't, then she should have been. You have no cause to keep blaming yourself, Cord. Besides, for what it's worth, I think you would make a wonderful father."

  She held her breath. She hadn't planned on saying that. In fact, she'd been surprised when she'd blurted it out. But to her amazement, she realized she'd meant it. Every word. Cord would make a good father.

  Now Diego, on the other hand...

  She chided herself for her disloyalty. People could change, and Diego could too. After all, he'd been changing almost daily over the last few years. The debonair caballero had become less and less a part of his character after he'd started dabbling in Barbary Coast politics. And cocaine.

  She grimaced as unpleasant memories, mostly having to do with Diego's doped-up rages and his whip, crowded her mind. Maybe if she could convince him to swear off the cocaine, she thought uncertainly, he'd go back to being the man she had fallen in love with. They could be married, then, and she could live a respectable life. Surely that wasn't too much to ask.

  A lingering silence settled between her and Cord. She watched him furtively from beneath lowered lashes. He seemed to be calmer now—but not calm enough for her to surrender her guard. What was he thinking? The multiple feelings that flickered over his features moved too quickly for her to identify them. She wondered if she had helped to ease his grief. Surely Aunt Lally, Wes, and Zack had said the same things to him a million times. She was probably flattering herself to think that counsel from a modern-day Jezebel could move him in any way.

  But if it did, she thought wistfully, then she'd be square with him for setting her free.

  He shifted in his chair. Bowing his head, he rubbed his temples, and she remembered how drunk he had been the night before. His head was probably splitting. At least, that's what she assumed. When he finally raised his eyes to hers again, she a
ttributed the uncommon shininess in his gaze to sickness.

  "Thank you," he said gruffly. "I would like to become a father someday."

  He was silent for another long moment. Then he sighed. "Fancy, you have to know you can have the same things Beth did. You deserve a loving husband, a family, and children. But I'm not going to lie to you. You have little chance of getting them from a man like Santana."

  She swallowed, raising her chin again. She didn't want to hear that. She didn't want to hear anything at all like that.

  "You don't know Diego the way I do."

  "I don't?" His voice was very soft, as if he were trying to soothe a bristling cat. "Tell me about him."

  "Well..." She frowned. She really didn't care to be discussing Diego with Cord Rawlins. "He comes from a wealthy Spanish family." Although he'd been disowned after he seduced a novice in the local churchyard. "And he's educated, and clever." That was why he outsmarted all the lawmen. "And he protects me." Because she earned him money as his moll. "We've been together for years and years, and..." She swallowed. What else? Could she think of nothing else kind to say?

  Cord waited. She felt her face heat.

  "And he loves me. That's enough. That's all you need to know. The rest isn't any of your business."

  "Maybe not," he admitted in that same gentle voice. "Just answer one more question for me. You say you've been together for years. Has he always beaten you?"

  She choked. "That's none of your business, either." She fought back another surge of tears. "You and I had a deal, Rawlins. I'm free to go. You said so yourself. Diego needs me, and I will not let him down."

  "What?" Cord looked as if someone had just punched him in the gut. "For God's sake, Fancy, he needs a lawyer. Maybe even a preacher. But he doesn't need you."

  "You're wrong!"

  "He's in prison. There's nothing you can do for him."

  An old and persistent fear squeezed her heart. "There is. I'll find a way."

  She'd make him need her. To be needed would never be the same as being loved, but at least it was better than being abandoned and growing old alone.