An unbidden image of twinkling green eyes and heart-stopping dimples materialized in the water beside her own reflection. The vision was so vivid, so lifelike and real, she had to glance over her shoulder to make sure he hadn't tiptoed up behind her.
Fortunately, nothing but grass, rocks, and a smattering of scrubby trees dotted the horizon. She didn't breathe any easier, though.
Why couldn't she picture Diego? Only four months had passed since she'd last held him in her arms.
Squeezing her eyes closed, she tried for at least the hundredth time to conjure his visage: brown eyes, brown hair, brown mustache and beard.
Dazzling white teeth, sun-burnished muscles, sorrel curls that trailed from his chest to his—
Damn him!
She plunged a fist into the watery image. Cord Rawlins already haunted her sleep. Why did he have to prowl through her daydreams too?
Removing her hat—or rather, Wes's—she splashed handfuls of tepid water on her face. She could only rest here for a minute; she mustn't let herself doze off. There would be a full moon tonight, and she had to keep moving. Rawlins wouldn't let exhaustion stop him. He wouldn't let an aching back or an empty belly slow him down. He'd keep tracking. Stalking.
Her stomach knotted.
No, she couldn't doze off at all.
* * *
Cord's heart quickened as he heard the hunting howl. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have cared about coyotes. Pumas, either. But Fancy was out there somewhere, alone.
Tugging a strip of beef jerky from his pocket, he ate mechanically as he searched the ground. Thanks to the blowing grasses, her tracks had often been hard to find.
Still, he gave her the main credit for hiding her trail. She'd ridden over rocks; she'd detoured through streams; she'd left no ashes, food tins, or other waste behind her. Her pattern was clear to him now, and he was gaining on her—which was a damned good thing. He didn't know where she thought she was headed, but if she kept riding south, she was going to get herself captured by one of the outlaw gangs that hid out in the hill country.
Shuddering, he swung hastily into his saddle.
Old Fort Gates was only a day's ride farther south. There they could catch a stage to Waco, board a train on the Texas Central, and arrive in Carson City by next week's end.
His heart lurched at the thought.
God help him, there were times when he really hated his job. Letting Fancy walk out his door and ride away, when he had no real proof that she could survive on the range, had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. But setting her free hadn't compared with the moment when he told her he would hunt her down.
How could he reconcile himself to bringing her to trial now? He knew better than to get his feelings tangled up in a prisoner's future. And yet, how could he not care about a woman who had thrown herself in front of a rifle to save his brother's life? How could he not feel anything for a girl who'd been so cruelly beaten with a whip?
In all those months, when he'd been so hell-bent on tracking her down for revenge, he'd never stopped to think about the reasons for her behavior. He'd never considered how brutal, degrading, or frightening it must have been to live as the kept woman of a Barbary Coast kingpin. God forgive him, he'd assumed she liked cheating and thieving and poking her gun in a man's loins.
When she'd talked about love and family, though, when she'd talked about the treasure that Beth had once possessed, she'd clearly been talking from the heart. And something inside of him had stirred. It was as if a mountain of granite had been lifted from his chest.
Although Beth had begged him to take her away from an overbearing father, she had never been happy without her fandangos and balls. She had always wanted more than he, a hired gun, could provide. He'd been ashamed that he couldn't give his wife the kinds of luxuries to which she'd been accustomed.
To hear Fancy talk, though, maybe he hadn't been such an awful husband, after all. Maybe giving Beth his heart and his family had been a greater gift than the occasional froufrous he could afford.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd been punishing himself a little too hard, and a little too long, about the child.
In any event, he'd clearly been unfair to Fancy. She wasn't the crass and heartless floozie he'd thought she was. He didn't know everything there was to know about her, and he certainly didn't understand why she professed love for a man who beat her. Still, he was absolutely certain about one thing: She deserved a hell of a lot better than Diego Santana.
Sighing, Cord urged Poco to a faster pace. He knew Hog Creek lay just beyond the horizon. Fancy seemed to be headed that way. With the sun in the four-o'clock position, he still had several hours of daylight left.
With any luck, he would find Fancy and water by nightfall.
* * *
Fancy woke with a start. Something was wrong.
At first, she tried to convince herself otherwise. She was merely on edge again because she had wasted precious hours of daylight. The sun was nearly touching the horizon.
The sun wasn't the only thing out of place, though. Knuckling the sleep from her eyes, she blinked uneasily at the wind-tossed grasses. Was it her imagination, or was that her belt lying a few yards away?
The belt moved. Every hair on her arms stood on end. A triangular head took shape, rising from the earth to sway above a rippling neck. Fancy felt her throat constrict. For a moment, nothing in her body worked—not her heart, not her lungs, not her brain. All she could do was stare, transfixed by two glittering eyes that were colder and blacker than Satan's.
Coil by coil, the serpent drew itself higher. Then came the rattle: portentous. Menacing. Fancy tried to scream, but nothing came. Not even a squeak. Icy trickles of sweat dribbled down her spine. From somewhere deep inside her, terror rose, a shrieking, manic assurance that she must flee or she would die.
She jumped up, and the viper lunged. This time when she screamed, the sound ripped from her throat until it turned raw.
* * *
Cord's blood curdled. Never had he heard such horror in a woman's cries.
"Fancy!"
Gunshots followed. Again and again came the reports; he saw the fire spitting in the thicket up ahead. He drew his .45, and Poco broke into a dead run.
Merciful God, what was it? What was attacking her? A puma? Rustlers?
His heart climbed to his throat. Was she being raped?
Four, five, six—he counted the reports. Then came the silence, an ominous, gut-wrenching silence.
"Fancy!"
Time crawled. He hit the ground running, but he couldn't drive his legs fast enough. If she was hurt, if she was dead, Christ, he would never forgive himself.
He charged past a prickly pear, heedless of the spines that slashed his sleeves, heedless of his danger from whatever lay ahead. His lungs hammered in time to the pounding of his blood.
The first thing he saw was her face, white and wild, a mask etched of terror. He looked frantically around her. There were no cats. No outlaws. No signs of struggle. Her horse stomped nervously, but it looked safe.
He heard a clicking and trained his eye on her hand. She was pulling the trigger again and again on empty chambers. The gun shook so violently he couldn't immediately tell where it was aimed. He half expected to spy Old Scratch himself—horns, pitchfork, and all—crouching in the bushes.
Then, beneath the shadows of a creosote, he saw the diamondback. Or rather, what was left of it. The snake's three-foot body was so riddled with lead, it looked like a sieve.
"Fancy." Cord forced the word past the lump in his throat. "It's dead, darlin'. You can stop shooting now."
"No." She shook her head frantically. Her eyes looked more black than purple in her fear. "It can't be."
"It's in pieces."
"It makes no difference," she insisted, her teeth beginning to chatter. "Snakes don't die. Not until sundown."
He blinked, uncomprehending. Then one corner of his mouth twitched.
Why, she actually belie
ved that old wives' tale!
"I'm telling you, sweetheart, it's deader than Davy Crockett. Look."
He bent to reach for the viper, and she stumbled backward, clapping a hand over her mouth.
"Don't!"
"Aw, they're good eating, hon. That is, if you don't have to spit out bullets." He grinned, picking up the prized tail in his glove. "Too bad you only shot yourself a baby. Rattlers grow up to seven feet, you know."
She turned green, and the gun slid from her fingers. His mirth ebbed.
"You weren't bit or anything, were you?"
She staggered away from him.
"Fancy? Were you bit?"
She turned and began to run. He muttered an oath. If there was venom in her veins, the last thing she should be doing was pumping her heart harder.
"Fancy!"
She didn't answer, and he sprinted after her. She was faster than he had figured, but he managed to cut her off from her horse.
"Give it up, girl! There's nowhere you can go."
She veered toward Poco, and he gulped down air. His sharp whistle sent the gelding trotting out of her reach.
"Cut it out now, you hear?" he called, his worry verging on anger. "You're just making this harder on yourself!"
Fancy sobbed, closing her ears to his cries. She wouldn't be caught. She wouldn't go to jail! Visions of iron bars filled her mind, and terror crackled down every nerve.
She raced back toward the trees. His boots pounded hard behind her. She could feel his heat spreading over her; she glimpsed the shadow of his outstretched arm. She feinted, but he was faster, and she shrieked when his hand grasped her collar.
She rounded with swinging fists. The first whizzed harmlessly past his ear; the second collided with a gut as taut as saddle leather. He tripped up her legs, and they crashed in a tangle of limbs. When he deftly rolled her, she was crushed by a mountain of muscle. She fought back desperately, kicking, scratching, jabbing. Her nails raked his neck, and she heard the hiss of his oath.
"So help me God, girl, if there's no poison in your blood—"
"What do you care? You're going to leave me to die in prison anyway!"
"Dammit, Fancy, that's not true."
He pinned one wrist, then the other. His weight began to take its toll. Her breasts heaved, rubbing her nipples against his chest; her thighs trembled, fused in steamy intimacy to his own.
"Were you bit?"
She sobbed, unable to bear his touch. His heat. His maleness. Three nights ago, she had let his tender petting and sweet words of concern woo her trust. Now she knew that he had set out to use her. The only difference between him and all the other bastards was that he had wanted her minting plates, not her favors.
"Answer me!"
"No! I wasn't bitten."
She bucked, straining and writhing. No trick could set her free. Finally, she collapsed, her breaths coming in great, shuddering gasps. She was mortified to feel tears spilling down her cheeks.
"I hate you, Cord Rawlins," she whispered brokenly.
For a moment, he looked shaken. She felt how his heart hammered, slamming against her ribs.
Then the sea storm in his eyes ebbed, and an inner light rolled back the clouds. She had never seen anything quite like it before. It wasn't the gleam of lust or the glare of anger. She blinked, trying to see more clearly past her tears, but his eyelids drooped, and she was thwarted.
"Sorry, darlin'," he murmured, his voice soft and husky in its breathlessness. "I've learned better than to believe a damned word you say."
* * *
A quarter hour later, Cord had coffee bubbling and snake simmering on the campfire. Fancy, who'd shown no interest in the preparation of the meal, now huddled as far from him as he would permit. He hadn't bothered to cuff her; she was acting nothing like the spitting wildcat who'd tried to scratch his eyes out.
In truth, her sagging shoulders and downcast eyes troubled him. He suspected she had revealed something that she never wanted anyone to see. That's why she'd told him she hated him. The words had cut deeply—more deeply than he cared to admit. Still, there was a part of him that wanted to hold her, to soothe her fears and assure her that things would get better.
"Reckon you're tired of cold beans and jerky," he said, trying to coax her out of her fortress of silence.
She ignored him.
"A hot meal ought to make you feel better."
He would have had more response from the ghosts at the Alamo.
"'Course, if snake's not to your liking—" he peeled back the waxy green skin of a prickly pear cactus and set it on a plate, "you can try nopales."
She refused to acknowledge the delicacy he handed her. He shrugged, trying to ignore the hurt in his chest.
"Suit yourself."
Sitting, he spooned out a hearty portion of snake meat, but he couldn't keep his mind on his hunger. His gaze kept drifting to Fancy. The Texas sun, so deadly to Beth's complexion, had dusted the bridge of Fancy's nose with freckles. Her cheeks had turned a coppery brown, a shade that made the violet of her eyes more startling, the ivory of her teeth more vivid.
Her curls, wild and unruly, had slipped from her braid when she struggled with him earlier; now the sheen of blue- black wreathed her face like a mane. She looked like some exotic jungle cat sitting there, with her amethyst stare fixed on the fire and golden flames dancing in the center of her eyes. He wondered what she was thinking.
"So." He scooted backward, propping his spine against his saddle and balancing the plate on his knee. She was out of his reach now—which was good. He wasn't sure he could trust himself not to touch her.
Or worse, to let her go.
"Is it the snake or the company that's got you well muzzled?"
She tossed him a scathing look. "They're pretty much related, aren't they?"
"Naw." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "My daddy was a hurricane."
She pursed her lips and looked away.
"Now that we're on speaking terms again," he continued, swallowing his first bite of what turned out to be a damned tasty meal, "why don't you tell me where you hid those plates?"
"After the scam you pulled at the ranch? Forget it."
He winced inwardly. He might have known she'd refuse to forgive him. To her way of thinking, he was probably the most despicable kind of cad.
"C'mon, Fancy. Even you have to admit my finding you was for the best. Otherwise, you'd be lost, hungry, and short on ammo, smack in the middle of desperado country."
Her jaw hardened. Turning her shoulder on him, she began to spread her bedroll in short, jerky movements. She was wearing the look she'd worn at the ranch, when she'd called him "lying" and "no good."
"You're going to need a friend once we reach Carson."
She turned her back this time. He sighed. He was beginning to think spitting and clawing was preferable to this mulish show of silence.
"Look, Fancy. I'm trying to help you. Don't you think it's time we called a truce?"
She tossed him a withering look. "You mean you want to make another deal?"
Jesus, was that why she was spreading her blankets?
He pressed his lips into a grim line. She really didn't think much of him, did she?
"Be reasonable, Fancy. If the only thing I wanted from you was sex, I could have had it a dozen times by now."
She winced, biting her lip. He felt the creep of guilt. Now what? Had he hurt her feelings? He hadn't meant to. Hell, he thought she'd be relieved to know he wasn't going to jump her bones the first chance he got.
Besides, she'd made it more than clear she preferred Santana—although God Himself probably wondered why.
Pushing his plate away, Cord dragged a hand through his hair. Why couldn't she be reasonable?
He might come to regret his decision, but he wanted to help her. He knew he could never forgive himself if she died of some disease behind prison walls. Or if she emerged with her spirit shattered beyond repair. Telling himself that he'd on
ly done his job would be poor consolation then.
Somehow, he had to find a way—a legal way—to keep her out of jail. The problem was, he didn't have the power to acquit her, much less pardon her. He was as helpless as she was when it came to her future, unless she agreed to help herself.
"Fancy, you don't have to be alone in this."
Her hands hesitated, hovering above the fold she'd been smoothing. It was the smallest of signs, the briefest indication that she was wavering, but it gave him hope.
"I can't help you if you don't give me the chance."
A small tremor moved through her. She bowed her head. For a long moment, she knelt there so still, so silently, that he thought she'd stopped breathing.
"Darlin', you're going to have to trust somebody sometime," he said gently. "It might as well be me. Whether you want to admit it or not, I've been trying to keep you alive these last couple of weeks. And when we're in Nevada, I'll do everything I can, within the limits of the law, to keep you out of jail too. I promise. I swear it. I just don't know what else I can say to convince you."
Fancy swallowed hard, brushing a shameful tear from her cheek. He would keep her out of jail? Truly?
She drew a ragged breath. Trusting had never come easily to her. In truth, she couldn't remember the last time it had come at all. She'd learned to find an element of safety in cynicism, especially where men—even Diego—were concerned.
"Wit and heart, that's all a woman can call her own, Fancy." She could almost hear her mother's bitter voice. "A man will try to rob you of them. Once he does, he'll leave you behind. You have to hold something back. You have to keep something for yourself."
The advice had worked with Diego. She had always stayed safe, no matter how bad things got, because she had kept a piece of herself away from the hurt.
Now here was Cord, asking her to put her life in his hands. He promised her freedom, but he had made that pledge to her once before. She had trusted him, and she had been hurt. Deeply. Dare she play the fool again?
God help her. Did she have any other conceivable choice?
She pulled her blanket more tightly around her. Turning, she sat again and willed herself to face him. The effort to hold his gaze took every scrap of nerve she possessed.
Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1) Page 18
