Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  "So who is this Frank Harris feller, Cord?" Aunt Lally asked. "Some name you made up for the wanted poster?"

  "Naw, he's a counterfeiter," Wes said, "and a gambler too. He ran a saloon as a front out in Houston. Now he's serving time in Huntsville. That's why I put 'escaped' so big on the wanted poster."

  Lally quirked a graying eyebrow. "And how do you know so much about Frank Harris, young man?"

  "'Cause it's my job as Cord's deputy," Wes replied loftily.

  He scooted closer to Fancy and leaned toward her. "Reckon we got our work cut out for us, huh, ma'am? I mean, passing Cord off as a sharper ain't gonna be easy. He's not any good at dice or poker, since he won't cheat."

  "Thanks, Wes," Cord said dryly. "I reckon I'll take that as a compliment."

  "Wes does have a point," Fancy said, wondering how best to voice her reservations without alarming Lally—or exciting Wes. "Can you palm cards? Or shave dice?"

  "Don't know. Never tried."

  "Shoot." Wes fished in his shirt pocket and drew out a box of playing cards. "Then it's a good thing I bought these pasteboards for you in Fort Graham."

  Lally's brow furrowed as she watched her youngest nephew fan the deck. "Wes, those cards are marked."

  "'Course they are. Cord would lose the ranch if he had plain old pasteboards."

  Cord gazed in amazement at his aunt. "You can read marked cards?"

  "Well..."

  "Sure she can," Wes said cheerfully. "She taught me."

  Cord's jaw dropped. "You taught my kid brother how to cheat?"

  Lally's face turned crimson.

  "Well, boys aren't interested in quilting," she said, hiking her chin. "'Sides, Wes only does card tricks for the ladies. He's no more a cheat than you are, Cordero Rawlins."

  Wes snickered, winking at Fancy. "Cordero. That's what Mama always used to call him. It means 'little lamb' in Spanish."

  Cord grimaced.

  Fancy bit her lip and tried not to laugh.

  "Now the way I see it," Wes breezed on, shuffling the deck like a Barbary Coast blackleg, "we only got about forty-eight hours to turn Cord into a sharper. Zack too."

  "Now hold on a minute, son." Cord was frowning again. "Zack's got cattle to drive. If you're strong enough for long riding, then you're strong enough to prod beef."

  "But I'm your deputy!"

  "And a mighty fine one too. But Aunt Lally's depending on you boys to sell those beeves. I'd do it myself, if I didn't have to round up outlaws."

  Wes looked mutinous. "Zack's got Juan and Carlos and the rest of the hands to drive cattle into railroad cars. Zack doesn't need me. 'Sides, I've never been as good at cutting and roping as he is. I'm better with a gun. Seems like I proved it, too, back in the alley against Slade."

  Cord and Lally exchanged uneasy looks.

  Fancy shared their concern. Even if Wes could hold his own in a gunfight, she knew the boy would be no match for an ambush.

  "Wes," she began gently, "no one is doubting your ability. Or your courage. But you have to know you'll be putting Cord and me in danger by going undercover."

  "Fancy's right," Cord said. "Besides, Aunt Lally will need your help keeping Fancy safe from the bounty hunters once you and Zack get back to the ranch."

  "What?" Fancy's head snapped around. She stared incredulously at him. "You're going to leave me behind?"

  "I'm going in alone," he said firmly, and rose.

  Wes's face brightened considerably, but Fancy felt as if a fist had just smashed into her gut.

  Dear God, he isn't joking.

  "Cord, you can't go in alone. It would be—" She glanced at Aunt Lally and bit back the word suicide just in time. "It would be too risky. You need me to cover your back."

  "The day I need a woman to cover my back is the day I turn in my six-shooter."

  Lally snorted. "We ought to box his ears for that, Fancy."

  He chuckled, shaking his head. He was wearing the same patient I-know-best smile that he always wore when his brothers protested his authority.

  Fancy understood now why Wes took such offense to it.

  "We're wasting time, folks. I want to be back at the ranch by nightfall so I can ride out first thing tomorrow morning. Wes, why don't you go help Aunt Lally into the wagon."

  "Cord!" Fancy jumped up, catching his sleeve. "Dammit," she said in a low, fierce voice, "I thought we had a deal. I said I would give you the plates only if you took me with you."

  He looked surprised by her vehemence. "I would never hold you to a deal like that."

  "Why?" Her heart slammed against her ribs as she imagined all the terrible things that could happen to a lone lawman inside a den of thieves. "Don't you trust me?"

  His features softened, and he placed his hand over hers. "I trust you just fine, Fancy. I want you to be safe, is all."

  He released her, and she swallowed. She couldn't ever remember Diego putting her safety before his own.

  "Cord, you have to listen to me. You don't realize your danger—"

  "Fancy." He looked vaguely amused—and irritated—that she doubted his ability to fend for himself. "It's settled. Now let's get a move on."

  She bit her tongue on another protest. No matter how right she was, he would never back down. Not in front of an audience. She would have to continue this argument when she got him alone.

  Besides, she didn't want Wes and Lally worrying about him any more than they already were.

  "All right, Cord," she said quietly. "For the sake of your family, I'll let this be settled." She looked him square in the eye. "For now."

  Chapter 16

  Fancy prowled restlessly up and down the length of Cord's bedroom. She couldn't have slept even if she'd wanted to, knowing that he planned to get himself killed. If he rode alone, the only way he'd come back was in a pine box. Fancy knew that as surely as she knew she would never forgive herself if Wilkerson shot him. She had to stop Cord. The problem was, she didn't know how. Nothing she or the boys said had been compelling enough to change his mind.

  "Cord, I'm going to be frank," Zack had told him. "Riding alone is a dumb idea. Sure, you've been a Ranger, but you've never been a gambler. And you sure aren't any liar. Now, I can see why you wouldn't want to trust her any further than the nose on your face—"

  "Hold on a minute, son," Cord interrupted, folding his arms across his chest. "Am I to understand this 'her' you're talking about is Miss Fancy?"

  Zack frowned. The look he shot her left no doubt in her mind that things still had not been thoroughly patched between them.

  "All I'm saying, Cord, is if you need someone to ride to hell for you, you can count on Wes and me. We're your brothers. She's a stranger. And an outlaw, at that."

  "I see," Cord said coolly. He nodded toward the door. "Well, you've said your piece, Zack. Go wash up for dinner."

  The boy's spine went rigid at this cursory dismissal. "Dinner can wait. This is important. Cord, and you aren't listening."

  "No, Zack. You aren't listening." Cord's eyes glittered like shards of green ice. "Go cool off."

  Zack's face darkened. Grabbing his hat, he stomped past her, nearly bowling over Wes, and slammed out the back door. Wes started after him, looking for all the world as if he meant to start a brawl in her honor, but Cord caught his arm and spun him in the other direction.

  "Go and fetch my bedroll, will you, Wes? I'll be sleeping in the stable tonight so Miss Fancy can have a bed."

  Later that evening, after the dishes were cleared, Lally had apologized for Zack's surliness throughout dinner.

  "You can't take anything Zack says or does in a personal way right now, Fancy. The boy can be a moody cuss whenever a dogie is missing. You see, Seth entrusted those beeves to him, and Zack blames himself whenever something bad happens."

  Fancy suspected the rustled steers had little to do with Zack's attitude—toward her, anyway. He hadn't forgotten how she'd betrayed his confidence, using what he'd said about Beth to hurt Cord.

 
Now with Cord's life at stake, Zack had made it clear he would fight her tooth and nail, if that's what he had to do, to keep his brother safe.

  The whoosh of wind and the snap of curtains startled Fancy from her disturbing thoughts. The air felt wet and cool. A low, grumbling sound rolled around the horizon, and she realized Wes's prediction would soon come true. The storm was moving in fast. She needed to find Cord. She needed to talk some sense into him—and soon, if she didn't want to get drenched.

  Another dewy gust scuttled apple blossoms across the windowsill. The tree's great gnarled branch bobbed just outside, knocking against the house. She thought she had better shut the window, unless she wanted to return from her mission to sleep on sopping quilts.

  When she tried to slide down the glass, though, she found the frame had jammed. She muttered an oath, pushing and tugging, then pounding with a fist. Every pane rattled, but the window wouldn't budge. Her mood wasn't improved any when the first drops of rain splattered against her cheek.

  "Need help?"

  The call came from below. She would have recognized that lazy, amused drawl anywhere, but she couldn't see him with her hair whipping around her face. She tried to shove the shorter, more rebellious curls behind her ears, but she only had two hands to fend off the silken horde. She heard him chuckle, and she wondered what entertained him more: her struggle with his window or her battle with her hair.

  "Just what do you think you're doing down there, lurking under my window?"

  "My job, footloose."

  "Well, you're not going to see much of anything from down there," she said.

  "Is that an invitation to come up?"

  "Didn't you offer to help?"

  He chuckled again.

  Suddenly, she saw him in a flash of lightning. Shirtless and barefoot, he lounged against the apple tree. He'd positioned himself just beyond the splash of lamplight that pooled beneath her window. She had a split second to wonder how long he'd been standing there, spying on her, before the darkness returned to blind her. She heard a rustle and a thump, and she caught her breath.

  "Cord, you aren't climbing that tree, are you?"

  "Sure am."

  "Are you mad? There's lightning!"

  "Well, ol' Mr. Crabbie here seemed the quickest route to reach a lady in distress."

  "Mr. Crabbie?"

  She could see him again now, walking up one bowing branch after another with the swift, surefooted grace of a marten.

  "My cousin Ginny used to sleep in this room, before she got married and moved away. She always used to call this crabapple tree Mr. Crabbie 'cause it groaned."

  He sprang to a bough above her. Wrapping his hands around the branch, he let his body drop. She bit back a shriek.

  "Be careful!"

  "Aw." He flashed a winsome, boyish grin as he swung unabashedly before her, every muscle in his arms and chest rippling in display. "You still worried about me? Why, that's two times in one day. I must be doing something right."

  She pressed her lips into a thin line. Wes wasn't the only Rawlins who possessed a mischievous charm.

  "Quit clowning around," she whispered fiercely.

  He relented, hauling himself back up by sheer arm strength to crouch in the crooked elbow of the tree. With his hips wreathed in snow-white petals and greenery, he looked like some virile sylvan god who'd come to partake in the rites of spring.

  Her heart quickened at the thought.

  "Cord, it's starting to rain."

  "Uh-huh."

  "The wind—"

  "It's picking up, isn't it?"

  He plucked a blossom from the tree. Inhaling, he let his gaze linger on her mouth as he drew the petals downward, touching them to his lips. He smiled. The expression was soft and tender, with just a trace of longing. It made her pulse flutter.

  In spellbound fascination, she watched as he reached toward her, unfolding his long, sun-coppered torso, lowering himself abreast of the sill. His lips were only inches from hers when he stilled. Her curls snapped and blew, wrapping like tiny fingers around his wrist, but he defied their best attempts to draw him closer. A deft stroke of his hand swept her hair back, and he anchored it behind her ear with the flower.

  "Better?" he whispered.

  She nodded, unable to speak. For a moment, one fleet and precious moment, his palm lingered, resting against the throbbing vein in her throat. She thought he was going to kiss her. She waited, half-closing her eyes, not daring to let herself breathe. He touched her cheek. His smile turned wistful. Then he reluctantly withdrew.

  "Good. Reckon you're not a lady in distress anymore."

  Her breath released in a ragged rush. She tried to stem her disappointment. She tried to remember all her arguments and rationales, and why she had called him to the window. But it was hard to focus on such unimpassioned thinking when he sat there before her, warm, vital, and potently alive.

  She wanted to keep him that way.

  She wanted something else too. Right now, this very moment, she wanted him to want her the way he had that other night, when he had come to her in this room... before she'd confessed that she was a whore. God help her. Was that wrong? Diego had finally said he would wed her. How could she stand there, still wanting Cord?

  Guilt wrapped around her. Guilt and desire. She drew a deep breath and tried to steady the rush of her pulse. "I'm getting wet."

  "Me too."

  She blushed at the husky timbre of his voice. It brought to mind another, steamier wetness—one, she was sure, that a man like Cord Rawlins would never discuss with a woman.

  "I... need to close the window. You came here to help, remember?"

  "Can't do it from out here."

  "Then you'll have to come inside."

  His dimples showed. "Think we can call a truce that long?"

  Her gaze slid lower, to the dusky fur upon his chest. Her fingers itched to walk through it, and she couldn't quite suppress her sigh.

  "I can let bygones be bygones—if you can."

  "Sure." He grinned. "It's my job to keep the peace."

  He swung down beside her. Apple blossoms tumbled from his jeans as he turned to face the panes. She tried not to ogle the damp fabric that fit so snugly to his buttocks. Her appreciative gaze traveled over him, roaming up the V that extended from his waist, broadening at his shoulders, and finishing with the sinewy arms he'd raised overhead.

  He made a fist, unconsciously treating her to a show of biceps. Two sharp raps later, the window frame fell with a rattle and a clank. He turned then, and she knew another twinge of disappointment. She had hoped to admire him in secret for a little while longer.

  "You didn't tell me you had a trick for it," she said.

  "Well now, you see? Even I have one or two hidden up my sleeve."

  The glow from the lamp had turned him golden. The last beads of rain slid across his chest like the finest threads of silver. She could only imagine where those droplets finally pooled. The images that filled her mind heated her belly. She chided herself that she was promised now, but the reminder did little to stop that kindling warmth.

  This is business, Fancy girl. Keep your wits about you.

  "Cord, we have to talk about your plan." She clasped her hands together to keep from touching him. "Going alone after those plates is too dangerous."

  "I thought we called a truce."

  "We did. It's just that—-" her chest heaved with her frustration, "I can't keep quiet about this. You're talking about entering my world now, a world that's very different from your own. Men like Wilkerson don't think like you. And you won't be able to second-guess them."

  "I won't, eh?"

  "No! You're too honorable."

  He raised his brows. "Why, thank you, darlin'."

  He was smiling at her. He had the most sensual, spellbinding smile of any man she'd ever known. She thought the dimples must be to blame, since they gave him that rare combination of boyish mischief and hypnotic masculinity.

  "Cord, list
en to me," she said, trying not to sound as if she'd just run a city block. "Every blackleg has a knuck. Someone to help him swindle a mark. That's why cons are so successful. Without one, you can't win."

  "A knuck, huh?"

  "Well, in my case, a moll."

  Amusement shone in his eyes. They danced and twinkled like jade-colored stars, making her feel giddy and not quite as sure of her argument. There was something unsavory about turning Cord into a crooked creature like her and Diego. But if she didn't, he wouldn't survive. And then a part of her might die with him.

  "So what you're saying is," he drawled in his slow, rumbling baritone, "you want to come with me to be my guardian angel."

  Angel? Well, not exactly.

  "That's one way of looking at it."

  His gaze had shifted to her mouth. She felt every nerve in her body tingle. How was it that she, a jaded temptress, could still let a simple look from him stir her?

  "Cord, you need me."

  He leaned closer.

  "We can be good together."

  "Good together," he repeated in a mesmerizing whisper.

  His breath touched her lips. It was warm and moist and faintly scented with an aromatic tobacco. She felt herself sway. Calling upon every fiber of her self-control, she restrained herself from bridging the final inch between them. Too much was at stake to play the wrong card. She'd already learned the hard way that seducing Cord would get her nowhere.

  "So," she said, "do we have a deal... partner?"

  Something dark flickered in his eyes. Something like regret, or frustration. She wasn't sure. His lids lowered, veiling the shadow underneath.

  She had a heartbeat to wonder if she'd made the wrong play, then he raised a hand to pluck the flower from her hair. Her curls spilled in wild disarray, but his fingers were gentle, combing the mass, tilting her head back so he could gaze into her face. She recognized a new determination in his eyes, as if he'd come to some kind of decision.

  "Tell me, darlin'. Have you ever made love to a man?"

  She blinked in surprise. What kind of question was that? She thought they'd been talking about a partnership to get the plates.

  "Well, of course I have. You know I have."