Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  She found herself crawling over dead outlaws, trying desperately to get out of the way, trying even more desperately not to retch—-or worse, faint. She had to get to Cord's gun, but the floor kept heaving beneath her.

  The grunting and cursing seemed to be moving past the window now. She heard the shattering of panes, the tinkling of glass. Crimson smeared the frame, and the combatants moved on. Fists and elbows flying, they crashed from the wall to the door to the mess room beyond.

  Diego was taller, and he should have had the advantage against a wounded man. But Cord's fists were a blur, pounding with the force of twin hammers. She saw the spray of spittle; she heard the howl as Diego lost one of his perfect teeth.

  The outlaw was scrappy, though. He would not go down. Gouging, kicking, he jammed a palm into Cord's nose; he clawed at the torn flesh of Cord's shoulder. Cord yelped, and Fancy flinched, shuddering to her core to hear his cry of pain. Dimly, she realized Diego was cheating—like he always did.

  But cheating seemed to have little effect against Cord's greater skill. She sagged against the doorjamb, thinking Cord would not be needing her help, thinking she might be able to rest after all.

  Suddenly, Diego reared back. He rammed his knee between Cord's legs. Stunned, Fancy could do no more than gape as the color vanished from Cord's face. He doubled over, staggering.

  In the next instant, Diego's whip wrapped around his throat.

  It all happened so quickly. Fancy blinked, and Cord was trapped. Choking, wheezing, he arched his back, clutching at the rawhide that sought to crush his windpipe.

  "Diego, stop!"

  She heard him laugh. Sadistic, gleeful, the sound made her heart freeze. She stumbled forward, thinking she must do something—anything—to break his stranglehold. Then her mind rallied against the fog.

  Cord's gun!

  She whirled, nearly collapsing on the spot as the walls wheeled around her. Gritting her teeth, she reeled toward the bed. Her foot tripped over a dead man's leg, and she cried out, falling. The floor rose fast to meet her. She grabbed frantically for blankets, but her buttocks struck wood, and the collision jarred every bone in her spine.

  Darkness swept past her mind's defenses. She fought back desperately, pushing a shaking hand against the mattress that threatened, at any moment, to topple down and smother her.

  "I've waited a long time for this, Rawlins." Diego's ragged taunt came from the light beyond, piercing the pitch-black cyclone in her brain. "A long time to watch you die. A pig should not live half so long, eh?"

  "No!" Fancy cried, and the darkness lifted.

  Hold on, Cord. Please, hold on.

  She crawled to her belly, sticking her head beneath the bed. She could see the Colt gleaming in a ray of sun that had filtered past the dust and the cobwebs. She stretched a hand. She couldn't reach it. Shimmying closer, she tried again. Her fingers strained, quaking from the exertion, but it was too far.

  Too far!

  "...Such a fool," Diego was jeering. "I expected so much more from a mighty federale. To throw your life away for a common puta..."

  The dead man. A new solution whirred past the panic in Fancy's skull. The dead man's .45.

  She beat a graceless retreat, banging her head, scraping her shoulders. Splinters dug into the fleshy part of her palms, but she hardly noticed. She had to get to the gunbelt. The gunbelt on the other side of the bed...

  "Ah, but my Fancy, she is so good when she ruts, no? Senors Ferguson and Bolton, they must have died happy men."

  She scrambled to Ferguson's side. He was large and bulky and heavier than a wagonload of bricks. She struggled to roll him, forcing herself not to inhale too deeply or look too closely at the unwashed mountain of bleeding flesh.

  Sweat poured down her forehead. Her eyes stung from the salt.

  Hold on, Cord. I almost have it. I... almost... have it!

  The corpse fell back. The holster popped free of its weight, and she grabbed the .45.

  "Diego, stop!" She hurried on shaking legs to confront the man she'd once loved. "Let him go!"

  Diego sneered at her. Cord was on his knees now, his veins bulging, his fingers white and straining beneath his scarlet face. He tried to rise, as he must have countless times in the eternity that had just passed, but his strength was bleeding away.

  His strength and his life.

  "Diego, I have a gun!"

  Diego's lip curled. "And what is that to me, eh? Your hand trembles. Your knees quake. Fire away, querida. It is the lawman you are likely to hit."

  Her heart lurched. It was true. Cord was in equal danger from her bullet.

  Oh, God, what should I do?

  She bit her lip. Cord's gaze swiveled her way. To her horror, she saw his eyes were glazing.

  She clamped another fist over the gunbutt and braced her back against the wall. "Don't make me do this, Diego. Don't make me kill you."

  "Kill me?" He laughed. "You are a frightened rabbit."

  The stiletto flashed in his hand. "And now, amigo," he said to Cord, "it is time for adios."

  He raised his fist above Cord's throat. The time for doubt had passed. Taking aim, Fancy fired. The bullet ripped into Diego's shoulder. He staggered, snarling in pain, but he wouldn't drop his weapons. When he raised the knife again, Fancy squeezed the trigger. This time, the bullet slammed into his chest, and Diego jolted backward, dropping both blade and whip. He crashed into the wall, slowly sliding down.

  His eyes were wide and dark with shock.

  "But... Fancy," he wheezed, his head shaking weakly in disbelief. "You... love me."

  Hot tears streamed down her face. "No, Diego," she whispered brokenly. "You killed my love a long time ago."

  He blinked, his mouth gaping.

  Then his head lolled, and he toppled to the floor.

  Oh, God...

  She had killed him.

  The gun fell from her numbing fingers. She tried to push herself from the wall. She tried to go to Cord, to bind his wounds, but she didn't have the strength. The room was spinning again. Her legs wouldn't support her.

  Gunfire sounded in the yard, and she reached out fearfully. "Cord...?"

  His arms wrapped around her.

  "Someone's shooting—"

  "It's the posse." His voice cracked. His arms trembled as he hugged her fiercely, burying his face in her hair. "Fancy, I'm so sorry."

  "Sorry?"

  He sounded close to tears. She tried to raise her head, but his hold only tightened, as if he were ashamed.

  "Those men," he said. "What they did. Fancy, I—"

  "Shh." She shook her head, choking back a sob to see the whip burns, raw and bleeding, on his throat. "They did nothing, Cord. Nothing happened. You came in time."

  "I did?" He drew back to look at her, and she saw his tears. They were trickling past the stubble on his face.

  She nodded, trying to smile, to reassure him, but it was so hard. She was shaking so badly. All of her muscles seemed to be in mutiny against her commands.

  She felt herself sinking. She wanted to hold on, to cling to the moment, but it was floating away from her on a tide of darkness.

  "I'm so c-cold." Her teeth were chattering now. "So terribly, terribly cold. C-could you hold me?"

  Panic flickered through his eyes. "I am holding you, sweetheart. Real tight. Can't you feel it?"

  She shook her head. "T-tighter then."

  He was practically crushing her.

  "D-don't let me go. P-please?"

  "I won't, Fancy."

  "P-promise?"

  "I promise, love. Hold on to me, now. Hold on, and I'll get you a blanket."

  His voice came from high above her. It seemed to be fading. She couldn't hear it when her ear was pressed against his heart. Soon even that comforting sound was drowned in the roar. The waves of darkness were breaking.

  They pulled her under at last.

  Chapter 22

  Fancy could hear the hum of voices, fading in and out, giving tong
ues to the faceless visitors who came to her bedside.

  "...the poor child. Three days now. Three days, and still her fever's raging...."

  "...Cordero." Lally's voice floated into her dreams, replacing the husky whispers of Mrs. Applegate. "Now you listen to me. You got wounds that need healing. You can't sit here night after night by her bed without rest."

  An age passed away. Or was it only a minute?

  Another shadow loomed over her. A gruff masculine voice cleared. "Got the wire from Nevada, son. It doesn't look good. The governor ain't a patient man. And he's not going to be decent about this...."

  Decent? Of course not. Whoever heard of a decent politician?

  The light slipped away. When it stole back again, an hour, maybe a day later, strong young fingers were gripping hers.

  "That damned old gov'nor. He's not going to jail Fancy, is he, Cord? 'Cause Zack and me won't stand for it. We'll go up there and boot that Yankee's butt clear to California if we have to."

  Fancy turned her face into the darkness. She didn't want to listen. She just wanted to fall back into that sweet, soothing blackness where governors didn't matter, and jails didn't exist....

  And hearts didn't break when they felt too much pain.

  A beam of light filtered through the shadows. She tried to will it away, but it refused to vanish. Creeping closer, it spread and brightened, pushing her further and further from her sleep.

  Suddenly her mind was flooding with memories she'd been trying so desperately to repel. The plates. The book. Diego...

  Cord.

  Dimly she remembered him clasping her hand and mopping her brow, urging her to fight back, begging her to get well.

  But the governor had summoned. Cord had argued with Clem, saying the plates could wait, saying the whole damned state of Nevada could wait, but in the end, Clem had convinced Cord that the best thing he could do for her was get her that pardon.

  Later, after her fever had abated and she'd started to make better sense of the nightmare that she'd lived through, Lally had come with motherly advice and chicken soup.

  "Don't you fret, Fancy," she'd murmured, spooning broth down her patient's throat. "Cord's taking those plates back personally so there can't be any mix up. He'll get your pardon, make no mistake. He'll see that everything's put to rights."

  Dear Lally. She couldn't possibly know how those words knifed through Fancy's breast. To put everything "to rights" could only mean that Cord would do to her what she deserved. All of Carson City must still be talking about the prison fire and the inmates' escape. Someone would surely mention the book. Cord would be outraged. And when he returned to Fort Worth, he would ride her out on a rail.

  How sad to come so close to love... only to watch it slip away.

  Two men, two loves. She'd lost them both. In truth, she was glad to be free of Diego, but she couldn't be glad she had killed him. She hadn't wanted vengeance; she had only wanted Cord to be safe. Pulling that trigger the second time had hurt her far more than any beating she had ever suffered at Diego's hands.

  If she tried hard enough, she supposed, she could hate him. But she'd learned from years of experience that bitterness never brought peace. Better to forgive him and move on.

  Better to feel nothing and forget.

  So in the days that followed, she nodded dutifully every now and then to please her visitors. She said little, and she listened even less. She preferred to let their chatter drone on and on while she stared into the fire. It was June in Texas, yet she felt nothing of the heat. All she could feel was emptiness. It was like a winter in her soul.

  Cord was gone.

  Diego was gone.

  And soon she must be going too.

  Wes's plaintive voice floated back to her from the shadows in the hall.

  "She won't talk to me, Aunt Lally. How come she won't talk to me? She don't laugh anymore, either. I tried every story I know to cheer her up, but she just keeps staring into that stupid fireplace—"

  "Now don't take it personal, son," Lally said gently. "Fancy's had a hard time of it, and she's not... well, she's not quite back to her old self yet."

  "You mean she's still sick? She don't look sick," the boy said suspiciously. "What's wrong with her, anyway? You said she doesn't have fever anymore. Do you reckon that fire's gone and fried her brains out? It's gotta be a hunnert degrees inside there."

  The door closed. Fancy's breath freed in a rush of relief.

  Bless you, Lally.

  She loved Wes dearly. Truly she did. But in his wake he'd left a silence that was heavenly. She sighed, closing her eyes.

  Only then did she sense the presence of another visitor. The rustle of movement was so faint that she almost missed it in the popping of the logs.

  Her eyes flew open, and she saw Zack settling cross-legged on the floor beside her chair. His visit surprised her. She couldn't remember him coming before.

  But then, she couldn't remember a lot of things about the days of her fever.

  She turned her face back to the fire. Zack wasn't one to share gossip, and he didn't spin yarns. She couldn't imagine what he might have to say to her. They had never had the camaraderie that she and Wes shared, not even in the early days, before their friendship had been nipped in the bud. Zack was, and always had been, shy at heart.

  Maybe that was why the boy said nothing now.

  Minutes drifted into a quarter of an hour. She stole another glance his way. He was sitting in the same pose, his gaze fixed upon the fire. His quiet was a welcome respite from Wes's endless banter, yet she found she was nervous. Such lengthy reticence was unusual, even for Zack. He must have something important to say. She couldn't believe he had come simply to roast before her hearth on what Wes had assured her was a blistering summer day.

  "Zack?"

  He tilted his chin to gaze at her. "Yes, ma'am?"

  "Do you... have something you want to say?"

  He smiled faintly, shaking his head. "I reckon you've heard all the jawing a body can stand for one day. I just thought you might like some company, is all."

  His consideration touched her. Her throat constricted. "Thank you."

  "No, ma'am," he murmured, his eyes soft with gratitude. "Thank you. I reckon I never got to tell you that after you helped me and Aunt Lally. I said some pretty unkind things about you a few weeks back. And I was wrong. Real wrong. I just wanted you to know I'm sorry."

  She nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. She tried to hide the clouds forming in her eyes. Never had she dared to hope that she and Zack might become friends. As fond as she was of Wes, she knew she had to keep a certain distance from him, because his feelings for her were more than brotherly.

  But with Zack, things could be different. He didn't idolize her. She didn't have to worry about breaking his heart or appearing frail and human in his eyes. He already knew she was fallible. Coming here today must have been his way of showing that he accepted her, all of her, both the good and the bad.

  But then, he doesn't know the full extent of your badness, does he, Fancy?

  An unbidden tear rolled down her cheek. Then a second. And a third. Despite her best efforts, the dam broke. Her resistance to feeling was swept away, and the pain surged in, breaker after breaker. It racked her with sobs. She might have drowned in her tears if Zack hadn't reached up to hold her. His arms closed around her waist, and she clung to his shoulders as she would to a lifeline.

  Eventually the truth spilled out. In great, shuddering breaths, she told him how scared she had been that Diego would be acquitted and that he would come to kill her. She confessed how she'd tried to appease his murderous rage by tricking Cord, by smuggling information about the lost plates into the prison. Finally, she admitted how she had told Diego that Cord was headed for the Barclay ranch.

  Helpless to stop the tide of guilt and grief, she wept harder, knowing she must now face Zack's recriminations.

  But if the boy thought she was heinous, he didn't say so. He didn't push her a
way or jerk himself free. He simply held on, resting his chin on her hair, letting her tears soak the front of his shirt. She poured herself out in his stoic embrace until every last tear was spent.

  Finally, she was reduced to hiccupping sniffles. She slumped, exhausted, against him. His neckerchief dangled before her eyes, and she took it sheepishly, too ashamed to meet his gaze. She was grateful when he didn't speak, allowing her the dignity to gather her composure.

  For another measure of heartbeats, she dared to cling to him, taking comfort in his silence. She knew it was wrong to pretend, and yet, with his arms so warm and sweet around her, it was easy to imagine he was Cord. It was easy to make believe that Cord had forgiven her.

  Zack wasn't Cord, though. He was a seventeen-year-old boy who had been kind to her in her moment of need. She should never have repaid him with a burden. Her burden. She had no right to pit the boy against his brother.

  Forcing herself to withdraw, she sank back tremulously into her chair.

  "I'm sorry, Zack," she whispered hoarsely. "For your shirt, for your neckerchief... for everything. I didn't mean to tell you these things. At least, not this way."

  His eyes were brown, not green, like the rest of the Rawlins clan's, but tiny jade flecks glistened in their depths as he gazed at her in understanding.

  "I'm glad you did," he murmured. "Holding back a truth like that can eat a body from the inside."

  He sat back on his heels. After a long moment, his brow furrowed. "I reckon you haven't told Cord about this?"

  She quailed at the idea. "No." Wringing his neckerchief through shaking fingers, she added hastily, "Not yet."

  Concern vied with the empathy on his face. "You weren't going to, were you?"

  She stared at her lap. Actually, she'd been thinking about writing a letter....

  "Fancy." His hand covered her own. "Maybe there's other facts you don't know about. I mean, Cord ain't the kind to jump to conclusions. He'll withhold judgment until he's investigated all the evidence. And..."