Last Chance Cowboys: The Outlaw

by Anna Schmidt

Their leader, George Callahan, figured Boulder to be a peaceful, unsuspecting, little-guarded mountain town. They wouldn’t be ready for nine men to ride in and take over a bank. They wouldn’t be ready for men who didn’t care who might get killed in the process. Tomorrow they would ride out of Boulder with a fortune in railroad and mining money, and head for Mexico.

  There was only one problem with Callahan’s plan. He’d picked the wrong day to rob a bank in Boulder. Neither he nor any of his men knew Jake Harkner happened to be in Boulder, and he would still be there…tomorrow.

  One

  Jake trailed his tongue over his wife’s skin, trying to ignore his fear that she could be dying. Her belly was too caved-in, her hip bones too prominent.

  She’ll get better, he told himself. The taste of her most secret place lingered on his lips as he moved to her breasts, still surprisingly full, considering, but not the same breasts he’d always loved and teased her about, with the enticing cleavage that stirred his desire for her.

  He would always desire her. This was his Randy. She was his breath. Her spirit ran in his veins, and she was his reason for being. God knew his worthless hide had no business even still being on this earth.

  He ran a hand over her ribs, which were too damn easy to count. Sometimes he thought he’d go mad with the memory of last winter, the reason she’d become more withdrawn and had nearly stopped eating.

  He met her mouth, and she responded. Thank God she still wanted this, but something was missing, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. He thought he’d made it all better, thought he’d taken away the ugly. He’d feared at first she might blame him for what had happened, but it had been quite the opposite. She’d become almost too clingy, constantly asking if he loved her, not to let go of her, asking him not to go far away.

  He pushed himself inside of her, wanting nothing more than to please her, to find a way to break down the invisible wall he felt between them, to erase the past and assure her he was right here, that he still loved her. How in hell could he not love this woman, the one who’d loved him when he was anything but loveable…all those years ago. She’d put up with his past and his bouts of insanity and all the trouble and heartache he’d put her through…this woman who’d given him a son and daughter who couldn’t make a man prouder and who loved him beyond what he was worth…six grandchildren who climbed all over him, full of such innocent love for a man who’d robbed and killed, and worst of all…killed his own father.

  He moved his hands under her bottom, pushing himself deep inside her, relishing the way she returned his deep kisses and pressed her fingers into his upper arms in an almost desperate neediness.

  That was what bothered him. This had always been good between them, a true mating of souls, teasing remarks back and forth as they made love. But now it was as though she feared losing him if she didn’t make love often, and that wasn’t the sort of man he was. It had always been pure pleasure between them. He’d taught her things she would never have thought of, helped her relax and release every sexual inhibition. He knew every inch of her body intimately, and she’d loved it.

  This was different. And it was harder now, because not only did he hate the idea of feeling like he was forcing her, but he was also terrified he would break something. She was so thin and small now. He outweighed her by a good hundred and fifty pounds by now; she couldn’t weigh more than eighty or ninety.

  He surged deep in a desperate attempt to convince himself he wasn’t losing her. And through it all, he was screaming inside. Sometimes he wanted to shake her and make her tell him what else he could do to bring back the woman he’d known and loved for nearly thirty-two years. He missed that feisty, bossy woman, the only person on this earth who could bring him to his knees. He’d faced the worst of men as a lawman in Oklahoma, and run with the worst of men the first thirty years of his life. He’d spent four years in prison under horrible conditions. He’d been in too many gunfights to count, taken enough bullets that he had no right still being alive. He’d ridden the Outlaw Trail and defied all the odds. His reputation followed him everywhere, and a reporter had even written a book about him—Jake Harkner: The Legend and the Myth. Myth was more like it. And the legend wasn’t one he was proud of.

  And this woman beneath him…this woman he poured his life into this very moment…she’d been there for most of it.

  He relaxed and moved to her side.

  “Don’t let go yet, Jake.”

  He pulled her against him. “Randy, I can’t put my weight on you anymore. You’re too damn thin. You’ve got to gain some weight back or we’ll have to stop.”

  “No!” She shimmied closer, pulling one of his arms around her. “I like being right here in your arms. Don’t stop making love to me, Jake. You might turn to someone else. You’re still my handsome, strong Jake. Women look at you and want you.”

  Jake sighed, the stress of her condition making him want to tear the room apart. “You have to stop talking that way.”

  “That you’re handsome and strong?” She turned slightly. “Since when does the magnificent Jake Harkner hate compliments?”

  There it was—a tiny spark of the old Randy in her teasing. Every time he saw that spark it gave him hope. “I’ve always hated compliments. You know that. The only thing magnificent about me is my sordid reputation. I’d like to wring Treena Brown’s neck for putting that label on me in her letter.”

  Randy traced her fingers over his lips. “Peter’s wife was totally taken by you when they visited the ranch last summer.”

  “She’s a city woman full of wrong ideas about what she considers western heroes. God knows I’m sure as hell not one, and right now your magnificent Jake needs a cigarette.” Jake pulled away and sat up. “You okay?”

  “Of course I’m okay. You just made love to me. How could a woman not be okay after that?”

  Jake took a Long Jack from a tin on the hotel’s bedside table. “You know what I mean.” She didn’t answer as he lit the cigarette. He took a long drag. “Did I hurt you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Jake ran a hand through his hair. “Randy, I mean it about your weight. If you don’t start eating, I’m not making love to you anymore. Sometimes when I’m on top of you I envision every rib breaking. We made this trip to Boulder because it was time you started getting away from the ranch, doing a few things amid strangers without being glued to me.”

  Be patient. Don’t yell at her. She might go to pieces.

  He heard a sniffle, and it felt like his heart was breaking. He took another long drag before setting the cigarette into an ashtray and turned, moving back in beside her. “Baby, I’ve done everything I can to help you. When you’re like this, it makes me sick with guilt. I should have realized what was happening when that barn caught on fire…the way it burned so rapidly. Lloyd suffers with the same guilt. We shouldn’t have left the house unguarded.”

  “No! No! No!” Randy threw her arms around him. “Don’t ever blame yourself. You blame yourself for everything bad that happens to this family, but you never asked for any of it, Jake.”

  He held her close, being careful not to use too much strength. “Randy, I want my wife back. The woman I’m holding right now isn’t her.”

  “I will be. I promise. Tomorrow, Teresa and little Tricia and I will go shopping. I won’t be quite so terrified without you at my side if I at least have Teresa with me. Thank you for bringing her along.”

  Jake was grateful for the Mexican woman who was such a help with the cooking as well as cleaning the big log home he’d built for Randy. It was still filled with noise at meals, some of the grandchildren or all of the family gathering, especially for Sunday meals. Before last winter, Randy had been a vital part of those gatherings—the one most in control, who loved all the cooking, who loved teaching and reading with Evie and the grandchildren. Living on a remote ranch meant no schools nearby, after all.


  Randy now left it all to Evie. She was no longer her joyful self at the dinner table, although she put on a good show. He knew her every mood, and he could tell she was still suffering inside.

  “Tell me what you need, Randy. How else can I help? You aren’t here with me when we make love anymore. I can sense it in your kisses, in the way you respond when I’m inside you. I won’t make love to a woman who’s doing it out of duty.”

  She buried her face in his neck. “Jake, I still love it when you make love to me. It’s just…” She hesitated again. How many times had he come close to getting it out of her what was really bothering her?

  “Just what? Talk to me, Randy.”

  She curled into a little ball against him. “That…ugly thing they did. That ugly thing. I can’t…get past it. I’m so sorry, Jake.”

  Jake struggled against insane rage every time he thought about it. His precious Randy. Of all the intimate things he and his wife had done, asking her to perform oral sex on him had never been one of them. She’d never suggested such a thing or made an attempt, and he’d never asked. What they had together was enough for him. His first desire was always to give her pleasure, and that alone gave him pleasure in return. It would be disrespectful to ask this beautiful woman to do something he knew in his gut she wouldn’t want to do. He still had the blazing memory of his father forcing himself on his mother that way right in front of her sons while she resisted. Sometimes, such childhood memories still made him wake up with screaming nightmares.

  It all came down to his father…his ruthless, brutal, drunken father…the man he hated worse than all the dredges of humankind, more than the filth he used to run with when he believed he was the worthless sonofabitch his father had always told him he was.

  “Don’t be sorry.” God help keep me sane. “We’ll work it out.”

  “Don’t stop making love to me.”

  “I won’t stop.”

  “You do still love me, don’t you?”

  “Stop asking me that. You know better.” He wiped at her tears with his fingers. “Get some sleep, Randy. Tomorrow is a big day.”

  “You won’t ever be too far away, will you, even when I leave you to shop?”

  “I won’t be too far away.”

  “You’ll watch for me?”

  “You know I will.” He’d never felt so alone. Ever since he’d found and fallen in love with this woman, he’d always had her to lean on, to keep him from the abyss of blackness that beckoned. Tough and able as he seemed to others, she was his strength. And now that strength was gone. The tables had turned, and he had to be strong for her. He secretly begged God to help him remember that. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to last much longer this way. “Randy, when you figure out what more I can do, or what it is that will help you get better, you tell me. Don’t ever be afraid to tell me—anything—all right? You know I’ve seen it all and done it all and nothing surprises me. And I love you. I’ll do whatever it takes. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can tell right now you’re keeping something from me—something more than what happened last winter. You tell me when you’re ready.”

  She clung closer, kissing his chest. “I will.”

  He kept his arms around her because she demanded it, every night until she fell asleep. He closed his eyes against his own silent tears. Without that closeness they’d always shared, it was as though he didn’t even exist. Without this woman, who was Jake Harkner?

  Please enjoy the following glimpse of Margaret Brownley’s A Match Made in Texas, now available:

  Two-Time, Texas

  1882

  Could she trust him? Dare she trust him?

  The man—a stranger—looked like one tough hombre. Perched upon the seat of a weather-beaten wagon, he sat tall, lean, and decisively strong, his sunbaked hands the color of tanned leather. The only feature visible beneath his wide-brimmed hat and shaggy beard was a well-defined nose. The beard, along with his shoulder-length hair, suggested he had no regard for barbers. From the looks of him, he wasn’t all that fond of bathhouses either.

  “Need a ride?” the stranger asked, looking down at her with open curiosity.

  She hesitated. It wasn’t as if she had a lot of choices. If she didn’t accept his offer, she might have to spend the rest of the day, maybe even the night, alone in the Texas wilderness with the rattlers, cactus, and God knows what else.

  “Where you headin’?” he asked.

  This time she answered. “Two-Time.”

  “Same here,” he said with a gruff nod, as if that alone was reason to trust him.

  His destination should have offered no surprise. Two-Time was the only town within twenty miles. “Why there?” she asked.

  Her hometown had grown by leaps and bounds since the arrival of the train but still lagged behind San Antonio and Austin in commerce and population. Most people, if they ended up in Two-Time at all, did so by mistake.

  He shrugged his wide shoulders. “Good a place as any.”

  Moistening her parched lips, she shaded her eyes from the blazing sun as she gazed up at him. No sense beating around the bush. “You don’t have a nefarious intent, do you? To do me harm, I mean?” A woman alone couldn’t be too careful.

  The question seemed to surprise him. At least it made him push back his hat, revealing steel-blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through her. What a strange sight she must look. Stuck in the middle of nowhere dressed to the nines in a stylish blue walking suit.

  “Are you askin’ if your virtue is safe with me?”

  She blushed but refused to back down. The man didn’t mince words, and neither would she. “Well, is it?”

  “Safe as you want it to be,” he said finally. His lazy drawl didn’t seem to go with the sharp-eyed regard, which returned again and again to her peacock feathered hat, rising three stories and a basement high above her brow.

  It wasn’t exactly the answer she’d hoped for, but he sounded sincere, and that gave her a small measure of comfort. Still, she cast a wary eye on his holstered weapon. The Indian Wars had ended, but the possibility of renegades was real. The area also teemed with outlaws. In that sense, it wouldn’t hurt to have an armed man by her side. Even one as surly as this one.

  “If you would be so kind as to help me with my…um…trunk. I’d be most grateful.”

  He sprang from the wagon, surprising her with his sudden speed. For such a large man, he was surprisingly light on his feet. He was also younger than he first appeared, probably in his early thirties. He would have towered over her by a good eight inches had she not been wearing a hat gamely designed to give her height and presence.

  Gaze dropping the length of her, he visually lingered on her small waist and well-defined hips a tad too long for her peace of mind.

  “Name’s Rennick,” he said, meeting her eyes. “R. B. Rennick.”

  A false name if she ever heard one, but for once, she decided to hold her tongue. He was her best shot for getting back to town. He might be her only shot.

  “I’m Miss Amanda Lockwood.” She offered her gloved hand, which he blithely ignored. Feeling rebuffed, she withdrew it.

  The man was clearly lacking in manners, but he had offered to help her, and for that she was grateful.

  Thumbs hanging from his belt, he gazed across the desolate Texas landscape. “How’d you land out here, anyway? Nothing for miles ’round.”

  “I was on my way home from Austin when I…had a little run-in with the stage driver.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What kind of run-in?”

  “He was driving like a maniac,” she said with an indignant toss of the head. “And I told him so.” Not once but several times, in fact.

  Hanging out the stage window, she’d insisted he slow down in no uncertain terms. When that didn’t work, she resorted to banging on
the coach’s ceiling with her parasol and calling him every unflattering name she could think of. Perhaps a more tactful way of voicing her complaints would have worked more in her favor, but how was she supposed to know the man had such a low threshold for criticism?

  She gritted her teeth just thinking about it. “Thought he would kill us all.” He pretty near did. The nerve of him, tossing her bag and baggage out of the stage and leaving her stranded.

  Mr. Rennick scratched his temple. “Hope you learned your lesson, ma’am. Men don’t like being told what to do. ’Specially when holding the reins.” It sounded like a warning.

  Turning abruptly, he picked up the wooden chest and heaved it over the side of the wagon like it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. It hit the bottom of the wagon with a sickening thud.

  She gasped. “Be careful.” Belatedly, she remembered his warning and tempered his order with, “It’s very old.”

  The hope chest was a family heirloom. If anything happened to it, her family would never forgive her. The chest had been handed down from mother to daughter for decades. She inherited the chest after the last of her two sisters wed. Since she had no interest in marriage, she used it mostly to store books. Today, it contained the clothes needed for her nearly weeklong stay in Austin.

  He brushed his hands together. “Sure is heavy. You’d have an easier time haulin’ a steer.”

  “Yes, well, it’s actually a hope chest.” While packing for her trip, she discovered the latch on her steamer trunk broken. The hope chest was a convenient though not altogether satisfactory substitute. For one, it was almost too heavy for her to handle alone—the most she could do was drag it.

  “Don’t know what you’re hoping for, ma’am, but you’re not likely to find it out here.”

  He gazed into the distance for a moment, then suddenly spun around and climbed into the driver’s seat without offering to help her. “Well, what are you waitin’ for?” he yelled. “Get in!”

  Startled by his sharp command, she reached for the grab handle and heaved herself up to the passenger side.