by Jill Gregory
“Your ... fault,” she gasped. “You wouldn’t give me the shirtwaist or the diary ...”
“Don’t talk, Sit still and take this like a man ... er, like a woman ... whatever. Go ahead,” he said roughly, as he drew a roll of bandages from inside his own saddle pack a few feet away, “Cry if you want, I don’t give a damn.”
“Mr. Steele, one thing you’ll learn about me is that I never cry,” Annabel flung out, but she had to bite back tears as he worked at rebandaging the wound. It had begun to throb again and she concentrated on taking deep breaths and keeping the tears from rolling down her cheeks until Steele was finished.
He glanced at her pale face, at her lips that were quivering with the effort of suppressing tears. “Here. Drink this. Don’t argue, just drink it,” he ordered, handing her a flask from his pack.
“Is it whiskey?” she asked doubtfully, eyeing the flask with a mixture of both doubt and curious anticipation.
“No, it’s arsenic.” Impatience flicked through his voice. “Of course it’s whiskey. Drink up.”
He held the flask for her as she drank, coughed, sputtered, and at last swallowed.
“Drink some more.” Steele ruthlessly put the flask to her lips again. “It’ll dull the pain.”
The fiery liquor burned through her throat and insides quickly. She felt only a faint flush of embarrassment when he helped her slip on the shirtwaist and his fingers began to move deftly over the buttons.
He’s certainly done this before—worked at a lady’s delicate little buttons, Annabel thought as his hands slid expertly past her breasts down toward her belly. Only he’s probably much more accomplished at unfastening buttons than the other way around. A faint pink blush stole up her neck. It was difficult to breathe. She told herself this must be the liquor. The liquor was also making her very warm, despite the evening chill. And deliciously relaxed.
“Thank you,” she heard herself whispering when Steele had finished. He refrained from attempting to tuck the long blouse into her skirt.
“You’re welcome.”
He moved away from her, tossing a few more twigs into the glowing embers of the fire. Annabel ate in silence, watching the sparks and flames. Occasionally, she glanced at Roy Steele, who had busied himself with the horses, not only his own and Sunrise, but the horses belonging to Moss, Curtis, and Willy. By the time he’d returned she had finished the jerky and biscuits and taken a few sips of the coffee. The whiskey was making her sleepy.
“There’s just one thing I need to know,” she murmured, fingering the spine of Aunt Gertie’s diary, which was lying beside her.
Steele came around the campfire and stood over her, staring down expectantly.
Above, the sky glittered with a million diamond bright stars. They bathed the rocks and mountaintops in a faint eerie glow that glimmered like quicksilver.
“I’m listening.”
“Why are you looking for Brett McCallum, Mr. Steele?”
Silence. A rabbit or some other creature darted through the brush beyond the rocks. Then Steele answered her, his voice dry and hard. “That’s my business.”
“But I told you ... that’s not fair!”
“Don’t expect life to be fair, Miss Brannigan. You’ll be doomed for disappointment.”
“You can’t ... want to kill him ... like Red Cobb,” she blurted out, suddenly wondering if she’d been wrong about him all along, if she’d made a terrible mistake. Roy Steele seemed to read her mind.
“And if I do?” he asked coolly.
“I’ll ... have to kill you first.”
He knelt beside her. He was staring at her hair. “I believe you would. At least you’d try.” As he spoke, he reached out and gently tugged a hairpin from her chignon. “Even after all I’ve done for you,” he mused sardonically.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to kill you,” she said defensively. “I’m very grateful to you—but I won’t let you hurt Brett. I won’t ... what are you doing?”
“Removing these damned pins. Surely you don’t sleep with them all stuck in your head like that.”
“No, of course not, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of my own hair, Mr. Steele.”
Yet the feel of his large hands gently removing the pins and freeing her luxuriantly springing curls made her insides quiver with an achingly sweet longing.
“Are they all out?” she asked faintly.
“Yes.”
“Are you satisfied now?”
“Yes.”
But he wasn’t. God help him, he wasn’t. He felt about as unsatisfied as a man could get. She was even lovelier now than before, if that was possible. A tall, slender angel with hair the color of fire splashing down around those adorably fine-cut features. Her eyes glimmered like mysterious oriental jewels, and there was a promising softness about her full mouth that was driving him wild.
She was too delicate, too fine and beautiful for this rough land. He leaned forward. He didn’t know what he was doing.
Walk away, a voice inside of him commanded. Before it’s too late. Getting involved with this woman would be the worst move he could possibly make. A fatal move. Damn it, think about who she is. Walk away.
But she drew him like a powerful magnet stronger than the pull of gravity. He leaned in closer, intoxicated by the soft, wildflower scent of her. He was about to kiss her.
“Why are you really looking for Brett?” she breathed, and set one slender restraining hand upon his chest, as if that would hold him back if he really chose to plunge forward.
He caught her hand in his, his fingers tight around it. “You never give up, do you, Miss Brannigan? In that respect, if no other, the two of us are alike.”
He snaked his arms around her so suddenly she could do no more than blink before he brought his lips down on hers. His hand still imprisoned hers tightly, his strong fingers enclosing her long, slender ones like an iron glove.
Against all of his instincts, all of his intentions, all of his cool common sense, he kissed her. A long, hard, ravaging kiss that was nothing if not thorough.
Annabel’s senses soared as his mouth came down fiercely upon hers. She had never ever been kissed like this before. She knew she should be outraged, but instead she felt ... awestruck. Dizzy. Excited with a sweet, spiraling joy that swept through her entire body.
Her suitors back home had each become amorous on the day they made their proposals to her, obviously hoping to woo her with passion, but nothing had prepared her for the onslaught of dizzying sensations Roy Steele rained down on her with his hard demanding mouth and bruising kisses. For he didn’t just kiss her once and let her go, no, that would have been bad enough ... he kissed her many times, at first hungrily, fiercely, and then he paused for only a fraction of an instant, giving her time to catch her breath, but not much—no time to speak, or think, or protest, before he kissed her again, more deeply, exploringly, possessively, his tongue forcing her lips apart and thrusting inside her mouth with arrogant demand, like a general taking command of the battlefield.
The stars swam above, insects hummed below, the campfire hissed and crackled in the tiny starlit clearing, but Annabel found herself so firmly held and kissed and mesmerized by the gunfighter who had wrapped his arms around her that she was aware of nothing but the rough feel of his body against hers and the scorching sweetness of kisses that robbed her of all reason. Steele gave her no chance, no time, no breath to protest.
Not that she wanted to.
After that first startling moment, Annabel found herself caught up in a rush of deliciously indecent feeling. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he must feel it against his own implacable chest. Her mouth burned beneath his, and the flames seemed to spark a wildfire deep inside her soul. She never even realized when she began kissing him back, but she was suddenly leaning against him, parting her lips beneath the onslaught of his, fervently returning those sumptuous kisses which made her knees feel like butterscotch pudding and her brain reel as if she’d just fa
llen headfirst off a cliff.
And then a loud popping noise exploded in the clearing and Steele dropped her like a sack of coal, spun around, and in one fluid movement went for his gun.
But there was no one there. It was only a long twig falling suddenly into the fire, popping as the flames consumed it in one great orange burst.
“Hell and damnation,” Steele swore. He holstered his gun, closed his eyes a moment, and then glanced back at the woman sitting shaken by the fire.
What in hell had he been thinking—worse, what in hell had he been doing? Of all the women on earth, she was the last woman he could get involved with—the very last one. Not that he was involved, he told himself hastily, taking a deep steadying breath. It had just been a passing inclination, a weakness of the flesh. Instinct—a primal physical attraction to this vulnerable and damnably appealing woman—had temporarily won out over reason and good sense. That’s all.
But you can’t afford for that to happen, he reminded himself, and with smooth habit, assumed the old familiar mantle of cold ruthlessness again. He slipped it back on as easily as most men slipped on a pair of comfortable overalls. So that when he turned back to Annabel Brannigan, he looked every inch of who and what he was, of who and what he had made himself into during all these rugged, solitary years roaming the West.
Roy Steele, merciless gunfighter. Dangerous loner. Killer of all who crossed him or got in his way.
Annabel stared at him in horror, confusion, and dismay. Chagrin at how shamelessly she had kissed him poured through her. Her disloyalty to Brett was shameful. She felt herself choking on the humiliation of it. And there was something else. Disbelief at the transformation in him. That noise in the clearing had summoned forth the real Roy Steele. The cold-eyed man who moved with the speed and danger of a panther, who held his gun with such frightening steadiness, who sneered at the world through eyes that lacked all human warmth and pity. The man who had so frightened her in Justice and Eagle Gulch, the cruel emotionless gunman who had threatened her in Lily Pardee’s boudoir and who killed men with the same dispassionate ease some men killed mosquitoes.
Oh, God. Why had she let him kiss her? Why had she kissed him back?
She was in love with Brett!
She had to say something, anything to bridge this horrid embarrassing moment. She couldn’t bear him looking at her so coldly, as if she was a stone or a twig or leaf, something inanimate in his path.
“I am shocked, Mr. Steele!”
“That so?”
“Yes. You ... took advantage of me by ... by taking such liberties. How dare you.”
He advanced to stand over her again. Annabel felt naked—wholly exposed beneath those relentless eyes, as if he could read the truth inside her poor flimsy soul. So she made her voice as icy and crisp as she could. “I can only assume that you forgot that I am very much in love with Brett McCallum and that we are engaged to be married.”
“I reckon you forgot, too,” he returned with a smile that mocked her, a smile that never reached his eyes.
Tears burned suddenly behind Annabel’s eyelashes. Her shoulder ached, her head spun with confusion, she was cold, and she was ashamed. Not to mention furious. She pushed a strand of hair from her eyes and spoke with quiet vehemence.
“In the future, I demand that you keep your distance from me. My gratitude for your saving my life does not extend to granting you ... personal favors.”
“Future?” Steele gave a cool laugh. “Lady, there’s no future to talk about. Tomorrow, I take you to the nearest town and leave you there. And this time you’d better stay put.”
“I can’t do that. I have to find Brett before you do. Because I don’t know what you’re going to do to him when you find him so I have to warn him, and protect him.”
“Not from me you don’t.”
“I don’t?”
Steele tugged open the saddle blanket rolled up beside his pack. He threw it down on the ground ten feet away from the bedroll where Annabel Brannigan was huddled.
“Nope, you don’t. You’ve got my word.”
“Your word.”
The doubt in her tone had no effect whatsoever on his grimly set features, He continued steadily, in a voice that suggested he couldn’t care less if she believed him or not. “Brett McCallum did me a good turn once and that’s why I’m looking for him. I heard Cobb was gunning for him, and I aim to see that nothing happens to him.”
“You’re going to stop Red Cobb from killing Brett?”
“That’s right, and I’m able to do a hell of a better job of it than you, so you can just hitch yourself a ride on a stage headed back East and sit there nice and pretty until Brett comes back to marry you. And that’s that.”
I don’t think so, Mr. Steele.
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” Annabel tried to keep her voice as cold and even as his. But it wasn’t easy because her heart was still racing, and her lips were bruised from his kisses.
“You don’t. But you have no choice, Miss Brannigan.” He doffed his hat to her tauntingly, then tossed it down on a rock and settled his long frame onto the saddle blanket.
“We’ll reach Silver Junction tomorrow and you can wait there for the next stage. Sweet dreams.”
Annabel lay down, trembling. The ground was cold and hard, even with the bedroll. The air was alive with the hum of crickets and other insects, and with strange animal rustlings in the brush. An owl or a hawk swooped overhead, streaking gracefully across the scudding clouds which now obscured the moon. She felt tiny and alone up here on this godforsaken clearing, with this grim, cold-eyed man.
At least she hadn’t let Roy Steele reduce her to tears. Not when he had bandaged her wound, and not when he had kissed her and made her forget ... everything, even Brett.
She hadn’t cried. That was something.
But her conscience stung worse than her injured shoulder as she shifted her legs and gazed upward at the vast midnight sky. Annabel hated disloyalty, and she hated weakness. She had been guilty of both by forgetting about her love for Brett for even an instant.
It was the situation, nothing more, she told herself. Roy Steele saved your life. He took care of you. He took you by surprise, pretending for a little while to be a gentleman. You allowed yourself to be fooled.
She wondered if somewhere along the way, her mother had been fooled by someone she was dealing with, someone from whom she had to get information, or follow, or decide whether to trust. I’m a beginner, she reminded herself. I’m allowed to make some mistakes.
But not this one, not again. She would keep her distance from Roy Steele from now on.
And if he thought he was getting rid of her in Silver Junction, he had another guess coming. Everett Stevenson would skin her alive if she returned without Brett—not that she would—because she could never trust Steele enough to take him at his word. No, she would stick to the gunfighter until they’d found Brett together and she’d spoken with him and convinced him to go home.
And just let Mr. Roy Steele try to stop her.
I’ll never fall asleep tonight, she thought miserably, tossing uncomfortably on the bedroll. A chill rose up from the ground, seeping into her bones. Her shoulder hurt. I won’t get a single wink and I need all my rest and my wits to deal with Roy Steele. Somehow, I have to figure out if he’s telling the truth or if he really poses a danger to Brett. I have to find a way to make him take me along with him. I have to remember to telegraph Mr. Stevenson from Silver Junction and tell him of my progress. Progress? Dear Lord, what progress? I’ve gotten lost, I’ve been shot, I’ve kissed a man who might well be my enemy....
Her thoughts swirled together in an uneasy tangle. The next thing she knew, morning sun bathed the clearing in pale luminous light.
Morning? How, Annabel wondered foggily, did it get to be morning?
But it was. Steele towered over her. Behind him glowed a milky white daybreak sun, a dazzling violet sky.
“The horses are alr
eady saddled. Breakfast is ready. If you’re traveling with me, even as far as Silver Junction, you’ll have to keep up,” he said, glaring down at her with all the warmth of a cobra. “Red Cobb won’t let up on his hunt for Brett, and neither can I. Get moving or get left behind.”
Annabel gritted her teeth as she struggled to sit up. Her wound throbbed. She felt the bandage pull apart, and knew without looking that it had started to bleed again. But she’d be damned if she’d say a word to Roy Steele.
“Pleasant morning to you, too,” she muttered, scowling as she tossed her tangled curls back from her eyes. She darted a quick glance up at Steele and cursed inwardly. The man was inhuman. He looked rested, fit, shaved, clean, and mean as a wolf.
It was going to be a long day.
Chapter 10
They rode for hours in silence along the rocky ravines leading down into the brakes of the Mogollons. A cooling breeze fanned Annabel’s sweating face as Sunrise followed Steele’s big bay along the precipitous pathways which the gunfighter seemed to know so well and traverse so effortlessly. The extra horses plodded behind. The going was rough, but even a gentler trail would have been torture. Annabel’s shoulder throbbed with each step of her mount. But she sat the mare with concentrated effort, refusing to make the slightest noise or complaint, biting back a gasp or wince each time the pain reverberated through her shoulder. Their pace was sedate, leaving Annabel to suspect that Steele was going slowly on her account, out of consideration for her wound and her inexperience at riding these harrowing trails, yet even so, the grueling ride took its toll on her.
But she said nothing of her anguish as the sun broke through the clouds and the day grew warmer and the hours slipped by. I’d rather die right here in the saddle than let on to Roy Steele that this is killing me—much less ask him to stop on my account, she vowed silently, but her upper lip was damp with perspiration, and her hands shook as she gripped the reins. There had been no time that morning even to pin up her hair in its usual chignon—she’d scarcely had time to smooth out the tangles before they’d broken camp—so now it curled limply around her cheeks and neck, and Annabel longed to toss off her hat, scoop up her long heavy mane, and let the air cool the overheated skin at the nape of her neck. Hot, tired, and aching, she’d have traded her two best Sunday dresses with their silk ribbons and lace (both rolled up neatly inside her carpetbag) for the opportunity to stop and rest, but there was no way she would beg Roy Steele for one ounce of mercy. So she kept her misery to herself.
