A soft tap at the door interrupted them; Logan pulled one of his six-shooters from the holster where it lay in a heap on the floor, alongside a smaller handgun nestled in a black harness. Claire frowned at all the firepower Logan packed. “Who is it?” she whispered.
He cracked the door and peered out before opening it further. “It’s Red.”
Astounded, Claire watched as the floozy from the St. James entered the room. Great, she thought. She’d get to view her climb all over Logan firsthand.
The woman stared at Claire, then nervously looked back at Logan as he closed the door. “I guess you got your blonde after all,” she said, disappointment and confusion evident.
“How’d you know where to find me?” Logan asked.
“I followed you last night, after you came back for a bottle of whiskey and shot out like your pants were on fire.” She shifted her eyes to Claire. “Guess I can see why. You sure do look like Maggie Waters.”
“You know her?” Claire asked.
A downward flick of Red’s eyes the only indication of a yes.
“Do you know where she is?” Claire pressed.
Red hesitated. “No, I don’t…There’s another reason I’ve come.” She nodded toward Logan. “Your fella here came around last night and was asking about Maggie. I thought to come and warn him. But seein’ as how you were the blonde he was holdin’ out for, well, maybe I ought to warn you both.”
“About what?” Claire asked.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Teddy Luttrell?”
Claire nodded.
“He was killed last year. You knew that, right?”
Again Claire nodded.
Red looked behind her as if someone might be standing there, but Logan had shut the door. They were alone.
In a whisper Red said, “I think Maggie murdered Luttrell herself.”
“What?” Claire struggled to sit upright, belatedly aware of her nakedness. She struggled to maintain the sheet across her chest, grimacing as a spasm of pain crossed her ribs. “Why would you say that?”
“You got any proof of this?” Logan asked, his voice rough
Red’s eyes darted to him then back to Claire. “Look, I’ve probably already said too much. I can’t say more. I came here because…well, you caught my eye.” She fixed her gaze on Logan again. “It’s not often a man turns me down. Got me to thinking, about things I probably shouldn’t. I just didn’t want you getting mixed up with Maggie. She’s not worth the trouble.”
Red turned to leave, then paused. “There’s another reason, too. My brother—his name’s Shorty McClaren—got himself mixed up with Maggie some time ago. And I ain’t seen him since.” She looked directly at Claire.
“I remember him,” Claire said. Several months back Shorty had been around the White Dove quite a bit. Then Sandoval had attacked her. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen him.”
“You Maggie’s sister?” Red asked.
“No. I’m her daughter.”
A flash of surprise crossed Red’s face. “Well…Maybe I’m wrong about her.”
“Does Frank Griffin know where she is?” Logan asked.
“No, but he’s hell bent on finding her. I sure wouldn’t go lookin’ to cross paths with him if you don’t have to. I’d better go.”
“Wait,” Claire said. “Have you heard anything about Jimmy Waters? He’s my brother—blond hair, a tall boy, eight years old. He was with Maggie when she came here.”
Red shook her head. “Sorry. Can’t say as I have.” She opened the door and peeked into the hallway. She glanced over her shoulder at Logan, then said to Claire, “You best keep him happy. The good ones don’t come along too often.” She closed the door behind her.
Logan grabbed up his holster from the floor, buckled it around his waist and placed his six-shooter in the sheath. He sat down on the edge of the bed; the hinges squeaked under his weight. One of his large hands pulled a blanket up to where Claire clutched the sheet against her bare breasts.
“We need to get you dressed,” he said.
His touch was impersonal, but Claire trembled all the same.
“What was your mother’s relationship with Luttrell?”
“I don’t know. Men came and went. I never paid it much attention.” She looked at him. “I guess I should have.”
“You’re not safe here.”
“I’m probably not safe anywhere. Sooner or later, Griffin and Sandoval will know I’m alive. Then they’ll be after me, if only to make me lead them to Maggie.”
“Then let’s not give them a chance to get you. I like you better alive.” His blue-green eyes watched her.
“I just pray Jimmy’s alive.”
“Chances are good he is. Griffin and Sandoval don’t have Maggie, so I think it’s safe to assume that wherever she is then so is Jimmy. Despite everything that happened last night, I think you should be hopeful.”
Logan’s optimism encouraged her.
“Did you really turn down that redhead last night?” she asked before she could think better of it.
Logan’s gaze grew hot. “I seem to have it bad for a woman with black hair named Peggy.”
Claire’s body burned and she knew a blush extended from her face clear down to her feet. Her breasts reacted as if he’d touched them, and she was shocked by the urge to push the sheet from her.
She wanted Logan.
Claire had never understood why women sacrificed their own wants, their own desires, for any man who happened along. But Logan wasn’t just any man. She wanted him in a way she knew she shouldn’t, in a way that should be easy enough to resist. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
She reached for him.
He caught her hand. “Red didn’t tempt me, but you do. If we start this, I’ll be wanting to finish it, and you’re in no shape for it.”
When he kissed her palm, his lips warm and soft, the warmth in her belly definitely wasn’t the result of whiskey.
He placed her hand on her lap then let it go. “I’ve a mind to find the sheriff and fill him in on what happened.”
“But…”
“But,” he interrupted gently, “I know what you’re thinking, and you may be right. Involving the law at this point may do more harm than good. I’d like to get you back to Las Vegas.”
“But we might be able to learn more here.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, you’re in no shape for it.”
“Then I’m in no shape to travel.”
“I agree, but I suspect we’ll have a hard time hiding here. Cimarron’s a small town.” Logan stood and buttoned his shirt. “I’ll take care of things. Can you be ready to go by nightfall?”
Claire nodded. The sheet shifted, caressing her bare skin. How would it feel to have Logan touch her? His own breath sliding across her…The longing, hand in hand with the disappointment of him moving away from her, sat heavy on her mind and in her heart.
One thing was plain—Logan got past her defenses like few people had.
It should bother her.
God help her, it didn’t.
Chapter Eight
Reverend followed behind Storm as they slowed and entered a wooded area south of Cimarron. Logan had retrieved Claire’s horse early that morning; she was grateful they hadn’t had to leave the animal behind—her fondness for the old gelding overcoming any concern that Sandoval might have found him. She doubted the Mexican would have linked Reverend to her, only to the White Dove.
Until now, they’d kept the horses at a canter along the road in the dark, Logan never saying a word. But he must have sensed that Claire’s horse couldn’t keep going at such a brisk pace for much longer. And neither could Claire, for that matter, if the stinging in her side was any indication. She clenched her teeth and shifted in the saddle. Her dress pulled on the bandage and she felt the urge to strip off the skirt and petticoat but refused to complain; Logan was surely quiet for a reason.
The moon, nearly full through the trees, illuminated their path. A
breeze blew down the secluded valley they occupied, jostling the limbs of the cottonwoods that sheltered them. The sound of a stream could be heard in the distance. It was the perfect location to build a home, and on the heels of that thought a building came into view, light visible through the windows and smoke idling up from the chimney.
Logan slowed them to a walk as they skirted the homestead. Then they continued on, maintaining a path along the foothills of the mountains. They avoided the open prairie to their left.
Stifling a groan, Claire pulled the whiskey bottle from a pouch and swallowed another swig. Had she become a drunk? She couldn’t say for certain, but her side burned and she didn’t know when Logan would choose to stop for the night. She wasn’t sure how much farther she could go.
As they came around a large outcrop of rocks and trees, Logan grabbed her horse’s bridle and guided the animal behind a cluster of pines. He put a gloved finger to his lips to silence her and leaned over, his lips tantalizingly close to her ear. “We’re being followed.” Her skin tingled from the warmth of his breath.
She nodded as he retrieved his rifle, dismounted and disappeared on foot the way they had come.
Uncertain what to do or how she might help, Claire came off Reverend with a contorted face while she struggled to keep from moaning as her wound throbbed. She took off the big hat and found the gun that Logan had bought for her earlier in her saddlebag. The Colt revolver was smaller than his Peacemaker, with a five-cartridge cylinder. As Claire moved to the top of the outcropping, she repeated the number in her head. Five. She would have five chances to defend herself if someone tried to attack. Hopefully, five would be all she’d need.
The horses snorted and danced nervously. Claire looked over her shoulder into the shadowy forest.
She smelled tobacco.
Fear gripped her and she nervously searched her surroundings, praying it wasn’t Sandoval.
Where are you, Logan?
Moving might reveal her position, but she couldn’t stay put while Sandoval, or whoever was out there, possibly put a bullet into Logan.
Ignoring her own discomfort, she eased off the rocks and into the woods then she picked her way through the darkness. Pine needles crunched beneath her boots, permeating the silence. She stopped and gripped the revolver more tightly, knowing she needed to be quieter.
“Puta.”
She froze. The voice chuckled from behind her and the odor of tobacco filled the air. Sandoval was the only one who’d openly labeled her whore. He knew it was her.
“There was something odd about the stranger in town,” he continued, his voice a burr against her skin, making her want to move away from him. “But I never would have guessed he would lead me to you. We all thought you dead.”
Claire moved her right hand slightly and placed the gun before her, inside one of the folds of her skirt; hopefully it was enough to conceal it. But her mind raced to what could possibly be done since she was no match against Sandoval’s shooting skills. She didn’t doubt his pistol was pointed directly at her.
“Do not think that desperado will help you. I took care of him.”
Panic rolled through her. He could be lying—he had to be.
Five shots.
“Your disguise was convincing. I wonder how long you’ve been back, fooling everyone,” Sandoval said quietly in his clipped accent. He laughed again. “I spook you, don’t I?”
He stepped closer, and she flinched when his finger traced a path between her shoulder blades. The barrier of her blouse didn’t lessen her revulsion at being touched by him again within the span of a few days.
He was close enough that he might see the gun. She had to do something.
“I never forgot what you did to me,” he said.
She knew he meant her drugging him when he attempted to rape her.
Move fast.
She cocked the hammer and spun around, but Sandoval grabbed her wrist as she fired. The bullet ripped upward into a tree. A scream tore from her throat, piercing the solitude of the forest, and she struggled against him. Bringing her hands together she readied the revolver again. It discharged loudly into his shoulder and she fell back, Sandoval’s grip on her loosening. She scrambled to her feet, but lost the gun. Frantically, she searched for it.
No. Run.
Her legs moved quickly and she didn’t look back, running through the trees with a burst of energy fed by fear. The night air chilled her cheeks, her braid bouncing along her shoulders.
She ran hard, her legs and arms pumping in a cadence all their own. Claire had never known this—escape and freedom. She’d barely gotten away from Sandoval the previous night and hadn’t evaded him at all three months ago. But she’d be rid of him tonight. She would keep running and he’d never be able to catch her.
And maybe—for once—she’d have control over a life she’d rarely felt her own.
A creek blocked her path, forcing Claire to stop; her loud gasps for air thundered in her ears. She examined her surroundings and tried to breathe through her nose in an effort to hear if anyone followed. Pain pierced her right side and she struggled to ignore it. She was alone, her only companion the water that trickled softly in the stream.
Where is Logan?
She had to find him. What if Sandoval had harmed him?
In the stillness of the forest Claire felt as if her identity had been stripped away. If she fled into the mountains, no one would ever have to know. She could start over—follow a different path.
Shocked by her thoughts, she shook them off. Crazy. Irrational. She’d fled once already—to Texas with Molly. That had brought Logan into her life, and now he was here, possibly in trouble. All because of her. She had to help him.
She began to retrace her steps—back toward Sandoval. Conscious of no longer having her gun, she crept forward to the area where she thought he’d cornered her. She paused and watched for movement, but saw none. It seemed unlikely that Sandoval had fled. She circled the location but there was no sign of the Mexican, no smell of tobacco.
A hand snaked out and covered her mouth—she strained against it and blew out a muffled scream. Her assailant yanked her back against the hard wall of his chest. Terror shot straight to her feet like a bolt of lightning.
“No, Claire, it’s Logan,” came a whisper.
She stopped resisting and sagged against him in relief. When he released his hold on her she spun into his embrace. “Thank God you’re all right.” She hugged him.
His arms closed around her; the feel of his body was like a beacon in a storm. She ignored the sharp ache across her rib as he held her, surrendering to her need to touch him.
“I heard gunfire,” he said. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” She buried her face into his neck. “It was Sandoval. I think I shot him…Are you hurt?”
“It’ll pass.”
That caught her attention. She leaned back and saw a large welt over his left eye. “Did he knock you out?”
“I was damn stupid. I want you to hide while I scout the area.”
“Are you crazy? I—”
He kissed her, his mouth demanding, hard and thorough. Abruptly, it ended.
“Hide,” he whispered, his hands firmly on the sides of her face.
She nodded, stunned by the intensity of his touch and all it implied. He left her, and she crouched in the anonymity of the darkness. After a long while, he returned.
“There’re horse tracks leading back to Cimarron. And blood. You did shoot him.”
Claire stood. “It all happened so fast.”
“It was enough to make him turn tail and run. Just promise me something.”
All she could make out was Logan’s large silhouette, radiating anger and protectiveness and point-blank sexuality, and it was focused solely on her. A sharp yearning exploded inside and she swayed from the impact. An image crossed her mind, of stripping her clothes off and giving herself to him, of touching him, joining her body to his. Reeling from her own despera
te feelings, she knew she was in trouble. “What?”
“In the future, no more gunfights with that bastard. The image doesn’t sit well with me.”
She nodded. “Do you want me to have a look at that bruise?” She reached out and pushed his hair away from the welt, trying to get the lustful thoughts from her mind. A wave of pain from her own wound helped.
Logan flinched. “Yeah. Let’s set up camp first. No fire.”
Reluctantly, her hand fell away.
Logan brought the horses around and they rode a ways south before stopping. Claire sat beside Logan on the one bedroll they had and examined his head injury as best she could in the starlight. There appeared to be no external bleeding, which was good. No chance of infection.
Her body still hummed with desire and she wondered what Logan would do if she kissed him like a woman who was ready to take a man inside her. Not that she knew, but her jumbled senses told her she could figure it out real quick for his sake.
No, for her sake. Driven by an urge she couldn’t seem to control, tears burned her eyes from the intensity of wanting him.
The yip of a distant coyote distracted her train of thought, briefly breaking the spell.
Logan’s hand came to her forehead. “You’re burning up. Why didn’t you tell me you were feverish?”
Was she? A new wave of desire slammed into her. She leaned into him and kissed his neck, his cheek, anywhere her lips could find some part of him.
“Claire.” His voice held concern, but that’s not what she wanted. She brought her mouth to his and he pulled her to him, matching the hunger she couldn’t hold back anymore, grinding his lips into hers. She climbed onto his lap, frantic for more.
“Sweetheart.” He pushed her back. “You’re not in any shape for this.” He grazed his thumb across her lips.
She closed her eyes, a shudder rippling through her body. Logan gently lowered her onto the bedroll and she couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.
“Shhh.” He stroked her hair. “Try to sleep.”
He lay down beside her, and she sobbed into his shirt. In a haze of fatigue she realized she was in worse shape than she’d thought. She hoped the fever would fight off the threat of infection, but what would fight off the sexual awareness of her own body? Gripped with madness, she couldn’t think, only feel, and the sheer force of it frightened her.
The Dove Page 9
