Desperado

by Lisa Bingham

  The air between them pounded with the intimacy of her confession, but thankfully, Elam didn’t offer any pity for her sucky childhood. She couldn’t have borne that. Instead, he said, “And before you knew it, cooking became so much more fun than the physics lab.”

  “Exactly.”

  The road widened in front of them, exposing a sandy bluff where the vegetation had sloughed away. They weren’t the first people to use the area for target practice, because a pair of half-ton straw bales had been propped against the slope and scraps of paper targets fluttered in the breeze.

  “Is this it?”

  “Yeah. Pull over there.” He pointed to a spot near a copse of scrub oak.

  After she’d parked the truck and killed the engine, he motioned for her to join him at the back of the truck. “What do you know about firearms?”

  He was watching her so intently, she feared her inexperience might disappoint him.

  “I know which end to avoid.”

  She thought she saw a glint of humor in his eyes, but his lips remained grim. With his overgrown hair and beard, and the hat pulled low over his hawk-like brow, he looked like …

  He looked like a brooding hero from the historical romance novels tucked away in her desk drawer.

  “That sounds like a good place to start,” he said in answer to her comment.

  He handed her two bent pieces of wire and a paper target with concentric rings in varying shades of black and gray. The whole thing was smaller than a dinner plate—and the bull’s eye was a little bigger than a fifty-cent piece.

  “You think I’m going to hit this?” she asked skeptically.

  “Yup.”

  “You’re crazy,” she muttered under her breath. Clearly, he thought she’d exaggerated her inexperience. But she obediently marched toward the straw bales and tacked the targets in place with what looked like a pair of overgrown hairpins. Then she turned back, took two steps …

  And stumbled to a halt.

  “Lord a-mercy,” she whispered under her breath.

  Elam Taggart stood before her, the embodiment of every cowboy fantasy she’d ever entertained—and she wasn’t talking about a modern “ride the fence line with an ATV Ranger” kind of cowboy. She was talking about a bodice-ripping, gun-slinging, blazing, historical romance hero with a capital H kind of cowboy.

  In the scant amount of time it had taken her to prepare the target, Elam had shrugged out of his Carhartt jacket to reveal that he was dressed in a button-down Western shirt that he’d carelessly rolled up to his elbows. And once again, she was struck by the elegance of his hands, the dark hair that dusted his forearms. Over his shirt, he’d donned a leather vest so supple and well worn that it fit Elam’s chest as if it had been painted on. A hundred years ago, a gold watch might have dangled across his flat stomach, but a pair of safety glasses had been tucked into one of the many pockets instead. A leather belt had been threaded through his jeans, and she’d bet the oval buckle had been a prize from a rodeo or cow cutting competition. But even more astonishing—and arousing—was the intricately tooled leather holster slung low on his hips. As P.D. watched, Elam bent to adjust the thigh string around a pair of black jeans that coated his lower half like a second skin.

  God bless America! If this was how good Elam looked in his own clothing, Helen was going to have a field day dressing him for the Wild West Awards Banquet.

  Unaware of her regard, he turned away, opening one of the weapons cases to remove a pair of beautiful pearl-handled Rugers and slide them into place. P.D. knew they were Rugers—expensive Rugers—because she’d been poring through a backlog of SASS Chronicle magazines that Helen had provided so P.D. could familiarize herself with the period clothing and accessories she would need for the competition.

  Elam glanced up, then motioned for her to join him. “Get over here.”

  She stumbled toward him, then cursed herself for having all the grace of a newborn colt. Good gravy. If she couldn’t look at him now without becoming all wobbly, how was she supposed to endure four days of this man in period costume?

  Elam retrieved another holster from the case. “You can use Bodey’s getup for now.”

  P.D. was immediately inundated with horror. Crap! Bodey was as big around as a beanpole. What if it didn’t fit? The last thing she needed was to pull attention to the fact that, as her mother was fond of saying, she “had an Amazon’s physique with sturdy peasant birthing hips”—which was Summer Raines’s way of saying that P.D. was too tall, big chested, and voluptuous for her own good.

  Elam bent toward her, looping the heavy leather belt around her hips—and miracle of miracles, he could actually fasten the damn thing well in the middle of the array of holes. As he bent to secure the buckle, Elam’s fingers brushed against her body, low on her belly, and she prayed he couldn’t feel the way her muscles twitched in reaction. Damn. She’d worn an old T-shirt, anticipating the dust and gunpowder they would encounter. What she hadn’t counted on was the way her nipples began to harden beneath the fabric.

  He stood and turned his back to her, and P.D. exhaled in a rush—not realizing that she’d kept air trapped in her lungs all that time. But her relief was short-lived when he faced her again, handing her a pair of amber protective glasses and spongy earplugs.

  “Put these on.”

  She donned the protective gear while Elam did the same. Then he grabbed another set of Rugers from the padded case and shut the lid. “These are Bodey’s as well.” He slid one of the pistols into the holster, then shifted so that he was beside her, their shoulders brushing.

  “This particular pistol has a capacity for six bullets, but for safety’s sake, you only want to load it with five. Keep the empty chamber under the hammer.”

  He could have been speaking Greek—and her confusion must have shown, because he handed her the pistol. “Let’s start with the basics.”

  With the Ruger unloaded, he showed her how to hold the pistol with two hands, arms extended. Patiently, he explained the mechanics of the gun and how to aim. Then, filling a leather pouch at the back of his holster with bullets, he led her to a spot about twenty feet away from the target.

  “You need to stand like this.”

  He demonstrated the stance she should take—one foot forward, the other slightly back—and had her practice sighting in on the target and dry-firing the weapon. Then, he handed her five bullets.

  “Load it like I showed you.”

  Nervously, she released the cylinder, slipping the bullets into place, and then carefully shut it again so that the hammer was even with the empty chamber.

  “Now, get a bead on the center of the target.”

  She raised the gun, but Elam stopped her, stepping behind her and encircling her with his own arms to correct her position. For the life of her, the fact that she held a loaded firearm wasn’t nearly as disconcerting as the way he leaned in toward her, his chest nudging her back, his arms sure and strong around her, his hips pressed against her buttocks. And he smelled good. It wasn’t fair that this man could smell so good—especially since they’d been out in the sun for an hour and she’d begun to “glow” a long time ago.

  But what was really pitiful was that she couldn’t allow herself to sink into the sensual storm of sensations. Not when she knew that Elam’s grief was still so raw that she could have been a post rather than a woman. He wasn’t ready to hold anyone in his arms, let alone someone like her. Someone who was so clearly … not Annabel.

  Even though she couldn’t bring herself to regret that kiss.

  And she prayed he hadn’t regretted it too much either.

  “Now squeeze the trigger slowly. Don’t jerk it. Just squeeze,” he said against her ear.

  Lordy, Lordy, how could the rumble of his voice and the tickle of his breath be so arousing?

  Get a grip, P.D. Get a grip.

  “Is it going to be loud?” she whispered, somehow loath to do anything noisy or boisterous that might force Elam to step away.
r />   “A little. But the earplugs will take care of most of it.”

  She fought to keep the sights lined up even as the unaccustomed weight of the pistol fought a war with gravity. Elam steadied her with one palm under her hand and the other beneath her arm.

  “Ready?”

  She squeezed her eyes closed in anticipation of the noise and felt Elam’s lips against her hair. “Open your eyes. You can’t see what you’re shooting at with them scrunched shut like that.”

  P.D. forced herself to look down the barrel again, line up the sights, and …

  Bam!

  She squeaked when the pistol reared back. The scent of cordite teased her nostrils, bringing with it faint memories of Fourth of July fireworks and sparklers. Squinting, she looked at the target. There, in the upper-right corner was a neat black hole.

  “I hit the target,” she whispered in disbelief. “I hit the target!”

  She turned toward Elam, but he held her tightly in place. “Do it again. Empty your rounds, but make sure to carefully aim each shot.”

  P.D. did as she was told, the black holes marching closer to the center until the last one was slightly off center. Crowing in delight, she intently listened to Elam’s instructions as he showed her how to clear the brass and reload. Soon, she was using both pistols, drawing first one gun from her holster, emptying it, then moving on to its mate.

  They shot the Rugers for nearly an hour before Elam thought she was competent enough with the pistols. Then he brought out a Henry rifle with shiny brass accents, and the lessons began again—how to load, aim, and fire; how to safely carry the weapon; how to reload on the fly. Then, after at least a dozen targets had been shredded and another one tacked to the bales, he brought out the shotgun.

  The first ram of the butt against her shoulder was enough to convince P.D. that she was “not a shotgun kind of gal.” But by the end of Elam’s tutoring session, she could load, aim, and fire with relative competence. At least for a beginner.

  But when Elam pinned a set of targets to the bales and emptied both pistols, a rifle, and the double-barreled shotgun in a matter of seconds, she knew she was in the presence of a master. Even more telling, she was completely turned on by a man who could handle his weapon properly. Pun intended.

  It was hours later, when the ammo containers were empty and the ground was littered with brass, that they were forced to stop. While P.D. gathered the casings, Elam stowed away the weapons and their holsters.

  “How about lunch in the shade of the cabin?” Elam suggested. “That way we can wash up.”

  Since her hands were grimy from powder and the ever-present blowing dust, she nodded in agreement, tossing him the keys. “You drive.”

  She didn’t want to admit it, but after so many hours holding the heavy weapons, her arms felt like overcooked spaghetti.

  But Elam obviously knew what was going on. “You’ll be sore tonight, especially the shoulder that’s been absorbing the shock of the shotgun. Normally, I wouldn’t have kept you at it so long, but you seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

  P.D. laughed self-consciously as she sank into the passenger seat. “My peace-loving, PETA-promoting parents would die of shock and horror if they ever found out how I spent the afternoon. As far as they’re concerned, the Republican Party is the Antichrist and the NRA is the devil’s legion. Woe to anyone who even thinks of owning a weapon.”

  Elam laughed. He actually laughed. Granted, it was a little rusty sounding—a grunt of humor. But his lips twitched. And for a moment, the shadows eased from his eyes.

  Then he started the truck and offered, “Imagine what they’d do if I took you hunting.”

  *

  AFTER washing up at the pump, P.D. and Elam spread a checkered tablecloth and the food P.D. had brought on the front deck overlooking the valley, then settled with their backs against the wall, legs extended. P.D. handed him what looked like a white shoebox, but when Elam opened it, he found a thick sandwich, a tub of coleslaw, a pair of pickles sealed in plastic wrap, and a see-through container holding a thick slice of cake.

  “The bright green pickle is one of my Super-Sour Dillies, and the smaller one is the Hot and Sweet.”

  “You made these?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Elam settled the box on his lap, suddenly ravenously hungry—which was strange. Until meeting P.D., he couldn’t remember the last time he’d consciously wanted food. He’d worked hard and eaten by rote. But since she’d come along, he walked around with a growling belly that couldn’t wait for another one of her meals.

  He unwrapped the sandwich and took a big bite, then closed his eyes at the succulent combination of peppered turkey—not from a package, but sliced off the bird—bacon, lettuce, and something sweet and spicy he couldn’t identify.

  “What’s on this?” he asked around a mouthful of food.

  “Cranberry jalapeño jam.”

  “Wow.”

  She laughed at his tone of reverence and he took another bite, chancing another surreptitious glance at P.D.

  Damn, if she wasn’t pretty—but not with the artificial painted beauty of a fashion model. She was the poster child for the Girl-Next-Door with eyes the color of a summer sky and those freckles across her nose. She’d worn her hair in a long braid that morning, but the wind had played havoc with the style, teasing the fawn-colored curls free to frame her face. Near her temple, there was a streak of cordite, probably from trying to tame a strand behind her ear. Her cheeks were pink from the sun and the breeze and her sheer excitement at having conquered her fear of firing a weapon. For a minute, Elam couldn’t think of a damn thing but her smile.

  But what really intrigued him was the streak of iron buried beneath her softness—as if the world had pushed her down a time or two, but she’d bounded to her feet again, ready to push back. Somehow, he sensed that she didn’t do anything halfhearted. She would love as hard as she argued—and the makeup sex would be just as riotous.

  The mere thought caused his gaze to dip down to the fullness of her breasts. The T-shirt she wore was old, baby soft, and clung to every curve and valley. He wondered if she knew that with that shirt on, he could see a hint of lace rimming the cups of her bra. If he looked hard enough, he might even see the rosy tips of her nipples.

  Whoa.

  Elam slammed his thoughts back into line and forced himself to look up, up to where she regarded the valley with an expression of …

  Contentment. And guardedness. As if what she saw was too good to be true. He wondered if the childhood she’d spent on the road had left her wondering if anything was truly “permanent.”

  When she turned toward him, Elam quickly took a bite of his sandwich, knowing instinctively that she wouldn’t be comfortable with how easily he’d read her thoughts.

  “So I might not have to get you a costume after all,” she said with a slow smile. “Once you strapped your pistols on, you looked ready to go.”

  There was something about her expression and the way that her own gaze feathered over his shirt and jeans that made Elam realize she hadn’t been completely unaware of his inspection. He fought the sudden heat that streaked into his groin as she held his gaze, revealing that his attraction was far from one-sided.

  Shifting uneasily, he tried to remember what she’d said. For the life of him, he felt as clumsy holding up his end of the conversation as a teenager at his first dance. Finally, remembering she’d been talking about his clothes, he took another quick bite to hide his hesitation and shrugged. “It’s not anything I wouldn’t wear to work on the ranch,” he said once his mouth was clear enough to speak.

  “Even the guns?”

  “Well, maybe not the guns.”

  “Have you got a pair of chaps?”

  Again, there was a note to her tone, an intensity that left him feeling like he was missing something. This conversation wasn’t merely about his wardrobe. But for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why the exchange had begun to thrum with the slow heat
of sexual awareness. “Sure. You want me to wear those, too?”

  The color in her cheeks intensified and her gaze bounced away. “Why not?” she said, lifting her shoulder in a careless gesture.

  Her response was so casual that Elam felt a rush of awareness, his skin prickling as if suddenly coming alive, his heart seeming to flip-flop in his chest.

  P.D. Raines was turned on by his cowboy gear.

  He was about to embark on a close-contact, Victorian-inspired romp in the woods with a woman who already wanted to eat him alive with her eyes—and he was only dressed in jeans and a cotton shirt. What would the addition of a pair of chaps, suspenders, and a leather vest do?

  Elam cleared his throat. “What are you planning to wear?” he asked, taking a long swig of his soda.

  Her nose wrinkled and she squinted up at a pair of fluffy clouds that were inching their way toward the sun. “The usual pioneer-bride ensemble. Long skirt, blouse. Pantalets. Corset.”

  Elam choked on his soda, then couldn’t catch his breath and coughed some more. Dear God in heaven. P.D. Raines was already stacked like a brick outhouse. The thought of her breasts contained by a frilly corset …

  He couldn’t stop coughing, and P.D. finally leaned over to slap him on the back.

  “Who knew the thought of me in costume could bring you to your knees?” she joked.

  She had no idea how close she’d come to the truth. And when he finally stopped choking long enough for her to lean back, unwrap her pickle, and slide it into her mouth to suck on the end …

  The rush of pure, unadulterated sex that raged through his body was so intense that he had the overpowering urge to sweep the food away and pin P.D. to the wall.