THE OUTLAW AND THE LADY Read online

  Jessye slowly nodded. "Why would he take my baby?"

  "Raven does whatever the hell he damn well wants to," Shelby said. "Takes whatever he damn well wants: my son's life, my money. Why not a woman?"

  Harrison rubbed his thumb over the golden lion's head that adorned his cane. "How does he know where you deposit your money?"

  "I haven't a clue, but he'll tell me once the men I sent out have captured him," Shelby said in a voice that sent cold chills traveling along Harrison's spine.

  "You've already sent men after him?"

  "The best bounty hunters money can buy."

  "How do you suppose they'll react when they find our daughter with him?"

  Shelby had the grace to blush. "They'll probably think she's his whore."

  "Well, then, we'd better hope the men I send out find her first and quickly. Jessye, shall we go?"

  As she moved away from the window, Sims stood. "I'm sorry. If I'd realized the woman was Angela—"

  Jessye placed her hand on his shoulder. "It's not your fault. Angela was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. She's been there before."

  She slipped her arm around Harrison's, and he escorted her outside.

  "That Shelby strikes me as a man who thinks the sun comes up specifically to hear him crow," she said as soon as they were on the boardwalk.

  "I couldn't agree more."

  "His trap for capturing Raven wasn't very well thought out."

  "I think it was extremely well thought out if he never intended to capture him here. He lured him in, allowed him to escape, and sent ruffians after him." He glanced around the town that had long ago become home. "I don't trust the man, Jessye, and I trust his minions even less."

  "You'd better send for Kit."

  "I already have, love. He should be here by nightfall."

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  Angela was well aware that they were moving farther away from Fortune. As the day wore on, they galloped for longer periods of time, slowing the horses only when absolutely necessary. Raven refused all her requests to stretch her legs with a short stroll. She supposed she couldn't blame him. She'd abused his trust with her attempt to slow them down. But did he honestly expect her to idly accept her abduction and do nothing to thwart his escape?

  The sun's heat vanished over the horizon, and on they rode, not stopping for food or rest. She was certain that hours passed—an eternity, it seemed. The night air began to cool as it wrapped itself snugly around her, working its way through her to her very core. Last night, she had welcomed the coolness after a hot day. Tonight she was exhausted, starving, aching in every conceivable place.

  At last Raven slowed the horse to a walk, and she wanted to weep with relief. He removed his hat from her head. She didn't care what he did as long as he didn't let her fall from the horse. She was aware of his subtle movements, heard leather slap against leather. Cloth fell around her shoulders, the warm folds of material draping her body. A poncho.

  Tears burned her eyes. He was a murderer. She didn't want him to be kind. She'd been raised in a family that believed in justice. She wanted him to hang. She wanted to go home.

  She ran her fingers over the soft wool. A heaviness settled over her limbs, and she was afraid she might drift off to sleep, might slip from the horse.

  "What color is it?" she asked, the first civil words she'd uttered since her escape attempt that afternoon.

  Silence stretched between them, and she thought he intended to ignore her question.

  "My poncho?" he finally asked.

  She nodded jerkily.

  "You know colors?"

  Again she nodded, almost smiling at his obvious bafflement. "I wasn't always blind."

  His arm tightened around her. "How did you lose your sight?"

  "Sickness, high fever."

  "How old were you?" he asked, and she would have sworn she heard compassion reflected in his voice.

  "Twelve."

  "Blue," he said quietly. "The poncho is striped, different shades of blue."

  "My favorite color," she said slowly, forcing the words out in spite of her incredible weariness.

  "Here, eat this." He shoved some jerky into her hand.

  She gnawed on the toughened meat, glad for anything to fill the emptiness in her stomach. Her feeling of gratitude taking her off-guard, she wondered if, deprived of freedom, she was becoming thankful for every scrap of kindness so that she'd stopped viewing him as the enemy and instead saw him as her savior.

  Well, she wouldn't be grateful. She'd accept his offerings because they were due her, but she would not become obligated to him for anything. When another chance came to escape—or to kill him—she wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of the opportunity. But the next time, she swore to herself, she would succeed.

  She didn't know how much time passed before he drew the horse to a halt. He dismounted, wrapped his hands around her waist, and brought her to the ground. With her knees wobbly, she started to sink to the ground, but he snaked his arm around her. To her utter mortification, she sagged against him.

  "Why are we stopping?" Jorge asked.

  "To rest the horses," Raven said. "We'll sleep for two hours and then start off again."

  Saddles creaked as his brothers dismounted. She heard the heavy tread of one advancing toward them.

  "Is it because of her?" Alejandro asked harshly. "You think she needs to sleep."

  "The horses need to rest."

  "She is going to get us caught," Alejandro spat.

  "Jorge, Roberto, see to the horses," Raven ordered.

  "Damn it, Lee—"

  "The horses are tired. They need to eat. They need to be watered. They need to rest before we drive them harder."

  "Listen to me," Alejandro said quietly. "You are the only one with a bounty on his head. I can take her back to Fortune."

  "And if someone sees you?"

  "No one knows I ride with you. I will be in no danger."

  Raven sighed heavily. "You don't understand, Alejandro. She is white. Do you honestly think the gringos will ask if you touched her before they string you up?"

  The way he spat "gringos"—as though the word left a bitter taste in his mouth—erased any doubts she'd harbored that he might not actually be Mexican. A hand clapped against a back or shoulder.

  "I appreciate your concern, Alejandro, but this mistake was mine. I will make it right or pay the price for it."

  She heard footsteps retreat, and with them, her chance for freedom. "I wouldn't let them hang him."

  "You wouldn't be able to stop them, señorita. Once gringos have it in their mind to hang a Mexican, nothing will deter them."

  His vocabulary surprised her. There were moments when she almost suspected him of being an educated man, but no educated man would turn to a life of crime. She heard someone approach.

  "Lee, I made her a place to sleep." She recognized Roberto's young, cautious voice.

  "Gracias, hombre." Raven started to lead her away.

  "Lee?"

  He stopped at Roberto's inquiry. "Sí?"

  "I was thinking … I do not have a bounty on my head. I could take the woman home. I'd make a wide circle, avoid riders—"

  Flesh slapped against flesh, a hand patting someone's neck or cheek.

  "Alejandro and I have already discussed this," Raven said, understanding laced through his voice. "It is not a wise plan."

  "But if they catch you—"

  "They are not going to capture me. Now, get some sleep. Two hours is all we can spare."

  He tightened his hold on her waist and led her through the darkness that she knew surrounded them. Night somehow carried a different feel to it than day, and the sun had yet to send its tendrils of warmth over her. Raven stopped walking. His fingers grazed the back of her hands before he worked to untie the binding. "You may have a few moments of privacy here. Do not do anything to aggravate me."

  She heard his retreating fo
otsteps and set about taking care of business. When she was finished, she briefly considered heading away from the camp but she was too tired to exert the effort that would be needed to make good an escape. With a sigh, she walked back in the direction from which she'd come. Three steps later, she bumped into Raven. Obviously, he didn't trust her any farther than he could hear her.

  "You will sleep here," he ordered and guided her onto a mound of blankets.

  Gratefully, she dropped down and tucked her legs beneath her. The familiar pop of his knees signaled that he'd crouched beside her. A twig snapped as someone came near.

  "Lee, I have a magnificent plan—"

  "The woman stays with us, Jorge," Raven cut in.

  "But you can trust me—"

  "It is not a matter of trust, but a matter of what is best for all of us. We stay together. Now sleep."

  She listened to the departing footsteps. "They love you," she said in awe, surprised she'd spoken aloud.

  "What is there not to love?" he asked.

  "Offhand, I could think of a thousand things."

  "Name one," he dared her.

  "You murdered a man."

  "That, señorita, is the reason they love me most of all," he said in a chilling voice that sent icy shivers cascading down her spine. "Now, lie down."

  Cautiously, she stretched out on her side, listening intently, prepared to bolt if a need arose. She heard the unmistakable sounds of a gun belt being removed and the blankets rustling. He wrapped his arm around her. She tried to get up, but he pressed her firmly against his hard body.

  "Relax, señorita. Since we cannot have a fire, you will have to settle for my warmth."

  Terror gripped her. "What are you going to do?"

  "Hold you until you stop shivering."

  She didn't think having him this close was going to make her stop quivering. She'd never in her life known such exhaustion. Nor had she ever been so incredibly aware of a man, the way her backside fit snugly within his lap, the breadth of his chest as his shoulders curled around her. The hard edge of his chin as it rested against the top of her head. The arm he'd somehow managed to work beneath her so she now had a pillow. His rugged scent mixed with the smell of horses and leather.

  A few men had courted her, a couple had even dared to kiss her, but they seemed astonishingly tame when compared to this unsettling outlaw. He emanated incredible confidence, seemed sure of his course, but she couldn't label him as haughty or arrogant. He was simply a man with a purpose, an errant purpose to be sure, but one he was determined to pursue.

  She eased out of her reverie as she became increasingly cognizant of something moist and warm dampening her side. "What in the world is that?"

  Raven grunted as she shoved him away and sat up. She touched her fingers to the stickiness that now coated a small section of her bodice. She sniffed her fingertips and a rustic odor assailed her nostrils. "It's blood."

  "I started bleeding again," he said calmly, as though he was commenting on the sun coming up.

  Stunned, she twisted around. "You're wounded?"

  He chuckled low. "You shot me in the arm."

  Her stomach roiling, she pressed her unbloodied fingers against her mouth. She hadn't noticed the wound as they'd ridden because he'd used his other arm to hold her. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "What did you want me to say? That I learned you do not make idle threats?"

  He thought she'd shot him on purpose, when in fact it had happened by chance. But his misconception might at some point put her at an advantage if she did not challenge his perception of the event. "You have to tend the wound. Is the bullet still lodged in there?"

  "It went clean through. I will stop bleeding in a little while."

  "In a little while? I can't have you bleeding on me all night," she snapped, hoping he wouldn't detect any measure of concern in her sharp words. She'd never actually shot anyone, and the mere idea made her ill. "You have to do something."

  He sighed heavily. "I have already told you that I cannot risk a fire so I cannot cauterize it."

  "You could sew it. I always carry needle and thread," she said.

  "Neither I nor my brothers can sew in the dark."

  "I can."

  He released a low, soft chuckle that somehow carried a threat with it. "I think not, señorita. A needle in your hand would cause more harm than good."

  She didn't want to acknowledge how his words stung. True, he was an outlaw with a bounty on his head—wanted, dead or alive. She should let him take his chances … if only he would treat her badly so she could justify shooting him. She twisted around until she thought she was facing him squarely. "I give you my word that I'll tend your wound properly."

  "Your word? This afternoon you were going to ruin my saddle, and yet you sat and played with your cards as though we had all afternoon to while away the hours."

  With a huff, she flopped onto her side. "Fine. Bleed to death. I don't care." How she wished that was true. But she did care. She didn't want to be responsible for his death, only his capture. Maybe when he fell asleep, she could determine the severity of his wound. Based on the way he'd been holding her, she could ascertain its location, prod gently … and awaken him, but perhaps in a drowsy state he might accept her ministrations.

  "You have experience sewing?" he asked cautiously.

  A small thrill of victory speared her. She didn't want this outlaw to see her as inadequate. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I'm a seamstress. I use my fingers to determine the shape of the seam and sew incredibly neat, meticulous stitches," she assured him.

  "I'll probably regret this, but…" He growled low, and she imagined him narrowing his dark eyes at her in warning. "You can stitch me up."

  She rolled into a sitting position, reached into her pocket, and removed the small sewing case that her parents had given to her shortly after she'd announced that she'd acquired a position as a seamstress. She skimmed her thumb over her initials carved within the gold lid. She heard the whisper of movement and the brush of air ripple across her face. "What are you doing?"

  "Taking off my shirt."

  "Can't you just roll up your sleeve?"

  "The bullet went through near my shoulder."

  "Oh." She hadn't considered that he'd sit before her shirtless. Unsettled, she decided to finish the task as quickly as possible. "I need your canteen."

  He handed it to her. She opened it and poured water into her cupped palm. He snatched the canteen from her.

  "You're wasting my water!"

  "I'm trying to clean my hands so you don't get an infection."

  "No more water. Just do the best you can. I'll deal with infection later."

  "I know a man who died from an infected little toe," she said as she spread the little bit of water she'd managed to obtain over her hands. Drying them on her skirt probably would undo what she'd tried to accomplish. She flicked them in the air until the droplets were gone. She opened her sewing kit, pulled out a small spool, broke off a long piece of thread, and deftly inserted it through the eye of the needle. All by touch. She'd pricked herself a hundred times when she'd first decided that she would learn to sew. Her father had said she was stubborn, her mother had called her "determined."

  Now, she was going to prick Lee Raven. She tore off a section of her petticoat. "I'll need you to lead me to the wound."

  He wrapped his fingers around her hand and slowly rubbed his thumb across her knuckles before placing her hand on his arm. The heat of his flesh nearly scorched her fingertips, and she imagined that his entire body felt this smooth, this taut, this muscled, this hot. With the strip of her petticoat, she wiped at the wound. "Keep your arm straight and try not to twitch when I poke you."

  "I do not twitch."

  "And you do not beg," she said caustically.

  But he did intake a sharp breath when she trailed her fingers over the ragged edges of mutilated flesh. "I'm just going to…" She swallowed in an attempt to stop the tingling in her jaw. "I'm going t
o prod around just to make sure there's no bits of cloth…" Oh, God. A bullet created such an ugly mess.

  When she was certain she'd done her best to clean the wound, she jabbed the needle into his skin. She thought she might have preferred something from him other than stoicism. "I'm sorry. I know it must hurt." Her voice quivered but at least her hands were steady.

  What sort of man was Lee Raven? She knew he'd been put out with her for taking his gun and holding it on him, but he'd never hinted that she'd shot him. He'd never raised his voice or his hand to her. If someone had shot her … he would have faced her unmerciful wrath. The man was a contradiction to all she knew about him, all she believed.

  Leaning close, she bit off the end of the thread and then proceeded to tie it off. She heard him exhale slowly. She stuck the needle into her waistband before reaching for the end of her skirt.

  "Here, use my shirt," he ordered, and thrust the chambray garment into her hands.

  When she'd lost her sight, her fingertips had become her eyes. She'd wanted to again know all that she'd once seen. She'd learned to identify all sorts of textures and shapes, making her family crazy as she requested item after item, hungry for the feel of everything, desperate to rebuild a world that she'd lost—the only thing that now eluded her was color. She missed it with a passion.

  She handed his shirt back to him. She opened her kit, removed more thread, retrieved her needle, and proceeded to thread it. "I'll do the other side now." She took a deep breath. "I don't suppose you have any whiskey."

  "You drink?"

  "My father owns a saloon. Of course I drink."

  He released a quick burst of laughter. "I think your father should have had a son."

  She smiled warmly. "But my mother wanted daughters, and he usually gives her what she wants. Whiskey?"

  "No."

  Her smile faded as she touched his arm and located the other side of his wound where the bullet had torn a larger hole going out. "I suppose you're going to try and tell me that the notorious Lee Raven doesn't drink," she chided.

  "I don't."

  She paused in disbelief. "You've never been drunk."

  "No."

  Incredible. She'd never met a man who hadn't indulged in too much liquor on at least one occasion. She touched his arm.