The Touch of Fire

by Linda Howard

  His own wife had died back in ’49, caught in a shoot-out between a couple of drunk miners in California. In that case, justice and the law had marched together, and he’d been able to see both of them swinging from a rope. It hadn’t brought Maggie back, but knowing that justice had been served had kept him from going crazy with grief himself. To Atwater’s way of thinking, everything had to balance out; that was justice. He figured his job as a lawman was to keep the scales balanced. Sometimes it wasn’t easy, and sometimes it was a damn pain in the ass, like now.

  He wished he hadn’t noticed that McCay looked at Annie the way he himself used to look at his own sweet Maggie.

  CHAPTER

  18

  “We’re getting married,” Rafe said grimly.

  Annie lowered her eyes. They were in a hotel room in El Paso; Rafe had stepped inside with her, but the door was still open and she was acutely aware of Atwater standing in the hall, keeping his eye on Rafe. They had been on the trail for six weeks and Atwater had only untied Rafe that morning, muttering a cantankerous warning that he’d shoot first and find out his intentions later if Rafe made any sudden movements. She doubted they would have come into town at all, but they desperately needed supplies and Atwater hadn’t been about to leave them while he rode in alone. Rafe had somehow convinced him to check into the hotel so Annie could have a good night’s sleep. She knew why he was worried about her.

  “Because I’m pregnant.” She said it as a statement, because she knew it wasn’t a question. She had known for certain for almost a month, since her menses hadn’t come, though she had suspected from the very day Rafe had made love to her at the Apache camp. Evidently he had suspected too, for those sharp eyes had noted even the smallest symptom.

  She didn’t know how she felt, or even how she should feel. Supposedly she should feel relief that he wanted to marry her and give the baby legitimacy, but now she had to wonder, hollowly, if he would have wanted to marry her if she hadn’t been pregnant. It was probably silly of her, under the circumstances, but she would have liked to have been wanted for herself.

  Rafe saw the hurt in her eyes and instinct led him to the answer she needed to hear. He had paid such close attention to her, looking for the signs, or lack of them, that would signal a pregnancy, that it had become habit for him to study her for the nuances of expression. He took her roughly in his arms and pressed her head against his shoulder, cradling her while he ignored Atwater standing in the hall watching them. “We’re getting married now because you’re pregnant,” he clarified. “If you weren’t, I’d want to wait until this mess is cleared up so we could have a proper church wedding—with Atwater giving you away.

  She smiled at that last bit. The assurance helped her feelings some, though she couldn’t help but think that the subject of marriage had never even come up before. With his arms around her, though, all she could do was close her eyes and relax. It seemed like an eternity since the last time he had held her; all of these weeks on the road they had been constrained by both Atwater’s presence and Rafe’s bound hands, though Atwater had eventually started tying his hands in front of him. The last two of those weeks she had been burdened by an ever-increasing fatigue, one of the symptoms of early pregnancy, and she had craved his support. It had taken almost more than she could do to stay in the saddle all day.

  But now at last she could sleep in a real bed, and she could have a hot bath in a real tub. The luxury of it was almost overwhelming. She did feel a little stifled by having four walls around her and a roof overhead, but that was a tolerable price to pay for the bed and bath.

  Rafe felt her relax and rest her weight against him; he slipped his arm under her knees and lifted her. “Why don’t you take a nap?” he suggested softly, seeing her eyes already closing. “Atwater and I have something to do.”

  “I want a bath,” she murmured.

  “Later. After your nap.” He placed her on the bed and she made a sound of pleasure in her throat as she felt the mattress beneath her. He leaned down and kissed her forehead; a little smile fluttered on her lips, then faded as she dropped off to sleep. He regretted that they weren’t putting the mattress to better use after those frustrating weeks on the trail, but maybe that would change soon.

  He stepped out of the room, closing and locking the door behind him. Atwater scowled at him. “Is she all right?”

  “Just tired. You could have given us a minute of privacy,” Rafe said, glaring at the lawman.

  “I’m paid to see justice done,” Atwater replied grouchily. “I ain’t paid to trust people.” His gaze traveled past Rafe to the closed door. “She needs the rest, poor little thing. I knew we were settin’ too hard a pace for her, but you can’t just wander through Injun country takin’ your time and sniffin’ the flowers.”

  “Come with me,” Rafe said. “I’ve got something to do.”

  “Like what? We’re here to get supplies, not traipse all over town. And you can damn sure bet that if you go anywhere, I’m going to be right there behind you.”

  “I have to find a preacher. We want to get married while we’re here.”

  Atwater scratched his chin, frowning. “I don’t advise it, son. You’d have to use your real name, and it ain’t exactly unknown.”

  “I know. I’ll just have to take the chance.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “From here on out, there’s more of a chance I’ll be recognized, maybe even killed. I want Annie to be my legal wife just in case.”

  The marshal still wasn’t convinced. “Seems to me that gettin’ married would just increase those chances. You’d better think it over.”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  Atwater glared at him for a few seconds, then gestured down the hall toward the stairs. “I guess you’re gettin’ married, then,” he said, and stalked down the hall beside Rafe.

  They got lucky with the preacher they found, a tenderfoot newly arrived from Rhode Island who had no idea about the notoriety of the man standing not two feet from him. He gladly agreed to perform the marriage ceremony at six o’clock that evening. Then Rafe insisted on stopping in a dress shop, hoping there would be something already made that Annie could wear for her wedding. There were a few dresses to choose from, and the only one that looked small enough to fit Annie’s narrow frame was more serviceable than decorative, but he bought it anyway. It was clean and new, and the blue color was nice.

  They started back to the hotel, with Atwater walking just a little behind Rafe so he could keep an eye on him. The marshal’s suspicious nature was getting on Rafe’s nerves, but he reckoned he could put up with it until they reached New Orleans. It was a small enough price to pay for his freedom.

  El Paso was a dirty, bustling, wide-open town, the streets filled with a mixture of humanity from both sides of the border. Rafe kept his hat pulled low over his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t be spotted. He didn’t see anyone he knew, but there was always a possibility that someone he’d never met would recognize him.

  They walked by an alley; Rafe was already half a step past it when he heard the scraping of sudden movement and he whirled instinctively, already going down in a crouch. A pistol barrel was just protruding beyond the wall, and it was aimed at Atwater. In slow motion he saw the marshal grabbing for his pistol, but Rafe knew that he wouldn’t get to it in time; Atwater had wasted a precious split second when he had looked first at Rafe. The man’s damn suspicious nature would likely get him killed, because he had been so set on keeping Rafe from escaping when he should have been paying attention to what was going on around him.

  If Atwater got killed, Rafe wouldn’t have a snow-ball’s chance in hell of getting those charges taken care of before someone put a bullet in his back.

  Everything was still moving like molasses. He saw the pistol, saw Atwater turning, realized the marshal wouldn’t be able to shoot in time—and in the next instant his big, muscled body collided with the marshal, bowling him over as the sound of the shot exploded clos
e to his head. He heard Atwater’s grunt of pain, then they hit the sidewalk hard and rolled off it onto the dusty street. He heard men yelling, heard a woman scream, was aware of people scattering. He caught a glimpse of a face in the shadow of the alley and then he had Atwater’s pistol in his hand and he was firing, and the man in the alley flopped backward.

  Rafe rolled off Atwater and sat up, cocking the hammer again as he scanned the gathering crowd for another threat. He slanted a quick glance at Atwater, who was gingerly sitting up and holding his hand to his head. Blood streaked through the marshal’s fingers. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Atwater replied, sounding disgusted. “As okay as a man can be who let himself be blindsided like a dumb greenhorn. Parted my hair for me, but I deserve it.” He pulled his bandanna from around his neck and pressed it to the wound.

  “You sure as hell do,” Rafe agreed. He was totally without sympathy. If Atwater had been paying attention, it wouldn’t have happened. He stood and extended his hand to the marshal to help him up, then pushed his way through the crowd gathering around the bushwhacker to kneel by the man’s head. Bloody spittle dripped from his mouth. Lung-shot, Rafe saw. He wouldn’t last more than a minute or two.

  “Does anyone know who he is?” he asked.

  “Don’t recognize him right off,” someone said. “He might have friends in town, but he’s probably just a drifter. We got a lot of strangers riding through.”

  The man’s eyes were open and he was staring at Rafe. His lips moved. “What’s he sayin’?” Atwater asked irritably, going down on one knee on the man’s other side. “What did I ever do to him? Can’t say as I’ve ever seen him before.”

  But the man didn’t even glance at Atwater. His lips moved again, and though no sound emerged Rafe could see that his mouth formed the word “McCay.” Then he coughed, and a gurgling sound bubbled up from his throat. His legs twitched spasmodically and he died.

  Rafe’s mouth tightened and he stood up, gripping Atwater’s arm to pull him up, too. “Let’s go,” he said, and practically dragged Atwater out of the alley, leaning down to grab the package containing Annie’s dress from the dirt where it had fallen.

  “Let go of my arm,” Atwater said irritably. “Damn it, you got a grip like a vise. And I’m an injured man, I don’t need to be hurryin’ along like this. What set your tail on fire?”

  “He might have a partner with him.” Rafe’s voice sounded remote, and his pale eyes were glittering like ice as he examined every face, every shadow they passed.

  “Then I’ll handle it. I won’t be caught by surprise again.” Atwater scowled. “You’ve got my damn pistol.”

  Silently Rafe tucked it back into the marshal’s holster.

  Atwater scowled. “Why didn’t you use it to escape?”

  “I don’t want to escape. I want to get to New Orleans and get those papers. You’re the only chance I’ve got of getting my name cleared.”

  Atwater’s frown deepened. Well, he’d known all along that he’d have to trust McCay at some point, but he had still halfway thought that the outlaw would bolt at the first opportunity and he’d have to hunt him down again. McCay had not only just saved his life, he hadn’t escaped when he’d had the perfect opportunity. The only reason he wouldn’t have done so would be if he’d been telling the truth. What had been a possibility, something that needed checking out, became for Atwater in that instant a definite fact. McCay wasn’t lying. He had been framed for murder, and he was being hunted like a wild animal because of these papers. What had been going on for four years sure as hell wasn’t justice, and Atwater was bound and determined to shift the balance.

  “I guess I might as well start trusting you,” he grumbled.

  “Might as well,” Rafe agreed.

  They had reached the hotel and climbed the stairs to their room, tiptoeing past the room where Annie slept so their footsteps wouldn’t awaken her. Atwater poured some water in a bowl and wet his bandanna, then gingerly began washing the crease in his skull. “My head hurts like a son of a bitch,” he observed. A minute later he added, “That bushwacker knew who you were. He said your name. So why’d he go after me instead of you?”

  “He probably wanted you out of the way so he could collect the bounty. He must have recognized you; you’re not exactly unknown in these parts.”

  Atwater snorted. “I’m just glad he didn’t say your name out loud.” He peered into the mirror. “Guess the bleedings stopped. My head’s still pounding, though.”

  “I’ll get Annie,” Rafe said.

  “No need to, unless she can do something about this headache.”

  His eyes were enigmatic. “She can.” He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I’m going down to the front desk to have water sent up for our baths. I’m not about to get married covered with dust and smelling like a horse. You want to follow me down to make sure I don’t run?”

  Atwater sighed and waved his hand in dismissal. “I don’t reckon,” he said, and their gazes met, a look passing between them in which the two men understood each other perfectly.

  Rafe arranged for the bathwater first, then returned upstairs. Annie was still sleeping when he let himself back into the room, and he stood beside the bed looking down at her for a moment. God. His baby was growing inside that slim body, already sapping her strength. If he could, he’d carry her around on a cushion for the next eight months. About seven and a half months, actually, because it had been six weeks since that time in the Apache camp. Six weeks since he’d made love to her.

  He thought about the changes in her body that the coming months would bring, and felt desperate at the thought that he might not be there to see them. Her belly would round out, and her breasts would grow heavy. His shaft lengthened and grew hard at the mental image, and a fleeting grin touched his mouth. Decent men were expected to leave their wives alone during such a delicate time; guess this proved he wasn’t a decent man.

  The tub and hot water would be coming up soon and she needed to tend to Atwater before then, so he leaned down and gently shook her awake. She muttered and pushed his hand away. He shook her again. “Wake up, honey. Atwater’s had a little accident and needs you.”

  Her drowsy eyes flew open and she scrambled from the bed. Rafe grabbed her as she swayed, and was almost swamped by the pleasure of holding her again. “Slow down,” he murmured. “He isn’t hurt bad, just a crease, it left him with a headache.”

  “What happened?” She pushed her hair away from her face as she reached for her bag. Rafe forestalled her and picked it up himself.

  “He got in the way of a stray shot. Nothing serious.” No point in worrying her.

  In the room next door, she made Atwater sit in a chair while she carefully examined the scalp wound. As Rafe had said, it wasn’t serious.

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Atwater said apologetically. “It’s just a headache. I guess a shot of whiskey would do just as well.”

  “No, it won’t,” Rafe said. “Annie, put your hands on his head.”

  The look she shot him was a little distressed, because she felt both uneasy and unsure about what he’d said about her healing. But she obeyed and gently set her hands on Atwater’s skull.

  Rafe was watching the marshal’s face. At first he looked merely puzzled, then interested, and finally an expression of almost blissful relief spread across his features. “Well, I declare,” he sighed. “I don’t know what you did, but it sure stopped my headache.”

  Annie lifted her hands and absently rubbed them together. So it was true. She did have some unexplained power to heal.

  Rafe put his arm around her waist. “The wedding’s at six o’clock this evening,” he said. “I bought you a new dress for the ceremony, and a tub and hot water for a bath are on the way up.”

  The distraction worked. Her lips parted with pleasure. “A bath? A real bath?”

  “A real bath. In a real tub.”

  He leaned down to get his saddlebags and Annie’s d
ress; Atwater didn’t voice a protest at his obvious intentions. Instead the marshal was almost beaming at them as he absently touched the raw place on his scalp, which somehow wasn’t all that sore now.

  Annie looked at the saddlebags as he dumped them on the floor in her room. She hadn’t missed the implication of his action, either. “What happened?” she asked.

  “When Atwater was shot, I didn’t try to run,” Rafe said in simple explanation. “He decided he might as well trust me.”

  “He won’t tie you up anymore?” Her expression told him how much it had distressed her for him to be bound.

  “No.” He reached out to touch her hair just as the expected knock sounded on the door. Rafe opened it to admit two half-grown boys, straining under the weight of the tub. Two more boys followed, each carrying two buckets of water that they poured in the tub. They left, and returned a few minutes later with four more buckets of water, this time steaming hot, which were added to the tub. “That’ll be four bits, mister,” the oldest boy said, and Rafe paid him.

  Annie’s fingers were flying over her buttons as soon as the door closed behind them. Rafe watched her avidly, his hungry gaze slipping over the pale curves of breast and thigh, the soft curls on her mound. Then she stepped into the water with a voluptuous sigh. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the high lip of the tub.

  She hadn’t even thought to get the soap. Rafe got it from their saddlebags and dropped it into the water with a small splash. She opened her eyes to smile at him.

  “This is heaven,” she purred. “Much better than cold streams.”

  He had some mighty fond memories of a couple of those cold streams. He was growing harder by the second. He began pulling off his clothes, thinking of the fond memories he could have of that tub.

  She glanced at the bed as he stepped into the tub.