The Lady and the Outlaw

by Joyce Brandon

  Chane could hear him telling it:

  “He gives an order to them to follow him and then he just takes off. Doesn’t look back to see if anyone is following him or not—he rode right into a bunch of suspected rustlers. Well, let me tell you, I was worried. Here he is taking on five men all by himself. The others sat their horses awhile, looking at each other like they couldn’t believe it, then one of them kicked his horse forward and they all followed him into the fray! They been following him ever since. They could have just let him get killed, but I think they were afraid he’d take them by himself and they’d look like cowering sissies. He has that kind of blind confidence. After two weeks, when he tells them they are going to do something, they know they will. They don’t know how, but they don’t question him. He has picked a second lieutenant already and is bringing him along, a young Wes Hardin type named Dusty Denton. They hit it off right away. Denton is smarter than the average bad man, spent some time with the Jackson Hole gang in Wyoming. I think Cantrell rode with them for a while too—maybe at the same time, but I can’t prove it.”

  “See that you don’t,” Kincaid had told Wilcox with a wry smile. Ed Stanton’s ulcers would have grandchildren.

  Chane saw Cantrell with Sandra McCormick on his arm. He would have given a great deal to know how he had managed that one. Sandra was one of the prettiest girls in town. A slender golden-haired girl with big smoky gray eyes. He had seen her around town with different young men, usually Winslow Breakenridge. Winslow was a good attorney, but he didn’t appear ready to settle down. He walked out with Sandra and Marybelle Lewis, sometimes Elizabeth Cartright. The rest of the local girls were unremarkable, except Debbie Denning, who was new to Phoenix. Debbie was something special, almost like a member of the family the way she fit right in and made herself at home. But then Jennie had a way of doing that—making everyone feel comfortable. He had been married eight years, and it still amazed him how his thoughts always came back to Jennie…

  “Hi, Mr. Kincaid,” Cantrell said, almost grudgingly. They were still uncomfortable with each other.

  “Evening.” He nodded. He had deliberately put himself in their way because he wanted to talk to Cantrell. He had thought of more questions he wanted to ask since their talk this morning.

  “Trinket, you know Mr. Kincaid…”

  “Hello, Sandra.”

  “Evening, Mr. Kincaid. Nice party,” she said, smiling.

  She was clinging to Cantrell’s arm in a possessive way, certainly not conducive to giving him up so he could talk business with one of the old fogeys.

  “Enjoy yourselves,” Kincaid said. He knew when he wasn’t wanted. He watched them disappear into the throng on the dance floor and turned to seek out Ed Stanton again.

  “How long has Powers been ranching in this area?” Chane asked when he and Stanton were alone.

  Ed frowned, pulling bushy salt-and-pepper brows down in a heavy ledge of concentration over his narrowed gray eyes. “Oh, ten years, maybe more.”

  Chane scowled. The T & P reached Phoenix in 1882, six years ago. About four years ago we built the spur line to my brother’s silver mine. There doesn’t necessarily have to be a connection…

  “How long has Powers been doing so well? He’s running close to ten thousand head of cattle, if Wilcox is right about his estimate. Ten thousand head and better than fifty men.”

  “Four years, more or less.”

  “About the time we started losing cattle, wasn’t it?” he asked dryly.

  The orchestra played the stilted, mincing music for a quadrille and then a minuet, but only a few brave dancers participated, so Jennifer reminded the orchestra leader to play lively tunes—mostly waltzes. This was not New York City!

  Leslie danced with Chane, Tim, then Winslow Breakenridge, her new attorney, and was just being returned to Tim’s side when she saw a tall, tawny-haired man in an elegant black frockcoat who looked like Cantrell. Her heart didn’t cease its mad thumping and she didn’t realize she was staring until Tim caught her look and turned to Winslow Breakenridge, who was there with Marybelle Lewis.

  “Who’s that with Sandra McCormick?”

  Winslow searched the crowded dance floor until he found the pretty blonde. “An ex-client of mine—Ward Cantrell.”

  Leslie felt the blood drain from her face. It was him.

  “Are you all right, Leslie?”

  “Dance with me, Tim.” She sounded tinkly and brittle as she talked, and she had the wild irrational impulse to run upstairs, lock her door, and cry. But why should the sight of him with a girl in his arms have that effect on her? He was nothing to her.

  The dance ended and Tim steered her toward Jennifer. He was due to dance with his lovely hostess.

  Too late Leslie recognized the man standing beside Jennifer. “Leslie, Tim”—Jennifer caught Leslie’s hand and pulled her close—“I would like you to meet someone. Leslie Powers, Timothy Summers, this is an old friend of mine, Ward Cantrell. You both know Sandra, I’m sure.”

  Leslie heard herself murmuring the proper “how-do-you-do’s,” even making small talk, but she could feel nothing except the clamor in her body. In a black silk frockcoat with white silk waistcoat and white linen shirt, Ward Cantrell was cool and handsome in a way she had never dreamed. He had been attractive before, but now, set against a sumptuous background, dressed in the right clothes and looking negligently at ease with both, he was like a young prince. Everything about him bespoke a noble lineage. Even the tint and texture of his clean-shaven face looked as if it had been chosen for him with infinite care.

  The lean and dangerous look was still there, especially in his eyes—they moved over her like a warm caress—and she saw tiny glints of mischief in the azure depths.

  Sandra McCormick didn’t once take her eyes off Ward’s face. He accepted her adoration as if it caused him not even the mildest surprise. Apparently he was used to quick conquests. That shouldn’t surprise Leslie. He looked like a young Apollo descended from Olympus, not a train robber and kidnapper. Her heart was shaking her entire body.

  She hadn’t missed the affectionate look Jennifer gave Ward. Jennifer was so obvious when she liked someone—she probably wasn’t even aware she had taken his left hand and held it all during the introductions.

  Leslie didn’t know why or how it happened, but when the music started up again they were alone.

  “May I?” he asked.

  Why not? Neither one of them seemed to be good at small talk. It surprised her that he danced well, though.

  He grinned down at her. “You’re a real little beauty with your face washed, Leslie.”

  Leslie flushed. Was he deliberately reminding her of that time they bathed in the stream?

  “Thanks,” she said dryly. “I thought you spent all your time murdering and pillaging.”

  “I’ve stopped.”

  “You’ve stopped?”

  He chuckled softly. “I’m not murdering anybody now, am I?”

  “Can we hope this trend will continue?”

  “I can be bribed.”

  “Is that how you got out of jail?”

  “Blackmail,” he whispered, brushing her cheek with his lips.

  “Stop that!” she hissed.

  “Jealous boyfriend? Tell him we’re old friends.”

  “I don’t consider you a friend…”

  “Too bad.”

  “Why aren’t you in jail?”

  “I forgot how much you nagged. Jail was too dull.” He shrugged negligently. “I complained and Mr. Railroad gave me a job.”

  “A job? What do you do?”

  “Guard the trains.”

  “Does he know about you?”

  “Everything.”

  His hand on her bare back was causing a muted ache down the entire length of her body. She lowered her lashes and pretended to be engrossed in watching the dancers all around them while she tried to analyze it. She had danced with a dozen men in the last two hours, and not once had she been aw
are of a man’s hand on her back unless it seemed to move threateningly close to something he shouldn’t be touching. Now, as if she didn’t have enough problems, she was tingling all over because this outlaw put his warm hand on her bare back.

  As if he had read her thoughts, Ward moved his hand slowly up her back to firmly cup her shoulder, sending a sharp hungry pain through her belly. Damn him!

  “You have the silkiest skin, Leslie,” he whispered, pulling her closer. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, his warm breath tingling on her cheek.

  Leslie groaned inwardly. She couldn’t believe she was actually considering it! Damn him! What did he think? That he could kidnap her and then drop in and seduce her whenever he felt like it?

  “I happen to be with Tim Summers. He’s a very nice man. And you happen to be with Sandra,” she said waspishly, feeling her cheeks stain with color.

  “I don’t consider that a condition. You sound like it has an incubation period or something. Is it contagious?”

  He was laughing at her now. She could feel the fury bubbling in her veins. “I’m not going to play games with you, Ward Cantrell, and I didn’t tell the sheriff you weren’t the one just to help you. I was…”

  “I know why you did it,” he said evenly, his eyes holding hers. He had added that to the list of reasons why he was going to kill Younger.

  Leslie forced her lips into a smile and pretended to be distracted by the gaiety and laughter all around them. Damn him! Why did he have to look like he cared?

  They danced in silence for a while.

  “I’d still like to show you the stars, Leslie.”

  “No thank you,” she said evenly.

  The dance ended, Cantrell concentrated his charms on Sandra the rest of the evening, and Leslie couldn’t help noticing how effective he was. By midnight Sandra allowed Ward to take her out into the moonlight on the long veranda, and they left shortly after that. There was no doubt in Leslie’s mind where they were going or for what. The only questions were why should she notice, and why hadn’t she warned Sandra what an unscrupulous bastard he was? But would she have cared? Sandra looked blinded to everything except Cantrell.

  Anger and frustration made her reckless. When Tim asked if she’d like to step outside for a breath of fresh air she let him take her out onto that same veranda and returned his kiss with an ardor that pleased him and awakened his hopes and desires.

  “Leslie, darling, you take my breath away,” he groaned.

  “Do I?” she asked, nipping at his earlobe.

  “Oh, Leslie, I need you so…”

  Leslie returned his kiss and asked him to take her back inside. She danced with a dozen men and feigned gaiety, but underneath she felt a frustration that she could not escape.

  Ward’s intention was to leave the pretty blonde at her front door and go to one of the saloons to pick up a willing señorita for the night. He helped Sandra out of the carriage, and escorted her to the front door of the gingerbread mansion, but she stopped him with a pressure on his arm.

  “Ward?” she asked softly.

  “What is it, Trinket?”

  She searched his face in the moonlight. “I’m not like what you think I am.”

  What the hell? Ward could feel himself frowning. He hadn’t been thinking about her at all. As far as he was concerned there were only two kinds of girls: available and unavailable. Sandra was the latter.

  “Oh, I know what you’re going to do,” she challenged. “You’ll leave me here and go find a girl to sleep with…”

  Christ! Girls have changed. Maybe Jenn was right. First that hellcat Leslie and now a passionate little female who reads minds.

  Blond Trinket tossed her hair with a touch of shy defiance and continued. “I don’t want it to be that way.”

  “How do you want it to be?”

  She was trembling with urgency. She wanted him…He had been like an ache in her blood since she’d seen him with a young Mexican girl, a pretty señorita with flashing eyes and an insouciant smile. He had looked like he was trying to leave her, and she was trying to keep him there. He had allowed her to tease him for a while, apparently even enjoying it, but when he was finished, he was finished. Sandra McCormick, Daddy’s golden girl, who looked shy and virginal, had watched the way Ward Cantrell had handled that girl when he was through playing with her, the way his lean brown hands had looked biting into the creamy white flesh of her arms before he kissed her and put her aside, and she had been sick with anticipation ever since. His hands had been inexorable, handling her easily—as if the girl had been a toy or an object to be used any way he wanted to use her.

  Sandra moistened her lips nervously.

  “I want to be the girl you bed,” she said softly, her voice almost breaking up.

  Ward helped Sandra back into the carriage and took her to the house on Barton Street that belonged to Lance and Angie Kincaid. He had the use of it for as long as he needed because they were in Austin visiting the elder Kincaids, and Yoshio, their houseboy, liked having a guest. He hadn’t met them yet, but Jenn had raved about her handsome brother-in-law and his pretty young wife. Apparently the brothers were very close. Lance and Angie were supposed to be away for a month or more.

  There was a master suite upstairs that he was using. He stopped at the credenza that served as a bar along the wall next to his bedroom door. The house was well built. Each bedchamber had a sitting room with comfortable chairs, a desk, shelves for books and bric-a-brac. On one side the room was crowded with engravings in bronze: horses’ heads and fine-looking horses. There was an elegant Wilton carpet on the floor, its chief color a rich blue, and the curtains and hangings were a delicate amber. A chromo of Whittier’s Barefoot Boy hung on one wall. The double doors to the sleeping chamber were open. The light from the sitting room spilled into it in a widening wedge.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  Sandra flushed. She wanted this, but it irked her that he had come directly upstairs to his bedchamber. Didn’t he realize that she was a nice girl? A well-brought-up young woman of substance?

  “Is it going to hurt?” she asked shyly.

  His eyes narrowed in suspicion or irritation; she couldn’t tell which. “Haven’t you done this before?” he asked, watching her closely.

  “Not exactly,” she lied. What did he expect? That she would admit it?

  Ward’s lean brown fingers closed like steel bands around her arm, above the elbow. He dragged her forward abruptly, almost savagely, the look on his face changing from irritation to anger that darkened his eyes almost to violet and roughened his husky voice.

  “Rich little girls who want to play around should stay in their own crowd.” He turned her loose contemptuously. “I’m sure someone will accommodate you.”

  Damn! She had guessed wrong. She couldn’t believe it. He was furious. She had thought he would be excited—the others had been. The thought of deflowering a cringing virgin excited lots of men. Some of them were so aroused they couldn’t do anything; they went out of control. Well, she wasn’t about to give up. She would try a different approach. She let the tears spill out of her eyes, let her lips begin to tremble.

  “I want it to be you,” she said softly, tremulously.

  “Is that why you tracked me down and asked me to that damned dance, so you could get your ticket punched, have a little fun, and still keep your lily-white reputation among your fine friends?”

  She started to cry in earnest. He was harder than she’d thought. She was going to have to use her hidden weapon. Still crying like a heartbroken child, she began to unbutton her gown. This always worked.

  “No,” she said softly, shaking her head, “No, I—I—saw you in town yesterday and I wanted you ever since.” That part was true—too true.

  Suddenly the trembling was real. There was something about this man…watching her with a strangely impassive, knowing look in his eyes that frightened her. He wasn’t like any of the others. He couldn’t be tricked or manipulated.r />
  He reached out slowly, his steely fingers closed around her arm, above the elbow, and she could feel the heat in her belly spreading out like rivers of fire. Her breathing was shallow and painful. Her mouth felt like cotton suddenly, and the pain in her arm, where his warm fingers were biting into it, was sending a sweet savage ache all the way down to her toes. If he sent her away now, she would be sick—violently sick. She wouldn’t be able to bear it. If he wanted her to beg…

  She opened her mouth to say whatever she had to say, but it wasn’t necessary. She saw it in his eyes. He knew she had lied and why.

  Trembling, she moved close enough to feel the dry tingling heat of his lean, hard-muscled body. Her eyes holding his, she placed his hand over her breast and pressed forward so she could feel the hard pulsing warmth of him against her belly. His hand closed around her breast, its heat wrenching a low moan that strangled in her throat. She reached up to pull his mouth down to hers, but he stiffened, realizing for the first time in his life that while his body was raging with its usual response to a beautiful, willing female, his mind was strangely unresponsive, holding him there, immobile.

  He started to ignore the reluctance. She was very desirable, and he hated pain, especially his own—he would have a miserable night if he took her home now—and there was no need to. He owed allegiance to no one. Leslie Powers had made it clear to him that she was not harboring a lingering desire for him. Trinket’s flesh against his was warm and insistent, but he disentangled himself.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, a small frown puckering the perfect smoothness of her lovely face.

  “Nothing.” He took her arm and led her toward the door.

  She resisted. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you home where you belong…”

  Desire blurred into the pain of rejection in her wide gray eyes, and he felt a corresponding wrenching within himself. He hated it almost as much as she, but he recognized his mental reluctance as an unwillingness to engage in another relationship with another lost female. He had six years of that behind him. It would be too easy to take advantage of her neediness and too hard to get rid of her after he had…