Blue clutched at Zant’s arm, looking full into his face. “Listen to me, Zant. He said that where Rafferty failed, he would succeed.”
* * *
Well, I’ll be a gap-toothed old mule skinner, if that isn’t Jacey Lawless all dressed up and entering the mission church.
Just south of Tucson, Zant reined his roan stallion off to one side as a stream of folks flowed respectfully around and past him on their way to the Sunday service at San Xavier del Bac. Barely acknowledging the few mumbled greetings that came his way, Zant focused instead on the mesquite-wood façade of the starkly white and imposing mission church.
Eyes narrowed, blood aboil, he honed in on one slender female figure whose back was to him, and who was flanked by Rosie and Alberto. She looked no different than the other women around her, what with her loose white blouse, brightly colored skirt and lacy shawl which covered her hair. But in Zant’s mind, she stood out like a rosebush among the cactus. He shook his head and chuckled. He’d told her to be gone in two weeks. Well, it’d just been over one, but she didn’t give any sign of leaving a minute early.
Stubborn little hellcat. Zant wasn’t the least bit happy to find her here. She was daring him, plain and simple, to do something about it. He shifted in his saddle and rubbed a knuckle under his nose. All right, then, little lady, I’ll do something about it. Because, truth to tell, he didn’t figure Tucson was any bigger today for both of them than it’d been over a week ago when he’d told her what-for.
Zant’s hand tightened around the reins he held. Lucky for her it wasn’t her scrawny neck in his grip. She obviously didn’t listen any better than Quintana had. Zant frowned, thinking of the man whose corpse now fed the vultures out in the desert. The desperado was good with a whip, but he should’ve been practicing with a gun all these years.
Zant clenched his jaw with his next thought. It wouldn’t be long before Don Rafael realized Quintana wasn’t coming back … and sent someone else. Someone more ruthless, even more determined to succeed where the others had failed. Someone anxious to curry the old man’s favor.
And only he stood between that faceless hired gun and Jacey Lawless. Despite his hat’s sheltering brim, Zant squinted in the bright sunlight as he watched her pass through the mission church’s sanctified doors. Does she think being in a church will keep her safe from me? Just the sight of all that black, silky hair of hers … Just the sight of her slender shoulders and back, narrowing to a tiny waist.… just the flare of her rounded hips … He wanted her with a savagery that shook him.
Zant took a deep breath. Not even holy ground could keep at bay the lurid images of what he wanted to do with her. Nor could it take from his heart the wrenching guilt that it was her—a Lawless, just as Blue said—that made him feel this way.
She’d tormented his days, invaded his dreams, and worried the living hell out of him for the last time, dammit. She’d made him restless, made him fight yet again with Don Rafael, made him nearly have a parting of the ways with Blue. Hell, he’d even killed two men over her already. Men who deserved to die, true enough, but would his luck hold? Could he stop every man that Don Rafael sent after her? Probably not. Don Rafael had more men than Tucson had bullets.
But Zant had another weapon. Jacey herself. Because he’d made up his mind regarding Miss Lawless. He had a plan for her. He’d purge himself of his raging desire for her by possessing her. Until she carried his seed. It was perfect, for two reasons. One, Don Rafael might not be so quick to kill her if she carried his great-grandchild. And two, with her belly full of his bastard child, Zant would send her packing to her father.
He wanted J. C. Lawless to know, through his grandchild, the shame of being a bastard, of having no name, no father. Just imagining the sight she’d make up in No Man’s Land, swollen with his child, brought a wolfish grin to Zant’s face.
On the heels of that leer, though, came a moment of clarity. His grin bled into a frown. Why should he want to protect a Lawless? And why should the notion of giving the old man an heir be so pleasing to him? Balking at the answers, his foul and gritty mood deepened. He’d spent three fitful nights on the desert floor and three long days seeing her face like a mirage, floating before his eyes. Zant nudged his roan forward, wondering if the walls would cave in on the pious when he strode in and took one of the parishoners out with him.
As he rode closer, the last of the folks trailed in. A brown-robed monk pulled the dark and heavy door closed. A moment later, Zant reined his stallion to a halt, dismounted, and hitched the thoroughbred to a rail. A grin born of pure calculation accompanied his swaggering stride to the sanctuary’s closed door. He heard the sound of voices raised in a hymn that swelled to the heavens. But not even the holy music made him falter.
He’d come for the Lawless woman. And leave with her, he would. He put his hand on the wrought-iron rattlesnake that formed the door’s latch handle. And tugged it open.
* * *
Jacey’s first inkling that something was wrong came when the singing began dying down—from the back of the church to the front, like a waving blanket settling to the ground. Finally, only a hush filled the overflowing church. She sent Rosie a questioning look. But she was no help. She shrugged her confusion. They both looked to the priest at the altar.
And turned with him and the rest of the congregation to the open door behind them. Folks to the left and to the right of the aisle strained to see what was going on.
Standing in front of their smooth-worn, wooden pew about halfway to the altar and all the way over on the right side of the whitewashed church, Jacey had all she could do not to hop up onto the pew and see for herself what was going on. It appeared she owed Rosie an apology—because she was definitely liking church. This was mighty interesting. But when the swelling whispers reached her ears, she had all she could do not to duck under the pew and crawl out on her belly.
“Chapelo,” they were all whispering. “Chapelo.” “Chapelo.”
“Oh, my God,” she intoned in a breathy whisper of her own, garnering for herself the wide-eyed stares of Alberto on her left and Rosie on her right. “He’s here, and he’s going to kill me.” She then turned to Alberto and cuffed him on his sleeve. “You and your no-guns-in-church. Now look at what’s happening. Chapelo’s out for blood, and I’m unarmed.”
Alberto put his arm around her shoulders and shook his head. “Do not worry so, querida. Señor Chapelo would never shoot a woman.”
Jacey wanted to believe him. She tried to believe him. But he just wouldn’t leave well enough alone.
“At least … not on holy ground. I hope.” He then frowned and shook his head, as if having to convince himself. “No, he would not do this thing.” He looked into Jacey’s eyes, a hopeful smile tugging at his mustache. “Perhaps he only comes to church to worship with us.”
Jacey pulled back from Alberto and eyed him. “Yeah. That’s it. He wants to worship with me.”
Just then, Zant’s booming voice in the high-raftered, templed structure sounded like the wrath of God. Or perhaps like the devil himself. “I’m looking for Jacey Lawless.”
After a second’s deathly quiet, the entire congregation erupted into crossing themselves and sending up prayers and supplications for mercy. A few souls fainted dead away. Here and there a baby cried, a small child wailed. As the priest called for calm, Rosie sucked in a breath and grabbed Jacey’s arm, very nearly startling her into crying out. Holding on to Rosie, Jacey abruptly sat down with her and stared blankly at her friend.
The priest’s voice boomed out. “Everyone, please, a moment of quiet. If you will be seated.…” His voice trailed off as he obviously waited to be obeyed.
Jacey looked up to see the congregation turning toward the priest. Then, like wind-blown tallgrass out on the prairie, the good folks sat down in waves, quieted, and looked to him for guidance. The kindly holy man at the front of the church held his hand out to the belligerent outlaw at the back of the church. “All are welcome here, my s
on. Will you join us?”
Everyone—including Jacey—turned to the outlaw. Staying hunkered down as best she could behind Alberto and peeking around his narrow shoulder, she swallowed hard at the sight Chapelo made. Grim-faced. Gritty. Dusty and rumpled from the trail. Three days’ growth of beard on his face. “I thank you, padre, but no. I’m here for Jacey Lawless, like I said.”
By the time the congregation had turned again to their spiritual leader, the white-robed priest looked very harrassed. “It seems everyone has seen J. C. Lawless this past week. I assure you, you will not find him here. But what you will find is peace for your troubled soul, my son. Please … join us.”
“No, I can’t do that. I’m sorry for interrupting your service, but I’m here for Jacey Lawless.” He pulled his Colt out of its holster, cocked it, and held it up in the air. “When I leave, I’ll have a Lawless with me.”
Over the congregation’s gasps, renewed wailings, and loud prayers, Rosie turned to Jacey. “He is going to give you away. Everyone will know who you are. And then your plan will fail. What are you going to do, Catarina?”
“This.” Jacey jerked to her feet, standing up before Rosie or Alberto could stop her. With mounting dread in her heart, she turned to face Chapelo. “Chapelo? Leave these nice folks be. Take me. I’ll go with you.” She heard her own voice ring to the rafters and roll back down on its own echo.
When the priest protested, when Rosie and Alberto clutched at her, when all heads turned to her, Jacey willed away the hot flush on her cheeks. She stood her ground. So far Chapelo’d only said “Jacey Lawless.” Folks would naturally hear “J. C. Lawless.” So, if she acted now, if she could get Chapelo out of here, and make the congregation think she’d offered herself as a sacrificial lamb, she just might salvage her plan.
So, her spine rigid, her insides quaking, Jacey faced the man. Even though a sea of faces and more than a few yards separated her from him, she felt pushed up against him, such was his effect on her. Fighting the knocking in her knees, she repeated her offer. “Well, what’s it going to be, Chapelo? It’s me or no one. And you’re keeping these folks from their prayers.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Zant riveted his attention on Jacey across the sea of worshipers. Only the random shifting of weight and clearing of throats broke the heavy silence around him. Drawing in a deep breath of the dusty air, scented with the closeness of packed bodies and heavy incense, Zant opened his mouth to speak.
“No. You cannot take this girl.” Zant turned to see the hefty holy man striding down the aisle, his robes puffed out behind him, his thick hands held up in supplication. “She is but an innocent child in God’s house. And therefore in my keeping. I will not allow this kidnapping in broad daylight of one of the Lord’s little lambs.”
Zant narrowed his eyes at the man’s interference—and at all those words. With a split-second cutting of his gaze back toward Jacey, though, he saw her working her way along the pew, saw folks moving their legs and their kids out of her way. So … she was coming to him. Zant grinned and turned back to the priest, who stood in front of him now, thick hands folded against his pudgy waist. “Seems to me, padre, that the lady made her own mind up.”
The priest stared at Zant and then whipped around to face Jacey. He held a hand up, motioning her to come no closer. “No, my child. You do not have to do this. We will protect you.”
Zant wasn’t the least bit surprised when Jacey quirked an eyebrow at the priest who stood in front of him … and who blocked her way. “Protect me? From the likes of him?”—Zant puffed up when she pointed at him—“I thank you, but I don’t believe that’ll be necessary, preacher. I can handle his kind with one hand tied behind my back.”
While shocked gasps arose from the priest and his flock, Zant had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at her. Damned little hellcat needs her butt whipped. But more than that, he wanted to grab her up in his arms, swing her around, and kiss that smart-ass look right off her glaring face.
But not giving away a thing, he evil-eyed the shawl-draped Jacey as she stepped around the priest, grimaced up at him, and then proceeded to exit the church. With his eyebrows meeting over his nose in a fierce frown, Zant turned to stare at her backside. He raised a finger preparatory to voicing his retort, but she sashayed her swinging hips right out the heavy, mesquite-wood door. And allowed it to swing closed behind her.
At a loss now, and aware of all the folks staring at him, Zant found himself seeking out the preacher’s brown eyes. The man’s perspiration-beaded forehead furrowed into deep, sincere lines as he reached out to clasp Zant’s arm in a warm, firm grip. “I will pray for you, my son.”
* * *
Outside, Jacey waited for the outlaw. She leaned up against the long hitching rail, ignoring the tethered and dozing horses behind her. With her arms crossed under her bosom and her legs crossed at the ankles, she eyed the church’s entry. A silent, heartfelt prayer for the preservation of her own hide moved her lips. She figured she needed all the divine help she could get because, when Chapelo stepped into view … he’d be loaded for bear.
The front door jerked open. Jacey swallowed hard, refusing to obey her mind’s screaming order to run as far and as fast as she could—starting about now. Chapelo swaggered out, looked right and then left, spied her, and stopped. Watching him settle his black hat and then hitch at his gunbelt, Jacey reminded herself to breathe. Keeping her arms crossed, her shawl covering her fingernails digging into her skin, she waited him out.
He started toward her. Unable to look away, she marked his progress, seeing him in terms of brimmed hat, shaded face, broad shoulders that cut down to a trim waist, narrow hips, and long, muscular legs. She kept forgetting how big this Chapelo character was. But for as long as she lived—which by her calculations would be about another two minutes—she’d see him as he was now. Strong. Serious. Grim. And intent on her.
Every stalking stride of his brought him nearer … and bigger. Jacey straightened up, her eyes widening. Oh, Lordy, he’s not slowing down. She held her hand out in warning, but he wrenched her to him, pulling her within an inch of his chest. Off balance, her lacy shawl tangled in his grasp, her hands flattened against his damp and dusty chest, she met his black-eyed gaze.
“Damn you, Jacey Lawless. I haven’t thought about anything but—” He cut off his own gruff words as his head slanted down and he claimed her mouth.
Surely this sacrilege on holy ground would bring a jagged spear of lightning straight from heaven. Sure enough, she felt the bolt hit, felt it take her feet out from under her and meld her to the outlaw. The hot feel of his lips on hers, his hands on her arms, his tongue seeking hers, the male-musk and trail-dusty scent of him, his hunger for her … all combined to render Jacey as weak as a kitten.
And she didn’t like that feeling. The womanly softness of her reaction to this one man felt wrong, seemed disrespectful to who she was, to how she thought of herself. His touch, his kiss chipped away at her control and made a mockery of her blood pact with her sisters. For that, more than anything else, she couldn’t forgive him.
Wrenching in his grasp, bucking against him, she finally succeeded in tearing her wet and kiss-swollen lips from his. Breathing hard and holding herself rigid, she glared up into his passion-glazed eyes. “Get your damned hands off me, Chapelo.”
Her words only tightened his grip on her. Frowning, as if he didn’t quite comprehend, he stared down at her. Breathing just as rapidly and as shallowly as she was, he gazed at her and his expression slowly cleared, slowly hardened. He abruptly released her. Jacey staggered back, knocking against the hitching rail behind her. Several horses knickered and pulled back restively. Swiping a hand across her lips, resettling her shawl, Jacey eyed the outlaw. “What do you want with me?”
“I thought that was evident.”
She stiffened. “Don’t make me slap your face, Chapelo.”
Without warning, he snaked out a hand and grabbed her arm, yanking her
back to him. “I didn’t think that was your style, Jacey. Too womanish for you. Too tame. But go ahead—try.”
Stung by his slur on her femaleness—and surprised by her own reactions, Jacey swung her open-palmed hand up in an angry arc that had his hateful face at its apex.
But Zant easily blocked the blow with his iron-clad grip on her wrist. “I don’t think so, honey.”
With angry jerks, Jacey tried to free her arm, but Zant held fast … and held her gaze with his black-eyed, taunting one. A mocking grin curved up a corner of his mouth, and sent a tremor of fear through her. He could break her in two with that one hand, if he so chose. Effectively stilled by her own fearful thoughts, all she could do now was bravely glare at him. And wait for his next move.
“You’re going with me.” It was an order, plain and simple.
Jacey hated orders. Of any kind. “Like hell I am.”
“Like hell you’re not.” With that, he let go of her wrist to grab her around her waist and haul her—headfirst like a slab of beef—over his shoulder.
Air whooshed out of her lungs when she smacked bellyfirst against the granite width of his shoulder. With her arms, her head, and her cascade of black hair hanging down the man’s back, with her butt even with his profile, with his arms wrapped around the bulk of her petticoats and skirt, with her legs dangling down his front, Jacey stared dizzily and in wide-eyed shock at the bare, sandy ground just behind Chapelo’s boot heels. How dare he, the rotten, no-good—She blinked and focused on what she was really seeing. Then, her heart nearly stopped.
He was wearing silver spurs.
And they jingled merrily as he started walking, striding easily on his long legs as if her added weight were no more than a flea’s. Jacey fisted her hands around his flannel shirt. Belatedly, she began bellowing out her protests and kicking for all she was worth. “If you don’t put me down right now, Chapelo, I swear I’ll—”
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