Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Yes, she should’ve left him to die and then buried him out back next to his father. And that was another thing. How’d a good man like Mr. Daltry raise a son as troublesome as Jack Daltry? Inching her hand down and over until she felt the pistol at her side, Angel commented, as calmly as she could, “I don’t know what you’re thinking, cowboy. But let me remind you … I have a gun strapped on.”

  He straightened up. “Part of our deal was you won’t call me cowboy.”

  Angel’s eyes widened. She’d forgotten that, but she said, “I remember. And another part of it was you’re not to lay a hand on me. Do you remember that?”

  He spread his hands wide in a gesture of acquiescence. “I do. And I have no such intentions … unless you want me to.”

  Angel tipped her tongue out to moisten her suddenly dry lips. “Well, I don’t. But I think you’re lying. Your mouth says one thing. But your face says another.”

  “Does it?” His eyes narrowed, his features became wolfish. “And what does my face say, Angel Devlin?” He started toward her, coming around the small table.

  Angel locked her knees to keep from fleeing. She’d die first before she’d turn tail and run. Especially since she was the one who was armed. She ripped the Colt out of its holster and poked its business end into the firmness of his shirt-covered abdomen. But his arms remained at his sides. True to his promise, he didn’t touch her. Damn him. “Your face,” Angel said, swallowing and looking up into his, “says you’d like me for dessert.”

  He nodded, smiling without showing any teeth. Angel believed that if she could see them, they’d be pointed. Because his blue eyes sparked fire and heat. And his voice rumbled low in his throat. “That’d be a sweet end to the evening.”

  Angel arched an eyebrow. “I don’t know about sweet. But it sure as hell would be an end. A bloody one. And all of it yours.” Never looking away, she used her thumb to cock the hammer spur on the six-shooter she held. “Your call … Jack.”

  “You won’t pull that trigger, Angel.”

  She swallowed, feeling the sweat trickle down her spine. He was going to try her hand. The damned man was going to make her have to kill him. “Try me,” she again challenged.

  “I will. But there’s something you should know first. That pistol you’re poking into my gut is my old one.”

  Angel shifted her weight, and wondered why she was listening to him, even as she said, “Is that supposed to stop me?”

  “No, but there’s something wrong with its firing mechanism. Which is why I quit carrying it.”

  Angel hated herself for asking, but couldn’t stop herself. “What’s wrong with it?”

  He chuckled, didn’t look the least bit afraid of her and her—his—pistol. “Well, what’s important to you is, if you fire it, you could end up shooting yourself. Instead of me.”

  A frisson of fear coursed through her at such a prospect, but Angel narrowed her eyes. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Am I?” A wolfish grin spread his lips back over his teeth—which weren’t pointed.

  Nervously, Angel split her gaze between the gun stuck against his belly and the look of challenge in his eyes. “At such close range, how could anyone but you get shot?”

  He never blinked, never hesitated. “Pull the trigger and see.”

  Angel huffed out a breath, finally admitting to herself that she wasn’t going to shoot him … or herself, as the case might be. But she hated his guts the whole while she released the hammer spur and lowered the gun to her side. And even though it had to be obvious to him, she snarled, “I’m not going to shoot you. Not like this. But I ought to, you snake. I ought to. Because I still think you’re lying.”

  “About what?” He hooked his thumbs into his waistband and grinned, adding in a voice lowered to a husky whisper, “What am I lying about, Angel?”

  Her mouth dried. He was going to make her say it. Damn him. Suddenly, she didn’t know where to look, and realized she was cutting her gaze this way and that. Not liking this sudden bout of girlishness that was heating her cheeks, Angel settled her gaze on him, peering at him directly, as if her eyes were weapons. “About … both things. Meaning, the gun. And … about—” Sudden anger at his teasing expression made her temper explode. “About putting your hands on me, you son of a bitch. You know exactly what I mean, Jack Daltry.”

  “No. I didn’t,” he said around a chuckle. “But I do now.” With that, he reached out, gripping her by her arms. Realizing his intent, Angel stiffened, resisting his tug. But it was to no avail, as he used his superior strength to pull her against his chest. “And you’re right,” he said around his leering grin as he peered down into her upturned face. “I am lying. About both things.”

  To prove it, he lowered his head, covering her mouth with his.

  His kiss … Angel’s first … proved so startling, so hot and penetrating, so wet and swirling in its passion, that she stiffened—as much against the foreign feel of a man’s lips on her own as against her own body’s rebellious awakening. Her shocked protests—no more than muffled moans against his mouth’s pressure, moans that seemed to incite him further—would have been bellows of outrage had she had her own air and some distance between their bodies.

  Fighting not to give in to him—even as her pulse raced in time with her heart’s pounding—Angel’s fingers flexed angrily, involuntarily—and tripped the trigger on the forgotten pistol she still held. An explosion ripped through the room, pegging a bullet right through the wood flooring at their feet and accomplishing what Angel hadn’t been able to do on her own. Getting Jack Daltry to release her.

  And release her, he did. With a shove that had her stumbling backward, he yelped “Son of a bitch!” and sidestepped right into the drop-leaf table to his right. Dirty dishes crashed to the floor. Openmouthed with shock, Angel didn’t know where to look first. At the food and crockery splattering the floor and the wall. At the neat little hole in the floor at the table’s edge. Or at Jack, who bellowed, “You could’ve killed me with that damned thing. What the hell were you thinking?”

  Angel pulled back at his tone and then stared at the smoking gun in her hand. Then, swiping her sleeve across her still wet lips, meaning her gesture as one of contempt, she wiped away his kiss. Her triumphant grin ruled the next moments as she held his gaze, and said, “What was I thinking? That I could’ve killed you with this damned thing. You think about that the next time you act on any suggestions that come to you—with regard to me—from below your waist, Jack Daltry.”

  * * *

  Angel had more to think about than she could focus on. Her jumbled thoughts, and resultant sleepless night, had her awake and standing at her bedroom’s narrow window early the next morning. Her hair was a sleep-ratted mess about her shoulders, with stray curls tickling her crossed arms. She hugged herself and stared into the distance—with all the expectant intensity, she suddenly realized, of someone awaiting a messenger who was already late.

  What was she doing? she asked herself as she stepped back, denying the tension that banded her forehead and lifted her shoulders. Why, this was just plain silly.

  But blaming a sudden shiver of anticipation on being clad only in her small clothes on this cool morning didn’t seem to be the whole truth, either. There was more to this sense of dread that gripped her. The coming day held … danger. She just knew it. Could smell it, almost taste it. Someone was coming. Someone was out there. Almost immediately, though, Angel discounted her intuition. Again she called herself silly as she turned and stepped away from the window.

  Just then, from outside, came the most mournful howl she’d ever heard. And it had her turning back to the window, the hair on her arms standing up. Could it be what she thought it was? A wolf’s howl. And from very close by. She’d heard wolf calls before and they didn’t generally frighten her, as she knew that wolves left alone those folks who didn’t mess with them.

  But this one—well, it was just plain crazy, but she felt sure this howl was meant on
ly for her, that only she could hear it. Looking this way and that, holding back the curtains, she searched the yard, the barn’s service court, the outer grounds. Nothing. Then she focused on the meadow, where she’d picked the bluebonnets. The wolf flower. And saw him.

  A big white wolf stood among the flowers. And stared right at her. Angel’s gaze locked with the wolf’s … and held. Fear jetted through Angel, had her clasping her hands together over her heart, her breath leaving her in short gasps. The wolf seemed, somehow, to commune with her. Angel found herself reaching out to it, her hand encountering the closed pane of glass. With determined but fumbling motions, she jerked the window up and stuck her head out, searching for the spot—

  The wolf was gone.

  “No!” she cried out, not even knowing why, just feeling the loss. “No,” she repeated, with a whimper of emotion. And then she stayed there, hoping, fearing, she’d see him again. But as time ticked by, and the sun continued its ascent, he didn’t reappear. Angel finally drew her head in and closed the window. Turning around, she stared at the room behind her as if she’d never seen it before. She felt strangely out of place now. And not because she was in Jack Daltry’s house. It was hers now. Not his.

  That thought got her moving. She crossed the room to where the man’s borrowed dirt-encrusted denims and chambray shirt lay across the back of a chair, where she’d left them yesterday. Angel reached for the shirt. But her hand stalled in midair. She stiffened, staring at the two garments as if they were coiled rattlers. The idea of putting these clothes on her back felt too much like … well, like wearing him all wrapped around her today. It must be that kiss last night that made her feel this way.

  Angel grimaced at the remembrance of the man’s lips pressed to hers, at his tongue swirling inside her mouth. Even as her knees weakened, threatening to give out and send her to the floor, even as her bones seemed to melt, Angel was clenching her jaw and telling herself that she hadn’t liked his kiss … dammit. She hadn’t. So the rest of it, her hesitation, her giving the kiss any meaning or power over her, was just plain silly.

  With that, Angel’s breathing slowed and she felt better about herself. There, that did it. With renewed determination, she scooped up the shirt, first settling it around her shoulders, and then slipping her arms into its rolled-up sleeves. As she buttoned it, and refused to think about whose it was, she forced her scattered thoughts onto perhaps more mundane but certainly more important things. Namely, coffee. The only thing she really wanted right now. Strong coffee. And lots of it. And after that?

  Well, she had to admit, she didn’t rightly know. Not with Jack Daltry here. In the week before he’d arrived, she’d gone about the business of settling herself in, of establishing her own routine, of deciding what needed to be done, and then doing it—her way. But with him here … well, she just didn’t feel like she owned the place, like she had any right to proceed with her own plans for the Circle D. Not that she had any grand ones so far. Not that she was able to think beyond her next meal here. But still, it didn’t seem fair or right, this notion that she had to consult with him before she did the least blasted thing.

  But that was how she felt. Angel jerked up the man’s denims and took the two or three steps to the bed. There she flopped heavily down on the sleep-mussed linens, clutching the trousers in her clenched fists and staring down at them. Too bad it wasn’t his neck in her grip, she lamented. Well, now what? Huffing out her breath, Angel searched the room as if her answer lay hidden in the armoire or the chest of drawers. One thing she did know—she sure as shootin’ wasn’t sitting in here all day. He’d think she was hiding from him.

  Her eyes narrowed. Well, he’d better think again. Angel flipped the pants out in front of her and stuck her feet and legs into them. She then stood and hiked them to her waist. Just as she did, the door to her bedroom burst open. A reflexive tightening of her fists around her pants, as she clutched them to her belly, accompanied her gasp of startlement.

  For there stood Jack Daltry, fully dressed and glaring like a belligerent bull. The man filled the doorway. In his hand was the same Winchester she’d pointed at him the day he rode up. Recovering some, Angel yelped, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is my—”

  “Nothing here is yours,” he barked. “Are you expecting someone?”

  Expecting someone? Angel’s gut clenched, along with her fists. She was reminded of the danger she’d sensed earlier. Her gaze riveted to his, and fearing she gave away her thoughts, she mutely shook her head and finally got out, “No.”

  The sudden downward tilt of his chin and his raised eyebrow clearly said she hadn’t succeeded in keeping her fear off her face. He didn’t believe her, not one bit. “You sure? A partner, maybe? Someone helping you?”

  “Someone helping me?” Angel repeated. She didn’t like his inference one bit. “Helping me how? I don’t have a—”

  “Someone’s coming. If you know who it is, and you care about him, you’d better speak up right now. Because I aim to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Angel huffed out a breath, shifted her weight to one leg, and dared him. “Go ahead. Shoot him. Whoever’s coming is no kin to me.”

  For some reason, one she couldn’t fathom, her words stiffened him, had him releasing the doorknob. His gaze shifted to a point over her head and he muttered a name, which Angel barely heard. But it sounded to her ears like “Seth.”

  Sensing imminent danger, Angel didn’t move, didn’t say anything. Because she felt it, too. A presence. An evil one. She watched the play of emotions over Jack’s face. Finally, his features hardened. He lowered his gaze to look into her eyes. Angel all but gasped as her heart lurched into an erratic beat. Jack’s eyes, with their intense stare, were hot enough to scorch her skin. “Stay here,” he rasped out.

  With that, he stepped back and closed the door behind him. Stunned, Angel stared at the impassive solid-wood barrier. Stay here? Should she? Stiff-legged, her bare feet as good as nailed to the braided throw rug under them, she looked around helplessly. And do what? Who was this Seth? The more she thought about it, the more sure she was that was the name Jack had mumbled a moment ago. Angel bit at her bottom lip. And knew she couldn’t just stand here. If Jack—no, the Circle D—needed defending from this Seth character, then she’d be the one to do it. Or the one to help do it.

  Besides, just who the hell did he think he was? Angel June Devlin took orders from no one. And it was high time Jack Daltry learned that. Her decision made, Angel tucked in her shirt and buttoned and belted her denims with hurried but precise movements. Then, marching over to her stockings and boots—and Jack’s old Colt revolver, holstered and hanging over an edge of the dry sink’s framed mirror—Angel vowed she’d show him she was here to stay.

  * * *

  Standing on the verandah, a booted foot propped up on the hitching rail that fronted it, the Winchester held loosely in the hand that he rested against his bent knee, Jack watched his younger brother ride up. Alone. To all appearances, anyway. Jack flicked his gaze to Seth’s left and right. No movement anywhere to forewarn of hidden henchmen. You wouldn’t think someone coming home would need to be covered while he did so, but this was Seth.

  Casually spitting on the ground to his right, Jack then focused again on the lone rider approaching him. And held all other thoughts and considerations at bay. This boy—how old was Seth now? Twenty-three, maybe, to Jack’s twenty-eight?—warranted and deserved his strictest attention.

  “Hello, Seth,” he drawled when his younger brother reined in his big brown horse.

  “Morning, Jack,” Seth answered, adding a nod of greeting to his words. He stayed in the saddle, grinning. But there was no welcome, no warmth, in his expression. More of a dare, a try-to-figure-out-why-I’m-here look.

  Not willing to play Seth’s game, not this time, Jack cut to the heart of the matter. “What are you doing here?”

  Seth chuckled as he notched up his stiff-brimmed hat. “In case you f
orgot, I live here, big brother.”

  His words had Jack fisting his hand around the Winchester. “Like hell you do. What do you want?”

  Seth sobered, shrugging as he looked around Jack, as if he were searching for someone. “Thought I’d see Pa.”

  “Well, you can’t,” Jack said, garnering Seth’s attention again.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because he’s dead, Seth.”

  Seth stiffened, sat up straighter in his saddle. His eyes narrowed. “Dead? What happened?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” Jack said, swallowing around the lump in his throat caused both by his father’s death and his own failed relationship with his kid brother. And then he waited … in vain … for the least sign of grief from Seth. The empty moments ticked by. And each one ate at Jack. Did the kid just not care? But Jack already knew the answer to that. No. Seth didn’t care. Never had. Not about anybody or anything … except himself. And sometimes Jack doubted that his brother even cared about his own hide.

  Finally, Seth said, “I hope you’re not accusing me.”

  Jack’s gut twisted at the thought … a son killing his father. And how like Seth to be defensive. But Jack was glad he could shake his head in denial. “Nobody’s accusing anybody of anything. But Pa was killed. He didn’t just die.”

  “Is that so?”

  Seth’s reaction enraged Jack. His muscles bunched with a powerful urge to leap right off the verandah and onto Seth and beat the hell out of him. He acted as if Jack had just told him one of the horses, and not their father, had been killed.

  “Do I have to fight my way past you, Jack? Or are you going to invite me in, so I can pay my last respects?”

  “Respect?” Jack snorted. “The time to show respect for your father is when he’s alive, Seth.”

  Seth chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you, Jack? You were always the good one, weren’t you? Always the one with your nose up Pa’s sorry ass.”

  “Why, you little son of a—” An ugly emotion had Jack pushing himself away from the railing and setting aside the Winchester. “Is that all you’ve got to say about your dead father? Get down off that damned horse. I’m gonna kick your ass, boy. And it’s high time I did.”