Captive Angel

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Either way, it didn’t matter. The results would be the same. Because keeping her here had set retribution in motion. It was that simple. That hard.

  As if frozen in time, Jack stood there, his eyes closed, this innocent woman limp in his arms. And wanted to give up. Right here. Right now. But that didn’t happen. His heart continued to beat. His brain to think. His blood to course through his veins. Nothing could be crueler than to live. Jack heard the words as if from outside himself. Frightened, gasping, he straightened up, stiffening his legs as he looked around. But he and Angel were otherwise alone.

  Then he looked to the bundle in his arms. His breath left him in a hot exhalation. As if awakening from a dream, he looked around, realized he was standing … soaked to the skin … in the rain … holding Angel Devlin in his arms.

  Just then, she stirred, whimpering like a crying child, mouthing something unintelligible as she raised her arm, as if meaning to stop the rain from beating upon her skin. But she was still weak, and her arm fell back, hanging limp.

  The sight tore at Jack’s heart. His hands fisted around her clothing, around the warm feel of her arm and her leg, as if he needed to touch her living body. As if he needed to assure himself that she still drew breath.

  “Oh, God, Angel,” he cried out. He blinked away the teardrops of rain that ran in rivulets down his face. “I am so damned sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

  Just then, there was a sound Jack hadn’t heard in years. He jerked his head up, his spine stiffened … he listened. There it was again. The hair on his arms rose in fear and warning. The mournful howling of a wolf. But not just any wolf. Jack’s heart thundered. His blood coursed like lightning through his veins.

  The white wolf.

  Slowly, against every instinct in himself, Jack turned around. For an instant, the wind died, the rain ceased. And the earth held its breath. There … in the meadow, among the bent and fallen heads of the bluebonnets … she stood. Old Mother. The white wolf. Looming larger than life, seeming closer than she actually was, she raised her big head, her pointed ears pricking forward. Her eyes—the same blue as Jack’s—bored into his. He swallowed, clutched Angel to him.

  But even from a distance, the she-wolf reacted to his gesture. She raised her head, laying her ears back, and howled.

  Nine

  Angel jerked awake. She sat straight up, staring across the lamp-lit stuffy room. And wondered how she had got here. Outside, lightning cracked, thunder boomed. With a start, Angel turned her head, seeking the sound. Looking out the narrow window across the room, she saw the storm that raged outside. The wind rattled the glass panes, as if demanding to be let in.

  Jerking away from the sight, bracing herself with her palms flattened against the soft leather cushions she sat on, Angel again took in her surroundings. She knew this room. She looked around slowly, taking in the three-shelved lawyer’s bookcase to her left, and to her right, the big dusty desk with the worn padded chair behind it. This was Wallace Daltry’s office.

  Why was she in here? Angel tried to recall how she came to be here … but the last thing she distinctly remembered was being out at the corral and saddling that roan. Her frown deepened. She’d been talking to Jack Daltry. She remembered that. She looked down at herself, at her bare legs, and gasped. She’d been fully dressed then, too. And not in this clean white shirt and nothing else.

  Shifting her weight, wondering what the heck was going on, she put a hand to her face, only to cry out in pain. What the—? She pulled her hand away, wondering why her jaw hurt. Then, she remembered. Jack Daltry had hit her. With great gentleness, she probed the area, feeling the tender lump there that met her fingers. The man had knocked her out.

  And then he’d obviously … well, he’d undressed her and brushed her hair and—all the things she’d done to him only a few days ago. Well, his doing it to her wasn’t exactly the same thing, she decided as she vowed revenge. Wait until she saw him again.

  The room’s closed door suddenly thumped open, banging against the wall behind it and rattling the pictures hanging there. Gasping in surprise and jerking her legs up, digging her heels into the leather, Angel nearly flipped herself over the back of the sofa, so startled was she. With her arms outspread, she clutched at the Indian blanket draped over the sofa’s spine. In one neat swooping motion she dragged it off the cushions and threw it around her near naked self before straightening up to see—who else?—Jack Daltry entering the room. Butt first.

  “Ah, I see you’re awake,” he said as he turned around to reveal his reason for entering the way he had. He clutched a food-laden tray in his hands. As if unsure of his reception, he just stood there, staring at her.

  “Well, come on in,” Angel drawled. “You already woke the dead.” With that, she settled into a slumping posture and, with no small amount of malice in her heart, eyed the first man ever to see her naked. If she had any sense, she’d shoot him or cuff him upside the head or—she returned to being sensible—or leave it alone, not mention it, forget it happened.

  He walked across the room, heading for a low table next to a wing chair. Angel’s gaze followed him. It was bad enough he’d feasted his eyes on her, she argued with herself, so why make it worse by talking about it with him? After all, he could throw it in her face that she’d done the same thing to him. And had done it first. So what good could come of taking him to task over it? He couldn’t take it back. Well, he could have the decency to gouge his own eyes out, Angel decided. But figured the odds of getting him actually to do that were awfully slim.

  “You’re pretty quiet over there,” he remarked as he bent over the table.

  Angel sniffed, now eyeing the man’s denim-covered butt and his muscled thighs as he did so. Her eyebrows arched. She exhaled a sharp little breath. Finally she remembered to answer him. “Nothing to say, I guess.”

  He straightened up and turned around, barely giving Angel enough time to lift her gaze to his face. He stared at her, grinning, raking her up and down. Under the Indian blanket, Angel felt too warm. “You do nice things for that blanket,” he remarked.

  “I guess you’d know,” Angel snapped before she could think better of her words, much less her moments-old decision not to bring up his having seen her naked. Instantly he sobered, but her face heated, afraid to hear what suggestive or downright dirty thing he might say. She’d heard such things all her childhood years when she’d lived at the saloon with her mother. And expected no less from him.

  “I did only what I had to, what I felt needed to be done, Angel. Nothing more. I didn’t do anything to you that you didn’t do to me the other day.”

  Just as she’d known he’d say. But other than that, the man’s comeback was a decent one. Angel lowered her gaze to her lap. How dare he be so nice as to make her feel ungrateful for his looking after her? Then she remembered. She wouldn’t have needed looking after if he hadn’t popped her in the jaw. Her head snapped up, she started to tell what-for, but—

  He’d turned away, back to the tray he’d brought in, and was now ordering its contents to his liking. Angel caught herself again staring at his backside and exhaled another sharp breath, quickly forcing her gaze to the dishes from which an aromatic steam arose. The curling scent chased away the musty kerosene odor of the room. And made her stomach growl. Under cover of the blanket, she clutched at her belly, willing it to be quiet.

  She flicked her gaze to Jack, fearing he’d heard it and would tease her. But he didn’t turn to her. So she took a moment to scrutinize the man’s appearance. And found herself wondering just how long she’d been out. Because he’d done plenty in the meantime. He too looked freshly washed and dressed. Just like her. But unlike her, he had on pants. And boots. His hair was wet and combed straight back off his high forehead. Angel’s hair wasn’t wet, but it was brushed back away from her face and secured at her nape.

  As Jack began dragging the table over closer to her, Angel gave in to her curiosity, worming her hand out from under the blanket
’s folds to feel for what fastened her hair. A piece of ribbon. It was made of a soft fabric, something she’d never owned before. It felt like the satin she remembered fingering at Jesse Chisholm’s trading post before he caught her and told her he knew she didn’t have any money, that she was to put it down … and to keep her dirty fingers off his merchandise.

  Angel stored the memory, wondering only why Jack Daltry had such a piece of ribbon, as he sat down next to her on the sofa and held out a spoon to her. Angel looked at the spoon, then up at Jack’s face, saw the mocking challenge in his eyes. Huffing her breath out, and being careful to keep the blanket secured around her, she took the danged spoon—snatched it from him, was more like it—and directed her question to him. “What’s this for?”

  “The soup.”

  “The soup?” she repeated. He nodded. Warily, Angel looked from his face to the tray. Sure enough. Soup. And bread. Thick slices of it. She’d made this bread a couple days ago. But couldn’t account for the other. Still clutching the spoon, Angel looked again to Jack. “When did you make soup?”

  He gave her a sheepish look and then shrugged, saying, “While you were, um, out. I was beginning to get worried, you were out so long.”

  Angel’s eyebrow rose. “You were so worried that you cooked?”

  He chuckled. “It’d seem so. Hell, I just threw everything together and set it on the stove. I thought it might taste good to you—” He cut himself off as if he’d realized what he’d said. Looking unsure of himself again, he ran his hand through his still damp hair and said, “I don’t know how good it is.”

  He’d made this for her? To make her feel better? Angel stared at him, long enough to blink a few times before she thought to check out the soup. Meat chunks and sliced spring vegetables swam around in a nice brown broth. It looked okay to her. But she held her spoon out to him and said, “You first.”

  He chuckled again. “That’s fair.” And took the spoon from her. Then he picked up the bowl and dipped himself some of his own handiwork. Then he eyed her as if she’d just ordered him to eat a writhing snake. Angel bit down on her bottom lip against the sudden bubble of laughter that welled up in her. Stop that, she scolded herself.

  But evidently he’d seen the laughter in her eyes. Because he grinned wide and slurped up the spoon’s contents. “Hmmm,” he intoned, closing his eyes with a look of sensual delight on his face as he chewed and swallowed.

  Delighted with his expression, Angel only belatedly realized her mouth was open … as if she’d taken the bite with him. She covered herself by asking, “That good, huh?”

  He opened his eyes, his look baleful as he grimaced and put down the bowl. “No. It’s awful. Trust me, you don’t want to eat this.” Standing, he picked up the tray and held it out to her. “Grab the bread and eat that. I’ll go find something else—”

  “No, Jack,” Angel said, stopping him, her hand on his bare arm … and every nerve ending in her body aware that it was. “Wait. Put the tray down and sit. Please.” Angel heard the new softness in her voice and hated it. She never said please. What was happening to her? Even worse, she had no idea why she’d asked him to stay. But she had, and now his gaze locked with hers. He studied her a moment. Angel willed herself not to look away.

  Finally, he did as she asked. He put the tray down and sat down, bracing his forearms against his thighs and folding his hands together. Hanging his head between his shoulders, he angled a look over at her, obviously unsure of her intent but willing to wait until she told him. A defiant lock of his black hair slowly slid forward over his forehead.

  Angel’s heartbeat leaped. He was purely the most handsome man she’d ever seen, as well as the first one she’d ever remarked on in such a way. She took a deep breath and tried not to stare at him, tried not to give away her tingling response to him. Her hands fisted around the blanket’s edges as she made a mental vow to herself that she would not have feelings for Jack Daltry. But just having to vow it told her it was already too late. I have feelings for Jack Daltry? She inhaled sharply, garnering a questioning frown from him.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, but no thanks to you,” she shot back. And liked that response. Comforting, it was. Even familiar in its harshness, in its standoffishness. This was more like her. Angel rode the crest of that emotional wave, finally telling him, “I ought to shoot you for hitting me.”

  As if feeling guilty, he turned hurting blue eyes on her as the words poured out of him. “I figured you’d feel that way. I don’t blame you. But I didn’t have a choice. It was the only way I could get you to stay here.”

  “You think so? You think I’m staying now?” Angel tried to scoot forward on the leather, but her bare skin stuck to the fabric, wouldn’t allow it. Nor would Jack’s hand on her arm. She tensed, narrowing her eyes at him.

  “Hear me out, Angel. Please. If you still want to leave when I’m done … then, fine. I won’t try to stop you. Deal?”

  What choice did she have? He still held her in place. He had a six-shooter strapped on. The storm still raged outside. She had no idea where she would get more clothes to cover herself. And even less of an idea where she’d go once she did leave. So, she was stuck here, as surely as her behind was stuck to the leather cushion under her. Given all that, she slumped back against the cushions and huffed out her breath, saying, “Deal.”

  Looking relieved, but not releasing her, he said, “Good. First of all, I want to say I’m sorry I hit you. I’ve never hit a woman before in my life. And I can’t imagine ever doing it again.” He paused, looking into her eyes.

  Did he want her forgiveness? Well, she had none for him. Maybe when her jaw quit hurting. Angel said nothing, gave him nothing.

  “Okay.” He ran a hand through his hair and went on. “I just couldn’t let you leave. I have several reasons why not, but the most serious one is Seth.”

  Feeling but otherwise ignoring the heated grip of his fingers still wrapped around her arm, Angel nodded, saying, “That’s some brother you have there.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “You have no idea. He—” Jack stopped and sprang suddenly to his feet, startling Angel into clutching at her blanket. Obviously agitated, he stalked back and forth in front of her. “What do you suppose is going on around here, Angel? I mean, where is everyone? Where’re the cattle? The men? Have I been robbed? If not, where’s the money? And where’s all the paperwork for the ranch? This stuff’s eating at me. It’s making me crazy.”

  Without warning, he stopped right in front of her, his hands fisted at his waist. “And just what the hell did happen to my father? And why’d he tell you the Circle D is yours?” As if he didn’t expect a reply, he set off on another round of the room. “See? I don’t know what to make of any of this. I should be out looking for answers. But here I am—trying to shake them out of you.”

  “Well, don’t let me stop you—”

  “But you do.” None too gently, Jack scooted the tray aside and sat in its place on the heavy little table. To Angel’s further surprise, he pulled her hands away from the blanket and gripped them tightly, looking right into her eyes. “The last thing I ever want to do is hurt you, Angel. And yet I keep doing just that. So what kind of a sorry son of a bitch am I, anyway?”

  “You’re not a—” Angel bit back her words, couldn’t believe she’d been about to defend him. Disconcerted, she looked down at his hands holding hers, suddenly aware of the strong, warm pressure of his fingers wrapped around hers. Finally, she found her voice, and tried again, raising her head until she met his sincere gaze. “All those questions eating at you are some of the same I ask myself.”

  She paused, allowing that to sink in before going on. “But I don’t have the answers you seem to think I do. And that’s the truth. What’s happened here at the Circle D—meaning, everything and everyone that’s missing—was already done when I got here. I don’t know who did it, Jack. Or why.”

  His hands squeezed hers as his breath came out on a h
eavily accented sigh. “I feared as much,” he said, speaking with almost no emotion as his somber gaze sought hers. Then he said, “Angel, I need to ask you something.”

  A sudden wariness had her heart thudding against her ribs, had her pulling her hands away from his. “Ask away.”

  He held her gaze a moment, then looked down at his empty hands. After a moment or two, he redirected his blue-eyed gaze to her face. “What’s your part in all this?”

  She frowned, pulling back, stiffening. “My part? Beyond your father saying all this is mine, I don’t know as I have a part. What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Jack began, “exactly that. Your being here now, when all this is going on. Do you think it’s just luck, just bad timing for you … or maybe something more?”

  “Something more?” Angel repeated, thinking of almost being lynched, of killing Jeb Kennedy, of her mother dying. “I can’t call it any kind of luck, except bad. But I never even heard tell of you or your father or this ranch until he came to my rescue and said he was bringing me here.”

  Jack threw his hands wide in a gesture of exasperation, startling Angel. “That’s another thing. Why, Angel? Why did he bring you here? Why you? And not someone else? What’s behind him doing that? Do you know?”

  Angel stilled, felt her temper rising. “I’ve already told you I don’t know why. I asked. He wouldn’t tell me. He just said the answers were here.”

  Jack rubbed his hand over his jaw. “There’s not a damned thing here except for me and you. And we don’t know a blessed thing.” Then he stared at her, his heart in his eyes. “I wish my father was here so I could ask him the why of it.”

  Caught off guard, Angel lowered her gaze, unable to look at him. This was the first time he had mentioned missing his father, grieving for him. She didn’t know what to say, what to do … other than to pick at her own fingers.

  “Don’t you feel it?” he said suddenly into the quiet between them.