Outlaw's Bride

by Maureen McKade

  Her gaze flickered to his lips, betraying her cool facade. Clint’s breath quickened and his blood surged through his veins. It was clear she wanted to, and that was enough for him.

  Damning the consequences, he swept an arm around her waist and leaned down to capture her mouth with his. Her lips remained firm and unyielding … for only a moment. Then she surrendered with a soft moan. She tasted sweet, like peaches, and her rose scent spiraled through him as she arched toward him, branding him at every junction of her curves against his body.

  He parted her lips and she met his invasion with her own—advancing, retreating—in the battle of passion. His erection pressed into her belly and her hips moved in the oldest rhythm of time.

  Then Dakota nickered, and Mattie pushed away from Clint, her breath raspy. “No,” she whispered, her face flushed and eyes dark with unappeased desire. “This is wrong.”

  Clint breathed deeply to cool the wild fire racing through his blood. His gaze fell to her breasts, which moved with her shallow gasps. He ached to draw her flush against him once more, ached to feel her lips against his.

  Ached to bury himself within her.

  Clint framed her face in his palms. “Don’t deny it, Mattie. This is something we both want.”

  She took his hands in hers and lowered them slowly. “Just because we want it doesn’t make it right.” Her gaze went to his gunbelt and the weapon within the holster. “I can’t love a man who lives by the gun. Not again.”

  She released him and walked away, her shoulders slumped and her footsteps dragging.

  Clint stared after her. If he hadn’t given up his gun for Emily, he wasn’t about to for Mattie St. Clair, no matter how tempting she was.

  His obsession with her would be his downfall if he didn’t rein his lusty thoughts back under control. He’d been thinking of her when he’d been ambushed. He might not be so lucky next time. Besides, she was the kind of woman who would want a wedding ring to go along with a tumble in bed, and Clint couldn’t make any promises.

  Not now.

  Not yet.

  Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Clint hauled himself up into the saddle. It had been over three weeks since he’d ridden, the longest time in his adult life that he’d been off a horse. He touched his heels to Dakota’s flanks and the horse responded eagerly. As the sorrel cantered down the road, Clint relished the breeze on his face and the landscape moving past him in a blur of greens, browns, and blues.

  It was definitely time to move on. He didn’t need a woman to cloud his judgment or make him careless. Getting away from Mattie would restore his good sense and give him time to cool his lust.

  Turning slightly in the saddle, Clint looked back. Mattie was standing on the porch, a hand shading her eyes as she watched him. What was she thinking?

  And why did he care?

  After Clint left, Mattie wandered through the silent house. Their disagreement over his Colt and their subsequent kiss had thrown her thoughts into turmoil.

  She understood why he wore the gun, but violence begat violence. That’s what Kevin always said, and she believed him. She’d witnessed it firsthand.

  She traced her still-tingling lips with a fingertip. How could she hate something so much about a man, yet crumble when he kissed her?

  Because there were more things to admire in Clint Beaudry than there were to dislike. Things like his compassion, his willingness to help, and his good-natured teasing that made her feel like a girl again.

  Mattie picked up a dustcloth and absently swished it across the knickknacks and framed pictures in the parlor. Her footsteps carried her to the fireplace mantel and her gaze fell upon her mother’s music box. She cradled the cool metal in her palms, and almost against her will, she raised the lid. She closed her eyes as the waltz’s tinny melody washed through her.

  In her mind, she saw herself held securely in Clint’s powerful arms as he twirled her around. His green eyes were on her alone, filled with an adoration so strong, it made her breath quicken. Her chest ached as she indulged in the romantic daydream. No man, not even Jason, had inspired such fanciful thoughts.

  Only the dangerously arousing Clint Beaudry.

  Mattie opened her eyes to the emptiness of the parlor. A slight breeze rustled the curtains, making them dance. A fly buzzed against a window and Jewel mooed in the yard. The clock on the mantel struck three, its monotonous rhythm clashing with the light notes flowing from the music box.

  Was Mattie’s life like the clock—dull and plodding? Was she merely counting the seconds into minutes into hours? Then into days lost, never to be recaptured?

  She’d turned her adult life into a mirror of her life at the orphanage—constantly working from sunup to sundown. By sparing Andy that kind of existence, she’d denied her own needs. She had convinced herself the only type of man she wanted someday was someone like Kevin Murphy. He was kind and compassionate, but he didn’t make her heart skip wildly or bring wicked thoughts about their naked bodies touching, burning….

  Like Clint did.

  Every time he looked at her or brushed her arm or kissed her, Mattie’s toes curled and she throbbed. The desire was even stronger than what she’d felt for Jason, because now she knew the rewards. And Mattie knew instinctively that the pleasure of lying with Clint would be far greater than anything she’d experienced in her brief married life.

  Her heartbeat pounded in her ears and her muscles trembled from the wanton pictures in her thoughts. She had enough memories of his lean body that she had no trouble envisioning him in her bed.

  Jewel’s moo startled her, and Mattie clapped the music box shut. She shouldn’t have allowed her thoughts to run out of control. It was only giving temptation a stronger hold on her. As if Clint Beaudry’s mere presence wasn’t temptation enough….

  She set the box back in its place and climbed the stairs to finish dusting up there. At the top of the steps, Clint’s door was open, inviting her to enter. With only a slight hesitation, she crossed the threshold and ran her dustcloth over the dresser, then across the nightstand. Spotting one of his shirts tossed on the bed, Mattie picked it up, intending to hang it in the armoire.

  Clint’s scent washed across her, and after a quick glance into the hallway, she drew the shirt close to her face. She inhaled deeply of the rich masculine scent that was Clint’s alone and closed her eyes.

  It just ain’t natural to be without a man for so long.

  Ruth’s words, spoken so long ago, came back clearly. Maybe she’d been right.

  Maybe it had been too long.

  Clint paused on the outskirts of Green Valley and removed his hat to draw his forearm across his sweaty brow. The hour-and-a-half ride had given Dakota some much-needed exercise and Clint time to extinguish the flames in his blood. Without Mattie’s presence to distract him, he’d been able to set things back in perspective.

  His goal hadn’t changed—it had only been diverted for a time. Although his wounds still ached, he felt more like himself again with the familiar gunbelt around his hips.

  He spotted a saloon, placed his hat back on his head, and urged Dakota down the dusty street. Dismounting stiffly by the hitching rail, he tossed the reins loosely around the post and traipsed into Billy’s Saloon. Although it was only a little after four, there were a dozen customers, including a fancy gambler and a handful of dusty cowhands. There was also a dark-haired barmaid wearing a knee-length yellow dress and black fishnet stockings.

  He paused beside her as she cleaned off a table, and tipped his hat brim with two fingers. “Afternoon, ma’am.”

  She swept her gaze from his hair down to his boot toes, then back, pausing a moment at his gun-belt. An interested gleam entered her eyes and she placed a hand on her hip in a seductive pose. “Looks like you’re in need of some company. My name’s Sunny Joy”—she leaned close enough that her breasts brushed his arm—“and I can bring you lots of sunshine and happiness, cowboy.”

  Clint grinned, appreciating her obvious
alias and feminine assets. Sunny Joy might be exactly what he needed to get his mind off Mattie. He winked at her. “I might just do that. But right now I have some drinking to do, ma’am.”

  “Call me Sunny or Joy.” Her eyes glittered with ribald promise. “I ain’t no ma’am.”

  She turned and sauntered away, her hips swinging.

  Clint smiled in appreciation. Sure enough, a roll with Sunshine would do him a world of good.

  At the bar, he propped a booted foot on the brass rail running along the bottom. He slid his hat off to rest against his back, held in place by the buckskin string at his throat.

  The bartender, a heavyset bald man with an earring in his left ear, stepped over to Clint. “What’ll it be?”

  “Whiskey and a beer,” he replied.

  Clint laid two bits down as the bartender set the drinks in front of him. The bald man scooped up the coins with stubby fingers and strolled to the other end of the bar, leaving Clint to drink alone.

  He downed the shot of whiskey, grimaced at the burn in his throat, then picked up the beer and took a few swallows of the lukewarm liquid to ease the whiskey’s sting. Liquor was something he’d been without at Mattie’s, too, though he hadn’t missed it. Maybe it was because Mattie was intoxicating enough.

  Geezus, Beaudry, get a hold of yourself. Pretty soon you’ll be spouting love poems.

  He resolutely turned his attention to the saloon’s customers. It was second nature for him to keep an eye on everyone, and he used the mirror to surreptitiously observe the clientele. After ensuring nobody posed a threat, he allowed his gaze to follow the barmaid. She turned, caught his eye in the mirror, and winked at him, though it was Mattie’s face he saw.

  Shit.

  Disgusted, Clint picked up his beer mug and moved to a table. He eased himself into a chair, heedful of his tender wounds. He’d been too sick to appreciate Mattie’s gentle hands on him before, but the memory of her feathered touches now made him grow as hard as a stallion in a herd of mares.

  “Get ya another beer?” Sunny Joy asked him.

  Clint glanced at the empty mug and nodded. “Thanks.”

  “No problem, cowboy.”

  She leaned over to pick up his glass, her bountiful breasts in danger of spilling out of her dress. Her scent—a mixture of vanilla, tobacco, and whiskey—washed across him, reminding him of other women in saloons too numerous to recall.

  “You look like you could use a little … relaxin’,” she said.

  Clint appreciated an impressive bosom as much as the next man. But Sunny’s face had the hard lines common among women in her profession, unlike Mattie’s skin, which was smooth and silky. He shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, ma’—Sunny, but I’m not interested right now.”

  She frowned in disappointment and straightened, laying a hand on his shoulder. “When you get interested, you know where to find me, handsome.”

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d turned down a willing woman’s invitation. What kind of magic did Mattie have that made him want only her?

  The batwing doors swung open and the sheriff entered. His gaze roamed around the room until it settled on Clint, and he crossed the floor to join him. Dropping into a chair, Atwater removed his hat and ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Hot ’nuff to wither a fence post out there.”

  “Yep, it’s warm.” Clint eyed the lawman warily. “You stop by for a reason or just to pass the time?”

  Atwater shrugged. “Thought that was your horse out there. Didn’t see no travelin’ gear on it, though.”

  “Told you I was leaving tomorrow. I just took my horse out for a ride.”

  “Fine-lookin’ piece of horseflesh. Oughta put out some good foals if’n you ever settle down.”

  That was one of the main reasons Clint had bought the mare—he’d figured to use her to help start his herd. So many plans had been killed along with his wife….

  Sunny interrupted his melancholy thoughts as she set a beer in front of him. “The usual, Sheriff?”

  “’Fraid so, Sunny.”

  She smiled fondly. “Comin’ right up.”

  “You goin’ after him?” Atwater asked Clint after Sunny left.

  “Yep.”

  “What’re you gonna do when you find him?”

  “Kill him,” Clint replied without hesitation.

  Atwater narrowed his gaze. “You’re talkin’ coldblooded murder.”

  An icy ball of hatred settled in Clint’s gut. “I’ll give him as much of a chance as he gave my wife.”

  “That ain’t your decision to make, Beaudry. Leave it to a judge and jury to hang him legal-like.”

  “The courts won’t convict him without better evidence.”

  “Then how do you know it was the same fella who shot you?”

  “I was on my way home the night it happened—the night she was killed. I saw a man on a blond horse, just like what the man who shot me was riding.” Bitterness rose in Clint’s throat. “That’s not enough evidence to convict a man for murder.”

  Atwater stared at Clint silently with no expression on his face. “That’s right. More’n one man rides a palomino.”

  Clint took a long swallow of his beer, hoping it would fill the well of anger and emptiness in his chest. It didn’t. Nothing would until vengeance was satisfied. “But not many, and it’s damned coincidental that I’ve been after the murderer for a year and just as I’m getting close, I’m bushwhacked.”

  Atwater studied him from beneath bushy gray eyebrows. “What if you’re wrong?”

  The sheriff’s quiet question brought a sliver of doubt to Clint that he quickly extinguished with burning rage. “I’m not.”

  “I used to be just like you, Beaudry. So damned sure of myself and certain that I couldn’t make a mistake. But back when I was even younger’n you, somethin’ happened that nearly made me quit bein’ a lawman for good.” Atwater paused and his gaze turned inward. “Some men came off a trail drive, all ready to raise holy hell. They got drunk in record time and started makin’ trouble. I was a deputy then, so full of myself I couldn’t see nothin’ but how I could be a goddamned hero.”

  Self-recrimination swept across the older man’s face. “I met them on the street, goaded one of ’em into a gunfight. We drew. He missed, but I got him.” He swallowed. “He missed me, but his bullet killed a woman who was crossin’ the street at the other end of town.”

  Though Clint sympathized, he didn’t see how it applied to him. “That’s a risk we all take when we pin on a badge.”

  The sheriff slammed his fist on the table, startling Clint. “We’re supposed to take the risk, not those we’re protectin’. We make a mistake, innocent people suffer.”

  Clint knew that all too well. Anguish clogged his throat, but it was anger that spoke. “Why the hell do you think I turned in my badge?”

  Atwater leaned back in his chair, and his features eased as empathy replaced his anger. “Maybe you made a mistake in not bein’ home with your wife, but seems to me you can’t handle the choices a lawman’s gotta make.” Atwater paused, then said quietly, “Maybe that’s the real reason you turned in your badge.”

  Chapter 11

  Clint wanted to be righteously angry, but the sheriff’s words hit too close to home. Emily had accused him of the same thing—being irresponsible. Maybe they were both right. Even though Clint had married, he wasn’t sure if he’d wanted to settle down. At the time, it just seemed the thing a man his age should do.

  He used to relish the pursuit of outlaws and bringing justice to the untamed Texas frontier. Now Clint had grown tired of the chase. Maybe that’s why Mattie’s home and her small family had drawn him in so deeply.

  Clint studied the aging sheriff and he saw himself in Atwater’s creased features. The image disturbed him and made him wonder if he’d be alone, just like Atwater, twenty-five years from now. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  Sunny returned carrying a glass of milk and set it in fron
t of Atwater. “Here ya go, Sheriff.”

  “Thanks, Sunny.” He smiled up at her. “You decide if you’re gonna marry me or not?”

  She laid a hand on his shoulder and winked. “I don’t think I could keep up with you.”

  Atwater chuckled and Clint smiled at their friendly banter. He remembered another barmaid—Arabella—from another time. He hadn’t expected to see her again, especially in a town like Green Valley as Mrs. Amelia Johnson.

  Sunny glanced at Clint hopefully, but he didn’t give her any encouragement. She sighed and sashayed off to the next customer.

  Atwater elbowed him in the side. “She likes you, Beaudry.”

  “I like her, too.”

  “Then take her up on her offer. If I was twenty years younger, I would.” He paused. “On second thought, I was married twenty years ago, so I guess that wouldn’t have worked, neither. Sarah woulda killed me.”

  Clint chuckled, and found himself warming toward the man. He pulled a cheroot from his pocket, placed it between his lips, then lit it with a lucifer. Clint enjoyed the tang of the tobacco and exhaled a lazy swirl of smoke. “Have you lived in Green Valley long?”

  “Nearly fifteen years. I been sheriff ever since Mattie’s husband got hisself killed. Before that, I was Jason St. Clair’s deputy.”

  Mattie hadn’t told Clint the details surrounding her husband’s death and he was curious. “What happened? Mattie doesn’t talk about him.”

  “St. Clair was a hothead, and he could be meaner’n a rattlesnake on a hot skillet if he was crossed.” Atwater shook his head. “St. Clair was a helluva charmer when he wasn’t bein’ a bully. Mattie was just a girl, not even seventeen when Jason laid it on thick for her. Mattie didn’t have a chance—bein’ raised in the orphanage, she didn’t know nothin’ but work. St. Clair plumb swept her off her feet and right into his bed. Gertrude Hotzel caught them there.”

  Clint shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He couldn’t picture the Mattie he knew crawling into bed with a man like Atwater described.

  “She was just a kid,” Atwater reiterated, as if reading Clint’s thoughts. “All she knew was that St. Clair wanted her—nobody’d wanted her since her folks died.”