Tin-Stars and Troublemakers Box Set (Four Complete Historical Western Romance Novels in One)

by Rice, Patricia

  In desperation, he conjured an image of Beth's cool and placid smile. For the first time in months, it brought him no relief. He wasn't sure anything could. Fancy was standing just a stone's throw away, jumping and wriggling, wrestling Zack's jeans up over her rump. Cord blushed to think how he must look to her in turn, stamping and pawing like a stud pony that had been fenced away from its mare. If the girl wasn't so underhanded, he would have done the courteous thing and turned away.

  At least, he liked to tell himself that.

  He liked to tell himself, too, that the only reason he'd looked at her drawers was out of self-defense. God knew, she was probably hiding a torpedo in there. Nothing would have surprised him now.

  He stifled another groan. She was strutting back toward him. Seeing how Zack's shirt fit her, he tried to console himself that he'd been right to make her shed her frills. Weapons weren't likely to go undetected beneath that shirt. Aside from the sleeves, which hung at least six inches too long, the flannel fit her snugly. Too snugly, he confirmed with a second uncomfortable glance. Only Fancy Holleday could don a red flannel work shirt and make it look indecent.

  "Fasten the rest of your damned buttons," he said, managing somehow to drag his gaze away from her plunging neckline.

  She had the audacity to smile. He really hated it when she smiled like that. It made him remember he'd gone four months without a woman.

  "I'm afraid buttoning the shirt would be quite impossible," she said. "You see, your brother's chest is a good deal smaller than mine."

  "I can see clear down to your navel!"

  "Well then... Cord." His name rolled off her lips with some wicked, hidden meaning. "I suggest you stop looking."

  He ground his teeth. "Here." Tugging off his neckerchief, he thrust it into her hands. "Cover yourself."

  "Why, thank you, sir. How kind you are to worry about me exposing my tender parts to... er, the sun."

  When he scowled, Fancy's pride ached a little less. Finally she had managed to do something to irk him. She was beginning to think she'd lost her touch. To feel that way rattled her nerve far more than she cared to admit.

  The smell of mesquite-cooked frijoles wafted down from the cave. Fancy wrinkled her nose at the woodsy odor, and her belly rumbled. Ordinarily, she wouldn't have been eager to eat beans, but Applegate's biscuits had tasted like boot leather. She couldn't afford to be choosy; she was starving.

  Still, she couldn't help but worry when she remembered Rawlins's taunt about earning privileges. If relieving one of her most basic human needs was a privilege, might he not consider food one too?

  She cast him a sidelong glance as he dumped her weapons in the stream. With his jaw set like that, he didn't seem predisposed to acts of kindness. Perhaps it was time to befriend his young deputies.

  Gathering her petticoats, Fancy wrapped them carefully inside her gown. The ensemble had cost her one rustled horse. Normally her winnings would have paid for two such outfits and all the frills—a hat, a parasol, ammunition—but pickings had been slim in Fort Worth. Until she found a high-stakes poker game, or better yet, a casino that hired faro dealers at $100 per week, she had to take extra care not to damage her gown. She'd have trouble earning her living in the coming months without it.

  "Give me that," Rawlins said, snatching the bundle from her arms. "The trail's too rugged. You'll need both your hands."

  She glanced toward the steep, boulder-strewn path. It looked as narrow as a hair ribbon. Rawlins might be right. She indulged in a grudging moment of gratitude that her enemy would carry her clothes for her.

  A heartbeat later, he had tossed her gown into the stream. She choked back an oath as she watched it bob and unfurl, strewing her underclothes among the rapids before sinking in a purple froth of dye. Rawlins grunted his approval.

  She vowed to move her derringer to a handier location the second the louse took his eyes off her.

  A pot of coffee was simmering beside the boys' kettle of beans when Fancy at last hauled herself over the lip of the cave. She was panting, thirsty, and tired, but she did her damnedest not to show Rawlins as he scrambled up behind her.

  She shouldn't have worried. He was apparently so intent on filling his belly, that he hardly glanced her way other than to take her arm and drag her into the circle of firelight. Only when she wrenched herself free did she earn his attention. His eyes drilled into hers with their no-nonsense glare.

  "Sit down."

  She pursed her lips and knelt beside Zack. He offered her a tin plate heaped with beans.

  "You sure do look purdy in red, ma'am," the youth said shyly.

  "Shoot. Miss Fancy could turn heads in a gunnysack," Wes said, snatching the coffeepot out of Cord's hands.

  Cord cursed, but Wes ignored the oath. He scrambled to Fancy's side and wedged himself between her knee and Zack's.

  "Hey!"

  Wes ignored Zack too.

  "Bet you're thirsty, ma'am." He grinned at her in unabashed admiration. "Want some belly wash? I made it myself."

  She smiled back. "Why, thank you, Wes." Winning over Cord's deputies was going to be easy. Much easier than she'd thought. "That's awfully kind of you."

  Zack looked ready to wring Wes's neck. Cord looked ready to help.

  "Which one of you boys is taking the first watch?" Cord asked.

  "Zack is."

  "I am not!"

  "Sissy."

  "That'll be enough."

  Cord glared at Fancy as if she were somehow to blame. She smirked. How in the world did a deputy U.S. marshal bring fugitives to justice with these two puppies tagging along?

  Zack looked to his oldest brother for support. Cord sighed.

  "Seeing as how you boys can't decide for yourselves... Wes flapped his jaw, so he volunteered."

  The boy's face fell.

  "And while you're at it," Cord added, "you can fetch my bedroll."

  "Aw, Cord."

  Zack nodded smugly. "Mine too."

  Wes sniffed and turned his shoulder on Zack. "What about Miss Fancy?"

  "What about her?" Cord mumbled through a mouthful of beans.

  "Is she gonna sleep with you?"

  Cord choked, turning scarlet. Zack had to reach over and slap his brother's back before Cord could manage a swallow. He coughed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

  "No, she's not sleeping with me!"

  "But we only brought three bedrolls," Wes persisted, braving Cord's malevolent glare. "Where's she gonna sleep?"

  "She can sleep in mine," Zack offered gallantly.

  Cord scowled. "Forget it."

  "Geez, Cord. You can't let Miss Fancy sleep on the rocks."

  "I am quite aware of that, Zack, thank you. Miss Holleday will sleep in mine."

  "Alone?" Wes asked suspiciously.

  "Yes, alone!" Cord's jaw began to twitch. "I'll sleep in your bedroll, and you can sleep in Zack's after he goes on watch."

  "When will that be?"

  Fancy suspected Wes was in serious danger of getting his ears boxed.

  "Next Christmas, if you don't get your mulish hide up on that hill."

  Zack snickered, and Wes sulked, slinging a Winchester over his shoulder. Spinning toward the trail, he jammed on his hat, then hesitated, turning back and tipping the brim at Fancy. It hung at a jaunty angle, and his grin crept back across his face.

  "See ya later, ma'am."

  " 'Bye, Wes." She grinned back, wondering where the boy had learned his good manners.

  Then she felt the warning stab of Cord's glare.

  Obviously not from his brother.

  * * *

  After their hurried meal and four restless hours of sleep, Cord roused them all to "hit the trail" again.

  The trail wasn't all that Fancy wanted to hit.

  Every bone in her body ached, every muscle groaned in protest. She didn't know which was more difficult to bear: the rocks, or Cord's saddle. Even if she could have dozed, she wouldn't have dared—not with his thighs squeezing
her hips like sunbaked rawhide. His arms were wrapped around her, too, holding and confining her like a corral.

  A much too intimate corral.

  She tried to straighten her spine, to separate their torsos, but the fraction of space she earned brought her little relief. His maleness was pervasive, a primal heat that invaded every pore. His scent, a heady blend of leather, musk, and tobacco, was more aphrodisiac than opiate to her senses.

  She didn't think that ride would ever end.

  Fortunately, the horses grew tired, and the sun eventually set. Cord Rawlins might have needed less sleep than a night owl, but his deputies were nodding off in their saddles. Neither of the boys complained, of course, but Cord conceded that the time had come to make camp.

  Fancy wanted to kiss Zack and Wes both.

  If Marshal Charming hoped to keep her too tired and sore for escape, his plot was working. She didn't bother to protest when Zack cooked beans again and shoved a plateful into her hand. Then she collapsed on Cord's bedroll. She figured she had six hours to sleep.

  Or rather, six hours to sneak her derringer to a more accessible location.

  Cord took the first watch. Knowing he was out in the bushes somewhere, watching every movement, every shadow, was nerve-racking. Fancy didn't dare go through the gyrations necessary to retrieve her pistol and its holster from the hem she had rolled inside her boot. The fact that Cord hadn't suspected the gun was the first stroke of luck that she'd had since meeting him. She didn't plan on tempting fate.

  Resigned to waiting, Fancy dozed. She tuned her ears for the scrabble of Cord's boots on the rocks or the murmur of his voice as he woke one of the boys to take the next watch.

  Instead, it was the howl of a coyote that jerked her from sleep. Her heart raced.

  Turning her head stealthily, she searched for signs of Cord. She found him sitting about five feet away, on a log by the fire. If he had heard the cry of the scavenger, he didn't seem alarmed. Nor did Zack, who had apparently taken the second watch, because his bedroll was empty.

  Fancy released a slow and lengthy breath. Cord hadn't realized she was awake—yet. He was too engrossed in the daguerreotype in his hand. As much as she wanted to crunch down beneath her blanket, unhook her holster, and sneak it to her wrist, she willed herself to resist. Since she was lying so close to his knee, the odds of his noticing her were still too great.

  Damn the man. Did he never rest?

  She reined in her frustration. Forcing herself to lie motionless and to even out her breaths, she watched him through half-closed eyes. In the ruddy emberglow, his profile looked carved from bronze. A cigarette burned forgotten in his left hand; a cup of coffee steamed in the ashes near his boots.

  She wondered what was so moving about that dog-eared picture card, for it had transformed Rawlins. The steely U.S. marshal who had gunned down Diego was not sitting on that log. Instead, she saw a haunted man. The angles of his face were stark and naked with emotion; his shoulders were bowed, as if burdened by guilt. Her heart reluctantly went out to him. What memory tormented him so?

  She had to find out. Rising cautiously on one elbow, she kept the rising moon behind her as she strained to see past his fist. She forced herself to ignore any lingering traces of compassion. After all, Cord Rawlins was her enemy. She needed to learn his weakness.

  Fancy felt no triumph, though, when she glimpsed the prim young woman staring back from the card. Fair-haired and slender, with delicate eyebrows and intelligent eyes, the woman projected an air of breeding that suggested old wealth. She looked to be everything Fancy was not—and everything Fancy could never hope to be.

  A pang of jealousy stabbed through her. Clearly this was the woman Cord had taken as wife.

  He turned his head then. Some instinct must have alerted him to her observation. Their eyes locked, and his stare bored into hers. She couldn't help but flinch. She had expected to feel superior, smug. She had expected to discover some new secret weapon. Instead, she had learned why Cord Rawlins found her unappealing. And the reason made her feel flawed.

  She raised her chin to show him—to show herself—that she didn't care. Not one whit.

  He said nothing.

  Slipping the daguerreotype inside his breast pocket, he raised his cigarette to his lips. The tip brightened, glowing scarlet, before he exhaled. Tendrils of smoke wrapped around his neck, hugging him like a lover. She wondered what he was thinking. Was he comparing her to his wife? The idea was somehow wounding. What had been so special about that prim and proper slip of a girl? What had she done to get Cord Rawlins to pledge his love to her for the rest of his life?

  Diego had never pledged himself that way.

  A lump formed in Fancy's throat. The bitterness was hard to swallow. She had always had more than her share of admirers. Oglers, really. But when it had come to courtship and sharing vows, those admirers had always tucked their tails and run. Diego had seemed to be her best bet for a normal life—normal, that was, for the preferred paramour of a Barbary Coast kingpin.

  She wondered what life with a lawman would be like.

  Cord's gaze had not yet broken from hers. The intensity of his stare was unnerving. Her pulse began to flutter so shamefully, she felt she had to say something to prove her mettle.

  "What's wrong?" she taunted softly. "Can't sleep?"

  "Don't need much."

  "No?" She managed a provocative smile. "I thought maybe your dreams had gone... bad."

  "Don't dream much, either."

  She was disappointed when he didn't rise to her bait. Perhaps he truly wasn't like the other men she had known. Perhaps the only corsets and garters he enjoyed viewing were his wife's. She felt a growing resentment. Just what did a widower like Cord Rawlins do until he re-married?

  "I guess a man who doesn't—" she paused suggestively, "dream much doesn't get tired like other men."

  "Could be."

  His lips curved, and she felt her insides heat. She recognized that look. It was the look of a man who could take what he wanted. A man restrained by his integrity, nothing more. It unnerved her more than she cared to admit.

  She tried again. "It's a pity, Cord, you being dreamless. Every night, all night long."

  Those penetrating eyes continued to hold her. Even if she wanted to, she couldn't have looked away. She sensed a wanting deep inside him, a gnawing hunger he chose to ignore. If he should ever yield to that need, she knew she'd be overcome, the way a brass rod must bend to steel.

  Her stomach quivered at the thought.

  Still, some perverse side of her kept pushing, kept needing to feel his edge.

  "The night's a whole different world," she whispered. "A world of fantasy. A flight of fancy."

  The breathless quality of her voice surprised her. She'd meant to sound husky, alluring. Not eager.

  "The night's the best time for a man's dreams to come true," she added.

  Something flickered in his eyes, something turbulent and hard to fathom. Then his lids drooped and his guard came up. He took another draw on his cigarette.

  "Reckon you dream a lot, eh, Fancy?"

  She felt her face burn. Oh, brava, Fancy girl. First she'd set herself up, then she'd let his barb sting. She didn't know which was worse. Either way, she felt like a prime candidate for a fleecing.

  "It takes practice to do it right," she rallied lamely.

  He chuckled. The sound reverberated through her, warm and rich with genuine mirth.

  "You best get to it then. The night's nearly over."

  Her breath caught when he rubbed out his cigarette. Her heart leaped when he dumped his coffee and rose.

  But if some tiny part of her had hoped that Cord Rawlins would fling his honor to the wind, that he'd crawl inside her bedroll and love away the emptiness eating at her soul, that part of her was disappointed. He crossed to Zack's bedroll, stretched out on his back, and propped his hat across his face. After a few minutes, his breathing grew deep and regular. She noted in growing annoyance tha
t his hand hovered near his six-shooter, even in his sleep.

  The son of a...

  She bit her tongue. It was insulting that she had such a negligible effect on the man. And it was aggravating that he was not the kind of whorehound she could despise.

  Feeling cheated somehow, she resigned herself to her original plan and stealthily strapped her derringer beneath the rolled cuff of her sleeve. Not that she would ever need the pistol, she thought acidly. Never in a million years was she likely to be defending her virtue against Cord Rawlins!

  Her chin jutted, and she glared up at the stars. She comforted herself that there were still Indians. And outlaws.

  And Slade.

  Chapter 6

  The next two days dragged by. Bitter cold followed a moist heat, and then came the rain. Zack found another cave. The roof leaked, the walls stank, and bats squealed overhead. Fancy huddled under Wes's slicker. She sat as close to the daylight and as far from the sheeting water as possible. Not even Cord had been able to start a fire.

  She would have liked to say that she was glad for the downpour. It spared her hours of humiliation, bouncing between Cord's knees, squirming in his arms, inhaling his tobacco-and-musk scent.

  His manly odor titillated her from his bedroll too. It wafted through her dreams and often stole away her sleep. She would lie there, staring at the heavens, and feel herself ache. Really ache.

  Sometimes she found herself watching him. Sometimes she caught him watching her. He would lie so still that she could hear his breathing. She would gaze into his firelit eyes, eyes as green and deep as the sea, and she would think about reaching out to him. Touching him. The notion would tempt her, but he would always look away.

  He would always reject her.

  She'd remind herself then that she hated him. She would hammer the words again and again into her brain: I hate him. He killed Diego.

  Because of Cord Rawlins, she was loveless and miserable.