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

by Rice, Patricia

  He took pity on her.

  "Maybe you know something more about Ned you'd like to tell me," he prompted gently, trying to make confessing easier on her pride.

  She refused to look at him. "What would I know about some New Mexican outlaw?"

  Dammit, Fancy, come on.

  He leaned closer, so close that he inhaled the just-washed scent of lilac in her hair and the sweetness of sun-dried flannel. After she refused his offer of clothing, she had holed herself up naked in her hotel room to wait for Zack's old shirt and jeans to dry. He'd deduced that when he saw her bloomers fluttering from the window. The rest of the night, he'd wiled away the hours imagining all the creamy, sun-shy flesh that lounged on the bed in the next room.

  If he hadn't learned to be such a consarned celibate, he might have beat down Fancy's door. God knew, he'd stood on her threshold and thought about it long enough.

  In the end, though, he'd kept his promise and gone back to his room. He'd decided he wanted all of Fancy, not just some little piece she'd learned to give away.

  "I'll tell you a secret," he murmured, letting his breath tease a curl above the pinkening lobe of her ear. "I got a wire from the territorial marshal yesterday."

  Her own breath released in a ragged rush. "So?"

  "So..." Damn, but she had the moistest strawberry-red lips. "I know all about Ned's career as a wartime counterfeiter. And how Reconstruction came to Missouri, spoiling his dreams of grandeur. I know that he and the boys hightailed it to New Mexico Territory to mine for silver, except that they found thieving and murdering more profitable. Easier, too, since the law's still scrabbling for a foothold there. And I know that a gang of Wilkersons has been terrorizing Tarrant and Johnson counties ever since ol' Bart kicked the bucket last month.

  "Now then." He forced himself to retreat an inch or two. The temptation to kiss her was just too strong. "Don't you think it's time you came square with me?"

  He sought her eyes once more. He spied a softness there, a misty uncertainty that bordered on yearning. It stole his breath away.

  "Fancy." He laid his hand on top of hers. It felt so tiny. So soft. It quaked at his touch, and he tightened his fingers around it. For one precious moment, her thumb gripped his fingers in return.

  "Help me, Fancy. Help me so I can help you."

  She blinked back tears. He sensed she was close, so very close to trusting him. That was all he cared about now.

  "I'm afraid," she said hoarsely.

  "I know, darlin'. But you don't have to be. This is one gamble you can't lose."

  The telltale clatter began on the tracks. She tensed, and he gripped her hand harder.

  "Fancy."

  A high, hooting whistle stirred the crowd. A frenzy of parasol-snapping and bag-grabbing ensued. Among all the hugging, kissing, and good-byes, the black hats of the porters could be glimpsed bobbing toward their stations.

  Fancy's eyes locked with his. "This is it? The train to Carson?"

  He nodded.

  The floorboards began to vibrate, rattling beneath their feet.

  "Can you really do what you said you would?" She leaned closer, raising her voice to be heard above the clamor. "Can you really keep Diego from the gallows?"

  "I'll do everything humanly possible."

  Her eyes were pleading. "And you'll get me permission to see him?"

  He frowned. He had reservations about visits, not the least of which was his fear that seeing Santana again would reaffirm her love for him. Nevertheless, he didn't see how he could deny her request without being cruel.

  Besides, one brief visit couldn't do too much harm, could it? She wouldn't see the snake again for twenty years.

  "I'll talk to the warden," he said grudgingly.

  Her chest rose and fell on a long, tremulous breath. At last she nodded.

  "All right, Cord." Her voice was almost lost in the squeal of iron brakes. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

  * * *

  Fancy couldn't sit still. Up and down, back and forth, she paced. She could feel Cord's speculative gaze on her as she prowled the suffocating box he'd called the Nevada State Prison's interrogation room. He said nothing of his thoughts, though. He simply sat with his boots outstretched, his ankles crossed, and his arms folded over his chest. She imagined he was counting the number of times she passed by.

  She stole a glance at his face. Etched in sunbronzed relief, the chiseled features betrayed nothing of his feelings. She wondered if he was worried. He didn't look it—not since he'd assured her he had a plan. She couldn't help but wonder what it was. She just hoped his scheme was better than his last idea to establish headquarters at Aunt Lally's ranch.

  His negotiation with the governor hadn't gone as well as she had hoped. Even though Cord had been armed with her pair of minting plates and all the information she had on Bart and Ned Wilkerson, he'd achieved nothing better than a draw at the governor's office. She'd known his news was bad the minute she'd thrown open her hotel door and seen the thunder on his brow.

  "The governor agreed to your pardon," he'd announced in a gruff, frustrated voice, "as long as you cooperate fully in my search for Ned Wilkerson and the other pair of plates."

  She nodded, holding her breath, bracing herself for the worst. "And Diego?"

  He frowned. "If I were you, I'd worry a little more about Fancy. Governor Underwood only gave me a month to bring the plates back."

  She choked, clutching the back of a chair for support. "But that's ridiculous! We'll need a week just to reach Wilkerson's place, and another week to get back to Carson!"

  "I know. I'm working on that. But for now, we've got to move fast. Our train leaves for Texas in an hour. You don't have much time, but if you absolutely must see Santana, I'll take you to the prison. He'll be standing trial for aggravated robbery with intent to commit murder. The judge won't hang him on those charges, but Santana will be seeing the inside of a jail cell for a good, long spell."

  Fancy shuddered. A good, long spell. That translated to ten, maybe twenty years, according to the prison warden. He had also told her Diego had spent most of the last four months in the infirmary. She'd been surprised that the chief administrator of a state prison could be so easily hoodwinked by Diego's scams. She supposed she shouldn't have been, though. Once again, her lover had proven himself the king of all frauds.

  But what if Diego really wasn't milking his injuries for all they were worth?

  She bit her lip as the voice of guilt needled her. The image of a crippled, broken Diego filled her mind, and she wrestled with the feelings that image evoked. Perhaps she shouldn't be so cynical. She herself had thought his wounds were bad enough on the night of the robbery to conclude that he was dead. Would he believe her when she explained that was why she'd deserted him?

  She swallowed, clutching her cipher closer. Though she tried to tell herself her worries were absurd, that Cord had deliberately put these thoughts of danger into her head, there was no denying she was scared. Even with the best intentions, Cord couldn't possibly save her if Diego decided she had betrayed him. Diego had an inordinate fondness for revenge, and she knew he would find her, no matter how long or how far he had to look.

  Fancy smiled grimly to herself. Not for the first time did she wish she had attracted the attention of an upstanding, trustworthy man like Cord on that fateful day seven years ago, when Diego had first come to the whorehouse. Being a practical woman, however, she had learned to make the best of the hand had fate dealt her.

  She had also learned to guard her back.

  Certain that any conversation she might have with Diego would be monitored, and assuming that any letter she might try to pass to him would be censored, she had planned for their meeting by preparing a cipher. She had paid a visit to the hotel's desk clerk and had sweet-talked him out of his copy of Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque by Edgar Allan Poe, a work eerily suited to Diego's tastes. By underlining words on random pages, she had composed a message.

>   Cord, of course, had been suspicious. He'd riffled through the volume, searching for straight razors and knives. She'd held her breath as he'd handled the book. But whether he didn't have the patience for reading, or whether he was too preoccupied with plans for their mission, he'd never challenged the book after that.

  Thus, using one of Diego's oldest tricks, she'd been able to smuggle her message inside the prison. She'd explained in the book how she must accompany Cord back to Eulalie Barclay's ranch; how she must work with him to find Ned Wilkerson; and how she must return the plates and all the silver, even if it meant the end to Diego's dream of a counterfeiting empire.

  "I agreed to cooperate with Rawlins only because he promised me you wouldn't hang," she assured Diego. "I tried every trick I knew to get you pardoned; I swear it. But the governor wouldn't deal. The best I could do was get your charges reduced."

  And to get her own pardon.

  She didn't tell him that, though. She didn't dare. There was still the chance, albeit a long one, that he would be acquitted.

  Even though a lonely, wistful side of her prayed for such a miracle, she had another side, a confused and guilty side, that dreaded the possibility. What if Diego blamed her for his capture? What if he came after her?

  The sound of approaching footsteps jarred Fancy back to her harsh surroundings. Spinning toward the door, she hugged her book and listened. An odd tapping and clanking accompanied the ringing bootfalls. She had a moment to wonder at those sounds before the door was thrown wide. A burly guard pushed his prisoner into the room and slammed the door behind him.

  "Diego," she whispered in horror.

  Gone was the cocky caballero she had adored in her youth. In his place was a gaunt and bitter man who looked at least ten years older than his thirty-five years. Dressed in the inevitable black-and-white prison garb, he leaned heavily on a cane as he shuffled forward, dragging his ankle chains. His uniform hung from his shoulders like a great striped sheet; his knuckles were skeletal knobs beneath skin that looked more saffron than olive.

  She felt the sting of tears as he halted before her. The lustrous blue highlights were gone from his dark hair, dulled now by threads of iron gray. His once pencil-thin mustache, which he had always taken such care to groom, drooped over his lip like a piece of frayed rope. Only his eyes seemed the same, holding the spark of deviltry that had first endeared him to her. When he gazed past her to Cord, they burned like hellfire.

  "Diego," she whispered again, trying to keep the anguish from her voice.

  An eternity passed. She swallowed, feeling Diego smolder. She felt the fury and hatred he'd bottled up, all directed at the lawman who had robbed him of his freedom. She imagined she could see the rapier-keen mind working on the other side of those pitch-black eyes, and for a moment, her concern for Diego's health dissolved into fear.

  Fear for Cord.

  "Querida." Diego's gaze turned her way at last. It settled on the book at her breast, and a cunning smile curved his lips. He straightened, holding out an arm to her. "Por fin, es tamos reunidos."

  We are reunited at last. Her vision blurred with tears. She had waited so long to hear his voice, to feel his arms around her again, so why were her feet suddenly rooted to the spot? She forced herself to step forward, and he reached for her, plucking the book from her hands before he clasped her to his chest. She felt his ribs, like iron rails, jutting beneath his shirt.

  Oh God, she thought, look what prison has done to him. She wished she could honestly say his suffering wasn't deserved.

  Dutifully, she raised her head for his kiss. When his mouth covered hers, it felt as dry as paper, as cool as moss. Her lips responded, but her mind reeled.

  What had happened? Where was the spark?

  Diego's hands gripped her buttocks, dragging her hips hard against his own. The nudge of his swelling manhood embarrassed rather than tantalized her. She knew she shouldn't mind that Cord watched as she was fondled; she knew she shouldn't wonder what he thought, or if he cared. Diego was the man who wanted her, the man whose need for her was clear.

  Even so, it was difficult to forget how her pulse had skyrocketed and her insides had throbbed when Cord's hungry lips had feasted on her own.

  What was wrong with her? She shouldn't compare. Trying to atone, she let Diego rub his manhood against her mound. She let him arch her spine and crush her breasts and thrust his tongue inside her mouth. She waited for the fiery throb that used to make her knees go weak with wanting, but the best her female parts could do was give a nervous twitch.

  "Querida," Diego murmured again, raising his head. He held her face captive and fixed her with his shrewd, questing gaze. "Te eche de menos. Donde?—"

  "He understands Spanish," she whispered quickly, trying to distract him. She needed time to collect her thoughts. If Diego sensed the ambivalence of her ardor, he would definitely think she had betrayed him. She needed time alone with him, time to feel the old way, before she'd met Cord.

  "Sí?" A tiny smile tugged at Diego's lips. She had a moment to worry about what he was thinking before his hypnotic stare released her.

  "Buenas noches, senor federale," he mocked in his lilting Castilian. "The senorita and I wish a moment of privacy. Is there not someone else you can shoot and arrest?"

  "You're to be watched at all times," Cord said brusquely.

  "Ah. You wish to learn from my lovemaking, no?"

  Cord felt his jaw twitch, despite his struggle to suppress his anger. Ignoring Santana's taunts was going to be a true test of forbearance. His patience had already been tried while he'd watched the outlaw maul Fancy.

  But watching her subject herself to all the slobbering and pawing—that had been far worse. He'd had to grip the arms of his chair to keep from tearing the lovers apart.

  "You've got ten minutes, Santana," he said coldly. "Don't waste it by trying to goad me."

  "Ten minutes? That is all?" The outlaw looked stricken. Wrapping his free arm around Fancy's waist, he molded her possessively to his side. "But we are affianced, senor. We planned to be married before your bullets shot me down and shattered my knee."

  Fancy started; Cord tensed. Was it true? Had she really promised herself to the snake?

  And if so, why hadn't she said as much?

  Hastily, he sought her eyes. She was too busy gazing at Santana's cane and blinking back tears to notice his concern.

  "Won't you reconsider, senor?"

  Cord thought he might be sick when he saw the outlaw smirk above Fancy's head. For her sake, he had actually been ready to consider Santana's request. But now he had confirmation that Santana was using her. He was trying to turn her into a weapon—and she was too caught up in her own heartache to recognize the truth.

  "You're wasting time," Cord bit out acidly. "Nine minutes, Santana."

  The outlaw shifted sad eyes to Fancy. "Senor Rawlins is a cold man, chicquita. He brings you here only to torment me, I think."

  She fidgeted, and a frown marred her brow. "Diego—"

  "Let us sit awhile," he murmured, raising her hand to his lips. "For these brief minutes, I would not have you think of me as crippled."

  Cord felt his gut roil. Glimpsing the distress on Fancy's face, he imagined Santana had just racked up another point against him. The outlaw looked downright pathetic, hobbling with his walking stick, stumbling over his chains. Cord suspected that proclaiming Santana a fraud now would do little to even their score.

  Each of the next eight minutes dragged by like an eon. Sitting with his teeth clenched and his eyes narrowed, Cord watched as they whispered. An occasional tear would spill down Fancy's cheek, and Santana would brush it away. Or stroke her hair. Or kiss her hand. They sat knee to knee, their fingers laced upon the table, their foreheads all but touching.

  It made Cord's blood boil.

  Finally, after every single one of his nerves had been stretched to their utmost limits, the eighth minute drew to a close. Fancy must have sensed her time was up. Choking back
a sob, she threw her arms around Santana's neck.

  "Don't give up hope, Diego," she pleaded thickly. "You won't have to live out the rest of your life in prison. There are always appeals. We—we can still be wed."

  Cord stood so quickly, his chair banged against the wall. "Time's up, Santana."

  "Surely it cannot be, senor. Check your timepiece again, por favor."

  The outlaw hugged Fancy close to his murderous heart. He had the audacity to smirk again, when she couldn't see it, and Cord felt his fingers flex over an empty holster. Too bad he'd surrendered his gun to the guard.

  "I said your time's up, Santana. Fancy, wait for me outside."

  She blinked uncertainly at him, but he had used the tone even Wes dared not disobey.

  "You... aren't coming with me?"

  "I have questions for Santana."

  Reluctance etched her features, but she withdrew from Santana's arms. The criminal rose with her, leaning heavily on his cane. He let Fancy cling to him for a moment longer, gave her one last hungry kiss, then smiled, raising a hand in sad farewell.

  Cord didn't think the leather-brained guard would ever close that door.

  "So." Santana turned slowly, putting on a great show as he limped back to his chair. "You have questions, senor. Do you wish to learn more about kissing, or—" he sat, his lips twisting in oily mirth, "do you need instruction in the use of your prick?"

  Cord managed a cold, tight smile. He reminded himself that Santana's only weapon was his tongue.

  "What do you know about Wilkerson?"

  "Wilkerson?" Santana rolled the name around his mouth, giving the "R" an exaggerated trill. "It is Anglo, no?"

  "Ned Wilkerson," Cord persisted, ignoring the man's sass. "Do you know him?"

  Genuine surprise flickered through Santana's eyes. They were as black as the devil's back pocket—and concealed twice as much sin.

  "What would I know of a cattle rustler?"

  "So you've never met?" Cord asked skeptically.

  Santana shrugged, his expression mocking. "I am a businessman, senor, not a thief."