"Someone shoulda told you 'bout befriending whores, Harris," Colt had said.
"Yep." Goose had winked at his friend. "You just can't seem to get rid of 'em."
Is that what Cord will think about me when this whole scam is finally over?
Fancy struggled to ignore the sinking feeling that followed that thought. Cord had proved himself a tender, caring lover, but she knew better than to expect more than a few bittersweet nights in his arms. She had no illusions about their arrangement. They were business partners, pure and simple.
When the plates were found and she was free, he would go back to his family and his upstanding way of life. He would begin the search for another lily-white woman to marry. And she...
Well. She smiled mirthlessly. She would do what she had to do to survive. Just like she'd always done.
Just like Blisse did now.
A furtive footstep made her jerk around, her hand on her Colt.
"Fancy?"
She smelled Cord's tobacco before she saw him, hesitating in the shadow of a scrubby live oak. She released her breath and dropped her hand. To her consternation, she realized it was shaking.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She swallowed as he stepped into the starlight, his eyes seeming to fill with that soft, shimmering glow. She wondered why she always got a lump in her throat whenever he drew near.
"Of course."
He didn't look convinced, and she averted her gaze. She couldn't let him see how scared she really was. In three days, she would turn twenty-six years old. Diego might not be freed until she was forty-six. What would she do in the meantime, when her looks started to fade and none of the casinos would hire her to deal faro?
Her vision blurred. The answer was painfully obvious: She would have to live like Blisse.
Blinking rapidly, she pushed past Cord and walked beside the stream. She tried not to think of the future stretching out before her, all those bleak, empty days.
Instead, she focused on the night, with its gentle, south-born breezes, its heavenly vista of blue-black and silver, and the companionship of the quiet man who had fallen into step beside her.
The farther they walked from the camp, the purer the air seemed to be—and the slower her heart seemed to beat. She breathed more easily, but Cord remained guarded. She could see the tension in his shoulders and the cast of his jaw. His gaze darted constantly over the bushes, and he kept his hand near his gun.
She wished his vigilance wasn't so necessary. She wished they were far from this place, perhaps strolling along the docks by San Francisco Bay... or holding each other again on the bearskin by his hearth. She knew she would never forget that night, no matter how much time or distance came between them. In truth, a part of her refused to let go of the memory.
"I'm sorry I left without you," she said finally. "I just couldn't bear to—to sit there anymore and—" she swallowed, "and listen."
"I know." His features softened, and his gaze held hers for a precious moment. "I would have come sooner, if I could have."
He understands.
Gratitude mixed with her growing sense of wonder. She had a hard time dragging her wits back about her. The task became more difficult each time she melted into the sea-green depths of his eyes.
"It will be hard for us to speak in private like this," she said, "except perhaps at night, when we can always say we wandered off to—"
He glanced at her sharply, and she felt her face heat.
"—make love," she finished more diplomatically than she had intended. "You'll be tested in the days to come. Someone will set you up, and you'll have to behave like the rest of them, without honor or integrity. And certainly without chivalry."
"I thought I was," he said dryly. "Except maybe for the chivalry part." Grimacing, he tossed his cigarette into the current.
"Dammit, Fancy, one of them hit Blisse. How am I supposed to stand by and do nothing if someone does it again?"
Her throat constricted. When someone hit Blisse again was more likely.
"I'm not saying you should let them beat her," she said, thinking how special he was to worry about a whore—a nobody—that way. "But you have to understand. These men consider kindness a weakness. In a way, it is. If they realize you care about Blisse, they'll try to force your hand by using her against you."
Cord felt his gut churn at Fancy's unspoken implication. "Or by hurting you," he whispered hoarsely.
She shook her head, but his fears were confirmed when she wouldn't look him in the eye.
"Don't worry about me," she said. "As long as they think I'm the one with the plates—and you're the one with the contacts—we're both safe."
Oh God. He pulled her against him. A tremor rocked her, and he tightened his hold, uncertain whether the pounding against his ribs was his heart or hers.
"I should never have let you come with me," he said.
"You didn't have a choice, as I recall."
Her attempt at humor failed. He still felt like the rear end of a donkey.
"No, I had a choice," he berated himself harshly. "I chose to believe I could protect you—"
"Stop it." She raised her head from his shoulder. The glare she gave him was watery. "That's not your job. Your job is to be a scoundrel. With any luck, I'll rub off on you."
"What if I rub off on you instead?" he whispered, transfixed by her glimmering stare.
"Don't be ridiculous. There's too much at stake."
He managed a fleeting smile. She was changing already, although she refused to admit it. The woman who had trained a gun on his private parts was not the same woman who now stood close to tears in his arms.
"So how can I be more like a scoundrel?" he asked.
"Well, for one thing, don't offer to help me down from my horse. And don't help Blisse stack her wood. And for God's sake, don't ever give up your seat by the fire, even if I have to sit in six inches of mud."
"Hmm." He strove to put some levity into their conversation. "That sure is a lot to remember on top of the shuffling, the double dealing, the card palming—"
"Which you still aren't doing right," she interrupted, pressing her lips together.
He was secretly pleased by her disapproval. During their three-day journey to Comanche Peak, she had spent hours teaching him how to impersonate a sharper. She'd only been obliging his request for advice. Still, he'd grown resentful—in truth, jealous—wondering if she was being a bit too dedicated in her efforts to turn him into a replica of Santana. The final straw had come when she'd suggested he carry a riding quirt.
"The day I carry a whip to beat horses and women with, is the day I go to hell," he'd growled, only to regret his outburst a heartbeat later. He'd seen how the remark had hurt her.
Diego Santana was a bastard. Clearly, she knew it too. But getting her to admit Santana was a louse was going to require plenty of patience.
And a lot of love.
"Well..." He tried to think of a response that might coax a smile from her. "I figured if I got too good at cheating, none of those penny-pinching outlaws would let me play their game."
She sighed, looking troubled. "You're a good man, Cord. That's why all this pretense is hard for you. But in a few weeks, your mission will be over, and you can look back fondly because... well, because you were only playing a role. Not acting out your life."
A lump swelled in his throat. She was the only reason he would look back fondly on the spring of '74. Until Fancy had blazed into his days and nights, he had forgotten how cold his marriage had been. He had forgotten the real reason for letting his badge take him so far from home.
Irksome and bawdy, clever and brave, Fancy lived and loved with the intensity of a wildfire. He wanted her heat in his life. Always.
He chose his next words carefully. "Fancy, you don't have to keep living like an outlaw if you don't want to."
Her chin quivered, and she dropped her eyes, staring at the top two buttons of his shirt. "I don't think prison has changed Diego much."
Santana again. Damn.
How could a man confess what was in his heart if the woman he loved kept mooning over some flashy sharper who didn't even remotely resemble the fantasy she'd dreamed up?
Cord struggled with his frustration. As much as he wanted to tell Fancy he loved her, he still needed some sign that she was ready to let Santana go. Winning for keeps had become too important to him to risk a high-stakes gamble in this game.
He tried another tactic to woo her.
"I expect you're right," he whispered huskily, brushing a curl from her cheek. "You don't have to worry about Santana for a good, long spell, though. We have the whole night ahead of us now. And you know what? You were right about another thing, Fancy. I need you. I need you something fierce."
His words were plain and simple and blessedly welcome to Fancy's ears. She wanted so much to believe Cord spoke the truth. She raised her lips to meet his, returning his hungry kisses with a fervor that left them both breathless.
Her senses were spinning when he tugged her blouse from her waistband. Eagerly she reached for the buckle on his gun-belt. A breath of wind gusted across her tingling nipples and shivering thighs. It took a precious moment longer to free herself from her boots. When she at last straightened, naked except for the shimmer of starlight, she was disconcerted to see how he had stepped back to gaze at her.
"My God, Fancy," he breathed. "You're so beautiful."
I'm beautiful? She felt her throat tighten. Truly?
She saw the truth shining in his eyes, but it was hard to believe after everything Diego had said and done.
You don't have to flatter me, she wanted to assure Cord. We both know what I am.
Her throat ached too much to free the words, so she took the hand he offered and waded with him into the stream, where tumbled slabs of limestone formed shields against prying eyes.
The water glided over her skin like liquid satin. It was warmer than she had expected, or maybe the warmth was Cord's, flowing over her, seeping inside her, wrapping around her heart.
When he drew her closer for his kiss, she felt as if a ray of sunshine had crept inside her soul to thaw the year-round winter that had frozen her secret self.
He smelled of pine smoke and tasted of salt, the essences of earth and man, and yet his pulse throbbed around her with the primordial rhythms of the sea. He pulled her deeper into the current, and she felt herself sinking, sable waters sliding over her flesh, waves of wanting lapping at her core.
As the moon rose, so did her tide of desire. Every touch, every sensation was new, now that the fortress inside her was melting. His arms buoyed her hips higher; he braced his weight against the stone. When he let her sink again, she felt the hot, sweet swell of life that flowed from the font of his being.
"Cord..." She squeezed her eyes closed, wanting to be every part of him, wanting to feel, for the first time in her life, the heart and soul of a man. "I love... how you love me," she finished hastily, biting back the truth just in time.
She heard his breath catch, but when she would have raised her head to search for the reason, he tangled his hand in her hair, holding her cheek close to his, plunging her hips faster and deeper.
"I love to love you, Fancy."
The waves were cresting inside her. He pushed them higher and higher, until at last the dam broke and she was rushing with the tide, flowing outside of herself to that special place near the star-spangled horizon, where heaven touched and became the sea.
The sweetness of that moment never faded. He loved her again and again through the night, kissing her as if she were a delicacy to be savored, holding her as if she were more precious than gold.
The third loving came before dawn. Lying beside him on the bank of the stream, she had been longing to hold him as the stars faded, leaving Venus to wink like a diamond in the indigo blue. She had been too shy to reach for him, though, thinking that she should be satisfied with two heavenly journeys and that asking for a third would remind him of her past.
He woke to catch her watching him. His slow, wicked grin made every nerve in her body jolt and spread a languorous heat from her head to her toes.
"Why did you let me waste time sleeping?"
She laughed when he pulled her across their nest of denim and lace. "You have to be the healthiest man I've ever known," she retorted, squirming with delight when his hard body pressed her down, and she felt the sweet, hot throb of his stirring masculinity.
"I have to admit, darlin'," he drawled, "you do powerful things to me."
Later when she lay spent and wistful, cradled in the safety of his arms, she wondered if any man had ever loved her the way Cord did. She couldn't remember anything like the dizzying pleasure he gave her, or his tender possession afterward, when the loving was done. She cherished every moment, every heartbeat that he shared with her.
But the most treasured time of all came during the long and spiraling aftermaths, when he clasped her close and held her tight, refusing to let her go. She could imagine then that he truly cared about her, that she meant more than a few torrid nights of relief from his work.
In those quiet, blissful moments, when their every fiber was joined as one, she began to nourish the seedling of hope that Cord would not grow tired of her as Diego had.
Squeezing her eyes closed, she reached beyond herself, daring to breathe the first prayer she'd offered to heaven in years.
Father, please forgive me for my wrongs. Please help me to be worthy of this man. I humbly place myself in your hands. Amen.
Chapter 18
The next two days passed in an agony of dread for Fancy. Every minute of every hour was a test of her nerve.
Arguments erupted often between members of the gang, who sought a reprieve from their boredom. Men who weren't waving guns or throwing fists at each other often amused themselves by trying to decoy Cord from her side.
When she wasn't worrying about being stalked or ambushed, she was worrying about Cord. The outlaws didn't trust him, as evidenced by Ned's demand that Cord leave her behind in good faith and go arrange a rendezvous with his Mexican compadres. Cord had countered that he first wanted proof of Ned's plates and silver.
And so the dance continued.
The strain was enormous. Ned was planning a stage robbery, ostensibly to keep his men from killing one another, but Fancy suspected his real motive was to test Cord. She'd never feared for Diego this way, probably because Diego had been so slick.
But Diego's strength—his lack of principle—was Cord's weakness. He had a tendency to tense his jaw when he lied. The habit made him appear harder, more dangerous, but she knew him well enough to realize that dishonesty was like a needle in his gut. The strain showed in the harsh angles and deepening hollows that seemed to be marking his face of late. At any moment, she feared he might expose his true identity.
Sometimes, she was the one who nearly gave him away. She'd choked back his name on more than one occasion before the ever-present, ever-vigilant Blisse. Calling him Frank had not become any easier with the passage of time; in truth, Fancy was loath to keep up the pretense. Cord could never truly be cruel or depraved, and yet, the more she watched him behave the way he imagined a desperado might, the more she wanted the old, mischievous Cord back.
As if the fear of Cord's discovery wasn't wreaking enough havoc on her nerves, she still had the governor's deadline to worry about. It was only twelve days away. Terse and suspicious by nature, Ned had apparently confided the location of Bart's minting plates to no one, not even his brother.
At least, that was Jake's complaint. She hadn't seriously hoped to find the plates in camp—Ned would have been a fool to tempt thieves with such a booty—but she thought she might glean a clue to their hiding place by allying herself with Blisse.
Blisse, however, wanted no part of female companionship. The day before, when Fancy was collecting firewood for breakfast, she had found Blisse sniffling in the bushes with a split lip and a blackened eye. Fancy ha
d tasted bile to realize how brutal the girl's night must have been.
Kneeling at her side, she had offered to salve Blisse's wounds, but the girl had slapped her hand away.
"We ain't friends, puta," she had hissed like a cornered animal. "I know what you're trying to do. This here's my camp and my men. Stay outta my way, or you can kiss that fancy man of yours good-bye."
Fancy still wondered what Blisse had meant. Did the girl hope to seduce Cord and make him her protector? Or was her intent far more sinister?
Remembering how Blisse had challenged Cord about being in an El Paso crib, Fancy had waited impatiently all day to question him in private.
In truth, she had trouble picturing him in some low-class brothel, but she understood how great a man's need could be, and she wondered if he might have given in to loneliness one night after his wife's death.
She couldn't exactly fault him for longing to be held. After all, wanting Diego's affection had frequently driven her to do things she'd regretted. But the thought of Cord fornicating with Blisse made her heart sick.
Cord, however, had assured her that he remembered nothing of Miss Lottie's.
"Fancy," he said, frowning as if being reminded of past lovers was the greatest possible offense, "don't you think I would have gotten you the hell out of here if I thought Blisse might be a threat to you? Or me? Or us?"
"But what if you just don't remember?" she whispered uneasily. "What if you've had so many women over the years that you just can't recall their faces—"
Suddenly, he laughed. He threw back his head and roared with mirth. Her face flamed. She glanced uneasily around them for eavesdroppers until he finally caught his breath.
"Why, Miss Fancy Holleday," he drawled, raising an eyebrow and flashing sinfully provocative dimples, "you're jealous."
If she hadn't been so worried about him, she would have punched him in the gut.
In fact, Fancy couldn't stop worrying, despite Cord's reassurances. Blisse was sharp-eyed, keen-eared, and quickwitted. What if the girl really had recognized him from some fleeting encounter in El Paso?
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