by Sharon Ihle
She screamed, but the wind tore the sound from her throat. She arched her back to better strike out at him, but only managed to excite him more. Jesse wouldn't stop until he had his way. She understood that now, and almost welcomed the idea of surrender. He was going to touch her, to put his hands—
Without warning, the train slid to a screeching halt, tearing both books from Cassie's hands. Her swivel chair spun around, smacking the side of her head against the glass window next to her. When the train finally came to a stop, she was flung against the back of the chair in front of her and then fell to the floor with a thud. All around her women screamed and men shouted, but no one seemed to have the slightest idea what had happened.
Using the seat back she'd just collided with for balance, Cassie gingerly pulled herself to her feet and tested for injuries. Her head hurt, but other than that she was only shaken. After straightening her bonnet, which had been knocked askew, she felt the lump near her right temple, gauging it to be about the size of a robin's egg.
Then the front door to the parlor car banged open, and three masked men stepped inside, their pistols drawn.
One of them, his voice gruff, muffled by a dark blue handkerchief, shouted, "Listen up, folks. All you got to do is keep your heads about you and no one's gonna get hurt. This here's a holdup."
Out on the deck of the observation car, a stunned Shylo found herself face-down on the floor, the iron leg of an overturned chair tangled up in the folds of her skirt. She leaned up on her elbows, shaking her head to clear it, and realized that her hair had come free and her straw hat had fallen off. Then she glanced up and spotted it tumbling brim over feathers across the desert sands. A moment later it was gone.
"What the hell happened?" she said, forgetting herself again.
Beside her, Dimitri climbed to his feet. "I don't know, but I couldn't have said it better myself." "Hell," an extremely versatile word, had become one of his favorites since coming to America, although to be honest this was the first time he'd heard the expletive uttered by a lady. Dimitri didn't concern himself about the lapse in manners, though. He was far more interested in Shylo's physical condition. "Are you able to stand?"
"I don't know." It was the truth. She didn't have to pretend coquettish reticence or fake a helpless demeanor this time. Shylo had no idea why the train had come to such an abrupt halt, how she'd wound up on the floor wrapped around a metal chair, or if she was in need of medical care. She only knew that her bottom was sore and one of her elbows burned as if on fire. Struggling to raise her hand to Dimitri's, she winced in pain.
"Wait. Don't move." He dropped to her side and removed the chair from beneath her, tearing a wide gash in her skirt in the process, and then carefully lifted her to her feet. "Better now?"
Shylo swayed against him, testing her limbs hesitantly. Other than a bruised bottom and an aching funny bone, everything seemed to be in working order. She almost told him so, too, but stopped herself as she suddenly recognized the opportunity before her. For whatever reason, the train had stopped, and because of that, Dimitri was finally where she wanted him—holding her in his arms. There was no way she intended to let him go now.
Tilting her head back just enough to look up at him, she fell into her role as a pampered heiress and lied through her teeth. "I'm afraid I may have sprained my ankle a little, and isn't it just my bad luck that it turns out to be the same one I hurt back in New York?" She leaned into Dimitri's chest, her lashes fluttering out of control. "Maybe if you just hang on to me for a minute, the pain will go away."
He adjusted his grip, holding her up on tiptoes. "Is that better?"
"Tons," she said, sighing heavily. "But now... oh, I don't know why, but I seem to be feeling a little dizzy, too." She burrowed her head beneath his chin.
"You are hurt." Dimitri lifted her feet off the ground and carried her toward one of the chairs that hadn't fallen over. "I'm going to sit you down and go see if I can't find a doctor on board to come look at you."
"No." she said, her voice too loud and much too unladylike. Shylo planted her feet, including the one with the "injury," and softened her voice. "I mean, thanks for the thought, but that won't be necessary. I'm feeling a little better already."
Dimitri cocked one thick black eyebrow. "Are you sure?"
"Well..."
Her eyes were blinking furiously, struggling to come into focus, he assumed, and Dimitri was sure that she was more badly injured than she admitted. Was she so afraid of doctors or just trying to be brave? Perhaps he should be a little more discreet about rounding one up. "All right. Why don't you sit down anyway. I'm going inside to at least find out what happened to make the train stop so suddenly. We may be in some danger."
"Oh, I doubt that." She slapped his chest lightly. "I'm sure we only stopped to take on coal or water. The engineer probably blew a warning whistle, and we were just too distracted by all this"—she waved her arm toward the barren countryside, frowning as she forced herself to say—"beautiful scenery to notice."
"I won't be a moment."
"Fine," she snapped, unable to control her temper any more than she could control Dimitri. "Go ahead if you must, but a real gentleman would stay here to help me put myself together."
Until she turned away from him and bent over to retrieve her hairpins, Dimitri hadn't paid much attention to the fact that Shylo's coiffure had slipped loose of its bonds, freeing her tresses to tumble down her back and shoulders. Sunlight highlighted her thick honey-colored locks as she plucked the pins off the deck, confirming his suspicions about the touch of fire he thought he'd once noticed.
He'd been expecting that hint of red, but he was in no way prepared for the impact of observing such a glorious sight. It stirred him to watch her hair fall this way and that, a few lengths covering her shoulders and plunging down to her waist, others curling around the collar of her jacket or draped along her magnificent cheekbones. Even her eyes, now framed by the abundance of those lush, shimmering tresses, seemed to brighten and deepen to a more irresistible shade of blue.
Never had Dimitri seen anything quite like Shylo ringed in sunlight, and the spectacle of her standing there was a match to Aphrodite if ever there was one. He'd thought her reasonably attractive the day they'd met, but now her beauty stunned him, awakening his nether regions with a painful jolt. The sudden physical discomfort was as surprising as it was troubling, but that was nothing compared to the disturbing idea as it occurred to him that he might be losing his careful control—a control he'd worked a lifetime to achieve.
In a voice gruffer than he'd intended, Dimitri said, "I really ought to go find the conductor."
Shylo whirled on him, frustrated over her continuing ineptness when it came to tempting this man; but before she could blurt out something she'd regret, she realized a change had come over him. She had no practical experience in such matters, but something in his dark eyes and in the tense set of his jaw told her he was fascinated with her. Even though he had threatened to go inside, his gaze remained on her face and her unruly curls, and there was a certain longing in his expression, giving her the impression that he wanted nothing more than to touch them, to touch her.
He would come to her now, kiss her, or do anything she asked of him. Shylo was suddenly sure of that, if nothing else. All she need do was ask.
"Looking for the conductor may be a good idea," she said, slowly turning her back to him. "But would you mind helping me with my hair first? I'd hate to have the others see me in such a state, and it's too much for me to lift by myself." Another lie, but one that worked.
Although he suspected that he would be challenging his control more than he had in a long, long time, Dimitri could do no less than comply. "All right, but I warn you—this isn't exactly my area of expertise. What is it you want me to do?"
"Oh," she said breezily, pleased to hear the strain in his voice, "just bundle it all up and try to twist it into a pile at the top of my head. I'll take over from there."
W
ith hands eager to take on the dangerous assignment, Dimitri plunged into her hair, lifting the bulk of those silken strands, and then staring at them as if he'd unearthed a cache of ancient jewels. He had every intention of doing exactly as Shylo had instructed, but once he had her mane in his grasp he could not resist burying his face in the flame-kissed curls.
He breathed deeply, loving the fresh clean smell, the scent of springtime devoid of the artificial perfumes so overused by most women of privilege. Several of those strands had curled around his fingers, trapping his hands in a silken web, and he impulsively brought them to his cheek, indulging himself with the warm, satiny feel of her hair brushing his skin. Against his better judgment, he imagined what it would be like if he were to wrap those soft locks around his entire naked body.
At the thought, he grew hard, more painfully engorged than he could ever remember being at any time in his life. He doubted this response, or the utterly carnal thoughts he was having about Shylo, were exactly what Ari had had in mind when he'd told him to "test the young lady" and "see what happens."
Digging deep within himself for the strength to drive the lust from his body, Dimitri quickly formed Shylo's hair into a pile, a rather sloppy one at that, and positioned it at the top of her head. Then he held it there, his traitorous body still raging with desire, and waited in agony for her to fasten her runaway tresses into place.
After she slipped the final hairpin into the knot, Shylo turned to face Dimitri again. He still wore that look of fascination, but something else had drifted across his handsome features, darkening them. Something that told Shylo her plan was working extremely well.
"Are you all right?" she asked, moving closer. "You look a little flushed and"—she pressed her fingers against Dimitri's brow—"not only warm, but damp. Is the heat getting to you?"
Dimitri clutched her arms, intending to set her away from him again, but instead found himself pulling her up tight against his body. "It appears that it is," he admitted, fighting the urge to rip the pins from her hair and let it tumble back over his hands. "The heat is definitely getting to me."
Dimitri's voice had gone all husky, and his rejoinder was rife with unmistakable innuendo. Did it all mean what she hoped it did—that he was as ready for this moment as she? "If I can help cool you off, or something, just tell me how. It's the least I can do after all you've done for me. What do you have in mind?"
"Kiss her a little, test her," Ari had suggested. God knew Dimitri wanted that more than anything right now. So why not proceed with those plans? What did he have to lose at this point? "What I have in mind," he whispered darkly, forging ahead, "will not cool either of us. In fact, the heat may even intensify. This is all right with you?"
"It is if you mean you want to court me."
This, of course, was what he'd hoped for, but Dimitri was surprised. Were all American women so aggressive in matters of courtship? "I suppose you could say that, among other things, is what I have in mind. Does this meet with your approval, Miss Folsom?"
"It does." She tilted her chin, offering her mouth in case he hadn't caught on. "What other things did you have in mind?"
Dimitri lowered his head and brushed her lips with his, lingering over them for just a moment. "Something like that. Do you still approve?"
She swayed slightly, her lashes fluttering of their own volition, and was surprised to hear her own voice come out in a breathless whisper as she said, "I sure do, and I think it's high time you got around to it. If I'da known it was going to be so much trouble getting you to kiss me, I'da just sat down and wrote you a letter."
Dimitri kind of froze up when she said that, and his expression was unreadable to her. Thinking nothing of it, she took hold of his hand and shook it. "Thanks for deciding to court me. I'll try to make sure you don't regret it." Although she could still feel the spot where his lips had touched hers, she tried not to sound too impressed as she added, "Oh, and thanks for the kiss, too."
* * *
Forward in the parlor car, the gunmen split up. The senior member of the gang stayed near the front door, a second bandit made his way to the middle of the car, and the youngest, Buck Dilly, was left to work the back. Due to his age and inexperience, the youth was occasionally referred to as "Dilly the Kid" behind his back and sometimes even to his face. But at seventeen Buck was full of piss and vinegar and more than enough bravado—most of the time—to ignore the taunts.
Today was certainly one of those times. This was his first real job, even though he'd ridden with the gang on several other occasions. Before, he'd always been left on the sidelines either tending the horses or sprinting to the other side of town to light fires that would serve as diversions. Never, until today, had he been allowed to take part in an actual robbery. "You're too young to get in the line of fire," his older brother, Bob, would say, "too wet behind the ears to pull a job."
Of course, that was before brother Bob got himself arrested and then hung. After that the gang kind of took Buck under their wing, agreeing to give him his first crack at celebrity by including him in the robbery of a Santa Fe train carrying a huge mining payroll. Six of the men would force their way into the baggage car to seize the payroll, while three others, including Buck, would rob the only passengers worth bothering with: those riding in first class.
Now that Buck was finally a true member of the gang and doing his first real job, his adrenaline was pumping like a brand-new well. As he made his way down the aisle toward the passengers he was supposed to relieve of money and jewels, he spotted a female cowering on the last seat. Deciding she was as good a place as any to begin his illustrious career, he started for her.
When a terrified Cassie heard the clank of a man's boots and realized they were approaching her, she didn't know whether to scream or faint. Then his legs bumped against her chair, and as she slowly raised her wide-eyed gaze to his, she was pretty sure fainting was her only option. And not because of fear, but because of the way the outlaw was looking at her.
He was grinning, staring right into her eyes and grinning. Cassie couldn't see all of him, of course, but what she could see, she liked. The bandit wore a denim shirt that matched his tight-fitting jeans, and a shiny brown leather vest. His hat, made of the same leather as his vest, dipped low over one hazel-green eye, making him look a little roguish. His face was mostly hidden behind a bright red handkerchief, but Cassie couldn't help but notice how his big wide grin went all the way up to his eyebrows. Unable to stop herself, she grinned right back.
"Well, well," Buck said, pleasantly surprised to find such a cute young thing riding in first class. "What do we got here?"
Ari, who'd overheard the outlaw's remarks and the tone in which they'd been made, leapt out of his chair to go to Cassie's aid.
Buck heard the man moving behind him and, guessing at his intentions before the old man even stepped into the aisle, he swung his arm in an arc as he turned, his pistol raised high.
The outlaw's gun smashed full force against Ari's temple. He opened his mouth as if to speak, wavered there for a moment, then closed his eyes and crumpled to the floor without ever making a sound.
Cassie shrieked, drawing the outlaw's attention back to her, and as he whirled around, his handkerchief slipped below his chin, revealing his features. She'd planned on screaming again, but once she saw that boyishly handsome face and his playful gaze locked in on hers, she forgot about those plans and wondered once again if she wasn't about to faint.
"Don't go getting all spooky on me," Buck said, still grinning that bad boy grin as he dropped to one knee and swiveled the girl's chair around. Once his back was to the other passengers to keep his identity safe, he used the barrel of his gun to push the brim of his hat back from his forehead, revealing a bank of wavy brown hair. Then he winked one hazel eye and said, "Don't you worry about your friend there. I didn't hurt the old boy none. Just shut him up a little, is all. My name's Buck. What's yours?"
She knew this was wrong somehow, but she couldn'
t stop grinning at him or think of what to do but answer his question. "It's, umm, Cassie."
"Cassie, huh?" The outlaw's grin deepened, revealing a pair of button dimples, cute little dents that were nothing like the wide, dramatically slashing dimples of that Greek god Shylo had latched on to. These deep little pits gave the bandit an endearingly boyish quality, made him seem harmless somehow.
"Did you know," he went on, his slight twang thickening, "that you're just about the prettiest thing I've ever seen in my whole entire lifehood?"
No one had ever talked to her like that—no one. Cassie sucked in her breath, and her eyes felt as if they'd rolled clear to the back of her head. What if she'd been mistaken and hadn't heard him right? Had he said that Cassandra Mary McBride was pretty? Yes, yes, he had.
Her heart began to pound, and she had to clutch the arms of her chair to keep her hands from shaking. She gulped and blinked her eyes again. The outlaw was still there, still grinning, waiting for her to reply, even though her brain was scrambled like a Sunday morning omelet.
Cassie said the first thing that came to mind. "I have pink hair."
His grin fading to a look of disbelief, Buck pushed the bonnet away from Cassie's face until something resembling a field of spun sugar came into view. He stared at that hair for a full minute and then chuckled softly. "I'll be dogged if this ain't the damnedest coincidence I can recall. Would you believe that pink is just about my favorite color?"
So overwhelmed was Cassie to hear those beautiful words that when her eyes rolled back this time, she wasn't sure she'd ever get them lined up forward again. She struggled against a sudden tightness in her chest, renewed her grip on the arms of her chair in order to keep from falling out of it, and tried to come up with a way to thank the outlaw for his kindness.
"You all right, sugar lips?" Buck brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. "You ain't figuring to go belly up on me, are you?"