In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  And it was perfect.

  Keenly aware of the deepening cold and rapidly fading light, Hannah slid the knotted end into the lock’s mortise. Closing her eyes, she worked the tool, allowed a portion of the cord inside. She felt her way and knew just when to pull the cord taut.

  The lock snapped open.

  She flipped the box lid up and gazed in wonder at the contents inside: a scattering of gold coins and bills; a miniature bottle of whiskey; a pearl handled derringer; laudanum; a pocket-knife, cheroots; and a box of matches.

  Only then did Hannah remember it was Christmas night.

  And Fenwick couldn’t have given them finer gifts.

  Chapter 5

  Hell. He’d fallen into blazing hell.

  The terrible inferno raged through his gut. Tortured him with pain. Tempted him with death.

  He wouldn’t die. He tried, but death wouldn’t come. Then, when it did come close, he fought it with all he had left.

  He wasn’t finished yet.

  His belly retched hard from the poison, over and over again. The agony turned him inside out.

  The hell went on. On and on. Forever. Until he couldn’t take the fires anymore.

  She came to him. Just as before. Saving him when he couldn’t save himself.

  Her voice was soothing velvet. Satin and silk.

  Her touch was cool and gentle. Healing and good.

  He listened to her voice, swallowed drops from the little brown bottle. He needed her, and she was there. Comforting him, stroking him.

  She was his heaven. Without her, he would die in hell.

  And then the pain eased and the fires dwindled and he slept at last.

  The poison was gone.

  She’d saved him. Again.

  Quinn’s eyes opened.

  Sunlight streamed through the leaves in beaming rays. Snippets of blue sky peeked down through the branches, winking at him, inviting him to celebrate the dawning of the new day.

  He lay on his back without moving. A gray-tailed mockingbird chirped a noisy song above him, the tune lively and gay. Quinn waited for the hell to return.

  Nothing happened.

  The drug had run its course.

  He drew in a breath and relished the triumph. He expelled the air in his lungs with a grateful sigh.

  He’d survived Fenwick’s Solution. He’d survived when others had not.

  The knowledge humbled him. Invigorated him. For the first time in four long, hard years, he was free.

  Free.

  He turned his head. Hannah filled his vision. She’d fallen asleep in a sitting position with her knees drawn up to her chest, her head resting on her crossed arms, her wool cloak tight around her.

  She was like a brown bird wrapped in all that wool. No bigger than a sparrow. She’d been up most of the night. Because of him, she was exhausted.

  Quinn sat up. He took her shoulders, laid her in his place, then covered her with the blanket.

  She didn’t stir. Long, red tinted lashes rested on her cheeks. Her skin showed a hint of freckles, the texture smooth. Like satin. His gaze lingered over her mouth.

  Hannah, alias Sister Ariel. His suspicions took root. Who was she?

  She’d opened the black box with the ease of an experienced thief. Her skill both surprised and troubled him.

  He owed his life to this woman, whoever she was. A nun with the talents of a common criminal.

  His glance took in the campfire and the crude spit she’d erected. She’d shot a rabbit with Fenwick’s derringer and roasted the thing over the fire.

  She, too, was a survivor.

  He added more wood to the campfire embers, stoked them until they gave way to flames. The heat would keep her sleeping a little longer.

  He headed for the river. The morning air curled around him, seeped through the thin fabric of his prison uniform and chilled his skin. After a night ravaged by fever, he welcomed the cold, filled his lungs with its bite.

  Kneeling at the bank, he bent over the water, washed his face and rinsed his mouth. The sun shimmered over him, and he stared at his reflection.

  His hair had grown long and shaggy, a tangled mass dirtied from sweat and squalor. A beard roughened his cheeks. His bones were too prominent, his eyes too bitter, his mouth too hard.

  Loathing filled him at what he’d become. A wild animal bred beneath Warden Frank Briggs’ brutal hand.

  A savage.

  Christ. He had to rid himself of the horrors of the past, shed the filth and smells layering his body and mind. He peeled off his shirt, shucked his pants, yanked off both socks and plunged full length into the river.

  The cold stole his breath, and he came up for air with a loud whoop. Blood pumped through his veins, and he gloried in the rush. He dove in again, swam and scrubbed and emerged from the river clean and refreshed.

  Gooseflesh raised on his wet, naked skin. His uniform was nothing more than a pile of tattered rags, and he eyed them with fierce disgust. The cold forced him to put them on again.

  He returned to camp and warmed himself by the fire. Hannah still slept, snuggled in the folds of her cloak and his blanket. They draped her small form, outlining the curve of her shoulders, her hips, and an unexpected surge of lust went through him.

  He swore softly and banked his desire. She was a nun, after all, and he never claimed to be a heathen. He would use her in other ways. Too bad bedding her wasn’t one of them.

  Fenwick’s horses were hobbled at the edge of camp. He went to them, his glance grazing the midnight black hides, the strong backs, the powerful hindquarters. Quinn’s admiration flared. Their bloodlines were impeccable. For all his faults, Fenwick had fine taste in carriage horses.

  Quinn ran his hand down the sleek neck of one of the geldings. The animal’s earthy smell, his heat and vitality filled Quinn with the yearning to ride again.

  It’d been four years since he had a horse beneath him. Four years since Elliott took everything that ever mattered to him. His stallion. His ranch.

  His son.

  He swallowed down bile from the bitter memory and unhobbled the gelding, then bridled him. The drug had weakened Quinn’s muscles, and it took several attempts to hoist himself on the horse’s back without a saddle or stirrups.

  Once astride, he took the reins and left the camp again. He took his time, relearning the skill, testing himself. The walk lengthened to an easy canter, then a gallop, and Quinn pressed his knees against the animal’s belly. He felt the gelding’s powerful muscles move beneath him, and he urged the magnificent creature even faster.

  He reveled in the power. The speed. He leaned forward, molded his body to the horse’s. Wind whipped his face, tore at his hair, and an exultant yell escaped him.

  He rejoiced in the freedom. Beautiful, reckless, glorious freedom.

  He reined his mount into a wide turn back to camp and glimpsed Hannah searching for him. He raced toward her, the horse’s iron hooves throwing back clumps of dirt in their wake.

  She spied him and froze. He drew closer, and she quickly stepped back, as if she feared he’d run her over.

  “Quinn?” she gasped. “What are you doing?”

  He pulled on the reins and brought the gelding back to a walk.

  “Riding.”

  She gaped at him, her hazel-green eyes as big as saucers. “Why?”

  “Because I felt like it.” He moved the gelding in a slow circle around her.

  She turned with him, keeping him in her sight. “The fever has addled your brain.”

  “No.” He shook his head with a rueful smile.

  “You’re still very sick. You must get down from there.”

  “No,” he said again. To both her statements.

  “Quinn, please.” She reached a slender arm toward him, and the horse stopped. “I’ll help you.”

  “I feel fine, Hannah. The drug is gone.”

  She stared at him as if he’d taken on a severe case of dementia. “How can you be sure?’

&
nbsp; “Because I feel good.”

  She pursed her lips and pulled her hand back. “So you just decided to go on a pleasure ride.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your hair is wet. I suppose you bathed, too?”

  He nodded, watching her.

  “In the river. And now you’ll catch your death from pneumonia.” She sounded exasperated with him.

  “You thought I’d deserted you, didn’t you?’

  A moment passed. Her chin lifted to a defiant tilt. “It crossed my mind.”

  “And then I wouldn’t keep my end of our deal.”

  “Men who murder think nothing of promises, Mr. Landry. Why would you be any different?”

  His mood began to sour. “You’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?”

  “Trust you? I don’t think that will ever be possible.”

  He matched her glare with one of his own. “I don’t give a damn whether you trust me or not,” he said. “Just don’t forget you need me. I’m the only one who knows you didn’t kill those two people.”

  Her mouth tightened. Quinn sensed it vexed her deeply to have the disadvantage. “I’m well aware of that.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” he taunted.

  Her ire was a tangible thing, but she kept it locked inside her. A credit to the holy nuns, he thought none too charitably. She’d primed him for a healthy argument and then refused to oblige him.

  “You’re a fugitive, Hannah. Hunted, just like me.” His words were flat, cold. “Like it or not, we’re stuck with each other.”

  She paled, but said nothing more and headed back toward camp, leaving him filled with resentment that she’d managed to ruin a perfectly good morning.

  Quinn sprawled in the carriage driver’s seat and propped a foot on the front edge of the rig. He clasped the reins in one hand and a cheroot in the other.

  He inhaled the expensive tobacco and held the smoke in his lungs before exhaling slowly. He savored the sweet taste. Not only did Fenwick have a liking for quality horseflesh, he spared no expense in his cigars.

  Quinn glanced over at Hannah. She huddled on the far side of the seat and stared at the sparse countryside, spotted with mesquite and winter grass and the occasional prairie dog. Her concerted effort to ignore him caused him a twinge of annoyance.

  The black metal box sat between him, its lid open to the valuables inside. He was glad she’d discovered them. Simple items, crucial to their survival. What would they have done without the matches? The derringer? Or the laudanum?

  His pondering gaze settled on her once again. He took a lazy drag on the cheroot.

  “Do they teach you thievery at the convent, Hannah?” he asked softly.

  His question clearly startled her. Her glance bounced from him, to the box, then back at him again. The color drained from her cheeks.

  “Of course not,” she said.

  “Then who taught you how to throw the lock?”

  She speared him with a cool gaze. “It is of no concern to you.”

  He grunted and considered the burning end of the cheroot. “You sacrificed your rosary to make the widdy. Not many nuns would do that to something they considered sacred.”

  “Under the circumstances, it was necessary. I don’t regret doing it.” Her expression turned challenging. “What do you know of widdies?”

  “Very little.” His eyes connected with hers. “Except that only a master thief would know how to make one, then use it with skill.”

  “But you recognized mine.” She arched a delicate brow. “Perhaps you are a thief, too? As well as a murderer?”

  “Ah, Hannah.” She’d strung her words with barbed wire; Quinn leaned back in the seat and enjoyed their sting. “You give me too much credit. I only learned of them during my time in the Big House.”

  “Really?” Her tone indicated that she was skeptical. “What else did you learn?”

  Quinn fell silent. He wouldn’t tell her how he’d been schooled in the ways of the lowlifes he’d lived with for four years, the liars, drunks and cheats, the rapists and perverts. He wouldn’t tell of the times he’d been accosted in the privy, of how he fought back with all he possessed, even though it cost him ten lashes from the “cat” and thirty days in the Hole with no light and only stale bread to eat and dirty potato water to drink.

  He wouldn’t tell her. He suspected she knew of those things already.

  “Never mind what I’ve learned,” he said finally. “But understand one thing. I lived in hell through all of it. And I don’t know which hell was worse. My time in prison or Fenwick’s Solution.”

  For a moment, she said nothing. Quinn sensed her pity and hated it.

  “It’s over now,” she murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not sick anymore.”

  “No.”

  “And you’re free.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go back to the convent, Quinn. Now.”

  He glanced at her sharply. “No.”

  She leaned toward him, her features intense. “You don’t need me. Not like before. Take me there, and we’ll talk to Mother Superior. Convince her of my innocence, and you can be on your way. You’ll never see me again.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “You’re a fool to think I’d even consider it,” he said with a growl.

  She emitted a cry of frustration. “You had no right to kidnap me. We were only there to help--”

  “To my good fortune.”

  “--and you stole me as if I were a tin of beans on the grocer’s shelf.”

  “That’s right. I did. Because I had to. Because I’d be dead by now if I didn’t.”

  “ I don’t want to be here with you,” she whispered.

  He steeled himself against the glimmer of her tears, of the brutal honesty in her words.

  “Well, I reckon I don’t much like being here myself, Hannah. But I am. Same as you. Whether either one of us deserves it.” He took an impatient pull on the cheroot and flung it aside. Her anguish touched a raw nerve inside him. “Briggs would’ve shot you, too, if I haven’t taken you. You knew too much. We all did.”

  “There’s always the chance we might have made it,” she said, persistent.

  “No chance, Hannah. Not a one in hell.”

  She turned away from him, her jaw set.

  “Briggs is waiting for you to go back to the convent,” Quinn said after a long moment. “You know that.”

  She faced him again. “Yes. And he’s waiting for your body to show up somewhere, too. It won’t take long for him to realize you’re still alive, and he’ll track you again.”

  This time, Quinn fell silent. She seemed to know how the warden’s brain worked.

  “We’ll be in Texas in a few days.” He scanned the New Mexico Territory horizon with a narrowed eye. “And Amarillo shortly thereafter. When my business is complete, we’ll take a stage back to the convent.”

  She let out a skeptical huff.

  “You don’t believe me,” he said and reached for another cheroot from the leather case on the seat.

  “No.”

  “I’ve never lied to you.”

  “You’ll say anything to shut me up. Deal or no deal.”

  He plucked a wooden match from its gold-plated case. “Think what you want, Hannah.”

  With a flick of his thumbnail, the match hissed and flared. Quinn touched the flame to the end of the cheroot. He drew inward, then exhaled a puff of blue-gray smoke.

  Movement on the horizon stopped him cold. Riders appeared. An entire band of Mexican bandeleros, riding hard, fast. And heading right toward them.

  “Shit,” Quinn muttered.

  Hannah’s gaze followed his into the distance. She sucked in a breath. “Oh, glory.”

  “Here.” He rustled through the black box and pressed Fenwick’s knife into her hand. “Hide this somewhere where you can get to it quick if you have to. And keep your cloak tight about you.”

  He took the derringer and
slipped it into the waistband of his uniform; his senses prepared for what lay ahead.

  “What do you think they’ll do?” Hannah asked, her voice not quite steady. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head.

  “I don’t know.” Quinn knew her fear, tasted it as if it were his own. He gripped her chin, forced her to face him. “Not a word from you. Hear me? Let me do the talking.”

  “There’s money in the box,” she said, hope in her voice. “Maybe that’s all they want.”

  “Not enough there to make them rich.” He released her, then closed the lid to the box beneath the seat. The band thundered closer. Sunlight glinted off their ammunition belts, the thick leather slung over their shoulders and heavily laden with rows of gleaming bullets. Conchos jangled from the horses’ harnesses. Rifles filled their scabbards.

  Quinn braked the carriage to a stop. He lifted the cheroot to his lips and took a long drag.

  He hoped it wouldn’t be his last.

  Chapter 6

  The rifles cocked simultaneously. The riders fanned out into a semicircle in front of the carriage. Eight of them. With sombreros on their heads and moustaches over their lips and the clear message that Fenwick’s rig wasn’t going anywhere.

  Quinn’s gaze locked with one of the bandelero’s. The leader. Quinn gauged his age to be near thirty, close to his own. Lean and straight-backed, he sat in the saddle with arrogance, as if he knew his power and reveled in it. The kind of man who could regale another with honor or plunge a knife in his back.

  He kept his beaded sombrero low over his eyes. Unlike the others, he wore no moustache; his skin was smooth, his features almost delicate. He wore a brightly striped serape over his shoulders, and the wrap hid any hint of his build, but the legs hugging the palomino’s belly were slim; the boots in the stirrups sheathed small feet.

  The Mexican returned his rifle to its scabbard and nudged his horse into a lazy walk around the carriage. He took his time, letting his men wait, letting them all wait. His admiring gaze stroked each side of the rig from top to bottom, front to back.