by Pam Crooks
He took his place in the semicircle and leaned on the saddle horn. Beneath the sombrero’s brim, the dark eyes fastened onto Quinn and raked him with an insolent glance.
Quinn exhaled from the cheroot slow and easy. The silence stretched his nerves taut. He bided his time, endured every slow-moving second until the Mexican made the first move.
The bandelero dragged his attention from Quinn to Hannah. He stared hard at her, pinning her with unyielding scrutiny. She endured the stare, not flinching, not uttering a sound.
Finally, the Mexican inclined his head, as if he approved of what he saw.
“Buenas dias,” he said, his voice a low rasp, his smile but a shadow beneath the sombrero’s broad brim.
“Buenas dias,” Hannah replied coolly.
“Step down where I can see you better.” He pulled a revolver from his holster, bettered his grip over the trigger and gestured toward Quinn. “Both of you.”
Quinn flicked the ashes from the smoldering cheroot and chanced a look at Hannah. From the recesses of her hood, her slender throat moved, but she gave no other sign of alarm. He eased from the driver’s seat to the ground and she followed.
“Julio!” the leader said. “Search the carriage.”
One of the men rode forward. He sat heavy in the saddle, his frame paunchy, his arms and thighs thick. He climbed into the rig and yanked at Fenwick’s blanket, threw the canteen to the ground, then the broken umbrella. He paused at the leather cigar case Quinn had inadvertently left open on the seat.
A broad smile erupted. He snatched up the case and held it up for his fellow bandeleros to see.
“Ee-yah!” he cried out. “We will enjoy these, no?”
He stuffed a cheroot between his teeth before tossing what was left to the others. Someone produced a match, and one by one they lit up, grunting their delight between puffs. The last man in the line tossed aside the empty case.
Quinn grimaced at the loss. Julio remounted and took new notice of Hannah. He leaned toward her, made a lewd gesture and called out something in Mex that drew the band’s loud, appreciative laughter. Clearly, he lusted for her. Quinn’s belly tightened.
The leader barked a terse command, and the men quieted. He indicated Hannah with his revolver.
“Your name,” he ordered.
“Hannah,” she said smoothly. “Hannah Landry.”
Landry? Quinn speared her with a sharp glance.
“Don’t, Hannah,” he warned.
The revolver swung toward him, and he bit back further protest. He wanted to throttle her for assuming control of their predicament and forcing her own plan on the Mexican leader, conning him with her lie as if Quinn had evaporated into thin air.
“The gringo’s name,” the leader demanded, his attention on Hannah again.
“He is my husband. Quinn Landry.”
She looked at him, then. Cool as ice. Quinn narrowed an eye in mute promise he’d retaliate for her impertinence later.
“Senor and Senora Landry. A pleasure.” The leader inclined his head in a show of mocking courtesy. He indicated the fleshy Mexican at his left who had stolen the cheroots. “My cousin, Julio Cortez,” he murmured and motioned toward a gray-haired man of slight build on his right. “Ramon Huerta, my father-in-law.” Another shadow of a smile appeared. “And you may simply call me . . . Huerta. That is enough for you to know now.”
The Mexican was toying with them. The knowledge slashed through Quinn, convincing him there was far more lurking behind the bandelero’s taunting smile then he allowed them to see.
“Tell me, Hannah. Your husband wears a prison uniform. Why?”
Hannah met the bandelero’s gaze. Her fingers lifted to the clasp on her cloak. Her hood fell back, and she pulled the garment from her shoulders.
“Por Dios!” the leader exclaimed.
Rumbles of surprise went up among the men. They recognized the plain wooden cross around her neck and the drab shape of her brown habit signifying her as a Lady of the Cloth.
“I escaped the penitentiary,” Quinn said, refusing to be silent any longer, bristling that Hannah had neither kept her cloak about her or her mouth shut as he’d instructed. “Two days ago. She--.”
“Frank Briggs’ penitentiary?” The bandelero exchanged a swift glance with Ramon.
“Yes.” Quinn’s brow furrowed.
“Do you know him?” Hannah asked, wary.
Huerta’s arrogant mouth twisted, and he spat on the ground as if he couldn’t stand to have the taste of the warden’s name on his tongue. “Si. I know him. We all do.”
Ramon considered Quinn.
“The escape was not easy, eh?” he said.
Quinn met his scrutiny squarely. “No.”
“And now you run for your lives.”
“Yes.”
“In those clothes?” Suspicion mingled with skepticism.
“We had no choice,” Quinn grated.
“A nun’s habit is unusual.” The leader studied Hannah. “Why did you choose to dress this way?”
“My attire allowed me to enter the penitentiary without harm,” she said, her tone steady.
“A clever disguise.” The ghostly smile appeared beneath the sombrero again, once more approving. “Si. Clever.”
Hannah’s lips curved. “Matters at the penitentiary had grown quite out of control. I fear my ‘clever disguise’ had little to do with the final events of the night.”
He shrugged. “Yet, because of you, your husband escaped.”
“Yes,” she said.
He sat back in the saddle, accepting her confidence game.
“She is a brave woman,” he said to Quinn. “You are fortunate to have her as a partner. And a wife.”
“It seems I am,” Quinn said roughly.
“The land is not kind when a man runs with little but the clothes on his back. Perhaps we can strike a bargain.”
Quinn frowned, tense again. “A bargain?”
“We will talk over a bottle of tequila.”
“I don’t want your generosity, senor.”
“I give it gladly.”
“We must keep moving. Briggs gives us a hard chase.”
Huerta’s shadowed features grew harsh. “I insist, gringo.”
He snapped a command to his men. With a jangle of conchos and harnesses, two riders assumed positions on either side of the rig. Another pair took up the rear.
The revolver jerked toward Quinn.
“We are ready to ride, gringo,” he ordered. “Get in the carriage with your wife.”
Quinn remained unmoving, his hard gaze riveted to the leader while he flicked yet another admiring glance over Fenwick’s carriage. Hannah pulled the cloak over her shoulders and the hood over her head, shielding herself from the band.
She turned toward him. Quinn pulled his gaze from the Mexican and held hers instead.
“He wants the rig,” he said in a cool voice.
“Are you sure?”
“He did everything but drool on it.”
“The rig is ours.”
Another time, he might have been amused at her reasoning. The carriage was no more theirs than the Mexican’s. After all, they’d stolen it from Fenwick.
“Senor Landry!” The leader’s tone rasped with impatience.
Quinn nudged Hannah firmly toward the buggy, but she stood her ground, spearing him with a damning glance.
“You should have listened to me,” she said under her breath. “We could have been on our way back to the convent by now.”
“The band will buy us some time. The warden won’t look for us in an outlaw’s hideout,” he said roughly.
“What’s worse, Quinn?” she challenged. “Recapture by Frank Briggs? Or being prisoners of a renegade outlaw band?”
Not waiting for his answer, she strode away from him, her pique obvious. He doubted she cared if he followed or not.
He chafed with irritation. At her logic, at her displeasure, at the frustrating delay in his return to A
marillo.
And to lose the carriage in the process . . ..
He breathed a silent curse.
Immersed in his troubled thoughts, he’d forgotten his cheroot, now burned down to a stub of ashes. A waste of a damned good cigar.
His last one.
And he cursed that, too.
They stopped to camp for the night along a stream that flowed east from the Pecos. Dusk had fallen, and the horses labored under the weight of their riders. A stand of cypress trees offered seclusion, and at Huerta’s direction, the men began to dismount.
Quinn looped the reins around the carriage brake and ran an uneasy eye over the fierce-looking band. Hannah sensed the tension in him, though he’d not spoken to her since they’d been taken captive.
Conversation would have been difficult if he’d tried. The riders positioned on each side of the rig had stayed within arm’s reach. They would have heard every word. She was convinced Quinn’s silence had been safer.
Julio Cortez appeared from around the far side of the carriage.
“Get down, gringo!” he ordered.
He leaned forward from the saddle and jammed his rifle barrel into Quinn’s ribs, then grasped his shoulder and yanked him from the carriage seat. Quinn scrambled to keep his balance and hit the dirt hard.
Hannah cried out and reached for him. Cortez lunged for her next, dragging her by the arm to his side of the rig.
“Leave her alone, Cortez,” Quinn yelled.
Cortez ignored him and yanked hard on her elbow. No match to his superior strength, she tumbled from the seat like a rag doll, sprawling to the ground with a soft thud. Every bone in her body rattled from the fall.
Quinn leapt toward him. With all the savagery he’d shown in the penitentiary, he tore Cortez from his horse and hurled his fist into the fleshy jowl. Cortez’s head snapped back and blood burst from his lip. He fell backwards in a heap.
Quinn went for him a second time. Hannah’s heart jumped to her throat.
“No, Quinn!” she gasped, hastening to her feet.
A rifle shot exploded through the air. Quinn clutched the front of Cortez’s vest and hauled him up by his ammunition belts.
“Senor Landry! Julio! Enough!” Huerta commanded in a harsh rasp, charging toward them from astride the palomino.
Quinn yanked Cortez higher so that the bandelero was inches from his face.
“Don’t touch her again,” he grated through clenched teeth.
Two of Huerta’s men pried him from Cortez. This time, Quinn didn’t resist, and relief flooded through Hannah. Glory, he couldn’t fight a firing squad.
Loathing burned in Cortez’s eyes, and he leapt toward them again. Clearly, he intended to finish what Quinn had started.
Ramon stopped Cortez with a shove to his burly chest.
“Julio!” he barked. “Leave the gringos alone!”
Huerta slid from his horse before the animal thundered to a stop. His hand lashed out and struck Cortez against the cheek. The bandelero gasped and sucked in a breath.
“I am in command here, Julio. When I tell you to stop, you will listen!” Huerta said with a hiss.
“I must end the fight he started!” Cortez shot back.
“He protects his woman! Tomas would have done the same!”
“You defend the gringo before you defend me!” Cortez could barely contain his outrage. “Me! Your flesh and blood!”
Huerta’s lip curled with disgust. “Stop your whining, you fool. Now go! Unload the pack horses before I am forced to tell Tomas of your tantrums!”
Cortez quivered and didn’t move.
“Vamos!” Huerta snapped.
His chest heaved. “Si. I will obey, but I will not forget.”
He glared at Quinn with blistering hate before pressing the cuff of his sleeve to his bleeding mouth. He stormed off.
“And you, Senor Landry! Give me your gun.”
Quinn’s nostrils flared, and he snatched at the derringer still tucked in the waistband of his pants. His features hard, he handed over the weapon.
Huerta slipped the gun beneath his serape. “Your horses are tired. Take care of them!”
A long second passed, as if Quinn debated obeying the order. Finally, he swung his glance toward Hannah.
“You okay?” he demanded.
“Yes,” she said, managing a jerky nod.
“Don’t wander off. I want you where I can see you,” he ordered, the words clipped.
She nodded again and swallowed.
He hurled a harsh look toward Huerta, but said nothing more. He hurled another toward Cortez’s retreating form, then began unharnessing the team of black geldings.
The Mexican leader watched him work. He gestured toward Ramon, and his fury began to dissipate.
“Find him some clothes,” he said. “Those prison rags are not fit to be worn.”
“And they make us remember too much, eh?” the older man said softly.
“Si. Too much.”
“I will post guards around the camp. Two hour shifts.”
“Gracias. That will be good.”
Ramon squeezed Huerta’s shoulder and left. Huerta kept his back to Hannah and angled his head, the broad sombrero brim casting his face into deep shadow.
“My men are exhausted and hungry. Perhaps, Hannah, you can find us wood to build a fire for our supper, eh?”
His voice had gentled to a near whisper. The impatience in him had disappeared, too. The cold, stark command that seemed to infiltrate his every word had mellowed to civilized courtesy.
“Yes,” Hannah murmured.
Huerta nodded and strode away to tend to his own horse.
She stared after him, and a sudden shiver went through her. From the power he wielded over the bandeleros. Over Quinn and herself. From Julio’s rage. From the deadly certainty that escaping the band would be practically impossible.
But mostly from Huerta himself, whose face he would not let her see, whose real voice he would not let her hear.
Night had fallen. Quinn found Hannah near the stream, perched on a rock, her habit and cloak gathered close about her.
A big, cheerful moon beamed over the water, illuminating her shape. She stared into the sky, studded with stars and glittering like sugar crystals tossed onto black cloth.
The aroma of roasting chilies hung in the air. One of the bandeleros stirred beans in a cast iron pot; another clattered tin plates and cups; still another stoked the fire until it roared and snapped.
Hannah seemed oblivious to the activity around her. Detached. As if she couldn’t bring herself to become a part of it.
Pebbles crunched beneath Quinn’s boot soles as he drew closer, and Hannah’s head swiveled toward him in alarm.
“It’s only me, Hannah,” he said.
Eyes wide, she dragged her gaze down the length of him and back up. Ramon had supplied him with clean clothes and plenty of soap. Her jaw lagged open. “Quinn?”
He wasn’t surprised she hardly recognized him. Hell, he hardly recognized himself.
“Amazing what a razor can do, isn’t it?” With the crook of his finger, he nudged her jaw closed again.
“You--you’re so different.”
He’d not worn a hat since Briggs had taken his Stetson away four years ago and thrown him into prison. Nor had he felt the denim of well-worn Levis encasing his thighs, or a knit undershirt warming his back, or a decent cotton shirt covering his shoulders and arms.
It felt good to be wearing them now. Damned good.
“I’ll never wear a prison uniform again,” he said with a determined nod. “I’ll die first.”
She made a sound of sympathy, of understanding.
“Ramon was generous. You’re fortunate he found you something to wear,” she said.
“Yes.” He considered her for a moment. “Too bad he had nothing for you.”
She turned away. “My habit suits me.”
Quinn’s mouth thinned in silent disagreement. He found himself wo
ndering what she’d look like in satin and lace, with fine kid-leather boots on her feet, gloves on her hands, jewels about her neck. He imagined her with ribbons in her hair, a parasol twirling against her shoulder.
And cursed himself for it.
She preferred to look like a brown sparrow in all that wool. A shame. A living shame.
He reached inside his shirt pocket for the cigarette Ramon had given him and scraped a match tip with his thumb nail.
“So you want to pretend we’re married.” He touched the flame to the tobacco.
“Hush,” she said. “Someone could be listening.”
No one was. He’d counted sombreroed heads, found every bandelero where he was supposed to be before he came to her.
“Huerta will be furious when he learns the truth.” He put the cigarette to his lips.
“Don’t say anything, and he won’t.”
He inhaled deeply, held the smoke in his lungs before exhaling, savoring the taste of it.
“Men like Huerta have a twisted code of honor that’ll allow for killing a man for his money, but not for a lie they believed in front of their men,” he said. “We’ll pay the price if he finds out.”
She sighed. “I know.” She fingered the wooden cross hanging from her neck. “Pretending you were my husband wasn’t very clever, I’m afraid. It was all I could think of at the time.”
In spite of everything, his mouth softened. “Mother Superior wouldn’t approve.”
A sound of dismay slipped from her. “I don’t want to think of it.”
He’d meant to tease her, but she’d taken his comment with utmost seriousness.
“You’re trying not to get killed,” he said, squinting an eye over the darkened ribbon of water. “She isn’t. Don’t fret over it.”
“Please don’t make light of my sin, Quinn. I’m quite aware of the consequences and will confess it at my first opportunity.”
“I wouldn’t bother, if I were you.”
“But you’re not me, are you?”
“It’s called survival, Hannah. You’re feeling guilty for something you had to do. You lied to save yourself. And me.” He slid another cautious glance toward the outlaws. “We’ll do it your way. We’ll make the marriage thing work. At if they think you’re my wife, Huerta’s men will think twice about their lust for you.”