In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

“Cortez . . ..” She hesitated. Then she reached out and took his hand in hers, held the knuckles to the moonlight.

  “You should not have hit him,” she said quietly, her thumb brushing over the tiny cuts on his skin. “He hates you more than ever now.”

  Quinn grunted. “Stay away from him.”

  “Yes.” She nodded for emphasis, the promise easy to give.

  “Use the knife if you have to.”

  She drew in a breath and nodded again. “Glory, I hope I won’t.”

  It’d been a long time since a woman touched him, and this one distracted him from the conversation at hand, from the seriousness of it, and kept him absorbed with the feel of her skin skimming lightly across his.

  A little thing, her thumb upon his knuckles. But it disconcerted the hell out of him. He pulled away.

  “I expect you to sleep with me,” he said roughly. “Like a good wife should.”

  “What?” She gasped in horror.

  “Strictly platonic.” He fought a nip of impatience that she’d misinterpreted his intent. She was a nun, for godsake. “Do what wives do. But don’t go getting all uppity and prim about it. Loosen up a little. This was your idea, after all.”

  She stiffened. “Of course. I understand.”

  “Play the con game, and you’ll be safe.”

  Her gaze was direct, unwavering.

  “It’s what I want more than anything,” she said firmly. “To be safe. I’ll do whatever I must.”

  It surprised him she agreed to his demands so readily. He brought the cigarette stub to his lips and took a final drag. With his thumb and forefinger, he sent it arcing into the water.

  The old suspicions about her crept into his brain. A nun who lied with the skillful ease of a con artist, then agreed to sleep with him at night. One who could throw locks with a tool she’d fashioned with next to nothing.

  Maybe she wasn’t a nun. Maybe she’d lied about that, too.

  But she’d been at the penitentiary with the priest the night of Quinn’s escape. Quinn had seen Father Donovan performing his works of mercy and knew he was legitimate. The cleric would not have brought her if she hadn’t been from the convent.

  Quinn fought his suspicions down. He had to trust Hannah. And Hannah had to trust him.

  Over her head, he studied the bandeleros, sitting around the campfire with their tortillas and plates of chilies and beans.

  All of them, except Huerta. He kept himself separate from his men. Quinn sensed an air of expectancy about him. A tautness. He paced, a restless mountain cat primed for a hunt. His sharp gaze continually probed the darkness beyond the camp.

  Huerta was expecting something. Someone.

  Quinn took Hannah’s elbow and pulled her from her perch on the rock. If there was going to be trouble, he had to get closer to it, to anticipate it, to ready himself and Hannah before it hit.

  Suddenly, one of the guards yelled out in Mex. The men jumped to their feet. Water splashed--horses crossing the stream in haste. Amidst the thunderous pounding of hooves, a trio of riders roared into the camp and came to an abrupt stop.

  Huerta cried out. He threw off his beaded sombrero, letting it fall back on its strings against his serape. Long, obsidian tresses cascaded from beneath its crown and splayed over his shoulders, and he ran toward one of them with his arms outstretched.

  Hannah gasped in shock. Quinn stood stock still. Both of them stared.

  Christ.

  Huerta was a woman.

  Chapter 7

  “Tomas!”

  Her face alight with pleasure, she squealed his name with none of the rasp Hannah heard her speak before. The tall, lean Mexican barely had time to remove his ammunition belt before he took her against him. They kissed with passion, their mouths hungry, their tongues searching, and both oblivious to the group who waited around them.

  Stunned, Hannah watched. Huerta cared for this man. Deeply. Like one whose lover fills a need in her, clear to her soul.

  Hannah’s mind struggled to make the switch, to think of Huerta as a woman when she’d been so convincing as a man, a dangerous leader who wielded power over an entire band of outlaws.

  Over Quinn and herself.

  Why had the Mexican woman been compelled to hide her gender? Why had her men played along?

  Their kiss ended at last, and the others pressed closer, jeering good-naturedly, welcoming the tall Mexican into their midst. Clearly, they all knew one another, and Hannah guessed they were members of the same band, now reunited and complete.

  For the moment, it seemed she and Quinn had been forgotten. In the next, the Mexican glanced up and found them.

  His broad smile faltered. Suspicion glinted in his black eyes, and he pushed the men aside, allowing himself a closer look.

  “Mi querida,” he said, wary. “We have guests?”

  “Si.” Huerta swept her arm outward, a mocking gesture. “Quinn and Hannah Landry. They have joined us just this afternoon. And look, my love. They have a most beautiful carriage.”

  He glanced in the direction she indicated. Fenwick’s rig sat beyond the camp, its gleaming sides faintly touched by firelight. Even in the distance, Hannah admitted the carriage looked stately and elegant.

  “Beautiful,” he said, obviously struck by the sight of it. “Very beautiful.”

  The pair exchanged a look, and Hannah knew Quinn had been right. Huerta wanted the rig for herself.

  “Por Dios!” With a sudden smile that would be disarming if it could be trusted, the bandelero swept his sombrero from his head. “Forgive me. I have not introduced myself. My name is Tomas Huerta. I am Sophia’s husband.”

  “Husband?” His own smile mocking, Quinn inclined his head and turned to Sophia. “You were quite successful in making us think you were not . . . of the fairer sex.”

  She clucked her tongue in feigned regret. “You must accept my apologies for misleading you. Perhaps you would not have taken me as seriously if you had known I was a woman, eh?”

  Quinn lifted a shoulder. “Eight rifle barrels will make a man think whatever you want him to think.”

  “Si, Senor Landry. My intent, of course.”

  “We were outnumbered four to one,” Hannah said coolly. “Man or woman, you had us at your mercy. As you still do.”

  Dark heads swung toward her in unison.

  “My husband is a great leader to his men, Hannah. He has done wonderful things for our people,” Sophia replied, all signs of pleasure from his arrival gone. She spoke with intensity, but, strangely enough, without animosity. “When he cannot be with us, I have learned to take his place. My authority equals his. His men know they must obey me or pay the consequences.”

  An image of Julio Cortez flashed into Hannah’s memory, of his bitter resentment and hate for Quinn, of how Sophia had been forced to intervene to end their fight.

  She’d almost failed. Cortez easily doubled her weight. He’d vowed vengeance for Quinn, showed lust for Hannah.

  Would be obey Sophia next time? Or Tomas? Would he obey anyone?

  Hannah found him in the throng of outlaws, his expression brooding and sullen, as if her challenge to Sophia reminded him, too, of the scathing reprimand the bandelero’s leader had given him. Beneath his thick, coarse eyebrows, his eyes burned with the promise of retaliation.

  A shiver slithered along Hannah’s spine. Julio Cortez would not forget.

  Sophia turned to her husband and stroked his cheek.

  “You must be hungry,” she said. “Come. Sit by the fire and eat.”

  “Did you bring us tequila?” someone demanded.

  “You promised, Tomas!” another said.

  Beneath the thin line of his moustache, his white teeth gleamed against his bronzed skin.

  “Our raids have been successful,” he declared proudly. “Si. I have tequila and more!”

  A roar went up amongst the men. Tomas retrieved bottles of liquor and pouches of tobacco from bulging saddlebags and tossed them into the group; they
were snatched greedily and plundered with masculine fervor.

  The tequila flowed freely. The outlaws’ boisterous laughter abounded while Tomas and the two men accompanying him consumed the meal with relish.

  Sophia snuggled next to him. She appeared relaxed, as if Tomas’ presence shifted the burden of responsibility from her shoulders to his. Her high cheekbones and dark skin were like that of the outlawed men, and her obsidian eyes sparkled in amusement as Tomas regaled them with stories of his time away from them.

  Nearly a month, Hannah surmised, listening while she toyed with the food on her own plate. He had just returned from Mexico where he’d shared the spoils of his thievery with his people, starving peasants much in need of the cattle he’d rustled and the money he’d stolen from landowners too wealthy to know any of it was gone.

  His contempt for the rich had garnered him the respect of the poor. His ruthless exploits kept him constantly running from the law and the rules he had no intention of obeying.

  With his meal finished, Tomas’ glance settled, at last, on Quinn. The bandelero leaned back against a tree stump and lifted a bottle of tequila to his lips. He studied Quinn over the flickering campfire light.

  “Sophia tells me you broke out of the Big House. That Frank Briggs hunts you and Hannah,” he said, the words strung with grim curiosity.

  “Yes,” said Quinn.

  “I, too, spent time in the very same prison. If not for Sophia and Julio and a few of my best men, I would have died there.”

  Hannah’s surprise equaled Quinn’s. This was the Mexican who escaped Frank Briggs’ prison, the only man to accomplish the feat besides Quinn. Most likely, Sophia had been involved, too, and she marveled at the woman’s courage.

  “You were fortunate,” Quinn said.

  “Si, but you were, too, no?”

  Quinn grunted, agreeing. “There were drug experiments. We were used like dogs.”

  “And Briggs did not care because he was paid well for your trouble.” Tomas spoke with snarled conviction.

  “Very well. By a man named Fenwick. Roger Fenwick.”

  The Mexican appeared to commit the name to memory. “The rich gringo used the inmates to test his drug, eh?”

  Quinn gave a callous shrug. “He had nothing to lose. They were sent there to die for their crimes.”

  “And what crime did you commit, Senor Landry?”

  A hush fell over the bandeleros. Only the crackle of the fire broke the silence. Hannah held her breath, knowing the answer and dreading it.

  “I was convicted of murder,” he said.

  Low rumbles of reaction went through the men, waves of admiration, as if he were more like them than they first realized. Queasiness stirred in her belly.

  “And the Senora. Hannah. She helped you escape.”

  “She saved me from certain death.”

  Tomas took another swig of tequila. “There is talk she killed a nun and a priest afterward.” He held the bottle up to the fire, studying its contents with grim intensity. “The talk spreads quickly in the Territory.”

  Hannah’s head came up. “I’ve killed no one!”

  “Por Dios! A nun and a priest?” Sophia appeared astounded.

  “Briggs wants me recaptured,” snapped Quinn. “He’ll use Hannah to do it.”

  Sharp and assessing, Tomas’s black eyes bored into her. “She is hunted by the law.”

  “Maybe with a price on her head, eh?” Julio Cortez said, his eyes glittering with anticipation.

  “The warden is lying. He’s conspiring with his guard to see us dead.” Desperation crept into Hannah’s words. She rose. “I’ve killed no one. They were my friends.”

  “Hannah,” Quinn said, rising, too, reaching for her, but she evaded his grasp.

  “Maybe she works for Briggs, Tomas,” Cortez taunted. “He uses her to find you. See?” Cortez’s grimy paw flicked her wool cloak open. “She wears a nun’s habit. She is in disguise for Briggs.”

  “What?” Hannah choked on the word and slapped his hand away.

  “Shut up, you sonovabitch!” Quinn spat.

  The bandelero leader’s eyes flitted over the plain cross about her neck and the drab brown fabric. His features registered surprise, then renewed suspicion.

  The outlaws began to stand, one by one. Tomas did the same, his booted feet spread, his expression contemptuous.

  “Briggs pretended to be my friend once,” he said. “He promised me many head of cattle for my people. He told me to meet him in a special place to get them. When I go, the Federales are waiting for me.” His lip curled. “He has no cattle, and soon they throw me in his prison.” His hard gaze raked over Quinn and Hannah. “He tricked me with his disguise as an old farmer who has sympathies for my people when in fact he feels only hate.” His mouth curved in cold humor. “So you can see why I do not like disguises.”

  “I wear no disguise,” Hannah said slowly, succinctly.

  “Maybe she plans it that Briggs will meet her soon,” Cortez said, relentless in his quest to incriminate her. “She will lead him right to us.”

  “No.” Hannah fought to stay cool, to keep her panic from showing. “No. You’re wrong.”

  “Or maybe she really is a nun,” Tomas said, as if thinking aloud.

  Sophia threw her hands up in exasperation.

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe,” she mocked, glaring at Tomas, then Cortez. “Your minds go crazy with ‘maybe’.” She strode over and thumped Cortez on his paunchy belly. “What do you want of Senor Landry, Julio? Proof of Hannah’s virgin blood that they are married?”

  Hannah yelped in humiliation. She refused to listen to these people, these renegade outlaws with their dreadful implications, speaking as if they were her judge and jury.

  They had no right. Not when they’d committed enough crimes amongst them to warrant their own judge and jury.

  She spun on her heel. She had to flee them. To flee Quinn.

  Especially Quinn.

  But his hand snaked out and snared her wrist in an iron grip.

  “Yes, she wears a nun’s habit,” he said, his voice low, injecting venom into each syllable. “But beneath it, she is a woman. My woman. And I won’t have her shamed by your accusations.”

  Cortez’s expression turned thunderous. Suspicion lingered in Tomas’ features.

  “She is mine.” Quinn’s voice rasped from the depths of his rage. “Look at her. All of you.”

  He lifted her arm high above her head, firmly, and twirled her. Presented them her back, her side, her front. So there would be no question.

  She was his. Untouchable. By any of them.

  Hannah’s eyes closed tightly.

  He stopped turning her. Her eyes opened again.

  His gaze smoldered, stroked her with its growing heat. Her mind emptied. She thought only of the role they played. Of the deal they’d made. She thought nothing of brown habits and a convent that seemed forever unreachable.

  She thought of Quinn, the man.

  He filled her senses. She knew his intent even before his head lowered, and his jaw nuzzled her temple.

  “You mustn’t do this,” she whispered.

  “Convince them, Hannah,” he murmured. “Make them believe.”

  His chin brushed her cheek, then lowered to her jaw. She waited for what would come next, the anticipation building within her with every frenzied beat of her heart.

  At last, warm and firm, his mouth slid over hers. She trembled, and his muscle-thewed arm slid about her waist, pulling her closer. She needed him to hold her, for her legs seemed to sift away beneath her like fine sand, and she feared she’d swoon into a heap on the ground. Her fists balled the cotton fabric of his shirt. Her arms folded against the hard wall of his chest.

  Hannah had long ago buried her desire for a man’s kiss. She did not need his embrace and strength and power, but Quinn resurrected that need with a vengeance. He devastated her will to resist. He made her forget the lies they’d made.

  Too soon
, before she could even think it, he lifted his mouth and eased away. Hannah’s lashes fluttered, and she struggled with the onslaught of reality.

  Quinn’s gaze swept the bandeleros. His eyes, moments ago blazing with fire, turned gun-metal cold.

  “I, alone, know of her innocence,” he said roughly. “Do not speak of her guilt again.”

  Hannah’s breath jammed in her throat. The kiss had been only a ruse to prove a point, a concession to Tomas’ and Cortez’s accusations.

  She knew it, of course. Quinn had told her so.

  Still, the kiss meant nothing to him when it had rocked the very foundation of all the womanly yearnings she refused to feel.

  Until now.

  Hannah pushed away from him. Before she could humiliate herself further, she pivoted to flee him. To flee them all.

  But Sophia stepped in front of her and prevented it. Her scathing glance scorched each of her men.

  “Senor Landry would not dare to kiss a Lady of the Cloth with the passion he uses to kiss Hannah, eh?” She snapped the challenge. For a miniscule second, Hannah detected the glint of respect in her features.

  And then it was gone. Her expression turned harsh once more.

  “Do not accuse her again. Or I shall help Senor Landry make you regret it.” She searched out one bandelero in particular. “Julio! Do you hear me?”

  Cortez bared his teeth and narrowed his eyes. His jowls quivered with suppressed rage.

  He stared long and hard at Hannah. “Si, Sophia. I hear you.”

  He’d done a lot of stupid things in his life. Kissing a nun had never been one of them.

  Quinn delayed going to her and kept to the shadows of the cypress trees. Once again, Hannah sought solace in the night and perched on the rock along the stream, huddled in the folds of her cloak. He guessed she prayed, or meditated, or did whatever it was a troubled Lady of the Cloth did to seek peace.

  Huerta and Cortez had shot accusations at her in rapid-fire succession. Frank Briggs’ intent to pin the deaths of the priest and nun on her left her scared and panicked.

  Condemned.

  Christ. She deserved none of it.

  Her anguish had torn at him. He’d wanted only to comfort her. Protect her. The kiss had just happened, a desperate means to convince the others to leave her alone. The instinct to hold her in his arms had been too quick, too strong, to deny.