by Pam Crooks
“I’d warrant a good many women would love to have what you hide away in that habit of yours, Hannah.”
She glanced away. “I made the decision a long time ago. It’s the right one for me.”
“Is it?
She refused to look at him. “Yes. Of course.”
“Damned if the whole male race would disagree.”
She clucked her tongue and eyed him dubiously. ‘You exaggerate, Quinn Landry.”
“I speak the truth.”
His head lowered, as if he was drawn to the fresh, soapy scent of her. She held herself straight, afraid to touch him, afraid to let him touch her.
“This con game of ours,” he said, his breath warm against her neck, “is going to be hell.”
Her startled gaze flew to his, and she twisted away from him.
“Our con game will save our lives,” she said, the words unsteady.
He straightened and returned the mirror to the dresser top with an impatient toss. “We’ll survive by our wits. Nothing more.”
“And afterward, we’ll go back to our former lives and never see each other again.”
His gaze slammed into hers.
“Yeah. That’s right. We will.” He thrust the bowl of soup toward her. “Eat your supper before it gets cold.”
He strode to the door and jerked it open.
“Where are you going?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“For a swim.”
“A swim?” She gaped up at him. “The water will be freezing.”
“Damn right it will.”
The door slammed behind him. Hannah winced.
His sudden change in mood left her pensive. Balancing the bowl in her hand, she picked up the mirror and studied her reflection.
She’d nearly succumbed to Quinn’s flattery and her own feminine desire to believe him. A dangerous mix, she thought, on the heels of panic. The mistake could prove disastrous and send her tumbling from the course she’d chosen for her life.
Hannah vowed to be stronger next time. More focused. She wouldn’t let Quinn and his potent manliness distract her from shunning the ways of the world.
Yet her fingers lifted to the curls at her neck. She touched one, stroked the feel of it, just as he’d done a few moments ago.
Hannah let out a troubled breath. Mother Superior had taught her many things at the convent, all different from what she’d learned from Pa.
And neither of them had taught her how to feel like a woman.
The bandeleros allowed Quinn a quick dip in the valley’s spring, though one of the guards kept in clear sight through the duration. The water chilled his body, but had little effect on cooling his blood.
He blamed Hannah for it. Hell, she could wear sackcloth and ashes and still stir his lust.
He lingered outside smoking a cigarette for as long as he dared. He didn’t want to leave her alone any more than he already had. The hideout had grown quiet; most of the men had turned in for the night. Tomas and Sophia had gone to bed long ago, trusting the guards posted about the place to watch over Hannah and himself, to see that they didn’t escape.
Snuffing the cigarette, Quinn finally entered the quiet cabin and paused outside the closed door to their room. A sliver of light shone along the floor and indicated Hannah had not yet gone to sleep. A part of him wished she had. It would be easier that way.
He pushed open the door and strode inside, his glance sweeping the room. Her supper bowl was gone. The empty bath tub sat in a corner, the wet towel hanging over the edge to dry. On the dresser lay the skirt and blouse with its embroidered flowers, folded neatly in readiness for the next day.
He found her in bed, lying on her side, turned away from him. At his entrance, she scurried to a sitting position and pulled the bed covers up to her neck.
“Oh!” she said, her voice soft in the low glow from the lantern. She held the sheets in a death grip. “You startled me.”
“Sorry.” He shut the door, slipped the latch into place. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be up.”
She nodded, a jerky movement. She was as tense as he. “I was just lying here. Thinking. That’s all.”
He ran his fingers through his wet hair. Fatigue had begun to set in.
“You could have used the tub, Quinn. Miguel would have heated more water.”
“If I wanted the tub, I’d have arranged for it.”
“But you could catch pneumonia out there.” She frowned, her brows puckered in concern.
He shucked his shirt and tossed it over her blouse and skirt. The sight struck him, the intimacy of having his clothes draped with hers.
“I’m never sick, Hannah. Fenwick’s Solution excepted.”
A vision of what she wore beneath the bedcovers flared in his brain. The chemise, thin against her bare skin . . ..
He scowled and pulled off his boots and dropped them to the floor. His socks followed. He strode to the empty side of the bed.
Hannah watched him, her expression like a doe staring at the wrong end of a shotgun, and Quinn knew what she was thinking.
He pulled back the covers and loosened the top button of his Levis. He reached for the second, and Hannah let out a squeak. She leapt off the mattress, talking half the covers with her.
Her throat moved in a hard swallow. “I’ve been thinking how we can do this.”
“Do what?” he asked, letting her squirm.
“Pass the night.” She swallowed again. “Together.”
A brow arched. “And?”
She ran her tongue around her top lip. “I thought, perhaps, you could take the floor. I’d share the blankets, of course, and--.”
“I think, perhaps, you thought wrong.” He set his hands on his hips. “Do you know how long it’s been since I slept in a real bed, woman?” He growled the challenge. “With a pillow and clean sheets and a decent roof over my head?”
She paled.
“Tonight, I will.”
Panic flitted over her features; he could almost see her mind scrambling to come up with a logical solution.
“And I’m not kin to a lady sleeping on a cold, hard floor, either,” he continued. “Unless, of course, she insists.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “You decide, Hannah.”
Her gaze darted downward to the floor’s rough wooden slats and back up to him. “This--this whole thing is ridiculous. It’s not proper.”
“You’ve spent the last several nights with me. Why is tonight any different?”
“It just is. We’re here in this little room together and you’re--you’re--.”
“Lusting for you?” he demanded softly. “Yeah, I admit it. If I thought you looked fetching in Sophia’s clothes, you’re doubly so wearing next to nothing now.”
She emitted a shocked gasp and struggled to keep the bulky bedcovers in front of her. Her efforts pulled the hem of her chemise higher over her knee and teased him with a view of a well-shaped leg.
“How dare you insinuate I’m trying to seduce you!” she said, aghast.
“I insinuate nothing of the sort,” he said. “You seduce without realizing it.”
Spots of color blossomed in her cheeks. “Then I apologize.”
“Don’t.” His scowl deepened. “I give you my word I won’t ravish you. I prefer my women willing, believe me.”
Clearly, she didn’t. She clutched the bedclothes tighter. Moments passed.
“Hannah,” he rumbled in warning.
“All right, then.” Her hazel-green eyes snapped a warning of her own. “I’ll share the bed with you. But I swear I’ll hold you to your promise. If you touch me”--she yanked one of the blankets free and tossed it at him--“my knife will swing. And you’ll have no need of a woman ever again.”
The vehemence of her threat stunned him. The violence of it. Maybe she wasn’t as innocent as he thought.
“Do I make myself clear, Mr. Landry?”
A lazy smile of admiration curved his mouth. “Quite clear, Miss Benning.”
Her movements sharp, she swaddled herself from ankle to neck in the blanket, preventing any chance their bodies might come in contact in the night. She blew out the lantern and flopped on the mattress in a huff, presenting him with her back and heaving a provoked sigh.
Not sure if he should be annoyed or amused, Quinn spread the blanket over his side of the bed. He removed his Levis and climbed in next to her.
But sleep eluded him. He stared at the dark ceiling, then at the shadowed shapes scattered about the room. His head turned upon the pillow, and he studied Hannah, the gently curved silhouette of her head, her shoulders and the womanly flare of her hips.
Hannah Benning. A beguiling mix of innocence and mystery. She intrigued him. And he wanted her more than he should. A yearning, he suspected, that went beyond four years of celibacy in Frank Briggs’ penitentiary.
He pitched forward into the darkness, falling end over end into an abysmal hole. The blackness swallowed him. Terrified him.
He landed in the most wretched bowels of the earth. Forever lost. Forgotten.
He would die here.
Screams of terror filled his lungs and lodged in his throat. Choking him. Tearing him apart.
The stench of excrement filled his nostrils. Vomit and sweat. Evil and pain. Sickness and death.
Everywhere.
He couldn’t breathe.
His fingers clawed the damp walls, slimy and slick from the blood of men before him.
Dead. All of them, dead.
The chains weighted him down, the links cold, solid. Iron shackles bound his wrists and ankles.
He’d never escape. Ever.
Heavy breathing, hoarse with rage, filled his ears, prickled the hair on his neck. Panic surged through him.
He was going to die.
A reptile’s beady red eyes appeared in the darkness. The demon slithered closer. Hissing and snapping, its breath fetid. Greed oozed from grimy pores. It reared up, a whip clutched in sharp claws.
The cat o’ nine tails cracked across his chest, tearing him open. Blood spurted. The whip lashed out again and again. The pain staggered him.
His heart labored to keep him breathing, to keep him alive, but the darkness kept pulling him under.
He didn’t want to die.
But the whip raised one more time . . ..
Quinn awakened with a jolt. His pulse thundered against his temples. A cold sweat dampened his forehead.
He pressed his palms to his eyes and tried to shut out the horrors, but they stayed to haunt him. The scars on his back ached, a tribute to the vivid nightmare. A violent shudder racked his body. He sucked in a breath and opened his eyes again.
The nightmare became less vivid. His heart rate slowed, beat by beat. The pain eased. Reality returned, and relief flowed like soothing waters through him.
His gaze swept the darkness, and he recognized the peace it brought. He embraced the night. Never again would he take it for granted.
Over the years, he’d lived through one hell after another. And, if not for Hannah . . ..
His head swiveled, and he found her beside him. She slept deeply, one arm curled above her head, her face angled away from him. A slender leg had found its way free of her blanket, the chemise’s hem hiked to mid-thigh.
If not for Hannah, he’d be dead.
She’d saved him from the nightmare, and gratitude flooded him in a rush. The depth of it moved him.
In blissful sleep, she seemed vulnerable and helpless, incapable of the strength she’d shown again and again. A fierce possessiveness went through him.
He rose up on an elbow and grasped the edge of her blanket, tugging it up to cover her against the room’s chill.
She sighed. In a shift of womanly arms and legs, she rolled toward him and snuggled against his chest.
He stilled.
Her threat marched through his memory. He’d given his word not to touch her.
But he hadn’t expected this.
The clean scent of soap lingered in her silken curls. The warmth of her body ebbed into his, and the embers in his loins flared hot.
A roaring need convinced him he could take her now. He could join his body with hers and sate this lust plaguing him.
But the civilized side held back. And he cursed himself a fool for being so damned noble.
He arranged the covers over them both, slipped his arm beneath her and fitted her comfortably against his shoulder. He dipped his chin against the satiny wisps at her temple. She calmed him, gave him new strength.
Quinn closed his eyes again. And slept.
Chapter 10
Hannah awoke the next morning to find Quinn already gone.
She rose, washed and dressed, telling herself all the while she didn’t need to see him to start the day, that if he declined to wake her and let her know he was leaving, or that he preferred not to tell her where he’d be or what he’d be doing, then that was certainly fine with her.
But throughout the day as she helped Miguel serve the noon meal and, later, begin preparations for supper; her gaze strayed often to the window in search of him.
Sophia explained that Tomas had ordered Quinn to assist him and several of his men in rounding up mustangs wintering in a nearby canyon. Hannah knew Quinn had no choice in the matter. Tomas was determined to keep him in close range as part of his intent to flush out Frank Briggs.
Hannah, it turn, had been relegated to kitchen chores. She clung to the virtues of humility and obedience, and she swallowed down the urge to refuse her assigned duties. If nothing else, the menial tasks helped pass the time until Quinn returned.
Thus, she spent the day in a low-roofed cabin that had once been a saloon in the little mining town and was now used by the bandeleros as their cantina, a glorified chow hall and the hideout’s gathering place. The men took their meals there, and later at night, Hannah guessed, their tequila as well.
Miguel proved to be an affable companion. He worked hard for the Huertas, appeared loyal and trustworthy. Sophia respected him; indeed, she treated him as she would a revered family member. He was patient with Hannah, kind and good-natured. She found his snaggle-toothed smile endearing, and of all the fierce, ruthless men in the place, she was convinced she was safest with him.
“Senora, listen.” Miguel’s knife paused over the potato he was peeling. His graying head cocked. “Tomas returns with his wild horses.”
Hannah glanced up from her own bowl of potatoes. She, too, heard them before she saw them, the low drone from the clomp of their hooves on the hard, packed earth. The rumble grew louder, intensifying as the animals drew closer.
Suddenly, a small herd of about a dozen mustangs thundered past the cantina, churning up dust and pebbles and rattling the window glass.
“Your husband rides with them,” Miguel said, indicating one of the men flanking the horses.
Hannah’s gaze found Quinn, his eyes squinted against the dust and the sun, his shirt billowing over his back and shoulders in the wind. He held a coiled rope in his hand; his expression revealed his concentration in guiding the powerful mustangs to the corral. She marveled at his ease in the saddle and his expertise with the powerful animals.
“You would like to watch him awhile, eh?" asked Miguel knowingly.
Her heart gave an involuntary lurch at the opportunity. “Well, yes, but--.”
Miguel waved a thin arm toward the direction of the door. “Go, Senora. Sophia will not mind if you leave for a little while. Go.”
Her heart pounded a little harder in anticipation. “Thank you, Miguel.”
She left the cantina and strode toward the pole fence surrounding the corral. Lifting the hem of her dark green skirt, she climbed up to sit on the top rail and searched for Quinn amongst the sea of constantly moving horses.
The mustangs were breathtaking in their wildness. Plucked from their freedom by Tomas Huerta, they fought against their captors at every turn. The men worked diligently to guide them inside the fence, but the animals
pranced and reared, their nervous whinnies high-pitched and combative.
One of them, a gruello stallion with black mane, tail and feet broke from the herd and headed toward a space between the riders. Hannah frowned at the opening. It shouldn’t have been there.
If the leader broke free, she knew in growing trepidation, the rest of the herd would try to follow. Tomas, at the entrance to the corral, shouted and waved his arms frantically to the flank riders.
Quinn twisted in the saddle and spied the bolting stallion. Keeping a firm grip on the reins with a gloved hand, he swung his lariat high over his head. The loop whirled in continuous motion, widening steadily as the slipknot slid down the length of the hemp.
Hannah gripped the rail, her nerves humming with tension. If the lariat missed its mark, Quinn would have no time to tighten the loop and start over. The stallion would be gone. And victorious.
Quinn took aim. For a heart-stopping second, the rope spun in mid-air; in the next, it dropped like a noose over the blue-gray neck. Quinn jerked hard, his boot heels dug into the stirrups, and his horse braced its legs to keep the line tight. The gruello reared, screamed and fought. Quinn held the line, his muscles bunching with the effort as he dodged the flailing forelegs and battled the horse into submission.
After what seemed like an eternity, the stallion’s cries subsided, and he gave up the fight. He stood wary yet docile, nickering low in his throat. Quinn reached over and stroked the glistening neck, then gathered up the lariat’s slack. He turned the gruello and trotted toward the corral.
Hannah pressed her fingers to her mouth, holding her elation in. His skill stunned her and exhilarated her.
“He’s good, Senora. Very good.”
Hannah turned at the smooth-voiced comment. Sophia draped her arms over the top rail and watched the herd part like peasants for their king. The gruello entered the corral, his arrogant head held high in defeat.
“Yes,” Hannah said softly, her gaze on Quinn again.
With the herd captured and secure within the pole fence, the men dismounted with broad grins beneath their moustaches. They gathered around Quinn, their admiration obvious.