In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “So who taught you the tricks?” he demanded.

  “My father.”

  “Your father.”

  “James Peter Benning. Master con artist.” She swallowed. “He was the best.”

  “Was?”

  She stared down at her hands and nodded. “About a year ago, he was killed. Hung by an angry mob when he tried to pass counterfeit bills in their town. They didn’t appreciate him cheating them.”

  “And the law failed to protect him?”

  She made a bitter sound of contempt. “The marshal’s father-in-law was the town’s wealthiest banker. He was the only lawman and was conveniently detained with another matter during the lynching. He arrived after it was over. Pa never had a chance.”

  Quinn let out a long breath.

  “Hannah, I’m sorry.” He hunkered down in front of her. He meant it. Had justice been served in his part of Texas, he never would have lived the nightmare of four years in Briggs’ penitentiary.

  “I’m sorry, too.”

  Intrigued, wanting to hear more, he straightened and took another drink of whiskey, this one more thoughtful.

  “Tell me about your mother,” he said.

  Again, her expression revealed her journey into her past.

  “She died when I was twelve. She was beautiful and respectable and thoroughly in love with my father. But she couldn’t abide his ways. I lived with her until he passed on. The day we buried her, my father came for me. We were together until he died.”

  Her proud gaze rested on Quinn. “In spite of what you must think, I hated the life Pa led. Yes, I was his accomplice in many of his crimes, but only to make sure he’d be safe. I was as good as he was. Maybe better. I figured, between the two of us, we wouldn’t get caught. And if we did, we’d still be together.”

  “You never spent time in the cooler?” Quinn asked, his heart melting for her.

  She shook her head. “Never. Sometimes, when I think about it, I’m amazed I didn’t. I should have.” She drew a shaky breath. “I deserved to.”

  Quinn reserved judgment. After all, he’d be the last man to qualify for sainthood.

  “After your father died,” he prodded. “What happened then?”

  “That’s when I fled to the convent. For the first time since my mother died, I felt safe. I had peace. I’d reconciled my past sins. And Pa’s. Or at least I was still trying.”

  “Until the night you came to the penitentiary.”

  “Yes.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “And then all hell broke loose.”

  Hers softened in gentle amusement. “Yes.”

  “And I’m to blame.”

  “No.” She shook her head for emphasis. “It’s all part of the test, Quinn. That’s why I wanted the money Cortez took from us. To make sure I can go back to the convent and show Mother Superior I made it through.”

  She fascinated him. In spite of her past, or because of it, she was like no other woman he’d ever known.

  He extended his hand toward her. After a brief hesitation, she took it and he pulled her toward him.

  “You shouldn’t have picked Cortez’s pocket for a few dollars,” he said quietly. “It was too dangerous.”

  Her lashes lowered. “My father taught me how to watch out for myself. To survive. Even the best laid plans go awry sometimes. I learned to always have a better one.”

  She made him ache for all she’d gone through, for what she’d lost in her life.

  And for what lay ahead . . ..

  “Hannah,” he whispered. He bent a finger beneath her chin and tilted it higher.

  Her gaze settled on his mouth, and his head lowered to hers. Their lips touched, a tentative joining, chaste but daring. Forbidden. Still, their mouths clung and trembled, one moment stretching into another, and yet another. And still another.

  A slow fire ignited inside Quinn. He thought of the bed behind him, of the long night to come. He thought of the warmth of her skin and the soft curves of her body and the pleasure they could bring him.

  And digging deep and hard for the integrity within him, he drew back.

  Hannah’s lashes fluttered open. There was so much he wanted to say, but couldn’t.

  “Tomorrow, Julio will have discovered his money missing,” she said softly. “He’ll know I stole it.”

  The words destroyed the intimacy of their kiss and shattered his lusty musings. He resisted a scowl. “Julio will be gone tomorrow. So will I.”

  She drew back to look up at him. “Gone? Where?”

  “Tomas has several small herds of rustled cattle around here somewhere,” he said, stepping away from her. He raked a hand through his hair and fought to cool his blood. “We’ll be riding out first thing in the morning to round them up. We’ll be gone five, six days. Maybe more.”

  “Five or six days!” Hannah’s eyes widened.

  He turned back toward her. “Tomas is working to build a herd of his own, just as he’s doing with the mustangs. I wish I could bring you with me.”

  “Why can’t you?”

  “Because it’s hard work. You’re not suited for it.”

  “But nearly a week, Quinn!”

  He steeled himself against the lament in her tone.

  “A long time. Hell, I know.” He set his jaw. “Cortez is coming with us, but Miguel will stay behind with you and Sophia. She’s tough as nails, and she’s got enough firepower around here to start her own revolution. You’ll be as safe here as anywhere, Hannah.”

  She peered at him, a hint of a pout in her features, but made no further argument.

  They both knew he had no choice but to ride with Tomas. It was all part of the confidence game; it would be easier to escape the bandeleros once they regarded him as one of them. It was imperative he and Hannah gain their trust.

  But Quinn couldn’t help thinking of Cortez and how he’d retaliate against Hannah when they returned, or Frank Briggs, still out in the New Mexico Territory hunting for them. Quinn was gambling the warden was nowhere close, that he couldn’t think to search for them in an outlaws’ hideaway.

  He hated the thought of leaving Hannah.

  Suddenly, five or six days seemed a lifetime.

  Chapter 11

  “Have you ever felt a baby kick, Hannah?” Sophia asked. “In the womb, I mean.”

  Nearly a week later, Hannah’s pestle hovered above the stone mortar she was using to grind dried corn.

  “No,” she said, taken aback. “I’ve never had a baby.”

  Sophia sat on a wooden chair, her feet propped on another in front of her. She no longer wore slim-fitting pants and her serape, but instead a loose blouse and skirt. Her midnight black hair tumbled across her shoulders and down her back.

  Sitting there, she looked like any other Mexican woman--albeit one who was particularly striking in her beauty and awed by the wonder of impending motherhood.

  Sophia waved a hand impatiently. “Si, I know that. But a baby’s kick--.” She made a tsking sound. “Come here. Feel.”

  They’d been working the entire morning in the cantina’s kitchen, making stacks and stacks of tortillas and grinding what seemed to be bushels of corn. Fatigue had settled over Sophia, and she’d needed to rest. Hannah welcomed the opportunity to put down the pestle and join her.

  Sophia tightened the cotton fabric of her blouse over her rounded belly. “See? He is a busy man today.”

  To Hannah’s amazement, the other woman’s stomach moved here and there as the baby stretched and wriggled inside his mother.

  “Now, feel.” Sophia took Hannah’s hand and laid it against her abdomen. Hannah breathed a soft exclamation at the miniature bumps against her palm.

  “Is he not wonderful? And feel how firm it is here.” She pressed Hannah’s hand to a spot at her side. “His head, I think.”

  Hannah clucked her tongue. “He will be as hard-headed as Tomas, I think.”

  “Si. You are right.” A rare sparkle of amusement danced in her eyes.
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br />   The past days had brought a change between them. A budding friendship formed by the absence of Quinn and Tomas and a lessening of the need for Sophia to exert her authority over the men her husband had left behind.

  Over Hannah, too.

  They had only each other. Two women in a hideout tucked away in the vast Territory. It was only natural, Hannah supposed, they would turn to each other for companionship.

  “Senor Landry had been in prison a long time. Four years before you helped him escape, eh?” Sophia mused.

  “Yes,” Hannah said.

  “Did you miss not having a child to love and care for while he was gone?”

  The question startled Hannah. She picked up the pestle and began grinding corn again. “I--I don’t know. I mean, it’s quite complicated between us.”

  Sophia’s shrewd gaze seemed to miss nothing. Hannah was determined not to give away the con game she and Quinn had devised.

  “Now that he is out of prison, it is time to make a home with him. Perhaps a baby or two, eh? Like me and Tomas.”

  Hannah hesitated. “There are obstacles, Sophia. They’re too difficult to explain.”

  “Frank Briggs?” Sophia’s face hinted at the harshness Hannah would always associate with her. “Si. He is an obstacle, but not for long. Tomas and Senor Landry will see to that. As will you and I. He will not have a chance against all of us.”

  Her resolve left Hannah’s blood cold. Glory, she never wanted to see Frank Briggs again.

  “I’m almost done with the corn,” she said, seeking refuge in a change of topic. “Is there any more?”

  “No, that is the last of it. And I can hardly wait for my siesta.” She straightened in her chair and arched her back. “Will you clean up without me?”

  Once, Sophia would have issued a command. Now, she made a request, and Hannah could hardly refuse her.

  “Of course. It’ll give me something to do while you’re resting.”

  In a show of sentiment she’d not exhibited before, Sophia squeezed Hannah’s hand. “Gracias.”

  The gesture touched Hannah, in spite of the power Sophia wielded over her. After she’d gone to her room, Hannah finished the tortillas and covered the tall stacks with a clean towel. She drained the large kettle of beans Miguel had soaked overnight, added fresh water and put the pot on to simmer while she washed the table and dishes and swept the floor.

  With the chores finally done, the afternoon loomed before her. She strolled outside to escape the silence of the cabin and perched on the front step, drawing her knees up.

  After the warmth in the kitchen, the crisp air cooled her cheeks and filled her lungs with an invigorating bite. The sun winked on the tin roofs of the adobe structures clustered together in the valley, and the wind stirred up whirls of fine dust on this secluded land long ago ignored until the Huertas claimed it.

  A melancholy mood descended upon Hannah. She found a security of sorts from the seclusion, a security not unlike what she’d cherished in the Daughters of Perpetual Glory convent. With most of the men gone, no one wandered about. And perhaps, more importantly, no one from the outside world wandered in.

  She was free to roam, she supposed. Had Sophia not trusted her in that, she never would have taken her siesta.

  Sophia. Hannah hadn’t thought it possible to become friends with her, no matter how fragile that friendship might be. Sophia spoke openly, honestly, the animosity and arrogance she had once demonstrated notably absent.

  It is time to make a home with him. Perhaps with a baby or two, eh? Like me and Tomas.

  The words returned to swirl in Hannah’s head.

  Making a home with Quinn.

  Making love.

  Making babies.

  Sophia’s advice tweaked her with an unexpected sense of loss. Her home would always be behind the cinderblock walls of the convent. She would never make love. She would never have a child of her own to suckle at her breast.

  Hannah pressed her fingers to her mouth. Why was she thinking of such things?

  She hadn’t been troubled by them in the convent. A life of prayer and meditation had suited her. Mother Superior and the nuns had given her peace and love, and that had been enough.

  Until now.

  Until Quinn.

  Everything was changing. She was changing.

  The mirror’s reflection showed a different person, one no longer draped in brown wool, no longer meek and obedient. The abbess wouldn’t recognize her anymore, Hannah thought miserably. Hannah hardly recognized herself.

  Needing to vanquish the somberness of her musings, Hannah rose abruptly and strode past the cabin, the cantina and the corrals. She saw no one, only Miguel behind the cantina, seated in a chair, basking in the sun, his sombrero over his eyes.

  She could escape.

  Her step faltered at the realization. She could take a horse from the corral and leave the hideout. No one would discover her gone until she was out of the valley and on her way to freedom.

  Freedom?

  She had no freedom. She was held captive by Frank Briggs’ lies, his accusations of the murders of Father Donovan and Sister Evangeline.

  She heaved a mighty sigh. No, she couldn’t leave without Quinn. She needed him to testify to her innocence.

  But even as her gaze swept across the horizon in yet another search for him, deep in her heart she knew she was beginning to need him for more reasons than that.

  Flanked by Tomas and Ramon, Quinn rode into the Mexicans’ hideout with the rest of the men scattered loosely behind them. The late afternoon sun shone bright in the sky, and he squinted beneath the Stetson brim, his glance making a slow sweep of the land before him. Countless hours in the saddle roping stubborn cattle on too little sleep in a too harsh land wearied his body, but his blood thrummed with energy in his veins.

  Hannah.

  He saw no sign of her, though none of them made any pretense of riding in quietly. Surely she would have heard them, but only Miguel stirred, straightening from his chair behind the cantina and pushing his sombrero up from his face. He offered them a toothy grin and a hearty wave.

  Quinn dismounted at the corral, his glance straying off to the cabin. Hannah’s absence unnerved him. Even Sophia had not appeared to give her usual loving greetings to her husband.

  “Perhaps our wives take their siestas, eh?” Tomas said, seeming to know of his unease.

  Quinn made no reply. He’d never known Hannah to nap, and he wouldn’t have expected her to pamper herself with the luxury of it. Still, he’d been gone a long time.

  Anything could have changed.

  Hannah could have changed.

  He frowned.

  “I will check the cabin for them,” Tomas said, already heading in that direction. “If they are not there, we will hunt for them.”

  Quinn nodded. His growing trepidation seemed to filter over to the bandelero, and Tomas’ steps quickened. Once again, Quinn’s sharp glance raked the premises.

  He searched for some sign of Hannah. Of Sophia. Of something amiss that might hint of trouble.

  “Miguel would not be so cheerful if something had gone wrong,” Ramon said knowingly, watching him. “I am sure the senoras are fine. Who would find them out here?”

  Quinn grunted. Anything was possible. And obviously, Miguel had been napping himself. Quinn placed little credence on the Mexican’s dependability to keep the women safe.

  Tomas called out, and he appeared at the door, his arms around his sleepy wife. Obviously, Sophia had been taking her siesta, as Tomas suggested. Trouble had evaded her.

  But where was Hannah?

  Quinn moved away from the corral, his steps lengthening with every stride. He refused to believe she’d left without him, that she’d broken their deal.

  But God help him if she had.

  He found her at last, behind the church picking wildflowers.

  The sight of her slowed the pounding of his pulse and eased the coiled tension in his muscles. He swore from
the relief.

  Picking wildflowers.

  Quinn moved closer, his boot soles crunching over clumps of hard dire. He halted and set his hands on his hips.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he said without greeting. “I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

  Her head came up. Clearly, he’d startled her.

  “I thought you’d escaped,” he added roughly.

  She straightened, clutching the bouquet to her bosom.

  “No,” she said. “Not without you.”

  It had occurred to her, then. The knowledge forced a shudder through him.

  She would’ve faced countless perils alone out in the Territory. Wild animals. Cold and hunger. Briggs. Titus. Fenwick.

  Christ.

  Grimly, he strode beyond the church and sighted Tomas and Ramon near the cantina. He waved his Stetson, signaling them he’d found her. Tomas nodded, lifted his hand in answer. The men relaxed and went their separate ways.

  “My chores were done.” Defensiveness tilted Hannah’s chin to a defiant angle. “Sophia was napping. I decided to go for a walk.”

  “I reckon you’re entitled, Hannah,’ he said, returning to her.

  “Then why are you angry with me?”

  “I told you. I thought you’d escaped.”

  What would he have done? After so many days apart from her, counting the minutes until he’d return, trusting she’d be there . . . only to have her gone?

  He would’ve charged after her. Flung over every stone, peered around every tree, climbed every mountain and delved into every canyon until he found her.

  She was getting to him. Deep inside. The certainty had grown stronger each day he was gone and haunted him each waking moment. Those hazel-green eyes and shiny curls, wispy about her face. And that voice of hers, all silky and soft, like velvet.

  It had been easier before, when she was trussed up in her nun’s habit. A little brown sparrow. Untouchable.

  But she was different now. Fetching. Pure woman. He saw what the drab wool had always hidden--rounded breasts that jiggled enticingly inside her cotton blouse, a waist slender enough to fit the span of his hands. And a body that loved to snuggle with his at night.