by Pam Crooks
Hell.
He groped in his shirt pocket and retrieved a rolled cigarette and match.
That’s when he missed her the most. At night.
“Did you get Tomas’ cattle?” she asked tentatively, as if she didn’t yet trust his mood.
“Yes. We herded them in a pasture just north of here. We made good time, considering they were scattered in the brush and didn’t want to come out.” He touched the burning flame to the end of the cigarette, blew the match out, and tossed it aside.
She cocked her head, considering him. “You’ve herded cattle before, then. As well as roped horses.”
He nodded, thinking of how little she knew about him. “Before my arrest, I had a spread of my own outside of Amarillo. Kept some cattle and horses there.”
“And after your arrest?”
“I lost everything.”
A frown tugged at the delicate arch of her brows. He knew the questions she longed to ask, the answers he wasn’t ready to give.
She’d learn them soon enough--after he took his revenge for Elliott’s betrayal. She’d know every sordid detail.
Quinn swept the hate for his brother aside. He eased onto a stone bench situated in the church garden and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. Bringing the cigarette to his lips for a lazy drag, his gaze glided up the length of her, then back down again.
“You’re a skinny shit, y’know that?” he murmured, exhaling gray swirls of smoke. She looked small enough to blow away in the wind. “Didn’t they feed you in that convent of yours?”
Her eyes met his. “Of course they did. But the nuns--we--don’t concern ourselves with food. Fasting is good for the soul.”
He grunted, reserving judgment. He’d done enough fasting of his own during his time in prison. And it did damned little good for his soul. “When we get to Amarillo, I’ll see that you get plenty of steak and potatoes.”
Her mouth pursed. “During my time with the nuns, I never ate meat. We had simple meals--mostly fish, fruits and vegetables. And pecans.” She grimaced. “Lots of pecans.”
The plain life she’d chosen left Quinn pensive. Bemused. She paid a helluva price for the peace she craved.
Clearly, she found it with the nuns. He envied her that peace; he’d been eaten up with rage and vengeance for so long that serenity for him seemed impossible.
Hannah bent over a wild columbine plant to pluck a stem full of its red and yellow flowers. Quinn’s gaze lingered over the intriguing curve of her backside. She straightened and furrowed her brows in frustration.
“You’ve been frowning ever since you found me. How long are you going to be mad at me?” she demanded. “I did nothing wrong.”
“I’m not mad.”
“You’re staring, too. Like I’m a--a whore or something.”
His brow rose. Her perception amused him. “What do you know of whores? Or the way a man looks at one?”
She faced him, the flower still in her fingers. “I’ve been friends with a few.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“I’m telling you the truth.” She considered him coolly. “Perhaps you knew a few, too?”
“A few.” His brain filed through the ladies of the evening who’d pleasured him over the years. Before Briggs. Before four years of hell.
He could use one now, he thought. Another female who would take his mind off Hannah.
“When I was with Pa, whores were often the only friends I had,” she said, adding the stem to the rest of the bouquet. She bent to pick another. “When we were in Denver, Mattie Silks was so very gracious. My father enjoyed her girls, but they were quite expensive.” Her lips curved as she dipped into her memories. “I met Squirrel-Tooth Alice when we stayed in Dodge City. She was petite and pretty and lots of fun. She taught me a lot.”
“What could a woman like her teach you?”
Her glance skittered away. “Feminine things.”
“Like what?”
“What a man liked. What he didn’t. Womanly wiles. That sort of thing.”
“Womanly wiles.” He regarded her.
She regarded him back. Her lips moved into an impish grin, and she slipped the flower stem between her teeth. She stood a little taller and strolled through the garden toward the church. Her hips swayed in an exaggerated imitation of a strumpet, and Quinn’s eyes narrowed. She stopped, cocked her hip, and batted her lashes in blatant, outrageous invitation.
He tossed aside the cigarette, rose from the bench and started for her.
She saw him coming and pulled the flower from her teeth.
“You’re frowning again.” A giggle bubbled in her throat. “Quinn, I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.” She backed up a step, then another.
He kept her going until she couldn’t go any further, until he’d forced her to the wall of the church. “You were flirting with me.”
“Yes. I mean, no.” More laughter threatened to spill, but she clamped her mouth shut and tried to hold it in.
Quinn braced his hands on either side of her head, trapping her between his body and the adobe. “I’m not a young boy ignorant of a woman’s power over him, Hannah,” he said in a low voice. “Play with me, and my blood runs hot.”
Her merriment wavered. A hiccup escaped. She stood very still.
“I can take you right now, you know.” His voiced rumbled. “Here. Against the church. And you wouldn’t be able to stop me.”
“But you won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because you gave me your word.” Bold challenged darkened the hazel-green depths of her eyes, no longer mischievous and playful. “And I’m trusting you to keep it.”
She made a tough case. He fought to keep from giving her the win.
“Today,” he grunted and eased away. “We’ll see about tomorrow.”
Her mouth softened. When he would’ve left her, her hand touched his chest, keeping him there.
“I’ve never done any of the things Alice told me about,” she said. “I want you to know that.”
He listened, absorbed her every word.
“I’m not like her. Or Mattie, or anyone else.”
He waited, letting her convince him.
“I have principles. Morals. In spite of everything else I might have learned.” Her gaze roamed his face, as if his impression of her mattered.
He’d known few as fascinating. Hannah Benning, who could blow a bank safe or pray vespers at midnight, had stolen his heart.
Completely.
Guilelessly.
“Buenas Dias!” Carrying a bucket of feed, a Franciscan priest rounded the corner of the church.
“Buenas Dias, Father,” Hannah said and smiled, a slight pink tinging her cheeks.
The priest drew closer, set the bucket down and extended a hand to Quinn. “I am Padre Ignacio Reyes. And you are?”
Quinn noticed he’d made no attempt to introduce himself to Hannah; Quinn guessed the two had already made their acquaintance in his absence.
“Quinn Landry.” He took the hand in a brief clasp.
“Ah. Senor Landry!” Slender beneath his robes, he stood as tall as Hannah and appeared to be only a few years older. “Hannah has spoken of you.”
“Good things, I hope,” he said and wondered how much of the truth of their circumstances she’d revealed.
“Of course, of course.” The priest’s kind glance touched on her briefly. “You see, I travel to the missions in my district. I only returned to this church a couple of days ago.” The priest gestured toward the cantina. “You have come back with Tomas, then?” He waited expectantly, his dark brows raised.
“Yes,” Quinn said. “A short time ago.”
“Padre Reyes understands we are visiting the Huertas,” Hannah said, her gaze steady. “And that we will be leaving soon.”
“It is a shame, I think,” the cleric said. “Sophia has enjoyed having Hannah as her frie
nd.”
“We’ve stayed only long enough to help Tomas herd his horses and cattle,” Quinn said firmly and paused. “You’ve known the Huertas a long time?”
“Si. A long time. Sophia is my cousin.”
Quinn’s brow rose in surprise.
“I have little control over their . . . activities,” Padre Reyes said sadly. “I can only pray they will abandon their lawlessness and live a respectable life.” He shrugged. “God loves sinners, too. What can I say? I do what I can for them. Tomas and Sophia must do the rest.”
The spicy aroma of roasting meat drifted from the direction of the cantina. The priest bent and picked up the bucket again.
“It is getting time for supper, eh? I am pleased to meet you, Senor Landry.” He inclined his head graciously. “God be with you, Senorita.” He blessed them and departed.
“We’d best be getting back, too,” Hannah said, watching him go, as if she found him out of place here amongst the outlaws. “Miguel will be wondering where I’m at.”
Quinn placed a hand to the small of her back, nudging her forward.
“The padre called you ‘Senorita,’” he said. “You didn’t tell him we were married?”
“No.” She gave him a rueful look. “Conning the Huertas with the lie is one thing. Conning a Man of the Cloth is quite another.”
“I see,” Quinn said dryly.
She sighed, the sound troubled. “Padre Reyes doesn’t concern me as much as Julio. He suspects the truth, I think.”
A visage of the burly outlaw, his bitterness and hate, loomed in Quinn’s mind. Cortez had kept his distance the past week, but his resentment had been a palpable thing.
They walked slowly back to the cantina, the rocks and gramma grass crunching beneath their feet. Hannah cradled the early blooming flowers in the crook of her arm, and at the cantina’s door, she halted.
“The wild columbine will look festive on the tables,” she said. “I had hoped--I had intended for them to cheer the cantina as a welcome of sorts for you.” She peered up at him. Then, her hand lifted, and she touched her palm to his cheek. “I missed you, Quinn. I’m glad you’re back.”
As if she feared she’d revealed too much, that she touched him too freely, she pulled her hand back and disappeared inside the cabin.
The feel of her lingered on his skin. He tucked the softly spoken words into his memory, into his heart, and wondered how in hell he’d ever be able to give her back to Mother Superior.
Chapter 12
The next day, the door swung shut behind Hannah and muffled the raucous laughter and male conversation inside the cantina. She blinked from the brilliance of the afternoon sun and hefted an enamel tub onto her hip, then headed toward the water pump.
None of the bandeleros ambled about the old mining town, not with their dinner just served and sitting in their stomachs. After the successful roundup of the rustled cattle yesterday, Tomas had given them the day to celebrate and be lazy.
Hannah was glad to be free of them, of their noise and smells and close proximity, if only for the short time it took to fill the tub. She was tired of cooking their food and washing their dishes, of sweeping the floors clean of the dirt from their boots.
And she’d had enough of the virtues of humility and obedience, no matter what Mother Superior said. Ever since Quinn’s return, restlessness and impatience had eaten away at her. Their con game had played itself out.
Hannah set the tub on the ground and positioned it beneath the spigot. She’d sensed the same restlessness in Quinn, a raw tension that hinted at his urgency to return to Amarillo.
His need of it.
Hannah knew she and Quinn had to form a new plan. No more fake marriage. No more being held captive by the Huertas. It was time to move on. Their way.
She lifted the pump handle, pushed it down again and repeated the process. Clear, cold water flowed into the tub. The splash and splatter against the enamel almost drowned out the sound of the approaching horses.
Almost. Hannah’s head lifted, and her heart dropped to her toes.
Warden Frank Briggs reined his big buckskin mount to a halt near the pump. Roger Fenwick and Titus followed suit.
Hannah had no thought of the guards who should have been keeping watch or of Quinn, in the cantina unaware of their arrival.
She thought only that Frank Briggs would recognize her, and that after everything she’d endured, after all she and Quinn had done to prevent it, she’d been caught.
They’d both been caught.
Briggs reached for his canteen and unscrewed the lid. His beady eyes flicked over her, and he thrust the flask toward the pump.
“Fill it for me, honey. I’ve been dry all day,” he said.
Fenwick reached for his canteen, too. The sun and wind had reddened his face, and dust coated his expensive suit. He ran a finger along the collar of his cotton shirt.
“Where the hell are we?” he demanded. “This godforsaken country goes on forever.”
Hannah let out a slow breath. They hadn’t recognized her after all. They knew her only as a nun in her wool habit, with its veil and wimple that circled her face and hid her hair. They didn’t know her without it.
The knowledge, the relief of it, halted her panic. She fought to keep her hand steady as she reached for Briggs’ canteen.
“This is an old mining town,” she said to Fenwick, aware Briggs kept his gaze upon her while she dipped his flask under the running water. “The silver didn’t pan out. Most folks left a long time ago.”
Water dribbled up and over from the inside. She put the lid back on and handed it to Briggs.
“Plenty of horses in that corral over there,” he drawled.
An ugly, jagged wound snaked across his jaw, put there by the jar of preserves she’d hurled against him. Hannah took satisfaction from it. “I said ‘most folks.’ Not all of them.”
His shrewd, calculating eyes never left her. She reached for Fenwick’s canteen.
“We’d never have found this place if not for the smoke from the chimney,” Fenwick said. “Reckon you don’t get many visitors.”
“No,” she murmured, hoping, praying, they’d ignore the aroma of roasted chilies and beans from the cantina, that they’d not demand a meal from her. “Very few.”
“I’d reckon a pretty woman like you would get mighty lonely out here,” Briggs purred.
Her gaze lifted and met his. She refused to let him think she was lonely and defenseless, that she didn’t hold a power of her own over him.
“I have all the company I need,” she said. “A rider, certainly, for each horse in that corral.”
“That so?” He leaned forward and crossed his wrists over his saddle horn. His lips pulled back over yellowed teeth in a sardonic smile. “One of them horses wouldn’t belong to a prisoner of mine, would it?”
“We’re looking for an escaped murderer. Name’s Quinn Landry. A nun, too, he’s taken hostage,” Fenwick clarified briskly. He took his canteen from Hannah without a word of thanks. “Leastways, she was dressed as one.”
“I certainly would’ve noticed if such a pair had arrived,” she murmured.
“Got reward money for ‘em,” Titus piped up and tossed her his canteen as well. Only quick reflexes allowed her to catch it. “One thousand dollars.”
“A thousand dollars!” she gasped before she could stop herself.
“Yep. Each.”
Only then did Hannah notice the satchel tied to Fenwick’s horse, the holsters around the men’s waists, the rifles in their scabbards. Horror lay heavy in her belly.
“The woman with Landry is a killer, too. As mean and dangerous as he is. We want ‘em both,” Briggs said. “Dead or alive.”
Her horror twisted into contempt for the vicious lies he spread about her throughout the Territory, for the outrageous price he put on her head when she was innocent of all he declared.
But she schooled her features to reveal nothing.
“I’ll keep that in m
ind,” she said demurely and handed the full canteen back to Titus.
“You do that, honey.” Briggs’ tone turned coaxing. “Remember. Cold, hard cash. A woman who knew their whereabouts could buy herself a lot of nice things with that kind of money.”
Hating him, Hannah smiled and nodded.
He kicked the buckskin into a trot and headed north toward the pass leading out of the hideout. Fenwick and Titus followed, neither giving Hannah a backward glance.
She watched them go. The warden held his paunchy frame alert in the saddle. His beady eyes swept the tin and adobe buildings, the mission church, the weather-beaten stable . . ..
Glory. Fenwick’s rig was parked there.
Her heart thundered in her breast, but if Briggs saw the carriage, he gave no indication. The buckskin never slowed its stride.
But Hannah didn’t trust him. Not for a single instant.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!” She whirled, swearing freely, her vexation overruling any sense of guilt from the words. She ran toward the cantina and burst inside. “Quinn! It’s Briggs!”
His conversation with Tomas halted. He yanked his gaze to her.
“He was just here,” she said. “With Fenwick and Titus.”
Quinn leapt from the chair and grasped her by the shoulders.
“Here?” he demanded. “Just now?”
“They just wandered in, I think. I filled their canteens and--and--.”
“Christ.” His glance darted toward the window and the receding figures heading deeper into the hills. His body tautened. “What did they say?”
“They’re looking for us, and they’ve got a bounty on our heads. Quinn, it’s two thousand dollars!”
Sophia strode over, her skirt hems swaying about her ankles. “Por Dios! Two thousand? They must be lying.”
“I saw the satchel of money,” Hannah said. “The three of them are well-armed.”
“This is our hideout.” Sophia leveled her with an intense gaze. “We are at risk, too. Do you think he recognized you? Do you think he suspects that you and Quinn are hiding with us?”
“I’m almost certain he saw the carriage parked near the stable. If he did, he would have to know Quinn and I are here.”