In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “What then?” He captured her fingers and twined them with his, holding them against his chest. “You’ve been ignoring me all night.”

  “No.” She spoke the denial softly. “I haven’t been ignoring you.”

  He wanted a response from her. Would he think her too bold to delve into his past to soothe the uncertainties of her future? Would she be too selfish to want to know the things about him--about Amarillo--he kept shuttered inside?

  She met his gaze. He waited for her to ask those questions, didn’t he? It seemed important to him to clear the air between them.

  “I was just thinking. About your life in Amarillo,” she said finally.

  “What about it?”

  “You told me once you had a brother. Does he live there?’

  He appeared taken aback. Then he shifted, sliding his arm beneath her shoulders and fitting her against his side. She didn’t resist. Glory, she liked the position, having found herself in it more than once when she’d awakened from a night in bed with him.

  “Yes, my brother lives there,” he said quietly, adjusting the blanket over her. “His name is Elliott.”

  “Elliott.” She pondered the name and laid her hand over his flat belly. “Do you have any other family? Parents? Sisters?”

  “None. Except for a son.”

  “A son!” Aghast, she sprang back.

  “Whoa. Take it easy,” He pulled her back against him. “Manny wasn’t mine by birth. His mother, Rosa, was the daughter of an old foreman who worked on my ranch, and Manny was the product of a good roll in the hay she had with one of the cowhands. He took off before he knew Manny had been conceived. Rosa never saw him again.”

  “Did you marry her?”

  “No.” He brushed the curls from Hannah’s temple. The smoldering depths of his eyes revealed an earnestness that held her riveted. “You, Mrs. Landry, are my first and only wife.”

  “But how could you claim her son as yours? Did you live with her?”

  Hannah was insistent to know about this woman named Rosa, about the place she’d held in his life.

  “I took Manny in when he was only two. Rosa had been killed in a freak accident--thrown from a horse, though she was an expert rider. She had Manny with her that day and somehow he managed to survive.”

  Hannah peered up at him. The campfire cast Quinn’s face into a sharp contrast of shadows and flickering light, and showed him reliving the darker side of his past.

  “Somehow?” she asked.

  “Rosa loved that boy. He was all she lived for. She would have tried to save him when the horse reared, even if it cost her own life.”

  She considered that. “What do you think really happened?”

  He shrugged. “I think she tossed him off the horse to keep him from being trampled. We found her with her skull kicked in, but Manny had hardly a scratch. Except--.”

  Hannah held her breath.

  “Except he had a bruise on the side of his head. And a small bump. Nothing to worry about. Or so we thought. Out of respect for Rosa, I took Manny in to raise as my own. Shortly after, he began to have seizures. Violent ones. I brought him to the best doctor in Amarillo, and he treated him with Triple Bromide Elixir, the best medicine available for seizures. He was content and healthy when I was arrested.”

  Arrested.

  The image destroyed what would have been a happy ending to Quinn’s story. Hannah sat up and hugged her knees to her chest.

  Perhaps now was the moment of reckoning--that point in time when all her fears and trepidations of the ruthless savage side of him would be put to rest.

  Or resurrected.

  He sat up, too, his expression grim and showing no remorse.

  “I was arrested for killing my sister-in-law, Hannah. Elliott’s wife.” His voice was devoid of emotion.

  Her eyes closed. She swallowed.

  “They found her in my hotel room. Naked in my bed.”

  A chill cloaked her spine. She strove to keep her voice even. “Were you in bed with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Naked?”

  “Yes.”

  She released a shaky breath. “Glory.”

  “It didn’t matter I didn’t have a drop of her blood on me, that they found no weapon, though she’d been brutally beaten and raped.”

  Hannah pressed her fingers to her mouth in horror.

  He scowled at her reaction. “I didn’t rape her, damn it. I had no designs on her. She was my brother’s wife, for godssake.”

  “But you were together. In bed.”

  “Yes.” He breathed an oath. “Hell, I don’t know how she got there. Elliott claimed I was stinking drunk and managed to convince everyone else I was, too. The bedclothes reeked of whiskey. An empty bottle was on the floor, but I had had only a few drinks that night, I swear it. Next thing I knew, I was in chains and in a wagon headed for New Mexico Territory.”

  His words swam in her head. “Do you think Elliott framed you?”

  “I know he did. I just can’t prove it.”

  “Oh, Quinn.”

  Hannah’s temples began a slow, throbbing ache.

  He was capable of it all, she thought dully. Hate. Violence. Rage for those who wronged him. She’d seen it for herself at the penitentiary, when he used her to make his escape.

  “Now you know the score I have to settle,” he said, the set of his jaw resolute. He gripped her chin, forced her to look at him. “I wanted you to hear the truth from me. I want you to believe me.”

  Intense and desperate, his gaze probed her features in the firelight. He searched for her faith in him, and he found her doubts instead, clear as rain on her face.

  He swore and released her.

  “Somehow, Mrs. Landry, I thought you’d be different from the rest of them,” he said softly. “Damned if I wasn’t wrong about you.”

  She recoiled from the bite in his words; tears stung her eyes.

  “We’ll be in Amarillo by the end of the week.” His tone clipped the air between them. “Elliott will be thrilled to meet you.”

  He twisted away from her and lay on his side, presenting her with his broad back and giving the blanket a fierce jerk.

  Hannah blinked furiously. She didn’t want to meet Elliott. And she didn’t want Quinn angry with her.

  His disappointment in her left her feeling cold. Bereft. And strangely haunted by a pathetic longing to have him make everything right again, to return to the way things had been when he’d kissed her that afternoon.

  Chapter 15

  In the days following, their lives fell into a grueling routine that involved far more time spent riding in the saddle than it did resting in their bedroll. Their food supply had dwindled, but Quinn had seen to it they filled their bellies with rabbit, squirrel, and whatever fish they could catch along the way. Hannah never went to sleep hungry, and if she did, she was too exhausted to notice.

  Quinn’s stamina amazed her. There never seemed to be enough daylight hours to suit him. He was tireless, a man possessed by inner demons compelling him to return home and right the wrongs dealt to him. She could only shudder at what means he would use to satisfy his need for revenge, for she had long ago learned he would be a formidable enemy. She hoped Elliott was prepared for the battle.

  Even if his brother dominated his thoughts, though, Quinn hadn’t forgotten Frank Briggs. Beneath the low slouch of his hat brim, his dark eyes continually swept the New Mexico Territory, then the sprawling lands of the state of Texas, for signs of their pursuers. His constant vigilance eased Hannah’s worries, and she grew confident the warden and his cohorts had not yet picked up their trail.

  From the edges of her brown wool hood, Hannah slid her gaze toward Quinn. He rode slightly ahead of her, his back straight in the saddle, the reins laced loosely through his fingers. His foot rested casually in the stirrup, and his lean body flowed with the motion of the horse, as if he’d spent much of his life on the back of one.

  Coiled power, she thought. H
e emanated it.

  Violence, too. Just beneath the surface.

  Had he really killed Elliott’s wife?

  A thousand times, Hannah asked herself the question. If he was guilty, then why hadn’t he violated her? Glory, he’d had plenty of chances. And it had seemed so important to him that she believe his innocence. In fact, she was sure he remained offended by her doubts.

  Unexpectedly, Quinn drew in his mount near a stand of pinon pine and juniper trees, and Hannah scrambled back to reality. They’d halted on the rise of a hill. At her questioning glance, he pointed to the small ranch sprawled below them.

  A cabin, built from logs and adobe, dominated the spread. Near it stood a corral, a crude shed and a few head of livestock left to graze on the winter grass.

  A woman hung laundry while two small children toddled close by. Smoke curled from the cabin’s chimney, and Hannah detected the faint aroma of fresh-baked bread in the air.

  Quinn crossed his wrists over the saddle horn.

  “Reckon my belly could stand for some of that grub she’s cookin’ up,” he said. “How about yours?”

  “Yes,” Hannah murmured, keenly aware neither of them had breakfast this morning. “Do you suppose she has any to spare? They look as poor as church mice.”

  “I won’t take food out of her babies’ mouths.” He regarded her. “It’s only right we pay her.”

  Up to now, Quinn had skirted every town in their path to Amarillo, had taken every back road to avoid detection. This woman and her children were the first of humankind they’d seen since leaving the Huertas’ camp.

  There’d been no need to dip into Fenwick’s money, carefully sewn in Hannah’s cloak hem. She remembered her intent to use it for a stagecoach ticket back to the convent.

  But she stifled her selfishness. Her conscience would not allow accepting food from the young family without payment.

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ll give you the money.”

  Quinn dismounted, and when Hannah would have done the same, he reached upward, clasping her waist between the folds of her cloak. She accepted his assistance, though she was quite capable of climbing down from the horse herself, and after she was safely settled upon the ground, his hands remained.

  She lifted her head, and her gaze met his.

  He released her, then, but not before Hannah glimpsed the heat in his eyes, a blatant yearning that still ran strong within him. Hannah stepped back and fumbled with the clasp at her throat.

  It pleased her, that yearning.

  “It’ll only take me a moment to undo the hem,” she said softly. She removed her cloak, sat cross-legged on the thick grass and plucked at the threads lining the edge of the cloak. The fabric fell free, and the pouch with the bills and coins tumbled out.

  “How much is there?” he asked, hunkering down in front of her.

  “Eight dollars and twenty-one cents.”

  He slid the coins around her palm with his index finger, more in thoughtful consideration than to check her arithmetic.

  “It’s not much,” he said.

  It seemed a small fortune to Hannah, who’d had no dealings with money since she entered the convent.

  “But there’s enough to buy our food?”

  His shoulder lifted. “For now.”

  “Take it,” she said, thrusting their limited wealth toward him. “Use what you need to pay the lady.”

  He tossed her an amused glance, as if he knew how she’d zealously guarded the treasure until now. Finally, he stuffed the money into his shirt pocket.

  “Stay here.” He straightened. “We’ll raise less suspicion if it’s only me she sees.”

  Hannah nodded in agreement. Giving her a brief wave, he mounted and left. She rolled to her stomach, cupped her chin in her hands, and watched him ride down the hill.

  Several scrawny chickens clucked and scattered in protest as he drew closer to the woman. She straightened, slowly, warily, from her basket of laundry. Her children, two little girls, ran behind her skirts. Quinn spoke, and the woman seemed to relax, eventually nodding her head and indicating the well located a few yards away. Hannah guessed she offered him a cool drink. After a moment, the woman entered the cabin, her daughters tagging close behind.

  Quinn dismounted and looked in Hannah’s direction. Though she doubted he could see her, he tipped his hat in a disarming gesture that told her he was thinking of her, that he knew she was watching him, and that he knew she’d be waiting for him when he returned.

  Her cheeks warmed. He had the ability to fluster her, even this far away.

  He strode toward the well and filled their canteen. While screwing the lid back on, the older of the two girls emerged from the cabin and approached him shyly. She clutched a rag doll in her hand.

  Seeing her, Quinn squatted down to her level. He spoke to her, and Hannah found herself holding her breath, wondering what he said. The child held the doll out to him, and Quinn took it gently, placing it to his shoulder as if it were a real baby, and patted its back.

  Hannah’s heart melted.

  The troublesome doubts that lingered over his guilt or innocence wavered inside her. She had seen his savagery, his strength, his protectiveness. She had tasted his kisses and craved his warmth. But this humble and tender side, the one that invoked the trust of a child, revealed with sudden clarity what her stubborn judgment up to now had refused to acknowledge.

  He didn’t kill his sister-in-law. He was innocent of the charges brought against him. Had it been the guilt from her own past that blinded her to the truth about him for so long?

  The child’s little sister toddled from the cabin, her own doll in tow. Quinn put this one to his other shoulder and repeated their game of pretend, to the girls’ delight.

  And in that moment, Hannah realized she had fallen in love.

  He brought back fried chicken, pickled tomatoes, thick slices of warm bread dripping in butter, and several apples for desert.

  Hannah couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten so well. Quinn lamented his over-stuffed belly and dozed against the tree trunk, his Stetson covering his face.

  She let him sleep. Amarillo could wait.

  He’d paid the woman well for her generosity, and she’d been clearly grateful for the money. She would always think of him as a drifter down on his luck, and if she knew he was a convicted murderer . . ..

  Hannah grimaced. The poor woman would have been terrified.

  It would be a curse Quinn would live with for the rest of his life, Hannah knew. That same curse had followed Pa, though his crimes were not of violence but of cheating and thievery. No matter how hard she’d tried to reform him, his past had always haunted him.

  As it did her. Hannah had a string of her own crimes with which she had to live.

  Difference was, Pa was dead, and she wasn’t. And where she had fled to the convent to escape her sins, Quinn boldly returned to his past to confront his.

  An intriguing man, her husband. No wonder she loved him so.

  Impulsively, she knelt beside him, lifted his hat and dropped a kiss to his forehead.

  “Hey.” He roused and reached for her, but she sashayed away, and he missed grabbing her skirt by inches. “What was that for?”

  “For being so sweet to those little girls. For caring about them and their mother.” She tossed the Stetson back onto his head.

  He grunted and pulled it off again. “And that’s all I get for my trouble? A tiny kiss?”

  “Be glad for it, Mr. Landry. I’m not prone to kissing men at will.” She peeped at him through her lashes. “Especially one convicted of murder.”

  “Hell.” He frowned. “Don’t I know it.”

  She laughed softly and tilted her face to the sun to soak in its warmth. Her arms lifted, and she stretched up on her tiptoes and tried to reach the sky.

  “It’ll be spring soon. I can hardly wait,” she declared.

  “Well, it’s still winter in Amarillo. Things could get damned chilling
when I meet Elliott.” He stood up, flexed the muscles in his back. “We’ll be there in a few hours’ time.”

  Dismay replaced her exuberance. She went still.

  “I didn’t realize we were so close,” she said. “I’m--I’m a mess.”

  She ran her fingers through her tousled curls. They’d left the Huertas’ camp with next to nothing. At the time, food and bedding had been most important. Now, Hannah would have bargained her soul for a bar of soap and a fresh change of clothes.

  Quinn picked up her cloak, its hem trailing since she didn’t have a needle and thread to repair it. He draped the garment around her shoulders.

  “The last time I saw Elliott, I was in chains and stripped of my innocence and dignity. He’d taken away everything I ever worked for. I had nothing left.” He lifted her hood over her head. “I’m going to get it all back again, Hannah. When I meet Elliott again, it’ll be on my terms. And you can be damned sure when he sees me, I won’t be covered in a week’s worth of trail dust and wearing someone else’s clothes.” His gaze roamed her face. “Nor will you.”

  She held that gaze without wavering. “I believe you.”

  A moment passed. Her words, the implication in them, seemed to stun him. “Just what is it that you believe about me, Mrs. Landry?”

  His voice sounded husky. As if he was afraid to breathe.

  Or to hope.

  “I believe you didn’t kill Elliott’s wife. I was wrong to think you did. At least later, after I’d gotten to know you.”

  He sucked a slow breath inward. And waited.

  “Your brother has done a horrible injustice against you, Quinn. Before I go back to the convent, I want--I’ll do what I can to help you prove your innocence.”

  “Do you know how long I’ve wanted your trust, Hannah?”

  Regret that she’d not discovered her love for him sooner coursed through her. The simple trust that went with it was priceless. “Yes.”

  “Elliott is dangerous. I won’t put you in any situation with him where you’ll be hurt.”

  She believed Quinn in that, too. A sudden wave of apprehension flared within her. “I’ll be meeting him soon, then. And your friends?”