by Jill Gregory
She looked away, flushing. A rush of warmth heated her blood at the memory, but she managed to speak only a little breathlessly.
“Yes... yes, I do. But I prefer not to think about it.” Straightening her shoulders, she assumed a businesslike air. “So please, let’s get on with this, shall we? Because I want to speak with you as well. I’d like to know how you found me on the mountain. That’s twice now that you’ve saved my life. And... I don’t understand how it came about.”
Hooking his thumbs in his gun belt, he nodded.
“I rode out to your ranch looking to talk to you. But you weren’t there and your housekeeper told me that you’d gone off for a shooting lesson with your foreman.” He shrugged. “One of your wranglers tried to stop me from going after you, so there was a bit of a scuffle. But it didn’t take long to find out where you and Shorty Buchanan had gone.”
“One of my wranglers?” Bryony froze. “Who was it?”
“Some, light-haired cowpoke who talked mighty big for his breeches. Your housekeeper called him Senor Monroe.”
“Buck!” Bryony jumped to her feet, facing him, a terrible fear rising in her heart. “You didn’t kill him, did you?” she cried in panic.
“No. Relax, little tenderfoot. I didn’t kill your wrangler. I used my fists, not my gun, and though I reckon his jaw could be a mite sore for a few days, he’s not about to throw in his saddle for a coffin.” His eyes narrowed when vivid relief flooded across her features.
“So, you’re sweet on him, are you? And here I thought it was Matthew Richards who’d won your heart.”
“What are you talking about?” Bryony demanded. “What do you know about me and Matt Richards?”
“I know that he asked you to marry him. And that you turned him down. For now, anyway.”
His gaze locked on her face. “That was part of the talk I heard in the Silver Spur. The other part, the part that made me ride out to see you, was that Richards drank himself under the table that night. Gossip has it he was in a black rage. A killing rage. When I heard that, I knew, I just knew—”
He broke off suddenly. He wasn’t quite ready to explain it to her yet. He didn’t know if she’d believe him—and he had to put the facts before her in the most convincing way he could.
Studying her bewildered face, he wondered what she was thinking. Then he asked her a question that had nothing to do with the matter at hand, but her answer was something he very much needed to know.
“Are you considering marrying him, Bryony? Is that what you want?” His voice was rough, edged with a tension he couldn’t contain.
Bryony flushed. “That’s none of your business. How dare you question me about Matt... or about anyone else? There isn’t a reason on earth why I should answer to you—a common murderer, a man who kills respectable ranchers and... and helpless women like Daisy Winston!”
The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them, and in horror, she realized what she’d said.
For a while, she’d forgotten that Jim Logan had beaten Daisy Winston to death, but upon uttering these unthinking words in hasty anger, full realization of her own vulnerable position made the color drain from her cheeks. She took an involuntary step backward under the look that came into his eyes, and winced as her ankle again began to throb. She ignored the pain as fear sliced through her like a cold steel blade. She was alone in this mountain cave with a cold-blooded murderer, and now that he knew she was aware of his crime, what would he do?
She thought of the derringer in her holster, then remembered that she’d had no time to reload after shooting the diamondback. The cartridge was empty. And besides, she reflected, her lower lip quivering, Texas Jim Logan had already warned her that the next time she raised a gun against him, he would kill her.
There was no doubt that he’d easily beat her to the draw.
Glancing toward the cave’s entrance, she wondered desperately if she dared brave the howling wind and vicious torrent of rain in an attempt to escape him, but before she could make a move, he took three giant steps forward and pulled her into his arms, his strong fingers warm and taut on her flesh.
“Is that what you believe?” The dark expression on his face made her gasp. His eyes bored into hers. “Do you really believe that I killed Daisy Winston? Do you? Damn it, Bryony, I want an answer.”
Her eyes locked with his, and she searched his face. But deep inside, she already knew the answer. Perhaps on some level, she’d known it deep down all along.
It was an answer spoken by her own heart, an answer that overruled logic and reason. Her lips parted, but they trembled so much that for a moment no words emerged.
Finally, she whispered in a low tone.
“No. My answer is no. I don’t believe you did—I don’t believe you could have killed her. Never, never, in a million years.”
Then, all of a sudden, a dam seemed to burst inside both of them. He tugged her into his arms and began to kiss her with a need that had been carefully held in check for too long. It was as if a magnet clamped them irresistibly together and neither could—or wanted to—break free.
Bryony kissed him frantically, as if she were starved for his taste and the feel of his lips, her arms wrapped tightly about his neck. Little moans of pleasure escaped her as his strong hands gently caressed her and his mouth devoured her as if he couldn’t ever get enough of her.
Somehow they found themselves sinking onto the blanket, their bodies pressed desperately together, their lips on fire with hot kisses that could no longer be controlled.
Hungrily, they undressed each other, caught up in a whirlwind of passion and emotion. She gasped with pleasure as Jim’s hands cupped her breasts, his strong fingers caressing her hardened nipples and sending waves of delight across her swimming senses. Then he bent his head and tenderly moved his lips over her breasts and up to her throat, searing her lips and cheeks and eyelids with those sweet, flaming kisses.
Bryony cried out softly in pleasure as he explored the warm curves of her slender body with his hands and his lips. Her fingers glided down his muscular back, a fierce pleasure filling her at the touch and smell and sight of him. His touch was so unexpectedly gentle in such a powerful figure of a man. She reveled in every brush of his lips on her throat, in every caress of his strong, sun-bronzed hands.
She lost herself in him, in the way he kissed her and held her and touched her, in the words he breathed into her ear. But when he shifted his body over her and lowered himself so that she felt the warmth and powerful hardness of his manhood between her naked thighs, she gave a stifled moan, half-desire, and half-apprehension. Her luminous eyes flew open to stare at him in sudden fright.
“No, we can’t... it’s wrong,” she gasped.
But he soothed her with the gentlest of kisses, rolling off her and speaking to her in a low, husky voice she hadn’t heard from him before.
“No, Bryony, honey. It’s not wrong.”
Jim’s heartbeat quickened at the wide, innocent expression in her beautiful green eyes. He kissed her dark hair as it flowed over her shoulders and then pressed his lips against her throat.
“It’s beautiful, sweetheart. I won’t hurt you, I promise. Don’t be frightened.”
As he carefully shifted his tall, strong body over hers, she wanted to protest once again, but her heart and her yearning for him betrayed her. She opened her lips to his kiss and pulled his powerful frame closer, rocking with him as a strange, heady excitement raced through her.
Dizzy pleasure filled her as their intimate explorations brought them even closer. At last he entered her, and she gave a soft scream of pain. But Jim soothed her with gentle kisses and as the initial pain ebbed, she felt the hard, pulsating warmth of him inside her, felt his strong thrusts begin to tantalize her. With a gasp, she closed her eyes and kissed him desperately, no longer aware of any pain, but only of a wonderful aching sensation building relentlessly inside her as his movements aroused her to a powerful intensity.
Tig
htening her arms around him, she drew him close, her body quivering and writhing to match his movements—her back arched to receive him more fully. An overwhelming desire and urgency filled her, and her only thought was to fulfill it, even as at the same time she wished fervently that this moment, this pleasure could go on and on and on.
Then they were one, welded together in wondrous, throbbing unison and it was almost unbearably wonderful. Sobbing softly, she held him tightly against her as though she’d never let him go.
When gradually their passion peaked and they reached the ecstasy of fulfillment, she gave a long, shuddering sigh of happiness. Tears slid down her heated cheeks.
Jim moved carefully aside and pulled her trembling body against him, his hand caressing her gently.
Outside the cave, the storm raged, but their own torrent of passion had been spent, and they lay quietly together for a brief time, wrapped in a fragile cocoon of blissful contentment as night descended on the storm-swept mountain.
Chapter Eighteen
The rain had stopped. Only a drizzle fell from the grimy sky as dawn struggled to break through the clouded horizon, sending a pale, watery glimmer of whitish light around the edges of shredding black clouds to indicate that the new day was attempting to arrive.
Huddled near the mouth of the cave, Bryony watched in silence as some of the night’s darkness retreated, leaving a bleak, rain-washed scene of muddied mountain and barren, soaked plains.
The wind was now only a low, faint echo of what it had been last night—like the moaning of a weary ghost. Her bones chilled as she listened to it, and looked out over the desolation of the storm-ravaged landscape.
She’d been awake for some time, and had taken the liberty of removing Jim’s buckskin jacket from his pack to wrap about her nakedness. The pain in her twisted ankle had subsided, but she still felt a few twinges as she turned back into the darkness of the cave. The fire had dwindled to a few glowing embers, giving off little heat or light. In the few flickering sparks that remained, she could just make out the ruggedly handsome features of the man sleeping on the saddle blanket.
Stepping closer, she knelt beside him, staring with wondering eyes at his face.
In sleep, Jim Logan looked peaceful, and unexpectedly young.
Bryony guessed his age at about twenty-eight, though he looked at the moment somehow boyish. His long dark eyelashes curled upon the lean, tanned cheeks, and his mouth had lost its sardonic twist.
Her gaze shifted to his bronzed, muscular form, and she remembered the strength of his arms around her, the lean, hard lines of his body as it had locked intimately last night with her own slim frame.
A thrill quivered through her at the memory, but even as it did, she was also filled with an aching sadness and remorse. She felt ashamed of what she’d done last night, ashamed that she’d allowed herself to yield to the one man she’d sworn to hate, the one man she must not love.
She knew what she’d done with Jim Logan could never happen again.
As if aware of her thoughts, he shifted restlessly in his sleep, then awoke with a suddenness that said much about his way of life.
He sat up fully alert, as if ready for any danger. When he saw Bryony kneeling beside him, though, his gaze softened.
“Good mornin’, darling,” he drawled in his slow, deep voice which never failed to make her heart beat faster.
Bryony blushed, embarrassed at having been caught staring at him. Suddenly, ridiculously, she felt shy.
For what was there to say to him after what they’d experienced together last night?
What was he thinking about her—about everything?
Meeting his gaze with an effort, she was all too aware of the blush heating her cheeks as his eyes pierced hers and seemed to touch her innermost soul. In confusion, she looked away.
He pulled her down and into his arms and kissed her very gently.
His hands glided gently across her skin as he drew the buckskin jacket away and Bryony felt the now familiar warmth stirring instantly within her. But before it could build to an irresistible intensity, she pulled away from his embrace.
“No, Jim,” she whispered. “We can’t. Not... again.”
An unexpected smile crossed his features.
“Jim?” He laughed quietly. “Do you know how long it’s been since anyone has called me by that name?”
She heard the note of bitterness in his voice.
“Lawmen and my enemies call me Logan, and my friends and acquaintances call me Texas. It’s been at least nine or ten years since anyone has used that name for me. I reckon I like it coming from you, Bryony.”
She smiled. “I think it fits you. Especially since you don’t seem at all frightening this morning.”
“I reckon you’re the only person in these parts who’d ever say that,” he remarked grimly. “Don’t you know I’m a wicked, cold-blooded monster, Bryony? A man without a heart or a conscience? I’m slightly less than human apparently. Despite my all too human behavior last night,” he added.
Something in his tone suggested that for once, his sarcasm was turned not upon others, but upon himself. Watching him, Bryony was caught by surprise at the sudden glimpse of pain behind the mockery. It came to her with such blinding clarity that she wondered why she’d never seen it before.
As the bleak morning light poked its uncertain way into the depths of the cave, she saw clearly what lay beneath the surface of his cool, mocking nonchalance. There were lines around his eyes that revealed deep pain, and a tenseness in his mouth due not to cruelty, but to cynicism about life.
Jim Logan, she thought suddenly, wears a mask to the world—a stone-hard mask to disguise the unhappy, bitter man inside.
She realized in astonishment that the cool carelessness that seemed so much a part of his demeanor had been developed to cover up whatever feelings he might nourish deep in his heart. He was hiding, hiding from whatever emotions plagued him beneath that stony surface.
Texas Jim Logan, the legendary, feared gunfighter whose reputation was known all across the West, was just a human being after all, a man who had known pain and unhappiness, who struggled through life with a hidden burden he shouldered wordlessly.
She reached out suddenly, impulsively, to touch his hand, wanting to take him in her arms and comfort him. But then the moment of vulnerability was gone, and he was the old Texas Jim Logan again, smiling sardonically at her, the mocking gleam back in his eyes.
“Don’t feel too sorry for me, ma’am,” he told her coolly. “I reckon I’m just as bad as anyone else—no better, no worse.”
“Really?” she replied softly. “I’m not so sure. I’ve just realized that I don’t know anything about you.”
He shrugged. “What’s there to know?”
“Who you really are, where you came from. Is Jim Logan your real name? Do you have a family?”
At the word “family,” a muscle twitched in his jaw, and he surged to his feet. Stalking to the pile of their clothing he began to dress, pulling on his dark blue trousers almost fiercely.
“I told you once before, little tenderfoot. You ask too many questions. That’s a sure way to get yourself killed in these parts.”
“I’m not frightened of you.”
His face contorted with sudden anger. Taking three quick strides toward her, he jerked her to her feet. “Well, you should be. Don’t you know I could kill you in less than an instant? I could shoot you dead in a flash, or better yet, beat and strangle you to death as you think I did to Daisy Winston!”
Despite the furious blazing blue of his eyes, and the taut grip in which he held her, Bryony met his gaze fearlessly.
“I already told you, Jim. I don’t think you killed her. And I don’t think you’ll kill me either. So what are you going to do now?”
She stared at him challengingly, her beautiful eyes soft and smoky green in the cave’s dimness. Staring down into her upturned face, something snapped inside him.
He made a strang
led sound and then drew her close against him, wrapping his arms tightly around her.
“Bryony, you’re so sweet, so damned sweet,” he muttered hoarsely. “I could never hurt you—and I’ll be damned if you don’t know it!”
A feeling of warmth and tenderness the likes of which she’d never known before flooded through her and she raised her gaze to his face. Gently, she kissed his lips and then touched his cheek with her hand.
“There’s so much I don’t know. Please, won’t you tell me? Tell me how this man who has twice saved my life came to be the most dangerous gunman in the west.”
For a moment he froze. Then, slowly, he turned away from her and began busying himself with building up the dying fire.
Pulling the buckskin jacket closely about herself, Bryony sank down upon the saddle blanket and waited, a lump in her throat. When he finally began to speak, she felt each word he uttered engrave itself upon her memory.
“I grew up in Texas,” he began in a voice oddly devoid of emotion. “My father owned a ranch there—a mighty big ranch. More than seventy-five thousand acres, to be plain about it. He had a cattle empire.”
She waited in silence as he stared down at the now crackling fire whose little fingers of blue-and-orange flame licked hungrily outward in long, brilliant sparks. They sent strange shadows dancing up the walls of the cave.
Turning away from the fire, he pulled a tobacco pouch from his saddle pack, then rolled a cigarette, a slight frown creasing his forehead.
Bryony remained silent. When he finished his task, he began to smoke carelessly, pacing up and down the cave as if trying to collect his thoughts. Finally he spoke again.
“I never got along too well with the old man.” His tone was curt. “I was a wild kid, I guess, always getting into trouble, always raising some kind of hell.” He grinned unexpectedly. “My kid brother, Danny, used to try to cover for me, but my father always found me out somehow—he had a sixth sense for it, I reckon.”