Outlaw Moon

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Amber knew she was that woman, as surely as she knew she should chase such a foolish notion out of her head. Rafferty was the fog in her crystal ball, the leering skeleton of Death in her Tarot deck ... a fire that would flare up and consume her if she got too close. But she wanted him anyway.

  Yet as she watched him working with Maude, she could forget the latent violent streak that had sent her hurtling backwards against her tent in the power of his fury. Jack Rafferty and his dog were an inseparable team, and they shared an unspoken language and an admiration for each other that she envied. Right now he was coaxing her across a narrow wooden plank, walking on her hind legs with a stick balanced across her nose. Man and dog performed as one, Jack backing slowly alongside the board, murmuring encouragement, while the collie’s eyes remained riveted on his. She stumbled, and he caught her in a playful hug until she wriggled free, yapping at him. Then they went back to the beginning of the board and started again, one as patient and trusting as the other.

  Amber watched, awestruck, from beneath the trees where she wouldn’t distract them. Jack had taken a bath and shaved around that mustache. He still looked diabolical, but with the afternoon sun making his shoulder-length hair shine blue-black, and a fresh shirt tucked into Levi’s that hugged narrow, graceful hips, he made her insides melt into a pool of wanting as thick and sweet as chocolate candy left in the sun too long.

  She jumped when a pair of hands slithered over her shoulders. “Get your eyeful of Rafferty now, my love,” a high voice rasped, “because come Sunday he’ll disappear like a dream you don’t remember. Then you’ll be mine ...all mine.”

  Amber nearly choked on her revulsion. Gideon Midnight was a sharpshooter extraordinaire, but his romantic advances always fell far short—and he was too conceited to know it. “You don’t own me,” she protested.

  “But I come as close as any man can, because without me you’d be a common gutter slut,” he murmured near her ear. “Haven’t I always indulged your whim for expensive clothes and gold jewelry? Haven’t I kept the barkers and roustabouts from pawing at you? There’s a reason for that, you know. I’m a patient man, but I can only wait so long.”

  She closed her eyes against visions of what this insidious little man had wanted from her since the day she hired on. “All right, so you gave me a job—such as it is—and you provided costumes, like you did for the others—”

  “But I also gave you respectability, and private quarters.” Gideon was stroking her arms almost feverishly now, watching Rafferty from over her shoulder. “And in return, I want you to look at me the way you’re staring at that cowboy right now . . . want you to bare yourself to me like you’d offer yourself to that dark-haired desperado who’s captured your fancy. It’s time, Amber.”

  She struggled from his grasp when his hands slipped around to grip her breasts. The bands of his diamond rings scraped her nipples, and her outcry made Rafferty scowl and turn their way. His dog let out a yip and bounded off the plank, barking protectively, while Jack strode toward their secluded place in the shade. It was a confrontation Amber had hoped to avoid, because she sensed Gideon would get a perverted thrill out of flaunting his hold over her ... a heightening of his desire that would come rushing out next time he caught her alone.

  “Trouble, Miss LaBelle?”

  “No! I—”

  “We were just discussing our Saturday night rendezvous,” Midnight said slyly. “At the end of each week Amber and I celebrate, just she and I, in her private car. She’s a card player like you wouldn’t believe, Rafferty—and she knows a few other noteworthy tricks, as well. Too bad you won’t be around long enough to find out for yourself.”

  Amber saw Jack’s jaw twitch as he assessed this information, but he merely snapped his fingers and pointed to the ground. Maude stopped her barking and sat obediently beside him, watching the exchange with alert brown eyes.

  “I’m sure it’s my loss,” he agreed coolly, “and I intend to be on my way as soon as I’m paid after that evening’s performance—unless Miss LaBelle indicates that your little rendezvous is something she’s being coerced into. Nothing irks me more than a man who forces a woman.”

  His questioning gaze and bold words made Amber’s heart fly like a bird from a cage, yet she knew how she had to answer him. “It’s all right—really! Just cards and a little whiskey, like Gideon says. Just a way to pass the time.”

  Rafferty’s dark eyebrow arched. “Whatever you say, ma’am. Maudie and I need to get back to our practice, if we’re to have this new balancing act ready for tonight.”

  Amber watched him leave with a desperate sigh. Gideon had made her out to be his whore and Jack believed him! She suddenly felt stifled by the roadshow world, with all its gaudy paint and forced gaiety and illusions, and as Rafferty walked away she wondered if he were taking her only chance for happiness with him.

  “See how quickly he turns his back on you?” her blond captor said with a chuckle. “He’s a smart man not to trespass into my territory. All the more reason to surrender yourself to me, my dear. Saturday night . . . and instead of our usual stakes, we’ll up the ante and make it strip poker. Wear lots of your prettiest underthings. I can’t wait to peel them off you.”

  The kiss he planted beneath her ear made her shudder, and the moment Gideon walked away she wanted to fill her tub with scalding water and wash off every trace of him. But after that, what could she do? If she deserted the show, he’d have her tracked down—and if he didn’t, she was broke enough to have to whore, as he’d implied. The meager savings Mama left when she died were stolen when she came north from New Orleans to escape the streets ... it was a miracle she was still intact, still sane.

  Absently she stroked the gold, heart-shaped locket suspended between her breasts, and her gaze went back to Jack Rafferty and his dog. No sense in weaving any foolish fantasies about escaping with him, either. She was alone, with only wistful memories and the paltry pay she’d stashed away to sustain her. Something had to change soon, or Amber knew she’d be caught in Gideon Midnight’s web forever.

  * * *

  Rafferty grinned at his dog and kept up a steady stream of whispered encouragements. “Atta girl, Maudie . . . four more steps now . . . watch me, baby. Easy does it.”

  The little black and white collie was walking upright across the raised beam as though she’d been born into the circus. She wore one of his red bandannas around her neck, and kept her muzzle so level that the stick resting upon it didn’t wobble at all. The low, sustained drum roll from the bandstand made his heart beat like butterfly wings—just as the people packed into the grandstand were holding their breath—while Maude took the final steps along a plank only five inches wide.

  “Whup!” he cried, and she tossed the stick into the air and caught it before jumping to the ground to take a triumphal run around the ring.

  The crowd went wild. As he took his bows, the electric light bulbs strung around the open-air arena winked happily at him, more real than the stars in the night sky above. All week the locals had been pouring in to watch his dog perform, and as he raised his arms, glorying in the brassy fanfare and deafening applause, he could almost imagine himself doing this for months to come.

  That was nonsense, of course. Even if he weren’t a fugitive risking recognition with every public appearance, Gideon Midnight wouldn’t let “Rafe Jackson” stay on—because Amber was attracted to him, and because he was stealing too much of the limelight from the Wild West Extravaganza’s puckish proprietor. And as he stood near the gateway to watch Midnight’s sharpshooting act, he had to admit the willowy little blond was pretty damn good.

  “Next on our program,” the announcer sang out, “Mister Gideon Midnight, champion all-around shot of the world, performing on his milk-white mare, Miss Blanche.”

  Expectant applause greeted the wiry performer as he entered the ring standing on his bareback mount, flamboyant in a red sequined shirt and matching pants tucked into tight white boots. His white hat�
�s broad brim swayed with the horse’s rhythmic gait, causing the red-feathered hatband to glide like a bird on a current. His goateed smile and pale, fluttering hair clearly made him—and his audience—believe it was the Honorable William F. Cody in their midst, and for a short while Jack let himself believe, too.

  “Mister Midnight will first demonstrate his skill with a shotgun and clay pigeons, in the American style of holding the gun, the butt of the gun below his elbow.”

  The disks flew into the air, and Gideon shattered them with effortless ease. Then, following the announcer’s sonorous description, he switched to the English hold, with the gun butt below his armpit, to dispatch another round of pigeons. During the applause and trumpet fanfare, he dropped down to sit on Miss Blanche and was joined by another rider who carried a basket of balls in front of him.

  “And now Mister Midnight will shoot with a Winchester repeating rifle at composition balls, maintaining the brisk canter you see here. First, hitting three balls thrown at once.”

  Gideon plucked them out of flight, his oversized diamond rings sparkling with each kick of the gun.

  “Hitting a ball thrown from behind.”

  Again the sequined sharpshooter destroyed his target, as though he had eyes in his neck and free-spinning joints that allowed him to swivel without thinking about the shot or the horse he was circling the ring upon.

  “Hitting a ball thrown to either side . . .”

  “Hitting five balls thrown in rapid succession . . .”

  “Missing the first shot, hitting the second and third.”

  Rafferty stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the gate to follow the marksman’s feats with grudging admiration. No wonder Gideon hadn’t called in the law last week when he signed on: the man might be a prissy little imitation of Buffalo Bill, but he could hit every damn target he aimed at!

  A blur of motion made him look away from the spectacle in the ring, to where Amber was sidling up beside him. She wore her pink gingham dress from the historical pageant, and despite the calculating look in her eyes as she watched her boss perform, Miss La-Belle appeared as prim and innocent as a prairie maiden.

  “Puts on quite a show, doesn’t he?” she asked in a languid voice.

  “Yep. Hate to be on the wrong end of the rifle if he got riled at me,” Jack replied with a chuckle. He wasn’t the least bit intimidated by Midnight, but he’d managed to stay away from this beguiling minx ever since the little marksman made his claim on her clear—and he didn’t want to encourage her now. So he said nothing more. Just watched the white horse break into a gallop for the grand finale.

  “Everything else about him’s a sham, you know. Even his name—Gideon Midnight—is an illusion based on a mistake.”

  Rafferty glanced sideways, too intrigued to ignore her. “Oh, yeah?”

  Amber laughed. “His real name’s Minnit, but some Frenchie saw him signing a check and thought it said minuit. That’s French for midnight. Probably gave him the whole inspiration to start this show.”

  “Gideon Minnit, huh?” he said with a chuckle. “Well, he’s no bigger than a minute. And he probably doesn’t last much longer in the sack, either.”

  As he’d hoped, her brown eyes snapped up at him in momentary shock. Something about her just prompted Jack to make such remarks—like when he’d asked for a picture of her, naked—because he sensed she was sharp enough to throw something equally improper right back at him.

  And he wasn’t disappointed.

  “A woman doesn’t tell everything she knows,” she replied in that sultry timbre that drove him to distraction. And with a wink that befitted the mystique of Madame LaBelle she turned, brushing against him, and swayed out the doorway toward the tents and sideshow exhibits.

  Jack had half a mind to follow her. Best not to get too friendly this close to the end of the show, however, because if Midnight caught them kissing again it would be Amber who bore the brunt of the showman’s jealousy. After tomorrow night she’d be a pleasant memory to keep him company on the trail, until time and the endless miles erased her tempting magic from his mind. Why spoil it by pushing his luck? He and Maude were making better money each evening with their percentage of the ticket sales, and he had no desire to draw any more attention to himself before slipping away into the night.

  That’s what he told himself, anyway.

  In truth, Miss LaBelle’s allure tugged mercilessly at him, and that evening when the fairgrounds lay dark and deserted and he and Maude were stretched out at their post by the livestock pens, his eyes and thoughts wandered unerringly to the caboose of Gideon Midnight’s train.

  That was Amber’s private car—he knew before Gideon said she had one, because the filmy curtains at the window didn’t disguise what she did in there each night after the crowd went home. As on previous evenings, she lit the lamp and took down her hair . . . ran a brush through the long, unruly waves as she stared off into space.

  And now she was letting her gingham dress drift slowly down over her lush form—did she do this to taunt him? Knowing he had to watch? Or was Midnight there, in her bed, grinning and getting primed for when she blew the lamp out?

  Jack didn’t speculate. He just watched, his cigarette suspended in front of his face, as she stretched like a languid tiger and let her camisole slither down over breasts that bobbed enticingly in profile. Her arms were pointed above her head like a dancer’s and her head lolled back, and Rafferty felt himself straining against his fly buttons. He hadn’t had a woman since Colorado—and then he’d indulged himself only because Gracie Putnam was a trusted friend who plied the world’s oldest profession these days.

  God love her, she was gorgeous! Amber brought her hands lightly down over her body—surely she knew she had an audience, probably put on this little show every night just to keep Gideon’s men from getting any sleep. She would douse the lamp now—

  But wait! She was reaching for something . . . raised something billowy and white above her head and slipped into it. Was she looking out this way, or was he wishing she was?

  Jack shifted, swearing softly as the bark of the tree dug into his back. He should chuck this adolescent foolishness and get his rest, because she was no doubt going to visit Gideon, give the little priss a reward for his unparalleled performance in the ring.

  Jack took a deep drag on his cigarette and then held it, too fascinated to breathe. Amber was stepping out to the railing around the platform of her car, a moonlit figure in softest, shimmering white, gazing out into the darkness. And she was looking right at him.

  Sweet Jesus, she’s walking this way!

  “Maude,” he said in a strained whisper, “if you say one word and wake anybody up, you’ll live to regret it. Understand me?”

  The dog got up, and then circled in a spot closer to the sheep pen with a mildly disgusted grunt.

  Chapter 4

  Amber’s heart was beating wildly. Visiting Rafferty this way was not only a silly, schoolgirlish whim, it was dangerous as well. If anyone saw her walking out to the stock pens at this hour they’d report it to Gideon, and he’d know exactly which animal she was looking for. Jack’s red cigarette ember lit his face with a fiendish glow . . . enough to reveal a subtle grin that was a one-way ticket to hell ...yet she advanced toward him as though in a trance, powerless against the potent male attraction he held over her.

  She stopped a few feet away, too nervous to speak. He probably thought her a first-class idiot to be standing here, fidgeting with her hands, but all the clever opening lines she’d thought of earlier flew out of her head as he slowly stood up, his eyes never leaving her.

  “If you’re looking for trouble, you’ve found it,” he warned. The uninhibited hoyden who disrobed in her window was apparently having second thoughts—which told him her initial intentions had been every bit as promiscuous as his own. Amber’s flowing, cream-colored nightgown gave her a look of disarming innocence as it rippled in the evening breeze. Just another one of her acts, he reminded
himself as his gaze traveled up and down her lithe figure. She’s approached dozens of men this way . . . Midnight probably bought her the gown for his own pleasure.

  “What do you want, Amber?” he asked quietly.

  “You,” she breathed. Even to herself she sounded like a little girl playing a grownup’s game, and she could only wonder what Rafferty must be thinking.

  Jack closed his eyes against visions of a nude woman in the window, fought back the memory of the hellcat who’d shot at him and then wrestled beneath him as he kissed her. Where was the brazen gypsy who’d caressed his hand and rattled off his fortune in a voice that still stirred him? “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Yes I do,” she replied in a bolder tone. “Take me with you, Jack. After the show Saturday, I can be packed and ready to—”

  “Get that out of your head right now, young lady.”

  It was a command that left no room for dispute, and as she watched Jack flick his smoke to the ground and crush it beneath his boot, Amber knew he was right. But she couldn’t accept that for an answer. “You—you don’t understand,” she pleaded. “Gideon thinks he owns me! He’s expecting me—I have to get away before he—”

  “So it’s more than just cards and whiskey and passing time, eh?”

  Of course it is, he affirmed as he studied her stricken face. She was tired of the peevish, conceited blond pawing at her, and he didn’t pay her enough to strike out on her own—and it was a situation Rafferty knew to steer clear of, especially this close to Omaha. Midnight would have his ass behind bars before a firefly could flash twice if he allowed Miss LaBelle’s fantasies to go any further. “You can’t go with me. I travel light and I travel alone, Amber. Now get on back to your car before we do something we’ll both regret.”