Outlaw Moon

by Charlotte Hubbard

  He could understand that. And he would never in two lifetimes have guessed that beneath Amber LaBelle’s poised, street-savvy veneer lived a young lady who’d risen above such dubious circumstances and emotional disadvantages that his own troubles seemed minor by comparison. “You’ve got to finish the story, honey,” he prompted gently.

  She looked away, but not before he caught the shadow of a smile on her lush lips. “Since he was such an upstanding citizen, with young daughters who adored Mama, she and her two friends did a lot of fast talking about appropriate places to leave his body. They finally sneaked him down the alley to St. Cecile’s—thank God it was dark! They positioned him in a pew, on a kneeler, so it appeared he passed on in prayer rather than in the throes of passion.”

  “Made it easier on the wife, I expect.”

  “Yes, but when she donated a sum to St. Cecile’s that was so large it paid for renovations and a new pipe organ, Mama had to tell me the rest of the story,” Amber continued with a sigh. “You see, this man had set her up with her dance studio when he learned she was pregnant with me, and he paid the rent and bought us suitable society attire for the next seventeen years.”

  “And your mother’s income couldn’t keep you in the manner to which you were accustomed,” Rafferty finished.

  “Hardly. But apparently Mama loved him more than his money,” she replied in a plaintive whisper, “even though their relationship was impossible from the start. She died of pneumonia last year, but it was her broken heart that left her susceptible in the first place. He took her reason for living to the grave with him, I guess. I tried everything to get her interested in teaching again—she was only forty-three. But at the end, she hardly knew I was there.”

  Jack squeezed her hand. “Honey, I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged, allowing the tears to slither down her cheeks as she clutched his strong fingers. “You know what really hurt?” she asked in a quavery voice. “It wasn’t Mama’s passing so much—although that was awful enough, watching her get weaker by the day, and having no money for doctors or adequate food. It was the fact that she never would’ve told me the truth if I hadn’t walked in on it.

  “All my life I was surrounded by children in their fancy clothes, accompanied by their governesses or rich parents. I was so jealous—having to scrape and bow all the time, having to smile at rich young men who might take a fancy to me—that I made a point of going out when her students arrived for their lessons. That’s when I learned how to deal cards and read palms, from the crones in the back alleys.

  “It was sheer torture, attending the parties of people who pretended we were of their ilk only because their children came to Mama’s dance school. But when I found out, by accident, that I would’ve been one of those children, were I born on the other side of the sheets, well—it was too hard to accept. I left New Orleans an hour after Mama’s funeral. My whole life was a lie, and I hadn’t even suspected it.”

  Without a word, Jack scooped her up and settled her on his lap, wrapping his arms tightly around her. She felt so childlike, sounded so helpless that he had trouble recalling the Amber LaBelle who’d lied for him and conned Gideon Minnit without batting an eye. She looked like a little girl standing outside a magnificent toy shop with her nose pressed to the glass, forever doomed to gaze inside without gaining admittance. And his heart ached for her. Amber knew more about survival than he’d given her credit for, to have come this far without knuckling under to life in the streets.

  “Seems to me you turned out mighty fine, in spite of it all. This pretty locket belonged to her, didn’t it?” he asked softly.

  She nodded, somewhat amazed at how perceptive Rafferty was. “I never saw her when she wasn’t wearing it. And even though I know he gave it to her—even though I’m angry that Mama didn’t share her painful secret until it was too late—I had to have something to remember her by, you know?”

  Jack thought fleetingly of his own mother, understanding Amber’s sentiment all too well. “It’s to your credit you haven’t become a kept woman, or a whore. I bet your Mama’s proud of you now, honey. Maybe her lessons about smiling at the right men have gotten you farther than you think.”

  Amber, soothed by his reassuring words, managed to chuckle wryly. “Yeah, I smiled at you and look where it got me,” she teased. “I doubt Mama would’ve included outlaws on her list of ‘right’ men, Rafferty.”

  “Probably not. But you could do worse.”

  His probing, brown-eyed gaze made something flutter inside her and she had to look away. “You’re right about that. I didn’t mean to insult you, after the way you—”

  “You didn’t. I’m beyond being hurt by the truth.” Her lovely face was only inches from his, and the urge to kiss her and then make slow, sweet love to her nearly stole his breath away. “Maybe . . . maybe I’d better see to the horses now.”

  She nodded, relieved that he’d been strong enough to resist the passion that flared between them for that fleeting moment. And only heartbeats after he handed her the dry blanket from his bedroll, she was curled up beside the fire in a deep sleep, at peace after a dangerous day and a devastating past.

  Chapter 14

  What could be more frustrating than holding a warm, beautiful woman through the night without making love to her? Over the next few days Rafferty found out, because here in the wilderness, away from all signs of the civilization she thrived on, Miss LaBelle was one royal pain in the ass.

  And there was no getting away from her: Blanche had now lost that front shoe, so could only hobble along beside them while Amber sat behind him on Smoke. Ordinarily he’d enjoy having those feminine arms around his waist while he felt the provocative softness of her breasts bobbing against his back, but her day in the rain had given her a case of the sniffles that was driving him to distraction. He could almost tell time by it—every forty to sixty seconds she sucked air and made the stuff in her head rattle, right below his ear. Every ten minutes or so her violent sneezes startled Smoke into almost tossing her off over his rump.

  From the edge of the forest, where they rode in relative seclusion, he caught occasional glimpses of farmhouses where he longed to unload his passenger and disappear without her. But he gritted his teeth and rode on. If Minnit and that detective were following their trail, Amber would sic the pair on him faster than Gideon could gun down five clay pigeons, if he left her behind for the marksman to find.

  Their slow, monotonous pace was making him crazy. Any minute now, he expected to look over his shoulder and see the tall, broadly-built investigator in the black hat, but leaving Blanche behind for want of a shoe, just so they could make better time, wasn’t the answer, either. The docile mare had been following them without a lead rope these past two days, as desperate for company out here as Amber was—and Miss LaBelle would never forgive him if he slipped the gimpy horse into some farmer’s barn and slipped out with a strong, sure-footed mount for her instead. And he’d certainly thought of doing that as they plodded across the countryside. They were a rag-tag lot, and Rafferty sighed when he recalled the days he and Maude had traveled so unencumbered.

  “If that’s a cave I see, we’re stopping for the night,” he announced as they approached a rocky, wooded hillside. It was only mid-afternoon, but their food was almost gone and he’d endured all he could for one day.

  “Can’t stop too soon to suit me,” Amber muttered. She swung her leg behind her and slid to the ground, staggering when she hit harder than her weary, saddle-sore legs expected to.

  Jack let out a humorless laugh. “Never said it was fun being a fugitive, Miss Priss. Not my fault you came along.”

  “And it’s not my fault Blanche threw a shoe, thank you very much!” she retorted. “And I am not Miss Priss!”

  “Could’ve fooled me. Never saw a woman who couldn’t break camp before she smeared on rouge and blacked her lashes.”

  “Well, that tells me you haven’t conned too many women into camping with you!” She hobbled ov
er beside the white mare and threw open the front of her cloak, for the effect. “They shoot horses, don’t they? Why don’t you put Blanche and me out of our misery and be a free man again, Rafferty?” she dared him. “Who’d know you killed another woman, out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  Amber was a pathetic sight, in the motley assortment of skirts and blouses she wore to stay warm, but he wasn’t laughing. He sure as hell wasn’t going to feel sorry for her, either, so he grabbed for his gun. “I’d better save my bullets for shooting our supper,” he replied tersely. “Since you’ve proven you can’t make coffee, you can at least check out the cave and get a fire going while I’m gone. Maude’ll stay with you, to keep the bogeyman away.”

  “Don’t hurry back!” she snapped, and then for good measure she stuck her tongue out at him as he headed into the woods.

  But when she could no longer see his shadowy form between the trees, Amber burst into tears. Why was Jack being so hateful? Was it such a sin, trying to look pretty for him? And since she’d never cared for coffee, why would she know how to make it in a crude pot over an open fire?

  Her thoughts boiled within her as she went about the small clearing gathering fallen branches and twigs. She detested herself for lashing out at him, but dammit, she was so stiff from three days of straddling that horse she could hardly walk, and Jack’s saddle bit into her with each step they took until she feared it had rubbed her raw across the abdomen. She knew she was a poor outdoorswoman—and why would she be otherwise?

  “We’ll show him, Maudie,” she muttered to the dog. “We’ll build him a fire so damn high he’ll see it for miles! So what if Gideon spots it, too? We can quit this infernal running and go home.”

  Even as she said it, Amber felt worse instead of better. Her caboose on the Wild West train wasn’t home, and she didn’t really want to return to it or to the man who owned it. But if she let herself realize she had nowhere else to go, she’d never stop this stupid crying.

  All she wanted was a bed—even a lumpy one—in a warm room, with a tub full of steamy water and a hot meal, and maybe a shot of good whiskey to mellow her attitude toward Rafferty . . . and what she really needed was her mother, telling her to put that smile back on and that things would work themselves out.

  You might as well wish for Mama, she thought ruefully, because you’re as likely to get that wish as you are to get those other things you wanted

  Amber gasped and looked down. During her tantrum, she’d struck match after match trying to get the campfire going, and now only three remained in Rafferty’s tin box.

  She turned numb with dread. They’d rationed their food so carefully—had done everything imaginable to avoid stopping at a farmhouse—but now that Thomas’s packages were all empty, they’d be forced to show themselves and secure supplies because they had to cook . . . which they couldn’t do without fire. Amber’s stomach tied itself into such a knot she wouldn’t be able to eat anyway, and she went to sit dejectedly inside the opening of the cave to await Jack’s wrath. Maude gave the place a quick sniffing over and curled up beside her with a sympathetic whimper.

  It surely wouldn’t be long now. In her restlessness, Amber unsaddled Smoke and led him and the mare over to a grassy patch, listening for Rafferty’s approach. She found a shallow stream nearby and filled the battered coffeepot. She carried the tack and blankets into the cave, noting its roominess and hoping a dry night’s sleep out of the wind would improve both their moods . . . after Jack got over being livid about the matches she’d wasted, that is. He’d be here any time now . . . .

  But as the shadows of the trees stretched out across the patch of green where the horses grazed, Amber wondered if she’d driven him away for good. By now he could’ve hiked back to one of those farms . . . or perhaps, since she’d admitted she hated to be alone after dark, he was setting up his own camp across the forest. A man so accustomed to keeping his own company probably enjoyed time alone, without her complaints and sniffles and weary sighs. But the thought of night falling without any fire or company, other than the border collie whose head now rested in her lap, made the little hobgoblins dance in her mind as they’d done since she was a child. She’d always been good at conjuring up bats from flickering shadows and demons from the screeches of owls and—

  Her throat tightened. She studied the three remaining matches, felt the drop in the temperature as the sun slid behind the hills. And she wondered again how badly Jack must hate her to make her suffer through this wakeful nightmare alone. In her heart, she knew Maude would protect her to the death from any wild animal that happened by, yet convincing her imagination she was safe was another matter.

  She rose again from her seat inside the cave. Surely with one more try she could get the blaze going—

  And if you don’t leave Jack some matches, you’ll be in trouble like you’ve never known. He’s told you our lives might someday depend on lighting a fire. And he’s right.

  With a last glance at the hint of sunset behind the misty hills, Amber squatted, aware of every stiff muscle, for one last attempt at lighting the pile of firewood. It was Rafferty’s only request—the least she could do, since he’d gone out to find them some supper, and—

  “Green as your wood is, I’d save that match.”

  Amber gasped and fell backwards. She hadn’t heard a single twig snap, yet here he stood . . . with three dead animals hanging by their legs from his fist as he assessed the situation with a critical glance.

  Things looked worse than he’d anticipated. The hodge-podge of limbs she’d gathered would burn beautifully—next year—and they were arranged as only a little girl from a big city would do it: each piece lay where she’d flung it, in defiance, no doubt, and he could do nothing short of starting over with dry timber he picked up himself. Jack leaned down to rescue the three remaining matches from the dampness of the ground, his jaw clenched against scalding remarks that were building up like steam in a teakettle.

  But the single tear that dribbled out of her huge, doelike eyes melted him in less than a second. Amber was shaking like a trapped rabbit—terrified of him—and he’d known before he left her that fire building was a task no greenhorn could manage. Still sprawled in the grass, her layers of red, gold, cream and paisley clothing made her look like a pile of autumn leaves quivering in anticipation of a storm.

  Sighing, he held out the three hares he’d shot and skinned. “Here—hang onto these while I fetch us some dry wood.”

  Bile flew up into her throat but she fought it down. Hanging onto their dinner seemed a reasonable request, since she’d botched the campfire—especially since Rafferty had swallowed the rage he’d been so close to spewing at her. Slowly she rose to her feet, stifling a sniffle against her sleeve, and then she reached toward the ugliest, most unappetizing handful of—carcasses, they were!—she’d ever seen.

  When Jack let go, the sudden weight made Amber clutch the bundle with both hands. “What . . . what are these?”

  “Rabbits. I’d have been back sooner, but I stretched the pelts so they’d dry,” he explained, trying not to chuckle at her horrified expression. “We may need them later, to trade with trappers or Indians for food. Don’t wander off, now.”

  Amber swallowed a lump of revulsion as he left her for the edge of the nearby forest. It served her right, having to stand here holding these three slimy, hairless, dead things, which seemed to be putting on weight with each passing minute. Rafferty returned quickly, and she had to admire his swift efficiency as he arranged his armload of wood.

  “You start with branches so dry they snap when you bend them,” he was explaining as he laid the larger ones on the ground. “Then you add your smaller pieces in the center, so when they start to burn, the bigger logs’ll catch before the kindling’s all gone.”

  The flick of his match across the metal box made Amber hold her breath . . . but sure enough, little yellow tongues began to lap at the dry leaves and twigs, and soon the satisfying aroma of smoke rose fro
m the pile with its increasing heat.

  Rafferty glanced at her, noting the way her arms shook with the weight of his catch. “Hang on. Won’t take but a minute to rig up a spit.”

  Again she watched in awe as Jack whipped a knife from his pocket and whittled sharp points on two of the straighter green sticks she’d carried in. So much to learn about survival out here . . . she’d nearly doomed them to a cold, supperless night with her inexperience, yet this man was taking it in stride now. Within minutes he’d pounded sturdy, forked branches into the ground on either side of the blaze and was taking one of the rabbits from her hand. She nearly retched when he stuck a whittled stick through it, and she looked purposely toward the cave before he repeated this process on the other two animals. It had never occurred to her that preparing meat for dinner could be such a savage act.

  “You all right?”

  She cleared her throat. “Not terribly hungry, I guess.”

  “You will be. Let’s get some coffee on.”

  Again he set to the simple tasks Amber wished she could’ve performed for him, explaining how much of the ground bean mixture to use for the potful of water. Then he stirred some cornmeal and water together, using packets of supplies and a small, flat skillet from his saddlebags, and soon the crisp evening air was filled with the fragrances of sizzling meat, coffee, and the simple mush he’d made. When he handed her his only plate, filled with food, while he ate from the pan the mush was cooked in, she was again aware of his innate kindness . . . aware of how utterly dependent she was upon him now, and how much of a burden.

  The coffee tasted bitter, but she was glad for its warmth. The mush was pleasantly thick and filling, while the roasted rabbit surprised her with its chewy succulence. “You’re a good cook, Rafferty,” she mumbled.

  He shrugged. “I get by.”

  Her uselessness weighed heavily upon her as they ate in silence. Out here, she could be the world’s craftiest cardsharp and still starve to death . . . and who was around to listen to her advice about the future, let alone pay her for it? As they washed their dishes, Rafferty acknowledged his disappointment in her by keeping enough distance between them that neither their hands nor their shoulders brushed together. She understood his attitude, but when she recalled how openly affectionate he’d been in her tent and on the train, she missed his teasing flirtations . . . ached to have his strong, corded arms around her while his lips pressed into hers.