Outlaw Moon

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “It’s late,” he stated, resigning himself again to the fact that he could’ve caught his man days ago if it weren’t for these two tag-alongs. “Rafferty knew a good campsite when he found one, and we’ll stay the night. Put your sharpshooting to good use and kill us some dinner, Minnit. And Mrs. Nunn, if you can tend the horses and gather some firewood, I’ll be back to help shortly. Going to check the area while there’s still some daylight.”

  His clients’ frowns told him they didn’t appreciate these assignments after a long day’s ride, but he’d grown used to their peevishness. He’d warned them repeatedly: the trail might go for hundreds of miles yet, for days on end, and neither of them would be comfortable out here in the wilds. Better to stay at the boarding house where they’d gotten off the train, seedy as it was, and await his return with Rafferty and Miss LaBelle.

  But they’d insisted on coming. And he, in turn, had insisted they pull their weight along the way.

  Booth swung down off his mount to scour the area with a thorough eye. His two criminals had stayed more than one night, judging from the amount of ash left from their fire—a puzzling detail, for a man as smart as Rafferty. Because of the downpour the day Minnit spotted his horse, the hoofprints in the mud made that leg of the search extremely easy. It was apparent, too, that the white mare was hobbling along without a shoe now, and that the black and white dog was still with them . . . the bones of a small animal, picked cleaner than any human could gnaw it, attested to the fact that Jack’s pet was eating as well as he was.

  Watson poked his head into the cave, and then followed the leaf-clogged path that led between the trees. The air was brisk enough that he could see his breath, and he mused that such a secluded hideaway would be an idyllic setting for getting better acquainted with the right woman . . . and dammit, Felicity Nunn certainly wasn’t! He caught sight of her pouty expression as she picked up branches and he chuckled, wondering if Amber LaBelle was any better suited to the natural life than this persnickety blonde.

  Perhaps Rafferty was getting careless because Miss LaBelle was so distracting—certainly a point in his favor. He suspected, however, that the outlaw was champing at the bit with frustration, just as he was. Two sets of hoofprints led right to the stream . . . the oldest diversionary tactic in the books, but an effective one, unless he found a give-away as to which direction they’d headed in the water. North would seem the obvious route, but Jack would know not to be obvious.

  Booth moved quickly, aware that the light was fading fast. Two people, two horses, and a frisky dog should leave a trail a blind man could find in the dark . . . and sure enough, not a quarter-mile from the campsite he found the telltale pawprints and a brown, coiled pile he needed.

  Thank you, Maudie the Wonder Dog, he thought with a chuckle. Gazing ahead into the dusk, he saw that these woods opened up to prairieland and distant farms—the obvious destination for two runaways. The station attendant told him Rafferty’s private car had been abandoned before it arrived; a colored porter admitted its occupant had paid the engineer a hefty sum to make an unscheduled stop, but he hadn’t said why. If Jack had disembarked so hastily, he was no doubt low on food and supplies by now and would need to procure some. Once again Booth sighed at how easy this chase would be if he were alone, and turned toward the campsite.

  The smell of wood smoke told him Felicity and Minnit were doing their chores. He slowed his pace, to allow himself a few more moments alone among these peaceful trees . . . to allow his two clients a chance to either get some hanky-panky out of their systems or to start bickering again, so he wouldn’t walk in on something he’d rather not watch. Minnit had been too worked up over seeing his mare from the train window to brag on his success in Felicity’s private car, but judging from the way he stroked his goatee and winked secretively at her, the sharpshooter at least thought he’d hit the mark. And he’d keep shooting as long as his female target availed herself ... or maybe it was just more of Gideon Midnight’s conceit coming to light. Hard to tell.

  Booth squatted beside the stream to splash his face and take a sip of the icy water. He heard Felicity’s husky laughter, a sound that aroused him despite the knowledge that Minnit was probably causing it. At least she was in a better mood now ... at least they’d stopped their backbiting, even if it meant he’d have to stay out here a little longer.

  He concentrated on the murmuring of the stream, smiling at the horizon’s streaks of pink and peach, which were slowly giving way to the night sky. Autumn invigorated him. Even with inconveniences named Nunn and Minnit nearby, he felt a keen appreciation for the beauty of the earth at this time of year and promised himself he’d push harder to catch Rafferty, so he could enjoy the colorful journey back to Colorado before the first snowfall.

  His eye caught something odd along the shoreline ahead, and he scowled. Watson strode over to study the marks in the sandy soil—perhaps another indication of Rafferty’s plans, illustrated for Amber’s benefit. But when he saw a double alphabet, one set of letters printed with bold confidence, shadowed by a shaky imitation, he could only scratch his head. It looked for all the world like a child’s lesson in penmanship ....

  But if Felicity was to be believed, Jack Rafferty was a lawyer . . . and the realization that Amber was not only his partner in crime but his pupil as well made Booth’s insides tighten intuitively. This was why the two had tarried here. This told him more than any information his partner Scott could gather about the man he was stalking.

  And the longer he looked at the letters in the sand, the more he had to wonder if a man who’d allegedly murdered a whore in a drunken rage would possess the patience—the deep compassion—to teach another grown woman how to read and write. Once again, gut hunches pointed to holes in Mrs. Nunn’s story and made Rafferty appear a victim rather than a criminal.

  Booth turned toward camp, to bring Felicity out here and present her with the irrefutable evidence of Rafferty’s high-mindedness. And just as suddenly he stopped.

  All he’d get from the fanciful Felicity were denials about her former mate’s motivations, and another gushing tribute as to why she wanted Jack back so she could forgive him for killing her sister.

  Perhaps Rafferty’s teaching should be a secret he kept to himself. And as Booth ambled along the lengthy set of letters he began to shuffle through them so that no one else would suspect the bond between Jack and Amber ...not a relationship Felicity would want to know about. He worked quickly, dragging his bootheels over the carefully-formed consonants and vowels, aware of the irony of hiding this silent testimony from the client who had the best reason to see it.

  He was nearly finished with his sand dance when he halted in surprise again. At the end of the rows, below the X-Y-Z, a message was written in a flourish of script. Watson leaned over to study it in the dusk, his throat constricting with sudden emotion as he made out the words Rafferty had written, knowing his student couldn’t read them: My God, Amber, how I love you.

  Booth stared at the words, knowing Felicity Nunn should read them for herself. Knowing that the envy this simple, powerful phrase inspired within him would probably cause him to dawdle on Jack’s behalf.

  Felicity should see this. No reputable detective destroys his best evidence to help his client save face! No investigator worth his salt protects the man he’s trying to catch!

  Reason and emotion warred within him for only a moment. Watson landed on top of the words and twisted his feet until every trace of the love note was lost in the churned-up sand. Rafferty had a right to his feelings, and it was clear he no longer had any for his capricious ex-wife.

  As a man, Booth could certainly understand that. As a detective, he was obligated to inform his client that perhaps her pursuit of Jack Rafferty wasn’t such a fine idea anymore. And he hadn’t the slightest notion how he was going to do that.

  Felicity looked up and grinned wickedly to herself. Not only was Booth’s timing perfect, but his reaction to what he saw confirmed his need for her:
she was stretched out before the fire while Gideon knelt between her legs, massaging her saddle-sore thighs with slavish devotion. True, she was wearing the shiny blue leggings she’d found in the Omaha depot—a gift Minnit had so willingly donated when she complained of the cold—but she knew she was a provocative sight with her skirts bunched around her waist and her disheveled hair hanging past her shoulders . . . and another man catering to her sultry whims.

  “He’s back!” she said in a loud whisper, and she quickly righted herself as Gideon skittered sideways and nearly fell into the fire. Then she smiled demurely at Watson. “I—I was so sore from all our riding I could hardly walk,” she offered in explanation. “We got the fire going and supper started, just like you asked us to.”

  Booth paused at the edge of the circle where the firelight met the darkness. Felicity’s false modesty didn’t fool him, and he now felt justified in wiping out the evidence of Rafferty’s affection for Amber—an emotion he doubted his hot-blooded client would understand, even if she had been married to the man awhile back. Gideon’s fawning over her disgusted him, just as Mrs. Nunn’s attempts to arouse him did... and dammit, they were working.

  “What’s to eat?” he asked gruffly.

  Gideon was brushing himself off, and with a kiss-ass grin he pointed to the spit, where three sizzling hunks of meat dripped grease into the fire. “Two rabbits and a squirrel,” he boasted, “and Miss Felicity’s got coffee brewing and she stirred up a batch of biscuits. How’s that, boss?”

  Watson managed a nod of approval despite the way Minnit’s voice and attitude irritated him. “Better than I expected.”

  Actually, the rounds of dough rising in the pan beside the fire seemed to call his name as they perfumed the campsite with their homey aroma. He was eating better than usual because Mrs. Nunn was along—and to keep that thought from going any further, Booth went to check their horses, which were tethered at the opposite edge of the clearing. The animals—his own mount, Butch, plus the roan gelding they’d bought for Felicity, a mare from the Wild West remuda, and a sturdy pack horse—grazed quietly as he patted the flanks of each one while looking them over.

  “Well, fella, what do you think of all this company we’ve got?” he murmured to his black.

  Butch raised his head and nickered so Booth would stroke the white blaze along his nose, a gesture of affection they’d shared for three years and hundreds of miles.

  “Kind of crowds a man, doesn’t it?” Watson agreed, chuckling as the velvety lips nuzzled his palm in search of a handout. “I’ll get you something in a minute. Need to stand out here and smell cold fresh air and horse sweat for a bit, to settle myself. Damn woman . . .all the morals of an alley cat and fewer scruples.”

  With a sigh and a final slap to Butch’s rump, he ambled over to the pile of luggage and saddlebags. The tins of flour, sugar, and coffee were getting awfully low, he noted—the consequence of having three mouths to feed—and he fumbled in the flickering shadows for the folded sack of dried apples. He dropped some into a pan, sprinkled them with sugar, and then took a few of the pale, leathery pieces to his horse.

  As he returned to the fire, he felt Felicity’s calculating gaze on him and paid her no mind. He was pouring a little hot water into his pan when she, in her usual flirtatious way, forced the issue.

  “Got a hankering for something sweet, Mr. Watson?”

  He set the pan near the flames and then leveled a look at her. “That’s why I carry fruit, Mrs. Nunn.”

  Felicity held his blue eyes shamelessly, acknowledging the male response his frosty reply tried to hide. Every night so far he’d eluded her, which made him more fascinating—if frustrating—prey to stalk. But tonight would be his undoing, she promised herself. Her agile mind had seized upon all the opportunities this campsite afforded, and she found her hunger for food suddenly replaced by an appetite that wasn’t so easily sated. But she’d have Booth Watson, from his thick brown hair to the feet he seldom removed from his fine, tooled boots . . . and every virile part of him in between. And she’d have him tonight.

  Booth watched the firelight play in the golden hair that swayed over her shoulders as she turned the spit. He suspected its brassy color came from a bottle; kept reminding himself that he preferred women who didn’t play charades all the time and left their natural assets alone. Yet his manhood didn’t seem so discriminating.

  “Your biscuits look wonderful,” he admitted in a huskier voice than he’d intended.

  Felicity chuckled in her low, predatory way. “Wait’ll you pop one in your mouth.”

  With a silent groan, Booth glanced around to be sure Minnit wasn’t listening. Their companion had apparently gone to relieve himself, so he turned his attention back to the slender woman at his side. “Why do you twist everything I say into innuendo, Mrs. Nunn?”

  “Because you love it.” She widened her eyes at him, straightening her shoulders so her breasts looked more prominent. “Booth, we’re both adults and we can’t pretend we don’t have . . . itches that need to be scratched,” she purred. “I’m sorry if my little jokes offend you, but it’s been a long time since I had a handsome man looking me over this way, and—”

  “What about Rafferty? I thought you were after him.”

  Felicity glanced around to be sure Gideon was still gone. “I am,” she insisted in a syrupy voice, “but hell’s bells, he’s running away because he doesn’t know I want him back—with a woman, no less. And frankly, I’m sick of Gideon panting all over me like some puppy, and I—well, I just can’t understand why you don’t take what I’m offering. For my own protection, if nothing else! Or are you married?” she asked suddenly.

  Booth was grateful to have one easy question, because it was obviously time to discuss trickier issues as well. “No. Can’t expect a woman to wait at home while I’m on the trail so much.”

  “I would!” she cried, and then she gasped as she caught sight of Minnit. “Shh! We can’t talk about this now!” she whispered, and she busied herself turning the pan of biscuits so they’d brown evenly.

  “Then let’s talk about Rafferty,” Booth continued coolly. He adjusted the roasting meat another quarter turn and then gazed steadily at her. “I get the feeling you haven’t told me some key details about your ex-husband, ma’am. Matter of fact, I’m beginning to doubt your reasons for continuing this search, and I’m to the point where throwing more money at me won’t keep me on his trail much longer, without some damn solid justification.”

  Felicity quivered. The intensity of his ice-blue eyes . . . the sonorous baritone voice edged with anger and absolute authority. What a man he was! “I—I—”

  “Seems to me I’ve got even better justification than she does,” Minnit piped up. “Until I get Miss Blanche back, I’ve got a traveling show that’s come to a halt—no means of support for me or my crew. Not to mention those two diamond rings Amber stole! If you think she’s getting away with all that, you’re crazy!”

  “That’s right!” Felicity chimed in, smiling gratefully at the goateed blond. “And it seems to me that with all the money we’ve already thrown at you, Mr. Watson, we’re good for several hundred more miles, regardless of our reasons!”

  The next moments of silence were interrupted only by the hiss of meat grease and the slow burbling of the coffee. Booth knew he was cornered. To his chagrin, he’d have to escort these two irritating confederates for several more days yet—unless changes were made.

  “Fine,” he grunted. “Just wanted to see where you stood. But be prepared to move faster, because unless we do, all we’ll ever see of Rafferty and Miss LaBelle are their snuffed-out fires.”

  “Fine,” Gideon whined, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “I suggested we move out after supper, and with the full moon—”

  “We’re staying,” Watson stated flatly. “We’re already unloaded, and that moon you’re squawking about is covered over by clouds. The rain’s only an hour away, by my guess.”

  The timely r
umble of thunder in the distance shut them up. Supper was a strained meal where Felicity picked at her food and Minnit seemed to cram his in with both hands. Booth finished off his rabbit, poured a second cup of coffee, and split three more biscuits on his plate so he could slather them with stewed apples. If he couldn’t enjoy civilized conversation, he would not forgo the pleasure of a delicious meal after a long day on the trail. His two clients began to clean up the dishes, seemingly eager for something to do, so after he emptied his plate he leaned back against the outer wall of the cave to roll a cigarette.

  The tobacco settled him, and he let his thoughts drift with his smoke. Felicity had made an obvious play for him—again within earshot of Minnit—and he’d have to nip her fixation in the bud. Mixing her pleasures with the business of tracking her ex-husband was foolish enough, without the dangers such a distraction could cause. Jealousy alone could drive Gideon into a frenzy with his pistols. Letting down his guard to flirt with her might leave them vulnerable to gunfire from irate farmers whose land they were trespassing on.

  And he couldn’t ignore the very real possibility that making love to Felicity would stir up feelings best left alone: a moment’s fulfillment would turn sour when she caught up to Jack Rafferty again. Most men could take a woman to bed and then forget her the next day, but he’d never been one of them.

  Booth rolled a second smoke, and when he saw his female client carrying her blankets and valise into the cave, he relaxed a bit. Thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Gideon had found a spot under a rock ledge to bed down and he turned in without a word.

  The peacefulness of the chill autumn evening soothed him, and Watson added more wood to the fire; Many nights he’d slept out in the rain, and he rigged up a shelter near the cave entrance by anchoring his tarpaulin on the rocky ledge and angling it down to the ground. He’d catch the fire’s warmth here, and be close enough to ward off any curious animals that might investigate the cave during the night.