Outlaw Moon

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Ready? Easy does it over this railing,” Rafferty whispered as they stepped outside. “I’ll go first, to catch the luggage and help you down.”

  It should’ve been easier descending than climbing up had been a few nights ago. But with skirts bunching around his boots and Amber’s loose cloak getting in the way, Jack could only swear a lot and hope he didn’t tear his clothes off on the way to the ground. He landed with a whump and was looking up to catch their luggage when an excited, whimpering animal began dancing around his legs.

  “Maudie!” he gasped. “God, girl, I thought I’d never—watch out!”

  Two carpetbags nearly landed on top of them, causing the dog to yelp and dash away. With a cautious glance toward the parlor window, Rafferty shushed his confused pet. That was Minnit’s shoulder-length hair he saw inside, and one suspicious noise would have the little chickenshit out here squawking an alarm.

  He looked up again to see Amber’s gold skirts and ivory bloomers billowing above him—a fetching sight, but she wasn’t much good at climbing down porch pillars. The curved, painted surface gave her no foothold, and before she could wrap her arms and legs securely around the post, she was dropping down on top of him.

  They sprawled on the snow-covered street, a tangle of arms and legs and skirts that made Miss Blanche and the detective’s mount nicker and sidestep nervously. Without another word they scrambled up, grabbed their gear, and sprinted alongside the white framework boardinghouse to the alleyway behind it.

  “Come on, Maudie, you’re going with us!” Rafferty crowed in a subdued voice. “We can’t—we won’t—let them catch us now!”

  Chapter 23

  “This room’ll do fine for Mrs. Nunn,” Watson was saying, and the yelp of a familiar-sounding dog made him glance out the window. But all he saw was the overhang of the porch roof and the backs of their horses, which were tied to the railing out front. “And as soon as we can have her wound looked at, we’ll get her settled in. I don’t suppose you could recommend a doctor?”

  The woman’s face lit up with her smile. “Jah, Dr. Nils Larsen’s the best in town, sir. Charges reasonably, and knows all the latest cures—and he happens to be my nephew,” she added with a proud lilt in her voice. “You’ll find him up the street, by the mercantile.”

  “Fine. We’ll be back as soon as we’ve seen him.”

  Booth glanced again around the small, neat room with its narrow bed, chest of drawers, and a wash-stand. Ever since he’d followed the dog to this boardinghouse his senses had been a-jangle, as though he were so close to Rafferty and the LaBelle woman he could smell them. He ambled down the hall after his hostess, past the water closet’s closed door, and ducked his head as they descended the wooden stairs. As Mrs. Jorgensen wrote Felicity’s name in the registration book, he craned to see if Rafferty was listed there, but didn’t want to appear unduly curious.

  He glanced at Gideon and Felicity, who was seated beside him on the threadbare settee. “Seen anything?” he asked quietly.

  “Nope. Dang dog let out a bark or two, but I suspect some fellow was teasing at her,” Minnit replied with a yawn. “This town’s just buzzing with men at loose ends.”

  “Lumberjacks,” the landlady replied. “They’re on their way to logging camps up north, and then we’ll have peace and quiet again. Until they head home in the spring.”

  Booth nodded and let his gaze linger on Felicity, whose expression was a mixture of bone-weariness and kittenlike allure. She looked a lot better without the ragged bandages tied beneath her chin, but he was taking no chances on how effective his tobacco poultice had been. “Let’s get you to the doc,” he said gently. “Then we can look around a bit and catch some shut-eye. The walk’d do you good, if you think you’re up to it.”

  Felicity’s martyred look didn’t fool him as she took his arm and bravely started down the rough, snowy street at his side. The surface was dirty and choppy from hooves and wagon wheels, yet he saw the glistening white slickness between the muddy patches as an excuse to put a steadying arm around her. She rewarded him with that dewy-eyed smile that had melted him ever since she regained consciousness in his arms, that night in the cave ... so damn grateful and defenseless-looking, although he knew neither trait rang true in Mrs. Nunn’s case.

  Watson told himself he was luring her closer, inspiring her trust by indulging in kisses and intimate innuendo that could lead to the truth about why she was trailing Jack Rafferty. Women had a way of telling him anything, if he played them right, and Felicity could only hold out for so long before she gave herself away in an unguarded moment. Now that they were close on the culprit’s heels, he had his comely client right where he wanted her... perhaps slipping into her room later to be sure she was resting comfortably would clinch the case.

  Yet he sensed he was the one being strung along. The catlike green eyes gazing up at him as they reached Dr. Larsen’s door held promises he knew he shouldn’t keep. She was quieter these days, more subdued than the brash society woman who’d plied him with thick stacks of cash when she hired him. And as she entered the doctor’s examining room, Booth found himself worried about possible infection, about an unsightly scar that only a hat would cover, about—

  Christ, you’re a sorry excuse for a detective, he chided himself. Yet he kept envisioning her coy come-ons as he waited alone in the stuffy front office. Kept recalling the kisses she bestowed upon him whenever Minnit wasn’t looking—and sometimes when he was—and Booth knew desperate measures were called for if he was to disentangle himself from this wily woman and bring her case to a satisfying close. It was Rafferty she wanted, after all. Wasn’t it?

  He was glad he’d instructed Minnit to stable the horses and secure two rooms, so the little pest wouldn’t be sitting here staring at the bulge in his pants. Ever since they’d found Miss Blanche at that farmhouse, Gideon had been insufferably gushy and in a rush to pursue Amber LaBelle. At least he’d had the smithing skills to reshoe the mare, and the ability to bullshit Karl into selling the horse back to him—not to mention the way he charmed Felicity into meeting the old codger’s outlandish price.

  But then, he sensed she would’ve paid anything to leave those two unsavory characters and their reeking house behind . . . anything to stop Gideon’s incessant whine about how any fool could follow Jack’s trail. Personally, he was ready to shut Minnit up with his fist. But he didn’t need two wounded tag-alongs slowing him down.

  And then there was the dog. As Booth let his exhausted body slouch in the hard wooden chair, he still couldn’t imagine Rafferty leaving the animal with such a shiftless couple as Karl and Olga. True, Maudie was trapped in a root cellar—her yips and howls had awakened him from a restless night’s sleep on the floor of Karl’s front room. But it wasn’t like Rafferty to forsake such a faithful pet . . . unless he was planning to return for her. Or planning to mislead the detective he knew was on his tail.

  Watson sat straighter, frowning. Had the accused murderer sidetracked him by leaving Maude for him to find? Miss Blanche had been unfit for travel, but Jack had surely bargained on his dog following him through hell and high water . . . had possibly bribed Olga and Karl to keep her locked up, so she’d be the perfect bait and would lead him to...a boardinghouse fresh with Rafferty’s scent.

  The dog had followed an unwavering trail, staying within range only because Booth fed her. But if Rafferty was lying in wait here in Bemidji, to snatch her up and disappear again . . . come to think of it, Maudie was nowhere in sight when they left Mrs. Jorgensen’s—

  “... a few days’ bed rest and this salve should have you feeling just fine again, Mrs. Watson.” The doctor’s jovial voice filled the small outer office, and Nils Larsen gave him a broad smile as he followed Felicity from the back room. “Fine job of applying that poultice, sir. Unless she suffers from headaches or dizziness, your wife’ll just require another week or so for that sore to heal. She’s lucky you were along.”

  Booth held his tongue, smiling benignly
until his client paid the man and they were outside on the street. “Mrs. Watson?” he hissed as he took Felicity’s arm. “What the hell—”

  “Has a nice ring, doesn’t it?” she replied with a wink. Then she laughed at him, sounding perfectly restored to health—a miracle, considering the way she’d crept along on their earlier walk. “I’m being practical, Booth. People don’t trust a woman traveling with a man she’s not married to. It’s so . . . sordid. Had you let me do the talking, we could’ve shared a room at Mrs.—”

  “You were too sick to talk,” he reminded her brusquely, “let alone share a room, or a bed, or—”

  “So you’ve been thinking about that, eh?” Her gaze slipped slyly below his belt as they hurried along the street. A wolfish whistle and then another came from the direction of a nearby saloon, and she held his arm more tightly. “There’s no point in denying the spark between us, Booth. After these past weeks together, it’s only natural—especially considering the way you’ve nursed me back to health—that we’d feel this attraction rising between us.”

  Damn her for playing upon his arousal! “I am not in the habit of bedding women who’re supposedly tracking their husbands, Mrs. Nunn. Lord, but you’re shameless to—”

  “Yes, I am.”

  She stopped beside him, her eyes glittering with mirth and flirtation . . . and he warned himself not to fall for whatever little scheme she was concocting. “Do you still want to catch Jack Rafferty?” he demanded.

  “Damn right I do. I’m the only one who can defend him and make those Wanted posters disappear, you know.”

  “And do you intend to marry him again—if he’ll have you?”

  Watson leaned over her, staring intently at her to force the issue. Her eyes shone with the cold and her breath framed her head like a wispy white halo she certainly didn’t deserve. Her gaze never left his, brazen and sure of itself, as she answered him in a low purr that made him ache with need.

  “Maybe I’ve changed my mind about that part. Maybe I just want to free him from those murder charges, so Jack and I can both go on to bigger and . . . better things.”

  Watson’s throat got so dry it hurt when he swallowed. Why the hell couldn’t he stop ogling her? Felicity was wearing the green dress that suited her coloring so well, and her cheeks glowed with the lush beauty of ripe peaches as she gazed up at him, unblinking.

  “I think you’d better get on up to your room,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I’m not the kind of man to take advantage of—”

  In a flash of—anger, was it?—Felicity turned on her heel to stomp toward the boardinghouse. But her leather soles slipped on the slick, solidly-packed snow and she pitched forward with a yelp. Quickly Booth grabbed for her, and just as quickly she turned in his arms and covered his mouth with hers.

  It was a jaded act, out here on a busy street, and a merciless kiss that couldn’t be denied. Before, she’d coaxed him with lips as soft and warm as velvet, teasing him just enough that he could imagine far more yet could quit while he was ahead. Now, however, Felicity Nunn was devouring him, moaning as she pressed into him with an abandon that made his pulse roar so loudly he couldn’t hear himself think.

  Booth released her with a ragged pant. “Get upstairs. I’ll bring your things.”

  She complied with the giggle of a Pandora who knew damn well what sort of mischief she’d just let loose. Watson watched the door shut after her, stood with his arm braced against a porch post to compose himself. He sucked in the icy air like a man desperate for breath, but there was no cooling the passion she’d ignited.

  Too long he’d denied himself the blessed release only a woman could bring him, and these weeks of having Felicity toy at him like a cat with a dazed mouse had eroded his resistance. It wasn’t like he’d cornered her—it was clear she wanted him and had intentionally driven him to this distracted state. Time to slake his curiosity. And hers.

  Time to make her so crazy she’ll admit what—and who—she’s really after, he thought as he entered the white frame boardinghouse. Felicity’s bags were stacked at the foot of the staircase, and Watson gave thanks that the delectable aroma of dinner meant Ilsa Jorgensen was occupied in the kitchen. His arms loaded with luggage, he sprinted up the stairs before lost nerve—or a nosy landlady—got him into any more trouble.

  Felicity chuckled. The racket on the stairs resembled the charge of a raging bull, and soon Booth Watson would be hers. She continued her ministrations at the washstand, slowing her movements so he wouldn’t guess how hurriedly she’d removed the unpleasant layer of grime from days on the trail . . . among other things. She’d hoped to greet him from a hot tub full of bubbles, but the bathroom door was locked. Someone always seemed to be in there!

  And here he was, standing in the doorway, breathless, his eyes shining with a fiery ice-blue desire. He leaned against the door to shut it, letting her luggage slip to the floor.

  Felicity Nunn was the most unpredictable woman he’d ever met. And he was now aware that her disregard for convention was the very reason he was attracted to her. She was standing with one very shapely leg extended so her foot rested on the edge of the washstand. She was naked, except for her pale pink camisole. And she was rubbing a bar of soap against her female parts, smiling at him with angelic guile.

  His nostrils flared, taking in the soap’s delicate scent—and hers—as he watched the hypnotic circular motions turn her curls into a frothy mound that had him stepping toward her, heedless of everything save the blond vixen who’d drawn him into her lair. By the time he reached her, his pants were undone and he was plucking the pins from her golden hair, letting them fall to the floor as he gazed at her. Watson couldn’t recall ever being so overpowered, by a greedy hunger that drove him to disregard the usual niceties he bestowed upon his lovers. This woman wanted him now, without any polite chitchat or tiptoeing around the fire that was flaring between them.

  When he crushed her close to claim her mouth, Felicity felt the soap slip from her fingers. She shoved his jeans over his hips and then freed him from his heavy underpants, relishing the power that throbbed through him and the amazing softness of his bare skin. He was moaning like an impassioned animal as he kissed her deeply, refusing to let her surface for air. Then she was being lifted . . . felt the cool slickness of the chest of drawers as he sat her upon it, and then his hard, pulsing heat as he entered her.

  Felicity buried her face against his flannel-clad chest and matched him thrust for thrust. Gloriously male in the throes of his lust, Booth was even better than she’d dreamed ... a man she could come to respect and enjoy, if she allowed herself to. But for now she clung to him, driving him to rapid release while hiding the sly smile that might be the death of her if he saw it.

  With a hoarse cry, Watson shot weeks worth of pent-up frustration into her. As he slowly regained coherence, it occurred to him that the bathroom’s occupant had heard every creak and grunt . . . that the slender woman in his arms probably couldn’t breathe . . . that he’d slighted Felicity by letting his own desires override hers.

  When he straightened up to look at her, she was licking her reddened lips, grinning like a she-devil. “My, my, Mr. Watson,” she purred.

  Booth let out a laugh. “We’re not finished. That act of yours might satisfy somebody else, little lady, but you can’t hold out on me.”

  Her eyes widened as he scooped her against his massive chest and carried her to the washstand. This was not part of her plan! She’d wanted a quick coupling to sate her curiosity—to assure herself that Booth Watson was no different from any other man when his pants came down.

  But he was holding her effortlessly, setting her on her knees astraddle the bowl of warm water. “You’re going to itch like the dickens if we don’t rinse off this soap,” he explained in a low voice. “But first, take off my shirt. Often as you’ve gawked at me, you might as well see what you’ve chased after.”

  Speechless, Felicity found his buttons and slowly bared him from the waist
up. His muscles rippled beneath a dark thatch of hair as he raised his arms to help her remove his undershirt. His blue eyes riveted hers as she found herself unable to resist stroking him, kneading the firm, solid shoulders that seemed to fill the room. She became so engrossed in her explorations that she gasped when she felt the wet washrag between her legs.

  Booth chuckled. She was quite a sight, with her straw-colored hair streaming over her shoulders, in a camisole so like the color of her skin she could be naked, except for the froth of ivory lace between her breasts. He finished rinsing her with a tender thoroughness that brought a flush to her cheeks. Apparently Douglas Nunn had never handled her this way—nor had Rafferty—because she seemed flustered by her response to his touch.

  “Let go and enjoy it,” he whispered. “No point in turning modest on me now, is there?”

  Modesty had never ranked as one of her higher priorities—and neither had succumbing to the whimpering, mindless madness that sincere lovemaking required. Yet the sure, subtle strokings of that rough washcloth against her inflamed skin had her breathing faster, rocking against the pressure of his fingers.

  Watson smiled. The water’s warmth brought out the aromas of soap and Felicity’s arousal and his own seed, a heady perfume that stirred him as he let his gaze wander over her. When her breasts pushed forward, he noted a small heart tattooed between them—another of this woman’s intriguing little mysteries.

  He set the bowl of water on the dresser and pulled her close for a long, searching kiss. She was coming to life in his arms now, and he vowed to lavish affection upon her until she surrendered to him . . . until she admitted that he’d made her forget about Rafferty while he held her captive with all the best lovemaking techniques he’d learned over the years.

  Booth’s lips descended slowly and surely down her body, making her ache with the anticipation of his final goal. His tongue circled her nipples, using the film of her camisole to his advantage as he laved one and then the other. Her head fell back. She truly was shameless now, as she gripped his shoulders and urged him lower with her shallow, rapid moans.