Lori Austin

by When Morning Comes

  “Word is that O’Banyon’s a woman who likes to dress as a boy.”

  “You think a woman could get the drop on all those desperate characters?” Alexi’s voice dripped with scorn. “I heard that in Abilene three men caught Cat O’Banyon red-handed, chased him for thirty miles. Although …”

  He drew the word out, and even Cat, who knew Alexi’s tricks, found herself leaning forward in expectation of what he might say next.

  “The man is quite clever,” Alexi continued. “What better way to throw everyone off the trail than to pretend to be a woman?”

  Silence descended. Cat held her breath, hoping that Alexi’s talent at lies had saved them again. She should never have made the idiot in the alley say the words. That must have been what gave her away. But she hadn’t been able to help herself.

  “Doesn’t matter,” the leader said at last. “Even if the woman we want ain’t O’Banyon, she assaulted a citizen. We gotta take her in.”

  “Why would you think she’s here?” Alexi asked.

  “Folks along the river said you left in an awful hurry.”

  “Is that a crime?”

  “In my experience, a quick exit usually means something’s fishy.”

  “I assure you we’ve done nothing wrong.” Alexi’s voice held just the right amount of sincerity and outrage. He was so damn good at this.

  “Then you won’t mind if we look around.”

  “Be my guest.” The statement was followed by clangs and thumps as they searched the wagons. They wouldn’t find any elixir; Mikhail always sold every last bottle before leaving, which made it easier to deny ever selling it at all.

  A short while later, the tent flap parted and several big, rough, dusty men strode in. The leader was easily distinguishable by the big tin star on his burly chest, the man in the alley equally recognizable by both the huge knot on his forehead and the sway of his enormous belly.

  Cat had been peering into a hand mirror so she could see them enter without staring at the doorway as if she were expecting them. When they crowded into the tent, she spun, gibbering Spanish, berating them for invading her domicile, demanding to know who they were, calling them every name and every curse word she remembered.

  None of them paid any attention to her words, her face, or anything else but the slow slide of the brightly colored material as it cascaded downward, catching on the swell of one breast.

  Cat stroked her collarbone, making everyone who watched wonder how her skin would feel right there, stretched taut over such a fragile bone. While they considered that, she used the other, unwatched hand, to tug on the hem of the blouse so that the neckline dipped low enough to tantalize. Perhaps they might catch a hint of nipple if the garment would only slip just a little … bit … more.

  Every man in the place, except Alexi, who’d already seen this show, held his breath and prayed.

  Cat sauntered across the room, chattering in español. Speaking it brought back memories of the sudden spring snowstorm in South Dakota, the deserted cabin with more holes in the walls than boards. They’d huddled around a fire, and to pass the time Alexi had shared every word and phrase that he knew.

  She was very good at learning languages, and she made up for her lack of vocabulary with a flair for invention, adding a few words that sounded like Spanish but weren’t anything at all.

  Her skirt twirled, revealing more leg than was proper. Her feet were bare; she’d tied a piece of red string around one ankle. Several of the men couldn’t take their eyes off it.

  Another thing Alexi had taught her—some men liked legs, some breasts—so it was best to give everyone a peek at everything. If they were to survive, people such as Alexi—and Cat—needed to use each gift they’d been given.

  Though few could drag their eyes above her neck, she’d let her hair fall over her too-light-for-a-Mexican-peasant eyes, and she kept her distance from the fat man with the knot on his head. From what Cat had observed of the fellow so far, she should have hit him harder.

  Cat glanced at Alexi, gibbered louder, waved her hands, which served the dual purpose of distracting attention from her face even more and making her breasts jiggle enticingly beneath the thin cotton blouse. One of the men choked, another muttered, “Holy hell.”

  She thought Alexi managed, just barely, not to smile.

  The lawman shook his head hard and dragged his gaze from Cat’s chest. “Why didn’t you come out when we called?”

  Alexi pushed his way through the crowd until he stood at Cat’s side. “I’m afraid she doesn’t speak English.”

  “None?” The leader of the posse sounded skeptical.

  Alexi grabbed Cat by one wrist and yanked her close. “No need,” he murmured, running his palm across her bare shoulder.

  Cat shivered. Good Lord, those hands.

  Alexi brushed his thumb along the soft skin at the crook of her elbow, and Cat planted that elbow in his stomach. She proceeded to give him a piece of her furious Spanish mind. If they weren’t careful, she’d end up in jail or worse.

  Alexi, who had turned his back to the others, rolled his eyes and smirked, but he let her rant on. They both understood that the more Spanish she spoke, the less Cat O’Banyon she appeared.

  “What’s she sayin’?” whispered the heretofore silent man. Considering his high-pitched voice, Cat understood his reticence to speak.

  “How should I know?” muttered the lawman. “This is Missouri, not Texas.”

  Alexi winked at Cat, then turned. “I doubt very much you’d want to hear the translation.”

  The leader’s gaze narrowed. “I say we do.”

  Alexi shrugged. “She says you are the sons of swine to barge into a lady’s tent. She believes your mothers were …” Pausing, he tilted his head. “Well, I should not repeat that in the presence of a lady.”

  “She said it,” one of the others pointed out.

  “Nevertheless,” Alexi continued. “Something about how you will die. Blood, sweat, pain, your intestines in a fire.” He waved one hand. “It all blends together after a while.”

  The men shuffled and murmured. Cat was certain she heard one of them say, “Witch.” She tensed. Being accused of witchcraft didn’t happen often these days, but it happened. And it always ended badly.

  For the witch.

  “What good is she if she can’t speak English?” the lawman asked.

  “Ah, but, gentlemen.” Alexi glided in behind her, then dipped one hand down the front of Cat’s blouse, boldly cupping a breast and thumbing the nipple until it peaked and drew every eye, every thought, in the room. “She is so very good at everything else.”

  Cat gritted her teeth and waited for the men to leave. Unfortunately, Alexi was giving them a performance for free that they couldn’t find outside a raree-show for several dollars.

  He kept his hand down her shirt, palm around her breast, thumb just brushing the nipple. She wanted both to elbow him again and to lean back against his shoulder and sigh. It had been so long.

  However, it hadn’t been long enough that she could overlook an audience.

  “Vete,” she muttered.

  Alexi put his mouth to her ear, as if he were nuzzling her. “Patience, chiquita,” he murmured, then licked the lobe.

  The moan that escaped her was low and full of promise. A couple of the men watching answered in kind.

  Alexi lifted his head, but he kept his hand right where it was. “Pardon me. I had forgotten you were there.”

  Cat couldn’t see his smile, but she heard it in his voice. Felt it in his—

  He pulled her more firmly against him. Yes. He was definitely smiling with more than his mouth.

  “You will understand if I ask my associate to show you out.”

  Cat risked a quick glance through the curtain of her hair. Mikhail stood in the opening, and she hadn’t even heard him arrive.

  “Hold on, now,” the lawman began, and turned. When he had to lift his head, then lift it some more, for his gaze to rea
ch Mikhail’s, the remainder of what he’d been about to say faded to a gurgle.

  Everyone else appeared frozen, staring as well. Obviously none of them had seen Alexi’s show or purchased his elixir. Which was probably for the best.

  Mikhail cracked his knuckles—the sound like gunfire in the sudden silence—then swept aside the tent flap. The posse filed out, though each one could not resist throwing a final glance over his shoulder. Perhaps to make sure the big man was not going to break their necks as soon as they turned their backs. Or, more likely, to discover if Alexi would be unable to wait until they were gone to toss her onto the mattress, throw up her skirt, and—

  He pulled his hand free of her shirt, and Cat had to stop herself from snatching it back. What was he doing?

  She spun, clapping a palm to either side of Alexi’s head, narrowly missing the boxing of his ears—she was out of practice at the art of grabbing a man with anything other than violence—and yanked his mouth to hers.

  One of Alexi’s first rules: If you give an audience what they want, they don’t look beneath the surface for the how or the why or the what. Therefore, Cat hoped if she gave the posse what they wanted now—a peek at what they thought would be happening later—they could quit dragging their feet and vete!—

  Go!

  She also wanted them to leave with the picture of Alexi and his Mexican peasant woman foremost in their mind. They would imagine what occurred after the lowering of the curtain—or in this case the tent flap—and they would forget about Cat O’Banyon. If not forever, at least for the time it would take the three of them to disappear. However, as Alexi’s lips touched hers, Cat was the one who forgot things. Or perhaps she merely remembered.

  The taste of his tongue—iced whiskey, maybe wine. Its texture worn satin—smooth, familiar—both comfortable and infinitely exotic. Her hands gentled, her fingers sliding into his hair, one lock curling about the base of her thumb, then fluttering against her wrist, causing gooseflesh to race up her arms, across her chest, down her back.

  His tongue withdrew, and she nipped his lip in case he was thinking of following it. Instead, he trailed kisses to her neck, her shoulder, the warmth of that clever mouth burning every last shiver away. He’d always known exactly what she needed. Alexi knew what everyone needed before they even knew it themselves.

  His lips brushed the tops of her breasts; his hands skated the backs of her legs, pausing when they encountered nothing but skin. “You were short on Mexican peasant woman drawers,” she murmured into his hair.

  “Do Mexican peasant women wear drawers?” he whispered, breath casting across the damp trail left by his mouth.

  “You would know.”

  “Perhaps.”

  She smiled at the words, lips curving against the top of his head like a caress. Typical Alexi, to agree but never to answer. She thought back on the times she’d asked him questions about himself. Had he ever told her anything at all?

  His tongue slipped beneath the bodice of the blouse, sliding over a nipple, and for just an instant her mind went blank.

  She fought her way free. She could not afford to let her body cloud her thoughts. Better if Alexi’s body clouded his. Best to keep him off balance. It was the only way to remain in control.

  “They’re gone,” she murmured and stepped back, crossing the tent as if she hadn’t just been clasped desperately in his arms and wishing she never had to leave them.

  Keep reading for a special excerpt from a beloved title by Lori Austin writing as Lori Handeland, available as an eBook for the first time

  BY ANY OTHER NAME

  Available November 2012 from InterMix

  Ryan watched Julia as she slept, and he forgot every argument he’d ever had for not marrying her and making her his forever. Even in sleep her inner strength was visible, from the determined set of her mouth, to the slight line between her brows that showed her serious bent. Still he could as easily see her smile, hear her laughter. If he did not take her for his wife, he might never see that smile nor hear that laughter again.

  He would not let her go. He would not let her marry any other man, especially a man who would crush her spirit and take her will. The things about Julia that he loved the most were her courage and her determination. She might easily have given in to the demands of a hard life, to the hatred preached by her father and the viciousness practiced by her brothers to become a completely different woman. But she’d fought on, with her dreams and her will, to remain strong and gentle and kind.

  He did love her, mistake though it might be, and he always would.

  She opened her eyes then, stared straight into his. He tensed, expecting her to run, or shout or spit at him. Instead she smiled, a sleepy smile that made his throat close and his loins harden. He went still, afraid if he moved he would make time march on, and he wanted this moment to last forever.

  But nothing lasts forever, and as she came completely awake he could see the memories tumble forward, dulling her smile, shadowing her eyes. She sat up, fumbled with the buttons of her gown, an embarrassed flush spreading from her chest up her cheeks.

  “I thought you’d go away.”

  “If you hid long enough, you mean?”

  “Yes.” She finished the last button, but her blush still heated her face. She kept her eyes averted.

  “No. I wasn’t going until I talked to you about us.”

  She made a derisive sound and continued to contemplate the plank floor. “There isn’t any us.”

  “There can be.”

  “No.” She sighed, deep and sad, and traced a fingernail across a flaw in the wood. “I know I dream too much. I didn’t have much else but work and dreams. Silly things, dreams. My mama always told me I’d fall in a hole some day while dreaming and never know it ’till I starved to death down there.”

  He didn’t want her to stop dreaming, become beaten down and despairing like other women. “Dreams aren’t silly. Sometimes they might be frightening, but never silly.”

  She flicked a glance and a frown his way. “Frightening?”

  “I’ve had some whoppers.”

  “Nightmares.” He nodded. “I’m sorry. I don’t have nightmares. None that I can recollect anyway.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad.”

  They remained silent for a long while. Ryan didn’t know how to begin, what to say, if he should say anything. The silence moved from companionable to awkward. Julia bent her legs as if to stand.

  “Wait,” he blurted, putting his hand out to stop her.

  She hesitated, her green gaze reminding him of a cat that had just been kicked but was too stubborn to run away, instead waiting to see if an apology would follow, but expecting another kick just the same. “A minute,” she allowed.

  “I made a mess of things.”

  “You don’t have to explain, Ryan. You owe me nothing. I can take care of myself.”

  “I’m sure you can. But—”

  He stopped, uncertain again. Would she be angry if he said he wanted to take care of her? That wasn’t what he wanted from her—her devotion, her dependence. He wanted her to remain just as she was, except with a different name.

  His.

  “Ryan? We should go.”

  “Ah, hell, Julia. I’m no good at this.”

  “What?”

  He leaned back against the stone wall, stared out at the descending sun. “Soft words. Tender touches. Roses and poetry.” He looked back at her and shrugged. “I’m not that kind of man.”

  The wariness in her eyes faded as a gentle smile transformed her face. “You’ve done all right so far. I remember your touches, every single one, and they were quite tender, the words you whispered all the poetry I’ve ever wanted to hear. I’ll remember them and you forever.”

  “That sounds like good-bye.”

  “It is.” She stood.

  Panic flared inside him, loosening his tongue. “No. Don’t go. Please.” He stood, too, making his way around the platform until he stood next t
o her. The wariness had returned to her eyes, the kicked cat look again, though he had a feeling this cat would scratch and bite if provoked. Slowly he reached out a hand that shook just a bit and smoothed the curling hair at her temple away from her eyes. When his fingertips brushed her skin, she shivered and a tiny gasp of surprise escaped her mouth. He had to taste that mouth or die with wanting to.

  He pressed his lips to hers, drinking her sigh, drowning in her scent, roses and tears. She didn’t respond at first, but when he continued to kiss her, then whispered her name in a choked pleading voice he barely recognized as his own, she gave a sob of surrender and wrapped her arms about his neck, kissing him back with a desperation that matched his own.

  He wanted her so much he ached with it. His hands swept over her back, her waist, paused beneath her breasts. She moaned and arched against him. The beat of his heart sounded in his head, a primitive drum blocking out sense and reason. He wanted her. Now.

  The cool breeze shifted, bringing the scent of flames and ashes, mementos of a world gone mad. His madness receded. They broke apart to stare out the window. On the horizon, smoke billowed, and the sun bled red, reminding them of all that awaited. She leaned against him, limp, and he held her as they watched the smoke and the flames mingle.

  “Marry me, Julia,” he said to the blood red sun.

  “Yes,” she answered, and the wind howled.

  Keep reading for a special excerpt from a beloved title by Lori Austin writing as Lori Handeland, available as an eBook for the first time

  AN OUTLAW FOR CHRISTMAS

  Available December 2012 from InterMix

  Ruth dipped her fingertips into the jar, then spread the salve along the jagged line of stitches. Noah didn’t cry out, but his muscles fluttered and bunched beneath her touch. She couldn’t help it; she kept touching him. His side, his ribs, his belly, soft skin and crisp hair, hard muscles and bone, unyielding yet mortal. She swirled her fingers over his wound then traced her thumb around the flat, tight dip of his belly button.

  Noah grabbed her wrist and yanked it away none too gently. “What in hell is that stuff?”