His Most Wanted

by Sandra Jones

  Cora was no monster, but she could very well be a killer if pushed hard enough.

  Cora adored silence. Always the first to rise in the mornings, she enjoyed the peace of the quiet household and time she could spend reading without customers interrupting. There was something delightful in sharing the company of her girls when they sat for a few tranquil moments while sewing or even listening to Millie play a melody on the piano. Yet today, horseback riding the trail up Dillard’s Peak in complete silence was not one of those pleasant times.

  The tension between her and Kit for the past two hours had been unbearable.

  As promised, she’d met him in the parlor that morning dressed in riding clothes—a brown leather vest hiding her holstered gun, a white cotton blouse over her corset and a pair of trousers a client had left, now laundered and comfortable against her legs. The sheriff had taken a second look upon seeing her in pants but said nothing.

  Nothing at all.

  Her sense of disappointment was staggering. She’d expected more of his flirtation, a compliment on her ensemble, or even his disapproval for her going out in public in men’s clothing. But he’d given no response at all.

  They’d ridden his horse to the livery where she’d borrowed a horse of her own to ride. She’d thought the physical distance between them would make things easier, but she’d been wrong. The edginess increased, and she sensed it had more to do with her and last night rather than simply the sad task at hand. But then again, she’d never been as close to anyone as Kit had been with his uncle. She’d never experienced a familial bond with her mother, and when fever had taken her life, Cora had finally been free to pursue her goals of improving the Willows and helping its women.

  She had been neglected as a youth, forced to be self-sufficient, unlike Kit. He’d been brought up in luxury—albeit in the dangerous dens of riverboat gamblers—so maybe if she’d had a caring provider like Bartholomew Wainwright, she would be grief-stricken as well.

  At her direction, Kit now led the way to the summit of Dillard’s Peak until he stopped at the overlook to scan the three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the river valley.

  She studied his profile. Jaw muscles clenched, he stared at the line of Ouachita Mountains in the distance, tightening his hands on the pommel of his saddle. This side of him, aloof and tense, made her want to console him, no matter the danger to her own sense of self-preservation.

  She pushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. “Your uncle chose a gorgeous place to rest. Does this mountain hold a special meaning to him?”

  Kit rolled one broad shoulder. “I’m not sure why. My aunt is buried back in St. Louis, but this was his favorite place in the world. He traded in Indian Territory and camped here before heading into Fort McNamara to sell his goods.”

  Her heart wrenched at the sadness in his voice. “You miss him. I’m sorry.”

  He glanced at her and lifted an eyebrow. “Uncle Bart was a crazy old curmudgeon who’d lived a full life.” After removing his hat, he ran his fingers through his wavy hair. “He wore black as long as I can remember. When I asked him why he didn’t just remarry, he told me that the black wasn’t for mourning, but to put off any women who might set their sights on him because females did nothing except disappoint a man.” He grinned as he hung his hat over the pommel of his saddle.

  Her jaw dropped. “What an absurd proclamation against my gender. You said he was married. Had he no more feelings for his wife than that?”

  Kit laughed quietly, lowering his gaze with his cheek dimpling beneath the scruff of his unshaven face in the way that had grown endearing to her. “Honestly, my memories of my aunt are of her disapproval of our uncouth ways. She was a city-bred termagant who resented living in the South. Probably gave the old man hell for bringing her to St. Louis. They were two of a kind.”

  “Well, I guess if he never remarried, he must’ve felt a great loss when she passed. At least now they’ll be together.”

  His expression smoothed at her suggestion. “Yes, thank you for reminding me of that. Now I guess I’d better stop delaying and get this over with. Uncle Bart would’ve already cursed me for being so slow in getting here.”

  Kit dismounted, took the satchel from his saddle and went to finish the job. Standing on the edge of the bluff, he shook the open bag, and his uncle’s ashes caught the breeze and streamed over the valley below before disappearing. He stood with his back turned to her, but she could tell from the sorrowful set of his shoulders that he wished he could bring his beloved uncle back.

  Her insides squeezed. She could no longer maintain her safe distance and deny him the small comfort she might provide. Pulled to him by her heartstrings, she hopped down, leaving their horses nibbling weeds, and walked up behind him.

  When she put a hand on his back, Kit turned to her with glassy eyes rimmed in red. He faked a smile as if making light of his emotions. Though she’d only known him a few days, she recognized he often hid behind humor, putting a grin over pain like wrapping a bandage over a wound. He might’ve killed men, but he had a heart.

  Maybe Ray had known what he was doing when he’d made Kit sheriff, and maybe if Cora played her cards right, Kit would use some of that compassion when Velvet surrendered.

  Knowing he wouldn’t make a move toward her without her permission, she stepped up to embrace him. His body felt wooden as she wrapped her arms around his back and pressed her cheek against his chest, but she persisted, caressing a tender circle against his taut shoulder muscles. He issued a sigh, and finally, his chin settled against the crown of her head, his arms coming around her. Listening to his rhythmic heartbeat and taking decadent pleasure in the strong embrace cradling her closer and closer against him, she became aware of her own heart’s solid pounding, her blood blazing through her veins at the renewed desire to tip her face up to him and bring his head down for a kiss to wash away the pain.

  No, for more than a kiss. More than the wry flirtation of the last few days. She longed to offer him her body—willingly—in the way men sometimes needed.

  She eased back, put her hands to his rough cheeks and touched her lips to his.

  He made a sound of surprise in his throat and then groaned. He slid his hand down, pausing at her back before slowly moving lower to cup her buttocks, and he deepened the kiss. Squeezing her bottom, he pulled her against his hardened flesh, and his tongue swept hers, coarse and hot. She heard herself moan, an alien sound she’d never made before.

  Startled and embarrassed, she eased back, wiping her thumb across her lower lip. Kit’s eyes glittered with the remnants of his pain as he watched her with new hunger.

  A thread of the old fear ran through her, but she forced it down, putting courage in her expression. “We can use my saddle blanket. I saw a bed of grass on the way up—”

  “No.” Kit inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and leaning back. “Not here. Not now.”

  She wanted to brighten his mood, to put the spark back into his features, so she leaned against him, bringing his gaze back as her hands ran up the thick muscles of his arms. “It’ll be fine. We’re perfectly alone.”

  Kit swallowed, his heated look devouring her, though he stood immovable as the mountain they stood on. “No, Cora. Not this way.”

  His words sent her back a step like a slap to the face. Did he think less of her for offering herself?

  Though her face went hot with embarrassment, she couldn’t let him know how his refusal stung. At least not while he still grieved.

  She spun around and went to her horse, wanting to collect herself before they continued to town. “If we get moving, we’ll make it back by sunset,” she said, the words grating her throat like shards of glass.

  Kit came up behind her. She could feel his warmth at her back.

  “Ben, my new cattle handler, said I could see my ranch from up here. I thought if we had time, we might—” he broke of
f.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Kit’s eyes narrowed at the trail leading down the mountain, his body taut and alert.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “There’s a rider down there.”

  Before she could even steady her horse, Kit was already in his saddle, leading the way downhill to greet the newcomer. Perhaps he feared an Indian attack, being from back east where stories abounded, but Cora had lived in Fort McNamara long enough to know the nearest Indians stayed within the boundary of their reservation. And if they’d wanted to cause any trouble for travelers along the trail, they would move with greater stealth, as silent as the air around them.

  After a few moments, they reached the base of Dillard’s Peak where they met the lone rider, a man in his thirties or forties.

  “Afternoon,” Kit called as they grew near.

  “Good afternoon, Sheriff.” He waved in return. The man’s saddlebags swelled with what looked to be his belongings, so she supposed he was only passing through.

  Just passing through…

  Her gaze flew to the stranger’s face, her pulse kicking up a notch. Could it be Andrea’s attacker?

  Andrea had said her abuser had graying hair, freshly cut, leaving an old scar visible on the back of the man’s head. As they came closer, Cora turned her horse sideways, cutting the stranger off in a wide circle. She felt Kit’s look of surprise, but she wasn’t concerned about him anymore. Rounding the man while keeping her distance, she called out, “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Rupert McGruder. Do I know you, young lady?” His eyes narrowed, as he seemed to try to place her face.

  As she came around behind him, she noted the scar running around the back of his skull like a white whip line from one ear to the other. Her heart hammered against her ribs, longing to draw, shoot and scare the shit out of the bastard where he stood. If only Kit wasn’t here. If she drew on McGruder now, she would expose her secret.

  “Cora,” Kit said, his voice slicing through the thickened air between them. “Come over here.”

  She clicked her tongue, setting her horse in motion to do just that, but McGruder’s brows snapped together as if sensing trouble. He lowered his hand, and his saddle leather creaked.

  “Cora, get behind me,” Kit yelled at her. “McGruder, you’re under arrest.”

  The stranger’s gun came out before she could reach Kit, and a shot exploded.

  Chapter Seven

  Cora heard McGruder groan, and she wheeled her mount around in time to see him fall. As he hit the ground, his gun discharged, echoing off the surrounding mountains. Cold fear poured through her as the memory of shooting Sidlow flashed before her eyes. McGruder, however, was far from dead.

  Frozen and lost in her thoughts, she wasn’t ready when her horse tossed its head and kicked its back legs. The reins fell from her fingers, and she scrambled to retrieve them. But the animal suddenly swung left. She gripped the horse’s sides with her calves, but to no avail. She slid from the saddle.

  “Ooff.” She landed hard. Sharp pain ran through her, leaving her little time to react when the horse’s hooves came down, missing her by inches before he galloped away.

  As she pushed herself upright, Kit moved his horse between her and McGruder, forming a protective barrier. High above her, she heard the sheriff’s hammer click, preparing to shoot Andrea’s attacker again.

  “No!” she cried, and grabbed his stirrup to pull herself up.

  “I promised Miss Burns I’d put his ass behind bars.” He glanced at her, then back at his target. “Drop it, McGruder.”

  Wanting to help Kit, she drew her pistol with a shaky hand, but another round of shots fired first, sending dirt into the air near her feet.

  Kit’s horse reared, but he stayed on. Aiming for the shooter, he fired again.

  McGruder turned at the last moment, taking the bullet in his back as he ran. He stumbled forward from the blast, but momentum kept him going. Catching his horse as it circled past, McGruder latched hold of the saddle. The attacker half-dragged, half-pulled himself up, got a boot into the stirrup and rode away.

  Cora stared at the gun in her hand. Why hadn’t she shot when she had the chance? “I could’ve stopped him.”

  Kit sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Are you hurt?”

  She moved closer to him. “No.”

  “I don’t break promises. Stay here. I’m going after him.” He waved in the direction the animals had gone.

  She considered doing as he’d ordered, but seeing the bloody trail McGruder had left behind, she turned around. “He’s going to die anyway.”

  Kit holstered his gun. “Doesn’t matter. I told your employee I’d bring him in, so I aim to do just that.” Frowning, he scanned the woods around them.

  “You’re honorable to try to keep your word, but the horses are long gone. I can’t even hear them anymore.”

  Kit swore beneath his breath and hung his head. “If the gunfire hadn’t spooked our mounts, I’d have gotten him. All it would’ve taken was a bullet to the ankle.”

  “It’s not your fault.” She went to him and touched his arm, drawn to console him.

  His blue eyes focused on her now, his smoldering anger dissipating. “Let me see that gun of yours.”

  Hell’s bells. She forgot she still held her pistol. A gasp escaped her lips before she could stop it, and she put the gun behind her back.

  Kit dismounted and stood over her. The corner of his mouth quirked up, humor lighting his eyes. “You know I’ve already seen it. You might as well let me get a closer look.”

  He touched her shoulder, running his palm along her arm until he reached her wrist behind her back. The action brought him closer to her until she was staring at the dirt smudge on the front of his shirt and the tiny dark chest hairs peeking out from his open collar. If she took a step in his direction, their bodies would touch. The mere idea made her imagine his hands elsewhere on her skin, the same as she had when he’d been in her room, exploring her wardrobe. His fingers were warm and slightly coarse as he applied pressure to her wrist, tightening his grip, and her frenzied pulse gave away her reckless thoughts.

  “Take it,” she blurted out in a breathy voice. She slid the gun into his hand and retreated a step to regain her sanity.

  He examined the weapon, sighted it and then checked the chamber. “A nice little pistol. Are you a good shot?”

  With the back of her trembling hand, she wiped the sweat that had beaded on her forehead. “Not at all.” She bit her lip, instantly regretting the admission.

  His smile grew, and his white teeth shone against his tanned face. “In that case, I’ll let you have it back.”

  Rueful, she replaced the gun in its holder beneath her vest. “Now what’ll we do?” Her side throbbed from her fall, so she pressed her fist against it.

  He squinted and scanned the woods again. “Nothing we can do but walk to the nearest homestead.”

  They spent the next hour following the old stage road in the direction of Fort McNamara, until they determined their best bet would be to follow the river. Soon they would need water, and they wouldn’t find it on the rugged trail through the mountains.

  As they made their way, the heavy underbrush opened to a fire-scorched pine forest where Cora heard the river running nearby. An open pasture appeared as the light of sunset slipped its fingers through the trees. In another hour or so, they would have nothing but stars to light their path.

  “There’s a house.” Kit pointed out the large building on the grassy slope ahead. “We can ask the owners if we can stay the night. Perhaps they’ll take us into town in the morning. Is that okay with you?”

  Cora nodded. She’d never asked for help from a stranger before, but the evening was already growing cooler, and her side ached from her fall. She’d noticed Kit walking slower too, his hip bumping hers occ
asionally. Though he’d made no complaints, she’d seen the brackets around his mouth indicating his pain.

  As if sensing her inner turmoil, Kit slid an arm around her shoulders. She welcomed his warmth and walked closer by his side, drawing comfort from him and the fact that at least she wasn’t alone. A strange feeling for her, since she’d depended on no one since she was old enough to take care of herself, but she found it oddly pleasant.

  The homesteader’s pasture was healthy and expansive, but the house itself had seen better days. Smoke rising from the chimney was the only sign of life from the outside as they stepped onto the porch of the two-story home, barely avoiding the hole in the rotten timbers beneath the eaves where a corner of the roof had fallen in.

  She took a deep breath as Kit lifted his hand to knock at the door.

  He glanced at her. “Have you changed your mind? If you’re uncomfortable…”

  She lifted her chin. “No. Of course not,” she lied. They were armed, had their wits, his badge, not to mention his raw strength. There was nothing for her to fear, and she’d be damned if she’d act the spoiled, helpless lady in distress.

  When Kit’s first polite knock brought no response, he tried again, pounding with agitation that had her reexamining him. Maybe he wasn’t as unaffected by his fall as he wanted her to believe.

  After a length, he reached for the door handle, but the door opened on rusty hinges. A man’s face appeared with firelight at his back.

  “Cora Reilly? What are you doing here?” he asked, his whiskey breath fanning their faces as he swayed on unsteady feet.

  “Mr. Hughes?” She recoiled at the sorry state of the nice old man who’d always said hello to her at the feed store.

  Hughes looked at Kit and blinked. “And the sheriff?”

  Kit’s mouth popped open in a look of horror and surprise. “Ben? Don’t tell me this is my ranch.”

  Open and closed. Open and closed.

  Kit squeezed his hands into fists, restraining himself to keep from reaching for the neck of the man he’d entrusted with the care of his home and future livelihood.