The Outlaw and the Runaway

by Tatiana March

  “The ground beneath us started shaking, and I could hear the thunder of hooves behind me. I twisted around in the saddle to look back along the trail, and I saw a group of men charging toward me at full gallop. I tried to control the stallion, but he was thrilled by the stampeding horses, and when the riders passed me, the stallion joined the herd, racing along.

  “Eventually, I regained control of my half-wild mount and fell back from the crowd. But by then another group of riders was emerging from the cloud of dust behind me, and these men had their rifles pointed at me.

  “It was a posse, I realized, and the first group of riders must have been bandits trying to outrun them. It dawned on me that should I fall behind, I might be taken for a straggler, one of the outlaws. The posse would shoot first and ask questions later, by which time I might no longer be alive to answer them. So I kicked my heels into the flanks of the black stallion. Magnificent beast that he was, he shot forward and caught up with the escaping bandits. I joined the group and rode with them, all the way to their secret canyon hideout. It was only after we’d pulled to a halt that the outlaws noticed they’d picked up an extra man.”

  Celia gave a wry smile. “And just like that, you became one of them?”

  Feeling awkward, the gloomy memories stirring in his mind, Roy busied himself rinsing the empty cup with a drop of water from his canteen. “They were not going to let me ride out after I’d learned the route to their camp.”

  He could have added that when boy of fourteen who’d been treated no better than a stray dog finally had people acknowledging his existence, talking to him, treating him like a person, it had been all too easy to mistake the basic human interaction for friendship. By the time he’d learned that many of the outlaws felt no loyalty and could shoot each other over a minor dispute, he had drifted too far outside the law to break away from the gang and go back to being an honest man again.

  Head tilted to one side in question, the girl contemplated him. “Do you like the outlaw life?”

  “Did you enjoy hiding in your house?” Roy countered.

  Her gray eyes widened, then narrowed in dismay as she figured out his comment. A man—or a woman—did what they had to do to survive, whether they liked it or not.

  When she opened her mouth to speak, Roy held up a hand to silence her. “Save your breath,” he told her. “It’s too late for me. This is my life, and one day I’ll go at the end of a rope, or from a bullet, or in some remote canyon when my ammunition runs out and my canteen is empty. There’s nothing I can do about it, and I no longer even bother to worry about it.”

  Shocked by his blunt statement, the girl blinked. She turned toward the dying breakfast fire and stared at the smoldering coals for a long moment. Then she looked up at him again, an oddly compassionate expression on her face. When she spoke, her voice was very soft. “But does it not occur to you that someone else might care if you live or die?”

  Roy’s earlier thoughts rushed back to fill his mind. What would it be like, to have a woman like Celia Courtwood belong to him? An uneasy sensation, dangerously close to yearning, flooded over him. To start with, having a woman of his own might mean that there would be someone in the world who put a greater value on his life than he put on it himself.

  * * *

  Every muscle in Celia’s body ached from the day’s riding and she’d never been so tired in her entire life. If she hadn’t been so ravenous, she would have simply closed her eyes and tumbled into sleep right there, seated on the hard ground with her legs tucked under her, a fire crackling in front of her, the scents of bacon and beans from the pan Roy was stirring over the flames surrounding her.

  But despite the hardships of the day, for the first time in as long as she could remember she did not feel afraid of the future. Perhaps, when the worst had already happened, there was nothing left to fear. Moreover, being on the trail had given her a sense of freedom, an illusion of having left past troubles behind.

  “This stock exchange dealing, do you have any experience of it?”

  The question took her by surprise. She’d been covertly watching Roy, letting her eyes skim over his broad shoulders, the slope of his back, the slim hips circled by the gun belt, the muscular legs that held him in graceful balance as he crouched by the fire.

  “I’m just trying to figure out if my investment is safe,” Roy went on, glancing at her over his shoulder. The firelight turned his hair into a curtain of gold and his uncovered blue eye twinkled at Celia with the humor she found so appealing.

  Flustered, she gathered her wits. “Oh, yes. Yes. I know how to do it.”

  “Care to tell me how you gained the skill?”

  Celia wanted to wrap her arms around her knees and curl into what Papa used to call her hedgehog roll, but she resisted the temptation and merely shifted on the ground to stop a pebble from biting into her backside.

  “When we lived in Baltimore, my father would bring home old ticker tapes with the stock quotes. I would study the newspapers, learn about different corporations and pick stocks. Just for my own amusement, I entered my investments into an old exercise book and kept accounts. I was very successful at it.”

  Her cheeks colored, and she felt compelled to add, “Of course, it is easy to make millions when it is all in theory. With imaginary money there is no need to worry about losses, so an investor can afford to take greater risks.”

  Roy lifted the pan from the flames. “Why take chances with the money? If you lose it, you’ll be right back where you started. Why not find another job in a store, or in a boardinghouse? Or even become a teacher? You told me that’s what you planned once.”

  “I want to be independent. Not at the mercy of an employer.”

  “Be honest, Celia.” She could hear laughter in Roy’s voice. “I bet you want to make millions so you can sashay back into Rock Springs and queen it over all those people who were unkind to you.”

  Despite her fatigue, her back stiffened. “And if I did, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. If you believe revenge is worth the risk.”

  Celia felt her hands curl into fists. Revenge. Perhaps, deep down, she ached to triumph over all those people who had turned against her. But more than that, she wanted never to be exposed to a rejection by a man again. Rejection from cowardly suitors. Rejection from men too lacking in chivalry to spare twenty-five cents to ease her humiliation during a box lunch. Rejection from employers too worried about public opinion. And if independence would save her from rejection, she would bury the dream of a husband and home and put her energies into earning her livelihood in a way that relied on no man’s favor or permission.

  Chapter Six

  After two days on the trail, Roy accepted he’d acted on impulse when he took the girl with him. He’d wanted to rescue her, but he had not fully considered the havoc the constant proximity of Celia Courtwood would wreak on his peace of mind.

  And now he was paying the price. Every moment of night or day, he was aware of her presence, never quite able to concentrate on anything else. At night, he would lie awake in the darkness while she slept only a short distance away. During breakfast and suppertime, his eyes drew to her, lingering on her feminine shape, desire building up in his blood.

  Unaccustomed to long days in the saddle, Celia suffered from sore muscles and needed his assistance to mount and dismount. Every time he touched her, his hands curled about her waist, the edge of his thumbs butting against the underside of her breasts while he supported her weight, Roy had to battle against a physical reaction to her nearness.

  In the evenings, they shared the camp chores, and while they sat down to eat they would talk. Little by little, he was making progress in solving the puzzle of Celia Courtwood. She worked hard, never complaining. She had a keen mind and a love of the rugged landscape. Her feelings ran deep and strong, but she hid her emotional reactions behind a wall of restrai
nt that seemed as suffocating as an iron harness.

  On their third morning together, Roy walked up to the breakfast fire to find Celia staring at the blackened, hissing coals. The coffeepot had toppled over, pouring its contents onto the flames. Next to the pot, the skillet stood askew, the half-baked pan bread spilled out, covered in ashes and scorched beyond rescue. Celia was staring at the dying fire, hands fisted by her sides. A few paces behind her, Dagur stood still, looking contrite.

  “What happened?” Roy asked.

  “Your horse butted me in the back and I knocked over the coffeepot and the frying pan.”

  “He likes to do that—butt my shoulder—to get attention.” Roy put down the firewood he’d collected and edged closer to the dying flames. He could see Celia’s fraught expression, could feel the pent-up anger and frustration sizzling within her like a lighted fuse wire.

  “You’re doing that thing with your hands,” he said calmly.

  She shot him a glare from the corner of her eye. “What thing?”

  “Clenching and unclenching your fists, like you want to strangle somebody.”

  Her voice came out low and strained. “I dropped the skillet and knocked over the coffeepot because your stupid horse butted me in the back.”

  Roy grinned. “I can see how you can’t strangle a horse.”

  Celia’s expression softened and a tiny twist of humor tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I don’t want to strangle—”

  “Why don’t you let the anger out?” Roy cut in. “Yell at Dagur, or swear.”

  “A lady does not yell. Or use swear words.”

  “Try it. Say damn.”

  Celia remained silent, standing still, her face impassive, her posture rigid.

  “Say it,” Roy prompted again. “Damn. Or, if your starched-up lady manners can’t handle that, how about ‘gnats’? My ma used to say that. When my grandparents caught her doing it, she’d flap her hands about her head, pretending insects had been bothering her.”

  Celia frowned at him, then uttered the word in a placid, conversational tone.

  “That’s no good,” Roy told her. “Why do you bottle up your reactions? When you get angry, you choke up like you’ve swallowed a porcupine. Even when you’re happy, you put a lid on it. I’ve never heard you laugh properly, or whoop with joy. You never shout or yell. You don’t even raise your voice in an argument. You just keep it all buttoned up inside.”

  Except when it all gets too much for you. Roy could have added. Then it pours out.

  But even at the height of her distress, when she had shared her suffering with a complete stranger on the day of the church social, Celia had revealed her grief in a low, tear-muffled voice.

  “I learned to do it when I was growing up,” Celia explained, talking in that too-placid manner of hers. “While my sickly mother was alive, I had to curb any childish exuberance, in order not to disturb her. And it was the same with my father. He liked peace and quiet, and I did my best to provide him with a tranquil, serene environment at home.”

  “Well, they ain’t here now, are they?” Roy said with a calculated harshness. Only now did he realize how much Celia’s carefully maintained reticence had been bothering him. He wanted to break through it, to free her from the cage of artificially controlled behavior she had imprisoned herself within.

  “Say it,” he prompted her again. “Damn.”

  “Gnats.” Celia bit her lip, then repeated the word with a greater effort behind it. “Gnats. Gnats!” She tipped her head back and yelled it up to the heavens. “Gnaaatss!”

  Falling silent once more, she lowered her chin and returned her attention to him. Her eyes sparkled with humor and her features were animated, alive in a way that drew the eye away from her scar far more effectively than the dangling pair of earrings she’d worn on the night they rode out of Rock Springs.

  As Roy watched her, he felt an ache in his chest. He wanted to give her a life where she could feel safe and happy, but there was little he could offer her beyond the money he’d already promised her. But perhaps he could show her the healing power of laughter.

  The morning sun was low, the air cool and crisp. Celia was wearing her blue velvet riding costume piped with yellow, almost like a cavalry uniform, but she had yet to put on her hat, and her hair was piled in a loose knot on top of her head. Even from three feet away, Roy could see a hairpin sticking out from the mass of dark-gold curls.

  Without warning, he lurched forward and reached out to tug the hairpin free. A flurry of ringlets tumbled down. Just for good measure, Roy burrowed his fingers into the remaining knot of golden-brown tresses, found another hairpin and pulled it away.

  “Don’t,” Celia protested, lifting her hands to her unraveling upsweep.

  “You’ve got to do better than that.” Roy took a step closer. He caught one of the cascading curls between his thumb and forefinger and tugged at it.

  Celia gave a little squeak of indignation and jerked her head aside.

  “That’s it,” he told her. “Shout at me. Tell me what a lout I am, to tease a lady.”

  Each arm darting out in turn, he kept tugging at her curls, all the while making sure to keep the pressure gentle, not to hurt her. Celia attempted to retreat, shuffling backward on her feet, but he followed, as relentless as a bee buzzing around a crock of honey.

  A frown battled against a smile on Celia’s face. Her hands flapped at his, trying to stop him. “Gnats!” she shouted. “Gnats! Damn!” And then, when her upsweep collapsed completely, curls tumbling over her eyes, obscuring her vision, she gave up the battle, lowered her arms to her sides and yelled, “You lout!”

  “That’s good,” Roy said, like a teacher praising a student. He closed the single step between them, wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her high and spun her in a wild circle, sending the desert scenery sweeping in a flurry around them.

  “Don’t,” she cried out. Breathless, oscillating between delight and annoyance, she clung to him, her hands curled over his shoulders, and let delight win. Her head tipped back, her hair streaming like a river of molten gold behind her, and she laughed out loud, a deep, husky sound that made her body vibrate beneath his hold. For the first time since they met, Roy saw a truly carefree expression on her face.

  He ceased his spinning and lowered her back to the ground. Unsteady on her feet, she clung to his shirtfront and continued to rock with laughter—a rollicking, joyful laughter, not the strained chuckle he’d heard from her once or twice before.

  “That’s better, isn’t it?” Roy said, smiling down at her. She’d recovered her balance now, and without any conscious thought he released his hold from around her waist and lifted his hands to her face, brushing back the mass of unruly curls.

  All of a sudden, he could feel her body tense, could sense her hold her breath in anticipation. Her hands remained on his shoulders, her fingers clinging to the fabric of his wool shirt, and she looked up at him, the heat of passion evident in her clear gray eyes.

  Desire rippled through him. Every instinct he possessed urged him to kiss her, and he knew she would allow it. The fine, educated lady that she was, she would allow it, welcome it even. The realization hit Roy like a spark from a fire. He wanted to do it, more than anything, but it wouldn’t be right. If he started, he wouldn’t know how to stop, and his aim was to give her a better life, not to add to her problems.

  He cupped her cheek, felt the softness of her skin, breathed in the scent of flowers and vanilla from the soap the storekeeper in Rock Springs had packed for her. Summoning every trace of chivalry, every ounce of decency he possessed, Roy forced himself to put a stop to something that had not truly even started.

  “I can’t give you much,” he told her, a rough edge to his tone that served as a warning. “Beyond the money I’ve promised you, the only thing I can offer you is a sense of yourself as a beautiful wo
man. A woman who is capable of laughter and happiness. Who deserves better than anything I could give you.” He paused to study her expression. “You understand that, don’t you, Celia?”

  For a long moment, her eyes held his. Finally, her lashes came down to shield her emotions. “Yes,” she replied. Drawing away from him, she added, “Of course, I understand. A woman would be a fool to think otherwise, and I’m not a fool.”

  Roy felt worry knot up inside him as he watched Celia crouch down to deal with the messy remains of their ruined breakfast. I’m not a fool. He gave a rueful shake of his head. He didn’t know much about women, but he knew enough to understand that when it came to matters of the heart, every woman, even one as clever as Celia Courtwood, could be a fool.

  * * *

  The heat of the midday sun baking down on her, Celia rode on her gray mare behind Roy on the narrow mountain trail. The ground was rising steeply now, not a blade of grass in sight, only dust that clogged her lungs. Around them, red cliffs formed jagged walls, like a maze luring them into its depths.

  Lulled by the monotonous clip of the horses’ hooves, Celia found herself absorbed by the memory of the interlude at breakfast, when Roy had teased her into losing her ladylike decorum. The incident had only taken a few minutes, but she suspected those brief moments might have a lasting impact on her life. She felt light-headed now, her body restless, as if eager to break out of the straitjacket of a dutiful daughter she had worn all her life.

  A straitjacket that did her no good now. Papa was languishing in jail. Bound by her promise not to intervene, she could do little to ease his plight. Surely, now was the time to be selfish, to seize whatever joy might be available to a spinster of twenty-six, with a scar on her face and not two pennies to rub together.

  Moreover, if she wanted to make a success of being an independent financier, she needed to learn boldness of action. Speculation on the stock exchange was not for the timid. She would need to make decisions without hesitation. Stand her ground. Argue with brashness. Be prepared to defy the rules of society and not feel ashamed for it.