Not until now.
She was a freak. She realized that. She’d read enough to know that a twenty-two-year-old woman didn’t dress in pants. They were courted and kissed and married and had children. Why would someone like Kane O’Brien be interested in her? Not even a killer and outlaw would want a woman who knew more about shooting than kissing, a half-woman. Her eyes burned, and she felt consumed by a vast loneliness. Her gaze swept the empty valley, the stunted trees and arroyos. This was her prison. Barren and lonely. In a week, Kane O’Brien—the only color—would be gone.
But she would get her kiss first. One way or another, she would get a kiss to remember.
They were gone. All of them. Kane struggled to his feet, fighting off pain. Every move seemed to stretch and irritate the raw places on his back and arm. Nat Thompson had gone to his “mayor’s office.” Nicky had gone for a ride, and Robin had disappeared with Andy to hunt rabbits. The hawk needed fresh meat, Kane had told him, after Robin reported that the small bird was not eating well.
He touched his face. It was more stubbled than ever. He found his pants on a chair and pulled them on, wincing again at the throbbing inherent in every movement. Damn. He had to ride out of here in a few days. Kane pushed a lock of hair out of his face and headed toward the other room, and the desk. There had to be a map someplace.
His eyes searched the room, the bookcase, the desk. He went to the window and looked out. It was still early, and he didn’t see anyone on the street. Sanctuary never really came to life until the late afternoon.
Kane studied the books and finally selected one, laying it on a chair near the desk. If anyone came, he would quickly drop into the chair and claim to be reading. He then went over to the desk and tried the drawers. They were locked. He swore out loud, then started checking the other rooms. One was immediately recognizable as Nicky’s, though it was nearly as plain as the others.
A pleasant smell lingered from a nearly-dried-out arrangement of wildflowers on a table. The curtains were a cheery gingham, and an old worn-out doll, its china face now chipped and missing one eye, sat on a trunk. He stood in the door a moment, wondering about the doll, about the girl Nicky apparently had never been allowed to be. She’d mothered her brother, she said. Who had mothered her? No one, from the look of things.
It was a rather lonely room, with none of the feminine doodads he imagined most women liked. He could almost feel the emptiness of the room. My uncle took us in when my father was killed. Now Kane was trying to take one of the few things she had left.
Kane wondered about her dreams. He wondered whether she had any. She said little about dreams, less about a future. Was she satisfied to stay here? Or was it loyalty that tied her to Sanctuary? He didn’t think he wanted to know.
He started looking for a hairpin. Kane could open most locks with a hairpin; it was a skill he’d learned in the past two years. Surely, there must be some kind of pin, although Nicky wore her hair short. But there wasn’t one. He swore again. Feeling like the worst kind of voyeur and spy, he went through drawers until he found a sewing box and, from that, extracted a thick needle.
Kane stepped outside the room, took another look through the window, then went to work at the desk drawer. The lock was intricate, and it took him several minutes to work his way through it. He held his breath as he felt the lock move, click, and he slid the drawer open.
One more glance at the window. Still no movement outside. He carefully riffled through the papers in the desk. On top of the pile, he found his own Wanted poster along with some clippings of robberies he’d either committed or that had been credited to him. If he’d committed even half of what he’d been charged with, he wouldn’t have had time to sleep or eat, he thought ruefully. And he would be a very rich man. He searched deeper and found a book. He flipped through it. Names and sums. He recognized many of them. Jesse and Frank James. John Ringo. The Cole Brothers. Captain John Jarrett. John Wesley Hardin. No wonder the law wanted Nat Thompson.
But there was no map. Not in that drawer. He closed and locked it again with the needle, then started on another drawer. The lock had just moved when he heard the back door open.
Damn it. He moved quickly to the chair and picked up the book. He knew it was either Nicky or her brother from the lightness of the steps. He pushed the needle down into the cushion of the chair and hoped like hell Nicky didn’t want to do any sewing today. Needles would be precious in this little town in the middle of nowhere.
He looked up as he felt a presence entering the room. He already knew who it was. The smell of wildflowers entered with her. Kane saw her eyes light momentarily.
“You’re up,” she exclaimed. Her hair was windblown, a mass of taffy brown curls. Her cheeks were flushed by the wind and sun, and her eyes seemed to glow. She looked prettier every time he saw her.
“I’m not good at staying still,” he said.
“I’m not, either,” she said a little shyly. “It must have been very hard for you in prison.”
“I don’t relish going back,” he said shortly. But he would. Masters had said as much. He had bargained for Davy’s life alone. He would be back in jail, probably waiting for another hanging.
“My uncle said you will be leaving soon?” She moved closer, looking at the title of the book he’d chosen. Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. “Learning something useful from the artful Dodger?” she asked with a slightly mischievous grin.
“‘The law is a ass,’” he said, glad that his eyes had fallen on something appropriate. “But then, I already knew that.”
She laughed. It was the second time he’d heard the sound, and he wanted to hear it more often. But he couldn’t afford the crack her laughter created in his heart.
Nicky tipped her head. “How did you get outside the law? You’re not like the others.”
He shrugged. “Like I said, it’s an easier way to make a living.”
“Is it?” Her question was skeptical.
“It can be,” he replied cautiously.
“If you don’t get caught. You got caught.”
“A slight miscalculation.”
“It doesn’t take many slight calculations to get hung.”
“No,” he said seriously. “It doesn’t. Why does your uncle continue?”
“Like you, I suppose,” she sighed. “He was wanted. He had two kids to take care of. He figured this was the safest way to stay alive and keep us.”
“Don’t you ever think about leaving?”
“Of course I do,” she said. “I want to take Robin away. He’s altogether too impressed by the …” She stopped suddenly, apparently realizing she was about to insult him.
He grinned. “By renegades like me.”
“You’re … different.”
“You didn’t think so at first.”
“I didn’t know you at first.”
“You don’t know me now.” The light teasing in his voice faded.
“You don’t let me know you.”
“No,” he said softly. “It’s not wise or healthy to know me. I’m trouble, Miss Thompson. I’m trouble for everyone who meets me.”
“You saved my life.”
“Maybe,” he said. “It was instinct, nothing else.”
She swallowed. He was warning her again, just as he had on the rise. She changed the subject. “Can I get you something to eat?”
“Not if it takes you near the stove,” he retorted.
“I’m usually very good around the stove. I had … something else on my mind.”
“I told you I’m trouble,” he said. “If I hadn’t been here …”
That blush came back to her cheeks. “I didn’t mean … you.”
“Didn’t you?” Kane said, deliberately trying to provoke her now. He didn’t want to like her. He couldn’t like her, damn it. He couldn’t feel anything toward her.
“I’m not going to let you do it again,” she said softly.
“Do what?”
“Chase me off like a c
hild. I’m not, you know.”
He gave her that off-center grin. “I know,” he said wryly. “I also know what your uncle said.” What her uncle said didn’t make a whit of difference to him. It was of growing concern, though, that what she felt did.
“He likes you.”
Kane’s grin grew more crooked. “How can you tell? He’s always so grim.”
“He wants you to stay here.”
“Because he feels he owes me. That’s it. It doesn’t change the rules. You’re still untouchable, Miss Thompson.”
“I didn’t think you were the kind of man to follow rules.” It was a challenge.
“I’m not,” he said flatly. “But on occasions, it seems a wise thing to do.”
She seemed to think about that for a moment, then asked warily, “And if I weren’t … untouchable?”
Kane saw she was holding her breath, that it had taken a measure of bravery to ask the question, probably even more than shooting that coyote the other day. He had to be careful. He couldn’t encourage her. Yet he didn’t want to hurt her as he had before. “I have no future, Miss Thompson,” he said gently. “I’ll be leaving in a few days, and I’ll be chased by posses all over the country.”
“You can stay here,” she said. “Like Andy and Jeb.”
“I don’t have the money.”
“My uncle will find something—”
“This would be another kind of prison, Nicole.” The name slipped out. He’d been thinking about it all too often. About her, about the lonely room, the solitary rides, about the way her nose crinkled up, and how her eyes sometimes sparkled with life, and the way her mouth smiled. He realized he wanted to make her laugh, to keep the sparkle in those eyes.
Remember. Remember why you’re here. This is the time to ask. He swallowed his own protest. “I don’t even know where we are.”
“Is that important?”
Damned important. A man’s life depends on it. He shrugged indifferently, though, while choosing his words carefully. “I like to know where I am.…”
“Indian Territory,” she said, her head tipping over slightly in that inquisitive way.
One tiny piece solved, but he’d already suspected that much. But Indian Territory was a big area. How many questions could he ask without suspicion?
“You don’t have to worry about being found here,” she said. “Sanctuary is protected by Indians. My uncle trades with them.”
Kane’s mind went over the various maps he had studied during the few weeks he was with Ben Masters. Wichita Mountains? Glass Mountains? Black Mesa?
“You didn’t answer my question.” Nicky’s voice broke into his thoughts.
He raised an eyebrow.
“If I … weren’t untouchable?”
“But you are,” he said. Her eyes were watching him with unwavering concentration. They seemed to grow larger and deeper and darker.
She swallowed hard and ran a hand through her short hair. “I know I’m not very pretty.”
Dear God, how could she not know how pretty she was? How much he wanted to touch her? How much he wanted to feel her against him?
He stood and walked over to her. His good hand touched her hair, feeling the softness of the curls. “You are very pretty, Miss Thompson,” he said huskily. “Which is why I’ve been doing my damnedest to stay away from you.”
She leaned into him, whether consciously or unconsciously, and he felt a certain stiffening in his lower regions. She fitted there, against him. She felt soft and natural and … as if she belonged. His arm went around her, and her face lifted up toward him.
Against every ounce of sense he’d ever had, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers. It was like no other kiss in his life. Sweet as honey. So sweet he wanted to forget everything else.
He did. For a few insane minutes, he did. Even the pressure of her against his raw skin didn’t matter. The pain was swallowed in an entirely different kind of torture, the kind that ached from the inside. He knew it would only worsen; already a certain part of him was straining against his trousers. He wanted her. He wanted her more than he ever remembered wanting a woman.
For a moment, reason was drowned in sensations. The need to be needed. The warmth of another human being. She reached out to him, and something he didn’t know existed inside him reached back. His world rocked, the world he thought he knew so well. Their lips melded into one another, and then her mouth opened slightly. He knew her well enough to know she was reacting instinctively and not out of knowledge, and he felt as if he was being given a gift of inestimable value. Trust. Complete trust. He didn’t deserve it. He should step away, but he couldn’t. She had filtered into his soul.
Davy faded away.
His kiss deepened with desperation, the need to capture the moon, the rainbow, and enjoy them before they fled with the sun. But her body was more real than the sun, more substantial than a rainbow, and it pressed against his with an innocent wonder far more enticing than experience had ever been.
His tongue started a gentle exploration of her mouth, and he heard her gasp slightly. Then she purred like a young kitten as her tongue met his, took lessons, and graduated, playing and teasing as he had. His hand moved up from her waist to her neck, played there a moment while he felt her tremble, then moved up to lose itself in the tangle of her silken curls. Every woman should have short hair, he thought for the brief moment he could still think. Then he couldn’t think. He was consumed by sensation—sweet and hot and needy. Her body fit so well into his; despite their clothes they were almost a part of each other, each inching more and more into the other. He started to reach for the top buttons of her shirt when he heard a noise on the porch. It was a miracle he heard anything. Everything but his immediate need was eclipsed in fog. Deadly fog.
He thought later it must have been his instinct for survival, pure and simple. He had just stepped away when he heard the sound of heavy boots and jiggling spurs on the floor.
“O’Brien?” Nat Thompson’s voice was deep, suspicious. His glance went from Kane to Nicky and back again.
Kane took another step back. He wasn’t sure whether he would prefer being caught going through Thompson’s desk or embracing his niece. Neither held much future. His manhood ached, and he knew its need must be very evident. His mind, though, was too numbed, too shocked by his own lack of control, to respond.
“Feeling better, I see,” Thompson continued when he received no answer.
“Thanks to you,” Kane said.
“I have the feeling I had nothing to do with it,” Thompson said roughly. “Nicky, would you go see after your brother?” It wasn’t a question.
Nicky hesitated, her eyes on Kane.
“I have some business with O’Brien.”
Still, she didn’t move.
“Go,” Kane said.
Nicky’s gaze went from her uncle to Kane and back again. Nat Thompson suddenly smiled. “I’m not going to do a damn thing to him. I promise.”
Kane stiffened. He was being talked about again as if he weren’t there. And he damn well didn’t need a woman’s protection. His eyes bore into her, willing her to leave.
Obviously distressed, she bit her lip and ran her hand through that tangled taffy-colored hair. “He didn’t do anything.”
Kane fought a battle between his pride and the knowledge of her isolation. He hadn’t realized she feared her uncle this much; she’d been far too defensive toward him. Kane moved toward her protectively.
Something glinted in Thompson’s eyes. They were so cold, Kane could only surmise it was menace. But suddenly he smiled at Nicky, and his hard face softened to reveal not only affection, but love. Kane was astounded as he watched the expression change. The years didn’t fall away from the face; they were deeply engraved like wagon ruts in a much-used road, but Thompson’s whole demeanor changed to that of an indulgent uncle. Kane wouldn’t have thought it possible of the man he knew was a killer. Not only a killer, but one who could control a town full o
f other killers. That demanded a ruthlessness that allowed no weaknesses. Kane had learned from Nicky that she and Robin were obligations; he hadn’t realized they were also great weaknesses. He suspected Nat Thompson seldom showed that weakness to anyone. They’d been part of his rules, like any other rules in this town, but he doubted any of his guests realized how much he cared for them.
Kane wondered whether Thompson really meant to reveal that soft underbelly now.
“Leave us,” Thompson said to Nicky again, and this time his voice was gentle. His body, though, suddenly went rigid. He reached out for a chair, and his hand grabbed for its support.
“Uncle Nat …?” Nicky moved quickly toward him, but he waved her away with his other hand. “It’s nothing. Just a cramp. Now fetch your brother.” Again, Nicky hesitated, then her gaze rested on her uncle’s face. Kane, feeling again like an invisible onlooker or an audience at a play, saw understanding pass between them. She turned without another word and left.
Thompson didn’t move for a moment, then slowly he seemed to relax and he turned to Kane. “I hear you play a mean hand of poker.”
“You seem to hear everything.”
“I try.”
Thompson walked over to his desk and sat down. Gratefully, it seemed to Kane. “Take a chair, O’Brien.”
Kane, still wary, did so. He hadn’t had time to relock that second desk drawer. He hoped like hell Thompson wouldn’t try it.
“What do you think of Nicky?” The question was so unexpected that Kane blinked, and he knew his surprise was obvious.
“I don’t think she should be here,” he replied bluntly. “Her or the boy.”
“You’re right, of course,” Thompson said, hunching forward in his chair. “But that wasn’t my question.”
A trap? Kane wasn’t sure. Whenever he thought he had a handle on Thompson, the man changed abruptly. The chill was back in his eyes. There was no weakness now unless it lay deep inside the man across the desk. Thompson’s eyes drilled into him, looking for the vein of truth or lies. Kane had to force himself not to blink again.
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