An Outlaw in Wonderland

by Lori Austin

  He drew back at the realization that the red “shade” had been produced by spatters of blood.

  “They are roses,” Eversleigh agreed. “Got no idea what all the others are. Could be they’re made up.”

  Annabeth coughed again. Ethan resisted the urge to pound her between the shoulders until she stopped.

  Coughing? Or lying? He wasn’t sure.

  “So?” The marshal waggled the knife.

  “Never seen anything like it,” Ethan said. He turned his gaze to his wife, who peered through the empty window.

  But she had.

  “You two look tuckered out.” Eversleigh shoved the weapon into his pocket and once more headed for the door. “I don’t have to tell you not to disappear again, now, do I?”

  “No,” Annabeth said. “You certainly don’t have to tell us.”

  Had the marshal noticed that she hadn’t agreed not to disappear, only that the man didn’t have to tell them that? Doubtful. Answering questions without really answering was one of her gifts.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow.” The marshal’s boot heels clattered down the stairs. The door thudded lightly as he left. Annabeth continued to stand at the window.

  “Whose knife is that?” Ethan asked.

  “Never seen it before.” Her throat clicked when she swallowed.

  “You can cough,” he said. “I know you’re lying.”

  She spun, eyes wide before she narrowed them. “I’m not.” She cleared her throat.

  “You cough when you lie.”

  “If I had a tell like that, I’d be dead by now.”

  “I doubt anyone’s been around you as much as I have. Or been lied to as extensively. Folks would have to know that you lied to connect the two. And if they knew that, you’d be dead anyway.”

  “Your eye twitches,” she muttered. “But I doubt anyone’s noticed but me.”

  If anyone had, he wouldn’t have lived through the war.

  “Is the knife yours?” he asked.

  “No.”

  She didn’t cough or swallow or even clear her throat. Wasn’t hers, but still . . .

  Her chin went up. “I’m not lying.”

  “Oh, you’re lying.” Ethan stepped past her and gripped the edge of the bed. “But I know better than to think you’ll tell me the whole truth until you’re ready.” He yanked and the mattress thumped onto the floor.

  “What are you doing?”

  He set the thing upright and dragged it toward the door. “Maybe you can sleep in a room with that . . .” He indicated the stain with a lift of his chin. “But I can’t.”

  “I’m not sleeping in the baby’s room.”

  Ethan’s hands slipped, and the mattress listed to the right. Annabeth snatched the other end. “I hadn’t planned on it either,” he said.

  Their eyes met, and they shared a moment of silence for the child they had lost.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Ethan.”

  “If not mine, then whose?”

  “I’ve learned over the past few years that things happen with no fault and for no reason at all. Fate? God? Bad luck? Pick one. I don’t think it would have mattered what we did. I think . . .” She paused, then blurted, “He wasn’t meant to live. Sometimes they aren’t. No matter what you do, there’s no saving them. Him,” she clarified. “Michael. Our son.”

  Her eyes shone in the soft dusky light, and she reached for him. Ethan took her hand, and his chest, which had contained a tight, hard ball of pain for years, suddenly loosened. He could breathe deeply for the first time since his son died.

  They should have talked back then, shared their fears, their feelings. But they were both too young, too angry, too damn stupid to try.

  “Downstairs?” she suggested.

  “Downstairs,” he agreed.

  They managed, through a series of shoves, grunts, and curses, to pull, push, and carry the mattress down the steps. They nearly lost their grip in the front hall. Ethan was sweating so profusely in the close, heated air, even his fingers were slippery. They shoved it into the exam room, where it fell to the floor with a thump.

  “If anyone bursts in here during the night, needing the doctor, we’ll have to move it again,” Annabeth said.

  “Better than the alternative.” Sleeping in the room where Cora had died.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Are you?”

  “A question isn’t an answer, Ethan.”

  “No?”

  She snorted. She knew all his tricks; they’d been her tricks, too.

  “Someone I . . .” Her lips twisted. “‘Knew’ wasn’t murdered in my bedroom.”

  “You knew her,” Ethan pointed out. “And that was—is—your bedroom.” He thought of the divorce. Did she still want it?

  “You know what I mean,” she said, as she wandered back into the foyer and he followed. “I feel like I should say I’m sorry, but—”

  “You’re not.”

  “I didn’t want her dead.” She rubbed her throat.

  “I’d understand if you did. There were times I . . .” He paused.

  “You wanted her dead, too.”

  “That seems harsh, especially now. I didn’t really want her dead, just—”

  “Gone,” she finished. “Like magic.”

  “I’ve wished a lot of people would be gone like that.”

  She lifted her gaze to the new-fallen darkness beyond the windows. “Me too.”

  “Stay,” Ethan whispered, then wished he could snatch the word back. She’d already told him she had to go. “I’ll help you find Luke. Let Moze deal with Lassiter. Don’t go, Annabeth. Please.”

  “All right,” she said, and he blinked. “Yes. Of course I’ll stay.”

  He stepped toward her, and she stumbled back. “I’m going to wash.”

  She hurried into the next room and drew the curtain behind her.

  • • •

  Annabeth plunged her hand into the bucket of tepid water that stood near the back door and lifted some to her mouth, swallowed, then lifted more. Eventually the telltale tickle went away.

  She’d sat at Lassiter Morant’s side while he carved the flowers from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland—tiger lily, larkspur, violet, daisy, and rose—into the knife’s handle. His workmanship was incredible. Lass could make an honest living if he tried. The knife was his prized possession. The only reason he would have left the weapon behind was as the threat she knew it to be.

  Return to me before I return to you.

  She hadn’t needed the reminder. She’d known all along he would never let her go. And she couldn’t let the outlaw roam free. She had to make certain Lassiter Morant either hung for this crime or spent a lifetime in prison for any of his others. To do that, she had to leave, and she had to make certain the man she loved, and always would, didn’t follow. She had a pretty good idea how to do that. She’d been doing it for the past five years.

  Lie with her mouth and then with her body.

  She unbuttoned her shirt, stepped to the curtain, and drew it back. Her husband stared out at the night. “Ethan?”

  He turned, and she offered her hand. He put his into it with all the trust of a child, and she almost felt bad. She would have felt bad if she weren’t doing this for his own good.

  If he knew what she planned, he would want to join her, to help her. Ethan might once have been a spy. He might once have done things that gave him nightmares. But that had been long ago and far away. He was no longer that man, and she didn’t want him to be. Wouldn’t let him be.

  The water in the basin was tepid but clean. The room was shadowed, dark, but she ignored the lamp. What she planned on doing was not something she wanted illuminated in the window.

  “Take off your clothes,” she murmured. “Or would you rather I did?”

  His swallow was audible, her smile hidden by the night. With a shift of her shoulders, the loosened shirt slid free, landing on the floor with a whisper. His followed.

&nbs
p; Annabeth dampened a cloth, washed his face, his neck. She would have continued with his chest, but he stared at her so intently, she couldn’t think.

  “Turn,” she murmured. For an instant, she thought he would refuse. Then he spun, and the slight ruffle the movement made through the air caused her nipples to pucker. She couldn’t help herself; she leaned forward and rubbed them across his skin.

  His breath caught; goose bumps rose. She traced them with her tongue. Then he was spinning toward her instead of away, so close, her breasts slid across his chest and together, they gasped.

  The cloth hit the floor with a plop as her hands lifted, palms skimming his belly, his ribs, then clutching his shoulders as he lowered his head and took her mouth.

  Desperation laced the kiss. She might never again know a moment in this man’s arms. Returning to Lassiter Morant would mean the end of them. It certainly might mean the end of her.

  And that would be all right. As long as Ethan remained safe.

  She tangled her fingers in the curling length of his hair, ran her thumb along the curve of his neck, then placed her mouth there. She tasted sweat and dust, life and death—the promise of the past, the ashes of their future.

  She fumbled at his belt, her fingers trembling too much to unbuckle it. He set his hands atop hers, and she closed her eyes. Would he deny her now? She didn’t think she could bear it.

  He moved away, and she reached out, clasping nothing. Her eyes snapped open. He stood at the door. She bit her lip. She would not beg him to stay. She hadn’t begged since Michael died. Begging didn’t help. Then she heard a click—the lock—and she had to blink through foolish tears when he strode past her, trailing a finger down her arm as he went to the front door and did the same.

  He pressed his chest to her back, wrapped his arms around her, and drew her against him. Tracing the curve of her shoulder with his mouth, he set his fingers on her belt. His didn’t tremble. Her trousers fell, catching on the tops of her boots. She lifted a foot to kick them off, and his hand slid from her hip to her thigh.

  “Wait.” His mouth replaced his hand. He nibbled, then ran his tongue over the swell of her buttock. Her legs wobbled. “Sit.”

  One-word orders seemed all she was capable of understanding, perhaps all he was capable of uttering.

  The exam table was the closest flat area, so she hitched herself onto it, again trying to kick free her boots. But he was there, on his knees, the moon casting his hair with threads of silver, showing her what he would look like when he was old.

  Achingly beautiful.

  Or perhaps that ache in her chest was merely the knowledge that she would probably never see him like that, and oh, how she wanted to.

  Her boots hit the ground; his jeans slid away with a rustle, her socks on a whisper. He set his palms atop her knees, and she stilled as he opened his hands, her legs, and leaned forward, his tongue running from knee to thigh.

  She held her breath as he kissed her center; then she couldn’t remain upright anymore. Her shoulders met the table—ice cold when everything else seemed on fire.

  He murmured soothing nonsense across her belly, scraped her hip with his teeth, then set his tongue where he’d already kissed. Her entire body tightened.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “Everything will be all right.”

  A sob threatened. She bit it back, but he knew, he heard, and he gathered her close, lifted her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist.

  He carried her to the mattress. They fell as one. Her seeking mouth found his. His straining body settled into hers as he rose above her, his face so stark in the brilliant moonlight, she had to close her eyes, force herself to keep breathing.

  He traced the silvery marks on her breasts—the ones that had not gone away when their son did—with the tip of his finger, then the tip of his tongue. Once the action would have made her writhe in agony; now she writhed with anything but.

  Each time she touched him with passion, he touched her with tenderness. The contrast took her higher, brought him closer. By the time she rose above him, they were slick with sweat, panting, gasping. She trembled on the edge of oblivion, refusing any longer to be tamed. She met him stroke for stroke. All she smelled, all she tasted and saw, all she knew was him as together they fell.

  And fell. And fell. And fell.

  His cheek pressed to her breast. His face was wet. So was hers. When he rolled onto his back, she kept her eyes closed. If he stared into them now, he would know. Not that she’d leave; she was too good for that. But that she loved him. Always had, always would, couldn’t stop.

  And he couldn’t know. If she died, Ethan needed to go on. Otherwise, what had been the point of anything?

  So she remained close until he slept; she even tried to kiss him awake, shook him, too, whispered, “Ethan?” and curled her fingers around him.

  If he’d woken, she would have loved him again. There was no man alive who wouldn’t sleep the sleep of the dead for hours after that. But he never moved; he barely breathed.

  She put on the clothes she’d taken off. They were filthy; she deserved nothing less. Boots in hand, she closed the door softly behind her before she shoved her feet inside. As she started toward the livery, a distant whinny drew her attention.

  Horse and rider stood in stark silhouette against the shimmering, white moon. She knew them well.

  They waited for her.

  • • •

  Ethan woke feeling better than he had in . . .

  Had he ever felt this good?

  He lay there, eyes closed, as he tried to remember why. It didn’t take long.

  He and Annabeth had shared all their secrets. She’d seen him at his worst, nursed him through the nightmare, and still she had agreed to stay in Freedom with him.

  Their attempts to hang for a murder they had not committed only strengthened his belief in their future. He’d die for her and she for him. That vow was more binding than any I do.

  A shadow fell over his face. Annabeth. Had to be.

  His lips curved in welcome; his member stirred with the same. He began to lift his arms to embrace her and—

  “Whatcha doin’ thar?”

  Ethan groped for a sheet to cover his nakedness. There wasn’t one. He drew up his knees and hugged them so tightly, they crackled as he met Sadie Cantrell’s very interested eye. “What are you doing here?”

  “Asked ye first. How come ye be sleepin’ downstairs? Naked?”

  “I . . .” He thought it fairly obvious what he’d been doing, considering his and his wife’s clothes were all over the floor. However, when he glanced about, Ethan saw not a single one of his wife’s garments. Or his wife.

  “Where’s Annabeth?” Sadie shrugged. “How’d you get in?”

  “Walked.”

  “The doors were locked.”

  “Not the back one.”

  Ethan closed his eyes as the significance of his wife’s missing clothes, along with his missing wife and the no-longer-locked door, became clear.

  Annabeth was gone.

  CHAPTER 28

  Lassiter Morant motioned for Annabeth to mount in front of him. When she hesitated, he cocked his gun and pointed it at Freedom with a smirk. “Bang-bang, they’re all dead.”

  Annabeth had seen him do worse, so she climbed on, and they galloped west. He kept a swift pace until they were well away from town. Even then, he didn’t slow the horse enough for conversation. Annabeth didn’t mind. When he did, she’d have to explain why she’d gone to Freedom and hadn’t come back.

  How much did he know? What would he do? Maybe she should just kill him and be done with it. Unfortunately, she didn’t have her Colt, or anything else with which to do the job but her bare hands.

  She might be a tall woman, a strong woman, but Lassiter was taller, stronger, and a helluva lot meaner. Folks had been trying to kill him for a long time; no one had succeeded.

  Deep in thought, she didn’t at first notice that they’d passed the place where La
ss always paused to blindfold her. Unease prickled across her skin. She doubted Lass had suddenly decided she was one of them. His behavior suggested just the opposite. But there wasn’t much she could do other than keep her wits about her. No gun. No horse. No help. She was in even more trouble than usual.

  Her eyes watered as the wind whipped past. The sun hovered on the horizon, and everything appeared craggy and gray. As the flat Kansas plain tilted downward, they wound through gullies that most would believe ended nowhere. Except these led to a deep, wide gorge with only a single entrance concealed by thorny, overgrown brush.

  The horse picked its way along the narrow, winding path that led to Morant’s Wonderland. They emerged into the protected hideaway. The just-born sun hovered at the edge of the world, casting shadows the shade of Ethan’s eyes whenever he kissed her. She wanted to see his eyes again, but she didn’t think she ever would.

  It was early yet, and the others still slept around the campfire—or at least pretended to.

  “What were you up to in Freedom?” Lassiter’s voice rumbled against Annabeth’s back as he reined in.

  She listed away from his broad, damp chest, and he turned his head, slapping her in the cheek with his chestnut hair. He’d gathered the length at the nape to keep it from trailing in the breeze. Lass didn’t like to wear a hat; sometimes she thought the hours of sun beating on his uncovered head had addled him.

  Many believed that an outlaw became an outlaw because he was too stupid to do anything else. But an outlaw who was an outlaw for as long as Lass had been was a perfect combination of ruthless and cunning. He was still breathing because so many others weren’t. Annabeth had to remember that.

  “Anna!” he snapped, calling her by the name she had given him, a name no one else had ever called her. “Did you sell me out?”

  A chill came over Annabeth. If the eyes reflected the soul, then Lassiter’s was dead. She’d listened to him promise mercy and then shoot a man in the back. The last lawman who’d gotten anywhere near him had died at the end of a rope, and it hadn’t been a quick snap of the neck, but a purposeful, long, drawn-out choking that had taken days.

  “I can explain,” she began.