Her Outlaw

by Geralyn Dawson

  “All right.” Score one for the lady. Emma allowed her grin free rein as he stalked out the door. Her appetite restored, she finished her calf fries. With relish.

  DAIR’S BLOOD CHURNED WITH anger. He was angry and frustrated with Emma. Resentful of her dead husband. He wished he were in a barroom so he could start a brawl. Instead he was trapped on a train, headed for heartbreak. Wasn’t that just a kick in the groin?

  Guilt ate at Dair just like the tumor in his head. He found it almost impossible to look Emma in the face. The life he’d led was enough to condemn him, but his actions where she was concerned surely assigned him to the lowest levels of hell.

  When he imagined a killer standing above her bed, when he recalled those weeks she’d spent on her own pursued by police without a penny to her name, waves of fear rolled through him. The killer wasn’t the only villain in this story. Dair, himself, had dragged her into danger, put her life and liberty at risk. Even worse, he’d lured her into a liaison that had no future. She’d given him her heart, her love, when he had only heartache to give her in return. What a sorry bastard that made him.

  He’d known before they left Scotland that he’d need to put some distance between them. He’d tried, too. During the daytime, he managed the task all right. Any time he found himself weakening, he’d conjure up the memory of her declaration of love, and his sense of shame would add another layer of brick to the wall he’d built between them.

  Nighttime proved to be his downfall. Once darkness fell, his frail sense of honor couldn’t withstand Emma’s innocent assault. All it took was a whiff of her scent, a brush of her hand, or the sound of her sleepy sigh for the walls to come tumbling down. Dair wasn’t accustomed to failure, but he’d damned sure failed at staying away from the woman. She was an addiction he didn’t have the strength to quit. He was a sorry-ass bastard.

  Still, he’d done what he could to make it up to her, though sending those three telegrams from New York had just about killed him. It was the right thing to do, however. He would die knowing he’d tried to right the wrong he’d done her. All he had to do was keep from shooting Logan Grey, Cade Hollister and Holt Driscoll on sight.

  The train began to slow, and Dair glanced out the window to see a flat rock bigger than a man standing on end at the edge of a thick pine forest. He, Holt, Cade and Logan had placed the marker there over twenty years ago. “This is our stop, Emma.”

  “Oh?” It was the first word she’d spoken to him since leaving Texarkana five hours earlier. “Where’s the town?”

  Dair swung out of his seat. “There isn’t a town. It’s not even a real stop. I asked the engineer to let us out here because it’s closest to our destination.”

  “The destination you’ve avoided mentioning? That one?”

  He ignored that. The woman certainly wielded a sarcastic tongue when she was in the mood.

  Dair gathered their bags and by the time the train rolled to a halt, he’d escorted her to the vestibule where they waited to disembark. As he stepped onto the rail bed, a warm summer breeze swept away the stink of coal floating on the air and brought that unique scent of pine forest and honeysuckle that would always remind him of home.

  Some of the tension eased from his shoulders and a faint smile played upon his lips. He’d lived away from East Texas a lot longer than he’d lived here and he didn’t consider himself Texan, but damned if he didn’t feel comfortable here. If he’d ever wanted a home, he just might have picked here. But that was all water under the proverbial bridge. A home was not in his fast-fading future.

  As the train pulled away, Emma took a long look around. “All I see are pine trees. I trust that we’ve yet to arrive at our final destination?”

  “It’s not a bad walk. I’ll carry the bags.”

  “To where, Dair? Why are you being so darned secretive? What out here in the middle of a forest is more important than finding the man who killed your friend? Finding the Sisters’ Prize?”

  “This isn’t about the treasure, damn it!” he exclaimed, rounding on her. “It’s about children.”

  She blew out a breath as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “Your children?”

  “Yes! No. Not like that.” He set down his bag and rubbed the back of his neck. Hell. He’d known this wouldn’t be easy, but he didn’t expect it to hit him quite so hard. The time had come to tell Emma the truth. “There’s a lot I need to explain. Follow me, Emma. I’m taking you to Piney Woods Children’s Home.”

  “An orphanage?”

  “Yes. I grew up here. It’s just through the trees.”

  He led her into the pine forest along a well-worn, sun-dappled path. The musty scent of forest decay raised a memory of games of hide-and-go-seek. The mockingbird chattering in the tree branches above them reminded him of lazy summer afternoons coaxing crawdads out of their holes along the creek bed. “It’s a nice place, Emma. A good place for a child to grow up. It was a small-scale cotton plantation back before the war. There’s a big main house, and the slave cabins were converted to dormitories. The creek that runs through it is spring fed, so there’s a great swimming hole, and the fishing’s so good they all but jump onto a fellow’s line.”

  He felt the weight of Emma’s curious gaze as she said, “It sounds lovely.”

  “A minister and his wife ran it. Reverend and Mrs. Jennings. He died a few years after I arrived, but she kept the place running. She passed on about a year ago now.”

  “It’s still operational?”

  “She placed as many children as possible in the final year, but a few youngsters are still there. I’ve had a difficult time keeping a headmistress.”

  “You?”

  “I…um…send money now and then.”

  Emma mulled that over a few moments before asking, “Is this the puzzle piece I’ve been missing? Is this why you become the Highland Riever? Are you supporting these children, Dair?”

  He ignored the question and marched on through the trees. Emma didn’t speak after that, and he knew she must be thinking the matter through. Moments later, he broke through the forest at the crest of a small rise and the fallow cotton fields stretched out before them.

  His gaze went to the main house where he noted signs of wear. The place needed paint badly. Looked like some shingles needed replacing, too. Rails were missing from the fence around the vegetable garden—the deer must be having a heyday.

  Standing beside him now, Emma asked, “How long has it been since you visited?”

  “Sixteen years.”

  “How long have you been sending them money?”

  “A while.” Dair hitched up the bags and started down the hill.

  Emma spied the disaster in the making first. She grabbed Dair’s arm, saying, “Oh no. Look. The roof.”

  A little girl—she couldn’t be more than seven years old—had climbed out an upstairs window and was crawling up the drainpipe toward the roof.

  Dair dropped the bags and took off at a run. When he saw her slip down a few feet his heart leapt into his throat. He ran harder and faster than he’d ever run before, planning his route up on the way as he put his Highland Riever skills to work.

  He breathed a tiny bit easier when the girl made it safely up onto the roof. What was it about little girls and roofs, anyway? Jake had a devil of a time keeping his nieces off the roof. Weren’t boys supposed to be the adventuresome ones?

  He thought of Emma and muttered, “I guess not.”

  A dog started barking as he approached the house and he heard a young boy shout, “Hey! Who are you? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Dair ignored both the boy and the dog that came nipping at his heels as he started up the side of the house. When his head rose above the shingles, he scanned the rooftop looking for the girl. What he saw shocked him so much that he almost lost his grip and fell.

  Four little girls sat atop a large quilt, a china tea set and a plate holding two raw carrots at its center. “A tea party? You’re having a
blessed tea party? On the roof?”

  The little monkey who he’d hastened to save shot to her feet, braced her fists on her hips and declared, “Go away! No boys allowed!”

  “He’s a stranger,” another girl said. “We shouldn’t talk to him.”

  A third child stuck her thumb in her mouth while a fourth one scrambled to her feet. “I’m going to go get Johnny.”

  Johnny, however, was already on the mark. By the time Dair pulled himself up onto the roof, a teenaged boy came up the other side. With a gun. “Stop right there,” the kid said. “You take one step toward the girls and I’ll shoot you dead as a fly in molasses.”

  Dair held up his hands. “I saw her go up the waterspout. I thought she’d fall. This was a rescue attempt.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “MacRae. I’m Alasdair MacRae.”

  The oldest of the girls gasped. The boy’s jaw dropped. “MacRae?” he said, his blue eyes round with hope. “Money MacRae?”

  The little curly-blond climbing spitfire asked, “You’re Nana Nellie’s Dair?”

  Nana Nellie. The name invoked memories of warm cookies, hugs, and a wellspring of love. Smiling, he nodded. “Yes. I’m Nana Nellie’s Dair.”

  Squealing, the girls all scrambled to their feet and rushed him, grabbing him around the legs and holding tight. Dair braced a hand against the red brick chimney to keep from falling over.

  “Finally,” cried the spitfire.

  “We’ve been praying you’d come. Every night.”

  The boy lowered his Colt and scratched the back of his head, grinning with satisfaction as the burden of responsibility rolled off his shoulders. “I really didn’t want to have to rob that bank.”

  The smallest girl took her thumb from her mouth and lifted her arms. “Pick me up, Mr. Dair.”

  He didn’t think of denying her.

  “My name is Genevieve Roberta Elizabeth Marks, but you can call me Genny.” She wrapped his neck in a stranglehold, then kissed him right on the lips. “I love you, Mr. Dair!”

  As Dair fumbled for a response, a voice behind him spoke in a tender, amused tone, “That’s easy for a girl to do.”

  “Dammit, Emma!” Leave it to Emma Tate to follow him up on the roof.

  Genny put her fingers against his mouth. “Shush, Mr. Dair. Bad words aren’t allowed at Sherwood.”

  “Sherwood?” he repeated.

  The boy nodded. “Nana Nellie renamed it right before she died. She said our Robin Hood needed to have a home.”

  AN HOUR AFTER DESCENDING FROM the Sherwood House rooftop, Emma stood stirring one of two stew pots on the stove. The children were starving. All ten of them.

  She and Dair had both been appalled at the conditions they’d found at the orphanage. Apparently, there had been no adult supervision in over a month. Foodstuff supplies were terribly low. Dair had taken one look at the larder, loaded up a wagon and the boy named Johnny, and headed out bound for the nearest town. In some ways, Emma regretted his departure. She had lots of questions, and she really wanted answers. But in other ways, she was glad for the break. Children, she knew, were excellent sources of information.

  And Dair MacRae was a legend around the place.

  “Nana Nellie liked to talk about her babies,” twelve-year-old Annabelle said. “That’s what she called us. Her babies. No matter our age. She especially liked to talk about the first ones—Dair and Holt and Cade and Logan. She said she always hoped Elton would turn out like them.”

  “Who is Elton?” Emma asked.

  “He’s Reverend and Nana Nellie’s good-for-nothing liar son,” piped up a boy, Andrew, who Emma had put to work washing dishes with Annabelle. “He promised Nana Nellie that he’d keep Sherwood House running, but then at her funeral he said he was going to close us down and ship us all off and grow tobacco in the fields. That’s so stupid. Our dirt is plumb wore out. That’s what Nana Nellie always said.”

  “What happened to Elton’s plan?”

  Annabelle and Andrew shared a look, then they both shrugged. “Don’t know,” the boy said. “We never saw him after Nana Nellie’s funeral.”

  Annabelle made a gallant effort to change the subject. “Can you teach me how to make biscuits, Miss Emma? Mine are always heavy as a rock.”

  “Sure, honey. Not to be boastful, but I make wonderful biscuits. My Aunt Claire is a baker and she taught me all her tricks.” Emma tasted the stew, then added a pinch more salt. “So, what else did your Nana Nellie have to say about Mr. MacRae?”

  “She said how sorry she was that he had to leave Texas. That made her feel really bad.”

  “Why did Dair have to leave Texas?”

  “Because of the bank robberies.”

  Emma dropped her spoon. “The what?”

  “Do you want to see her collection of wanted posters?”

  “Anna!” The boy gave her a shove. “You’re not supposed to tell!”

  Wanted posters. Her lover was an outlaw on two continents! “Yes, please.” When Andrew started to protest, Emma added, “Don’t worry. I won’t turn him in.”

  “It’s a lot of reward money,” the boy said glumly. Annabelle stuck her tongue out at him as she dried her hands on a dish towel, then exited the kitchen saying, “I’ll go get the book. I’ll be right back.”

  Emma added more seasoning to the other stew pot, then took a seat at the long kitchen table. Annabelle returned quickly with a scrapbook bound with leather ties. Emma opened it and caught her breath at the drawing of a young Alasdair MacRae. “He couldn’t have been fifteen years old.”

  “He was thirteen. Nana said he was tall for his age.”

  Emma shook her head as she flipped through the posters. “Goodness gracious. He’s another Billy the Kid.”

  “Dair never killed nobody,” Andrew corrected. “And Nana Nellie said he quit stealing as soon as he started earning money legitimately. He just couldn’t come back home ’cause he was a wanted man.”

  “Hmm,” Emma said, wondering if that were true. If so, why the Highland Riever? Why had he started stealing again? “Does Elton still own Sherwood?”

  The children shrugged. “We don’t know.”

  Emma bet she knew. She’d bet her most comfortable pair of shoes that Dair MacRae had either purchased Sherwood or was in the process of purchasing it. So why the secrecy? His support of an orphanage was to be admired, not hidden. What reason would he have for keeping it secret? Was there a law in Texas that criminals couldn’t own property or something? She didn’t think so. “It makes no sense.”

  But then, quite a few things here didn’t make sense. True, it would be difficult to supervise the orphanage from an ocean away, but she couldn’t see Dair allowing them to starve. “How long have you been without a director?”

  The boy Andrew muttered a particularly ugly curse beneath his breath. Annabelle scolded him with a scowl, then said, “About six weeks. Mr. and Mrs. Teasdale replaced Miss Halloran who followed Mr. Moffett. The Teasdales weren’t here a week before they stole our money and disappeared in the middle of the night.”

  That explained current conditions, Emma thought. “How have you managed since then? What have you been eating?”

  “Too much squirrel stew, that’s for sure,” Andrew said. “We go hunting every day hoping for something different, but somebody must be warning the rabbits and the deer.”

  Annabelle added, “You got us a wild hog…what…two weeks ago, Andrew? That was nice.”

  “Didn’t last long,” he said with a sigh. “What I wouldn’t give for a big old beefsteak.”

  Emma decided one way or another, she’d see that these children dined on beef before the week was out.

  She mulled over all she’d learned while teaching Annabelle to make biscuits, using the last of the flour and sugar. She’d wondered from time to time just why he was so anxious to find the treasure, why he’d invented the Highland Riever. It had seemed incongruous to her, considering that she’d never seen signs in him that he
coveted material things. Well, except for her necklace, that is.

  But he obviously wanted the treasure for the orphans. Dair MacRae was a thief with a heart of gold. If she weren’t already in love with him, today’s revelations would have done the trick.

  Once the meal was ready, Emma stepped aside and allowed the children to implement the system in place for feeding such a crowd. It was a boisterous event, the prospect of full stomachs putting everyone in a good mood. Oh, there were the normal mealtime squabbles and a few battles over biscuits, but those only served to remind Emma of supper at Willow Hill. Just a little bigger.

  They’d made a family, she discovered. A family of orphans who’d been orphaned twice. First from their birth families, and then with the loss of their beloved Reverend and Nana Nellie.

  It broke one’s heart to think about.

  Dair returned with a wagon overflowing with supplies while the supper dishes were being tended to. Though he laughed and joked with the children while unloading the foodstuffs, Emma could tell he was furious. After passing out fried pies and peppermints to every child, he looked at Emma. “I need to make a tour of the place. Care to come with me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Take me, too!” little Genny said.

  “Not this time, doodlebug.” Dair gave her nose an affectionate pinch. “I have an important job for you and the other children.”

  “More work!” she whined.

  “Yep. Tomorrow is Miss Emma’s birthday and I need y’all to plan the party.”

  Emma’s heart warmed at his gesture. The little girl’s eyes rounded. “A birthday party? Are we gonna have cake?”

  “Yep. I bought two chocolate cakes and one white one. You think that will be enough?”

  “Cake and fried pies in the same week.” Genny clapped her hands together, hopped up and down, and squealed. The other youngsters chimed in with party questions and suggestions, and Dair told them to organize their thoughts and requests and write them down.