The Fires of Paradise

by Brenda Joyce

  To her horror, her knees gave out and she collapsed in a heap in the sand.

  The horse kept going, as if Shoz were oblivious to her disappearance. A few yards past her, he pulled to a halt. Lucy looked up at him with a stifled sob. He sat very still, slouched, gazing down at her. For the first time in hours, she saw his face and his eyes, and she was shocked. There was no interest in his expression there, nothing vital at all. There was only blank indifference as he regarded her, and he was whiter than a sheet. She had ceased sweating at sundown, but sweat poured off his face, actually dripping from his chin.

  He looked ill.

  Lucy forced herself up.

  He made a sound, and turned the horse slowly around. The bay plodded back to her. Lucy bit her lip.

  “Get up,” he said.

  Lucy stared. He was ill, most likely with fever, and she was almost certain she Could escape—either On foot Or, later, by stealing the horse. She hesitated, filled with the immense possibility confronting her.

  “Lucy.”

  She gnawed her lip, then approached. “’Let’s stop,” she said. “Please.”

  He nodded once and slowly slid off the gelding. He paused there, leaning against the animal’s flank.

  Lucy trembled. He was hurt; he needed rest and someone’s care. It was obvious. But her chance for escape was imminent. She didn’t go to him.

  He tied the horse to a stunted mesquite. Lucy watched, not moving. He uncinched the girth, pulled the saddle off, and its weight as he placed it on the ground nearly brought him down on top of it. He slid down beside the tack, leaning back on it. His gaze found hers.

  Lucy stood very still, wetting her lips. This was her chance. She was a good rider, and as a child, she’d ridden bareback every summer, so the lack of a saddle was no deterrent. She would jump on the horse and head north, straight north.

  And leave him here alone, on foot, too sick to even move, much less walk.

  He would probably die. Lucy doubted the sheriff would find him, not the way he’d kept to stream beds and rock flats, not the way he’d swept their trail clean with brush. She was certain the sheriff would never track this man, who seemed to be well versed in the art of hiding his trail. Instead, he would stay here, alone, and die.

  Just for a moment his gaze was lucid as it searched hers, and Lucy was certain that he knew she was thinking about escape. But then he dropped his head, eyes closed, and began to sleep.

  Now she could go.

  She didn’t.

  In that precise moment, she made up her mind, more the fool she. She could not leave him alone, on foot, to die. She could not. He was a thief, yes, and maybe a murderer, but there hadn’t been a trial and there hadn’t been a conviction. To use Nicole’s words, he was “a bad sort,” but he was a human being. There was no doubt in Lucy’s mind that she was crazy not to take advantage of his condition, but she just couldn’t. He had abducted her, but he hadn’t hurt her. Besides he had said that he would let her go once they crossed the border—and the border had to be less than a day’s ride from here. Tonight she could not leave him alone.

  She dropped to her knees beside him, studying him and reaching for the canteen. “Go easy,” he said.

  Taken by surprise, she almost dropped their precious water. His eyes were still closed; he appeared to be asleep. Lucy flushed. To think she had almost abandoned him, sure that he was incognizant of his surroundings.

  “No water until tomorrow,” he added without moving.

  Lucy handed him the canteen. He took it and drank a few sips. Lucy removed it from his hands and took a long drink. She touched his forehead to check his fever. His eyes flew open, startled. He was warm, but she couldn’t be sure if it was a low temperature or not, and that in itself was a good sign.

  She rummaged in the saddlebags, found a few tins of beef and beans and some jerky, and forced him to accept the latter. He ate without interest, his eyes closed, but she ate hungrily. All the while she watched him. He slept deeply.

  Exhaustion overcame Lucy, too. She stretched out beside him, on her side, her cheek on her arm. The ground was hard and uncomfortable, and without a blanket or pillow, she was sure she would never be able to sleep, especially when she began to worry about her family, and how they must be reacting to her abduction. But she was so fatigued, sleep came instantly. Some time later she woke up, cold and shivering. A thousand stars glittered overhead, an owl hooted, and she could hear Shoz’s even, deep breathing beside her. She was still exhausted, and without giving it much thought, she crept close to him and curled next to his big body, almost but not quite touching him, just for his warmth. This time sleep did not come so easily.

  Shoz woke up when the sun was almost high in the sky, with Lucy in his arms.

  He blinked. Her body was spooned into his, her buttocks nestled in his groin, and his arms were around her, his mouth against the nape of her neck. What the hell! He searched his mind, trying to remember just what they had done last night. It took him a moment to become fully awake. They hadn’t done anything—he had been exhausted from the long, hard day. It was just that he had never woken up with a woman in his arms before, and the assumption had been automatic.

  She felt good. He craned his neck to look at her. He should have smiled, or even laughed, but he didn’t. She was a mess. Miss Lucy Bragg had a propensity for looking better than any woman he knew—or worse. Now was one of those times when she looked as bad as a woman could. She was dirty, from the tip of her nose right down to her pretty little stockinged feet.

  But somehow, she was sexy as hell. Worse, she felt sexy as hell.

  He was aware of the beginnings of arousal, meaning he had slept well and replenished his body’s strength during the night. If they didn’t have such a long day coming up … He sighed. If he messed with her now, he would be in a helluvalot more trouble than he already was.

  It was a grim thought. The first thing the Braggs would want to know when they got Lucy back was if he had touched her. Lucy wasn’t a liar. She wouldn’t cry rape out of spite, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to give her a better reason. As tempting as she was, he’d keep his hands to himself.

  As he got up, thoughts came rushing back to him. One demanded priority, and as he saddled and fed the horse, he turned to look at her, this time with no need to disguise either the interest or the curiosity he was feeling. Last night she could have left him. Either on foot or with the horse. But she hadn’t.

  He inhaled sharply. His heart was beating as hard as if he’d run a race. Why hadn’t she left him? Because she was afraid to try and return to Paradise through this desolate land alone? Lucy might be a spoiled princess, but she had grit, obstinacy, and she also had courage. Her grit was real, although mostly untested; her determination was like a mule’s, what little he’d seen of it; but her courage came from ignorance and naïveté. She wouldn’t consider the hardship of traveling north without him for a moment, she would just do it, spurred on by desperation and determination. Fear of hardship wouldn’t stop her from escaping him.

  Then why?

  He finished saddling the horse and eyed her. The question was too immense; there were possibilities that actually caused a roiling in his gut. Damn! Damn her! He decided he didn’t care why she hadn’t left him, there were many possibilities. Maybe she couldn’t ride bareback, maybe she’d just been too damn tired. Or maybe from this particular trial and tribulation, she had learned some common sense and was afraid of riding north alone. Hell! What did he care anyway?

  He poked her with his booted toe. “Get up.”

  There was a faint reponse, the fluttering of her lashes, a groan.

  He poked her again. “We’re riding out, Lucy.”

  She blinked at him. He had to admire her calves, being given a birds’-eye view. He saw the moment she became fully awake. Her blue eyes widened with total awareness and she sat up. She looked at him very, very warily. Then she stiffly got to her feet, biting back a moan—but he heard it anyway. She sho
ok out her tattered skirts. “I need to freshen up.”

  He knew what she meant. “Go behind that stand of saguaro,” he directed. “And be careful.”

  She nodded and walked away. Shoz began erasing the signs of their camp with a big piece of brush. She was surprising him again. A good night’s sleep had done a helluvalot to calm her. He was appreciative; he didn’t need to be burdened with a hysterical woman right now. It seemed like they had attained a wary, if temporary, truce.

  Night had fallen. Lucy sat with her arms around her knees, and her short skirt pulled carefully over her legs, watching him. He had made a small fire, and the smell of the meat and beans he had cooked was almost too much to bear.

  Today had been even longer and more grueling than yesterday. Lucy was too tired to move. Shoz was also exhausted; she could see it in his every movement, she could see it in the drawn lines of his face. But he wasn’t as bad off as he had been last night—she could see that, too. The man’s resilience was amazing.

  She couldn’t go another step, much less ride; her body was screaming in protest, her muscles were tortured, and she was starving. She could fend off sleep only until after the meal. She suspected that waking up tomorrow would be a whole lot harder than it had been today.

  He picked up the pan and brought it to her, their glances meeting. In anticipation, Lucy had to smile; he smiled, also. He sank down beside her. “Sorry we don’t have any china, princess.”

  “Next time,” Lucy quipped, making him regard her steadily. She quickly looked away, unnerved for some reason. His hostility was easier to bear than such a direct, searching look.

  He handed her the fork that had been in the saddlebag along with the tins, taking the spoon himself, and they both ate ravenously, from the same pan.

  When they had finished, Shoz took the pan to the stream and filled it with water. Lucy felt a twinge of guilt. She didn’t know how to cook, but … he was doing everything. She hadn’t helped at all.

  She watched him carefully as he set the pan full of water on the fire, which he stoked higher. He let it boil. After a few minutes he removed it and emptied it, dousing the fire thoroughly. With his toe he kicked apart the charred embers, burying them with dirt. Then he stuck the pan into the saddlebag.

  Lucy vowed to remember everything he had done.

  He returned to sit next to her. Suddenly Lucy became aware of the intimacy between them—and the potential. They were both alone and awake in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. Unlike last night, when Shoz had been so exhausted that he had immediately gone to sleep. Her heart began to race. Instead of remembering his abducting her yesterday, she recalled the week he’d been at the ranch, in a series of rapid, vivid images. Shoz shelling peas in the kitchen, so big and dangerously masculine among the women there, and looking as if he felt ridiculous. Shoz standing on a chair pulling down drapes, in his tight, worn Levis. She remembered being unable to sleep, night after night, because of the humidity and heat, tossing and turning, her nightgown sticking to her body. She remembered going to the window and seeing him there on the lawn by the swing, smoking, the tip of his cigarette glowing, as he gazed up at her window.

  “Sheriff Sanders make any progress on his investigation?”

  “What?” He’d broken into her thoughts.

  He repeated the question.

  “They found the stud in Abilene,” Lucy began, but he cut her off.

  “I know about the damn horse. A man was shot—who happens to be me—but the whole goddamn town is up in arms about your granddaddy’s horse.”

  Lucy stared at him, realizing how horribly right he was. “No. Not that I know of.”

  “You see anyone that night when you came to meet me?”

  Lucy didn’t bother to correct him—she hadn’t been on her way to meet him, just searching for him. “No one. But someone else must have seen what I saw, and thought you were one of the thieves. People in Paradise don’t like horse stealing much.”

  “Try again.” His tone was mocking. “If some good Samaritan shot me thinking I was one of the thieves, then why didn’t he—or she—come forward and claim the deed?”

  Lucy looked at him. He was stretched out comfortably on the ground, his hands resting under his head, propped up on the saddle. His shirt was open, his dark skin glistening from his throat to just above his navel where it was exposed. Lucy wished he would button it. “I guess someone was afraid to come forward.”

  “Damn right.”

  His tone was so hard that Lucy stared at him. “You know who did it, don’t you!”

  “I’ve got a good guess.”

  “Who?”

  His mouth curled. “Your boyfriend’s mama.”

  “Marianne Claxton!”

  He eased back on the saddle.

  “You’re insane!” Lucy stared at his chiseled profile.

  “Why would she shoot you?”

  He grinned at the night. “We were friends in New York. Let’s just say it ended badly—and we both hold mean grudges.”

  “Friends in New York!” Lucy was stunned. It was a long moment before she could assimilate this information. “You mean … lovers?”

  “Why are you so shocked? Didn’t know sweet, proper Marianne has an appetite her husband can’t satisfy?”

  Lucy was trembling. Shoz and Marianne … The thought was terribly upsetting. Marianne was beautiful, but she was older than he was! And in New York! “When were you in New York?”

  “Seven years ago.”

  He didn’t offer any more information, and Lucy did not want to know anything else. She was having enough trouble absorbing what she had already learned. At least their affair had been a long time ago. But if Marianne had shot him, passions still ran deep. Did he still love her? “Maybe you’re wrong.”

  He didn’t look at her. “Maybe.”

  “I don’t think she would shoot anybody. And a lot of women carry small guns; even I have one. Even gentlemen carry them.”

  He lit another cigarette. “Where is your gun?”

  “My gun?”

  “Your gun.”

  “You don’t think that I …” She stopped in midsentence, too stunned to continue.

  “I know you didn’t shoot me, princess, even if you wanted to.” He grinned. “It wasn’t on your person—anywhere.”

  She felt like slapping him. He would remind her of how his hands had been everywhere, even up under her skirts. “I suppose my gun is where I left it, in the drawer of my bureau.” Her tone was cool.

  “Don’t get all huffy. You were having fun. What do you mean, you think it’s in the drawer? You see it that day?”

  Lucy had to think. “I put it away when we arrived. I haven’t touched it since.”

  Silence greeted her words. The minutes passed and a shadow crossed the moon. Lucy thought about Shoz and Marianne. It had ended badly. Did he hate her? Marianne Claxton taking a lover—taking Shoz as a lover—it was unbelievable. She was so elegant, the perfect senator’s wife.

  “Why didn’t you take off last night, princess?”

  “What?”

  “You heard.”

  Lucy hesitated, groping for a response. “I thought you were dying,” she finally said.

  He still didn’t look at her. “So?”

  She looked away, at the stars. “It just didn’t seem right,” she said lamely. “To leave a dying man.”

  He turned onto his side. “Come here,” he said gruffly.

  She lifted her gaze slowly to his.

  He wasn’t smiling. His face was implacable. He was also much too close for comfort. The night was suddenly very still. “Come here,” he repeated, and he pulled her into his arms.

  “What are you doing?” Lucy cried, struggling, yet her pulse was racing wildly, her nerves tingling, her skin flushed.

  “It’s cold.”

  She was on her back and he was on his side, cradling her. One of his legs covered hers. Impossible yearning swept over her. “Please don’t.”


  “You didn’t mind sleeping with me last night,” he said, his breath warm on her neck. Delicious tingles ran through her.

  “Last night?”

  “Last night,” he murmured, the sound husky, and she felt his lips on her neck. “You do remember last night, don’t you?”

  While her body abandoned itself to the rush of wondrous sensations, to the need and desire rising so blatantly, her mind frantically sought to recall last night. Last night? Had something happened last night? Had she slept through it?

  His mouth touched the delicate skin of her throat. Lucy gasped, her last coherent thought being that this was wrong, absolutely wrong, she must not allow this, and while he nibbled there, she felt his hand close over her breast. His palm made lazy, sensual circles. Lucy’s eyes closed and she lay very still, letting him touch her.

  A moment later she became aware that his hand had paused, that his mouth had paused. Lucy could hear her own harsh breathing and the pounding of her heart. She was afraid to move. It wasn’t possible, was it? Very cautiously she turned her head to look at him. “Shoz?”

  There was no response. Incredulous, she saw that he was sound asleep. Her head fell back down. She expelled a long, shaky breath of relief—mingled with frustration.

  19

  Ahead was the Rio Grande.

  Lucy wasn’t sure how she felt. It was midafternoon and gruelingly hot. They’d been riding at a moderate pace since sunup, without a break. She knew she was very lucky to have her straw hat, and wondered how Shoz could bear to go bareheaded in the heat. He’d cut off one of his shirttails and tied it around his forehead to catch the perspiration before it dripped into his eyes.

  They paused on a rise, mounted on the bay. Lucy’s heart was pounding. She sat in front of Shoz, as she had whenever they rode, and he had one hard forearm braced around her waist. Sometimes she could feel his breath on her nape, and it was disturbing.

  He, too, was silent. What was he thinking?

  Was he going to let her go? She thought that promises didn’t mean much to an outlaw like Shoz. But he had to let her go. She had to return to Paradise, to her family, who, by now, were probably sick with worry. She had to return. They had reached the border and she had served her purpose. There was no reason for him to take her any farther.