by Lisa Plumley
“You said you accepted my apology,” she pointed out,
hurrying to keep up with his powerful steps. “You said you forgave me.”
“I did.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so…you don’t look as if you did. In fact,” Julia mused, “you look as though you’d like to peel off the mercantile sign and conk me over the head with it.”
He gazed at the sign in question as they passed by. The speculative gleam in his eye did not comfort her.
“I’m trying to be polite,” Graham said.
“You’d make a more convincing impression,” Julia said, “if you’d stop gritting your teeth.”
The bounty hunter bared them instead, in a toothy smile.
Julia yelped. “Now you look as though you’d like to take a bite out of me!”
“I would.” His swift, heated glance set her blood atingle. “Once I simmer down, I might.”
Praise for new Harlequin Historical author Lisa Plumley
“Lisa Plumley’s name on the cover always guarantees a good read.”
—Under the Covers Book Reviews
“…an author of exceptional talent whose witty style makes her one of the genre’s finest.”
—Rendezvous
“Ms. Plumley is a topnotch author whose unique storytelling ability is a blessing to romance readers everywhere.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
#603 THE BRIDE FAIR
Cheryl Reavis
#604 MISS VEREY’S PROPOSAL
Nicola Cornick
#606 DRAGON’S KNIGHT
Catherine Archer
THE DRIFTER
Lisa Plumley
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
LISA PLUMLEY
The Drifter #605
To Jean Price and DeWanna Pace for their support and encouragement.
And to John Plumley, because this doesn’t happen every day.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter One
April 1887
Avalanche, Arizona Territory
Mornings were pure hell, Graham Corley decided on the third day of his latest fugitive-capture celebration. Whether decked out in snowfall, whiskey fumes, or—as was the case today—one thousand proof northern Arizona Territory sunshine, they all left him with the same thought.
Where am I today?
He’d awakened to the thunderous rattle of a mule-drawn freight wagon and the familiar sensation of being lost. Now, he cracked open his eyes in time to glimpse the cockeyed disappearance of the wagon ’round the corner near the Last Chance saloon. Squinting through the plumes of dust settling back onto the main street a few yards away, he shoved himself up on his elbow.
The view straightened itself, revealing several more unpainted lumber-framed buildings, two cowboys passing by on horseback, and the skimpy patch of grass that must have served as his bed last night. He dug his boot heels into a clump of it and pushed all the way upright.
Something rough scratched against his back, scuffing the prime canvas duster coat he’d won in a poker game last night. Frowning, Graham looked over his shoulder to investigate. Cottonwood bark met his disgusted gaze. How had he fallen asleep propped up against a damned tree?
Worse, how had he forgotten doing it?
From beneath his hat brim, he looked higher, idly examining the cottonwood’s sturdy trunk and new spring leaves in an effort to gain his bearings. Against the naked sky, the branches swayed lazily in the breeze. More than half of their leaves weren’t even unfurled all the way yet…just like him.
He was a slow riser by nature. And a wary one by training. Any bounty hunter who wanted to stay alive had to be. But despite the weight of the Colt strapped near his hip, the knife sheathed in his boot, and the rifle he’d left beneath his unoccupied boardinghouse room’s bed, on this particular morning Graham felt relatively carefree.
So far as he knew, no one had tracked him to…where was he again? Avalanche. That was the name of the town. He remembered hearing it when he’d stopped into the saloon two nights ago, dusty and bone-tired after days spent on the twisty mountain trail. Welcome to Avalanche, the barkeep had said. Friendliest town in the West.
If that was true, he could relax. For the moment, at least. The Hidalgo Kid was safely delivered to the sheriff. The money Graham had earned for nabbing the hoister was safely on the way to his bank account in Baltimore—less enough funds to cover his expenses until he took to the road again. Nothing but endless possibilities stretched before him. And that was just the way his drifter’s heart liked it.
With a sigh of satisfaction, Graham tugged his flat-brimmed hat over his unshaven face and patted its low crown firmly in place to shade his eyes. Soothing darkness wiped away his thoughts.
For all of two seconds.
Then the discontentment that had plagued him returned. Like the harsh sunlight overhead, it needled past his defenses and wouldn’t be ignored. Swearing beneath his breath, Graham shifted deeper in his new duster coat and turned his thoughts to a surefire diversion.
In his mind’s eye, he imagined camisoles and ruby-painted lips. Shimmering paste jewels and lush, curvy bosoms to lay them upon. Satiny garters, and the memory of rolling pale silk stockings down long, curvaceous legs. Sweet feminine seduction, a feather mattress made for two, and…damn.
His mind wandered at the sound of birdcalls nearby, and Graham felt more miserable than ever.
This wasn’t working. Not even recollections of the fancy women he’d known on the trail were enough to shove away the niggling doubts he’d carried for the past few months. It seemed there was no getting around it.
His life of adventure had gotten downright boring. Chasing down the same old desperadoes just wasn’t what it used to be. Neither were taking pay for a job he’d increasingly lost interest in, and sleeping in musty beds in faraway places…not to mention passing out beneath cottonwood trees.
Opening his eyes again, Graham absently rubbed the well-worn stock of his holstered Colt, and realized the truth that stared him in the face. In truly pitiful fashion, not even pulling iron on the occasional reluctant prisoner was enough to enliven his days anymore.
’Twas enough to give a man the willies.
Especially a bounty-hunting man.
But what was he supposed to do now? Feeling shaken, Graham edged sideways, seeking a more comfortable position against the cottonwood tree. Beside him, a forgotten bottle of Old Orchard tipped and spilled. Its amber contents glugged slowly from the bottle and soaked into the ground. The tang of whiskey filled the air, carried on the same breeze that swept his dark hair from his shoulders and ruffled his coat sleeves.
Hoping to ease his mind temporarily, Graham picked up the bottle and took a slug. The liquor seared a path to his belly. Immediately, he screwed up his face in disgust and shoved the rest of the whiskey aside. Christ! How did anyone in their right mind drink firewater like that first thing in the morning? Obviously, he had no future as Avalanche’s town drunk.
On the other hand, he wasn’t the kind of man to worry about his future, whiskey-soaked or not. With one last look around the main street, tree-dot
ted park, and buildings surrounding him, Graham closed his eyes and got ready to catch up on the shut-eye he’d missed while tracking Hidalgo and bringing him into custody.
He didn’t know how much time had passed before a feminine voice spoke nearby.
“Have you lost your mind?” its owner demanded. “What are you doing?”
The words rushed past in an urgent, Spanish-flavored whisper. Whoever this worrier was, she possessed an abundance of indignation…but on behalf of whom? Remaining motionless, Graham listened.
Someone approached, their footfalls barely discernable against the soft earth and freshly sprouted grass. He sensed a presence beside him—a presence both female and gently bred, judging by the lace-bedecked yellow skirts he glimpsed from beneath his hat, and the subtle fragrance of oranges that swirled from within their depths when she moved.
Too bad, Graham thought idly. A fancy woman might have provided an afternoon’s entertainment, at least.
“Be quiet, before you wake him,” the possessor of the yellow skirts warned.
Her voice, like the first, was also feminine. But that was where the similarities ended. This new voice, sweetly pitched and vaguely husky, warmed Graham in a way he’d seldom experienced. The sound of it lingered in his ears, combining with the tart, citrus-scented air to leave him languid and content.
“Stay over there,” Miss Yellow Skirts went on, speaking in the direction of the street. “If he’s not the right one, one of us needs to be ready to summon the sheriff.”
Or maybe not so languid and content, after all. Warily, Graham nudged his thumb the barest fraction to the left, ensuring his Colt would be within drawing distance. Woman or not, there was no point letting down his guard now. He’d taken in enough lady sharpers to know the bad guys didn’t always wear britches and boots and a long waxed mustache.
“The sheriff?” The lady’s companion sounded more worried than ever. “But—”
“Shhh. I think he’s moved.”
Surprise jolted through him. Had she noticed his thumb edging onto the stock of his Colt? It seemed unlikely. The motion had been slight, at best. And yet…
“Yes, he’s definitely moved. Curious.”
“Maybe he isn’t so drunk as he looks,” the Spanish-sounding woman suggested. “Maybe Miss Lillian told us wrong about him.”
“Maybe.” She sounded doubtful. Curious.
Just the way Graham felt. Were they pickpockets, hoping to help themselves to some poor drunk’s boodle? His boodle? Or were they a pair of ladies strolling in the park, deciding what to do about the stranger in their midst?
They’d already come too close, though. His only advantage lay in surprise, and Graham meant to use it. ’Til then, he’d have to be still.
The breeze kicked up. The yellow skirts beside him stirred, then billowed higher, momentarily revealing a pair of prissy, high-buttoned shoes and trim ankles. His gaze lingered. Moved upward. Maybe a lady could prove almost as entertaining as a fancy woman….
“I still don’t think this is wise.” The Spanish voice turned louder and quieter by turns, as though the woman kept swiveling her head to keep a lookout.
She could be Miss Yellow Skirt’s stall, ready to warn her if anyone approached. She could also be the lady’s maid or friend or even her damned chaperone, for all he knew. Graham didn’t remember seeing many ladies when he’d ridden into Avalanche—maybe a few more than the typical western town, if that. Nestled in the pine-covered mountains of northern Arizona Territory as it was, perhaps the town attracted more than the usual quantity of families for settlers.
A whole town choked with families. Just his blasted luck.
“Don’t be alarmist. Of course it’s wise,” the lady beside him said. Much to Graham’s disappointment, the wind had calmed and so had her fluttering skirts. “Look at him, Isabel. He’s perfect!”
“I knew it. You have lost your mind. It’s all those books of yours. And that fancy college edu—”
“Now, now. Let’s not start that again.”
Her voice receded as she flounced away on her prissy shoes, saying something more to “Isabel” that Graham couldn’t hear clearly. Then she returned, her sunny skirts swaying to and fro above the stubbled grass.
Oddly enough, the image reminded him of his unshaven jaw. And his undoubtedly disreputable-looking clothes. He hadn’t seen the point in unpacking his saddlebags for the few days he planned to stay in Avalanche. Now, despite the fact that his white, half-but-toned Henley shirt, tan britches, and duster coat were clean, Graham experienced an unlikely wish they could be unwrinkled and free of the occasional self-made mending job, too.
This, he thought sourly, must be what came of spending too much time in a town populated by families. Three days had been too long. Next thing he knew, he’d be wanting to take up knitting, or something equally domesticated.
Suppressing a shudder, Graham watched the yellow skirts fan out on the grass just beside his knee. Given the fact that his hat brim shaded most of his face, he couldn’t make out much more than that fine circle of fabric. The lady’s face remained a mystery to him. So did her purpose. Resolutely, he waited for her to make her move…and made immediate plans to pull foot out of family-infested Avalanche as soon as possible. Any place that could make him take an interest in laundry was a dangerous place, indeed.
But no more dangerous than the lady herself. Her voice swept over him again, with more evident surety than before. “See what I mean?” she asked. “He’s absolutely ideal.”
“Oh, si? Why is that?”
“Well, just look at him!”
She raised herself upward again, evidently demonstrating the reasoning behind her opinion. Graham watched her curvy little heels tread circles around his resting place beneath the cottonwood tree, then come to a halt a few inches from the boot he sheathed his knife in. Examining her foot—which tapped impatiently as she went on talking—the tremendous difference between their sizes struck him. Whoever she was, she must be delicate.
That, or she had feet like an elf, stuck on an ordinary, woman-sized body. At the notion, his lips quirked beneath the shade of his hat brim.
“This man,” Miss Yellow Skirts said, “is exactly what I’ve been seeking. Can’t you see? He’s big, obviously strong, well-armed—”
Despite the fact that Miss Know-It-All would probably detect the movement, Graham felt his chest expand a few inches as pride filled him. He was indeed big, strong, and well-armed. He also possessed several other positive—
“—unshaven, shabbily dressed, and he appears to be down on his luck, as well. He’s perfect!”
—qualities she was obviously too blind to recognize. Feeling grumpy, he decided to cheer himself by imagining the woman’s gleeful self tossed into the water barrel beside the Second Chance saloon…starched yellow skirts, and all.
“And he ought to be amenable to my proposal, as well.”
There was a pause as two feminine hands came into view, clad in high-falutin’ embroidered lady’s gloves with pearl buttons at the wrists. She spread them, palms-down, on the grass beside his knee. Contrasted with his rough and patched-up britches, those gloved hands of hers seemed twice as fancy. Twice as exotic, when compared with the things in his rough-and-tumble bounty hunter’s world.
Whoever this lady was, she must be as different from him as the Boston harbors of his boyhood were from the southwestern deserts he’d trekked to get here. Two worlds. Completely opposite. And impossible to put together, short of a miracle.
Despite that fact, momentarily Graham pictured himself unfastening those tiny pearl buttons. Easing the gloves away. Saw her fingers intertwining with his…and figured he must have been out in the sun too long. Mush-hearted imaginings like these were not his way at all.
Miss Yellow Skirts muttered something, then said, “I’d certainly like to get a look at his face first, though.”
A flower-bedecked monstrosity of a lady’s bonnet loomed suddenly over his thighs. She was bending
down to have a closer look at him! Graham closed his eyes, filled with something very near excitement. Which made not a lick of sense. He decided it must be relief that the lady’s mysterious mission was about to be revealed—or curiosity about how she must look, crouched on all fours to peer at him—and left it at that.
The fragrance of oranges drifted closer. He wanted to breathe deeply of it, wanted, suddenly and inexplicably, to pull her all the way onto his lap and find out if the lady tasted as good as she smelled. He did neither. Instead, when he sensed she knelt directly in front of him, Graham opened his eyes.
Staring back at him was an uppity-looking female with dark upswept hair, pretty blue eyes, and a bonnet that looked far too big for her head to keep upright. Just as he’d thought. A gently bred lady. Exactly the type of woman he spent most of his days avoiding.
So why had this one piqued his interest?
She hadn’t, Graham told himself in the few seconds that swept past before he could find his voice again. She never would.
“Look your fill,” he said. He reached out and grasped her gloved wrist, then gently tugged her closer. “And that proposition you talked about before? You’ll find I can be real amenable…given the right encouragement.”
Chapter Two
Oh, my. She was certainly fortunate to have remembered her gloves this morning.
With that nonsensical thought, Julia Bennett gaped into the rugged face—and alarmingly alert features—of the man who’d grabbed her. His self-assured expression jogged up and down as she tottered and fell sideways, landing ignominiously on her backside in the dew-damp park grass. My, oh, my.
She’d thought he was asleep. Or unconscious. Utterly oblivious to what transpired around him. With his big body sprawled beneath the tallest cottonwood in the Avalanche municipal park, his battered hat drawn over his face, and an air of relaxation more befitting a tabby cat in the sun than a fully grown man, he had certainly appeared unaware.
Looking at him now, though, Julia knew she’d been mistaken. This particular man had probably never been insensible to his surroundings in his life…nor to the ladies within them.