She knew the facts about mating. Growing up on a ranch, one learned such things at an early age. And her parents had been intimate around her. At least she’d thought they had been. They’d freely kissed and embraced.
But she’d never suspected the rest. The touching, the feverish, liquid heat that spread through her body, the aching in her loins, the yearning that traced its way from head to foot, throbbing, pumping life, glorious life through her veins. Again, she realized that her body had been prepared for such intimacies far beyond her experience and knowledge.
Was there more to learn? Surely. The realization that she would learn it from Will Radnor set her pores on fire and her heart to singing.
If he lived through her foolhardy scheme, she admonished, worried now, lest he be arrested along with Joaquín. He was too smart for that, she argued. Way too smart. He could take care of himself, and her, too, she had a feeling. If he lived through her harebrained scheme.
Finally, at long last, a figure rounded the corner of the jailhouse. She recognized him. A thrill raced through her. He’d made it.
It was hard, feeling like she did, to keep her mind on the business at hand. All she really wanted was to fling herself in his arms and kiss him. She wanted to feel his body probing sensually against hers. She knew what that meant. But she had never imagined it would feel so good, so right.
She wanted to tell him that. She wanted to ask him what else she had in store and demand that he teach her now, tonight, here, beneath the piñons. But she didn’t.
“How’d it go?” she whispered, handing him a serape and sombrero like her own.
“We’ll see.”
“He believed you?”
“He didn’t want to. I told him he didn’t have a choice, that if he didn’t come out, you’d be caught out here holding the horses. That seemed to reach him.”
When Will held up the serape, looking for the top, she took hold of it and slipped it over his head. Her hands rested on his shoulders, with the tacit excuse of pulling his shirt collar through. She felt his muscles quiver and wondered whether it was from her touch or from his encounter with Newt and Joaquín.
“You’re learning, Will Radnor,” she teased. “For a greenhorn, you’ve got possibilities.”
He studied her a moment, but, as was often the case, she couldn’t begin to guess what was on his mind. She hoped he was thinking about kissing her. She suspected she shouldn’t be so bold as to kiss him—unless worse came to worst.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, finally. Stepping aside, he ducked his head and fitted the sombrero on it. He pulled the chin strap tight. It hid his eyes, so she couldn’t tell whether he was looking at her.
“What happened in there?”
“I unlocked the back door and Joaquín’s cell. I told him not to leave the cell until Jessie sets up a racket in the other room.”
“What kind of racket?”
Will busied himself with his saddle. He flipped the stirrup over the seat and tugged on the cinch, tightening it.
“What were they doing?” she demanded, a little louder this time. “Jessie and Newt.”
“Sh, Pri—Jake. Someone might hear you.”
“There’s no one around, Radnor.” Jake? Not Miss Jake. Not even Miss Priss, which she hated. Not Priscilla, which he pronounced with a Yankee twang that had begun to sing melodiously through her senses.
“So, what were they doing? Jessie said she could keep Newt occupied—”
“Leave it alone,” Will snapped. Turning, he leaned back against the saddle, arms folded over his serape, eyes trained on the back door of the jail.
She followed his line of vision. “Let’s see. She took a satchel…filled with what?…and liquor. She wore that low-cut—”
“Cut it out,” Will whispered under his breath.
Heavens, he was uptight. No wonder. What he went through in that jail would have been unnerving to anyone. But she recalled Pa’s claim that a nervous man was a dangerous man, to others as well as to himself.
So, Priscilla decided, in the line of duty, she should try to lighten Will’s mood. “Let me guess,” she began boldly, aided by the darkness that enveloped them and by her newfound obsession with all matters sexual. “There’s no bed in the front room…They were in the front room, weren’t they?”
Silence.
“Front room. No bed.” She turned to Will’s stoic profile. “I’m not sure about this, Will. Do you always need a bed?”
With an audible gasp, he turned his face to her, tilted now, so the moon caught his expression beneath the wide brim of the sombrero. He glared at her. “Cut it out.” After a moment, during which the shock she felt at his harshness registered in his own eyes, he turned abruptly back to the jail.
“No, I guess you don’t always need a bed.” She watched his profile for a reaction, but he remained stiff and mute. “Yes would have been an easy answer, but for some reason you must be reluctant to discuss intimate—”
“Cut it out, Jake. I’m trying real hard to forget you’re a woman. So give me a break.”
The silence almost suffocated her. The silence and his harsh tone…and his words. Forget? Why would he want to forget? She’d seen passion in his eyes. She’d felt it in his touch, in his body. Now he wanted to forget it? Why, when she wanted to remember and experience and…The thought of what this meant flooded her with embarrassment.
And hurt. And anger. How could she have allowed herself to submit to the passion of the moment? She’d known from the first he was a man of mercurial mood swings. He was ill-tempered and rude and despicable. Her parents were obviously right.
His voice pierced the stillness. His tone could have come from a stranger. She wished it had. Then she realized what he was saying.
“Here he comes.” Turning, Will caught her around the waist, lifting her to her saddle. “Get going. Ride one block east, then out of town. Joaquín will take this street. I’ll go—”
“I know the plan.”
“Then ride.”
She stared at the crown of his sombrero. “You expect Joaquín to follow your instructions?”
“His weapons are on your horse.”
Mutely she handed him the third serape and sombrero.
Taking them, he tipped his hat with a finger to the brim. Like a native, she thought sadly. Before Joaquín reached them, Will slapped the rump of her horse. “Ride, Jake.”
Nine
Priscilla was the first to arrive at the grove of oak trees southwest of town, their designated meeting place. She’d ridden faster than was good for her horse, hoping the wind in her face would cool her off and lessen the acute sense of betrayal that had begun to compound the hurt of Will’s rejection. What she needed was anger, but at the moment she was too confused to be mad.
She wasn’t worried about the Haskels following them out of town, she assured herself. Jessie’s plan had been well laid.
Running into Mr. Monroe and his sons, who’d agreed to strike a trail to the north, had clearly been a stroke of luck put to good use.
No, Priscilla wasn’t worried. Certainly not as worried as Will. He’d been against her scheme from the beginning, but she had forced him to acknowledge that her plan was the only way to save Joaquín’s life. She was still convinced she was right.
But look what being right had cost her. She’d traded Joaquín’s life for Will’s respect. She’d do it again, of course. A man’s life was more important than anything else. Without one’s life, nothing could be accomplished. Nothing.
And it was beginning to look like nothing was going to be accomplished in her own life. Will’s harsh words screamed through her memory with the raucous tones of a mockingbird who’d spent his life living among hawks. Mocking. Taunting. Embarrassing.
I’m trying real hard to forget you’re a woman.
To forget? How could he say such a thing? Why did he want to forget? The memory of his kisses teased her with soft yearning. The gentleness of his touch. The tender heat of his body aga
inst hers. Forget all that? She wanted to remember it forever. She wanted to experience it again. All of it and more. She wanted him to teach her more.
And he wanted to forget it ever happened. That’s what he meant. His reason, though unstated, was obvious. She wasn’t feminine enough to suit him. She might have the body of a woman, but she wasn’t a lady. Blast it all. She wasn’t a lady.
She was a cowboy. She trailed horse herds and roped calves and branded steers. She even cursed like a man. He’d told her so himself.
And certainly she didn’t dress like a lady. The idea of girding up in corsets and high-necked, tight-bodiced gowns made her gasp for breath, just thinking about it. She’d worn britches and shirts and boots all her life. To Mama’s consternation, to be sure.
Since the Haskel trouble began, she’d started buckling on guns and carrying a Winchester. She was an expert marksman. As good as that blasted greenhorn.
But lately she’d tried to change. Her loose silk shirt whispered against her skin, reminding her of her meager attempt to dress like a lady. One silk shirt and one lace camisole obviously hadn’t done the trick.
So what would turn her into a lady? In the darkness Priscilla tried to call forth images of her mother, who was the finest lady she’d ever known. She considered every detail, from Mama’s soft voice to her delicate constitution to her sensuous silhouette.
Oh, Mama! Why didn’t I listen to you? What should I do now? What she’d like do was crawl under a boulder and hide for the next thousand years. Will’s rejection hurt. Beyond that, it humiliated her. For he had rejected the very thing she craved. And she’d had no compunction about showing him how much she craved it.
Kissing him back. She felt again the heady thrill of his tongue on his lips, in her mouth.
Playing her fingers through his hair. She felt his heated skin, the muscle twitches, the way he had drawn her near and nearer, pressing their bodies together, fitting them together.
She remembered. How well she remembered. And she wanted it again. No, she wanted to die of embarrassment. But more than that, she wanted to know how to act when he rode up to this oak grove in the next few minutes. She wanted to know how a lady would act. Why had she been so stubborn? Why had she resisted learning the very things she needed to know for her own happiness?
She checked the sky overhead. The big dipper had swung low. He would be here soon.
Surely. Unless…
By the time Will and Joaquín galloped into view, Priscilla was fit to be tied. She hadn’t realized she’d been worried about them until they topped the hill. Seeing them, concern for herself vanished, and she knew it had been but a smokescreen for her deeper worry. Will and Joaquín. Facing the Haskels alone. She had imagined them in jail. She’d imagined them lying by the roadside shot through the back. She’d imagined their horses stepping in varmint holes…
“I’d almost given up on you.” In her relief, she forgot to restrain her enthusiasm.
Will stepped from the saddle. His eyes roamed over her, searching. “Have any trouble?” Even though his tone was brittle, she took the question as a sign he’d been worried, too.
“No trouble.” She smiled. “We did it, Will. I told you it’d work. We did it!”
“Don’t speak so fast.”
“The worst is over,” she assured him.
“The worst is far from over.” He glanced back toward town. When his gaze returned to her, his eyes were hard as flint. “Where I come from ladies get excited over the latest fashions, not over breaking prisoners out of jail.”
His tone was caustic, as it had been earlier in town. It sliced through Priscilla’s emotions as surely as if he’d used Uncle Sog’s meat cleaver. Hurt and fury poured from her wounded spirit. She struggled to suppress her hurt, to allow her fury to emerge. When she spoke it was with icy control. “Then that should make it real easy for you to forget I’m a woman, greenhorn.”
Will spun away, but not before she saw the dismay in his expression. “We can’t dillydally around here till daylight, waiting for the Haskels to catch up.” He looked at Joaquín. “Which way do we go?”
Will’s harshness added much needed fuel to Priscilla’s anger, giving her strength to fight back. “The Haskels are chasing Mr. Monroe and his sons.”
“You know that?”
“Yes.”
“You saw them?”
“No, I didn’t see them.” He was right, blast him. But she’d be damned if she’d say so.
“The Monroes?” Joaquín, too, had dismounted, and like Will, held his reins in hand. “What’s ol’ man Monroe got to do with this?”
“Jessie saw them in town this afternoon,” Priscilla explained. “They agreed to ride out of town after dark, giving folks an eyeful of three riders headed north.”
“¡Madre de Dios! Did you alert the whole damned country?” Pivoting with sure-footed ease, Joaquín started to remount. “I’m gettin’ out of here.”
Will grabbed his arm. Joaquín tensed. Priscilla jumped between them.
“Will,” she warned. Unarmed though he was, Joaquín was still as dangerous as any of Victorio’s braves. Rage flared between the two men.
Will’s voice, low but clear, traveled over Priscilla’s head from behind. “We broke the law to save your hide, Joaquín, not to mention the danger we put ourselves in. You’re sticking with us until we reach Victorio’s.”
“Victorio’s?”
“They won’t follow us there,” Priscilla explained. “It’ll be the safest place. Maybe the only safe place.”
“I can get to the ranchería by myself.” He glared at Priscilla. “I don’t need you or any white-eyes lawyer to save my hide.”
“Then we should have left you in jail,” Will hissed. “They were fixin’ to break you out and lynch you.”
“Says who?”
“Newt told Jessie,” Priscilla said.
“The Haskels are mean, not dumb. Why the hell would they do something stupid like that?”
“They figured killing you would be the easiest way to break Charlie McCain.”
“Like hell.” Joaquín staggered backward, obviously stunned by Will’s claim.
“They think killing you would cause Pa so much distress he’d quit fighting them over—”
“Spanish Creek,” Joaquín spat.
“Spanish Creek,” Priscilla repeated.
Distress flashed across Joaquín’s face, before his features turned to stone. “Like hell it’d break Charlie. He’d probably pay them to do it. That’d free his conscience, once and for all.”
Priscilla felt Will tense behind her. His voice was cold, emotionless. “I don’t like it any better than you do, Joaquín, but for the time being, we stick together.”
Tense seconds ticked past. Will dropped his hand. Joaquín stepped away. But for the longest time Priscilla couldn’t move. She stood gazing off into the night, clenching and unclenching her fists, concentrating on getting a grip on her emotions, forcing her hurt into the deep recesses of her heart, submerging it with anger. Finally she strode to her saddled horse.
“Mount up, girls,” she barked in her best imitation of Uncle Crockett calling cowboys to horse. “Time’s wastin’. The Haskels won’t be fooled for long.” Stepping into the saddle, she spurred her mount. The horse reared, then pitched forward into the night.
“We’ll ride south,” Joaquín called.
“No,” she hollered over her shoulder. “We’ll cross the Río Grande, then turn south. That way, if the Haskels pick up our trail, we won’t lead them to Victorio.” Behind her she heard the men set out. When one of them came abreast, she steeled herself to look straight ahead.
“Break a horse’s leg, they’ll catch you for sure.” Joaquín kept pace. When she didn’t respond, he added, “I don’t know what burr’s between you and that white-eyes lawyer, but if you run your horse to ground, don’t expect me to hang around and face a noose.”
She turned a stony face to him. Joaquín, her childhood friend. Jo
aquín, possibly her brother. She’d broken the law to set him free, yet somehow all she felt was pain, for in doing it, she had ruined any chance she might have had with Will Radnor.
Will heard Joaquín’s comment from behind the two riders. Priscilla didn’t respond, but he knew the answer. Hell, he’d deliberately antagonized her, pushed her away. Of course she didn’t understand.
But he couldn’t explain—yet. Soon enough she would know, and she would hate him. So she might as well start hating him now.
She led them on a wild race through the night, as though they were being pursued by the devil, and Will followed like he had good sense. Joaquín was right, she risked breaking a horse’s leg. So did they, following her. Hell, he didn’t even need to follow her.
He shouldn’t follow her. She and Joaquín could take care of themselves. He should let them go on to the ranchería, while he headed back to Spanish Creek and had it out with Charlie. He could have his business with Charlie finished and be gone from the territory by the time she returned to the ranch.
He should.
But he didn’t. He told himself he couldn’t leave his client to outrun the law by himself. But of course that wasn’t the reason he spurred his winded horse and kept up with the mindless pace set by Miss Jake McCain.
Even now when he knew all was over between them, over before it had begun, his heart was heavy. Now, when he should be worrying about how to prove Joaquín’s innocence before a crooked judge—saying they escaped capture and hanging and he managed to get in and out of Victorio’s ranchería with his scalp intact—now, after he’d finally found the strength to check their rampaging emotions, even now all he could think about was holding her in his arms, feeling her body against his, tasting her sweetness—
The last thought elicited a sardonic chuckle. Sweetness and Priscilla McCain shouldn’t fit in the same sentence. But they did. Even when she rode in wild revenge through the dark night, she was somehow the sweetest thing he’d ever known. And he followed her like he had good sense.
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