Wanted!

by Pam Crooks

  Lark’s breath quickened in frantic desperation as she bolted into the shadows beyond his house. He didn’t show it, didn’t say it, but her senses had screamed with the certainty.

  And she knew who he was. The bounty hunter who had gunned her down all those years ago. The lawman who would just as soon see her dead as take up space in a jail cell. She never heard his name until tonight, but the memory of him, of what he’d done, had haunted her for weeks, months, after her arrest. Until tonight, she’d almost forgotten Ross Santana existed.

  Oh, God.

  He knew who she was, all right. Why else had he gone into his room and shut the door? Her instincts had kicked in the minute he left, warning her that there was something in there he didn’t want her to see, or he was going to do something he didn’t want her to see him do. And once he left her alone, she had no choice but to run.

  She halted at the first structure she came to, a small building beyond the yard. Any second, Santana would open his front door, see her out here, and until she could get her bearings, formulate a plan of escape, she needed a minute to hide and compose herself.

  To think.

  Thankfully, the door to the structure wasn’t locked. She slipped inside, making sure the door was latched tight behind her. She stood in darkness so deep, so black, she couldn’t define where she was, and for a moment, she didn’t move. The stark silence and pungent scent of fresh-cut wood told her there were no livestock near to betray her presence.

  She sagged against the door. She tilted her head back and sucked in a long, miserable breath. She, Lark Renault, respectable bank teller and Mr. Templeton’s prize employee, was forced to hide out in a woodshed like a common criminal.

  Which she was, of course. Once.

  Now, Catfish Jack was after her. Ross Santana, too, and the longer she hid in here feeling sorry for herself, the sooner one of them would find her.

  She had to keep moving. But how? Steal one of Santana’s horses to make her escape? And where would she go? How would she defend herself?

  How would she survive?

  She’d find a way.

  First, she needed money. Clothes and food. Which meant a trip back to her sleeping room at Mrs. Kelley’s. After that, the Ida Grove Bank to withdraw her savings. Mr. Templeton wouldn’t approve of her sneaking into the vault so late at night, and who could blame him? But she had to, and—

  Voices outside shattered her frenzied thoughts. She leapt away from the door, pulling her black cape tighter around her as she sought something, anything, to hide behind.

  But, oh, God, she couldn’t see, it was so dark. Unexpectedly, her knee knocked against a solid heap and sent the whole pile clattering to the floor with a terrible racket. She cried out at the contact, her balance lost, her arms reaching out to break her fall. She landed hard, and pain from her lacerated shoulder bit into her nerve endings.

  Holy hellfire, Santana would know where she was now. He’d be here any minute—any second—but still she scrambled to hide, scurrying on her hands and knees like some kind of disgusting, nocturnal insect.

  The lowest of all creatures.

  Tears of frustration, of fear and utter dismay, welled up. Her cape tangled around her legs, hindering her escape, stealing away precious time. She clawed at the yards of fabric, and just as she freed herself, the door burst wide open.

  Lark twisted. Lantern light jumped into the room. Chat Santana stood in the doorway.

  “Miss Renault?” she said in a careful tone, worry in her expression. “You’ll be all right. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Maybe she wouldn’t, Lark thought. But Santana would. He’d throw her in jail so fast her teeth would sing. He’d hold her responsible for all the trouble at the Turf Club, when in truth, he was the cause of it. That wagon full of Pinks, too. Worse, he’d want to know all about the Muscatine heist.

  “Just leave me be,” Lark said, appalled at the quiver in her voice. A tiny part of her realized how pitiful she must look, sprawled on the floor, sawdust covering her cape. She scrambled to her feet. Her mind worked to find a way past Chat and the doorway she stood in.

  Chat shook her head slowly. “I want to help you.”

  Lark wanted to believe her. She wanted to be convinced that Chat was nothing like her brother.

  But Lark couldn’t be that gullible. Chat was a Santana, and she’d be as justice-minded as he was.

  “Let me go, then,” Lark said. She took a step toward the door. She was older, stronger, could push her way past the girl if she had to.

  “I can’t do that. It’s not safe for you to leave here. Let us help you, Miss Renault.”

  Lark’s resolve wavered. Chat spoke her name perfectly, a tribute to her intelligence. She sounded genuine and nice. Kind. Lark wanted to believe her so badly it hurt.

  “Us?” Lark couldn’t help the derision in her tone. “Your brother has no reason to help me. Why would he?”

  “I know this is hard for you, but you have to trust him. He’s very good. He’s just who you need right now.”

  Lark took another step toward her. Toward the door. She’d lost too much time already. “No, I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I just need for you to step aside and forget you ever saw me.”

  “Don’t play us for fools, Wild Red,” Santana growled from somewhere behind her. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Lark spun in alarm. She hadn’t known there was a back door to the place, or that Santana had gotten inside, slick as a snake. But there he was, tall, shrouded in shadow, with a Colt .45 in his hand.

  Her instincts had proved right. He knew who she was.

  Or had been.

  “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “I’m not her anymore.”

  He smirked. “Once an outlaw, always an outlaw.”

  Catfish had taunted her with those same words only a few hours ago. Before Lark could declare she’d never go against the law again, Chat made a sound of protest.

  “Ross, please,” she said. “Put your gun away. Give her a chance.”

  He ignored her. He strode toward Lark with the smooth, powerful stealth of a man comfortable on the hunt.

  Which he was, of course.

  Ready to close in for the kill.

  Lark trembled. She stood with Chat at one door, Santana at the other. Sandwiched between them, with no hope of escape.

  “Let’s go in the house.” Santana stopped a few feet away. He kept the revolver aimed at her chest, but his voice had lost some of its edge.

  The last time she had a weapon pointed at her, blood had spilled. Her blood. Santana had pulled the trigger, and if she resisted him now, her fate would be even worse.

  He’d shoot her dead.

  She had to cooperate with him. For now. But she’d not make things easy, and she intended to escape him first chance she got.

  “Now.” Santana grasped her elbow to nudge her forward.

  Lark jerked free. Her shoulder hurt when she did. “Don’t touch me.”

  His jaw clenched, though he made no move to take her arm again. “Chat will walk with you into the house. I’ll be right behind.”

  “Fine.” Lark swung away. She noticed the fresh-cut lumber scattered over the floor, the pile she’d stumbled over earlier and yet another mess she’d made tonight.

  “Leave ’em,” Santana said, as if he knew what she was thinking.

  She skirted the pile and drew closer to Chat. Lark estimated her to be the same age she was when she fled to Canada, already guilty of a long string of crimes. Where Lark had been hardened by the lawless side of life, Chat had been protected from it. Santana would’ve seen to that.

  Lark sensed the questions the girl longed to ask, but didn’t. Too, she expected to see pity in her eyes, but there was none. Only gentleness and concern, and a burst of emotion pushed into Lark’s throat.

  “You must be exhausted after all that’s happened.” Chat held the door open. “Things will get better from here on out. You’ll see.”

>   Lark swallowed hard and eyed her dubiously. After all, Lark had a Colt pointed at her back, a bounty hunter determined to make her pay for her crime, and a ruthless outlaw on her tail who would forever destroy the new life she’d worked so hard to build. How could things be any worse?

  When they were in the house, Santana locked the door a second time, then went about the place pulling curtains snug over their windows. Chat led Lark into the kitchen.

  “You need something in your stomach, and dinner’s ready. Won’t take but a minute before we eat, then you and Ross can talk,” she said. “You can wash up in here. I’ll take your cape for you.”

  She extended a hand for the garment, but Lark drew back. She didn’t think she could eat at Santana’s table as if there was nothing between them, as if this night was just a pleasant social occasion. Didn’t Chat understand all Lark had at stake?

  “She’s been knifed,” Santana said, joining them. He set the Colt on the table, out of Lark’s reach, but close to his own. “The wound will need tending before she can have dinner.”

  “Knifed! Oh, my God. I had no idea. I’ll get your medicines,” Chat said, rushing toward his room farthest from the kitchen.

  Santana’s glance drifted over the death grip Lark held on the cape. “Take it off, Red.”

  She glared up at him. “If you think I’m going to make it easy for you to arrest me, you’re a fool.”

  “You’ve got some explaining to do. If I decide you need arresting after that, then I will.”

  “There’s nothing I care to tell you. Ever.”

  Chat reappeared, brown bottles and bandages in both hands, and Santana’s mouth tightened. Clearly, her arrival diffused his terse response.

  Lark choked down her own argument. Her battle with the bounty hunter wasn’t something his sister needed to witness, not when she had showed Lark more kindness than Santana ever could.

  He reached out and tugged at Father Baxter’s black cape. Lark let him take it. The lacerations needed looked at, she conceded. He tossed the wrap onto the couch, and specks of sawdust drifted to the thick floral carpet.

  “Sit down. Here.” He pulled out a chair.

  Lark glanced at it, then up at Santana. In the next few minutes he’d be standing over her. Touching her. Once, she’d hated him with every fiber of her being. Now, she had little choice but to let him take care of her.

  She eased down into the seat and clasped her hands tight in her lap. Santana removed a small knife from his hip pocket and unfolded the blade. Chat set the pharmaceuticals down with a clatter and stared at the blood staining Lark’s shoulder.

  “Does it hurt much?” Chat asked in a sympathetic whisper.

  Now that Lark was thinking of it, the wound hurt plenty. Santana’s blade ripped through the fabric of her dress. He used the tip to lift a stubborn piece of fabric caked to her skin.

  “Not really,” she lied.

  “Well, it looks like it hurts a lot. Can I get you anything?”

  A good stiff drink. Lark caught herself before she said the words. “Coffee, please. But only if you have it.”

  “I do. Ross drinks it all day long. We always have a pot on the stove. I’ll be right back.”

  Chat hurried off, and Lark angled her head to get her first peek at what Catfish had done. Santana bent over her shoulder, studying the wound. Her forehead brushed against his, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “You’ve lost a good amount of blood.” His voice was low, subdued, as he poked the skin with a gentle finger. “But it’s stopped now. You need a good cleaning before I wrap you up.”

  Lark’s stomach lurched at the crimson that had streamed down her arm and onto the swell of her breast. Maybe it was worse than she’d thought. “Holy hellfire.”

  He glanced up at her and frowned. “You going to be sick?”

  With Santana to watch? There’d be nothing more humiliating. “No.”

  “Put your head between your knees if you feel it coming on.” He rose and slid the knife back into his hip pocket. Taking the Colt with him, he headed to the kitchen.

  Lark glared at his back. Evidently, he’d give her no more sympathy than that. Well, fine. She didn’t want his sympathy anyway. The bastard.

  “Here you are, Miss Renault. Coffee, black and hot.” Chat set a cup on the table, sloshing some of the brew onto the table top in her haste. “Unless you prefer cream? Sugar?”

  “No, no. Black is perfect. Thank you.”

  Lark looked for something to wipe up the spill. Santana returned with a bowl of water and a bottle of Old Taylor whiskey. He poured a portion into her coffee.

  Lark eyed the mixture. She should’ve been annoyed that he took the liberty, but the truth was she hadn’t had anything stronger than the occasional glass of wine since the day of her arrest back in Canada.

  “It’ll calm your nerves,” Santana said, lathering the wet towel with a bar of castile soap. “Drink up.”

  It unnerved her how he knew what she was thinking. And needing. She lifted the cup to her lips and sipped. The whiskey-laced brew slid down her throat, warming her clear to her toes. It tasted so good, she sipped again.

  The coffee gave her something to concentrate on while he cleaned her shoulder. She didn’t want to be too aware of him and what he was doing. Or how close he was. She wanted to pretend he wasn’t there.

  Which was impossible, of course. Santana had muscled his way back into her life. Worse, she had the uneasy feeling he intended to stay awhile.

  “He cut you clean,” he said, rinsing the towel yet again. The water turned a darker shade of red. “You’ll heal, but you’ll have a scar.”

  This new one would pale compared to the one he’d given her. The thing was a constant reminder of how he’d tried to kill her five years ago.

  The thought sent a prickle of rebellion through her. Santana appeared to sense her shift in mood and regarded her. Steadily. As if he dared her to confront him about her imperfection when he bore one, much worse, of his own.

  Losing an eye wouldn’t have been easy, she knew. Some of her defiance fizzled. She couldn’t hold his hard gaze, and she dropped hers back to her shoulder.

  The blood was gone. She hadn’t noticed until now how her dress had sagged. She felt half-naked with him. Looked it, too. Her chemise was too thin, too low-cut to afford her any measure of modesty, and she yanked up what part of the bodice she could.

  “You’ve ruined my dress,” she said, refusing to look at him for fear he’d see the stupid blush in her cheeks.

  “You can change into something of Chat’s later.” He smeared an ointment of some sort over the wound, then reached for a roll of bandages. “Until then, I’ll get you one of my shirts to wear.”

  “We’ll draw a bath for you, too.” Chat laid a large platter of warmed-over roast beef and vegetables in the center of the table. “Hurry, won’t you, Ross? Dinner’s getting cold.”

  He wound the fabric strips over Lark’s shoulder and under her arm, tying the ends snugly in place. At last, he stood.

  “There’s laudanum in the ointment that will numb the pain. If you’re still hurting, though, I can give you a powder.” He held up one of the bottles for her perusal.

  The ointment he’d used had already begun working. Or was it the whiskey and coffee? Lark didn’t know for sure, but what discomfort remained she could tolerate. God knew she’d been hurt worse than this before.

  “That won’t be necessary.” She forced herself to meet his gaze square. There were words that needed to be said, though they galled her to say them. “Thank you.”

  He grunted, an indication he knew her pride had been tested, and gathered up the bottles. “Start filling our plates, Chat. I’ll be right back.”

  “Finally,” Chat muttered after he left.

  All over again, Lark dreaded the prospect of sharing a meal with the man who had thrust her into long years of jail time. “Really, I shouldn’t stay. I’m feeling much better now.”

  Chat’s hea
d came up in alarm. “He won’t let you leave.”

  Lark bit her lip. No, he wouldn’t. He’d made that threat quite clear, and it’d be pure futility to even try. She’d just have to get through the next few hours, bide her time, find an opportunity to escape.

  “Let me help then. Is there something I can do?” Lark asked. She wasn’t accustomed to being waited on. Even at Mrs. Kelley’s, she’d pitched right in at mealtime and done her share.

  “You just stay sitting, Miss Renault,” Chat said. “Won’t take but a minute to dish this out. I hope you’re hungry.”

  Santana returned, a clean white shirt in his hand. He tossed it into Lark’s lap. “Put this on if you want.”

  Chat indicated the bodice Lark was forced to hold up and frowned at her brother. “You were pretty rough on her dress, Ross. She has nothing else with her, you know.”

  “Couldn’t be helped.”

  “And what is she to wear until we take her back to town again?”

  Lark nearly yelped. She had no intention of being escorted by either of the Santanas back to Ida Grove. The young girl meant well, but she clearly hadn’t an inkling of Lark’s predicament.

  “The dress can be washed and mended,” Lark said quickly, though she suspected the end result wouldn’t be suitable for public wearing. She donned Santana’s shirt as she spoke. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t be choosy about who it belonged to. “Truly, it wasn’t his fault. The dress was torn before I ever arrived.”

  “We’ll set about laundering it first thing in the morning, then,” Chat said.

  The shirt was a good solution, Lark discovered. Her modesty was intact. The garment was too big, of course, but rolling the cuffs sufficed. She’d have to take it with her when she escaped, but she’d make arrangements to have it cleaned and returned after she was gone.

  “Men. They just don’t understand, do they, Miss Renault?”

  With all the plates filled, Chat settled into her chair and laid a napkin over her lap, and though her tone was scolding, the glance she tossed her brother’s way was amused and held a wealth of love.

  But Santana wasn’t looking. He stared hard at Lark, a bird dog homing in on his kill. Could he see into the workings of her mind? Did he know she planned to escape him first chance she got?