"There are cattle out there," she said, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.
"Sí."
Now that she'd turned her attention away from him, she could detect the clack of horns hitting, hooves stomping the ground. "A lot of cattle."
"Two thousand head."
She was taken aback by the pride reflected in his voice, the pride she'd often heard in cowboys' voices when they sauntered into the saloon to take a breather before herding the cattle farther north. "Your cattle?"
"My brothers'."
"They're ranchers?"
"You sound surprised. This family has always been ranchers. Our father. His father before him. Shelby destroyed our home, but he could not rob us of our past. We saved what cattle we could from our father's range—those that were not slaughtered. The rest we gathered where we could, if they belonged to no one. We have bred some. Building the herd. Next spring, they will drive the cattle up to the rail yards in Fort Worth."
She heard the longing in his voice. They would take the cattle while he was relegated to stay behind because he couldn't risk being captured or endangering them.
He hadn't mentioned that they used the stolen money to purchase livestock. "If you don't buy cattle, what do you do with the money you steal?"
She could sense his hesitation, his unwillingness to tell her. She wanted something from him, a corner of trust. "You spend it on women?"
"No."
She didn't know why there was a touch of humor in his voice. "Liquor? Gambling?"
"I do not spend it."
"You're just hoarding it away, then—"
"No."
She released a sigh of frustration. "Why can't you ever give me a straightforward answer? Why do you have to be secretive with every aspect of your life?"
He wrapped his hand around hers, lifted it slightly, and placed the most tender of kisses on the tips of her fingers. His soft lips formed the perfect frame for the heat of his mouth. His warm breath skimmed over her knuckles, sending shivers of pleasure rippling through her.
"I will tell you a secret, but you must swear that you will never tell a soul," he demanded.
Joy spiraled through her with the thought of one secret revealed. In time, perhaps he would share others, including the mystery of his appearance. "I promise."
"I have never told anyone this."
Holding her breath, she tightened her fingers around his. "You can trust me."
He kissed her fingers again. "When I was a boy … a very, very young boy, like Miguel … I imagined that an angel visited me."
"An angel?" she whispered.
"Sí. The sun would shine in her hair, and she would smile at me. I loved this angel, but then one day, she stopped coming. For a long time, I thought I had done something wrong, something to make her angry—or worse, sad. Then one day, I realized that I had simply grown too old, and the angel had always been only in my imagination. But she had seemed so real."
"Imaginary friends are like that." She experienced an incredible sense of kinship, could understand completely how a child might confuse reality with make-believe. She'd done it enough times herself. "When I was a child, I had a friend called Dastardly Pete. Whenever my mother caught me doing something that I shouldn't do, I'd tell her that Dastardly Pete had made me do it." Her heart tightened with a memory. "When I awoke from being sick for so long, and the world was still dark, and my father explained that it would remain dark, Dastardly Pete was the only friend who treated me like I hadn't changed. To everyone else, I was suddenly fragile."
He kissed her hand again, and she sensed that he was desperately fighting to hold himself in check, to keep the kiss warm when he wanted it to be scorching. "You are not fragile, but delicate in the ways of a woman. You have such strength, such courage. You would not break easily. Juanita … Juanita is fragile. If a man treated her as I treated you that first night, she would have curled into a ball and died." His voice carried a ragged edge, a vulnerability she never would have suspected he possessed. "I do not know what to do for her."
She wanted to comfort him beyond reason, this man she knew she should loathe, this man who caressed her hand as though it were an object of marvel. "You love her. That's obvious. Sometimes that's enough."
"In this case it's not enough. That night haunts her, more than any of us. She was so young. Only twelve. She cannot forget it."
She desperately wanted to reach out and touch him, offer him the compassion of her caress. "It haunts you too."
"I choose not to forget. That is the difference."
With his fingers still threaded through hers, she brought his hand to her mouth and kissed the back of his hand. She would have sworn she felt a tremor ripple through him. "Tell me what happened that night," she urged softly, wanting, needing to know his past so she could understand him.
"It is not a pretty story, querida."
She craved a glimpse into his soul, but knew he would tell her nothing if she confessed that. "All I'm asking for, Lee, is a glimmer of light in my darkness."
He swore harshly beneath his breath before the silence blanketed them. She wouldn't press him. His inner turmoil was almost palpable, shimmering between them. Finally, he released a long, deep sigh.
"They rode in from the north, in the dead of night. Gringos with more land than they knew what to do with. Our ranch bordered theirs. They were not fond of having Mexicans for neighbors, but they tolerated us. It did not matter that the family had lived there for two generations, with the third already putting down roots. They saw us as outsiders. Then my older brother Ramon committed a grave sin."
She didn't prod, but simply knelt beside him, rubbing her hand up and down his tense forearm, the corded muscles firm beneath her palm. She heard him swallow hard.
"He fell in love with Shelby's daughter, Christine. They tried to keep what was happening between them a secret. But someone saw them. They accused my family of stealing cattle. We had no need to steal cattle; we had double what they had. Our grandfather had been there when Texas had fought for its independence."
"He fought with the Mexican army under Santa Anna?" she asked.
"No, he fought with Sam Houston to defeat the Mexican army and gain independence for Texas. He purchased that land with his blood, and Shelby stole it away with the blood of our grandfather's son."
His voice had grown gritty. She wanted desperately to cradle his cheek, smooth away the lines that she was certain marred his brow, but she could not betray his desire for her not to know what he looked like. So she contented herself with fighting back her tears at his painful memories and inadequately offering comfort by stroking his arm.
"They hanged Ramon first." He moved his hand to his thigh. She placed hers over his and felt his hand ball into a fist within hers. "Can you imagine the anguish that would tear through your chest as you watched your son hang?" A drop of moisture hit her wrist. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could wipe away his tears.
"My mother was screaming … my father shouting. They put the noose around his neck next. While he struggled against death, he had to watch them shoot each of his remaining sons and then the woman of his heart."
Her breath caught. "They shot you?"
"Sí." His voice had grown hoarse as though he had to push each word through a throat knotted with emotion. "Like our mother, we tried to stop them, but they were too many. We lay on the ground, our blood flowing into the dirt while our mother's cries for mercy echoed around us."
Another tear landed onto her hand. She tightened her hold on his arm. "Was Floyd Shelby there that night?"
She heard him breathe in deeply before clearing his throat.
"At first, but he did not stay long. He had other things he wished to accomplish. I found him later that night and killed him."
Confusion swamped her. "But you were hurt."
"Sí. They set fire to our house before they rode off into the night, leaving us with our blood seeping into the earth. Our parents were dead
. My brothers … except for Ramon … were holding on."
"Did you tell the authorities what happened?"
"The authorities? Shelby had men willing to swear with their hands on the Bible that we were thieves."
She was shivering, but the tremors had nothing to do with the cool night air, and everything to do with the horror of his tale. "I'm not saying you should have killed Shelby's son, but under the circumstances, your need for revenge could be understood—"
"I did not kill him for revenge. I killed him because he was a rabid animal."
Abruptly he stood and she grieved the loss of contact.
"I have told you enough," he barked. She heard his harsh breathing, the steady pounding of his boot heels over the ground as he paced. "I told you more than I should have."
She slowly rose to her feet, desperately wanting to take away his pain and if she couldn't accomplish that, at least to share it. "Lee—"
"Do not say my name like that," he ordered.
"Like what?"
"Like you care for me."
The tears burst free of her dam of control. "God help me, but I do care for you."
He grabbed her arm and jerked her close. She felt the wall of his chest pressing against her breasts. "Don't, querida. Don't weep for me, and don't care for me."
Then as though to mock his order, his mouth swooped down to cover hers, hard, demanding. She wrapped her arms around his waist, spreading her fingers over his broad back, relishing the manner in which his muscles bunched with his movements. With one hand, he cradled her face, his thumb stroking the corner of her mouth as though it wasn't enough to have his tongue slowly exploring every nook and cranny. She dug her fingers into his back, fearful that her legs might buckle as desire consumed her.
"I want you, querida," he whispered, his voice raw. "I want you beneath me … but I cannot have you."
Profound regret laced his words. A man of honor he'd called himself and she'd scoffed.
"I have nothing to offer you," he said quietly just before he took her hand and led her back into the night.
And like ashes held within her palm and with a breath of kindness blown gently onto the wind, she discarded all she knew of the legend and accepted into her heart all she understood of the man.
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^ »
Lee lay in the bed, staring at the pale moonlight spilling through the window. Angela was nestled within the circle of his arms, her back pressed flat against his chest. She wore one of Juanita's nightgowns, the cloth soft against his bare chest. She had braided her hair into a thick rope that left the enticing nape of her neck visible. She had suggested that she sleep with Juanita, but he had forbidden it. She had recommended he sleep with his brothers. He had promised to keep his britches on.
He was tempted to roll her over and blanket her body with his own, bury himself so deeply within her that he might actually find the man he should have become.
"I don't know why I couldn't sleep with Juanita," she said.
"Because I did not wish it."
"And everything has to be your way."
"If everything were my way, I would not now be wearing my britches."
"I think it's a good thing that you are," she said softly.
Clothing could not hide his desire for her. He lifted his head and gazed at her profile limned by the moonlight. "I am a weak man. You should let me take you back tomorrow, querida."
A corner of her mouth curled up, and he could have sworn she was blushing. "But I promised Miguel I would be here for his birthday."
He settled back on the pillow and tucked her head beneath his chin. "Do not grow fond of him."
"Too late."
He feared it was too late for a great many things. Love. Contentment. A normal life.
"The moon pours in through the window. Even though it is after midnight, I can see your face," he murmured, skimming his knuckles along her chin, her throat.
"You can outline my face, but I can't outline yours."
Sighing heavily, he curled his arm over her side and spread his fingers over her belly. "Must you always bring that up?"
"My father says I'm stubborn. My mother says I'm determined."
"I think you just like to have your way."
"If I had my way, I wouldn't be here now, would I? You would have returned me to Fortune when I demanded it."
"But now that I want to take you, you do not want to go."
She chuckled softly. "It seems like sometimes you have your way and sometimes I have my way. It's like that with my parents."
"It was that way with mine as well. They were good people. They did not deserve all that happened that night."
She shifted slightly. "Still, that doesn't justify you robbing banks."
"I do not rob banks. I only take the money that Vernon Shelby deposited."
She rolled onto her back. He longed to loosen the buttons on the nightgown, slip his hand beneath the fabric—
"How do you know how much money he's deposited?" she asked.
He groaned. The next thing he knew, he'd confess everything to this woman. "Someone tells me."
"He doesn't know what you look like?"
"Perhaps."
She sat up. "What kind of answer is that? I'm not stupid. He has to know, which means you have an accomplice."
"No," he stated flatly.
"What do you think your brothers are? Don't you realize that you are risking their being sent to prison?"
He sighed in aggravation. "I leave a note so they know I only took Shelby's money, and I sign my name so no one else is accused of taking the money."
"But your brothers—"
"Are not responsible for my actions. I am the one who takes the money. I am the thief."
She flopped back on the bed. Her face was easy to read. Right now she was furious. He imagined most men liked their women smiling, but he enjoyed all of Angela's moods.
"You shouldn't take them with you," she said curtly.
"I know. This time, they felt a need to do something, so they came."
"Except Eduardo. He is apparently the only one with any smarts."
"We would not leave Juanita all alone. They know that would make me angrier than them following me," he said.
She turned onto her side, presenting him with her back. He slipped his arm around her and drew her against his chest.
"Since no one knows what you look like, if you stopped stealing money and changed your name—"
"I have unfinished business, querida."
She growled. "You are so stubborn!"
"Determined." He pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck. She went absolutely still. "Why do you seek to save me?"
"I don't know."
Confusion laced her voice. Did she really not know or did she just not wish to reveal the truth? He trailed his fingers along the curve of her neck. She shivered, and he felt tiny ridges rise just beneath the surface of her skin. Her reaction pleased him. "I cannot be saved, querida." He skimmed his breath across the sensitive spot below her ear. "Now, go to sleep before we both discover that you are beyond saving as well."
* * *
Angela felt a trifle wicked, a bit deceptive, and incredibly excited as she lightly touched her fingers to Miguel's face. He was the last to sit before her. Juanita had already taken a turn. As had Eduardo, Roberto, and Jorge. She wasn't surprised that Alejandro had refused. Other than Lee, Miguel was the only one who had a face she wanted to memorize. The others … she hated to admit it, even to herself, but she had used them. It was as simple and as deceitful as that. Memorizing each feature instead of the face as a whole, she'd taken the common characteristics and applied them in a mosaic portrait to create an image of Lee. Thick, straight hair. Broad nose. Rounded cheeks. Square jaw. Features chiseled over the centuries, since the first conquistador had set foot on Texas soil.
They had each confirmed what she'd already surmised: black hair and dark eyes. She didn't ask about
their olive complexion. She could envision it perfectly. So unlike her paleness and that of her family and most of their friends. Her father and his friends had arrived from England unaccustomed to the relentless heat of the Texas sun, her father the darkest but even he burned on occasion.
With Miguel, she saw Lee as he might have been as a child. Too thin, with sharp corners and eyes much too large for his narrow face. A mouth that he fought to keep serious, its quivering betraying his struggle.
"You can smile, Miguel," she said kindly and smoothed her fingertips over the crescent moon shape of his lips. "You have a pretty smile."
"Pretty?" he snapped, indignation evident in his tiny child's voice.
How could she forget how masculine even the youngest male wanted to be?
"Handsome," she corrected herself, tiptoeing her fingers lightly over his lips, her own smile bright with gladness because he filled a spot within her heart that had been empty for far too long. She imagined Lee at this age and wished she had known him then, before the night that he'd turned to a life of committing crimes and hiding from the world. For all the wrong things he'd done, she sensed he contained an inherent goodness that life had reshaped but could not destroy.
At the echo of approaching footsteps, beneath her fingertips Miguel's smile broadened, and she knew who had entered Lee's bedroom before the child spoke.
"Lee, Angela says I am handsome."
"You must call her Miss Angela, Miguel."
The boy's smile withered. "Why?"
"Because that is the polite thing to do."
Knees popped and she felt the warmth of Lee's body as he crouched beside her. "Do you intend to spend all morning doing this?" he asked brusquely.
She folded her hands into her lap. "Thank you, Miguel."
"You're welcome, señorita."
A rush of air brushed over her and tiny feet pounded the floor in retreat.
"He's such a sweet child," she said softly. "You're doing an excellent job raising him."
"Mostly it is Juanita's doing."
THE OUTLAW AND THE LADY Page 13