She had been able to be strong because she hadn’t let him near her. What are you going to do now? An inner voice kept asking the question, and she didn’t know the answer.
He turned her toward him. “Have we gone far enough?” he asked hoarsely, and she knew he was as affected as she by their closeness. She had asked to speak with him, and his eyes had flared with surprise, then with something else, before they had shuttered again. They had both tried hard to keep away from each other the past week.
No! They hadn’t gone far enough. She wasn’t ready yet to face him alone. She wondered whether she would ever be ready. Her voice was buried deep inside her heart. She had to say words that would forever divide them, and she didn’t know how she could bear that.
“Lori?” The hoarseness was still in his voice, a hoarseness that came, she knew now, from need. But there was also that odd gentleness again. She hadn’t heard it in the past few days. He had schooled himself against it, just as she had. She couldn’t make herself look at him. If she did, she would reach up and touch him, her lips would want to meet his, her heart to greet his heart.
“Why did you give me the gun?” The words finally exploded from her, even though she didn’t want the answer. She didn’t want to hear he trusted her, when she had known all the time they were riding into a trap.
“I told you,” he said mildly. “I didn’t want you to run into varmints.” He chuckled, a wonderful, rare sound. “Though I would give the varmints a damn poor chance even if you didn’t have a gun. With one … whew!”
She nearly melted then. He so seldom indulged in humor that it was always surprising, and incredibly endearing. She couldn’t bear for him to be endearing now. Dear Mary, her heart was so fragile now, one small jab would send it crashing into a million pieces.
He moved his hand, which had righted her, up to her shoulder. It fell possessively around her, as if she belonged to him. Part of her did. Part of her always would.
“Were you so sure I would hand it back?”
He stilled, as if he knew he wasn’t going to like what came next. As he always did, though, he met the challenge directly. “What’s on your mind, Lori?”
“I gave you my word, and I kept it,” she said stiffly, formally. “I’m now withdrawing it.” She knew it sounded ridiculous.
“And what does that mean, exactly?” he said quietly.
She braced herself against the billows of regret already embracing her, choking her. She and Nick had talked today, and he was never going to agree to return to Texas. She’d already set things in motion by telegraphing the family, and she had no choice now but to follow the course she’d charted. She could only try to see that no one was hurt.
Except she knew, heart deep, that they were all going to be hurt. She, Nick, Beth, Morgan. She felt it now in Morgan’s quiet tone, in the sudden stiffness of his body. It spoke of emotions he’d tried to hide for so long.
“You’re going to have to spell it out for me, Lori,” he said. “Sometimes I’m a little slow.”
If only that were true. If only she didn’t care so much. If only she didn’t love him so.
“No more promises,” she said.
“Why?” Again that directness was disconcerting.
“I don’t think I have to explain that to you,” she said stiffly.
“Don’t help your brother ruin his life,” he said tightly. “Don’t ruin yours. Ours.”
It was the first time he had ever alluded to a future, and her stomach churned miserably. “I can’t go against him,” she said.
“Does he really want that kind of help from you?” His voice was contemptuous. “Then he’s not the man I thought he was.”
She twisted away from his hand, from his nearness. “He doesn’t want my help, but I can’t sit back and watch you take him in.”
“What are you going to do about it, Lori? Shoot me again?” His voice was soft, dangerously so. “Your brother couldn’t do it. Can you?”
“He couldn’t do it for himself. He could do it for me.”
“And you can do it for him.”
“I did before,” she said, trembling.
“I haven’t forgotten,” Morgan said grimly.
“Why do you have to be so stubborn? Why won’t you just release him? Then …”
“Then what, Lori?” Lori heard a warning in his voice. Hurt. Pain. “Are you bargaining again?”
“You don’t bargain, do you, Ranger? You don’t compromise. You don’t care about anything but your damn job, about finishing what you started.”
“No, I don’t bargain,” he said in a dry, flat tone. “But I do care, damn it to hell.” His jaw set. “You’re right about one thing. I haven’t cared about anything in a long time, but now …” His lips came down on hers. Hard, like that first kiss in Laramie. Angry. Frustrated. Lori felt the familiar fire rush through her blood, the less familiar but even more compelling sweet lust within her. Her heart hammered against its cage as he pulled her close to him, and she could hear the pounding of his own.
She writhed against him, her insides melting at the feel of his hard body against hers, at the demanding, possessive lips crushing down on her mouth. Her mouth opened to him, and her mind was spinning, soaring with her need for him as his mouth plundered hers with deep, fierce kisses.
She was barely aware of him pulling away, unbuckling his gunbelt, placing it carefully near a tree. He was back in an instant, taking her in his arms and laying her down on the ground. Her arms went around his shoulders as his tongue trailed over her neck, to the opening of her shirt. She wasn’t sure whether it was his hands or hers that freed her buttons. Their fingers were entwined, their bodies, as they both desperately sought something the other could give. As if each knew this was the last time …
“Ah, Lori,” he rasped before his mouth found her breasts, caressing her nipples as she felt them grow taut and hard and so very sensitive, so very responsive to his every touch. Her arms went around him, under his shirt, feeling the hard, moving muscles of his back, her fingers finding a scar and gentling for a moment before grasping him closer to her, feeling his arousal against her. Her body arched, and even through the clothes they still wore, she felt the fierce hunger of them both. She looked up, and though the dark shadowed his eyes, she saw the pain etched into his expression. And uncertainty.
The uncertainty was more sensuous, more irresistible, than confidence would have been. Her hand moved from his back, up to his face, along his mouth. She swallowed words she couldn’t allow herself to say. I love you. I’ll always love you. But she knew her fingers were saying them. She felt it in his mouth, the way his lips twisted into the slightest smile.
His hands became gentle as they slipped down to her waist, unbuttoning her trousers; then one hand caressed her lower stomach, then slipped down between her legs, working a magic that swept away everything but sensation. And then his own trousers were gone, and he was poised above her, his arousal teasing that part of her which was already on fire from his touch.
“Morgan,” she whispered, her own voice hoarse now, as hoarse as his had been. Hoarse with need and want, hoarse with words choked inside her.
His hands went under her, sliding along her hips, pulling her body up to meet his, and she felt his warmth enter, fill her, glide in and out with rhythmic perfection until she heard herself cry out. His mouth covered hers, catching the sound as her body pulsed with his, danced with his, giving and taking in a golden glow that was both electrifying and beautiful. She vibrated with love, with giving the one thing she could give him, with taking the one thing she could take.
And then there was a shattering burst of ecstasy, of pleasure so strong she wanted to remain there forever, in his arms. Her hands dug into him as the pleasure climaxed, then receded slowly, ever so slowly, into something just as wondrous: a warm, lazy contentment of having him next to her, in her, feeling with him those quivering shudders of sensation that continued to dance through them.
She felt suspe
nded in a dreamlike state as he moved, carrying her with him, to his side, his mouth on hers, so gently now, so tenderly. His fingers traced her mouth as she had done to his. They were large, callused, yet so sensitive against her skin. He caught a strand of her hair. “Like honey,” he said.
His hand caught her chin and drew it up so she had to stare straight into his eyes. The moon peeked out from behind a cloud then and seemed to shine directly down into those eyes, deepening that dark blue, sharpening even more its intensity. He seemed to look into her soul, into her heart, and she wanted to cry out in protest.
Instead, her hand ran down his chest, fingering the tufts of dark hair that made an arrow down toward his manhood. She felt him stiffen, felt him growing hard inside her again. He pulled her closer to him and rolled over, so she was on top of him. She felt his manhood arch inside, reaching, and instinctively she sat up, taking more of him into her, so much more than she’d ever imagined possible.
She could see his face, the eyes partly covered by those dark lashes. The face was uniquely his now, its expression troubled, and she knew as did he that while they had just finished making love, this was something else. She wanted him. She would always want him. But as she moved on top of him, she knew she couldn’t afford sweetness, and love, and the trust it demanded. So this was to be physical pleasure alone.
Lori looked away from his face, from the puzzlement forming in his eyes, from the sudden understanding that was like a knife in her heart, even as their bodies reacted together as if they had been made for each other. She felt the sensations, the fire and the glow, the physical satisfaction and reactions, but she also felt an incredible sadness rather than the soul-felt joy of a few moments earlier.
His movements became almost violent, hard and thrusting as if pursuing devils he knew he couldn’t defeat. The explosion of warmth came, and Lori tried to absorb herself into it.
But he moved, his hands firm as he rolled over, then withdrew and silently dressed. After a few stunned moments Lori did the same. Bereft at the loss, her fingers had difficulty with the buttons, and she turned away from his silent appraisal. When she’d finished, she felt his hands on her shoulder. He turned her to face him. “I was a fool to think … making love to you would make a difference, make you trust me.” He turned away. “It’s a mistake I won’t repeat.” He tried to be coldly indifferent, but she felt the ache in his voice.
“Morgan …” Her voice broke.
“I can’t compete with him, can I?” he said bitterly.
“You’re making me choose between you and someone I’ve loved all my life.”
“I’m not making you do anything.” His voice was cold now, angry. “I’ve never asked you to choose. I just asked you to trust me.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“Only because you want to make it that way.” He turned and started back as if she didn’t exist, and she knew just then how much she had hurt him. And herself.
Morgan didn’t know when he’d ever been so angry, as much at himself as at her. It was as if Lori had deliberately twisted something that had been so good, so fine, into something else altogether. Now he knew why he’d taken so much trouble all these years not to care—hell, even made a damn art of it. It hurt too much.
He’d known, dammit. He’d known how idiotic it had been to come with her tonight. He simply didn’t know how to deal with that blind loyalty of hers. He didn’t even know how to deal with himself at the moment. He’d never left himself vulnerable like this before.
He wouldn’t do it again, by God.
What in the hell was she planning?
Something, that was for sure, or she wouldn’t have warned him. That paradox again. That mixture of recklessness and integrity, that fierce passion for whatever and whomever she loved, were part of what he’d learned to love.
But what was she planning? He couldn’t even imagine. Despite her words, he didn’t think she would try to harm him again. What else could she do on her own? After knowing her for the last month, he didn’t even want to think about it.
She couldn’t know where they were heading. He hadn’t told them until a few days ago. He hadn’t even decided himself until after they’d left Laramie, the only place she could have passed on information. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she planned to head into Pueblo and try to enlist assistance there.
Damn it all. If only he could let Nick Braden go. It would make things so easy. He could court Lori. He could rid himself of Braden’s hatred. But he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Neither Braden nor himself could breathe easily again.
How far would she go?
He didn’t know. He did know he didn’t have the heart to chain her. If she wanted to shoot him, well, she damn well could.
Morgan saw the firelight ahead, and he slipped into the shadows, allowing her to pass and go in alone. Nick, he saw, was holding Mrs. Andrews. The child was apparently sleeping. He watched for another ten minutes or so and then went in. Beth had straightened up, moved away from Braden. Lori was sitting stiffly by herself.
“Get some sleep,” he told them all, and placed several pieces of wood on the fire. He then retreated to where he’d folded his own bedroll. He checked the saddlebags, obviously for guns and ammunition. “We’ll leave early,” he added, ignoring Lori’s surprised face as she realized he was not going to handcuff her. He turned away, lying down in his own blankets and closing his eyes.
The pain inside him was excruciating, choking out all the life so new to him. He had lost her completely, and he knew it, and all he felt now was a terrible wrenching loneliness.
Morgan rose before dawn. He’d dozed on and off, the slightest sound snapping him into full wakefulness. He felt weighted with weariness and defeat. He hoped activity would numb him. He went over to Braden and unlocked the leg iron. His prisoner was also awake, and Morgan wondered if he’d spent as poor a night as himself.
A twist of his head indicated the spring they had passed yesterday, and Braden nodded, understanding the silent message. Morgan had his saddlebags with him as well as his rifle, and he motioned for Braden to go ahead. The other members of their party were apparently still sleeping.
The two men said nothing until they reached the spring, well out of earshot.
“I thought you might like to bathe,” Morgan said.
His face carefully controlled, Braden went to the edge of the pool. He tested the temperature, his face gradually relaxing. He sat down and started to take off his boots.
Morgan watched idly from several feet away. He planned to take his own bath after Braden finished. His mind was still occupied, as it had been last night, with Lori.
Braden had finished taking off the right boot and was pulling off the left, then the sock. Morgan stiffened. The bottom of Braden’s foot was completely visible, and Morgan was staring at a red mark, the shape of half a heart, just like the one he had on his right foot.
Christ! A clammy shiver crawled up Morgan’s back. He stared again at the foot just as Nick Braden moved, and the mark disappeared out of sight as Braden started peeling off his coat and then his shirt. “Soap?” he asked. Morgan found a piece in the saddlebags and threw it to him as Braden continued undressing.
Feeling like a damn voyeur, Morgan studied him intently. The same arrow of black hair that Morgan had grew down Braden’s chest. He swallowed as Braden looked up, and something in Morgan’s face made him frown. “Something wrong?”
Hell, everything was wrong, everything was spinning wildly out of control. He hesitated. “That mark on your foot …”
Nick shrugged. “It’s always been there. Lori used to tease me …” He stopped abruptly, his jaw tightening.
“Lori used to …?” Morgan prompted.
For a moment Braden’s mouth set stubbornly, and then he seemed to think it wasn’t important as he said lightly, “She used to say that since I had only half a heart, part of me must be missing.” His dark brows knitted together. “The strange thing was that I … us
ed to think that, too.” His lips clamped together as if he were puzzled why he’d shared that particularly odd piece of information, but Morgan felt his whole body go rigid.
How many times had he felt that way, that a vital part of him had somehow been left out, like a missing piece of a puzzle?
Braden slipped into the water, and Morgan turned away, his mind whirling with the implications of the birthmark. Questions and more questions pounded at him. He had always considered Nick Braden one of those odd coincidences, an uncanny look-alike, because there seemed to be no other possibility. What were the odds of a look-alike having the identical birthmark?
How old was Braden? Although he looked younger than Morgan, they had roughly the same body. And Morgan was only too aware of what years of war, and their aftermath, had done to him. All those years of killing, of hunting, of … being alone. He knew that his face had the etched lines of a man older than his actual years.
He remembered the time Braden was hit by that Ute knife; he had felt a sharp pain in the same part of his body. And then he recalled another oddity: the image of Braden’s face, of agony crossing it, at the same time Morgan had pressed the hot knife to his own wound. It was one of the last things Morgan had seen before he’d lost consciousness.
More impressions flitted through his mind now. The way he’d known what Braden was thinking, almost from the beginning. He’d chalked it up to experience, of knowing what to expect from criminals. But Braden had always been different. The thoughts had always been clearer, more vivid, even when they were unlike the thoughts of Morgan’s other prisoners.
How?
Morgan’s breath locked up inside him. His heart pounded with discovery. Still, his mind told him it couldn’t be so.
Texas. He had been born in Texas. Alone. The only child of parents who had died immediately after his birth. He tried to remember everything Callum had ever told him about the circumstances of his birth.
Callum had been there to warn them, had heard his mother’s childbirthing cries, and then had to leave to warn others. When he’d returned hours later with help, the cabin was gone, burned, the charred bodies of his parents next to each other. Morgan had been found in the fruit cellar.
Wanted Page 31