Outlaw m-3

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Outlaw

  ( MacKenzie-Blackthorn - 3 )

  Elizabeth Lowell

  Could she let go of the past long enough to imagine the future?

  Diana Saxton is planning to spend the summer alone, uncovering the native artifacts that are her passion-the only thing that has helped her survive a past that she would rather forget. But experience has taught Diana that the security of her academic world can shatter as easily as the delicate relics she collects.

  Now, her love for history has brought her to the magical Colorado landscape. As an anthropologist, Diana’s thrilled by the chance to discover the secrets of September Canyon. Then the solitude of her trip is jeopardized by a stranger as tough and commanding as the land itself. Tennessee Blackthorn knows that the shy professor doesn’t welcome his company, but he’s promised to watch over her safety.

  Diana’s never trusted anyone to share her world before. Now she’s alone with a stranger, in a place where nature holds the history of the land. And suddenly, Diana is discovering more than the past. She’s finding her future…

  Elizabeth Lowell

  Outlaw

  1

  Diana Saxton drove into the Rocking M’s dusty ranch yard and shut off the car’s engine. The first thing she saw was a cowboy as big as a barn door standing on the front porch. Unconsciously her hands clenched on the wheel, betraying her instant unease in the presence of men in general and big, well-built men in particular.

  The ranch house’s front door opened and closed. When another equally big, hard-looking man in boots and jeans came out of the house and began walking toward Diana, carrying a geologist’s hammer. Over toward the corral, a third cowboy was climbing onto a horse. The man was so big that he made the horse look like a kid’s pony.

  My God, Diana thought, don’t they have any normal-size men out here? Crowding that thought came another. / can’t spend a summer close to these men!

  But then, I won’t have to. I’ll be at the September Canyon site.

  Someone called out from the house. Diana recognized Carla MacKenzie’s voice and let out a soundless sigh of relief as the first big man turned immediately and went back inside at the sound of his name. Luke MacKenzie, Carla’s husband.

  As a bit of Diana’s uneasiness faded, she recognized the second man. Cash McQueen, Carla’s half brother. He was coming toward Diana, slipping the hammer into a loop on his leather belt as he walked. Hastily she got out of her car. She had learned in the past few years not to show her distrust of men, especially big men, yet she still couldn’t force herself to be close to any man in a confined space, particularly a car.

  Before Cash got to Diana, another call from the house stopped him. He waved to her, said something she couldn’t understand and went back into the ranch house.

  A sudden burst of activity outside the corral caught Diana’s attention. A horse had its head down between its forelegs, its back was steeply arched and its body was uncoiling like a released spring. A few spectacular bucks later, the horse’s beefy rider lost his grip on the saddle. He hit the ground, rolled to his hands and knees and came up onto his feet with a lunge. He grabbed the bridle close to the bit and began beating the horse with a heavy quirt. The horse screamed and tried to escape but was helpless against the cruel grip on the bridle.

  Without stopping to think, Diana started toward the terrified horse, yelling at the man to stop. Before she had taken three steps, a man in a light blue shirt vaulted the corral fence and landed like a cat, running toward the brutal cowboy, gaining speed with every stride. The running man was smaller and unarmed, hardly a fair match against the huge, beefy man wielding a whip.

  Behind Diana, the ranch house door slammed and men came running. Another man ran out of the barn, saw what was happening and yelled, “Careful, ramrod! Baker’s quirt has lead shot in it!”

  Baker wheeled to face Tennessee Blackthorn, the Rocking M’s ramrod. Baker flipped the quirt over in his hand, wielding the thick leather stock as a club rather than using the whip end against Ten. When his thick arm lifted, Diana screamed and men shouted. Only Ten was silent. He closed the last few feet between himself and Baker as the lead-weighted quirt came smashing down.

  Ten didn’t flail with his fists or duck away from the blow. The edge of his left hand connected with Baker’s wrist. The quirt went spinning up and away, flying end over end through the air. Simultaneously the ramrod’s right fist delivered a short, chopping blow to Baker’s heart. Ten pivoted, slammed an elbow into Baker’s diaphragm and sent another chopping blow to his neck as the big man bent over, folding up, all fight gone. Before the quirt even hit the ground, Baker was stretched out full length facedown in the dirt, unmoving.

  Torn between disbelief and shock, Diana came to a stop, staring at the Rocking M’s ramrod. She shook her head, trying to understand how a man who was six inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter than his adversary had begun and ended a fight before the bigger man could land a blow. As though at a distance she heard Cash and Luke go by her, moving more slowly now.

  “Nice work, Ten,” Luke said.

  “Amen,” said Cash. Then, to Luke, “Remind me never to pick a fight with your ramrod. Somebody taught that boy how to play hardball.”

  Ten said nothing, for he was more interested in calming the frightened horse than in talking about the brief fight. “Easy, girl. Easy now. No one’s going to hurt you. Easy… easy.”

  As he spoke, he approached the sweating, trembling mare. When he saw streaks of blood mixed with the horse’s lather, he swore, but the soothing tone of his voice never changed despite the scalding nature of his words. Slowly he closed his hands around the reins and began checking over the mare.

  As Ten’s hands moved over the animal, it began to calm down. Not once did the ramrod look toward the motionless Baker. Ten knew precisely how much damage he had done to the brutal cowboy; what Ten wanted to know was how badly the horse had been hurt.

  Cash sat on his heels next to Baker and checked for a visible injuries. There was nothing obvious. After a few moments Cash stood and said, “Out cold, but still breathing.”

  Luke grunted. “Any permanent damage?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “He won’t be swinging a quirt for a while,” Ten said without looking up from the mare. “Not with his right hand, anyway. I broke his wrist.”

  “Too bad it wasn’t his neck,” Luke said. “You warned him last week about beating a horse.” Luke turned to Cosy, who had yelled the warning about the quirt to Ten. “Bring the truck around. You’re on garbage detail tonight.”

  “Where to?” asked Cosy.

  “West Fork.”

  “Forty miles out and forty miles back, damn near all of it on dirt roads,” Cosy grumbled. “In the old days we’d have dumped his carcass on the ranch boundary and let him walk to town.”

  “Not on the Rocking M,” Luke said, stretching lazily. “My great-granddaddy Case MacKenzie once killed a man for beating a horse.”

  Slowly Diana retreated, walking backward for a few steps before turning and moving quickly toward her car. Though she was a student of human history-Anasazi history, to be precise-she wasn’t accustomed to having her history lessons served to her raw. She didn’t like having it pointed out that the veneer of civilization was quite thin, even in modern times, and it was especially thin in men.

  / shouldn’t be shocked. I know better than most women what men are like underneath their shirts and ties, shaving lotions and smiles. Savages and outlaws. All of them. Outlaws who use their strength against those who are weaker.

  A vivid picture came to Diana’s mind-the man called Ten coming over the fence, attacking the big cowboy, reducing the larger man to unconsciousness with a few violent blows. She shuddered.r />
  “Diana? What happened?”

  She looked up and saw Carla standing on the front porch, holding a tiny baby in her arms,

  “One of the men was beating a horse,” Diana said.

  “Baker.” Carla’s mouth flattened from its usual generous curve. “Ten warned him.”

  “He did more than that. He beat him unconscious.”

  “Ten? That doesn’t sound like him. I’ve never seen him lose his temper.”

  “Is he your ramrod?”

  Carla nodded. “Yes, he’s the Rocking M’s foreman.”

  “Light blue shirt, black hair, small?”

  “Small?” she asked, surprised. “I don’t think of Ten as small.”

  “He’s a lot smaller than Baker.”

  “Oh, well, even Luke and Cash are smaller than Baker. But Ten’s at least six feet tall. A bit more, I think.” Carla stood on tiptoe and looked out toward the corral. “Is he all right?”

  “His wrist is broken.”

  “Ten’s hurt? Oh my God, I’ve got to-”

  “Not Ten,” Diana interrupted quickly. “Baker is the one with a broken wrist.”

  “Oh.” Relief changed Carla’s face from strained to pretty. “Then Ten will take care of it. He’s had medic training.” She looked closely at Diana. “You’re pale. Are you all right?”

  Diana closed her eyes. “I’m fine. It was a long drive out and the road was rough. Now I know why. I was going back in time as well as miles.”

  Laughing, shaking her head, Carla shifted the sleeping baby and held out her hand to Diana. “Come in and have some coffee. French roast, Colombian beans, with just enough Java beans blended in to give the coffee finesse as well as strength.”

  Diana’s eyelids snapped open. The dark blue of her eyes was vivid against her still-pale face. “I’m hallucinating. They didn’t have French roast in the Old West, did they?”

  “I don’t know, but this isn’t the Old West.”

  “You could have fooled me,” Diana said, thinking about outlaws and brawls and a man with the lethal quickness of a cat. But despite her thoughts, she allowed Carla to lead her across the porch and into the cool ranch house. “Your ramrod would have made one hell of an outlaw.”

  “In the old days, a lot of good men were outlaws. They had no choice. There wasn’t any law to be inside of.” Carla laughed at the expression on Diana’s face. “But don’t worry. The bad old days are gone. Look in our side yard. There’s a satellite dish out there sucking up all kinds of exotic signals from space. We have television, a VCR, radios, CD players, personal computers, a dishwasher, microwave, washer-dryer-the whole tortilla.”

  “And cowboys swinging quirts full of lead shot,” Diana muttered.

  “Is that what Baker did?”

  Diana nodded.

  “My God. No wonder Ten lost his temper.”

  “What temper? He looked about as angry as a man chopping wood.”

  Carla shook her head unhappily. “Poor Ten. He’s had a tough time ramrodding this crew in the past year.”

  ” ‘Poor Ten’ looked like he could handle it,” Diana said beneath her breath.

  “The ranch is so remote it’s hard to get good men to stay. I don’t know how we’d manage without Ten. And now that we’ve found museum-quality Anasazi artifacts in September Canyon, the pothunters are descending in hordes. Someone has to stay at the site all the time. Cash has been doing it, but he has to leave tomorrow for the Andes. We’re going to be more shorthanded than ever.”

  “The Andes, huh? Great. Everybody deserves a vacation,” Diana said, cheered by the thought that there would be one less big man on the Rocking M.

  “Cash isn’t exactly going on a vacation. One of his colleagues thinks there’s a mother lode back up on the flanks of one of those nameless granite peaks. That’s the one thing Cash can’t resist.”

  “Nameless peaks?”

  “Hard rock and gold. Ten calls Cash the Granite Man but swears it’s because of Cash’s hard head, not his love of hard-rock mining.”

  Carla tucked the baby into an old-fashioned cradle that was next to the kitchen table. The baby stirred, opened sleepy turquoise eyes and slid back into sleep once more as Carla slowly rocked the cradle.

  “How’s the little man doing?” Diana asked softly, bending over the baby until her short, golden brown hair blended with the honey finish of the cradle.

  “Growing like a weed in the sun. Logan’s going to be at least as big as his daddy.”

  Diana looked at the soft-cheeked, six-week-old baby and tried to imagine it fully grown, as big as Luke, beard stubbled and powerful. “You’d better start domesticating this little outlaw real soon or you’ll never have a chance.”

  Carla laughed in the instant before she realized that Diana was serious. She looked at the older woman for a moment, remembering the class she had taken from Dr. Diana Saxton, artist and archaeologist, a woman who was reputed not to think much of men. At the time Carla had dismissed the comments as gossip; now she wasn’t sure.

  “You make it sound like I’m going to need a whip and a chair,” Carla said.

  “Those are the customary tools for dealing with wild animals, and men are definitely in that category. What a pity that it takes one to make a baby.”

  “Not all men are like Baker.”

  Diana made a sound that could have been agreement or disbelief as she began stroking the baby’s cheek with a gentle fingertip, careful not to awaken him. She admired the perfect, tiny eyelashes, the snub nose, the flushed lips, the miniature fingers curled in relaxation on the pale cradle blanket. Gradually she noticed more of the cradle itself, how the grain of the wood had been perfectly matched to the curves of the cradle, how the pieces had been fitted without nails, how the wood itself had been polished to a gentle satin luster.

  “What a beautiful cradle,” Diana said softly, running her fingertips over the wood. “It’s a work of art. Where did you get it?”

  “Luke made it. He has wonderful hands, strong and gentle.”

  Diana looked at the cradle once more and the baby lying securely within. She tried not to think how much she would like to have a child of her own. Sex was a necessary step toward conception. For sex, a woman had to trust a man not to hurt her-a man who was bigger, stronger and basically more savage than a woman. Years ago, Diana had abandoned the idea of sex. The thought of a baby, however, still haunted her.

  “If Luke is gentle with you and little Logan,” Diana said quietly, touching the pale blanket with her fingertips, “you’re a lucky woman. You have one man in a million.”

  Before Carla could say anything more, Diana stood and turned away from the cradle.

  “I think I’ll take a rain check on that coffee. I want to get my stuff unloaded before dinner.”

  “Of course. We’re putting you in the old ranch house where all the artifacts from the site are being kept. Just follow the road out beyond the barn. When the road forks, go to the right. The old house is only about a hundred yards from the barn. Dinner is at six. Don’t bother to knock. Just come in the back way. The dining room is just off the kitchen and both rooms have outside doors. We all eat together during the week. Sundays the hands fend for themselves. You’ll eat with us.”

  Diana looked at the long, narrow room just off the kitchen. Two rectangular tables pushed together all but filled the room. She tried to imagine what it would be like to eat surrounded by big male bodies. The thought was daunting. She took a slow breath, told herself that she would be spending nearly all of her time at the site in September Canyon, and turned back to Carla.

  “Thanks,” Diana said. “I’ll be back at six, whip in one hand and chair in the other.”

  2

  The alarm on Diana’s digital watch cheeped annoyingly, breaking her concentration. She set aside the stack of numbered site photos, reset her watch for a short time later, stretched and heard her stomach rumble in anticipation of dinner. Despite her hunger, she was reluctant to leave the hushed
solitude of the old house and the silent companionship of the ancient artifacts lining the shelves of the workroom.

  Slanting yellow light came through the north window, deepening the textures of stone and sandal fragments, potshards and glue pots, making everything appear to be infused with a mystic glow. Diana couldn’t wait until tomorrow, when she would drive to September Canyon. Photos, artifacts and essays, no matter how precise and scholarly, couldn’t convey the complexity of the interlocking mystery of the Anasazi, the land and time.

  Her mind more on the past than the present, Diana walked slowly into the bathroom. The slanting light coming through the small, high window made the gold in her hair incandescent and gave the darker strands a rich satin luster. Her eyes became indigo in shadow, vivid sapphire in direct light. The natural pink in her smooth cheeks and lips contrasted with the dark brown of her eyebrows and the dense fringe of her eyelashes.

  Once Diana would have noticed her own understated beauty and heightened it with mascara and blusher, lipstick and haunting perfumes. Once, but no longer. Never again would she be accused by a man of using snares and lures to attract members of the opposite sex, then teasing and maddening them with what she had no intention of giving. Never again would she put herself in a position where a man felt entitled to take what he wanted in the belief that it had been offered, and if it hadn’t, it should have been.

  Soap, water, unscented lotion and a few strokes with a hairbrush through her short, gamine hairstyle and Diana was ready for dinner. She thought longingly of the four-inch heels she wore when she was teaching to add to her own five feet three inches of frankly curved female body, but wearing a cotton pullover sweater big enough for a man and faded jeans with four-inch heels would be ludicrous. Besides, the scarred, rough-country hiking boots she wore most of the time added at least two inches to her height.

  And she was going to need every inch of confidence she could get.

  “Mmmrreooow.”

  Diana’s head snapped toward the window at the unexpected sound. A lean, tiger-striped cat with one chewed ear was standing outside on the tree limb that brushed against the bathroom window. The cat’s forepaw was batting hopefully at the bottom of the window, which was open a crack.