Bound for Temptation

by Tess LeSue

  “You traveled with a nun?”

  “I’ve traveled with lots of people.” Deathrider buckled his saddlebags and fixed Tom with his eerie ice-blue stare. “They need to get to the mission at Santa María Magdalena de Buquivaba. It’s barely a four-day ride from Arizpe. I wouldn’t ask if it was going to upset your schedule, but it won’t put you out to take them. You can catch up with your party, just like you planned to anyway, and get someone in Arizpe to take the nuns on to Magdalena. I swear on my mother’s life they won’t be any trouble.” His pale eyes twinkled. “After all, how much trouble can they be? They’re nuns.”

  It was like being on a runaway horse: there was no getting off safely. Tom shifted irritably. “Your mother ain’t even alive,” he grumbled.

  “I swear on her grave, then.”

  Tom wasn’t happy about it. But he agreed. Gracelessly. And then he went inside and bought himself a half bottle of whiskey and sat down in the corner to burn time until he could collect the nuns and leave. Luke always said that knowing Deathrider was like hunting for honey. You never knew if things would end up sweet, or if you’d get a face full of bees.

  Today was all bees, Tom thought darkly. A whole goddamn swarm of them.

  * * *

  • • •

  EVEN WITH THE windows open, the room was hot and stuffy. There wasn’t a lick of breeze, and the air was oppressive. Emma wasn’t one to be idle at the best of times, but being cooped up tonight was driving her crazy. The heat only made things worse. Although the one good thing about losing all her hair, she supposed, was that it made things marginally cooler. Look how Calla’s hair was stuck to her forehead in clumps. At least Emma didn’t have that problem.

  Emma sighed and watched the fat moths batter at the glass around the lamp. She could hear the roar of the saloon below as it geared up for the night’s trade, and there was the constant sound of traffic in the hallway and the click of doors opening and closing as the whores and their customers came and went.

  “I’m so bored I’d even turn a trick,” Emma complained. There was nothing remotely interesting to look at out of the window now Tom Slater had put his shirt on and gone inside; it was too hot to eat, and she’d flicked through all the stupid books piled up by the chaise. According to the clock on Ella’s desk, there were hours yet to go before they could sneak away.

  Calla snorted, not looking up from the needle she was trying to thread. She’d almost finished sewing swatches of Emma’s shorn hair onto the pink bonnet. “Don’t tempt fate.”

  Emma pulled a face. Fine. There was no way in hell she would actually turn a trick. But she was bored. And edgy as all hell.

  Deathrider was a very welcome distraction when he appeared late in the evening. He stopped dead at the sight of her. “You cut your hair off.”

  “You like it?” she asked dryly. “I like to think of it as swamp fever glamor.” She ran a hand over the soft fuzz on her scalp and darted a glance at the mirror. She looked mighty strange with a bald head. Her face was all eyes and cheekbones. Still. At least her ears didn’t stick out.

  Deathrider swore.

  “You don’t like bald women?”

  He seemed really displeased. That irked her. Especially since it was heart-droppingly horrible to be this shorn. She felt ugly as sin. But her hair, or lack thereof, was none of his damn business. “I think it suits me.” She made a show of preening in the mirror. She looked like a plucked parrot, she thought as she postured.

  “And look.” Calla held up the finished bonnet. “Now Micah will pass for her.” She paused. “From a distance.”

  Deathrider put his hands on his hips and stared at the bonnet, deep in thought. “I need Seline to put in one last appearance,” he said.

  Emma laughed. And then she realized that he was serious. “That whore has gone,” Emma told him firmly.

  “I know. And I wouldn’t ask, except I need witnesses to tell Boehm that you were definitely here. Witnesses who aren’t Ella and the girls. And Micah won’t pass for you up close, so I can’t ask him to do it.”

  That was an understatement. Micah was barely going to pass for her a mile off, let alone at close proximity.

  “What are you thinking?” Emma asked, her eyes narrowing. “Exactly?”

  “You and I put in an appearance downstairs and make sure we’re seen by everyone in the room.” He cleared his throat. “And then . . . come up here.”

  “Are you blushing?” Emma laughed. “You are. Look, Calla! The Plague of the West is blushing!”

  Calla squinted. “How can you tell?”

  “Look at his ears.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Are you finished?” Deathrider sighed.

  “When the alternative is being bored? Not a chance.” She laughed again.

  “I don’t know why you’re blushing about coming upstairs with her later when you’re up here with her now,” Calla joined in.

  “I believe Mr. Death here wants us to pretend to come up here to do the nasty together.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Isn’t that right? You want me to solicit you downstairs? I assume you want me to be rather obvious about it?”

  Deathrider nodded. The flush had spread from his ears to his cheeks. It was completely incongruous with his forbidding demeanor.

  “You’re as bashful as a virgin, Mr. Death,” Calla said impishly. “Don’t worry, she won’t actually deflower you. Unless you want her to.”

  “Whores,” Deathrider muttered under his breath. “Can you be serious for a moment?”

  “So long as it’s only a moment.” Emma rubbed her hand over her smooth scalp. It was becoming a tic. She turned over Deathrider’s idea. She could see the logic in it. It was worth imprinting the sight of Deathrider and the whore on people before the posses rode in. “I suppose you want a show? Something they’ll remember?”

  “I did.” Deathrider’s pale gaze followed her hand as it ran over her bare head. “But I didn’t realize you’d cut your hair off already.”

  “She can wear this,” Calla offered brightly, holding out the bonnet. “It will make it more believable when they see Micah in it tomorrow.”

  Deathrider and Emma looked dubiously at the hanks of orange hair hanging off the pink bonnet.

  “If people see me here, tonight, with you, Hec isn’t likely to question Ella, is he?” Emma asked. “He won’t need to.”

  “It’s less likely,” Deathrider agreed.

  “And the more they gossip about us tomorrow, the less likely it gets?”

  Deathrider nodded.

  Emma had been fretting about Ella’s safety, and she could see the sense in his plan, so she resigned herself and snatched the bonnet off Calla. “All right, Mr. Death, prepare to be deflowered.”

  He looked pained.

  She put the bonnet on.

  “No one’s going to believe that’s real hair,” he said.

  “Leave that to me. You’ll be amazed what a girl can do.”

  “You’re not going to wear that, are you?” He gave the stiff white nun’s underdress a distasteful look.

  “No. No, I won’t.” She laughed. “Honey, get yourself downstairs and prepare to be solicited.”

  “Give it half an hour. By then the saloon should be full.” He stopped short at the door and swore. “Hell. I forgot about Tom.”

  “Tom?” Her stomach did a slow somersault at the memory of Tom Slater pouring water over his long, muscular body.

  “Tom Slater,” he clarified.

  She rolled her eyes. Like she didn’t know who he’d meant.

  “He’s going to see you later tonight. As a nun.”

  “And?”

  “So if he sees you down there now, he’s hardly going to believe you’re a nun.”

  “I see.” Emma cocked her head. “Don’t fret, honey. He won’t be seeing me at
all. He’ll be seeing Seline.”

  “You’re a striking woman. He’s not blind. He’ll remember you.”

  Emma gave him a bashfully coquettish look. “Why, Mr. Death, are you flirting with me?”

  “Maybe I can buy him a whore,” Deathrider said thoughtfully. “If he’s upstairs he won’t see you.”

  Emma felt a surprisingly sour spurt of jealousy. Which was ridiculous, as she’d never even met Tom Slater. He could sleep with any whore he wanted—what should she care?

  “You won’t need to buy him a whore. He won’t recognize me,” Emma told him imperiously.

  “Your eyes alone are too memorable.”

  “Honey, if he’s looking at my eyes, I ain’t doing my job right. Now stop yapping and let a girl get to work.” She flapped her hand. “Go on. Get.”

  “It sounds like she has a plan,” Calla told him. “You really don’t want to get between Seline and a plan.”

  Emma, she almost corrected, not Seline. But she didn’t. Because tonight she really would be Seline. One last time.

  5

  HE WASN’T DRUNK. Not exactly. He was just . . . cozy. Somehow, Tom had finished the half bottle of whiskey. He’d also eaten a helping of Anna’s chili, a plate of corn bread and a hunk of chocolate cake, and turned down offers from half a dozen whores. The more whiskey he drank, the harder it got for him to turn them down, and the harder it was to tear his eyes away from all the exposed skin. The girls here were clean and fancy, and they looked more willing than most. As a rule, whores made Tom uncomfortable. Most of them were an unhappy bunch. They might smile, but there were shadows in their eyes, and they tended to flinch like whipped dogs if you moved too quick or spoke too loud. And he didn’t like the feeling that a woman was only lying with him because he’d paid her. It made him feel dirty and sad and small.

  La Noche filled up as the night wore on, and after a while, the whores were busy enough to forget he was there. He watched a miner chase a lovely blond up the stairs and felt a stab of envy. Other guys made it look so easy. They didn’t seem to feel sad about the whole transaction. They looked like they were having fun. It made Tom feel like a failure. Why couldn’t whores come easy to him?

  Forget whores. Why couldn’t women come easy to him? Hell. Why couldn’t people? His brothers were about the only people he felt comfortable with. And Emilio. He’d traveled with Emilio for so long that they were practically brothers. Women, though . . . women were a whole other matter. They were completely alien to him. He didn’t know what they were thinking. They didn’t talk plain like men did. There were all these secret rules he didn’t know or understand. They were tender and gentle and prone to taking offense if you weren’t careful.

  Alex had been the first woman he’d ever had feelings for. Pretty much from first sight. And while she could be tender and gentle, she was also tough and plainspoken. She wasn’t like other women. She made him comfortable.

  And look how that had turned out.

  That gem of a thought had him contemplating another bottle of whiskey.

  “Thought you weren’t planning on pitching a drunk tonight?” Deathrider said, coming out of nowhere, as he was wont to do. He loomed over Tom, his full Indian dress drawing more than a few nervous looks from the clientele.

  “I ain’t drunk. I’m just relaxed.” Tom scowled at him. “No thanks to you.”

  “You know what would relax you better than booze? One of Ella’s girls.”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you didn’t hold with whoring? That’s what you said back in Oregon. You don’t think women should be bought—ain’t that what you said?”

  “I’m not planning on buying one. I just thought you might find it helpful.”

  “You know I’m not one for them either,” Tom muttered, his gaze snagging on an expanse of exposed thigh across the room.

  “Just like Matt,” Deathrider sighed, following his gaze. “I must have traveled five thousand miles with that man, and I never saw him visit a single woman. No wonder he was so ornery.”

  “They don’t come natural to us. Neither one of us ever had much to do with women,” Tom said defensively.

  “Why not? Your brother Luke hoard them all?”

  Tom snorted. “You’re funnier than you look.”

  “Luke sure liked his women.”

  Liked. Past tense. Women had lost their luster for him after he’d met Alex. She had that kind of effect. Tom reached for the whiskey bottle, then remembered it was empty. “You cain’t talk anyway,” Tom said, thrusting aside the empty bottle. “You don’t seem to have much to do with women. If we’re peculiar, you’re peculiar too.”

  “You didn’t just get sour, did you, Slater? You got cantankerous. Sometimes I feel like I’m talking to your little brother.”

  Tom grunted. He didn’t relish the comparison. His brother Matt was famously contrary, whereas Tom had always been the even-tempered one. The peacemaker.

  “Had” being the word. He didn’t know what he was these days, but even-tempered sure wasn’t it. He was all knotted up and sourer than a green lemon.

  “Maybe if you enjoyed a woman now and again, you’d regain your sweet nature,” Deathrider suggested.

  “I’m getting another drink.” Tom pushed up from the table and headed for the bar. “You want a glass?”

  “No.” Deathrider surveyed the room. “And it’s probably best if we don’t keep company.”

  “You came up to me,” Tom grumbled under his breath. He got a single shot of whiskey and stood at the bar, watching Deathrider move through the saloon. The maniac was practically parading. Like he wanted every last fool in Mariposa to get a clean shot at the Plague of the West. Tom watched the crowd part for him. A couple of the gold miners were sizing him up. They were starting to whisper. Tom had no doubt what they were whispering. Ain’t that him? Rides with Death? There’s money on his head. Mighty big money . . .

  He should be called Flirts with Death, Tom grumped, tossing back the whiskey. Ah hell. Now look. There was some shifty fellow over there, fiddling with his firearm. The fellow’s eyes were trained on Deathrider, and he had a hungry glint about him. That was a man who was counting reward money in his head. And look at Deathrider swanning about like he was at a town dance. Tom should just let the fellow shoot the idiot.

  “You want another one?” the bartender asked.

  “Not right now,” Tom sighed. He didn’t know why he bothered, he thought, as he inched his way around the saloon, keeping a sharp eye on the shifty fellow with the twitchy finger. Deathrider was begging for trouble, so why not let him find it?

  Deathrider had paused opposite the grand staircase, in full view of the whole room. Tom made his way behind him. He kept his hand on his own Colt, his gaze darting from the shifty-looking fellow to the crush of miners around them. Any one of them could draw his weapon in a heartbeat. Goddamn it. The hair rose on the back of his neck. The place had the feel of a tinderbox.

  But then a screech broke the mood. There was the sound of a door slamming against a wall upstairs, and a thick southern accent shattered through the hot night air: “Goddamn it all to hell, where did that man go?”

  Every head turned to the gallery, Tom’s included. That was about when he lost the ability to think clearly.

  Leaning over the rail above was a buck-naked whore. Well, buck-naked except for an enormous shocking pink bonnet and a pair of knee-high boots. Bonnet and boots somehow had the effect of making her look even more naked. And goddamn, did she look good naked.

  Tom had never seen anything like her in his life. She had the longest, firmest legs he’d ever seen. They just about went on forever. And then there were those breasts . . . they were pouty and round and sat high and proud. It was hard to look anywhere else. But then she giggled and stepped away from the railing, and his gaze dropped to the rest of her. Which was . . . bare. Tom flushed. E
very inch of her was smooth and exposed. The sight had him immediately hard. And just when you thought she couldn’t be any sexier, she turned coquettishly on her heel, revealing a plump derriere. Her screamingly red hair slapped at those delicious cheeks. Every inch of her was white. And Lord, did her inches ripple and bounce as she walked. It made him ache to watch.

  “Sorry, boys,” she called down, as she sashayed her way to the head of the stairs. Every eye in the room was glued to the roll of her hips and the bounce of those magnificent breasts. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your fun. I was just looking for my . . . Ah, there he is!” As she reached the head of the stairs, she rested one hand on the newel-post and posed. Tom’s heart just about stopped as she arched her back so her breasts thrust higher. He heard a pout in her voice but couldn’t bring himself to look up at her face to see her expression. He was transfixed. Her nipples were large and almost as shockingly pink as her hat. Were they rouged?

  “What kind of man are you to leave me in the lurch like that, sugar? Is that how they do things in your tribe? They ought to call you Disappoints to Death,” she called down the stairs.

  Tom jerked. Was she talking to Deathrider?

  She was. Tom tore his gaze away, with more difficulty than he cared to admit, to see Deathrider standing, dumbstruck. And was he . . . ? He was. The implacable Indian was blushing. He’d turned a deep brick red.

  “‘I’ll just be gone a moment,’ he said,” the whore complained. “And then he left me there all on my lonesome.”

  “I’ll keep you company!” one of the miners shouted. There was a round of cheers, and then all hell broke loose as they shouted their admiration. Men hurried to count their coins and wave bills as they offered to buy her services.

  They parted like the Red Sea as the whore laughed and descended the stairs. Tom broke out in a sweat as she neared. Her lips were the same pink as her nipples. He didn’t make it higher. As soon as he thought of her nipples, his gaze was lost to them. And they were rouged. As she got closer, he could see the sharpness of the pink. It turned him on like nothing had turned him on before. There was something about the stark contrast between the pink rouge and her white skin. Not to mention the fact that as he watched, her nipples were hardening.