He was in the habit of putting a considerable distance between himself and any female who asked for promises. But he was in no position to go anywhere. "What kind of a promise?"
She tugged at the cuff of her sleeve and cleared her throat delicately. "I don't suppose you, uh, remember our conversation of last evening? About my brother?"
He raked one hand through his rumpled hair. It was all a little fuzzy, but it was beginning to come back to him with a low, thudding sense of doom. Something about wanting his help for something. What was it? Her brother had been unjustly imprisoned in—Reese's blood went cold. "Querétaro."
A pleased smile spread across her face. "Yes. Exactly so. Then you recall my brother's dilemma."
He glared at her in reply.
She cleared her throat. "I must have your promise that if we free you, you'll go to Querétaro to free my brother. It's an even trade, I think."
This was too much. Reese lurched to his feet."An even—?"
"Shh!" She waved her hands at him frantically with a horrified look at the marshal's door. "Do you want him to hear?"
He ground his teeth together and gripped the bars of his cell until his knuckles went white. "An even trade?" he repeated in a strangled whisper. "You're the reason I'm in here in the first place. If it weren't for you, I'd be sleeping off my hangover in the comfort of my own room, instead of waiting for the hangman's noose t' be fitted 'round my neck!"
Her lips fell open in real dismay. "Oh, now that's hardly fair, Mr. Donovan. After all, you are the gunslinger with whom that awful Deke Sanders seemed to have some bone to pick. And no one forced you to pull that trigger. And I... well, I certainly didn't mean to trip like that. It was entirely... accidental."
"And I suppose it was accidental you happened t' be in that cantina alone where a woman like you had no bloody business bein'?"
Grace backed against the wall two steps behind her, noting irrelevantly that both his brogue and his language got worse the angrier he got. She was suddenly quite glad those iron bars stood between them, because he looked as if he wanted to strangle her with his two bare hands. She touched her throat. She knew he was at least half right about her. Well, maybe even a little more than half, she admitted. But she couldn't let that dissuade her from her plan.
"Mr. Donovan, I... I really am very sorry about everything. I certainly never meant for any of this to happen. I do hope you know that. But don't you agree this is hardly the time for recriminations?"
He narrowed his eyes uncertainly.
"Recriminations," she said more softly, meeting his gaze. "Blame. Some things"—she took a step closer—"just happen. They're meant to be. There's no logic, no reason. They just are. It's destiny, so to speak."
Resse dropped his hands from the bars and watched her take another step nearer. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. "Destiny?"
"Do you believe in it?"
"No." And for reasons he couldn't fathom, he added, "But I suppose you do."
She smiled at him. By God, she had a smile that could charm a flock of canaries out of the trees, he thought, steeling himself against it.
"I believe," she said, "that all things have a purpose, Mr. Donovan. A purpose greater than our understanding. Perhaps it's better not to question those things. Now, we haven't much time. Do we have a deal or not?"
He spun away from her, braced his hands on the wall above the bunk and cursed.
Grace watched the tense arch of his shoulders, the play of muscle across his back through the torn fabric of his shirt as he let his head drop forward between his splayed arms. Something in his posture made her want to reach out and touch him, reassure him that it would be all right. But she sensed that touching a man like Reese Donovan would be like touching the cool liquid of nitroglycerin, just before it exploded in your hand.
"Please. I need your help."
Reese slumped down heavily on the wood slab and rubbed his aching head. "Let me get this straight. You get me out of here—assuming you can—and I go and make myself target practice for Maximilian's thugs in Querétaro."
"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind."
"What exactly did you have in mind?"
She shrugged, as if the answer were all too obvious. "Specifically? Freeing my brother and getting out alive."
He let out a snort of laughter.
"Mr. Donovan, if you think I haven't thought about the consequences of possible failure, you're wrong. I have. And weighing it against what we have to gain, we have decided that it's worth the risk. It's clear," she went on, "that your choices are rather onesided. Staying here means certain death for you."
"And in Querétaro, I'll have a running start, is that what you mean?"
She stared at him, silent.
He sent her a sideways look. "You ever been to Querétaro, princess?"
"No, of course I've never been."
"Well, I have. It would make even this place look good to a lady like yerself. And right now, from what I've heard, it's crawling with Maximilian's troops who've holed up there and think nothing of executing innocent men suspected of consorting with Juarez or his supporters."
"Like my brother."
He nodded. "Like your brother."
She glanced around the cell. "It can't be much worse than this, can it?"
He narrowed his eyes, following her gaze. "You might be surprised. Besides, there isn't a prayer of me breaching Maximilian's defenses."
She glanced innocently at the thick adobe walls of his cell. "I suppose Marshal Sanders has much the same opinion about his little fortress. But I plan to prove him wrong."
He shook his head. "You do."
"Indeed."
But her fingers, Reese noted, were busy twisting in the silk fabric of her mourning getup. And that postage stamp of a hat of hers was slipping inexorably toward one side of her empty little head. She shoved it back in place with one trembling digit.
"I'm very confident," she said brightly.
"Ah, well, that certainly puts my mind at ease. And if I say yes, what's t' keep me from just leavin' you behind once I'm... liberated, as you say?"
Her expression sobered and she chewed on her thumbnail, pacing back and forth in front of the cell bars with a swish of silk and petticoats. "I've thought about that, actually. And I've come to the conclusion that although I have no guarantee, as an ex-Texas Ranger, you're a man who lives by a code of honor. I believe that if you promise me that you'll go, you will."
Destiny. Code of honor. Ballocks. If he had a code at all, it had nothing to do with his having been a Texas Ranger once upon a time. He'd learned the hard way that the Rangers' code of honor was made to be broken at the convenience of the man who proclaimed it, or to suit whatever purpose he had in mind.
But apparently, this woman had some starry-eyed notion of what a Texas Ranger was, and she supposed he fit the bill. It should have been as apparent to her as it was to the rest of the world that he'd been deemed unworthy of such a lofty rank.
He'd spent the last few years lying to everyone, including himself. One more lie wouldn't hurt.
"All right. I agree."
Her eyes widened. "You'll do it?"
"I said I would, didn't I?"
"Your word of honor?"
He spread his hands wide. "Naturally."
She rushed to embrace the bars again, the only thing stopping her, he supposed, from flinging herself at him. Tears brimmed in her eyes and teetered on her lashes. "Oh, Mr. Donovan, thank you, thank you! You can't know what this means to me. You won't regret it, I—"
"Not danglin' from Sanders's noose is the thing I won't regret," he said gruffly, cutting her off. "If you can get me out of here."
"Not if. When."
A sweet fragrance he couldn't quite identify drifted to him the closer she got, and a sharp, unexpected pang of desire curled low in his belly. She had the kind of eyes a man could lose himself in, he thought. Deep and calm and certain. The kind of eyes that could persuade a man to be so
meone, or damn him for the fool he was.
She stuck her hand through the bars. "Shall we shake on it, then?"
He eyed her proffered hand suspiciously. It wasn't every day a woman offered a man a hand as a deal-sealer. In fact, it was downright unusual. But then he supposed Grace Turner wasn't usual in any sort of way at all.
There was a slight tremble to her hand as he took it. Her skin was soft as down, a lady's hand, he mused, trying to remember if he'd ever touched one before. As her fingers curled around his palm in firm resolve, their eyes collided: an offer of trust on her part, a blatant lie on his.
How many times, he wondered, had he told lies to the kind of women who required nothing more? It had never bothered him before and shouldn't now. But somehow it did. A flash of heat crept upward from his collar, and he deliberately disengaged his hand from hers.
She smiled up at him, apparently not noticing. "We'll get you out," she said. "Don't you worry about that. Be ready tonight at midnight. We've already taken the liberty of purchasing a new horse for you. We didn't want to raise suspicions at the livery where you've boarded yours."
He frowned. "Pretty sure of yourselves, weren't you?"
A smile tipped her mouth again. "We'll be back for you tonight, then, Mr. Donovan. Midnight. Be ready."
He nodded.
"Oh, and there's one more condition," she added, turning with her hand on the knob.
"Condition?"
"It would seem you have a well-earned reputation for... indulgence, shall we say?"
Donovan sat back down on the bunk and waited, feeling the short hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Outside the window, the cicadas cranked up in the rising morning heat.
Grace cleared her throat. "You must promise to remain sober until you've finished your obligation to me. I won't abide drinking of any sort. It would serve only to muddle your thinking and jeopardize my brother's life. Is that clear?"
Reese curled his fists around the moth-eaten blanket covering his bunk. The woman had brass! Who did she think she was? Did she think he couldn't stay sober if he wanted to? He could, but he didn't have to prove it to her or anyone else. Not that it would matter. He wouldn't be with her long enough to see the sun come up tomorrow. That is, if he lived that long.
"Mr. Donovan? Have I your word?"
He sent her a slow, disarming smile and bowed slightly at the waist. "In the spirit of all the brave and honorable Texas Rangers that have gone before me, you have my solemn oath."
A flicker of uncertainty appeared in those lovely eyes of hers before she smiled. "Then we have a deal. Tonight, then," she said as she dropped that whisper of silk back over her face.
An unexpected prickle of disappointment at the loss filtered through him. "Tonight," he repeated. "If Sanders doesn't hang me first."
She looked around at him. "He'll bury his brother first," she told him. "Deputy Smith said he plans to try you late this afternoon."
She paused, as if she could sense the effect her words had on him. Reese wished he could still see her face, but reasoned it was better that she didn't have a clear view of his. "At least I'll get a speedy trial. Go on," he urged. "What else did he say?"
"He told me..." She hesitated.
"What?"
"He said if you're found guilty, which Sanders, um, seems quite certain you are, your hanging is set for tomorrow. At dawn."
Reese jaw tightened involuntarily. "Then I guess there's not much room for error tonight, is there, Miss Turner?"
"Don't worry," she said softly. Then, without another word, she pulled the door open and glided out.
Slumping back onto the hard wood slab, Reese cocked one knee and braced his foot against the bunk. Don't worry. "Why should I worry?" he muttered, "with some wet-behind-the-ears dime-novel reader plotting my escape?"
His hand shook slightly. Clenching his fist to stop the tremor, his gaze landed on the intricately spun web of his cellmate, the spider. The sticky fibers jerked and swayed in the shadowy sunlight, having at last captured an unsuspecting fly. The buzzing insect struggled in vain as the spider closed in on it, seizing it easily in its deadly grasp.
Reese watched the bloodless little murder as a spectator, feeling an uncommon affinity for the fly. He wondered absently if such small creatures were governed by the laws of destiny as well, the ones Grace Turner had told him about, and if it was fate or mere blunder that had steered it toward the web.
He wondered absently just what sort of a sticky mess he himself had just blundered into.
But most of all, he wondered if he'd make it another twelve bloody hours without a drink.
Chapter 4
Pressing a hand against her thigh, Grace willed her traitorous knees to stop knocking together as she made her way down the dust-choked street, leaving the ramshackle jail behind her. Perhaps Miss Beauregard had been right about her after all. Maybe there was a wee bit of the thespian in her. For somehow she'd managed to conceal her attack of nerves from Donovan and from the marshal who'd seen her out the door.
Projecting confidence was critical to her plan—particularly confidence she hardly felt. Donovan must believe her capable of pulling this off if they were to count on him helping them. Moreover, she thought, there was something about the man, about his bleak Irish eyes, that said he'd learned the hard way to expect nothing from this life. And strangely, that made her all the more intent on giving him what he believed didn't exist. Hope.
Weaving her way past snoring mounds of fragrant hogs and dozing burros in the street, she glanced at the handful of sombrero-clad men reclining beneath the wood porticos of the local storefronts. Her heels clacked against the uneven planked sidewalk as she detoured around a fragrant sow. Pressing her hanky to the moisture gathering beneath the black netting that covered her face, she mused that even hogs knew better than to brave the Texas heat at midday, not to mention dressed head to toe in suffocating black. She lifted the netting and pushed it back over the small derby hat that secured it. Only another fifty yards to the cool adobe shelter of the dry-goods store. If she was lucky, she'd find a pickle barrel to wilt against.
It was only then, with her view unobscured by the veil, that she noticed the woman on the far side of the street who seemed to be following her. The woman's pace mirrored Grace's. The gold-lace mantilla she held together beneath her chin billowed out behind her as she hurried along. Grace's step faltered.
Maria.
The showy shawl did nothing to soften the enmity of the woman's expression as she glared at Grace. The hateful look crossed the crowded street like a flash of heat, searing her conscience. She gulped and looked away. Maybe, she prayed, if she ignored her she'd just go away.
Oh, why was she such a coward? Her erstwhile heroine would never run from a confrontation like this. Lorna Lee, the adventuress; Lorna Lee, the woman men sighed over; Lorna Lee, the one who never made mistakes...
With steps as regal as a queen's, Lorna Lee Goodnight swept down the dusty calle as if she owned it. The trollop in the vulgar gold shawl shrank back against the adobe wall as Lorna approached, cowed by her confident stride.
"Maria—no, don't run away," she called. "Dead-Eye needs your help. I need your help."
"My help?"
"It's a mission of the utmost secrecy. One slip of the tongue and the plan will be in tatters. Can I trust you?"
"I would do anything for him," Maria admitted. "Anything. But why should I trust you? He is in jail because of you. "
"Ah, that. That was all a simple misunderstanding. I assure you, that matter will be remedied within th—"
A hand closed around Grace's arm and spun her around. Grace gasped as a very real, very angry Maria yanked her to a stop.
"So," the woman spat, "you are happy, Señorita Turner?"
Grace opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
"By tomorrow, Reese will be muerto. Dead—you understand this, yes?" Her eyes slid down Grace's outfit. "And still you go there to mock him in your mourning weeds
."
Shock strangled the words in her throat. "No, I—it... it wasn't like that at all."
"Women like you are veneno—poison to men like him. So proper, so pure, you think you are above all of us."
Grace shook her head in denial. "Please, Maria—"
Maria raised her chin. "Reese has more honor in his fingernail than you could ever have, gringa." She gave the word the same inflection one might give to "rattlesnake."
"Stay away from him," Maria warned her before turning away. "Let him at least have his dignity."
"Maria, wait." Grace stopped her with her hand. The woman turned, her eyes narrowed like a cat's.
In that one moment of panic, she thought of telling Maria everything, the plan, the promise he'd made her—
But she didn't dare. Not only couldn't she trust the woman, but knowledge of the plan would only put Maria's life in danger as well. There was, however, one thing, she could say. Had to say.
"Maria, I'm sorry about Mr. Donovan. I never meant for any of this to happen. I know you care about him. I want you to know I'm doing everything I can to undo the damage I've done. Please, please believe me."
A flicker of hope in Maria's eyes told her she wanted to believe her, but a moment later it was gone. She smiled derisively. "Yo recuerdo... I remember she said that, too, once. Look where it's got him."
Grace frowned, not understanding. "She?"
"Adriana." She spat on the ground. "Su esposa. His wife."
Grace's eyes went wide. Wife? Reese Donovan had a wife?
Maria jerked her arm away. "You are all alike." She turned on her heel and left Grace staring after her as she disappeared down an alleyway.
"Who was that?"
Grace turned with her hand at her throat to find Brewster standing beside her.
"Gads! You nearly scared the life out of me. You shouldn't sneak up on me that way."
"I wasn't sneaking. Who was she?"
"No one," she answered distractedly, staring at the alleyway. "Just someone who cares about Donovan."
"Speakin' of the devil, are you gonna tell me or just stand there?"
"He said yes. Just as I predicted he would."
The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) Page 5