The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1)

by Barbara Ankrum

  "Are you crazy?" Luke snapped, pressing her back against the stairwall.

  "He'll kill Reese!"

  "He knows what he's doing. Let him do it!"

  Less than thirty seconds later, the shooting stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and they heard footsteps coming toward the stairwell. Uncertain of who would walk through that doorway, Luke shielded her with his body against the step, but it was Reese who appeared, shoving a new, fully loaded cylinder into his Colt pistol. Relief made her bury her face against her brother's shoulder with a murmured prayer of thanks.

  "Let's go," Reese ordered, helping Luke up again. He shouted something to the other men in Spanish. With brief nods of thanks, they hurried past Reese down the last of the stairs, splitting off in two different directions.

  "There are two doors leading to two different hallways through this room. I told them to take their pick," he explained, hauling Luke against him. "You got any brilliant ideas, Turner?"

  Luke rubbed his temple woozily, trying to get his bearings. "I've been dragged all over this place, but never here. Officers have come up those stairs from outside though, I know." He glanced at Reese. "I could smell the fresh air on them. If I had to guess, I'd take left."

  "Left it is, then. Here." Reese slid a second pistol—the dead soldier's, no doubt—from the waistband of his trousers and handed it to Luke. "Can you handle this?"

  A slow grin spread over Luke's battered face as he fingered the weapon. "I never thought I'd hold one of these again. I can think of a few of those guards I'd like to use this on."

  "Time enough later to think of revenge," Grace told him. "Let's get out of here first."

  "Smart girl," Reese murmured, smiling at her.

  Grace smiled up at him, her tumultuous emotions all too clear in her expression.

  The room they hurried through was a pantry of sorts, piled high with crates and foodstuffs. Netted smoked hams dangled from the ceiling alongside sausages and bundles of drying herbs. Hogsheads stamped with the words Harina and Azucar stood stacked atop one another. Flour and sugar sifted in steady streams from the holes the gunshots had torn. Behind the closest hogshead, Grace glimpsed a booted foot and a stain of crimson seeping in a slow rivulet across the floor from between the barrels.

  She slammed her eyes shut as they passed through the door.

  They half-walked, half-dragged Luke down the corridor as it wove its way past thick, rose-colored adobe walls driven through at the ceiling with round, hand-hewn pine beams. Small vertical slits through which light filtered saved the passageway from utter darkness. Here and there, lamp sconces hung on the wall, casting flickering shadows on the trio as they made their way along it. In the distance they could hear the sounds of chaos and gunfire.

  Cautiously, they followed the dark corridor to the left, stopping every few feet to listen for sounds of approach. At the end was an arched, heavy wooden door leading to God knew where. Reese put his ear against the portal and listened. He cocked his pistol then and pulled open the door.

  The open-air courtyard, lushly landscaped with flowering hibiscus and oleander, stood empty, save the statue of some saint beckoning heaven at the center. Magenta and ivory clouds of ancient bougainvillea vined around the thick viga posts that supported the arbor overhead. Thirty steps beyond, past a series of doorways leading back into the monastery, stood a half-open grillwork gate—and beyond that, freedom.

  Luke faltered, gasping for breath. Grace cried out, and Reese tightened his arm around the man.

  "Can you make it?"

  Luke swallowed thickly. "Yes." But his face had lost all color and sweat streaked down his jaw and neck.

  Reese met Grace's worried gaze. "How about you, princess?"

  "Please," she whispered, "let's just get him out of here."

  They had only taken a few steps past the hedges of hibiscus when a door opened on the far side of the courtyard. A fair-skinned man clearly of European descent dressed in army blue half emerged from the doorway, stopping short at the sight of the three of them. He was alone. His uniform was uniquely elegant, with a gold-trimmed frock coat and epaulets at his shoulders. His dundreary sideburns met his chin with a flourish of style that set him apart from the others as well. From his hand dangled a long-barreled pistol, yet he made no move to aim it at them. Instead, he exhibited a look of supreme confusion as he obviously struggled to grasp the situation and the sudden chaos around him.

  His identity struck Reese like a hammer-blow—it was the Austrian emperor himself: Ferdinand Maximilian.

  Apparently Luke realized it at the same moment, because he lifted the barrel of his own gun and pointed it at the man.

  Maximilian's chin went up fractionally. Incredibly, he made no move to protect himself, instead assuming an air of destiny in his expression, almost welcoming whatever fate had designed for him at that moment. He held the gun out harmlessly to one side. The tip of Luke's pistol wavered with the weakness of his hand. Or, Reese thought, with indecision. Seconds ticked by like an eternity. Reese's gaze shifted to Grace's brother. A muscle worked in his jaw.

  How easy it would be to kill a man who made himself a target, Reese thought. But it would be more murder than self-defense. As Luke reluctantly lowered his pistol, Reese's respect for him grew. He was either bloody honorable or flat-out crazy not to shoot the man responsible for his capture.

  In any case, Maximilian tucked a hand against his midsection and bowed regally at the waist. A look of weary resignation and admiration shadowed his eyes as he turned and disappeared back the way he'd come.

  "Don't remind me later that I did that," Luke said, dragging Reese and Grace with him.

  "It was almost as if he wanted you to shoot him," Grace observed as they stumbled forward.

  "I suppose he'd rather die nobly in battle than suffer defeat at the hands of his own subjects," Reese said.

  Another explosion struck nearby, rattling the walls. A figure appeared at the gate, beckoning them forward. It was Tipo.

  "Muchachos! Vamonos!"

  "With pleasure!" Reese shouted in reply. "Let's get out of here!"

  Chapter 22

  The tides of war had turned on a betrayal. The young Imperialist officer, Lopez, had led Juarez's troops into the inner sanctum of the stronghold and given up his emperor in exchange for his own freedom and, ultimately, that of an entire nation. Maxmillian—the Austrian fool who had believed Mexico was his destiny—and his aide, Prince Salm, Mejia, and a few others managed to elude captors briefly, only to be surrounded on a small hill known as Cerro de las Campanas—The Hill of Bells. Surrender came quickly.

  Word spread rapidly through the rebel camps that the long fight was over. In the city, guns fired into the sky in reckless celebration. A general chaos prevailed as realization dawned that they were free at last.

  That afternoon, as the guerrilleros filtered back to camp, jubilation and the free flow of tequila were tempered by exhaustion and the high number of losses suffered over the long months of fighting. Relief, more than a sense of triumph, rode high in the hearts of the men who shared the evening camp-fire with the trio of Americanos. Relief that they could once more put down their weapons and return to the bosoms of their families and the fields they'd left fallow behind them.

  Grace sat beside Luke, watching him sleep, wondering what she'd be returning to in Virginia—to Five Oaks, her home. It seemed so far away now, so unimportant. A home, as these men clearly knew, meant family, sweethearts, people who shared the good times and the bad. Who would she have to share all that with back in Front Royal? Edgar? She shivered at the thought, wondering how she could have ever considered him.

  And Brew? If he recovered, which she prayed he did, he'd found Elena—the love of his life. Would he stay in Tampico with her?

  And what of Luke? She had no idea what was in his heart. She'd told him about Brew as she'd cleaned him up and tended his wounds. Would he feel the same way about Five Oaks as he once had? Or perhaps he'd stay with Magdalena.
Even now, the woman sat nearby, watching him with a longing Grace recognized in herself.

  Then there was Reese.

  He stood with Dominguez and a few others, listening to the retelling of battle stories. She watched him lift his cigarette to his mouth and inhale slowly, his eyes drifting toward her through the curtain of smoke. For one electric moment, his gaze locked with hers, and she felt the whole world slip away around them. Then, with a deliberateness she'd come to understand, he pulled his gaze from her.

  They'd barely spoken since their return, and Grace thought that just as well. She feared there could be only one end to any conversation with Reese now—with good-bye.

  "Grace."

  Luke's voice tore her from her thoughts. She smiled down at him. He watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. Only a miracle had brought Luke out of this alive, and she thanked God for it. Her throat clogged with emotion. Behind her, one of the men plucked at a guitar; its soulful notes seeped over the encampment like a balm.

  "Well," she said, taking his hand in hers. "How are you feeling?"

  He grinned. "How do I look?"

  She tipped her head slightly. "Oh, like something old Goober would have dragged in," she said, referring to the hound dog they'd shared as children. Possums had been his favorite quarry.

  "That bad, huh?"

  "The truth?" She flicked at her cheek with a knuckle. "No one's ever looked better than you did when I first found you in that prison."

  Luke squeezed her hand. "I must admit, I experienced that very same sentiment myself, little sister. I can't even imagine what you had in mind comin' down here for me. But I'm sure glad you did."

  "Oh, Luke, can you ever forgive me?"

  Confusion invaded his eyes. "Forgive you? For what?"

  "It was all my fault you even came here. After what happened with Karina."

  Luke stared at the fire. "No. I was angry, but not at you—at myself for being such a fool, for not seeing it first. It took me a while to realize you'd done me a favor, Gracie. It's me who should be asking for forgiveness of you."

  "I thought I'd never get the chance to tell you how sorry I was for interfering."

  "You saved me a lifetime of pain, brat," he said, reaching up and ruffling her short cropped hair, "and I'm grateful to you."

  Seeing Luke had always made her feel better. Growing up, he had been her rock, her hero. It meant everything to her to be able to heal the rift that had torn them apart. "Will you come home, Luke? Back to Five Oaks, to stay?"

  With a deep sigh, he shook his head. "I don't think I'm ready for that yet." He looked up at her with an intensity she couldn't recall seeing in him before, a lingering shadow in his eyes of all he'd been through.

  "After I get you home, I might head out west again. I hear the railroad is hiring. Maybe I'll get out of soldiering."

  It couldn't, of course, have anything to do with the fact that Karina lived only two farms away, married now to the man she'd betrayed Luke for. "Is it Karina you're running from, Luke? Because if it's that—"

  "No." With a wince of pain, he shifted on the saddle propped beneath his head. "These past weeks, I've tried to put her and that part of my life behind me. I've had a lot of time to think, plan for a future I didn't know if I'd ever see. There's a lot I haven't done, Grace. A lot I still want to see. I promised myself if I ever got out of there, I'd see it all. Four walls don't suit me just now. And I think it'll be a while before they do again."

  She nodded silently, understanding exactly what he meant. The mere thought of returning home without Reese made her want to scream at the injustice of it all.

  "I suppose you know Magdalena is crazy about you," she said softly.

  He glanced over at her fondly. "She's something, isn't she? The first time I laid eyes on her, she nearly shot my head off."

  "Now that I believe," Grace said with a grin. "Apparently, she changed her mind about you. We couldn't have gotten you out without her."

  "I know. She's been a good friend. She and her father. Magdalena thinks she's in love with me. But it's just that I'm different. She doesn't know what it is she wants. And to tell the truth, neither do I anymore. If I did, she would have tempted me to stay." He glanced at Magdalena again, who was walking toward the remuda of horses. "I'll talk to her."

  From personal experience, she knew logic of that sort mattered not at all where affairs of the heart were concerned.

  "What about you?" Luke asked, glancing at Reese. "And him. Correct me if I'm mistaken, but there appears to be a whole lot you're not telling me about the two of you."

  Apparently, prison had made him a mind reader, too. She looked up at Reese, distracted by the casual jut of his hip as he rested his foot on a log. He was laughing at something Tipo said. The sound of it tore at her heart.

  "—is there, Grace?"

  With a start she realized Luke had asked her something. "What?"

  Luke's eyes narrowed. "I said you've been together all the way from Texas. There's nothing I should be worried about as your big brother, is there?"

  "Worried? No." She tried to sound outraged at the suggestion, but the word sounded more hopeful than indignant. She wasn't foolish enough to discount the chance that she might be expecting. Neither would she be foolish enough to try to hang onto him with the possibility.

  A child. Reese's child.

  The thought cheered her. At least she'd have a small piece of him to keep with her always.

  "No," she repeated, glancing up at Luke. "There's nothing to worry about."

  He regarded her for a long moment. "You've changed, little sister. You've grown up."

  A smile tugged at her mouth. If that meant that she no longer needed to compare herself to a larger-than-life heroine like Lorna Lee Goodnight, only to find herself lacking, or to seek vicarious excitement through her books, then maybe he was right. Maybe she had grown up. Because for the last few weeks, nothing Lorna Lee could have done compared to the real-life adventure she'd shared with Reese Donovan. She'd seen enough danger to fill a hundred stories. Not with the fairy-tale stuff she'd once taken as fact, but with heroes like Reese and Luke, James and Evie, Magdalena, Dominguez, and—heaven help her—even Tipo.

  Nothing was as she'd thought it was. And nothing would ever be the same again. Reese had stripped her of her schoolgirl fantasies and replaced them with something far more precious—a belief in herself. For that, she owed him everything. And he'd made her more determined than ever to finish the book she'd started. She'd have to rewrite it completely, because—strangely—the hero had gone through a dramatic transformation in the process of telling the story. He was a different sort of hero altogether.

  The object of her thoughts strolled toward their campfire with the loose-hipped walk she'd forever associate with Reese. He smiled and tipped his hat back on his head as he met Luke's gaze.

  "A little food and rest seems just what the doctor ordered, Turner."

  Luke smiled wanly up at his rescuer and eased up on one elbow. "I haven't had the chance to thank you properly, Donovan. Not only for saving my neck, but keeping Gracie safe, too." The men shook hands like old friends. With a teasing light in his eyes, he glanced up at Grace. "She's a hardheaded brat, and I suppose she kept you on your toes."

  Awareness arced between Reese and Grace, even with that innocent look.

  Grace moistened her dry lips and flicked a bright, teasing smile at Luke. "Hardheaded, huh? Need I remind you, brother, who had to rescue whom?"

  "Something," he confided to Reese, "she'll never let me forget."

  A spark of some indefinable emotion flashed in Reese's eyes. "The truth is, she saved my backside more often than I did hers. She's a scrapper all right, and needin' no apologies for it, either. Not in my book."

  It was a compliment of the highest sort, coming from a man like him. But she could do without all the compliments in the world if only he would stay.

  The sad strains of Miguel's guitar drifted across the campsite along with the sw
eet, smoky smell of burning mesquite. Grace stared at the ground, unable to look Reese in the eye, to see what she knew she'd see. She blinked back the tears that threatened. Couldn't he see that going on with his life without her was wrong?

  She got to her feet in one swift movement. "Excuse me, I think I'll go take a bath."

  "Grace, I need to talk to you," Reese said, standing beside her, rolling the brim of his hat between his two hands.

  "It'll have to wait," she told him breezily, holding back tears. "I'm really dying to rinse this dirt off."

  He stepped back, gesturing with his hat. "Sure. Sure, we'll talk later."

  It took every ounce of will to nod and walk casually away from him—not run as if her life depended on it.

  A sinking feeling invaded Reese as he watched her go, scooping up a bar of soap and a towel on the fly. She knew what he wanted to say and she didn't want to hear it. Okay, Grace, he thought. Run. But it won't change a thing. The sooner he was gone the better for her. The better for them all.

  He glanced down at Luke who regarded him measuringly. "Smoke?"

  "Sure," Luke answered.

  Reese pulled two already rolled cigarettes from the pocket of his black shirt. He lit both, handed one to Luke, and sat down beside him.

  Luke inhaled deeply. "Thanks. I can't begin to tell you how I've craved one of these."

  "I've been thinking of giving them up." Reese frowned. "They make her sneeze, you know."

  Luke glanced in the direction Grace had gone. "Always have." He ran a hand through his rumpled hair. "Donovan, do you—? This is awkward. Do you harbor any intentions toward my sister?"

  Sliding his gaze back toward her brother, Reese replied, "Intentions? I intend to send her back where she came from, with you."

  "I see. That and break her heart," Luke observed.

  Reese looked up at him sharply, then gazed off into the distance. So perceptiveness ran in the family.

  Luke's eyes went hard. "I truly hope that wasn't your intention, Donovan, because broken ribs or not, if I thought it was, I'd have to break your jaw for it."