Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance)

by Matthews, Devon

  “Whoa. Eeeasy, boy,” she soothed. Her heartbeat raced to war drum cadence. The horse sidestepped, and she moved with it, grappling for a firm enough grip on the saddle to lift her foot into the stirrup.

  Already clammy from exertion, trickles of sweat broke from behind her ears and the cleft between her breasts. She practically tasted victory. With a white-knuckled grip around the horn, she pulled upward.

  From nowhere, Rane’s arm banded the front of her waist. She squealed from pure instinct and thrashed out her frustration. He jerked her backward, dislodging her foot from the stirrup, yanking away her wild, desperate hope of escape.

  The jarring collision with his solidly muscled chest stopped her mid-scream. She sucked in a gasp. Determined to fight, she gathered strength and swung wildly, flailing at him. “Let go of me! Let...go!”

  With one arm still anchored around her waist, he hoisted her off her feet. Her head reeled at the unexpected lift. Off balance, she clutched his arm with both hands and drove her heels backward, striking blindly. His grip around her midsection tightened like a steel cinch.

  Too quickly, the strength drained from her limbs, and she began to tire. A sharp ache settled in her legs. Damn his black heart. All he did was stand there and let her wear herself out. At last, near choking on defeat and lack of adequate breath, she went limp against him.

  Slowly, he lowered her and loosened his arm, but didn’t release her completely.

  Angel wheezed for air and locked her trembling knees. Against her back, his chest expanded, his rapid gusts matching her own. Grim satisfaction filled her. She hadn’t beaten him, but at least she’d left him winded.

  She stared straight ahead, conscious of his arm wedged against the undersides of her heaving breasts. He shifted, and the beard stubble on his face caught against her hair. He’d put his face right next to hers. Without moving, she glimpsed a blurred outline of his bronzed profile from the corner of her eye. She turned her gaze forward once more and tried to calm her breathing. And waited to see what he would do.

  His breath raked her cheek and curled like liquid heat against the side of her throat. Helpless to stop it, a shiver started at the back of her neck and quickly crawled down both arms. Beneath her borrowed shirt, her breasts tightened. Mortified, she could only stand there, helpless, while her nipples expanded beneath the thin cotton.

  Was he looking down? Oh, God. She dared not look to find out. Instead she clenched her teeth and tried to will away her instinctive reaction.

  A feathery brush against her jaw sent new tingles slithering down her neck. His moist breath invaded her ear. She squeezed her eyes closed and tensed.

  “Where did you think you were going?”

  The question was spoken softly, nearly a whisper, but subtle warning underscored each word. He’d used the same tone on Jed and the weasel.

  Just before he killed one of them.

  Angel opened her eyes and barely dared to breathe. She’d seen him kill. Yet, he’d made no move to harm her. The only time he’d laid hands on her was to stop her from running away. If he meant to hurt her, surely he would have done so before now.

  She gasped when he dropped his arm from her waist and spun her to face him. Cool air rushed to the moist, heated places where he’d held her, leaving her chilled.

  Suddenly confronted with the dark slits of his eyes, she imagined she saw fiery pinpoints blazing within their depths.

  “I said, where did you think you were going?”

  “You figure it out,” she said.

  For an eternal moment, he simply stared at her. Then he huffed a breath, lifted his hand, and let it fall against his thigh with a slap. “There’s nothing out there. How far do you think you could get? Alone? Lundy’s men would be on you before you went twenty miles. If my horse didn’t kill you first.”

  A thin ribbon of sweat seeped through the dust on his cheek. He lifted an arm and swiped at it with his shirtsleeve. “Don’t be stupid. And don’t try to steal my horse again.”

  With that, he stepped past her, heading for the skittish stallion. The missing rifle scabbard was slung behind one shoulder.

  Angel watched him go, then ducked her head and released a short, relieved breath. She curled her trembling hands into fists to stop their shaking. Damn it. The man had come at her from nowhere. How did he do that?

  Her train of thought ended abruptly when Jed Wiley’s smelly hat landed on the sand in front of her. She looked up and found Rane standing beside the horse, waiting.

  “Time to ride,” he said.

  ****

  The man was relentless. For several hours, he dragged them through territory any sensible person would have avoided. She knew he was keeping off the established trails. They covered way too much of the distance on foot, in her estimation, even though she knew he was sparing the horse their double weight.

  For a man who’d ridden nearly two hundred miles to kidnap her, he hadn’t planned very well.

  Angel’s feet ached, her ankles wobbled, and her legs threatened to give out beneath her with each step. Her wretched little boots had been designed for paved city walkways, not the uneven, rock-strewn terrain of the Texas badlands.

  In late afternoon, he led them into a dry gully choked by boulders and sapling willows. After nearly an hour of tromping through bogging sand, a shimmering pool appeared around a bend in the wash.

  Angel sank to the sand at the water’s edge and fought tears of relief and utter exhaustion. They’d made little progress that day, and she knew she’d never make it to their destination. Not at the pace they were going.

  Except for the dark sweat rings circling his shirt, Mantorres appeared no worse for wear than he had that morning. While his horse sucked up its fill of water, her kidnapper hunkered beside the beast and drank from his cupped hands.

  The rippling water beckoned. She licked her parched lips, then eased into a kneeling position and followed his example. The water didn’t taste like the cold sweetness she’d been hoping for, but at least it was wet and there was plenty of it.

  After drinking her fill, she sat back on the sand. Weariness pulled at her. She felt herself drift, the surroundings blur, but couldn’t seem to keep her eyelids open.

  “You just going to sit there?”

  Angel’s head popped up. Pain ripped through the back of her stiff neck. She’d fallen asleep sitting up.

  The shadows had shifted and lengthened across the gully. The horse was nowhere in sight.

  Mantorres stood at the water’s edge, looking at her with a frown sketched over his forehead. Was he surprised to find her exhausted after walking half the day over rock and sand? What did he expect?

  “I refuse to take another step today,” she informed him.

  His frown faded, only to be replaced by something even more disturbing. The corners of his mouth quirked upward, revealing a brief flash of white teeth.

  His smile devastated her far worse than his anger and strong-arm tactics.

  Angel averted her gaze, flustered by her reaction. He’d simply surprised her. That’s all. There was no way she could find anything about the man attractive. He was the antithesis of everything she found admirable.

  Liar, the wind seemed to whisper.

  Under normal circumstances, their paths would never have crossed. She could think of no valid reason why she would ever have occasion to even speak to such a man. Nothing good could come of this. It made no difference now if he turned her over to Lundy, or if he didn’t. He’d already sealed his fate. He was a dead man, and her father would be his executioner.

  The soft melody of Cielito Lindo drifted to her ears. She looked up, surprised once more. Scoundrels weren’t supposed to whistle pleasant, familiar tunes. Seemingly oblivious, he tugged the shirttail from his trousers. Her eyes widened when he raked the garment up his body, revealing a tight network of corrugated muscle overlaying his flat stomach.

  Angel’s breath snagged in her throat.

  She realized she was alread
y far too familiar with the feel of Rane’s body and the woodsy spice scent that clung to his skin. Throughout the day, while she’d sat atop his bedroll wedged behind the cantle of his saddle, her hands had strayed often to his strong back for support. She knew his intense heat, the way his shirt clung when he stretched his arms forward to guide the horse over a particularly rough patch of ground, and the firm, steady feel of his flesh beneath her hands.

  Feeling was one thing. Seeing was another.

  Higher up his chest, a small patch of crisp looking, coal colored hair dusted the skin beneath his collarbone and the center of his breast. Though small, it tapered and continued in a straight line downward, disappearing beneath the band of his pants. He pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it onto a boulder.

  “Wha—what are you doing?” Did her tremulous voice betray her thoughts?

  “Taking a bath.”

  He said the words matter-of-factly. But there was nothing casual about Angel’s reaction. The last remnants of exhaustion fell away. Like a rabbit, caught in the path of a marauding longhorn, not knowing which way to run, she tensed. Should she turn away while she still had the chance? She fully expected him to drop his trousers next.

  He didn’t. Disrobing completely would mean disarming himself. She should’ve known he wouldn’t leave his gunbelt lying on the bank where she could get her hands on it.

  What would she have done if he had?

  Dropping to his knees at the pool’s edge, he leaned forward and slid his arms below the surface. Cupping handfuls, he worked the water beneath his armpits and through his hair.

  Supple muscles rippled under smooth skin just a shade shy of burnt sienna. Angel released a long, erratic breath. After squeezing the excess water from his hair, he hung there for several moments and allowed himself to drip. When he stood, he reached for his shirt and turned his back to her while he slipped it over his head.

  Just beneath his left shoulder blade, Angel noticed a scar. Her stomach lurched. She’d seen her share of wounds. His was old, white against his tanned skin and long since healed. A bullet hole at the point of entry. He’d been shot in the back.

  He turned, as though he sensed where her attention had strayed. His dark gaze pinned her while he worked the shirt back down his torso.

  “I’m going to find us something to eat,” he said. “Go ahead and wash, if you want.”

  He walked away, jabbing his shirt beneath the band of his pants. The horse was nowhere in sight. Had he hidden it from her?

  Probably. Her attempted escape that morning had put him more on guard. Grim thought.

  She sighed and turned to stare across the shimmering water. Wash, he’d said. Did he expect her to strip, too? She wasn’t about to take off her clothes while he lurked somewhere back in the bushes. But she did intend to soak her aching feet. Even if they swelled twice their size, she was determined to remove those torturous boots.

  Angel eased her bare feet into the water and groaned with pure pleasure. Just for a moment, she wished she could push away the worrisome thoughts that had nagged at her all day. Thoughts of her father. She wondered if he’d yet received the news of her abduction. Was he, even now, riding eastward to look for her? And what would happen when he found her?

  She remembered the disturbing image of the scar on Rane’s back and went still. Her breath ran shallow. She had to get away. Her father would expect her to do whatever it took to save herself and try to salvage what was left of her reputation.

  Angel sighed once more and leaned forward, wrapping her arms around her bent knees. She wriggled her toes through the silt at the bottom of the pool and watched the rising swirls of mud cover her feet. Leggy insects skittered across the surface of the water. Idly, she wondered if they ever sank.

  Gathering the stray hair dangling at each side of her face, she brushed it back, straightened...and froze in horror. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t force the scream she wanted to send howling between the walls of the gully.

  A trio of Indians stood silently on the other side of the pool, and all three of them stared straight at her.

  Chapter Four

  Angel sat on the sand, her breath frozen. Her heart slammed against her ribs with telltale jerks.

  Fear of the Comanche had been ingrained since her earliest memories. She’d heard all the horror stories, the accounts of gruesome tortures practiced on white captives.

  The three half-naked men standing on the opposite side of the pool looked as wild and bloodthirsty as starving wolves. Greasy black paint streaked their dusky-skinned faces. Barechested, they wore only buckskin leggings draped with breechclouts and plain moccasins on their feet.

  Angel tried to draw a normal breath, but it wouldn’t come. She kept her head ducked, not daring to make eye contact, and watched the savages from under her lashes.

  While the other two knelt beside the pool and drank, the third man calmly studied her with his arms crossed over his broad chest. Was he imagining her long, pale hair strung for a trophy on the end of his lance? He seemed unusually tall for an Indian. And his eyes... Even across the distance, she felt his gaze bore into her like pale shards of ice.

  Dread intensified with each passing second. Why didn’t they race around the pool and attack? Were they playing cat and mouse, letting her fear build? She’d heard they derived pleasure from their victim’s cries of terror and pain.

  Oh, God!

  Where was Mantorres with his lightning Colt?

  She opened her mouth to scream for her abductor when the tall Indian uncrossed his arms and lifted his right hand.

  It was an odd gesture, almost like a wave. Angel jerked her feet from the water and stood.

  What kind of trick was this?

  As if on signal, the other Indians stood and all three started around the pool.

  Angel’s heart sped to a dead gallop, sparking bright pinpoints of light before her eyes. Prepared to run, she turned and slammed into a solid wall of male chest.

  Rane’s arm slid across her back and anchored her closer, melding her with the front of his body. “Don’t be afraid,” he said.

  Swamped with relief, she sagged against him. Never had a voice sounded so beautiful. Never had another’s touch filled her with such a sense of refuge as his did at that moment.

  She realized she was trembling, her breath nearly sobbed against his strong shoulder. And her hands had twisted into the bunched fabric at his waist as she clung to him like a terrified child.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he repeated. “Turn around and look.”

  She felt his arm against her back loosen, felt it fall away. The sudden emptiness sent a cold chill streaking down her spine. She didn’t want to turn around, but having one of her worst horrors slipping up behind her was far worse.

  She turned and found the Indians almost upon them. Yet Rane’s very calmness allayed her initial terror. He stepped past her and continued walking, until he stood face to face with the tall Indian at the side of the pool.

  “Wolf.”

  “Hermano,” the Indian replied.

  Angel’s ears perked up. The Indian had just called her captor “brother” with easy familiarity.

  “I brought a horse.”

  Though clipped, the Indian’s words were not the guttural English spoken by the “blanket” Indians who crowded the train depots at every stop, selling their wares of blankets, pottery, and beaded jewelry to disembarking passengers.

  “Good.” Rane nodded. “I was beginning to think I might have to ride double all the way to the border.”

  Wolf’s gaze swept past Rane and raked her from top to bottom, lingering on the snug trousers molded to her legs. “Why would you complain?”

  Heat poured into her cheeks. Then, for one brief instant, she found herself looking directly into the Indian’s strange blue eyes. And his name was Wolf. How fitting.

  Blue eyes, even paler than hers. No wonder his stare had seemed so cold. The unusually tall Indian was a half-breed. The knowledg
e made him no less fearsome. Up close, she realized the two with him were barely more than youngsters, still in their teens.

  “Where’s the horse?’ Rane asked.

  Even to Angel, his voice sounded suddenly tense.

  Slowly, Wolf returned his attention to Rane. A coy grin curved one side of his lips. “I left the horse tied with yours. If I had wanted to, I could have slipped in behind you and slit your throat. If I had been one of Lundy’s men, you would be dead now.”

  “How much you willing to bet on that?”

  Rane’s voice was so low, Angel barely heard him. A long pause followed the challenge, and she sensed undercurrents that chilled her blood. Something outside her understanding passed between the two men. And yet the smile never left Wolf’s face and neither of them appeared truly angry.

  Wolf crossed his arms over his bare chest and tipped up his chin. “I saw you drop some rabbits back in the brush. You plan on asking us to stay for supper, or not?”

  ****

  At dusk, the two young Indians led the horses near the newly established camp and secured them to a picket line strung through the willows. While Rane skinned the rabbits with a wicked looking knife he pulled from inside the haft of his boot, Wolf scooped a shallow pit into the sand and started a fire.

  Angel sat huddled next to a boulder and tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. The fire’s warmth beckoned, but she dared not go nearer. She wondered how two scrawny jackrabbits would feed five people, until the two nameless youngsters appeared with an armload of blankets and knapsacks filled with provisions. She tried not to think about where they might have gotten them.

  Seated on his haunches, Wolf pulled one of the knapsacks toward him and upended it on the sand. An assortment of cans rolled out, along with a cigar box and a cheesecloth bound parcel that contained three flattened loaves of bread.

  Wolf took one of the loaves and pushed to his feet. When Angel realized he was headed toward her, she huddled lower and wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees.