Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance)

by Matthews, Devon

She drooped and swayed in the saddle. The constant jarring settled into her bones. The ache in her legs had long ago faded into numbness. But the excruciating stitch in her side persisted and stabbed into her with each bounce. Those sedate Saturday jaunts in Central Park hadn’t kept her saddle-ready. Like any green rider, her bottom ached, and the inner sides of her thighs had chafed against the leather until they felt raw.

  Around them, the land slowly changed. Outcrops of multi-hued stratum thrust upward from the desert floor, breaking the monotony. Angel no longer watched the horizon—she could no longer see it.

  When the sun had climbed straight overhead, Rane halted his horse in the scant shade at the base of a low bluff.

  Angel almost wept with relief. Grimacing, she eased from the saddle. Her knees threatened to buckle when she dropped to the ground. She stood there a moment on wobbly legs, braced against the stinging sensation shooting through her limbs.

  “You’ll get used to it.”

  She looked up. Rane watched her from a few feet away.

  “Maybe tomorrow it’ll be better,” he said.

  Tomorrow. It was only midday. She doubted he planned to camp here at the base of this bluff. After a short rest, they’d move on, try to make up some of the time they’d lost while walking yesterday. How would she stand more endless hours in the saddle?

  “I’m fine,” she said, unwilling to admit weakness.

  An amused spark appeared in the dark depths of his eyes, just before he turned away.

  Angel blew out a breath. A fine layer of ashen dust covered her from head to toe. She uncurled her stiff fingers and looked at her hand. Even without peeling back the edge of the shirtsleeve, she could tell the sun had darkened her exposed skin. A mere two days in the Texas badlands had undone two years of Aunt Nelda’s night poultices meant to preserve her creamy, pale complexion.

  It’s not your fault.

  No matter how loudly that inner voice spoke, guilt still dogged her. She’d worked so hard and had gotten within two hundred miles of home, only to have her dream of arriving in Clayton Station dressed to the nines, combed and manicured, of seeing the gleam of pride in her father’s eyes snatched away. If her father appeared at that very moment, he’d find her dressed like a man, her hair snarled and sweaty beneath a dead man’s filthy hat and her skin quickly turning as brown as a nut. He’d find she hadn’t changed much at all in the past two years.

  Swallowing her frustration, it went down hard with the grit clogging her throat. She reached for the canteen hanging from her saddle horn and uncapped it. The first mouthful tempted her to swish and spit, but she didn’t. Wasting even one drop of precious water in this climate was pure folly.

  “How much do you have left?”

  “Nearly half,” she replied, “and I’m considering pouring it over my head.”

  “Save it. There’s water ahead, but...”

  “But what?”

  “We may have a hard time getting any of it.”

  Lundy’s bounty boys are squatting on every water hole between here and Clayton Station. Wolf’s warning from the previous night echoed through her head. New dread stepped up her heart’s rhythm.

  Rane uncapped his canteen and put it to his mouth. He tilted his head and swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding beneath the skin of his tanned throat. When he lowered the canteen, his dark gaze came level with hers.

  A tiny flutter settled low in her stomach.

  White, even teeth scraped across his bottom lip when he turned it inward and caught a stray drop of wetness. She followed the movement. How would it feel to have those wickedly sensual lips kiss her?

  Quickly, Angel turned away. Scorching heat, beyond anything the sun had inflicted, burned her cheeks. What was wrong with her? Was she now openly lusting after him?

  She had to stop. Now. By his own admission, they could soon be riding into trouble. She had to harden her heart. It was the only way she would survive this ordeal unscathed.

  Rane Mantorres was a dead man. Either by her father’s hand, or one of Lundy’s hired killers, he was now marked. She had known it from the beginning.

  So why did she find it harder to accept?

  ****

  The climb up the steep rockslide had taxed Angel’s muscles until lifting one foot in front of the other turned into pure agony. Now, lying belly-down at the top of a barren ridge, sweat seeped from every pore in her body. She swiped a sleeve over her face and it came away wet. Her breath heaved, hot and dry, making her mouth feel like the only part of her that wasn’t clammy. She licked her parched lips and tasted salt.

  Nearly a hundred feet below, no farther than a stone toss in the distance, lay a brackish looking pool of water. Tall reeds surrounded the edges, trampled into the mud in places, patches of deep beautiful green against the ochre colored earth.

  She squeezed her eyes closed. So close. Yet the pool might as well have been miles away. Between them and the water stood a pair of horses, saddled and outfitted with bedrolls and packs. The riders were nowhere in sight.

  Minutes dragged by, stretching Angel’s nerves as taut as a fat lady’s corset strings. Why didn’t the men below show themselves? Rane had warned her to expect more bounty hunters the likes of Jed and the weasel. But until she knew who they were, hope of finding some of her father’s men refused to die.

  Right next to her, Rane lay stomach-down, braced on his forearms. He removed his hat and put it aside. His cheek nearly brushed against hers when he leaned over and peered through the gap in the rocks where they hid.

  From the corner of her eye, she watched him. There was an occasional twitch of his inky lashes while he made a slow, searching sweep of the terrain below. She suspected no stone went unnoticed. Up close, his skin looked smooth and fine textured beneath the blue-black whiskers. Such a handsome face, a near perfect face, except for the telltale white scar that sliced across the bottom of his chin.

  She looked away. The earth right under her nose smelled scorched. Mixed in were the scents of sweat and horse, and she knew not all of it belonged to Rane. She’d never felt so dirty and foul smelling in her life. She refocused her attention on the beckoning water below.

  An eternity passed. A dull ache began to throb at her temple. Beneath the thin muslin shirt, her back broiled and a crick settled into her neck. She rested her head on the curve of her arm, and found herself looking straight up at Rane’s stoic profile.

  His dark gaze flickered down at her for a brief instant. Otherwise, he hadn’t moved a muscle. How could he hold himself so still? He didn’t appear bothered, neither by the heat or the ticklish sweat seeping from his hairline. She watched as one gleaming drop broke free and streaked to the base of his jaw. It hung there for a long, glittering instant before it dropped to his shirtsleeve.

  Quick and silent, he pulled away and turned to his back.

  Alerted, Angel lifted her head and ventured a peek below. At first, she saw nothing. After a moment, an odd sight snagged her attention. A tan colored hat, the wide-brimmed variety favored by drovers, floated at the water’s edge. Seconds later, a man stepped into view from directly beneath them. Walking away from the base of the ridge, he reached down and adjusted the tied-down holster snugged low against his right thigh.

  No, not an ordinary cowhand after all. But who was he, and what brought him here?

  Pausing beside one of the horses, he yanked at a loose cinch strap. Then he continued to a low-growing clump of prickly pear and stood with his back turned to the ridge.

  Seconds later, a yellow stream spattered against one of the flat cactus pads. Despite the distance, Angel heard his low, relieved moan. She looked away quickly.

  Rane cradled his Colt in his hand and slowly, methodically turned the cylinder. The metallic clicks sounded loud in the utter stillness. Angel counted five bullets. Then he reached down, pulled a sixth bullet from the cartridge belt around his hips and inserted it into the empty “safety” chamber. After easing the loading gate back into position, he again tu
rned to his stomach. Grim determination now honed his chiseled features.

  Her heart drummed harder. What was he planning to do?

  Want me to go kill a few for you? They’ll never see it coming.

  Wolf’s offhanded offer from the previous night echoed ominously through her frantic thoughts.

  Ambush.

  She swiveled toward the opening in the rocks, her hands curling into fists in the dirt beneath her. Below, the man had finished his business and was walking toward the pool. In mid-stride he stopped and cocked his head, listening.

  She ducked lower and held her breath.

  The man lifted his head and raked back his unruly mane of dirty blond hair with both hands. For several seconds, full sunlight fell across his mule-homely features.

  Buck Sweeney.

  Angel sucked in a breath. She shoved her hands beneath her, preparing to leap up and reveal herself. An arm snaked across her back and flattened her to the ground. Before she could open her mouth to scream, Rane’s hand clamped hard across the lower half of her face.

  The next seconds passed in a frenzied blur. She started to reach up and pull his hand from her mouth, only to have him band her arms against her body and jerk her back against his chest. A hard muscled leg came around her, trapping both of hers. No matter how she wiggled and tried to thrash free, he held fast. Pressed back to front, he had her wrapped up like a yearling calf at a branding fire.

  Tears of fury and frustration blurred Angel’s sight. She wanted to bite him. But the pressure he exerted beneath her chin made it impossible to even open her mouth. She struggled. Her chest heaved. She couldn’t draw enough air through her nostrils. The smothering sensation brought her to the very edge of panic. Couldn’t he see he was suffocating her!

  She stopped fighting and went limp. He didn’t relax his crushing hold one inch. The bastard.

  Long seconds passed. She breathed easier, though he still kept his hand clamped over the lower half of her face.

  He removed his arm from around her middle long enough to brush the wild tangle of hair off one side of her face. Then his lips grazed her ear and he whispered, “Don’t fight me. Don’t make one sound, or you’ll regret it.”

  Angel squeezed her eyes closed. A weighty pressure that neared pain fisted her heart. How foolish she’d been. With sudden clarity, she realized she’d never truly feared him.

  Until now.

  Beguiling devil. He’d given her hope with his promise not to hurt her and his decent, calm manner of speaking. He’d lulled her with small comforts. A cup of coffee, a pleasant whistled tune, a much-needed blanket. Even the warmth and protection of his own body. Worst of all, she’d deceived herself with the notion that such a handsome countenance had to house some good.

  Pretty is as pretty does. Why the worn out adage occurred to her at that precise moment, she didn’t know. Nor did she have time to think about it before he moved again and started dragging her away from the top of the ridge.

  When they were well below the skyline he stood and pulled her to her feet. The rest of the descent down the rocky grade was a jerky, awkward undertaking. It would have been much easier if he’d taken his hand from her mouth, but he didn’t.

  By the time they reached level ground, Angel felt lightheaded and bright pinpoints flared before her eyes. When he pulled her back against his chest, she didn’t resist and leaned into him for support.

  With his hand still pressed over her face, he settled the back of her head against the hollow of his shoulder and again brought his mouth to her ear.

  “We’re going to talk,” he said breathlessly. “You need to hear me out. I will take my hand away if you give me your word you won’t scream.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Was he out of his mind? Sure, she’d give her word. She was even curious to hear what he had to say. But after that, all deals were off.

  She inclined her head as far as she could.

  The palm pressed hard across her lips slackened, then fell away.

  She stepped away and turned to confront him. “What were you planning to do back there? Shoot them like fish in a barrel?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Ha!” she scoffed. “And did you expect me to just sit by and watch?” She flung out her hand. “I know that man.”

  “How?”

  “He’s a Flying C hand. He works for my father.”

  “No. Not anymore. I know Buck Sweeney, too. He’s a drifter, a man who will hire his gun for the price of a meal, or a bottle of cheap whiskey.”

  She crossed her arms and planted them stubbornly beneath her breasts. “I don’t believe you.”

  He edged closer and cocked one hip, casual-like. But the intensity in his dark eyes as he stared down at her was anything but relaxed. “Believe this,” he said. “It’s been less than forty eight hours since you were taken from the stage. How long after that do you think your father got the word? Twelve hours? Twenty-four? Are you good at subtraction, Angel? If the wire’s down, he still may not know.”

  His words battered against the iron wall of Angel’s certainty.

  “Let’s assume he does know,” he continued. “How soon would he have dispatched a search party? Taking into account the distance, do you think anyone riding from Clayton Station could have reached this waterhole ahead of us?”

  Oh, God. What he said made sense. Logical, indisputable sense. Her father couldn’t have sent those men at the waterhole. She wavered a moment, wanting to deny, while hope died a slow, whimpering death inside her.

  “I don’t shoot men in cold blood.”

  She lifted her head and looked at him, finding a focus for her anger and frustration. “But you do shoot them, don’t you?”

  “They can leave. I’ll give them the choice.”

  A choice. He would give them a choice. Meanwhile, he gave her no choice whatsoever. She shook her head at the irony. She remained his unwilling captive, subject to his whim and command. And just moments ago he’d proven he wouldn’t hesitate to manhandle and threaten to keep her under his control.

  Well, by God, she wasn’t going to stand for it anymore.

  Dropping her arms to her sides, she marched toward him. Rage, fiery as the sun overhead, burned to cinders her last shred of caution.

  She recognized the calculated, measuring gleam in his eyes. He doubtless expected her to let fly at him with a tongue-lashing.

  She had something much more satisfying in mind.

  When she was two feet away from him, she halted, clenched her teeth, and swung at his smug face.

  Swift as a striking snake, he caught her wrist only inches from his cheek.

  His lightning reflex stunned her. She hesitated a heartbeat before she lashed out with her other hand, only to have it captured like the first in his unyielding grip.

  She struggled and jerked against his hold, too furious to give in. He held her easily and that angered her even more. Her wrists burned in his relentless grasp by the time she finally settled, breathing hard and seething with pent-up violence that begged for release.

  Mere inches separated them. She tilted her head, and his ragged breath cascaded over the edge of her jaw. A spark of...exactly what, she couldn’t guess, gleamed in his dark eyes. One side of his lips quirked into the little smirk she’d come to recognize. She knew he intended it to be ugly, but it still jolted her heart off-kilter.

  “You bastard!”

  “So, the wildcat shows her true face at last,” he drawled.

  She’d show him wildcat. She opened her mouth to scream.

  He jerked her forward, crushing her breasts against his chest. Shock raced through her and sucked away her breath. She tried to pull back, only to have him swoop in and plant his mouth on hers.

  Her intent—thoughts of screaming, escape, hurting him—all shattered into sparkling fragments and scattered on the wind. The entire universe suddenly narrowed to one focus: his lips grinding against hers.

  At first, he just held her like that, in a b
ruising crush meant to smother her cries. Then it changed. His mouth opened over hers, hungry and commanding. She felt the knotted tension in his body, the rapid-fire bursts of his breath against her cheek.

  She had wished for this.

  Only a few times in her life had she been kissed, and never with such unrestrained, savage urgency.

  Her fevered blood responded. She opened her mouth to him, and he swirled inside with a low moan trapped in his throat. Unable to resist, her tongue joined with his in a slow, sinuous dance. Tension gripped her body and sent her straining toward him, seeking his male hardness as though pulled by a magnet.

  Her clinging hands smoothed over the corrugated planes of his ribs. She didn’t know when or how it happened, but he had released her wrists at some point. His arms were now wrapped around her, one hand spread against the small of her back, holding her so close only the fabric of their clothing separated them.

  But, not close enough. The wondrous thrust and glide of his tongue, the slow stroke of his hands, the hard pressure of his thigh crowded between her legs demanded even more. A sweet, achy sensation tightened her breasts and pooled low in her belly.

  The newly turned out Miss Evangeline Clayton, lately of New York, where she’d spent two grueling years learning to deport herself like a lady and the proper way to deter a gentleman’s unwanted advances was helpless to defend herself against the disreputable gunfighter's scandalous assault on her senses.

  Worst of all, she wished he’d never stop.

  “Well, now. Ain’t this damn cozy!”

  The gruff voice intruded like the buzz of an annoying gnat.

  For Rane, it must have sounded more like a giant bee. He jerked away from her as if stung and spun around.

  The sudden emptiness staggered Angel. Unsteady, she turned.

  On the rockslide behind them stood Buck Sweeney, grinning down at them like they were the sweetest sight he’d seen in a while. A few feet away stood another man. Evidently, the owner of the second horse they’d seen over by the waterhole.

  Buck took another step down the talus slope. The motion sent sunlight skipping along the barrel of the pistol in his hand. Angel darted a glance at his companion. With sinking dread, she saw that both men had their weapons pointed straight at Rane.