Outlaw

by Lisa Plumley

  Her progress was slow. Her ankle hurt too much to walk on it, so she hopped a few steps on her good leg, listened to make sure no one was coming, then hopped a little further. Her breath came faster, sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness. It was harder than she’d have imagined to hop quietly.

  Eventually Amelia made it behind the boulders she’d chosen. Her plan was to hide behind them until the poet bandit left, then go back to the road and wait for the stagecoach driver to return for her. Putting her palms against the cold stone face of the rock, Amelia crouched down and listened.

  Her J.G. O’Malley & Sons satchels landed with twin thuds on the ground beside her.

  “Comfortable?” asked a masculine voice.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was; the poet bandit’s deep bass voice was familiar to her already. Besides, who else could it be? He’d found her easily. She hadn’t even heard him approach. Amelia caught hold of a chunk of boulder for balance and straightened awkwardly. Her knees felt too wobbly to support her.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  His teeth were a flash of white in the moonlight. “You couldn’t have gotten far.”

  Amelia’s pulse leaped. Her whole body trembled. Hoping the outlaw couldn’t tell, she tilted her head upward and looked him in the eye.

  Her body shook harder, and dizziness swamped her, making her feel faint. Oh, please Lord—she couldn’t swoon now. Amelia ducked her head again.

  “I’d like to go back to the road, p—please. The coach will be returning for me at any minute.”

  “No, it won’t.” His tone was final. And chilling.

  He reached out, caught hold of her wrist, and dragged her to him. Tucking one arm behind her knees, he lifted Amelia into his arms. She caught a whiff of tobacco, felt the strength of him as he hoisted her upwards against his chest. It was like being held against a wall of solid stone—warm, solid, impassive stone. He grabbed her satchels, then started to walk. Useless as the effort probably was, Amelia wriggled in his arms, trying to free herself.

  She succeeded. He dropped her onto the ground with bone-jarring quickness and stood over her, looking down.

  “Don’t fight me.”

  Amelia nodded, growing more frightened by the second. This wasn’t the romantic bandit of her dime novels and periodicals. This was a flesh and blood man—a very big man—and he looked dangerous.

  He pulled her up again, but this time he didn’t carry her. He kept his arm around her waist and half-dragged her with him, carrying both her satchels in his other hand. Her hip bumped against his as they walked; her new dress dragged across his boots, blown by the wind, dangerously close to being trod upon. His arm tightened, nearly encircling her waist as he hauled Amelia over the rocky, uneven ground. She wondered if he could feel her body trembling.

  His hand rested warm against her ribs, his big gloved fingers curled intimately just beneath her bosom. The rough leather rubbed faintly against the bodice of her dress. Amelia tried to stand straighter. He won’t hurt me, she told herself. He won’t hurt me. It became a litany in her mind. She tried to remember everything she’d ever read about stagecoach robbers in general and the poet bandit in particular. It wasn’t as reassuring as she’d hoped.

  They hadn’t gone very far before they came to his horse. The animal’s reins were tethered to what looked like a scraggly bush and its saddle, silhouetted by the rising moon, rose up some ways above Amelia’s head. She took an automatic step backwards.

  Her captor’s hand on the small of her back stopped her. His breath teased the nape of her neck. He gave her a little push forward. “Get on. I’ll ride behind you.”

  He hefted one of her satchels and began lashing it to the saddle, then the other. His action made his intentions all too plain—he meant to take Amelia with him. She couldn’t begin to imagine why.

  “Why?” she cried. “What are you going to do with me? You can have all my money,”–the words came faster and faster, the more panicked she felt—“just leave me my books. I’ve got to get back to the—”

  “Get on.”

  “Please! I—”

  He stared down at her from his much greater height, making Amelia feel—for once in her life—petite and delicate. She was too afraid to savor the novelty. His mouth tightened, straight and unsmiling.

  “I could put you on myself,” he said. His expression told her she wouldn’t enjoy the experience.

  “No, no—see? I’m getting on right now,” she babbled, scared nearly witless as the outlaw moved toward her.

  With some help, Amelia managed to put one foot into the stirrup and pull herself upward. The bandit boosted her up from behind. Before she could protest, her bottom landed painfully in the saddle. Amelia clutched the pommel with both hands to keep from falling, her gown hiked humiliatingly to her knees. Her stockinged legs dangled gracelessly down both sides of the horse’s hairy body.

  It was just the opportunity she needed.

  “Yah!” she shouted, pressing her legs against the horse to urge it toward the road—and safety. Instead the stupid animal sidestepped, ducked its massive head, and snorted. Frantic, Amelia screamed louder and slapped her hand down on the horse’s neck. It didn’t move.

  An instant later, the poet bandit swung up, a solid, silent presence in the saddle behind her. His arms wrapped around hers, but before they could encircle her Amelia leaned down, groping for the reins. She felt herself slide lower, out of control and unbalanced by her haste to get away.

  The outlaw caught her just before she toppled headlong into the underbrush. Then he pulled her back tight against him and set the horse into motion.

  He said nothing. They rode at a pace that terrified Amelia, straight into a wind that had turned so cold, tears streamed from her eyes. She was too scared to let go of the pommel and wipe them away. They passed swiftly between ever-thickening clumps of bushes, over rocky hills that threatened to send the horse skidding dangerously backward. Gradually she realized they were traveling upward, probably into the foothills.

  She remembered watching the mountains from the stagecoach window, remembered watching from the road as the sun sank behind those scrub-brush-covered slabs of granite. They weren’t what she’d expected to find in the Arizona Territory, a place she’d imagined as nothing but sand dunes and cactus.

  Neither was the poet bandit.

  His arms felt tight around her, but his attention was all for the ride. His chin pressed close against her temple as the outlaw leaned forward in the saddle, guiding the horse across a moonlit path Amelia couldn’t discern. Silently he pressed his muscular thighs into the horse’s sides, turning their mount in a new direction.

  The steady clomping of the horse’s hooves quickened as they rode faster down the new path. Wind whistled past her ears, making them ring. Amelia clung to the pommel as the outlaw’s stubble-covered jaw scraped across her skin, leaving a prickle of warmth behind. She wanted to ask him again where they were going, but she didn’t dare.

  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before they stopped. Amelia sat numbly atop the horse, her fingers feeling frozen to the pommel, as the poet bandit dismounted. The saddle leather creaked, relieved of his weight as he jumped lightly to the ground and held up his arms for her. Amelia wasn’t at all sure she could move. It felt twice as cold, sitting atop the horse alone.

  A flicker of hope came to life inside her. Moving slowly, she unwrapped her stiff fingers from the pommel and leaned forward. All she had to do was grab the reins and—

  “Get down here.”

  His hand closed around her forearm, yanking Amelia sideways. He’d guessed what she’d been thinking. Despair washed over her as the bandit hauled her from the saddle. Being rescued by the poet bandit would have been one thing—being abducted by him was something else entirely. How would she ever get away?

  As soon as the toes of Amelia’s balmorals touched the ground, the outlaw released her. Her legs
refused to hold her. With a startled cry, Amelia reached out wildly, caught hold of her escort’s sleeve, and righted herself. He didn’t even sway. His face impassive, the outlaw worked to loosen the knot holding one of her satchels to the saddle. Straightening gingerly, Amelia looked around.

  They were in a clearing, bordered on two sides by red-brown rock and shielded by more of the bushes she’d noticed earlier. Wind swept through their meager-leafed branches, tossing them in the moonlight. Behind her, the rest of the mountain rose in heaps of boulders, looking as though the whole thing might tumble straight down if she so much as sneezed. It was too dark to see much more.

  She was standing in the outlaw’s hideout, Amelia supposed. The place looked as desolate as she felt.

  The rough woven texture of the poet bandit’s duster sleeve against her fingertips reminded Amelia she was still clutching a fistful of the stuff. With dignity, she released him, then headed for the rock she’d seen. The outlaw let her go. Why wouldn’t he? Amelia thought, feeling a sting of helpless tears behind her eyes. She couldn’t get far in the dark, in the mountains, without a mount.

  Her knees felt approximately as solid as marmalade as Amelia limped toward the sheltered space near the middle of the rocks. She sank to the sandy ground, glad not to be riding anymore and unmindful of the damage to the bustle of her dress. She was sure it was crushed beyond repair already. Across the clearing, the outlaw dropped one of her J.G. O’Malley & Sons satchels to the ground. It landed with a crackle atop the dried undergrowth. The horse shifted and snorted as the bandit went to work on the second bag.

  She didn’t know what to do. Why had he taken her with him? Amelia wanted to believe he was the gentleman bandit the newspapers portrayed him to be. She wanted to believe that when it was light enough to travel he’d take her to Tucson, where she could deliver her book orders as planned. Reality was the gun in his belt, the coldness she’d seen in his eyes, and the masculine strength that enabled him to do whatever he wanted to do with her.

  She looked up. His back was to Amelia; she watched as he unsaddled the horse, his actions smooth and assured, then set the saddle and blanket aside next to her satchels. He ran his hands over the horse’s neck, rubbed it down with the cloth he held, and checked its hooves for stones. His voice carried across the clearing as he talked to the animal, too low for Amelia to make out the words—and more soothing than her peace of mind allowed her to admit.

  When he’d finished, he walked wordlessly toward Amelia’s resting place with a bundle of branches and set about laying a fire. She heard him strike a match, smelled the acrid odor of phosphorous just before the fire crackled into life. A few feet away, the outlaw crouched low beside it, his face hidden by his hat. Then, in the light of the flames he looked up at her for the first time since dragging her from his horse.

  His gaze dipped over her, taking in her hair, face, and new pink Polonaise dress in turn. She had the uncomfortable feeling he was measuring her, but whatever his reaction, it was indecipherable from his expression. Amelia stiffened, pressing her back tighter against the chilly, jagged boulder behind her.

  “P-people will be looking for me, you know,” she blurted out, unable to stop herself.

  The bandit nodded, slowly. He looked so unconcerned that she added, “They’re probably looking for me right now.”

  He rose and walked nearer, stopping where the hem of her dress lay across the ground. His big boots very nearly touched the ruffled white lace edge. He was closer than she wanted, but with the boulder at her back Amelia couldn’t move away. She twisted her hands in her lap. He towered over her, stealing her breath.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

  Goose bumps spread along her arms at the low, rumbling sound of his voice. Amelia didn’t feel reassured.

  “Let me see your ankle.”

  Amelia yanked both feet back beneath her skirts and shook her head. His suggestion was scandalous. With another quick, menacing grin the outlaw knelt on the ground, closed both hands around her calf, and easily lifted her injured ankle onto his lap.

  After the cold ride and the even colder ground she was sitting on, his body was shockingly warm. He’d removed his gloves, and his hands felt hot, callused, and strong. Amelia tried to pull her leg away, but he held fast. His hands slid over her dark cotton stockings down toward her ankle, probing gently.

  “Tell me your name,” he said.

  Her pulse raced like a frightened rabbit. His thumb found the hollow behind her ankle bone and stroked over it.

  “Tell me your name.”

  She pressed her lips together. Since he didn’t look up to see it, though, her gesture of defiance was wasted.

  “Amelia O’Malley,” she finally replied. Each syllable came out grudgingly, like slivers chipped from the icy boulder at her back. Without even a nod to indicate he’d heard her, he pressed his thumbs downward and continued his examination. Amelia had a fleeting, but extremely satisfying, image of herself kicking him in the chin. As though he’d somehow guessed her thoughts, the outlaw’s fingers tightened.

  She squealed. “Ouch! That hurts.”

  He released her ankle. “I don’t think it’s broken.”

  He sounded oddly hoarse. Amelia said nothing as she whipped her foot beneath her skirt again with lightening-speed. Truly, a broken ankle would be the least of her troubles right now.

  She expected him to move away, but the outlaw remained exactly where he was, silhouetted by the campfire behind him.

  “You made it worse trying to run from me.”

  He pinned her with a look that said exactly how stupid he thought running away from him was.

  “I was hardly running. I had to hop most of the way.”

  He turned his head, almost as though he were hiding a smile. Impossible, Amelia decided.

  “I need to go back to the road,” she felt brave enough to say. “I have urgent business to attend to.”

  The outlaw quirked an eyebrow. She thought of her father learning that the Arizona Territory book orders had never been delivered—and who was at fault. Her.

  “You must take me back!”

  She’d already failed at the usual feminine pursuits. Amelia had honored her family with neither marriage nor children, and likely never would. If she failed at this mission, too, her father’s low opinion of her would be confirmed. Amelia needed to deliver those books. She pushed out her lower lip and glared at the man standing in her way, her fear of him momentarily forgotten.

  The outlaw shook his head. “You’re in no position to give orders, lady.”

  His tone chilled her. Maddeningly, he stood without another word and went to the fire. He took something from his shirt pocket and turned it in his hands, but it was too dark for Amelia to see what it was.

  The silence lengthened. Amelia’s temporary bravado fled. Every bird beating its wings above the spindly branched bushes, every rustle beyond the bright circle of the campfire made her jump. She’d gone too far. She guessed the outlaw was deciding what to do with her, and the thought made her shiver.

  He lifted a burning twig from the fire. Amelia watched the glowing tip of it move closer to the bandit’s face, burnishing his features with firelight. For a handsome man—and he undoubtedly was that, she realized—he still seemed every inch the outlaw.

  The twig burned low and the outlaw tossed it back into the fire in an arc of reddish light. The smoky scent of tobacco reached her, borne on a breath of cold wind. It had been so warm until sunset.

  She lifted her head and called out to him. “If you take me back, I won’t tell a soul who you are,” Amelia promised.

  The outlaw gazed at her, his expression inscrutable. “You don’t know who I am.”

  Amelia hugged her knees to her chest, her conviction wavering. Some road agents were known to be ruthless killers—was he one of them, or was he the gentlemanly poet bandit after all? He hardly appeared a gentleman now. The firelight glinted off the gun he wore at his hip and the shad
ows turned his profile hard and uncompromising. There was no way around it. She’d been a fool to step off that stagecoach, and now she was paying the price.

  “Here.”

  Just as she glanced up, the outlaw lifted his arm and something sailed through the air in her direction. She cupped her hands to catch it and was rewarded with what looked like two pieces of flat tree bark.

  “There’s water in the canteen,” he offered. With a motion of his boot-clad foot, he indicated a round, leather-strapped container on the ground beside the fire.

  Amelia looked at the canteen, then at what he’d given her. It had the texture of old cracked shoe leather. She took a hesitant sniff. Dried salted beef. She had read about it in Tales of a Mountain Man in the West, but she’d certainly never thought to find herself presented with some.

  “Thank you,” she called out. The bandit tossed his cigarette into the flames and began to eat. Emboldened by his example, she licked at one of her pieces. It tasted of salt and gamey meat.

  “You’d be warmer by the fire.”

  Her spirits rose. His concern was heartening. A ruthless desperado wouldn’t have cared if she froze to death, Amelia told herself. Perhaps her companion only looked mean, for the sake of his reputation. She got to her feet, still clutching the beef strips in one hand, and half-limped toward the fire.

  It was blessedly warm, at least on the side of her that faced it. The flames crackled, sending an occasional spark popping into the sky. She managed to bite off a piece of the beef, but it was devilishly hard to chew. She glanced over at him.

  He was watching her. Amelia looked away, chewing madly, trying to keep splinters of the tough meat from poking out the corners of her mouth. She swallowed, then glanced at him again.

  At some point, he’d taken off his hat. The outlaw seemed different without it; a shade less frightening, maybe. His hair looked dark and untidy, his face clean-shaven except for a faint shadowed beard. His eyes, dark like his collar-length hair, glittered at her across the campfire.