Outlaw

by Lisa Plumley

  She waited. Typically, he remained silent. His shoulders were vague outlines in the scattered moonlight, marching tirelessly ahead. She hoped he knew where they were going, because she was well and truly lost now.

  “Mister Bandit?” she proposed. “The Black Bandit? Outlaw—““Don’t you ever shut up?”

  Amelia stopped talking. She decided he was probably lost, too, and didn’t want to admit it. It felt as though they’d been walking through the stunted trees and bushes, over the rocky, ankle-twisting ground, for hours. He showed no signs of slowing down, either.

  “Err, Mister…Bandit?” Amelia panted. They’d traveled, by her best reckoning, at least two miles. “Could we stop for a minute, please?”

  He scowled over his shoulder at her. In the faint moonlight she saw that his jaw and cheeks were smudged black with dirt. “No.”

  “But my ankle hurts. Remember? From the hole in the road?”

  He trudged on. A little ways from that surprising ridge Amelia had slid down on her way to her crevice, he suddenly stopped. His offhanded wave toward a pile of boulders was the closest he was likely to come to issuing an invitation to rest.

  “Thank you.” She plopped onto them, her dignity mostly gone, and gingerly pressed her ankle with her fingertip. It felt swollen. It looked fat, sticking up out of the top of her dusty shoe. Amelia sighed and pulled her skirt over her shoe tips. If the other ladies at Briarwood could see her now, they’d laugh their heads off. They always teased her about her plump ankles, and now her ankle was twice as big as usual.

  Beside her, her no-name abductor glared at the ridge. She couldn’t see what the old hunk of rocks could’ve done to bother him so much. Doing her best to ignore him, Amelia sniffled and sang, very quietly, “Aaamazing Grace, how sweet the sound…”

  “Do you have to make noise all the time?”

  His growled inquiry, along with the murderous look in his eyes, stopped her instantly. Amelia snapped her mouth closed. He was just like her brothers—they always complained about her singing, too.

  The outlaw bent, scooped something shiny from the ground, and pocketed it before she could see what it was. At the moment, she felt too indignant to care.

  “I like to sing,” Amelia said. “It makes me feel better.”

  “It makes me feel like gagging you.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “You haven’t quit talking, singing, or humming since I found you. Come on,” he said, reaching for her wrist and hauling Amelia to her feet, “if you’ve got punch enough to sing, you can walk the rest of the way to camp.”

  It didn’t take much longer to get there. After another few minutes of walking, they reached the clearing. Near the rocks, the bandit’s horse nickered a welcome. In the center, the campfire smoldered; the poet bandit released her, then ambled over to tend it. Amelia hobbled to the blanket and sank onto it.

  Ahhh, it was blissful to rest her ankle. She lay back, rolled herself in the tattered, horsey-smelling blanket, and felt grateful for its meager warmth after the time she’d spent in that chilly crevice and then hiking through the woods. Craning her neck, Amelia watched the bandit coax the fire higher.

  Her eyes drifted closed. Above her, the wind whispered through the trees and an owl hooted, but Amelia felt surprisingly snug—and much too safe for her own peace of mind, now that the bandit was nearby. Why should that be? It was ridiculous to feel safe around an outlaw, she thought as she drifted asleep.

  Sometime later, something hard nudged her ribs. She muttered and squirmed away from it. It nudged her again, then something tickled her ear. Amelia swatted it away, but it came back. She was about to open her eyes to investigate when a masculine voice whispered in her ear, “Rise and shine, Curly Girl.”

  The poet bandit. Amelia cracked open her eyes to a see him crouched beside her; his black twill pants legs wavered in the breeze just a few inches from her nose, giving her an up-close and personal view of his legs. She turned her head a little, bringing his hard-muscled thighs into view. There his pants stretched tight, with creases leading up to…his gun belt.

  Feeling her cheeks redden, Amelia pushed herself up on her elbows. He smirked at her.

  “Mornin’.”

  She looked around, breathing deeply of the brisk, dew-damp desert air. “It’s not morning,” she told him, yawning. “It’s still half dark out.”

  Amelia closed her eyes and flopped onto the blanket again. Rudely, the bandit wrenched her upwards, using her elbow for leverage.

  “Ouch!” She rubbed her elbow, glaring at him from beneath her limp curled bangs. The man obviously had no notion of proper behavior—his was barbaric.

  “It’s morning enough for me,” the outlaw told her. “We’re heading out.”

  At his words, Amelia peered around the camp. He was serious—he’d already snuffed out the fire, packed up everything but the bedroll, and saddled the horse.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” she blurted out.

  His eyes darkened. “Are you getting up, or do I have to take you out of there myself and sling you over my horse again?”

  She rolled out of the blanket and hastily kicked it toward him. “Here’s your stupid blanket,” she muttered as she got up. “I’m coming.”

  Amelia swabbed her tongue around in her mouth, wishing for a toothbrush. Hers, still packed inside her baggage aboard the stagecoach, had probably made it all the way to Maricopa Wells by now. Briefly, she considered asking to borrow the bandit’s toothbrush—his breath was nice and clean, she’d noticed while he’d loomed over her—then decided against it. He’d probably make her crawl over to get it out of his pack, or something equally mean.

  “Here.”

  He lofted the canteen toward her. She caught it between her arms and stomach with an unladylike grunt and stalked into a stand of nearby bushes where she could have some privacy. Through their screen of branches—studded with tiny yellow flowers, Amelia was surprised to notice—the outlaw was invisible to her. She hoped she was equally hidden from his view.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t dismiss his voice as easily.

  “Hurry up,” he called after her.

  Amelia’s throat tightened. She blinked rapidly, hardly able to see as she unscrewed the canteen’s cap so she’d have water to wash her face with.

  What did you expect? She chided herself—breakfast in bed? She was a captive, with no say at all in how her abductor treated her. She was lucky he hadn’t ravished her while she slept—or abandoned her, which somehow frightened her even more.

  Feeling grumpy, Amelia crouched down, tipping the canteen toward her open palm. An instant before the water sloshed from the canteen, she recalled the bandit’s words. That’s all there is—there’s no fresh water nearby.

  Her lips tightened. She was in the west now, Amelia decided—she’d just have to learn to adapt to western ways. Instead of splashing her face with a whole handful of water, she wet her petticoat hem—her underclothes, at least, were still somewhat clean—and scrubbed her face with it. Then she swished some water in her mouth, attended to her personal needs, hastily re-pinned her hair, and marched into the clearing again.

  “Took you long enough,” the outlaw remarked.

  Amelia heaved the canteen at him. It landed a good yard away from his boot-clad feet, sending up a little puff of reddish dust.

  He scooped up the canteen. When he straightened, amazingly, he was smiling at her. “You always so pert in the morning?”

  Dear Lord in heaven, he was one of those people who awakened cheerfully.

  “If I’m so much trouble, Mister…Mister whatever-your-name-is,” Amelia replied, hands on her hips, “why don’t you just take me back where you found me?”

  Something in his expression softened. His brown eyes met hers. For an instant, she thought she saw compassion there. Just as quickly, it was replaced with a look of plain determination.

  “I’ve got no time to take you back. I’ve got somebody to meet, and a lot’s depending on it.�
��

  It was a veritable speech coming from him. He turned his back to her and headed for the other side of the clearing, returning a moment later leading the horse.

  Amelia sighed and gave up. She could tell when she was licked; her father got that same look on his face every time she asked him to let her join J.G. O’Malley & Sons. A man, having chosen a path, would rather die than change his mind—however unreasonable it made him seem. If the outlaw wouldn’t take her back, she’d just have to bide her time and hope for another, better opportunity to escape.

  The outlaw mounted, then helped her up into the saddle.

  “You could at least tell me your name,” Amelia muttered as she settled in behind him. Tentatively, she wrapped her arms around his waist.

  They sat that way for a moment, the horse shifting and blowing beneath them, anxious to be off. Still the outlaw made no move to spur the animal forward. What was the matter? She stared at the thick brown hair waving beneath his hat brim, wishing it was his face that greeted her, instead of the back of his head. At least then she might have had a chance at guessing his thoughts.

  Finally he glanced over his shoulder at her. This close, Amelia could see the faint shadow of his beard and the twitch of a tiny muscle in his jaw.

  “My name is Mason,” he said. “You can call me Mason.” Then he set the horse in motion.

  Chapter Four

  Mason didn’t know what had possessed him, to tell Miss Twirly Curls his real name. All her infernal singing and chattering must have done something to his brain. He eased slightly in the saddle, the leather creaking beneath his thighs, and sneaked a look at her.

  She smiled. Smugly. I knew you’d tell me, her expression said.

  Well, hell. Mason turned around, half his brain feeling bamboozled by feminine wiles and the other half struggling to think about something besides how good it felt to be held by a woman—any woman—again. As they rode east toward the foothills, he tried to concentrate on the trail ahead of them, instead of the rhythmic bouncing of her breasts against his back. It was damn near impossible. He sighed.

  Her arms tightened around his waist. “My full name is Amelia Josephine O’Malley,” she said, sounding magnanimous, “but you can call me Amelia.”

  “The hell I will.”

  “What?”

  Mason guided the horse slowly down the craggy trail. The poor animal would be useless for anything but a long, clover-munching rest in a field after this, thanks to the extra weight it was carrying. They’d have to stop someplace and find another mount, else he’d never catch up with the damned Sharpe brothers.

  Squinting against an orange shaft of light from the rising sun, Mason tried to ignore the tapping of Amelia Josephine O’Malley’s foot against his calf.

  “Why can’t you call me Amelia?” she asked again.

  “Doesn’t suit you,” he said.

  She stiffened behind him, wary—but curious. “Why not?”

  “Haven’t given it much thought.”

  “Well, what would suit me, then?”

  She wiggled in the saddle, trying to peer at his face. The movement made her breasts jounced double-time against his back. Mason tried to think about something else—like why he was grateful for his saddle’s low cantle, which kept Miss Fancy Pants from getting any closer to him on the bottom than she already was on top.

  She tossed her head, and the flowery smell of whatever she used on her hair filled his nostrils. Mason breathed deeply.

  “Chatterbox,” he suggested, frowning as he slid closer to the pommel. It didn’t help, because she moved forward right along with him. He wondered if Miss Amelia feared he’d drop her into the sagebrush if she didn’t maintain a death grip on him all the time.

  The idea had a certain appeal. It would undoubtedly make tracking the Sharpe brothers easier if he didn’t have a woman along for the ride. She’d delayed him too long already. The last thing he wanted was someone who needed taking care of.

  She made a disgruntled sound. “Chatterbox? That’s hardly charitable, Mister Mason.”

  “Just Mason. And outlaws aren’t supposed to be charitable.”

  She was silent for a moment. “You don’t seem like an outlaw in the daytime,” she remarked. “Even your black clothes don’t appear as fearsome as they did. Are they an affectation, or do they serve another purpose, too—like hiding? I suppose it must be difficult to evade—”

  “I’m not hiding.”

  “You seem to be hiding. That was your hideout back there, wasn’t it?”

  Mason ground his teeth. “If I don’t seem much like an outlaw to you now,” he said, keeping his voice purposely low and menacing, “it’s because you haven’t given me a reason to act like one. Yet.”

  Her hands went slack. Good—maybe he’d scared her into being quiet.

  It lasted all of five minutes.

  “Are you planning to rob another stagecoach today?” Amelia asked.

  They’d reached the upper foothills. Here the palo verde and mesquite trees grew further apart, and cholla and saguaro took their places. Hazy in the distance, the Maricopa Mountains foretold the western approach to Maricopa Wells. Between them wound the Gila Trail—the road leading to the Sharpes, if he were lucky.

  “I didn’t rob the stagecoach yesterday,” Mason told her.

  “Of course you did,” she protested, wrapping her hands around his middle again as she warmed up to her subject. His muscles tightened, all his attention centered on the good feeling of her arms holding him. Briefly Mason closed his eyes, savoring it.

  “I saw you holding a gun on the driver,” she said. “The poor man looked scared to death.”

  His eyes opened. The poor man had been the first to draw iron, but Mason doubted it would change her mind if she knew that.

  “I was looking for someone,” he said, wanting, needing, her to hold him tighter, to press against him and…

  “You didn’t find them?”

  “No.”

  “Who were you looking for? Was it—” she paused, humming slightly, tapping his calf again as she considered her question, “—your wife?”

  Ellen. She was lost to him now.

  “No.”

  Mason leaned forward, forcing Amelia’s arms to loosen. Blond, sweet-smelling temptation like her he didn’t need.

  “You’re not married, then?” she asked, her hands resting lightly around his middle. “If you don’t mind so personal a question, I mean. The periodicals I’ve read seem divided on the issue. Some say you have a family, in hiding, and you’ve resorted to thievery to support them. Others say you’re a modern-day Robin Hood, stealing from the big stagecoach lines and giving the money to unfortunates.”

  Her notion that he was the infamous poet bandit had resurfaced. Mason grinned, glad she couldn’t see his face. He hadn’t set out to impersonate a known outlaw—but Miss Hoity Toity had no need to know the truth.

  “What do you think?”

  She sighed. “I think it’s romantic, either way.”

  He laughed. “Where are you from, Curly Top? Are you sure you’re old enough to be out on your own?”

  “I’m from Big Pike Lake, Michigan, if you must know,” she told him, accompanying her statement with an indignant sniff. “And I’m plenty old enough to be on my own—I’ll be twenty-two next month.”

  “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?” Amelia leaned sideways to look at his face, nearly toppling them both out of the saddle with her sudden movement. She clenched a handful of his shirt to steady herself, and said, “If you’re insinuating that I’m ignorant about life in the West, Mister Mason—”

  “Just Mason.” Next, she’d have him tipping his hat, he thought sourly. The woman was dead-set on formality for some reason.

  “—then you’re wrong.”

  The measure of pride he heard in her voice made Mason smile, despite himself.

  “I’ll have you know I read all about the West in my novels before I came here. This i
s my territory, for the time being, at least.”

  “Your territory?”

  “I’m a book agent with J.G. O’Malley & Sons,” she said, pride resonating in her voice. “Covering the entire United States and every one of its territories with the finest volumes and periodicals of all sorts—”

  She went on at length about gilded spines and classic literature, barely pausing for breath. Her talk had the sound of a well-practiced spiel. Mason could almost believe Curly Girl really was engaged in commerce. Finally, she stopped.

  “It’s not a woman’s place to conduct business,” he said flatly, turning the horse westward.

  He examined the gullies and rock piles they passed, looking for a sheltered place to stop and make camp. It wasn’t a woman’s place to conduct business—but it was definitely a woman’s place to cook. As long as he had a woman along, Mason figured he might as well make use of her. The least he deserved for rescuing her was a good, woman-cooked meal.

  “It’s my place, Mr. Mason, I assure you!” she said. “I’ll have you know, I’m a very good book agent.”

  “If it takes this much talking to folks, I don’t doubt it.”

  “Whatever do you mean by that?”

  “Just that you’re an exceptional fine talker, Curly Top,” Mason said, grinning. “Folks probably buy books just to shut you up.”

  “What?”

  Amelia shifted behind him, inadvertently rubbing her breasts against his back. He wouldn’t have believed so much heat could travel through so many layers of dress, duster coat, and shirt.

  “Never mind,” Mason said, trying to think of something besides how soft, how warm, how…tempting the woman behind him was.

  “This J.G. O’Malley—is he your husband?”

  If he was, he ought to be shot for letting her traipse across the Territory alone. A woman like her wasn’t equipped for more than tea parties and gossip. Navigating the forty-mile desert between Gila Bend and Maricopa Wells took more than mouthiness, two bags of books, and a lacy dress. Men had died crossing that stretch—women, too.

  “He’s my father.”