by Lisa Plumley
No sooner had she done so than Mason ended the kiss. With a roar of frustration, he clamped his hands onto her upper arms and pushed Amelia away.
“No,” he gritted out, holding her at arm’s length. He stared at the shadowed ground, his expression ominous, breathing as heavily as if he’d just run all the way from Maricopa Wells.
Without Mason’s heat to warm her, goose bumps prickled along her arms. Sundown had come and gone without her noticing, Amelia realized. Suddenly everything seemed colder.
“We’re leaving,” he said. He rose from the rock slowly, as though the movement pained him, then released her. “Get your things and get in the wagon.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
She could only stare at him, her body still tingling with all the wondrous new sensations he—he!—had aroused. Amelia reached out to catch hold of Mason’s sleeve.
He shrugged off her hand and stalked toward the front of the wagon. She followed him, struggling to catch her breath after all that had just passed between them. How could he turn away from her now, of all times?
“Mason, wait! Can’t we just—”
“Just what?”
He rounded on her, teeth bared. She retreated a pace, but he was already upon her. Mason towered over her, silhouetted by the sunset’s dusky, red-streaked skies behind him.
“Just lie together here, on a rock, for God and any passing Mexicanos to see?” He rubbed his whiskers, frustration evident in every jerky movement.
Amelia tried to speak, but no words came out. Hand on her throat, she stared up at him.
“You want me to strip you naked and take you right here?” he went on, louder now. “You wanted to give yourself to an outlaw? Well, you damn near did.”
She gasped. Mason only glared down at her, still breathing heavily. He looked as though he’d like to shake her silly. As though he might even enjoy doing it.
“No!” she cried, anger and tears swirling together to make her voice crack on the word. “No, I didn’t want—”
“I did.”
His gaze held her, searing her with the knowledge, the desire, it contained. Images of her and Mason engaged in the kind of brazen, carnal coupling he spoke of rose in her mind and called a heated flush to her cheeks. Was that what had begun between them? What she wanted?
Something akin to disgust curled his lip. Swearing beneath his breath, Mason whipped his hat from the rock he’d been sitting on and jammed it on his head.
“Wait!” Amelia cried when he turned. “How…”
Her voice cracked again, wavering, but she refused to weep. Not here, not now. Her hands balled into fists at her sides to keep from disgracing herself by reaching again for a man who thought so little of her. She couldn’t as easily keep herself from asking the question that burned in her heart.
“After all that’s happened,” she asked, “how can you turn away from me now?”
Mason stopped. All she saw was the determined set of his shoulders, the hard denial of his stance, and her hopes sank. He wasn’t going to tell her anything more. She’d have to wonder, and wonder….
Anger and helplessness loosed her lips. “Is it because you don’t know how to love? Don’t know how to care without making it into some cheap, vulgar—” Tears squeezed her throat tight, making it nearly impossible to speak. “—animal thing! Some kind of cruel—”
His hand closed on her shoulder, and even in the dusky light Amelia could see the anguish that tore through Mason.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t.” His thumb stroked over her lips, silencing her. His eyes begged her to obey.
An instant later, his unspoken plea had vanished beneath a layer of gritty resolve as unchangeable as the desert sky overhead. His hands left her—and left her confused and yearning.
“It wouldn’t be that way between us,” he said.
“Then why—”
He shook his head. “I’m just a man, Curly Top. There’s only so much tempting I can take. Enough of it, and I won’t be able to turn away.”
“Then don’t!” Amelia grabbed his arm. “Don’t turn away from me, Mason.” Somehow, he needed her. She was sure of it. Something within him called out to her, and she could no more deny it than stop breathing.
His eyes turned dark and regretful. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes, I do.” She bit her lip, desperate for something to convince him. Only one thing came to mind. Love. “I do know, and I tried to tell you before, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“I still won’t. We’re leaving.”
His rejection smacked at her pride. It knocked the wind from her as surely as hitting the ground after falling from the heavy, swaying branches of the old maple tree back home did. Why wouldn’t he listen?
Mason walked away from her into the darkness gathering near the head of the covered wagon, leaving Amelia with only one argument left.
“You can’t walk away forever, Mason,” she called. “I’ll still be here. And I’ll still be falling in love with you.”
Time skidded to a stop. Mason did, too. Around her, Amelia became aware of crickets chirping nearby, of water rushing along the banks of the creek they’d stopped beside, of the sage-scented breeze that tossed her skirts against her ankles. Of the utter stillness of the man only a few feet away from her.
It might as well have been a few hundred miles.
“Love is pretty words and hoping,” he finally said, his voice gravelly. “It doesn’t last.”
Half-turned, Mason looked at her over his shoulder, his back straight and determined. He was too far away and dusk was gathering too quickly for her to make out his expression.
“Neither will you, Curly Top, if you keep on believing in it.”
“Mason—”
“Let’s go,” he said quietly, and Amelia had no choice but to follow him into the darkness. Filled with frustration, she climbed into the wagon for the journey that would take her that much closer to Tucson—and, when it was finished, away from Mason forever.
Chapter Fifteen
Amelia spotted Picacho Peak when they were still miles from the stage station that was their destination for the night. Amidst the low rolling saguaro-studded hills, the mountain rose, isolated and strangely luring in the moonlight.
Not quite as large as the mountains she’d spent her first night with Mason in, Picacho Peak looked almost like a rocky funnel set upside down in the desert, almost like a volcano, except it wasn’t open at the top. There, the peak split momentarily into two, as though a gigantic finger had pressed into the center.
“It’s enchanting,” Amelia said to Mason, bumping along beside him on the hard plank driver’s bench. “Is there really a stage station there?”
“Yep,” he replied. “Hard to miss a landmark like that.”
They were the first words he’d said to her since they’d left their campsite beside the creek bed. Shrouded by darkness, they drove along the rode in silence. Even accustomed as she was becoming to Mason’s ways—he’d never been talkative, Amelia had to admit—she couldn’t help feeling wounded now by his silence. It seemed personal, as though he didn’t want to speak with her in particular.
It made her doubt the wisdom of staying to help him, however much he needed her. In whatever way. You couldn’t force a person to accept help—or caring, for that matter. Maybe she’d been deluding herself all this time, just because she needed Mason to help her get to Tucson safely.
By the time she spied the faint lantern lights of the Picacho Peak station in the distance, Amelia still hadn’t reached a decision. Trying to put her troubles aside for the moment, she watched the low, long adobe station building as they neared it.
It appeared not half as well-traveled as Maricopa Wells. Only two rigs were parked in front, plain buckboard wagons both, and less than a dozen horses roamed placidly in the corral alongside the station. A lighted kerosene lantern hanging on a hook by the front door cast a glowing circle of welcome towar
d passing travelers, though. And good smells of spicy meat and baking cornbread rose from the chimney along with wood smoke, sharpening her appetite.
Suddenly, Amelia found herself quite anxious to get inside.
A moment later, she realized Mason was guiding the oxen and wagon in a wide arc around the stage station. He was passing it by!
She grabbed his arm. Some part of her registered the heat of his skin, the well-used strength of his muscles—and the rest of her just wanted to get inside for dinner.
“Where are you going?” she cried. “The station’s right over there. Aren’t we stopping?”
“Outlaws don’t drive up to the front door, pretty as you please, Curly Top,” Mason said, not looking at her.
Now that they’d left the road, such as it was, he kept his attention focused on controlling the animals.
“We’re going around back. With luck, anybody who hears us will reckon we’re station hands and won’t come round to check.”
He guided the animals carefully through the darkened desert undergrowth, raising crickets and scaring long-eared jackrabbits from their hiding places. Amelia gazed longingly toward the station, listening to the sounds of voices talking and pots banging as work went on inside.
“I hope they’ll talk to us,” she muttered forlornly, thinking of all the conversations she’d been deprived of since being left behind by the stagecoach. In all her life Amelia hadn’t gone so long without visiting with people. It just wasn’t natural to do without a nice chat.
“They won’t turn us away,” Mason assured her, stopping the wagon. He scanned the stage station and yard, then the moonlit desert behind them. Apparently satisfied, he set the brake and turned to Amelia.
“Follow me,” he said, rising.
Amelia stood, then jumped down from the wagon beside him. He caught her, steadied her atop the marshy soil—it must have rained here, recently, too—and then released her as fast as he would have a burning tumbleweed.
“And keep your mouth shut,” he added, giving her a stern look. “I’ll do the talking.”
“Are you sure you know how?” Amelia muttered, straightening her skirts.
“What?”
“I said, sure, I’ll start right now.” She smiled sweetly at him. Thankfully, Amelia was certain the cool darkness hid her blushing cheeks.
Mason stared suspiciously at her for a moment, then started toward the stage station. She tromped along behind him, feeling devilishly pleased over her little bit of rebelliousness. At times, being with an outlaw like Mason made her want to abandon every ounce of proper behavior she’d ever learned.
A few yards from the wood plank door set into the rear of the low-slung stage station building, he stopped. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
From the corner of her eye, Amelia spotted a muscular, dark-haired man rounding the corner of the station.
“Wait!” she hissed to Mason.
Too late. He’d already stepped into view. The man would spot him, probably raise an alarm. They’d both be hung for outlaws now, she thought with a panicky shiver. What could she do?
Her stomach twisted as the man spotted Mason. The stranger’s eyes widened and his hand went to his gun belt. Then, to Amelia’s amazement—he started laughing.
She stared as he stretched his hand forward in greeting to Mason. Both men shook hands, clapping each other on the back. A torrent of rapid speech followed—Spanish, she thought, but couldn’t be sure. The man’s voice sounded like that of the station hand at Maricopa Wells.
Mason’s voice sounded like it always did. Brief. He motioned toward the station building, said a few words in Spanish, and then the stranger disappeared inside.
Amelia was about to step into the yard to join Mason when the leather thong holding the back door closed wiggled, then the door swung open. She stepped back into the shadows, holding her breath. Would this be a friend, too? There had to be some reason he’d ordered her to stay behind in the shadows.
The reason he’d ordered her to stay behind emerged. She had long, beautiful black hair, a white, happy smile, and graceful, mostly bare arms that wrapped around Mason’s neck and hugged him tight. A woman. Amelia squinted harder, trying to see her better.
She was beautiful. Dressed in a simple white gown with colorful embroidery, her hair unbound, the woman looked like an exotic goddess. A hot flare of emotion like she’d never experienced flooded through Amelia, making her hands clench into fists.
Jealousy, she realized, and ashamed as she was to recognize that’s what it must be, she felt powerless to stop it. Watching the woman hang with obvious affection all over Mason—watching the scoundrel’s delighted grin as she did so—made her blood boil.
No wonder he’d wanted to keep Amelia in the shadows. All the better to greet the woman he truly cared about.
They were still hugging and talking in rapid-fire Spanish when Amelia smoothed down her tattered borrowed dress, gritted her teeth, and stepped forward into the yard.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” she said, stepping toward Mason and the woman with a false-feeling smile plastered onto her lips. For once she felt grateful for the years of deportment she’d been subjected to at Briarwood Young Ladies’ Seminary. At least she wouldn’t embarrass herself socially, however rude Mason acted.
She extended her hand to the woman. “I am Miss Amelia O’Malley, a visitor from the States,” she said, doing her best to ignore the glare she was sure Mason had aimed in her direction for daring to disobey his instructions. “I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance.”
After a quick, private glance toward Mason, the woman stopped hanging on him long enough to accept Amelia’s hand. Mason only stood there, crossing his arms over his chest and watching them both with an aggravatingly bemused expression on his face.
The woman was truly breathtaking, Amelia realized with a sinking feeling. Up close, her caramel-colored skin and dark eyes acted beautifully to set off her hair. Hair that, she was somewhat dismayed to notice, flowed straight and smooth down her back—something Amelia would never in a million years achieve with her fine, unruly curls. Several uncharitable thoughts crossed her mind, most involving the scissors stowed away in the wagon.
The woman said something to Mason—a question, from the sound of it—in Spanish. He answered in kind, and they both laughed. Amelia narrowed her eyes and withdrew her hand, trying to achieve a poised, carefree pose.
“Doña Juana,” Mason said to the woman, sweeping his arm toward Amelia with a gallantry she’d never witnessed from him, “meet Miss Hoity Toity O’Malley.”
“Mason!” Amelia stared at him, aghast.
“Please, call me Juana,” said the woman with a warm smile. Her melodious voice made her words sound like poetry.
“I think you may have misunderstood what you saw of my greeting, Miss O’Malley,” she went on gently. “I am an old friend of Mason’s, but that is all.” Juana cast him a chiding glance. “However this rascal gringo might wish it to seem to you.”
Mason looked at the dirt, grinning like a schoolboy caught pinning his desk-mate’s braids to her chair. Unrepentant, but resigned to being discovered sooner or later.
Amelia felt like kicking him. “Of course it makes no difference to me how Mr. Kincaid greets his friends,” she lied.
Mason raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Kincaid?”
He was enjoying this, the rat!
“I’m happy to know he still has some friends,” Amelia added, narrowing her eyes at him.
“I am also,” Juana said. She smiled and moved closer to take Amelia’s arm. “These days, with all this trouble, he needs them.”
They walked arm-in-arm toward the open doorway. There, Juana stopped, eyeing Amelia carefully. Her voice held an edge when she spoke again.
“You are a friend, aren’t you, Miss O’Malley?”
Her hand tightened in the crook of Amelia’s elbow, and with some surprise she realized she couldn’t move forward without a stru
ggle.
Mason saw it, too. “Put your claws away, tigresa,” he said. “I trust her.”
He strode past them into the station. Releasing her, Juana followed him, but Amelia could only stand there for a moment, plumb-certain she’d misheard the words Mason had uttered so matter-of-factly.
I trust her.
“Manuel told me what happened at Maricopa Wells,” Juana said, her voice carrying from within the station’s back room. “A rider came through this morning looking for you. And your lady outlaw.”
She looked for Amelia—the lady outlaw she spoke of, unfortunately—and spotted her still standing in the doorway.
“Please come in, Miss O’Malley. You must be tired after your journey, and hungry. And—” she slanted a mischievous glance at Mason, her eyes sparkling “—if I know Mason, hungry for some conversation, too.”
“I’m a man, not a gossipy old woman,” he muttered, pinching his fingers into a pot on the stove behind Juana.
He withdrew something—a bite of meat, Amelia surmised from the looks of it—and popped it into his mouth. Licking his lips, he went back for more, for all appearances not caring at all whether she joined them inside or not.
“Talking to him is as enlightening as talking to the base of Picacho Peak,” Juana said, drawing Amelia forward. “Just like my James.”
Amelia stepped inside. The room she found herself in was narrow but long, with tan adobe walls, a white muslin-covered ceiling, and a hard-packed dirt floor that soothed her feet with its evenness after so many days in the desert. A scarred rectangular table squatted near the stove, with a wash basin and cupboards beyond.
In the absence of windows, lanterns brightened the room from hooks set into the walls at evenly spaced intervals. At the other end of the room, a battered-looking upright piano, several straight-backed chairs, a rocking chair, and a vividly colored rag rug defined the space as a sitting area.