Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

Fancy tugged free of Cord's grasp. Twenty-six years of deceit—of hiding who she really was and what she really felt—saved her now from a gross display of feminine weakness.

  She masked her features, falling back on the old habits as easily as she used to fall onto Diego's feather mattress.

  "Save your breath, Frank," she said. Smiling seductively at Wilkerson, she headed for the campfire. "Ned needs me now."

  * * *

  That day was perhaps the longest one of Cord's life.

  The stage robbery had troubled him deeply, so deeply that he almost wasn't able to go through with it. Seeing the passengers' terror when the gang had swooped down, when Ned had ordered the baggage burned and the stage rolled, when Goose had talked about killing the men and raping the pregnant woman—all had brought home to Cord the realization of how his parents must have suffered before they were gunned down in another stage robbery thirteen years earlier.

  If Fancy hadn't been by Ned's side, pointing out that no one would get much pleasure from humping a pregnant female, or that the Mexicans might refuse to deal with a man whom every Texas Ranger was hunting for murder, Cord might have lapsed back into his old lawman role.

  As it was, he'd been sorely tested not to put a bullet through Ned every time the bastard tried to grope Fancy. Or every time she had whispered in Ned's ear, smiling her loins-stirring smile and playing the game she'd played with Cord himself when he'd tried to arrest her in Fort Worth.

  With Ned, Cord wasn't so sure Fancy was just playing.

  She'd flirted outrageously with the man all afternoon and had ignored Cord completely. At sunset, when the outlaws stopped to make camp, she had enticed Ned into a game of poker. The others had all gathered around, laughing, betting, making lewd comments. Cord was sure Fancy had cheated during her deals, working him out of the game.

  He wanted to believe she had some plan in mind, that she was trying to ingratiate herself with Ned to learn the location of the plates. But it was hard, damned hard, especially when she refused to join him when he made movements to retire.

  Waiting what he thought was a discreet period of time, he'd tried to attract her attention once more. Finally, he'd had to rise, looming over her in the midst of her play, and demand that she accompany him to bed.

  He'd never forget the look in her eyes when he later reached to hold her.

  "Go to sleep, Frank," she had said in a low, biting whisper. "You wanted to retire, remember?"

  Now she was gone. Her hat, saddlebag, and change of clothing were all cleverly arranged to form a mound beneath her blankets.

  Damn her. How could she have sneaked off without his noticing?

  "Poor Randy," a lilting soprano voice taunted behind him. "You weren't really expecting to find Caliente in her own bed, were you?"

  He swung around, choking back another oath. Blisse. He'd thought she was off in the bushes somewhere with Goose. Or Colt.

  Cord cringed inwardly. The only time those two seemed to separate was to urinate or fornicate.

  "Where is she?" he demanded.

  Blisse cocked her head and smiled. It was the slow, inviting smile that Fancy had often used to drive him mad. But from Blisse, with her swollen lip and missing tooth, the come-on looked pitiful.

  He tried to step past her, but she caught his arm.

  "You know, I ain't never thanked you proper," she murmured. "For being so nice to me, I mean."

  He managed not to make a face at the husky timbre of her voice. Where did a girl her age learn to flirt like a bawd? Miss Lottie's? He made a silent vow to shut that clap trap down the next time he passed through El Paso.

  "You cook my meals, Blisse. That's thanks enough."

  Nodding, he tried to move on. She wouldn't let go.

  "I thought maybe we could be more friendly. You know, get acquainted."

  He scowled. Where the hell was her father? With her mop of red hair and her dusting of freckles, she reminded him poignantly of Wes. She was just a kid. If he didn't have Fancy to worry about, he would have marched the girl to her blankets and sat shotgun on her himself.

  "Now isn't the time," he said brusquely, prying her fingers free.

  "Why? Ain't I lady enough for you?" She stuck out her chin. "Ain't I fancy enough?"

  He steeled himself against his growing alarm. He didn't at all relish the way she competed for his affection. Even so, he knew now was not the time to tell her she could never take Fancy's place in his heart. No woman could.

  "I have business to attend to."

  "Yeah? Well, you ain't much good at lying, Marshal. Didn't your woman never tell you that?"

  Cord's heart stalled. When it started up again, he felt dizzy from the rush of his pulse.

  Blisse smiled smugly. "Still don't remember me, eh? Well, I remember you, Marshal. We met about five months ago at the cathouse. 'Course, you were red-eyed drunk then, and mooning over some picture card of a prissy blonde. You wouldn't take no one to bed, not even Miss Lottie. All you wanted was whiskey, you said. And Miss Lottie had the finest."

  Her smile turned wistful. "Don't you remember? There was this man, a big-fisted bastard, who claimed I stole his purse. 'Course, Miss Lottie was the one who rolled him, but I couldn't let on, or she would have killed me. So he started hitting me. And everyone laughed.

  "Everyone except you," she said softly. "I'll never forget it. Not as long as I live. You stood up. You were weaving all over the place, but you pulled your gun and you shoved it in his face. He got a good look at your badge then. He turned all pasty-faced and hightailed it for the door, just like a jackrabbit."

  She clasped her hands and giggled, turning big, adoring eyes on him. "Now do you remember?" she whispered hopefully.

  Cord swallowed hard. In spite of the bottle of whiskey he'd consumed, he could vaguely remember that night because it had been the anniversary of Beth's death. He'd been so busy trying to drown his guilt and sorrow that he hadn't thought twice about drawing his gun. He'd reacted instinctively, because it was his habit to protect people who couldn't fend for themselves.

  Merciful God. Had Blisse really been the whore he'd saved that night?

  He drew a ragged breath. Whether or not she was, she clearly knew he wasn't Frank Harris.

  "What do you want?" he asked curtly.

  She blinked, looking wounded by his tone. "I-—I want you to take me with you," she said in a hesitant, childlike voice. She raised her chin a notch. "And I want you to get rid of that whore."

  He bit his tongue. His immediate impulse was to tell her she asked the impossible, then fear snaked through him. Fear for Fancy.

  He fought it back down.

  "If you want my help, Blisse, then you'll have to prove you can be trusted. Like I trust Fancy."

  Her eyes narrowed to hear him compare her to her rival. "Yeah? How?"

  "Tell me where the plates are."

  She laughed uneasily and shook her head. "Why don't you ask her if you trust her so much?"

  "Because I'm asking you."

  Their eyes locked.

  Blisse fidgeted.

  "Well, I don't know," she finally admitted in a sullen voice. "Ned won't tell me nuthin' and Goose is awful mad about it." She grimaced, wrapping her arms across her chest. "Now Goose isn't even sure Ned has the plates. He said Ned's been lying in wait all this time, not lying low. He says Ned was sneaking out nights to talk to the local folk, trying to get wind of where your woman was, before you and she got here. That's why Goose sent me to hump Ned all those nights, to find out what he learned."

  Cord felt his gut knot. So Ned had set up Fancy?

  "Where is she?" he demanded more urgently.

  Blisse looked mutinous. "You said you'd get rid of her anyway, so what does it matter?"

  Her implication iced Cord's blood. With the speed of a gunfighter, he caught her chin. Surprise registered on Blisse's face, then fear. She grabbed his wrist, trying to wrench herself free until she realized he wasn't hurting her.

  "Now you lis
ten to me, Blisse. If anything happens to Fancy, anything at all, I'll hold you personally responsible." He leaned closer, drilling her with his gunfighter glare. "Do you understand?"

  Her eyes filled with tears. "I don't see why you're so worried about her all the time—"

  "If you take care of Fancy, then I'll take care of you. That's the deal. Are you in?"

  Her bottom lip trembled. He felt like the world's mangiest mongrel. In her eyes, he could see her love for him warring with her fear for her life. He had no right to ask Blisse to make such a sacrifice, and if Fancy's life hadn't been at stake...

  Dammit. Plates or no plates, he had to get them out of camp. Tonight.

  "Okay," she whispered thickly. "I'm in."

  "Good. Now I want you to wait for me by the horses."

  "But—"

  "Do as I say. Where's Fancy?"

  She sniffled. "You ain't gonna like it."

  He ground his teeth, wanting to shake her. "Tell me anyway," he said in a voice that cracked with impatience.

  Blisse winced. "She went to see Ned."

  His mouth went dry. He must have conveyed his dread somehow, for he saw the tiniest flicker of triumph in Blisse's face.

  "Yeah. That's right. And if I were you, I wouldn't be trusting her so much, neither. I heard them talking. That fancy woman of yours is trying to cut you outta the plate loot."

  Chapter 19

  Fancy glanced up in surprise when Cord, looking madder than hell, crashed through the bushes to find her and Ned sitting cozily on the lookout ledge.

  Cord, however, couldn't possibly be as angry to see her as she was to see him. Damn the man. What did it take to shake him? She had no time—or patience—for his lectures on personal safety.

  As of midnight, the governor's deadline would be only ten days away. While Cord might feel free to let a teary-eyed sixteen-year-old distract him, Fancy couldn't afford to forget the urgency of their mission. She had a prison sentence hanging over her head. Time was running out to get Ned to spill his guts about those plates.

  "Am I intruding?" Cord asked curtly, his gaze raking over her unbound hair and immodestly buttoned shirt.

  "Are you here to take the watch?" Ned growled.

  Fancy shot Cord her best "go away" glare, but it didn't seem to affect him.

  "Hell, no," he answered. "I'm here for my woman."

  "Then you're intruding."

  Fancy let her laughter tinkle in Ned's ear. "Frank's a jealous man," she purred, rubbing herself against the outlaw to distract him from the gun he was fingering.

  "Let's go, Fancy," Cord said, extending his hand. The other hung loosely at his side, ready to draw.

  Dammit, Cord, you have the worst timing.

  If he had waited five minutes, just five minutes more, she knew she could have had Ned where she wanted him. He'd already admitted to keeping the plates' location a secret from everyone, even Jake, "that scheming bastard." And he'd thought he might like to "shack up with a skirt like her," just the two of them, with four million dollars to spend. Apparently Ned wasn't above humbugging his own brother.

  "We still need Frank for his contacts," she whispered in Ned's ear. "He's suspicious now. I'll have to go. Let's talk later of how we'll spend all those millions, just you and me, together."

  She started to rise, but Ned caught her wrist. Something cold and cunning flickered in the depths of his coal-black eye. She felt her heart crawl to her throat.

  "I'll deal with you later," he said.

  Deal? She swallowed. Was Wilkerson referring to the mock bargain she had proposed... or something else?

  She nodded weakly at him and stumbled to Cord. He pulled her behind him.

  "The only deal you'll be making is with me, Wilkerson." Cord's voice was low and laced with warning.

  Wilkerson's lip curled in response. "Yeah. That's right, Harris. With you."

  Fancy didn't wait to hear more. She hurried down the path, her pulse racing. Something had gone wrong, terribly wrong, judging by the way Wilkerson had eyed her. Had she somehow botched the scam?

  Cord's anger seethed like a black storm cloud giving chase. She could hear his footsteps falling fast and hard behind her, and she quickened her pace. She needed time to think, to plan. She didn't want to admit to him she might have lost his precious minting plates.

  After all, that was all he really cared about.

  She cursed herself for the hundredth time. In truth, she had no one else to blame. She'd gotten her hopes up. She'd allowed herself to believe Cord might actually come to care about her in spite of her age, her past, and all the odds.

  Now she understood he had merely been compassionate when she had been in need. Chivalry was so ingrained in the man that he treated her the way he would treat any woman—or sixteen-year-old—whom he felt obligated to protect.

  Her eyes stung, and she stumbled, blinded for a moment by the memory of his tenderness. She would never forget that night of lovemaking by the stream. Never.

  But her month with Cord was nearly over. She had to start thinking of her future—without him. Without Diego too. After watching Blisse and Goose together, Fancy knew she could never go back to Diego. She could never live that kind of life again. Cord had taught her there was a better way, and she wanted to find it.

  One day, perhaps, she would meet a man who could love her. Someone who could care about her as she had secretly hoped Cord would. For the rest of her life, she would nurture that ember of hope.

  But no matter how many days turned to months, and months into years, she knew she would never stop loving Cord. He was the man she would always want, the one against whom she would measure all others.

  Fortunately, after twenty-six years of hardship and disappointment, she had learned to accept she could never have what she wanted.

  "Fancy."

  His voice was low and strained. She interpreted the tone as accusatory and walked faster, fleeing as much from Cord as from the ache in her heart.

  "Dammit, girl, slow down."

  "I'm perfectly capable of walking down a hill in the moonlight, I think."

  He caught her arm, but she yanked free.

  "Let go of me! I'm not helpless without you." If she concentrated on the anger, she wouldn't have to feel the pain....

  "Is that what this race is all about?"

  His arm locked around her waist this time. She tried to push free, which did little good, and she muttered an oath as he pulled her off the path, where the bushes closed around them and the trees rose as silent sentinels of judgment.

  "Fancy, we have to talk," he said in a low, warning voice. "Settle down now."

  She remembered how he'd used the same words to quiet Blisse. The memory was so hurtful, she began struggling again. All she wanted was her freedom, her dignity, but he denied them both to her when he pressed his body against hers. She found herself pinned between the rigidity of oak bark and the hardness of his chest, and she fought back tears. Three days ago, she would have been exhilarated by their closeness. Now all she could do was hate herself for letting him into her heart.

  "Damn you," she said, "you've ruined everything!"

  He stiffened, his heart hammering hard against her breasts. "Ruined everything?"

  "That's right! I had Wilkerson eating out of the palm of my hand until you blundered in with your misguided sense of chivalry!"

  His fingers tightened over her arms. "Fancy, for God's sake, you have no idea how close you came to—"

  "To what?" she interrupted in a ragged voice. "To meeting our deadline? Or have you forgotten my freedom's at stake now that you're busy protecting Blisse?"

  He made an exasperated sound and gave her a small shake. "Fancy, listen to me."

  "No, you listen, Frank. How dare you heave me around like your saddle? You don't own me."

  His patience finally snapped, and he caught her chin in his hand. "Maybe you want me to own you, is that it? Is that why you're so spitting mad?"

  She almost died to he
ar him come so close to her secret desire.

  "You know very well what I want," she snapped, thinking of her freedom.

  "Do I?" His jaw hardened in that stubborn look he got when he would have his way, and only his way. He pressed nearer, flattening her beneath his raw masculinity.

  "Seems like we've been dancing around this issue for so long, I got confused. Why don't you tell me plainly, so I'm sure."

  "What do you want from me?" she flung back, desperately fighting a sob.

  "The truth, Fancy. Just the truth. When are you going to admit that you love me?"

  She gasped. How could he be so cruel? He had never—and never would—say those words to her in return. If he had driven a knife through her, he couldn't have struck a deeper wound.

  "I would never lie about something like that. Not ever." She shoved him from her with a force that surprised them both.

  For a moment they stood staring at each other. Then she spun away, dodging the hand that he flung out to keep her from bolting down the hill.

  Cord caught up with her minutes later, mortified by what he had done. He had promised himself he wouldn't push her into a confession she wasn't ready to make.

  And yet, when he'd seen her sitting beside Wilkerson with her hair down and her shirt undone, he'd nearly gone loco. He supposed the strain was responsible—the constant battle to suppress his need to look at her, to speak to her, to hold her in his arms. That, and the overwhelming fear that he was going to find her dead on the lookout rock.

  Cord tried not to let his jealousy blind him to the truth. He liked to think that, in her own way, Fancy had been trying to protect him from Wilkerson when she'd rubbed so enticingly against the bastard. After all, if she had told Wilkerson who he really was, Cord would be shoveling coal for the devil's furnace by now.

  No, Fancy must have thought she had a good reason to face that killer alone. So why had she acted so defensive when he'd found her, as if she had something to hide?

  He fell into step beside her. She had slowed her pace. Her shirt was buttoned and her hair was pulled back; he sensed he was dealing with a calmer, more controlled Fancy now.

  At least she wasn't running from him.