The Outlaw

by JoAnn Ross

  "Several bottles from the finest vineyards," he assured her.

  "Well, that is enticing." She chewed thoughtfully on a fingernail. "And it would surely be more relaxing. Could I take off my shoes? They do so pinch."

  "Sweet lady, you could take off anything you please."

  "Well." She took a deep breath that threatened to have her breasts popping out of the dress entirely. "I believe I'd quite enjoy sharing your car with you, Mr…"

  "Knickerbocker." Satisfaction mingled with lust gleamed in his eyes. "Jeremy Knickerbocker."

  "You own the bank?" She managed to appear suitably impressed.

  "My father is president. My great-great-grandfather established it. On land once owned by Indians."

  "There seems to be a lot of that going around these days," Noel muttered.

  "Excuse me? I didn't quite hear you."

  "I'm sorry." Another winsome smile. "I said that I was quite impressed." Noel put her hand on his arm. "Please, Mr. Knickerbocker, lead the way."

  Noel had grown up surrounded by beautiful, priceless things. She'd traveled the world in first-class accommodations. But even accustomed to luxury as she was, she was impressed with the splendor of Jeremy Knickerbocker's private railroad car. The walls were polished mahogany, crystal chandeliers sparkled, brass fixtures gleamed. The chairs were covered in a lushly soft velvet the color of the bordeaux from the Montacroix vineyards. Matching velvet curtains with gold tassel trim framed windows covered in snowy lace panels.

  "Gracious," she murmured, her surprise not feigned. Even the famed Orient Express was not this extravagantly decorated.

  "As I promised," he said, "it's quite comfortable."

  She looked up at him through her fringe of lashes. "You must be a very important man."

  "Some people might say so. However, even important men get lonely. Especially when their work entails so much traveling." Outside the private Pullman car, the whistle blew one last time, signaling the train's departure from the station.

  Inside, the dog walked over to a sunbeam that was streaming onto the Oriental rug through the car window and settled down with a deep, satisfied groan.

  When the banker ran a finger up her arm, it was all Noel could do not to shudder. "I certainly understand how it feels to be lonely." That treacherous finger was now trailing its way across her shoulder. "Did you say something about champagne?" she asked brightly.

  Irritation flashed in his eyes, but he reined it in, reminding himself, Noel concluded, that it was a long way to Arizona.

  "Make yourself at home," he suggested, waving a hand toward the red sofa. "I'll get us some refreshments."

  The champagne was as excellent as he'd promised, as smooth as she would have suspected, given the luxurious appointments surrounding her. She sipped it slowly, smiled often, giving him enticing, stolen glimpses of her breasts, her calf, the delicate arch of her foot, clad in the black stockings Rose had given her. And all the while, she continued to refill his glass. Again and again.

  Conversation flowed as easily as the wine. Fortunately, Jeremy Knickerbocker did not lack for subject matter. He found himself fascinating, and certain that she would also, proceeded to tell her everything about himself, his illustrious family, the famous people he met traveling the world in his dealings for the bank.

  "Are you married?" She idly dipped a finger into the sparkling gold wine, watching his eyes glaze over slightly as she put the finger between her lips.

  He frowned and tugged at the ends of his brocade vest. "Well, actually, I do have a wife back in New York," he revealed reluctantly. "However, there's a problem."

  "She doesn't understand you," Noel guessed.

  His frown deepened. "I'm afraid not. She also doesn't care about the… uh—" he pulled at his bow tie "—the more physical aspects of matrimony."

  Noel ran her fingers up and down the stem of her glass in a flirtatiously subtle caress that did not escape his attention. She watched as little beads of moisture formed on the skin above his mustache.

  "I've heard that's the case with some women." She shook her head. "Although I've never quite understood their feelings, I do feel sorry for them."

  She turned, tucking her stocking feet beneath her voluminous skirt. As she leaned toward him, the crimson satin gaped open, giving him a weakening glimpse of her breasts, all the way to her waist. "May I speak frankly, Mr. Knickerbocker?"

  "Of course, my dear." The words came out on a croak. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "And the name is Jeremy."

  "Jeremy." She drew it out, lingering lovingly over it, caressing it with the silken French tones of her native language. She put her hand on his chest and felt the rapid beat of his heart. "I don't want you to think me too forward."

  "Never," he said quickly. He covered her hand with his.

  "I want you to understand my circumstances." She played with the folds of her skirt with her free hand. "What I am—what I appear to be—well, I wasn't always this way."

  "I find you delightful, just the way you are." He ran his free hand down the silken slide of her hair.

  "Thank you. But you see, I'm afraid the rigid rules of society—even in Europe—do not favor a female who enjoys the physical expression of affection between a man and a woman."

  Her eyes were as limpid as a cocker spaniel's as she gazed up at him. "Because I crave such affection, I'm afraid that I'm viewed with disfavor in the eyes of many of my peers."

  "Only by jealous, coldhearted females who envy your feminine appeal," he assured her quickly in a voice that was now practically choked with masculine needs. "Believe me, my dear, the men of this world thank God every day for creating such delightful women as you. In fact, although I realize it's a bit premature in our relationship to be admitting to such a thing, I believe I may be in love with you."

  "Why, aren't you the sweetest thing?"

  She'd no sooner gotten the words out than he lunged, pushing her onto her back and crushing his open mouth against hers in a wet sloppy kiss. When he stuck his tongue down her throat, she gagged; when he took their joined hands, pressing her palm against the tumescent sex beneath his trousers, all the time trying to delve beneath her voluminous skirts with the other, Noel realized that she was on the brink of getting in over her head.

  "Please, Jeremy!" She dragged her mouth from his and struggled to sit up. "My dress! You're crushing it."

  "I'll buy you a new dress." His fingers were squeezing her thigh above her stocking with a force she knew would leave bruises. His tongue created a wet swathe across her breast. "A dozen new dresses." He was bucking against her. "A hundred."

  "Please," she repeated, pushing against his surprisingly hard shoulders. "It's a very long trip. Shouldn't we at least be comfortable? Wouldn't this be far more satisfactory if we didn't have so many clothes on?"

  Her suggestion had the desired effect. With a low groan, he retrieved his hand from beneath her skirts and sat up.

  "You are," he said, heaving heavily from exertion and hunger, "a very remarkable woman."

  "I like to think so." Noel reached out and began to unbutton his waistcoat.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Undressing you, of course."

  "I thought you'd go first."

  "Well, we could do that," she agreed silkily. "Then you could do all the work afterward. Or—" she ran her fingernail up his leg and felt him jerk "—I could show you how a woman from Montacroix, with hot French blood flowing in her veins, makes love to a man she finds devastatingly appealing."

  Bingo! She watched the possibilities flicker in his champagne-glazed eyes.

  "I'm yours." He held out his arms. "Have your wicked way with me, my dear."

  "Oh, Jeremy." She ran her fingernail around his mouth. "That's precisely what I intend to do."

  With hands that trembled from excitement, rather than sexual desire, Noel slowly stripped him of his jacket, his vest and his shirt. His chest was covered with a thick dark mat of fur so different
from Wolfe's sleek hard body.

  "I do so want you," he groaned as he grabbed at her breasts. "I want you. Now."

  "Not yet." Tamping down yet another surge of revulsion, she evaded his touch. "Anticipation is half the fun. And I promise you, Jeremy, the wait will be well worthwhile."

  She knelt on the Persian rug and dispensed with his shoes. Then she began unfastening his pants. When her palm brushed against his erection, he closed his eyes and moaned.

  She stripped the trousers off him. His eyes were still closed, his head lolling against the back of the sofa.

  "Are you going to take my underwear off, too?" he asked hopefully.

  "I'm sorry, Jeremy."

  The change in her tone, from sultry to matter-of-fact, managed to filter its way into his alcohol-sodden brain. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as he viewed her standing over him, pointing the derringer at the most vulnerable part of his anatomy. The part that was rapidly shrinking.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I'm afraid I'm robbing you."

  "If it's money—"

  "No. I don't want any money, Jeremy. I just want your suit."

  12

  "My suit?"

  "I need it for a friend," she explained, continuing to hold the weapon on him as she tugged the gold braided rope down from the draperies. "Please, hold out your hands."

  "You're going to tie me up?"

  "I don't have any choice." She sounded honestly reluctant. "But if you do exactly what I say, I promise you won't be harmed in any way."

  Fear coalesced into anger. "You bitch."

  "Now, Jeremy," Noel said silkily, "is that any way to talk to the woman you professed to love?"

  She tied his wrists and ankles, considered stuffing one of the damask napkins into his mouth, but afraid he might suffocate, decided against it.

  When the train stopped in Durango for a meal break and to take on water, Noel reluctantly gagged her prisoner, left the car, told the conductor that Mr. Knickerbocker was sleeping and had asked not to be disturbed. Then she located Bret Starr who was standing in line, waiting for his meal to be served by one of the fresh and lovely Harvey girls who worked the train stops in the West.

  "Don't ask any questions," she said quietly. "Just come with me."

  "I'm hungry," he complained.

  "I have plenty of food. Better than this," she said, glancing around at the simple fare. "I've also got you a new suit."

  "Say no more." Handing his tray to the boy behind him, the artist followed her out of the trackside Harvey House dining room.

  The banker's suit fit as if it had been tailor-made for Starr. Looking the artist over, Noel nodded her satisfaction. "You look like a wealthy substantial member of the community. I only wish I had something else to put on."

  "I think you look real pretty in that," Bret assured her.

  Noel laughed. "What is it about men that they get all hot and bothered over a red dress?"

  "I think it's nature," Bret said.

  "Or idiocy," Jeremy Knickerbocker, who'd had the gag taken out of his mouth again, muttered.

  Amazingly, they managed to get along reasonably well, during the twelve-hour trip to Arizona, considering the circumstances. With her usual flair for calming troubled waters, Noel managed to convince the banker, who she'd allowed to don a velvet dressing gown, that he was taking part in a grand adventure that would provide entertainment for at least a decade's worth of dinner parties.

  And although he was obviously disappointed that he was not going to be able to bed the sexy lady in red, he did accept, with some display of pleasure, the pen-and-ink sketch made of him by Bret Starr.

  "You should take care of that," Noel advised. "Mr. Starr is going to be very famous. It will provide a legacy for future generations of Knickerbockers."

  As Jeremy Knickerbocker put away the drawing for safekeeping, the whistle sounded, announcing their arrival at the Flagstaff station.

  "Well, as much as I've enjoyed your hospitality, Jeremy," Noel said with a friendly smile, "I'm afraid it's time to say adieu." She stood up and shook out her skirts.

  "We're getting off here?" Starr asked, obviously surprised.

  "I'm getting off. You and Mr. Knickerbocker are continuing on. According to the schedule, there's a Phelps Dodge payroll train scheduled to leave Flagstaff for Whiskey River in an hour. I intend to be on it."

  "What about Longwalker?"

  "I'm counting on you to keep them from hanging him until I get there."

  "That's easier said than done," he muttered.

  Noel knew his negative attitude was partly due to her refusal to allow him any alcohol during the long trip.

  "Belle O'Roarke will help you. Hopefully, I'll be arriving with the cavalry an hour behind you."

  "Ain't no cavalry in Flagstaff," he muttered.

  "That's what you think." She went over to the liquor cabinet, retrieved from her pocket the key she'd taken from Knickerbocker earlier and opened it, taking out a bottle of cognac, which she put into a carpetbag lying nearby. "If you carry out your part of the mission, Mr. Starr," she said, "this bonus will be waiting for you."

  "I am sorry, Jeremy." Her expression revealed honest regret. "I hate to continue to steal from you, however—"

  "I know," he grumbled. "This will provide a decade's worth of dinner-party stories."

  "That's the spirit." A genuine smile bloomed on her face and in her eyes. Leaning down, she kissed his cheek. "Thank you for everything. And, just a word of advice? You may want to try seducing your wife the next time you are in New York."

  "My wife? Why would I want to do that?"

  "Most women enjoy it. She might, as well. Which would, in turn, provide you with a bit of that female companionship you say you're lacking. It's merely an opinion, but there is a theory that there are no frigid women. Just inept lovers."

  With that, she left the car, the dog, as usual, on her heels.

  Although Noel left the dog outside the redbrick building housing Judge Daniel Cavanaugh's office, her own appearance earned overt disapproval from the secretary seated behind the wide oak desk.

  "I'd like to speak with the judge," she said.

  "Do you have an appointment?" His tone suggested that he knew a woman such as her would not.

  "No."

  "Well, then—"

  "I know Judge Cavanaugh would want to see me."

  His pale brown eyes behind the round steel-framed glasses flicked over her dismissively. "I doubt that."

  She reached into her pocket and took out the envelope Second Mother had given her. "Please give him this." Her calmly insistent tone was that of a woman accustomed to getting her way.

  Plucking the envelope from her fingers, holding it gingerly, as if it were contaminated, he left the outer office.

  Noel began to count. She'd barely made it to ten, when the door to the private office burst open and a tall man with a shock of silver hair emerged.

  "Who are you?" he demanded. His indigo eyes locked onto hers. "And how did you get this?"

  She glanced over his shoulder at the obviously curious young man. "I will explain everything. But I think you might prefer having this conversation in private."

  Muttering something that could have been an agreement, he waved her into his office. As she walked past the secretary, it was all Noel could do not to shoot him a victorious look.

  "All right," the judge said without preamble, gesturing her to a chair on the visitors' side of the desk. "What's this all about? If you have it in mind to blackmail me because I was once in love with a beautiful—"

  "I have no intention of blackmailing anyone," Noel said. She may have shot a man. And made another undress at gunpoint, then held him hostage and stolen his brandy, but she could not imagine lowering herself to such shoddy behavior. "Did you?"

  "Did I what?"

  "Did you love her?"

  Those eyes turned to flint in a way that so resembled Wolfe's eyes when he was angry that Noel had no
doubt this man truly was Wolfe's father. "I don't see where my youthful feelings are any of your business."

  "That's where you're wrong. Because I'm in love with your son."

  He waved away her declaration with an impatient hand. "I don't have a son."

  "Yes. You do. And he's currently in Whiskey River. About to be hanged for a murder he didn't commit."

  She took a deep breath. "You may have heard of him. Wolfe Longwalker?"

  Shock waves moved across his face. "That can't be."

  "It's true." She stood up, leaned across the table and took hold of his hand. "He has this same mark." She'd noticed it when he'd gestured. "He was born on the Navajo's Long Walk. Unfortunately, his mother died after giving birth to him. It was her sister who gave me your letter."

  "I need you to return with me to Whiskey River to save your son's life. There's a train we can take leaving the station in forty-five minutes."

  He rose to his feet without a moment's hesitation. "Let's go. You can fill me in on the details on the way."

  It was raining when they arrived in Whiskey River. An icy rain fell unceasingly from a darkened sky and thunder boomed from anvil-shaped gunmetal-gray clouds. The dirt road leading through the town had turned to mud.

  As she hurried down the wooden sidewalk from the station, past the scaffold that was smoldering from recently being set ablaze—by Belle and Bret, she would learn later—Noel's heart was pounding in her ears. Surely she wasn't too late!

  And then she saw him.

  Just as he'd appeared in her vision, Wolfe sat rigidly astride his blood-bay mare, his hands tied behind his back. He was clad in buckskin trousers and a pair of boots. His long jet hair was held back from his forehead with a red cotton headband. Rain ran in rivulets down a rigidly muscled chest the hue of burnished Arizona copper but which Noel knew from experience was ever so much warmer.

  His dark blue eyes—his father's eyes—were directed out across the fierce red landscape as Jess Buchanan, the territorial marshal, looped the thick, braided horse-hide rope around Wolfe's neck.

  "You must stop these proceedings immediately," Daniel Cavanaugh shouted.