Colorado Moonfire

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Sweat trickled down her spine and Lyla managed to nod at him. All she’d done was ride after the thieves who’d stolen her necklace, and take Marshal Thompson to the doctor, and now she was trapped—part of a vendetta that was originally against Barry, and she’d been in the wrong places at the wrong times. “Why are you doing this to me?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Connor laughed, tightening his grip on her shoulder, “Because it’s more fun than just getting rid of Thompson.”

  “And why are you after him?”

  He considered her question, his roughcut features relaxing into a subtle smile. “Because Frazier finds him uncooperative. By now you surely realize his talent for hiring help where he needs it, and since several of his recent projects have been stalled by the marshal, it’s time Cripple Creek found a new lawman.”

  Lyla scowled. “And Rex Adams will get the job?”

  The outlaw hooted gleefully. “That’s what he thinks. He’s a man with a passel of brats to feed, and no chance for promotion unless Thompson’s out of the way. Right?”

  “Then who—”

  “You ask too many questions, cupcake,” Connor said as he covered her mouth with a broad hand. “Plenty of time for those later. Jameson’s asleep, and I’ve got an armful of soft, sweet-smelling woman, so jawing about my brother’s business is the furthest thing from my mind. You know?”

  His constant “you know” was wearing her thin, but it was nothing compared to the kiss he overtook her with. His mouth ransacked hers, forcing it open so his tongue could plunge between her teeth. Lyla thought of biting him, but the fates of the women who’d struggled with Connor kept her from behaving so impulsively. He turned her, unbuttoning her coat so he could press into her breasts, still plying her lips with a mounting hunger that threatened to suffocate her. When the barrel of his pistol slid between her legs she gasped and jerked away.

  Foxe’s arm tightened around her. “You can’t tell me you’ve never had anything up there, you little whore. What with working at—”

  “I could get shot!” she squeaked.

  “Indeed you will,” he replied with a chuckle. “And I’ll show you things Thompson never thought of. Is he as big as the ladies claim?”

  Lyla gaped, startled that he’d ask such a blunt question. But if crudeness was what he liked, perhaps feigning innocence was her best protection. “I—I don’t know.”

  Connor yanked her back by her hair to study her face. “You’re saying he was too sick to get it up at your cabin?”

  She nodded rapidly, praying this was the right path to lead him down.

  “Look me straight on and tell me I’ll be your first. Put some feeling into it, and I’ll go easy on you.”

  His coal-black eyes and dusky face lit up with a fiendish delight, and Lyla’s heartbeat faltered. Even if she backed out of her lie, she was caught in this desperado’s iron embrace. He obviously had a taste for untouched virtue, and her only hope now was to play along with him until she thought of a better ploy. “You’ll be the first, Connor,” she said in a voice that was hoarse with fear.

  “Whisper that in my ear. Act like you want it, like you can’t wait to give yourself to me.” He backed her against the wall, his gun barrel sliding up and down between them, and then lowered his head to listen for her plea.

  Lyla squirmed. The friction from the pistol agitated her even more than Foxe’s insistent writhing against her breasts. When his tongue shot into her ear, she gasped. “Connor…Connor, please,” she said with a quavery moan. “You—you’ll be my first. I…can’t wait to—”

  He cut her off with a brutal kiss, forcing her down the wall until she was hopelessly entangled beneath him. Was Jameson stirring, or was that the sound of Foxe removing his pants? Frantically she fought for breathing space and a better position for her head, which was angled against the wall. “Please, let me—”

  “Horses comin’!” the man across the room declared. “Get off her, Foxe. We got company.”

  Lyla felt the buttons of her shirt give way under his sudden grasp. Connor cocked his head to stare at his partner. “Is it Nate?”

  “Who else knows we’re here?” the lanky marauder grumbled. He staggered to the window, shaking the sleepiness from his head. “Yep. Nate and the dimwit from the livery stable. And Thompson, who looks poorly.”

  They’d caught Barry, too? Despite her fear of reprisal, Lyla’s lips began to quiver with concern. He was their target, after all, and with four outlaws overpowering him, the marshal’s chances for survival were slim. Out here where no one would come looking for him—

  “Get up, cupcake. We’ll have some real fun now!” Connor crowed.

  She stumbled up off the floor, relieved when he helped her out of her cramped position. But she’d no sooner found her footing than he was binding her arms to her sides, with the same lariat he’d used to catch her.

  “What do you think, Kelly? Like what you see?”

  The bandit’s red-gold sideburns rose with his grin. “Looks like great bait to me. Thompson’ll follow those knobs to kingdom come, I reckon.”

  When Connor stepped behind her to tie the knot, Lyla glanced down and turned hot crimson. Her coat and shirt had been shoved to the sides, and her breasts poked out between the coils of the rope, straining against her flimsy camisole. She couldn’t bear for Barry to see her this way, yet when he stumbled through the low doorway, prodded by his captors, she couldn’t turn her back.

  His face was black and blue on one side and his shoulder wound had broken open, judging from the bloody section of shirt she could see beneath his open coat. His grimace of recognition pierced her soul. She moved toward him, but was halted when Kelly Jameson grabbed her rope. “Better tie him before he gets any ideas, Foxe. He’s weak, but he’s bigger than we are.”

  “Yeah, Lyla tells me he’s huge,” Connor taunted. “And I can see he’s itching to latch onto those spigots, so we’ll fasten his hands. In case he get ideas about turning her loose, you know.”

  Foxe had found another length of rope, and he wrapped the marshal’s wrists together—in front of him, Lyla noted with an inkling of hope. Surely these outlaws realized Barry could untie her—

  “Now we’ll wrap it between your fingers so you can’t get a grip,” Connor said smugly. Then he stepped back to admire his work, chuckling when he noted Thompson’s pointed gaze. “She’s a sight, isn’t she? Too bad you can’t fondle her, but here—I’ll make it so you can at least take a taste.”

  Pivoting on his heel, the dark-haired scoundrel grabbed Lyla’s camisole. It tore when he tugged it down, leaving her exposed to four sets of leering eyes and Barry, who seemed unable to respond.

  “We’ll leave you two lovebirds alone for a bit. Got business to discuss,” the ringleader announced. “Let’s go, boys. A condemned man’s got a right to his final pleasure.”

  With furtive glances, Jameson, Eberhardt, and the man they called Nate preceded Connor Foxe outside. The door slammed in the wind, and then the shanty was filled with a strained silence. Lyla longed to wipe the dirt from Thompson’s bruised face and kiss away his agonized expression. He looked so beaten…when his gaze wandered to the breasts protruding from her ropes, she turned away in shame. “Say something, damn it. Don’t stare like you don’t know me,” she implored in a ragged whisper.

  Thompson struggled to breathe. The long ride, jostling against Buck’s neck and the saddlehorn, had stripped him of his strength. He’d lost all hope of ever seeing his woman again, yet a nagging question dulled his joy. Lyla had apparently fallen into the same fate he had, but out here among these thieves he knew better than to take appearances for granted.

  “Got your note,” he said in a strangled whisper. “When Emily gave it to me, I never dreamed you were setting me up for—”

  “How can you even think that?” Lyla whirled to face him. “I was riding back from the Flaming B, to meet you at—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had her jewelry?” Barry kept his
face hard, determined not to give in to the waif whose blue eyes begged him to believe her, to hold her. “You had every chance to wipe the slate clean, yet you withheld stolen property. Right under my nose, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Her chin dropped onto her chest. The marshal thought she was in on it, a willing decoy. The men’s voices came through the shanty’s cracks with the wind, making her shiver with the deepest, coldest despair she’d ever experienced. If Barry believed she’d allied with Frazier Foxe, then she might as well chalk him off. She had no reasonable excuse for hiding Emily’s diamond, and it was more degrading to beg for his mercy than to stand before him exposed this way.

  Thompson watched her warily. More than the tear that slithered down her cheek he noted Lyla’s lack of spirit, an air of dejection so unlike the Irish sprite he knew. “Lyla,” he whispered.

  Slowly she raised her head. When her eyes met his weary green ones, she caught the faintest glimmer of compassion.

  “I guess you’re not the only one who’s done a few things that’re pretty damn hard to explain,” he said softly, “We’d better talk, before those bastards come in for us. God only knows what’ll happen then.”

  Nodding, Lyla felt her pulse quicken. Barry smiled tentatively and held out his bound hands, forming a circle she couldn’t resist. She hurried into his embrace, bumping awkwardly against him as she stepped under his arms, wishing she could return his heavenly hug.

  Mere contact with her was magic. The pain stopped racing through his battered body and he emerged from the numbing fog he’d enveloped himself in during his grueling ride. Lyla, for all her wily ways, hadn’t deserted him at all! She was a victim of Foxe’s schemes, just as he was, but at greater risk because she was a woman…a woman whose lush body would become a deranged man’s plaything unless they could get out of this predicament.

  He glanced around the sparsely-furnished shack. “Honey, let’s shuffle over to that chair so I can reach you. One kiss, and then we’ll fill each other in. We’ll be in a bad way if we don’t get out of here.”

  As though they were learning a strange new dance, Lyla followed Barry’s lead by backing up toward the chair she didn’t see until they were beside it. He sat down with a groan, and she hesitated between his parted legs.

  “Climb onto my lap, sweetheart,” he breathed.

  “But I’ll hurt—”

  “Wrap your legs around me. Hold me, Lyla. God, just kiss—”

  His lips sought hers with an urgency that stopped her heart, stopped her breathing. As she returned his all-consuming kiss she no longer needed those functions, and would’ve passed on in contentment after these few moments of his touch. She wished desperately to hold him. Her hands twitched helplessly at her hips, and only Barry’s fervent embrace kept her from falling off his lap.

  Thompson, too, cursed the rope that kept his fingers splayed and prevented him from completely wrapping his arms around her. Ignoring his new bruises and wounds, he squeezed her as tightly as he could while putting all the love his heart could hold into this single kiss. The dear, familiar taste of her, the rose-scented sweetness of her hair and skin—he would never get enough, but it was time to discuss their future while they still had one. “Lyla, about that time in your cabin…I—”

  “Matt’s already explained it.”

  “That’s not good enough. Look at me, honey. Please tell me what happened,” he pleaded. “You’re the only one who can say, and I’m the only one who can beg your forgiveness.”

  Lyla sat in the circle of his arms, suddenly shy. “Well, I—I should’ve gone in to my own bed—”

  “I don’t recall but one,” he said with a frown.

  “Mine’s in the closet.”

  “Where it’s cold and drafty. Stop blaming yourself,” Barry implored “You were exhausted from tending me, probably afraid to sleep in the other room in case I’d wake up and need you. I guess you know I accused Emily and Victoria of flat-out lying when they told me what I did to you.”

  Lyla smiled. “I wish I’d been there—”

  “No, you don’t,” he replied, recollections of his handcuffs still painfully fresh. “Tell me what happened, Lyla. Did I hurt you, sweetheart? Did I…force you?”

  The instant flicker of shock in her eyes was some reassurance, at least. Barry glanced toward the door, wishing she’d hurry yet understanding her reticence about this sensitive subject. She shifted, and he eased her weight onto his better leg.

  “It…it started as a dream,” she began in a low voice. The memories and impressions were so vivid. What words would express her emotions and the sensations she shared while becoming his woman? “I—I thought I was imagining it when you were holding me, nuzzling my neck. We were facing the fire—”

  “Both of us?”

  She nodded, aware that this nearness to him was reviving the wondrous, aching torment she’d felt with him that night. “When I woke up, you were holding me, and despite your wounds you’d managed to open my shirt and lower my drawers. I—I was too fascinated to fight you, so—”

  “Did I hurt you? God, I never meant to, honey.” Thompson studied her pink cheeks and shy smile, truly ashamed that he’d taken advantage of her. Then she raised her lovely blue eyes and he wished he’d at least been conscious while sampling the delectable banquet she’d unwittingly placed before him.

  Sensing that his conscience was indeed prickling, Lyla chuckled nervously. “I’d tell you how wonderful you made me feel that night, Barry, except you’d have the idea that you could get by with loving me in your sleep, when I deserve your full attention.”

  Only when he saw a twinkle in her impish eyes did he dare to chuckle. His laughter shook them both and he pulled her as close as his rope binding would allow. “Damn right you deserve better,” he whispered joyfully against her ear. “I fully intended to prove I’m capable of some restraint, intended to wait until we were married to—”

  “The road to hell’s paved with good intentions,” she quipped softly. Then she gazed at him, unable to quit grinning. “And if this be hell, Mr. Thompson, I’ll take it. And after all the endearments you murmured while loving me, you damn well better marry me!”

  Barry blinked. “What’d I say?”

  “That’s for me to know and you to wonder about,” she replied. “You can thank McClanahan for convincing me you were out of your head when all this happened. And after watching my brother babble incoherently after the mine explosion, when he was trying to die, Lord love him, I understand. It seems our…appetites have gotten us both into trouble, doesn’t it?”

  Chuckling ruefully, Thompson hugged her close. “I’m sorry I was such a worry to you.”

  “Nonsense. I had to keep you alive so we could solve this robbery,” she teased. “And your murmurings were rather exciting, actually. Poor Mick chattered about chameleons and clubs, as though he were scared witless and seeing such things in his hospital bed.”

  The marshal held her, setting his happiness aside for a moment to consider this. “There’s a Chameleon Club in Cripple,” he said quietly. “It’s an opium den, upstairs from one of the saloons on Myers. Let’s keep that in mind, but right now something else is more pressing—the matter of you becoming my wife.”

  Lyla’s pounding heart rendered her speechless with anticipation. The green eyes above hers studied her solemnly, yet Thompson’s dusty, bruised face was wavering on the brink of a huge grin.

  “You seem to think a wedding is your just reward for what I’ve put you through, Miss O’Riley,” he murmured. “Frankly, it sounds like a trap. What proof do I have that I made love to you? Or that I said anything you could construe as grounds for matrimony?”

  His unexpected challenge forced her to think hard. He had a point: she alone knew what went on that night in the cabin. But Mother of God, that didn’t mean this man could hold her responsible for all that had transpired between them! “Well,” she replied, “you could be a cad and subject me to an examination by Dr. Geary. Or you could be a g
entleman—a lover in the truest sense—and take my word for it.”

  “And what word is that?” he breathed, praying her wit didn’t cave in, praying they weren’t interrupted at this most crucial moment in all his life.

  Lyla rolled her eyes, pretending to search for a response. “Yes,” she whispered. “My answer is yes, Barry.”

  “Oh Lord, I—” He kissed her long and hard, reeling with the joy this impetuous little woman had just brought full circle. Again and again he pressed her lips, pouring out a love he hadn’t dared to believe himself capable or deserving of. “Honey, I meant to ask for your hand when we were all cozy and alone, when I could put that ring on your finger and—”

  “I’ll hold you to that, as soon as we get it back.”

  “As soon as we get out of this mess,” Barry promised her, “we’ll have a proper engagement. A time to talk about our future, and plan the house I’m having built, and—”

  “And make love?” she asked coyly. “I know you were trying to prove a point by keeping your fly fastened, but…well, I got your point once, and I’m not sure I can wait until the wedding before I have it again. We’re an affectionate pair, Barry, and if you love me—”

  “Lord yes, I do,” he breathed, suddenly serious. “I love you so much it’ll take a lifetime to prove it to you, Lyla.” He looked at her, chuckling at the unexpected turn of events this latest ambush had produced, knowing in his heart they’d survive this ordeal and laugh about it someday. “And I promise you, young lady, that I’ll be a helluva lot better lover when I’m conscious. I’ll make that first time up to you.”

  “Again and again,” Lyla assured him.

  “Again and again,” he repeated as he pulled her close. “I wish I could start now. Just the sight of you, and the silkiness of your hair, and—”

  The door flew open, and in sauntered a grinning Connor Foxe. Familiar voices followed him inside: Frazier had pulled up in a carriage, and was exchanging pleasantries with Nate, Kelly, and a chuckling Wally Eberhardt as he handed them each an envelope. The wind made Lyla shiver in his lap, and also ushered in the cloying scent of…kerosene.