Branded (2 page)

Slade adjusted the neckerchief over his face to keep the dust from his mouth and tugged the brim of his Stetson low to prevent the wind from carrying it off.

He squinted into the distance. A mud wagon stood at an odd angle at the fork in the road. Slade tried to rub away the annoying prickles creeping up his neck. In this black mood, the last thing he wanted to be was a Good Samaritan. Adjusting his boot so his spurs whispered against horseflesh, he sent his mount into a half-hearted lope.

Instinctively, his hand shifted to his holster, only to remember, Dora, taking pains to please him this morning and offering to clean his guns. He hadn't had the heart to tell her, he felt near-to-naked without them.

"Damn," he muttered to himself. He palmed the pocket-sized pistol he never failed to carry in his vest. With one fluid movement, he slid the small gun into the cuff of his shirt.

Slade hitched his horse to a branch, and staying in the shadow of the trees, he paralleled the road. As he skirted the wagon, he crouch-walked below the side windows to avoid being seen by the man sitting cozily beside the driver, holding a pistol to his temple.

"You must be daft. I have no intention of giving you anything." The woman sounded more irritated than frightened. "My, but you are rude with that thing. Why don't you get back on that mangy beast of yours--and--and--just go away." There was the slightest pause followed by an exasperated sigh. "Well, go on."

Any thought Slade had had of turning back was now overridden by curiosity. Slade edged around the back of the wagon. Because she was wearing a voluminous duster to protect her clothes from trail dirt and a hat with black netting that completely covered her face, Slade had to stay curious.

There was only the slightest tilt of her head, but Slade was certain she'd spied him. She kept her peace, but from beneath the wheels, a dog let out a lazy bark and the man jerked his head around. Foxworth, Slade recalled the name, thinking the man hadn't changed much, just a little more gray peppered his ragged beard.

The gun barrel shifted in Slade's direction, and the dog chose that precise moment to scoot out from beneath the coach, creating a small cloud of dust. It was the biggest, shaggiest canine Slade had ever come across. The huge beast sniffed his boots before pouncing on him. Amazingly, the dog, standing on hind-legs, was able to place its paws smack-dab on his shoulders. And last he'd checked, he still topped six feet by a couple of inches.

"This whole sneakin' up thing works a lot better without the dog." Slade stared straight into big brown eyes. "This is a dog, right?"

"Oliver. Come here." The woman snapped her fingers, and the dog pushed itself off Slade's shoulders. The animal lumbered away, plopping down at her feet.

Slade tipped his hat to her. "Ma'am." Pink lips, pouty and perfectly molded for sin, were the only features he could make out through the black mesh.

"Well, are you just going to stand there and do nothing?"

"It was a thought." He held his empty hands up for the man to see. The gunman seemed more distressed than his victim. "Just trying to decide who's in more trouble here," Slade said, eliciting a hoarse chuckle from the driver and an indignant gasp from her.

"Only wanted a token."

"I told you, I haven't got anything. Here, see for yourself." She hurled her reticule at the man's chest.

Foxworth's thick fingers fumbled the catch. Keeping the pistol trained on her, he crouched down with a grunt and retrieved it. With another grunt, he straightened. Upending the silk bag, a few silver coins landed on his dirty palm. He scowled at her as he pocketed the money. Considering the expensive luggage and the lace gloves, Slade found the scant contents of her bag suspicious. And so, obviously, did Foxworth. With a scowl, he threw the silk bag aside.

"Let's see what's under that." He gestured with the gun's barrel at the linen coat.

Slade intrigued by the English accent, seductive voice and all too sassy attitude, seconded the suggestion. "I think you ought to do what he says." Slade thought it a safe bet that Foxworth, not known for being a shooter, still used the gun as a prop.

"I daresay, it was my lucky day when you happened by. Quite the hero." She peeled off the duster and threw it to the ground. "Satisfied?"

"More than you know," Slade answered. Clad in black from head to toe, a look that should have been gloomy and severe, was anything but on her. Perfectly tailored satin emphasized every delectable curve.

"Now, that's more like it." Foxworth sounded as if he was drooling, but not because of the woman's tempting shape. It was impossible to miss the brooch at the base of her throat.

The milky opal circled with tiny, glittering diamonds was the biggest Slade had ever seen. But that's not what held his attention. A gauzy inset of fabric did nothing to hide the woman's assets, which swelled delectably over the top of her bodice. Despite her rather unruffled demeanor, he could see her breasts rise and fall with her rapid breathing. He couldn’t help feeling guilty for the offhand way he was handling this whole mess. The woman was clearly more fragile than she pretended. It was time to end this quick.

"Paste," he declared of the jewel. "Not worth a damn." With a few careful steps, he moved toward her. Reaching over, he tugged loose the pearl pin from her hat. He ignored her cry of dismay.

"Here, take this," Slade said, tossing the pin to the man, while, with a practiced jerk of his wrist, he slid the pistol into his hand and leveled it at the man's head. "What say, friend, you call it a day? Unless, of course, you're angling for a new part in your hair."

"Look, Sol, ain't that precious. The buck's got himself a toy."

Slade found the man's sudden snide attitude a bit irritating. His mood wasn't improved when he heard the man's partner cock his gun.

"What's your handle, son?" he asked after only an amused sideways glance at the weapon. Slade had the distinct impression the man wanted his name for accuracy's sake. To give the story some weight when he recounted it over a bottle of liquor.

Slade thumbed up the brim of his hat and tugged the bandanna down. The man's eyes narrowed to snake-like slits as he scrutinized Slade's face. With hasty, clumsy movements, the man holstered his gun, letting the pin drop to the dirt in the process. He moved backwards faster than any man Slade had ever seen. Now, Slade thought, a man could take offense to that type of reaction to his mug.

"What the devil are you doing, Jack?"

"It's the bastard that put me away. No mistakin' that scar or those eyes, Christ." A visible shudder ran through Jack's stocky frame. "Cold enough to freeze a man's blood."

Slade shook his head as he watched Jack scramble toward his waiting horse, his partner cursing as he followed. Their pathetic mounts hobbled away.

A gust of wind swept the woman's hat off. It skimmed his thigh as it flew by him. Having no wish to chase it down the road, Slade snagged the lacework with the toe of his boot. She gasped. He picked it up, slapped it on his thigh twice, and turned to hand it to her.

"Your hat, m--"

"I have it, thank you."

Although he registered the sharp tug she gave the hat, Slade could not seem to let go of his end.

"If you would just release the blasted thing."

"Son-of-a...." Talk about having a reaction to someone's face. No wonder she'd been wearing the veil. Exposed, her face would be downright unsettling to most men. The effect it was having on him was pronounced. He actually had to remind himself to breathe.

Long, sable lashes fluttered up as she lifted her big, beautiful eyes to his. Without a doubt, that four-poster bed of his was going to seem not merely empty, but as vast and cold as Grand Lake.

"Thanks ever so much," she sneered as she finally managed to snatch the hat from him.

He smiled crookedly. "My pleasure." He shoved the brim of his hat higher to get a better look. One satiny lock of raven-black hair flew loose from her bun, the wind whipping it into her face. With a petulant curl of her lips, she brushed it aside.

"Golden," he said.

"Pardon?" Her perfectly arched brows lifted in question.

"Your eyes. They're golden," he answered. Struck by the sunlight, they glittered like topazes.

"Truly?" she retorted.

"I suppose you already knew that?" he said with a chuckle.

After a long moment standing there, thinking how soft her throat looked, and how he'd like to trace the cleft in her chin with his tongue, he recalled the driver. Pocketing his weapon, he strode over to him. The man's hands were bound behind his back. Having no wish to dull his own blade sawing through rope, Slade asked, "Got a knife?"

"Nope. Never carry a knife. Give me a carbine. That's the only weapon I need."

"Right," Slade said dryly. The untouched carbine remained nice and snug in its leather cradle, poking out of the baggage boot beneath the driver's seat.

"For heaven's sake can we get on with this?" she said with exasperation.

Fascinated, Slade watched as she turned from them, hiking one side of her skirt to well above thigh level. An opportune wind lifted her petticoats, but sadly, from his vantage point, Slade caught only an enticing glimpse of sheer stocking-clad ankle above the boot. Dropping her dress, she swivelled around, brandishing a wickedly-thin dirk.

He was half-expecting her to present it to him blade first the way she slinked toward him like a lethal cat.

"That's one deadly, little toothpick you're carrying around."

She slapped the jeweled hilt into the palm of his hand. "A gentleman would have turned his back."

The driver let out a raspy laugh. "There ain't but a handful of gentlemen in the whole of Colorado. And by the looks of him, I think I'd be safe sayin' that boy sure ain't one of them."

Slade, the tips of his boots balancing on the narrow footboard, reached over to cut the man free. The driver's hair reeked of bear grease, and Slade made quick work of the ropes.

"You with the law?" he asked, rubbing the life back into his arms.

Slade shook his head no. He dropped to the ground and shoving aside the canvas covering, he inspected the interior of the coach. "A girl like that, traveling alone?" he asked incredulously.

The driver clambered down from his seat. He drew off his hat and whisked his grimy hand through his slicked hair. He leaned in companionably, a little too close, Slade thought, catching another gamy whiff of rancid grease.

"She is somethin'," he agreed before tucking a wad of tobacco into his cheek. "Didn’t start out alone though. She had a maid with her. That old crony began fussing the second she boarded. Seems we Coloradoans ain’t civilized enough for her. Dropped her in Esperanza. That’s why there weren’t nothing to steal. Dang near emptied her purse to pay for the woman’s passage back." He turned his head and spit out a wad of tobacco. "And, if that weren’t enough of a delay, this little thing convinced me to hold up in town, while she delivered an important package to that fancy, new solicitor. Add to it, this harebrained robbery. Hell's fire, I've lost damn near half a day on foolishness." Surprisingly, at the end of his tirade, a leering tobacco-stained grin broke out on his face. "All worth it, though. I mean, how often does a man get to see something that mouth-watering?"

"You needn't speak as if I have no ears," the woman said as she finished adjusting her hat with only the shadow on the ground to guide her. She retrieved her purse from the dirt and shook it off.

"Sir, it seems I am in your debt," she said to Slade, but did not deign to extend him her slender, lace-clad hand. Her eyes flitted to his brow, and he knew she was looking at the scar. She winced. He was taken aback by her reaction, he knew it wasn't pretty, but he found most women took a fancy to it. He always stopped them from fingering it, though. A damn foolish quirk, he knew. But the mark was too much a part of who he was. It was too personal.

"In my debt? A far from unpleasant notion."

She pretended not to understand his implication or to notice the slow, easy smile curving his lips. Her eyes drifted once again to the scar. "That tiny thing scared them off," she said. Then she shook her head slightly. "Rather, it was your reputation. I suppose, you are what they term a gunslinger?"

"Is this what gunslingers carry in England?" he asked twirling the pocket-sized pistol on his pinky. "Actually, I'm hopin' to work myself up to a real gun someday."

Her sweet mouth curved into an embarrassed smile, revealing far too appealing dimples. He found himself charmed by her apparent innocence. And then, swiftly reproached himself for thinking how badly he’d like to steal that innocence.

The wind whipped her hair into her face again. She chose to ignore it, but it bothered him plenty not being able to watch those lips. He took it upon himself to brush her hair back. Even his callused fingers could sense the unbelievable softness of her skin.

Frowning, she took a none-too-discreet step away from him.

"Witnessin' that polecat's reaction to him, my guess is the boy's somethin' far meaner than a gunfighter," the driver opined as he smacked the dust from his filthy jeans. "Boy, if you ain't the law, my guess is you're a bounty hunter."

"Just a rancher."

The driver gave him an exaggerated wink. "Yeah, and I'm the preacher's wife."

The woman moved toward him, her slim hips swaying slightly. "My knife, please."

Balancing the blade on his palm, he asked with a suggestive lift of his brow, "Need some help sheathing it?"

She narrowed her eyes at his suggestion. And then deciding better of lifting her skirt in front of him again, she opted, instead, to gingerly slip the knife into her reticule. Damnable fool, he wanted to kick himself for spoiling his chance to catch another glimpse of those sleek ankles.

Ought to stop gawking, and just get the hell back on the road, Slade told himself as he took up a prime viewing spot beneath a nearby cottonwood. Registering the new brand could wait, he decided easily. Why feel guilty for a few minutes worth of entertainment? Especially, considering that his days would soon be occupied with the heavy labor of ranch work. He knew he was eyeing her like a confection in a sweet shop, but he couldn't help himself.