Catch Me (9 page)

“Maggie Bullock,” she answered, pitching her voice loud to reach the back of the crowd. “And I’m not sure you want me doing this. I’ve an aim that’s known far and wide.”

His grin spread over his skeletal face. She wondered if he’d been tippling in his own product. He had the under-fed, over-frantic look of a tonic abuser. “All for the good, Miss Bullock, all for the good. Now, good people, where should our little lady aim?”

A bloodthirsty roar of suggestions rose, with “between the eyes” being far the loudest. Dean was a dour weight of power at her back, but she ignored him the best she could. If he tried to step in, he was likely to be lynched by the mob that had been listening to Dr. Fallyworth for a good hour.

“Between the eyes it is.” The doctor picked up a half-full bottle from the wagon and showed it to all sides. Then he swigged down a healthy gulp and took six dramatic steps backward and raised his arms again, cape clutched in his hands to appear like wings. “On my count, Miss Bullock, and the powers of my restorative will be shown to one and all. Three.”

Maggie raised the pistol and leveled it directly between his glittering eyes.

“Two,” he said in a dramatic voice.

She cocked the trigger. And gulped. He seemed awfully on edge. She wondered if he’d loaded the pistol the right way.

“One.” He grinned at the crowd.

Her hands tingled and she blinked dry eyes. If he’d been wrong…she could kill him dead right there. No way she’d miss from six paces.

“Fire!”

Maggie shifted her aim at the last second. Only two inches to the left. The head was a small target, after all.

She pulled the trigger.

The gun jerked in her hand with the solid presence of a real bullet.

Dr. Fallyworth waved his cape before his face and when he lowered it, he held a bullet between his teeth. There was no way it was the same one, but fear swelled through her bones.

Her body twitched with adrenaline. She stepped back, running smack into Dean. He steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. She dropped the hand with the pistol, and with her free hand reached back to sink her fingers into his waist.

She could have killed the doctor.

Dean had been right. Looking a man in the eyes as you pulled the trigger wasn’t the same thing as shooting a deer, not at all.

The doctor grinned at the audience, oblivious to her distress, and plucked the bullet from between his teeth. He waved it above his head and declared himself open for sales.

Tossing the gun blindly into the wagon, she stumbled away. She had to push past the people swarming the doctor, all eager to buy his nostrum.

Her vision grayed as she flattened a hand against the boardwalk’s support column. Dean cupped her shoulders again, lending strength with his heat. She spun and leaned against the railing. Her blood rushed violently in her ears, setting up a tinny ring that subsumed her every thought. Her lips had gone numb and she swept her dry tongue over them.

“It was loaded. I could have killed him.”

Dean’s solemn eyes were filled with sympathy. He brushed his knuckles over her cheekbone and she nuzzled into the contact. “You didn’t.”

“No thanks to
him
.” She waggled her hands, trying to get feeling into them. “He’s been sipping at his tonic too much, hasn’t he?”

He smoothed her hair at the nape of her neck. “Seems to be.”

“It’s done. I worked it. No one was hurt.”

A tiny ghost of a smile arched his mouth. He must be ecstatic. “You sure did. That was right slick of you.”

“It sure was, wasn’t it?” She shook her head and pushed off the post. As much as she liked the sympathy Dean poured over her, she didn’t need it. And she didn’t want the tempting comfort if he wasn’t going to indulge her other senses. “I’m rather shocked at myself for saying this, but I’m ready to leave this place in the dust.”

Andrew sidled up behind his brother. “You all right, Maggie?”

“Well enough.”

“Couldn’t do it, could ya? I don’t think even the crazy doctor noticed what you did.”

“Leave her alone,” Dean gritted. “Unless you’ve ever shot a man, you’ve no idea what it’s like.”

Andrew’s sunny expression darkened as his smile flipped over into a shallow frown. “Oh, I have, little brother.”

She stepped between the men, resting a hand in the center of Dean’s chest and raising her other before Andrew. Tensions ran high, and she couldn’t help but think it her fault for insisting on watching the huckster, and worse, participating. “Really. Let’s just leave this place.”

Dean cupped her head and gentled his thumb across her jaw. “All right. Let’s go.”

Getting out of that town and on the road hadn’t helped much.

Maggie sat before the fire, a tin cup of coffee cradled in her hands. Warmth seeped into her skin, but did little to ease the antsy feelings that still crawled over her skin. Every time she turned around, Dean hovered, asking how she was. If she needed a rest. If she wanted anything.

She’d managed to hold back the unkind comments, but wasn’t sure how much longer she’d last. She wasn’t much the type to be coddled. Never had been. It came from running their home after Mother had died, and it hadn’t gotten any better after Father became sick. She preferred purpose to pampering.

She didn’t really have one anymore, past going to prison. And dying there, hopefully
not
of old age.

The only thing that held her tongue was doubt as to whether he was being that unreasonable or if all her jumbled feelings had her overwrought.

The amorphous brown lump on her plate shifted under her fork. She choked down all her throat could manage of what Dean called dinner, knowing she’d need the sustenance come morning, but wished he’d allowed her to cook. She’d volunteered, like every night since she’d shot the deer and he’d removed the cuffs. Tonight, however, he’d turned her down. Even when she’d insisted. And this was her reward.

The least she could do was clean. She splashed the last of her coffee into the fire, where it sizzled on the burning logs, and scooped up Andrew’s plate along with hers.

He nodded and didn’t move from his reclining position against his saddle. “Much obliged.”

“It’s no problem,” she replied, and went to grab Dean’s dishes as well. But he picked them up from the spread-out saddle blanket and surged to his feet.

“I’ve got these.” He tried to snag the plates from her hand.

An irrational anger flooded her. “Oh no, you don’t.” She ducked to the side and held them away. “I’m cleaning.”

His long reach plucked them easily away. “You had a hard day. I’ll take care of it.”

Her jaw gaped open. “A hard day?”

“Well, yes.” He had the courtesy to look chagrined, but he didn’t stop his meticulous gathering of the cooking pot and utensils. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you. I stopped and had a chat with the good doctor. He won’t be pulling that stunt again.”

“You did what? When did you even manage that?” Her voice verged on a screech. Andrew sat up and eyed her warily, but Dean didn’t seem to have a clue about the danger ranging about him. He had no right in the world. He was her jailer, not her protector, and she’d be damned if she’d let him act like one. She was no precious little flower to hide in a garden.

On some level she saw how irrational this was, to start an argument over who would clean up their supper. She ought to refuse to do a lick of work and do her best to be dead weight, much less throw a fit when she didn’t get her way.

But such awareness of her own silliness wasn’t likely to stop her, not when work helped keep her mind off the fact that she was a prisoner. That she would likely be one for the rest of her days.

She grabbed the pot and yanked. Brown grease sloshed up and over Dean’s gray and white striped button down. “Goddamn it,” he muttered.

Petty satisfaction curled her mouth into a smile. “Serves you right.”

He stared at her with his jaw hanging open. “I swear, you aren’t quite right in the head sometimes.”

Tossing her hair, she knelt and gathered clean sand to scrub their dishes out. Water was becoming precious. They’d need to conserve soon, when they left the track of the river.

“Be stubborn. Work yourself to the bone,” Dean said as he gathered a clean shirt from his belongings. “See if I care.”

He disappeared over a rise topped with junipers and for a long, blissful moment the only sound in the little camp was the soft whisper of a breeze and the crackle of the fire. Andrew’s gaze burned into the nape of her neck.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, looking only at her hands scrubbing sand over her plate.

“You tell me.”

She plopped onto her rear, hands dangling between her spread knees. “Maybe.” There was no way she could discuss it with Andrew. While she might be ready to crash the bounds of propriety, knowing her future, that didn’t mean she was quite ready to discuss it with all and sundry. Particularly not with Andrew, since he was brother to the man she’d seduce if she had half a chance.

“How about you give the man a break?” He’d reclined again and picked at his nails with a large knife, the very picture of relaxation and uncaring callousness. But she could see through him. The back of his neck had drawn tight and sharp tendons stood out beneath his shaggy brown hair.

She scraped her nails under her hair, across her skull. So many complicated motives bounced around within her. No one said what they meant. She, for one, didn’t have a burning
need
to scrub dishes, yet she’d stomped her foot like a three-year-old to get her way. It wasn’t his fault she found him attractive beyond measure and bearing.

Life would be a lot simpler if she’d been drawn to Andrew. She dropped her hands and peered at him. If the goal was to only abate these sensations before she was locked away, would one man really matter over another? Andrew was as prime a specimen of manhood as Dean. In fact, he was an inch or two taller, though Dean made up for it with breadth of shoulder. Dean’s features were a little rougher than his brother’s, less precisely carved. His mouth was wide but his lips thinned when he was annoyed. Which seemed to be nearly always. Andrew’s face was narrower and his cheekbones more sculptured than the blunt rawness of Dean’s.

“Don’t even think it,” he drawled.

She jumped. He hadn’t even looked up from his nails. “Don’t think what?”

“There’s no way on God’s green earth I’m stepping between you and Dean.” He sheathed the knife, flicked his fingers toward the sand and grinned at her. “Not to imply you are without appeal. But I happen to like all my body parts in their proper order and position, and I’ve no wish to encourage my little brother to do any rearranging.”

“Right. Like Dean would give a damn.”

He tsk-tsked and wagged a finger at her. “Such language from a little lady.”

With a groan, she flopped back into the sand. “I’m about as far from a lady as can be without getting ostracized from society.”

“That might be both a blessing and a curse.”

“Do I even want to know what you mean?” She draped an arm over her eyes to blot out the sky and the single star peeking out to start the night. She didn’t much feel like wishing. Not that she even knew what she’d wish for. Too many options, too many things she wanted with a desire that went bone deep. Choosing would be impossible.

“I’m just thinking it might be best to let Dean do what he needs. He’s used to women who need care and consideration.”

“That’s not like me.”

He loomed over her and bopped her lightly on the nose. “I’m perfectly aware of that. I’m suggesting you dissemble. Just a small amount. Take the pampering. Everyone’s cranky as can be. Is it really such a hardship?”

She tried to give it due consideration. But her skin crawled. Her father had taught her to ride and shoot and be true to herself. There was no way she could fake anything like that. She shook her head. “No, Andrew. I can’t. It’s not me.”

He shrugged and leaned back out of her line of sight. “Well enough. It was just an idea.”

She sat up and brushed her back off the best she could. “I appreciate it. But it’s not like any matchmaking would have a happy ending anyhow.”

Even if she wanted something solid and real like the kind of happy marriage her parents had once had, it wouldn’t be coming with the man who was taking her to prison. If the specter of Yuma prison didn’t float before her eyes, she wasn’t sure that Dean would hold even a fraction of the same appeal.

She brushed her hands off. “I guess I should go apologize for getting his shirt greasy.”

He shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”

“Nothing but my pride, that is.”

“It’s a rather large target, isn’t it?” His soft laugh followed her out of the camp.

It took everything she had not to wave at him the crude gesture she’d learned from Robert.

At the top of the rise, she stopped and looked about. At first sight there was no sign of Dean. He’d been out far longer than was needed to change a shirt. She called his name, keeping her voice quiet to match the soft stillness of the wild. An owl queried at her from its sentry position on a branch, and a squadron of crickets answered.

“Go away, Maggie,” Dean said, but she couldn’t quite tell what direction his voice came from.

“I’ve come to apologize.” She stuck her hands in her pockets and cocked her head to the cool night air, the better to listen for him.

“Fine. Apology accepted. Now go away.”

She found him sitting at the base of a tree, head leaned back against the knotty trunk. He’d gotten as far as taking off his dirty shirt, but he’d not put on the fresh one. She gulped through a dry throat as the crickets seemed to make their way inside her belly. His body was a work of art.

She’d once seen an illustrated book of Roman artistry in Masterson’s library. Even then, she’d been sure it was likely something she shouldn’t have been looking at, but Father and Masterson had been cloistered in the study, and she’d had free reign. She’d flipped through it, fascinated with the carefully rendered men.

Those gods had nothing on Dean.

Thick sweeps of muscle covered his shoulders and upper chest. His stomach was a bisected row of smaller muscles. A woman could grab onto his arms and hold safe through any storm.

He cracked open an eye and peered at her. “Can’t a man have a moment’s peace?”

She shoved her hands deeper in her pockets and fisted them. If she didn’t, she was likely to reach out and touch. “You’re mad at me.” She didn’t mean it as a question. More a statement of her fears. Though why it should bother her if he spent his time sulking, she had no idea.

“No.” He shook his head, and a swath of hair fell across his forehead. “No, I’m more mad with myself.”

She dropped to her knees. “Why?”

“You…” His chest lifted with an impressive sigh. “You unsettle me.”

“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t, not at all. He did the same thing to her. It would be only right if he were to get a measure of the same.

His lips quirked into a near-smile. “I just bet you are.”

She let that go unanswered. She rather wished she could see his eyes. For all their coldness, she’d learned to read them.

“What are you doing out here, Maggie?”

She traced a finger through the dirt. “I told you. I came to apologize.”

He pushed off the tree and shoved his arms through the sleeves of his clean shirt. She managed not to whimper at all that warm, glowing skin being taken from her. “And I accepted. So that means you must have another purpose.”

She didn’t, not exactly. She wouldn’t embarrass them both by throwing herself at him again. But that didn’t mean she could walk away. Something held her near. A sick kind of worry that he might be upset with her, despite his assurance he wasn’t. She’d behaved like a child; it would be only what she deserved if he were sick of her games.

“I—You unsettle me, as well.” She laced her fingers together and nibbled her lower lip. “But I’ve the feeling it’s more than that for you.”

He’d been about to fasten his shirt, fingers just twisting the bottom button through the last slit, but he stopped. He drew one foot up toward his body so his knee rose. “That’s fair enough.”

“Will you tell me?” Maybe, if she knew the basis for his hesitation, why he refused what any other man would have willingly taken, she’d find it within her to withdraw the temptation. Be the bigger person.

He dropped his head back to the tree trunk and looked up through the branches. “I’ve never told anyone. Even my family. They knew, they’d heard, but I never discussed it.”

She wrapped her arms about herself, trying to squeeze her insides back into place. Her heart thumped with a heavy, molasses-slow rhythm and her stomach fluttered into the free-fall one got when looking over too high a cliff. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Don’t I?” He rolled his head and looked back directly at her.

She couldn’t deny it, so she said nothing.

“I had a respectable life, once. It seems like long ago.” His gaze burned into her, as if he was willing her to absorb every word. She could hardly even blink. “I was a deputy sheriff.”

That wasn’t much of a surprise. He’d always seemed a little too noble to be a bounty hunter. She could see him walking tall through a small town with a shiny badge pinned to his chest. If only it didn’t have to be Fresh Springs, she could even take a measure of pride in the idea. She nodded for him to go on.

“I was married, too, and we had a son.”

The pain in his eyes churned through her. She couldn’t help her quiet gasp. He’d turned into a deadly wreck of a man in only a few words. The very act of telling the story turned him darker and more pained. “Oh, Dean,” she breathed.

But sympathy must not be what he wanted, because he looked away into the dark. His hand fisted into a tight knot. “Annie and Jack,” he whispered, then continued on in a stronger voice. “Their names were Annie and Jack. They trusted me to keep them safe. To protect them. And I failed.”

She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “What happened?”

“I took a man named Curt Whitson to jail for horse thieving. He should have been hanged, but a few of his cronies broke him out.” His jaw went sharp and he drew his chin down, as if trying to protect himself from the awful memories. “He stopped by my ranch on his way out of town. I wasn’t there, but Annie and Jack were.”

She had to bite down on the inside of her cheek to hold back her cry of fear. The copper taste of blood dripped over her tongue.

“He was out for revenge…and got the best kind.”

He said no more, but he didn’t have to. In his destroyed expression she could see their painful death and the horror of finding them. Holding back proved impossible. She cupped her hands around his face and pulled him to look at her. “I’m so sorry.” His eyes shone with a damp sheen. She brushed his lower lashes with her thumbs.