Outlaw for Christmas (9781101573020) (26 page)

The outline of a large, two-story farmhouse appeared on the horizon. From their talks at West Point, Seth knew that Henry came from a long line of gentleman farmers. His family had never owned slaves, depending on their own hands and that of their many children, as well as hired labor and indentured servants, to do the work.

Despite Northern propaganda, a minority of Southern men owned other men. Slaves were expensive. A large plantation and centuries of family money were needed to warrant them.

The steady clip-clop of his horse's hooves down the dirt lane that led to the house became a soothing cadence at odds with the horrific sounds that too often lived in Seth's head.

In Boston, Seth had hoped to find solace. Instead, the loud city noises, the shouts, the startling bangs and bumps had made him more nervous than ever before. He was always waiting for the next cannon blast, even though he knew there would be none, and when something did blare unexpectedly, Seth was thrown back to a time he prayed to forget.

How could he assume the mantle of leadership his father had left behind? How could he marry a socialite wife and propagate the family name as his mother expected when he never knew if he might lose his mind in the middle of an important meeting or a simple embrace?

He had no idea. But for the moment he was at peace. He wasn't waiting for the next loud noise, expecting the next disaster. Therefore, when it happened, he wasn't prepared at all.

The distinct snick of a shotgun echoed loudly through the silent night.

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BY ANY OTHER NAME

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Ryan watched Julia as she
slept, and he forgot every argument he'd ever had for not marrying her and making her his forever. Even in sleep her inner strength was visible, from the determined set of her mouth, to the slight line between her brows that showed her serious bent. Still he could as easily see her smile, hear her laughter. If he did not take her for his wife, he might never see that smile nor hear that laughter again.

He would not let her go. He would not let her marry any other man, especially a man who would crush her spirit and take her will. The things about Julia that he loved the most were her courage and her determination. She might easily have given in to the demands of a hard life, to the hatred preached by her father and the viciousness practiced by her brothers to become a completely different woman. But she'd fought on, with her dreams and her will, to remain strong and gentle and kind.

He did love her, mistake though it might be, and he always would.

She opened her eyes then, stared straight into his. He tensed, expecting her to run, or shout or spit at him. Instead she smiled, a sleepy smile that made his throat close and his loins harden. He went still, afraid if he moved he would make time march on, and he wanted this moment to last forever.

But nothing lasts forever, and as she came completely awake he could see the memories tumble forward, dulling her smile, shadowing her eyes. She sat up, fumbled with the buttons of her gown, an embarrassed flush spreading from her chest up her cheeks.

“I thought you'd go away.”

“If you hid long enough, you mean?”

“Yes.” She finished the last button, but her blush still heated her face. She kept her eyes averted.

“No. I wasn't going until I talked to you about us.”

She made a derisive sound and continued to contemplate the plank floor. “There isn't any us.”

“There can be.”

“No.” She sighed, deep and sad, and traced a fingernail across a flaw in the wood. “I know I dream too much. I didn't have much else but work and dreams. Silly things, dreams. My mama always told me I'd fall in a hole some day while dreaming and never know it 'till I starved to death down there.”

He didn't want her to stop dreaming, become beaten down and despairing like other women. “Dreams aren't silly. Sometimes they might be frightening, but never silly.”

She flicked a glance and a frown his way. “Frightening?”

“I've had some whoppers.”

“Nightmares.” He nodded. “I'm sorry. I don't have nightmares. None that I can recollect anyway.”

He smiled. “I'm glad.”

They remained silent for a long while. Ryan didn't know how to begin, what to say, if he should say anything. The silence moved from companionable to awkward. Julia bent her legs as if to stand.

“Wait,” he blurted, putting his hand out to stop her.

She hesitated, her green gaze reminding him of a cat that had just been kicked but was too stubborn to run away, instead waiting to see if an apology would follow, but expecting another kick just the same. “A minute,” she allowed.

“I made a mess of things.”

“You don't have to explain, Ryan. You owe me nothing. I can take care of myself.”

“I'm sure you can. But—”

He stopped, uncertain again. Would she be angry if he said he wanted to take care of her? That wasn't what he wanted from her—her devotion, her dependence. He wanted her to remain just as she was, except with a different name.

His.

“Ryan? We should go.”

“Ah, hell, Julia. I'm no good at this.”

“What?”

He leaned back against the stone wall, stared out at the descending sun. “Soft words. Tender touches. Roses and poetry.” He looked back at her and shrugged. “I'm not that kind of man.”

The wariness in her eyes faded as a gentle smile transformed her face. “You've done all right so far. I remember your touches, every single one, and they were quite tender, the words you whispered all the poetry I've ever wanted to hear. I'll remember them and you forever.”

“That sounds like good-bye.”

“It is.” She stood.

Panic flared inside him, loosening his tongue. “No. Don't go. Please.” He stood, too, making his way around the platform until he stood next to her. The wariness had returned to her eyes, the kicked cat look again, though he had a feeling this cat would scratch and bite if provoked. Slowly he reached out a hand that shook just a bit and smoothed the curling hair at her temple away from her eyes. When his fingertips brushed her skin, she shivered and a tiny gasp of surprise escaped her mouth. He had to taste that mouth or die with wanting to.

He pressed his lips to hers, drinking her sigh, drowning in her scent, roses and tears. She didn't respond at first, but when he continued to kiss her, then whispered her name in a choked pleading voice he barely recognized as his own, she gave a sob of surrender and wrapped her arms about his neck, kissing him back with a desperation that matched his own.

He wanted her so much he ached with it. His hands swept over her back, her waist, paused beneath her breasts. She moaned and arched against him. The beat of his heart sounded in his head, a primitive drum blocking out sense and reason. He wanted her. Now.

The cool breeze shifted, bringing the scent of flames and ashes, mementos of a world gone mad. His madness receded. They broke apart to stare out the window. On the horizon, smoke billowed, and the sun bled red, reminding them of all that awaited. She leaned against him, limp, and he held her as they watched the smoke and the flames mingle.

“Marry me, Julia,” he said to the blood red sun.

“Yes,” she answered, and the wind howled.

***

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Lori Austin
is a pseudonym for Lori Handeland, who sold her first novel in 1993. Since then she has written many novels, novellas, and short stories in a variety of genres. She has won multiple RITA Awards from the Romance Writers of America. Lori lives in southern Wisconsin with her husband and enjoys occasional visits from her grown sons.

Also by Lori Austin

 

Beauty and the Bounty Hunter

 

Lori Austin writing as Lori Handeland

 

When Morning Comes

By Any Other Name