Outlaw Hearts (7 page)

Miranda watched his eyes. They were dark, compelling, and at the moment she believed they told the truth. The man emanated power and danger, and at the same time he had shown such vulnerability when he was sick, had again spoken the name Santana. When he had muttered about his father, it had been as though in agony, with an almost begging tone to his voice. This man carried some kind of deep hurt, and for some reason she wanted to find the good in him. She told herself to be careful, not to let his powerful personality and handsome qualities make her do something foolish. Those dark eyes had a way of making her forget all reason. She had been alone too long, that was the problem, so long that she was allowing herself to enjoy the company of an outlaw.

“What happened in your life that made you feel so defensive of women? Did it involve the one named Santana?”

He looked away. “All you need to know is that I didn't do the things I'm wanted for now. By the way, where's my gear? I need a smoke with that whiskey.”

Miranda sighed. He was through talking about himself for the moment. “I'll see if I can find your tobacco, and I'll get the whiskey, but only if you promise to eat something.”

“I'll try.” He met her eyes again. “And I still want my guns. Anyone could come by at any time.”

“That's right, Jake. And anyone who might come by would be one of my friends checking on me. Do you really think I would allow you to shoot an innocent person who might come out here just to see if I'm all right? I have betrayed my friends enough already just by saving your life and keeping you here secretly. I'm not about to let you turn around and hold a gun on them.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “Mrs. Hayes—”

“Randy.”

“What?”

“I told you my first name is Miranda. Friends and family just call me Randy.”

“I'm not family,” Jake told her. “Don't tell me you're calling me a friend! I'm no friend to anything but my guns, and I'm not eating until they're hanging over this bedpost.”

Miranda stiffened. “Fine, if that's the way you want it. You can also go without your tobacco and whiskey. You just remember that you're not going to do anything but get weaker if you don't eat, and if you ever intend to ride out of here, Jake Harkner, you'd better learn to go by my rules! No guns!”

She held his eyes challengingly, then watched another hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You drive a hard bargain, Randy.”

“It's called survival, and I meant it about considering ourselves friends. After what we have been through together for the last week, what else can you call it?”

He put a hand to his hair, wishing it was cleaner. “I don't know. I only know that among those I run with, a man calls you friend only as long as he knows you can outdraw and outshoot him.”

Miranda smiled. “Well then, I'd say it's time you learned what it's like to have a
real
friend. Besides, I
did
outshoot you, and I'm
still
calling you
friend
.”

Jake sighed deeply. There was no outtalking this woman, and at the moment no outdoing her physically. “I give up. Just get me that whiskey, will you?”

“Are you going to eat?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

Jake watched her exit the room, his mind already whirling with how he could outsmart this woman. Friend? No woman like that one called a man like him friend, and he still couldn't quite believe she wouldn't turn him in if someone came by.

He had to find those guns! As long as he was this weak, the guns were his only protection. They were all he'd counted on most of his life, and he wasn't about to be without them now. If he could find them, Randy Hayes would have to live by his rules. He'd never lived by anyone else's, and he wasn't about to start now!

Miranda lugged two buckets of water from the well, setting one down at the door so that she could open it, then picking the water up again and struggling inside with her heavy load. As soon as she got through the doorway she saw Jake standing near the counter under which she kept the potatoes. He had managed to pull on a pair of long johns but was still shirtless, and he held one revolver in his hand; another lay on the pantry. His gun belts, which she had hidden in the bottom of her wardrobe, hung over one shoulder. She moved slowly to set the buckets on the floor, unsure whether or not she should be afraid. She watched Jake's eyes, saw there a mixture of victory and humor. “Potatoes?” he asked sarcastically. “I thought they'd be under a floorboard or something.”

Miranda told herself to stay calm. Everything had been fine as long as he was in bed and had no weapons. She had carried her own rifle everywhere with her, leaving it on the porch just now while she got the water. “Apparently I shouldn't have left those things anywhere in the house.”

Jake grinned, whirling the chamber of the revolver in his hand and holding it up to blow into it. “Potatoes have dirt on them. I'll have a time getting these things cleaned up. I usually oil them nearly every day.” He glanced at her, saw the fear beginning to build in her eyes. “Don't worry, they aren't even loaded. I took the bullets out so I can clean them.” He frowned then, feeling annoyed at what she must be thinking. “Look, I told you I don't go around hurting women.”

Miranda leaned down and picked up the buckets. “I'm wondering why it's so important to you to have a gun in your hand. I'm certainly no threat, and I told you I have no intention of turning you in.”

Jake watched her lift the buckets to the counter, seeing that it took great effort, and wondering at the fact that such slender arms could lift anything. “A man like me can't be too careful or too trusting. A whole townful of people who would love to collect the reward on me is only a half hour from here. Not only do I have civilians and the law after me, but the men I used to ride with are after me too. I'll rest a lot better with these hanging over the bedpost.”

Miranda faced him, her arms folded. “Suit yourself. You have a lot to learn about trust, Jake.” She turned away and began adding more wood to the fire in the hearth. “You'd better get back in that bed. Just because you woke up this morning feeling better doesn't mean you can be up rutting around like everything was normal. You do too much too soon and you'll just land yourself in bed longer than if you'd stayed there in the first place.”

Miranda heard another gun chamber whirl, and her heartbeat quickened. She had let herself believe he was telling the truth about not hurting her. She hoped her own basic instincts were right. What convinced her was the day she had shot him, the way he looked at her, the fact that he could have shot back but did not. She had seen a side to him while he was sick that she guessed few people knew anything about, and strangest of all, there was something about him she had begun to like, although she could not quite name it. Was it just a woman's reaction to such a man, or was it like feeling sorry for a wounded animal?

In her whole life, she could not remember her emotions being so confused. She had always been so sure of herself, sure of what she wanted, able to clearly judge other people. But this man was an enigma, a man she had no doubt could be ruthless, but who still harbored a frightened, possibly abused child within his big, virile frame.

“Don't worry, I'm going,” he answered. “But that soup you make and that shot of whiskey and a good sleep this afternoon did wonders. Give me a couple more days' rest and I can be out of your hair completely. I'm sure that will make you sleep better at night.” The last words were spoken with a hint of bitterness. “If you'll bring in my gear, I can clean these guns,” he added.

Miranda faced him. “So you can go on killing?”

His dark eyes turned to smoky anger, and Miranda reminded herself that this man was a drifter and a raider who probably didn't even know how many men he had killed. Now he stood here, all six feet plus of him, feeling stronger
and
ornerier. She stepped back when he cocked the revolver and pointed it directly at her, all with a lightning speed that made her gasp.

“So I can
defend
myself!” he nearly growled. He lowered the gun, an almost sad look coming into his eyes. “Hell, I told you it wasn't loaded.” He shook his head. “Do you really think I'd hurt you now, after what you went through to keep me alive? You know something? My pa couldn't see any good in me either. My mother did, but then that's the way mothers are, isn't it? Trouble was, Pa didn't see the good in her either, and he had it in his head that the only way to bring out the good in anybody was to
beat
it out of them, with a board or a belt or a whip or his fists or anything else that was handy! The more whiskey he had in him, the bigger the weapon.”

He walked up to her and leaned closer, his eyes on fire. “When you live your whole life defending yourself, Randy, it becomes as natural as breathing. My father taught me how
not
to trust, how not to let myself care about anyone. He made it very clear that I'm a worthless bastard who'll never amount to bullshit, and he was
right
! And it's because of him that I've lived a life on the run!”

He towered over her, making her want to back away, but she stubbornly refused to show any fear. He held the revolver in front of her face. “I don't expect somebody like you, a proper lady who comes from a world I've never known, to even
begin
to understand why I need these! Just know that I
do
need them, and don't
bitch
at me about it!” He stepped back, just staring at her a moment, then turned away and picked up the other revolver. He walked into the bedroom and threw the guns and belts on the bed, then came back into the main room, hating himself for the way she was still just standing there as though frozen in place. “You got a privy out back?”

She swallowed, looking a little pale. “Yes.” He could see her pretending to be unafraid. “I'll heat some water. When you're through out back, I'll help you wash your hair. I can cut it a little for you if you like.”

Jake sighed deeply, thinking how at the moment she reminded him of his mother, not physically, but having that frightened look about her he had seen too many times. “Look, I'm sorry. I don't know what made me light into you like that. I guess…there are just things about my life you don't understand.” He went to the door. “Where's your rifle? I'm not stepping outside without something to shoot with.”

Miranda began dipping some water from one of the buckets into a black pot. “Do you like dumplings? I thought I would boil some for supper. I'm afraid they will have to be mixed with vegetables. I have no meat. The raiders ran off our livestock and killed all our chickens.” She turned to look at him. “Well? Do you like dumplings?”

“I like them just fine.” Jake thought how he would like nothing more right now than a huge steak and some fried potatoes, but then who was he to order up a meal to his liking? He was just an intruder, and besides, she had no meat. “The rifle?”

She looked away again. “Out on the porch.”

Jake left, and Miranda breathed deeply to keep her composure. His bellowing voice and smoldering eyes when he had leaned close and lit into her had left her shaken, but she was not about to let him see it. His quick apology had set her more at ease again, but her mind whirled with wonder at the things he had told her. And she still wondered who Santana was. His mother? After all, it was a Mexican name, and Jake Harkner most certainly had some kind of Spanish or Indian blood in him. Still, he surely wouldn't call his mother by her first name. Was she a woman he had loved? Was Jake Harkner capable of caring for someone that much?

My
father
taught
me
how
not
to
trust, how not to care about anyone.
Were the marks on his back from beatings administered by his own father? She wondered if he realized that all the while he was yelling at her, she could see the little boy behind those blazing dark eyes. She wished he would smile more often. When he smiled, he was a changed man. He was devilishly handsome whether smiling or not, but when he did smile, there was no trace of the outlaw, or the hurt little boy or the angry man. There were only those straight, white teeth and those full lips. He looked like any decent man one might meet in town, except that few were built quite so big. Fewer still were that good-looking.

She rolled her eyes at the thought, feeling foolish and sinful. Jake Harkner had nothing to offer a woman but trouble. Besides that, he was not a man who bothered offering a woman
anything
, except maybe a little money for a roll in bed. It was not likely he had known any decent women.

She hung the kettle on the pothook and stoked up the fire. Why was that womanly side of her she had ignored since her husband's death suddenly stirred, even after he had lit into her with his harsh words? Part of her looked forward to his being well enough to leave, and another part of her didn't want him to go.

She filled a second kettle with water and hung it on another hook to heat it for washing his hair. She knew deep inside what was really happening to her. She had a man in her house again, not a father, but a man who looked at her as a woman, the way Mack had looked at her when they'd first met. It felt good to take care of a man, cook for a man, shave him. She missed those things, perhaps because she had had Mack for such a short time and had just begun to get used to being a wife when he left for the war. She had always helped her father, cooked for him, kept house and such; but doing it for a husband had been different. She and Mack had had big plans to build up the farm, build their own bigger and better house once the war was over, have children; but those dreams had died when he had.

She cut some dumplings from the dough she had rolled out on her pastry board earlier that afternoon. She began dropping them into the pot of heated water, realizing that since she was fourteen she had been taking care of men, first her father and brother, then her father and Mack, then just her father. She had missed having someone to fuss over, and she reasoned maybe that was why she hadn't really minded having Jake around.

She heard him come back inside then, and she took out a wash pan and set it on a shelf her father had built onto the side of the wall for a countertop, and beneath which she stored pots and pans. She glanced at Jake, watched him set her rifle against the wall. “Bring a chair over here and lean back. I'll wash your hair,” she told him.

“You don't have to if you don't want.”

“I do want. It's the only part of you that still needs washing.”

She turned away at the words, hoping he didn't notice the flush in her cheeks. Yes, she had bathed him when he was sick, mostly to keep him cooled down. She had noticed his flat, muscled stomach; his powerful thighs. She had tried to forget about seeing the parts of him that normally only wives and whores saw. In spite of his reputation and usually sour personality, Jake Harkner was a beautiful man physically. She wondered if he even realized it. His father had told him all his life that he was no good, a worthless bastard, in Jake's words. Did he even see himself as physically ugly too? That would take a pretty amazing imagination. Perhaps he wanted to be ugly, thought it was fitting. Maybe that was why he left himself unbathed and unshaved and let his hair grow every which way.

“Can you get the chair all right, or do you want me to do it?” she asked.

“I can do it. By the way, where are my pants? Feels kind of strange walking around in bare feet and long johns.”

Her eyes widened, and without thinking she walked up to him and touched his upper arms, realizing how cold they were. “My goodness! It's so cool out this evening. I didn't even think!” She rushed past him and took his blue denim shirt, his denim pants, and a pair of socks from where they lay neatly folded on her cot. “Put these on. You should never have gone out there half-dressed! You'll take sick in your condition.” She handed him the clothes. “Wait a minute. I'll get the top half of your underwear. It's in the bedroom.” She went into the other room and called to him. “I burned the one-piece long johns you were wearing the day I found you. They were too bloodstained to wear again. I found these in your gear.”

Jake smiled to himself at her sudden concern that he might have gotten cold. She came back and handed him the underwear. He pulled it on and buttoned it, then put his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. It felt good to get dressed, made him feel less at her mercy and more in control. “I guess in our exchange of words earlier, neither one of us thought about me getting dressed.” He began buttoning the shirt. “By the way, I really am sorry about exploding at you.”

Miranda turned and cut more dumplings. “It's all right. I'm sorry, for judging you. In any case, I see no new bloodstains on those bandages since I changed them earlier today, so you might as well get dressed. I'll wash your hair while these dumplings cook.”

Jake finished dressing, except for his boots. “How's Outlaw doing?”

“Outlaw?”

“My horse.”

“Oh, he's just fine. Eating me out of oats, I might add.”

“I'll pay you something before I leave. And I'll see what I can do about getting you some meat—maybe shoot a couple of rabbits or something.”

“That's all right. I'll be leaving myself a few days after you do. No sense stocking up on anything. I'll sell my horses and take a train to Independence, find someone there to take me to Nevada.”

Jake watched her work, realized he enjoyed watching her doing womanly things, enjoyed watching the woman herself. She wore yellow today. He liked that color on her. It was a pretty dress of polished cotton, with white lace around the cuffs and around the modestly cut bodice that showed just a hint of the fullness of her breasts. Had she dressed extra nice just for him? Or was it just her beauty and quiet elegance that made the dress seem prettier than it really was? “You really still planning on going to Nevada?”