Renegade Riders (10 page)

“You’re beautiful, Mae,” he murmured, gathering her against him.

His heavy sex bobbed against her belly. The flesh-to-flesh contact struck him like forked lightning, and he shut his eyes, threw back his head, and prayed—a defense mechanism he’d developed to delay climax. After a moment, he found her lips again and teased her tongue into his mouth, murmuring assurances that mingled with the compulsive moans leaking from her throat. She began to shake violently in his arms, and he showered her face, her eyes, and her arched white throat with kisses before drawing her closer still.

When his hand traveled over her breast to her belly and approached the silken curls beneath, she leaned her lips against his ear and murmured, “There’s something that I must tell you.” She was caressing his back with
her tiny fingers. “I’ve never…That is, I haven’t…ever…”

Trace froze. His heart seemed to tumble to a halt. His breath was short as he leaned back and looked her in the eyes, those incredible, limpid doe eyes. But she couldn’t mean…? Good God, that was exactly what she did mean!

“You once accused me of holding something back,” she said. “This is what I’ve kept from you, Trace. I didn’t think I’d ever have to tell you. I didn’t expect to fall…But I have—oh, I have—and I don’t know…what to do.”

Trace began to breathe again, and his breath left his lungs on a groan.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she went on through a tremor. “I want you to make love to me. I’ve dreamed of this moment, fantasized about it. It’s just…I don’t know what’s expected. How to…You know.”

Of all the words she might’ve spoken, this was the last thing he’d expected. His mind swam. While he was experienced in the art of making love, he had no experience with virgins. Once again, he fought the urge to laugh. Mae would not understand.

“H-how…?” was all he could get out. “Comstock married you. You can’t expect me to believe—”

“It’s the truth.” She took his hand and put it against his face. “He seems to want to genuinely win my favor. I begged him for a few weeks of time to grieve for my father, to come to know him, and then I said I would accept him as my husband. I didn’t think he would agree, but he did. Only, Morgan wasn’t scared of Jared for some reason. You’d think he would be, with Jared being the
boss, but he’s not. His hands were all over me whenever Jared’s back was turned. That’s why I ran away. After Jared dragged me back, he was…cold. I cannot explain it. He scared me. That’s the reason I took Diablo and ran again. We’re kindred spirits, that horse and I—both captives of a cruel master.” There was a tear in her eye, though she stared at him with quiet awe.

Trace drew a ragged breath and pulled her into his arms. His heart was beating like a blacksmith’s hammer; hard, irregular, heavy thumps against her smooth breast. The muscle in his jaw began to tick. He had to force the words out. “A woman’s first time should be special, not on the floor of some dingy cave.” He couldn’t even begin to think with her in his arms, but this had changed things. “And…if I take you here, you could go home with child. I can’t allow you to do that, to face that alone.”

He shifted her weight off him, despite her hands clinging to his shoulders, and got to his feet. Grabbing his trousers, he jerked them on.

“Wait. There’s more,” she said. “Remember when I told you that Jared brought a preacher from the village to marry us?”

Unable to speak, Trace nodded, his eyes riveted to her flushed face.

“He…wasn’t.”

“Who wasn’t what?”

“The man,” she said, raising herself to a sitting position, drawing her camisole close with a tiny shiver. “He wasn’t a preacher. I saw him afterward. He came to the ranch to gamble with Jared’s men after the first time I was brought back. I overheard them making sport of
what they’d done, how they’d fooled me, tricked me into believing a seedy saddle tramp was a man of the cloth. They don’t know I heard.”

Trace rocked back on his heels. Blind rage starred his vision. After a moment, he reached out with trembling fingers and closed the camisole over her breasts. It was a display of painstaking control for a madman, which was what he certainly had become. “And you wanted me to take you back there?”

“I would have been safe with you and Preacher close by. I was trying to help you. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be in this predicament. And I really want to find the letter my father signed. I know they said whoever killed and robbed him must’ve taken that. But I
know
either Jared or Morgan did it. That deed to the farm is back there. If Jared were to show up with it…it could kill my granddad.”

Taking up his boots from the floor of the cave, Trace tugged them on and then snatched up his shirt and jacket.

“What are you going to do?” she breathed.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“Where are you going? No! Don’t leave me!”

“I’m not going to leave you, Mae,” he assured her. “I’m going outside, where I can think. I can’t do that here with you. Not now, not like this.”

“Trace—”

“Go to sleep, Mae,” he said, stalking past her into the frosty night. “There’s not much night left before dawn.”

Of course, he already knew what had to be done. What he needed was the strength and the courage to do it. He had to let Mae go.

M
ae
woke before dawn, her heart heavy with a dread of facing Trace. Not even the tantalizing aroma of coffee in her nostrils could coax her to leave the cave. How could she look him in the eye after what had almost happened between them? She was still so confused. Trace was a gentleman all right. Only, she hadn’t wanted him to be a gentleman.

“Fool man,” she muttered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. At the back of her mind she also felt a modicum of guilt. Oh, she wanted Trace to make love her, but she also hoped that if he did so, he would follow her back to Kentucky. Maybe that wasn’t an honest way to deal with a man, but then, men these days weren’t dealing too straight with her.

Hot blood raced through her at the recollection of his naked body, the hard, well-muscled length of him standing over her, burnished by firelight. Her breath caught, and she relived the intimacy of their kisses, of his lips on her eyes, her throat, her breasts, awakening her to pleasures between a man and a woman she’d never dreamed existed.

She dreaded the mortification to come, facing his steel gaze. She dreaded the climb back down to the mesa, and the prospect of tracking his Indian friends. Still, she was no coward. Determined to emerge head high, as though nothing had occurred between them, she made herself presentable and stepped out into the misty predawn gray. Trace was nowhere in sight.

She sank down on a flat rock near the fire to compose herself, muttering, “Well, fie on him.” Not finding him was a bit anticlimactic. She’d polished her aloof bearing and mustered the courage to employ it, but now that courage was fading fast. It was like swallowing a dose of castor oil; such a confrontation had to be done quickly if at all.

“Here,” he said, appearing and handing her a plate of frijoles. “Eat up. We need to hurry.”

Startled, she jumped. He’d approached with the stealth of an Indian. Where had he come from? It wasn’t a very big ledge. He must have been crouching in the shadows. Or was it that he’d been standing in plain view all the while and she’d been too preoccupied to notice? Her hands shook helplessly. The spoon rattled against the plate she balanced on her knees while he poured her a cup of coffee and put it beside her on a rock.

“We need to move on as soon as you’re done,” he said. “Can you climb down by yourself, or do you want help?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If you don’t think you can manage on your own, I’ll tie a rope harness onto you and lower you down.”

Cheeks burning, she studied him. There was no trace of the passion he’d shown the night before in that
expressionless face. No tenderness or caring. Instead, there was an angular hardness about his flushed features, as though they were carved of the same rock as the mesa. His rigid posture was unnatural and alarming. Trace was steeling himself against something.

What ever it was, clearly he wasn’t about to share it, and she wasn’t about to probe him.

“I can manage without being hog-tied,” she answered frostily. “The poultice helped. Thank you for waking me last night and making sure I put it on my shoulder.” Sadly Mae recalled him awaking her, caring for her wound. It was obvious that he wanted no more physical contact. He’d been distant, but nothing like this.

He gave a short nod.

They ate in silence. She had scarcely swallowed the last mouthful on her plate when he doused the fire with the remainder of the coffee, collected the bedroll and gear, and strode stiffly to the ledge. “I’ll go first,” he said. “You come after me.”

She had never been particularly fond of heights, but Mae wasn’t about to let him know that approaching the cliff so soon after careening off it all but paralyzed her with fear. A cold, metallic, bloodlike taste was building at the back of her throat.

The first step was the hardest. Trace was right behind her, and she was certain he could hear her heart pounding. She didn’t look over her shoulder, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, and when she came to the dead scrub she’d clung to so desperately the night before, she looked away quickly, reliving her climb to safety: his strong hands pulling her up, her feet slipping on the wet
rocks. How passionately he had kissed her when they rolled away from the edge.

“To the left!” Trace called.

Preoccupied, Mae stepped in a pile of loose rocks created from the debacle the night before. She regained her footing, but her heart jumped and she had a hard time catching a breath. A shower of rock dust and grit rained down upon him, and a spate of muttered expletives followed that he tried but failed to disguise.

Fortunately, the rest of the descent was accomplished without incident. The horses were saddled and waiting; Trace had clearly been working early. A diamond hitch secured their packs to the burro, and Trace now added the bedrolls and the last of their gear.

“How are you going to track your Indian friends in this?” she asked. “Shouldn’t we wait until full light?”

“We aren’t tracking them,” Trace replied, jamming his Winchester in its saddle sheath.

“I don’t understand…”

“I’m taking you south—to the railroad,” he said, swinging himself up on Duchess’s back. “Stay behind me and do like you did coming up. Give Diablo his head and a loose rein. He’ll do the rest.”

“Wait!” she cried. “Trace, wait—”

He was already in motion. “Mae, I’ve been thinking on it all night. You’re going back to Kentucky just as fast as I can put you on a train.”

“Have I no say in this?” she snapped. She was panicked. He meant to put her on the train—alone.

“You’re going home. It’s where you belong.”

“And where do
you
belong, Trace Ord? Don’t tell me you don’t feel something for me. You’d be lying. You
think to put me on that train and then go back there and face Jared Comstock and Bill Morgan? You’re going to get yourself killed, that’s what.”

“I won’t lie to you, Mae,” he said. “I’m going after Comstock. I’ve got to. That was my plan, what I was hired to do. It was in the works before I ever met you. What that bastard did to you and Diablo…well, he doesn’t deserve to draw air, and I aim to see that stops. It was set in stone the minute I clapped eyes on what he did to my horse. As to me getting killed…I keep telling you to trust me.”

“What about Diablo?” Mae pressed.

Trace hesitated.

“Well?” she prompted. “Trace,
take
me back to Kentucky. Bring Diablo. Come with me. Please.”

Trace made no reply. He looked away, his steely-eyed gaze fixed on some point along the eastern horizon; then he tipped back his Stetson, gave a crisp nod, and eased himself out of the saddle. Removing his gloves, he wedged them under his saddle.

He walked to Diablo in slow, measured steps and looked at Mae, his face unreadable. All at once he reached up, dragged her out of the saddle, and pulled her hard against him. Her breath caught again, the wind knocked out of her. Her upper arms were locked in his grasp, and he pulled her closer still, until every inch of their bodies was touching.

“Last night never should have happened,” he stated.

She jutted out her chin, challenging him. “But it
did
happen—or at least would’ve if you’d allowed it. You think you alone can decide my future? Then you don’t know me, Trace Ord.”

His face was etched with grief for a love he was going to kill before he ever gave it a chance to survive; she could read that in his eyes. He said, “We don’t know each other. But one thing’s for sure: I’m going to do right by you even if it kills us both. Now get up on Duchess and follow me down. That’s the sun shining on those mountaintops. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

“Duchess?” she repeated, confused.

“Duchess,” he agreed. “I don’t trust you with Diablo. Not anymore. And if I have to give chase again, I want that black devil underneath
me
.”

“Chase me? Where would I run to, Trace?” she asked. “Afraid I’ll ride this stallion all the way back to Kentucky? Then you’d have to come after us…” She smiled, suddenly feeling the upper hand. “You’re a coward, Trace Ord. Oh, you’ll face down Jared, guns blazing, but you’re afraid of what you feel, afraid to reach out for the future we could have together.”

He was so close. His body heat scorched her, and his raw male scent was dizzying. His hot breath puffed in her face and she narrowed her eyes. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. How she longed for that! The mere thought of it, and she was aroused. So was he. Her heart leapt. His hardness leaned heavily against her belly, and his eyes were dark and dilated. If he would only kiss her…

But he didn’t. Instead, he scooped her up in his arms and plopped her down on Duchess. Mounting Diablo, he pointed her down off the mesa toward the valley below and rode off.

“You’re a coward, Trace. But I’m strong enough for both of us,” she called after him.

Trace kept up a steady pace, glancing briefly behind him from time to time. The sun rose higher, crowning the mountains with a halo of flaming gold, while the plateau they traveled remained steeped in dusky shadow. Not until the sun turned lemon-colored and cleared the mountains altogether would the valley flood with light. He hoped to be some distance from the mesa and the Lazy C by then. It wasn’t safe to travel by day, but the sooner he settled Mae on a train for home, the better.

Her perception both impressed and infuriated him. With Mae out of Jared’s reach, he planned to go back to the Lazy C, federal marshal in tow. Somehow he would get the horses back he’d been hired to find and simultaneously whip the hide off Comstock for what he’d done to Diablo and Mae. Maybe in the aftermath he’d find that deed. But then what? Where was he headed? He had no more roots here in the West than a blasted tumbleweed. He had no wife, no children, no home, just a heartache from the past, demons of what-if eating at his heart and soul.

Mae had grown silent behind him, but he took little comfort in that. She meant to defy him; he was certain of that. It was only a matter of time. But she’d met her match. Through the whole long night he’d hardened himself for their parting, convincing himself it was the only solution. Of course, his heart didn’t buy that.

Her doe eyes troubled him, and her plea to come with her to Kentucky was a knife in his soul. Images threatened his resolve: of touching her last night, of her soft flesh, so smooth and fragrant, of her so willing in
his arms. The only saving grace was that he hadn’t declared his love. She could suspect all she wanted, but once those words were out, there would be no controlling her.

He did love her. Mae made him think about living again. He feared it was too late for him, though. There had been too many hard years of being eaten alive with guilt. He had nothing to offer her. He was a nobody now, not some well-to-do planter’s son. He had the clothes on his back, a spare set, and Diablo.

Pain twisted inside him. Some idiotic part of his soul could almost see him back in Kentucky. Likely, her grandfather and he would have a meeting of the minds, with horseflesh being the commonality between them. Horse breeders were a strange lot, perhaps not too very different from wranglers themselves.

Trace bit the inside of his lip, allowed the coppery taste of blood to fill his mouth, to remind him of the fire and blood that had destroyed Trevor Guilliard. The sad truth? Trevor and Mae might have made a good match years ago. But never Mae and Trace Ord. He wasn’t fit for the likes of her.

The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached a narrow draw that opened onto a sandy-bottom wash where a small tributary fed a rushing stream. Rocks at its mouth made a good blind. To the east, the pass opened into foothills. To the south lay a stretch of red clay sand grizzled with sage, monuments standing in distant muted purple silhouette against a cloudless sky.

Prairie chickens and the occasional wild turkey strutted in and out among the rocks, observing the human interlopers with little interest and no fear. Trace watched
the birds longingly. He salivated, imagining the juices from their succulent meat dripping into the flames of a sage and mesquite fire. On any other occasion, he would have bagged at least two. But there wasn’t time for that now. He swallowed emptily and swung himself out of the saddle. He would have to settle for jerky and stale biscuits that would be hard as rocks, since they couldn’t be soaked in coffee. He wouldn’t risk a fire.

He glanced around, almost feeling Comstock breathing down his neck. The nagging sensation wouldn’t leave him, and it grew, an animalistic warning that he was heading for a trap. But that was silly. Pushing the sense of dread to the back of his mind, he smiled. There would be a treat for Mae. He had an airtight tin of peaches in his pack.

What remained of the burlap on Diablo’s hooves was all but tatters. Confident that they had covered enough ground to elude pursuit if it was possible, Trace stripped the cloth away and led both horses and the burro to the stream, where he left them, bridles down. There was plenty of new spring grass beside the bank to keep them occupied without fear they’d roam, and while they drank and grazed, he saw to Mae’s needs. She groaned, wiping sweat from her brow.

“You all right? Shoulder bothering you?” he asked, handing her some hardtack and jerky. “We can’t stay long. We’ve got a hard ride to cross those sand flats to the south. If we keep up the pace, we’ll reach the railroad yard in Prescott tomorrow.”

“And if there’s no train when we get there?” Mae asked. “You said Jared would be watching the train stops.”

“I’ll stay with you until you’re aboard.”

“Trace, come with me.” She stared at him, pleading. “Just put Duchess and Diablo on the train and come back with me. They’d have a good life on my granddad’s farm. My father’s dead; there is no hope he will ever return. There’s no one for my granddad but me. You could carve out a place there. Help him with the horses. It’s almost like fate, our meeting. You’re right—I don’t belong out here; this land is too cruel for me. But come back. My granddad fought so hard to build up the farm, struggled through the years of the war not to lose everything. There is a place for you there…a place with
me
.”