The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (21 page)

Reese shoved himself up on one elbow, his blood suddenly thudding hard against his temples. "Scully's in Mexico? Are you sure?"

James nodded. "Got it firsthand from a soldier who just returned from there, needed his horse shod. Mentioned Scully's name in passing. The bastard's workin' with the rebels and wearin' U.S. Army blues. Last this fellow heard, Scully was in Tampico."

Jake Scully in Mexico.
The words traveled through him like white heat, blocking out the room and James and the pain in his side. Scully. The old hatred bloomed anew, swelling to fill a purpose he'd nearly forgotten, or rather, nearly given up on. He'd waited seven long years to find him. And there he was, at the end of Grace Turner's road.

Life was strange.

"I guess," James said with an odd look of satisfaction, "this means you'll go."

Reese confirmed it with a silent look.

"I reckon I don't have to say don't hurt her, Reese. You'll have to answer me and Evie if you do."

Reese nodded, but wasn't really listening. He was thinking about Jake Scully and Adriana and the blind rage that had driven him for years. That was all but gone. That emotion had gotten him nowhere. What he felt now was closer to a calm acceptance of the inevitable. He would find Scully and made him pay for the bloody mess he'd made of Reese's life. Then maybe, just maybe, he'd find some peace.

Chapter 11

Darkness had engulfed the waterfront district three hours ago. The moon, a mere crescent of light, did little to illuminate the scene or lighten the moods of the trio who approached it, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in a two-person hack. A thin mist came off the river. It hovered along the shoreline like a waiting wraith.

James gave the traces a shake, urging the carriage horse to hurry. Except for the faint music spilling from a distant riverfront cantina, the clip-clop of hooves against the ground and the steady, quiet rush of the river's current were the only sounds that broke the night's quiet.

An uneasy feeling crawled between Grace's shoulder blades, dampening the back of the blue muslin dress Evie had lent her. She pressed her clasped hands against her heart, willing it to stop pounding. They were driving through the poorer section of town, where the dock workers and transient sailors lived. Where was everyone? Was the waterfront always this deserted at night? And where was Brew? What if something had gone wrong? What if he'd been discovered?

She tried to push those thoughts from her mind and at the same time ignore the press of Reese Donovan's thigh against her own. But that was hardly possible. With his arm draped around the back of the seat, he was so close she felt like part of him. She could feel his every breath, each rise and fall of his rib cage against her arm. The memory of him beneath her—naked and beautiful—returned, making heat soar to her cheeks. She wondered now if he had any memory of it, of her looking at him or holding him down with her own body.

If he remembered, he showed no outward sign. He seemed lost in thought, his expression impassive, revealing nothing. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and each time the carriage jolted, the muscle in his jaw jumped.

"Pull up here, James," he said suddenly, pointing to a ramshackle row of
jacales
on the north side of the dirt road. The huts seemed deserted, too, but the occupants might have simply retired. It was late, she reminded herself. Past ten.

James did as Donovan asked. The horse snorted and tossed its head, shaking its harness.

"Why here?" James asked. "You're a good walk from the spot Brewster arranged."

Donovan disengaged his right arm from Grace's shoulder and proffered his hand to James. "I know. It's safer this way. I don't want anyone connecting you or your hack to us."

James regarded his old friend for a long moment before reluctantly nodding and taking his hand. "Good luck, Reese."

"And to you. I owe you, my friend."

"No. Now we're even."

Donovan smiled and climbed out of the carriage. He helped Grace down and she turned to James. "Thank you," she said. "Someday, I hope we'll meet again."

James touched the brim of the dark hat he wore. "It's a pleasure my wife and I shall anticipate, ma'am. Farewell." He sent a last warning look at Reese before giving the reins a shake. The carriage pulled away and soon disappeared into the mist that swirled behind it.

"Do you know where we're going?" she asked.

"I know the place."

A light came on in a
jacale
three doors down from where they stood and the sound of arguing voices—a man's and a woman's—came from within.

"Let's go," Donovan said. The dry, rutted mud from the last rainstorm cracked beneath their feet as they made their way down the road. Above the swirl of fog, stars crowded the black dome over their heads, peeking in and out of the landlocked clouds. To their left, the Rio Grande moved like a living thing in the moonlight. Grace couldn't see the other side. It must be more than one hundred yards across at this point, she thought, and swiftly flowing. Too far to swim.

They'd been walking for almost five minutes when she realized that Donovan had fallen behind her several paces. She looked back at him in concern. It had been too soon to get him out of bed, but they'd had no choice. "Are you all right?"

"Aye," he insisted, but he listed slightly more to the left with each step.

She slipped an arm around him, wedging her shoulder beneath his armpit.

Reese tried to back off. "I said I'm all right."

"Sure you are. And I'm the Queen of England."

He cursed under his breath. "Why don't we just hang a sign on ourselves?
Injured Murderer and Cohort-—Take Your Best Shot."

She shifted her shoulder and started to walk again, slowly, guiding him around a rutted path.

"Actually," she said at last, "Captain Ace Lawler once used this ploy in
Desperadoes of Tyler Flats."

Reese shook his head in silent amusement. This was the Grace he remembered, piping up at the craziest times with her fractured versions of the West. He had to admit, it was growing on him.

"Ace Lawler?" he repeated dryly.

"A Texas Ranger. Maybe you knew him."

"Never heard of him." He hadn't read any fairy tales lately. Reese scanned the roadway, hearing the sounds of activity ahead: a woman's laugh rose above the faint hum of men's revelry. Beyond the next bend in the road sat La Cantina del Rio, a thriving enterprise near the docks where the lower elements of Brownsville congregated late at night. There was no avoiding it, as Brewster had arranged their meeting only a short distance upriver. To their right, several large warehouses and a feed and grain store sprouted out of the darkness.

He set his back teeth together. His side burned like a hot poker, but he couldn't afford to let his guard down. He needed his wits about him now. And he needed Grace distracted enough not to fall apart at the first sign of trouble. Which he fully expected any minute.

"This ploy of Lawler's," Reese pressed, watching the roadway, "exactly how did it work?"

She looked up at him with disbelief. "You really want to know?"

"I asked, didn't I?" He kept his gaze locked on the road ahead. The music from the cantina grew louder.

"Well," she began, a frown working between her eyebrows, "Ace was in a bit of trouble, you see, and being hunted by some nefarious criminal sorts, and a widow woman, Lydia Cantwell, I believe, was helping him escape. When his nemesis approached, Ace pretended to be inebriated and leaned on Lydia until they were out from under the villain's scrutiny. You see, the last thing the villain expected was for Ace to sashay right down the main street like a drunken sailor, so he passed right by."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"Amazing."

"I thought so," she agreed. "So you see, if anyone sees us, they'll simply think you're some drunken man with nothing to hide."

"Ah," he sighed. "Now that's cruel, Grace, to tease me with the idea, considering your campaign to keep me sober."

"It's only a bit of theatrics, Mr. Donovan."

His hand slid around her rib cage again, his thumb brushing the curve of her breast, sending a rod of steel up Grace Turner's spine. But he couldn't resist. She was so soft there. With his nose buried in her hair, Donovan inhaled her scent. She smelled of soap and the ever-present scent of lilacs, the ones she grew on that farm of hers back in Virginia. He could almost imagine her there, looking as much a part of the picture as those lavender shrubs. Unlike here, where she was as out of place as a peach on a saguaro.

In the distance, a pair of men mounted on horseback rounded the curve, haloed by the light of the town. The hair on the back of Reese's neck went up.

In silhouette, neither of them looked familiar, but he pulled the brim of his hat down, nevertheless.

"How am I doing?" he asked quietly.

"Fine. Of course," she suggested, "you should keep your head down."

He leaned closer, feeling the heavy thud of her heart against his arm. "Like this?"

"Mmm, and your stagger could use a bit of work."

He didn't have to try on that one. He felt his small reserve of strength leeching out of him like water draining through a hole in the ground. "How's this?"

She cleared her throat, wilting a bit under his weight. "Yes, that's—" She saw them then. "Oh! Donovan!"

"Just keep walking."

"But they're looking right at us," she said in a strangled whisper.

That they were. A well, sheltered by a palo verde tree, stood fifteen feet away, its wooden bucket and dipper gleaming in the moonlight. The two men were, indeed, looking right at them, pulling their horses on a direct course for interception.

He staggered with intentional exaggeration, forcing Grace to put her entire attention to holding him up. Then he began to sing, loudly:

I've been a wild rover for many's a year,

An' I've spent all my money on whiskey an' beer,

An' now I'm returnin' with gold in great store

And never'll I play the wild rover no more.

Grace stared up at him like he'd lost his mind. The two men looked at one another, apparently wondering the same. Reese steered her toward the well, and stumbled against it with great display.

And it's no, nay, never

No never, no more.

And I'll play the wild rover

No never, no more."

Then he spun Grace around and kissed her. Hard.

Her squeak of utter shock traveled from her mouth to his. Her arms bolted out to each side as if an electric current had suddenly passed through them. Curling his arm more tightly around her back, he pressed his other palm behind her head, losing his fingers in her hair and smothering her protest with a searing slide of heat and warning.

Make it look authentic,
came the vague directive from his brain, but as her untutored lips yielded to his, parting to allow his tongue access to the depths beyond, instinct took over, instinct and a churning gut-level ache stirred by the feel of her body pressed against his.

Grace's shock gave way to disbelief. Heat curled low in her belly. Somewhere, in the dim recesses of her mind, she understood the urgency of what he was doing, the necessity of the ploy for the sake of their lives. Yet the approaching danger only served to heighten the emotions whirling inside her. If the first few seconds were mechanical, or deliberate, the next were something else again. She felt the press of his fingers against her skull, drawing her closer and closer still. A sound of desire issued from his throat as his tongue urged her lips apart.

Shock spiraled through her again. His mouth taught her things she'd never dreamed. His lips moved against hers with the sensual skill of a man well experienced in such things, slanting first one way, then another in search of some perfect union. Never in her life had a man kissed her this way, until the very core of her trembled with longing for more, until he'd kissed the common sense right out of her and made her forget the danger around them.

Reese felt it, too. He dragged his mouth across hers, feeling the heat of her breath in his own throat. She tasted as sweet as he'd always imagined. And he had imagined this, a hundred times since she'd offered up her lips to him in that cave like a girl waiting for her first kiss. Yet he'd never dreamed how the simple, tentative glide of her tongue against his would affect him. As if the earth had shifted beneath his feet. As if one kiss was only the start of something more. Something infinitely bigger.