Wed to the Texas Outlaw (14 page)

Stanley stood beside her but didn't speak. From the beginning, the lawyer had been the first to take Boone's side.

Shoulder to shoulder with Stanley, sharing this bond, all of a sudden she didn't feel nearly as alone.

Trudy cleared her throat. “Thank you, Mr. Walker. My father and I owe you even more than we thought we did.”

“As do I.” The doctor nodded his head, his thick dark hair catching the firelight.

“I've wrongly judged you.” Giselle hugged her baby close. “May I call you Boone?”

He nodded, but given the expression on his face, he ought to be called Mr. Curmudgeon.

No doubt he thought she'd overstepped, but it seemed the wifely thing to do, and it felt rather nice.

* * *

Coming out of the house, Boone had no choice but to tuck Melinda inside his oversize coat with him.

He shouldn't be that close to her since he wanted to shake her, but the wind was whipping cold and she had given her own coat to Giselle.

There couldn't be much left in her trunk, having given some of her clothes to Trudy and some to the destitute young mother.

“I can't help but notice that you are cranky,” she muttered.

“Cranky as hell.” All with good reason.

“They needed to know the truth.”

“Not from you.” Only steps away from the barn, he kept his gaze trained on the light that spilled into the night from under the door.

“Yes from me! I'm your wife and they were thinking things about you that—”

He gripped her shoulders, pinned her against the barn wall. “You are not my wife!”

She arched a delicately shaped brow. “I am the woman who has a signed certificate of marriage. I'm also addressed as Mrs. Walker. I am the woman who has shared the loft with you, whose bosom you have slept upon.” She curled up her fists and pressed them against his chest. “That makes you my husband.”

“Not the one you deserve. I'm—”

“Mine.”

“No.”

But he was hers. Whether he ought to be or not didn't change the reality.

Oh, hell. He cupped her cheeks in his hands then came down upon her lips, kissing them hard. Then he gripped the collar of her blouse, pulled the buttons until they popped open.

His hands were chilly. He knew it but he shoved them under her camisole anyway. He petted, squeezed. He nibbled the flower-scented skin of her throat and then kissed her mouth again, tasting her deeply, intimately.

His mind roared, silently begging her to stop him, to push his cold hands, his ruined soul, away.

All she did was thump her head back against the wall, close her eyes and sigh.

This was wrong, he was wrong—his anger, his passion, he knew it was all wrong. But somehow in spite of what he knew, delving into her seemed right. It went to show how bad his judgment had always been, would always be.

His exploding feelings for this woman couldn't possibly be honorable.

He ripped away from the kiss. Breathing hard, he dropped his hands from her chest, felt bereft.

“Melinda, I cannot be the man you need.”

She stepped out from under his arms where his hands fisted on the barn wall.

Wind caught her dress and blew it. She tugged the bodice together then opened the barn door.

He followed her inside, feeling miserable to his core.

She dashed for the ladder. Halfway up, she turned.

“I fear that you already are.”

Her voice carried to him, a whisper among the shuffling of horse's hooves.

Hell, if he didn't fear the same thing. But it didn't change the fact that he could not continue forever as her husband.

* * *

Boone was right, of course. Just because she wanted the others to know the truth about him, and he was not going to tell it, did not mean that it was her right to expose it.

Perhaps if she were the wife of his heart, she would have that right. But she was not and, given what he had said an hour ago, she would not be.

Had she not pointed out that he had slept upon her bosom, perhaps he would be up here in the loft and not on the barn floor where it was hard and cold.

Of them all, he was the one who most needed rest. He was also the one getting the least of it.

She felt miserably guilty about that. What would happen if she tried to charm him into coming up here?

One never knew until one tried.

Rolling off the straw bed, she crept on hands and knees to the edge of the loft then peered down.

Boone, his head reclining on Billbro as though the animal were a hairy pillow, stared up at her through the dim light.

“Boone Walker,” she said in her sweetest inflection with her most winning smile. “You've simply got to come up to bed. You'll catch a chill down there.”

Drat! Without as much as a blink did he show any indication that she had swayed him. Gentle persuasion was her gift, as Rebecca's was the violin and Lantree's was healing.

Just now, when she needed her skill the most, she realized what a silly one it really was.

Still... “It's ever so cold and lonely down there.” She offered a sweet pout and when that didn't work she added a winking dimple. She had yet to see the man who could hold his own against a feminine dimple.

“What are you doing, Melinda?”

“It's what I'm not doing that concerns me.” And fascinated her. Even from the beginning she had not been able to charm him.

The fact that he looked past all that trickery made the butterflies in her belly awaken and flutter madly.

She let her smile fade, to be replaced with the frown she was really feeling.

“That's more like it,” he said. “Now, what is it that can't keep until a decent hour?”

“Why do you think the Kings took all the food?” she asked, settling onto her belly and gazing down at him with her chin cupped in her palms. Truly, that puzzle was one of the things keeping her awake.

“I reckon they'll use it for bargaining. As a way to keep folks under their control.”

“They will make demands.” She ought to have thought of that. “Yes, and one of them will be Bird. They'll want him released.”

“I reckon so.”

“We'll need our wits about us. More than ever.”

“Not ‘we.' I want you as far away from the danger as possible, Melinda. I said I would deliver you safely home to Montana. My word hasn't meant much in the past, but I mean this.”

“I trust that you will. I have from the beginning.” She steepled her fingers under her chin, gazing down. “The thing is...you didn't sleep last night. You'll be better prepared to meet our enemies if you get some rest.”

Boone sat up, ruffled Billbro's fur and got a lick on the hand in thanks.

He stood, stretched then climbed the ladder. Within seconds of lying on the hay bed, with hands clasped behind his head, his eyes dipped closed. But they blinked open a second later. Fatigue shadowed his expression.

This worried her because if he wasn't alert, their enemies might seize the advantage.

“I'll sit over here by the window.” She really did want him to sleep and thought he might not if he was worried about—well, clearly things could easily get out of hand between them.

He shook his head, reached one arm toward her and crooked his finger in invitation.

Now she was confused. What did he want of her?

Probably the same thing she wanted of him, or perhaps only warmth and comfort.

But since it was cold and his big, bold body would be warm, she lay down. When he tugged her in with his arm, she scooted back against him.

“I'm glad I failed to charm you,” she murmured but doubted that he was awake. His breathing felt slow and even against her back. “Maybe you see me.”

“I see you, and you do charm me.”

A second later she heard a quiet snore.

Chapter Eleven

S
tartled, Boone woke from a deep sleep. At first he thought it was due to a sudden noise. But, no, it was because he had reached for Melinda and embraced cold, empty space.

Sunlight streamed through the loft window. He'd overslept. He never overslept.

Probably because he never slept deeply to begin with. That's what came of living life on the run.

While he was no longer on the run, he faced more danger than he ever had. At least in the past the danger had only been to him. Now he carried the safety of several folks on his shoulders.

He sat up, rubbed his hand over his beard stubble, trying to wrap his mind around it. One day he had been paying his debt to society, responsible for nothing, then the next he had the care of a wife and a tenderfoot lawyer. And now five others, one of them an infant.

Coming down the ladder he stopped at the mirror, splashed icy water on his face from the bowl Melinda had placed under it.

The slap of water braced him, made him appear alert—or maybe that look came from a sound night's sleep.

A night's sleep that he suspected he owed to his wife. What was it about her that, as delicate as she was, put him at ease?

That was a question he could puzzle over forever.

Closing the barn door behind him, he jogged across the yard. For now it was enough of a puzzle to figure out what to do about the folks in town running out of food.

Coming in through the kitchen door, Boone found Trudy grilling a slab of ham. It smelled good enough to make his mouth water.

Melinda, standing in profile, stirred up something in a bowl. Watching the slender curve of her back, the circular action of her arm and the way it made the swell of her breast jiggle—well, it made his mouth water all the more. Even his stomach growled.

The rumble made Melinda look up. A blush spreading across her cheeks made him think that while she spooned around whatever was in the bowl, she'd been thinking about what had happened against the barn wall last night.

Hot blazes, he couldn't get that moment out of his mind, either. There was no way he was going to forget the sound she had made when he'd touched her.

Lucky thing he wasn't prone to blushing since Trudy was looking at him. If he and Melinda had both been blushing she would have figured something intimate was going on between them.

And why not assume it, since in the natural way of things it would be true.

But they did not have a marriage in the natural way. He had a dirty past. He was not half good enough for his lovely, high-spirited bride. Even if he was twice as good a man as he was, he would fall short of deserving her.

“Smells good in here, ladies,” Smythe announced, entering the kitchen with a wide grin on his face.

Even though the lawyer greeted them both, he was gazing at Trudy alone.

Boone squinted to make sure he was seeing right.

Yep, the lawyer looked smitten.

Now, that was something to smile about.

Melinda must have noticed his grin. She winked at him then nodded toward Stanley.

When Trudy and Stanley seemed caught up in private conversation, Boone sidled over to Melinda, bent his head to hers.

“Looks like we've got a secret to keep,” he murmured.

For some reason Melinda lit up, her eyes all atwinkle.

“Thank you, Boone.”

“For what?”

“It's just that this sort of thing is something I share with Rebecca. Being so close, we know each other's minds. We can look at each other and know things. I've missed it. I'd like to think I have that bond with you.”

He sucked in a breath, hit by the intimacy of the sort of sharing that went beyond a physical touch. He'd never had it with anyone. All of a sudden he wanted this spiritual connection, the bond that time and distance would not diminish.

Reckoned he'd had it at one time with his brother, but this, with his wife—he guessed that was why it was called the holy bond of matrimony.

If things were different, he'd kiss Melinda, now in front of Edward and the doc who were just now following their noses to breakfast. He'd proclaim that bond.

But he wasn't worthy, and everyone would know it. If, somehow, he managed to capture the King gang, and do it without undue bloodshed, maybe then—but that was a big maybe.

Better if he kissed her forehead, just friendly-like.

That was a link they could share. Friends.

Still, just now, looking at how Smythe and Trudy were gazing at each other as if the world and its troubles were far from them...hell, he wanted that.

“Anyone dream up a way of getting food to the folks in Jasper Springs?” The doc pulled out a chair and sat at the table. Edward followed him.

Melinda poured what Boone thought to be corn-bread fixings into a pan then slid it into the stove.

“It ought to be a raid,” Edward said, seeming oblivious to the goings on between his daughter and her beau. “They raided me and I want my goods back. My customers, they're suffering.”

Sounded fair enough, but Melinda was the only dependable shot among them. She was also the last person he was going to allow near the King ranch.

“As right as that sounds,” he said. “I can't see how it would be successful.”

“You must know a way,” the doc said. “Meaning no disrespect, but of us all, you've the most experience at...at expropriation.”

“Thievery, you mean.” No disrespect, but a kick to the gut none the less.

A kick that didn't hurt him as much as it appeared to hurt Melinda. She curled one closed fist against her belly as though she had been struck.

Right there was the reason he could not remain married to her. Suspicion would follow him all of his life, assuming he lived through the process of gaining his freedom. No matter where he went tabloid stories would make up lies about him.

“Given my experience, I say it won't work.” It was the truth. “The Kings, every last one of them, would need to be away. And even then there would be others at the ranch who would fight us.”

“All I know is that we can't let—” Edward was interrupted by an urgent knock on the door.

Boone opened up. A boy bolted across the yard toward a horse whose reins had been left dangling in the dirt.

Something blew across the porch. Boone stomped on it then picked it up. He held an envelope made of the finest paper he'd ever touched. Fit for royalty no doubt.

“Hell's curses,” he muttered when he opened the damned thing up.

Melinda plucked it from his hand and read out loud. “‘You are hereby summoned to meet with King Cobra at the Jasper Springs saloon at high noon this day, October twenty-seventh, to discuss a matter of great benefit to you.'”

There was a postscript. If Boone failed to show, the butcher would lose his right hand.

* * *

“I'm worried about those Kings. What's to say they haven't set us up in a trap?” Trudy dried a pot with a dishcloth then set it on a shelf. “And lured Boone away in order to leave us defenseless?”

A valid fear; one that had been discussed up and down, left, right and in circles. In the end, the butcher's hand was deemed worth the risk.

“We aren't exactly helpless. The men are on guard.” Melinda would feel a good bit more comfortable if any of them could shoot. She stooped to tuck a shawl blanket around Diana who slept sweetly in her little crate bed. “We'll be safe.”

Somewhat safe, at any rate.

“I'm taking Bird his lunch.” She stood, lifted the plate from the table that Trudy had prepared.

“Be careful,” she advised, her pretty freckled face looking downcast. “You have a weapon?”

Melinda nodded. She had the pistol that Boone insisted she carry in her skirt pocket.

In her opinion, it might not be wise to go into the small shed with it drawn. It wouldn't do to have Bird wrest it from her.

Melinda carried the plate of food down the porch steps.

She glanced at the sky, judging the time. Noon sun hit the earth without warmth.

Boone ought to be walking into the saloon about now. She could see him in her mind. He would open the door, walk inside, his hand within easy reach of his weapon. She saw the grim set of his mouth, how his eyes would be narrowed and his expression razor-edged. As clearly as if she were there, she heard the slap of his boot heels walking across the floor.

After that she refused to see anything because Boone was alone, facing murderers whose lives would be simpler if he were dead.

She took a breath and pulled her shoulders back to better focus on the job at hand. Acting weak and fearful would do no one any good.

Delivering the young criminal's meal without a chaperone made her feel uneasy. It didn't matter that he was somewhat weakened by his broken arm and that his ankle was bound to the wall by a short tether, the Vulture was a threat. She would treat him as such.

She would open the door and shove the plate toward him with the toe of her boot, that way she would never even have to step inside the shed.

“Maybe I'll shoot you between the eyes—or...or maybe in the gut. Let you suffer like my husband, like he—”

Giselle! Her voice, catching on a sob, had come from inside the shed.

On the run, Melinda heard Giselle scream then Bird laugh.

Her first thought was to dump the food and grab the gun. But there was already one too many weapons in the small space. Besides, Bird was young. Many a boy was ruled by his stomach. Lunch might be her best weapon.

On the other hand, the thing to remember about this boy was that he was not an unsullied innocent. Handling him as she would other men would not suit, no more than the weapon hidden in her skirt would.

Shouting for the men's help would be the worst thing she could do. As soon as Bird heard the commotion, he would shoot Giselle.

She and Rebecca had acted their way out of many unfortunate predicaments. But this? This was life-threatening. There was every chance that her skills were not equal to this situation. But what else was she to do?

With her hand trembling on the door latch, she reminded herself that she was Mrs. Boone Walker. Wife of the most violent of them all, the worst of the worst.

Even though he was not here, his reputation was.

She opened the door, a frown of censure on her face.

“Young man, I suggest you set that gun down beside you.” She indicated a spot beside him with a jerk of the lunch plate.

He had shoved the pistol against Giselle's temple, his free leg wrapped around her middle.

“Can't rightly blow her brains out if I do.”

Melinda shrugged her shoulders then sat beside him. She fluffed her skirt as though his murderous intentions did not concern her in the least.

Setting the lunch plate on her lap, she made a show of smelling the delicious aroma while her heart raced and her stomach heaved.

“A boy like you must be hungry all the time. Wouldn't you like to eat?”

“Soon as I'm finished with this.” He traced the barrel of the gun along Giselle's jaw, flicked away the tear hanging from her chin.

“Oh, my.” Melinda tilted her head, frowned severely. “Perhaps you haven't seen what happens when a head explodes. I have. Many times in fact. Although I've never seen blood and brains on top of anyone's dinner before. I imagine it's quite a gory gravy.”

Bird's mouth sagged open.

Giselle cried out but there was nothing to be done about her distress at the moment.

“I recall a time when Mr. Walker wanted to shoot someone at the dinner table but I wouldn't allow it. In the end, he dragged the fellow out back of the house and then shot his head off.

“Of course, Boone's shirt was smattered with all sorts of ugliness so I made him change it before we ate. Oh, I just realized that you don't have a change of clothing.”

By the looks of him, he took pride in his appearance. His garments must have been of the best quality. Well cared for until Boone had ripped his shirt in the process of breaking his arm.

“I imagine if it means so much to you to shoot Giselle, you ought to strip down first. But don't expect me to look away in maidenly modesty. Nor Giselle, since she has been without the male form ever since you Kings murdered her husband. But, all things considered, you aren't much to look at yet, not like Mr. Coulson was.

“Now, now, no need to look so cross. It's the truth. Really, what you ought to be thinking of is what you will eat. If you ruin this meal, there won't be another until afternoon three days from now since we will all be grieving for Giselle and trying to deal with her hungry infant. No one will have the heart to feed you. Surely you understand.”

“What I understand is I'm going to shoot her then you, just so you'll quit your yapping.”

He would; she had no doubt of it. Sweet-talking a coiled rattler would be less terrifying.

“Boone did that once. A boy about your age was bedeviling him with his bleating. It was understandable considering that my husband was about to shoot his dog. Of course I felt bad about the dog, but I never said anything because he would have shot the cat, too. In the end he didn't shoot the cat. We brought it with us but I was nearly sorry we did. It was a job, I will tell you, washing the boy's blood off its fur.”

“You're full of stories, lady. All of them lies.”

“Not all of them. I've seen quite a lot in my time with Boone. Last night over dessert he told everyone the story of the time he drowned a man in the river just to use him as fish bait. Poor Giselle looked as white as the dead man.”

“I never puked so hard in my life,” Giselle said, apparently gathering the presence of mind to go along with the grisly tale.

The gun sagged. “The two of you are making that up.”

“I half wish I was making this one up, young man. But the truth is I was there. I stripped off my clothes and waded naked into the water to gather the fish feeding off the body.”