When The Heart Beckons (21 page)

He restrained the urge to reach out and
touch that bright wisp of hair that dangled so enticingly before
him. “What happened to the brooch?”

He heard a tiny sigh. “Mama lost it some
years later.”

Though she spoke in a level tone, something
twisted painfully inside him at the sadness that had crept into her
voice. This mattered to Annabel Brannigan, it mattered very much,
though she was trying heroically not to betray it.

“You see, my mother did return to Missouri
after the war. We lived in a little house on Third Street in St.
Louis,” Annabel told him softly. “One morning while she was on her
way to work—Mama had taken a job at the St. Louis Sun newspaper—a
fire broke out in a house she was passing. Apparently she tried to
rescue some of the family from the home, and the roof caved in....”
Her voice broke.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered in her ear, and she
felt his arm tighten around her waist.

“She was wearing the brooch at the time she
died.” Annabel took a deep steadying breath, blinking back the
tears that stung her eyes. “Yet it was not found afterward, either
on her clothing, or in the rubble. Aunt Gertie spoke with the
authorities and they said someone at the scene must have stolen
it—some of the others who tried to help had valuables missing,
too—apparently some horrid thief happened along and took advantage
of all the pandemonium going on during the tragedy.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, feeling helpless
for one of the few times in his life. He was at a loss about how to
offer any appropriate comfort. He wasn’t good at this, by God. He
wasn’t good at anything that required gentleness, or delicacy, or
sensitivity. Shooting people, that he was good at. Tracking them.
Fighting them. Burying them. Surviving rainstorms and droughts,
Apache raids, freezing nights, ambushes by low-down outlaws, too
much whiskey and too little sleep, all that he could handle. But
this was terrifying territory. Only by the utmost exercise of his
will did he hold his ground.

“Thank you.” She gave another tiny sigh and
wondered why she was telling him all this, things she’d never
discussed with anyone except Brett. “I missed Mama horribly at
first. When I first went to live with Aunt Gertie I thought I’d
never get used to being without my mother. But ... Brett was there,
you see.”

The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves on the
trail quickened as the ground grew level and more forgiving. At
last the sun began to peek through the gray cottony clouds.

Roy Steele studied what he could see of her
profile. She had spoken those few simple words—Brett was there —as
if that explained everything and there was no need for further
explanation.

“He befriended you?” he prompted, a bit more
sharply than he’d intended.

“He became my friend, yes.” Annabel smiled.
“And my teacher, my protector, my confidante, my family—along with
Aunt Gertie, of course. Brett and I were the best, the dearest of
friends. We played together, studied together, took our meals
together, even got into mischief together. But he always shouldered
the blame, much as I tried to stop him.” A chuckle escaped her. “No
matter how guilty I was of breaking something or other, Brett would
never allow his father’s wrath to turn in my direction.”

She twisted in the saddle suddenly,
bestowing a brilliant smile upon him. “I’m so grateful to you for
helping me reach him. It’s important for so many reasons I can’t
even begin to explain them all—but I will forever remember what
you’ve done for me.”

The dazzling sweetness of that smile made
his heart stop beating for just long enough to crowd the air into
his lungs. Damn, if she wasn’t bewitching. The sun now streaming
down through the leafy tree branches lit her face with a radiant
glow and made her hair shimmer with fire. He suddenly wanted to
pull the horse up short, vault down with her onto the carpet of
pine needles, and make love to her here in the cool, scented
forest. The earnest expression on her face tore at his heart, and
in her eyes he read all the innocence and hope and eagerness that
was in her soul. Pain jackknifed through him.

She’s not yours. She’s Brett’s. And
you’d be no damn good for her anyway
.

He’d been forgetting what kind of man he
was, what cold savage poison ran through his veins. No woman
deserved that, least of all this one. Annabel Brannigan was an
angel with nerves of iron and a will stronger than the Rocky
Mountains.

But she was still a woman, and any
involvement with her would only bring her grief.

“What’s wrong?” The sharp concern in her
voice shook him from his thoughts. “You look so strange. As if you
were ready to shoot someone or something!”

“Not you, Annabel.” A curious sad smile
twisted his lips. “I would never hurt you.”

Annabel. He called me Annabel
. She
sat very still, her hands clenched upon her skirt, and gazed at him
in astonishment. She’d never heard that gentle note in his voice
before, and the fact that it was mixed with a kind of bitterness as
he spoke her name wrenched at her heart. Staring at him she
realized that the mask of ice had fallen away from his face and for
the first time she glimpsed an inner sorrow held rigidly in check,
but a sorrow nonetheless.

Instinctively, she reached up and touched
his strong, handsome jaw, wanting to soothe the hurt and the
harshness inside him, but at her touch the breath whistled from his
chest as if she had burned him with a lighted torch.

He tugged the horse to a halt, and behind
them the pack horses stopped abruptly as well. At least, Annabel
heard them stop as if in a dream, but she didn’t look back to see.
Her gaze was locked with Roy Steele’s. His eyes bored into hers
with such riveting intensity that she literally could not tear her
glance away.

Then he yanked her close and kissed her. Her
breasts were crushed against his chest as he enclosed her in fierce
arms. His mouth burned hers, searching, no —hunting, hunting for
softness, sweetness, vulnerability, and finding it, conquering with
violent, relentless kisses. He showed her no mercy. And she was
whirled into a hot, sweet maelstrom that spun her up, down, and
about like a feather in a cyclone.

It was over as quickly as it started.

Breathing hard, he yanked back and pushed
her away, holding her at arm’s length in the saddle before him.

“Well, Miss Brannigan, I reckon we’d better
stick to riding or we’re both going to forget about Mr. Brett
McCallum.”

The chilling mockery in his drawling tone
sliced through her like barbed wire. But he was right? What was she
thinking of? To have kissed him as she had again—and felt for him
what she had—no, no, she didn’t feel anything for him, not really.
It was only that they had gone through so much together, with a
strange fast friendship springing up between them, intensified by
the silly things she’d been so foolishly confiding to him.

Friendship?

Was it friendship she felt for this tough,
unpredictable man? Was it friendship she wanted from Roy Steele
when she melted into his embrace and forgot everything else: her
mission, her whereabouts, even her own name? Was it friendship she
wanted when he looked at her with that cool level gaze of his, or
brought those hard, demanding lips to hers?

An ache filled her.
Oh, God. Brett, I’m
sorry. What is wrong with me?

She couldn’t speak. She turned her head
away, because tears were filling her eyes and she had told Roy
Steele she never cried.

With a quick movement, he forced her around
in the saddle once more, so that she faced forward, looking blindly
at the trees. Then he spurred the horse to a trot. He said nothing
more, but she felt the tension in his body as they rode, and she
sensed the fearsome anger engulfing him. She wasn’t sure if he was
angry with her or with himself. She wasn’t sure of anything.

I need time to think
, Annabel cried
silently.

But it was impossible to think with Roy
Steele so near.

The minutes fled by and the horses plodded
on and the sun blazed high and golden in the sky. Annabel stared
numbly out at the rock and sagebrush country they were entering,
trying to remember who she was and what she was doing out here in
the Arizona territory. She reminded herself how precious little
time she might have left, and she reminded herself of how important
Brett was to her.

In particular, she thought back to the time
he had saved her when she’d fallen through the ice at the park
while they’d been skating one blustery winter day. That was the
first time she’d known that she’d loved him, that she would always
love him.

The first of many such times.

And now it was her turn to save
him
, and she had to do everything she could. There was no
time, no place, and no point in kissing another man, thinking about
another man, wondering what it would be like to touch and know and
love another man ...

Especially a man like Roy Steele, a man with
no soul and no roots, a man who killed without regret and who had
no space for a woman in his life.

I’m loco
, Annabel decided,
swallowing hard.
That’s the only explanation
. She
straightened her shoulders and made a decision. From now on,
everything between her and Roy Steele was to be strictly business.
No more chats, no more discussions. He was a means to an end, a
guide helping her to reach Brett quickly and safely. Nothing
more.

And she refused to glance at him the rest of
the journey, keeping her gaze fixed resolutely upon the surrounding
rocks and scrub. Her thoughts busied themselves with what message
she would send to Mr. Stevenson over the telegraph. She tried her
best to ignore Roy Steele.

But she couldn’t ignore the feel of his body
against hers with every step of the horse, the pine and sage scent
of him, the even sound of his breathing behind her.

And she couldn’t ignore her pounding
heartbeat, or the uncertainty that had wormed its way into her mind
and was eating away at the edges of her soul.

It gnawed at her, and Annabel had no defense
against it. They reached Silver Junction in midafternoon, by which
time Annabel felt physically and emotionally exhausted, but she
fought against the urge to relax her body against him, and sat
rigidly upright in the saddle as they entered the dusty little
town, rode past peddlers’ carts and wagons and horses tethered near
a watering trough, and finally came to a halt before the Last
Chance Hotel.

A
nnabel slipped
soundlessly out of her hotel room and down the narrow staircase,
her feet skimming over the threadbare carpet with barely a whisper.
But her heart was pounding all too loudly in her chest. She half
expected Roy Steele to emerge suddenly from his room down the hall
and demand to know where in hell she thought she was going.

But he didn’t. In fact, as she reached the
bottom step she saw no one other than a sweet-looking, elderly
couple who passed her in the lobby and proceeded into the little
dining room arm in arm. Even the hotel clerk had disappeared
somewhere, and she darted outside without a hitch.

The sun was sinking fast and she’d have to
hurry to reach the telegraph office before it closed. She knew it
was beside the mercantile, because she’d asked the maid who’d
brought bath water to her room, so now she gathered her skirts in
one hand and hurried down the planked boardwalk, intent on sending
a message to Mr. Stevenson before the sun was set on this day.

She felt fresher and more invigorated than
she had since setting out on the train from St. Louis. She’d bathed
with her own delightful lilac soap, sudsed the trail dust from her
hair, and patted herself dry with a thick towel until her skin
shone. Then she’d selected one of her favorite Sunday best
dresses—the blue and white gingham with the gently scooped neck and
the flaring, lace-edged sleeves. To her relief, her wound was much
better today, only aching the tiniest little bit, and she could use
her arm without any real discomfort, so she’d had no difficulty in
brushing and pinning up her hair. She’d done so rather hurriedly,
but with deft precision, then, on impulse, had allowed several
plump curls to spring free, letting them cascade down her neck and
dangle about her cheeks. After threading a lovely blue velvet
ribbon through her chignon, she’d concluded that the effect was
quite fetching, if she did say so herself. In her good calf boots,
with her reticule dangling from her arm, she felt fresh and neat
and competent as she strode past the dry goods store, the
apothecary, and Brown’s Mercantile Emporium, at last reaching the
telegraph office.

But when she pushed open the door and
stepped into the tiny, low-ceilinged office, she found that another
customer preceded her, a stocky, redheaded young man in a plaid
shirt, red bandana, and black vest. She bit back her disappointment
and closed the door. There was nothing to do but take a seat on the
low bench against the wall, and wait.

“Now, let me see.” The harried-looking clerk
squinted down at the paper before him and nervously licked his
lips. “ ‘
Getting close. Heading into New Mexico. Expect job
done within week
.’ Is that it, Mr. Cobb?”

Annabel froze. Mr. Cobb. Red Cobb? Oh, dear
God.

She casually turned her head and glanced at
the man before her as the words of the message sank in and took on
an ominous meaning. Red Cobb was obviously headed into New Mexico
after Brett and, by his own message, planned to kill him within the
week.

But not if I have anything to say about
it
, she thought, her hands balled into tight fists. She had to
do something, and quickly. She noticed that the clerk was regarding
the red-haired man with great uneasiness, much the same way the
hotel clerk in Justice had looked at Roy Steele. But she couldn’t
afford to be afraid. She hadn’t come all this way to save Brett
only to suddenly let fear and indecision get the better of her. She
had to think, to think of a way to stop Red Cobb.