Wild Burn (14 page)

She never wanted him to know about that night in Boston, but she feared that same night would always keep her jumping away from intimacy. And intimacy with Delaney was
exactly
what she wanted most, she realized with some trepidation.

“Do you like
The Pilgrim’s Progress
, Mr. Crawford?” She set a hand atop the stack of books.

He stood just inside the doorway, black hat in hand and staring at her with the same intensity as before. “Read it once or twice. Not much time for literature nowadays.” He paused, and she wished she could see his shadowed face better, backlit as he was by the sunlight streaming in behind him. “I was wonderin’ if you might care to take a stroll with me.”

Her lips parted. “A…a stroll?”

He shifted his weight slightly, but whether it was a sign of anticipation or discomfort she didn’t know. “Yeah. A walk, maybe to the clearing.”

“Now?”

“Now. If you’ve time. And inclination.” His voice rumbled pleasantly in her ears and managed to wrap around her shoulders like a warm shawl. “I’ve got some things I’d like to say to you, and I don’t fancy doing so in a schoolhouse.”

Her mouth lifted again in a faint smile. “Are you worried I’ll use my ruler if I don’t like what you have to say?” She moved around the desk, unable to keep her hips from swaying the tiniest bit as she sauntered toward him. She felt the same surge of power she had yesterday afternoon, when he’d told her how he dreamt of her, and some instinct in her wanted to remind him of that.

She stopped close enough to see the sun-bronzed skin of his cheeks darken with awareness, but he answered her calmly enough. “No, ma’am. You and your ruler don’t scare me.” He smiled, an inviting curve of closed lips marginally hidden in his dark, trimmed beard. “But it’s a right lovely afternoon, and I like seeing you in the sunshine.”

A blush suffused her cheeks. The man could be charming when he put his mind to it, and she was reminded of his desire to court her, by means right or wrong. She found she and her meager scraps of vanity wanted to indulge him in this. Plucking the wide-brimmed straw hat from the nail by the door, she settled it gently on the crown of her head and slid the silver pin through the band into her coiffure. Long ivory ribbons dangled across the tops of her breasts, but she didn’t bother to tie them beneath her chin. “All right. Let’s stroll.”

He stepped back to let her exit before him, and she felt his eyes on her as she stepped out into the mountain afternoon. “To the clearing?” He offered her his coat-covered arm.

“To the clearing,” she murmured, and curled her hand through the crook of his elbow.

They walked in silence down the main street, past the row of buildings flanking either side in a display of burgeoning commerce. Red Creek had the potential to turn into quite the proper town given its proximity to Denver, should the mines be cultivated successfully by Jacob Matthews and the other shareholders. There were worse places Moira could have settled.

As they passed the cabins, he cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology, Miss Tully.”

“You called me Moira yesterday.”

“That was before you told me you’re a nun.”

“I
was
a nun. Not anymore. Is that why you’ve fallen back on formality?” She glanced up, drinking in the sight of him at her side, tall and sturdy and really rather handsome now that she thought about it, even with the scruffy face.

“Maybe.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Yes.”

She squeezed his forearm. “So what you wanted to say to me…is that about me being a nun, as well?”

He nodded, reaching up to tug the brim of his hat lower over his forehead. She was beginning to notice his self-conscious quirks, such as that one—when he was uncomfortable, he moved to shield his eyes. “Men aren’t supposed to go around kissing nuns, you know.”

“Is that what you do? Go around seeking out nuns to kiss? And here I thought I was special.”

“I don’t,” he growled in exasperation. “And you are. You know you are.”

Her very bones threatened to melt away at his halting admission. They were nearly to the closest edge of the tree line, having traversed the craggy path she’d once taken every morning at dawn for her constitutional. Mother Superior had told her, before she’d boarded the train to Chicago, that so long as Moira had doubts about the good Lord’s presence in her life, she should turn to the undeniable evidence of His awesome power—nature.

Moira had had doubts for months. Therefore, her solo strolls happened like clockwork every morning…or they had, until she’d been shot during one.

Funny how she wasn’t the least bit sour over that particular incident anymore. “I suppose you feel I should’ve told you prior to yesterday.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Don’t know about you, but I can’t think of a single topic where mentioning that wouldn’t be a total non sequitur.”

“It doesn’t come up often, you’re right. But it’s not as though I’m embarrassed by it.”

A breeze rustled the branches around them. “Will you…tell me about it?” He coughed into his fist. “About you, I mean.”

A question fraught with danger, but she’d share what she could. He didn’t need to know about last April. “I’m Irish, one of seven children. We came to Boston when I was five years old.” The trees were beginning to thin, their path made easier, but Moira allowed herself to step closer to her escort, enjoying the steady heat of him against her left side. “I loved going to Sunday mass. The church was so beautiful, and the incense smelled so sweet. It was such a delightful change from the rest of the week, when we lived hand-to-mouth in the slums.”

His free hand came up to cover hers where it rested on his arm, his calloused thumb stroking the bared skin on the back of her wrist. Again, she’d forgotten to unroll her sleeves, but now she was secretly glad of it and wondered if he would dare to touch more of her.

She wished he would take that dare.

She inhaled sharply, more loudly than she’d intended, and he shot her a concerned look, one she was fair getting used to from him. She smiled quickly. “When I turned eighteen, I took confession and admitted I wanted to join the Church—though not, I fear, because it was a calling.”

“Because you felt safe there,” he reasoned in slow, even tones.

She froze in her tracks and stared up at him, forcing him to halt. “Yes. Yes, how did you—?”

He shook his head, a few waving strands of dark hair moving against his temples beneath his hat. “Doesn’t take a genius, Miss Tully.”

“Moira.”

“Miss—”

“I won’t tell you the rest of the story unless you start calling me by my name again.” In this, she would be unyielding.

His sigh was the sigh of the put-upon. “It’s not easy for me, knowing you were a nun…Moira.”

She scowled at him and urged him forward, resisting the urge to pinch his arm in retaliation. “You say nun the same way some men say whore.”

“You’re taking issue where there isn’t any.”

“I kissed you too, you know. It’s not like you took advantage.” It was important he know that, perhaps more important than anything else if they were to…move forward. Together. If forward was even a possibility for an ex-nun and a gunslinger. “The short version of it is, I pledged my life to God in service with the other nuns of Our Lady of the Bleeding Heart. My name there was Sister Verity.”

“Verity meaning truth.”

She managed a strained smile. “I’m not all that good at prevarication. As you may have noticed.”

The smile he gave her in return, as they broke through the tree line and into the sun-filled clearing with its myriad grasses of gold and green, and rocky soil beneath, was soft, affectionate. “Noticed? Yeah, I suppose you could say that.” His smile faded as he drew her to a halt. “But you left Boston.”

She couldn’t—wouldn’t—answer his silent question. So instead she pulled her arm from his and walked deeper into the clearing, ignoring her relief when she heard the tread of footsteps behind her. “Like I said, it was never a calling.”

“How long were you Sister Verity?”

“Approximately six years. I left in April.”

“So…you’re twenty-four now?”

She glanced back over her shoulder at him, a broad, looming shadow at her back with his solemn expression and his striking gaze. “Gentlemen don’t ask ladies their age.”

“I ain’t a gentleman.”

She couldn’t help grinning at the arrogance in his gruff tone. “Oh, Delaney”—and she very much noticed the pleased curve of his lips at her use of his name—“you may try to hide it under the wear of war and wilderness, but you’ll never convince me you weren’t raised a gentleman. Something that deeply ingrained doesn’t ever fade.”

“Know me that well, do you?”

“I’m a good guesser.”

His hand reached out to grip her forearm, hot, rough palm over cool, smooth skin. She stopped mid-stride and glanced down, studying the stark contrast in flesh color between them. He was dark, years’ worth of dark from sun and work and life, and she was milk-pale in that typical way of Irish gingers, her freckles a rich copper she could never hope to conceal, were she conceited enough to try powders.

“What if I told you my age, in exchange for knowing yours?” His hold on her tightened, but it wasn’t painful. It was possessive. Placating.

And she liked it. She turned to face him, blanking her expression as she found the icy flames of those green eyes focused on her pursed lips. “Fine. How old are you, Delaney?”

“I’m twenty-nine, nearly thirty. Moira.” He was so deliberate with his statement of her name, the cheeky, frustrating man.

“I’m pleased to know.” She was, because it was another thing she could add to the mental list she was compiling with the bits and pieces of information she learned about him, day to day.

He stepped closer. “Well? Are you twenty-four or not?”

She
tsk
ed her tongue at the same time she inched nearer to him. “So pushy.” His heat surrounded her again, and she inhaled his scent of leather and soap as it mingled with the fresh mountain air filling her lungs, tilting her chin to meet his gaze beneath the shaded brims of their hats.

He stared squarely back, silent as he awaited her answer.

“Oh, fine, yes. I’m twenty-four. Happy?”

“I’m gettin’ there,” he murmured, and slid his hand down her arm to grip her fingers. Lifting her hand, he brushed his lips over her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers. “Oh, I’m gettin’ there, Moira.”

A flustered feeling descended on her, but too late. Their interlude was broken by nothing less than a feathered arrow and a shrill Indian war cry.

Chapter Sixteen

Del knew a moment of panic when the brave’s arrow sliced through the air between them to pierce the ground a foot to his right. He’d never panicked before, never—but then, he’d never faced a life-or-death threat with the woman he…cared for…in harm’s way.

“Down! Get down,” he barked, shoving her to the ground with one hand while he dropped into a crouch and pulled his pistol. He scanned the opposite edge of the clearing, and there they were.

Dog soldiers.

One on a horse and five on foot, not charging Moira or him but stalking, instead. They were braided, painted, stripped to the waist. They looked intent. They looked deadly.

They were terrifying.

Del kept his hand on Moira’s shoulder, unable to relinquish his hold on her. As long as he touched her, she was safe. He could keep her safe. “Don’t move,” he growled. “Just don’t move.”

“I’m not.” Her reply was muffled from where she pressed her mouth against her forearms. Grasses curled around her head, her hat having been knocked askew, but that was shoddy protection from bloodthirsty Indians wanting to harm her.

“Just—” Another arrow whooshed by, the sharpened tip slicing through excess fabric of his sleeve, and Del knew he needed to get his head right. Which meant not worrying about Moira.

With a steadying breath, he lifted his Remington and aimed at the savage who’d just loosed that last arrow. Cock, trigger, fire. Even in the dappled shadows of the overhead tree branches, Del’s shot was true, and the Indian went down with a round in his throat.

The comforting click of the revolving chamber sounded as he aimed, but the death of their comrade spurred the dog soldiers into loud, vicious action. With eerily chilling war cries, the braves charged across the clearing—all except the one on horseback, who was apparently the leader. If this was the band Del thought it was, the band he was meant to have been hunting, that made the man on the horse Cloud Rider.

Another breath. Cock, trigger, fire. A brave went down with a shot to the head. Del fired again, this time hitting the shoulder of the nearest Indian, but the man didn’t fall, merely stumbling before he notched a second arrow in his bow.

Shit.
“Moira, run. Get up and run for the trees.” He stood tall as she took off, hoping the larger target of his body would distract Cloud Rider’s soldiers, and shot again. With only two rounds left and four warriors remaining, he chased after her, shielding her as they ran together. Knowing they were being chased.

Shit, shit, shit.

He heard the crunch of her feet on the dry grasses as she dashed for the forest. Arrows whizzed past them, disappearing into the trees, and Del wished he hadn’t neglected to bring extra rounds, but he just hadn’t been thinking about danger, not when he’d been so certain there wasn’t any to be found here in Red Creek, and his failure was about to cost Moira her life.

So he shot, missed and shot again. This time, the brave with the shoulder wound fell. Six rounds gone, and his Remington was empty, which meant— “Run faster.” He put his hand to the small of her back and pushed her forward, catching her when she stumbled and shoving her faster into the trees.

Branches whipped at them as they crashed through the forest, and maybe it was the crackle of undergrowth beneath their feet or the deafening combination of pounding pulse and gasping breaths echoing in his ears, but Del could barely hear the dog soldiers at their backs.

They broke through the tree line and made for the rocky slope leading to the cabins. Del risked a glance behind him as he reached for her hand, ready to drag her down the hill, and if that wasn’t enough, by God, he’d simply toss her over his shoulder.