Desperate Hearts (8 page)

Theirs wasn’t much of a partnership, she
reflected. He didn’t trust her . . . she didn’t trust him. Despite
his halfhearted agreement to help her, he could give away her true
identity anytime he got tired of having her around.

Yet at the same time she felt a conflicting
sense of security just knowing he was there. He intimidated her,
but he scared almost everyone else as well. Reconciled to that, she
dozed the last couple of hours before daybreak.

When she woke again, the sun was on its way
up the eastern sky and Jace was gone from his place near the fire.
It had stopped raining but the air was damp and chill, and moisture
clung to everything beyond the shelter of the overhang. As
uncomfortable as her hard bed was, Kyla was loath to leave her
blankets. Next to her, she found her gun in its holster.
Apparently, Jace had decided to trust her enough to return her
weapon.

Over by the flat, narrow creek she saw him
already saddling their horses. He stood with his back to her, a
silhouette against the slate-colored sky, and she watched him, the
way he smoothed the silky equine manes, his strong hands
surprisingly gentle on their bridles, the way his own dark hair
brushed his shoulders. He bent to tighten Juniper’s cinch strap,
and his shirt stretched over his shoulders and lean waist. There
was nothing hesitant or awkward in his movements. He had a
powerful, easy grace. It was easy to forget that there were taller
men; he had a very imposing presence, an intangible something that
made him seem far bigger than he actually was. She supposed some
women found him attractive. Luckily, experience had made her
immune.

He turned suddenly, as if feeling her eyes
on him. “There’s coffee if you want it, and a couple of biscuits.
But get out of your bedroll and eat quick—we’ve got to move out of
here.” He came back to the fire and rolled up his own blankets.

Kyla worked her way to a sitting position.
Upright, she realized how terrible she felt—stiff and slightly ill
with a queasy headache, a lot like that time years ago when she’d
gotten into her father’s corn liquor. Her injured arm was as heavy
as lead. She glanced down at the bandage and found that it was
still clean and white. At least the wound hadn’t begun bleeding
again.

She lifted her head and looked around at the
gray dawn. Spending the day on horseback was going to be misery.
With considerable effort she managed to strap on her gun belt. She
was forced to use her left hand to do it, though, and it frightened
her how much it hurt. It meant her arm would be of little use until
it healed, perhaps weeks from now. In the meantime, she was left
vulnerable in perilous circumstances. At least she could still fire
her revolver.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Jace
watching her fumble with the buckle. That gaze felt like it
penetrated her clothes with icy heat. He moved closer and dropped
to a crouch.

“
Sorry if I scared you last
night. How’s the arm?” His tone was a bit gruff; obviously she was
more of a liability to him than ever.

She pulled back, protective
of her injury and wary of him, too. “It hurts like hell. I swear
I’ll get even with Hardesty when I get the chance. He doesn’t
deserve to stand trial. This is his fault.
All of it
.” Including last night,
she thought. She heard the bitterness in her own voice.

He studied her a moment longer and then
shrugged. “Yeah, it probably is his fault. But right now we’re
going to Misfortune. If we’re being followed, it’ll be a good way
to throw them off. Misfortune is the last stop to nowhere.” He
gestured at her bandage. “You’re going to need a sling. Have you
got a bandanna in your gear?”

She shook her head.

He took off his own neckerchief and tied its
two ends together, then handed it to her. “Use this.”

Hesitating, she finally struggled into the
sling. It smelled like him, like horses and leather. That wasn’t
totally unpleasant, she conceded. But she wished she had her
binding back. Every time she moved, she felt her shirt brush
against her unbound breasts, reminding her that her true identity
was fully revealed. It didn’t matter, she remembered wearily. Even
if she had fabric to wrap around herself, she wouldn’t be able to
do it without using both hands. What could she do, ask for Jace’s
help? She swallowed the bubble of hysterical laughter that swelled
in her chest at the idea. Just getting her gun belt buckled had
been hard enough.

While she choked down a dry biscuit and a
few sips of coffee, Jace packed up her blankets and put them on
Juniper. At least he was a bit less hostile and suspicious than he
had been last night.

In another minute, with a well-placed hand
on her buttocks he boosted her onto her gelding’s back, nearly
pushing her over the other side. She bristled at the intimate
contact of his warm hand. But mounting a horse without the use of
her left arm was almost impossible, and her helplessness nettled
her. Finally the feat was accomplished and Jace swung into his own
saddle. Gathering his reins, he turned to her.

“
This thing with Hardesty,
it isn’t going to be easy. Before we start it, is there anything
else I should know? Just to keep us from getting
killed?”

She hesitated to mention the problem that
had occurred to her during one of the endless hours last night. But
she had to tell him if he was going to help her. “I think McIntyre
figured out that I’m not a boy.”

Jace gazed at the bright horizon through
narrowed eyes. "Shit." His chuckle was sharp and humorless, and he
wheeled his horse around. “Then we’d better ride.”

* * *

Jace led them on a circuitous journey
through the foothills of the Cedar Mountains. They doubled back so
often that Kyla, though she’d been watching the sun for reference,
was thoroughly confused. Traveling fast, they recrossed their own
tracks through rocky canyons and traversed streambeds; he even made
her trade mounts with him a couple of times to alter the hoof
prints the horses made. Once or twice, she suspected that they
might be lost, but a glance at his set face quelled her doubts. He
knew exactly what he was doing.

The weather, though, was not obliging.
Clearing briefly, it finally settled into a steady gray downpour,
and Kyla lost her point of reference. As the hours passed, she
tried hard to maintain the tough hardiness that Jace had come to
expect. But she was cold and miserable, and by afternoon, when he
finally pointed them toward Misfortune, her energy started to drain
away. Yet she dared not let it show—she couldn’t let anything get
in the way of traveling back to Blakely.

To stay alert—and on her horse—she forced
herself to think about her ultimate intent: to see Tom Hardesty
dead. Jace Rankin was her means to that end. She had to make him
understand the urgent necessity of her goal. She drew up alongside
him.

“
How long do you think
we’ll need to be in Misfortune?” she asked.

“
As long as it takes to
finish my business.” His tone reminded her that he did not like
being questioned.

Her brows locked at his flip answer. “Well,
how long will that be? I want that damned Hardesty off my
property.”

He turned to regard her, and despite her
weariness once again she studied his good looks. They couldn’t be
considered classic—his eyes were far too intense. And the jaded
cynicism lurking in their blue depths made him seem unapproachable.
She could have kicked herself for even noticing, but his
handsomeness was fascinating, like a dark star that glinted in the
night sky.

“
You’re sure in a hurry to
get shot at again. I’m not,” he went on. “Besides, Hardesty doesn’t
sound like he’s going anyplace. He’ll be in Blakely when we get
there.”

His cavalier attitude clashed with her
growing headache. “I just want to settle this. Jail isn’t bad
enough for what he did.” She stopped just short of saying she
wanted to see Hardesty dead.

“
Look—we’re going to do it
my way or not at all. I need to make certain we’ve lost his hired
guns. I don’t want to be caught between them and the
vigilantes.”

Kyla understood the strategy, but only
vaguely. Pain and her hate blurred the details. “Didn’t anyone ever
make you mad enough that you just wanted to get even?”

He kept his eyes on the rain-shortened
horizon and his jaw tightened. “Once.”

Once. Jace gripped his reins. Yeah, it had
happened to him. A cold, dark vengeance had blotted out every other
thought he’d had, and his focus narrowed down to one purpose—to
exact revenge. He’d tracked his best friend all over the territory,
and he would have shot him without thinking twice about it. At
least not until it was too late. When Travis had convinced him of
his innocence, he had continued with single-minded determination
until he found Sawyer Clark and killed him.

And so what? His sister Celia was still
dead. Avenging her hadn’t changed that. He was simply left with
that same bitter emptiness he’d felt since the afternoon in Silver
City. He wished to God he could shake it.

But this woman, with her spirit and courage,
who seemed to be more wild mare than human female, did not know
what lay in store for her. And maybe she should.

“
I’m not in the habit of
giving advice,” he said. “People usually do what they want, anyway.
But . . . whatever grudge you bear against Hardesty, nothing will
be different, not if he sits in jail till kingdom come. Not even if
I were to kill him. It wouldn’t bring back Hank.” He gestured at
her head. “Your hair wouldn’t grow out overnight.”

A frown creased Kyla’s pale face and she
leaned forward in her saddle, allowing the soft roundness of her
bosom to press against her shirt. From this angle, her sling didn’t
conceal her chest very well. Instantly, the memory of her smooth
breasts and small waist sprang to his mind.

When he realized he was staring, he forced
himself to look away. He knew that he should have nothing to do
with this female—so why did she crowd his thoughts to the point of
distraction? A naked woman was nothing new to him, but he thought
about this one and the beauty she hid under her clothes a lot more
than he wanted to.

“
What are you saying, that
he should go on about his life as if he’s done nothing?” she
demanded. “He murdered Hank. And all the times he let my father
down—quitting school, gambling, getting drunk, stealing money—all
those times he pushed me into corners and grabbed at me and—and—”
She choked and a red stain crept over her face. She turned her head
away and rain dripped from the brim of her hat. “Are you saying
none of that matters?”

Jace glanced at her sharply, but she stared
straight ahead and refused to meet his eyes. “No, I’m not saying
that,” he replied.

She’d let slip another fragment of the
information he knew she was keeping back. Maybe there was a reason
that “Kyle” was so convincing; the role might not be new for her.
Maybe Hardesty was guilty of more than killing Hank and taking her
ranch. He felt a surge of anger boil up in him. The more he heard
about the man, the more he disliked him.

“
This isn’t the first time
you’ve dressed as a boy, is it?”

“
That’s none of your damned
business,” she retorted with a harder edge. Her turquoise eyes
glinted like glass. “I don’t have to explain myself.”

Jesus, but she was prickly. She had a chip
on her shoulder the size of an anvil and she was always daring him
to push it off. He’d never known a woman so exasperating. Or so
challenging.

He tried again, searching for words that
didn’t feel so awkward to speak aloud. “I’m just saying that hate
can eat a person up, until sometimes there’s nothing left. When
Hardesty is locked away, you’ll still have to live your life.” He’d
heard this same warning a year ago. He hadn’t listened, either.

“
I ain’t about to start
lovin’ my enemy, so that sermon would be wasted on me,” she said,
lapsing fully into Kyle’s voice before falling silent. The way she
surrounded herself with the personality sent a shiver down Jace’s
back. She used it like a spiny shield to hold the world at bay. How
had Hank managed to find the woman behind it?

As the miles passed and she maintained her
silence, Jace noticed that she was really beginning to look poorly.
The blood seemed to fade from her face, as if her fiery hair had
pulled out all the color. She hadn’t complained about her arm, but
he knew it must hurt. Hell, his own shoulder still ached in rainy
weather like this, and nearly a year had gone by since he was shot.
Plus he’d had a doctor to see to him and a place to rest until he
could get back on his feet. A spark of empathy stirred in him;
she’d had only some makeshift medicine on the run, and was spending
her days in her saddle. Maybe old Doc Sherwood could look at her
when they reached Misfortune.

Travis’s wife, Chloe, might be able to help
her find some decent clothes so she could feel like a woman for a
change. At least while they were in Misfortune. He cast a sidelong
glance at her and caught himself wondering what she’d look like if
she were cleaned up and her true prettiness allowed to shine
through.

Nope, nope—just stop right there, he told
himself irritably. He felt a grudging respect for her, and that was
enough. This was just business. She was Hank Bailey’s widow, a wild
little hellion who’d hired him to do a job. He’d collect two
hundred and fifty dollars—if he was lucky. He still wasn’t
convinced any money existed.

Finding a dry place to camp that evening
proved difficult, but by the time sunset gave a final blaze to the
horizon, Jace had shot a rabbit for dinner, and she had the fire
going.