The Angel and the Outlaw (9 page)

Restraint, my boy. That’s something else you need to learn.

“Yeah,” J.T. muttered irritably. “I’ll work on it.”

Brandy huffed in exasperation. “Who are you talking to?”

“No one.” Gently, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “You’d better go back to bed.”

Brandy tilted her head to the side, wondering what it was he refused to tell her. She knew she should be grateful things hadn’t gone any further than they had, and wondered, perversely, why she wasn’t.

“Goodnight, J.T.,” she said quietly.

“‘Night.” With a sigh, he settled back in his blankets.

Sleep was a long time coming.

“I want to go home.”

J.T. looked up from the hickory branch he hoped to fashion into a bow. “What?”

“I said I want to go home.”

“Why?” They had been with the Crow for over a month now, and Brandy had never mentioned leaving. “I thought you liked it here?”

“I do, but…” Brandy shook her head, wondering how to explain what she was feeling. She loved living with the Crow, loved the people, their way of life. The people were so close to nature, so at peace within themselves. And yet, as much as she loved it, she didn’t belong here. She had a home of her own, people she loved. People who loved her. She’d been gone almost a month. Her parents would be frantic with worry.

“But?” J.T. prompted.

Brandy sat down beside him.”I just want to go home. Is that so hard to understand?”

“It is for me. I’ve never lived anywhere I called home.”

“You’re putting me on?”

J.T. frowned. “Putting you on?”

“Kidding. Joshing. Joking.” Brandy lifted her hands and let them drop. “Everyone has a home.”

“I never did.”

“But…”

“Never,” he repeated emphatically. “I spent the first ten years of my life living in a saloon or in rented rooms on the wrong side of the tracks. Believe me, those places were never home. After that, we moved to a little shack on the outskirts of Santa Fe. It had four walls and a roof, so I guess you could have called it a house, but it sure as hell wasn’t home.”

J.T. stared at the length of wood in his hand, remembering the men who had come and gone in a steady stream. His mother hadn’t wanted him around when she was working. He had spent his days exploring the prairie, running along the riverbank, skinny dipping in the summertime, building snow forts during the winter. Nights, he’d snuck into the back room of the saloon, peeking through the cracks in the wall to get a look at the action going on inside. He grew to love the smoky smell, the sound of cards slapping on the table, the clink of glassware, the rustle of greenbacks. He’d had his first taste of whiskey in that back room, snitched from a bottle of rotgut. It had been in that same dingy little room that he’d smoked his first cigar, and gotten royally sick.

When he got bored with watching the gambling and the dance hall girls, he had wandered through the town, stealing whatever took his fancy. By the time he was thirteen, he was an accomplished thief. He’d never found a lock he couldn’t pick, a window he couldn’t jimmy open.

And then, when he was fourteen, his mother had died giving birth to a stillborn daughter. They had been living in New Mexico at the time. He had left Santa Fe and gone to El Paso where he’d taken up with a bunch of young toughs. For a few years, he had been happy to drift with them, content to follow their lead, until he turned seventeen and struck out on his own. He had a talent for gambling, and a talent for stealing, and he had indulged them both, living from day to day with no thought for tomorrow until he found himself standing on a crude gallows in a little town called Cedar Ridge…

“J.T.?”

He lifted his gaze to her face, then glanced at his surroundings. It occurred to him that this was the first place that had ever felt like home, and it was all because of the woman sitting beside him.

“J.T.?”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “I like it here. I’m stayin’, if they’ll let me.”

Brandy stared at him, unable to believe her ears. “Staying?”

He shrugged. “I got no place better to go. And no one waitin’ for me when I get there.”

“Well, you can stay if you want, but I’m leaving. One way or another, I’m going home.”

“I don’t see how.”

“I don’t either, but I’ll get there somehow.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I mean you’re staying here, with me.” And, just like that, he realized he had made up his mind. If he had less than a year to live, he would spend it here, with Brandy.

“But…” Abruptly, Brandy bit off the words. There was no point in arguing. She could see by the expression on his face that he had made up his mind. Well, he could stay if he wanted to, but she was leaving. Now. Tonight. Before she had second thoughts. Before her feelings for J.T. grew stronger, more complicated; before she got so used to living in a hide lodge and wearing buckskins that she forgot who she was and where she’d come from.

“We’ll talk about it later,” she said. “I’m hungry. Do you want something to eat?”

* * * * *

She waited until J.T. was snoring softly and then she slid out of bed. Taking a blanket and the
parfleche
she had packed while he was away from the lodge that afternoon, she tiptoed out of the lodge. She knew she was taking a terrible chance, knew it was dangerous to try to cross the prairie alone, and yet she couldn’t stay. She had to get away from J.T. Cutter before she lost herself in the sorrow that lurked in the depths of his eyes, before she surrendered to the desire that pulsed within her whenever he touched her. Time and again she had reminded herself that he was an outlaw, that he was no fit company for a decent woman, but he had only to look at her, touch her, and all good sense flew right out of her mind. He was strong and yet vulnerable, violent yet tender.

Taking a deep breath, she forced all thought of J.T. Cutter from her mind. Moving quietly, she lifted the heavy saddle and swung it onto the horse’s back, tightened the cinch, slid the rifle into the scabbard.

Brandy grinned ruefully as she dropped a bridle over the pinto’s head. J.T. had stolen the horse from a man in Cedar Ridge, and now she was stealing the horse from J.T..

After tying the
parfleche
to the saddle horn, she draped the blanket over the pinto’s withers. Gathering the reins, she stepped into the saddle, then turned the gelding toward the river. The soft springy grass would muffle the sound of the horse’s hooves.

When she was well away from the village, she urged the gelding into a lope.

It was an eerie feeling, riding alone through the darkness. Every drifting shadow, every bush, seemed alive with menace, yet she rode steadily onward, driven by the need to get as far away from J.T. Cutter as possible. And yet, with every mile came the increased certainty that, without him, she would never make it back to her own time.

After what seemed like an eternity, she paused to let the horse rest. For a time, she considered returning to J.T. and begging him to take her back to Cedar Ridge, and yet she knew, deep in her heart, that he would refuse. And, deep in her own heart, she could hardly blame him. There was nothing waiting for him in Cedar Ridge but another rope and another hanging.

Thoroughly discouraged, she slumped over the horse’s neck and cried until she had no tears left. And then, resolutely, she urged the gelding into a trot. She didn’t know for a certainty that J.T.’s presence was necessary for her to get back home. Maybe he hadn’t had anything to do with her being transported through time. And maybe she’d be President of the United States!

But, come hell or high water, she was going back home.

She rode until dawn, then took shelter in the lee of a pile of boulders. Wrapping herself in the blanket, the rifle within easy reach, she closed her eyes.

* * * * *

She was gone. He’d searched the whole damn village, but no one had seen her. She wasn’t at the river, she wasn’t visiting with Apite or Dakaake or Awachia. No one had seen her since the night before. The most damning evidence of all was the fact that the pinto was missing.

He considered asking some of the warriors to help him, but he dismissed the idea, not wanting to waste the time it would take to make himself understood.

Cursing softly, J.T. caught up a raw-boned bay gelding from the horse herd, filled a waterskin with fresh water, packed a bag with jerky and pemmican. Without a qualm, he picked up a rifle one of the warrior’s had carelessly left outside. He quickly checked the Winchester to make sure it was loaded, then he swung aboard the bay and rode out of the village.

No one thought to stop him.

There were no tracks. The Crow horse herd wandered the outskirts of the village, making it near impossible to follow a single set of prints, but there was no doubt in J.T.’s mind that Brandy was headed back to Cedar Ridge.

He rode steadily for hours, trying not to think about the dangers that could befall a lone woman riding across the plains.

Her horse could step in a hole and break a leg. She could be bit by a snake or a scorpion, captured by Indians.

There wasn’t much law in this part of the country, making it a haven for army deserters and outlaws. Even if she made it back to Cedar Ridge, she would still be at risk. A woman alone, especially a young pretty woman, would be easy prey for the despicable men who called Cedar Ridge home.

J.T. uttered a crude oath. Damn her, didn’t she realize what a fool thing she was doing? There were any number of men, and more than a few unscrupulous women, who wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of Brandy, assuming she made it back to town.

The sun was hanging low in the sky when he drew rein, giving the bay a rest. He knew he should bed down for the night, that there was less than no chance at all of tracking her in the dark, but he couldn’t stop. Thoughts of Brandy, alone and afraid, had him urging the bay forward. Eyes narrowed, he searched the darkness. Where the hell was she?

Muttering under his breath about foolish women, he urged the bay into a lope.

* * * * *

Brandy squinted as she gazed over her shoulder. Was it her imagination, or was there a rider following her? The setting sun made it impossible for her to see anything but a vague shape on a dark horse.

Fighting a rising tide of panic, she pounded her heels into the gelding’s sides. If she could just reach that stand of timber, she might be able to hide.

She glanced over her shoulder again, but could see nothing except the dust raised by her own horse. Damn! She’d been scared the night before, awakened by every sound, every breath of wind, but now she was terrified. The man following her could be a renegade Indian, an outlaw on the run.

Her hand closed over the rifle. Could she take a life to save her own?

Her horse reached the tree line and Brandy gave the pinto a sharp kick when it started to slow down. She rode like one possessed, her gaze darting left and right in search of a place to hide.

She caught a glimpse of the low hanging branch just before it knocked her off the back of her horse. A startled cry erupted from her lips and then the ground was rushing up to meet her, driving the air from her lungs. A sharp pain stabbed at the back of her head, and then everything went black.

* * * * *

J.T. sighed as he reined his horse to a walk. It was almost full dark now, time to bed down for the night. And yet something drove him onward.

His gaze lifted toward the darkening sky. In all his miserable life, he had never uttered a prayer, not even when he was standing on the gallows. Now, for the first time in his life, he felt the need, but had no idea what to say.

“She’s alone, Gideon,” he said fervently. “If you can hear me, I’m askin’ you to keep her safe.”

He waited, listening, but no answer came to him. Darkness settled over the land, a lonely, empty darkness, silent save for the soughing of the wind and the distant cry of a coyote.

“It’s useless,” J.T. muttered. “Like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

And yet he kept going, ignoring his horse’s labored breathing and his own weariness. Just another few minutes, he decided, and then he’d bed down for the night. But every time he thought of calling it a day, he imagined Brandy spending another night on the prairie, alone. Damn the woman, he was tired and hungry and more worried than he wanted to admit, and when he found her, he was going to wring her fool neck!

Muttering an oath, he pulled back on the reins, felt a sharp tug, as though someone was trying to jerk the reins out of his hands.

“What the hell?” J.T. pulled back on the reins again, only to feel the same sharp tug.

“Gideon?” He cocked his head to one side, listening, but all he heard was the sighing of the wind.

J.T.’s eyes narrowed as he caught a whiff of bacon and coffee. Shifting in the saddle, he glanced at the trees barely visible in the gathering darkness.

She was there. He knew it.

He rode slowly across the open ground, his eyes and ears alert for any movement, any sound. At the edge of the timber, he dismounted. Tethering the bay to a sturdy branch, J.T. crept forward, his moccasined feet making no sound as he ghosted through the trees, following the tantalizing scent of fresh coffee.

Crouching behind a tangled mass of service berry bushes, he studied the camp. He knew a quick moment of relief when he saw Brandy. Thank God, she was alive.

And then he noticed the dark bruise on the side of her face, the way she sat on the felled log. Hardly breathing, she kept one arm wrapped around her middle as if every breath caused her pain. Even in the dim light cast by the fire, he could see the scared look in her eyes.

With an effort, J.T. tore his gaze from Brandy and studied the man sitting beside her. He was a big man, dressed in stained buckskin pants, a faded chambray shirt, moccasins, and a battered hat. Greasy blond hair fell to his shoulders. A long scar cut across his left cheek; he wore a patch over his left eye. A brand new Winchester repeating rifle was propped up.