Wanted (7 page)

But now the Ranger ignored her, taking some jerky from a saddlebag and eating it without comment. He poured himself a cup of coffee and then two more, handing one carefully to Nick, who took it with both hands, and one to Lori. Then he rose and went to lean against a tree, watching silently as he had since the first moment he had encountered Nick.

Watching. Waiting. Nick understood that. He understood a great deal about the man apparently committed to taking him back to hang. From the first moment he'd faced the Ranger, an eerie recognition had flashed between them. It was more than their physical resemblance; it was an internal familiarity, a sense that they had met before, though he knew well they had not. Nick hadn't had time to explore those mental ramblings; his concern for Lori and his own well-honed sense of self-preservation had shoved them aside, but now as he watched Davis watch him, the thoughts returned, and he realized he knew exactly what Davis was thinking.

Davis was the kind of man, Nick knew with certainty, who never swerved from the path he chose, who didn't know how to bend, who never allowed emotion to influence him. Nick, on the other hand, had learned to bend a long time ago. Perhaps he'd been born that way, or just taught. His father had no rules. There was no black and white in Dr. Jonathon Braden's world. He lived every moment to the fullest, believing the Lord—or fate—would provide the next day's meals. He was a con man, plain and simple, with a con man's incurable optimism. He was, in many ways, like an ageless child, excited by travel and people and new places.

Growing up with him had always been an adventure. Nick had been well loved, not only by Jonathon and Fleur, but by the various flotsam—performers, itinerant peddlers, hobos, and stragglers—who stayed with the Medicine Show a day, a week or a month, or, like Daniel Webster, years. Nick had grown up pleasing crowds, conducting small cons, and like his father, he saw no wrong in bringing excitement to people who had little of it. If there was a little stretching of truth, a bit of sleight of hand in the shell game, an occasional crooked gambit when money was low, Jonathon had justified it as entertainment for those who could afford it. He never conned a poor man and often gave money to those in need, even when his own family went with less.

He was one of a kind, and Nick loved him, though as he grew older, he longed for more stability, a bit of security, for those he loved. Jonathon was in his mid-sixties now, Nick's mother fifty, and Nick wondered how much longer they could live the wandering life Jonathon loved. And there were Lori, who had never had any kind of normal life, and Andy, who was as wild now as a Texas longhorn. They'd all had love in abundance, love and a fierce loyalty to each other, but Nick knew Lori, in particular, needed more. She was twenty-two and knew more about poker than courting. She'd had admirers. Dear God, how she had had admirers. But the Bradens were never in one place long enough to develop any attachments, and Lori shuddered at the thought of becoming a farm wife. She was used to being free in her dress and in her actions; Jonathon had always encouraged her to be so, and Fleur had thought the moon rose and set on her daughter, who was pretty and clever and nigh on irresistible when she set her mind to it.

Nick sipped the last dregs of the coffee as Morgan Davis moved from where he'd been standing and kicked dust into the fire, quickly extinguishing it. “You have a few minutes while I saddle the horses if you want to wash,” he said, directing his words to Nick.

Nick stood, grateful for the boon of a few moments' privacy even though he knew the Ranger was risking little. Nick could barely walk with the leg irons, much less run or mount a horse. Lori rose too.

“You stay here,” the Ranger said, “until your brother returns.”

“I'm not your prisoner,” she retorted.

Davis had already put a blanket on one of the horses and was lifting a saddle. Very deliberately he set it back down, his gaze clashing with Lori's as Nick watched, disquiet flooding him at the battle of wills enacted before him. She had no chance, none at all, against someone like Morgan Davis.

“No,” Davis said softly. “Not at the moment.” His gaze flickered over to Nick. “But he is, and you're only making things more difficult. He doesn't go if you don't stay.”

As Nick watched Lori's face change from defiance to angry acceptance, he realized that if there was one thing he and the Ranger agreed on, it was the need to leave Lori in Laramie. It would take Morgan at least five weeks to get Nick back to Texas, and no one goes five weeks without making a mistake. That's all Nick needed: one small mistake. And then what? Nick couldn't leave him alive, or Davis would chase Nick the rest of his life; he was that kind of man.

Nick knew he was no killer. He had killed once to save his brother. He wondered whether he could kill to save himself. He wasn't sure.

Either way, he didn't want Lori involved.

His eyes met Morgan Davis's, and a curious understanding passed between them. Davis frowned, his face grim. And then the lawman turned away and started to saddle the horse again.

Hampered by the leg irons, Nick shuffled toward the stream. His momentary relief at the prospect of fresh water and privacy was gone. Soon there would be just the two of them, this Ranger and himself. Life for one meant death for the other, and they both had just silently acknowledged that fact.

Nick swore he wouldn't be the one to go down, but the notion gave him damn little peace of mind. That old, peculiar sense of being incomplete flooded over him now. He stumbled, the chain between his legs tripping him, and fell to the ground. He lay there for a moment, filled with despair so strong, he couldn't move.

If anything happened to him …

Jonathon and Fleur needed him. Andy. And, dear God, Lori! He understood that now more than ever. She was so competent in so many ways that he often forgot she was a woman who had yet to discover what being a woman meant. She had looked up to him and imitated him for so long, he had come to think of her almost as a younger brother rather than sister. But he was not oblivious to the electricity that passed between her and the Ranger, and that scared the devil out of him. She had no idea what kind of man Morgan Davis was. He would be disaster for a free soul like Lori.

Nick's life or the Ranger's?

For his family's sake, Nick knew which it had to be.

CHAPTER FOUR

They stopped at a stream in early afternoon, though they were close to Laramie.

Lori had changed clothes before they had left the campsite that morning, switching to a modest blouse and a split skirt that, except when she sat astride a horse, seemed to be the real thing. Women, she knew, had more freedom in Wyoming than in other places. They sat on juries and had obtained the right to vote. Wearing pants, however, was certainly not acceptable—and she didn't know when or how she might have to use her womanly wiles.

The Ranger had viewed her attire with something like bemusement. She had tied her hair behind with a ribbon, and she knew her brown blouse brought out the amber in her eyes. She'd tipped her hat back rakishly on her head. Though she knew she was no beauty, she was attractive enough, particularly in a part of the country with few women.

Nick's wrists had again been cuffed to the saddle horn, and he had moved restlessly in the saddle throughout the morning. His eyes had been dark and guarded, his shirt soiled, when he'd returned from the stream this morning, and Lori had had to restrain herself to keep from going to him. She knew that look, that warning, which kept everyone, even those close to him, at arm's length. The moody silence was rare, and Lori bit back words of concern. He wouldn't appreciate them, especially in front of the Ranger.

But for a moment his glower reminded her of the Ranger's—and then she dismissed the thought. Nick was nothing like the humorless, laconic lawman. The only thing they had in common outside of looks, she thought bitterly, was that they both wanted to get rid of her. But she wasn't that easily discarded.

Nick had said she would only get in the way. That he couldn't concentrate if he worried about her. The Ranger just wanted her out of the way, period. But Lori knew Nick couldn't so easily escape the man intent on taking him back. She had noted the Ranger's caution. How could Nick ever escape as long as he was shackled so thoroughly?

At the stream Morgan allowed Nick off his horse—only, the Ranger made it clear, because he felt the horses needed a short rest. Nick had stretched his arms, rubbed his sore wrists, and walked. Morgan had not insisted on the cursed leg irons, though the handcuffs stayed in place.

Lori stifled a small groan as she tried to walk. She was accustomed to riding long distances, but she was not used to doing it on the rear end of a horse. As always, the Ranger watched them both with the single-minded intensity of a cat watching mice it intended to devour. He gave the horses a handful of oats and allowed them to drink slowly, and Lori knew he had more regard for them than he did for her brother, whom he treated with a practiced but wary indifference.

The Ranger showed no sign of exhaustion, no lessening of the caution he'd practiced since the first time she'd seen him. Lori wondered whether he had one feeling bone in his body. Her eyes met his, held for an instant, and he turned from her. Nick was several feet away, his face a mask Lori couldn't read. She sensed he wanted to spring at the Ranger, that he needed desperately to do something just to alleviate the tension in his body; but then his gaze found hers, and she watched him forcibly restrain himself.

The Ranger saw it, too. Lori knew from the way his own muscles had tensed under the dark-blue cotton shirt he wore. “Time to go,” he said, his shadowed eyes a warning to them both.

Nick shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

The Ranger raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, merely followed Nick to his horse. The Ranger locked Nick's wrists to the saddle horn again and then watched him mount before offering his finger-locked hands to Lori as a step up.

And then Lori wondered whether he had made his first mistake. The reins to Nick's horse were free. If only she could scoop them up, then Nick could make a dash for it. The Ranger's horse was tied securely several feet away, her mare, Clementine, also secured on the lead to the Ranger's bay. If only Nick's hands weren't chained to the saddle horn.

Her gaze went down to the Ranger's holster. She had to get his gun. She offered her left foot to him, prepared to throw herself on him and grab for the gun, but he was obviously ready for her.

Morgan expected it. As her body moved toward his, he quickly twisted and she landed in his arms, her face just inches from his, his hands tight around her back and hips. This was the third time Morgan had found her unwillingly in his arms, and each time seemed to increase the heat that built inside a body he was usually so able to control.

He held her just a trifle longer than necessary, and then he set her on her feet, his lips twisting into that half smile that suggested so little amusement. “An accident, Miss Lori?”

She straightened and looked him straight in the eyes. “What do you think, after forcing me to ride on that horse's backbone for a day and a half? Every part of me is stiff.”

“That so? Didn't feel like it to me,” he drawled with his soft, slow Texas accent.

Lori glared at him. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“I don't think so,” he said with the patient tone one uses with a child.

He left her and tied the reins of Nick's horse to the lead, then mounted his own horse. He turned back. “You think you can get up on your own, or do you want to walk awhile?”

Lori turned to her brother, put her hand on his arm, which he stiffened, and used it to vault her left foot into the stirrup he relinquished. She settled down behind him.

“I thought you could manage,” the Ranger said, then kicked his mount into a trot without waiting for an answer.

Three hours later they rode into Laramie. Morgan still felt that damn internal fire that had bedeviled him those few seconds Lori Braden had twisted in his arms. Her face had been so close, her eyes wide and surprised and shadowed by dark lashes that contrasted with the honey-colored hair.

He'd wanted to kiss her, dammit. He'd wanted it in the worst hellish way. He hadn't wanted to let her go. She'd felt good in his arms, soft and supple and not stiff at all. But she'd been soft, he knew, because he'd startled her. There was nothing soft about her feelings where he was concerned. She would as soon stick a knife into his heart, and he didn't fool himself about that, either.

He wished that she wasn't a part of this. Outside of the Rangers, he'd seen damn little loyalty in his life, even less selflessness. Too bad—Nick Braden didn't deserve it. There were altogether too many witnesses in Harmony who'd seen Braden draw on an unarmed man.

As they rode into Laramie, the streets were busy, filled with wagons and soldiers. Fort Laramie, he knew, was north of there, and he wondered if something had happened. General Custer and his men had been massacred just months ago, and he'd heard there were punitive expeditions being readied to confront the Cheyennes and Sioux in northern Wyoming. He wished them luck. He'd had his share of Indian fighting in Texas.

He looked back. Braden sat stiff and proud, even as men and women on the street stared at the three riders moving over the dusty road. Morgan found the sheriff's office in the center of town, asked a loiterer if the sheriff was in, and dismounted when the man nodded. He again offered his hand to Lori, knowing she would refuse it, then unlocked Braden from the saddle horn, taking his arm and ushering him into the sheriff's office.

The heavyset man sitting behind a desk glanced up as they entered, then stood as his gaze went from man to man and back again. He immediately assessed the handcuffs and the Ranger's badge. His eyes rested briefly on Lori, widening with appreciation; but he quickly turned back to Morgan, staring pointedly at the badge.