just above the rounded bulge that betrayed his manhood. She reached for it, and his hand clamped over hers with surprising strength.
“No.”
Her gaze jumped to his face. Through the narrowed slits of his eyes, he watched her.
“I just want to move it. How can you rest with a gun wedged under your hip?”
“Much better than I could without it.”
She sat back on her heels. “Fine. Keep it.”
Slowly, his long fingers relaxed and fell away from hers. He looked like he’d fallen asleep. She waited another moment, then pulled the cover to his chin and stood.
While she settled the horses for the night, a plan began to take shape in her mind. Here was the opportunity she’d waited for. All she had to do was get on the mare and ride away.
They must be close to the border. If she continued due west, she’d find the Rio Grande. Once she made it to the river, she felt certain she could elude capture. The many cutbanks and more abundant vegetation would provide cover to hide her. All she had to do was follow the river south, until she reached Clayton Station and home.
It was a sound plan. But each time she glanced at Rane’s still form lying beneath the bedroll padding, pressure gathered in a tighter grip around her heart.
How could she leave him? He was defenseless, maybe even dying.
For several long minutes, Angel stood perfectly still beneath the moonlight. She closed her eyes, drawing in deep, cleansing breaths and listened to the horses’ soft snuffles, the constant chirp of crickets in the surrounding brush. A few feet away, the whispered rush of the stream. The loneliness of this wild, remote place bore down on her like tangible grief carried in the low moan of the wind.
With purpose, she turned and walked to the saddlebags slung behind the saddle on the stallion’s back, speaking softly all the while so the rank creature wouldn’t spook. She knew exactly what she was looking for. Lifting the flap on the right hand bag, she dipped inside and pulled out Buck Sweeney’s six-shooter.
When she lifted it free, the sheer weight of the weapon dropped her hand to hip level. It had been a long time since she’d held a gun but, like riding, the knowledge had been ingrained during her youth. Her fingers trembled against the cold metal when she opened the loading gate and checked the cylinder. Four bullets and one spent cartridge. It would do.
Rane lay as she’d left him, still shivering beneath the cover. Angel sat on the sand and placed the revolver next to her, prepared to keep a vigil through the long night.
After only a few minutes of inactivity, the chill air penetrated her thin shirt. She wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees and hugged them to her chest. A fire would have been welcome, but the flames and smoke would serve as a beacon to anyone out there. Better to shiver in the dark.
Once more, she reached over and laid fingertips against Rane’s exposed cheek. The fever still raged. He gave off more heat than a pot-bellied stove.
She stared at his dark head and bit her lip. She’d never known anyone like him. Was he brave, or simply too arrogant to believe in his own mortality?
He was a hard man, sometimes deadly. This was the image he cultivated. Still, at times she’d seen glimpses of...what? Softness? No. Goodness? Perhaps. He’d become a mass of contradictions. Brutality and gentleness. Ugliness and beauty. Inconsistencies that threw her into turmoil.
For reasons she didn’t fully understand, he’d chosen to stand between her and an army of money-hungry ruffians. He claimed to have his own purpose. But what could possibly be worth such a price?
Finally, giving in to the lure of the man and his heat, Angel lifted the cover and slipped in next to him.
Lying there shivering, he seemed so harmless. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer. Like a child in need of comfort, his dark head came to rest against her chest. He moaned softly and slid his arm across her waist. She
“No.”
Her gaze jumped to his face. Through the narrowed slits of his eyes, he watched her.
“I just want to move it. How can you rest with a gun wedged under your hip?”
“Much better than I could without it.”
She sat back on her heels. “Fine. Keep it.”
Slowly, his long fingers relaxed and fell away from hers. He looked like he’d fallen asleep. She waited another moment, then pulled the cover to his chin and stood.
While she settled the horses for the night, a plan began to take shape in her mind. Here was the opportunity she’d waited for. All she had to do was get on the mare and ride away.
They must be close to the border. If she continued due west, she’d find the Rio Grande. Once she made it to the river, she felt certain she could elude capture. The many cutbanks and more abundant vegetation would provide cover to hide her. All she had to do was follow the river south, until she reached Clayton Station and home.
It was a sound plan. But each time she glanced at Rane’s still form lying beneath the bedroll padding, pressure gathered in a tighter grip around her heart.
How could she leave him? He was defenseless, maybe even dying.
For several long minutes, Angel stood perfectly still beneath the moonlight. She closed her eyes, drawing in deep, cleansing breaths and listened to the horses’ soft snuffles, the constant chirp of crickets in the surrounding brush. A few feet away, the whispered rush of the stream. The loneliness of this wild, remote place bore down on her like tangible grief carried in the low moan of the wind.
With purpose, she turned and walked to the saddlebags slung behind the saddle on the stallion’s back, speaking softly all the while so the rank creature wouldn’t spook. She knew exactly what she was looking for. Lifting the flap on the right hand bag, she dipped inside and pulled out Buck Sweeney’s six-shooter.
When she lifted it free, the sheer weight of the weapon dropped her hand to hip level. It had been a long time since she’d held a gun but, like riding, the knowledge had been ingrained during her youth. Her fingers trembled against the cold metal when she opened the loading gate and checked the cylinder. Four bullets and one spent cartridge. It would do.
Rane lay as she’d left him, still shivering beneath the cover. Angel sat on the sand and placed the revolver next to her, prepared to keep a vigil through the long night.
After only a few minutes of inactivity, the chill air penetrated her thin shirt. She wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees and hugged them to her chest. A fire would have been welcome, but the flames and smoke would serve as a beacon to anyone out there. Better to shiver in the dark.
Once more, she reached over and laid fingertips against Rane’s exposed cheek. The fever still raged. He gave off more heat than a pot-bellied stove.
She stared at his dark head and bit her lip. She’d never known anyone like him. Was he brave, or simply too arrogant to believe in his own mortality?
He was a hard man, sometimes deadly. This was the image he cultivated. Still, at times she’d seen glimpses of...what? Softness? No. Goodness? Perhaps. He’d become a mass of contradictions. Brutality and gentleness. Ugliness and beauty. Inconsistencies that threw her into turmoil.
For reasons she didn’t fully understand, he’d chosen to stand between her and an army of money-hungry ruffians. He claimed to have his own purpose. But what could possibly be worth such a price?
Finally, giving in to the lure of the man and his heat, Angel lifted the cover and slipped in next to him.
Lying there shivering, he seemed so harmless. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer. Like a child in need of comfort, his dark head came to rest against her chest. He moaned softly and slid his arm across her waist. She
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