The Outlaw Read online

  Again a faint memory stirred in the far reaches of his mind, one Wolfe could not quite grasp.

  She stared in disbelief at the man glaring down at her. "I don't understand—"

  "Your buggy ran in front of my horse." Wolfe knew he sounded overly defensive, but didn't apologize. "It overturned and you were thrown out."

  "My buggy." Noel thought about that for a moment and decided this had to be another dream. "And you're Wolfe Longwalker."

  "You've got the wrong man," he lied gruffly.

  "No." She studied him, her solemn gaze moving slowly over his face. "It's you."

  "What do you want with Longwalker?"

  "I want to help him."

  It was his turn to study her. She appeared to be telling the truth. But there was still the unpalatable fact that if this mere woman could locate him out in the middle of nowhere, the posse would undoubtedly be close behind. Before he could respond, her eyes fluttered shut again and her hand fell to her side. Wolfe shook her shoulders in an attempt to rouse her, and failed.

  "Hell." Frustrated, he stood up, his hands braced on his hips and stared down at her. Nearby, his mare whinnied, as if reminding him that they didn't have all day.

  The woman was a pitiful sight. Her long yellow hair was wet and matted, bruises marred her face and her bottom lip was rapidly swelling from a cut she'd received in the accident.

  She was also too thin for his personal taste. Her breasts, barely covered by that immodest scrap of lace and silk were too small to make a decent handful, and her complexion, even for an Anglo, was too pale. Yet, even as he assured himself that he felt no attraction for this unconscious female, something about her inexplicably moved something deep inside him.

  Sympathy? Perhaps.

  Responsibility? Absolutely.

  He glanced up at the sky, at the drenching rain that showed no sign of stopping. He looked back toward town, half expecting to see the armed posse riding toward him. But there was only the towering red rocks, the green trees and, of course, the rain.

  Finally, he returned his gaze to the woman. To leave her here, at the mercy of the inclement weather, not to mention the wild animals that roamed the range, along with whatever else fate might have in store for her, would be unconscionable.

  On the other hand, to take her back to Whiskey River, where she could obtain the medical attention she needed and deserved would ensure his recapture. And his execution.

  His vexatious conscience warring with a deep-seated instinct for survival, Wolfe swore viciously. First in his native Navajo. Then in the language of the Anglos he'd learned to use to his own advantage in his writing.

  Finally, knowing he had no other choice, damning whatever gods—or, more likely, devils—had dropped her into his life, he scooped up the troublesome female and flung her across the back of his patiently waiting mare. Viewing the leather satchel lying near where she'd landed, he picked it up, as well, glanced inside it and saw that it seemed to contain books, which made him wonder if she could be a schoolteacher.

  He thought about the thin-lipped missionary teachers he'd suffered during his years away in boarding school. Then he thought of this woman's enticing undergarments. If she was a teacher, things had definitely changed since his school days.

  Cursing himself for a fool, he swung up behind her and began riding in the direction of the Road to Ruin.

  He'd hand off the woman, whoever she was, to Belle O'Roarke.

  And then, his duty done, he'd get back to the business of saving his own life.

  4

  Had the Road to Ruin been situated in the red-light district known as Whiskey Row, Wolfe wouldn't have risked returning. But Belle O'Roarke, to escape city council regulations, had opened for business several miles outside Whiskey River.

  Her whores—often "fallen girls" from respectable households back East—were famous for being the prettiest, the most well-mannered, the best-dressed— or underdressed—and most important, the cleanest girls in Arizona Territory.

  Breaking with tradition that tended to separate the establishments catering to various sins, the Road to Ruin had a saloon, a gambling hall and a bordello all operating under the same roof.

  The piano player was pounding out Scott Joplin's ragtime when Wolfe carried his still-unconscious charge up to Belle's kitchen door at the back of the two-story frame building.

  The madam herself opened the door at his first knock.

  "What the hell are you doin' here?" she asked, her eyes wide in her rosy face. "I figured that if you did manage to escape, you'd hightail it for the border."

  "I was on my way out of town when I got sidetracked."

  "So I see." Belle folded her arms across her abundant bosom, draped in emerald satin, and eyed the woman filing over his shoulder. "I don't suppose she's meant for me?"

  "I don't care what you do with her," Wolfe growled as he entered the steamy warmth of the kitchen that smelled of fresh-brewed coffee, wood burning, bacon frying and wet dog. "Just take her off my hands so I can get the hell out of here."

  "Who is she?"

  "I don't know."

  Belle grabbed hold of a handful of wet hair and jerked Noel's head up. "That's a helluva knot on her head. What happened?"

  "The fool ran her buggy into the path of my horse."

  "She was by herself?"

  "If she'd had a man to take care of her, I wouldn't be here," Wolfe said grumpily.

  "You didn't have to stop in the first place," Belle reminded him.

  "Yes." Wolfe sighed. "I did."

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Belle threw back her head and laughed. A ribald laugh that started way down in the gut and bubbled out as rich and warm as the hearty beef stew bubbling away on the back burner of the cast-iron stove.

  "You always have had a tendency to play Sir Galahad."

  Wolfe hated being flattered for something he considered a deep and vastly embarrassing personal flaw. "Why don't you just tell me where to put her?"

  "Mary's off visiting her cavalry officer in Prescott. You know, I think there may just be a marriage brewing there." Belle grinned. She was not one to begrudge her girls happiness whenever and wherever they could find it. "We can use her room. We'd better go up the back stairs, though," she decided. "No point risking anyone seein' you."

  He followed her up the narrow wooden servants' stairs and was making his way down the hall, when a door opened and a man came out of one of the bedrooms . Wolfe quickly turned toward the wall so as not to be recognized, but such evasive movement didn't prove necessary since Oliver Platt, president of the Whiskey River First National Bank and Trust, and founder of the Citizens for Decency League, scurried past in a dense cloud of bay rum, eyes directed to the carpet. Obviously, he was no more eager to be recognized than Wolfe.

  The woman the banker had been with leaned against the doorframe and eyed Wolfe with amusement. "I don't remember you ever carrying me up those stairs, Wolfe." Beneath a peroxide fringe of yellow curls, the woman's brown eyes danced with amusement.

  "I don't recall your ever needing carrying, Lucy," Wolfe answered. "Seems to me, you're usually dragging me upstairs."

  "Only because a good man is hard to find," Lucy responded saucily. She put a red-tipped fingernail into her mouth, tilted her head and gave him a lusty look. "Or is that a hard man is good to find?" she mused aloud. "I always get those mixed up."

  "You? Mixed-up?" Despite his dire circumstances, Wolfe laughed. "You've got a mind like a steel trap, Lucy, my love." He had, after all, seen her ledger book, where she kept diligent track of her earnings—deposited in an interest earning account in Oliver Platt's bank—earmarked to open a boardinghouse for miners in Jerome.

  Feeling momentarily lighthearted, he bent his head and kissed her pouting rouged lips.

  "I'd better get her into bed," Wolfe said when Noel moaned softly, garnering his attention.

  "Doesn't look like she's going to be much good there," Lucy observed. "You get tired of playing
nursemaid, Wolfe, sweetie, you know where to find me." She ran her bloodred fingertips seductively down the side of his cheek. Then, with a rich laugh, she sauntered down the hallway toward the stairs, obviously intending to join the festivities in the saloon.

  Hefting the unconscious woman a bit higher on his shoulder, Wolfe continued down the hall in the opposite direction.

  Noel's head was pounding and every bone and muscle in her body ached. Seeking relief from the pain, she shifted, feeling the cool rustle of satin sheets beneath her. A soft moan escaped her lips.

  "She's coming to," she heard a woman say through the mist draping her mind. The sweet scent of lilacs and roses drifted closer, mingling with the pleasant aroma of juniper wood emanating from a nearby fireplace. Along with the unmistakable scent of wet dog.

  "It's about time." Wolfe stroked a cool damp cloth across Noel's throbbing forehead. As she breathed in the soothing scent of lavender water, he continued to bathe her face, her neck, her shoulder blades. When he hit a tender spot, she flinched and moaned again.

  "Shh." He pressed a fingertip against her lip, then brushed her hair back from her forehead with an infinitely tender touch that belied the rough calluses on his fingertips. "It will be all right." The cloth continued its soothing journey down her right arm, and then her left. "You will be all right."

  Although it took an effort, she opened her eyes and looked directly into his. He was as dark, as handsome, as mesmerizing as he'd appeared in his photographs. He also looked too real to be a dream.

  But what else could he be? The last thing she remembered was driving her car through the rain. Perhaps she'd crashed and suffered a head injury, and he was merely a hallucination.

  "I realize this is a cliché," she managed to say through lips that were impossibly dry. "But could you please tell me where I am?"

  His eyes narrowed. "You're outside Whiskey River. In Arizona Territory."

  Territory. Not state. Noel noticed. "What year?"

  He exchanged a quick look with the older redheaded woman standing beside him. "It's 1896."

  This was impossible. He had to be a hallucination. She may have inherited Katia's gift of second sight, but Noel had never heard stories of her grandmother possessing the power to zap back and forth between centuries. Time travel? That was something for Jules Verne. For the crew of "Star Trek." Not for a serious, levelheaded woman who'd always kept both feet firmly planted on the ground.

  "It's 1896," she repeated, wanting to cling to the notion that somehow this was some hallucination born of a cracked skull. But she had the strangest feeling that it was all too true. "You must really be Wolfe Long-walker."

  His indigo eyes revealed not a scintilla of emotion. No kindness. No concern. "I told you before. You have the wrong man."

  "No." She shook her head on the satin pillow, wishing she hadn't when the gesture caused boulders to start tumbling around inside again. Her eyes drifted closed once more as she concentrated on overcoming the pain. "I don't." Although barely whispered, the words possessed an iron-clad certainty.

  "You poor little thing," Belle said with obvious sympathy. "You must be hurtin' something awful."

  "I've felt better," Noel allowed.

  "Don't worry, we'll fix what ails you with a little laudanum."

  The familiar word, which told her yet again that somehow she'd managed to land herself in the nineteenth century, infiltrated into Noel's consciousness. Although she felt as if she'd been run over by Burke's racing car, she had no intention of spending her honeymoon in some Swiss drug rehabilitation hospital. That being the case, the one thing she did know right now was that she certainly didn't want a dose of opium.

  "No." Her lips formed the words, but she wasn't certain she'd said them out loud. "Please. I'll be fine."

  Her faint protest proved unnecessary. About this, apparently, Noel and Wolfe were in agreement.

  "There's another way." He reached into the suede pouch tied around his waist and took out a piece of white willow bark which he handed to the buxom madam. "Boil this into a tea. It will soothe her pain."

  Belle shrugged. "If you say so. Though it seems like a lot of work to go to, when laudanum works just dandy." She left the room in a rustle of satin skirts.

  This time, when she opened her eyes, Noel's gaze was filled with gratitude. "Thank you. You're very kind."

  He shrugged. "I did not act out of kindness. There are already enough white women addicted to laudanum in Arizona Territory. I see no point in adding to the population."

  "Nevertheless, I appreciate it." Her formality matched his. She'd experienced more warmth suffering through boring royal dinners with visiting dignitaries.

  Her lips felt dry and cracked. When she licked them, he looped a strong arm around her shoulder and lifted her to a sitting position, allowing her to drink from the glass he held up to her mouth.

  The sheet slid away, revealing that someone had undressed her while she'd been unconscious. Embarrassed to have her bare breasts exposed to this man's heavily hooded dark eyes, Noel tried to remind herself that she'd grown up sunbathing on topless European beaches surrounded by strangers. When that didn't work, she tugged the sheet up to her chin and hoped it would stay there as she sipped the water he was offering.

  The finest champagne from the Montacroix vineyards could not have tasted so exquisite, or have been so appreciated. The water slid coolly down her throat like a soothing waterfall.

  "Thank you," she said again on a contented sigh as he lowered her to the pillow.

  She'd felt soft and warm in his arms, reminding Wolfe, more than that shared kiss with Lucy, exactly how long he'd been without a woman. Furious at the way his mutinous body had betrayed him, aching from the blood that had flooded into his groin at the sight of those pale, perfect breasts, Wolfe set his jaw and frowned down at her. "I told you—"

  "I know." Her refreshed lips curled into a soft smile. "Gratitude is unnecessary." Swallowing, this time to rid her throat of the strange lump of emotion that seemed to have settled there, she said, "However, it seems to me that when one person saves another's life, gratitude is in order."

  "A cooling drink is hardly saving another's life."

  "No. But we both know that I wouldn't have stood much of a chance if you'd left me out there in the mud and storm. With the wild animals. And heaven knows what the more unsavory members of that posse would have done if they'd come across me lying out there all alone. Without protection."

  The thought, not a pleasant one, had already occurred to him. The idea of those ruffians from town— men more likely to be wanted for heinous crimes themselves—abusing her in ways no woman should ever have to suffer, was the reason he'd brought her to Belle's.

  Hell, Wolfe figured grimly, if he didn't get out of here now, he may as well just ride back to town, stick his damn-fool head into the hangman's noose and be done with it.

  Wolfe grunted. "What posse?"

  "Don't do this." Ignoring the pain that jangled behind her eyes at the slightest movement, she sat up again and placed her hand on his arm. The muscle that tensed beneath her touch was as unyielding as a stone. It also matched the renewed hardness in his eyes. "I know that you're running from the law."

  He plucked her slender white hand from his sleeve. "Probably half the territory knows that by now."

  "I suppose they do. But I'm not from here."

  Although he laughed at that, there was not a hint of humor in the rough sound. "I may just be an ignorant half-breed, sweetheart, but I figured that out for myself."

  Noel had never possessed a temper. Chantal was the Giraudeau sister capable of fireworks. Yet the self-derision in his tone had her wanting to slap the sardonic smile off his lips.

  "I've read one of your books." When he didn't answer, she said, "Sand Paintings On A Hogan Floor. The stories were incredible. They came alive for me."

  "And now you've come to Whiskey River to meet the author."

  "Yes. In a manner of speaking."

&nb
sp; "In a manner of speaking," he repeated dryly.

  Hell, this entire farce was only about sex, Wolfe thought disgustedly. He'd seen it before, too many times to count, women who got a sexual thrill from bedding a man they considered only a step above a wild animal—his namesake—then sharing exaggerated, scandalous tales over afternoon tea.

  In the beginning, when he'd first begun traveling beyond Dinetah, the land of his people, he'd been flattered by the plethora of feminine attention. Stunningly beautiful, frighteningly aggressive women on two continents had shed their silks and satins, eager to sleep with a man so different from the ones in their privileged worlds. And Wolfe had enjoyed each and every one of them.

  For a while. Then he realized that anything too easily attained became boring. The idea that he'd been used as some type of exotic savage had also stung his male ego, but he'd overcome it. As he'd overcome so much else in his past.

  And on those rare occasions when the need for a woman built to an intolerably painful physical level, well, hell, that's what girls like Lucy were for. A quick roll between some hot sheets, then they both got on with their lives. No promises. No regrets.

  "Since you've come all this way to meet me," he said in a low deep voice that rumbled in the stillness of the room like the threatening growl of a wolf, "I suppose it would be a shame to send you back to wherever you came from disappointed."

  Before Noel could discern his intentions, his fingers tightened painfully on her chin and his unsmiling mouth swooped down like a hawk on a hapless, startled dove.

  Noel instantly forgot her throbbing head as the fierce kiss drained her mind of all reason and stole the breath from her lungs. When she gasped at the impact, he took full advantage, thrusting his tongue deeply into her mouth. Fingers of flame curled through her, firing an instantaneous yearning that was as unexpected and unbelievable as this entire situation. His mouth was rough and hot and every bit as possessive as the dark hand that settled deliberately over her bare breast.