Beautiful Bandit (Lone Star Legends) (3 page)

“Wednesday.”

“Is it—is it still May?”

This country was ripe with swindlers, each with a unique scheme to steal a man blind. Could it be that she had donned this clever disguise to relieve him of his family’s money? “Yep, still May.”

She dropped her hands but kept her eyes fixed on the fire. “Did I hear you say you’re returning from San Antonio?”

He answered yes, thinking he’d have to be deaf not to hear the strain in her voice.

“We aren’t, by any chance, headed to Mexico, are we?”

Maybe she had suffered a blow to the head. She’d said “we.” Did that mean she expected to travel with him from here on out? Josh sure hoped not. Because the last thing he needed was a woman adding to his worries. Especially one without a horse. And one who reeked of trouble.

He picked up the whitebrush branch again and shoved the pointy end into the fire. For all he knew, she had a derringer tucked into one of those little boots; the glowing end of the stick might just come in handy if she decided to aim it at him. “We’re a good three days’ ride outside of Eagle Pass.” Josh didn’t know why, but when she blinked in response to his curt tone, he gentled his voice. “Mexico—is that where you’re headed?”

“Yes. At least, I think so.”

That was an afterthought, if ever he’d heard one. But something told him that he could hammer at her all night and still end up with more questions than answers. Better to let her finish the meat, have another swallow of water, and get a couple of hours of sleep. Maybe her memory—if that was her problem—would wake with her at first light.

Once she’d finished devouring every crumb of biscuit that had fallen into her lap, Josh tidied his makeshift bed and helped her slide into it. For a minute there, as she blinked up at him gratefully, he was tempted to press a comforting kiss to her forehead, the way he did when tucking in his sister’s little boy for the night. “G’night,” he murmured instead, fighting the urge.

In place of a reply, she treated him to a shy, little smile that started his heart to pounding like a parade drum. Josh blamed his reaction on the life-altering events of the past few weeks—events that, one by one, had threatened to make him stagger. Since Sadie, no woman had turned his head, and he couldn’t allow himself to acknowledge that the waiflike woman near the fire could change that fact, even if she was the cutest little slip of a thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

Wrapping himself in Callie’s saddle blanket, Josh leaned back against the tree where she was tied, smiling to himself as the woman slipped into a fitful slumber. His grin faded, though, when she began to mutter and groan. In the fading firelight, he saw her expression change from worry to horror. “What do you make of it, Callie?” he whispered.

The horse snorted, as if to say, “You’ve got me by the feet.”

The woman hadn’t seemed able to bring herself to look at him, whereas Josh couldn’t make himself look away from her. Even contorted by apparent anguish, her face reminded him of an innocent angel, and he shook his head, wondering about his earlier wariness. Without all that grit and grime, she’d likely be downright gorgeous, he thought.

The mare bobbed her head as if she agreed with his silent assessment.

When the sun rose, maybe its rays would reveal evidence of a head injury to explain his midnight visitor’s peculiar behavior. In the meantime, Josh could count two good reasons to content himself with watching her sleep.

For one thing, she had the prettiest face he’d ever seen. She was prettier than any of his sisters. Prettier, even, than Sadie, though he felt like a lout admitting that, even to himself. For another, as long as he kept a guarded eye on her—and kept his boots on—the money his family would use to repopulate their herds would remain safe.

If only he could be as sure about the safety of his heart.

4

Kate felt terrible about lying to the good-looking cowboy, but what other choice did she have? He could have been an off-duty Texas Ranger, for all she knew. Or, worse, some ruffian who’d once ridden with the Frank Michaels Gang.

He was kind to share his food and water and to insist that she take his bed near the fire. And it had been mighty nice that he hadn’t pressed her for too many details, especially considering it was plain to see he was chomping at the bit to learn more—lots more—about her history.

He looked vaguely familiar, but that didn’t surprise her. She’d lost count of how many men had visited Silky’s as they’d passed through town. Maybe this soft-spoken, trail-weary fellow had been one of those who’d asked her to sing his favorite ballad.

On the off chance he was just an ordinary man, going about his ordinary business, he was far better off—and far safer—not knowing the truth about her. In the morning, after she’d gotten directions to Mexico, she’d ask his name and pray for his well-being as she headed south.

In the meantime, she figured she’d better come up with a new identity for herself. Even if the cowboy didn’t resume his interrogation, she was bound to run into someone else between here—wherever “here” was—and Mexico, and the next inquisitive fellow might not be a gentleman.

And then, there was the matter of the wanted poster that featured her portrait. Hunger and thirst had driven her into the last town she’d passed. As she’d stood, gawking, at the black-and-white likeness of herself, Kate’s heart had beat so hard, she’d worried it might just burst clean through her shirt. “WANTED,” the top line said, and below it, “KATE WELLINGTON, DEAD OR ALIVE.” Beneath that, “FOR MURDER AND ARMED BANK ROBBERY.” And, finally, in bigger, bolder letters, “REWARD.”

What a silly little fool she’d been, believing no one had been witness to what had happened that day in the bank. It was yet another reason to change her name. And she’d stop wearing her hair loose and free, the way the artist had drawn it in the picture, and style it in a sensible bun. She’d also trade her attractive dress for humdrum attire. The changes would save her skin, and if they spared the cowboy from having to choose between letting her go and delivering her to the Texas Rangers, who’d make her one of the only women in history to be sent to the gallows, they’d be worth every uncomfortable moment.

She agonized over it all night, pulling at his scratchy, brown blanket, punching at the ratty quilt he’d rolled up to be used as a pillow, then berating herself for how spoiled she’d become. The third-floor bedroom Etta Mae provided as part of Kate’s weekly pay came furnished, complete with thick towels and crisp, white sheets, a colorful coverlet, and a fat, feather pillow. On her small balcony, she could sit, sipping tea, as she smiled and waved to the townsfolk down on Main Street. And when the delectable scents of chicken-fried steak and beef stew woke her taste for solid foods, she had a standing invitation to help herself to anything in the kitchen, any old time her hungry heart desired. She could almost taste the melt-in-your-mouth mashed potatoes and vine-ripened tomatoes served by Dinah and Theodore, Etta Mae’s cooks.

Kate had grown accustomed to her pampered lifestyle, but those days were long gone, thanks to her fanciful, doltish decisions of late. If she hoped to fulfill her dream of sending money to the families of Frank’s victims—and she most certainly did—she realized she’d need to learn to make do with rough covers, unyielding head cushions, and scarce food. She’d better get used to clothes that looked like she’d borrowed them from a scarecrow, too.

The thought brought her attention to her soiled shirt and tattered skirt. How could she expect a future employer to hire her when she looked like a ragamuffin? And yet, with no money, and no prospect of procuring any, how would she replace her ragged outfit? Discouraged, Kate exhaled a weary sigh.

Dwelling on the situation won’t change it, she scolded herself, so don’t! Her thoughts and energy would be better spent on solving her dilemma, starting with putting herself on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande. The Texas Rangers’ jurisdiction stopped at the border, though, in all truthfulness, dying at the end of a rope seemed a far, far easier way to go than enduring whatever torture Frank would inflict—before ending her life.

The fear welling up inside her reminded Kate of a day from her childhood, when the mighty Mississippi had surged above its banks, feeding on houses and businesses like a raging, gluttonous fiend. Miraculously, she and her mama had escaped the water’s greedy appetite, but many others hadn’t been so lucky. If she closed her eyes, Kate could still hear their terrified cries for help. She could pray for another miracle like that, but why would God answer the prayers of a sinner like her?

Swallowing hard, Kate licked her lips. A sip from her rescuer’s canteen sure would taste good right about now. She lifted her head and saw him staring toward the horizon. What had captured his attention so completely? The Rangers, maybe. Or Frank’s gang. She needed to leave this place. Leave this man. Because, whether the approaching riders were lawmen or lawbreakers, he could pay a hefty price for helping her.

If she could depend on her traitorous, pampered feet, she’d grab one of his canteens and run for the border. But logic quickly fizzled that thought. Even if she knew which way to go, he’d saddle his horse and catch up to her in no time. He’d been kind and gentle so far, but then, she hadn’t riled him, either.

You could try honesty for a change, you little ninny….

Maybe. Yes, that might just work. If she played her cards right, perhaps he’d offer her one of his canteens, or even loan her a dollar or two, provided her story was pitiful enough. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to pay him back.

Just listen to you! You’re turning into a little swindler, hardly better than Frank Michaels, himself! She’d come from hard and humble beginnings yet had never been tempted to steal or beg. Did having both sides of the law on her trail excuse her sinful thoughts? Kate didn’t think so. But she couldn’t risk putting this kindly cowboy in danger just to save her own skin.

The world began to glow with deep, purple light, indicating that the sun would soon rise. Kate rolled over in her crude bed. Not much time left to dream up a believable story, she told herself. Her stomach churned, telling her with each growl and grumble that the food the cowboy had shared last night hadn’t done much to ease her days-old hunger. Oh, for another bite of stale bread and salty beef!

The thought of eating made her think again about Etta Mae’s cook, Dinah, and her strapping husband—also Etta Mae’s manservant—Theodore. Dinah, who was Irish, and Theodore, who had been born in London, had moved to San Antonio by way of New York City and Chicago. With no children of their own, they were only too happy to treat Kate like a surrogate daughter. “Etta Mae told me about yer brutal da,” Dinah had said to Kate just a few months ago. “It does me old heart good, Katie-girl, that ye took the high road.” The older woman would always roll her eyes at the painted gals known as “Etta’s Girls.” “I know ye’d make more money doin’ what they do for a livin’, but, ah, the price ye’d pay to drop those extra coins into yer purse on payday!”

Kate had been proud of herself when that conversation had ended, but she didn’t feel that way now. But she had no one to blame but herself for the self-loathing swirling in her heart, for her own poor choices had put her on this tough and lonely road. She could only hope that smarter decisions in the future would put her back on the right road again.

Just then, the idea popped into her head so quickly, it was all she could do to keep from bolting upright and shouting, “Yes! That’s it!”

“Well, you gonna sleep all day?”

The sudden sound of the cowboy’s voice startled Kate, and she muffled her squeal in the bristly bedroll. Land sakes! She’d become a jumpy little wretch. Just because Frank Michaels was a brute and a beast didn’t mean this man would duplicate the torture he’d inflicted on her! Tossing the blanket aside, she got to her feet. “Do I smell coffee?”

“You do, but don’t get your hopes up—all I’ve got to go with it is jerky. And some more biscuits, if you’re tempted.”

“Sounds like manna from heaven.” She shook the dust from the blanket, then began folding it into a tidy square. “Anything I can do to help?”

In place of an answer, he looked at her feet. “Not limping much this morning, I see.”

She returned his friendly smile. “Amazing what food, water, and a good night’s sleep will do for a girl.” He didn’t need to know that she’d hardly slept a wink.

“Don’t know where my mind was last night,” he said, handing her a blue mug speckled with white. “Clean forgot to introduce myself.”

“I forgot a few things, myself,” Kate admitted as the sharp scent of fire-brewed coffee floated into her nostrils. She held out her right hand. “Dinah Theodore,” she said when he took it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Josh. Josh Neville.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry grin. “So, where are you from, Dinah Theodore?”

It sounded odd hearing her new name spoken aloud that way. “Chicago, originally. Moved to San Antonio with my father, who worked for the railroad.” At least that last part was true.

His left brow rose slightly, the way Etta Mae’s always did when she caught one of her ladies in a fib. Maybe Kate didn’t have to worry about becoming a savvy liar, after all. But before the good-looking cowboy started asking about Chicago—questions she wouldn’t be able to answer, as the only thing she knew about the place was that Dinah and Theodore had been married there—she helped herself to the smallest biscuit. Tearing it in half, she returned the rest of it to the pie tin. “So, which way is Mexico?”