Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance) (3 page)

Evangeline rose on wobbly legs and took a step to follow. She was tired of being tossed about like the object in a keep-away game. “What do you intend to do with me?”

He halted and turned, a small quirk flirting with an outer corner of his sinfully sensual mouth.

That she would notice such irrelevant details at a time like this completely unnerved her. How could she possibly find anything attractive about the man?

“Are you very sure you want to know, Angel?”

Her stomach clenched so hard, the water she’d just swallowed attempted to slide back up her throat. Not good, not good at all. He’d called her “Angel.” Her father had given her that pet name when she was a child. Only those closest to her referred to her so intimately.

Evangeline’s heart thudded harder. He’d been listening, she remembered. He’d stood in the shadows of the relay, watching her when the old driver had called to her by name.

He’d also been waiting there for her. What other conclusion could she draw? He knew who she was, even down to her nickname. If she had any gumption at all, she’d walk right up to him and slap his face. But she didn’t dare. He’d probably slap her back. Or worse.

Her insides turned a quick somersault. “Yes, I want to know. I hate surprises.” And, so far, the day had held nothing but.

“Your father’s involved in a range war.”

Several seconds elapsed before his words penetrated. Her jaw dropped, and she realized she was gaping at him like an utter fool.

“A range war! With whom?” So, this was the trouble she’d read between the lines of her father’s letter.

“Horace Lundy.”

“Horace Lundy!” She was beginning to sound like a shrill parrot. She planted her hands on her hips. “My father and Horace Lundy have been neighbors for thirty years. There’s never been any trouble between them.”

“Until your father put up a fence.”

This just kept getting more incredible. “Pa doesn’t believe in fences.”

“Things change,” he said.

“What things? And what does this have to do with me?”

“Horace Lundy’s got a bounty on you. By now, every hardcase along the border is out looking.”

“A bounty! For me! Why? What does he want with me?”

“I imagine he plans to use you as leverage.”

Her thoughts whirled in confusion. None of it made any sense.

“This is ridiculous,” she uttered at last. “I don’t believe it. Horace would never do something this despicable. He’s known me all my life. Do you really expect me to believe he’s got men out hunting for me because of a stupid fence?”

He waved a hand toward the dark, still form lying some distance away. “Someone should have told that to Jed Wiley.”

With maddening nonchalance, the stranger turned and started walking again.

Growing fury burned at her temples. Evangeline stared at the man’s proud, erect back. “So...what? Are you telling me you intend to deliver me to Lundy and collect the bounty?”

Once more, he paused and stared at the ground a long moment before swinging around to look at her. “Oh, I intend to take you to Lundy, all right. But not for the money.”

“If not money, then why?”

His obsidian gaze narrowed as cold resolve hardened across his features. “You’re now
my
leverage. Horace Lundy has something that belongs to me. Now, I have something he wants. I intend to make a trade.”

****

Evangeline was so exhausted, she could barely hold to the saddle horn.

“Easy, boy.”

She blinked as the stranger’s voice yanked her to awareness. Her mind had wandered. For how long, she didn’t know. Her eyes felt gritty, as if she’d been on the verge of sleep. But that was ridiculous. Under the circumstances, she wouldn’t dream of falling asleep. She pulled in a deep breath and immediately regretted it.

At the stranger’s insistence, she wore the filthy, salt-ringed hat that had belonged to the dead man, Jed. She hadn’t wanted to touch it, much less put it on her head. But he’d left her no choice. Now, the hat was tipped over the side of her face, shielding her against the lowering sun’s rays. And the smell...

The other side of her face pressed against something warm, solid, and infinitely more pleasant where masculine scents were concerned. How had she ended up getting comfortable with the stranger’s hard-muscled chest? Last she remembered, she’d been sitting sideways on the saddle in front of him, trying to maintain some distance.

A sinewy arm curved around her back, supporting her. She stalled, letting him think she’d fallen asleep while she grappled with self-disgust. The very last things she should be feeling were cozy and protected.

This man threatened to destroy everything she’d worked to accomplish in the past two years. Even if she managed to escape, should anyone in Clayton Station learn she was out here alone with him, her name would be blackened beyond anything time and a finishing school could repair. The gossips would rip her to shreds.

They stopped moving. Too curious to play coy any longer, she pulled away from him and sat up.

Her head reeled when she realized the stranger had brought them to a dead standstill at the very edge of a bluff. A movement of the horse’s hooves sent small stones skittering down the incline. She held the saddle horn in a death grip.

A blinding sun hovered just above the faraway horizon. Directly below, nearly hidden amid a tangle of brush and collapsed slipstone, stood the relic of a long-abandoned dwelling. The roof was gone and only four crumbling adobe walls remained.

She wondered if they’d reached their destination, but didn’t bother asking. During the ride, her abductor had proven to be a man of few words. In fact, he had been a man of no words at all.

Except for the low keening of the wind in the surrounding cliffs, an eerie stillness sat over the land. Beneath her, the stranger’s corded thighs tensed. A movement of his arm brushed her shoulder as he laid the reins against the horse’s neck. The signal sent the horse onto a path angling down the face of the cliff.

Tension coiled tighter through Evangeline. As they neared the bottom of the drop, another worry replaced her fear of falling. In the distance, the sun slipped below the horizon by quick degrees. Dread of the approaching night tied her insides into knots.

****

Rane moved through the darkness outside the adobe walls and paused to sling his saddlebags atop the chest-high barrier. Now that he’d finally stopped for the night, exhaustion crept over him. Thoughts of getting to Angel Clayton ahead of the bounty hunters had kept him moving much of the previous night. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, and a dousing with cold water hadn’t helped one bit.

The smell of simmering beans teased his nostrils. He’d spent the entire day riding, not even stopping long enough to eat. Hunger gnawed at him.

But as he watched the woman seated near the small fire within the ruins, a different kind of hunger seeped into his blood.

Earlier, against all odds, she’d relaxed against him while they rode. He suspected she’d even drifted off to sleep. The warm, feminine feel of her body still clung to him.

He watched as, pulling in a long breath, she drew her knees up beneath her skirt and wrapped her arms around them. Then she glanced down and tugged at the gaping fabric of her torn shirtwaist. No matter how she rearranged the bodice, a generous portion of cleavage remained exposed above her corset. More than enough to make his mouth water and lure his thoughts down a carnal path.

Firelight shimmered over her tumbled hair, turning it into threads of silver and molten gold. He already knew its softness, so fine it barely registered against the toughened pads of his fingers. The memory did nothing to turn his thoughts from touching her.

A tiny worry frown marred the space between her pale brows. Delicate, finely sculpted. How many women would sell their souls to possess such a face? Her lush lips captured his attention. More temptation. More forbidden fruit.

Angel Clayton.

Her exploits were legend along the river. He’d heard the stories of the skinny tomboy who rode alongside the rankest cowboys. She’d piled up quite a reputation, until her father took the situation in hand and sent her back east.

She was all grown up now. And underneath her eastern spit and polish lay more heart than most men possessed. He’d seen it earlier in the way she handled herself. But he expected no less. She was the daughter of Roy Clayton, a hard-boiled old cattleman with enough guts to fill a washtub.

Rane marveled at the hand Providence had played in their lives that day. If the timing had been different, if he had happened along just minutes later....

Purple bruises marred the sides of her pale throat. The sight angered him all over again. He felt no remorse about sending that filthy bastard straight to hell. He only wished he’d been given an excuse to dispatch his weasel partner as well.

She thinks you’re no different.

The voice of his conscience nagged at him. Kidnapping women wasn’t his style. He didn’t use others to get what he wanted. But Horace Lundy had no such qualms, and he wanted Angel Clayton. The wheels had already been set in motion. Rane had merely seized an opportunity.

He’d done her a favor. That was one way of looking at it. Left to the mercies of men like Jed, she’d probably end up dead before Lundy ever got the chance to bargain with her father. At least she’d wish she were dead.

If she only knew.

Perhaps she did. If not, he had no plans to reassure her. As long as she remained fearful of him, she wasn’t likely to attempt escape. He’d keep her safe, or die trying. But if she knew the thoughts tumbling through his mind each time he looked at her, she’d be fighting tooth and nail to get away from him.

Her pale beauty disturbed him. Challenged everything in him he’d tried so hard to civilize. He liked to think he was above the animal depravity of men like Jed Wiley. But she tempted his baser instincts, and that was one aspect of this venture he hadn’t figured on.

Sitting on the ground, soaking up the warmth given off by a small, nearly smokeless fire, Angel smothered a yawn. A continuous flow of adrenaline had kept her from feeling the punishment dealt her body that day. Until now.

Every sore, aching muscle screamed for rest.

But she couldn’t rest, not completely. Not while she still distrusted the stranger’s intentions. Not while he stood just on the other side of the wall, watching her every movement.

All her senses were attuned with an edgy awareness of him. Who was this brazen man? The searing intensity of his dark eyes sent curious chills racing up and down her body. The very air around him seemed charged with danger.

I’m not going to hurt you.

Each time she recalled his words, her resolve faltered. She wanted to believe him. This misery would be so much easier to bear if she knew she wasn’t in imminent danger every moment. But that would require some measure of trust on her part. Trusting him would be a mistake.

She wanted to ask him more about this range war between her father and Horace Lundy. Range war. The very words tightened her stomach. Were bullets flying at that very moment? If anything happened to her father...

She had to get home!

Again, she tugged at the torn edge of her shirtwaist. Her clothing was ruined, no longer fit to preserve modesty. She felt the stranger’s eyes follow the movement, and her heart stuttered.

Deliberately, she lifted her head and looked at him. “Excuse me. Señor Rainman? I have a request, if you’re not too busy.” She hoped he wasn’t too dense to recognize sarcasm.

“That’s not my name.”

Angel’s ears perked up. Did she hear a defensive note in his voice? Had she finally struck a nerve? And here she was beginning to think the man didn’t possess any that weren’t made of cold steel.

He skirted the crumbling wall, joining her inside the perimeter of the ruins. A deep, pale sickle scar angled through the blue-black shadow on the curve of his chin. Up close, his eyes—so dark and piercing—unsettled her even more.

She tried to conceal her gut reaction and met his steady gaze head-on. “What did you say?”

“I said, that’s not my name.”

“Then what should I call you?”

Abruptly, he lowered to one knee on the opposite side of the fire. Even that movement hinted of an inherent grace. After testing the heat with two quick touches of his fingertip against the handle, he pulled the pan of beans from the flames. “Rane,” he said. “Call me Rane.”

She watched, fascinated despite herself, as his exquisitely curved lips formed an O and blew against his fingertips.

“Rane,” she repeated. “Unusual name. And it doesn’t sound very...”

“Mexican?” he supplied. An amused glint sparkled in his dark eyes. The flames leaped, illuminating the upward curve of his disturbing lips. “You were expecting something like Juan or José?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Ránaldo Rafael de Mantorres,” he said, rolling the “R’s” to perfection. His smile slowly faded. “That’s my given name. But, like you, I’ve been stuck with a diminutive.”

She held silent. He was mocking her for some reason. Or himself. She couldn’t figure which. That the man even knew a word like “diminutive” stunned her speechless. She ran it over in her mind. Rane Mantorres. Easy to see where he’d gotten the “Rainman” moniker.