Outlaw (40 page)

Beneath her, Nathan Sharpe lay momentarily
still. Dazed, she guessed, if the look on his face was anything to
go by. So was she. Amelia looked for Mason and Ben, and saw only
stars.

Finally she spotted them, hand in hand just
behind her at the edge of the lantern light. Mason's expression
spun through a kaleidoscope of emotions—first astonishment, then
understanding. Then wretched indecision. He shifted his weight
forward and back, frowning toward her.

"
Go
," she hissed. "Ben's safer with
you."

He lowered his weapon, holstered it. And
then she had no more time to look. The Sharpe brother flailed
beneath her, rolling to get free. Shrieking for all she was worth,
Amelia let him roll her into the dirt. She beat her fists against
his bony chest.

"Help! Help!"

"Shut up, you bitch!" he ground out,
gasping. She lurched atop him instead.

"Get off me!"

He shoved her aside, sending her scraping
amongst the fallen leaves on her backside. Determined, Amelia
launched herself toward him again, still screaming for help. His
elbow gouged into her stomach. Panting, Amelia whacked his arm
away.

"Help! Help, he's attacking me!"

Choking dust puffed up around them. Amelia
coughed and yelled louder. Thank heaven for drunken, clumsy men.
Thank heaven for the darkness that would muddle their struggle—and
send the sounds of it that much clearer toward the sheriff and his
men.

Blessing her good fortune, she dropped
backside-first onto the Sharpe brother's chest, kicking her feet
into the air like her brothers always did when they wrestled with
each other back home. Then she dug her balmorals into the dirt and
bounced again, teetering madly.

Thank heaven for brothers.

"Ooof!" He reared up, suddenly strong with
fury and liquor, and sent her flying into the dirt. Swearing, he
tackled her. His body weight crushed away her breath. Amelia kicked
wildly, the edges of her vision growing dark.

Where was the sheriff? Surely he hadn't been
that far away. Groaning with the effort, she twisted her neck to
look toward the
cantina
.

And saw Mason and Ben melt into the shadows
behind it.

Safe
.

"Ma'am? Ma'am!" Masculine voices and lantern
light surround her. The weight of Nathan Sharpe vanished as one of
the posse hauled him from atop her. More dust rose around Amelia,
stirred up by the sheriff and his men. Coughing, she lowered her
cheek to the ground, trying to catch her breath.

She just wanted to rest. Ignoring for the
moment the Sharpe brother's slurred protests and the lawmen's
gentle inquiries about her safety, Amelia found herself staring
toward the
cantina
. She scanned the empty alleyway behind
it, and smiled.

They were safe.

She'd managed to rescue Mason after all,
just as she'd promised.

Rescued him straight out of her life, Amelia
thought. Crushing sadness replaced her relief at their safety. And
then the world went black.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

One week later

Hermosillo, Mexico

The house looked larger than Amelia had
expected, especially tucked as it was beside a field greening with
new crops, a half-mile or so distant from the main Ruiz farmhouse.
Made of adobe with two small glass windows and a broad
ramada
sheltering the porch and entryway, it looked
comfortable and serene.

Exactly the opposite of the way she
felt.

Breathing deeply, Amelia fought the urge to
fuss with her hair yet again—and smoothed down her skirts,
instead.

Her fingers trembled within the pale-pink
folds of her new gown, chosen with particular care for the
occasion. When she'd taken it from the box to show Juana before
leaving Picacho Peak, her friend had exclaimed over its fineness,
its fashionable cut, and its becoming color. At the time, Amelia
had agreed. Now, on the brink of the biggest risk she'd ever dared
take, worrying over something like a dress seemed trivial,
indeed.

Would Mason be happy to see her? Would he
speak to her at all, or would she only anger him by arriving in
Mexico unexpectedly? Since the night of the
fiesta
, she'd
turned those questions round and round in her mind, seeking
something to make up her mind.

Only two things remained constant. The
first, that she loved Mason Kincaid with all her heart, wherever he
chose to live. The second, that Ameila would be unable to forgive
herself if she didn't at least try, one last time, to be with
him.

"Are you scared,
Señorita
?"

Manuel Ruiz, seated beside her as he drove
the wagon up the lane to the house, tossed out the question with
all the nonchalance of someone with nothing to lose. To her
surprise, when she'd returned to Picacho Peak after Mason and Ben's
escape, Manuel had been the first to offer to help her. Over
Juana's good
chalupas
and coffee, he'd told her all he knew
about where Mason had gone.

And then he'd offered to take her there.

"A little scared," Amelia admitted, glancing
over at him. Ahead, the house drew nearer and nearer in the warm
morning sunlight. She wiped her damp palms on her skirt. "He never
said he wanted me here, Manuel."

"He would be
loco
not to," he said.
"I was wrong about you. Mason will see that he was, too."

Rapping the horses sharply with the reins,
Manuel urged them into a trot. Amelia slid and bumped across the
seat, trying to catch hold of the edge for balance. Finally she
succeeded, and the ride became a little less tooth-jarring.

"I hope you're right," she whispered.

A little ways from the house's front door,
Manuel pulled the team to a stop. Dust churned from beneath the
horses' hooves as they slowed and then stopped, snorting and
tossing their heads. Setting the brake with his foot, Manuel looked
at her.

"Do you want me to go in with you?"

What Amelia wanted was to have the deed
already done, to have this uncertainty ended. But that was
something no one else could give her. Manuel was kind to offer, but
this was something she would have to do alone.

"Thank you," she said, "but I think I can do
it."

She rose, smoothing her dress with all the
meticulous care her trembling fingers could manage. At least a full
minute later, she raised her hand to pat down her hair, too.

Manuel's fingers closed gently on her wrist
before she could.

"You look
bello
," he said gruffly.
"Beautiful." He nodded toward the house, which remained undisturbed
despite their arrival. "Go. If you need me, the main house is only
a short walk away."

"All right." Amelia stared toward the porch
and
ramada
, trying to imagine herself walking bravely up to
that door. Knocking. Seeing her whole life change in an
instant.

Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed
Manuel's dusty, bristly cheek. "Thank you," she said. "For
everything."

What she needed, she decided, was
determination. Amelia summoned all she could, breathed deeply, then
climbed from the wagon in a flurry of pink and lace. Heart
pounding, she straightened and held up her hands for her
baggage.

Manuel frowned. "Are you sure,
Señorita
?" he asked. "I can always return with your things
later."

"No," she replied, trying to smile. "If I'm
to do this, I might as well do it fully."

She pulled down the nearest rubber cloth
satchel herself, then Manuel handed her the rest of the pieces one
by one. A hatbox. Her J.G. O'Malley and Sons satchels. Another
hatbox. And several fine leather suitcases she'd borrowed from her
brothers for her trip to the west. Before long, a small pile of
assorted baggage rested at her feet.

"I hope Mason knows all he is getting,"
Manuel said with a grin. "You travel with more things than my
burro
does."

Amelia laughed, hefting a suitcase in each
hand. "I just hope he still wants all of it," she said.
Especially me
.

Glancing over her shoulder toward the house,
her expression sobered. "Thank you Manuel. I'll come to the main
house later and tell you know how everything turns out."

He raised his
sombrero
. "Good luck,"
Manuel said, and then he spurred on the horses and was gone in a
trail of dust, leaving Amelia standing alone beside her pile of
baggage.

Gripping her suitcase handles tightly,
Amelia turned toward the house.
Dear heaven, let Mason still
want me
, she prayed. Otherwise, she'd truly gotten herself into
a fix this time.

The knock on the door came just as Mason was
setting the noon meal on the table for Ben. He carried the plate,
still steaming, to the table and set it down beside the glass of
milk already there.

The boy wrinkled his nose. "Scrambled eggs
again?" he complained. Picking up his fork with a resigned air, Ben
poked a curdy bit of yellow egg. Then he squashed it beneath his
fork tines.

Mason sensed what was coming next, but was
powerless to stop it. For what had to be the millionth time this
week, his son propped his head forlornly in his hands and said,
"I'll bet Miss O'Malley cooks real fine, Pa. Can't we ask her to
visit for a spell? Please? Please—please—please—please—"

The knock had saved him. Mason abandoned his
own plate of eggs, swiveling his head toward the sound. He stood.
"Those eggs are good for you," he said, speaking sternly as he
crossed the big room that housed the kitchen and living area alike.
"Eat."

Mason stopped at the door, his hand on the
latch. His heart hammered. Even knowing that no one would pursue
him and Ben all the way to Mexico, even knowing that no lawman
could bring him in from
Sonora
, he still felt the same way
every time an unexpected knock came at the door.

Trapped.

Frowning, he yanked open the door. Air
rushed in, someone stepped forward—and rapped him sharply on the
nose.

"Oh!" Amelia O'Malley shrieked, retreating a
pace. "I meant to knock on the door."

Mason stared, feeling befuddled. Surely he'd
gone round the bend. Curly Top couldn't be there, standing on his
doorstep. She was in Tucson—or Big Trout Pond by now, for all he
knew. He was in Mexico with Ben. He'd have sworn he was imagining
her—except the bridge of his nose still stung.

"Surprise!" she squeaked, rising up on her
tiptoes.

Her cheeks colored dusky pink, bright with
what he figured was nervousness. Or insanity. She'd have to be
half-loony to have followed him all the way to a country where she
couldn't speak the language and didn't know a soul.

Except him and Ben.

Maybe they were both crazy.

"I—I—" Her lips trembled, a sign Mason
recognized well enough as impending tears. "I hope you aren't
mad."

"Mad?" Mason repeated, feeling dazed. She
was really, really there. Curly Top had really come for him. Outlaw
or no, Amy loved him well enough to follow him all the way to
Mexico—even believing, as she likely did after all he'd said, that
he didn't want her there.

She dropped two suitcases on the porch at
her feet. A mountain more lay piled on the path behind her. She
looked up at him, and determination showed plain on her face.

Dog-stubborn determination.

Opening the purse swinging from her wrist,
Amy withdrew a folded paper and held it toward him. "At least hear
me out," she said.

"Hear you out?" Fully aware that he probably
sounded a lack-wit, and caring not in the least, Mason looked from
the paper to Amy's face.

Lord, she looked beautiful. Just as he'd
dreamed so many nights over this past week. And now she was
here.

"Yes." She frowned, waggling the paper.
"Mason, you're a free man. The Sharpe brothers dropped their
charges. They went back east the day after the
fiesta
."

He moved nearer and raised his hands to her
arms, stroked the smooth warmth of her skin. Mason looked into her
eyes, and all he saw there was love. Love for him.

"All that time," Amy went on doggedly,
speaking quickly as though she was afraid he'd stop her, "the
sheriff was looking for you to tell you so. They know you're
innocent."

She frowned slightly, looking confused.
"Aren't you listening? You're a free man." She shook the paper in
her hand. "It's all in this letter."

"To hell with the letter."

Mason pulled her close, crushing the paper
between them. When he lowered his mouth to hers, it was the
sweetest kiss they'd ever shared. Cradling her head in his hands,
Mason held the woman he loved, and kissed her as thoroughly as he
knew how. Their mouths met, hot and eager and seeking, and with Amy
beside him, he knew what it was to finally be loved.

When the kiss ended she leaned back, her
body trembling in his arms. Her cheeks reddened even further, and
Mason knew this time it was passion—and not nervousness—that caused
her to blush. Amy's gaze, blue and wary, met his.

"James is watching over your farm at the
Gila River," she said hurriedly. "And he's rounded up a bunch of
the station hands to—"

Mason kissed her again, quickly.

"—to start the planting there before it's
too late. And all the wanted posters are gone, and the sheriff even
put an announcement in the newspaper to—"

Mason kissed her again, more slowly this
time. Eyes closed, he sought the letter in her hand—and tossed it
to the floor.

"You're not listening!" Amy protested, her
brows wrinkled with worry. "That's the proof of your freedom. It's
important."

"Not as important as this," Mason murmured,
bringing his lips down on hers again. Finally her arms came around
his neck. Gradually she kissed him back, and by the time he raised
his head again, Amy leaned limply against him. Her fingers stroked
the nape of his neck, ticking the fine hairs there.