Wildfire in His Arms (12 page)

She casually walked to the door while he was busy in the corner. She had to check. When she tried to turn the doorknob and couldn't, she sighed. He'd locked it again. She was sure he had seen what she had just done, but he didn't remark on it.

She paced in the middle of the room briefly before she gave in to the urge and watched him shaving. The man really was a fine piece of work. But there was always a balance, wasn't there, since no one was perfect. His balance was too handsome but too dangerous.

“I used to do that for my pa before he took off,” she volunteered. “He liked everything smooth 'cept for the mustache he favored. I'm pretty good at it. Want me to show you?”

His laugh was spontaneous, but so brief she wondered if she'd really heard it. Then she realized that it was his way of telling her what he thought of her getting that shaving razor anywhere near his throat. But she was more interested in his having laughed, even if it was just a scoffing laugh, when he obviously didn't want to.

“Makes you uncomfortable to laugh, doesn't it?” she speculated.

She didn't expect an answer because he seemed to be concentrating on his shaving rather than on her, but she got one. “My profession prohibits emotion.”

“Because you kill people?” she guessed.

“There comes a point when you're fast enough with a gun that you don't have to kill. On the other hand, I've lost count of how many men I've had to wound, but they don't usually die from it.”

“Then you've never killed anyone, even in self-defense?”

“I didn't say that.”

He didn't say any more about it, either. Of course he was a killer. It was written all over him. She quietly watched him for another minute. He was being particularly slow and methodical now about getting the stubble off his face, maybe because she
was
ruining his concentration. She smirked. She could have done it quicker for him and without a single nick.

“So what do you actually do, besides get in gunfights?”

“I take jobs where my particular skill is useful.”

“A hired gun? And you've never taken a job to kill someone?”

“That's not a job, that's murder.”

She raised a brow. “You actually draw the line? That's good to know.”

No comment, so she let him finish what he was doing. She wanted to get some of that soap she liked so much before they vacated the room, so she rummaged through her bags, which were behind him by the tub, looking for her little leather pouch. When she found it, she emptied its contents into the tub.

Degan had turned around to look at her, probably because he didn't trust her that close to his back. “What are you getting rid of?”

“Gold dust.” She grabbed one of the soap jars and carefully poured the creamy soap into the pouch. “I panned a little when I first came up this way.”

“You'd rather have soap than gold?”

“That dust ain't likely to be worth much. This soap is more precious—to me.”

“Why didn't you just take one of the jars?”

“That'd be stealing.”

“And taking the soap isn't?”

“Course not. How would they know you didn't use it all up on that big, strapping body of yours?”

“Perhaps because I've been using the bathing room down the hall and the attendant knows it.”

“Oh. Well, so they'll charge you a few more pennies. What's done is done.” She stuffed the little pouch back in her bag. But then she frowned. “Will they even let me have a bath in jail?”

He'd already turned back toward the oval mirror. “I have no idea. I've never had occasion to see the inside of a jail cell.”

Course he hadn't. He'd probably shoot any sheriff who tried to arrest him. She moved away from him and headed straight for her coat. As long as he was currently distracted, it would be a good time to read her grandmother's letter. She took the envelope out of her coat pocket and ripped it open. Tears sprang to her eyes when she saw her grandmother's handwriting.

Dearest Max,

I've been so worried about you! I am overjoyed to hear from you and learn that you are well. I imagine these last twenty months have been even more of a hardship to you than they've been to me and Johnny. We miss you so much. I've been ailing. Please come home. Despite the tragedy that caused you to flee, I know you will be dealt with fairly if you just come home and explain—

Max's heart sank. What did her grandmother mean she was “ailing”? And by “tragedy” did she mean Carl had died?

“There's a satchel in my valise.” Degan's words cut into her thoughts. “Get it and tell me if you know any of the men on the wanted posters in it.”

Sniffing back tears so Degan wouldn't see them, Max stuffed the letter and the envelope back in her coat pocket. She'd finish reading it when she was alone in jail. She turned around and opened his valise. Removing the thin leather satchel, she saw her Colt under it and picked it up, too.

“Mind if I wear this?” she asked over her shoulder, holding the gun up. “I feel off-balance without the weight of it on my right hip.”

“I do mind.”

“But you emptied it.”

“It's still a heavy weapon.”

She made a face. Did he
have
to think of everything? She shoved it back in the valise and took the satchel over to the chair and opened it. She grabbed the stack of papers out of it and rifled through them.

After a moment she glanced his way again. “And why am I looking at these?”

“I need to bring in three of those outlaws before the marshal returns to Montana.”

“You planning on collecting us all before you turn us in? That's fine by me.” She grinned.

No answer. Figured. She came to her own poster and read the page of notes attached to it. “Says here I had no schooling.” She scowled. “That's a lie.”

“It's probably just an assumption based on your atrocious diction.”

She raised a brow at him. “You know it don't matter to me none if you don't like the way I talk.”

“I've already figured that out.” His lips curved slightly. She couldn't tell if it was a smile. Probably not. But she'd definitely heard some irony in his tone.

“It also says here I'm only fifteen. This information didn't come from Texas. Your friend must've gotten it from one of the farmers near here that I traded with.”

“That's possible since he knew you were in the area.”

She read aloud, “ ‘Max Dawson is more dangerous than he looks.' Now
that's
funny.”

“But accurate.” Degan rubbed the area on his chest that her boot had struck.

She rolled her eyes and finished looking at the posters. She'd come across two of these men in her travels. Three others she'd heard about. Only one other had a reward as big as hers, Charles Bixford, a vicious killer of fifteen people, who was also known as Red Charley. It infuriated her that she was likened in any way to such a cruel, dangerous man. It didn't make sense, even if Carl had died from that gunshot wound. Why did the people of Bingham Hills want her back so badly? And why was her grandmother telling her to come home when there was such a high price on her head?

“So what's in it for me if I help you?” she asked in a surly tone.

“I haven't decided yet.”

What the hell did that mean? Of course he wouldn't say even if she asked, so she didn't ask. But she wasn't going to help him, either, when it was obvious he was going to be the death of her. So she stuffed the posters back in the satchel and tossed it over by his valise. And crossed her arms, daring him to ask her again for help so she could laugh in his face.

Max didn't get the chance to scoff at him. He probably got the idea that she wasn't going to help him from the mulish set of her chin, so he didn't mention the posters again. He simply put his shaving gear away, picked up his things, and
her
coat, then said, “Let's go.”

She was beginning to hate those two words. But she didn't budge and held out her hand. “My coat first.”

“No.” He tossed the long garment over his shoulder. “You're clean. Let's leave it that way for a while.” She still didn't budge, so he added, “You don't need to hide that you're a woman when you're with me. Besides, your vest does that well enough.”

She hated when he was right. The sheriff was going to find out, or more likely be told, that she was a woman anyway, so there was no point in fighting for a lost cause.

She conceded, but since he appeared to be leaving the hotel for good, she was curious enough to ask, “Are you forgetting your meeting with that detective tomorrow?”

“People I don't know don't get to dictate my schedule. If it's important, the detective can catch up with me. If not, then it wasn't important.”

“You really do things your way or no way, huh?”

He didn't answer, but he didn't march her straight out of his hotel. Once again, he stopped at the desk in the lobby. She took her last chance to escape, dropping her things and bolting out the door while he was paying for his stay and maybe leaving a note for that detective. She expected to feel the sting of his bullet at any second. She might even have been shot already and just hadn't heard or felt it because her heart was pounding so hard in her ears. But nothing stopped her so she kept on going.

This town had hundreds if not thousands of places she could hide in until dark. Then she could sneak into the stable for her horse and be long gone before morning. She picked the one place Degan wouldn't look for her, his own hotel.

Racing around to the back of the large building, she made sure Degan wasn't right on her tail before she ducked through the delivery entrance. She took a moment to catch her breath and calm her racing heart, then she grinned. She'd done it! Outfoxed the fox!

“You're too predictable,” Degan said behind her.

“You didn't see me come in here!” she accused without turning.

“I didn't need to. I knew you weren't going to run off without your soap.”

Did the gunfighter just make a joke? She sensed that he found the situation amusing, which snapped her temper. Without replying, she whirled around and elbowed him hard and turned to kick him where it would hurt the most. Unfortunately, he deflected that blow, the one that would have enabled her to race off again. He put a steely arm around her shoulders and walked her back through the hotel. She knew there was no getting out of that grip, but she did try, struggling, all the way to the lobby.

She supposed she should be grateful that he didn't give her that bullet he'd promised her. Of course he hadn't actually had her in his sights. Or had he? Maybe he had seen her before she'd rounded the corner of the building, which would have been how he'd guessed she'd reentered the hotel. There was nowhere else in that back alley where she could have hidden. Had he resisted the urge to shoot her? It didn't really matter when he'd caught her anyway. Again.

He let go of her when he stopped at the hotel desk again, but his eyes followed her when she moved to pick up her saddle­bags, which were still in the middle of the lobby where she'd dropped them. She gauged the distance between herself and Degan, then eyed the door. So she was the first to see the pretty lady who walked through it. Black hair wound up in ringlets and coils, an adorable little hat perched atop it. Layers and layers of silk and lace, with a coat swept back to form a bustle behind her. She was gussied up fancy enough for a ball. Max had never seen anyone like her.

The young woman stopped in her tracks when she noticed Degan, her blue eyes suddenly as wide as they could get. Max was getting used to that reaction to him. The lady would probably bolt back out the door now. . . .

“Degan?” the lady said. “Degan Grant? At last I've found you, darling.”

D
EGAN COULDN
'
T BELIEVE HIS
eyes. This was insane! Allison Montgomery in Helena? He was so sure he'd never see her again, but here she was and looking as beautiful as he remembered. Old memories flowed through him, good and bad. But his last memory of her prevailed because it had haunted him the longest. He closed his mind to it and to her, which was the moment Degan realized Max was gone.

He ran across the street to the stable where he'd left their horses. He hoped he'd catch her saddling her horse, but he should have known she wouldn't be that dumb. She wouldn't have risked the time it would have taken when she couldn't count on his being distracted for long, and he hadn't been. But the arrival of Allison Montgomery had shocked him, which had been long enough for Max to slip away unnoticed.

He told the stableman to guard her horse with his life and gave him some extra money to make sure it didn't get stolen. She would want to leave town, so she would try to get to it eventually. She wouldn't steal another. The woman refused to spend money that wasn't hers, so she definitely wouldn't steal a horse. But she could sweet-talk some man into letting her ride with him.