A Promise of Roses (2 page)

"Yeah,
Ev
.
We don't
gotta
keep these dang things on, do we?"

Evan cocked an eyebrow, holding Megan's gaze.
“Nope.
Our little prisoner here won't be telling anybody who we are. Will you,
Meggie
?"

"Of course not,” she answered. She had no intention of describing these men to anyone—except Marshal Thompson, the
Leavenworth Daily Times
, and the
Kansas Weekly Herald
.

But now that the outlaws were revealing themselves to her, she had to do some serious planning on how to get away. She wasn't naive enough to think they would let her live after she'd seen their faces.

Evan pulled his red handkerchief down around his neck and gave Megan an engaging smile. She had been fully prepared for the outlaw leader to resemble the back end of a bull moose. Instead she faced a handsome, dark-haired man with sparkling brown eyes. Without a doubt,
Dougie
was Evan's younger brother. They had the same chestnut hair and high cheekbones.

Frank made Megan's skin crawl. His black hair fell far past his shoulders in matted tangles. She thought the ends might have dangled into his supper on more than one occasion. A scar circled his neck, but she wasn't close enough to determine if it had been caused by the blade of a knife or an uncomfortably tight rope. Either way, he had escaped from some sort of deadly trouble. Megan made a note to avoid Frank as much as possible.

Tommy seemed to be about
Dougie's
age—sixteen, if she didn't miss her guess. Hair the color of summer wheat tumbled into green eyes filled with adolescent excitement.

And then there was Luke, the one who had shot the pistol right out of her hand. He was a good shot, she'd give him that much. He hadn't so much as nicked her with that little trick. His bandanna remained over the bottom half of his face.

When he noticed her gaze upon him, he gave a wink and tugged the brown material down over the bridge of his nose, the pale pink of full lips, and the slope of a strong chin in need of a shave. Megan swallowed and lifted her eyes back up to his. They shimmered like chips of ice melting in the hot summer sun. Oh, yes, she would remember him.

"Have a seat, will you,
Meggie
?” Evan waved to the four chairs surrounding a lopsided table. “No sense acting like complete strangers, now is there?"

Megan arranged one of the chairs at an angle so she could keep the whole room in view. Frank leaned over, lifted the table, and pulled a deck of cards out from under a leg. The table thudded back to the floor, teetering precariously.

"Deal me in.”
Dougie
straddled a chair and rested his elbows on the table, which then slanted to the other side.

"We need some grub,” Frank said, but he made no move to do anything about it.

Evan nodded. “Tom, Luke, you go into town and see what you can find. Take money from the strongbox if you need it."

Tommy bent over and shook the padlock.

"Don't bother,” Luke said in a low voice. “I've got some cash on me. No sense getting into that yet."

"I agree,” Evan said. “After we get a bite to eat, we'll divvy it up."

"No hurry.” Luke shrugged. “It's not like we're going anywhere for a while."

Evan chuckled.
“Right.
Luke's the sensible one,” he pointed out for Megan's benefit. “Glad you came along, Luke.
Mighty glad."

Megan watched the door close behind the two men, then turned her attention to the game of poker going on at the scarred, lopsided table. Frank raised a booted foot to rest on one corner, and the spur dug deeply into the wood. Well, now she knew how the surface had gotten so scratched, Megan thought a moment before asking to play.

"Think we got enough supplies here?” Tom asked, glancing down at the two sacks of fruit and meat and cheese in his arms.

Lucas didn't answer but kept his eyes on the scraggly black gelding standing in front of the makeshift saloon of
Cubilo
del
Diablo. Why the town just outside Leavenworth carried that name, Lucas would never know. He hadn't seen that many Mexicans in residence. But then, the outlaw crowd of Diablo stuck around about as long as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

Lucas stopped in the middle of the street and handed me overburdened Tom the sack of bread and eggs he'd been carrying. “Take this to the horses. I'll be right, back."

"Where
ya
goin
'?” the boy asked.

Lucas ignored him. When he reached the gelding, he ran a hand over its rump, stroking the ridge of a long, straight scar. The hair hadn't grown back after the injury.

Lucas clamped his jaw shut. He adjusted his hat to conceal his face and took slow, sure steps as he made his way into the saloon, keeping his eyes down the entire time. The press of customers inside the small building made it easy for Lucas to sidle up to the bar and remain inconspicuous.

"What'll
ya
have?” The bartender yelled over the roar of voices.

"Five bottles of your strongest whiskey,” he said over his shoulder, holding up his fingers for the man to count. He kept the brim of his hat low and scanned the room.

Disappointment rushed through his veins when he didn't find what he was looking for. And then he heard a bark of laughter. His eyes narrowed as he focused on a table near the stairs.

A group of scantily clad women clustered around the occupant of that table. A dusty black hat sat atop the customer's head. His black beard held a hint of white that hadn't been there when this all began.

Hatred, thick and vile, pooled in Lucas's gut. He hated this man with every fiber of his being. With every thought, with every motion, with every breath, he wanted this man dead. And Lucas intended to see it done.

But not here.
Too many people.
He wanted to kill Silas Scott out in the open, where the man would have nowhere to run, no one to interfere. He wanted to make the bastard beg for mercy.

Lucas turned around. “Who's in charge of the girls?” he asked the barkeep.

"Gracie.” He arched a thumb in her direction.
“End of the bar."

"Watch the whiskey for me, will you?” Lucas said.

Gracie turned out to be a large, flaxen-haired woman with exceptional hearing. “
Lookin
’ for me,
hon
?” she asked, keeping her eyes on the group of girls surrounding Silas Scott.

"You Gracie?"

She nodded.

"Then, I'm
lookin
’ for you. Do you usually let that many of your girls work on one customer?” Lucas asked
,
making sure he honored her position as the saloon's madam.

"One customer doesn't usually throw money around the way he's been
doin
'.” Gracie stuck out her ample bosom, which looked ready to pop from the tight white satin camisole she wore. “What's it to you?"

"Well, I've got a proposition for you. If you're interested, that is.” Lucas knew that if it involved money, she would be interested.

She slanted her eyes in his direction but didn't answer.

"I'd like you to keep that man entertained for a while."

"I have a feeling he's going to be plenty entertained."

Lucas chuckled. “Yes, I imagine so. But, you see, I'd like you to keep him entertained until I get back."

"What for?"

"That's personal."

"I take it you don't want him to know."

"No."

Gracie shrugged a plump shoulder.

"You get your girls—as many as it
takes—
to keep him liquored up, and I'll make it worth your while."

"How worth my while?"

"Very. I'll pay for the whiskey and the girls. Double."

"You mean you're
willin
’ to pay me twice what it costs to get him drunk and happy?"

"That's right. All you have to do is make sure he stays here till I can get back"

"What're you
gonna
do then? I don't want you
stainin
’ my sheets with blood or
nothin
'. That stuff's a real bitch to get out."

"No blood. As soon as I get back, you can go about your business and let him leave the saloon."

"That's it? I'm supposed to go to all the trouble of
keepin
’ him here and then just let him leave?"

"Yep.
I'll take care of the rest."

Lucas and Grade both watched as Silas stood and started none too steadily up the stairs, flanked by a blonde and a redhead.

"Looks like he's about to be entertained,” Gracie said.

"And you're about to make a great deal of money."

Megan jumped when the cabin door flew open. Tommy came in and dropped his burdens onto the table, oblivious to the game of cards that promptly slid out of order. Frank let out a curse, then threw down his hand. He grabbed one of the burlap sacks, dumping its contents. Six apples rolled out, along with a hunk of cheese, a slab of salted bacon, and two unmarked tin cans.

Evan looked into the other bag and sighed. “Good thing you didn't turn this one over, Frank.” He pulled out a loaf of bread and half a dozen brown eggs tucked in a bed of straw within a small wooden crate. “Where's Luke?"

Tom smiled. “He's a thinker, that's for sure. He done bought us all whiskey to celebrate."

The man under discussion chose that moment to step through the doorway. He held two bottles by the neck in each hand. He'd tucked the fifth into the waistband of his tan trousers. “Drink, anyone?” he asked with a wide grin and proceeded to gift each man in the group with his own
botlle
.

"None for me?”
Megan asked, her mouth turning down in a pout.

Slowly, like butter melting over hot corn on the cob, Luke pulled the whiskey out of his waistband. He tilted it toward her and in a silky-smooth drawl said, “Be my guest."

Megan smiled, wondering if he expected her to refuse his offer. Maybe this was a test to see if she actually had the gumption to drink with them.

She reached out and, as leisurely as he'd removed it from his pants, took hold of the bottle. “Thank you."

She wiggled the cork loose and set it on the tabletop, then lifted the bottle in silent salute to the bandits before taking a long swallow. Her body seemed to go up in flames. The liquid burned down her throat, taking several layers of vital tissue with it. Her eyes began to water. She held her breath to keep from letting out a strangled scream.

Luke looked at her with twinkling blue eyes.

Megan would not let him see how much pain the alcohol caused. She blinked to clear her vision,
then
forced a smile. “That is the worst-tasting whiskey I've ever had.” She heard the strain in her own voice, and, before she could change her mind, she took another swig of the nasty liquor.

"That it is,” Evan agreed after drinking from his own bottle.

Frank grunted. “Tastes like horse piss,” he said, lowering his bottle from his lips.

"Well, now, Miss Megan,” Luke said, removing his hat and wiping an arm over his forehead, “nobody said you had to drink it."

Megan stared at the man. Half of her wanted to strangle him. The other half wanted to run her fingers through his sandy-blond hair. This was the first time he'd taken off his hat, and her heart did a little flip when she saw the whole of his attractive features.

From the start she'd thought his eyes surpassed the blue of a summer sky. But together with the dark gold of his hair, they formed a package that was almost too much to handle all at once.

The trail-worn condition of his clothes no longer hid the handsomeness of the man. Something happened when he took his hat off; it was like flinging back a curtain to fully reveal a work of art. Tan skin covered cheekbones that now seemed finely chiseled rather than menacing.

Luke reached for the bottle. Megan let him take it.

"Who's winning?” he asked. The question was directed at the men, but he kept his eyes on her.

"She is,”
Dougie
said with a moan.

"
Meggie
here is quite good,” Evan added.

"I'll bet."

There was a double meaning somewhere in the conversation, but Megan didn't have the energy to figure it out. Her body felt flushed, and she didn't think it was a result of only two sips of whiskey.

They dealt Luke in and continued to play poker, their hunger forgotten now that they had liquor to fill their empty stomachs. Megan maintained her winning streak—which she pretended was beginner's luck—for well over an hour. When her eyes grew tired of concentrating on the different suits, she folded her hand, settling back to watch the others.

Megan didn't even realize she'd fallen asleep until she felt herself being lifted carefully and just as gently laid down on a rough, threadbare blanket that separated her from the hard floor. She tried to open her eyes to see who was playing the part of a gentleman, but her lids felt like lead weights. With a long sigh, she rolled to her side and pillowed her head on her hands.

It seemed only a minute later that someone shook her awake. She mumbled an obscenity under her breath at being disturbed, snuggling away from the pest. But the slight pressure on her shoulder persisted, and a harsh whisper sounded in her ear. When she opened her mouth to tell her annoyer where to go, a strong hand clamped over her face.

"Shut up. I'm taking you out of here, but I don't want to hear a peep. Got it?"

Megan strained to make out the features of the man who knelt over her, but the room was darker than a tomb.

Before she could argue, her abductor stuck a strip of cloth into her mouth and tied it behind her head, then wrapped another over her eyes. He warned her again. “Not a sound."

He lifted her and tossed her over his shoulder. If his threat hadn't sounded so dire, she would have moaned in indignation. Only a minute later, she felt herself being transferred from his shoulder to the seat of a saddle. At least he allowed her the dignity of riding astride rather than slung over the horse like a felled piece of game. But he quickly grabbed her wrists and tied them together on either side of the pommel.

She listened closely as he went back into the cabin. He returned and lifted her arms at an awkward angle, shoving something heavy and hard beneath them to press against her upper thighs.

Megan was beyond trying to figure out what was going on. First, five outlaws kidnapped her from her own stagecoach, and now one of them was spiriting her away in the middle of the night. The only thing that kept her from struggling, despite her bonds, was the fact that she felt more capable of escaping from a single captor than from a group of them.

Megan only wished she knew which one she had to deal with. She couldn't identify his harsh whisper. Evan or Tommy wouldn't intimidate her too much, but the idea of being thrown over Frank's shoulder made her stomach churn. There was no telling what kind of critters crawled through his filthy hair. Or what he might do to her.

"Take it easy,” she heard. He gave her knee a pat. “I have your horse in hand. You don't need to do anything but hold on and be quiet."

Leather squeaked as he climbed into his own saddle. Megan lurched backward as they started away from the tiny shack at a slow pace. She listened carefully, and although the horses’ hooves made little noise on the brush of the deep woods, she knew instinctively when they came to a clearing. With her horse urged into a lope, Megan tightened her grip on the saddle horn, feeling unbalanced by the blindfold and heavy box on her lap.

The first sign that they were nearing civilization came in the form of a tinny, off-key piano and high, feminine laughter. Megan tried to ask about their destination, but the question came out muffled. The man leading her horse brought himself up alongside, so close she felt his leg brush her own.

"Hush,” he said. “I have some business to take care of, and I need you to be still until I come back."

But where are you going?
she
wanted to ask. From the sounds of it, they were nearing a saloon or bawdy house. Megan didn't know of any other establishment that stayed open so late at night or attracted such a rowdy crowd. How did he expect her to just sit here and wait? What if some drunk decided to make her his evening's companion? Megan generally considered herself well able to defend herself, but even she would have trouble with her eyes and mouth covered and her hands tied.

Lucas brought their mounts to a stop behind the
Diablo
saloon and swung his leg to dismount. His feet hit the ground with a soft thud. Tethering the horses, he raised his eyes to Megan Adams. She sat ramrod straight, her head held high. With any luck, he would be able to turn her in to the Leavenworth authorities by morning.

"I'll be right back,” he said and turned for the back door of the saloon. He wasn't worried about leaving her alone. If there was any trouble, it would be in front of the saloon, not back here. And no one had seen them ride into town.

He saw Gracie as soon as he stepped inside. He sneaked up behind her and blew in her ear. She whirled around to face him. Red tinged her complexion, and she looked like she'd just swallowed a bug.

Lucas's stomach clenched. Something was wrong. “What is it?” he asked.

"
Me
an’ the girls tried to keep him here.
Poured whiskey down his gullet like water.
But after he had his fill of
Tilly
and Priscilla, he done took off. We couldn't stop him for
nothin
'."

"Damn it,” Lucas swore. He pounded a fist on the bar.

Gracie cleared her throat. “Like I said, we tried. And even though he
ain't
here, you still owe us our money ‘cause we did what you asked."

"Did he say where he was going? Did you see which way he headed?” Lucas asked as he fished into his pocket.

Gracie flipped through the money and then tucked it between her breasts. “
Pris
watched him ride out. Said he was
goin
’ west.
Left about two hours ago."

"Son of a bitch.
Thanks, Gracie,” he said and walked out.

Damn. Now what was he going to do? If he took Megan to Leavenworth to hand her over to the marshal, he'd lose Scott's trail. Damn it, he couldn't let that happen. He'd been after this bastard for too long, lost him too many times.

"There's been a slight change in plans, sweetheart,” he said to Megan as he mounted. “I hate to say it, but you're coming with me."

Until he'd called her
sweetheart
, Megan didn't know who her abductor was. But that slow, textured drawl could not be mistaken; it was definitely the one named Luke. And now that she knew, she wasn't sure how to feel. Should she be happy not to be in Frank's grimy hands? Or should she be furious that handsome Luke would take her hostage?

Before she could decide on a proper reaction, her body seemed to give out. All of a sudden her muscles ached, her hands tingled, her back threatened to snap at any moment, and she couldn't feel her legs because the weight of the box on them had long ago cut off her circulation. She let out a low moan as she swayed. With no strength left in her legs to hold on, she began to fall.

She felt an arm grab her waist and haul her from the horse. The strongbox clattered to the ground, causing the horse to whinny and pace about. The next she knew, she sat cradled in the V of Luke's lap, the saddle horn poking into her hip.

"Christ, why didn't you tell me you were falling asleep?” He ripped the blindfold from her eyes.

She blinked and tried to get her bearings. Then she proceeded to answer him. It came out as a strangled bleat of grunts and groans.

"Guess you don't need this anymore,” he said, slipping the gag down to hang around her neck.

"—yellow-bellied son of a bitch!"

Luke's eyes widened a fraction of an inch,
then
he started to untie her wrists. “I should have left the gag on a while longer. Quite a mouth you've got there, sweetheart."

"Do not call me
sweetheart
, you maggot-infested, grub-eating,
yellow
-bellied—"

"Son of a bitch.
I believe you said that already."

Megan clamped her teeth together. “Let go of me."

"Gladly,” Luke said, and did just that.

Megan hit the ground like a hundred-pound bale of hay. She groaned and looked up to see Luke grinning at her. “I can't believe you did that,” she said.

"You wanted me to let go."

"You didn't have to dump me on the ground."

"I didn't dump you. I simply let you go."

"And let me fall on my ass."

"A pretty little ass, too, I might add."

"No, you might not,” Megan snapped. “Help me up."

"You wanted down,” Luke said, his smile widening.

"I did not want down. I wanted you to let go of me."

"I did, and now you're down. Maybe next time you'll be more specific in your requests."

Megan grumbled under her breath, inventing a few new nasty names for the man sitting so high and mighty on his chestnut gelding. She moved to her side and tried to support herself on her hands and knees. Damned if they didn't feel as limp as wet noodles. Tingles stabbed through her limbs as they began to regain feeling. With a sigh of defeat, she rolled back on her hip.

Luke jumped down from his horse to crouch at her side. “Why didn't you tell me you were tired?"

"I am not tired,” she said, knowing her supine position betrayed her.

"That must be why you can hardly move."

"I wouldn't be in this condition if you hadn't tied me up like a Christmas goose. I'm an excellent rider, for God's sake."

"I'm sure you are."

"I am."