Fires of Paradise (15 page)

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and stunned.

"Just walk," he said, pushing her on.

She walked.

And his mind was made up. He would keep her until they got to Mexico and had crossed the border. She would be his insurance, his ticket to freedom. And then he would get rid of her. Send her home, or to the nearest town. But until then, she would keep the Braggs and half the Texas militia from stretching his neck. She would be a bargaining chip if they managed to catch him.

     He hoped.

     Her safety, for his freedom.

Chapter 18

They hadn't stopped to rest, not once.

Since they had left the stream bed hours ago, they had trekked across rock flats and through narrow desert gorges. The going had been so rough for a while that they had both walked, Shoz pushing on ahead of Lucy, leading the horse, Lucy stumbling after him. Now, hours later, it was twilight. They were both astride the horse, and had been for some time, heading south through an endless stretch of sage-studded desert. For the first time, Lucy glimpsed a stand of saguaro.

She felt anew the welling of despair. They had been traveling since midmorning; surely the posse chasing them would never catch them now. They were far from Paradise, far from the ranch. The Mexican border must be very close. And when they crossed it? Would he really leave her? And what about tonight? Were they ever going to stop?

She couldn't go on. She just couldn't. Her body was bruised; every part of it ached. She knew that if she did dismount, she would barely be able to walk. "Shoz! We have to stop—I can't continue another moment like this! I need a rest!"

"Soon."

Lucy gripped the pommel, hard. She had exercised the utmost self-discipline and until now hadn't asked him to stop, not once. But now her pride was in shreds. She was hot and sweaty, sticky and oh so dirty, but mostly, she was exhausted and she desperately wanted to rest. On impulse, she suddenly threw her leg over the pommel and slid to the ground.

To her horror, her knees gave out and she collapsed in a heap in the sand.

The horse kept going, as if Shoz were oblivious to her disappearance. A few yards past her, he pulled to a halt. Lucy looked up at him with a stifled sob. He sat very still, slouched, gazing down at her. For the first time in hours, she saw his face and his eyes, and she was shocked. There was no interest in his expression there, nothing vital at all. There was only blank indifference as he regarded her, and he was whiter than a sheet. She had ceased sweating at sundown, but sweat poured off his face, actually dripping from his chin.

He looked ill.

Lucy forced herself up.

He made a sound, and turned the horse slowly around. The bay plodded back to her. Lucy bit her lip. "Get up," he said.

Lucy stared. He was ill, most likely with fever, and she was almost certain she could escape—either on foot or, later, by stealing the horse. She hesitated, filled with the immense possibility confronting her.

"Lucy."

She gnawed her lip, then approached. "Let's stop," she said. "Please."

He nodded once and slowly slid off the gelding. He paused there, leaning against the animal's flank.

Lucy trembled. He was hurt; he needed rest and someone's care. It was obvious. But her chance for escape was imminent. She didn't go to him.

He tied the horse to a stunted mesquite. Lucy watched, not moving. He uncinched the girth, pulled the saddle off, and its weight as he placed it on the ground nearly brought him down on top of it. He slid down beside the tack, leaning back on it. His gaze found hers.

Lucy stood very still, wetting her lips. This was her chance. She was a good rider, and as a child, she'd ridden bareback every summer, so the lack of a saddle was no deterrent. She would jump on the horse and head north, straight north.

And leave him here alone, on foot, too sick to even move, much less walk.

He would probably die. Lucy doubted the sheriff would find him, not the way he'd kept to stream beds and rock flats, not the way he'd swept their trail clean with brush. She was certain the sheriff would never track this man, who seemed to be well versed in the art of hiding his trail. Instead, he would stay here, alone, and die.

Just for a moment his gaze was lucid as it searched hers, and Lucy was certain that he knew she was thinking about escape. But then he dropped his head, eyes closed, and began to sleep.

Now she could go.

She didn't.

In that precise moment, she made up her mind, more the fool she. She could not leave him alone, on foot, to die. She could not. He was a thief, yes, and maybe a murderer, but there hadn't been a trial and there hadn't been a conviction. To use Nicole's words, he was "a bad sort," but he was a human being. There was no doubt in Lucy's mind that she was crazy not to take advantage of his condition, but she just couldn't. He had abducted her, but he hadn't hurt her. Besides he had said that he would let her go once they crossed the border—and the border had to be less than a day's ride from here. Tonight she could not leave him alone.

She dropped to her knees beside him, studying him and reaching for the canteen. "Go easy," he said.

Taken by surprise, she almost dropped their precious water. His eyes were still closed; he appeared to be asleep. Lucy flushed. To think she had almost abandoned him, sure that he was incognizant of his surroundings.

"No water until tomorrow," he added without moving.

Lucy handed him the canteen. He took it and drank a few sips. Lucy removed it from his hands and took a long drink. She touched his forehead to check his fever. His eyes flew open, startled. He was warm, but she couldn't be sure if it was a low temperature or not, and that in itself was a good sign.

She rummaged in the saddlebags, found a few tins of beef and beans and some jerky, and forced him to accept the latter. He ate without interest, his eyes closed, but she ate hungrily. All the while she watched him. He slept deeply.

Exhaustion overcame Lucy, too. She stretched out beside him, on her side, her cheek on her arm. The ground was hard and uncomfortable, and without a blanket or pillow, she was sure she would never be able to sleep, especially when she began to worry about her family, and how they must be reacting to her abduction. But she was so fatigued, sleep came instantly. Some time later she woke up, cold and shivering. A thousand stars glittered overhead, an owl hooted, and she could hear Shoz's even, deep breathing beside her. She was still exhausted, and without giving it much thought, she crept close to him and curled next to his big body, almost but not quite touching him, just for his warmth. This time sleep did not come so easily.

Shoz woke up when the sun was almost high in the sky, with Lucy in his arms.

He blinked. Her body was spooned into his, her buttocks nestled in his groin, and his arms were around her, his mouth against the nape of her neck. What the hell! He searched his mind, trying to remember just what they had done last night. It took him a moment to become fully awake. They hadn't done anything—he had been exhausted from the long, hard day. It was just that he had never woken up with a woman in his arms before, and the assumption had been automatic.

She felt good. He craned his neck to look at her. He should have smiled, or even laughed, but he didn't. She was a mess. Miss Lucy Bragg had a propensity for looking better than any woman he knew—or worse. Now was one of those times when she looked as bad as a woman could. She was dirty, from the tip of her nose right down to her pretty little stockinged feet.

     But somehow, she was sexy as hell. Worse, she felt sexy as hell.

     He was aware of the beginnings of arousal, meaning he had slept well and replenished his body's strength during the night. If they didn't have such a long day coming up ... He sighed. If he messed with her now, he would be in a helluvalot more trouble than he already was.

It was a grim thought. The first thing the Braggs would want to know when they got Lucy back was if he had touched her. Lucy wasn't a liar. She wouldn't cry rape out of spite, and he sure as hell wasn't going to give her a better reason. As tempting as she was, he'd keep his hands to himself.

     As he got up, thoughts came rushing back to him. One demanded priority, and as he saddled and fed the horse, he turned to look at her, this time with no need to disguise either the interest or the curiosity he was feeling. Last night she could have left him. Either on foot or with the horse. But she hadn't.

     He inhaled sharply. His heart was beating as hard as if he'd run a race. Why hadn't she left him? Because she was afraid to try and return to Paradise through this desolate land alone? Lucy might be a spoiled princess, but she had grit, obstinacy, and she also had courage. Her grit was real, although mostly untested; her determination was like a mule's, what little he'd seen of it; but her courage came from ignorance and naivete. She wouldn't consider the hardship of traveling north without him for a moment, she would just do it, spurred on by desperation and determination. Fear of hardship wouldn't stop her from escaping him. Then why?

     He finished saddling the horse and eyed her. The question was too immense; there were possibilities that actually caused a roiling in his gut. Damn! Damn her! He decided he didn't care why she hadn't left him, there were many possibilities. Maybe she couldn't ride bareback, maybe she'd just been too damn tired. Or maybe from this particular trial and tribulation, she had learned some common sense and was afraid of riding north alone. Hell! What did he care anyway?

     He poked her with his booted toe. "Get up." There was a faint response, the fluttering of her lashes, a groan.

     He poked her again. "We're riding out, Lucy." She blinked at him. He had to admire her calves, being given a birds'-eye view. He saw the moment she became fully awake. Her blue eyes widened with total awareness and she sat up. She looked at him very, very warily. Then she stiffly got to her feet, biting back a moan—but he heard it anyway. She shook out her tattered skirts. "I need to freshen up."

    He knew what she meant. "Go behind that stand of saguaro," he directed. "And be careful."

     She nodded and walked away. Shoz began erasing the signs of their camp with a big piece of brush. She was surprising him again. A good night's sleep had done a helluvalot to calm her. He was appreciative; he didn't need to be burdened with a hysterical woman right now. It seemed like they had attained a wary, if temporary, truce.

     Night had fallen. Lucy sat with her arms around her knees, and her short skirt pulled carefully over her legs, watching him. He had made a small fire, and the smell of the meat and beans he had cooked was almost too much to bear.

     Today had been even longer and more grueling than yesterday. Lucy was too tired to move. Shoz was also exhausted; she could see it in his every movement, she could see it in the drawn lines of his face. But he wasn't as bad off as he had been last night—she could see that, too. The man's resilience was amazing.

     She couldn't go another step, much less ride; her body was screaming in protest, her muscles were tortured, and she was starving. She could fend off sleep only until after the meal. She suspected that waking up tomorrow would be a whole lot harder than it had been today.

     He picked up the pan and brought it to her, their glances meeting. In anticipation, Lucy had to smile; he smiled, also. He sank down beside her. "Sorry we don't have any china, princess."

     "Next time," Lucy quipped, making him regard her steadily. She quickly looked away, unnerved for some reason. His hostility was easier to bear than such a direct, searching look.

     He handed her the fork that had been in the saddlebag along with the tins, taking the spoon himself, and they both ate ravenously, from the same pan.

     When they had finished, Shoz took the pan to the stream and filled it with water. Lucy felt a twinge of guilt. She didn't know how to cook, but... he was doing everything. She hadn't helped at all.

     She watched him carefully as he set the pan full of water on the fire, which he stoked higher. He let it boil. After a few minutes he removed it and emptied it, dousing the fire thoroughly. With his toe he kicked apart the charred embers, burying them with dirt. Then he stuck the pan into the saddlebag.

     Lucy vowed to remember everything he had done.

     He returned to sit next to her. Suddenly Lucy became aware of the intimacy between them—and the potential. They were both alone and awake in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere. Unlike last night, when Shoz had been so exhausted that he had immediately gone to sleep. Her heart began to race. Instead of remembering his abducting her yesterday, she recalled the week he'd been at the ranch, in a series of rapid, vivid images. Shoz shelling peas in the kitchen, so big and dangerously masculine among lie women there, and looking as if he felt ridiculous. Shoz standing on a chair pulling down drapes, in his tight, worn Levis. She remembered being unable to sleep, night after night, because of the humidity and heat, tossing and turning, her nightgown sticking to her body. She remembered going to the window and seeing him there on the lawn by the swing, smoking, the tip of his cigarette glowing, as he gazed up at her window.

     "Sheriff Sanders make any progress on his investigation?"

     "What?" He'd broken into her thoughts. He repeated the question.

     "They found the stud in Abilene," Lucy began, but he cut her off.

     "I know about the damn horse. A man was shot—who happens to be me—but the whole goddamn town is up in arms about your granddaddy's horse."

     Lucy stared at him, realizing how horribly right he was. "No. Not that I know of."

"You see anyone that night when you came to meet me?"

     Lucy didn't bother to correct him—she hadn't been on her way to meet him, just searching for him. "No one. But someone else must have seen what I saw, and thought you were one of the thieves. People in Paradise don't like horse stealing much."

     "Try again." His tone was mocking. "If some good Samaritan shot me thinking I was one of the thieves, then why didn't he—or she—come forward and claim the deed?''

     Lucy looked at him. He was stretched out comfortably on the ground, his hands resting under his head, propped up on the saddle. His shirt was open, his dark skin glistening from his throat to just above his navel where it was exposed. Lucy wished he would button it. "I guess someone was afraid to come forward."