[Montacroix Royal Family Series 03] - The Outlaw (23 page)

"I know," he grumbled. "This will provide a decade's worth of dinner-party stories."

"That's the spirit." A genuine smile bloomed on her face and in her eyes. Leaning down, she kissed his cheek. "Thank you for everything. And, just a word of advice? You may want to try seducing your wife the next time you are in New York."

"My wife? Why would I want to do that?"

"Most women enjoy it. She might, as well. Which would, in turn, provide you with a bit of that female companionship you say you're lacking. It's merely an opinion, but there is a theory that there are no frigid women. Just inept lovers."

With that, she left the car, the dog, as usual, on her heels.

Although Noel left the dog outside the redbrick building housing Judge Daniel Cavanaugh's office, her own appearance earned overt disapproval from the secretary seated behind the wide oak desk.

"I'd like to speak with the judge," she said.

"Do you have an appointment?" His tone suggested that he knew a woman such as her would not.

"No."

"Well, then—"

"I know Judge Cavanaugh would want to see me."

His pale brown eyes behind the round steel-framed glasses flicked over her dismissively. "I doubt that."

She reached into her pocket and took out the envelope Second Mother had given her. "Please give him this." Her calmly insistent tone was that of a woman accustomed to getting her way.

Plucking the envelope from her fingers, holding it gingerly, as if it were contaminated, he left the outer office.

Noel began to count. She'd barely made it to ten, when the door to the private office burst open and a tall man with a shock of silver hair emerged.

"Who are you?" he demanded. His indigo eyes locked onto hers. "And how did you get this?"

She glanced over his shoulder at the obviously curious young man. "I will explain everything. But I think you might prefer having this conversation in private."

Muttering something that could have been an agreement, he waved her into his office. As she walked past the secretary, it was all Noel could do not to shoot him a victorious look.

"All right," the judge said without preamble, gesturing her to a chair on the visitors' side of the desk. "What's this all about? If you have it in mind to blackmail me because I was once in love with a beautiful—"

"I have no intention of blackmailing anyone," Noel said. She may have shot a man. And made another undress at gunpoint, then held him hostage and stolen his brandy, but she could not imagine lowering herself to such shoddy behavior. "Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Did you love her?"

Those eyes turned to flint in a way that so resembled Wolfe's eyes when he was angry that Noel had no doubt this man truly was Wolfe's father. "I don't see where my youthful feelings are any of your business."

"That's where you're wrong. Because I'm in love with your son."

He waved away her declaration with an impatient hand. "I don't have a son."

"Yes. You do. And he's currently in Whiskey River. About to be hanged for a murder he didn't commit."

She took a deep breath. "You may have heard of him. Wolfe Longwalker?"

Shock waves moved across his face. "That can't be."

"It's true." She stood up, leaned across the table and took hold of his hand. "He has this same mark." She'd noticed it when he'd gestured. "He was born on the Navajo's Long Walk. Unfortunately, his mother died after giving birth to him. It was her sister who gave me your letter."

"I need you to return with me to Whiskey River to save your son's life. There's a train we can take leaving the station in forty-five minutes."

He rose to his feet without a moment's hesitation. "Let's go. You can fill me in on the details on the way."

It was raining when they arrived in Whiskey River. An icy rain fell unceasingly from a darkened sky and thunder boomed from anvil-shaped gunmetal-gray clouds. The dirt road leading through the town had turned to mud.

As she hurried down the wooden sidewalk from the station, past the scaffold that was smoldering from recently being set ablaze—by Belle and Bret, she would learn later—Noel's heart was pounding in her ears. Surely she wasn't too late!

And then she saw him.

Just as he'd appeared in her vision, Wolfe sat rigidly astride his blood-bay mare, his hands tied behind his back. He was clad in buckskin trousers and a pair of boots. His long jet hair was held back from his forehead with a red cotton headband. Rain ran in rivulets down a rigidly muscled chest the hue of burnished Arizona copper but which Noel knew from experience was ever so much warmer.

His dark blue eyes—his father's eyes—were directed out across the fierce red landscape as Jess Buchanan, the territorial marshal, looped the thick, braided horse-hide rope around Wolfe's neck.

"You must stop these proceedings immediately," Daniel Cavanaugh shouted.

Buchanan turned toward the newcomers. " 'Afternoon, Your Honor," he said. "Come here to watch a murderer get his just rewards, have you?"

"I've come here to ensure justice is done."

"Well, now, Your Honor, sir, I hate to quibble with you, but this Injun has already been tried and convicted. Would've hanged, too, if he hadn't escaped."

"You're fortunate he did," Wolfe's father said. "Since it saved you having to explain to St. Peter why you hanged an innocent man."

A loud murmur went through the gathered crowd.

Beneath his handlebar mustache, Buchanan's mouth drew into a harsh scowl. "He's been found guilty."

"In a trial that was a joke. A trial conveniently conducted by a circuit judge known for his propensity to take payoffs." The anger in Cavanaugh's tone was as sharp as a whip. "Any crime dealing with the native population requires a federal judge," he reminded the marshal. "And that happens to be me."

"You were outta town," the marshal mumbled.

"I was in Washington. But I'm back now. So we can move these proceedings to the courthouse."

The mumbles increased, but knowing when he was outranked, the marshal reluctantly removed the noose from around Wolfe's neck.

"What are you doing here?" Wolfe demanded when they came face-to-face on the courthouse steps. He was furious at Noel for having put herself at risk.

"Trying to save your stubborn neck," she retorted. "And by the way, I've brought your father along to help."

Every muscle in Wolfe's face clenched. He glared at the tall handsome man standing beside Noel. "I have no father."

Noel practically bit her tongue in half to keep from screaming at him. "Wolfe," she said, struggling for the patience that had once been her hallmark, "this animosity between our races has to end somewhere. Why not here? And now? With your father?"

"I told you—"

She pressed her fingers against his taut lips, forestalling his argument. "You once said you would do anything for me."

"It was the truth."

"Then talk to him, Wolfe. That's all I ask. Please."

The two men exchanged a look. Then Wolfe shrugged and returned his gaze to Noel. "I am only doing this for you."

Hope fluttered its hummingbird wings in her heart. "I know."

The conversation, held in private, did not take long. Wolfe's dark expression as the two men came out of the back room, was less than encouraging.

Noel's nerves were on edge as she sat in the courtroom, listening to Bret Starr's testimony. Relieved that he'd managed to stay sober, she felt that any reasonable person would find the story believable. Especially since he had no reason to lie. Well, she admitted, some modern courts might quibble that the four-carat diamond ring in his vest pocket might prove an incentive, but knowing that she was only paying him to tell the truth, she decided to overlook that nitpicky little point.

The new jury looked interested, she felt. But not quite convinced. Obviously, more than one had the feeling that Wolfe wouldn't be accused of the murders if he hadn't committed the crimes. And unfortunately, Wolfe had no alibi for the time of the massacre. And more distressing, he'd steadfastly refused to tell Noel where he'd been.

"Are there any more witnesses?" Judge Cavanaugh inquired, exchanging a glance with Noel that suggested he'd done his best.

Suddenly, a woman seated among the spectators stood up. "I'd like to testify," she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

"Do you have information relevant to this case?" the judge asked.

She took a deep breath and looked straight at Wolfe. "I was with the defendant at the time those settlers were murdered."

If that statement set off shock waves through the spectators, her next words had the effect of a dynamite blast blowing everything to kingdom come. "We were together at my ranch. While my husband and his friends set fire to that cabin."

After banging his gavel for at least five minutes, the judge managed to quiet the courtroom.

While the woman testified, Noel took the invitation out of her pocket. As she watched, the wording changed. The showing was now a retrospective of that famous western artist, Bret Starr.

They'd done it!

There would be no hanging here today!

"Although I am supposed to be a writer, I do not have the words to thank you," Wolfe said.

It was several hours later and he and Noel had finally managed to slip away to Belle's private suite in the Road to Ruin. The yellow dog was downstairs, happily sampling scraps from the rack of lamb Belle had roasted to celebrate Wolfe's freedom.

"Then you're not angry? About your father?" She'd worried that although she'd saved his life, going behind his back, when he'd made his feelings so clear, might cost her Wolfe's love.

"I was, when he first introduced himself. But I understand all too well how it feels to be found guilty for something you did not do. And his explanation, along with that letter, proved he was telling the truth."

Wolfe frowned, thinking back on the startling revelation that had turned so much of what he'd always believed upside down. He and his father would never be able to make up for those years they'd missed. They may never be able to have a true father-son relationship. But he felt they'd taken the first steps to being friends today.

"How about you?" he asked. "Does it bother you to know that I was with another woman? A married woman?"

From the beginning, Noel had known Wolfe wasn't a saint. She also knew that he loved her now. "You've no idea how relieved I was. Why didn't you ever say you had a witness?"

"Mary was only a witness if she chose to testify. And she had her own reasons for not wanting to do that."

"Like a violent husband." Noel shook her head. "Some women made very poor choices."

"Strange words from a woman who fell in love with a convicted murderer from another time," Wolfe teased gently as he drew her into his arms.

She framed his handsome face in her hands. "I was afraid, once I saved you, that I'd be drawn back to my own time."

"I feared that, as well," he admitted. "However, since neither of us knows what the future holds, I suggest we stop wasting time by talking."

"Yes." She laughed with pleasure as he scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the adjoining bedroom. "Yes, yes, yes."

Basking in this stolen time that neither had expected, they undressed each other slowly, drawing out the moment with lingering kisses and caressing touches.

Wolfe lifted his head and glanced over at the bath Belle had instructed some unseen servant to prepare. "It seems our hostess has thought of everything."

"A woman of imagination, our Belle," she agreed, laughing as he lifted her again and lowered her into the warm water. She ran her hand over the curled edge of the hammered-copper slipper tub. Noel knew antique dealers who'd pay a fortune for this tub. Back home. When that thought reminded her that her time with Wolfe could be fleeting, she held out her hand. "Aren't you going to join me?"

The water rose as he settled in behind her, drawing her against him. "This reminds me of the first time I made love to you," he murmured against her neck as he took a bar of French milled soap and rubbed it between his hands, creating a froth of fragrant bubbles. "You were wet that day, too." He ran his soapy palms over her shoulders. "And warm."

"I was freezing when I first stepped into that pool."

"But not for long." He touched his lips to her neck.

"No," she said on a soft, rippling sigh, "not for long:"

He spread the lather over her breasts. When his fingers skimmed over a nipple, she shivered. "Cold?" he asked.

"Actually, I think I'm burning up." Her head was spinning, filled with the fragrance of bath salts rising in a mist from the hot water, bedazzled by the touch of his hands on her body, the warmth of his breath against her neck.

"That's just the way I want you." He ran his hand up her leg, from her calf, to her knee, to the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. "Hot." He pressed his hand against her. "Hungry."

"Wolfe, please—" She arched against his intimate touch, not caring that she was begging.