Authors: Maureen Child
Nevada Heat (37 page)
Holdup!
Immediately, he dragged his right arm free of her body and pulled his pistol from its holster again. Shoving himself into a sitting position, Quinn pulled the woman face down across his lap until she lay like a child waiting for a paddling, which he was sorely tempted to give her.
Inside the bank, Dusty McDonough had indeed taken a few steps in the hopes of catching Quinn with his guard down.
"Don't do nothin' stupid," Quinn told him deepening his voice and urged the man back with the barrel of his gun.
Dusty swallowed, gritted his teeth and moved back to stand beside his father.
"You must be forgettin' that partner of mine, huh?"
Dusty blanched a bit.
"Thought so." The woman on his lap began shoving and pushing at him, trying to get free, but Quinn laid the money bag and his left hand flat against the small of her back. "Set still," he ordered then turned back to the people in the bank. "And you… just don't do nothin' for ten minutes. Y'hear?"
Disgusted, Quinn then turned his attention to the squirming female on his lap. Her hat had fallen over her forehead and the hem of her skirt was tossed up, revealing what looked to him like a dozen petticoats.
She turned her head, pushed her hat up out of her eyes and glared at him. "Have you quite finished?"
Quinn blinked. Most women he knew would have been screaming and carrying on by now. The others would have punched him dead in the face. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth but he fought it back. He didn't have time for none of this nonsense.
"Hell no, I ain't finished," he snapped and just barely remembered to deepen his voice again. "But if you'll haul yourself outta the way, I'll get on with it."
She frowned at him and her hat, a yellow contraption with a big orange bow on one side, slid down over her eyes again. Gamely, she once more pushed it back into place.
"I'd be delighted to 'haul myself' up sir," she said, "just as soon as you remove your booty from my person."
"Booty?"
"Your ill-gotten gains."
"What?"
"The bag of stolen money."
"Oh!" Well why the hell didn't she say so? he asked himself. Still keeping one eye on the folks in the bank, Quinn released her and she immediately started moving. She scooted around for what seemed forever, like she was trying to build a nest, not get up. Her backside shot straight up as she wiggled her knees onto the boardwalk and Quinn's gaze, despite his best efforts, shot to her petticoat-covered behind.
Almost more than a man could bear, he told himself and reached up with his gun hand to pull the hem of her skirt down over the yards of white lace.
"What are you doing?" she asked, turning her head to look at him.
"Coverin' you up, lady," he grumbled.
"Oh. Well, thank you very much."
"Will you get off me?"
"I am trying to do just that," she assured him.
Quinn groaned, tried to ignore her movements and kept his gun trained on Dusty.
But she wasn't finished. Muttering under her breath, she curled the fingers of her left hand around a handful of cotton and gave herself a yank upright.
As she rose up, blocking the line of sight between him and the people in the bank, she inadvertently jerked the bandana from his face.
It happened so fast, he didn't have time to stop it. Before he knew it. Quinn was staring into the woman's surprised features as she studied his undisguised face.
"You're not right at all," she told him and shook her head while he quickly grabbed the bandana and tugged it back into place.
"Dammit lady," he mumbled and gently but firmly shoved her off his lap.
Winifred plopped down onto the boardwalk and stared up at him. He clambered to his feet and she was still sitting there, shaking her head. This was all wrong, she told herself. For heaven's sake. Everyone knew outlaws were ugly, scarred creatures, shunned by society.
He glanced down at her and even though his bandana was once again shielding his features, she thought she saw him frown. Well, what in heaven did he have to be upset about? He hadn't had one of his illusions shattered, had he? Oh, and she'd been so excited, too. Coming face-to-face with her first rough, hardened criminal and discovering that he was actually handsome was most disconcerting.
Imagine. Not only did he have a strong jaw line and a straight, well-shaped nose, but he also boasted a sweet blond moustache and his lightly-tanned flesh was unblemished. Not a single pockmark or scar to be seen.
He'd even shaved recently.
Winifred shook her head again in disgust. It was all very disappointing.
"Get up, lady."
"Hmmm?" She cocked her head and squinted against the sunlight to stare up at him.
"I said, get up." He sucked in a gulp of air and blew it out on a sigh. "You're comin' with me."
"Oh, thank you, but I couldn't possibly."
"I ain't askin' ya, lady. I'm tellin' ya."
"Well, I must tell you, I don't respond well to being ordered about."
He muttered something unintelligible.
"What was that?"
"Nothing." He sidestepped closer to her, tossed the money bag into her lap and said, "Hold it."
Instinctively, Winifred's fingers closed over the tightly-knotted cloth bag. She quickly snatched the handle of her carpetbag just as the robber grabbed her upper arm and yanked her to her feet.
"Here now!" the young man inside the bank shouted. "You got no call to be takin' her anywhere!"
"You hush," her captor answered, "and just remember to stay in there 'til ten minutes after I'm gone."
He started walking backwards again, dragging Winifred along with him. Burdened as she was by the money bag in one hand and her own baggage in the other, Winifred's movements were clumsy. Her right foot caught up in the hem of her dress and she felt a sharp tug just before she heard the sound of fabric ripping. They'd only taken a few steps when the villain stopped, looked up to the roof on the right and waved. Winifred glanced in that direction, but saw no one. She shook her head, dismissing her curiosity. Heaven knew, she had more than enough at the moment to occupy her thoughts.
They were moving again and her carpetbag slapped against the back of Quinn's knee, making him lurch ungainly. He grumbled and told her to drop the bag.
"I'll do no such thing."
"Then keep it outta my way."
"If you would be so good as to carry your own plunder," Winifred pointed out, "it would be much easier for me to manage my bag."
"Plunder?"
She held up the money sack.
"Oh." He dragged her closer to the hitching rail and quickly slipped one of the horse's reins free. Holding onto the leather strap in his gun hand, he said "Can't very well carry the bag, hold my gun, pull a horse and hold onto you, now can I?"
He had a point, though as far as she was concerned, it was hardly necessary to maintain such a firm grip on her person.
"What are you planning to do, sir?"
"Escape."
Of course he was going to escape, she thought and tried unsuccessfully to snatch her arm free of his grasp. "I meant what are you planning to do with me?"
He paused a moment, looked down at her and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully before he said "Damned if I know."
He led her to the back of the bank where a big, gray horse stood, waiting. Throwing his black hat aside, he grabbed the dirt colored Stetson hanging from the saddle horn.
"If you'll just release me," she told him, "I'll be out of your way in a moment and you can get about your business."
"Can you ride?" He stashed his rifle in the scabbard and secured the money bag to the saddle.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Horses," he snapped. "Can you ride horses?"
"Certainly," Winifred started "back in Maine, I-"
"Good." He interrupted her, bent down and scooped her up in his arms. Her carpetbag swung wide and slammed into his hip. He grunted. "Drop the bag."
"No."
He inhaled sharply, lifted her high and set her down in the saddle astride the brown horse's back. Her eyes wide, she clutched at the saddle horn with one hand and tried desperately to hold on to her carpetbag with the other. But her position was too precarious. Weighed down as she was by her baggage, she slowly started to slide off the side of the big animal.
"Hang on!" the Quinn snapped.
Apparently, Winifred thought as she felt the last of her balance dissolve, he couldn't see that that was precisely what she was trying to do.
"Thought you said you could ride," the outlaw muttered.
He pushed her back into place and snatched her bag from her hand. "Hell, the damn thing feels like you got rocks in it." Dropping it to the dirt, he told her again, "Hang on to the saddle horn."
"What about my bag?"
"Forget your bag."
He walked around her animal to the bigger, gray beast beside it. As he slid one foot into the stirrup, Winifred leaned to one side and allowed herself to drop off the horse. She hit the ground, staggered and bumped into the horse before she could catch herself.
"What in the hell are you doin'?" he said, his voice low but not nearly as deep as it had been earlier. "I told you to hang on."
"I didn't fall off," she told him as she bent down to retrieve her property. "I dismounted."
"Ain't what it looked like to me," he muttered. Hurriedly, he came back around the beast and grabbed her. But before he could pick her up, Winifred kicked him in the shin.
"Cut that out."
"Unhand me this instant."
"Ain't no time for this, lady."
He would have to make time, she told herself. She absolutely refused to take another step until he told her exactly what he had in mind for her.
"I am the new schoolteacher here in Yellow Dog, sir, and I demand to know what you are going to do with me."
The tall man opposite her paused for a long moment and stared down at her. His hat shaded his eyes making it impossible for Winifred to read whatever emotion was there. Still, she suspected it was anger. Even the rigid way he held himself veritably screamed with bad temper.
"You ain't the teacher now, lady," he finally said.
"Really?" she asked. "Then what exactly am I?"
"My hostage."
Hostage? So stunned that she was unable to fight him, the villain easily lifted her to her saddle again. But when he started for his own horse, Winifred snapped out of her state and immediately said "I'll need my bag, if you please."
"Dammit, lady…"
"Sir, I can hardly be a proper hostage without my luggage, can I?"
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The Bandit's Lady by Maureen Child
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