A Promise of Roses (13 page)

"And you're hoping he'll show up again."

She shrugged one smooth, bare shoulder. “Either that, or I'll get some word of where he could be."

With every fiber of his being, Lucas wanted to warn her off such a path. It would only lead to hard times and heartache. But then, who was he to give advice on the matter? He was doing almost the exact same thing. At least her motives were pure.

Pete passed by, and Lucas caught his attention. “Got a piece of paper?"

Pete gave him a disgruntled look before going off to search for some. He returned a minute later with the label off a can of beans.

Lucas flipped it over to write on the back.
“How about something to write with?"

Pete cursed. “Would be nice if you asked for everything at once
so's
a man didn't have to keep running to the storeroom."

"Sorry,” Lucas said with a laugh.

Pete handed over a short, well-used pencil stub, and Lucas began writing.

"I'd like to stick around and help you find your brother,” he told Willow. “But I'm looking for somebody myself.” He ripped a section from the label, sliding it along the counter to her. “Brandt Donovan is a friend of mine. If you ever need anything—anything at all—I want you to write to him at this address. He'll help you out or get a message to me."

Willow stared at the paper in her hand. Then she lifted her eyes to meet his. “Why are you doing this?"

"It's just an address. I wish I could do more. At least this way you'll be able to contact me."

"No, I mean, why are you doing any of this? Most people would shrug off my search as just another sad story they heard in a saloon."

"Maybe I know what it's like to lose someone you love. Or maybe I just want to help.” He dug into his shirt pocket, pulling out several folded bills. “Keep this. If you get news about your brother, you may need it for a train ticket or something."

"I can't accept this,” she said, handing it back.

He folded her fingers over the money, giving her hand a squeeze. “Take it. Just don't go wasting it,” he said with a wink. He slid several coins onto the bar for their drinks.

"Let me know when you find him.” He refrained from saying
if
, knowing hope was sometimes the only thing that kept a person going. He pressed a small kiss to her cheek. “Good luck."

He left the saloon without looking back. There was nothing he could do for Willow right now. He had his own course to follow, his own problems. And one of them was back at the hotel waiting for him.

How would he meet Megan's eyes and tell her that what they had shared meant nothing? How could he look at her without wanting to make love to her again? Christ, this job was getting difficult.

Infiltrate the gang, Brandt had said. Get the goods on Megan Adams so she can stand trial, he'd said. If Brandt were standing in front of him this minute, Lucas knew he'd strangle the bastard. His friend owed him for this one—owed him big.

Lucas tipped his hat to the clerk behind the desk in the hotel lobby as he made his way up to the room. He wondered if Megan was over his abrupt departure yet. Most women would rant and rave and cry their eyes out. Megan, he thought, would be more likely to throw something. Like a chair or table.

He winced at the thought. Perhaps she'd fallen asleep. His head tilted heavenward in a plea for that one small favor. He didn't make a habit of asking the Almighty for much, but this was an exception. He didn't think he could handle an irate Megan just now.

Turning the key slowly, silently, he unlocked the door. He opened it a crack, peeking inside. The room was dark. He listened but heard no signs of movement. With a relieved sigh, he entered.

Megan was sleeping—or feigning sleep—he realized when he saw a slight mound beneath the covers. Maybe by morning all the emotions over the whole incident would have passed. They could start
over,
revert to being simply prisoner and guard.

He removed his gun belt,
then
went to the bed, sitting on the edge so as not to disturb her. He shucked his boots,
then
tossed his shirt and hat onto the bedside table. Unbuttoning his trousers, he leaned back against his pillow, arms folded beneath his head.

He soon became convinced that Megan was only pretending to be asleep. She had a habit of rolling all over the place, and she hadn't so much as shifted an inch the entire time he'd been on the bed. He'd expected more trouble from her. A few cuss words, a flying hairbrush. But silence was good. He could handle that better than some in-depth, emotional confrontation.

He was just drifting off when he realized an unfamiliar noise seemed to be filtering into the room.
A wispy, breathy sound.
With it came the unmistakable
ping-ting
of the saloon's piano.

His brows met. He opened his eyes, seeing pitch black. There was more.
A nagging sense of things being out of place.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

And then it hit him. Megan wasn't breathing. The woman who sniffed, snored, and cursed in her sleep hadn't made a peep since he walked into the room.

He sat up, fumbling with the lamp until the wick was burning full force. Turning back, he ripped the bedcovers down, only to find a pillow stuffed underneath them to resemble a sleeping person. Across from the bed, he saw a knotted length of material leading out the window.

"Son of a bitch!”
He jumped off the mattress, grabbing for his clothes and boots, at the same time trying to buckle on his matching Colts. He didn't know where Megan thought she could run, but he vowed to find her. If it took until his dying breath, he would find her and bring her back.

He let his anger build, knowing that if he stopped to think things through too thoroughly, he would get scared. There was no telling what Megan might run into out there. A woman
on her own
drew trouble like ants to a picnic. And no matter how tough she pretended to be, even Megan couldn't handle some things.

Damn. He had to find her.

He rounded the bed, running a hand over the rope of torn sheets. She was one damned ingenious woman, he'd give her that.

The best way to track a person was to follow their exact trail whenever possible. For that, he'd have to climb out the window, too. He cursed her to hell and back for choosing such a narrow exit.

He lifted a leg through the opening, shifting and turning until he could back his way out. His hips rubbed against the sides, impeded by the Peacemakers strapped to his thighs. He wrapped his foot around the makeshift ladder to help his descent and clutched the windowsill for dear life. Oh, yes, she would pay for this one.

A billowing summer breeze swirled the curtains into his face. The newspaper on the floor fluttered.

For the second time that night, Lucas found himself frowning. He distinctly remembered folding the
Gazette
and setting it on the table beside the armchair. Turning the air blue with curses, he struggled to get back into the room. His graceful choreography landed him with his head on the floor, his feet sticking up in the air over the bed.

He righted himself and crawled to the newspaper, slapping a hand on the pages to keep them from rattling. The rough sketch of Megan immediately caught his eye. Damn it! He'd hoped she wouldn't see the article.

Well, at least now he knew where she was headed.

Megan stumbled to a stop, letting go of the reins and dropping to the hard earth to empty her boots of dirt and stones. She didn't know where she was, exactly, but it wasn't far enough from Wichita to ease her mind. Her horse had thrown a shoe only a few miles outside of town; she'd been walking the mare ever since. It didn't help, either, to know that Lucas had most likely discovered her missing by now.

She pulled her boots back on and got to her feet, brushing a straggling lock of hair out of her eyes. There had to be a town nearby. Somewhere she could get her horse
reshod
or find a fresh mount.

After another half mile or so, she heard the rush of running water. A stream, she thought with delight. She could get a drink and wash her face. Oh, what she wouldn't give for that small pleasure. Poor Girl—as she'd taken to calling the mare—would appreciate fresh water, too.

When she finally came upon the bubbling brook, she almost fell to her knees to kiss the ground in thanks. Poor Girl kept going, dragging the reins out of Megan's hand.

Exhausted, Megan crawled to the edge of the stream. She scooped several handfuls of cold water to her mouth before her thirst was sated. Then she slid open the top few buttons of her shirt to splash water over her face and neck. She moaned in delight.

"Well,
lookee
what we got here, boys."

She swung around to face three men. She had been so thrilled to find the
creekbed
that she hadn't paid much attention to her surroundings or heard anyone nearby.

The first man had shoulders as broad as a barn. A long, ragged scar ran down one side of his face, through his right eye. He didn't bother wearing a patch to cover the puckered skin around the dead orb.

His two companions were less formidable, scrawny even. But their slight build didn't fool Megan for a minute. She sensed that they were mean and very, very dangerous.

"You lost, honey?” the big one asked.

She didn't answer but took a step backward, reaching blindly for Poor Girl's reins.

"You
ain't
goin
’
somewheres
without
answerin
', are
ya
?"

"Of course not,” she answered, hoping to stall for time. “In fact, I think I am lost."

"Oh?” The man to the left of the leader moved closer. “Where is it you're going?"

"Wichita,” she said, wanting them to think she was on her way to a town close by, not someplace a hundred miles away like Leavenworth.

"That's right
interestin
'. There's tracks leading to this creek, but they're heading away from Wichita. Looks like a horse come up lame and the rider's been
walkin
’ him. Wouldn't be you, now, would it?"

"No. My horse is just fine.” She took the opportunity to turn and grab Poor Girl's trailing reins, never taking her eyes off the three slowly advancing men.

When they were no more than a yard away, Megan leapt into the saddle and spurred her horse forward. The mare raced across the stream, onto the opposite bank, but the missing shoe slowed her down, made her gait awkward.

Megan felt herself flying through the air before she realized one of the men had caught the back of her shirt. The force of her fall knocked the air from her lungs. The pain kept her immobile for several seconds.

She regained her breath and began fighting the man holding her down on the ground. With a solid kick, the heel of her boot met a shin bone. Her nails dug into his stubbly face, her teeth into his forearm. He swore violently, letting go to rub the raw and bleeding skin. While he was preoccupied with his small wounds, she pulled back and punched him in the jaw. He fell to the side, stunned.

The other two men pounced, trying to impede her movements. But while they fought to subdue her flailing arms, she landed a crippling blow to the groin of the bull-like man. He groaned, covering his injury with both hands.

That left one. He stared at his partners with wide eyes. Megan shoved him away, bounding to her feet. When he got to his knees and lunged at her, she cracked him under the jaw with one well-placed kick.

She watched them carefully while she caught her breath. Poor Girl stood beside a cottonwood
tree,
looking on, fear blazing in the whites of her eyes. Megan patted the mare's neck and began leading her away. The men were coming around. She needed to get away as fast as possible. But with the limp Poor Girl now had from their fouled attempt at escape, there was no way Megan could ask her to carry added weight.

"Come on. Girl,” she said, clicking her tongue. She would think of something.

"Not so fast."

Megan turned, only to find herself looking down the barrel of a revolver. The broad-shouldered man stood not three feet away, the gun shaking a bit in his white-knuckled hand.

"I don't take kindly to
no
uppity bitch
makin
’ me look bad."

"You don't need an uppity bitch to do that,” she retorted.

He moved forward with his arm up; she was sure he meant to strike her. She took a step backward, prepared to run but ready to fight if necessary.

A shot rang through the night, stopping her attacker in his tracks. He whirled around, raising his pistol to ward off this newest threat.

"If you want to live to see tomorrow.
I suggest you drop the gun."

Megan had never been so happy to see anyone in her life. Lucas stood on the other side of the stream, aiming both ivory-handled Peacemakers at the group of men.

"Drop it,” he warned again.

The Remington faltered in the big man's grip, but he didn't loosen his hold. Another bullet rent the air. All eyes turned to see one of the thinner men clutch his leg before doubling over. His .44 tumbled to the ground.

"Who wants to be next?"

Both men threw their guns toward the bank of the creek.

"Good. Now pick up your friend and ride out of here"

They lifted the wounded man by the armpits, half dragging, half carrying him across the stream.

The staccato beat of galloping horses faded into the distance, leaving them alone in the night. Except for a scant amount of moonlight filtering through the treetops, all was dark.

Lucas stood stock-still for long minutes. His body hummed with unreleased fury and deep-rooted fear. When he'd come upon Megan being approached by that burly, unkempt man, he saw red. He wanted to rip the bastard's throat out. Now he couldn't seem to move.

Megan was all right. A little shaken, from the looks of her, but not hurt. It seemed to take forever for his heart to pick up a normal rhythm.

As he watched, Megan closed her eyes and slumped to the ground. Suddenly, Lucas wasn't so sure she was okay.

He
reholstered
his Colts, splashing through the calf-deep water to the other side of the creek. He reached her in three long strides. His hands shook as he gripped her upper arms.

Then she lifted her head and smiled.
A wide, radiant smile.

"Christ!” he swore, releasing her. “I thought you were hurt."

She struggled to her feet, wiping dust from her pant legs. “I'm fine."

That's when he noticed her ripped shirt. All the buttons down the front were missing, and the collar hung open haphazardly, torn at the seam.

He stared hard at the rent fabric. “Did they hurt you?"

She shook her head. “No. I'm fine."

Lucas clenched his teeth, biting back the need to go after those bastards, to kill them for even daring to touch her. The haze of anger slowly began to fade. But the remnants of fear remained.

He grabbed Megan's shoulders, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as he shook her. “Are you crazy? What the hell were you thinking, running away like that? You could have been killed!"

She looked up at him, tangled hair falling in her face, her brown eyes big and bright. Then she lifted a hand to his face, her lips turning up at the corners. “But I wasn't."

It took a minute for her words to sink in. Longer for him to realize she was right—she hadn't been killed. Hadn't been raped or beaten or any of the other thousand things he'd imagined as he rode around looking for her.

"Christ,” he said and drew her against him. His mouth devoured her, drinking, plunging, reaffirming. He couldn't seem to get close enough to stop the tremors that raced through his body. His hands ran over her face, her arms, reassuring
himself
that she was unharmed. He'd never been so afraid in his life as when he'd seen her standing at the business end of that bastard's pistol.

Lucas lifted her into his arms, took hold of the mare's reins, and crossed the stream. He lowered Megan, letting her slide down, causing a sweet friction to build between their bodies. His tongue traced the gentle curve of her lips. Keeping her hand clutched tightly in his own, he tied her mount to his gelding.

Lucas kissed the tip of Megan's nose,
then
picked her up by the waist to deposit her at the front of his saddle. He climbed up behind. With a soft click, he set Worthy into motion toward town, the reins knotted and secured about the pommel.

He put one arm around Megan's waist. The other slipped into the opening of her shirt to cup one of the heavy globes concealed there. His fingers teased the nipple while he rained small, openmouthed kisses along her neck.

Megan whimpered when he nipped her earlobe. His breath against her hair, the silky warmth of his tongue made her insides burn. Her flesh was alive with wanting.

He released her breast, sliding his hand over her stomach and out of the shirt. She was about to voice her disappointment when his other hand circled the opposite mound. His right hand rested on the waistband of her trousers. Expertly, he undid the buttons there, slipped his hand inside her satin drawers, and cupped her.

She gasped when his fingers touched the bud of desire hidden within, slick and ready for his ministrations. She let her head fall back against his shoulder. Her hands curled beneath his thighs, as though at any moment she might otherwise be wrenched up and tossed through the air.

"Oh, God,” she moaned as his finger slipped inside her.

"
It's
okay, baby,” he whispered above her ear.

He circled her ultrasensitive nub with his thumb, all the while moving his finger in a steady rhythm. Ecstasy built to an almost painful plane. She groaned and writhed on his lap, begging him to cease his sweet torture.

"Lucas. Lucas."

"Easy, baby.
Let it come."

He kicked the horse into a faster gait, driving them together more forcefully. His motions increased. A brilliant array of stars broke out before her. She screamed his name, riding his finger as uncontrollable spasms washed over her.

She let out a strangled sigh, limp and replete in his arms.

"Did you like that?"

She tried to laugh at his wicked question.
Like
was not the word she would use to describe what she had just experienced.

Only after she began to recover did she become aware of Lucas's own arousal pressing into the small of her back. He didn't seem inclined to do anything about it, but he had given her such pleasure, she wanted to do the same for him. Even in the awkward position of riding on horseback, there had to be some way....

"Lucas?"

"Hmm?"

"Are we alone?"

"You don't see anybody else on this horse, do you?"

She rolled her eyes at his smart-aleck answer. “I mean, is there anyone else around? Can anyone ... see us?"

"Nope.
It's just you, me, and the horses."

"Good.” She swung her leg over Worthy's neck, bumping Lucas's arm from her waist.

"What do you think you're doing?” he asked, his voice sounding confused and more than a little miffed, as if she were abandoning him there in the saddle.

"You'll see.” Balancing herself in the crook of his legs, she started to wiggle out of her pants.

She almost fell, and Lucas yelled at her. “What the hell are you doing?"

"You'll see,” she said again. It took some doing, but she finally managed to get her trousers off without removing her boots. She slung the pants across Worthy's rump, then got up on her knees. The horse's easy gait and Lucas's hands were the only things keeping her from toppling over.

"Megan, if you don't—"

She cut him off. “Do you want me to do this or not?"

"I can't imagine what the hell it is you're trying to do!” he snapped. “If you don't sit down, you're going to fall off and break your damned neck."

Megan ran her fingers through the hair at his temples, leaning close to the solid wall of his chest. “Shut up and make love to me."

"How do you expect me to do that?” The words were meant to be rough, but his tone revealed just how much he wanted to.

"Easy.” She bent her head, pressing her mouth to his full, pouting lips. He tasted of the lingering remnants of ale. Her hands slid down the front of his shirt to his gun belt. She unbuckled it, letting it drape over the saddle behind him. He didn't seem to notice he was no longer properly armed as his hands moved beneath the silk of her drawers to cup her rounded bottom. She loosened the buttons of his trousers, allowing his hardened length freedom from the binding confines.