A Promise of Roses (3 page)

"I don't doubt it,” Luke said a bit more sternly. “But I don't have time to let you prove it.” He lifted her to her feet and held her as she struggled for balance.

"They probably aren't even awake yet,” Megan said, clutching Luke's shoulders for support.

"Who?”
He looked thoroughly confused.

"Evan and the others,” she answered. “They won't know you took off with their money for
another two or three hours
."

"That's the least of my problems right now."

"Then what's so all-fired important that you have to toss me over a horse and drag me half across the state?"

Luke chuckled. “We haven't even gone ten miles yet."

"Well, it feels like fifty,” she said, rubbing her bottom.

"Can you stand?"

"Of course I can stand, you idiot."

"Good.” He removed his hands from her waist.

Megan's legs
wobbled,
and she grabbed at his arms.

"Christ, you should have said something.” Luke eased her back to the ground and went to pick up the strongbox.

"I'll remember that. The next time some cold-blooded outlaw kidnaps me, ties my wrists, gags and blindfolds me, I'll be sure to mention that my hands and feet are falling asleep. I'm sure he'll be terribly concerned."

"I don't know why anyone would be concerned about you with a smart mouth like that."

"You're one to talk, Saint Luke, Robber of Stages.” Megan watched as he steadied the box on the saddle of her horse, securing it with a length of rope. “Where the hell am I supposed to sit? If you think I'll be walking behind you and your precious railroad payroll, you're out of your itty-bitty bandit mind."

Luke threw her a quelling look and checked the ropes again. “You can ride with me."

"You are an idiot,” she said, forcing her stiff body to obey her commands. She got to her knees and struggled a long minute until she stood upright. “I am not riding with you."

"I don't think you have much choice in the matter,” Luke said, patting his double six-shooters.

The guns on his hips didn't impress Megan. “You might as well shoot me and get it over with, Mr. Big Bad Bank Robber.
Because if you make me go with you, I'll make your trip a living hell."

"You already have.” He took a step toward her. “And I have never robbed a bank."

"Stage robber, bank robber—it's all the same. You're still going to hang.” He moved forward. She took a step back.

"I won't hang,” he said.

"You will if I have anything to say about it."

He laughed. Megan didn't know what could be so funny about a noose tightening around one's neck, but he obviously found the possibility amusing.

With little warning, Luke
swooped
Megan up over his shoulder and mounted his horse. She pounded his back for several minutes until she realized the uselessness of her efforts. When she stopped, he slid her down his body and helped her get comfortable in front of him.

"It's going to be a long ride,” he said. “You might as well get some sleep."

Megan stiffened her spine, determined to remain awake. She didn't care if she stayed on this horse for a month straight; the last thing she would ever do was fall asleep in this man's arms.

Megan awakened to the gurgle of swiftly running water. She opened her eyes and looked around only to find herself sitting with her back to the thick trunk of a cottonwood tree. Both horses stood ankle-deep in a crystal-clear stream, drinking their fill. She didn't see Luke anywhere.

She stretched, testing her muscles and joints. They seemed to be in better shape now than they had the night before. Megan frowned. How long had she slept that it would be light out already? It didn't really matter. She had to get away.

Jumping to her feet, she raced into the water and grabbed the mare's reins.

"
Goin
’ somewhere?"

The deep male voice froze Megan in place, one foot in a stirrup. She lowered her leg and turned to face Luke.

"You weren't thinking of running off, now, were you?"

"Of course I was, you dolt. You didn't expect me to just sit here awaiting your return, did you?"

Luke laughed. “There's something to be said for honesty, anyway. Why don't you come on out of there before your toes turn to
ice.
You can help me with the money."

Megan sloshed out of the creek and crossed her arms over her chest. Luke dragged the strongbox from beside the tree where she had been resting, then drew his gun. He aimed it at the padlock and pulled the trigger. Megan whirled to see if the noise had spooked the horses, but they seemed undisturbed as they continued to drink.

"How about putting the money in these?"

She caught the fawn-colored saddlebags Luke tossed her.

"Count it, too. There should be close to three thousand dollars."

"Four thousand, six hundred,” Megan said.

A golden eyebrow arched upward. “And just how do you know that?"

"I own the stagecoach company.” Megan shot him a glance, curious to see his reaction to the news. Most people just about swallowed their tongues. He didn't
so
much as blink.

"So you would be privy to all kinds of information, huh?"

"Anything concerning the stage line or its passengers."

"Or its cargo."

"Yes."

"And I suppose you knew ahead of time how much money the railroad wanted transported."

"Of course.
But what does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing.
I was just asking."

Megan watched him a moment longer before turning her attention to the cash. She counted the coins and bills before stuffing them inside the pockets of the saddlebags and handing them to Luke.

Luke kicked the strongbox into the thicket. Then he looked toward the stream, gave a long, sharp whistle, and called out, “Worthy!” The gelding came at the sound of his name and nudged Luke's shoulder. “Good boy,” Luke said, patting his muzzle. The black mare followed, wanting the same attention.

"Is that his name? Worthy?"

"Yep,” Luke said, arranging the bags on the back of his saddle.

"Why do you call him that?” She saw a muscle in Luke's jaw jump.

"My wife named him."

For some reason, that announcement stung more than Megan cared to admit, though she knew Luke's being married shouldn't affect her one way or the other. “You're married.” It was more a statement than a question.

"Not anymore. She's dead."

"I'm sorry.” Megan didn't know which hurt more, the fact that Luke had been married or the thought of him losing someone he loved. She knew from experience that the pain could be almost unbearable.

"Why—” Megan cleared her throat. “If you don't mind my asking, why did she name him
Worthy
?"

"She thought he looked like a trustworthy mount.” A hint of a smile reached his lips. “I couldn't decide what to call him, and before I knew it, the name stuck."

"What was your wife's name?” Megan's throat felt scratchy, her palms damp.

"Annie.” Luke's voice turned rough. “And don't even think about asking another damn question. Mount up. We've got plenty of ground to cover before dark."

Before dark, it dawned on Megan that, despite her claims to excellent horsemanship, she had never ridden a horse to the extent that Luke expected. He stopped only once to water the animals, and he made Megan keep up a conversation from the bushes so he could be sure she didn't use the call of nature as an excuse to escape. Then he pushed them another twenty miles if he pushed them an inch.

The sun had gone down an hour earlier, but not until now did Luke decide to make camp for the night. He tethered the horses, then came back to help Megan down.

"You gather kindling for a fire. I'll see what I can do about finding us something to eat. Don't wander off. If you run, I won't think twice about putting a bullet in your back."

Megan waved a hand, clicking her tongue. “What a charmer you can be, Mr. Luke.” She hoped to see a small smile, but his face remained impassive.

"My name is Lucas, not Luke."

"What's the difference?"

"I don't like being called Luke. I don't mind Lucas or McCain."

"I see. So why have I only heard you called Luke up till now?"

"I sometimes use Luke with ... certain people. You can call me Lucas."

"Why just certain people?"

"It's a long story."

Megan cocked one hip. “I'm not going anywhere,” she tossed out, reminding him of his earlier order.

"I am,” he said. “I'm going to see what I can find for supper. Don't be scared if you hear a shot."

"I would not be even remotely frightened by a gunshot, Lucas McCain."

"Good. I'll be back."

Megan watched him walk out of sight before starting her own search for brush and twigs to build a fire. She cleared an area, made a ring of stones, and piled her kindling inside the circle. Then she went to her mare and dug around in the bags attached to the saddle. Since the other pouches contained the railroad payroll, she assumed Lucas's belongings were in these.

An extra shirt,
a gold pocket watch
on a worn leather fob, a packet of tobacco and papers. Megan
rebuckled
the flap. She went around to the other side of the horse to root in that bag. Her fingers bumped something solid, wrapped in a soft piece of wool. She knew she shouldn't pry, but even as that thought raced through her brain, Megan took the object out of the leather satchel. She let it rest in the palm of her hand for a moment before pulling back the folds of cloth.

She stared at the picture inside a beautiful silver frame etched with delicate vines and blossoms. A gentle-looking blonde sat in a medallion-backed armchair, a young child on her lap. The woman's smile lit every fine feature of her face, including her pale eyes.

Filled with curiosity, Megan turned the tintype over and slipped it out of the frame. Scrawled on the back in flowing letters were two names and a date: Annie and Chad, 1879.

Annie.
Lucas's wife.
Chad must be their son. But where was the little boy now?

Megan sensed Lucas's presence and turned to see him standing a scant yard away. His usually light eyes looked dark and stormy, more gray than blue. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He held a rabbit by its hind legs in his left hand. Funny, she didn't remember hearing a shot.

"What are you doing with that?"

His question came out in a low, calm tone, but Megan wasn't fooled. The words sounded raw, enraged. She quickly replaced the picture in the frame and rewrapped it in the blue cloth.

"I'm sorry,” she said, returning it to the saddlebag. “I didn't mean to pry. I was looking for matches."

Lucas reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal box. He tossed it to her.

Megan didn't move. The case landed in the dirt at her feet with a tiny clink. She held Lucas's cold gaze.

"There are your matches. Go start a fire"

She bent down and retrieved the box, then moved to me pile of kindling. Bits of reddish rust corroded the hinges of the metal case, and it took a minute to get the lid open. A leather pouch rested inside. Megan worked the tight drawstring loose and pulled out a match.

She lowered herself to the ground, crossed her legs, and struck the sulfur tip on the sole of her boot, lighting the dry brush she'd collected. Smoke whirled up for a moment before the flame caught and spread.

By the time Lucas showed himself again, Megan had a good-size blaze going. He shoved two Y-shaped sticks into the earth and rested the long, straight one with the skinned rabbit skewered on it across the top.

Megan kept her eyes averted, still feeling guilty for nosing around in his belongings. Lucas's past was none of her business. She didn't even care. The fact that he'd been married and had a child didn't bother her in the least. Why should it?

"Is Chad your son?"

Lucas gritted his teeth so tightly, Megan imagined she could hear them grinding. Long seconds passed, and she decided he didn't intend to answer.

"He's a very cute little boy.”
Shut up, Megan!
her
mind screamed.
Why in God's name do you want to know so much? This man is a criminal. He robbed your stage, kidnapped you, dropped you on your bottom in the dirt, and you're asking about his family as if you're old friends.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry.” Lord, she'd said that already. And here she was with chisel and hammer, pounding away at his tough outer shell, trying to peek inside.

He remained silent.

"I wasn't snooping. I really thought the matches would be in your saddlebags."

"I carry them with me,” he said, keeping his eyes on the flames that licked at the meat.

"Here,” Megan said, handing his match case back to him. “That's a very good idea. Keeping them in that oiled leather pouch and then putting them in the metal box."

"They stay dry that way."

Megan swallowed and rearranged her legs, searching for a comfortable position. “I really am sorry,” she said again.

No answer.

"Damn it, I said I was sorry.” Her last shred of patience snapped and sizzled like the rabbit's juices dripping into the fire. “I'm sorry I started digging in your saddlebags. I'm sorry I found the picture. I'm sorry I was curious enough to look at it. I'm sorry your wife died. I'm sorry you can't stay home and spend more time with your son. I'm sorry you can't find a decent job and have to rob stages for a living. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Now would you please say
it's
okay and accept my apology?"

A minute of tortured silence passed. Megan wanted to rip the hair right out other head. Damn his stubborn hide, she wasn't going to apologize again. Eating too much crow gave her a rash. Megan scratched a spot on her elbow as if emphasizing the thought.

"My son is dead, too."

Her fingers stilled.
“Oh, God.
I'm sorry,” she said, breaking her most recent vow. She buried her face in her hands. “I've made a terrible mess of things, haven't I?"

Lucas chuckled, and Megan lifted her head, sure she'd imagined the sound. But the smile on his lips was real.
And devastatingly charming.

"Why do you say that?” he asked.

Megan struggled to remember what she had said. “I had no right to touch your things. Your past is your business. It's personal. I never should have asked about it."

"No, you shouldn't have. Have you ever lost anyone you loved, Miss Adams?"

"Don't call me that,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It makes me feel old. Call me Megan."

"All right.
Have you ever lost anyone you loved, Megan?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

Now look who's prying
, she thought. Well, she supposed it was only fair after the Gatling-gun questions she'd thrown at him. “My father,” she answered.

"When did he die?"

"Two years ago."

"How?"

"The doctor said his heart gave out on him."

"And how did you feel when he died?"

She squirmed. “It was his time to go, I guess."

"That's not what I asked, Megan. How did you feel?"

"Sad."

"Do you miss him?"

"Of course I miss him,” she said, tears clouding her eyes.

"It's lonely when someone leaves you, isn't it? It's not like when friends marry or move away, because you know they're still there, no matter how far they go. When someone you love dies, it's a hundred times worse, because they're never coming back."

Megan sniffed, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. She hadn't cried since the day of her father's funeral. It seemed pointless; tears never solved anything. Her father was gone, and nothing she did would ever bring him back.

"What about you?” she asked stiffly, a little embarrassed by her near bout of feminine waterworks. “How did you feel when your wife died?"

"I'm not done asking about your life yet,” Lucas said, reaching out to turn the rabbit so it would cook evenly. “What did you do after your father died? Do you have any other family?"