Lawman (5 page)

And she sounded like an addle-headed
idiot
, Megan told herself sternly. Thank heaven she hadn't
uttered such a thing aloud.

"As I said, I'll tell him you were here."
Gathering her full brown skirts in both hands, Megan stepped toward
the station yard to have a horse saddled and brought round for her.
The sooner she went after her father, the better.

"Good day, Mr. Winter," she called as she
walked away. "You're welcome to some refreshments in our station
kitchen before you leave. Mose will take you there, if you'd
like."

"If I'd like?"

"Yes."

She turned toward him again, raising her
skirt slightly higher to keep her hem out of the mud and muck
littering the yard. Gabriel Winter's gaze shot to her ankles, then
lingered. She felt his attention on her just as surely as if he'd
reached out his hand and caressed her skin the same way he'd
stroked her painted roses.

And knew she shouldn't have liked the
sensation.

Much less felt thrilled to the bottoms of
her sensible brogan shoes.

"Or," she added archly, assessing his
broad-shoulders and fit physique just as boldly, "if you prefer,
you could just take your leave right now. You seem fairly well-fed
to me."

Either that, or most of his apparent muscle
was padding tailored into his suit. As a seamstress, she'd
practiced such techniques herself. Mollified by the thought of his
horsehair-pillowed shoulders, Megan shut her mouth and put on her
most no-nonsense expression, then shifted her attention to his
face.

He was grinning. At her.

The rascal.

Her actions and words had been meant to
dismiss him. Instead, he only arched his brow and asked,
"Leave?"

"Yes." Was he simple-minded? "Naturally,
since my father wasn't expecting you today, you can hardly think
to—"

"He expected me."

Something in the way he said it made her
pause. "Oh?" she asked, casually as she could.

"Yes."

It couldn't be true. She'd have known if her
father was expecting a visitor, since she conducted much of the
station business herself. Still, she'd underestimated Gabriel
Winter once already. She didn't intend to commit the same mistake
twice.

And whatever his business, it was probably
best handled in private—without station hands nearby.

Megan nodded toward Mose. "It's all right,
Mose. Thank you for your help."

He grinned and tugged the horse's reins he
was holding closer to his chest, staring down at his big clodhopper
boots. "Ain't nothin', Miss Megan."

"It was a great deal," she insisted with a
smile. "But why don't you take Mollie to the stable now, and get on
with your work. I'll be fine here."

Mose cast a suspicious glance at Gabriel
Winter. Reluctantly, he tugged the horse nearer. "Yes'm," he
muttered, taking his leave—but not before slamming his shoulder
into Mr. Winter's chest as he passed.

Men. Always having to prove something.

To her amazement, the stranger didn't even
sway. And, to her greater surprise, he didn't seem to feel the need
to shove Mose back, either.

"Shall we talk inside?" he asked instead. He
removed his hat, revealing a headful of hair thick and black as a
moonless night, then gestured toward the opened stage station
doorway. "You may prefer hearing what I have to say in
private."

His solicitousness surprised her. But the
appreciative glance he aimed at her bustle when she moved toward
the door did not. Megan stepped sideways, putting a little extra
wiggle into her walk as she preceded him into the station. As near
as she could tell, she might need whatever weaponry she could
muster.

In her experience, a well-padded bustle
counted among the most effective.

Smiling, she pulled off her hat and gloves
with motions leisurely enough to let her observe Gabriel
Winter—hopefully, without him noticing. His tall, broad-shouldered
body blocked much of the light from the doorway, then he followed
her inside. His boots beat solidly on the hard-packed dirt floor as
he made his way around the room, somehow managing to fill the space
in a way the station hands never had. He carried a sense of
authority with him as easily as he wore those citified clothes.

Her curiosity piqued, Megan finished
removing her gloves, and lay them daintily across her palm the way
she'd read the
Godey's
ladies did.

"Did you say my father expected you?" she
asked, taking a seat behind the desk. At least there she felt more
in control, however little she knew about her visitor.

Gabriel Winter nodded, still examining the
room. He traced his fingers over the books shelved near the door,
touched the lantern on its hook, rubbed his palm over the pair of
old ladder-back chairs Jedediah and Prudie Webster had occupied
earlier. At her desk, he closed his eyes and fairly caressed the
quartz paperweight Megan kept atop the bills of lading. It was as
though the man felt as strongly as he saw.

His eyes opened, then focused on her face
with unnerving intensity. "Yes, he expected me."

Enough of this mysteriousness
. "Why?"
she snapped, throwing down her gloves to open the journal of
express shipment records. "Do you have something to ship on the
express?"

"No, not that."

He dropped his hat atop her journal. He
walked around the side of her desk, near enough that his pant legs
almost brushed her skirts. Then, to her astonishment, Gabriel
Winter kept right on going toward the living area at the rear of
the station.

"I'm here to arrest him," he said, tossing
something over his shoulder.

She scrambled to her feet just as it landed
on the desktop with a scrape of metal on wood.

A Pinkerton agent's badge.

Things had gone from bad to worse.

Chapter Three

"Come back here this instant!"

Megan Kearney's voice preceded her to the
rear of the stage station by no more than a hair's breadth. Clear,
precise, and achingly female, the sound would've been sweeter than
molasses—if the lady behind it hadn't been mad enough to wake
snakes. Her tone made it clear she wasn't used to being
ignored.

Gabriel could see why, after noticing the
way her bustle trailed her earlier. A man could follow that sweet
side-to-side swoosh clear to heaven and back. For a spinster,
Joseph Kearney's daughter knew how to use every feminine asset the
Lord had granted.

And some He hadn't.

She barreled into the plain-furnished
bedroom he'd found himself in, affording him no more than a glimpse
of the room before she blocked the view with those assets of hers.
The rounded flare of her hips beneath her skirt was a sight finer
to look at than the old military cot, chest, and bare adobe walls
behind her, and so was the rest of her.

A man couldn't help but take a second
look.

"This is my father's bedroom!" she said.
"Get out of here at once."

"Or what?" Gabriel asked lazily. She really
was a pretty thing—if a little on the oddly dressed side. Those
geegaws on her hat had been enough to send the cactus wrens toward
her with thoughts of nesting on their minds. "You'll call that
oversized kid you call a station hand in here to roust me out?"

"Yes!"

He shrugged. "I've put bigger men in the
ground. Maybe not dumber ones, but—"

She started to tremble—with anger, he
guessed, not fear.

"If you so much as lay a hand on Mose," she
said, "I'll—I'll—"

Just as he'd thought—she was softhearted.
Soft all over, by the looks of her. If he'd had more time, more
leads on the case....

The case.

For all he knew, she'd helped her father
pull off that damned stagecoach robbery. Reminding himself of the
duty that had brought him here, Gabriel pressed his fingertips to
the pale canvas tacked over the low
viga
ceiling and leaned
over her.

"You'll what?"

She glared upward, taking in the way his
fingertips reached the ceiling. Then she glared upward at him.

He grinned. Lord, but he did like a feisty
woman.

"Hmmm?" he prompted.

Her big brown eyes lost some of their
warmth. Her gaze narrowed, then centered on him.

Low-down
on him.

"I'll do this," she said—and kicked him in
the shin.

Damnation
. Pain exploded along his
leg bone. Ducking, he rubbed it out, still keeping an eye on her.
He wanted to know it if she took it into her head to kick him a
little higher up.

"Desert women are a little different than
you're used to, I guess," she said, returning his look with vinegar
to spare.

Gabriel grunted. "Yeah. A city woman
would've jabbed me with her parasol instead." He winced as he
straightened again—this time, out of kicking range. "What the
hell's in those shoes?"

"Feet. Please get out."

He looked her over, gauging his chances of
sweet-talking her into letting him search the place without getting
crippled for his efforts.

They didn't look good.

But he had to try.

He reached inside his coat pocket and tugged
out the wanted poster he'd drawn up on the train from California.
Based on the case file, it contained details about the stagecoach
robbery, the man he sought, and the reward offered. If things went
according to his plan, he wouldn't need to have it printed up and
posted.

But Miss Kearney didn't know that.

"Not until you read this." Gently, he pushed
the rolled paper into her hands.

She looked like she expected it to sit up
and bite her. "Look, agent Winter," she said, thrusting the paper
toward him as though to give it back, "I was on my way to conduct
some very important business in town, and I don't have time for
some sharper's shenanigans. Someone has obviously misled you, if
you think my father is involved in some sort of—"

"Just read it."

She strangled it in her fist instead, giving
him a defiant glare. "No Pinkerton man has any reason to go after
my father. You people hunted down the James and Younger gangs, for
heaven's sake!"

Megan slapped the rolled wanted poster onto
his chest. He clapped his hand over hers, holding it atop the paper
hard enough to keep the poster from falling—hard enough to keep her
from getting away.

"I suggest you devote yourself to chasing
the real criminals in this Territory," she said, trying to wriggle
her hand away. "Everyone knows they're common as cactus."

"And twice as prickly."

She sighed and quit struggling. "This may be
funny to you, but I don't think—"

"Neither do I."

Her small hand stilled beneath his, warm
enough that he could feel her heat clear through to his chest, even
past the layers of paper and clothes separating them. He sensed the
rounded bulk of a ring on one of her fingers, and wondered if the
spinster Kearney was really as lacking in beaus as his research
into her family implied.

"Then let me go and we'll both be on our
way," she said, her voice crisp.

For a small woman standing up to a much
larger man, Megan Kearney somehow managed to look fierce.
Determined. She kept her shoulders straight, kept her gaze level on
his face...and kept the wanted poster she refused to believe
plastered against his chest while she waited for him to take the
document back.

At that moment, her loyalty to her father,
however mislaid, struck him as endearing as hell. Suddenly Gabriel
wished he'd let McMarlin question her instead.

"This is no sharper's trick," he said. "I've
got good reasons to be here. Otherwise, I'd let you head out to
town and get on with your business. I'm not in the habit of making
hasty judgments."

He stroked his thumb over hers, then
released her hand and pressed the poster into it. "I'm sorry."

The disbelieving look she gave him did
nothing to salve his conscience. As far as some folks were
concerned, the Pinkertons were no better than high-paid bounty
hunters. From the looks of things, Megan agreed with them.

With the air of a stable hand wanting to get
the damned stalls mucked out, she dipped her head and rapidly
scanned the page.

"This can't be," she muttered. With a sound
of confusion, she wrinkled her forehead and read it again. Then,
looking wounded, she raised her head and stared toward the window.
Gabriel waited. Her gaze turned distant, distracted.

Trying to think of an explanation that
would prove her father's innocence somehow
, he figured. It was
the reaction most folks had when faced with the kind of news he
brought. Witnessing their despair and disbelief turn to acceptance
was one of things he hated most about being an agent. It was also
one of the things he'd been forced to accept early on.

"Happens all the time," he replied, hoping
to take some of the sting from the news. "You couldn't have
known."

She said nothing, only lowered her head and
touched her fingertips to the poster. Her motions stirred the air
in the room, sweetened it with the feminine scents surrounding her.
Apparently, painted flowers weren't the only kind she came in
contact with. She smelled like she'd rolled in a whole meadow.

Just as the contrast of blossoms drawn on
dirt-streaked adobe had, the combination of sweet and tough in
Megan Kearney intrigued him like nothing he'd known. He watched the
play of late-morning sunlight over her features, and liked what he
saw. Any honey-coated words he gave her would have truth to
spare.

"In my line of work, I've seen things you
would not believe, Miss Kearney," Gabriel said when she looked up
from the wanted poster. "But I've never seen a woman with hair
exactly the color of sugared coffee, like yours." He paused to push
back a strand that had come undone from the knot at the back of her
head. "And eyes like the heart of a flame."