"What's the matter?" the gunman asked. "Nothing to say? You were a lot braver when you thought I was a helpless drunk. You didn't mind letting me know how offensive you found me then, did you?"
His taunt ignited a spark inside Devina that forced all caution from her mind. She reacted with cutting anger. "I was disgusted with you when I thought you to be a slovenly drunk. Now that I know what you truly are, I find you even more repulsive."
The gunman's harsh features tightened, and Devina fought to control her quaking. She raised her chin in stubborn defiance. She would not allow this criminal to force her to cower.
The gunman's response was a short, sinister statement. "Repulsive, perhaps, but in control… of you."
The gunman turned abruptly and stepped down from the coach. Jamming his gun into his belt, he turned back and reached inside the coach to swing Devina roughly to the ground beside him. His grip on her arm held her at his side.
The masked robbers had already begun moving silently about their tasks, one man gathering up the discarded guns, another scaling the coach to throw the strongbox to the ground while the third stood guard. A quick shot into the box splintered the lock. All eyes moved intently to the strongbox when the lid was raised. Out of the corner of her eye, Devina saw the stagecoach guard make a quick move toward the nearest masked man.
"No, you don't, John Henry!"
His arm snaking out even as he spoke, Devina's captor pulled her up tight against him. Pressing his gun to her ribs, he held her securely against his lean, hard length as he continued menacingly, "Don't try anything foolish. You wouldn't want to put this lady in danger, would you?"
Humiliation at her role of helpless hostage added a new sharpness to her tongue as Devina snapped, "How very
brave
you are. Do all you
brave
western gunmen hide behind women's skirts?" Fuming when he did not respond, Devina continued acidly, "You needn't answer. It's obvious you're quite at home conducting yourself in this manner."
The gunman purred into Devina's ear, "That's right, ma'am. I'm just as comfortable behind a woman's skirts as I am under them."
A flush rose to Devina's cheeks, and she snapped her lips tightly closed. The gunman's short, whispered response made two things abundantly clear, despite the strain of the moment. The first was that she could not afford to trade insults with her captor. The second was that her earlier observation had indeed been correct: Her captor did not reek of alcohol because he had consumed it. The breath that washed her cheek was clean and sweet. He had obviously doused himself in whiskey. His slovenly attire and grooming, as well as his feigned drunkenness, were part of his strategy to keep everyone off guard until the coach arrived at the place where his henchmen awaited him. He had taken over the coach without a single shot being fired. Oh, this fellow was smart, all right…
Devina had no further time for conjecture as the masked men loaded the last of the sacks from the strongbox onto their saddles and turned toward her captor.
"We're ready to go."
Dragging her with him, Devina's captor strode toward his horse.
A new fear gripped Devina and her heart began a wildly erratic beat. She struggled furiously as he pulled her along. "
Wha
… what do you think you're doing? Let me go!"
Releasing her as he reached his horse, he gave her a contemptuous glance. "Don't flatter yourself. You've served your purpose. I have no intention of taking you with me. You wouldn't be worth the trouble. Get over there with the others, and make it fast!"
An uncontrollable flush reflected Devina's humiliation as she turned to face the other passengers. Walking on trembling legs with as much dignity as she could muster, she did not turn around even at the sound of the thieves' rapid departure.
Abruptly, Devina realized she was shuddering. Grudgingly, she accepted the support of the short, burly guard as the driver attended to the elderly couple.
"Are you all right, ma'am?"
"Other than having been manhandled by a repulsive, foul-smelling thief who threatened my life, I suppose I'm all right."
His heavily
jowled
face reddening, the guard bobbed his head apologetically. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I wasn't
expectin
' anyone to be
hidin
' in the coach. There was
nothin
' I could do."
But Devina would not suffer the guard's excuses or his concern. She was extremely shaken, for all her pretended calm. That vile beast had taunted her as he held her life in his hands and then had dismissed her with contempt.
The sudden memory of dark, intense eyes returned to mock her. Her color high, Devina shook off the guard's supporting hand. Turning, she addressed the driver. "I can see no reason for us to stand here on this dusty road in the blazing sun." Turning with a quick glance toward the elderly couple who had weathered the whole ordeal admirably, she raised her chin with determination. "I should think these two people would agree that we've wasted enough time here as it is and that it's time to go on."
Ignoring the driver's startled expression as well as the persistent weakness in her knees, Devina turned and walked back to the stage.
Seated inside minutes later, Devina turned to stare blindly out the window. She could still feel the pressure of the arm that had held her prisoner. The bruises, where the strong fingers had bitten into her arm as her captor held her to his side, throbbed painfully. She closed her eyes, and her heart skipped a beat as she recalled the sensation of the hard muzzle of the gun against her ribs. She had never been so frightened…
A vision of the hard black eyes arose in her mind, threatening, mocking her. Devina opened her eyes. Realizing she was shaking, she felt rage suffuse her anew. A low, common thief terrorizing her, telling her that she was not worth his trouble… If it was the last thing she ever did, she would make the beast eat his words. She would make him pay…
Succumbing to the nagging force inside him, Ross Morrison reined his mount to a sudden halt on a rise of land a short distance away. He turned his horse around, his mind unconsciously registering the sound of continuing
hoofbeats
behind him as his companions made good their escape.
His expression intent, he cantered to the edge of the rise, his eyes falling on the tableau in the distance: a stagecoach motionless on the winding, dusty road, the horses standing restlessly in their traces, small figures engaged in conversation a few feet away.
Fuming with an inner heat, Ross settled his gaze on the slender figure he sought. Pulling her shoulders erect, the woman shrugged off the support of the guard with apparent disdain. His keen eyes caught the slight elevation of her chin as she spoke. Her air of unquestioning command came cleanly across the distance between them. In the space of a second, she turned and walked back toward the stage, her head erect, her proud, narrow shoulders purposefully squared.
The heat inside him intensified, and Ross made an effort to control his disturbing reaction to the woman he watched so intently. It angered him that the spoiled little witch had been right in her assumption: For the space of a few short minutes, as he had held her tight against him, had breathed in her fragrance, he
had
actually entertained the thought of taking her with him! The realization left him strangely shaken.
Ross had never been a ladies' man. His encounters with women had been infrequent and casual. Three years in Yuma Prison had sharpened his need for the touch of womanly flesh, but he had satisfied himself with the more than willing whores in the towns he had visited since his release. One woman was as good as another in that respect. He had learned long ago that women wear not to be depended
uponhis
own mother had been the best teacher of that basic truth.
Still intent on the woman walking purposefully toward the stage, Ross gritted his teeth against the strangely conflicting emotions that assailed him. His contempt for women of her type was deeply
ingrainedwealthy
, pampered eastern-bred women who could endure the rigors of the western frontier beside their men for only as long as their creature comforts were not impaired. His own mother had been cast from that same mold, and he did not even remember her face.
Ross's frown tightened. What was it about this particular woman that made him unwilling to ride off and leave her behind? Certainly it wasn't her appearance. She was a beautiful woman, if you cared for her type, but picture-book
beautysilver
-blond hair, and blue eyes, no matter how direct and
expressivehad
never appealed to him. He preferred earthy beauties, women with vibrant coloring. What's more, he liked tall women, and that haughty witch was too petite for his taste. But persistent memory forced him to admit there had been nothing angular about the body he had held so tightly against him. He could still feel the warmth of those lush curves cushioning the tension in his muscular frame. He felt a spontaneous tightening in his groin as his mind teased him with the thought of how it would feel to bury himself deep within that softness.
The snort that escaped Ross's lips was one of self-contempt. So, he was not above experiencing sexual desire, despite his aversion to the type of woman she personified. From the first, she had openly declared her distaste for the mode of travel she had been "forced" to take to Tombstone after coming to the end of the rail lines. Already seated on the stage, pretending a drunken sleep, he had overheard her well-voiced complaints about the breakdown of the larger coach on which she had traveled the first day of her journey. She had insistently protested the use of the "outdated" smaller vehicle and the "primitive" comforts it would afford. Those same protest had allowed the older couple to board ahead of her and take the seat across from him, leaving her the seat at his side.
She had proved herself worthy of his first negative reaction to her during the time they had traveled together. Granted, he had gone to great lengths to disguise himself. Sporting long hair and a full beard, his old clothes liberally doused with red-eye, he had smelled almost as bad as he looked. He had also been unrecognizable; he wanted his release from prison, after serving only three years of his sentence, to remain a secret at present.
Through half-closed eyes he had watched the petite witch's reaction as she stepped up daintily into the coach. He had felt a perverse amusement as she realized she would have to sit at his side. Perfectly groomed and elegantly attired in a traveling outfit that had doubtless cost the equivalent of three months' salary for the average miner, she had taken a short sniff and grimaced almost comically before sitting down and allowing him the widest possible berth.
But if he had chosen to make her even more uncomfortable for the duration of their aborted journey, she had succeeded in inflaming his fury with her silent assumption of superiority. He had read that same attitude in the eyes of mining company executives from New York and San Francisco when they arrived in Tombstone in their sleekly tailored gabardine suits a few years before, their pockets bulging with out-of-town wealth. With their smooth talk, they had succeeded in methodically buying up the properties of independent investors. Even the discoverers of the Tombstone
lodethe
Schieffelin brothers and their friend and developer, Dick
Girdhad
sold out to those big-time operators.
A familiar bitterness tightened Ross's dark expression. Was it any wonder that his father had not stood a chance? A victim of smooth talk and empty promises, he had signed away his claim, only to realize when it was too late that the complicated legal document had not included a promise of future income from the proceeds of the mine. In the end, all he had to show for his strike was a small cash settlement and visions of a future that would never materialize.
The demise of a dream had broken his father's heart. Ross's own attempt to obtain justice from Till-Dale Enterprises had resulted in his being unjustly accused of having caused an accident at the mine that had taken six lives. Perjuring witnesses, falsified papers, and high-priced lawyer with a contempt for justice had put him in Yuma for five years. Brad Morrison had not lived to see him weather the first.
Ross's dark eyes followed the woman's slender figure as she mounted the steps of the stage and sat imperiously inside. Her face was in the shadow, but a flash of silver-blond hair at the window tightened the knots in Ross's stomach. Unbidden, memory returned the sensation of that fine, light-colored silk brushing his cheek, returned the sweet scent that had teased his nostrils as he held her intimately close. He remembered the feel of her round buttocks against his thighs as she had sat on his lap. He remembered his arm had spanned the minute dimensions of her waist with room to spare, and he recalled only too vividly the tantalizing warmth of her breasts brushing the tense muscles of his forearm with each rapid, anxious breath she took.