Steal Me, Sweet Thief Page 13

  "You're always sorry, Macalester." Geneva mustered her most disparaging tone as she sat up to partake of her morning meal. "Why, you're the sorriest man I ever met."

  "Geneva!"

  Macalester stood up quickly, knocking over his chair. His features were a study of patience worn to the bone. She did not blink as she stared hard at him in return.

  "I've done everything I can do, short of letting you go, and the only reason I haven't done that is because I can't," he told her, his baritone low and as hard as steel. "Maybe it would have been better if I'd just tied you to a horse and rode you willy-nilly to Fort Worth. Not that there'd have been much left of you, after that."

  "And am I supposed to be thankful that you've chosen a more humane method of abduction?" Geneva curbed her own anger, clenching her hands under the blanket. "You've abused and threatened me. You've used me badly under false pretenses, and my career is in a shambles, not that I can hold you solely accountable for that. You have created a very dangerous person in me, Mr. Macalester: a person with nothing left to lose."

  Macalester did not even flinch, although her tirade had been intended to shame him.

  "You want to know what dangerous is?" he countered, his tone deliberate. "Dangerous is a wanted man, worth five thousand dollars to a bounty hunter who doesn't much care whether he takes you in in your saddle or across it. Dangerous is knowing for dead certain that your partner will go to prison for twenty years and that you've got another five years of running ahead of you if you don't deliver. Dangerous is doing business with Garland Humble in the first place, and, lady, dangerous, and stupid, is falling in love with his wife!"

  Macalester was breathing hard and his dark eyes fairly bored into her soul. He had lied to her before, she knew, but he was not lying now. Her heart hammered loudly in her chest: He was magnificent in his rage, and in his declaration. In spite of everything, she knew, with an awful certainty, that she loved him as well, as she had never loved, or ever would love, any other man. She was obliged to look away, unable to bear the import of his statement, and unwilling to allow him to guess her own feelings.

  "Eat your breakfast," Macalester muttered at last. "It's the best you're likely to have between here and Fort Worth. And get ready. We leave as soon as I get back."

  "Where are you going?"

  Was that her voice? It sounded like a small, petulant child's. Macalester must have thought so, too, for he offered her a grin, in spite of his pale and serious countenance. She felt her own face grow warm.

  "Just over the livery, to get the horses. Think you can manage until I get back?"

  "I will manage far better," she replied coldly, "if you never get back."

  He seemed more amused than hurt by her response. "Use some of the ointment Thorpe gave you," he advised, striding toward the door. "And wrap up your legs in some of that gauze. That'll stop the rubbing. We'll be traveling fast from here on out."

  Geneva's heart was chilled. "But I don't know how to ride," she said faintly. "I—I'm afraid of horses."

  Macalester treated her to a skeptical look, as though he suspected a lie.

  "I mean it, Macalester," she warned him, unable to keep a tremor from her voice.

  The outlaw paused at the door, his gloved hand on its lever.

  "My ma used to say, 'You're never too old to learn something new.' " Then, tipping her a brief, mocking smile, he was gone.

  It seemed to Macalester as though the quiet little town on the Ouachita had somehow shrunk, overnight, to an uncomfortable fit. He resisted a powerful urge to walk in the shadows of the morning. The livery stable was just across the street. In less than an hour, he told himself, they would be on their way, and Camden, except possibly for Dr. Thorpe, would quickly forget them.

  Macalester, in his idle moments, sometimes amused himself by imagining that towns did not really exist except as he required them, appearing out of the earth when one needed a soft bed, a soft whore, or even just a beer, then quickly being swallowed up again as soon as he rode out. He wished, lately, that this was true, for if it was, Lennox wouldn't have a prayer of finding him.

  The livery proprietor came out to greet him, a man older than himself; older, possibly, than any other man he had ever met. He looked as though he had been born in the patched denim trousers, green suspenders and worn, stained undershirt he was wearing, and would probably die in them. His derby, no doubt once black, was covered with dust and salt stains, and his gray whiskers looked like a layer of ash upon his weathered face. The three teeth remaining in his mouth appeared to exist for the sole purpose of holding the two-inch stub of cigar that, unlit, made a ludicrous ornament to the man's already comical visage.

  "Settlin' up?" was his only remark.

  Macalester nodded, reaching into his pocket.

  "Seen any new faces?" he inquired of the man conversationally, peeling off the appropriate denomination.

  The man said nothing. He did not reach for the bills Macalester extended to him. Chagrinned, Macalester added another dollar.

  "Nope," the man cackled cheerfully, taking the money with a lightning quick gesture and turning away, as though worried that Macalester might try to get his extra dollar back.

  A dollar for good news was not a bad trade, Macalester reasoned, leading his roan and the little bay mare, saddled and packed, out of the stable. There remained evening accounts with Dr. Thorpe and getting Geneva into the saddle, and the last leg of this bizarre odyssey could continue. Nine days remained in the original month Humble had allowed him, although now that seemed so long ago. Somewhere during that time he had lost his heart, and he was doubtful he would ever reclaim it again.

  Glancing up the street, he saw the young doctor striding purposefully along the walk toward the infirmary. Macalester quickened his own pace, glad of a happen-stance that would eliminate the need for him to go looking for the man.

  "We won't be taking up any more of your time, Doc," Macalester greeted the man, who pulled up short as though he had been caught filching a penny candy. His soft brown eyes had the look of a cornered doe. Macalester grew uneasy watching him.

  "Already?" The man seemed to make several attempts at the word before it actually came forth. Macalester nodded, glancing once up the street in the direction from which Thorpe had come.

  "What's wrong, Doc? You seen a ghost?" His genial tone, he knew, was laced with suspicion. He took the man firmly by the arm. "Let's walk around back with these animals, and you and me'll settle up inside."

  Macalester wanted to get off of the street. Something had scared the doctor, and he had a sneaking suspicion he knew what that something was. Leading the doctor and the two horses up the alleyway, he made a rapid decision. He tethered the horses to the railing of the back stairs and ushered the nervous physician in the back door of his infirmary with one of his best self-assured smiles.

  "I paid sixty dollars for that mare," Macalester remarked, silently drawing his gun as Thorpe preceded him into the kitchen. Deftly, the outlaw slipped the bolt on the door, locking it.

  Dr. Thorpe made a lunge for the cupboard, but Macalester leveled his Colt and cocked it. The sound alone was enough to stop the nervous young physician cold.

  "What are you going to do to me?"

  The man's voice quivered. Macalester was satisfied that Thorpe would do anything he was told.

  "I'm going to give you the mare," Macalester replied, enjoying his dual role of tyrant and benefactor. He gestured with the muzzle of the Colt, and Thorpe followed his direction, backing slowly away from the cupboard, his fresh features a study of bewilderment.

  "What?"

  "All you have to do," Macalester went on, not taking his eyes from his quarry, "is ride her."

  With his left hand, he opened the drawer Thorpe had gone for and withdrew the gun. Satisfied, he tucked the weapon into his own belt. The doctor, as Macalester had hoped, continued to be amazed.

  "Tell me who you talked to this morning," the outlaw ordered.

  "T
here was a man," the doctor seemed almost eager to reply, "in the general store. I didn't talk to him, but I heard him asking about a man and a woman."

  "What else did he say?"

  It might have been a coincidence; it was possible, Macalester knew, that he was worried over nothing. But more than likely it was Lennox who had dogged them here.

  "He said the woman was a looker. And he described you pretty well, too." Thorpe seemed less nervous now, but he remained perfectly still. Macalester was pleased by his cooperation: The idea of killing, or even hurting the man, was repugnant to him.

  "What'd the fellow look like?"

  As though reading from a textbook, the doctor described Lennox to the tips of his waxed mustache. The doctor, unfortunately, had a sharp memory, coupled with an unsettling ability to conjure a mental image. This was not a comforting prospect to Macalester, who would eventually release the man to tell his story to anyone who would listen. With a few brief words, Macalester ordered his hostage into the next room.

  Geneva, luckily, was dressed, and she sat upon the bed brushing her chestnut hair. She dropped the brush and stood up abruptly, her eyes wide at the sight of Macalester's gun. "Oh, God, Mac—"

  "Be quiet and listen," Macalester interrupted her tersely. "Don't talk, either one of you. We're going out the back. Gen, tie the doctor's wrists with that gauze. Not too tight."

  For a moment, Macalester thought the diva was going to rebel. His countenance must have persuaded her against the folly of such a course, for she hesitated only a moment before complying with his request.

  Weight. He needed weight. He glanced about quickly and spied something in a corner.

  "What are those?" he demanded of the doctor.

  "Sandbags," the young man replied. "I use them to stabilize fractures."

  Macalester tested one. He judged it to weigh about fifty pounds.

  "Grab one of those and drag it on out back," he ordered the man, who managed nicely in spite of his imposed handicap. Macalester himself hoisted two of the bags over his shoulder and gestured to Geneva to precede him up the short corridor.

  "I don't trust you at my back anymore," he told her.

  "What are you going to—"

  "I'll explain later." He cut off her question, straining his ears for any suspicious noise from outside.

  Lennox was a few hundred feet away, and perhaps moments from learning his whereabouts, if he did not know them already.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The fear of God. Somewhere, somehow during the course of his life, Kieran Macalester, through accident or will, had divined the secret of instilling such dread in other people, mastering its mysteries to his unending benefit. He did not even require his gun to support the implied threat of his countenance; in fact, had any of the objects of his intimidations been privy to his singular lack of skill with the implement, he was certain the result would be considerable diminishment of his effectiveness. Geneva Lionwood and Dr. Thorpe both stood patiently by as Macalester, his gun holstered, secured the three sandbags to the mare's saddle. He needed to provide a distraction for Lennox, and a convincing one. It was his intention to send Thorpe, on the weighted mare, south-southeast on a parallel course with the Ouachita, while he and Geneva, on the roan, would double back northeast before striking southwest again.

  At best, his strategy would throw Lennox, who was only a fair tracker, off of their trail for a few days. At worst, it would buy the outlaw a few precious hours to think of something else.

  With mixed sentiments as to the chances of success for his plan, Macalester sent the frightened young doctor off The doctor, he knew, was smart, and would not ride very long, perhaps half a day at most, before he realized that he was not being followed by them, as he'd been told. But maybe by the time he returned to Camden, Lennox would be gone again, having missed the valuable information that might have helped him.

  Geneva, for a tall, ample woman, was astonishingly light. His hands spanning her waist, he lifted her easily onto the roan, on a blanket he had secured as a makeshift seat about the horn before him. He was startled to discover that she was trembling in his arms as he held her fast before him.

  "Mac, I'm frightened," she ventured, her voice muffled by the collar of his jacket, into which she had buried her face.

  He was momentarily crippled by a painful spasm of tenderness for her.

  "Don't be," he advised her, nudging the roan to a trot as he held her firmly with his right arm. "Lennox won't catch us."

  She lifted her head suddenly, an expression of disdain apparent on her heartbreakingly lovely face. "I don't give a damn about Lennox." She sniffed. "I hope he does catch you. I'm afraid of this animal, and I'm scared to death that you'll let me fall off at a full gallop!"

  Macalester laughed. "Don't worry, honey. You're worth far too much to me to drop on the road, much as I might be of a mind to do it." He held her tighter, cantering out of town, heading back the way they had come.

  They rode hard. Geneva was as tense in his embrace as a ball of string wound too tightly, and soon his arms began to ache with the effort of securing her in place and managing the powerful beast who carried them effortlessly through the Arkansas woods. He had not anticipated the task to be so tiresome. That, he assumed, was because a part of him had been looking forward to the duty.

  It was mid-afternoon before he stopped. He had been heading north, as far as he could tell, since leaving Camden and he thought it safe to head back toward Texarkana and Fort Worth. The afternoon had clouded over, and the weather had gone cool and damp. Macalester wanted to slide off the roan and into a soft, warm bed for a nap. He dismounted, feeling the small pulls and aches in his muscles that reminded him that he was thirty-five years old, not a young man anymore. On solid earth once more, he helped Geneva slide to the ground, where she nearly collapsed before him until he caught her arms.

  Thank God she ain't a complainer. He recalled his earlier words to Dr. Thorpe in his affected backwoods drawl.

  She drew in a hard, shuddering breath. "Where are we?" she murmured, still holding onto his arms as she arched her back.

  He resisted an urge to pull her close to him for a comforting embrace: Her comfort, or his own? He could not be sure which.

  "You don't want to know," he replied lightly. "Because we aren't anywhere near where we should be. Are you hungry, or do you—need to do anything?"

  He was looking into her eyes all at once, unexpectedly. He felt trapped in a lovely emerald prison. He felt as though the earth had mysteriously evaporated into a cloudy mist at his feet. He swore he heard the ocean in his ears.

  "We should go back to Pine Bluff," she said, sounding exhausted. "We could take a steamer all the way to New Orleans, and then either take the train to San Antonio or sail to Galveston. I won't make it this way, Kieran, and I suspect you won't, either."

  Macalester knew, feeling an ache in every joint, that she was right, even if it was merely her intention to get to New Orleans so she could try to escape from him again. But time and money were running out. The route she was suggesting would add days to their journey, and would cost far more than the meager recent allowance advanced to him by Humble. Frowning to himself, the outlaw walked about, working out the kinks. He was not hungry, even though the day was nearly over and he had not eaten since early in the morning. He was taut as a barbed wire fence, and could no more think of eating than of making love…

  "I wish we could, Gen." He flexed his stiff shoulders. "But we can't. We have to make it this way as far as Texarkana. If Lennox doesn't catch up to us, we'll take the stagecoach to Fort Worth. I promise."

  "And if Lennox does catch you?"

  Macalester stared at her. Her gaze was matter-of-fact, if not disparaging. He was certain her change from "we" to "you" was intentional.

  "How did you get away from Humble?" He changed the subject, taking his canteen from his saddle.

  "I had six months to make my plans," he heard her say in an even tone as he swallowed the
tepid, tasteless water. "I knew every way out of Fort Worth."

  He offered her the canteen, and she accepted it with graceful, gloved hands. He watched her press its collar to her mouth and take a few small sips, then blot the corners of her lips with the back of her glove as she handed it back to him. She wore a carefully blank expression, and he wanted, oddly, to change that. Even a scowl would be preferable. There was something disturbing about the faraway look in her clear green eyes.

  "I bet old Gar didn't put up with your temper," he teased, but did not laugh.

  Geneva focused her gaze on his, but did not answer right away, although her look seemed to be speaking to him in a very distinct language that he, unfortunately, could not comprehend.

  "Old Gar," she said in a faint, passable mockery of the jovial tone he had used, "is a monster."

  Her quiet, clear words fell like drops of acid upon silk. Were it not for the hissing burn afterward, Macalester would have sworn she had not spoken them at all.

  The canteen fell to the ground at his feet, and before he quite knew what he was doing, he had taken hold of her arms with his two hands.

  "What do you mean? Geneva, what did he do to you?"

  Her jaw tightened and her mouth narrowed to a thin line, as though she did not intend to allow further words to escape without a struggle.

  "What does it matter?" Her chin went up an inch. "You'll have your amnesty, and your Billy Deal. And I've beaten Garland Humble before. I—I'll do it again."

  Macalester, stunned, was powerless to do anything more except to stare at her. He perceived, all at once, something he had not noticed before, although he could not now see how he had failed to recognize it: Geneva Lionwood was as strong-willed as any man he had ever known, indeed, stronger than many. She would tell him nothing more now. Gazing at her impassive yet undeniably lovely features, he knew that. There was something magnificent about her expression. Defiant. And more than a little unsettling.

  She turned her head, looking into the forest. "What's that noise?"