Steal Me, Sweet Thief Read online

  Macalester, startled out of his rapt contemplation, released her arms. "What?"

  He heard it then, as soon as the word left his lips: a slow, regular thrumming, coupled with distant shouts, erratic as random gunfire.

  "Damn it!" he ejaculated.

  Kieran Macalester had been on the wrong end of enough wildcat posses to recognize one when he heard it. Damn that doctor! He couldn't have ridden more than an hour down the Ouachita before hightailing it back to Camden to rustle up a few locals with nothing better to do than hunt down five thousand dollars. That in itself was some comfort: The doctor, he realized, was smart enough to know that sharing his information with Lennox would be far less lucrative than running him down themselves. Chances were that none of these men, however many there might be, had Lennox's know-how. Certainly none of them knew him as well as Lennox did.

  But could Lennox be far behind such a large and conspicuous gathering?

  Macalester could waste no time being disgusted with himself. He had already allowed himself too much distraction. He should have heard the posse sooner, and he would have, had he not been so consumed by Geneva Lionwood Humble. By now, it might be too late. Already, the sounds were all around them. To slip by this posse now would be like threading a needle in a dark room. Unless…

  He retrieved his canteen and swung quickly into the saddle, lifting Geneva before him without giving her a moment to protest. Securing his arms tightly about her, he whispered, "Don't make a sound," and nudged the eager roan to a trot.

  Geneva, crushed against Kieran's broad, unyielding chest, could hear his heart beating in a strong, accelerated pace. She was frightened, too, but not by the same things that caused the outlaw's heart to race. She was frightened by what she had been forced to remember, and by the thought of meeting Garland Humble again, face to face, after so much time.

  Macalester pressed onward, toward the very core of the noises. His strategy became clear to her: In the confusion of many scattered riders, he hoped to pass in their midst, slipping by in plain view, posing as one of them. It seemed an audacious, almost foolhardy plan, and Geneva prayed it would fail. If these men, however many there were, could take Macalester, then she would be free—free to return to New York, or New Orleans, or anywhere else she desired to go.

  "We just passed a couple of them," she heard him whisper hoarsely. "There's a cave up ahead. We'll hide there until dark, and try to move out then."

  Macalester knew, as they neared the entrance, that they could not ride the animal inside. He reined up and allowed Geneva to slide off the saddle. He dismounted as well, and took hold of the rein, pulling the roan toward the cleft in the rocks.

  The horse resisted, whinnying, tossing his mane and eyeing Macalester with real distrust. Beside him, he heard Geneva utter a small, bitter laugh. "It's over, Macalester," she said, her tone rising in pitch excitedly. "They're not going to let you get by. I'm only sorry I won't get to see you—" Macalester clasped his hand over her mouth, none too gently, to stop the sound. He pulled her close.

  "Be quiet, Geneva. You don't know what you're saying! Do you imagine these men are fine, upstanding pillars of the community? They won't listen to anything you have to say! As far as they know, you're my wife! Or my whore. Nothing would make them happier than to rape you before my eyes, and maybe leave you to die in the woods. Is that what you want?" She twisted her head away from his grip, her hair coming loose from its knot and falling across her angry features.

  "You're lying," she accused, her voice shaking. "You've lied to me from the very beginning. I don't see why I should believe you now. You only want to save yourself!"

  She tried to break away from him, but he pulled her back, holding her defiant face in his hands; wanting to make her see the danger that she herself was in. She was so reckless that she broke his heart.

  "I have lied," he told her, his voice a hoarse whisper. "But I'm not lying now; I swear it. Geneva, if you ever believed me, if you ever believed that I love you, believe me now!"

  She stared at him, amazed. Her expression changed rapidly to disbelief.

  "You don't love me," she sneered elegantly. "You loved the idea of possessing the wife of Garland Humble. How dare you speak to me of love! You can't even begin to comprehend the meaning of the w—"

  His mouth covered hers. He had to stop her words. He could not allow her to alert the posse with her tirade, and he could not bear to hear her malign his feelings anymore. Her lips yielded to his, filling him with the pain of the realization that she would never understand, that his desire would henceforth go unfulfilled, and that he had no one but himself to blame for all of it.

  She wrenched away from him, and the damp stillness of the Arkansas woods was pierced by her scream. It was a sound that surely must have rivaled any the young soprano had ever executed upon a stage. For an instant she froze in Macalester's embrace, her green eyes wide with wonder at the Pandora's box she had willingly opened.

  Move, Mac I a voice inside of him urged. Move now I But he gazed a moment longer at her face, wanting never to move again. He released her at last from his embrace and seized her wrist in one hand and the bridle of the roan in the other. Scrambling, he pulled them both toward the narrow mouth of the cave. Behind them, the shouts of the posse closed in upon them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The inside of the cave was dark, damp and cold. There was no way to tell how large or how small the space might be, except for the sound of their combined footfall, echoing like restless souls in a graveyard. Geneva hated it, but she was too frightened to protest further. Macalester's pronouncement had shaken her; there was no denying it. As much as she knew Kieran Macalester to be a rogue and a liar, she also knew that, in some incomprehensible way, he did care for her, and would not, with the exception of restoring her to Humble, see her come to harm.

  Macalester held tightly to her hand, hurting her. In the thin shaft of light that slipped like a sprite through the entrance of the cave, she could see his angular features, tense and straining. He was listening hard.

  "They've lost us," he whispered presently, and she could not tell whether he really believed it, or was trying to convince himself "They've trampled all over our trail; they'll never guess that we slipped right by…"

  From outside the cave came the sounds of men and horses. Geneva stifled a gasp.

  "Shh." Macalester's admonishment was barely audible.

  "Hollis, why don't you and Ed take a short look in the cave?"

  "Hell," said another voice. "Go look yerself, Orin, if yer so interested. We'll give you a right fine burial, after Macalester puts some daylight through ya."

  Two other voices laughed. The sound made Geneva shudder. She felt a gentle pressure about her shoulder, and she realized it was Macalester's arm. The gesture was so protective that she stared at him, wondering how deeply he'd had to dig inside of himself for the quick, reckless grin he flashed her.

  Suddenly the roan snorted. The sound was like an explosion, echoing off the walls of the cavern. Macalester's smile disappeared. After a deathly still moment, there was a chorus of laughter from outside.

  "I allus thought that cave was haunted," one man chortled, "but not by no horse ghost!"

  "Best come on out, Macalester," another voice encouraged. "There ain't but one way outta there, and this is it. Four of us is waitin' for yuh, so don't try nuthin'."

  Macalester's face, in the darkness, turned grim. Geneva started to move, but he held her fast to him. What could he be waiting for? she wondered, more curious as to the possible outcome of this situation just now than she was frightened by it. They had reached a stalemate. It remained only to see which side would tire first.

  A shot was fired. The bullet ricocheted off the walls of the cavern like a crazed and deadly insect. All at once she was on her back on the floor of the cave and Macalester was on top of her, his weight crushing her so she could scarcely breathe. It had happened so quickly that she did not even know how she had gotten there
; she assumed Macalester had pulled her down to protect her. "Guess we won't know if we hit 'em till we hear 'em fall," one of the men opined.

  Macalester said nothing but lifted his head, listening. Geneva tried to think, but all she could envision was being out of that clammy and inhospitable cave, where there was less of a chance that a random bullet might end her life prematurely.

  "Why don't we all jest fire away?" another voice suggested. "It's five thousand, dead or alive. He's one hell of a sight less dangerous dead."

  Choruses of righteous agreement ensued. Geneva felt a stirring within her like an embryonic volcano.

  "No!" she cried out as the eruption surfaced.

  Macalester, still on top of her, stared at her, his features stricken. Her heart hammered loudly. There was no retreat, now.

  "Who's there?" one man demanded. "Come on out here with your hands up! And don't try nuthin' funny!"

  Funny! Geneva trembled. There was nothing whatever remotely funny about this predicament!

  Wordlessly, Macalester eased off of her.

  "Don't shoot!" she called out, willing her voice to stop shaking. "I'm coming out."

  She got to her feet unsteadily, and the outlaw stood up with her. He took hold of her arms, gazing down at her, and she could see him in the dim light from the entrance. She wanted to speak to him, but the words would not come. He nodded quickly, as though responding to an unvoiced question. He pressed a kiss against her forehead, like a blessing, and then released her, silently. She wanted to cry.

  Taking the roan's lead from Macalester's outstretched hand, she walked away from him to the mouth of the cave. She held up her arm against the contrasting brightness of the outside, but was seized in a ruthless grip that made her cry out in shock and pain as her arm was wrenched behind her back.

  "Where's yer man, bitch?" A low, gravelly voice sounded near her ear.

  Pain snaked across her shoulders, making her dizzy. She wanted to speak but could not form the words. The sounds went forth in little gasps.

  "Let 'er go, Orin," one man advised, with no particular enthusiasm. "She ain't gonna tell us nuthin' if she c ain't breathe."

  "That's a fine-lookin' horse she's got there," another offered.

  "Horse, hell, Ed!" the fourth man exclaimed. "That's a fine-lookin' woman that horse's got there!"

  The man they called Orin released her abruptly and she fell to her knees, still reeling from the sudden pain he had inflicted upon her. She willed the small patch of ground around her to stop moving, and presently she saw four pairs of boots in the mud before her eyes.

  "You his wife?" a hard voice challenged her from above. "Whatsa matter with you, Hollis? Doc already told you she was!"

  "Get up," a third voice ordered.

  Geneva was filled, suddenly, with disdain for these men, whose faces she had not even yet seen. Slowly, and with no assistance, she got to her feet. She stood erect and, one by one, met each man's unpleasant gaze full in the eye. Each of them was taller than she, and each seemed to measure her in a most distressing way as they met her gaze boldly.

  "Where's Macalester?"

  The one who had hurt her, Orin, addressed her again. He was a thin, balding man whom she guessed to be in his forties. The passage of time had apparently left the man with a strong, wiry build and an undeniably mean disposition. She drew in a deep, broken breath and prayed that the four men, standing close enough for her to detect their dire need to bathe, would believe the stop she was about to spin.

  "Macalester," she began, managing a low and even tone, "is not my husband. He took me as a hostage. He abandoned me here when he learned we'd been followed. I think he's heading for Pine Bluff I—"

  She was on the ground again, and her jaw throbbed so that she saw stars. "Jesus, Orin, you're a mean bastard!" The other man's tone was envious.

  "You're lyin'." Orin ignored the compliment. "Doc said you two was real cozy. You're lyin' to protect him; I think the sumbitch is still here. He in that cave?"

  "Not anymore, he's not." Macalester's casual, insolent drawl caused five heads, including Geneva's, to turn in his direction. Macalester looked cool and incredibly self-assured. Indeed, he dared to grin at the party, pointing his revolver at the self-styled leader, Orin.

  "Throw down your guns." He circled the group slowly. "Nice and easy."

  Geneva watched in wonder as the surprised men did as they were told. She got up again, slowly, touching her jaw to be sure Orin had not broken it with his blow. Macalester had been right, after all, about the posse. She had no desire to find out exactly how right. She caught the roan's lead as Macalester ordered the men into the cave from which he himself had lately emerged.

  He moved quickly after that, picking up each gun, emptying the chambers, then throwing them as far as he could in different directions. The bullets he pocketed. Geneva watched him in silence, wondering how many times the outlaw had performed these tasks before. She was filled with an odd mixture of dread and relief at being back in his hands again, and it would take her some time to sort through these emotions. She waited for his instruction.

  He glanced up at her finally, as though he had forgotten about her.

  "Scatter their horses," he said, checking the roan's saddle. "The rest are likely to be here any time. We have to move, and we have to make it tough for them to follow us."

  Scatter them? Geneva turned to the large, placid animals doubtfully. They stood huddled together, swishing their tails to flick away insects. She realized, chagrinned, that she had no idea how to accomplish the task.

  Behind her, a twig snapped. Turning, she saw that Macalester had broken off a willow switch. He applied it sharply to the flanks of two of the animals and made a noise to frighten them further. Instantly, the creatures bolted into the woods. When he faced her again, he was grinning.

  "See how easy it is?"

  He did not wait for an answer. He mounted the roan quickly and reached for her hand.

  "Don't move? Macalester!"

  From several locations, the sound of cocked shotguns stopped the outlaw cold. Geneva held her breath. Into the clearing came five more men, including Dr. Thorpe, all with long-barreled weapons leveled at them.

  "Don't shoot!" she heard Macalester say, his baritone clear and strong. "She's worth more alive than I am dead."

  "Damn you, Macalester," she whispered, sending a glare his way.

  Geneva ran toward the doctor. "Dr. Thorpe, make them listen to me!" she began, trying to keep her wits about her. "I'm not Macalester's wife! I—"

  The doctor, his eyes cold, leveled his gun at her chest. She stopped short where she was, five feet in front of him.

  "You had plenty of chances to tell me that yesterday, and you never did," he told her. His words were like icicles driven into her breast.

  "She's telling the truth, Thorpe." Macalester's voice was steady behind her. "Her husband is Garland Humble, in Fort Worth. He hired me to bring her back. She's worth a lot of money to him."

  "They're lyin', both of 'em!" Orin, newly emerged from the cave with his compatriots, added his opinion with a savage scowl. The members of the ragtag posse, to a man, looked at Dr. Thorpe. Geneva's heart lifted: There was a chance she could win him.

  Thorpe ordered Macalester off the roan, a command the older man promptly obeyed. Macalester raised his hands slowly, demonstrating that he would not try to resist. Geneva saw, but could not react to, Orin stealing up behind Macalester, deftly taking the outlaw's gun from his holster and, before Macalester could turn, thumping him handily over the head with the butt of the weapon. A cry escaped Geneva before she could prevent it, but she made no move toward the fallen man. She faced Thorpe again, knowing, with a grim certainty, that she would not get another opportunity such as this.

  "Dr. Thorpe." She strove for the kind of cool composure Macalester had demonstrated minutes earlier. "Please. You must listen to me. I must get to Pine Bluff, to the steamboat. Macalester—he—"

  "Shut up," the doctor o
rdered peremptorily, looking distracted. "But—"

  "Somebody gag her." He cut her off, turning away. "And tie up Macalester, too. It's getting dark. We won't make it back to town tonight. We may as well make camp here."

  Geneva felt the rough, bruising hands of a man only too happy to oblige the doctor's request. She lowered her head, cursing Macalester, and herself.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Macalester thought that when he opened his eyes he would find himself on the floor of the hotel room in Little Rock. He was surprised, therefore, to find his face pressed against the dirt and debris of the Arkansas forest floor, although he was not surprised by the burning, throbbing pain in the back of his head. His eyes focused on a fire and the men seated around it. The air was filled with the sounds of their voices, laughing, talking about the many ways to spend the reward they would split, and the sound of spoons scraping tin plates.

  Macalester tried to sit up but discovered that he could not move. His wrists and his ankles were securely bound behind him in such a way as to make movement nearly impossible. He was able, however, to move his neck, if he didn't mind the excruciating pain, and he discovered that Geneva was beside him, similarly bound, and gagged, as well. She was staring at him, her green eyes reproaching him. He knew, with a sinking heart, that the look would haunt him for the rest of his days, especially if those days were spent splitting rocks in prison.

  "Are you hurt?" he got out in a whisper, not sure whether he could have managed a louder tone.

  She stared at him a moment longer, then glanced at the assemblage of men. He could tell that she was thinking that it was just a matter of time…

  "Hey, Thorpe!" he called, and all heads turned in his direction.

  "What do you want, Macalester?" The doctor, seated a little apart from the rest, sounded weary. Macalester guessed the man was wondering, about now, why he was sitting out in the damp, chilly woods with a bunch of good old boys eating canned beans instead of sitting by a warm fire in an easy chair with a good book and a glass of brandy. Macalester didn't answer him, so the man got up, with effort, and ambled over to the captives on stiff legs.