Steal Me, Sweet Thief Page 16

  "I'm flattered that you think me so dangerous," Geneva heard Macalester say to Lennox as she returned. Lennox was testing the knot on the maple.

  "Shut up, Macalester." Lennox walked away from him.

  Geneva took several steps away from the campsite before she was halted in midstride by a challenge from Lennox.

  "Where d'you think you're goin'?"

  She fixed a cold look on him. "I have a bladder, too, you know," she snapped, and did not wait for a reply before continuing about her business.

  "Watch out for snakes," Macalester supplied helpfully as she ducked behind a tree.

  Go to hell, she thought, but said nothing. She did, however, kick the grass and debris at her feet before proceeding.

  Upon her return, she noticed that Lennox had opened a can of hash and produced two plates and a spoon. Crouched by the small fire he'd built, he divided the meager fare between the two plates and set them near the fire to warm. As revolting as the stuff appeared, it did remind Geneva that she was hungry. Ravenously. She realized, looking at the plates, waiting an eternity for them to warm, that she would have eaten the sole of her own boot, if she could have gotten it off quickly enough.

  She watched Lennox roll himself a cigarette, waiting for some kind of sign from him. He took a twig from the ground, held it in the fire, then used it to ignite the cigarette. Lennox seemed amused by her scrutiny. He gestured to the plates with the hand that held the burning butt between thumb and forefinger. "Go 'head. It ain't gonna improve none."

  She approached the fire, keeping one eye on the wiry, buckskinned man who smoked and watched her with unblinking yellow eyes. Stooping, she reached out for both plates.

  "That one's mine."

  He so startled her that she nearly knocked both of them over into the fire. Lennox, seeming not to notice, gestured with one hand to the plate with the spoon on it.

  Geneva bridled. "What am I supposed to eat with? My hands? And what about Macalester? He—"

  "You can stick your face right down in the plate, far's I'm concerned," Lennox interrupted her tirade, his voice a notch louder and a shade harder. "As to him, I don't feed dead men."

  With that, he reached for his plate and snatched it out from under her gaze. He retreated to a place a little away from the fire, easing himself to a reclining position. She stared in amazement as the man proceeded to eat as though she and Macalester had magically ceased to exist. She was about to make further remarks when she heard Macalester's voice behind her.

  "There's a spoon in my saddlebag, Gen."

  Macalester's gentle, bedroom baritone. For a moment, the sound of it made her throat tighten. Without looking at him, she found the spoon he had promised. She took it and the plate of tepid hash and sat on the ground by the outlaw, avoiding his eyes, although she could feel him looking at her. She scooped a spoonful and held it out to him, but he shook his head.

  "You go on and eat," he said to her quietly, so quietly that Lennox could not have heard him. "I'll eat whatever's left." She could not prevent herself from looking up at him.

  His dark eyes were tired but alert, penetrating her very soul, yet revealing nothing whatever about his own emotions. She resisted a compelling urge to touch his beard-roughened cheek.

  Geneva could easily have wolfed down the entire plateful, over-salty yet otherwise tasteless as it was, but she stopped herself halfway through. Macalester, with her help, ate with the same enthusiasm, although her hand trembled maddeningly and some of the stuff was spilled. They shared water from his canteen, spilling that as well, and Geneva wiped both of their mouths with the corner of a blanket, there being a lamentable shortage of linen napkins.

  "Thank you," Macalester said, barely above a whisper.

  She met his gaze again. He was smiling with his wide mouth, creating dimples in the corners, but his eyes did not share the expression. In fact, contrary to the reckless conformation of his lips, his sable eyes appeared to be, for a fleeting moment, profoundly sorrowful, until he somehow masked their emotion and put up the invisible shield once again. Geneva started. For a fleeting instant, she saw before her the dashing, strongly sensual California attorney who had gallantly offered her his cape at Delmonico's in the rain. The image vanished, and Kieran Macalester knelt, tied like an animal, on the ground before her. She swallowed hard, looking away.

  "You're welcome."

  She had something to tell him, something she did not want Lennox to hear. She sat by him for a time, hoping that Lennox, a dozen feet away, would disappear for a few minutes. The bounty hunter, however, merely wiped his plate with a handful of leaves and returned it to his saddlebag, along with the plate she and Macalester had shared.

  "Get over here," he ordered her in a short bark.

  I don't muck cotton to rapists, he had told her.

  Not wanting him to guess her trepidation, she held her head a notch higher. "Why?"

  "Now," he said in nonanswer, his right hand poised over his holstered Colt.

  She got up and moved three or four feet toward him.

  "You wanna be tied down on this blanket over here, or right there in the dirt?" His eyes had narrowed and his words quickened. She continued over to the bedroll, standing at last two feet from him, close enough to smell that same sickening wet animal odor she recalled from that night in Memphis.

  "What about Macalester?" she asked. "Let me at least give him a blanket."

  "Why the hell are you so worried about him?" the man grumbled, looking down at his hands.

  Geneva's heart pounded. The man was jealous! Perhaps he didn't even realize it himself; if not, so much the better. She would have to proceed cautiously. She could not let him know that he repulsed her, nor could she allow him to believe she could ever be anything to him. His jealousy empowered her, yet at the same time placed her, and Macalester, in danger. Just how much danger depended entirely upon Lennox's degree of infatuation.

  She did not answer Lennox. Instead, she picked up a blanket and wadded it up as she strode over to Macalester, who now appeared perplexed. Apparently he, too, had marked something unusual about Lennox's response, although he perhaps had not worked out its meaning just yet. Geneva knelt beside him, her back to Lennox, and placed the blanket on the ground.

  "I spoke to Dr. Thorpe before we left the campsite." She barely mouthed the words to him. "He saw Lennox gun down those men. At least you won't be blamed for that."

  Macalester did not react in any way, and she stood up as he lay down upon the blanket.

  "Thanks, Gen," he murmured, closing his eyes.

  "We're in Texas," Lennox announced late the following day. They had crossed the Red River that morning. Until that time, Geneva had not known a horse could swim. She fervently hoped she would never have the firsthand experience again. Her clothing was still damp, and she had taken a chill. Her throat felt scratchy, and she had the sniffles. Further, there seemed no hope of getting warm anytime soon, as Lennox demonstrated no sign of stopping, and all of their things had gotten wet. She shivered atop the mare, suddenly thinking of Roanoke: the warm, cozy hotel room, Macalester's worried look and the performance that had won those things for her.

  Plodding along behind Lennox with Macalester in the rear, she tilted her head upward toward the sky, hoping to catch direct rays of the late-day sun. Looking at the sun often induced a sneezing fit in her, and that might be enough to encourage Lennox to halt.

  She did sneeze, five or six times. Neither man issued so much as a "bless you." Annoyed, she tried coughing. Still no response.

  Short of falling off her horse, which she had no intention of doing, she could think of no other way to stop the caravan save one: To ask.

  "Mr. Lennox," she called, orchestrating a blend of imperiousness and supplication in her tone that satisfied her. "Could we please stop for a few minutes?"

  The bounty hunter did not look at her. He merely pulled up short. "Why?"

  "Mr. Lennox." She managed a gentle reproof, even a blush, if he cared to
look. "Must I tell everything?"

  Silence followed for half a minute. "Make it fast," he growled, like a bear disturbed in its sleep.

  Geneva began to shake, badly. A harmless deception was one thing. Attempting to trick a man who made a career of hunting desperate criminals was quite another. Marshaling her resolve, Geneva clumsily dismounted. She dared not glance at Macalester, who was watching her from his horse, lest she lose her nerve. She stumbled over a tree root in her haste, and walked as far into the woods as she dared before choosing a spot.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Macalester grew restless on the roan. His wrists were raw from the chafe of the rawhide thongs securing them, and they burned from sweat and dirt. He craned his neck trying to follow Geneva into the woods with his eyes, but he lost her at last, fighting an unreasoning apprehension. She was up to something. He didn't know how he knew that, exactly, and if anyone were to try to pin him down, he knew he could not defend his belief Maybe it was the way she had avoided not only his eyes, but looking at him altogether.

  Her scream, a sound with which he was by now all too familiar, pierced the peaceful late afternoon, causing Lennox, heretofore as still as a cigar-store Indian, to vault from his saddle in an instant, drawing his Colt.

  "Get down, Macalester!" he ordered, backing off in the direction Geneva had taken. "On your belly!" Macalester was in the dirt before the words left Lennox's mouth.

  "Help!" The terror in Geneva's quivering soprano was real. "There's a snake! He's—he's making a noise—"

  Macalester watched Lennox disappear into the woods, his running step fading into silence.

  He waited.

  And waited.

  His heart hammered. Where the hell were they?

  Presently he heard footsteps again. Light. Erratic. Peering hard into the woods, he could perceive nothing.

  "Lennox?" he called at last, tentatively. "Geneva?"

  Geneva Lionwood appeared before him, as though, like a wood nymph, she had materialized from the evening mist. Profound relief quickly gave way to doubt in Macalester's mind.

  "What the hell happened?" he demanded in a much quieter tone, struggling to sit up.

  She did not help him, and she did not reply. She was pale, except for a bright red circle on either cheekbone, and she was trembling. Her green eyes were wide and glazed.

  "Where is Lennox?"

  Macalester's voice sounded hard in his own ears. Geneva still did not answer. From the folds of her black skirt, stained with the mud of the Red River, she withdrew Lennox's big Colt, holding it like an artist's tool rather than an instrument of violence. The sight of it, and its import, stunned him, momentarily, into silence.

  "Geneva, what did you do?"

  The question barely escaped in a whisper.

  In reply, she shook her head. "I hit him," she said, her tone lacking body. "With a rock. I—"

  She paused and stared at the gun, as though bewildered by its presence in her hand. He thought she might drop it, as one would drop a hot potato, or a poisonous snake.

  "What, Gen?" he prodded, fearing her answer.

  "He's dead, Mac," she said tonelessly. "I hit him with a rock. The same way I hit you with that lamp."

  Macalester shook his head.

  "But you didn't kill me," he reminded her gently. "You knocked me out. You knocked Lennox out, too, didn't you? Good gir—"

  "He is dead," she repeated, her eyes betraying her disbelief "I killed him. He—I—" She faltered, her expression oddly resembling a small child who has done, by accident, a terrible thing, and fears the inevitable punishment.

  Macalester thought quickly: Geneva was not herself. He saw at once that he needed to take charge of the situation as quickly as possible, a difficult task to accomplish with his hands bound behind him, and her with a loaded gun in her inexperienced hands. Difficult, but not impossible. He rallied, standing with some effort.

  "Geneva, listen to me," he said slowly, looking into her frightened green eyes. "Untie me, and I'll go have a look at Lennox. If he's dead, we'll have to bury him. If not, we'll have to tie him up quick before he comes to."

  He offered her his back, looking over his shoulder at her. "Come on! Hurry up!"

  Whatever spirit had possessed her for those few minutes had fled. The life returned to her features, animating them with amused triumph. She laughed with no trace of hysteria.

  "How stupid you must think me!" she exclaimed, folding her arms before her. "To believe I'd release you only to have you take me prisoner again!"

  Macalester longed to seize her by the shoulders and shake her. He could not recall ever feeling more helpless in his life, and it was not a pleasant sensation. He tried again, composing his features into an unworried look as he faced her.

  "Geneva, this won't work," he told her patiently, clenching his fists behind his back. "We're miles from the nearest town. You're afraid to ride the horse. Do you even have any idea of where you are?"

  His remarks, rather than causing her to reflect upon her situation, seemed instead to anger her. "Of course I do," she retorted, her green eyes narrowing in contempt and bitter amusement. "I'm in the center of Hell, on my way out. Where's the money?"

  Macalester saw a ray of hope. Without betraying his thoughts by so much as a faint grin, he raised his chin and leveled a hard look at her. "Look for it," he taunted her, taking a step backward.

  Geneva glanced for a moment at the gun in her hand, and seemed to think better of it. She tossed it to the ground some distance away and approached him with a bold step, faltering only slightly before she stopped in front of him. She stared steadfastly at the breast pocket of his shirt as she deftly unbuttoned it and slipped her fingers inside. Macalester stood perfectly still, barely breathing. He perceived a slight tremble in her hand as she withdrew her empty head from the pocket. He waited. She tried the other breast pocket with the same result. She hesitated, looking at the pockets at the hips of his jeans. He felt a grin tease the corners of his mouth.

  "Go ahead, Gen," he dared her, sensing her weakening resolve. "It's in one of them. Take your pick."

  She scowled, but did not look him full in the face. With a measure of defiance, she extended her index finger. At her touch he felt, against his will, a rush of raw desire. He shook himself mentally: that was a sure way to get into trouble.

  Her fingers edged into the pocket where the money rested, folded into a small rectangle beside his scrotum. He regarded her unblinkingly, but she would not meet his gaze. She was breathing in short, shallow gasps, and he swore he could hear her heart pounding inches away from him—unless that was his own heart.

  In a swift, sudden movement, he hooked the heel of his right boot around the back of her legs and leaned into her, forcing her to the ground and himself on top of her.

  "Unh—" She gasped for breath on the ground, the wind having apparently been knocked out of her. She writhed and struggled beneath him, but his weight was too much for her.

  "Mac." She sobbed. "Please—I can't breathe—"

  "Reach behind my back," he ordered her in a harsh whisper, trying desperately, under the circumstances, to keep his mind on his mission. "Untie my hands."

  With a small grunt she pulled her hands free from beneath her.

  "I think you broke my arm," she whispered reproachfully, sliding her arms around his, finding the ropes at his wrists.

  "You'll be lucky if I don't break your neck after this, Mrs. Humble," he growled, staring hard into her wide, frightened eyes inches from his. "Now work on those knots! Quick!"

  He felt her hands work awkwardly. She made a sound of dismay, still gasping. "Mac—I can't—they're—"

  "Do it, Geneva!" His bellow echoed in the trees. She turned her face away from his as if trying to escape. She bit her lower lip and fumbled with the knots again, breathing hard. Her body was warm and trembling beneath him, and he felt her breasts pressed against his chest and her heart beating like a caged wild bird's. At last he was able to pull hi
s wrists apart, and he flexed his cramped hands as he brought his arms around. He placed each hand on the ground beside Geneva's narrow, shuddering shoulders. She looked up at him again, her fear evident in her wide, green eyes. Her lips were dry and parted. She wet them with the tip of her pink tongue. "Wh—what are you going to do to me?" she whimpered.

  He swallowed hard. He knew what he wanted to do with her. Staring down at her, watching the tendons in her slender white neck strain and her throat bob once, he allowed himself a moment of desire. He brushed his cheek gently against hers, triggering a treacherous memory. She was soft, and she still smelled, faintly, of jasmine…

  He stiffened. Was he out of his mind?

  Releasing her from his hold was one of the hardest things he had ever done, not only because of his unreasoning desire, but also because his shoulders and arms ached from countless hours forced in the same position. He rolled off Geneva, laying beside her on the ground, faintly amused that her panting breaths were in time with his own.

  "I can't blame you for trying," he allowed at last, gulping air. "Did you really kill him?"

  It was therapeutic to fix his mind upon a fresh topic.

  "Don't you think I recognize a dead man when I see one?" she snapped irritably, still breathless.

  Rueful, Macalester got up, brushing the dirt from his clothing. His wrists, he noted, were gouged from the rawhide and mottled with dried blood. They burned like hell.

  "Show me." He ignored her sarcasm, pulling his sleeves down to hide his wounds from her sight.

  She led him to the spot in the woods where she had stood with her back plastered to the rough trunk of an old oak tree. She had waited for Lennox after her scream, and rammed the heavy, jagged rock against his head just behind his right ear as he had leaned over to find her snake. Lennox lay where she had left him, with deerflies buzzing and crawling about his clothing. His face was pressed against the forest floor; his eyes were closed. He did not move.