Diablo (29 page)

“My husband,” she said with just a trace of bitterness. “He died before I knew Sarah Ann was on the way. Killed in a poker game for cheating. I was surprised it hadn't happened sooner. He didn't cheat well.”

“He has no family?”

She shrugged. “He said he came from some … wealthy family in Scotland, but he lied a lot. I never knew what was true and what wasn't, though he did have a Scottish accent. And he spoke well. He just couldn't stay away from gambling. Once when he was drunk, he told me he'd been disowned for gambling something away.” She grimaced. “He was real bitter.”

“Have you thought about contacting them?”

She laughed humorlessly. “I don't know where they live, who they are, or even if they exist. I certainly can't turn up on their doorstep, even if he had told the truth for once, or especially if he had.”

“Maybe,” Ben said, “I can help.”

“I don't take charity,” Mary May said sharply. “That's not why I brought you.”

“Why
did you bring me?”

“I don't know. It's just a long ride, and I …” Her voice broke and she looked away.

Ben wanted to say everything would be all right. But he didn't make promises he couldn't keep. And he didn't know what could be done about little Sarah Ann. He was certainly in no position to marry, even if he were of the inclination. And he wasn't. He'd decided years ago, after his broken engagement, that he wouldn't marry. He told himself it was because of the kind of life he had: wandering to hell and back in pursuit of lawbreakers. But the truth was, he knew deep inside, he was just plain scared. After his broken engagement, he'd never really trusted a woman again.

They stopped at dusk to water the horses. The wind was blowing up and clouds were rushing across the sky, which meant there might be rain.

Ben had been thinking hard about Mary May's problem. And Sarah Ann's future. He broached a solution as they ate the sandwiches Mrs. Culworthy made.

“There's a reward,” he said, “for outlaws in Sanctuary, for anyone who helps us find the location. It could be a nest egg, a start for you and Sarah Ann. You can find a boardinghouse someplace, or …”

He stopped at the look on her face.

“You think I would take money from someone and turn around and betray them?” Fury filled her eyes. Fury and disappointment. Disappointment in him.

“You didn't tell them about me,” he countered.

“I wasn't sure,” she said, not even trying to deny her connection. She'd already said too much. He'd heard too much.

“And now that you are?”

“I wouldn't tell them about you any more than I would tell you about them,” her voice breaking again. “I wouldn't take your blood money.”

Ben stood there, thoroughly shamed. He had become accustomed to using people for his own ends. Wasn't that what he was doing with Kane O'Brien, no matter what his motives were? When had he become so hardened, so indifferent to feelings? When he'd seen so many people do exactly what Mary May refused to do. Sell out their friends, their relatives, for a pouch of gold? Except O'Brien hadn't done that. He'd agreed to Ben's offer only to save his friend. And here was a saloon girl refusing to take an easy way out of her dilemma. What kind of man was he to use either of them?

“I'm sorry,” he said lamely.

“Don't be,” she said bitterly. “Why should you think I would do anything different? You found me in a saloon.” All the old confidence and spirit were gone. There was only wretchedness in her voice.

He put a hand on her shoulder, and she jerked away. But he wouldn't let her. His hand caught her arm and spun her around. He saw the naked hurt in her eyes, and knew he had disappointed her by his offer. He lowered his head and touched her lips, the lips that had so welcomed him during the last few weeks. They were cold at first, unyielding, but then they responded, just as her body responded.

“Damn you,” she whispered.

He raised the hand and wiped away a tear. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I was … trying to find a way to help. I didn't think.…”

“I know,” she said. “There's no reason you should think well of me.”

“I think very well of you,” he whispered. “You're the most honest,
truly
honest, woman I've ever met.”

She stared at him with disbelief.

His rough, callused hand touched her cheekbones gently. “We really should go.”

“Yes,” she agreed, but neither made a move toward the horses. Instead, their lips met, and their tongues exchanged fire and then they were on the ground, spending the hurt and anger and worry in a fury of lovemaking.

Nicky didn't know why she didn't give Kane the map she carried. She trusted him, but some instinct, a basic caution she'd learned at Sanctuary, kept her from sharing it. She also knew that if he had the map, he wouldn't need her, that he would try to send her back to Sanctuary. So she only told him of the landmarks her uncle had mentioned, one by one as if she were remembering them. He didn't question her, and that made her feel guilty.

He pushed hard, and that was fine with her. She wanted to get back to Sanctuary as soon as possible. She couldn't help but worry about her uncle and Robin. Kane was also quiet. He was usually quiet, but now there was a tight, private expression on his face, as if he were lost in some troubled world.

They stopped for the night at a stream, though it hardly justified that label. Only a trickle of water flowed along a muddy bottom. It wasn't fit for washing, but provided enough water for the horses. Nicky felt dirty and grimy and not at all seductive.

She wanted to be seductive. As tired as she was after nearly two days in the saddle, she wanted the intimacy and security of feeling Kane inside her. She sensed him moving farther and farther away from her with every mile they rode. He seldom looked at her. He certainly didn't smile at her. He definitely didn't laugh with her. He was sharing none of himself, but instead seemed to be pushing her farther and farther away.

His remoteness and preoccupation frightened her, and perhaps that was why she didn't tell him she had a map. She also thought he might send her back.

When they stopped for the night, they investigated the contents of the saddlebags on the other two horses. Calico's held a bottle of whiskey as well as a handful of coffee, jerky, and hardtack. Neither of the latter was appetizing, but they were practical.

It was cool but not cold, and Kane made no attempt to start a fire. After the past few days, she didn't question that decision. She no longer knew who was friend or foe.

After they'd watered the four horses and Kane had established a line for them, he'd offered her what food she wanted, then spread out their blankets, obviously making a conscious effort to separate them. Which was, after the past two nights, preposterous to her way of thinking. Still, she watched as he tipped Calico's canteen several times, diverting his gaze from her.

The clouds had fled with the winds, leaving a black canvas sprinkled with stardust and a bright chunk of moon. She was tired, weary almost to the point of not being able to function, yet too tired to sleep. She wanted him to hold her, she wanted to go to sleep in his arms with her gaze directed skyward. She wanted to wish on all those stars and know that Kane O'Brien would make all those wishes come true. She wanted all of that, and she wanted it desperately.

And he obviously only wanted her a safe distance away.

She scooted over to him. He looked like he wanted to scoot away. He didn't. He just looked at her warily. Now that they were well away from Sanctuary, he had attached the beard and a moustache which made his emotions even more difficult to decipher than before. She yearned to touch the uncovered places of his face. She craved the feel of his hands.

She scooted again and held out her hand. “May I have some of that?”

He went stock-still. “You don't drink.”

True enough, she didn't. At least, she never had. Her uncle had been adamant about it. Drinking women, he'd often said, were not attractive. But then she'd done a lot of things for the first time since she'd met Kane O'Brien. She'd made love; she'd worn a dress for the first time since she was a child; she'd killed a man; she'd left Sanctuary on her own; she'd saved Kane's life, not that he seemed all that grateful. She'd even lied a little, or at least withheld information. Drinking whiskey didn't seem all that great a leap toward perdition's flame.

“How do you know I don't drink?” she challenged.

That stopped him. She watched him ponder the question for a moment, then he handed the canteen to her. She took a long gulp, as he had, and instantly her throat caught on fire, then her insides. She coughed, and most of the contents caught between her mouth and throat came spewing back out. She had never been more mortified in her life.

She'd also dropped the bottle, and its contents were seeping out onto the ground.

She was sick, tired, and so humiliated that she felt unfamiliar tears rush to her eyes. She started to rise, but his hand on her wrist held her back, and when she finally had the courage to look at him he held out his arms and she dove into them. With his damnable beard disguising and hiding his mouth, she hadn't been able to fathom his expression: pity or disgust or sympathy. She didn't want any of those. She wanted him to care about her like she cared about him. But at the moment, his arms were safe haven, particularly to a body as tired as hers and a mind as completely besotted with the events of the past night and day.

He held her tight, and she felt herself shiver, then felt tears running unchecked down her face. She hiccuped, and he held her tighter.

“I shouldn't have given that to you,” he said softly.

“You were right,” she hiccuped. “I've never had a drink of whiskey before.”

“I could tell,” he said with a wry smile.

“And I'm tired,” she complained.

“I know that too, little one,” he said softly. “We should have stopped much sooner, but you didn't let me know. You have too much heart for your own good.”

She snuggled in his arms. They felt so good. He felt so good. Heart. He thought she had heart. The words warmed her all the way through. She felt his arms tighten around her. She looked up at the sky. At least one of her wishes was coming true.

Nicky closed her eyes and felt loved, and wanted, as sleep closed in like a welcome friend.

Kane didn't move for a long time. She smelled of whiskey and sweat and dirt, and he thought he'd never smelled anything so sweet and noble in his life.

He had tried so hard to keep her at a distance. He should have known it would be impossible, especially after his weakness two nights ago. She'd look at him with those solemn brown eyes, and damn it, he was like clay in the hands of a potter.

You can't even see her eyes in the dark, he told himself. But he did see them, every minute of every day, they were vivid in his mind. He knew the second she fell asleep, the way her body relaxed, completely trusting.

He kept trying to fit Nicky, who had killed Yancy and who had followed him all night long and risked her life to warn him about Hildebrand and Calico, with the Nicole, who was a soft and trusting woman, who'd never tasted whiskey or made love, and who hadn't left the confines of a small outlaw hideout for years. She was such a rare combination of utter innocence and raw, determined courage.

She deserved so much better than him, better than what the future held. If she ever found out about his deception …

No, make that
when
she found out.

He couldn't bear thinking about it. He had pushed that aspect of his mission aside over and over again, pretending to himself that he could prevent disaster. Hell, he'd never prevented disaster in his life, and all those failures were crashing down on any hope dwelling in him now.

Why should Masters listen to him? Believe him? He hadn't really accomplished a damn thing yet, not anything he could show Masters.

Part of him wanted to run away with Nicky. Now. He wanted it more than anything in his life: Return to Sanctuary, take Robin, and go to any damn place away from here—Mexico, even Canada. He would never have to tell her of his lies, of what he'd planned to do.

Then he thought of Davy, of an afternoon so long ago. Kane had been eight, Davy nine, when his father found him reading with Davy. Rufus O'Brien had started hitting him, then Davy had torn into the large man. Kane's father turned his anger from his son to Davy, almost killing him. His arm was broken, along with two ribs. Kane would never forget that beating, nor the aftermath. Davy's father had threatened to kill O'Brien if he ever hit either boy again. The beatings had stopped, and Kane's father had killed himself a month later.…

No, he couldn't abandon Davy and live with himself.

Nicky squirmed in his arms. The breath drained from him as he felt her body fit more firmly into his, though she was still obviously asleep. Her breathing was soft, natural. His body was in sheer agony, and it got worse as his hand swept across the short curls. He hurt because he loved her. He'd never loved a woman before, and the sheer intensity and yearning and need were so painful he wondered how anyone loved and survived.

But then, he supposed, most men didn't plan to betray the woman they loved.

Christ, how could he?

He tried damned hard to rationalize. Nicky was young. She would find love again. She was too fine a person not to. Whereas Davy's life was at stake. He would have no second chances.

Kane had to weigh the two: a life against trust. It was the devil's own choice, and he'd made a devil's bargain. He wanted to crawl under a rock, where it was dark. Where he belonged. Instead he lay there, holding her, hurting, he supposed, as much as a man could hurt.

When the sky began to brighten, night giving way to a rosy-gray dawn, Kane was still awake.