Once an Outlaw (16 page)

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I can tell,” he said and then he was kissing her again. She lost herself in the sweet dark musk of his tongue encircling hers. When Emily felt his hand sliding to the buttons of her shirt she knew that she should stop him, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Just a little more … see what happens, she thought, and then wonderful sensations filled her as he slipped his hand inside her shirt and found her breast.

This definitely went far beyond one small kiss, but it felt so good Emily gasped. No, it felt better than good. It felt delicious and exciting, and a throbbing heat swept through her every place his hands touched, every place his magnificent body touched hers.

Emily forgot then to think how it felt because she couldn’t think—not at all. Because Clint Barclay was stealing her breath, scorching her lips, and stroking her nipple back and forth with his thumb until the world became a warm blurred place, a place of achingly sweet pleasure teetering on the brink of torment.

She heard thunder—or was that her heart? She saw his lean, handsome face close to hers and touched it with wondering hands even as their lips caught fire. His body shifted over hers on the cot, and every single one of his muscles seemed to engulf her soft flesh—then she was lost once more in aching need and a tight, hungry ache settled in her very core. Moaning, she dragged her fingers through the thick silk of his hair, then they found the buttons of his shirt. But as he shifted to make it easier for her to unfasten them, his leg brushed against hers and she cried out in pain.

“What’s wrong?” He lifted his mouth from those petal-sweet lips of hers with an effort and saw that her glorious eyes were wide upon his.

“It’s my ankle,” she gasped. “It’s hurting …”

Clint swore silently to himself—damn, he’d forgotten about her ankle. He should have gotten that boot off right from the start.

He rolled away from her and leaned back, aware of the hot desire still pumping through him, the urges searing his blood. Hell, she tasted good. And she felt good, soft and curvy and giving in all the right places. Her lush body was just as hot and passionate as her temper, and
the sensuous tumble of midnight hair around that delicate face was driving him wild.

He took a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair as Emily, her shirt tantalizingly unbuttoned, struggled to a sitting position.

“Sorry.” Clint moved off the cot and took careful hold of his self-control, then focused his attention on her damned boot.

“I’ll try to do this fast and gentle,” he warned, “but if your ankle’s swelled up, we might have to cut the boot off.”

“Go … ahead.” Emily’s shoulders were trembling. But not only from the fresh pain shooting through her foot. From everything she’d just felt lying on that cot with Clint Barclay, his kisses drawing her into him in a way she’d never experienced before, his hands roaming all over her body, exploring places no man had ever touched.

Her heart was still racing in her chest. Her lips still tingled from his kiss. If she’d thought Clint Barclay was a dangerous man that first night he’d sprung out at her at the ranch, she now knew just how dangerous he really was.

Thank heavens for the pain, thank heavens he’d bumped his foot against hers. Thank heavens something had broken the crazy spell he’d cast over her before things went any further.

Clint was holding firmly to her boot. His hair was mussed, his shirt partly opened where her fingers had torn at the buttons. She found herself forgetting about the pain in her ankle, staring at his powerful, dark-furred chest.

Now she knew what those muscles felt like beneath her fingertips. She was shocked by how much she wanted to stroke them again.

“Ready?” Clint began to slide her boot off, but as Emily flinched and let out a smothered cry of pain, he froze, frowning.

Her previously flushed face had gone white. Clint reached into his pocket, yanked his knife from its sheath.

“I’ll have to cut the boot.”

“Go ahead… but please, do it quickly,” she managed to mutter as circles of pain emanated up from her ankle. But the pain was good, it was distracting her from staring at this impossibly handsome sheriff who had convinced her to lie on a cot with him in a line shack miles from anyone and play with fire.

“Just… get the boot off,” she whispered, her voice thin with pain.

He worked quickly and efficiently at the leather, but even so, by the time he was finished Emily was clenching her hands and biting her lip and she was whiter than a lily.

“Th-thank you. I think,” she gasped.

Next Clint gingerly removed her stocking and frowned down at her swollen ankle.

“You need some whiskey.”

“Trying to get me drunk now?” Emily struggled for a light tone. “No wonder my uncle taught me never to trust a lawman.”

He shot her the briefest flash of a smile.

“Just like I don’t usually have to beg for kisses, Miss Spoon, I don’t usually have to get women drunk.” He tugged off the other boot and the stocking, and she settled both legs carefully onto the cot once more.

Clint tried not to stare at the glimpse of shapely legs visible beneath the folds of her riding skirt. He forced himself to head to his saddle pack and dig out his whiskey flask.

“This ought to take care of the pain.”

Emily didn’t argue, for now that her ankle was free of the boot’s tight confines it was throbbing even more. The whiskey burned her throat going down, but she drank deeply before handing him back the flask.

Clint lifted it and took a good hearty gulp himself.
Being around her would turn any man to drink
, he thought.
Why in hell do I care so much that she’s in pain? And why in hell does she have to be so damn beautiful?
Not to mention sexier than any woman he’d ever seen. Even her slender little toes were sexy, he decided in irritation. But it wasn’t her toes that captured his attention just now. She’d forgotten to fasten up her shirt, and it draped open still, revealing the white lace of a chemise that barely covered the creamy mounds of her breasts. He resisted the urge to reach out and remove that damned shirt—and the chemise too. Their little kissing interlude was definitely over, he reminded himself tautly. The trouble was, he’d enjoyed it even more than he’d thought he would.

Maybe you enjoyed it too much
, he told himself, alarm suddenly surging through him. If her ankle hadn’t started to hurt, they both might have ended up in far deeper trouble than either of them had bargained for.

Staring into her lovely face, meeting those vivid silver eyes as they regarded him warily, he reminded himself sternly that she was Jed Spoon’s niece.

Yet confusion twisted through his gut.

Wasn’t that the point? She was Spoon’s niece—a woman he’d never marry—a woman who’d never in a hundred years want to marry him. An ineligible woman, maybe the only unmarried female in town who wasn’t trying to figure out how to throw a rope around him. It had seemed so easy, so natural—the idea of exploring that intangible
something
between them—without her getting the wrong idea.

That’s all he’d had in mind. A pleasurable romp, a night of plain old-fashioned roll-in-the-hay passion with the most gorgeous woman he’d ever met—and no strings attached.

But kissing her had stirred something in him, something deeper than he’d expected. Something that scared him.

Scared him? Why the hell should a woman, any woman, scare him?

Maybe because of the quiet way she’d listened to his story about Nick, his parents. Maybe because of the simple compassion he’d seen in her eyes. She touched something in him, something that went beyond physical attraction. Beyond lust. There was much more to Emily Spoon than a magnificent figure and a beautiful face. There was a spirit, a soul, a courage he’d sensed from the very start.

Clint didn’t like feeling this way—uncertain, out of control. He always knew what he wanted, how to get it. He always knew. Especially where women were concerned.

But not this time.

It’s time to back off
, he decided warily.
She’s no damned good for you
.

He had to step back, put some distance between them.

“You should try to get some shut-eye,” he told her curtly, shoving the flask into his pocket. “The whiskey ought to help.”

Emily watched the frown settle across his face, and she saw the exact moment when the coldness entered his eyes. Dismay and an odd loneliness filled her. All the warmth and humor of the man who had poured her coffee and stroked her hair and kissed the daylights out of her on the cot were gone. The cool and in-control lawman was back.

A different kind of pain shot through her. “Good.
When I wake up, we can get out of here.” She tried to sound as matter-of-fact as he. “In the meantime, you can put your bedroll there.”

She pointed to the far corner, near the hearth.

He gave her a long look. “Fine. That’ll be just fine.”

Suddenly she realized that her shirt was still unbuttoned. Her cheeks burned and her eyes flew to his face. “Do you mind?” she demanded as she fumbled awkwardly with the buttons.

He shrugged, turned away. “Just thought you might need help.”

“The last thing I need is any more help from you.” The words came out more sharply than she’d intended. But tension still simmered between them, despite his frown, his shuttered eyes.

As lightning crackled and the rain continued, she watched him spread his bedroll and take one more quick tip of the flask. She lay down on the cot, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and tried not to think about anything—about the pain throbbing through her ankle, the storm thrashing outside, or the man settling himself down for the night not ten feet away from her.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about Clint Barclay. About the way he made her feel or the things he made her want.

Spending any more time alone with him, Emily decided, hugging the blanket to her, was
not
a good idea.

And sunrise couldn’t come soon enough.

UNRISE BROUGHT A RADIANT NEW
day, a glowing lilac sky, a breeze scented with earth and flowers—and Pete and Lester Spoon descending on the tiny line shack like two bats out of hell.

“Barclay!” Pete shouted as he crashed through the door. “Where the hell is—
Emily!”

Relief flooded his face as he saw Emily sitting up on the cot against the wall, her legs stretched out before her, her hair mussed but a wan smile of welcome on her face.

Behind him Lester gave a whoop. “There you are—well, thank the good Lord. Em, we’ve been searching high and low since dawn. Nugget showed up and—”

“She did? Oh, that’s wonderful!” Emily searched their faces. “But what about Joey—how is he? And where’s Uncle Jake?”

“They’re both fine,” Pete assured her, glancing around the shack. “Uncle Jake made it back this morning just before we headed out. He said he spent the night in a cave near Beaver Rock—the storm came in so fast he couldn’t get to the shack. But what about you—looks like Barclay found you, after all.”

His relieved expression had turned into a scowl, and an almost identical frown darkened Lester’s face. “Were you stuck in here all night with that bastard?” her cousin demanded.

“Yes, but—”

“I’ll blow his damned head off,” Pete exploded. His hands fisted at his sides. “Where the hell is he, Emily, just tell me and I’ll—”

“Shut up, Spoon, and get out of my way.”

The voice from the cabin doorway sent both Pete and Lester spinning around. Clint Barclay stood on the threshold, his dark hair glinting in the sunlight, his shoulders filling the doorway. He was holding a rifle and the rabbit he’d shot for breakfast, but before he could even step inside, Pete Spoon rushed at him in a flying lunge that sent them both catapulting out of the shack, with Lester leaping after, shouting something indecipherable as he flew into the heap that was Pete and Clint Barclay.

With a shriek of dismay, Emily hurled herself off the cot. Her ankle burned like fire as she hobbled barefoot across the floor and stumbled out into dazzling sunshine. But the sight of her brother and her cousin rolling in the mud and weeds with Clint Barclay, three sets of fists flying, horrible grunts and yells filling the air, sent a sick nausea into her throat.

“Stop! Stop it! Pete—Lester! Clint! Stop it at once!”

No one paid the least attention to her. Two against one, the Spoons were hammering at Clint and with amazement she saw that he was holding his own, those powerful arms swinging out with rapid-fire punches, his muscular frame holding them off as they sought to pin him down.

But there was already a bruise on his cheek and as she watched in horror Pete kicked him in the stomach.

“Stop!” she shouted, and unable to bear it any longer, she dove into the fray. Still pleading for them to stop, she grabbed Lester’s arm, trying to pull him back, even as he shook her off like a gnat.

“Stay out of this, Em—get back!” he yelled.

“No! Stop this right now—you’re both being totally ridiculous!” she cried as Pete slammed a hard right into Clint’s jaw. Emily flinched as it connected and grabbed at her brother’s arm.

“Listen to me,” she cried desperately, “there’s no reason—”

Clint Barclay threw a brutal retaliatory punch and Pete groaned, stumbling back in a daze.

Emily tried to get between them, but it was at that unfortunate moment that Lester jumped at the sheriff and his elbow struck Emily’s jaw.

She gave a cry and floundered backward, then sank to the ground, tears stinging her eyes.

“Emily!” Pete and Lester both shouted in unison, their faces frozen in twin expressions of horror.

“Are you all right?” Lester croaked.

“You damned fools. Look what you’ve done.” Alarm in his eyes, Clint started toward her, but Pete got there first and Lester blocked the sheriff’s path, his gun suddenly in his hand.

“Stay away from her, Barclay,” Lester warned. “Or I’ll plug you here and now.”

“Lester … put that gun away,” Emily gasped. “Right… now. Put it away, I said!”

Emily struggled to rise, but even as her brother tried to help her, the tears fell faster and she pushed Pete away.
She was the only one who knew that it wasn’t the pain of the blow that hurt. It was seeing her brother and cousin fight with Clint, a reminder of the chasm between them, that made her heart ache.

“I… I’m ashamed of you, Pete—ashamed of both of you. You had no right—”

“He spent the night with you, Emily! That gives me every right!” Pete argued, throwing Barclay a furious glance as Emily shook her head. “It’s not your fault—don’t think for a minute that I blame you, or that Lester does either—but he’s… he’s compromised you and taken advantage of you and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some damned lawman hurt my little sister—”

“Hurt me? He found me stranded in the storm and brought me to shelter, that’s all!” Emily burst out. “My ankle was twisted—Nugget had bolted—what was he supposed to do, leave me out by Beaver Rock? He … he was nice to me—”

“I’ll just bet he was!” Lester snarled, and his finger curled on the trigger of his gun as he spun toward Clint, clearly struggling to control his anger.

Emily felt the blood draining from her face. “Lester, you put that gun away right
now.”
As he glanced over at her doubtfully, she limped toward him, despite the pain, and wrenched the gun from his hand.

Trembling, she turned and threw it as far as she could across the weeds and grama grass.

When she turned back, she finally looked at Clint, and her heart sank. He stood a few feet away, straight and tall, though his shirt was muddied and torn, his face bruised and streaked with dirt. He was breathing hard, as were Pete and Lester, but his eyes were centered on her and they were cold and shuttered and utterly unreadable.

“Nothing happened,” she said stiffly. Her gaze was
locked on Clint’s, but her words were for her brother and cousin. “Nothing at all. We were just waiting out the storm.” A quaver entered her voice as she stood there with her hair streaming in thick tangled locks, the sun gilding her pale skin. “And now it’s over, so … please. I just want to go home.”

Clint’s stomach clenched. For some reason that quaver and the quiet tears sliding down her cheeks moved him far more than dramatic sobs might have done, had done in the past with other women, other times. It took all of his self-control not to go straight to Emily and … and what? he asked himself scornfully. Put his arms around her? Offer words of comfort?

That would be the worst thing you could do
, he reminded himself.
Keep your distance. Emily Spoon is not your concern, and she’s got three men in her family to look after her
.

There was dismay on Pete’s face, and Lester’s as well, as they both stared at her and then exchanged guilty glances with each other. Clint steeled himself to stay out of it as Pete came forward and slipped an arm around Emily’s shoulders.

“Anything you say, Sis. Take it easy.” He swallowed. “Come on, let’s get you off that ankle. I’ll carry you to my horse.”

Gritting his teeth, Clint watched in silence as Pete swept her up in his arms. His eyes were on Emily’s pale face, and he scarcely noticed as Lester threw him one more angry glance before following after them.

And so it was that a short time later Clint Barclay sat alone at the shack’s wobbly pine table, eating the rabbit he’d shot, that he’d planned to roast for Emily Spoon, drinking the coffee they’d shared the night before and wishing that things were different.

He wasn’t sure
what
exactly he wished was different, he only knew that the shack looked a hell of a lot more dreary and empty and cheerless without her.

And he felt a whole lot more dreary and empty and cheerless without her.

And he knew that he’d never forget the moment when she had sprung to his defense against her brother and cousin.

Nothing happened
, she’d said.

It wasn’t strictly true. And it wasn’t because he hadn’t tried.

But he knew what the Spoon boys thought—and they were wrong.

And if they believed their threats were enough to make him stay away from her, he thought, draining the last of his coffee as a lark chirped outside the open shack door, then they were doubly wrong.

He intended to stay away from her, all right—but for his own reasons, not theirs.

Clint drained the last of his coffee, rinsed his cup, and threw one baleful glance at the cot where Emily Spoon had slept curled up all night.

He gathered his bedroll, packed up his saddlebags, and in his mind he heard again her frantic words.

Nothing happened
.

Clint scowled at the empty air of the line shack. Emily had lied for him. Lied to her brother and cousin, maybe even to herself.

Just as he’d been doing—lying to himself. He’d been doing it right up until the moment when he saw her get hurt. Until he heard that quaver in her voice.

Because something
had
happened between them. Something he didn’t understand. But it was just plain
useless to deny it any longer. Because whether he liked it or not, it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

When Emily returned home, she hugged Joey and Uncle Jake, and allowed herself to be helped into bed, waited on, fussed over. She listened to Uncle Jake explain about the cave where he’d spent the night, and she’d sat Joey down on her bed and looked into his eyes, and explained to him thoroughly about John Armstrong passing through town, then leaving, without any clue that Joey was there.

She nursed her ankle, and later began taking stock of her needles and thread and ribbons and fabric, trying to ascertain what she would need should the women of Lonesome come calling at her door in search of fashionable new gowns with which to win the heart of Lonesome’s sheriff.

And to all appearances, she was calm. Quiet, perhaps, after the turmoil of the previous day and night, but calm—and perfectly herself.

Inwardly, however, she was a raging mass of emotions—the most prominent of which was confusion.

First there was Uncle Jake. He claimed to have been at Beaver Rock when the storm descended in its full fury and to have taken cover in a cave. But she’d been at Beaver Rock when the storm had lashed down full force, and she hadn’t seen any sign of him all the time that she’d been searching for both him and Joey. If he’d really been there, why hadn’t he tried to get to the line shack? She and Clint had made it, despite the rain and the wind.

So why hadn’t he even tried?

Uneasiness filled her as she mulled this question. Because
if her uncle were lying, if he really hadn’t been at Beaver Rock in the first place, then where had he been?

And what
, she wondered, her stomach beginning to churn,
was he doing?

But while her worries about Uncle Jake’s whereabouts were disturbing, they weren’t nearly as tumultuous as her thoughts about Clint Barclay. And her doubts about herself. Why had she allowed all that had gone on between them in the line shack to happen? Why had she kissed him and responded to him the way she had, why had she nearly made love with the lawman she’d sworn to hate?

She didn’t understand anything of what she felt toward Clint Barclay. Yes, he had helped her search for Joey, and he’d rescued her from the storm—but he’d also fought with her brother and cousin—and he would toss them in jail without a second thought if they gave him half a reason, she told herself.

Loyalty to her family, as well as wisdom and plain common sense, should keep her away from him, should stop her from even thinking about him. But sense had nothing to do with how she felt, and sense had nothing to do with the way her heart lifted at the sight of him, at the somersaults it did when he smiled, or the way her body melted when he kissed her.

She’d always been sensible, always been smart—even when she lost her temper, Emily never lost sight of where her loyalties or her values lay. Until now. Now everything she’d ever believed about herself seemed to have been washed away by that storm, washed away by the onslaught of hot, tender kisses and Clint Barclay’s strong, reassuring arms.