Outlaw Cowboy (8 page)

“Jesus H, woman, you have got to stop scaring me.”

“I'm sorry.” She paused and stepped into the weak glow from her place's lighted windows. “Though you're the one sneaking around in my yard this time.” Still, Summer seemed more amused by this than irritated.

The girl had a screw loose.

“I just…didn't know where you disappeared to. Thought I'd check it out.”

“Well, it's freezing out here. Come inside.”

Delia's eyes had adjusted enough to the dim light to see Summer was carrying something, likely from her car.

Self-preservation told her to say “no, thank you” and go back to the cabin where she could be alone with her escape plans.

But the word
alone
mixed with the deep chill, prompting her to follow Summer into the bizarre little building she called a home.

It was warm, some canopy like out of
Little House on the Prairie
bolted into a square piece of trailer—it was basically what amounted to a wooden covered wagon. Add in the kerosene lamps hanging from hooks, and all the quilty, hand-knitted-looking stuff… Summer was living some modern version of Oregon Trail and happy about it.

Took all kinds, Delia supposed.

Summer crossed to a quilt hanging from a rod. It was some sort of door, presumably to a bedroom, since everything in the main room was mini-kitchenette and seating. She placed what appeared to be a guitar case behind the blanket.

She smiled pleasantly, her face fresh except for something smudged under her eyes—likely mascara. Her brown hair was braided and pinned up on her skull in some intricate pattern, and she wore a long, flowing skirt and a kind of knit top.

Who
was
this girl and what the hell was she doing in Blue Valley?

“Do you want some tea?”

Delia blinked at her. “Tea? Like…the stuff in the little bags and hot water?”

Summer only smiled and nodded.

“I don't think I've ever had tea in my life,” she muttered more to herself than to Summer. Tea in tea bags. Dainty, pretty little teacups. Christ, she'd stepped into an alternate dimension.

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Um, I guess?”

Summer nodded, turning to her little kitchenette, which was basically a counter the size of a postage stamp, a cabinet that ran from floor to ceiling, and a little stove with a pipe that ran up to the roof, with coals glowing through the slits in the door. She opened the cabinet door to reveal food and dishes arranged neatly on little shelves.

“Some place.”

Summer looked around, her mouth curving into a smile. “I like it,” she said, the words simple, the meaning behind them not simple at all. Emphatic. Joyful.

Lucky bitch.

Delia looked back at the blanket-door and the guitar case. “Do you play for audiences and stuff?” she asked, her conversation skills beyond rusty.

“I play at the Pioneer Spirit on Friday nights.” She fussed with mismatched teacups, but her excitement, her joy, and a weird restless energy poured out of her like she couldn't help but be exuberant in all things. “Tonight I got the best news too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Why was Delia sitting here listening to a near-stranger talk about her day? She should head back to her cabin and plan Steph's escape.

Alone. Alone. Alone.
The word echoed in her brain, and Delia didn't move for the door.

“I got a new boss, and she wants me to sing Friday and Saturday nights
and
some weekday night—of my choice!” Summer grinned over her shoulder. “Can you believe that?”

“Uh, you must have a great voice.”

She blushed, so demure and pretty. Delia couldn't figure out how she fit into the Shaw family. Mel was about as demure as the cows Delia'd helped Caleb take care of this afternoon, and Caleb and Mr. Shaw were…hard. Worn. Sad.

Thinking of Caleb being sad did a weird thing to her heart, twisting it in her chest.

She ignored it.

“The guy who used to own the bar, I think he hired me only because Caleb said something. I don't know for sure, but I never thought he liked me much. But
anyway
, my new boss is a woman, and you'll never guess how she got the place from him.”

The heart-twisting feeling deepened, and Delia was embarrassed as hell that tears were pricking her eyes, but this exchange, sitting here talking about a day's happenings, it was so much like…

Life before she'd been kicked out of the Rogerses' house. It hadn't been particularly nice or hopeful, but she'd had her sisters. There'd always been someone to talk to, to do something with, to hide with.

Delia had sought to fill that hole with men since she'd left—she'd never been very good at making female friends outside her sisters—but it had never felt like this. This was something like napping by a warm fire. Comfortable and cozy. Rejuvenating. It warmed and soothed all the hard edges of the day.

Working with Caleb had felt like that, which didn't make any sense at all. Better it didn't. She'd be afraid if it actually made sense.

But missing the company of her sisters
did
make sense, and that's what sitting here with Summer reminded her of. Camaraderie, family, and knowing you weren't alone. She'd been alone for so very long.

“Are you okay?” Summer asked gently.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Her voice didn't sound remotely okay, but she ignored it, hoping Summer's manners would make her ignore it too. “So, how'd your new boss get the place?”

“Poker!” Summer said gleefully, handing Delia the teacup, saucer and all. Christ on a cracker.

A strange niggling tapped Delia in the spine, but she ignored it. “No way.”

“I didn't think people actually gambled things besides money. It's like straight out of a book. Of course, if I had a choice, I'd wish a hot guy had been the one who won the bar at poker and sweep me off my feet, but Rose is so amazing, so…”

The rest of Summer's words were nothing more than a buzz. Delia nearly dropped the teacup, the tapping on her spine becoming a full-on whack of a sledgehammer. “R-Rose?” she repeated hoarsely.

“Yeah, my new boss. Her name is Rose. She's such a…such a…badass.” Summer stumbled over “ass” like she wasn't accustomed to swearing, and then she tipped her head to the side and sipped at her tea. “You know, you kind of look like—”

Delia bolted to her feet. It was insane. It
couldn't be
. It couldn't. But Rose and poker and a bar. Holy mother of…

“I have to go.” She shoved the teacup at Summer. “Thanks for the chat and congrats on the singing thing.” She all but lunged for the door, knowing she was making an idiot out of herself, but…

Rose.

Here.

Oh, God.

“Do you want a wrap or something? It's awfully cold out—”

But Delia couldn't sit still and listen or even politely decline. She hopped out of Summer's bizarre place and made a mad dash for…

She stopped in the middle of the dark field, breath heaving, lungs burning. She had no car. She had nothing except her name on a warrant. She couldn't get to Rose, and even if she could, she couldn't afford to be seen, let alone
with
Rose. That would put Rose in danger.

Her sister. One of her sisters had come back. Oh, that idiot. What was she
doing
? Winning bars in poker matches. Coming back
here
of all the damn places.

Even though she wished she could teleport and shake some sense into her sister, she smiled. Rose. So close.

She had to get a message to her. Summer could help, but that would mean giving Summer a glimpse of the trouble she was in. It would give Summer power: she could turn Delia in to the cops, she could hurt Rose if she saw fit.

Summer didn't seem like the type, but…well, lots of people seemed good or harmless, and weren't at all. A lesson she wasn't going to forget any time soon.

Which meant she had only one choice. She started to run again, but this time she ran straight for the Shaw house.

Caleb awoke with a start. His room was dark and the house was silent except for the occasional creak. What had woken him up?

Bang.
He jumped.

What the hell was that?

Bang.

He pushed out of bed. The room was cold and his feet were freezing, but he needed to find the source of that noise first. Before it woke up Dad. Unless it
was
Dad.

His pace quickened, another
bang
sounding as he stepped out into the hall. He was almost certain it came from the door to the rickety old second-story porch. No one had been out there in ages.

He inched his way toward it. Probably an animal or the wind, but…

Bang bang.

It sounded awfully human. Standing to the side of the door, he tried to peer out the gap between the window on the door and the curtain. A shadow lingered, but without any kind of light he couldn't make out what it was.

Tree? Raccoon? Bloodthirsty thief?

He rolled his eyes at himself. Because bloodthirsty thieves were known for banging on doors. It couldn't be a person. It was a second-story porch. He unbolted the door and pushed it open.

“It's about time.”

The sound that came out of him was decidedly unmanly, and it was only thanks to his grip on the door that he didn't sink to his knees.

“The
fuck
, Delia?”

“Let me in. I'm f-freezing.”

Once the shock wore off, he could feel it as well. The below-freezing temperatures hit his mostly bare skin. “How the hell did you get up—No, I don't want to know. Just…what are you—No, I don't want to know that either. Get out.” He started stalking down the hall to the stairwell. So he could kick her down it.

Sure, tough guy.

Delia, of course, stood instead at the opening to his room. He hadn't flipped on any lights, so she was merely a shadow.

“I need your help,” she said breathlessly.

He'd be breathless too if he'd scaled a second-story porch. “Are you drunk?” She had to be on something to be idiot enough to climb a house.

“No.”

“High?”

Her shadow seemed to flinch. “Never touch the stuff.”

“So what the hell are you doing here in the middle of the night? Climbing up God knows what. Scaring the shit out of
everyone
.”

“I hope I didn't wake up your father, and to be fair, it's hardly the middle of the night.”

“It is for someone who has to be up at four.” He gave up getting her out. She'd all but climbed his house. Obviously she had reasons for being here.

“Tell me what you want.” He made a move for his room, hoping to get some clothes, but he stopped halfway to her, realizing he was nearly naked and she was blocking his way to his shirts, pants, socks. It didn't matter. He was wearing boxers, and it wasn't as though he had any particular shame about his body.

Except he didn't want her to see it. Not out of shame or embarrassment, but out of… No words he cared to admit.

He was cold. She was in his way. End of story.

“I think Rose is back in Blue Valley.”

Caleb sighed. Nothing easy. Why would he have ever thought it would be?

“What the hell does your sister have to do with me?”

“Nothing. But I need your help getting a message to her.”

How? How had he gotten mixed up in Delia Rogers's shit again? Was this his punishment for trying to get his life on the straight and narrow? The
opposite
of straight and narrow showing up at every turn?

“Get a message to your sister. Anything else you'd like me to do? Pick up some tampons for you?”

She was quiet for a minute. “I wouldn't say no to the tampons.”

“Get out of my way.” He would have muscled past her if he wasn't quite so undressed. If he wasn't quite so…confused. He was angry, right? That she'd ruined his sleep. She couldn't be doing this if he agreed to Tyler's proposal—Tyler had specifically said no ties to anyone he used to hang out with. But the thing inside his chest didn't feel like any anger he knew.

It felt weirdly like relief.

He kept walking toward her, forcing himself to get closer and closer until she was intimidated to move. If he took another step, he would have to touch her, and if it came to that…he would not be affected in the least.

When had his lies to himself gotten so weak?

Finally she moved, pressing herself against his door, so in order to enter the room, he'd have to brush past her.

“You're the…you're the only one who can help me.” She said it in a rush, like saying the words wouldn't be quite so telling or painful if she did it quickly.

He took enough steps into the room to flip on the light, but that left them standing close—both sideways in the doorway. He could feel her breath, her warmth even with the chill in the air. He could smell the earthy tang of leather—no doubt that coat she never took off.

They both winced at the light, but when his eyes adjusted he took in her disheveled appearance. Her hair was hanging out of its normal ponytail, her cheeks and nose were bright red from cold. Her lips were all but blue.

The urge to grab his blanket off his bed and wrap it around her until her teeth stopped chattering was abated only by the fact that he couldn't possibly let her skin ever touch his bedding. Ever.

Ever.

So, it would probably be in his best interests to agree to help and get her the hell out. “How do you think I can help?”

She didn't say anything, and it took him a minute to realize that was because she was staring at him. Not his face—no, nothing as innocent as that. Not even his bare chest.

Delia was straight up, unabashedly staring at his crotch. He fought the urge to cover himself up, but he couldn't fight the stirring in that general area at the thought of her looking at him.

He made a move for his closet, but she not-so-innocently stood in his way.

“It's cold. I'm putting clothes on,” he ground out, hoping he could convince
her
the gravel in his voice was irritation, since there wasn't a chance in hell of convincing himself.

“You look just fine the way you are,” she said, a sultry note to her voice. “Or are you worried about…shrinkage?”

Ha! Like anything on him was
shrinking
right now. He looked around for something to cover himself up with, because
fuck
if her direct gaze didn't feel like a touch. He could all but imagine her slim, cool hands on his ever-hardening erection, and that was not in the cards.

Last sacred thing and all that.

There was a crumpled shirt on the ground between them. Just about everything else would require getting around her, and he wasn't getting anywhere near her. It wasn't cowardice; it was damn well self-preservation.

She'd thank him for it. They'd both thank him for it.

He made a move to grab the shirt, but she was too quick and grabbed it first. He almost asked her what kind of game she was playing at, but the truth was, he didn't want to know.

Knowing would lead to…knowing, and thinking, and…wanting. “Give me my shirt,” he demanded.

“Hold on.”

“Delia.”

“I'm just trying to think if I've ever seen you quite so undressed. Shirt off, yes. Of course. But boxers. Hmm.” She tapped her chin, eyes still trained on what little covered-up area he currently possessed—completely and utterly without shame.

There should be something wrong with that. He should be getting the upper hand here, but he simply stood and let her stare. Because it wasn't so bad having a sexy-as-sin woman stare at him with something like interest in her eyes.

You cannot succumb.
If he could withstand the need for alcohol, surely he could withstand the need for…

“Do you want me to help you or not?” he growled.

She held out the shirt, but before he could snatch it out of her hands, she dropped it. When he glared at her, she shrugged. “Oops.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn't going to scramble for clothes. If she could take it, so could he. Probably. “You have one minute to tell me what you want. One minute, and then I will haul you over my shoulder and toss you out on your ass.”

“Is that a promise?”

He nodded to the clock on his nightstand, because then he didn't have to look at her. If he looked at the red numbers of his clock, he didn't have to think about hauling her over his shoulder or how close that would put her ass to his face. Or how easy it would then be to run a hand along the curve, easy to breathe her in and feel the press of her breasts against his back.

Damn, he was hard, and he did not have time for that. For her. “Your minute's started.” Because he wasn't sure he had much more than a minute's resistance in him.

She blew out a breath. “Fine. Okay. I need your help getting a message to Rose. Somehow she's running the Pioneer Spirit or something. I don't have all the details, but she's here.”

“The phone's downstairs. Be my guest.”

Something flashed through her expression. He didn't have a word for it, but he knew he didn't trust it. Whatever she said next was going to teeter way too close to a lie.

“I don't have the number.”

“I'll look it up.”

“No. I…
I
can't be the one to talk to her, okay? She can't know I'm here.”

“You're damn straight she can't know you're here.” If he
did
take Tyler's ridiculous proposition, he was going to prove to the jackass just how many hoops he could go through. Which would mean getting rid of Delia before anyone knew she was here.

“But I need her to know I'm okay, and I need to know she's okay. If…she knows anything about…things.”

“Oh, sure, things. So, you want
me
to call her and tell her all that. Because that isn't suspicious at all.”

“Maybe you could, like, accidentally run into her in town. Happen to bring up that you heard I was okay? Ask her how she is…or…”

“So, I'm supposed to go to town. Accidentally run into your sister. Bring you up, and have her be none the wiser? You're listening to yourself, right?” On the surface, it wasn't that crazy. But the surface was always hiding something, and he couldn't be seen anywhere near the Pioneer Spirit or someone with Rose Rogers's reputation. If Delia's was bad, Rose's was lethal.

Her eyebrows drew together, and she toyed with the zipper fraying off her jacket. It was rare that she let her confusion or nerves show, but here they were. Delia didn't know what to do, and she needed his help.

But he couldn't risk any more helping her, because…

“I have to know,” Delia said in a quiet, unsure voice. “It's been so long, and…” She trailed off, swallowing whatever the rest of the words were before she fixed him with a glare, dropping her hands to her sides. “You have to help me. This is your fault. You have to help me.”

“How is it my—” But he stopped abruptly, because he might not understand how or why, but something about the night he'd saved her from her father had separated her from her sisters.

“Man up, Caleb. Make this right.”

“And if I don't?”
Can't? When have I ever made anything right?

“You will.”

Her certainty in him was so strange, so foreign, she almost made him want to help her. To be able to. If anyone in his world deserved help, it was Delia. Fuck, how he wished she'd go to someone else—someone who deserved to be asked.

Someone who didn't want to run. Who didn't want to touch her and get her naked and in his bed—or maybe who did, and could. A man who would know how to give her something. It didn't take a genius or good person to see Delia needed something to go in her favor.

But what on earth did he have to offer that wouldn't undermine everything he needed to do with his life in the next three months?

* * *

Delia was so tired of being close to tears. Of having to fight for kindness. But she'd be damned if she was going to stop when Rose was at the end of this particular fight.

“You will help me. You owe me.” If she said it enough, it would be true. If she said it enough, Caleb's overactive conscience would get the better of him.

“I can't go to Pioneer Spirit, Delia.” Each word was grave, weighted, as though he was a doctor breaking the news that someone was dead.

It almost felt as if he was, but she kept fighting, because hell—lost causes were her best fight, weren't they? “Why can't you? It isn't as if you never go to town. You have to pass it to go to Felicity's or Bozeman or—”

“It isn't about location,” he ground out. There was a humming silence that followed. It took every last ounce of effort and determination to cut off the next demand. “I can't be seen going into or out of a bar. I can't have my truck parked anywhere near a bar. It'd get back to Mel, and as much as getting a message to your sister seems easy from your side of things, it's all kinds of complicated on mine. So, unless I happen to pass her on the street, it ain't happening.”

Delia snorted. “Right, like Mel thinks you've never been to a—” She stopped on a dime when she put it all together. Caleb's straight and narrow wasn't just not hanging out with the wrong people and not helping himself to a five-fingered discount now and again. He wasn't drinking.

At all.

He felt like he couldn't risk being seen at a bar for even a few seconds.
Or is that just the excuse he's going to use not to have to help me?

But Caleb looked about as happy to have shared that information as his father had looked horizontal on the ground.

“I can't help.” Flat. Final, and if she wasn't totally fooling herself, sorry.