Outlaw Girl Read online

  “Search the room if you have a mind to,” the Englishman invited. “I don’t think you’ll find any outlaws here. I never, well, let’s say, entertain a lady in my bed in front of an audience. Bad for one’s concentration.”

  The man laughed and his bawdy comment made George squirm. When he left the room with a final snicker, the Englishman shifted his body away from hers. Shockingly, wantonly, she wanted him to hold her again. Was she loco?

  He stood up, forking his fingers through his hair. “Right, who are you?”

  “I’m George.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying.” She couldn’t move. The heat of his body had somehow fused her to the mattress. “Georgina’s my name really, but everyone calls me George.”

  “All right, Georgina, start explaining.” He hovered over her like a giant eagle mercilessly waiting to swoop on its prey.

  “I thought the room was empty.” She bit her lip. “I wanted to spend the night here and get a fresh horse in the morning. Mine bolted on me.”

  “You live near here?”

  “No, about twenty miles away,” she told him, giving a vague wave of one hand.

  “Your parents know what you’re up to, I suppose?”

  “I don’t have any parents, only my uncle. We, that is Billy and I came to help Johnny escape from the deputies holding him. They wanted to take him to Deadwood.” She barely paused for breath. This Englishman had her life in his hands. She must make him understand the peril waiting for her outside. “They started shooting; it was awful.” She shuddered dramatically. “I thought they would kill us.”

  “Johnny?”

  “Yes, Johnny Valentine.”

  “Valentine, the outlaw? You’re mixing with an outlaw, a common criminal?”

  “He isn’t a criminal. They persecuted him, drove him to crime,” she said passionately. “You’re an Englishman. You don’t understand how things are here, we’ve got to help each other. It’s the only way we can survive against the wealthy ranchers and their hired guns.”

  “All right, I’m not really interested. I have too many worries of my own. You had better find somewhere else to hide. This is my room, and my bed, for tonight at least. I certainly don’t propose sharing it with the likes of you.” His cold eyes surveyed her contemptuously.

  “Please.” She levered herself up on the pillow. “Let me stay here until morning, I’ll freeze to death outside.”

  “You should have thought of that before getting yourself into this mess,” he said unsympathetically, taking a bag out of the wardrobe and dumping it on the bed.

  “I’m not leaving.” She tossed her head in defiance, watching as his eyes narrowed. Would he hear the frantic hammering of her heart?

  They shared a fraught silence for a moment. As if suddenly making up his mind, he gave an indifferent shrug. “The bed is big enough for both of us. If you don’t mind, why should I?”

  What kind of place was the American West? Were all its women whores? He had associated with many different females in his time, but never come across anyone willing to give herself to a stranger just to sleep in his bed. Of course, she was mixed up with that Johnny Valentine creature, probably his mistress.

  Her startling emerald eyes suddenly darkened almost to jade. “Please, Mister, don’t take your clothes off.”

  He watched in surprise as her lips trembled, two fat tears dropped from her eyes and dribbled down each cheek. She knelt on the bed now, her hands clasped together as if in prayer. Wearing tight fitting trousers and a man’s shirt she could easily pass for a youth, except for the long blonde hair.

  “You happen to be in my bed. I pride myself on being a gentleman, but I have endured hours in a bumpy, cramped coach and need a good night’s rest, so I am afraid I cannot offer to sleep on the floor.”

  “I’ll sleep on the floor.” Slithering off the bed, she faced him.

  No wonder she could successfully masquerade as a youth he thought, running his gaze over her fine build. The shapeless man’s shirt hid her girlish—no, womanly, he corrected himself—attributes. He had felt the swell of her breasts and the thrust of her nipples against his chest. Her red blonde hair shimmered in the lamplight. She looked exquisite. Her tremulous mouth had tasted as sweet as honey, and her soft feminine curves had molded themselves into his hard, male contours.

  “Could I have a blanket to wrap myself in?” George deliberately made her voice humble. Those tears had been a nice touch, too. Johnny always said men could never stand watching women cry, and she had been desperate enough to break into heart rendering sobs if the first couple of tears failed to win him over.

  The floor would be hard and cold. Still, a blanket in a nice warm room was better than sleeping out on a frosty night. It would be beneath an English gentleman’s dignity to sleep on anything except a bed.

  She had never met such a handsome man before, six feet in height at least, strong and lean, powerfully male. His cheeks and jaw were covered with dark stubble, his vivid blue eyes a striking contrast to his dark brown hair. He didn’t have the lily-white complexion of most newly arrived Englishmen; his skin was tanned to a sun kissed, golden hue.

  His blue eyes raked her thoroughly, scrutinizing, speculative, as if trying to see inside her head. Embarrassed heat crawled across her cheeks. His anger was tangible, barely under control as he obviously fought an inward battle with himself. She should be frightened of him, wary at least; strangely she wasn’t. When he wrenched a blanket off the bed and threw it at her, she almost toppled over trying to catch it.

  “Good night. Thank you for letting me stay.”

  He grunted something incomprehensible before snuffing out the lamp, leaving her to fumble around in the darkness until she found a suitable corner in which to sleep. With the blanket wrapped tightly around her, she settled down to what was undoubtedly going to be a long night. Creaking springs and rustling bedclothes indicated he was making himself comfortable. She heard him punch the pillow several times.

  Within a short time, she dozed off. Her sleep became peppered with nightmares, and she finally woke up shivering with fright and cold. Climbing stiffly to her feet, she walked up and down on the one spot trying to get warm.

  By the regular breathing coming from the bed, the Englishman slept soundly. Who wouldn’t in a comfortable, warm bed? Selfish beast. Her teeth started chattering; her whole body trembled with a cold that gnawed at her bones like a ravenous dog. She was in a dangerous situation, which called for desperate measures. Dampness seeped through the hard floor, and a cold wind swept in through the crack under the door. She couldn’t get sick, not yet at least. How would she ever make it back home?

  For a king’s ransom, she could not explain why she trusted the Englishman not to violate her. A man like him would have no need to force himself on any woman. They would eagerly come to him.

  As silently as a ghost, she crept over to the bed and climbed in, keeping near the edge, as far away as possible from the Englishman. Even though there was a distance between them, she could still feel the warmth emanating from his body. Wait until the others heard about this. They would never believe it. She could hardly comprehend it herself, sharing a bed with a man.

  She had never been romantically interested in men, in fact, had always been wary of any emotional entanglements whatsoever. Billy clumsily tried to kiss her a few months ago and she had pushed him away. This Englishman’s kiss had not been unpleasant, in fact, she liked it, more shockingly, never wanted it to end.

  It felt nice being warm again. Snuggling into the mattress she fought against the temptation to touch the Englishman who slept with his back toward her. He was not a restless sleeper, in fact, lay quite still. His breathing sounded regular and even, as if nothing troubled him, which of course it didn’t. What worries could a rich handsome man like him have? On this thought, sleep claimed her once more.

  * * *

  Marcus stirred and blinked his eyes. That wretched moon was shining
right in his face. Why hadn’t the curtains been drawn? Of course, this was the West. Probably didn’t have such things as window coverings out here.

  He stretched out his legs and touched warm flesh. Rolling over on to his side he was amazed to find Georgina asleep beside him.

  The moon lit the room up so brilliantly, he could see her quite clearly. He grinned to himself. Being cold or sharing a bed with him, she must have chosen him as the lesser of the evils.

  Gently, he traced the lines of her face with one finger. He put his mouth near the hollow of her throat, and his nostrils filled with the perfume of her hair. Never had he seen such a pretty color. It looked as if the rays of the sun were trapped in the tangled waves and curls. Her milky white skin felt smooth, soft as the petals of a rose and just as fragrant.

  “Georgina,” he whispered, hoping she would wake up so they could make love. She stirred slightly. Giving a little wriggle, her body curved itself trustingly into the contour of his, and with a contented sigh, she lay still. He felt a sudden unaccustomed shame at his carnal thoughts. Whatever she was, Georgina couldn’t be classed as a common harlot.

  For a few moments, he dared not move in case he broke the spell. An almost ethereal beauty surrounded her as she slept like a child with one hand bunched up under her chin. Her hair was splayed out across the pillow, and when the moon sailed away from the window plunging the room into blackness, he felt bereft.

  The blankets slipped away, so he drew them back carefully around her. With one hand resting on her waist, to keep her soft warmth close, he let himself drift back into a contented sleep.

  * * *

  George woke up as tentacles of pink streaked the dawn sky. No wonder she felt so warm and snug, she was wrapped up in the Englishman’s arms. Carefully, she extricated herself from him and slid out of bed. Hurriedly, she pulled on her boots, and pushed her hair up inside her hat. Gazing at the Englishman for one last time, she could not believe how hard it was to leave him. What kind of idiot was she? He had obviously given no thought to her, hadn’t even bothered to tell her his name. You fool, she raged at herself for even giving him a second thought.

  She decided to borrow a horse from the stables. Stealing a deputy’s horse, what a lark that would be, but she squashed this reckless idea—no point asking for trouble.

  Dawn renewed her strength even though her stomach grumbled with hunger, and once more she felt brave, ready to cope with anything. With hard riding across country on little known tracks she could be home by nightfall.

  As stealthily as a thief, she departed the room and crept along the porch. Silence reigned in that interval between pre-dawn darkness and not quite daylight. Pine trees and thick brush surrounded three sides of the building.

  George sneaked around the back of the kitchen area. Her hunger pangs drawing her there against her will. It added to the risk, but her stomach would not be denied. The back door to the kitchen, which was separate from the main building, was never locked. Sam or his wife might even be up and about by now.

  I’ll grab some food, borrow a horse and leave a note saying I’ve passed by. Sam could always be relied on for help. His only son had ridden with the Hardwick gang before being shot and killed in a bank holdup.

  No one was about, the fire still smoldered in the stove. A quick search brought to light cold meat and a loaf of bread. Hacking the bread in half, she filled her mouth, before gathering a few supplies. She stuffed a piece of cheese, a couple of apples, half the loaf, and a hunk of meat into an empty flour sack.

  It seemed unlikely any of the posse would have recognized her in the darkness. She had waited a little distance away with the horses while Billy had sneaked up to where Johnny was chained to a tree. She fed her fury and hatred by thinking of this. It would make what she was now attempting easier to carry out.

  Had there been time, she might have written the Englishman a note. His assistance, though grudging, nevertheless saved her from being arrested or, at least, having to answer awkward questions.

  Johnny should never have got mixed up with the Hardwick gang. He was the only one of them to escape the ambush at the bank. What was left for him now except years on the run? He would probably end up being killed in a hail of bullets like Danny, or worse still, dangling from the end of a rope.

  She wrote a quick note to Sam saying she had dropped in on passing, and at the bottom of the page signed it ‘George McGuire’. He would guess what the message conveyed and would know the horse would eventually be returned to him. A quick glance out the kitchen window confirmed the yard was clear.

  It did not take her long to make for the corral, saddle a horse and ride away. Several times, she nervously glanced back over her shoulder. No sign of pursuit, thank goodness.

  It felt perishing cold. She shivered as her breath wafted on the frosty air in little steamy puffs, before disappearing. Her mount, a sturdy workhorse, had speed as well as stamina.

  Mid-morning, she stopped to rest the horse and eat. The sun shone now returning warmth to her freezing limbs. She scrambled down into the creek. Vines entwined themselves around the cottonwood and birch trees growing almost to the water’s edge.

  The banks appeared quite steep, and as there was no time to find a safe place to bring the horse down to drink, she did the next best thing. Filled her hat with water and took it to him. Her hair dangled in a snarled mess about her shoulders now, her pants were grubby, her boots encrusted with sticky yellow mud.

  How strange, her appearance had never bothered her before. It was the wretched Englishman’s fault she now felt conscious of her shabby attire. Even though he was tired, obviously travel worn, his clothes looked impressive. She shook her head trying to clear it of such foolishness. The thought of never seeing him again filled her with sadness.

  The hours passed by as she kept up a steady pace, stopping only now and again for a short rest. No signs of pursuit. Her luck seemed to be holding. She worried about whether Johnny and Billy would be safe. Hopefully Billy was home already, relaying with gusto their adventures to McGuire.

  Johnny could not spend even one night at their cabin now as the sheriff and his deputies would be waiting to pounce if he came within a mile of the place. He would be in the Black Hills lying low at one of his numerous hideouts. None of them knew exactly where he holed up. Too dangerous, he always said, so they could never contact him in person. He knew the lawmen were close by because of their signal.

  It was not an elaborate system, quite simple really. If the cock on the weathervane over her bedroom roof faced north, it was safe for him to come over, if it faced south meant danger. Unseen by anyone from the outside, a string had been attached to the cock, and passed through one of the roof shingles, so she only needed to pull it in the required direction. At night she flashed the lamp, twice for safe, three times for danger.

  Dusk had fallen by the time she reached the simple log cabin standing in a clearing surrounded by tree clad hills. Wearily she watched smoke drifting in a lazy spiral from the chimney; its woody smell somehow bid her welcome.

  Nelson, a large black dog bounded out to greet her, followed by McGuire. He was a huge bear of a man, with a thick thatch of iron-grey hair and matching bushy whiskers. His pale blue eyes had faded from years of squinting into a hot Western sun.

  “I’m glad you’ve arrived home safely, George. Where are the others?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He led the horse while she walked beside him explaining what had transpired. For some inexplicable reason, she didn’t dare dwell upon, she left out the Englishman’s involvement.

  McGuire swore viciously on hearing how the posse had hunted them.

  He was not an uncouth man, just thought of her as one of the boys. Once this would have pleased her, now strangely she wondered what it would be like to be treated like a young lady, to wear pretty gowns, perhaps have young men court her.

  She pulled her thoughts up sharply. What’s wrong with me? I’ve always been quite happy with my
lot before. I like being treated as one of the boys. The only dress she could ever remember wearing was a pretty blue one, Aunt Molly had made for her when she was a little girl.

  McGuire had been kind in his rough and ready way, most of the time he forgot her gender. Anything his sons did, she did also. The only concession she received was since the age of about thirteen, he insisted she have a bedroom of her own. Admittedly, it was small, with barely enough room for a bed and a dresser. It gave her a private space that the boys could never enter.

  “Are you hungry, gal?”

  “Starving, I can’t help worrying about the other two though.” She bit her lip to stop it trembling as they moved toward the cabin.

  “You go inside, there’s beans warming on the stove, I’ll see to the horse. Tomorrow or the next day I’ll make arrangements to get him back to Sam.”

  She whistled the dog over and after receiving a pat, he trotted off. Fatigue started to set in now, so it took all her willpower to drag one foot wearily after the other.

  Inside the kitchen, she made for the fireplace, which took up almost the whole of one wall. This room was the main one in the cabin. One side of the fireplace was used for storing their cooking utensils, a three-legged cast iron boiler, a long-handled fry pan, saucepans and coffee pot.

  George sighed as she slumped in an old armchair and rested her booted feet over the stone fireplace. She felt exhausted and would wait for McGuire to dish up the food. If only Johnny and Billy were safe. Johnny was a wanted man with a price on his head and she lived in dread that one day, someone would get desperate enough for money to turn him in for the reward. McGuire stomping across the back porch interrupted her somber thoughts.

  “Worn out are you, gal? Hot food and a good night’s sleep is what you need. Don’t worry too much about those boys. They’ll be home in due course.” McGuire tried to reassure her by sounding cheerful. She knew it was an act as he had lost one son to a lawman’s bullet and didn’t want to lose another.

  They ate their beans in silence. Cooking was generally shared between the two of them, and she did any other household chores. She had little interest in such pastimes. As they lived simply, it did not take much effort to keep the place tidy.