Devon Matthews
Romance in the Wild West
Angel in the Rain

Excerpt



Angel carefully peeled the scrap of linen away from Rane’s wound. The skin looked puckered and red, but there was no trace of the infection she’d drained several times during the past two days. The depth of her relief, which made her want to cry and shout at the same time, surprised her.
She sat back on her heels. “Your wound is healing.”
“About time,” he mumbled.
He’d acted surly all morning and even refused the meager breakfast of canned tomatoes she’d offered. There was little else left in their packs.
“You might be a little happier about it,” she said.
His dark head snapped up. “Happy? The moment we cross the border, then I’ll be happy.”
So, he planned to take her into Mexico. She tucked the information away. Not that it mattered any longer.
He relaxed against the bedrolls stacked behind his back, lifted the nearly empty bottle of whiskey in his hand and poured a swallow into his mouth. She’d gotten used to the sight of him drinking. He’d nearly worked his way through the second bottle.
Breathing hard, he swiped the back of a hand over the stiff blue-black whiskers on his chin. One thing she regretted. She’d never get the opportunity to see him clean-shaven.
“Anyway,” she said, “I’m glad the infection is gone. For a while, I thought you were a goner.”
Though his chest continued to rise and fall, she sensed a stillness settle over him. He turned his head and looked directly at her for the first time since she’d sat next to his makeshift bed. Grazing over her lips, his dark gaze narrowed, then lifted to her eyes and locked.
      “Would you have cared?”
The low, husky tone of his voice sent a warning hum along her nerve endings. It was a loaded question, or so it seemed to her. How could she answer? Of course, I would have cared. Flippant. Off-handed. Nothing more than common human decency, the same as she would feel toward any poor suffering soul.
No, that was a lie. If it had been Jed Wiley lying there burning with fever, she would have ridden away with barely a backward glance. Her feelings for Rane ran far deeper than common kindness. She did care. Too much. And each time she found herself thinking about him, her purpose grew hopelessly tangled with other intangible desires.
      Especially when she remembered the things she’d already experienced because of him. With him. During idle moments when her mind wandered, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from reliving certain events, over and over. Like the passionate kiss they’d shared on the side of the ridge. Lying next to him each night, holding him safe. And other things. Dreams, mostly, of an erotic nature that went beyond anything she’d ever imagined.
Was this his plan? To seduce her to the point of willingness? To prey on her sympathy and basic feminine instincts until she followed him without a fight? Raw heat jolted through her. Well, she’d be damned if she’d give him that satisfaction!
She’d already formed her decision during the night. Clenching her jaw, she shoved to her feet and glared down at him. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said with all the coldness she could muster.
Without bothering to wait for his reaction, she snatched up a pair of canteens and stalked to the stream. With each step, she nurtured her anger, fed it. Oh, yes. Anger would make this so much easier. She uncapped the canteens and soused them both beneath the clear water.
      “Angel?”
     She concentrated on the gurgle of bubbles as the canteens filled and shut out the sound of his voice behind her.
“What are you doing?”
     She clamped her lips. No. She wouldn’t answer him. She capped the brimming vessels, slung the straps around her shoulder and stood. Without looking at him, she continued along the floor of the ravine.
The paint mare was rested, and she’d made sure both horses had been well fed on the abundant grama grass in the area. She dropped the canteens into the dirt, snatched up a saddle blanket and slung it across the little mare’s back.
      “Angel!”
She squeezed her eyes closed and refused to turn around. Hefting the saddle in both hands, she lifted it in place and started fastening straps, working as fast as she could. The bridle came last.
     Both bedrolls were tucked behind Rane’s back. No matter, she’d just have to survive without that small comfort. She wasn’t about to walk back there and attempt to take one of them out from under him.
On the ground where the saddle had lain, the gleam of metal winked at her. The revolver she’d taken from his saddlebags their first night in the ravine. She’d almost forgotten that she’d hidden it under the saddle. Now, she had need of the gun again.
     She bent down and wrapped her hand around the walnut grip. Boots crunched on the ground behind her. Then, the sound ceased.
   Her heart beat so wildly she heard it in the sudden silence. Steeling herself, she straightened and turned.
     Rane had walked within ten feet of her and stopped. His dark brows ruched over the bridge of his nose, his expression tacitly questioning. He spread his hands wide and that devilish smirk appeared on his lips. “Was it something I said?”
He dared to mock her! She straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “It’s everything you’ve said, and everything you’ve done.”
      He wasn’t looking at her face. His attention focused somewhere lower.
     Angel glanced down. When she’d turned, she’d lifted the gun in her hand without even realizing. Now, the lethal weapon pointed directly at him. She didn’t lower it.
     “Where are you going, Angel?”
     He spoke softly, as he might to a child who’d accidentally picked up a loaded gun.
     “Home,” she replied with conviction. “I’m going home, Rane.”
     His gaze lifted, and the hard as flint expression she had come to recognize settled in his eyes. “I can’t let you do that.”
      Angel tried hard to mask the dread surging through her. “You can’t stop me this time.”
     Again, his dark eyes flickered over the Colt in her hand. “Do you intend to shoot me? If so, it might be easier if you cock the gun.”
    Was he daring her? Or trying to distract her? Perhaps both. Her pounding heart sped even more and echoed in her ears. Did she dare call his bluff?
    Deliberately, she lifted her other trembling hand to the wooden butt to steady it. She moved her thumb over the hammer and slowly levered it back. One click. Two. It seemed a long way, but it only brought the gun to half cock.
    Ticklish sweat seeped between her breasts. Her hands felt wet, slippery. She exerted more pressure, hoping, praying her thumb didn’t slip off the oily mechanism and let it discharge.
Another sickening double click and the gun was fully cocked.
      Call and raise, Rane.
With grim satisfaction, she watched him, gauging his reaction. The maddening smirk was still on his lips. He took a step forward.
Rather than retreat, she lifted the gun higher and locked her elbows. “Stay back or, I swear, I’ll shoot.”
      He shook his head as he dared another step. “No. I don’t think you will. If you wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be standing here now.”
      “I started to leave you that first night.”
      “Then why didn’t you?”
Because she was afraid he would die. Because she couldn’t bear the thought of him lying there, suffering and alone. Because she simply couldn’t bring herself to leave him...
“I stayed with you. Took care of you. You owe it to me to let me go.”
      He canted his head, as if considering her words. “I thought you understood. There are men out there looking for you. Hard men. Men without conscience, who simply take what they want. You’re asking me to throw you to the wolves.”
      “I can make it through.”
      “No. When we leave here, we go together.”
      He moved toward her again, another slow, measured step. She whimpered, knowing he wouldn’t stop. He would never stop, not until he accomplished what he’d set out to do. Or until he was dead.
      Her finger twitched against the trigger. The instinctive reaction frightened her so badly sick panic flooded her stomach. She wanted to drop the gun, but couldn’t force herself to release her death grip on the accursed thing.
      He stood right in front of her, so close the end of the gun barrel prodded the center of his chest. She stared at the blackened hole and the long-dried blood on his soiled shirt. The thought of inflicting yet another, even more serious, wound on his beautiful body nearly buckled her knees.
      “Please,” she whispered. Only now she didn’t know which she pleaded for, him to let her go, or for him to stop scaring her to death with his own mad disregard for the weapon in her hands.
       The hardness still glittered in his eyes. “It’s your play, Angel. Either give over, or shoot. I’m not stepping aside.”
     He meant it. Defeat drained the rigid tension from her body. She suddenly felt like a pure fool, trying to beat him at his own game. Who was she trying to kid?
      His hand lifted and wrapped around the gun barrel. She allowed him to pull it from her hands.
      “I should turn you over my knee,” he said.
      That brought her hackles back up. “You might try.”
     He tilted the gun skyward and levered the hammer down to its normal position in one precise motion. “Never point a gun unless you’re willing to pull the trigger.”
      “Now you’re beginning to sound like my father.”
      “Perhaps you should have listened to him.”
     “Perhaps in future I shall.” She stalked past him and headed back to camp, wondering if she’d made a mistake after all in not pulling the trigger.

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