Shades of a Desperado Read online

  “Oh, no,” Mercy groaned.

  Picking herself and the rifle up out of the dirt as the horse disappeared, she started running down the long, winding path, with the sound of gunfire slamming into her body as it echoed from rim to rim.

  She came to a sliding halt at the crest of the hill and looked down into the canyon, staring in mute despair. She was too late! Dakota was pinned down, with no way out. Using his dead horse for a shield, he continued to fire at the men in the posse with cold precision.

  Mercy groaned. She had to help him!

  With shaking hands, she dropped to one knee and aimed the rifle, adjusting her shot to the downward slant in elevation. But when she realized the rifle Dakota had tossed her had only two rounds remaining, hope died.

  “Damn you, Dakota, why? You never carry unloaded guns. Why now?”

  Her finger slid from the trigger as she lowered the rifle to her side. Even if she hit her target both times, it would not be enough to stop the posse from capturing him. And if that happened, then she would be helpless to do as he’d asked. He already believed she’d betrayed him. No matter what, she couldn’t let him hang.

  It seemed like hours, but it was only a matter of minutes before the shooting stopped, as abruptly as it had started. Even where she was standing, the smell of gunpowder filled the air, and the silence after the endless barrage was almost as frightening as the inevitable arrest she saw coming. She stifled a sob. Dear God, Dakota was out of ammunition!

  She watched as Ab Schuler stepped out from behind a rock, calling for Dakota to surrender. When Dakota stood, Mercy’s spirit sank. And when he tossed his empty gun in the dirt and lifted his arms above his head, she panicked.

  This couldn’t be happening! Only minutes earlier she’d been planning the rest of their lives, and now it was over.

  But Mercy hadn’t survived this long in the Dakota Territory by being weak, and she couldn’t ignore Dakota’s last request. She got to her feet. Still clutching the rifle Dakota had given her, she walked to the edge of the rim. Schuler was putting handcuffs on her man. Panic resurfaced.

  “Nooo!” she screamed, and the sound of her voice echoed down into the belly of the canyon like the eerie wail of a she-panther that had just lost its mate.

  Momentarily surprised by the sound of her voice, the men down below paused in their jubilant actions, then stared around in confusion. When they saw the woman standing poised on the rim above them with a rifle in her hands, to a man they began grabbing for weapons and scrambling for cover.

  Dakota looked up. Forgetting the handcuffs that Schuler had just placed around his wrists, he stared, fixing the image of Mercy Hollister one last time within his mind. The distance between them seemed to shrink, and he almost believed he could see the tears on her face. He turned until he was facing her squarely, offering her a full view of his chest.

  Do it, girl. If you ever loved me, for God’s sake, do it now!

  Even from where she was standing, Mercy recognized Dakota’s move. But he was asking her for something she wasn’t sure she knew how to give. How could she end the life of the only man she’d ever loved?

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Ab Schuler grabbing for his rifle. She shifted her stance. There was no more time. She lifted the rifle to her shoulder, taking aim the way her brother had taught her years ago.

  God help me.

  She cocked the hammer.

  God forgive me.

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The sound of the gunshot cracked like winter ice on a spring-thawing river. Loud and clear, the echo bounced from rim to rim and into Mercy’s heart, piercing her as sharply as the bullet that struck Dakota square in the chest.

  Mercy watched as Dakota dropped, and from where she was standing, it was like watching snow fall, soundless, and so inevitably final. Pain tore through her body in waves as nausea nearly sent her to her knees. With a wild cry of ungovernable rage for what she’d done, she drew back the rifle and sent it spinning out into the vast space below, then thought about following it down. Sick at heart, and staggering from an onslaught of emotion, she fell to the ground, unable to look at Dakota again.

  It hurt to breathe and she wondered if he’d felt the same pain when her bullet ripped through his chest and into his heart. A wave of vertigo sent her grabbing for dirt, and as she did, the handgun in her pocket slid between her knees. Seconds later, she was clutching it in one hand and staring up into the wide expanse of the midday sky, remembering that only yesterday she and Dakota had made love beneath that same bowl of blue.

  The steel warmed to her touch, offering comfort and the answer she needed. She took a deep breath, then lifted the gun.

  Ab Schuler spun with gun in hand as the outlaw dropped at his feet. A surge of anger washed over him. He’d been cheated out of watching the son of a bitch hang. He looked up in time to see Mercy’s rifle go flying into space. Along with his men, he stared in mute fascination as it seemed to hang in the air before spinning end over end, then shattering on the rocks below. But when Mercy dropped to the ground and pulled a pistol from her skirt, fear for her stunned him as he realized her intent. He started up the path, screaming her name as he ran.

  The second shot came before he’d gone ten yards, and he paused, unable to believe what she’d done. As before, the single gunshot echoed, but when it had passed, an unearthly stillness seemed to come over the canyon. The men in the posse looked away, as if they felt guilt for having been a part of what had just taken place, despite being fully within the boundaries of the law.

  Up until now, the day had been hot and still, but a sharp wind suddenly sprang up, wailing through the mouth of the canyon like the sound of someone crying. The high-pitched moan grew louder and louder as the wind continued in force. One man quickly dropped to his knees in prayer, while another scrambled for his horse and rode out without ever looking back. Years later, as the story was told and retold, one thing never changed. To a man, the posse swore they’d felt the hot wrath of God that day as He came sweeping through the canyon to reclaim the two lost souls.

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  The Kiamichi Mountains of southeastern Oklahoma,

  A small branch slapped Boone MacDonald across the nose, bringing quick tears to his eyes that he blinked away. Silently he cursed the thickness of the undergrowth through which he was creeping, as well as the weak light from the three-quarter moon filtering through the dense thicket of trees. Skulking in woods as heavy as those on the Kiamichi Mountains was next to impossible. Not even a possum could move through here without making some sort of noise.

  A low murmur of voices from the men up ahead drifted on the air, reminding him of the urgency of his task. Working as an undercover agent for the Drug Enforcement Administration was nothing new for him, but working this deep under cover was not something he liked. It wasn’t the first time he’d insinuated himself into a gang, but it was the first time it had taken him so long to find out who was running the show. He’d been living a lie for nearly six weeks, and he had yet to meet the man behind the money.

  For the past half hour, success had been less than fifteen yards ahead. Each time the silhouette of a tall, well-built man was briefly outlined against the moonlight, Boone could almost see his face. But it never happened. They were moving too quickly for him to get close enough for an identification.

  Frustration mounted. Intent on the task at hand, he unintentionally walked into a spider web and stifled a curse as he swiped at the sticky, clinging strands on his face.

  Suddenly he froze, part of the web still stuck to his hand. They’d stopped! His instinct for survival was at an all-time high as he stood with one ear cocked to the wind while the hapless spider escaped up a branch. Boone slowed his breathing, concentrating instead on the sounds around him.

  In his mind, there could be only two reasons for the quiet. Either he’d been made and someone was at this moment circling his position, or they’d reached their destination
. Forced to wait for answers he might not like, Boone took a quiet step back, moving deeper into the darkness of the trees.

  Above him, an owl suddenly took flight, and he cursed his luck in having stopped beneath its roost. If the men were on to him, the bird’s flight alone would indicate his position. He pulled a .357 Magnum from the holster beneath his black denim jacket, then squatted within the dense undergrowth, making himself less of a target.

  All his senses were keying on sound and movement, sorting what he recognized from what he did not. His face was a study in darkness, both in spirit and in fact. Black eyes glittered dangerously from beneath hooded lids, giving away nothing of what was going on inside his mind.

  He was a man who lived on the edge—a man who played by his own set of rules and, by doing so, had kept himself alive. His friends were few, his family none. As far back as he could remember, he’d answered to no one but himself, which, as a child, had been the reason for his constant movement through the welfare system. The way he’d looked at it, no one had wanted him. In self-defense, he had refused to care.

  But that attitude had put him on the wrong side of the law at an early age. When he was sixteen, he had watched his best friend die from a gunshot wound to the head. At that moment, something inside of him had snapped. When the shock of it was over, he’d made a vow that ultimately changed his life.

  Becoming a cop might have been his salvation. But even if he was now on the side of right, he was still living on the wrong side of the law, and it had seared his soul. He’d run with the bad boys for so long that being an outlaw had become the norm. He’d forgotten everything about the real world, including how to trust. The only thing Boone trusted was himself, his instincts, and they were telling him now to stay still.

  While he watched, the owl he’d startled flew silently out of sight. His grip shifted on the .357 as a sharp burst of laughter broke the quiet in which he was waiting. He frowned. From his point of view, there wasn’t a damn thing funny about the situation.

  As he continued to listen, the unmistakable sound of car doors opening and closing brought him to his feet.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, and bolted through the trees, hoping for one last chance to ID his man. All he saw was the disappearing taillights of two separate vehicles. Once again, he’d missed his chance!

  His face mirrored disgust as he holstered his gun, reminding himself that there was always a next time. Peering at the luminous dial of his digital watch to check the hour, he started back through the trees. The way he figured it, he was a couple of miles from his truck, and it was all uphill.

  Habit sent him up the mountain at a different angle from the one he’d come down. Like the men with whom he ran, he moved with stealth, searching shadows and choosing his paths with caution. Fifteen minutes later, he was telling himself that he was too far east when he heard an indistinct sound. Eyes narrowing, he felt for the bulge of his gun beneath his jacket. But when the sound came again, he knew what he’d heard, and he started running with no thought of stealth.

  Bathed in moonlight, the woman stood without moving while the water from the creek in which she was standing tugged at the hem of her long, wet gown. Plastered to her trembling body, the pale, fragile fabric made her appear like alabaster, rather than a living, breathing soul, and yet Boone knew that she was real. No statue had hair that fluid and dark, or breasts that lifted and fell with each indrawn breath.

  The soft, helpless sobs that he’d heard still wracked her body. Her beauty was haunting, but her pain was palpable, plowing into subconscious memories of his own that were better left alone.

  Riveted by her presence, he hesitated, wanting to go to her, but afraid to interrupt something he didn’t understand.

  “I love you. I’ve always loved you,” she whispered, then reached out in front of her, clutching at air.

  Boone took a quick step back into the trees, using the shelter of darkness as he trained his gaze on the scene, searching for the man who must surely be there. To his surprise, no one came forward.

  Again the woman swayed where she stood, choking on her own sobs, as if in terrible pain.

  “Why?” she cried. “Why didn’t you believe me before it was too late?”

  When she went to her knees in the cold mountain stream, Boone stalked out of the trees, heading toward her with single-minded intent. It was September. At night, the water in that creek had to be freezing. He called out to her, anxious not to frighten her, but knowing he had to help all the same.

  Rachel Brand groaned as the pain in her head shattered, spilling through her body and sending her into the same black, numbing void that always preceded cognizance. Yet when sanity came, she knew without doubt that she’d sleepwalked again. This time she was in the creek, wet and cold, with no memory of how she’d gotten there. All she knew was that the episodes were becoming more frequent and, if tonight was any indication, life-threatening. Pulling a stunt like this in the Kiamichis in autumn was risky; repeating it in mid-winter could be deadly.

  She got up, thumping her knee in helpless frustration. Tossing back the braid hanging over her shoulder, then grabbing at the wet, clinging fabric of the gown wrapped around her legs, she started to climb out of the water. But disgust gave way to terror when a deep, quiet voice broke the solitude of the night.

  “Lady... are you all right?”

  Horrified, Rachel froze. She was no longer alone! She spun, unaware of how the gown had plastered itself to her body, delineating a slender build, a fullness of breast, the gentle flare of slim hips and long, trim legs.

  In fear for her life, she began backing up as a tall, dark stranger came out of the trees. When he paused within the pale glow of moonlight in the clearing near the edge of the stream, she took one look at the strength in his body and the length of his legs and knew she could not outrun him.

  “Don’t hurt me,” she begged, taking several tentative steps backward, as if testing the man’s intent.

  Boone wished he could pull out a badge and assure her that he meant her no harm. He knew how she would perceive his appearance. The outlaw look was in vogue when you were running with a pack like Denver Cherry’s.

  “Lady, be careful!” he said, his voice low and urgent, as she stumbled on the rocks hidden beneath the cold, icy waters. “Don’t be afraid. I don’t mean you any harm. I heard you crying and came to see if you needed help.”

  “No, I’m fine!” she cried, motioning to him to stay back. “Just leave me alone. Please!”

  Rachel’s heart was thundering, and her legs were shaking. Frantic, raked the dense forest behind him with her gaze, wondering how many more like him might come creeping out of the shadows.

  Boone winced at the panic in her voice. This was getting him nowhere. Instinct told him to get out while the getting was good. The longer he stayed here, the more likely it was that some man would show up, and then there would be hell to pay explaining why he was alone in the woods with a half-dressed and terrified woman. But she looked so lost, and something inside him couldn’t let go. He took a deep breath and gave it one last try.

  “I swear to God, I would never hurt you.”

  The sound of his voice...and those words... They struck a chord of memory in Rachel that she’d never known was there. Her gaze focused on the cut of his shoulders and the tilt to his head, and she forgot what she’d been about to say. She had the strangest sensation of having heard that voice say those same words before.

  Good sense was telling her to run, but her feet wouldn’t move. His presence frightened and at the same time compelled her.

  As she stood there trying to make sense of it all, the sensation of numbing cold disappeared. Before her eyes, the night began to turn backward, and Rachel watched in quiet defeat as the brilliant rays of a pink-and-gold sunset suddenly framed a man standing before her. He seemed to be the same man as the one in the forest, and yet in the ways that mattered, he was not.

  This is it, she thought. I’m either losing my min
d, or going to die.

  The man now standing before her smiled, and to her disbelief, she felt herself smiling back. When he started toward her with a bounce in his step and a gleam in his eye that she seemed to know all too well, everything spun out of control.

  He laughed. “God, woman, but you’re too beautiful to be believed.”

  She threw her arms around his neck and lifted her face for his kiss. It came as she’d expected, hard and swift and with an ever-present sense of urgency. “If you mean that, I’ll love you forever, ”she whispered.

  Fear tied hard warning knots in his belly. He wasn’t prepared for her openness, or for the loving, trusting look on her face. Now was the time to stop this madness before he got himself in too deep.

  “Women don’t love men like me, ”he growled, as his fingers dug into her arms.

  She smiled up at him, flirting in spite of the hard-edged glitter in his eyes.

  “You don’t mean that, ” she said. “There isn’t a woman in Trinity who wouldn’t trade places with me right now if they thought you’d give them the time of day.”

  He laughed, a short, brittle bark of self-deprecating mirth that made her shudder. The smile on his face was just shy of cruel, but the look in his eyes told it all. He was just as scared of this thing between them as she was. Ordinarily, men didn’t love women like her, either. She gave nothing away. They paid for what they got. At least, they did until you, she thought, and reached up, tunneling her fingers through the thick black length of his hair.

  “And just what kind of a man are you, if not a man to love?”

  A bitter expression tore the smile from his face as he turned her loose.

  “I’m a loser, darlin’. A man on the wrong side of the law. I’ve killed before, and I’ll very likely kill again. I’m a badlands desperado who’s forgotten how to pray and you’d be well advised to leave me alone.”