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away and she followed him toward the lone mesquite tree
where the horse was tethered, stumbling over the rocks and clumps
of cactus. Dear heaven—in terrain like this, a person could step on
an innocent-looking pile of rocks and wind up skidding halfway down
the mountainside in no time!
    By the time she reached him again Amelia was
breathing hard. The outlaw, obviously finished with their
discussion, set aside one of her J.G. O'Malley & Sons satchels
and picked up his bedroll.
    "I've only got one blanket. We'll have to
share it."
    "No!" Things were going from bad to
worse.
    "We're riding out at sunrise tomorrow and we
both need some sleep first."
    "I can't go with you! I—I can't sleep with
you! It wouldn't be right. Please, I—"
    "Suit yourself," he replied, not looking at
her as he headed back toward the fire.
    Amelia would have sworn the temperature
dropped at least ten degrees at that moment. The wind swished
through the mesquite branches and raised goose bumps on her arms.
The horse nickered behind her. The crackling warmth of the fire
reached brightly into the air. Beyond it, the poet bandit spread a
blanket on the ground, apparently engrossed in the task at
hand.
    He left her with no other choice. It was,
Amelia decided, the perfect opportunity to make her escape.
     
     
     

Chapter Three
     
    Still wearing his boots and doing his best
to ignore the woman—who was busy muttering to herself across the
campsite—Mason Kincaid stretched out on the old striped woolen
blanket that had been his bed for the past month. It was worn thin
in spots and smelled vaguely like horse sweat, but a cushion of
cleared sand beneath made it comfortable enough. A wanted man could
hardly complain about the conditions of lawlessness.
    Mason reached his arms overhead and folded
them beneath his neck, waiting for the muscles in his back and
shoulders to unknot themselves. Above him the night sky stretched
wide, veiled in clouds that hid the moon. When he breathed, the
spring-cold air held no hint of rain, though, and Mason was
glad.
    Dry weather would make it that much easier
to track down the Sharpe brothers in the morning. If he made an
early start, he might even catch up with the lazy sons of bitches
while they were still snoring in their bedrolls at one of the stage
stops nearby.
    Catch up with them and reclaim all they'd
stolen from him.
    He might have had them already if not for
Amelia O'Malley. Hell. Mason didn't know what had possessed him to
double back and pick her up by the side of the road. He'd been a
half mile away when he'd heard her screaming after that stagecoach
driver like a scalded cat. He'd gone back for her without thinking,
knowing the driver wouldn't return. Knowing she couldn't survive
alone.
    He wondered why she'd gotten out of the
stagecoach in the first place. Maybe she was touched in the head.
Maybe all those fussy blond curls in her hair were wound too tight;
they'd addled her brains. Whatever the reason, he was stuck with
her, at least for a while.
    She was pretty enough, if a man liked his
women all decked out in gee-gaws like a fancy cake. Mason didn't.
And for a little woman, she'd looked plump as a stuffed sofa in
that ruffled pink dress she'd had on. He'd wager Amelia O'Malley
had more than bustle to thank for a backside like hers. No, she
wasn't the kind of woman he liked at all, he told himself.
    And if he'd noticed the way the spilled
canteen water made her dress cling a little tighter on top, if he
was wondering what she'd look like with her prissy-looking blond
hair undone, well...He was a man. A man noticing a woman like that
was only natural.
    Mason pulled the blanket higher and rolled
over, willing himself to sleep. He needed it, wanted it...and knew
just as plainly that tonight he wasn't going to get it. Again. He
might as well pack up and head after the Sharpes, he decided; make
up for the time he'd lost going after Amelia O'Malley. Even better,
he'd pack her up and take her down to Gila Bend