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Being called Samson’s wife made sense, when she allowed the thought to settle in her brain, but the logic of it aside, being called his wife came with huge implications. She set them aside, however, as she did not like the lascivious look on their visitor’s face. Better to pretend for a while than risk herself at the hands of a man like that.
“Well, now ... I hadn’t heard you’d shacked up. My congratulations.” The old man leaned one hand atop his saddle. “Seems we’re heading in the same direction. It would be profitable for us to hang tight.”
Samson’s posture said he disagreed, but he didn’t protest, she figured, because there was no reason to. Instead, he offered her his hands to remount, and remaining silent, she obeyed. She felt some better with him behind her, his solidness a shield from the man’s leer, but was conscious of his presence at all times.
Samson leaned toward her ear, speaking low. “His name’s Francisco Silva. Bad sort who’ll shoot first and decide if he should later.” He adjusted his hold on the reins, his grip, to her thinking, becoming more protective. “He has no qualms about using a woman, whether she’s willing or not, but you can trust me, I won’t let him do that.”
“A fugitive with a conscience,” she replied.
Surprisingly, he laughed. Though the sound was muffled, his chest rippled with the movement of it.
They fell silent after that, and she set herself to endure what promised to be a long, hot day in the saddle, speculating about what was to come. Samson could not release her to her father if Francisco trailed along. That would make his lie obvious and bring reprisal.
That meant she was locked into this for longer than they’d either one planned. Until he could rid them of the outlaw somehow. How long would that take? Days? Weeks? Past Christmas? Meanwhile, she must feign to be someone she was not, a less objectionable position than she was willing to admit.
Already, she’d grown used to him, to his strength behind her, his ability to make an intelligent, somewhat spontaneous response. What should have frightened her didn’t because he was there, but, at the same time, she questioned her willingness to ignore who and what he was in favor of spinning some fantasy in her head. A fantasy where he was somehow redeemable and her mixed-up female emotions able to embrace what was fast becoming the most basic desire.
In a serene virtuous world, young unwed women dreamed of the perfect house, of owning acreage, perhaps, a farm. They wished for a husband, chaste and dedicated to her best interests, one who lived well above the law. They wanted a man, dedicated to faith and the good of their neighbors. They envisaged children, a boy to follow in his father’s footsteps, a girl to mimic herself. Consumed by the joys of daily existence, they embraced an ideal.
Perhaps, she, too, had had those thoughts before, but never with Samson Renegade. He was a passionate romp beneath the bedsheets, the type of man who made a girl toss it all away, just to say she’d done what others hadn’t. Lillian had no experience with that, only the barest knowledge she’d picked up while being kind to the girls at the whorehouse. But it was the very fact that he made her wish for it that bothered her the most.
The heat of midday brought them to a halt. Ducked into the shade of the rocks, they laid back to sleep off the worst of sun. The outlaw seemed to drowse beneath the brim of his hat. Samson, too, hid his face and snoozed, but she had the feeling if either one twitched wrongly, both would immediately react. Reaching for the canteen placed at her side, Lillian took a swig and reclined. The warmth and stillness soon pulled her eyes shut. She awoke to the click of a gun, Samson’s arm crosswise in her view.
“You’re about to make a fatal mistake,” he said.
She focused, startled to find the outlaw overhead.
In a partial crouch, Francisco straightened. “There now, I was only wondering where the ring was on her hand.”
“The ring is in safekeeping from the likes of you. If you have any doubts, feel free to search, but my next bullet will end up between your eyes.”
Francisco chuckled, raising his hands, one on either side. “No need. I expect it’s right where you say it is.”
Samson’s gun followed the outlaw in retreat. Even after he’d settled, he held it pointed toward the man’s face. When the outlaw resumed his false slumber, he lowered it to a place in his lap. He eyed her, his thoughts cloaked, then repositioned himself closer to her side.
“I’ve never been this near a woman and her still have her clothes on,” he said, turning his back to her.
“That’d be a pretty picture. Wouldn’t it?” she replied. “Play right into the old fool’s lust.”
Once more, Samson laughed, that quiet tremble of his breath, as if he didn’t want to admit he laughed at all. Seconds later, his amusement had died.
He wasn’t a fool, Francisco knew his reputation with women. To make this believable, he’d have to play their relationship up. But for the first time that he could recall, he was afraid of a woman. Used to those which sashayed, swinging their hips for his attention, Lillian, it seemed, would rather battle him with words. She was constantly talking, but not mindless prattle. Instead, each thought was related to their situation and created out of her observance of their behavior. Truth be told, he found it attractive, more stimulating almost than any enjoyment of a woman’s richness, and it set him to wondering if it’d be possible to have both, for the woman he pleasured to mean something more than body heat.
Although, late afternoon, she had body heat aplenty, and try as hard as he might, he couldn’t stop his from reacting, the rocking movement of the horse, a continual scrub on her round bottom that had him hurting something awful.
Lillian, to her credit, barely acted like she noticed.
“Heard a rumor that you’re seein’ that lily-livered Deputy,” he said. One of the whores had whispered it, though right then, he couldn’t recall which one. The first had been chatty. She seemed more likely. The second had hummed a Christmas tune on continual replay.
“Deputy Anderson, yes, an honorable man, law-abiding, God-fearing.”
“Mmm, sounds boring.”
Her lack of response told him she agreed.
“He’ll make beautiful babies. They’ll have his eyes and your hair.” Samson said this to draw a response and was pleased when it did.
“You’d rather I had little demons with your attitude.”
He laughed beneath his breath. “My mama used to say I was born with a pistol in one hand.”
“And your ego in the other. Tell me, Mr. Renegade, which is it continually prodding me right now?”
Circling one hand around her waist, he pressed yet closer. “My apologies.”
She fell silent. He could only imagine what went through her head.
Come nightfall, they stopped again and built a fire in an enclave that’d been used by others many times before. Francisco’s eyes gleamed between the snapping flames, his oily skin reflecting the orange light. He didn’t speak, but nor did he look away, and Samson read his thoughts.
Something would have to be done. A newlywed couple, as they were supposed to be, did not avoid each other at night. He rose, hauling Lillian to her feet. “Excuse us while we seek some privacy,” he said.
Francisco inclined his head left.
Leaving their things behind, Samson dragged her, stumbling, after him into the darkness. Able to sight Francisco and the horse, he spun her around and backed her up against the enclave wall. In one movement, he hiked her skirt, eliciting a gasp loud enough Francisco would hear it.
“I want to hear lots of that,” he said, “good enough he believes it.”
His fingers digging into her bottom, he worked her toward him, his movements mimicking the rapid pant of her breath. He was hard-pressed to believe her virginal then, especially when, both of them shuddering to a halt, she didn’t let go, but settled in place. The look in her eye spoke, strangely, in the voice of his mother, words he’d forgotten in his years of running.
Never turn loose of a good thing, she’d said. No amount of money can buy your peace and happiness.
But what was this? He faked a bride, faked a honeymoon, and would return her to her father eventually. What then?
“We’d best get back,” he said. To his own ears, he sounded subdued. Lillian didn’t protest but smoothed her skirt and trailed behind him back to the fire.
He didn’t like Francisco’s look of mingled jealousy. Envy combined with a wicked man’s desperation could explode and cause untold damage. Samson pledged, if that happened, to keep it from hurting her. He’d drawn her into this. He’d see her safe.
He turned his back on Francisco’s leering eyes, the cold steel of his gun bringing comfort. Lying down, he curled Lillian against him, the slow throb of his pulse soon falling into time with hers.
“Samson ...” she began.
Not Mr. Renegade as she’d called him before. No, with what they’d pretended, this had become personal.
“You think ...?”
He hushed her with a hiss. “Sleep.”
Lillian awoke sometime during the night wedged between Samson and a rock. The rock was uncomfortable, its pointed surface digging into her spine, and Samson, coiled like a spring. She wondered if he always slept that way or if they’d worked themselves up too much for comfortable sleep. Sheer weariness had done her in, otherwise the burn between her thighs would’ve kept her awake. Even now, she wished some relief.
Logically, she understood why he’d done it that way. He’d wanted a truthful response for their companion’s benefit and probably, he’d figured, she had no idea what that sounded like. He would’ve been right. With his having experienced it, however, though his hands were intimately placed, he hadn’t done more than mimic. Yet, she’d seen in the darkness of his gaze a recognizable axiom – he wasn’t used to denying himself and didn’t want to. That made the fact he had of incredible import.
In her naivety, she’d assumed him a man out of control. Her father always said criminal gunslingers were unable to submit to discipline, that their lawlessness was a direct result of an inability to hold back from evil and vice, and maybe that was true for some. But she was inclined to think the opposite was true for Samson. He knew what he was capable of, was always prepared for an instant response, having assessed his options first, and he denied himself things frequently for no other reason than his own protection. He denied himself her, for instance. That, in itself, showed, not recklessness, but incredible control.
Thinking of the man, Francisco, she pushed up onto her elbow and spotted him splayed flat on his back, his hat over his eyes. Lowering again, she gazed upward at the craggy slope of Samson’s chin, the deep set of his eyes. His lips parted the slightest, he exhaled, slow.
Her father, if he were here, wouldn’t hesitate to shoot both and wouldn’t ask questions of how she felt about it. How did she feel? That some men were of lesser value than others? Those destined to do evil like Francisco. Whereas others were redeemable if given a chance.
Was Samson Renegade redeemable? This close to Christmas dare she believe God could work in him? Or was she simply wishing it, so she could do for real what they’d pretended?
Some would say it was a fool’s errand to redeem a man who’d seen and done things as horrible as him. Mayhap they were right. “Hold onto your heart,” she whispered beneath her breath. Yet, with those words feared she’d already begun to give it away.
The distance they traveled, and the un-seasonal heat took a toll on them. Nightfall, the following day, they stumbled on an abandoned Indian encampment, which some outlaw had adapted for his use. The lean-to the unnamed gunman had erected looked as if a breath of wind would knock it over. It provided needed shade, however, and a night of privacy from their uninvited guest. Leaving Francisco to his own care was risky. Leaving Lillian to another night of his ogling was worse.
Samson ushered her in and closed the door, dropping his saddle bags within arm’s reach.
She lay down, pillowing her head on nothing more than her folded hands, her red-rimmed eyes staring, surprisingly clear, into his. “What do we do now? More play-acting?”
Samson took a seat on the far side, though it wasn’t far at all.
“Is he at the door, his ear pressed tight, listening for our cries?”
He might be, but most likely, he was tending to his own needs. He hadn’t had a hot meal in as many days as them. Plus, Francisco was hurting for drink.
“You rest. I’ll tend to him.”
But, though she didn’t argue, she didn’t close her eyes for quite some time. When she did, he had the feeling she was partially awake.
He sank into his thoughts, a habit he was used to, though his thoughts tonight all revolved around Lillian. She was strong, else she wouldn’t have survived without complaint. Though the weariness she wore showed the hours had taken their toll, her mind remained alert. She had mettle.
His greatest worry had become that he was worried at all. Concern for another person’s care took away from his usual sharpness. Out on his own, his life held at the end of his gun, he could make spot decisions without fear of the consequences. Lillian’s needs required forethought, and the split-second that required was enough to kill them both.
He didn’t want to die for a crime he didn’t commit. Many would argue he deserved justice, so who cared how it came. He supposed they were right. Yet, there again, Lillian had introduced a thought he’d never had ... the idea he could be forgiven.
Foolishness. Bullets forgave no one, and men like her father itched to bury them in his head. Even if he returned her somewhere safe and somehow provided her enough funds to catch a stage, her dad would continue his pursuit until one or the other of them was dead. There was no forgiveness for a gunslinger, no changing the path he’d set his feet on.
A knock at the door reopened Lillian’s eyes. He motioned her to remain in place and drew his gun. He pulled the hammer back and poked it through a crack between the door itself and the framing.
Francisco chuckled, raising a portion of charred meat on the end of a metal spit. “Your missus will need her vittles, and I found me a bird.”
His gun unwavering, Samson opened the door far enough he could grasp the offering. He retreated quickly, sealing the shack shut again. He retreated to his seat, the meat at his lips. Whatever it was, it smelled decent enough. It paid to not ask sometimes, but to take what you could.
He lowered the food to her. She made no attempt to take it.
“You need to eat as much as I do, more even. I’m not a fool, Samson Renegade. I live because you know how to keep me alive.”
“I want you alive,” he admitted. At the very least, to return her to her father. She shouldn’t have to live like this, by their wits, without home or provision, no lady friends to gossip with, no social events to look forward to. As hard, as tough as any woman was, his mother included, they were at their best when they were around people.
Lillian stretched out one hand and pinched off a portion. She curled her lip some in chewing, the gamey flavor evidently not to her taste. But a fair amount consumed several minutes later, her color had improved, and she seemed stronger. He didn’t partake until she was through. He suspected, without vocalizing, the meat was desert rat and not the bird Francisco had professed.
“Mama always made pudding for Christmas,” he said, unsure why. But the memory settled on his tongue. Sweetened cream, dusted with spices. He and his brother would consume gallons of the stuff.
“Is she alive?” Lillian asked.
For the first time in ages, sorrow swamped him, and he couldn’t answer. Theirs had been a hard life, his father a hard man. His mama had been the softness they all needed, but she’d died as they’d lived, in a paroxysm of blood. Samson vowed, looking at Lillian, this wouldn’t happen to her. She’d have silk and lace and floral perfume. She’d slip away at an old age, surrounded by loved ones.
Not a man with a gun who wasn’t worth saving. Not anymore.