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A man's naked chest was one thing, Jenna Leigh-Whittington told herself as she crept through the brush. After all, this was 1879, not the dark ages, and she’d seen men without shirts before. Back home in Illinois, farmhands often went shirtless, toiling under a broiling sun.
Besides, Jenna had decided fifteen years ago—at the ripe age of seven—never to make the same mistake her mother had in giving her heart to a man. So, Jenna had no expectation of seeing more of the masculine form than a chest. . .until now.
Fully grown and over a thousand miles from home—in Utah—she stood in the woods dressed as a boy and bent on doing a cold, dangerous job no one believed a woman capable of doing. Scary, but her success would ensure her freedom. Right now, though, she fretted not over possible danger, but the likelihood of having to inspect a man's bare bottom.
Jenna's short Indian-style bow tangled in the bushes as she sneaked closer to the camp she'd discovered, thanks to its telltale scent of coffee. Without a sound, she worked the bow free. The damp ground beneath her knees smelled of summer growth. She grimaced at the dirt and grass stains being ground into her trousers. Hopefully, they would not be her only souvenirs from tonight's adventure. She needed the reward money success promised.
Rewards didn't truly matter though. All in the line of duty. A man's duty. Which she was doing.
For days, Jenna and her sorrel, Gent, had tracked her quarry from Denver to Cheyenne and on west through every godless whistle-stop along the Union Pacific Railroad. So far, her prey had avoided granting her a single peek at him. He knew good horseflesh; she had to give him that.
Finally, she had him trapped in a dead-end draw near Evanston surrounded by aromatic sagebrush, sego lilies, jackrabbits, and the red crenelated sandstone cliffs of Echo Canyon.
To avoid detection, she had left the sorrel in the main canyon and threaded her way up the draw on foot. The branches thinned, and she could see him now, sitting on the ground, his back braced by a saddle while he gnawed a stick of jerky. Beyond the campfire, a horse stomped and swished its tail. Jenna envied the horse that long tail. A whole horde of mosquitoes busily sucked at her hide, and she didn't dare slap at the pests—too noisy.
Muscles of iron strained the seams of the man's chambray shirt and tan canvas trousers as he sat up to dig another strip of jerky from his saddlebag. A black Stetson shadowed his eyes. The dim light from the fire made determining the color of his mustache and beard difficult, but they looked dark. Dark enough to convince her she had found the right man—Black Jack Mendoza, cardsharp, frequenter of saloons, consort of soiled doves, train robber, and murderer.
A desperate and dangerous man.
Jenna's mouth went gunpowder dry at the thought of facing him alone. Too late to worry about that now. Swallowing, she drew her .44 caliber Starr army revolver and prepared to confront him. She thumbed back the hammer, and the click shattered the still night like the roar of a cannon.
The man lunged to his feet, his six-gun drawn so fast she never saw his hand move.
"Easy, mister, put the gun away." Her voice came out a hoarse croak. "I've got you covered."
BRANCH MC CAULEY FROZE, his keen eyes seeking his adversary among the shadows, his guts snapping at his backbone like an angry badger.
Must be getting old, letting himself be taken unaware like this. Had Mendoza circled back on him? The voice sounded young. Hell, he hoped some idiotic kid, hungry for fame, hadn’t followed him from one of the railroad towns he'd traveled through searching for Mendoza. McCauley would far rather face a fully grown, cold-hearted killer.
Face carefully blank, body alert, he eased the gun into its holster and waited for the man to reveal himself. When the intruder stepped into the weak glow of the fire, McCauley frowned.
A boy? What. . .? The kid couldn't be more than thirteen or fourteen. Damn.
A wide-brimmed hat failed to hide the brat’s soft, delicate face that had yet to feel the scrape of a man's razor. Baggy trousers and an oversized coat hung on the slight frame like a half-stuffed scarecrow. A short bow hung from one shoulder, a quiver from the other—and somewhere in between, the puerile assumption of manhood. He had eyes the size of tin plates—fear induced, McCauley reckoned—and slender, fragile-looking hands. Chances were that the fragility was deceptive, considering the heavy weapon the kid had aimed at his chest.
Not Mendoza.
McCauley's jaw clenched. Blasted kids. They saw only the glory side of killing. Never the ghosts. Or the regrets. He'd thought he'd left his reputation behind in the Colorado gold camps. He sure hoped he wouldn't be seeing this boy's pretty, innocent face in future nightmares peopled by the dead of McCauley's past.
JENNA SCOWLED AS SHE studied the man by the flickering glare of his campfire. He had the right build and appeared close to thirty, Mendoza's age. But something didn't fit.
The Denver police chief had described her quarry as a spoiled aristocrat too busy wooing Lady Luck and every other female to be much of a train robber, let alone a killer. But the rogue in front of her looked too lean and hard to be spoiled, too wary and aloof to be a ladies' man.
To Jenna, he appeared the perfect gunslinger: cold, tough, and ready to spring. Like a big yellow cougar perched on a ledge. Or a rattler, tightly coiled. Either way, his bite would be deadly.
Despite the cool night breeze, sweat oozed from her pores. She couldn't forget that lightning draw. Why had she come here? How had she expected to take an outlaw Pinkerton's other agents had failed to bring in? No, she was every bit as capable as any man of capturing Mendoza. She had to believe that, the same way she had to do what she'd set out to do. Only one question remained: Was this man Mendoza or not?
"Who are you, mister?"
"Who am I? Hell, who are you?"
Blast! Did no male exist in this empty wilderness that wasn't so taken with himself he couldn't cooperate for a change?
She took a calming breath. A body could catch more flies with honey than vinegar, old Charley Long Bow used to say. Jenna figured flies might fancy the hairy creature facing her, so she decided to try being friendly. "Listen, I smelled your coffee and hoped you might spare a cup, is all. You can understand me being a mite leery of walking into a stranger's camp without knowing who I'm hooking up with."
Firelight glinted on the man's straight white teeth as his whiskers parted in a cold smile. "Don't recall inviting company, but I'll play your game. Name's Branch McCauley. Now it's your turn."
His smile unnerved her. No humor, only a lethal sort of grimness that cannoned her stomach into her throat and made her wish she'd wired William Pinkerton for instructions instead of going off halfcocked as she had. "I'm Jim. . . Jim White," she lied.
"All right, Jim, how about some honesty? You come here looking for me?"
"I'm not looking for anyone named Branch McCauley. If that's who you are, you've nothing to worry about."
The wide, innocent eyes McCauley studied held honesty. He relaxed. "In that case. . . be glad to pour you some coffee." He reached for the battered graniteware pot. The kid’s next words froze him in a half-stoop: "I'd feel more welcome if you'd set aside your gun first."
Cool as Montana sleet, McCauley straightened, hand poised above his holster. "Reckon you would. Wouldn't do much for my sense of well-being, though."
So much for trying to be friendly, Jenna thought. What now? She clenched her knees together to still their shaking and swallowed the knot of fear in her throat.
"Look." McCauley shifted his weight to one leg. "Why don't you put your gun away and have a sit? Could be I might know something about the hombre you're hunting."
Hombre. Sounded Spanish. Like Mendoza. It must be him. She had to get his six-shooter away from him. Surprise seemed the best means. She squeezed the trigger of the .44 Starr. The bullet kicked dirt onto the man's scuffed boots. He jumped and let out a yelp as if she'd set his feet afire.
"Dammit, kid, going up against me won't get you anything but a six-foot hole in the ground."
"Shut up and toss over your gun or I'll turn them boots into sieves. ’Course, my sights might be a bit off." She raised the muzzle toward his groin.
"You made your point," he growled, unbuckled his gun belt and tossed it over.
Instead of the fancy weapon she had expected a gunslinger to own, a plain Colt lay at her feet. No ivory handle or engraved barrel. Only an ordinary .44 Peacemaker, crafted and worn for one reason—to kill. The thought did funny things to her innards.
"All right," she said, getting back to business. "You aren't going to like this, mister, but I don't know any other way to be sure who you are. Drop them trousers to your ankles."
"Do what?"
Jenna cringed at the hard, icy tone, but hollered back: "You heard me. . . Drop 'em!"
Seconds passed like hours while he glared at her. When he released the first button of his tight denims, heat suffused her face, but she could not remove her gaze from the big hands as they worked each successive button free.
He pushed the trousers off his slim hips, and she held her breath. Stiff and dirty, they fell no further than his knees. Underneath, he wore faded, woolen underwear like hers, so tight they left no doubt about his masculinity.
Without trying, her voice came out low and husky. "Now turn around and drop the back flap."
"Just a gosh-danged minute!" He took a step toward her and stumbled over the denims shackling his legs. Cursing, he poked a finger at her. "I don't bare my ass for any man, let alone some slack-jawed brat hankering to make a name for himself. You hear me?"
In answer, she fired another shot, nicking the toe of his boot. He sprang back and nearly fell.
"I may be young," she snarled, "but I know how to shoot. Now turn around and drop that flap. Or do you want me to shoot the buttons off?"
McCauley scowled like a bear with a paw in a trap. Finally, he shuffled in a half-circle, putting his back to her, unbuttoned the flap and let it fall. Two tight cheeks, as white as the moon rising in the east, peeked at her. Jenna edged closer and searched for the three-inch-long scar Mendoza had supposedly received fleeing a jealous husband's bullet.
Nothing. Only smooth flesh over firm muscle.
The man angled a glance over his shoulder. "Well, you through gawking, or would you like to see more?"
Jenna felt heat sear her body. "Sorry, Mister, you aren't the one I'm looking for. I'll be leaving now. Keep those hands in the air, count to a hundred, real slow, and everything will be fine.
A CENTURY PASSED BEFORE Jenna felt safe enough to stop along the Weber River for a few hours’ sleep. After unsaddling and brushing down the sorrel, she set out to gather branches for a small, smokeless fire as Charley Long Bow had taught her. If only the old Indian could have seen her tonight, he would have been proud of her.
Six months of nagging Pinkerton and spying on train conductors pocketing the fares they collected had won her this assignment in the glorious West. And not one thing had gone right since she had arrived.
Under the guidance of a Pinkerton agent named Snipe, she was to have befriended a certain, nameless whore, who would pass on to her any information Snipe gleaned about Black Jack Mendoza's whereabouts. But Mendoza had gotten to Snipe first. Jenna couldn't work with a dead agent. Common sense should have sent her back home. Financial desperation and the snide comments of the Denver chief of police about a woman's proper place drove her to try catching the killer on her own.
Something barked directly overhead. She jumped and let out a strangled yelp as an owl, sounding more like a dog than a bird, exploded from its perch and vanished into the night. She stepped between two trees and scrubbed a spider web from her face. When something skittered through the soggy leaves at her feet, she let out a yelp, jumped a good three feet, and scurried back to camp.
A mouse. Must have been a mouse. Jenna hated rodents even more than she hated men.
The appeal of independence and the glorious West faded. For two bits, a hot bath, and a feather bed, she'd seriously consider throwing it all away.
While she waited for the coffee to boil, she went down to the river and tugged off the new boots she'd insisted on buying, winning old Charley’s disgust. High heels, pointed toes, and fancy stitching. Her feet throbbed. She flexed her pinched toes and thought again about that hot bath. A foot-soaking in the river would have to do.
The cold water numbed the pain. She massaged each half-frozen foot and wondered how Will Pinkerton had taken the news that she had gone after Mendoza alone. He would have ordered her home with the excuse that no woman could handle a dangerous job like catching killers. But Jenna hadn't come west to be safe. She'd come to find a man.
Two, counting Black Jack Mendoza.
Tonight had been a mistake. Even she had to admit that. She’d never heard of Branch McCauley, but he was obviously the rough and dangerous type, a combination she found oddly exciting. More than exciting, considering how his woolen underwear had molded to his body. What would he look like without the awful beard?
Her only answer came in the form of four distinctive clicks from a Peacemaker being cocked behind her.
Jenna sprang up from the bank and spun around, her hand darting for the Starr and finding her holster empty.
"McCauley!"
His grin amounted to a slash of white in a mat of tight, dark curls. "That's right, kid."
Motioning her back to camp with her own gun, he dropped the Peacemaker into its holster. "Haven't seen a single-action Starr like this since the war. Good gun. You steal it from your daddy?"
"No. It's mine." Jenna picked up her boots and edged around him.
Sitting by the fire, she brushed the dirt from her feet and pulled on her socks. The man's smile, illuminated by the fire as he hunkered opposite her, unnerved her almost as much as his hard, icy gaze. Both spoke eloquently of revenge.
Tall and long-limbed, he might have been good looking if not for the mustache and beard. The men she thought killed her father had worn beards. Since then, at the age of seven, she had connected face hair to sorrow and death.
"Yours, huh?" McCauley's voice ground out deep and gruff and edged with doubt. "I suppose you're going to tell me your father gave you permission to run around the countryside ordering men to disrobe at gunpoint, too."
A sudden and surprisingly sharp pain pierced her vitals. "My father doesn't give a damn what I do. An old Indian gave me the gun."
Branch’s childhood had been full of love and the rowdy kind of fun only a bunch of siblings could provide. The loss of so much of his family and his sudden expulsion from home had fortified his appreciation for his happier beginnings. Every boy needed guidance. Obviously, Jimmy White had no one to guide him except some old chief full of ancient pride and tall tales of a warrior's bravery. It explained the bow and arrows. And the pride. "Sorry, kid."
"Keep your empty apologies and get on with what you came for."
The defiant thrust of the boy's chin and the stiffness of his thin warrior's shoulders dulled the edge of McCauley's anger. Spunk. The boy needed it, alone at his age. Yet if he accosted many people the way he had Branch, he wouldn't live long enough for his voice to stop switching from soprano to alto in a single sentence. "What do you suppose I came for?"
"Sure wasn't to borrow sugar. Are you going to drag it out all night?"
"No. Turnabout is fair play." It irked Branch that he felt a need to justify his intentions.
Jenna held her spine as stiff as a branding iron, her fear tightly contained, while the man tucked the Starr into his waistband and sat on a half-decayed log. Her gaze slid to the bow and arrows by her saddle. Much too far away.
"Well—" McCauley thumbed his hat back on his head. "—gonna drop them trousers, or are you waiting for me to display some fancy shooting to match yours?"
Jenna didn't dare let him touch her, for fear he’d discover her true gender. She took a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry about before. You fit the description and—"
McCauley's eyes narrowed. His hand inched toward the Starr. "Get to it."
She turned her back and hiked up her coat. The blood pumped loudly in her temples. With shaking fingers, she unfastened her gun belt, dropped it to the ground, and fumbled with the rope holding the baggy trousers around her waist.
"Hold it." He crooked a finger at her. "Over here." McCauley pointed to a spot directly in front of him—so close he'd not only be able to see her bottom, he could kiss it. A shiver, half-terror, half thrill, slid down her backbone.
Jenna averted her face to hide the heightened color in her cheeks. She considered snatching a brand from the fire, then decided he'd probably take it away before she could use it on him. Silently, she prayed he would be content to humiliate her.
But McCauley had other plans.
The moment she dropped the back flap on her underwear, he spun her around, yanked her face-down on his lap, and held her in place with one hand while the other hammered her bare buttocks. She clutched his thigh with both hands to keep her breasts from rubbing against him and bit her inner lip to keep from crying out. Inside, she seethed.
"This will teach you," he said, between slaps, "to go about pulling stunts on men who're as likely to kill you as look at you."
He had expected the brat to fight and howl until his eardrums burst, but so far, the kid hadn't moved a muscle or let out a peep.
"You've a lot to learn about being a man." Smack! "Lesson number one: Never draw on a man you aren't prepared to kill." Smack! "Two: Never take on a man bigger than yourself; and three: If you don't want to be found, stay away from water and forego the fire. Should have thought your Indian friend would have taught you that much." With one last smack, McCauley shoved her off his lap.
Jenna landed with a thud on her inflamed fanny and shot to her knees, one hand kneading her tender flesh while she bellowed, "How dare you!"
McCauley shook his head. The kid had shown real grit before. Disgusted, he said, "You sound like a girl." Indignation had Jenna shaking so hard, her hat shifted. The sight of McCauley rubbing his hand as though it smarted worse than her bottom infuriated her even more. She snatched up a handful of dirt and threw it at him. "If you followed your own advice, I wouldn't have found you in the first place, you egotistical jackass."
McCauley chuckled as he ducked the dirt, shielding his face with his arm. When he straightened, his eyes widened, and his heart catapulted into his throat.
Young Jimmy White's hat had fallen off. A fat braid the color of night dangled over one slim shoulder, nearly waist-long.
They stared at each other as still as mule deer scenting danger. For the first time, Branch took in the wide, smoky blue eyes edged with thick black lashes. The thin, delicate brows. The pert nose, hinting of a stubborn streak. The lips, as masculine as a lace corset. He looked at his hand, and a tingling sensation surged through him as he realized that the softly rounded bottom he'd paddled belonged to no boy.
“Jimmy’s” eyes widened with the realization that her secret had been exposed. She snatched up her hat, stuffed her braid back under it, and lurched to her feet.
In a flash, McCauley leaped off the log. He grabbed the girl by the coat and dragged her close. She stared helplessly at him as he ripped open her shirt to expose the high, firm mounds outlined by the form-fitting wool of her long underwear.
"Holy Mary." He thrust out a hand and cupped a small round breast. "You're a woman!"
She swatted away his hand and jerked free. "If you have any ideas about taking advantage of the fact, you can forget it." She shimmied her trousers up over her hips and secured them. Then, feet spread, and fists balled, she took up a defensive stance.
McCauley stood there, his hand still cupped as if filled yet with the firm warmth of her breast. Desire sizzled down his spine. Women were scarce in the gold camps, and it had been too long since he had lain with one. He could no more stop his body's reaction than capture the moon. But he could show the girl what might have happened had she accosted Mendoza instead of him. "Do you think you could stop me if I did take such a notion?"
Her cocked elbows and pointed chin thrust out in challenge reminded him of a ruffled grouse with bristled feathers. The painful throbbing in his groin destroyed any hint of humor. "You ask for it, you know, riding around the countryside forcing men to drop their trousers for you. What in blue blazes are you trying to do, anyway?"
"That's none of your business. I apologized once. I won't do it again, so just get out of my camp."
Long, silent seconds elapsed while he gazed at her. Despite her blazing eyes and cocky stance, she looked young, small, and vulnerable. The image of his sister Maura waylaying a mob of Pinkertons while he slipped out the back door flashed into his mind. But Maura had Sloan and Dan and her own husband, Sell, to look after her. He suspected the prickly bit of femininity in front of him now had no one. "Sorry, can't do that."
"What do you mean, you can't? Don't you know the way back to your own camp?"
He chuckled mirthlessly. "Yeah, I know my way back. But my mother taught me better than to abandon helpless females in the middle of nowhere. No matter how tough they think they are. Tell
me where you're headed. I'll see you get there, then go my own way."
The words shocked Jenna. McCauley had a good deal more reason to turn his back on her than her father ever had, yet James Leigh-Whittington had abandoned her and her mother without a second thought. She studied the gunslinger. He must want something from her. Being a man, "what" seemed obvious. "I'll kill you before I let you touch me again."
McCauley rolled his eyes toward the stars. "Saints preserve us.
You're as trusting as—"
"A hen in a den full of foxes," she finished. "You can't deny I have good reason."
Was his desire for her that plain? He resisted the urge to look down at the trousers he'd already undone for her once tonight and gave a slow, lazy smile. "Not about to give me a chance to prove you wrong, are you?"
Jenna watched the firelight strike his face as he took off his hat to reshape the crown with thumb and forefinger. His beard wasn't black, as she'd first thought, but auburn like the flames mirrored in his cold green eyes. Eyes that hungered as though she truly were a hen and he a fox. "Would you?"
He shrugged. "Maybe not. Look, sweetheart, how many other men have you pulled this stunt on? And how have you escaped getting shot for it or worse?"
His leering expression made her long to demonstrate how she dealt with insufferable, exasperating, egotistical jackasses like him. Unfortunately, her .44 Starr remained tucked in his waistband. If only she could reach the trigger. "I told you before, that's none of your business."
His brows lowered, shadowing his deep-set eyes. "Lady, when you told me to drop my trousers, you made it my business."
"Our business concluded when I left your camp."
He gave a harsh laugh. "Naïve, aren't you? Where were you raised, anyway? One of those fancy convents back east? When did they start teaching gunplay?"
Her jaw clenched. The need to tear the smirk from his face nearly overwhelmed her. She lunged at him. Before she could enjoy the feel of his flesh giving beneath her nails, he snagged her wrists and pulled her hard against him. Her breath left her in a startled gasp as arms of steel locked around her.
The lust in his icy green gaze intensified Jenna's fight for freedom. She kicked and shoved and swore. His grip only tightened; one hand on her spine, the other moving up to hold the back of her head. Despite her struggles, his mouth descended toward hers.
"Don't you dare," she hissed.
He shifted his hips, cupping her round bottom with his hand to mold her more completely to his hardness. "You're in no position to give orders, little hellcat."
The laughter had fled his face, replaced by a look of such unyielding determination that she trembled. To tease and elude had been her game back home and she'd always won. Until now.
"Just remember," he growled, his lips poised above hers, "you asked for this."
She could almost hear old Charley snicker, "Jenna girl, you've met your match."