The Man in Black

Prologue

Canto de Brisas
Dorado, Central America, February 1990

Captain Lawton Kane crouched in a tangle of jungle-thick foliage. He trained the powerful telescopic sight of his modified M-14 rifle on the single, dimly lit window of a thatched hut some four hundred yards below. With his partner, he'd watched that hut for over eight hours, since well before dark. Finally, a figure appeared, silhouetted by the glow. Two rifles cracked, almost as one. Abruptly, the flickering light died.

"We got him. I know we got him."

Lawton shared little of his partner's jubilation. "Maybe. Let's go find out."

He kept his tone matter-of-fact to convey a minimum of emotion. As he spoke, he shifted, easing away from the thorny shrub that had gouged into his back ever since he'd settled in the one spot providing the view he needed. What a relief to stand up and stretch, even though his joints protested. I'm getting too old for this stuff.

Since he and his partner both wore faded camouflage, Lawton knew they were virtually invisible as they slipped from their cover. With practiced skill, they picked their way down the steep Central American mountainside. Lawton ignored the stifling weight of the humid air, the ever-present cloying stench of rotting vegetation and the cacophonic medley of bird, beast, and insect. He'd known jungles from Vietnam to Venezuela.

Moments later, they eased inside the shack. Near the edge of the village of Canto de Brisas, Dorado, it had probably been a cantina in better, more peaceful times. Now, it only served as a meeting place for the impoverished peasant "mules" the Dos Sabados drug cartel used to transport north to the United States the white powder which was their gold.

Lawton watched his partner, Sergeant Eric Landis, take a blue-lensed blackout flashlight from one pocket and shine it around the single dirt-floored room. He could see little in the way of furniture and nothing else except one man, sprawled awkwardly on the floor. If there had been others, they'd fled. Although the man appeared harmless now, Lawton approached him with caution. The thick bubbling of the man's labored breath sounded thunderous in the near-silent room.

Lawton swore softly as he sank to his knees, drew out his own flashlight, and examined the neat punctures in the man's chest. He'd seen enough wounds to know these would prove fatal. Eric, after he peered over Lawton's shoulder, seconded that opinion.

"Can't help him now, sir. He's as good as dead."

The wounded man came to and began cursing in sibilant Spanish. Recognizing the accent, Lawton glanced up at Eric, wordlessly sharing a revelation. In spite of their victim's rough clothing, his untrimmed hair and beard, he was no half-breed peasant. No question about it--he had to be Jorge Santiago, the man they sought. The man they'd been sent to kill.

Clearly, he had only minutes to live. Each gurgling breath pumped blood from a punctured lung while his furious speech only hastened the inevitable. Still, he glared up at Lawton in venomous defiance.

"You! We know your face, my brother and I. You will pay for this, slut's son of an Americano. I will not live to see it, but you too will die." He paused, gasping, to claw at his chest with a shaking hand. "You, gringo dog, will die slowly and with much pain." His body jerked and went still.

Lawton straightened slowly, swallowing the sour taste of disgust. The dead man had been ruthless and immoral, causing harm to many, but still he was dead and not by choice--without even a chance to defend himself.

Though Lawton knew he'd only done the job his government had sent him to accomplish, the fact no longer provided comfort. The death of one minor drug lord should not trouble him. Was it simply one killing too many? At that moment, he promised himself there would be no more. Whatever he had to do, there would be no more.

Some slight sound alerted both Lawton and Eric. They turned, scanned the dark corners of the room, instinctively moving to stand back-to-back. There. A narrow doorway. Perhaps leading to a storage area. First the rustle, then a whine or whimper. The sound seemed to come from beyond the portal.

Lawton strode across the room and shone his flashlight into the cubicle. Although he felt sure only a rat or other wild creature stirred beneath the tattered blanket, the whimper had sounded oddly human. Stooping, he pulled the blanket away.

A child. A skinny child with raggedly cropped dark hair. At first glance, he took it for an Indian. Then, he recognized the swarthy skin tone resulted from a mixture of dirt and blood smeared from myriad scratches, insect bites, and festering sores. Though minimal clothing hid little of it, he couldn't see a square inch of unblemished skin. When he felt Eric crowd up behind him, Lawton shifted aside to let his partner satisfy his curiosity.

"It's gotta be that kid, captain," Eric whispered. "You know, the girl kidnapped on Cozumel at Christmas?"

Only half listening, Lawton drew his knife and slashed the rough ropes binding the child's twig-thin wrists and legs. Beneath the bonds, where her skin wasn't bloody, it looked milk white. The sight stirred a sick twist in his gut. What is the world coming to, making war on kids?

"But what in hell is she doing here?" Eric continued. "I thought the Way of Light guerrillas had her."

Lawton shrugged. "Aren't they led by the other Santiago, the one who calls himself Generalissimo? Not that it matters. We've got to take her out with us."

At that instant, she opened chocolate eyes, dull with fever and fear. Shrinking down against the dirt floor, she gave a pathetic little sob. When he lifted her, she whimpered again and struggled feebly. Since she felt little heavier than a toddler in his arms, it cost him no effort to subdue her.

He gentled his touch and spoke in low, soothing tones. "Don't fight me. You're going to be all right." The slight body went limp before he could tell if she'd understood or not.

He'd only held her a moment before he realized she blazed with fever. Poor kid had to be deathly sick. Rage washed over Lawton, erasing all trace of guilt. If Jorge Santiago bore the responsibility for this, the bastard deserved to die.

"Easy, little one. We won't hurt you. We're going to take you home."

Lawton could not explain the protectiveness he felt, but he carried her the whole twelve hours it took to reach their contacts on the coast. Through the long night and the next steamy morning, he talked to her until his voice went hoarse and ragged. Bathing her fiery face and fragile limbs with precious, clean water from his canteen, he prayed they could get her to medical help in time.

After all that, Lawton never actually learned whether or not she survived. Weeks later, he received the letter and check from his commanding officer, who explained it was the reward offered by the girl's father.

Lawton only glanced at the impersonal, typed letter before he tore it to shreds. Then, he signed the check over to the new anti-drug task force without hesitation. He had no time for rich, arrogant men who thought their money could fix everything, whether their names were Santiago or Hartford.

He hadn't brought the child out for a reward, damn it. As if her life could be bought and paid for! He buried the whole incident in the farthest corner of his mind along with too many other bitter memories.

Chapter 1

Graveyard Gulch, Arizona
June 2001

Melissa fidgeted. How could she not when she was so thoroughly uncomfortable? The pale, parched ground burned through her thin-soled sandals. Grains of sand gritted between her toes. The intense June sun beat down on her uncovered head while the dry, hot wind scorched her skin. Even through her sunglasses, the glare hurt her eyes. Her nose twitched at the acrid sting of stable dust.

With each passing moment, she grew more frustrated with Jo's schemes. Jo meant well, bless her heart. She'd been trying so hard to distract Melissa from her grief, but it was simply getting to be too much.

In the two weeks since Melissa arrived in Arizona, Jo had added daily to a list of things they must see and places they must go. Melissa would have preferred more quiet time together. Given the opportunity, perhaps she could have found nerve to bare her soul, revealing the guilty secret that haunted her. Once shared, maybe it wouldn't weigh so heavily on her mind.

Take today. Had Jo not insisted, they could be in Jo's cool apartment in Linda Vista now instead of here in Graveyard Gulch, a partly restored frontier mining camp. Surely they could experience the Old West on television instead of in person. No show performed by amateur volunteers could equal her favorite novels and old movies, anyway.

Moreover, how could she enjoy light entertainment when guilt and grief clouded every moment? She couldn't escape reality. Daddy was dead and she was to blame.

Melissa's painful thoughts held her enthralled until she saw the actors begin to take their places. What a garish bunch! The score of men wore a wild array of brocade vests, frock coats, buckskin, beads, fringe, turquoise, conchos, and cavalry blues representing every conceivable outfit of the Old West.

A half-seen motion drew her gaze into the shadow of the barn's overhanging roof. One man stood there, dressed in unrelieved black. Tall and lean, his severe, dark attire provided a stark relief to the peacock profusion of the others.

Suddenly the whole yard erupted in a noisy and disjointed melee. Gunfire and wild shouts echoed. Then someone yelled in Spanish. "Cuidado, es el policio!"

At the sound, Melissa cringed, instinctively seeking shelter. For an instant, she was somewhere else, awash in fear and pain. She blinked and shook her head in an effort to dismiss the troubling vision. When she finally snapped back to the present, the shrill squeals of horses almost drowned the other strident sounds.

A fistfight broke out. Frock coats and buckskin tangled and twined. Still unaccountably anxious, Melissa made no attempt to follow the action. Instead, her gaze was riveted on the man in black.

He stepped out into the harsh sunlight, the shiny, bronze badge on his vest making one solitary spot of brightness. Walking with a soft-footed grace, he drew his single revolver in one fluid motion. Pausing, he scanned the group with efficient speed, as if sizing up the situation.

"All right, boys. This has gone far enough."

While his gaze again swept the yard, he slid the weapon back into his holster. Still, he kept his hand near it. Though low pitched, his voice carried clearly, even above the cacophony.

For an instant, Melissa's heart leaped into her throat. What could one man do against a whole unruly mob shooting and brawling? One man and one gun? Wouldn't they all turn on him? She shivered as she started to drift back to the shadowy, awful other place.

"Drop your weapons. Now!" The sound of his deep, calm voice drew her back and slammed shut some mental door. Abruptly, she felt as if everything would be all right. She chided herself for being caught up in the fantasy, accepting it as reality for even a second. Of course, they didn't turn on him. It was only a show, for Pete's sake!

With sheepish or sullen expressions, the other men stopped. They lowered their weapons, stilled flying fists, and shifted to face him. Moments after his order, they began to drop their gun belts and lay down their rifles.

It's all play-acting; just make-believe, but something about this one man gave credibility to the whole performance. She found it easy to accept that he, with just the force of his personality, could subdue a brawling bunch of miners, gamblers and cowboys. In contrast to his air of assurance and authority, the others seemed little more than marionettes, woodenly pantomiming their parts.

Only the man in black seemed real. He moved among the rest, lining some up, dismissing others, collecting dropped gun belts and stacking rifles beside the barn. As he approached one man who wore the elaborate charro outfit of a traditional Mexican rancher, he stooped to pick up a pistol. The charro seized the moment. Snatching a wicked-looking knife from his boot, he lunged.

Melissa joined the crowd in a collective gasp. The blade glinted in the sun, transcribing a bright arc toward the black-covered back. At the last possible moment, the man in black twisted deftly aside. He whirled to flip the shorter but heavier man, sending him sprawling. Jolted from the charro's grasp, the knife flew across the corral.

Melissa gasped again. Shock held her immobile as the blade flashed through the air, settling into the dust not two feet from her toes. Catching her trembling lip in her teeth, she dared a downward glance. It had to be only a prop, but still, she shivered.

The charro rolled into a deep puddle made by water dripping from the horse trough and came up spitting mud. The man in black ignored him, crossed the dusty yard in a loose-limbed amble, and knelt to retrieve the knife. As he rose slowly to his feet, he looked straight at Melissa.

She found herself entrapped by the strangest and fiercest eyes she'd ever seen. They were a pale silvery-gray, hard and pure as the desert sun's light. Time stopped as she burned and froze. Her head spun and her knees threatened to buckle, but she could not look away nor escape the impaling intensity of those incredible eyes.

She saw the rest of his face in a blur--sun darkened skin drawn taut over angular bones, nose a strong wedge dividing its planes, lips narrow and finely drawn, and a maze of squint lines feathering away from the outer corners of those compelling eyes. A slightly drooping ash-brown moustache bracketed his mouth.

Finally, he touched the brim of his black hat, gave a slight nod, and turned away. Melissa let her breath out in a rush. It couldn't have been more than seconds, but she felt as if half a day had elapsed. For an instant, a dream-like image danced in the back of her mind, this time more pleasant than fearful, only to fade away before she could grasp it.

The last part of the little drama unfolded at a distance, almost beyond Melissa's perception. All she could see was the one man's face. Though weathered, lived-in and too hard to be considered handsome, she had never seen a face with so much strength of character. His eyes utterly arrested her. Icy in color, they nonetheless burned, branding their way across her body and into her mind. Her skin prickled as if seared by their touch. She suddenly understood how cold could burn.

Only when Jo tugged impatiently at Melissa's arm did she realize the show had ended. Jo pointed out a husky man with a pleasant, youthful face. He wore shirt and trousers of pale gray with a lilac-embroidered vest and a pair of matched ivory-handled revolvers in shiny holsters.

"Come on, Lis. I want to go talk to him."

Melissa followed, still bemused. After she noted the man in black had disappeared, she gave herself a mental shake and tried to tune in on Jo's conversation with the gray-clad actor. That was a mistake. She wanted to cringe at some of her friend's inane questions, but the make-believe gunfighter didn't seem to mind. In fact, he apologized because he had to leave. Before leaving, however, he invited them to the potluck supper at the group's clubhouse that evening.

"Guests are always welcome. We're a friendly bunch, and if you ladies are local, you might even want to join our group. We've got some military members who'll be leaving before long."

Jo quickly agreed, not giving Melissa a moment to argue or demur. Then they left the stable. Her face alight with excitement, Jo danced around Melissa in a giddy circle as they started away.

"Oh, Lis, you've brought me luck! I've been trying to get a chance to talk to that guy since the first time I came up last winter. He works at Fort Cochise too, and I think he's gorgeous! This is so fantastic! Did you see anyone that appealed to you?"

Melissa shook her head, neither willing nor able to admit her fascination with the man in black. Somehow, the type of light-hearted crush in which Jo was indulging seemed totally inappropriate for her own situation, especially when she remembered the hypnotic power of the man's pale eyes.

She couldn't refrain from a shudder. He'd seemed not an actor, but more like a real sheriff controlling an unruly mob. Such power and command couldn't be faked. Yet, for all his apparent menace, she felt no fear.

Although she could not say why, she believed he would never intentionally hurt her. In that moment, as they gazed at each other, she'd almost expected him to reach out and draw her into the protective circle of his arms. Good grief, what is coming over me?

Melissa drifted through the rest of the afternoon in a daze. Unable to pull her thoughts from the man in black and the scorching intensity of his gaze, she listened with only half an ear to Jo's happy chatter about the day's events.

The sun had dropped to rest on the jagged edge of the mountains to the west when Melissa and Jo finally turned down Last Chance Street toward the Gulch Gang's clubhouse. From a block away, they could hear rollicking music and laughter. The delicious aromas of spicy Mexican dishes tantalized them.

A sudden reluctance seized Melissa, slowed her steps. Would the man in black be there? Would he recognize her? In that long look, he seemed to read her entire life history, all her shame, pain, and failures. Did she really want to see him again? Perhaps from a safe distance. But not face to face.

Naturally oblivious to Melissa's distress, Jo hurried along. Melissa envied Jo's simple eagerness to become better acquainted, perhaps form a new friendship. Her own tangled emotions were much too complex for such a straightforward response.

Jo's new hero spotted them as soon as they entered the clubhouse. He hurried over to greet them, looking much more commonplace now, dressed in faded denim. Though his expression reflected honest pleasure upon seeing them, he seemed so--well, so ordinary--nothing at all like the man in black.

Melissa glanced around the room. A mixture of relief and regret filled her when she did not see him. Of course, he'd probably changed clothes also. Maybe now he would seem ordinary too.

Jo's new friend, Charles Brock, insisted they call him Charlie. He led them around the main room, introducing them to other members of the group. They ended up at the buffet table where he made sure they each got a plate full of food and then found seats for them at one of the long trestle tables filling one wing of the L-shaped room.

The friendliness and warmth of the whole group took Melissa by surprise. She listened in amazement to their easy banter, recognized it as teasing meant in fun rather than the brittle repartee of her acquaintances in Philadelphia, each trying to cut down another.

She knew she had led a very sheltered and restricted life. As the motherless only child of a man whose existence centered on adding to his already generous fortune, she'd been under constant control. The sternly omniscient gaze of her paternal grandmother added even more suppression. The ways of ordinary people proved a constant source of wonder. Could she ever hope to be one of them, to fit in and belong? If only...on her own at last, no immediate goal seemed more important.

Melissa relaxed, lulled by the easy camaraderie that lapped around and enfolded her. Suddenly, she felt a prickling between her shoulder blades. It continued until she couldn't stand it another moment. She turned and looked over her shoulder.

Her man in black stood in a corner, leaning against the rough, burnt-adobe wall. Despite his indolent pose, he had the latent energy of a coiled rattlesnake. Although he no longer wore an obvious weapon, Melissa didn't doubt he could handle any threat that might arise. Again a fleeting image, too vague to be a memory, teased her mind, an image she could not hold long enough to analyze.

As she watched, his gaze idly swept the room. He appeared a totally disinterested spectator. Finally, his glance settled briefly on Melissa and he gave a nod of acknowledgment so slight it was barely perceptible. He still did not look ordinary. And he still wore black--western-cut trousers and a pearl-snapped shirt with the sleeves rolled back a couple of turns over corded brown forearms. The fit and simplicity of his clothing displayed every line of his lean masculine body.

Embarrassed when he caught her staring, Melissa quickly turned back to her plate. She waited for a lull in Jo and Charlie's conversation. Then, affecting as much unconcern as she could, she asked, "Who's the man in black, the one who played the sheriff?"

When Charlie met her gaze, his smile seemed a bit knowing. "Oh, that's Lawton Kane. He's got a little ranch out by the Whetstone Hills. Used to be an Army Ranger, Special Forces or something, I hear. He's been a member of the group quite awhile but he doesn't mix much. And he never has anything to do with the group...er...the guests."

Charlie turned to give Jo an exaggerated wink. "Most of us find that the best fringe benefit." Looking back to Melissa, he continued. "I don't know anyone who's got ol' Lawton figured out, but I'd say you'd be wasting your time if you were planning any moves on him. That's one wary, independent guy. A real lone wolf."

"Oh, no," Melissa demurred quickly. "I'm really not interested. Just curious. He's quite striking."

Although Charlie's assessment differed little from her guesses, Melissa felt a vague sense of loss. How could she ever approach a man like that? At least she knew his name now, but admitting to herself that she would like to approach him almost unnerved her. This inexplicable attraction had her thoroughly rattled.

After everyone finished eating, they all pitched in to clear things away, folding most of the tables. Someone brought out a portable stereo and started a tape of lively western music. Soon several couples rose to dance. Melissa found herself sitting alone when Jo and Charlie took to the floor. She saw Jo had become adept at western swing and Charlie made an excellent partner.

Since several other couples displayed equal skill, Melissa watched in fascination. The dancers made the complex steps look so easy. Although she could waltz and foxtrot acceptably, courtesy of Ms. Fenster's dance academy, these western steps were beyond her. Before the tape ended, almost everyone but Melissa had joined the dancers.

As soon as the first tape stopped, someone started another, a mixture of "golden oldies" just made for slow dancing. Melissa hummed along with the familiar tunes, tapping her foot and swaying in her seat.

Suddenly, although sitting on the sidelines was nothing new to her, simply absorbing the friendly atmosphere was not enough. Her youthful shyness had often been mistaken for snobbery and coldness, while years spent around adults rather than other young people further distanced her from her contemporaries. She'd gradually come to accept the sidelines as her natural place, to believe she would never fit in, but the hurt never went away.

She turned and looked up to see Lawton still standing, having merely changed corners of the room. He held his arms folded across his chest in a pose almost defiant. Why was he so aloof, so alone? An inexplicable need stirred within her. She knew how loneliness felt, knew the pain that came of not belonging. Lawton might look as if he didn't mind, but surely he must. Everyone else was dancing. Why not them?

Rebellion boiled through her. She rose from the chair. I'm not going to put up with it! I don't have to any more. Without pausing to think, Melissa picked her way around the room to him. Not until she stopped directly in front of him did he acknowledge her. A part of her drew back then, completely appalled at her uncharacteristically bold action.

This was no dancing class exercise, forcing a sweaty palmed, unwilling boy to be her partner. She clenched her hands to still their tremor, and her throat spasmed on the words, which emerged in a stammering squeak.

"W-w-would you like to dance? I-I'm not terribly good, but just watching isn't much fun, so if you would...?"

He looked down at her quizzically; one sun-faded sandy eyebrow lifting as startled disbelief crossed his face. The ghost of a smile played across his lips, twitching the metal-toned brush of his moustache. From behind the barrier of his folded arms, he silently appraised her. For a long moment, he did not reply.

Melissa caught her breath, awaiting his rejection. She could read little in his face or the eyes gone suddenly opaque beyond a degree of detached amusement, but she felt sure he would refuse.

"Neither am I," Lawton responded finally, "but I guess we can try."

His low voice had a slight burr or rasp, a husky quality that reminded her of the velvety scrape of a cat's tongue on her skin. It made even the most casual words seem intimate, personal. Melissa felt her face heat as she went dizzy with surprise. Shock and delight briefly paralyzed her. He had actually agreed!

With almost military precision, Lawton turned, moving away from the wall to face her. He circled her waist with a lean, hard arm, and swung into the rhythm of the music.

Perhaps, strictly speaking, he wasn't a good dancer. Though supple and light in his movements, he lacked the joy and spontaneity that should be an inherent part of dancing. Subtle, coiled tension radiated from him and his characteristic wariness did not lessen. Melissa sensed him looking past her, over her head, as they danced and she realized he never faced away from the door.

At five-foot-five, Melissa thought herself of average height, but she could not see over Lawton's shoulder. Though lean, he was a big man. He held her firmly but gently, not embarrassingly tight but close enough she could feel the subtle shifting of his body as they moved. He led easily, moving without apparent effort. Although she suspected his heart was not in it, dancing with him still seemed marvelous.

Beneath her hand, his shoulder felt solid, a hint of bone beneath the muscled surface. The hand clasping hers also felt strong and hard, though his grasp was gentle. Although his size and strength made Melissa feel small and fragile, his embrace seemed secure and protective.

But did she want more power, strength, and ruthlessness? Those traits were an unwelcome reminder of her father and the fact she had never measured up to his standards. She'd always dreamed of finding a gentle and sensitive man, one who would not make her feel inadequate.

In contrast, she could easily imagine Lawton as a man with a past full of terrible deeds and grim secrets like the stern lawman he had portrayed so convincingly. He was not the sort of man she should even dream of getting involved with.

Wait! What a sudden and alarming turn of thought. Who said anything about getting involved? We're just dancing, casually dancing. He doesn't even know my name, and I only know his 'cause I asked.

The shock of her wayward notions made her lose the rhythm and she stumbled. Lawton's powerful arm tightened slightly around her waist and he made the next few steps with added emphasis until she picked up the beat again. She didn't dare look up for fear he'd read her jumbled thoughts. Caught in a closeness too charged for small talk, neither of them spoke.

Finally, Melissa forced herself to stop worrying. This moment was too rare to waste. She had never experienced a sensation half as wonderful as floating in the supporting clasp of Lawton's embrace. She relaxed, feeling her body grow limber and supple as she surrendered to the potent magic.

When her head seemed to become too heavy for her neck, she let it droop until her cheek rested against the inky silk of his shirt. She reveled in the contrast of the cool, soft fabric with the hard, hot muscle beneath it. He smelled of cedar and saddle leather, with a hint of smoke and a subtly wild scent she could not name. Her eyes drifted shut. Let this dream last as long as it would.

The end of the music caught Melissa by surprise, bringing an abrupt return to reality. Surely they had only danced a minute or two? She felt suddenly cold and exposed when Lawton released her, though he kept her hand in his as he led her back to her chair.

He made a slight bow when he released her hand. "Thank you, Melissa. Don't know where you got the idea you aren't a good dancer. I found you much more than an adequate partner." His luminous gaze touched her, imparting a depth of emotion absent from his voice and the stiff words.

"Thank you." The silver intensity of his eyes momentarily wiped her mind clear of coherent thought. Suddenly she realized he had called her by name. "Wait, how did you know my name?"

"I listen a lot." He turned away abruptly, cutting off any further conversation.

Melissa sighed as she sank onto her chair. She turned to face Jo and Charlie's blatant amazement. Half the people in the room regarded her with similar expressions, all reflecting unfeigned astonishment.

"How did you manage that?" Charlie blurted.

"I couldn't believe my eyes," Jo echoed. "Everybody says Lawton doesn't ever have anything to do with the grou--I mean the guests, but he danced with you for ten minutes!"

Under this scrutiny, Melissa went sick with embarrassment. "I wanted to dance and there wasn't anyone else, so I asked and he accepted. Is that so amazing?"

She tried without success to screen out the head shaking and murmured exclamations of "If that don't beat all" and "How about that?" Finally, after most of the people went back to dancing, she darted a glance around the room. Was Lawton also being grilled?

This time no black clad figure could be seen. The plastic glass he'd used still sat on the ledge where he had left it, but he was gone. The adrenaline rush faded, allowing tension to slip into weariness. Pain pounded through her head. Jo seemed to be having a great time, but Melissa reluctantly broke in.

"Jo, aren't you about ready to start home?"

Jo looked at Melissa quickly, a slight frown tightening her features. "Gee, it is pretty late, isn't it? We've made quite a day of it." She turned to Charlie. "Do you mind?"

"Not a bit. The party will be breaking up soon, anyway. Most of us have to work tomorrow."

Charlie walked them up the street to the lot where Jo had parked. He held Jo's door as she climbed behind the wheel. "I sure hope you enjoyed this evening as much as I did. I'd really like to see you ladies come back."

"Oh, I loved it! It's been so much fun!" Jo fairly bubbled with her enthusiasm. Listening, Melissa felt a slight stir of envy. It would be so different to throw herself headlong into fun as her friend did. How would it feel?

"Enough to come back?" Charlie sounded a little anxious.

"Oh sure. You bet! The Gulch Gang's great."

"How about you, Melissa?"

"I enjoyed it too. Everyone was so nice. I only came along to humor Jo, but--"

"Next time you can come for yourself, but I hope you bring Jo too." He glanced down to give Jo a special smile and then looked back at Melissa. "And I take that back, about wasting your time on Lawton. You must have found a button the rest of us missed."

After Jo pulled out and headed down the highway toward Linda Vista, she turned to Melissa. "Well, Lis, it wasn't all that bad, was it?"

"No, it really was fun. They all seem like such nice people." Of course nice was not a word she would associate with Lawton Kane, but then she couldn't quite think of him as part of the group, either. The rest of them were nice--funny, warm, ordinary, and nice. Sitting in their midst was a bit like falling into a feather bed--warm, safe, and comfortable.

If Lawton had not been there, that's all it would have been, novel and nice. In the long run, that might be best, certainly less risky, although not very exciting. At that instant, Melissa didn't know whether she wanted merely nice or something so different she had no words for it at all.

* * * *

After he returned Melissa to her seat, Lawton glanced around the room. Seeing the expressions of amazement and disbelief, he knew there'd be gossip and questions. Already he heard the buzz of whispers. "Look at Kane. What's old Killer doing dancing with that girl?"

As quickly as he could, he made his way out of the clubhouse. Why had he done anything so impulsive and foolish? He could have said no. He should have said no. But he couldn't resist the plea in her eyes, dim their hopeful glow.

When he reached for the keys to his truck, the crackle of paper in his pocket reminded him. The note. The damned note. Stuck under the wiper blade this morning when he was in town. He didn't have to take the scrap out and unfold it to picture the message in his mind.

"The lost has been found. There are no hiding places. Where is the bullet that bears your name, Gringo? You will not know until it bites." The crudely printed block letters looked like a child's writing, but no child had penned those words.

Ten years of freedom were over. Maybe that last dance had been an act of defiance, but it was still impulsive and still foolish. But why her and why now?

He asked himself the same question a dozen times before he fell asleep that night and never did come up with a satisfactory answer. He'd seen any number of prettier women, certainly flashier and more worldly ones. She seemed terribly young, yet she had a poise and dignity which didn't match her apparent age. As soon as he saw her, he'd felt a jolt of recognition, as if he knew her. But that had to be impossible. Girls like her didn't move in his circles.

He all but forgot his role in the skit because she became his only reality. That wasn't like him at all. He never played to the audience. So why had he stood and stared like a fool, drowning in two deep brown eyes, eyes holding glints of carnelian and topaz like the fire in an opal? Why had he been paralyzed, frozen there while some strange current arced between them? And he'd smelled roses--the old fashioned spicy-sweet kind of roses.

She'd come with the little redhead who was so taken with Charlie. He'd have to ask Charlie who they were. No, damn it, they were just groupies. He never bothered with groupies. They came and went, common and pesky as ants at a picnic. Why pay any mind to them? They probably wouldn't be back and he'd soon forget all about her.

It hadn't been easy, but after retiring, he'd carved himself a new life here in the San Marcos Valley. When he inherited the ranch from Uncle Jack, everything fell into place. Besides work on the ranch, he had his membership in the Gulch Gang to occupy his time. Since he couldn't quite become a total hermit, at least the Gang's profits all went for good causes, either the restoration or some of the local charities. And he found it amusing at times to play at dangers that had once been much too real, a way to keep old skills honed while he relaxed.

Lately, the fireplace building jobs were picking up too. Funny, he would never have guessed he'd enjoy anything like that, but after helping his friend, Les Perry, a few times, he'd discovered he had a flare for it. He found a peculiar challenge in choosing the right stones, each with its unique color, pattern or shape, and setting them to create a massive and serviceable work of art, a one-of-a-kind structure that reflected the character of the house, the owners, and the area.

No, he'd worked too hard to jeopardize it all now for a piquantly pretty face or a slim, supple young body. Even if she fit into his arms so pleasantly he couldn't help but wonder how it would feel in a more intimate situation. A girl like that, with understated elegance and the unmistakable air of class and privilege, couldn't be anything but trouble. The plump little redhead was more his style, but he wasn't drawn to her at all, wouldn't have been even if she hadn't been hanging around Charlie.

With resolution born of long practice, he turned his thoughts and started a mental list of things-to-do that would keep him far too busy to think about women. He had too much unfinished business from his past, poised to erupt into trouble. This time nobody was going to get hurt because they were too close to him when it happened. He'd kept that promise to himself for a long time, and he wasn't going to break it now.

Melissa. Why did the name have such a lilt to it, flowing like a beloved old tune when it ran through his mind? It fit her somehow, dainty and old-fashioned. Damn it, why hadn't he forgotten her? Already.

 

February 2005 ISBN: 1-59279-340-1 (Electronic) ISBN: 1-59279-801-2 (Print) Amber Quill Press