Tatiana March - The Outlaw And The Runaway

Roy stared. It hadn’t occurred to him that every time he’d seen the girl, she’d presented him with the same side of her face. Now he understood the reason. The other side of her face bore a scar. Not a great blemish by any means, but an unusual one. Two lines of pale, slightly puckered skin that formed a cross, and beneath it an incomplete circle, as if someone had drawn some kind of a symbol on her cheek.

“That’s why they didn’t bid?” Roy frowned at the idea. “But the scar on your face is hardly noticeable. It certainly is not unsightly.”

When the girl showed no reaction, when she merely contemplated him with a pinched, forlorn expression on her pretty features, Roy decided not to press the topic for now. Lowering his attention to the piece of chicken in his hand, he took a bite and spoke around the mouthful.

“This is good, very good.”

After a moment of enjoying the food, he glanced up at the girl. Appearing more in control of herself now, she was studying him—his eye patch, to be more accurate. So that was it. That’s why she had stared at him with such intensity—in him she had identified a fellow sufferer of some physical deformity.

“How did you get the scar?” Roy asked gently.

“I fell against a stove when I was small. The hatch had a decorative pattern. A cross, like a plus sign, and a circle at the end of each spoke. Part of the pattern burned to my skin.”

“It’s very faint. Hardly worth worrying about.”

“I know.” Her voice was low. “When I grew up, the scar faded. The skin is a bit puckered, but the blemish isn’t terribly obvious. Not enough to ruin my appearance. But out here in the West the sun is stronger. The scar doesn’t tan, and I like taking walks in the desert. As my face got browner and browner from the sun, the scar stood out more and more...and then the bishop came...”

The girl fell silent and darted a glance toward the crowd, where a teenage boy was playing “Oh! Susanna” on a violin and the others were singing along.

“The bishop?” Roy prompted. “Is he the tall man dressed in black?”

“That’s the preacher, Reverend Fergus. The bishop is his superior.” Abandoning any pretense of eating, the girl folded her legs to her chest again and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Have you ever heard of a satanic cross?”

Roy met her gaze, unease stirring within him. “Can’t say that I have.”

“It’s a cross with an upside-down question mark at the base.” The girl touched her fingertips to her cheek. “Like the open circle at the end of my scar. The bishop came out to bless the new church a few months ago. He is a fanatic, and he told people that I bear the mark of the Devil on my face.”

Startled, Roy lifted his brows. “And they believe him?”

The girl’s lips twisted into a disparaging smirk. “I don’t think they really do. I think they want the reverend to tell them it is all complete nonsense, but he is a weak, spineless man, and he doesn’t have the courage to contradict his bishop.”

Roy swallowed. The chicken had lost its flavor. Now he could understand those questioning glances the townsfolk had been sending to the preacher while Celia stood holding up her lunch basket, and why the reverend had been pretending not to notice them.

“I wish I could help you,” he told her quietly. “But I can’t.”

“I know. I am grateful for this.” The girl released one arm from around her knees to gesture to the lunch basket. “I’m supposed to collect your five dollars and hand it in, but I won’t do it. I’ll tell them I forgot. I know it’s petty, but it will make me feel better.”

“If you like, you can tell them I refused to pay.”

She let out a bleak gust of laughter. “If I do that, they’ll say it’s because I served you a lousy meal, so it will end up being my fault anyway.”

“Don’t...” Roy shook his head. Don’t beat yourself up so.

“It’s the same everywhere,” the girl went on bitterly, the words flooding out on a wave of anguish. It seemed to Roy that the hurt had festered, and now it was gushing forth like a boil that needed lancing. “Back in Baltimore, no man would marry me, because my mother was sickly. They feared I’d be the same, and they’d be lumbered with a useless wife and a stack of doctor’s bills. Then my mother died...”

Pausing to draw a breath, the girl dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. “My father has a growth in his stomach, a cancer, and he worries about me being left on my own, so he brought me out here, where women are scarce. To start with, everything went well. I had two suitors, Stuart Clifton from one of the ranches, and Horton Tanner, who works for the stage line and comes by twice a week. No knights on a white stallion but good, decent men...and then that blasted bishop comes along and ruins it all...”

Memories of being shunned flooded over Roy, bringing with them a wave of pain, even now, after half a lifetime. He swept a glance around the picnic meadow to make sure no one was observing them and turned back to the girl. After tugging the brim of his hat lower for added protection, he reached for the patch that covered his brown eye and said, “You’re not the only one who has suffered because some folks claim you bear the mark of the Devil.”

Chapter Two

Celia wished she could stop babbling about her misfortunes but her tongue refused to be reined in. When she paused to fight the urge to weep, the stranger swept a careful look around them and tugged at the rawhide cord securing the patch over his left eye. She’d been wondering what damage he was hiding beneath, and now she felt ashamed for her curiosity. It was no business of hers. She steeled herself against the sight of his injury, and then gasped as she met the blinking gaze of a perfectly healthy brown eye.

“Your eyes,” she breathed. “They’re of different color.”

“One pale blue, one dark brown.” The man restored the patch over his brown eye. “It’s supposed to be the sign of a witch. Or, the way a girl put it once, God and the Devil are fighting over me, with one half each. A fallen angel, she called me.”

Fascinated, Celia studied his face. Fallen angel . The description fitted. The stranger had elegant, finely crafted features, with a straight nose and high cheekbones, and wide, well-defined lips. The tall, rangy body and the breadth of his shoulders added a stamp of rugged masculinity to looks that otherwise might have appeared too beautiful for a man.

Shamelessly, Celia let her gaze linger on the man’s countenance, wishing he hadn’t slipped the black cotton patch back in place. “Is that why you cover up your brown eye?” she asked. “As a protection from prejudice?”

“No.” The stranger seemed to hesitate. “Having different-colored eyes is a distinctive mark. When a man rides the owl hoot trail—”

“What’s that?” Celia broke in.

“Owl hoot trail. It means the outlaw trail.”

“You’re an outlaw?” She felt compelled to ask the question, even though she’d already guessed the answer. Even now, she could see the shape of the twin holsters beneath his long duster, knew he was wearing a double rig of pistols, and despite his handsome features there could be no mistaking the air of lawlessness about him.

It occurred to Celia he might know her father was the teller at the bank. Behind his kindness might lurk a plan to extract information out of her. However, so far the stranger hadn’t mentioned the bank. Perhaps, after all, he had merely bid for her picnic basket as a caper, an amusing way to spend an hour while his partner was occupied with some errand.

Despite his criminal associations, Celia couldn’t help but be drawn to the fair-haired outlaw. His kindness appeared genuine, not calculated. Moreover, there seemed to be an air of decency about him, a sense of honor. With a sudden lurch of her heart, Celia accepted that the outlaw had made himself vulnerable by confiding in her. By revealing his secret, he had offered her a weapon she could use against him.