Victoria Bylin - Of Men And Angels

“I suppose you should say a few words,” she said.

His mouth twisted into a sneer, and he stared at her until she understood he had nothing to say. Bowing her head, she uttered a prayer that told him Charlotte was a stranger to her, this child an orphan, and the angel herself a woman who had more faith than common sense.

A determined amen came from her lips. The baby squirmed and, cocking her head as if the world had tilted on its axis, she looked at his face.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

He shrugged. Bruises were common in his life, like hangnails and stubbed toes. Bending down on one knee, he straightened a rock on the grave. “She had a bad time.”

The angel’s skirt swished near his face. He stood up and she sighed. “I’ve never seen someone die before.”

“I have.”

She gaped at him, and he felt like Clay Allison and Jesse James rolled into one. The corners of his mouth curled upward. He wasn’t in the same class as the James Brothers, but with his black duster, two black eyes and a three-day beard, any sensible woman would have crossed the street at the sight of him. He could have scared her even more with the truth. He’d shot a man, and depending on Henry Abbott’s stubbornness, Jake was either a free man or wanted for murder.

“Death isn’t a pretty sight,” he finally said.

She went pale. “My father is ill. I have to get to Grand Junction. Could you take us there?”

If he didn’t take her, the baby would die. Was there even a choice here?

There’s always a choice, Jake, and you’re making the wrong one. Lettie Abbott’s angry face rose up from the hot earth, shimmering with accusations, and he didn’t answer.

The angel was close to begging. “I have to get home as soon as I can. I know it’s out of your way, but I could pay you.”

He considered taking her up on the offer, but the stash in his saddlebags gave him a rare opportunity to be charitable.

“There’s no need,” he replied. “Can you ride?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t sat on a horse in ten years, Mr….?”

“Call me Jake.”

“I don’t know you well enough to use your given name.”

“You will soon enough.” With four dead mules and one horse, they’d be sharing a saddle and he’d be pressed up against her shapely backside for hours. With a lazy grin, he added, “Lady, you and I are going to be intimately acquainted before nightfall.”

Her eyes went wide, and beneath her thick lashes he saw dark circles of exhaustion, sheer terror and rage. Her loose hair caught the sun, and her eyes hardened into agate. “I doubt very seriously that’s going to happen.”

“Are you afraid of horses?”

She answered him with a glare and Jake eyed the bay, wondering how the animal would feel about the extra weight. From the corner of his eye, he saw her shift the baby and reach into her pocket, probably for a handkerchief to wipe away the day’s sweat. He pushed back his hat and blew out a hot breath as he turned to look at the angel.

“Do you think you can—”

A muddy Colt Peacemaker was aimed at his chest. Hell, she had hidden it in her pocket and he hadn’t noticed.

“Get out of here, or I swear I’ll shoot,” she said.

“Go right ahead. It’ll be a short trip to hell at this range.”

Her eyes flickered, and he knew she couldn’t possibly send a man to his death, let alone eternal damnation.

“Leave! Now!”

“I don’t want to.” The angel’s challenge pulled him in like a moth to a flame. “Lady, it’s just plain stupid to stay here. You might make it for a week or two, but Charlie there won’t.”

The baby was pressed to her breast, his head nestled at her throat. She looked up at Jake with frightened brown eyes and his common sense kicked in.

Lady, you and I are going to be intimately acquainted before nightfall.

His eyes settled on the angel’s face, and he wondered why on earth he had said something so stupid to a woman stranded in the desert.

The baby’s lips went crazy against her neck, and he knew why. The angel was beautiful. She radiated goodness, a kind of light that made his heart ache. He adjusted his hat so that she could see his face.

“I won’t hurt you, miss. You can call me Jake, or Jacob, or Jackson or even Mr. Malone if it makes you feel better.”

“Jacob…” Her voice went to a whisper, and she lowered the gun. “I’ve always hated that name.”

He felt insulted, but if the truth be told, he hated his name, too. Jake the rake, Jake the snake, Jake the fake. She seemed to like formalities, so he tipped his hat. “Jake Malone at your service. And you are?”

“Alexandra Merritt. Alex for short.”

A man’s name. It didn’t fit the dark-haired angel staring at him with those sweet brown eyes.

“Well, Miss Merritt, I don’t like your name, either.”

“How long have you been out here?” the stranger asked.

“Almost two days. A storm washed out the road. I don’t know what happened to the drivers.”

“They’re dead.”

Coming from the man Alex had taken for the Angel of Death, it was a statement of fact. When she looked up from between Charlotte’s legs, she had seen a black ghost sent to take a life, a messenger from the darkness that came with the raging waters that had sent Charlotte into labor.

On the first day, the pains had lasted from dusk to dawn, but then they’d stopped as suddenly as they had started, except for a mushy ache that made Charlotte moan in a fitful sleep. Last night, the baby changed his mind again and decided to come into world. Charlotte woke up screaming, clutching her belly and begging God for mercy.

Alex had stayed calm until she’d seen this man silhouetted against the sky, a crow in black, with wings that billowed as he climbed off the bay and walked in her direction. Only when she saw his face, with two black eyes and a purple lump on his jaw, had she realized he was a man and not a hallucination brought on by heat and fatigue.

Even now he didn’t seem quite real, but she could see he was tall and lanky, loose jointed in a way that suggested he was quick on his feet, perhaps because he had to be. She was tall herself, and her eyes just reached his shoulder. His nose was straight in spite of the puffiness across his cheeks. His lips had a masculine thinness, and black stubble covered his jaw. Wisps of soft dark hair grazed his frayed collar. He needed a haircut, badly.

He was staring back at her. “Have you eaten anything?”

Alex shook her head. “Our food baskets got soaked in the flood. We lost everything except a few apples.”

“Then you need to eat.” The outlaw strode to his horse and came back with jerky and a canteen. “Take this,” he said, opening the jug and handing it to her.

She reached for it with one hand, but the weight was too much and he didn’t let go as she guided it to her lips. The brackish water trickled down her throat like melted snow. She tilted her head and guzzled.

“Don’t overdo it. You’ll get sick.” His eyebrows knotted as he closed the canteen and handed her a strip of jerky.

“Chew it slow. It’ll do you more good.”

The dried meat tasted wonderful, rich and brown like her mother’s gravy. She sighed with pleasure.

Satisfied that she wasn’t going to faint, the man looked from her face to the top of the baby’s head. It was still caked with blood and birth fluids, and a gamy smell rose from his skin.

“Is he okay?” he asked.

“I think so. He’s pink and angry. That’s a good sign.”

The outlaw handed her the canteen. “You need more water.”

The jug was lighter now, but she had short fingers and she couldn’t hold it steady with just one hand.