Angel

Chapter 6

He’d be there to protect her. It sounded nice, it sounded safe — if it were anyone but the Angel of Death who’d said it. The trouble was, Cassie didn’t trust him just to protect her. He would want to finish his favor for Mr. Pickens as soon as possible. He wouldn’t want to merely sit around and let things take their natural course. But she didn’t even want to think about what he might do if he got it into his head that he could do something to hurry things along.

On the way back to the ranch she’d stressed again that there was to be no killing. She wasn’t sure he’d been listening. And even if he had been, she doubted he’d pay her much mind. She hadn’t hired him, after all, so he wouldn’t feel obliged to obey her orders.

It was a nerve-racking ride. Cassie had hoped Angel would leave the carriage and ride his horse back to the ranch, but he’d made no move to do that when they’d finished their talk. And he was certainly no conversationalist. If she didn’t speak first, he said nothing at all, and sometimes even if she did say something, he made no reply.

And his proximity had her fidgeting and paying little attention to the road. His black-clad legs were stretched out next to her and kept drawing her eye. His boots were well made and clearly well cared for, the spurs shining as if they never touched dirt. The boots and his bandana were black like the rest of his attire; everything was black except for his gun, his spurs, and that yellow slicker that let you see him coming from a long way off.

There was nothing normal about his attire. He dressed to draw attention to himself. She wondered why, but she wasn’t up to asking him any personal questions. Unfortunately, she’d have ample time to do so later if she got up the nerve, since he was staying — right on her boot heels. God, she hoped he hadn’t meant that literally.

Angel found himself glancing at Cassandra Stuart more than once during that ride. His eyes kept coming back to her face, and a profile that was prettier than he’d first thought her to be. It showed off a pert little nose, the soft angle of her cheekbones, a chin that was sweetly rounded, and the fullness of those lush lips. Those lips were downright beautiful, and infinitely kissable. He’d caught himself staring at them when she’d turned to him earlier, and wondering what they’d taste like — which was a thought that confounded him because he wasn’t the least bit attracted to the irritating woman.

It wasn’t hard to tell that he made her nervous, but that was nothing unusual. Angel made most women nervous, ladies in particular. Her stiff little back, the tenseness in her neck and shoulders, the whites of her knuckles when she gripped the reins too tight, all spoke quite eloquently. She’d even picked up her rifle from the floor and set it between them on the seat. That had so amused him he’d almost laughed outright. He hadn’t, though, and he’d had no intention of putting her at ease. It usually was a waste of time to try, but in her case, he simply hadn’t felt like it.

Now that he knew who she was, he looked at her differently, though not in any better light after adding lying to him to his list of what he disliked about her. But she was from Cheyenne, and that made a difference, made him see her in a more personal way, though he wished it didn’t.

But then, Cheyenne was the closest he came to calling a place home, because he’d spent the most time there since leaving the mountains when he was fifteen — or thereabouts. He wasn’t sure how old he was now, somewhere around twenty-six. Didn’t know when he was born, or where. Didn’t know who his folks were, or how to find them if they were still alive. Old Bear had stolen him out of St. Louis, but he remembered riding a train to get there, so St. Louis wasn’t his real home. He’d gone back there once, but no one remembered a little boy disappearing from their town all those years ago. And searching for his past hadn’t held much interest for a boy who had spent his childhood the virtual prisoner of a crazy old mountain man. He’d been too busy learning all the things denied him for nine years — and adjusting to living among people again.

He didn’t like feeling as if he knew Cassandra Stuart, but the fact remained that she was one of those crazy Stuarts — one of those rich, crazy Stuarts — and he’d even met her mother. He’d gone to her ranch once with Jessie Summers when he’d worked for the Rocky Valley spread, during which short time he’d tried ranching— and decided he wasn’t cut out for it. But he remembered that day with crystal clarity for a number of reasons.

It was the first and only time he’d met Catherine Stuart, and from what he’d heard about her, she wasn’t what he’d expected. She was a handsome woman, a woman of strong character and forthright manner, who looked you right in the eye to take your measure just like a man would. There was nothing soft or shy about her, nothing ladylike, either, at least not that day, since they’d caught her coming in off the range wearing pants and chaps as well as a gun — he could see now where Miss Stuart got the nerve to wear one. Must run in the family.

He’d never met the husband, Charles Stuart. He’d left Wyoming before Angel had ever heard of the crazy Stuarts. But there wasn’t a soul who knew the story of their family feud, or thought they did, who blamed him for leaving his wife and daughter.

Some said Catherine had caught him in bed with another woman, but ten years was too long to make a man suffer for one indiscretion. Others said he’d beaten her once and she’d never forgiven him for it. And there was one other version, that she’d had such a hard time giving birth to their only child that she’d never let him back into her bed.

Whatever the reason for ten years of silence, she’d taken over the running of the Lazy S after her husband left, and she ran the large ranch with an iron hand. Men who worked for her jumped when she said jump. Angel could see why after meeting her. There was definitely something intimidating about that woman.

But what made that morning so memorable for Angel were the two flame-red parrots that perched on the railing of the front porch — of a house identical to the one he’d seen this morning, now that he thought of it. The parrots were the most unusual, comical things he’d ever seen. They moved back and forth along the railing in such symmetry, it was like there was only one bird with a mirror following along behind it. And the foul language that they spewed — Jessie had laughed uproariously. Catherine Stuart hadn’t batted an eye. Angel had blushed three kinds of red before the two women, mostly at being so surprised, since he hadn’t known such birds existed, much less that they could talk.

But that was just the first reason that day was still so clear in his mind. The other was he’d nearly died that afternoon when he’d come across the rustlers who’d been whittling away at the Rocky Valley’s herd for several weeks. He’d taken a bullet in his side and been about to get another at point-blank range right between the eyes when Jessie’s half brother, Colt, had shown up. It had been damn close, mere seconds to his last breath. He’d even seen the trigger starting to move.

That had been his second debt, owed to Colt Thunder, the one he’d paid back recently that had delayed him getting to Texas. Colt was also about the only man Angel could call a true friend. There were men who called him friend, men who wanted to share in the glory of his reputation. Angel only tolerated them to a point. With Colt it was different. They were both loners, both fast guns, both faced with the strangeness of how folks saw them, though for different reasons. Colt had called them kindred spirits. Angel didn’t disagree.

And Cassandra Stuart and her mother were Colt’s neighbors. Colt probably even knew them both real well. It was another reason why he was forced to look at the woman differently, now that he knew. She was a friend of a friend. Damn, he would have preferred not knowing.