The Angel and the Outlaw. Kathryn Albright

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СКАЧАТЬ threw down his gun and hurried to Linnea. Blood trickled across her forehead. She was so still, so pale. Crouching, he gathered her in his arms, unable to breathe, afraid she was hurt or—worse—dead.

      Her large gray eyes fluttered open. “I’m all right.”

      His heart pounded in his chest.

      She raised her hand to his cheek, the worry in her eyes for him now. “Matthew, I’m all right.”

      He let out a long, shuddering breath. “I thought…”

      “Yes. I know.”

      He hugged her to him, burying his face in her neck until his heartbeat slowed to normal. He couldn’t bear to lose her.

      After a moment she struggled up on her elbows. “Is he dead?”

      Matthew followed her gaze. He walked over to the still form. Not breathing. He rolled Newcomb over to his back and felt for a pulse at his throat.

      Nothing.

      “What happens now?” Linnea asked, her voice shaking. “Should we contact the authorities?”

      Chapter One

      Southern California, 1873

      Stuart Taylor crouched on a flat boulder and pulled his trap up from the harbor floor. A small brown lobster slid to the corner of the crate. He grabbed it, turning it over to make sure of its size, and then tossed it back into the water. “Come back when you’ve grown,” he murmured. Then, placing new bait in the trap, he stood and swung the trap out as far as possible, releasing the hemp rope at the last second. The crate splashed into the brine and sank quickly beyond sight.

      He looked for his other lobster trap, but it was gone—rope and all. Someone was still stealing from him. He’d warned off two boys a few days ago with a bullet into their boat. Their sudden departure had convinced him they wouldn’t try again. Maybe he’d been wrong.

      Great. Guess he and Hannah would be eating beans tonight. Not the best way to celebrate a birthday. He grabbed the bucket at his feet and made his way up the narrow dirt path.

      Hannah stood at the stone doorstep, anxiety filling her heart-shaped face until she caught sight of him. She wore her one good dress, the dark-chocolate-brown one he’d laid out last night. A white pinafore covered it, wrinkled in one spot now where her hands had twisted and worried the fabric. Uncanny how that trait of her mother’s manifested itself in Hannah, though she’d only been three when Linnea died.

      “Did you eat?”

      She nodded, and with the bob of her head, he spied her tangled mass of blond hair. “Forgot something, birthday girl,” he said gruffly, turning her toward the kitchen. “You can’t go into town looking like something washed in by the waves.”

      She crossed her arms over her chest and stood stiffly while he brushed her hair then tied it in a ponytail with an old blue ribbon. The face that stared back at him grew more like her mother’s every day. The dove-gray eyes shone with anticipation for the promised trip. She was lonely here. So lonely the thought of a trip into town had her flushed with excitement and up before dawn. He felt it, too—the isolation, the quiet. But it was safe.

      He followed Hannah outside and boosted her onto his horse, Blanco. She fidgeted, patting the dusty animal on its withers. He grabbed the lead rope. “See that you don’t wiggle right off your perch.”

      They took the trail that led from the tip of the windy peninsula, four hundred feet above sea level, to the small town on the water’s edge. He didn’t get into town much, only when supplies ran low, but today was August 10, Hannah’s birthday, and he wanted to make it special for her.

      He drew closer to La Playa and his anxiety increased in measure. Surely the risk of discovery had diminished now. It had been more than three years since the accident. Hannah didn’t even look the same. She had stretched up into a thin wisp of a girl who seldom stood still. Her naturally pale skin had taken on a golden glow over the long summer days.

      He rubbed his smooth chin, remembering the dark beard and mustache that once covered his face. He didn’t look the same either. Still, doubts niggled at his mind. Dorian wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t a quitter. San Francisco might be five hundred miles away but sooner or later Dorian would find him—and if Dorian found him, so would the law. Perhaps he should think about moving on.

      Halfway to town, the trail sloped steeply through a brush-studded canyon. Two small lizards scurried from under the horse’s shadow and dashed into the nearby chaparral as he led Blanco around one last sandstone curve. The harbor opened up before them, deep blue and sparkling in the sunlight. Barely visible through the scruffy bushes to the south lay the whaling port. He raised his face to the wind and sniffed. “Smell that, Hannah? Just salt and sage. No whale butchered today.”

      Turning toward La Playa, he led Blanco past a steamer moored at the new wharf before heading up San Antonio Street and past the Mexican Government Custom House. A few odd-shaped buildings, some built of wood and some of adobe, hugged each side of the square like ticks on the ears of a short-haired dog.

      Stuart stopped at the community well and filled his canteens, all the while taking in the surrounding sounds the way a deaf man would who for one day is able to hear. Loud clanging rang out from the livery’s half-opened doorway as the blacksmith forged a new tool or horseshoe. A thin, aproned woman swept the front boardwalk of the town’s only mercantile.

      Hannah tugged on his shirt.

      “All right, all right. I’m going.”

      Looping the two canteens over the saddle horn, he walked back to Morley’s Mercantile. Two young women stood at the opened doorway of the store, giggling and whispering behind gloved hands. He glanced up while tying the reins on the hitching rail. Both attractive, especially the blonde. He turned back to help Hannah.

      “There on his forehead. Do you see it?”

      He slowed in the act of setting Hannah on the ground. So he was to supply their gossip for today. He clenched his hands. He’d hate to disappoint them. Straightening, he leveled his gaze at the two.

      The blonde quieted. She must be the banker’s wife—or daughter. Her dress was quality through and through, right down to her matching green parasol. He hadn’t seen anything so fancy since he’d left San Francisco. Her eyes judged him coolly before she whirled about with a toss of her head and entered the store.

      Anger surged through him. Already he could feel people staring at him through the streaked windowpanes. He couldn’t care less that they talked about him. But Hannah—Hannah, he worried about. She might not talk anymore, but she could hear just fine. He’d rather take her anywhere than into the store right now.

      But it was her birthday. And he’d promised this trip for weeks.

      He grasped her hand and helped her jump onto the boardwalk before stepping up himself.

      The other woman, the one who’d gotten an earful, remained standing in the doorway, curiosity etched in her strong face. He wouldn’t call her pretty—yet the sum of her features pulled together in a pleasant way. She wore a plain yellow dress, simple and sturdy, and a straw hat that covered thick auburn hair.

      He СКАЧАТЬ