Caine's Reckoning

He didn’t like the resigned tone of her voice any more than he liked that disturbing obedience. Desi was a woman of fire, not calm. “It matters to me.”

He dropped the reins and put his hands on her waist. His thumb and fingers met above her hips. The edges of her ribs cut into the sides of his palms as he lifted her onto the horse. Whoever had care of her wasn’t doing their job. She was too thin.

As soon as her cute butt hit the saddle, she was kicking away at the horse’s sides, trying to set the pony into a run. The paint snorted and tossed his head but didn’t bolt. Caine picked his reins off the ground, patting the horse’s neck as he danced under the conflicting messages.

“He’s trained to stay put when the reins hit the dirt.”

That just might have been a curse Desi uttered under her breath. It annoyed him that she just didn’t let go with that temper. A woman like her shouldn’t be hiding her light or trying to be less than she was. She should be shining brightly, letting that fire lead the way, burning any man lucky enough to be in her path with all that tempting passion.

He clucked his tongue, leading the pony to where they’d dropped the coat. Desi hunched in the saddle, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression sullen. The wind bit into his skin but not as much as the nagging suspicion tore at his peace that he was missing something important. He grabbed up the heavy coat and held it up to Desi.

“I’ll trade you the coat for my shirt.”

“You’re getting the worse of the deal.”

“Maybe, but it’s the one I’m proposing.”

She took the coat and held it against her chest, glaring at him as if he hadn’t already seen all there was to be seen. “Turn around.”

Caine sighed and gave her his back. First cloth rustled and then leather rasped against the saddle as she donned the coat.

The wind blew across the grass in a play of light, as he ran the facts as he knew them through his mind. She was a young woman without family. Attractive, headstrong and a touch wild. The other women hated her, claiming she wasn’t fit company. There was only one thing that got good women’s tails in a twist like that. The saddle creaked. The pony snorted and then, silence. He turned. Desi was bundled to her neck in the coat, which looked like it could about wrap around her twice. His shirt lay across the saddle. He grabbed it and shrugged it on. As he buttoned the front he said, “The women back there don’t like you much.”

Her gaze focused on a point past his shoulder. “No.”

“You give them cause?”

“No.”

“Are you the whore they say you are?”

The coat rustled as she jerked and cut him a glare. “I just attempted to…pleasure you with my mouth in a field. What do you think?”

“I think you’re not the first woman left with only her body to barter. This country’s hard on women.”

“Not all women.”

“No, but it chews up and spits out those without a man.”

Her jaw muscles flexed. Her mouth worked. He patted her thigh. “Something you don’t have to worry about anymore.”

He stepped to the side, facing the paint. “Scoot up.”

“What?”

He moved her hands to the pommel on either side of the horn. “Lever yourself up there.”

Eyeing him with a clear suspicion that said he was up to no good, she supported her weight on her arms. In a smooth swing he was behind her, taking advantage of the distraction of the horse’s dance to hook his arm around her waist, lifting her up as he swung into the saddle before settling her down onto his lap. She grabbed his hand as he gathered the reins, her short nails pressing against his skin as if she couldn’t decide whether to claw or cling. Caine kneed the paint into motion, taking the decision off her hands.

A trot was never the most comfortable of gaits and the hardest for an inexperienced rider to adjust to. After about the third bone-jarring clop, Desi was bouncing like a sack of grain. He tucked her back against his chest. “Relax into me.”

The glance she shot him over her shoulder clearly showed she wondered what good that would do, but she did, and followed the coaxing of his hand to curve her spine into his chest. He nudged the paint into a canter. He didn’t think she breathed the whole way across the meadow. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he murmured in her ear, “I don’t bite.”

Desi jumped as if he just had. Then her spine pulled taut and that chin tilted up. “Would it make a difference if you did?”

The full-out attack knocked a smile loose. He did like a woman who didn’t duck, hide or play shy. “I’m willing to try it if you are.”

“Why?”

He took a deep breath. She smelled of sweat, fear and that tantalizing touch of lavender. “Because you’ve got grit and fire and are about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You don’t know me.”

“And you don’t know me, but I promise you, I’ll keep you safe, and you don’t have to bargain with anything to make it happen.”

“You promised me out of Los Santos.”

“Don’t worry, I keep my promises.”

Her grunt let him know how little stock she put in that.

The pony stumbled. She lurched to the side and he yanked her back. The coat splayed open, giving him a clear view down between the plump inner curves of her breasts to the small indentation of her navel and the temptation below. He brought his hand up. She stiffened and grabbed his wrist. He let her cling while he closed the gap. They came into sight of the others while he was tucking in the lapels.

The dramatic gasps of the women drew a disgusted glance from Tracker who was repacking the saddlebags. Clearly, the three thought he’d been in the bushes making time with Desi rather than chasing her over every bump in the ground. The fact that they wouldn’t be far wrong stung his pride. Sam looked up from where he was covering the bodies with blankets and debris. The makeshift covering would hide them long enough for them to get clear of the area. More than that they didn’t need. Everyone knew where Hell’s Eight land began and ended. And if they didn’t, he and the men wouldn’t waste time making the knowledge public.

A mutter of whore drifted in on the breeze. Said in a feminine voice and laced with disgust, it hit Desi with the force of a blow. If Caine hadn’t been holding her, she would have doubled over. Hot color rose to flood her neck and cheeks until it finally engulfed her entire face.

If they were in a bedroom and she was dropping her clothing piece by piece, he’d probably find that blush damn charming, but here in the open, with the inspiration being the censure of three women he didn’t give two shits about, well, it didn’t sit well. “Sam, you got any of that salve left?”

“In the saddlebag.”

He slid off the horse, keeping his hand on Desi’s thigh. Even through the coat the firm curve tempted him to slide his hand down the six inches necessary to touch bare skin. She had very soft skin. “Bring it over along with some water, would you?”

“Coming right up.”

Murmurs from the women sidled across the distance. “Disgusting.” Followed by, “Even in front of decent women, he can’t keep his hands off her.” With every word, the muscles beneath Caine’s hand tightened. The paint grunted a protest as Desi squeezed those thighs in reaction to the insults. He looked up, expecting to find that chin set proudly. Instead, it was lodged somewhere down between her collarbone.

Shit. “Want me to cut their tongues out and leave ’em as buzzard bait along with the rest of the refuse?”

He had to wait a second but then her eyes met his. They were packed with a whole lot of anger and maybe just a touch of humor.

“I think that would just make the buzzards sick.”

Yup. Definitely a sense of humor. Fire, grit and humor, all wrapped up in a pretty-as-a-picture package. And he’d woken up this morning thinking it was a day like any other. Just goes to show how far off a man could be in his estimations.

“Now, I definitely think you have the right of that, ma’am.” Sam strolled up with that easy way he had, that smile that women fawned over on his too-handsome face and real warmth in his normally cold eyes. In his hands he had a poncho and the salve. Desi’s response was a minimal twitch of her lips, but that she responded at all nicked Caine on his tender side.

Caine angled in, cutting off Sam’s approach. Unlike Tracker, who’d accepted his claim with little more than a flick of an eyebrow, Sam stiffened. That was the thing about Sam and what had earned him the nickname “Wild Card.” There was no telling which way the man would jump, just a damn certainty that when the bullets cleared, he’d be standing on whatever side he’d decided was right. Sam tossed him a poncho.