Darn it. She had to stop thinking of that man. He wasn’t for her. She couldn’t even manage syllables when he was around. Wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve, she took a deep breath and released it slowly, feeling the oppressive heat settle around her as she did. Even parking the wagon in the shade of the big oak and opening the windows was not much help against the brutal Texas humidity. For sure, she wouldn’t last long in the closed wagon. She needed to focus or she was going to complete the most ladylike faint of her life before she found out if she’d truly underexposed those last photos as much as she feared. It’d taken so long for the group to get in position and maintain it, the clouds had moved in. She’d tried to compensate, but there was more art than science in this endeavor. Pictures came out best in bright light.
Putting Luke and his disconcerting smile out of her head, she let herself fall into that calm, competent place that surrounded her whenever she worked on her photography. Worry could wait a few minutes to torment her. Right now she had a picture to develop.
It wasn’t the all-absorbing consolation it usually was.
Darn it again.
* * *
LUKE SIGHED WHEN Josie didn’t come back out of the wagon, accepting the show was over for the day, but his interest lingered on past his acceptance. His curiosity was, as always, piqued by the contrast between the exotic depth of the woman’s photographs and her downplayed appearance. And it had to be deliberate because any man who gave her a second glance couldn’t miss the red hints in her hair or the porcelain clarity of her skin that made a body wonder if that same white smoothness extended beneath her clothes. Oh yes, there was something about Josie Kinder, something more than her self-effacing ways, her sexy, plumply curved body and her utter lack of awareness of her own appeal, that called to him. She might by all accountings look like a shy wren to be pitied, but he didn’t want to pity her. He wanted to ravage her. And he’d be damned if he had a clue as to why.
“She’s really not your usual type,” Ace said from beside him, following his gaze as he took a sip from his whiskey.
Damn. Was he being that obvious? “I wasn’t aware I had one.”
“Oh, you have one.” The whiskey in his glass caught the sun as he motioned toward the wagon. “But it doesn’t lean toward shy innocents.”
That shy innocent was watching him. Luke could feel it. “I’m leaving in a few days.”
Ace nodded. “I figured. You’ve been restless since Hester announced her wedding.”
And his tone again implied that Hester’s choice was the reason. And it was, but not in the way Ace thought.
Luke shrugged and took a sip from his near-empty glass. The liquor slid down his throat in a smooth burn. Not like the days when rot-gut was the best they could buy. “Hell’s Eight can’t trust Tia’s safety to just anyone.”
Ace cut him a glance. “I wouldn’t exactly call Zach Lopez ‘just anyone.’”
The Montoya foreman was rattlesnake mean, coyote clever and generally a force to be reckoned with. “True, but I’m riding along.”
Ace wasn’t soothed. The man had always had a problem leaving things to others. “I don’t like the thought of Tia out there at all. Especially after what happened to Pet...”
Petunia’s kidnapping had been a near miss. Fortunately they’d gotten to her in time. “Nothing happened that couldn’t be fixed.”
Luke had to believe that, considering he’d been the one to put Petunia on that stage and straight into the arms of a Comanche raiding party. But it wasn’t something he could just up and ask Ace.
“I’d feel better if Tia would wait until fall, when preparing for winter will keep the Comanche busy elsewhere,” Ace muttered.
So would Luke, but as Sam’s wife, Bella was Hell’s Eight. Full of fire, courage and an unlimited amount of sass, she fit into the group as if made for them. He swirled the last swallow of whiskey in his glass. “There’s no way Tia’s going to miss delivering Bella and Sam’s first child. Not after she promised to be there.”
Ace frowned across the yard at Tia, who’d joined the group around the bride and groom. “She’s not a young woman anymore.”
Luke echoed his frown as the sun caught the gray in Tia’s shiny black hair. When had Tia decided to get old? “She isn’t in her grave, either. And that’s what I think it would take to keep her away from this birth. Especially since Sam asked her to come.” He attempted to change the subject. “You know, of all of the Eight, he’s her favorite.”
Ace snorted. “Tia isn’t here to rile with that accusation, so you can just drop it and stop trying to change the subject.” His frown deepened. “What the hell was Sam thinking?”
Luke didn’t know, but it had to be serious. “That he needs her. He wouldn’t have sent for her if he didn’t. Sam isn’t an alarmist. He knows the traveling risk right now and he loves Tia as much as all of us. Things have to be serious. To the point I’m thinking he left the Montoya ranch all but unprotected with all the men he sent to escort Tia.”
That was a big thing for Sam. Sam was a wild card. A man who’d ride into a fray of bullets just for the challenge of surviving, but he took his responsibilities seriously. And that included the huge responsibility of the Montoya ranch he’d inherited when he’d married Bella. The ranch sat smack dab in the middle of Comanche country. Luke shook his head. It took a strong man to keep it in one piece. But Sam seemed to be flourishing under the challenge. The man no one thought would ever settle, just might have found his place.
Ace nodded. “So I heard.”
“Did you hear when they’re arriving?”
“Based on the telegram, they should be here any day.”
“Good. We’re going to need everyone. There’s some rough territory between here and there.”
Ace cocked an eyebrow. “And yet you’re volunteering.”
And looking forward to it. Being around so many settled people chafed. “It’ll be a new adventure with which to thrill the readers.”
“Uh-huh. Do your readers know how much truth is in your novels?”
It was Luke’s turn to shrug. No one was more surprised than he at the success of his novels, written under the pen name of Dane Savage. More shocking than the money was the notoriety. According to his publisher, Easterners couldn’t get enough of the rumored-to-be-autobiographical tales of the ever-so-honest, bigger-than-life Texas Ranger’s high adventures in the West. As fast as Luke was writing them, they were selling. He adjusted his hat. “I get the feeling they’re more interested in the fiction.”
“Uh-huh.”
A new voice entered the fray. “I wondered where the whiskey had gotten to.”
Only one man of the Hell’s Eight had such a deep voice. Tucker McCade. His tread was heavy on the stairs, his smile broad but tinged with concern.
Ace held up the nearly empty bottle. “You timed that close.”
“Still can’t
