Free Angel In The Rain (Western Historical Romance) by Devon Matthews

hands. For several seconds, full sunlight fell across his mule-homely features.
    Buck Sweeney.
    Angel sucked in a breath. She shoved her hands beneath her, preparing to leap up and reveal herself. An arm snaked across her back and flattened her to the ground. Before she could open her mouth to scream, Rane’s hand clamped hard across the lower half of her face.
    The next seconds passed in a frenzied blur. She started to reach up and pull his hand from her mouth, only to have him band her arms against her body and jerk her back against his chest. A hard muscled leg came around her, trapping both of hers. No matter how she wiggled and tried to thrash free, he held fast. Pressed back to front, he had her wrapped up like a yearling calf at a branding fire.
    Tears of fury and frustration blurred Angel’s sight. She wanted to bite him. But the pressure he exerted beneath her chin made it impossible to even open her mouth. She struggled. Her chest heaved. She couldn’t draw enough air through her nostrils. The smothering sensation brought her to the very edge of panic. Couldn’t he see he was suffocating her!
    She stopped fighting and went limp. He didn’t relax his crushing hold one inch. The bastard.
    Long seconds passed. She breathed easier, though he still kept his hand clamped over the lower half of her face.
    He removed his arm from around her middle long enough to brush the wild tangle of hair off one side of her face. Then his lips grazed her ear and he whispered, “Don’t fight me. Don’t make one sound, or you’ll regret it.”
    Angel squeezed her eyes closed. A weighty pressure that neared pain fisted her heart. How foolish she’d been. With sudden clarity, she realized she’d never truly feared him.
    Until now.
    Beguiling devil. He’d given her hope with his promise not to hurt her and his decent, calm manner of speaking. He’d lulled her with small comforts. A cup of coffee, a pleasant whistled tune, a much-needed blanket. Even the warmth and protection of his own body. Worst of all, she’d deceived herself with the notion that such a handsome countenance had to house some good.
    Pretty is as pretty does. Why the worn out adage occurred to her at that precise moment, she didn’t know. Nor did she have time to think about it before he moved again and started dragging her away from the top of the ridge.
    When they were well below the skyline he stood and pulled her to her feet. The rest of the descent down the rocky grade was a jerky, awkward undertaking. It would have been much easier if he’d taken his hand from her mouth, but he didn’t.
    By the time they reached level ground, Angel felt lightheaded and bright pinpoints flared before her eyes. When he pulled her back against his chest, she didn’t resist and leaned into him for support.
    With his hand still pressed over her face, he settled the back of her head against the hollow of his shoulder and again brought his mouth to her ear.
    “We’re going to talk,” he said breathlessly. “You need to hear me out. I will take my hand away if you give me your word you won’t scream.”
    Her eyes narrowed. Was he out of his mind? Sure, she’d give her word. She was even curious to hear what he had to say. But after that, all deals were off.
    She inclined her head as far as she could.
    The palm pressed hard across her lips slackened, then fell away.
    She stepped away and turned to confront him. “What were you planning to do back there? Shoot them like fish in a barrel?”
    He shook his head. “No.”
    “Ha!” she scoffed. “And did you expect me to just sit by and watch?” She flung out her hand. “I know that man.”
    “How?”
    “He’s a Flying C hand. He works for my father.”
    “No. Not anymore. I know Buck Sweeney, too. He’s a drifter, a man who will hire his gun for the price of a meal, or a bottle of cheap whiskey.”
    She crossed her arms and planted them stubbornly beneath her breasts. “I don’t believe you.”
    He edged closer