Free Outlaw by Lisa Plumley

easily—but
what else could come of trusting an outlaw? She was a fool to
believe he might behave decently toward her.
    Might begin to care for her , a voice
within her whispered.
    She clenched her fist within the dirty pink
folds of her skirt, filled with frustration. He'd seemed less an
outlaw before, only a man—a man who could set her atremble with the
gentleness of his touch. Now Mason rode with no thought of her, to
perform an action Amelia knew— knew —was wrong.
    He could be hurt. Caught. Killed .
    She cried out, imagining Mason fallen to the
ground, wounded, surrounded by vengeful stage passengers. She
shouldn't care for a man who'd abducted her, shouldn't worry over a
desperado's safety. But still, somehow, she did. Pacing, Amelia
shook her skirt free of a spiny, pincushion-looking cactus and
stared again toward the stagecoach. He won't get hurt , she
told herself. No one would dare fire upon the poet bandit.
    It was small comfort. She remembered the
fear of her fellow stagecoach passengers, the lecherous old man and
the miner and banker, and knew any one of them might have taken aim
at the outlaw if given an opportunity. They simply hadn't had one.
The bandit had remained at the head of the coach, dealing only with
the driver.
    The driver . A driver who could bear
her safely away from the outlaw, a driver who could take her to
Tucson to deliver her books! Amelia squinted into the distance,
trying to gauge how far it was to the road the coach traveled
over.
    A mile, perhaps—maybe a bit less, she
judged. Surely near enough to run to. Near enough to escape to.
    If it made her a traitor to Mason, so be it.
What did fidelity mean to an outlaw? This was what she could expect
from him—to be seduced and abandoned. He didn't care for her. And
she had to make her own way somehow, take care of herself somehow,
else she'd never survive—let alone fulfill her mission.
    She'd sworn to deliver every last one of
those J.G. O'Malley & Sons book orders, and that's what Amelia
meant to do. Her father and brothers would know she was
capable...worthy of respect, and even love. Never mind that her
heart clenched at the thought of confronting Mason to do it. If
proving her worth meant interrupting a stagecoach robbery first,
that's exactly what she'd do.

    Panting from her headlong race across the
desert, Amelia skidded to a stop when she saw Mason's
chestnut-colored mare picketed behind a cluster of bushes a short
distance from the road. The bushes' disjointed-looking branches
drooped in wide circles to the ground below, each yellow-blooming
length growing just closely enough to its neighbor to conceal the
horse from the stagecoach beyond.
    Her J.G. O'Malley & Sons satchels were
still strapped to the saddle, exactly where Mason had lashed them
on. Their metal bindings winked at her in the sunlight. She had to
retrieve them before going on, else she'd never succeed. Crooning
softly, Amelia approached the horse.
    "Hello there, girl," she called soothingly,
easing closer. The horse raised its head and looked at her through
its placid, dark eyes, still chewing a mouthful of feathery leaves
stripped from the nearest of the bushes.
    "Shhh, that's right," she said. Almost
there. "Easy now. I just want my satchels back, that's all."
    The horse's ears pricked forward at the
sound of her voice. An instant later, Amelia touched the saddle,
then the horse's muzzle. She rubbed it softly. "Good horse. Steady
now—I'm just going to untie these satchels—"
    Easing sideways, she laid a hand atop the
knot fastening the first satchel. The animal didn't move, so Amelia
felt encouraged enough to scoot all the way over to the knot.
    Could horses be loyal to their owners? She
sincerely hoped not—one whinny would likely give away her presence
and her plan alike. Frowning, she peered closely at the thick,
complicated knot and bit back a cry of frustration. It looked nigh
impossible to untie.
    In the distance, Mason called out to the
stagecoach