The broken rogue - healed by innocence

Wrong place at the wrong time

*Norah*

I press my ear against the cool glass of the saloon window, listening to my father's boisterous laughter echoing into the night. The deep rumble tells me that he has allowed someone to win a hand. If the recipient of his good humor is smart, they will take their winnings and head home. As the next round won't find my father so generous.

I push my palm against the windowsill, feeling the wood bite into my tender flesh. How I long to stand beside him and deal cards. When I was a child, he promised me that I could work with him in the saloon. He was convinced that I inherited his gift for manipulation.

By the age of five, I was adept at stacking a deck. At six, I had mastered false shuffles and cuts. By seven, I excelled at keeping track of the cards played and determining which ones remained available. And by eight, I was proficient at gauging the odds of winning by analyzing the revealed cards.

When I turned twelve, my father made me a special deck of marked cards. From that moment on, I knew I would never ask him to keep his promise. I understood that my dream of being a dealer at the Lady Fortune would never be realized.

It's ridiculous to long for things that can never be. I should appreciate what I have. Recently, I acquired a position as a seamstress at 'Damsels in Dis Dress,' gaining independence.

I moved into a room at the boardinghouse, still visiting my family frequently. Every Sunday afternoon, I listen to my two younger sisters waxing poetic about the young men seeking their favors at our parents' home.

My routine is comfortable, dependable, and utterly boring. It's not at all what I envisioned for myself as the daughter of a she-wolf who struck out on a cattle drive in 1866. I want to make my mark on this state, just like my mother, father, and their friends did. They were pioneers for their packs in farming, ranching, business enterprises, and law enforcement.

Instead, I sew fancy bodices and bell skirts. Hardly my idea of making a notable contribution to werewolf society.

My father's laughter rings out, and I smile at the warmth and triumph within it. He's won that round. I know if I ask, he'll allow me to sit beside him. But if I can't command the deck, I don't want to hear the shuffle.

With a deep sigh of acceptance for the yearnings that will remain unfulfilled, I step onto the boardwalk, remembering the festivities when the township installed the gaslights along the main street of Fortune. My father's friend, Lee Rhodes, held me high above his head so I could touch the glass globe.

My father would have lifted me, but an injury he suffered years ago left him with a weakened hip and constant pain. Though he never complains, the grooves on his face are deeper than the lines that add character to his friends' faces. Admiring my father as I do, I follow his example and never grumble about my own limitations. I understand them and deal with them, but inwardly, I resent the hell out of them.

As I walk briskly along, I briefly touch the Native statue that stands outside the general store, trailing my fingers over the intricately carved wood. My heels click along the boardwalk, and my skirt whispers over the worn planks. For my midnight strolls, I always don my finest green dress as though I have a beau calling upon me. But the truth is, men have little interest in me.

I pass by the millinery, considering ordering a new hat with bright, colorful ribbons and an emerald bow. As the boardwalk ends, I stride onto the dirt path leading to the alley between the shop and the bank. The ground muffles my footsteps. Somewhere down the alley, a horse snorts and strikes a hoof impatiently.

It's strange. Most horses are tethered at the saloon this time of night or boarded at the blacksmith's. Could it be that Mr. Simon, the bank president, is working late? Although I suspect he's more likely illicitly stuffing his pockets with money before heading to my father's gaming tables.

Then I hear the door leading into the bank open with a rush of hushed movements and jangling spurs. Someone slams into me, and I teeter backward before catching my balance. "I'm sorry."

"Goddamn it!"

That deep whiskey voice, that Mexican accent, doesn't belong to anyone who works at the bank. Panic surges through me as I instantly comprehend the situation. I've inadvertently stumbled across a bank robbery. I take another quick step back, intending to beat a hasty retreat, but a strong hand wraps around my arm and yanks me forward.

"No!" I buck wildly.

Everything happens at once. My arms are pinned to my sides, a soft cotton bandanna is shoved into my mouth, and my feet skip over the boardwalk as he hauls me away.

"What are you doing?" another man with a thick Mexican accent asks.

"The street lamps, goddamn it! She saw my face. She knows what I look like."

I shake my head frantically and twist my body, trying to free myself, but the iron band of his arms only tightens as he drags me into the alley. I hear restless horses tamping the ground, their harsh breathing filling the air.

"River, you can't take her with us," the other man points out.

River? River Crow! Is it possible that the one who holds a death grip on me is the notorious outlaw? Dear Goddess, help me! I have to escape.

"I have no choice," he says.

Like a hellion, I fight to break loose of his unrelenting grasp, trying to cry out. "Be quiet, señorita. I am not going to hurt you," he says in a low voice.

Not hurt me? The man is a murderer, a thief. I know all about his harrowing reputation. My heart pounds so hard that I'm surprised my father doesn't hear it.

For an insane instant, before I realize his plans, he releases me. I quickly jab my elbow into his gut, finding brief satisfaction in his grunt. I manage two rapid steps, barely skimming my fingers across the cloth in my mouth before he wrenches my arms behind my back. I growl my protest against the gag while he wraps another bandanna tightly around my wrists. Bending over, I kick back, frustrated that I can't connect the heel of my shoe with this desperado's shin.

"Señorita, do not fight me," he orders.

Don't fight him? I'll damn well kill him if I get the opportunity!

I don't know how he manages it, but he tosses me onto his horse, quickly mounts behind me, forms a barrier around me with his arms, and grabs the reins. "Vámonos, hombres!"

The horse bursts into a gallop, and the wind slaps my face. The only things keeping me from falling and being crushed beneath the pounding hooves are the strong arm he's snaked around my waist, the firm thighs I'm nestled between, and the paralyzing fear that I'm now at this murderer's mercy.

And from the tales I have heard, he possesses no mercy.