The broken rogue - healed by innocence

His head on a platter

*Norah*

"I am not blind!" I huff, denying the truth and wrenching free of River Crow's unrelenting grasp. The derision in his voice, as if my blindness suddenly makes me unworthy of being abducted, irks me.

"Does it not bother you to have a man standing before you, not wearing a stitch of clothing?" he asks, his voice reminiscent of the burning sensation of whiskey down my throat.

His words are filled with bluff, as worthless as a man holding nothing but daring to wager everything he possesses. I angle my chin defiantly and narrow my eyes.

"You haven't removed your denim pants or your chambray shirt," I retort, pointing out that he is still wearing the clothes that fit him snugly and allowed me to feel the heat of his flesh through my gown as we galloped away from Fortune.

"You accurately identified my clothing, señorita, but you do not know if I am still wearing it," he muses, a hint of humor laced in his low-pitched voice. I can almost envision him shaking his finger at me. "I bluff. You bluff. I bet you would make an excellent poker player."

"I'm one hell of a poker player," I snap, my patience left behind on the boardwalk outside the bank in Fortune. "And you can stop talking with that irritatingly fake Mexican accent."

"What?" He sounds genuinely baffled, but I trust my instincts. Beneath his Mexican accent, there is a faint and distant shadow of another accent. "I know you're not Mexican," I insist.

"Mi madre y mi padre would argue otherwise. Eh, Joaquín?" he says, addressing someone else. Then he spews off a tangle of Spanish that makes me doubt my convictions, although fluency doesn't necessarily mean he has to be Mexican.

The man he calls Joaquín responds in kind. I recognize his voice as belonging to the man who initially questioned Crow's actions outside the bank. Joaquín's voice carries no shadows, and I can sense the tone of familial love reverberating between them. Their banter, although puzzling, contradicts my perception of desperadoes.

"Enough already!" I shout, slashing my hand through the air. "You've made your point."

"Why didn't you tell me you were blind?" he demands.

I drop the pitiful bundle of twigs I had gathered, plant my hands on my hips, and lean forward slightly. "I tried, you i***t! But then you shoved that filthy piece of cloth…"

"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa, señorita. I gifted you with my favorite bandanna. I do not think you know who you are insulting." He growls.

"River Crow." I spit out his name.

Silence envelops us, thick and heavy. I wonder if I have been too brazen. Docility has never been one of my character traits, disappointing the few men who deemed me worth courting, albeit briefly.

"Then you must know, señorita," he says silkily, "that it would behoove you to behave."

"It would behoove you to let me go. My father is an extremely influential man." I shoot back.

He chuckles, "Joaquín guessed as much. Perhaps your father would be willing to pay a handsome ransom to have you returned unharmed."

"What he will do," I say curtly, as if speaking to someone with nothing under their hat but hair, "is contact Captain Rexham Morningstar of the Texas Rangers werewolf devision and have your head delivered to him on a silver platter."

"Rex Morningstar?" he mocks. "Your father knows Rex Morningstar?"

I nod. "Yes. They're extremely close friends."

"Joaquín, her father knows the famous Rex Morningstar. Can you believe this?" He grins.

"Which means you've stepped into a pile of cow dung," Joaquín says.

I bite back my smile of satisfaction at the man's adequate description of the situation. Rex Morningstar's legends are indeed rooted in fact, which means this outlaw's days of freedom are numbered.

"I don't think so," Crow says. "He is in west Texas. We are in south central Texas. We are safe."

"The hell you are. My father will send him a telegram, and Captain Morningstar won't hesitate to come."

Not only because he is my father's best friend, but because he, too, has experienced the anguish of losing a child. The grief rolls through me with the reminder, and I force back the memory of my failure to protect his son.

I can't dwell on the past now. I have to focus on the present if I intend to play well this hand I've unexpectedly been dealt. "He can track down a whisper in a strong wind."

"I'm shaking in my boots," he says caustically.

I know. I can feel the ground trembling.

"But you cannot see me shaking," he says in a seductive voice, his breath skimming along my cheek. I resist the urge to recoil at the intimate contact. I will not grant him the satisfaction of intimidating me.

"Your eyes are so expressive that for a moment I almost thought I was mistaken." He mumbles.

I want to slap his face, but I fear I might have already pushed my boundaries with this man to their limit. "You're right. I have absolutely no earthly idea what you look like. Therefore you have no reason to keep me."

This is a small lie. Based upon where my head hit his chest when he first grabbed me, I know he is an inch or so taller than my father. Remembering the way his arms came around me on the horse, cradling me protectively, I know he has broad shoulders. A washboard stomach. Iron thighs. Gentle hands. His hands surprised me when he lifted me off the horse as though he truly worried that he might hurt me, and I can detect no tender spots to indicate that he bruised me when he fought to subdue me outside the bank.

"It's not that simple. The posse will be hours behind us. I cannot leave you here unprotected, and I won't wait for help to arrive and risk capture." He says softly.

"I'll be perfectly fine waiting alone," I assure him.

"What happens when that rattler coiled over there decides to move from the shade into the sun?" he asks.

Honestly, how many times does this man think he can bluff before I call? "There is no rattler."

I hear a popping sound, bones snapping as though he crouches. A dull thud reverberates as a small object hits a nearby tree, followed by a sharp rattle, then the sickening swishing of something slithering along the ground.

An icy shiver ripples through me, and I fight to keep my face a mask of stoicism while my heart thuds against my ribs. "Apparently I was mistaken about the snake, but he's gone now. I'll take my chances."

"It's not that simple," he repeats.

Anger surges through me, and I latch onto the most improbable thing to say. "It is that simple. I'd rather take my chance with a poisonous snake than a vicious murderer!"

"Unfortunately, señorita, the decision is not yours to make."