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they
passed, looking for a sheltered place to stop and make camp. It
wasn't a woman's place to conduct business—but it was definitely a woman's place to cook. As long as he had a
woman along, Mason figured he might as well make use of her. The
least he deserved for rescuing her was a good, woman-cooked
meal.
    "It's my place, Mr. Mason, I assure you!"
she said. "I'll have you know, I'm a very good book agent."
    "If it takes this much talking to folks, I
don't doubt it."
    "Whatever do you mean by that?"
    "Just that you're an exceptional fine
talker, Curly Top," Mason said, grinning. "Folks probably buy books
just to shut you up."
    " What ?"
    Amelia shifted behind him, inadvertently
rubbing her breasts against his back. He wouldn't have believed so
much heat could travel through so many layers of dress, duster
coat, and shirt.
    "Never mind," Mason said, trying to think of
something besides how soft, how warm, how...tempting the woman
behind him was.
    "This J.G. O'Malley—is he your husband?"
    If he was, he ought to be shot for letting
her traipse across the Territory alone. A woman like her wasn't
equipped for more than tea parties and gossip. Navigating the
forty-mile desert between Gila Bend and Maricopa Wells took more
than mouthiness, two bags of books, and a lacy dress. Men had died
crossing that stretch—women, too.
    "He's my father."
    Mason waited to hear the rest of her
explanation. None came. He couldn't believe she wasn't saying more.
When he wanted her to quit jawing, she never would. "And...?"
    "And he's expecting me to make a number of
deliveries in Tucson," she said, sounding exasperated. "That's why
I have to get back to the road. I have to catch another stagecoach.
I have to—"
    "No." His hands tightened on the reins. He
could take her to the next town, but not back to the road. "Your
book deliveries will have to wait."
    Amelia gasped, her fingernails digging into
his ribs. "My books! You didn't leave my satchels back in the
mountains, did you? All my books are in them."
    Mason thought of the twin rubber cloth
satchels he'd strapped to the horse's flanks like two ten-pound
saddlebags. Yet another burden the poor beast shouldn't have had to
bear.
    "I brought them," he said. "Thought they'd
make good kindling."
    Another gasp. She lowered her voice. "You
wouldn't dare."
    He let his silence speak for itself.
    "You're barbaric," Amelia muttered, leaning
back in the saddle again. "Barbaric."
    "Maybe so," Mason agreed. He rolled his
shoulders to ease the kinks out of his muscles and gazed across the
land, scanning the territory for movements that didn't belong
there—movements that might betray the presence of an enemy. A
lawman. The posse that was surely after him by now.
    The Sharpes.
    It was second nature for him to be cautious;
he was a wanted man. All the same, he felt doubly so today, with
Miss Curly Girl mounted behind him.
    "Definitely so," she insisted.
    "I reckon a woman likes a man like that," he
told her, rubbing his stubble-covered jaw. " Barbaric ."
    Her reply was preceded by an indelicate
snort. "That's what you think, Mister Mason. I'll have you know, I
prefer a gentleman—someone who knows how to treat a lady
properly."
    Mason could almost see her freckled, pert
nose hoisted in the air. If she could have, he had little doubt
Amelia O'Malley would've flounced away from him with her frilly,
impractical pink skirts flying.
    "I know how to give a lady what she wants,"
he couldn't resist saying, punctuating the words with a wicked grin
she couldn't see and Mason couldn't hold back. " And how to
do it properly."
    Amelia sniffed. "That, Mister Mason, remains
to be seen."
    It was a challenge Mason could hardly let
pass uncontested.
     
     
     

Chapter Five
     
    " Just Mason ," growled the outlaw, and
then he twisted in the saddle, grabbed a handful of curls from the
back of Amelia's head, and pulled her to him. He leaned forward,
his intentions writ plain upon his face. He was going to kiss
her.
    She was