Of Men And Angels. Victoria Bylin

      Even as she spoke, Alex knew it was wishful thinking. Sheer exhaustion had robbed her of the ability to sit up. She was a little girl again, a sleepy child being carried to bed by strong arms, and she curled against Jake Malone’s chest.

      His forearm rested on her hip, and she could feel his fingers just below her breast. With the slightest pressure, he held her in the saddle. She felt every inch of him pressing against her back, every twitch in his arm, and the strength in his thighs as he nudged the horse into a faster walk.

      It was the closest she had ever been to a man. She had kissed Thomas on the lips, but they had never been hip to hip, knee to knee. She had no idea if Thomas’s muscles were hard or soft, if his back was straight or slightly curved, if his waist was thick or narrow.

      But she knew all these things about Jake Malone. There wasn’t a spare inch of flesh around his middle, his thighs were long and lean, and his forearms were all muscle. She could also smell his breath, a sour whiskey odor she remembered from a bad time in her childhood, and she knew he could change as quickly as the weather. Safe one minute, dangerous the next.

      Alex stiffened. She wanted to push his hand away from her waist and sit up straight, but she was exhausted beyond the strength of her will. She sagged against him, and with his arm holding her steady, she closed her eyes to the orange sun and faded into a dream.

      She heard Charlotte’s cries, the baby’s wail, the roar of thunder, the rush of flooding water. A whimper rose in her throat as a raindrop jarred her awake. They were out of the gully, on a plain dotted with boulders, and a silvery curtain of water was racing toward them. She clutched the baby against her chest.

      The outlaw pulled the horse up short. The bay almost bucked, but he settled the animal with his voice.

      “I’ve got a slicker.” He reached behind the saddle and untied the rawhide laces holding a black oilcloth. She scooted forward to give him room to maneuver, but it was a mistake. The bay sidestepped.

      “Stay still, dammit.”

      She didn’t know if he was talking to her or the horse. She had seen what angry men did to their wives and children, and she remembered the night she learned that monsters sometimes wore familiar faces.

      With a grunt, he unfurled the slicker, draped it over her legs and held up the center. “Put your head here,” he said.

      Rain was already beading on the oilcloth. Eager to cover the baby, she shoved her head through the opening and spread the garment as best she could over herself, the baby and the outlaw’s knees.

      “You’re going to get wet,” she said.

      “It won’t be the first time.”

      Lightning slashed the sky, thunder shook the air, and a burst of rain drenched her hair. The baby howled with misery. She wanted to feed him mother’s milk and wrap him in a clean diaper. She would have given a year of her life for shelter for them all, even Jake Malone.

      She had prayed for an angel to rescue them, but God had sent her a flesh-and-blood man instead, a man who was dark, worn-out and dangerous. Hours had passed since they had buried Charlotte, but she could still smell liquor on him. He wore a revolver on his hip and carried a rifle in a leather scabbard. And then there had been that remark about seeing men die.

      He hadn’t intended to stop, either. Jackson Jacob Malone wasn’t a hero, and probably not much of a gentleman. But an unseen force had compelled him to watch as Charlotte gave birth, and another force, something sad and human and decent, made him put down the mule and dig the grave.

      Alex could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back. She believed him when he said he wouldn’t hurt her, but she could hear her fiancé’s words, too.

      You’re far too trusting, Alexandra.

      Thomas may have been right, but her faith had always been rewarded. She sowed seeds of trust with her orphans, her friends, everyone she met, and not once had she been lied to or betrayed. It was her gift, this special kind of encouragement, and Jake Malone was no different from any other needy soul.

      Except she was sitting in his lap, and he was a grown man and not a child. Except he owned two guns, had two black eyes and smelled like whiskey. Except his hand was too close to her breast, and the dampness of his shirt had soaked through to her own skin.

      The rain gave him a strong musky scent. She could smell the baby’s dirty diaper, and she hoped the slicker would keep the odor away from the outlaw’s nose. His patience seemed thin to start with, and the tension in his body told her it was getting thinner by the minute.

      As suddenly as it started, the rain stopped and the clouds blew apart. The sun turned the earth and sky into orange glass, a hot sea of glistening light.

      “Oh my,” she whispered, squinting in the fiery glare. Perspiration poured from her skin, and the baby wailed.

      “Can we stop?” she asked.

      “If you’d like.”

      He maneuvered the horse toward a boulder and climbed down from the bay. She pulled the oilcloth over her head and handed it to him. The cool air felt like a damp cloth, and her skin tingled.

      “Hand me the baby,” Jake said. “Your legs might not hold you.”

      As he lifted the tiny thing with his hands, she saw shock in his eyes, then something dark and clear as he cradled the baby against his chest. Holding him with one hand, he spread the slicker and a petticoat by the boulder, put the baby on its stomach and came to help her.

      “Swing your leg back like I did.”

      She tried, but her knee wouldn’t move. The bay shifted its weight. She could have sworn it growled, but she knew that was impossible. A second later she felt Jake’s hands around her waist, lifting her, pulling her close as he dragged her away from the skittish horse.

      He set her on her feet, but her legs buckled and she fell against him. Her knees wouldn’t straighten, and she wondered if he would have to carry her. She was facing him, and she couldn’t take her eyes off his wet shirt sticking to his chest and dark hairs curling at his throat.

      She looked into his liquid blue eyes and froze at what she saw. It was the same hard light she saw every day in the eyes of hungry children, the need for something so basic she couldn’t put it into words, a need she had never known because she had always been loved and cared for, safe and fed.

      The darkness in his eyes made her shiver. She didn’t believe in lost souls, loneliness or pain that couldn’t be chased away by love as easily as dust disappeared with a broom. The darkness of night always turned into dawn. It was the unfailing truth of her life.

      Until now. Until the baby’s needy wail clawed at her insides and she had no way to feed him. Until her own hunger blurred her vision and made her shake. Until her wet clothes chafed her skin and she could barely stand. Until she thought of her father and his failing heart and of Charlotte buried in the desert by strangers. Until the terrible truth that she was wet and hungry and lost took possession of her.

      Tears welled in her eyes and her lips trembled. She pressed her dirty hands against her cheeks to hold back the flood, but it was too late. The pressure built to a throbbing ache that exploded in a throat-tearing sob.

      Wrapping his arms around her, the stranger pulled her close. His breath echoed in her ear, and she smelled the rain and whiskey on his skin. She struggled to hold her breath, but she couldn’t hold back the tears.

      When her knees buckled, Jake Malone did what no man had ever done for Alexandra Merritt. He held her while she cried.

      Jake needed a drink.

      The angel was crying her eyes out, the baby was bawling along with her, and between the noise, the dark spots floating in his eyes, a headache, and the misery in his groin that came from rubbing up against her, he was in a sorry state.

      He knew how to comfort most women. You let them cry, then you kissed him and