Only in My Arms Read online

  Mary was taken aback. "My habit? But why?"

  Florence frowned. "Is that a problem? Ryder told me you're a nun. I mentioned that you weren't wearing a habit when I met you, but he said that wasn't unusual."

  The rush of heat to Mary's cheeks annoyed her. She had no patience for her own reaction to the memory of her meeting with Ryder. "Did he tell you what I was wearing when I first saw him?" she asked stiffly.

  "No," said Florence. "But judging by the very pretty frock you have on, I'd venture that it was quite lovely."

  Mary burst out laughing. The hearty, lively sound fairly exploded from her. When she saw Florence take a step back in astonishment, she laughed even harder. The patrolling guards paused in their steps and sought out the source. The sound was infectious, and quite without knowing what was funny, they found themselves caught up in it, smiling widely and chuckling under their breath. Florence discovered her own shoulders were shaking as she was swept up in Mary's laughter.

  Across the compound Ryder McKay stood by the window of his cell, poised and patient, all of his senses alert. The very air around him seemed rent by the vibration of Mary's clear voice. He felt the tide of her laughter washing over him. His mouth parted as he sucked it in.

  The sound had substance, and where it touched his tongue, he tasted freedom.

  Chapter 5

  Harry Bishop lost his balance. The stool he was sitting on seemed to slip out from under him when Sister Mary Francis walked into the guardroom. He grabbed it awkwardly before it hit the floor and managed to come to his feet with a minimum of teetering. The apologies that were forming in his mind simply remained there because his gaping mouth was incapable of speech. Harry Bishop was a Boston native and a parochial schoolboy for grades one through eight. He considered the years spent under the tutelage of Father O'Donnell and the Sisters to have been his true introduction to Army discipline. Sister Elizabeth in particular had a way of bringing a classroom to order that would have done any sergeant proud.

  "At ease," Mary said calmly. "This uniform doesn't require a salute."

  Harry blinked, realized his hand was raised halfway to his head, and let it fall slowly. "Habit," he said.

  "Yes," she replied dryly. "That's what I'm wearing."

  Harry blinked again, this time collecting his thoughts. "No, I meant it was a habit to—"

  She cut him off. "I was pulling your leg, private. I know what you meant."

  Shaking his head slowly, Harry rubbed the underside of his chin. "A Sister with a sense of humor," he said almost inaudibly. "If that don't beat all." His hand dropped away and he looked her over from head to toe. "You arrived yesterday with the Sullivans."

  "That's right. I'm Mrs. Sullivan's sister."

  "I didn't know you were a nun."

  Mary used one hand to gesture to her habit. "I think you can appreciate how ill-suited this manner of dress is to this climate," she said. "At least during the day. With evening upon us I find it quite cool."

  "That's a fact, Sister."

  "Mary Francis," she said.

  "Sister Mary Francis," he repeated obediently. Harry had seen her taking a walk with Florence Gardner that very morning. Now he tried not to recall the lusty thoughts that had entered his mind. He couldn't imagine the penance that would be imposed for wanting to have carnal knowledge with a nun. He could always plead ignorance of the fact, he considered, but how much would that count for? Better to make personal amends while he could. Unconsciously his body came to attention again. "What can I do for you, Sister?" he asked in his best schoolboy manner.

  "I've come to see the prisoner," she said. "I understand that it is permitted."

  Harry had been warned to expect a minister from Tucson, but Mary's presence was a surprise. "You have this from the general himself?" he asked.

  From his mouth to his mother's ear, Mary thought. It was just as good. "I do," she said. It did not occur to Mary that Florence Gardner would lie.

  It did not occur to Harry that Sister Mary Francis would lie. "Very well," he said. His eyes dropped to the valise that Mary was carrying. "What do you have in there?"

  Mary crossed the room and set the valise on Harry's desk. She opened it for the private's inspection. On top was a Bible that Florence insisted she take to Ryder. Beneath that was a fresh change of clothes, boot polish, and a shaving kit. Mary made certain that Harry saw everything. "No matter what the man's sins," she said, "he deserves to die with dignity."

  Harry nearly smiled. How like a nun to think that a change of clothes was essential to one's dignity. "All right," he said. "You can take this in—if McKay will even see you. If he won't, I'll make sure he gets it later."

  "Thank you. That's very kind of you."

  Harry Bishop felt as if he'd been blessed. "This way, Sister Mary. I'll take a chair in for you."

  Mary smiled serenely and followed Harry through the door to the cells. Although there were three, only the middle one was occupied. Her heart raced as Harry went to stand in front of it.

  "You have a visitor, McKay," he announced.

  Ryder was lying on his cot, his hands cradling his head. His line of vision was toward the window of his cell, not the entrance. He made no move to rise or even look in the direction of Harry Bishop and the visitor.

  "D'you hear me, McKay? Someone's come by to save your miserable soul." Harry positioned the chair in the corridor and placed the valise on the floor. "An angel by the name of Sister Mary Francis."

  Ryder knew very well who accompanied Harry into the cell area, but he was careful not to show his hand. He rose slowly, stretched, then let his feet fall to the floor. Finally his head swiveled in the direction of the iron bars of the cell's door. He looked directly at Private Bishop, not sparing a glance for Mary. "You can let her in, Harry. She's not going to minister to my soul through these bars."

  Harry hesitated, his eyes darting from Ryder to Mary.

  "It's all right," Mary said encouragingly. "I didn't expect to be kept in the corridor. I'll be fine."

  "Are you sure, Sister? I mean, if you were a man and all I wouldn't be asking."

  Mary's tone changed, affecting complete confidence and authority now. "I'm fully capable, Private, even if I'm not a man. I appreciate your concern, but it's misplaced. Now, let me in to see this prisoner or you will have to account for your actions to the general first and God later."

  Harry Bishop opened the door. He set the chair and valise inside and ushered Mary in. "I'll check on you every few minutes," he said before he exited.

  "Every fifteen or so will be quite enough," she said firmly.

  Harry was tempted to salute again. He could not return to his station in the guardroom quickly enough.

  Neither Ryder nor Mary spoke immediately once they were alone. She was struck by the changes in him; the sun-bronzed color had been washed out of his skin by months of imprisonment, a harshness was in the lines of his face, a deep, abiding coldness in his eyes. There was nothing in his manner that welcomed her; it was apparent that he resented her presence.

  He found it difficult to look at her and impossible to look away. The lantern in the corridor bathed her face in warm light, but it did not account for her radiance. That seemed to come from within Mary. She was the sole source of the aura that surrounded her. Her beautiful features were composed, and their perfect symmetry gave her an otherworldly expression. Compassion illuminated her forest green eyes but her stance was faintly militant, her slender body rigid with the proud defiance of a peaceful warrior. She would not fight, he thought, but she would not be moved. He wished she had not come. Now that she was here, he wished there had been another way.

  "Mrs. Gardner said you wanted to see me," Mary said. "It appears she misunderstood."

  "There was no mistake," Ryder said roughly. He pointed to the chair Harry left. "Sit down."

  Very much aware that it was an order, not an invitation, Mary's mouth flattened stubbornly.

  "Suit yourself," he said, shrugging. He reac
hed for the valise. "Did Florence pack this for you?"

  Mary nodded. "She said it had everything you wanted." She watched him as he sat on the cot and opened the valise. "I was surprised you asked for a Bible."

  Ryder glanced up. "Don't I impress you as a religious man?"

  She didn't answer immediately. His question was tossed off with a certain sarcastic intent that wasn't meant to elicit conversation. Ryder had already returned his attention to the valise when Mary responded. "Not religious," she said. "Spiritual."

  Ryder raised his head slowly. His narrowed look was no longer penetrating, only impenetrable. "Is that right?" he asked.

  "Yes." Complete confidence was evoked in the single word. On an equal footing now, Mary Francis sat. "Why did you ask for me?"

  "I thought that was obvious." He removed the Bible and the clothes from the valise. When it was empty, he ran his hand along the inside, found the edge of the piece that had been placed across to create a false bottom, and raised it. The Colt .45 felt wonderfully familiar in the palm of his hand. He left it there for the time being and placed the valise on the floor. "I thought you might pray for me."

  Mary didn't take issue with his lie. "I've been praying since I learned you were here," she said simply. Without conscious thought she sought out the rosary attached to her waist. Her fingers moved over the beads, calming her thoughts as she looked around the cell. "I don't understand what's happened here."

  "Surely someone's told you of what I'm accused."

  "I've learned things from a number of people. My brother-in-law. My sister. Lieutenant Rivers. The general's mother. I still don't understand."

  "You mean you don't understand why I betrayed the company?"

  "No," she said. "I don't understand why people believe you did."

  It was not difficult for Ryder to see that she was perfectly sincere. He had done nothing to justify that kind of faith, and he wanted to make certain she knew it. "You don't know me," he said. "You don't know the man I am or what I'm capable of. You only think you do. The little knowledge you have is dangerously incomplete. You've underestimated me."

  Mary took his words as a warning rather than an explanation.

  Initially there had been an urge to flinch. She had quelled it. "You're right," she said quietly. "I don't know you."

  He was silent for almost an entire minute, watching her. She didn't turn away from his scrutiny but held his gaze squarely in spite of her discomfort. Ryder broke the contact when he started to unbutton his shirt.

  "What are you doing?" she asked.

  "Changing my clothes."

  "That can wait until I'm gone."

  He didn't explain that it couldn't. Instead, Ryder came to his feet and placed the basin of water at the foot of his bed on the cot. There was a washcloth among the things Florence had provided. He picked it up, wet it, and bathed his face. "I'm going to shave, too. Turn around if it bothers you."

  "This is ridiculous," Mary said sharply, coming to her feet. "I'm calling Private Bishop." She would never be able to say how it happened—Ryder's movements were mostly a blur—but when his body stilled again Mary found herself facing his steady arm and a Colt .45.

  "Please," he said politely. "Stay. I'd like the company."

  Mary sat. She held her breath when Ryder approached, but all he did was pick up the chair with her in it and turn them both to face the wall.

  He touched her shoulder lightly. Her tension could be felt through the heavy fabric of her habit. "You can breathe now," he said softly. "And don't call for Harry. You won't like the consequences."

  "I don't care what you do to me," she said with foolish courage.

  "I was thinking about Harry."

  "Oh."

  Knowing he had guaranteed her silence, Ryder released Mary's shoulder. "This won't take long."

  Mary gritted her teeth. Behind her, she could hear him washing. She recognized the scrape of the razor across his face as he shed his shadow of a beard. She enjoyed her petty self-satisfaction when she heard him swear softly as he nicked himself.

  "It's not a fatal wound," he said, divining her thoughts.

  Mary's smug smile vanished. "You used me," she said.

  "Yes." There was no apology. He stripped out of his clothes, replacing one item at a time, and dressed quickly. He would not feel clean again until he left the cell behind, but fresh clothes were a good beginning. Ryder slipped on the navy blue jacket over his crisp, white shirt and noticed Florence had repaired one of the loose eagle-stamped brass buttons. As he had instructed, she had also added a captain's insignia. "You can turn around," he said.

  Mary didn't move. "This view is just fine."

  "Bullheaded, aren't you?"

  "I prefer obstinate."

  With little effort, Ryder turned her again. He cupped her chin and raised her face. "When Harry comes back you'll need to follow my lead," he said. "Do you understand?"

  "You've made yourself quite clear." She was no longer fingering her rosary. Her arms were crossed in front of her in a challenging posture. "You shouldn't have used me," she said. "You should have asked for my help."

  Ryder let his hand drop away. He went back to the cot and began stuffing his old clothes in the valise. When he was done he thrust it in Mary's direction. "Are you saying you would have said yes?" he asked.

  She took the valise and set it on her lap. "I'm saying it would have been polite to ask. Apparently Florence Gardner had a choice. You haven't given me one."

  Ryder didn't respond. If he apologized for this he'd be apologizing at every turn. The truth was, he wasn't sorry. He picked up the Bible and opened it. The book of Psalms was hollowed out. Ryder removed an object and held it up to Mary. "The key to the kingdom."

  Mary was past surprise. "Small wonder my Bible wasn't good enough for the general's mother."

  He nodded, palming the key. "The Bible was Flo's inspiration. Not mine."

  "Then she's a volunteer. You didn't have to threaten anyone to elicit her cooperation."

  Ryder realized he had said too much. The less Mary understood about Florence Gardner's role, the better. He ignored her comment, placed his hand through the bars, and inserted the key into the lock. It opened easily. Ryder stepped out, pocketed the key, and then pulled out the Colt that had been placed in the waistband of his trousers. He had half expected Harry to have checked on them by now. The private's inattention to his duty worked in Ryder's favor. "You can call him in," he said, closing the door. "Be careful what you say."

  While Mary fumed, Ryder took his position behind the door to the guardroom. When Harry opened it the door would offer Ryder cover. By the time Harry realized Ryder wasn't in the cell, it would be too late for him. Ryder cocked one eyebrow when Mary simply sat on her chair, her mouth set mutinously. When that didn't work, he cocked the Colt.

  Mary's response was immediate. "Private Bishop," she called. "Will you come in here, please? I'm ready to leave."

  Still eager to make amends for his previous wayward thoughts, Harry Bishop responded with alacrity. He was just as quickly dispatched to the floor as Ryder brought him down with the butt of his peacemaker.

  Ryder shut the door so they wouldn't be surprised by anyone entering the stockade and dragged Harry to the cell. He pushed him inside. He took the private's hat and placed it on his head, shoving some of his own, longer hair under it. "You can stop looking so stricken. I didn't shoot him."

  "He's still been injured on my account," she said. Her eyes strayed from the unconscious guard back to Ryder. "Go on. What are you waiting for? You're free to leave." She hadn't expected to amuse him, but Mary was certain that was what she glimpsed in the frost gray eyes. "Not that it matters to me, but you're wasting time."

  He gestured to her with his index finger, crooking it to indicate she was to come toward him.

  Mary's dark red brows drew together. "I'm fine just where I am, thank you."

  Ryder raised his gun again. He didn't point it at Mary; he aimed at Harry B
ishop's hapless head. "It's not too late," he said. "I can still kill him."

  Mary's own head was beginning to clear, and she had had time to take stock of the situation. She was feeling infinitely more confident than she had moments earlier. "If you shoot you'll bring soldiers running. I don't think you want that."

  He didn't blink. "They're going to hang me," he said steadily. "I think I'll take my chances." He pulled back the hammer.

  Mary stood. "Bully."

  "Bring the valise. The Bible, too, if you want it."

  She took it off the cot and stepped over Harry's body to precede Ryder out of the cell. He locked the door behind them and ushered her to the guardroom. It was still empty. He motioned her through.

  "Now what?" she demanded stubbornly.

  Ryder placed one hand at the small of her back. He noticed she responded as skittishly as if he'd placed his gun there. "Through those doors," he said softly, leaning close to her ear. "And into the courtyard. You know not to call attention to yourself."

  "I think you and the gun will do that nicely."

  "It's dark," he said. "The uniform I'm wearing has a captain's insignia—something Harry didn't notice—and my gun is going to be under my jacket. You walked in with a valise, and you're walking out with one. You're going to slip your arm through mine and I'm going to escort you away from the buildings and past the guards."

  "To where your horse is waiting."

  He didn't correct her. His firm prod was enough this time to get her moving. When she opened the door to the stockade, Ryder followed her out into the clear night air. She didn't require a reminder to loop her arm through his. He adjusted his hat a notch lower and forced himself to accept the unhurried pace she set.

  "You must think you're very clever," she said through gritted teeth.

  "It's going remarkably well," he replied pleasantly. The common grounds between the buildings weren't deserted, but Ryder only felt a few glances in their direction. Mary was targeted with looks more often than he.