Charlie and the Angel.

by Lori Handeland.

Prologue.

"Open the safe and hand out the money or there'll be one dead engineer."

Silence met the demand. The band of outlaws glanced uneasily in their leader's direction. He shrugged and fired, watching without emotion as red blossomed across the front of the engineer's shirt. The man crumpled to the ground.

"We're gonna start pickin' passengers now. Shootin' 'em one by one until you open up."

Hearing the threat, women screamed from within the train. The leader flinched and swung his gun toward the sound.

A bolt slid free, drawing the outlaws' attention back to the car in front of them as the door slipped slowly open. Within minutes, ten men, all wearing black masks and broad-brimmed hats that obscured their features and hair, galloped through the waving grasses of Texas. Nine howled the rebel yell. The tenth, mounted on a massive white horse, merely rode and smiled with satisfaction.

Revenge was sweet.

Chapter One.

North of San Antonio, 1875.

Angelina Reyes screamed.

But there was no one left alive who cared. Her terror merely amused her attackers even more than the dead bodies littering the ground around them.

"You will scream with pleasure before I am through with you, senorita." The leader of the trio of murderers advanced, his cruel black eyes narrowing in anticipation. Angelina stumbled backward in her haste to get away. Spinning, she prepared to run. She wouldn't give up without at least trying to escape.

Hampered by long, heavy black skirts, she had run no more than a few faltering steps when the two other attackers stepped in front of her. Their leader grabbed her around the waist and flung her to the ground. Grunting, he followed, pinning her down on the dry dirt with his body.

She couldn't breathe; she couldn't see. Biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, Angelina centered her mind on that self-inflicted pain. She forced herself to concentrate, to focus on the here and now. Panic swelled within her, threatening to strangle any chance she had for survival. Alone, with only herself to depend on, she did not dare surrender to the near mind-numbing fear. She must fight for her virtue and her life. She had learned as a child that the Lord helped those who helped themselves. The time had come to put that adage to a test.

The two men not directly involved in her violation seated themselves a few yards away to watch the sport. While they shouted their encouragement and suggestions between swigs of whiskey, their leader grew bored with her struggles and slapped her-once, twice, three times.

The world wavered in front of Angelina's eyes. For a moment she forgot her resolve to fight and lay motionless. The shriek of rending cloth as her dress was ripped from neck to waist revived her. With all her might, she brought her knee up between her attacker's legs.

His breath whooshed from his lungs in surprise, sickening her with the rancid smell. She shoved his unresisting body away and rolled to the side. Then she was on her feet and running, this time with her heavy skirts held high.

"Get her, idiots!" shouted the leader, his voice thick and choked with pain.

Angelina ran. With every step she expected a large, heavy hand to latch on to her shoulder. Fear engulfed her again, threatening to choke off what little air she could draw into her burning chest. The terror lent her speed. She reached the top of a short rise before one of them caught her. She jerked away from the groping hand, and for a second she ran free once again. Then she stumbled forward, pitching headfirst into nothingness. She hit the ground hard enough to stun herself. Then she was rolling, rolling, rolling until she reached the bottom of the hill. Her attacker landed on top of her. He wasted no time continuing what his leader had begun. Angelina's stomach roiled as he pressed his fetid mouth to hers. His fingers fumbled inside her ripped bodice.

"Get up."

A rasping whisper came from somewhere behind the man. Angelina jerked her head away and tried to see who spoke from an area just beyond her sight. Had one of the others followed them down, intent on having her first? No. She could swear she had never heard that voice before.

Her attacker either did not hear the order or chose to ignore it, for he continued to foist damp kisses across her chin and down her neck. Angelina flinched away from his roving mouth, praying with all the fervor within her that the man who stood just out of her sight was a gift from God.

"I said, get up. Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see 'em."

Angelina was certain she had never heard this voice before. She would remember the eerie, graveled tone until the day she died-which she hoped would not be as soon as she'd thought. Someone had arrived to save her. God was indeed helping the not-so-helpless today.

This time her attacker heard and obeyed the rough command. Perhaps because this time the words were punctuated with the sound of a gun being cocked. He got up slowly, as ordered, and Angelina squinted into the blinding sun.

Her savior rode a white horse, and he rode alone. A broad-brimmed hat obscured his features, but his silhouette revealed him to be tall and heavily muscled. The pistol cradled in his hand seemed as much a part of him as the long fingers casually curled around the butt of the gun.

Angelina swallowed nervously.

A gunshot rang out from the rise above them, spurting a cloud of dust at the feet of her savior's horse. Startled, Angelina glanced upward. The two remaining attackers stood at the top of the hill. Before she could cry out a warning for her rescuer to beware, two more gunshots echoed. The men rolled down the hill and landed in a lifeless heap at the feet of the massive white horse. The animal leaned down and sniffed them once before raising its head. Obviously having encountered dead bodies before, the horse had little interest in two more.

"Madre de Dios, do not shoot me, senor," the last attacker begged in a high-pitched whine. "You can have her. I will not fight you."

The man on the white horse turned his head, and when his gaze met that of the attacker, the other man paled and closed his mouth abruptly. Her rescuer turned toward Angelina.

"You can get up now, ma'am. He won't move. Sounds like he wants to keep his body parts in the same condition he has 'em in right now." The rasp of his voice added an even deeper threat to the words. Her attacker nodded swiftly in agreement.

Angelina sat up, but found she couldn't get to her feet. She began to shake and couldn't seem to stop. She had seen dead men in her life, but until this morning she had never seen anyone killed before her eyes. The cold finality of the act repeated over and over, first on her friends and then on her enemies, stunned her. She closed her eyes and uttered a swift prayer for strength and guidance.

When she opened her eyes, the man on the horse had swung his leg over the saddle. He slid easily to the ground, never removing his gaze from the prisoner or allowing the gun in his hand to waver. "Stay right there," he said to the attacker, who again nodded his understanding of the order. The man seemed to have lost his voice along with his courage.

Angelina's breath caught in her throat as her savior moved closer, then reached out to assist her. He wore the typical uniform of the Texas cowboy-Levi's, dark, dusty boots and a long-sleeved shirt. He wore no spurs, an omission she'd never encountered before. A kerchief hung knotted around his neck, available to pull over his nose and mouth when the trail dust became too thick. Angelina raised her gaze from the kerchief to her rescuer's face, but his hat still shaded his features, and she could not see his eyes. That fact made her nervous, but she firmly reminded herself he had just saved her life. She should not feel so threatened by him.

Unless, of course, he had killed the other men so he could have her for himself. The thought sent another trickle of fear through her, and she fought the urge to cross herself. Showing her fear was a weakness she could ill afford. She had at least learned that much from living with her father.

Angelina looked up at her rescuer again, squinting to see past the shadow obscuring his face. Her mother had always told her that eyes were the windows to the soul. A glimpse of this man's soul would be welcome at that moment.

"Relax," he whispered, and at the sound of his voice she froze. "Never raped a woman in my life. I ain't aimin' to start with you." He flexed his fingers in invitation.

Tentatively, Angelina placed her hand in his palm, clutching the torn remains of her bodice together with the other hand. His fingers closed over hers, swallowing her hand in his. His warmth encased her icy flesh, yet she shivered, then caught her breath when she was yanked unceremoniously to her feet.

The man glanced over at her attacker, who had not moved, and nodded in approval. Turning back, he removed his hat. Hair the color of spun gold, shot through with a vein of silver, spilled past his shoulders. Angelina looked for the first time into the face of her savior.

"Lucifer fallen," she whispered and took a step away. Her palm came up to rest against her racing heart.

Exquisite. There was no other word for the unearthly beauty of the man. His skin had tanned to a rich golden tone that only accented his angelic hair. He had a bump on his nose that told of a former break and a small scar over his right brow. Those small imperfections only served to create a masculine air in the midst of otherwise perfectly hewn features. Angelina suspected she beheld an angel until she gazed into his eyes.

The pits of hell, she thought. He has been there and survived.

Angelina had never seen such cold black eyes. She hoped she never would again. He had just shot down two men, and yet she could detect no emotion in their fathomless depths.

His full mouth tilted up in amusement, though nothing so frivolous shone in his gaze. Suddenly aware she was staring, Angelina flushed with embarrassment.

"Get that reaction from most women," he said with the same smile that did not reach his eyes. "But you look a bit young for my taste."

Ignoring her frown of reproval, he turned away and retrieved a rope from his saddle. Quickly and efficiently he tied up his prisoner.

"What will you do with me?" the man asked.

"Nothin'. If you behave, I'll send someone back from the next town to getcha. If not, you can rot for all I care."

"You can't leave me out here alone, trussed up, without a horse and a gun," the man said in disbelief.

"You didn't have much care for the lady." Her rescuer nodded at Angelina without looking at her. "I don't have none for you. Be thankful I'm lettin' you live. Goes against my nature to be so generous. But I get the feelin' she's seen enough killin' for one afternoon."

He turned away from the man and approached Angelina. Despite her resolve not to be frightened, she clutched her dress together tighter and took a another step backward. He loomed so tall next to her tiny frame. He might look like an angel, but she knew danger when she saw it. Even though he had done nothing but help her, something stirred in her when she looked at him. Something akin to fright-or another emotion she didn't know how to name.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

He stopped dead in his approach, but did not answer her for a long time. He merely stared at her with his obsidian eyes until she wanted to scream in his face just to get a reaction.

"Charlie Coltrain," he rasped and nodded his head once in greeting.

She returned his impartial nod. "Angelina Reyes."

"Coltrain?" the bound man exclaimed. "Hey, ain't you the one-"

"Shut up," Charlie snapped in a voice as cold and threatening as the northers blowing into Texas every winter.

The man shut up immediately, but Angelina opened her mouth to question Charlie. Before she could utter a word, he turned on her and asked harshly, "What are you doin' out here alone?"

"I-I'm not alone. Or at least I wasn't until this morning." She took a deep breath against the sudden flutter of panic overtaking her at the remembrance of that morning. "These three set upon my party and killed everyone but me. I'm sure I would have met the same fate as well if you hadn't happened along. I must thank you, Mr. Coltrain."

He shrugged. "I don't take to gettin' involved in other people's business, but I couldn't go by and do nothin'." He nodded at the rise. "The rest of your folks up there?"

"Yes." Up to that moment she had been too concerned trying to save her own life to have a chance to mourn her friends' untimely deaths. Despite the warm Texas breeze, Angelina hugged herself against the sudden chill of her skin. A choked sob escaped her lips at the thought of the six murdered men and women at the top of the hill.

Charlie glanced at her with a frown. "You're not gonna fall apart on me now, Miss Reyes, are you? We've got to bury your people before nightfall or every wild animal in ten miles will be circlin' us."

Angelina nodded, knowing that what he said was true. Swallowing the tide of grief inside her, she took a deep breath and led the way up the hill.

The carnage that awaited them was worse than she had imagined. All six lay where they had fallen, in a malformed semicircle around the still burning wagon.

"Is there a shovel anywhere in this mess?" Charlie asked, showing no emotion at the blood and fire before them.

"I'll get it," she said quickly and walked around the wagon, needing to get away from the sight if only for a moment. Memories of what had occurred earlier in the day threatened to overwhelm her; the screams of the dying and the jeers of the godless men who had attacked her and the others rang in her ears. The acrid stench of smoke burned her nose, and she was grateful for it-grateful she didn't have to smell the blood and the death.

Angelina spotted their supplies still in a heap, where the murderers had thrown them before setting the wagon on fire. She went down on her knees next to them. For just a moment she gave in to the terror that she had kept at bay for the past few hours in order to save her life. Tears ran in hot streams down her cheeks as she cried silently.

"Got a problem back there?" her rescuer asked.

Angelina hurriedly wiped away her tears and sniffed back the remnants of her sadness. She did not wish to share her grief with a stranger, especially one who had not even flinched at the carnage on the other side of the wagon. "No," she called, pleased her voice sounded so strong and even. "I'm fine. I'll be right there."

Closing her eyes, she uttered a short prayer for strength. Her friends deserved to be buried in the best way she could manage. As Mr. Coltrain had said, she could not fall apart now. She stood slowly, conscious of the aches and bruises covering her body from the rough treatment of her attackers. Angelina took a deep breath and pushed the pain from her mind to reside with the terror she had no time for now. Bending to tug the shovel free of the pile of supplies, she noticed her headpiece on the ground nearby, tossed aside in the midst of her struggles.

After freeing the shovel, she leaned over and picked up the scrap of cloth, placing it back on her head and securing it as best she could. Her torn bodice presented another problem. She could not continue to hold the material closed, and all her clothes and those of her friends had been burned with the wagon. Angelina shrugged and reached under her black skirt. With quick and efficient movements she removed a petticoat and tied the undergarment around her shoulders to resemble a shawl. Not exactly the height of fashion, but more modest than a gaping bodice.

Angelina returned to find Coltrain gazing at the bodies now lined up in a row for burial. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Two priests and four nuns," he muttered as if to himself, staring all the while at the people at his feet.

"Is there a problem?" Angelina asked.

Slowly he raised his gaze to her face; then his eyes focused on the material covering her hair, and his frown deepened.

"What the hell is that?" Charlie growled, realizing that Angelina was a nun. He shook his head and struggled with the first threat of laughter to come his way in years.

The sweet young girl-who had the curves of a courtesan, eyes and hair the color of the earth beneath his feet and skin like the finest cream-was a damned nun.

She stared at him now with a mixture of fear and wary trust he had already begun to hate. He was no hero-just a man in the wrong place at the right time, as usual. But he was no monster either. She didn't need to cringe every time he made a fast move in her direction, though seeing the carnage she had lived through already, he understood her fear.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, pointing at the cloth covering her luxurious brown hair.

"Tell you what?"

"That you're a nun, Miss Reyes. Or should I call you Sister Angelina."

"I am not a nun, at least not yet. I'm merely a postulate. I've been with the sisters for only a year."

Charlie shrugged. Nun or nun-to-be, it was all the same to him. Either way, he needed to get rid of her and get back to work. He had headed out from the cattle drive to check into the smoke on the rise. He had not planned on shooting two men and burying six people before returning to the herd.

The job was the first honest work he'd had since leaving Mosby's command in '65, ten years earlier; he didn't plan to lose it after only one week on the trail. He was too old to continue on the path he'd followed since the war. What had once been a way of life he felt justified following to gain his revenge now haunted him during his dark, lonely nights. But did he have what it took to live the straight life?

Charlie grabbed the shovel from Angelina and went to work. By the time he finished burying the dead and Angelina finished mumbling and kneeling next to the mass grave, the sun had disappeared below the horizon and darkness settled softly over the land.

"Can you ride?" Charlie wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

She nodded. "I was brought up on a horse ranch just outside the city of Chihuahua. I rode before I could walk."

"Good. We'll have to ride tonight. I'll take you to the nearest village and then head on back to the drive I left." He turned away to round up the horses.

Her soft voice drifted to him on the warm April wind and he halted. "Please," she whispered. "Help me."

Charlie glanced over his shoulder with a frown. So far she had impressed him with her strength in the face of hellish trouble. Now she sounded so much like a frightened little girl, he winced. He had no use for whining, clinging women. "I am helpin' you," he said and turned away from her pleading gaze. "I'll get you to a town. You can get in touch with your family or your convent from there."

"No. Please," she said again and moved closer, stopping just behind him.

His shoulders itched, and he shifted irritably. She stood too close to his back. He should ride away and leave her where she stood. Her soft pleas twisted his stomach and reminded him of the guilt that had been his constant companion for too many years. Things were much easier before he gained a conscience.