by Jenna Kernan
He stared at the retreating porter and then down at the strangest looking saddle he’d ever laid eyes on. It rested on a crate. One stirrup was missing, but there were two on the other side, though one was all shriveled up and there was a horn where it shouldn’t be.
“What the hell is that?”
“My saddle.”
“How do you sit in it?”
She pressed her lips together, momentarily concealing her full mouth. “It’s a sidesaddle. You sit sideways with one leg over the horn.”
Troy pushed his hat back on his head and stared at the strange contrivance. “You can’t ride over mountains and across rivers on that. You need a proper saddle.”
“That is the only proper saddle for a lady. I’ll have you know I’ve jumped a five-foot fence in that saddle and also won numerous awards for dressage.”
“For what?”
“Dressage. It’s an exact form of horsemanship. Very difficult.”
“More difficult than outrunning a grizzly downhill?”
She arched a coppery brow. “I should doubt it.”
“You set off in that silly saddle and you’re stuck with it. I ain’t buying you another.”
“Does that mean you’ll take me?”
“I ain’t decided yet. What’s all this?” He waved at the piles of boxes.
“Most are the belongings of the others.” Her head sank and he did see a tear now.
Must have been hard watching them die. Cholera was a bad death. Stole a man’s dignity. Although you didn’t need to watch a death to have it break your heart. He thought of his family and his chest ached.
“I’m at a loss as to what to do with it.”
“Leave it on the steamer and then climb on after it.”
She drew herself up, rising only an inch so she just reached his shoulder. “I see. Well, if you will not help me, then kindly stand aside.”
His mind urged him to turn away and leave this foolish woman on the docks. Perhaps if he left she would give up. But she seemed stubborn and spoiled enough to try another guide. Then her fate would be on his conscience. He paused in a rare moment of indecision. His heart ached with sorrow.
“Please turn back,” he whispered.
“No.”
Their gazes locked and he read her determination. An idea came to him, a possibility that gave him a way to keep her safe and still avoid dragging this woman to the Black Hills. She had no notion what life on the trail would demand. Explaining did no good, so he’d let her have a taste. If he just took her out for a few days, she’d give up. He’d bet his bottom dollar, which he was dangerously close to, that she’d quit inside a week. She’d beg him to bring her back to St. Louis and he would be happy to comply.
He studied her beautiful face. The only question was could he keep his hands off her until she quit? He mustered his resolve.
“Then I will be your guide, Miss Hart.”
He nearly laughed at the suspicion reflecting in her eyes. “Why the turnabout, Mr. Price?”
“Like you said, I signed them papers. So, I’ll take you as far as you’d like, but I don’t expect traveling wild will be to your liking.”
“I disagree. I should say it will be the experience of a lifetime.”
He grinned imagining her riding all day in that saddle. “Surely it will be that.”
The clatter of nervous hooves brought Troy spinning around. A small white horse danced on the end of a silken lead line afraid to cross the planking. The handler faced the beast and tugged ineffectively on the rope.
“What kind of an idiot brought a white horse out here?”
Eleanor Hart stepped up beside him. “This idiot.”
Chapter 2
Miss Eleanor Hart faced the scout with chin raised, belying the quivering bowl of jelly that seemed to have replaced her stomach. Only years of rigorous training on deportment, coupled with the structural assistance of her corset, kept her upright before him. Her mother would be mortified to see all her elocution lessons represented so poorly. No man besides her stern, judgmental father had ever caused her to stammer and none had caused her breath to catch. But this one terrified and fascinated in equal measures.
He studied her horse now, giving Eleanor a moment to study him.
Troy Price. The man the dime novels described as compact and low to the ground. Wily as a fox—a noble representative of the dusky people of the forest. Her memory flashed to the black-and-white etchings of the famous Indian scout from her coveted collection of books. This man was not dusky or compact, leaving her unsure if she should feel disappointed or elated.
Low to the ground? He towered over her and was striking enough to stop traffic on Fourteenth Street. His skin was tanned the color of ground cinnamon, not red at all. His gray eyes surprised her greatly, as she expected deep brown. His hair was dark but showed a distinct wave. Didn’t all Indians have straight black hair?
She studied his profile searching for the hawkish nose of an Indian and found the elegant tapered one instead. He glanced her way and again her stomach fluttered. It must be nerves. She was just excited to finally meet the legend. That was surely why her heart pounded and her throat went dry.
The porter cleared his throat.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said and accepted the lead line from the man.
Scheherazade nickered and Eleanor rubbed the horse’s nose. Mud splattered her horse’s silver-white legs, but there was no helping it. Yesterday’s downpour had drenched the prairie. The violence of the jagged, tearing streaks of light and the explosive thunder here in the West frightened Eleanor nearly witless.
She glanced at the scout once more. When he stood so close a moment ago, she thought she’d faint from the sheer excitement of his presence. He made her all mixed-up inside.
Did he know how handsome he was?
He studied her horse.
“Looks like a damned pony.”
She sighed. It seemed this expedition was destined to be a fight from start to finish. She had thought nothing could prove more difficult than convincing her father. Even the pledge of his dear and trusted friend, Mr. Thornton, who had assured him that she would remain at the fort and do nothing more dangerous than lift a paintbrush, had failed to move him. Her scout’s refusal had come as a shock, as had his final acceptance, which had only come when she had threatened to seek another guide. What had changed his mind? Pride, likely. Men set a great store by their pride.
What would her father say if he knew she was now without escort, maid or lady’s companion?
She trembled to think of the row. Her father was a shouter, only in private of course, but his voice could shake the crystals on the chandeliers when he got on a tear. But he was not here to dictate. For the first time in her life, she was free.
Her father would arrive in September to collect his daughter and to trophy hunt. Until then, she made the decisions.
The trapper waited, making no attempt to assist her as she struggled in the infernal mud in her ruined shoes. This man urged her to turn back as well.
Having read all his adventures, she expected someone more gallant. According to Troy Price, Mountain Man, when defending Miss Massy Alstine and her daughters, he had shouted at the eleven attacking savages, “Shoot me if you dare, but you shall not sully these righteous women save through me.”
Wasn’t she a damsel in distress?
He did not speak at all as the man in the stories. Still, he was the most famous of all the mountain men. Dear Mr. Thornton, God rest him, set him in high regard, after she brought Price to his attention. She cast a sideways glance at her scout.
Clad entirely in buckskin, he wore a savage string of jagged fangs about his neck. Mud covered his leggings and spattered his back. His wide hat now shadowed his rugged features. At a time when most men wore beards, Mr. Price’s cheeks were strangely bare of even the bushy sideburns now so fashionable. Perhaps Indians did not grow beards.
She leaned in to study his cheek, detecting some s
tubble, and he stared at her, brows lowering over his gray eyes, before he stepped back.
Why did he so dislike white horses? They were all the rage. Her father had gone to considerable expense to send the Arabian mare along, much to her relief. The thought of riding a strange mount after so many years of training with Scheherazade had caused her considerable distress.
Price laid a large hand upon her horse’s neck and stroked. Eleanor’s stomach twitched in a most unexpected fashion and she could not seem to draw her gaze away from his dark fingers meshed in her mount’s white coat.
“What kind of horse is it?”
“She’s Arabian.”
He made no response and his expression remained unchanged.
She tried again. “From Egypt.”
Her hand came to rest upon the horse’s withers.
“She fast?”
“Oh, exceedingly.”
“Good, ’cause I imagine every Indian from here to the Pacific will be itching to steal that horse.”
She glanced at the finely bred mare. It never occurred to her that someone would try to forcibly take her horse. “I thought such a crime was punishable by death.”
“Who’s gonna hang ’em—you?” He shook his head in obvious disgust.
Clearly he had no confidence in either her or her mount. But she would prove him wrong on both counts.
“We will be alone out there. Do you understand? No law, no hotels. Just you and me and thousands of thieving Indians, bad-tempered buffalo and vicious bears. We have to defend ourselves, feed ourselves and protect what is ours, or I should say, I have to.”
Apprehension stirred ’round and ’round within her like a spoon in a teacup. She had never been anywhere in her life where help of all kinds was not within immediate call. She had maids and tutors, physicians and dressmakers. Could she do this?
She weighed her fears against her desire to be a part of John James Audubon’s new undertaking. To have her paintings included in The Quadrupeds of North America would be such a feather in her cap and the opportunity had already cost her dearly. She pushed aside thoughts of the promise she gave to her father to secure his consent. The chance to be recognized as a noteworthy painter was worth any price.
For the better part of a year she had prepared herself for this journey. She rode daily before departure and trained in fencing and marksmanship, not to mention the trips to the country where she stayed with only one maid in her father’s hunting lodge and learned to start a fire using a tinderbox.
She tied her mare to the metal handle of a large crate containing Mr. Tull’s bell jars for collecting live botanical specimens. When she lifted her gaze from her horse to Mr. Price, she found him aiming another frown in her direction. Did the man have any other expression?
“Still going?” he asked.
“I remain resolute.”
“That mean yes?”
She gave a quick nod.
“What is so all-fired important about drawing pictures of a few critters?”
Her hand pressed to her breast and she drew a gasp. “Have you not seen Audubon’s American Ornithological Biography?”
“Who?”
“James Audubon, the most important painter and naturalist of our generation.”
“Never met him.”
“Well, you shall. He is coming west next year. Through my father’s connection to his engraver, Mr. Robert Havell, I have secured Mr. Audubon’s agreement to consider my work for his next collection. After this venture, I will have the opportunity to present my best paintings. If they are top drawer, I feel certain I will win him over.”
“How does your pa know Havell?”
“He only owns the publishing house in which Mr. Havell is employed.”
“And this other feller Audubon needs Havell to make his book?”
“Havell is the finest engraver in London. He couldn’t do without him.”
“Then I’d say you could paint just about anything you like. No reason to leave Fort Union.”
Eleanor drew herself up in indignation. “I will have you know, Sir, that I will win this commission on my own merit.”
He laughed in her face. Her cheeks heated and she knew they flamed with her embarrassment. How dare he?
“You never done a thing in your whole life on merit, Miss Hart, and you and I both know it.”
Unshed tears stung her eyes, but she stood toe-to-toe with him, as pride and shame warred within her. It was obvious to even this stranger that without her family’s influence, she was nothing. Somehow she managed to force the words past the lump in her throat.
“What you say is quite true, Mr. Price. Every opportunity I have had was given to me by virtue of my birth and nothing is expected of me save that I produce an ‘heir and a spare.’ But I want to produce paintings and I want them judged on their own worth.”
He nodded his reluctant acceptance of this. How she admired him, this independent man who came and went as he wished. Free as a bird, he was. Did he appreciate the rareness of such a gift?
A wiry little porter dropped another crate before them.
“These all yours?” Vexation returned to his voice.
“They are.”
“You do realize there ain’t no steamers from here out? We have to haul this folderol across the prairie by mule.”
“These packages are not trifles, Mr. Price. I have carefully planned each aspect of this journey and included only the bare essentials.”
A second porter deposited a yellow hatbox before them and Price’s brow lifted as if to say, “Oh really?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “You can keep only what fits on two mules. I’ll have another for my gear.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Then we don’t go.”
“Mr. Price, I can buy us all the mules we need.” She extended her reticule and gave a shake. The distinctive sound of the coins jangled.
He hissed at her. “Put that away. Do you want someone to slit your throat for that bag?”
Her hand drew to her collar. “Would they?”
He flashed her a look of pure exasperation. “Men here are out of work. They’re desperate. Then you dance in here with bags of money, expensive gear, a damned white horse no bigger than a pony and no man to protect you. Why don’t you hang a sign round your neck that says, ‘Rob me’?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t make my job harder than it is.”
“I only wanted you to know that I can afford to buy additional mounts, hire servants and cooks.”
“With Daddy’s money.” His hard look pierced her like an arrow. “That what you call your own merit—hiring servants to cater to you?”
“Well, we have to have servants.”
He laughed.
“Look around you. Men here are trappers, hunters and traders. We don’t have servants.”
“What about a lady’s maid?”
“You’re the only lady here.”
Her stomach hardened to a little knot. Her next word came out in a whisper. “Only?”
He nodded his head.
“You beginning to see what you stepped into? This is a wild place and yet the most civilized spot you’ll find unless you turn around and head downriver.”
She fisted her hands. “No.”
“Well then. I can only guard, feed and care for five animals.”
She studied her things with a sinking feeling, knowing she would lose more than half the lot. “Are you certain this is necessary?”
“Only if you still want to go.”
“What about hiring other men?”
He glanced downriver. “The good ones are already gone. I don’t fancy the others, not if I want to sleep at night.”
She glanced about the riverbank with a different eye and saw men idle and predatory. One particularly filthy fellow grinned at her, showing rotting front teeth. He lifted his chin and he drew his index finger beneath his jaw like a blade. Then blew her a kiss. A fla
sh of terror struck her in the stomach like a blow. The whalebone in her corset suddenly seemed overly tight, as her breathing grew erratic. Spots danced before her and she knew she must sit.
Her fan waved as she tried vainly to recover herself.
“Great God, almighty. You fixing to faint?”
She could only nod as the ground tipped.
His fingers encircled her waist and he swore. “What the devil is this?”
Colors blurred and dimmed. She blinked her eyes and focused on the sky. In what seemed only an instant, she somehow came to lie upon her back. Wisps of clouds drifted along like boats on a blue river.
The scout loomed over her, blotting out the sun. She startled, then stared at his handsome face. Mr. Gallagher, one of the party members, had been an expert in physiognomy. What would he have said about this man’s temperament and character based on his physical features? His long wavy hair revealed nothing, but she longed to see if the strands felt as silky soft as they appeared. He had a well-built jaw, that told of strength of character.
“And a Roman nose means determination,” she said.
“You awake?” he asked.
Was his cheek smooth to the touch? She reached up and stroked his face. He jerked back as if burned. His gray eyes bored into hers and he dragged his hat from his head, waving it before her face. The fresh air smelled faintly of wood smoke and revived her to the point that she realized she lay flat on her back in the river mud with her head in his lap.
“My dress!” She lurched forward and saw her sleeves coated with the grime. Oh, and no maid to clean them. “I must find a laundress.”
He laughed. “You’re still out of your head.”
He gripped her arm until she regained her equilibrium. Then she noted that every button on the front of her gown was undone and her corset strings were sliced.
She gaped at her chemise dipping dangerously low over her bosom and then at him. He squatted before her with a look of puzzlement upon his face.
“You—you cad!”
