by Jenna Kernan
Lena.
His body stirred at the memory of her lips pressed to his. He’d never shared a kiss like that one—scorching, that’s what it was.
Troy gathered his resolve and tugged down his hat before making his way to the office, where he made arrangements to have anything left behind in Lena’s room stored until their return. Hopefully that would not be very long. Until departure, he thought it best to keep clear of her.
Tomorrow that would not be possible.
It took the boy seven trips to tote all her gear to the stables. He looked at the immense pile, pitying the poor mules. If he handled their departure correctly, none of them would have to bear it long.
This morning he’d been so sure he could convince her to stay put, he bet Black Feather a pouch of tobacco on the matter. Now he was no longer sure of anything.
Troy culled her belongings once more, then headed outside the fort walls to sleep with Black Feather and his family. The man’s wife did wonders with mule deer.
He rose before dawn, spending nearly an hour tying her art supplies, clothing and shoes onto two overtaxed mules. Then he waited for her grand appearance, expecting her to be late, which she was, but not by much. The sun just streaked the sky orange when her door cracked open.
Excitement rang in her voice. “Lovely morning for traveling, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Price?”
He scowled, keeping his focus on a final knot. The less he looked at Lena the better.
“Fair enough.” He glanced up and his jaw dropped. She wore a silky dress the exact coppery color of her hair. The front of her coat showed more buttons than he’d ever seen on one garment in his life. The vest was so tight it carved into her torso like a hot knife through butter. What kept her eyeballs from bulging, he couldn’t say.
“You’re gonna faint in that.”
Her laughter made his viscera twitch. Why did the sound twist up his insides like this? He never felt so jumpy around a female. It was the kiss. He couldn’t keep his gaze from her mouth and that mole sheltered just below.
Her cheeks glowed pink and her breathing came sharp and quick. Was it excitement over their departure or remembrance of their kiss that stirred her?
She seemed inclined not to look at him this morning, focusing instead on the sky and the mules. That was her way of dealing with it, then. Pretend it hadn’t happened.
But it had.
He cursed himself again as a fool.
His gaze followed the movement of the tasseled end of the stiff wisp of leather she held, assuming the thing to be a tiny whip. As she requested by way of the boy, he had not saddled her horse. Apparently this was the one way she intended to be useful. He tied off his team and followed her to the livery. There she attached the girth beneath her jittery little mare. He noticed that Lena’s cocked hat held a plumed feather and some kind of gauzy fabric bunched about the brim.
He stepped closer and the horse’s nostril’s twitched as she sidestepped, throwing her head.
“She is unaccustomed to you as yet,” Lena said by way of apology.
“How is she with wolves?”
Lena’s hands stilled upon the stirrup. “Wolves?”
His unblinking stare met her startled gaze, praying that just this once, she’d show some sense and drag that saddle off her horse’s back.
“Lots of dangers outside these walls,” he said.
She stared through the stable doors toward the yard.
“Alas, that is where the opportunities are to be found as well.” She lowered the stirrups.
His cheek twitched at her stubborn insistence to set out. He didn’t know if he should admire her or wring her neck. Instead he tried reason.
“You need a horse that’s steady and surefooted, not one that will toss you if it gets a whiff of trouble.”
“Scheherazade is extremely fleet of foot.”
“Not much help if you are lying in a ditch.”
She ignored this and tightened the girth without comment. Then she opened her tack box. His eyes widened as he saw three bridles, each more ridiculous than the next. Green, red and a god-awful pink. Her hand shot to the pink like a streak of lightning and he heard a tinkling sound.
“What’s that?” he asked, glancing around until his gaze settled on a series of tassels all along the reins. He poked one. “It jingles.”
“Chimes. Isn’t it lovely?”
He rubbed his forehead. Then without a word drew his knife and cleanly sliced off the bells hidden within each tassel. Her mouth gaped and she pressed a gloved hand to her heart. He lifted her other hand and dropped the things into her palm. It was a mistake. The action brought him within range of the scent of roses once more. His nostrils flared as he stepped back. He could not remember what he was doing until she dropped her gaze to her palm and he saw the bells.
“Stuff those in a box.”
“That bridle is Arabic and quite expensive.” Her chiding tone needled him.
“So is your scalp. That horse will draw enough notice without advertising her for miles.”
Her shoulders lifted as if protecting herself from imaginary attack. Would she call a halt before even mounting up? He watched her eyes shift from side to side as she considered a moment and then tucked the bells in a saddlebag. He kicked the dirt.
She glanced about the dim livery barn.
“Where is the mounting block?” she asked.
“There ain’t one. I guess they figure if you can’t mount up solo, you’re too damned drunk to leave.”
She did not smile at his attempt at humor, but instead leveled him with a reproachful stare. “You are not a drunkard, are you, Mr. Price?”
“Folks call me Troy and I don’t drink.”
They faced off until he got uncomfortable in his skin again. It was those damn blue eyes, reminded him of a wolf. She might have felt the same, for she fidgeted with the lace at her collar. Was she remembering how it felt to be held in his arms?
“Hadn’t we best depart?”
“Reckon so.”
He extended his locked palms and she stared blankly for a moment and then nodded.
“Oh, I see. Thank you.”
Her foot did not fill his hands. As she lifted her knee, he took the opportunity to gander at her trim ankle. Her fine leather boots, carefully polished and handsomely laced, looked like they’d never seen a day’s use.
She rose smoothly onto the horned saddle that smelled of linseed oil and creaked as she settled. He waited for her to drop off, but she managed to gain her seat and adjust her skirts. Her weight left his hands and he slid her foot into the single stirrup, his fingers confirming his suspicion. The sole of the boot was smooth as a buffalo horn. New boots, dress, saddle and bridle—all chosen for her new little adventure. He cautioned himself against involvement with a woman who owned nothing until it wore out. Did she cast off men as quickly as slippers?
He glanced up to see her perched on one side of the saddle as if this were perfectly natural. She smiled, lifting that damned adorable mole. He stared.
“Well?” she asked.
He walked back to his team, dogged by the scent of roses and oiled leather.
As they rode through the gate, he spotted Black Feather standing in the shadow of the fort wall, his expression placid, but Troy saw the victorious glint in his friend’s eye and scowled.
Here to collect, he thought and reached in his bag, tossing a full pouch of tobacco to his friend, who caught it with ease, then nodded farewell.
Troy signed that he’d see him by supper. The warrior’s eyebrows lifted in doubt.
When he glanced back, he saw Lena clear the fort entrance, riding stiff as a corpse, with her chin erect. He wondered what a trot would do to her, but waited until they were on the soft, sandy bank of the river to find out. Once there, he kicked his mount and the team broke into a rough trot. He listened but did not hear her cry out or fall.A glance back showed her bobbing up and down like a cork in water. Each time the horse bounced it seemed t
o send her a few inches out of the saddle. He slowed.
“What the hell is that?”
“What?”
“That bobbing thing?”
“It is called posting. It helps absorb the shock of this gait.”
He glanced around. “What gate?”
She sighed. “The trot. It is one of the gaits—walk, trot, canter, gallop.”
He shook his head in bewilderment. All he knew for certain was that she didn’t fall off as expected. He headed for a thick grove of cottonwood. Before he even had the train past the first bush, the insects rose to meet them. His horse’s ears began to flick back and forth as the flies landed. The thick tail swished far enough forward to lash his legs. Behind him he heard Lena cry out. He turned to see her waving her hand before her face as deerflies attacked from all sides. Her horse’s skin twitched and she threw her head.
“Good heavens, we are under attack,” Lena said.
“Oh, don’t worry. Them little fellas won’t draw much blood.”
“Blood!”
Her cry brought a smile to his lips. He faced forward, so as not to reveal the hope blooming inside him.
“We’ll only be in the trees a few hours.”
“Hours!”
He turned to see her horse rear up. His heart stopped in his chest as he imagined the stupid little mare falling over backward on Lena. Memories of his friend, Reed Palmer, surfaced like wood on water. His horse had crushed his pelvis and there was little anyone could do.
Troy’s belly filled with ice.
Somehow she kept her seat, gathering up the reins and leaning stiffly forward as the horse lashed out uselessly with her front legs. Once all four feet hit the ground, Lena used the tassel on the end of her whip to keep the flies off her mare’s ears. Then she clutched the netting on her hat and lowered it around herself like a shroud.
“That should help. Lead on, Mr. Price.”
Troy rubbed his neck trying not to admit his admiration at her pluck. They took an hour to clear the cottonwood and regain the sandy bank of the river with no complaint from behind him. The woman must have thick skin. Beside the Missouri once more, he saw that she did not. Leather riding gloves the color of her coat protected her hands, the netting, her face and neck, and the skirt her legs.
When he realized he had many more bites than she, his mood darkened. He glanced at the sky seeing the first low clouds sweeping in from the south and smiled.
“Oh, look!”
He turned to see her staring at a jackrabbit crouching low beside a fallen log.
“What about it?” asked Troy.
“Can you shoot it?”
“You got a hankering for roast rabbit?”
“I want to paint it.”
“Now?”
She arched her brow. “That is why I am here, Mr. Price.”
“Troy,” he reminded.
She lifted a palm and motioned at the rabbit.
“I don’t think you want me to shoot it.”
“But I do.”
Obviously the little princess was unaccustomed to having her orders questioned. He shrugged, drew his fifty-caliber rifle and took aim.
“Not in the head,” she directed.
The shot tore the rabbit in two pieces. His rifle was always loaded for grizzly and did not transfer well to small game.
“Oh, you’ve ruined it.”
He dismounted. “Taste just as good.”
“I need my specimens intact.”
“Then next time we better snare it.”
“If you thought so then why did you not say?”
He retrieved the rabbit, pausing before her to gaze at her haughty face while trying to ignore the mole that seemed to taunt him. “’Cause you were too damned busy telling me my business.”
She had the decency to look remorseful. Her expression caused an uncomfortable squeezing around his heart. He scowled at how easily she influenced him.
“I am sorry, Mr. Price. In the future, I will endeavor to rely on your experience.”
“That’s what you pay me for.”
“Point taken.”
Did she always have to have the last word? Likely they wouldn’t be together long enough for him to find out. Troy gutted the two halves of the hare, wrapped what was left in buckskin to keep off the flies and tied the bundle on the lead mule.
Then they rode along the river, close enough for the sand fleas to bite. Ignoring the constant whine of mosquitoes, he tied a bit of cloth over his nose and mouth to deter the biting insects. A glance back showed Lena swatting and waving her hand before her face. Obviously the netting did not repel these smaller nuisances. He’d seen mosquitoes drive a bull moose crazy until it ran headfirst into a lodge pole pine and knocked itself cold. Let’s see how this woman responded to the same tiny torture.
A herd of antelope tempted him for dinner, but he stubbornly resisted, determined to keep camp as uncomfortable as possible. He’d begin by cooking his small, flea-bitten rabbit halves for supper. The gentle breeze turned cold, driving off the insects for the moment and signaling the approaching storm.
He called a halt long before dark, figuring to allow her plenty of time to hang herself.
He heard her groan as she slid from her fancy saddle. The sound was music to his ears. Judging from her stiff-legged walk, he’d say she wasn’t accustomed to a day in the saddle. One night on the ground ought to put a kink in her spine and dampen that dogged determination he found so irritating and intriguing.
“Stiff?” he asked.
“I just need to stretch a bit.”
“Life out here is sure uncomfortable. Not like you’re used to.”
She glared. “I should not presume to know to what I am accustomed.”
“Might be more comfortable at the fort.”
She sniffed. “But that’s miles behind us.”
“Actually, I took us in kind of a circle. It’s only just over that rise. Three miles, four tops.”
Her mouth dropped open as an expression of fire shot from narrowing eyes.
Chapter 6
“You mean to say that we’ve ridden through swamp and bug-infested forests all day to cover a distance of only three miles?”
He liked her color now. Her lips reddened and her cheeks relayed her emotion by changing to a tempting pink. What he didn’t like was her tone.
“Thought you’d quit by now.”
She gripped her hands into fists and thrust them to her hips. “How disappointing for you to have misjudged me.”
“Just keep in mind, if you want to head back, it ain’t far.”
She moved closer and he noted the pulsing vessels at her neck. His gut twisted in awareness of her as he resisted the urge to draw her in. Instead he retreated a step.
“I trust that I have convinced you of the seriousness of my intent and that tomorrow we shall continue in a straight line up the Yellowstone.”
He was about to argue, but decided he’d best cool her temper, before he did something foolish like kiss her.
“Anything you say, Princess.”
He turned his back on her and gathered wood for a fire. When he glanced over his shoulder, he discovered she had moved off a hundred yards. He unloaded the mules, lifting down package after package of her indispensable gear. When he went to skin the rabbit he found her sketching the damn thing. He smiled as he saw how she arranged it behind a branch to disguise the fact that her subject lay in two pieces. He stared at the rabbit portrait. Unlike the original, whose tongue lolled and showed dried blood at the mouth, the rabbit image looked relatively clean, if slightly longer than typical. She could not hide the lifelessness of the dead eyes.
“You still riled?” he asked.
“No. But no repeats of this. I did not come here to survive your idea of some trial by fire, and you are paid to do my bidding.”
That raised all sorts of possibilities in his mind, but he only nodded, keeping his expression serious. “Yes, ma’am.”
She tu
rned the page in his direction. “What do you think?”
“Looks just like a dead rabbit to me.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I know. I can’t seem to animate it.”
Troy’s brow rose. “Nothing on God’s green earth will animate that.”
He grabbed the two pieces and thrust his skinning knife beneath the hide.
Lena winced and then turned her attention to her work. “Audubon often uses dead animals. He props them up with wire and wood, posing them in natural positions. I can’t understand how he makes them appear alive. I am afraid I do not have the imagination to render what I cannot see.”
“But you sure can draw what you do see. Don’t fuss, we’ll catch something tomorrow,” he assured and then inwardly groaned. Why did he feel compelled to bolster her? Now, as her spirits flagged, was the time to drive her home. He knew the safest thing for this lady was to head back to her New York parlor before they ran into real trouble.
He spiked the two halves of the rabbit and set them to roast. From the gleam in Lena’s eyes as she watched the meat sizzle and drip, he’d say she had worked up an appetite.
Intentionally, he did not stop for lunch, nor offer her any jerky during the hot afternoon. Now they had but one scrawny rabbit, when he knew he could put down that many times over.
After a few silent minutes she rose. “You had best set up my tent now.”
He frowned. “You got me confused with one of your servants.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Thought you wanted your independence? That means doing for yourself. Out here a person makes their own bed then lies in it.”
Her eyes rounded in shock. He’d rendered her speechless. She stiffened her shoulders and marched toward her gear.
He reserved his smile until her back was turned. For the next hour he watched her wrestle with a tube of canvas, rope and a series of wooden stakes. She gave him an occasional hopeful glance, but he feigned occupancy at sewing a torn moccasin.
With the stakes set, she took up a series of interlocking rods. With all the cottonwood about them, she chose instead to construct this contraption of two poles and a sagging rope, threaded through the canvas sack to form the saddest looking burrow he’d ever seen.
