The Trapper

by Jenna Kernan

  Her head sank and he thought she’d cry again.

  “I just want to paint.”

  He drew her in. “Lena, you can tell me.”

  But she wouldn’t. Her lips parted only to draw another long ragged breath. She trembled before him. Her lost expression tore at his heart.

  He led her to his pallet and stripped off her outer robe, leaving only a thin sheath of fabric as the storm lit the clearing. Her garment clung transparent to her wet skin. If he lived to be as old as Methuselah, he’d never forget the sight of her lush curves. How could a woman be so beautiful?

  His gaze took in the hard nipples dark against the sheer veil, smooth, soft skin broken only by the hollow of her navel and a dark thatch of hair. She made a feeble effort to cover herself and he dragged his gaze away. He bundled her in his wolf-skin cloak and then a buffalo robe before laying her on his raised bed of green branches.

  Rain pattered on his head. He was a fool for this woman and he did not know how to stop it. The only clear thing was his desire. He was a lone wolf and she a soft hen. He trembled in the rain knowing it was fear that made him shiver. He would not grow attached to this woman. These feelings were just protectiveness and desire. He wished he believed it. Dread seeped in with the rain.

  He thought of Rachel. One mistake followed by another until she was dead and he, a thousand miles away when his family needed him. Troy absorbed the clenching pain that rocked him even after all these years.

  He would not travel that road a second time.

  Troy drew his gaze from Lena and pulled out another robe from his gear, then cut a second bed from willow branches. Finally he lay down a ways off, but not far enough to miss the sound of her teeth chattering. The noise went on a long while. He dreaded going over there to warm her. No man should have such temptation. At last her spasms ceased. He called to her and received no answer. He left his pallet to check and found her asleep, snug as a mole in her burrow while he stood in the pouring rain. Water ran off his hat and streamed down the thick brown fur of the buffalo robe sheathing her. Reluctantly, he returned to his solitary bed.

  Chapter 7

  Without question, last night had been the most miserable of her life. Eleanor opened her eyes to the gray dawn and saw that the rain still fell in sheets. A shudder shook her shoulders as she sank farther into the soft bedding. The musty odor of wet fur enveloped her but at least she was dry. She sighed, thinking she would stay in bed until the rain stopped.

  Last night’s strange turn of events fell back into her awareness with the droplets of rain.

  She huddled in the downpour and wondered about Troy. Yesterday he’d told her that he had come west because of a white woman. She was fairly bursting with curiosity. But here she had no servants or connections to ply such information. He was so blunt he would likely just tell her if she asked, but some part of her feared his answer.

  She felt certain that his determination to turn her homeward stemmed from his experience with this woman. And if it affected her, she felt justified in learning more.

  He’d also said he had no family. How sad. She brought her knees up to her chest and considered the injustice he had suffered. He stood alone now in the world. How frightening. What would her life be like without her parents? There would be advantages. The pressure to marry would cease. But disadvantages, too. She loved her mother and someday wished to be just like her. Her father was very stern and austere, but he loved her in his gruff fashion and tried to do what was best for her.

  Her mother was determined Eleanor marry English nobility, thus gaining a title for her daughter. It was the only coup left to a woman who was already a queen by every standard but one. Yes, her daughter would be Lady Eleanor if it killed her. But the thought of leaving all she knew frightened Eleanor.

  Something pushed at her bottom. She cried out.

  “Oh, so you are awake.”

  She turned to see Troy towering over her, rain falling off his oilskin coat and dribbling down the fringe. Now that she had met him, she found him more intriguing than the character in the novels she had devoured. He fascinated her. This man had unexpected depth and unfathomable sorrow.

  She rallied. “Yes. Terrible weather, isn’t it?”

  “Dawn was a hour ago. You want to stay here all day?”

  She did, but could see from his expression that he did not.

  Eleanor sighed. She’d come here to paint, but that would be impossible in this abysmal weather.

  “What do you suggest?” She tried to sit up, but found he had wrapped her as tight as Cleopatra in her rug.

  “I suggest moving before the stream floods us out.”

  She glanced in the direction he indicated and saw her tent under two feet of muddy water held from the current by one stubborn tent spike. The white canvas rose and fell like a large dirty fish.

  “Drat.” She struggled to extract herself from the hide, succeeding in clearing her torso before remembering she wore only her thin gown. Cold rain pelted her.

  He rolled his eyes and went to his pack, returning with a buckskin cape, which he fastened about her neck with a bone toggle. Then he handed her a brown strip of leather.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Jerky.”

  She held the leather that now grew sticky in the rain.

  “What is its function?”

  “Function?” He laughed. “You eat it.”

  She sniffed, and then nibbled. The flavor reminded her of smoked meat. “Beef?”

  “Elk,” he corrected. “Eat up and get dressed. I’ll pack.”

  “Where are we bound for today?”

  “Just upriver. We’ll make what progress we can and see if we can’t find you some buffalo. Now get a move on.”

  She removed her ruined slippers and threw them in the brushes. Then she sat on a sodden stump and drew on her stockings, finding the task difficult over wet legs. The rest of her ministrations went no better. By the time she finished, all her petticoats and her rose-colored velvet riding habit were wet. She drew on a heavy woolen cloak. That, at least, seemed to repel the water.

  Price retrieved his cape and then left Eleanor to saddle her mount. Water seeped through the seams of her new boots and mud splattered her skirts as she lifted her foot high up into the stirrup and mounted onto the saddle, which was sticky with moisture. A day of firsts, she thought. First dressing out of doors in the rain and then mounting unassisted. She glowed with the sense of accomplishment until a trickle of rain crept beneath her cloak and slithered down her back.

  “Drat.”

  This was not going at all according to plan.

  The dismal rain continued throughout the tedious morning. There were no buildings, no caves, no cover of any sort in which to seek reprieve from the incessant downpour. It was then that Eleanor realized she had never ridden in such a deluge. Occasionally, she sallied forth in a mist or a light shower, but never this unending torrent.

  She had little to do but hold the reins and keep her head down as water poured from her ruined hat and trickled through her hair. Mud sucked at her horse’s hooves as they slogged along. Eleanor decided the rain had one advantage.

  Last night it caused Troy to hold her once again and gave her leave to allow the familiarity. She admitted to herself that she enjoyed that part quite a lot. In the past when a man had pulled her into an embrace she felt only mildly peptic. With Troy the emotions were different. When he’d opened that robe and taken her in his arms, it stirred the strangest sensations, as if she were suddenly home. Wasn’t that ridiculous. Her brain must have been numb. But still, nothing had ever felt so right. He comforted and protected her with his body. That was something she had never experienced and found that, despite her assurance to oblige social conventions, she wanted it again.

  “Whoa,” called Price. He glanced back at her with his piercing dark eyes. “Move up the bank, river’s cresting.”

  The water swelled to a frightening proportion, dragging trees from the ba
nk and carrying them swiftly along. She followed him to higher ground and they continued on.

  Eventually her outerwear failed to keep up with the assault and soaked through. She had heard that wool maintained its warming properties even when wet. As her teeth chattered together like angry squirrels, she decided that wool did not suit the American West.

  More surprising than the abominable weather was the realization that she preferred it to what awaited her at home. With sickening dread she recalled her promise and determined to avoid payment for as long as possible.

  She endured the driving rain well into the gray morning, but faced with the loss of feeling in her fingers and now her toes, she feared for her health. Could one get frostbite without the frost?

  In that moment she decided that true happiness can only be pursued if one has dry, warm feet.

  “Mr. Price?”

  He pulled his gelding to a halt and waited. She expected him to turn, but when he did not she urged her mount along beside his. He sat erect wrapped in a buffalo robe. Water streamed down the furry hide. His broad hat kept his head and hair quite dry. She understood now why he had scoffed at her hats. They were quite the thing in NewYork, but in a rainstorm they were useless. All her clothing was. Her garments’ purpose was to adorn and show her to her best advantage, while proving to all that she kept up with the latest fashion. She studied his attire finding it to be without adornment and existing solely for the enviable and practical purpose of keeping the wearer dry.

  “Sorry to disturb you.”

  He turned his keen eyes on her now, lifting an eyebrow in question. She knew in that instant what he expected. He thought she was ready to quit, to beg him to return her to safety and comfort. He still did not understand how vitally she needed this chance to prove herself. Seeing Audubon’s book of watercolors began this yearning in her soul and it would not be doused by a little water.

  She straightened, allowing rain to drizzle down her spine and resolved not to speak a word of her discomfort. If he required proof of her determination, she would provide it by not giving him the satisfaction of a complaint. “I wondered if I might have another piece of dried elk to ease my hunger.”

  His frown deepened. “You want to eat?”

  “No need to stop our progress.”

  His look of amazement did her proud. She accepted the offered elk and returned to the end of the muddy line of mules. As she gnawed away at the leathery meal, the warmth that filled her had nothing to do with the day.

  If he could stand it, she could.

  The rain tapered off to a drizzle and then quit all together by midday. Troy watched the steam rise off his horse’s withers, knowing his little princess was weary and wet. A glance back showed her nearly asleep in the saddle, her skirts hanging about her in flattened masses that reminded him of her ruined tent.

  Done in.

  But still she had not quit. Doubt crept into his mind and for the first time he considered that she might be a whole lot tougher than she looked.

  No, she had to turn back. He just needed to be patient. Why suffer the discomforts of trail living when you had a mansion or two waiting for you at home? He glanced at the fast moving clouds. Too bad the rain had let up so quick.

  He picked a spot to camp on the edge of the grove of willows, far back from the dangerous torrent the Yellowstone had become. Eleanor had no tent this evening and her blankets were still wet. He would give her the buffalo robe again.

  He watched the herd of forty antelope graze some hundred yards off, lifted his gun and took aim. The shot dropped one animal. The rifle blast sent the others racing over the knoll and out of sight. He headed toward the downed antelope.

  “You got one!” she said.

  He glanced up to see her clapping her hands. Where were her gloves? It was then he noticed her fingers. They were an unnatural yellowish-white, like wax.

  Troy slid off the horse and reached for her hand. It was like holding a block of ice.

  “You’re frostbit.” The accusation was clear in his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me you were cold?”

  She made no answer, only retrieved her hand and lifted her chin in a haughty posture that he disliked intensely.

  “I did not wish to hinder you.”

  “It’s my job to keep you safe. If you’re hurt or cold you gotta tell me.”

  “Very well then, I lost feeling in my feet about midmorning.”

  He threw his hat on the ground in frustration and dragged her off her mare. Obviously she was too stubborn to know when to say when. Before she could protest, he had her seated on the grass with her heel in his hand. She shouted when he sliced the leather cording, but he persisted until he had her out of the overly tight riding boots. He gawked at her silk stocking.

  “What kind of thing is that to wear?” he chided. “Where’s your woolens?”

  “It is July. I did not know they would be necessary.”

  He lifted her skirts. What ensued was a quick wrestling match, in which Lena tried to throw down her sodden skirts as he threw them up. Finally he grabbed both her wrists in one hand and used the other to expose her legs. With nimble fingers he drew away the pink ribbon holding the stockings above each knee.

  “Mr. Price, this behavior is unacceptable.” Her voice squeaked. “I have explained that you cannot cut off any more of my clothing.”

  “Hush up.” He pulled off a silk stocking, then the other before releasing her.

  She lunged for the layers of wet fabric and threw them back over her lovely legs. He held her heel in his palm and studied the toes, all white and yellow, but could be worse.

  He drew up his long shirt and placed the soles of her feet upon his belly, grimacing at the contact.

  “Mr. Price. Please release me.” She rolled from side to side, bending her knees in a useless attempt to gain her freedom.

  “Now you listen here, frostbite is serious business. This gets much worse and I’ll have to cut off a toe or two.”

  She stilled and her blue, wolf eyes went wide.

  He nodded.

  “I’m quite certain this is improper,” she grumbled.

  “I don’t give a tinker’s damn.”

  “Really, Mr. Price, if you just allow me to get up. I’m certain…”

  “Who’s gonna care?” He gestured with his free hand. “Even the antelope are gone. Nobody can see you, so hush up.”

  She stilled, looking very uncomfortable.

  “Feel anything yet?”

  “Not in my toes. But your belly is quite warm.”

  He smiled and rubbed the buckskin over her feet. “Takes a few minutes to bring the blood back.”

  “They hurt now,” she said and began to wiggle again.

  “Quit.”

  She stilled.

  “Give me your hands.”

  She did, extending one as if he offered to dance with her, but retained the other, bracing herself upright on her elbow.

  He pointed. “That one, too.”

  She shook her head, so he made a grab, capturing her wrist. She fell to her back and he brought her hands to his mouth, breathing heavily upon her white knuckles. Her eyebrows lifted, but she said nothing as he loomed over her. The posture they now assumed, intimate as two lovers, brought his mind back to thoughts of their kiss. He’d only meant to steal a kiss and he’d never expected to unleash the torrent of passion this prim little woman concealed. He stared at her lips now, remembering. Why had he not suspected? She showed such passion in her painting, he should have seen that her fire was not contained to her work. Perhaps he had seen and chose to ignore the signs.

  He breathed hot air upon her knuckles again.

  “I can feel my toes now,” she offered.

  He slid her feet free and glanced down. The yellow cast had disappeared. He tucked them between his thighs and lowered her hands to his stomach. After a few minutes he told her to put her hands under her armpits and took her feet back onto his stomach. She sat before him with arms folded.<
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  “Can you get your hands on your own belly?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “You still wearing that corset?”

  “Of course.”

  “Damn foolish contraption. You’d be better off throwing it in the river.”

  “All proper women wear them.”

  He snorted, then scoffed. “All proper women.”

  “Of course.”

  She moved her toes and his stomach twitched.

  “You got no notion of what a proper woman is.”

  She stiffened and tried to pull away. He held her in place with one hand. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A proper woman. You think because you dress fancy and speak a certain way that makes you proper? Ever think for just one minute that a woman in a cotton skirt or a buckskin dress might have a whole better grasp on what being a woman really is?”

  She lowered her eyes.

  “Doesn’t take no gewgaws to be proper and it damn sure doesn’t take a cage made of whalebone. My mother never even wore shoes half the year. You telling me she weren’t proper?”

  When she lifted her gaze, her eyes looked huge.

  “I never meant to insult your family.”

  He could see she did not. “All right then.”

  “Judging from her son, I would say your mother was magnificent.”

  That stopped him. He wondered if she was pulling his leg, but her expression looked deadly serious.

  “All I’m saying is there is more than one way to go about things. Doesn’t make one of them wrong.”

  “Granted.”

  He let the matter drop. “You need dry clothes and a fire.”

  “Lovely.” She stilled. “I think I am recovered.” She tried to draw back.

  “Wait.”

  She did. They sat on the grass, with the animals grazing and the antelope lying still beside them as he examined her little toe, still a blotchy white, and then placed her feet upon his belly once more.

  “Is this a common cure for frostbite?” she asked.

  “My first thought was to put your hands and feet in the belly of that antelope.”