by Jenna Kernan
“Did you tell her father?”
He snorted. “No.”
He let her secret die with his child. Instead of the truth, her parents were left with only unanswered questions. He thought that was worse.
She met his stare and inched closer. Her hand lifted to stroke his face.
He leaned away, narrowly avoiding her hand brushing his cheek. “No, Lena.”
“I only meant to comfort you.”
“You cannot bring me comfort, only sorrow.”
Her eyes widened as if she reached some understanding.
“But you are my guide. It is a completely different situation.”
The insistence in her voice filled his belly with a creeping disquiet.
“Is it?”
“Certainly.”
He cast her a look of doubt and she fumbled with the lacing of her corset, drawing the strings closed.
“Is that why you washed my hair?”
Her gaze dropped and her cheeks glowed. She could not meet his eyes.
“You may deny what is happening between us. I cannot.”
“Just this once, I wish you would not speak your mind.”
He gazed down at Lena as regret filled him like a cistern after a rain. The first time he saw her, he could not look away. Through her paintings he glimpsed her passion. At the fort, he kissed her only to prove to himself that she felt nothing for him, that her passion was only for her work. But it was not true. Each day this connection between them strengthened, putting them both in danger.
“I have given you good reasons to go home. Now I add one more—this force between us grows stronger.”
She clutched at her torn blouse and lifted her chin in defiance, but she did not deny his words. His hand still burned from the touch of her skin. He made a fist to drive away the longing, fighting against the need to touch her once more as he waited for her words.
She stiffened her spine and stood as if she was not drenched to the bone. Her hair lay in a sodden mass and water leaked beside her ears to trickle down her long neck and into the ruined collar of her blouse. Still she stood like a princess.
“You raise valid concerns, Mr. Price.”
His eyebrow quirked.
“I can assure you that you need have no more worry over advances on my part. I quite understand the importance of decorum.”
“Sometimes it is impossible to keep a wildcat in a bag.”
She puzzled over this as a chill rolled up her spine. She could not suppress a shiver. Her wet clothing weighed heavily upon her and she longed to step into the warmth and comfort of his arms. She ached inside to realize she could not—ever again.
Up until this moment she allowed herself to believe the excuses disguising her desire. She needed comfort or protection or warmth. How right he was about their attraction. At first she thought him simply intriguing. Now she made up excuses to touch him. But no more. Now she must be strong and do what she knew was right.
Eleanor wrapped her arms about herself as her teeth began to chatter. When she glanced up she saw his pained expression, as if it hurt him not to step forward and hold her. They were both caught in this trap.
Her family would feel exactly the same as Rachel’s. How terrible to have to endure the scorn of society and not just upon one’s self. Such a selfish act would shame the woman’s entire family. How tragic to have to choose between one’s family and one’s heart. She understood this woman’s choice.
It was unfair to them both to prolong their misery. She could finish her painting as quickly as possible and then leave him.
Their gaze locked. What would it be like to be free to choose this wonder of a man?
Her stomach flashed hot and then cold. Sensations danced across her skin like feathers on the wind.
“If wishes were horses then beggars would ride,” she said.
“What?”
She glanced out at the dirty water. “I came within a hair’s breath of dying. I have a second chance and I shall use it to make great paintings. But right now, I am cold.”
She had never been soaked so often in her life. She looked about and found the horses grazing upstream on the far bank.
“Oh, no.” She tried to walk, but her sodden skirts dragged upon her and she staggered. Troy caught her elbow before she stumbled. As soon as she regained her balance, he moved away. The heat of his touch remained.
She stared out to the opposite shore. The distance was not far, but now she knew the force of the water and trembled.
“Current’s powerful,” he said.
“How will we manage?”
“Swim.”
She gasped. “Oh, no. I can’t.”
“I can. I’ll swim over and get my horse. Then we’ll cross together.”
Her knees failed her and she sank to the grass. After nearly dying in that water, she was not anxious to venture out once more.
He grasped her wrist and dragged her to her feet. “Come on, it’s near dark.”
She glanced at the sky and noted the sun’s low angle. Soon the night would catch them on this side of the swollen stream. Wolves might attack their horses or them. She glanced nervously about. Time bore heavily.
She swallowed but felt no braver. “I cannot cross again.”
He gave her a hard look and she felt cowardly and weak.
“Then I’ll get the horses and we’ll head back to Fort Union.”
She grasped his arm to halt him. Beneath her fingers muscles bulged as he paused. Tension crackled between them at the contact.
“No.” She stood torn between her desires and her terror. “I’m afraid.”
He nodded. “Understandable, but we still gotta go one way or the other.”
He was right. She knew it, but when she tried to walk, her knees turned to water. The sodden garments stuck and she shivered. Everything she owned was on the far bank. She took a step and water squished from her boot. He led the way to a place above their destination and stopped to face her, his expression somber.
“So which is it Lena, east or west?”
She pushed the mass of wet hair back from her forehead and gazed at the far shore. Despite her dousing, she discovered that the flame of determination was not yet extinguished.
He waited, still as stone.
She stared at the frothing enemy the stream had become, just one more obstacle between her and her goal. Her gaze lifted to the horizon.
“West.”
He said nothing, but nodded as if he expected her to continue, then waded in. Without warning, he dived into the stream.
A cry escaped her at his sudden disappearance into the murky depths. What if he drowned? To her shame, her first thought was of being alone on this shore. She had not even a hatpin for protection. He surfaced at midstream, his arms pulling in strong relaxed strokes that filled her with envy. Still the current dragged him far downstream. She understood, now, why he’d begun so far from his destination and admired how he accurately judged the speed and distance. When he stood on the far bank, relief nearly buckled her knees.
She found herself hopping up and down waving her arms over her head in a most undignified manner. The man reduced her to the most bizarre behavior.
He waved back and then grabbed his horse’s reins.
Her breath caught again as he mounted up and forded for the second time. His horse thrashed his front legs at the water, bringing his master safely to shore.
Troy leaned from the saddle, extending his hand. Her legs would not work, but she managed to lift an arm. He grasped her wrist and pulled her up before him, then turned the horse back to the water. She threw her arms about Troy’s neck, latching on for dear life. His wet buckskin stuck to her cheek as she closed her eyes. Beneath her, the big horse braced against the surge. At last his mount’s withers rose as he lunged up the steep bank.
Troy wheeled them past the mules and herded Scheherazade back to the others.
Then he lowered Eleanor to the ground and dismounted beside her.
“Back on dry ground, Princess.”
She sighed. “I think I prefer Lena.”
He cast his gaze over her and she cautioned herself to stillness despite the disquiet his consideration caused. Here she stood, dripping wet and still, somehow, her body burned with heat. His warning returned. This time she fought the attraction, refusing to approach him.
“You gotta get out of those duds.”
“Yes, I must.”
Her teeth chattered as she retrieved clothing from a bundle on the third mule. Glancing about, she found the grass spread out in all directions.
Eleanor crouched behind the animal to peel off her sodden garments until she stood in only her transparent shift, silk stockings and boots. At this moment she glanced over the mule’s hindquarters to find Troy standing in a dry pair of buckskin breeches and nothing else. Concern over her state of undress vanished with her modesty as she rose upon her toes to feast upon his lean torso and sculpted muscle. Her breath caught as his gaze locked to hers. The hunger in those smoky eyes overwhelmed. Did her body have the same startling effect upon him?
Was his throat too dry for words?
When, at last, he spoke, his voice seemed deep and husky as if from disuse. “Finish up.”
He glanced away, retrieving a pair of ornately beaded moccasins and drawing them on. It was then she remembered she stood next to naked on a prairie with nothing but a horse between herself and the gaze of a man. This is what he cautioned against. This invisible thread that drew her to him and made her forget all her good breeding. He was right to be wary. She must redouble her guard against this dangerous desire.
His warning rose in her mind with a nagging doubt. What if she could not control this longing he raised?
Possibilities flashed in her mind, each one ending in disaster. Had his lost love also felt this unendurable desire until she could no longer resist him? Eleanor feared falling to such ruin. She imagined the horror in her mother’s face and her father’s censure.
She shivered and then dragged off the last wet layer and rapidly donned a dry shift and petticoats, lacing her corset with extra care. From her pack she chose a chemisette with full sleeves of white cambric and sapphire blue cashmere bodice and matching skirt, mainly for their warmth. When she still shivered she added a black pardessus with satin trim.
Again properly attired, her sense of control returned. Her doubt faded. Of course she could control herself. How ridiculous to think otherwise. Thus convinced, she rounded the mule and found him checking the gear.
“Not wet,” he said.
She didn’t know if she was more grateful that her supplies were undamaged or that he now wore a long fringed shirt. Who would have thought the sight of a naked chest could wreak such havoc?
Then she recalled that she had painted bare-chested Indians at the fort and experienced none of these emotions. She paused as her equilibrium shifted once more.
How strange that the greatest menace here was not the storms or bears or even the raging waters that had nearly consumed her. Her desire for this man proved the greatest peril, threatening not her life, but her way of life. Against that, all other dangers paled by comparison.
Chapter 13
Someone or something watched them. Troy left Lena and the animals in a defensible position hidden behind a bank of rock and scouted the area. He found the tracks of several horses riding parallel to his trail in single file. Not mustangs, judging from the manure spread. Wild horses stop when voiding their intestines, but not mounted horses. He studied the tracks, noting the animals were unshod.
War ponies.
Sioux territory—but he’d had no grievance with these tribes. In fact, they welcomed him. He stiffened as a thought flashed through his mind—Lena. He wheeled about and headed back for her. Before he reached the clearing he heard her scream.
Kicking Dahlonega to a gallop, he charged into the camp, a pistol in one hand and a rifle in the other. A Sioux warrior held Lena before him while another tugged on the lead line of his mules.
The feral cry brought him about too late. He turned to fire at the two men attacking from the rear, squeezing the trigger as one man cleanly slashed both Dahlonega’s hamstrings.
His horse screamed and fell, sending Troy’s rifle ball wide. Dahlonega rolled over him. Wind whooshed from his lungs. He lost his grip on the pistol, but managed to spring to his feet, knife at the ready.
The second man dived, catching Troy’s wrist and driving him backward. He heard Lena’s second scream, but could not disengage his attacker.
“Troy, behind you.”
The blow struck him on the back of his head, seeming to split his skull. His legs crumpled. The brave before him lifted his knife. Troy’s vision blurred.
“Don’t black out,” he muttered. But the world went liquid, turning the color of blood.
Lena watched Troy fall in disbelief. She kicked at her attacker with such viciousness he released her and fell forward clutching his groin. She nearly reached Troy when a second man caught her about the waist, whirling her in a sweeping circle as he captured her against him. The instant she struck solid ground she pummeled him with her fists, which he quickly secured.
“Troy!”
He did not move. Blood matted his hair and dripped to the grass beside him.
They had killed him. Tears blurred her vision.
A second Indian took charge of her wrists and quickly lashed them together before her. He spoke, but she could not hear his words above the pitiful screams of Dahlonega.
Five men surrounded his horse.
“Do not touch him,” she ordered and for the first time in her life, no one paid her any mind.
The one with red hand prints blazoned upon his chest lifted his knife and slit the horse’s neck. Blood poured as if from a pump.
Perspiration covered Lena’s face and familiar dots danced before her eyes.
“No. I will not faint.”
She breathed faster to make up for the constricting corset.
A man tugged her bound arms to draw her toward his horse. She resisted.
“No. Troy. Let me go! I have to help him!”
She struggled uselessly against the man who lifted her to a rider. He threw her leg over the horse’s withers and for the first time she rode astride.
The Indian kicked his horse and they sprang from the clearing into the forest of pines.
Troy rubbed the bump on his head and drew back at the sticky mess of his hair. Struggling like a swimmer against a strong current, he tried to pull his recollections together.
What had happened?
He groaned as he dragged himself to all fours. Something terrible—he knew that. But what?
Then he remembered the screams echo in his ringing ears.
Lena.
They’d taken her.
His eyes flashed open. The crust of dried blood flaked from his lids. He glanced about the empty clearing. And his stomach tightened in dread as he saw the carcass.
Sinking back to his haunches he recognized Dahlonega. His friend’s eyes now showed a white glaze and his tongue lolled obscenely in death. Flies buzzed in clouds about his horse.
“Bastards!” Liquid rage surged through him as the nausea rolled the contents of his belly. The pounding in his head increased as he crawled toward the fallen buckskin gelding, finding his flesh still warm.
“Oh, Dahlonega,” he whispered, resting his head on the lifeless body of the best horse he’d ever owned. Why did they have to kill my horse?
That question fell aside as he wondered why they hadn’t killed him? He recognized Charging Buffalo’s men. He had no quarrel with them, nor they with him. The fact that he still lived was proof of that. So they wanted Lena or her horse. He rose to his feet and swayed as dizziness assaulted him.
His hand went to his throbbing head, certain the warriors had taken his scalp. His fingers told him he had his hair and a lump the size of a robin’s egg. Why didn’t they take his scalp after they
had struck him down?
He glanced about and discovered that in addition to butchering his horse, they’d taken his mules, weapons and all his supplies. Tears dribbled from his eyes again as he glanced at Dahlonega. How could they slaughter such a fine animal?
They should have killed him because he damned sure was going to kill them.
He walked in a slow circle around the clearing and discovered his possibles bag. They’d left him one more thing, a trail.
The cold sweat on Eleanor’s back dried as they rode. Her captors did not speak, as they rode in single file. She counted nine men all painted in red and black. The fearsome appearance froze her blood.
She was their captive. Gall rose in her throat and she forced it down. All the dreadful stories she read rose like ghastly specters to haunt her thoughts.
A short time after they left Troy, her captors had transferred her to her own horse where she rode with hands tied before her. She preferred this arrangement to riding double.
They rode up the Yellowstone River as the sun turned the clouds crimson. Eleanor realized that she might not ever need worry about her future or the inevitable husband. Very likely she would die soon. In that moment of realization she recognized her one regret—Troy. How she wished she had told him of her feelings and permitted herself to share the love she held secret in her heart. She forced back a sob. Tears gained her nothing.
Up until this moment she had not admitted, even to herself, how much he meant to her. Instead she let stupid social order dictate her life.
Regret burned her like acid.
Why had she not told him? Fear. She feared her parents and their scorn. Troy thought her strong, but she was not. She did not have the courage to face the firestorm of scorn that awaited her if she admitted her love for Troy. She would lose everything. Without her parents and her position, who was she?
Her eyes lifted to the horizon as the answer came to her. Whoever she wished to be.
What did it matter now?
Again and again, her mind flashed to the memory of Troy lying in a pool of blood. She could scarcely believe him dead. But how could he have survived such a blow? Until this moment, she’d thought him invincible.
