by Amy Sandas
It was enough to get her through the hours until they stopped to make camp for the night well before sundown. They had just reached a small lake at the base of the mountains. Bringing his gelding to a halt at the edge of a pine forest that extended from the lakeshore, Kincaid dismounted without a word.
Alexandra suspected Kincaid would have ridden a bit longer if he had been alone. That he stopped on her account sparked a contradictory response of both gratitude and annoyance.
Gratitude because, although he had not set a particularly grueling pace, it had been years since she had spent so much time in the saddle, and her body ached in ways she’d never known.
The annoyance came in with the fact that he’d never asked her how she was faring, and throughout the day, he’d cast her several dubious glances, as though he expected her to fall from her horse at any moment. Yes, she was sore and tired and hungry, and the thought of stretching out on a bedroll beside a warm fire inspired a special kind of yearning. But she would have continued if he’d asked.
At least, she thought she would have.
Probably.
Alexandra frowned as she swung down from the saddle. As soon as her feet hit the earth, her legs turned to jelly and crumpled beneath her. Even though she gripped the saddle horn with both hands, she could not prevent herself from falling.
But she didn’t hit the ground.
Kincaid grasped her from behind. His strong arms wrapped around her middle just below her breasts as he brought her back to standing. He loosened his grip once she found her feet, but her strength wobbled, so he didn’t release her completely.
Though her exhausted, aching muscles screamed in resistance and his secure grip momentarily crushed her ribs, neither were the cause of the hard breath she sucked into her lungs.
It was the unexpected and frightfully intense rush of heat that claimed her from head to toe while she stood with her back hard-pressed to Kincaid’s chest and his forearms propped beneath her breasts.
Where did all that heat come from? Her ears burned, and her belly felt lit with some internal fire.
Then he released her and stepped away, taking his heat and strength with him.
It was all she could do not to sag against the side of her mare, and she forced her breath to a steady rhythm.
“Be more careful,” he ordered as he turned to grasp his horse’s reins.
Alexandra watched him lead the bay gelding to the lake’s edge to drink. If she weren’t so tired and hungry, she might have been amused by his perpetually gruff manner.
“I’ll tend the horses,” he said without looking at her. “You gather what firewood you can find.”
His words did not allow for any argument. Running her hand over Sibyl’s forelock, she murmured some soft words of praise to the mare before turning away. The bounty hunter had given her an odd look the first time he’d heard her use the name she’d chosen for the horse, but Alexandra thought it suited her just fine, and the mare seemed to like it well enough.
Luckily, the forest was littered with dead branches and twigs, making her task quite easy, and the more Alexandra moved about, the more her muscles loosened and shook off the stiffness that had formed from a long day in the saddle.
After her fifth trip into the forest, she returned to camp to find that Kincaid had finished caring for the horses and was already starting a fire with the wood she’d gathered.
She added her current armload to the neatly stacked pile of firewood then watched as flames flickered to life beneath Kincaid’s expert ministrations. “What else can I do?” she asked.
He didn’t bother to look up as he added more wood to the growing blaze. “Set up your bedroll and keep the fire from dying.” He stood and grabbed the rifle that had been strapped to his saddle. “I’ll be back.”
Then he strode from camp and disappeared into the trees.
She understood what he was doing—making sure she knew not to expect any coddling from him. He needn’t worry. Alexandra’s father had made sure any thoughts of coddling were eliminated from her head years ago. In her youth, there was no time for gentle lessons and long explanations. If something needed doing, you just got started and figured it out as you went.
Knowing it would cool significantly once the sun dropped below the horizon, she collected her bedroll and laid it out just far enough from the fire so as not to be at risk of catching any sparks. Then she added a few of the larger branches to the flames before turning to the saddlebags with the intention of digging out the small canister of coffee she knew he carried.
She felt a twinge of discomfort searching through Kincaid’s saddlebags without asking. But it was a tiny twinge. Privacy was not a luxury afforded on the trail.
She found the coffee quickly enough and the small kettle to cook it in, but as she drew it out of the bag, something else came with it, falling to the ground before she could catch it.
Curious, she picked up the small tintype photograph. Though it was worn and cracked, she could still make out the image of two young men standing on what looked like the front porch of a house.
The younger man of the two—barely more than a boy, really—stood tall and lanky. His face was slightly blurred, suggesting he had moved during the exposure of the film, so it was difficult to see much of his features, but there was no mistaking his wide grin as he looked at the man beside him.
That man stood with one booted foot propped up on a wooden crate as he leaned back against the porch post in a casual but commanding pose. His arms were folded across his chest, and his eyes—Kincaid’s eyes—were focused straight at the camera as though he were urging the photographer to get the whole thing over with. He looked several years younger in the photograph and did not yet seem to possess his perpetual scowl, but the familiar intensity in his gaze was unmistakable.
The two men resembled each other enough to be brothers, which left Alexandra wondering where the younger man might be now. The worn condition of the photograph suggested Kincaid had been carrying it with him for some time. She would never have taken him for being the sentimental type, yet this image clearly meant something to him.
The discovery left her with a deep sense of melancholy.
After carefully slipping the tintype back into Kincaid’s pack, she fetched water from the lake to make coffee. Once the pot was set on the coals to brew, she returned to the lakeshore to wash her face and arms and filled both of their canteens with fresh water.
Nearly an hour later, she had a nice bed of coals ready for cooking. She’d found a can of beans in Kincaid’s pack, and after a few minutes of debate, she had decided to use her knife to open it up and set it in the coals to warm up. If by chance he was unlucky in finding game, at least there would be something hot to eat when he returned.
Soon after, she heard two shots in quick succession, signifying the beans would likely be an accompaniment to whatever Kincaid brought back. Filling a tin cup with some of the steaming coffee, she settled down in the center of her bedroll to await his return.
The sun dropped behind the mountains, casting the land around camp into thick darkness, and she started to worry that something might have happened to delay him.
Finally, hearing a twig snap, she instinctively reached for the knife tied to her calf as she rose smoothly to her feet. Then a whistle sounded gently from the night, and Kincaid’s horse gave a soft huff of welcome, followed by Kincaid’s voice answering in a low murmur.
With a breath of relief, Alexandra sheathed her knife and sat back down.
A moment later, Kincaid stepped into the circle of firelight with two rabbits in hand. Seeing her seated on her bedroll, he stopped. Something curious flashed in his eyes. It was immediately followed by a tensing of his jaw and a familiar darkening of his brow.
It looked an awful lot like regret.
Though he hadn’t initially wanted to take on the task of b
eing her guide, she’d hoped his changed mind had also signaled a change in heart. Judging by the revealing shift in his features at the sight of her, that did not seem to be the case, and it hurt more than she wanted to admit.
“Do you need help with the rabbits?” she asked, her tone sounding stiff and haughty.
“I’ve got it,” he replied as he came forward and set his rifle aside before crouching before the fire. The flicker of the flames threw a fascinating dance of light over the angles of his face, rough-hewn and handsome despite his glowering expression.
Alexandra’s breath tightened. Malcolm Kincaid had a peculiar effect on her. There was no denying it. She wished she didn’t find his harsh demeanor so intriguing. It seemed the more curt and gruff he became, the more she wanted to tease a smile out of him. She also wished his raw masculinity didn’t appeal to her nearly as much as it did. But if she were to be honest with herself, she had to acknowledge her physical attraction to the man.
She didn’t, however, have to let him know how he affected her.
“I found some beans and made some coffee, but I wasn’t sure where you’d want your bedroll,” she said helpfully, trying to shake off the tension that had settled across her shoulders.
He glanced up at that. His wolfish eyes found hers over the flames.
She got an immediate sense that she could have placed his bedroll right alongside hers and he wouldn’t have argued.
She had no idea where the thought came from. It was just suddenly there, along with a heat that infused her body from head to toe, making her feel all lit up inside, like a storm of excitement, fear, and something else were all swirling together.
Then he looked back to his task and the moment was over…but the heat remained.
After setting the rabbits to roast over the flames, Kincaid laid out his bedroll and propped his saddle against a fallen tree across the fire from where Alexandra sat. Then he went to check on the horses.
Alexandra was pensive as she stirred the beans and turned the rabbits.
It was strange to think she’d been with Kincaid for two full days already, and there were still so many more stretched out in front of them before they’d reach Helena.
Her throat tightened at the thought of her father.
After he’d sent her to live with his sister, their only contact had been through letters. In five years, he never came east to see her and never asked her to come back to Montana. Not even for a visit.
She’d sent letter upon letter describing her new experiences, trying to see them as another adventure. But his replies, though prompt and heartfelt, did not regale her with the same level of description. As the years passed, despite how close they had been, Alexandra realized they were becoming strangers.
After a while, she had started to wonder if he blamed her for what had happened.
It seemed possible, considering how quickly he’d decided to send her away—and the fact that he never once suggested she might return home someday. The times she’d asked outright if she could return, he’d ignored her.
Was he right?
Had she been at fault for walking home that day by herself?
She’d done it so many times before. It was just a couple of miles, and her father had been sending her on errands by herself for years. When the two men had ridden up to her, had she said something—done something—to make them think she’d welcome their attentions?
Anger twisted inside her like wildfire in the wind.
No. She had done nothing. She knew it was true.
Yet her father had sent her away. He had been her world and then he’d discarded her. She needed to know why. Why had he sent her to Boston rather than stand by her side to face the consequences of that day?
She needed to look him in the eye and see that he did not blame her. She needed to understand what had motivated his decision to send her away, fracturing her life into two pieces.
“If you’re hoping to kill that fire, you’ve nearly done it.”
Alexandra blinked and lifted her gaze to see Kincaid leaning back against his saddle, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles.
“What?”
He nodded toward the fire, and she looked down to where she had been jabbing into the flames with a stick, causing the burning logs to break apart and sparks to fly into the sky.
With a disgusted noise, she tossed the stick into the fire and leaned back.
“I hope it wasn’t something I did that lit your temper.”
She was surprised to detect a hint of teasing in his tone. Smiling bright and false, she met his gaze as she replied, “Not yet.”
The sound he made sounded suspiciously close to a chuckle.
Fifteen
The next day, Malcolm set a more arduous pace. He’d taken things easy the day before to give Miss Brighton a chance to become accustomed to the physical demands of traveling on horseback, but any more days like that and it would take twice as long to reach Helena.
To be fair, the woman seemed to be managing well enough.
Just as the day before, she remained quiet throughout the day, keeping her focus stretched out around her. She seemed to be soaking everything in with her deep, steady breaths and her wide blue eyes, sighing in wonder over an endless patch of wildflowers, or gasping softly at the flight of a falcon swooping close to snatch a meal before rising again into the sky.
The total lack of caution in the woman riding beside him seemed to inspire an overabundance of the stuff in himself. He found himself constantly scanning for potential dangers as they made their way. It was damned exhausting.
By the time they stopped for camp that second night, he just wanted to bed down and sleep.
But there was a meal yet to provide.
Leaving her with the instruction to take care of the horses and make camp, he headed out with his rifle. He managed to scrounge up some supper and return in less than twenty minutes.
She was still caring for the horses as he approached, speaking to them in low, murmured words as she brushed the dirt and sweat from their coats.
She knew her way around horses. Not what he’d expected, but not that unusual. He walked to where she had laid the saddles and packs. Setting aside the ruffed grouse he’d scared up, he went about gathering firewood. By the time he came back with a good armload of dried branches, it was to find Alexandra already starting a fire with some dried grass, small sticks, and tinder from his matchbox.
He stood and stared at her, watching as she knelt beside her little fire and struck the match. After carefully setting fire to the tinder, she leaned forward to blow gently across the flicker of flames, coaxing them into greater life until they expanded to engulf the pile of sticks. Then, one by one, she added some of the larger pieces of wood she’d set beside her, making sure not to overwhelm the fire before it could gather enough strength.
“You’ve done that before.” It was stating the obvious, but Malcolm found himself forming the words before he could think better of it.
She looked up with a smile that held just a touch of smug pride. “Does it surprise you that I can start a fire?” she asked.
Malcolm dropped the armful of wood he’d gathered into a pile before he began preparing the birds for roasting. “I don’t know of another Eastern lady who would’ve been able to do the same.”
“You’ve known many Eastern ladies?”
He looked up from his task to see her fine brows arching in question. His breath hitched at the sight of her curved lower lip resisting a smile. She was teasing him.
He narrowed his gaze and gave a slow smile of his own. He was pleased to see her eyes widen in response. “A few,” he replied simply.
He could see she wanted him to elaborate. She even opened her mouth a bit, as though she was going to say something. But she didn’t. Instead, she pushed up to her feet in
a way that revealed the stiffness and soreness of her muscles after two full days on the trail. Without a word of complaint or even a quiet groan of discomfort, she went to fetch their bedrolls. She dropped his to the ground at his side before going around to the other side of the fire to lay hers out on the dirt.
“I haven’t always lived in Boston,” she said after she’d been sitting in silence for a little while.
Malcolm had been wondering how long that would last. He speared the grouse on sticks and came forward to crouch before the fire. Propping the birds against some rocks so they could slow roast over the low flames, he shifted his attention to the woman across the fire.
She seemed lost in her thoughts. Sitting with her knees drawn to her chest, she’d wrapped her arms around her legs, linking her fingers over her ankles. Her gaze was directed toward the fire, but it was unfocused. As he watched, she expanded her chest in a weighted sigh. He wasn’t sure if it was a sound of sadness, regret, or something else, but it was heavy and went deep. She didn’t speak again, and after a bit, his curiosity got the better of him.
“Why’d you leave?”
Her blue eyes met his, and the emotion in them hit hard to his gut.
“Boston or Montana?” she asked softly.
Suddenly uncomfortable with how personal the conversation had become, Malcolm shrugged. He wasn’t sure which option might be the less intrusive of the two.
“There was a time I thought I’d live my entire life in Montana. If you’ve ever spent any time there, you’d know it is beautiful country.” Her eyes went dark as she stared into the flickering flames, and her voice lowered with memory. “When I went East, I didn’t want to like Boston. It hadn’t been my choice to go. But I made friends, which is something I didn’t have much of in my childhood, and I started to appreciate the opportunities a big city could offer.”
She laughed, a warm sort of throaty chuckle. “My aunt Judith scolded me countless times for my curiosity. I had a ceaseless compulsion to explore every corner of the city, the culture, the people. So very different from what I’d known before, but beautiful in its own way. Eventually, I came to love Boston.”
