The men rode upcountry to survey the new mines. Blaze accompanied her father.
The mining camps were strung out along the mountain streams required for sluicing or panning gold, rough and ready towns growing overnight when word traveled of a new strike. Although Blaze expected no special privileges as the only woman in the group, her father saw to it she had a private room at night when possible. When more humble conditions prevailed, a blanket was strung up to serve as a sketchy wall. On the nights spent under the stars, she and her father slept side by side in their rough bedrolls, often talking far into the wee hours. It was the first time her father had spoken of his childhood. The starlit heavens reminded him of summers sleeping out of doors as a youngster. A pleasant respite, he’d said, from the crowded hut that was home to his family.
“How did you ever decide to leave Ireland?” Blaze asked the first time he’d mentioned his youth.
“Everyone was dying or dead from the famine,” he replied simply.
“Were you afraid to go alone?”
Her father was looking up into the star-studded sky when he answered, his voice as soft as his dying mother’s had been when she’d said the words to him long years ago: “The streets are paved with gold.” There was a short silence before he turned his head toward Blaze and in a normal tone added, “That’s what everyone thought in our village.” Then a faint smile appeared on his lined face. “Might be damned near true on this mountainside. We picked up some promising claims today,” he briskly went on, shaking aside the melancholy memories of his adored mother.
“How many does your group have now?” Blaze inquired, responding to the casualness her father had inserted into the conversation.
“Fred says one hundred eighteen as of today and we’ve a long way to go.”
After traveling for two weeks, the party of investors arrived in Diamond City. The possibility of an enormous strike was in the air. Good color had been showing up in numerous placer claims, indicating a very rich vein, and the investment group was buying up claims as fast as they could.
Blaze had decided to stay in town for the afternoon, but soon the heat in her little hotel room became oppressive. After a week of rain, the humidity pressed down like a fur mask. It was too stifling inside, she decided, after opening the windows in the rough-sawn structure serving as a hotel but getting no relief. Surely outside there would be a breath of a breeze. Somewhere.
Although there were few women in the mining camp, and those visible were of a certain profession, Blaze was unafraid; she was proficient with the two small custom Colts holstered on her hips. She was imbued as well with implicit confidence in her ability to take care of herself. The brown worsted trousers she wore tucked into high boots and the matching silk shirt had caused pursed lips of registered distaste when they had left her mother in Virginia City, but her father had found the upcountry clothes eminently practical.
“My God, Millie,” he had said. Since Mrs. William Braddock hated being called Millie, her well-preserved face had flinched with further displeasure. “Don’t tell me you want her gallivanting out in the bush in velvet and ruffles.”
“I do not want her gallivanting, as you so colorfully put it, anywhere at all in this rude country. I wish, William, just once, you would remember that Venetia is a properly raised young lady. Or at least the attempt was made,” she scathingly added.
“Godalmighty, woman,” he’d exploded. She disliked that crudity even more, and if William Braddock had not been a millionaire many times over when he first uttered it to her at the Spring Cotillion in Richmond twenty years earlier, she would have suggested to his face that he go back to the potato fields of Ireland where he most certainly belonged. “Blaze is a person, not some sugar confection that’s going to melt in the rain. This country’s beautiful and she’ll enjoy the trip.”
“Very well, William, do as you like. I have made my opinions known and you have ignored them as usual. I hope you and Venetia have an edifying adventure in the bush.” The last word was accompanied with a very ladylike shudder.
So, clothed in garments her mother considered scandalous, in a country her mother considered barbarous, with a supple, swinging walk that casually overlooked both opinions, Blaze ascended the hill from the gulch, away from the town, hoping the higher ground would catch an occasional breeze. The steady rain of the last few days had left the ground soggy at best, while the worst was apt to be more like quicksand. Before she’d traveled more than a quarter of a mile through the heavy haze of heat, Blaze’s silk shirt was clinging uncomfortably to her skin. Rolling up the sleeves, she pushed open the neckline as far as respectability allowed, but the dark brown shirt had been a mistake, as it absorbed every searing ray of sun. She prayed for a waft of breeze, a touch of coolness, anything to alleviate the blistering heat.
Halfway up the hill, opposite the ominous “hanging tree” she’d heard talk of, where the local vigilantes had managed to hang 102 desperadoes in the last few months, the trail reached an impasse of unbroken mud. Blaze swore in a soft, articulate stream; the thought of returning to the hotel room was thoroughly uninviting, but at this rate she’d be baked to death by sundown. Reconnoitering several yards up the rocky landscape bordering the trail, she searched for some way around the long stretch of mud. The terrain turned to loose schist ten yards ahead, making the footing dangerous. As she contemplated the difficult ground with a sweeping gaze, her eyes fell on the half-concealed figure of an Indian sleeping in the shade of a rugged mountain juniper.
Crossing the short distance to where he lay, she stood at his feet and nudged him with the toe of her boot. In the course of the last weeks, Blaze had met several Indian scouts and none had seemed particularly terrifying. Furthermore, she’d been born with more than her share of audacity. “Get up. I need help.”
The man didn’t move. Unconsciously her sapphire eyes took in the tall, powerful form clothed only in leather leggings and beaded moccasins. He was magnificent. The lean-muscled upper body was clearly defined, his face was straight-nosed and finely modeled, and his hair, tied back with a strip of leather, was like black satin. For a silent moment under the scorching sky she was drawn almost hypnotically to this wild specimen. She noticed a fine lacing of scars on the honed, splendid body and wondered about their history. One diagonal slash slid under the skin-tight leather and her eyes followed its probable course until unaccustomed modesty reminded her such awareness could be dangerous.
Recalled to her surroundings, she quickly nudged the moccasined foot again, this time harder, in response perhaps to her awakened, agitated conscience.
He rolled over then, and his handsome fringed eyes slowly opened. With a glance of appraisal, Jon Hazard Black saw a slender, delicate woman of classical perfection; her hair gleamed on her shoulders, a tumbled, unruly, amber syrup; her eyes were large, her mouth soft and full, and when she spoke, her voice was commanding. “Didn’t you hear me?”
Accustomed to servants and too familiar with being indulged in a world which had denied her nothing, Blaze’s tone held a hint of irritation and imperiousness. Today was an aggravating day. It was unbearably hot, she was thwarted in her journey uphill and frustrated she hadn’t gone with her father as usual. The sharpness instantly shattered the illusion of perfection.
“Carry me over that,” she ordered, pointing at the stretch of mud. Then in an explanatory cadence, usually reserved for very young children, she added, “I … give … dollars.” She pulled out a twenty-dollar gold piece from her pocket and held it out to the Indian.
Only the eyes responded in the unmoving man. Hazard, reared in the mighty Absarokee culture, son of a chief and a chief in his own right, reacted poorly to orders from women. That was when he was in a good mood. Otherwise he didn’t react at all. Today was not one of his better days. He had had a furious argument with an agent for some mining group that wanted to buy his claim. When he’d said it wasn’t for sale, the man refused to believe him. He eventually did, of course, at the point o
f a rifle, but Hazard never liked being threatened. And he’d been catching up on much-needed sleep when the woman walked up. Survival in these mining camps as well as in the mountains often depended on sleeping lightly, if at all.
“Forty dollars,” Blaze stated curtly, thinking an increased bid would force a response, as she drew out another gold piece.
Not a ripple altered the unflustered rangy form. He was stronger than she was. It was no contest. Dark lashed eyes lowered once more in repose.
“Don’t you understand?” Blaze exploded. “Carry … me … over … mud.” Still receiving no response, Blaze paused in exasperation, stamped her small booted foot, and made the mistake of drawing her pistol. It was a stupid thing to do, and if less tested by the sun and less frustrated, she’d have known better.
In a blur of movement, swift and smooth as a striking panther, Hazard was on his feet and the gun was chopped from her with the hard edge of his hand. Blaze found herself hurtling to the ground with an abruptness that rattled her teeth. Pinned beneath a hard body, her heart began pounding wildly. Good Lord, she thought, he was angry, half-naked, an Indian. What had she done?
“Stupid bitch,” he growled, his dark eyes smoldering with fury.
Thank God, he spoke some English at least. “I’m sorry,” she cried in humiliation and acute fear. “Please forgive me …” Her breath was arrested halfway in her throat and her pulse pounded. Would he kill her, rape her, scalp her? What a fool she was.
Hazard’s gaze moved from her face, falling on her throat just above her buttoned blouse, and he wondered if her skin underneath the modest neckline was as smooth and golden. The anger softened in the dark eyes and his expression changed, relaxing the grim line of his mouth. With his hands closed on her wrists beneath him, her breasts were crushed against his bare chest—nothing separated them but tissue-thin silk. She could count the beats of his heart, and felt them quickening against her.
Releasing one wrist, he took the brown silk of her blouse between his finger and thumb and gently pulled the neckline to reveal the lace of her chemise and a curve of pure white breast. Her eyes opened wide under Hazard’s gaze. He had never seen such vivid pools of aquamarine.
With increasing terror, Blaze felt his hardened maleness rising against her thigh and knew why his heartbeat had quickened. Should she scream? Would he kill her then? “Please …” she repeated, her blue eyes entreating.
His fingertips lightly traced the curve of her jaw, threading back through her tangled hair, and for a brief moment Hazard thought of various ways he could please her. He hadn’t had a woman for a long time, since he refused to use the prostitutes in camp. He hesitated for a moment, his jet eyes masking his thoughts, but his better judgment prevailed; with a deep sigh, his hand dropped away. He lifted Blaze to her feet, and they stood face to face for a brief second. He towered over her by more than a foot. He picked up her gun and carefully returned it to its holster. She noticed his beautiful hands, with slender, hard fingers and very strong muscles. Without a word he lifted her into his arms, walked back to the trail, and waded into the mud.
Startled at first by the suddenness of his actions, Blaze soon felt a trembling sense of relief. But before the long walk was concluded, a new emotion agitated her mind. An unfamiliar, quivering feeling of intimate warmth, which had nothing to do with the sun, came over her. Held close to Hazard’s bare chest, she felt the strong beat of his heart, the burning of his flesh against hers, his shoulder under her hands hard and reassuring. Glancing up at the chiseled profile only inches away sent an uneasy shiver rippling down her spine.
Hazard felt the tremulous flurry and, gazing down at the enchanting face framed in shining red curls and the tempting body, damned himself for having scruples. He was aroused and, if he hadn’t seen so much fear in the wide azure eyes, he would have seriously considered indulging his desire.
Reaching high ground, Hazard set Blaze on her feet. She offered him the two gold pieces with a timid smile and a second apology. He shook his head and, taking the coins, slipped them back into her pocket. A common enough gesture with uncommon results. When his strong fingers slid down the tight pocket of Blaze’s trousers, releasing the coins, the unexpected intimacy seared them both. Hazard snatched back his hand in an almost violent motion and, turning abruptly, walked away. Blaze Braddock, shaken by a man’s touch for the first time in her life, was left in a state of confusion.
Mingled astonishment and desire confounded her normally rational mind. The feeling was unprecedented, the probable cause—if seriously considered—against all she believed in. Not for her, bewitchment and charming sorcery. Her reality was clear-cut and reasonable. She had never believed in flighty romanticism.
With visible effort she shrugged away the unease, and with a toss of her head set her sights on the crest of the hill ahead of her. Continuing her journey, she consciously set aside any further thoughts of her encounter with the Indian as she strode off to join her father for the rest of the day. Finding him several claims down the valley, Blaze spent the remainder of the day absorbing the complexities of purchase agreements, partnership contracts, and claim staking.
Late that evening when the sun had set and coolness at last drifted down the mountain, Blaze retraced her journey from Diamond City, this time on horseback. When the group of riders passed through the mud that had upset her that morning, Blaze looked off the trail to the tree where the Indian man had been sleeping. The site was deserted, as she expected, but then her dark blue eyes swept up the valley wall. Was she hoping to see him again? Catch a glimpse of that magnificent face and form which had lingered in her thoughts despite ruthless efforts at suppression? Utterly ridiculous. He was an Indian, she reminded herself. A primitive aborigine, her mother would say. Unable to speak more than a few halting words of English, she remembered. But when her gaze fell on a glow of light high up the mountainside, and she realized it was a firelit cabin window, her heart tripped against her rib cage and a sudden warmth stole through her senses.
“Blaze,” her father repeated, “didn’t you hear me? We’ll be back in Virginia City in time for the Territorial Ball at the end of the week. I thought you’d enjoy knowing that.”
“Oh, thank you, Daddy,” she quickly responded, wrenching her eyes from the dark mountainside and the solitary glimmer of light. “Did you say this week?”
“Saturday night, pet. And a penny for your thoughts. Care to tell your old dad what’s absorbed you so these last few miles? You’ve been in a hell of a fog.”
“Oh, nothing, Daddy. I think I was dozing a bit. It’s been a long day.”
“It’ll be our last day out for a while. We’re heading down to Virginia City tomorrow. You’ll have a chance to rest in the comforts of the hotel the night after next. Damn, a hot bath in a real tub will feel good.”
“Amen to that,” Blaze said enthusiastically. She felt as though all the dirt of western Montana were stuck to her sweaty skin.
WITH the help of a lady friend, Hazard had recuperated from the ritual body slashing observed for mourning in his tribe and then had recommitted himself to his father’s dream. His clan needed gold for their future; it wasn’t as though there were choices. The placer deposits his uncle Ramsay Kent had been working didn’t compare in potential with the newly discovered strikes. Since the first major deposits discovered at Grasshopper Creek in 1862, thirty million dollars of gold had been taken from the gulch. In 1863 and 1864, two more enormous lodes had been found at Alder Gulch and Last Chance Gulch. The pattern was repeated all through 1864 at Prickly Pear Valley, Confederate Gulch, Diamond City, Emigrant Gulch. The boom was on.
So Hazard was working two claims here, working very hard at what had appeared to be highly profitable claims, if his old mentor, Louis Agassiz knew his business.
But since the encounter with the red-haired woman, in the lull of the ensuing evenings, Hazard found his mind distracted, drifting easily into fantasies about her. The soft cloud of russet hair, her sun-kissed ski
n and vivid blue eyes, particularly the luscious body, were recurring images. It annoyed him that she intruded into his musing so. She had annoyed him with her peremptory posture; she was a part probably of that moneyed crew out to buy up all the gold claims in the valley. Her offer of forty dollars for a two-minute task bespoke the careless negligence of the wealthy Hazard had known so well in Boston. That type of woman, both beautiful and spoiled, could always annoy him. He probably should have taken her that day, he selfishly considered. It would have quelled the annoyance and satisfied the lust.… If he had, all these unnerving images of her wouldn’t be dancing before his eyes, Hazard reflected.
He needed a woman, that was all. It had been too long, and hell, he thought with cold-blooded hindsight, he could have protected himself even if she’d screamed rape. His claim was virtually impregnable to attack. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen the site; the position on the mountaintop would allow one man to hold off an army for a month or more. And whoever her husband or protector was, no man was going to put that kind of effort into avenging a woman’s dishonor.
“Hell,” he muttered aloud this time, and ignoring subconscious reasons to do with flaming hair and peach skin, Hazard abruptly decided to accept Lucy Attenborough’s invitation to the Territorial Ball in Virginia City next weekend. He knew a dozen women in Virginia City who would be overjoyed to see him again, including, of course, the inviting Lucy, a perfect opportunity to end his overlong celibacy.
He didn’t admit to the possibility that the woman he’d held in his arms—who haunted his thoughts—would be at the ball.
Chapter 3
The night of the Territorial Ball was one of those pleasantly warm summer evenings depicted by painters and poets. The air smelled of new grass, fresh earth, and the sweet scent of tiny aspen leaves only beginning to emerge. The sun had sunk behind the surrounding foothills in a masterful display of flaming gold streaked across a shimmering sky. It was a sight which gave even the rough mining town a soft, inviting glow.
Susan Johnson Page 4
