Renegade Bride

by Barbara Ankrum

  Like you, a voice said. A lone, gray-crowned goshawk circled high on the wind currents above them, let out its shrill kek-kek-kek, then vanished beyond the trees.

  He glanced at Mariah's sleeping form and felt a pang of regret that he had never settled down, found a woman like her. It occurred to him that he and Jesse had a lot in common. A good four years younger than Creed, Jesse didn't talk much about his family anymore. But he recognized the look in his eyes, recognized the loneliness.

  "What about you? You thinkin' of settling down?"

  Jesse's question pulled him from his thoughts.

  "Me?"

  He tipped his head in Mariah's direction. "She's a pretty one, all right, even half-drowned."

  Creed sobered and looked at his hands. "Hell, I almost lost her today. She wasn't even breathing when I pulled her out."

  Jesse searched his face. "Lucky," was all he said, but Creed knew what he meant.

  "She's not mine."

  The flask halted halfway to Jesse's lips. "Who the hell is she?"

  Creed dug his sock-covered heels into the deep carpet of pine needles. "She's promised to a friend of mine. Seth Travers."

  "The storekeeper down in Alder Gulch?"

  Creed nodded, unable to look Jesse in the eye for fear he'd see what was in his heart.

  Jesse whistled quietly. "I know Travers. He's a good man. I, uh, reckon there's a good reason why she's out here in the middle of nowhere with you."

  Creed nearly laughed. "It's a long story, believe me. The truth is, Seth was supposed to meet her up at Benton, but he took sick."

  "Hellfire. Bad?"

  "Camp fever. It might even be the pneumonia. It was plenty bad when I left."

  Raking a hand through his long hair, he asked, "She knows, o' course."

  "That's why she's traipsing all over the countryside with me instead of staying back at the stage station like I told her to. Merde. She is, without a doubt, the stubbornest female I've ever run across."

  Jesse took another pull on the flask, watching Creed closely. "Women. They're kinda like a jug of water to a man dyin' of thirst. A little'll keep him goin'. The whole shebang'll kill him."

  Smiling, Creed took the bacanora from his old friend, but didn't drink. He had believed that once about women. Until he'd met Mariah. Now? Hell, he felt thirsty all the time and he doubted she could ever quench the burn.

  Jesse stared into the flames for a long time before he spoke again. "Old Skinny Taylor down in Bannack told me about Antoine." He shook his head. "He was a good friend. I was damn sorry to hear about it." Emotion tugged at his boyish features. "Your pa didn't deserve that kinda end."

  Rubbing a hand over his eyes, Creed sighed. "No one does."

  "What's it been? Five years? I thought I'd run into you before this, but I never did."

  "I've been on the move a lot."

  "I heard it was the LaRousse brothers."

  Creed's fists tightened involuntarily and he took a drink as Jesse's gaze went to the choker at Creed's throat.

  "Skinny said they almost killed you, too. That true?"

  Creed winced, remembering. "One day, they'll both regret not finishing the job."

  "You're still hunting them, then?"

  Creed glanced up at him. "Only one of them, now. I put a bullet in Étienne at Benton a few days ago."

  Jesse whistled low, picked a stalk from a clump of sweetgrass, and stuck it between his teeth. "I've never had the misfortune of meeting them, but he and Pierre have gotten quite a reputation around these parts in the past few years. None of it good. Word has it they were hooked up with Frank Plummer's gang of cutthroats up at Robber's Roost. I guess you heard the vigilantes hung Plummer and his deputy, Boone Helm, this past January in the Gulch along with the rest of them."

  Creed grunted and took another swig. "They missed a few."

  "Yeah. There's always a few flies that miss the flypaper. They were tight, those LaRousse brothers. I don't reckon Pierre will take his brother's death well." He met Creed's gaze with a silent warning. "I reckon it might just flush him out of the floorboards."

  "I'm counting on it."

  Jesse nodded thoughtfully. "It's a dangerous business."

  "Oui," Creed's smile was grim. "It's a danger I welcome."

  A laugh rumbled through Jesse's chest. "You're one crazy sonofabitch, Devereaux. I'd almost forgotten how much I liked you."

  "What about you, mon ami?" Creed asked. "Been bitten by the gold bug yet?"

  He let out a bark of laughter. "Hell, no. I make enough to pay my way. That's good enough for me. No, I've been here and there. Still some good trappin' up around Two Medicine Lake and Cut Bank Creek. I spent last winter with the Pikunis and learned a thing or two." He grinned. "Or three."

  Creed glanced up at Jesse, envying his love of the footloose life. He knew Jesse's family were farmers back in Ohio and that Jesse had left at the tender age of sixteen for the West. He'd told him once it would have killed him to stay there. Creed believed him.

  His family hadn't taken his decision well and considered him la brebis galeuse, the black sheep, and for that matter, so did Jesse. He'd lived with Creed and his father for the first several years, apprenticing to Antoine and learning the ropes in trading. Jesse had done well for himself.

  "Have you heard from your family?"

  Jesse sighed, lacing his fingers together. "Not for a few years. I suppose my father hasn't forgiven me for leaving. I guess he never will." He shrugged. "Ma, she doesn't want to cross him."

  "Think you'll ever go back home?"

  "Back?" He looked horrified at the notion and shook his head. "It's not my home anymore. Hasn't been for a long time now." Squinting at the shining snow-covered peaks that towered over them, he sighed. "I live here now."

  Creed noticed he hadn't called Montana home either. For men like Jesse, home was wherever a bedroll could be flung on the ground. Creed thought of the mud-chinked log cabin he and his father had shared near the Boulder River.

  It was still standing, he guessed, though he'd spent precious little time there in the past few years. It was a place to hang his hat in the dead of winter, a place to go where the world would leave him alone.

  Creed shrugged. "I don't know. Family ties can be good things to hang onto. Sometimes, I wish..."

  Jesse frowned. "Wish what?"

  Wish I had a family to go back to. Or a woman. Creed smiled sadly, clapped him on the back and stood up. "Cela ne fait rien. It's nothing. Must be that rotgut of yours making me sentimental, no?"

  He glanced at the unloaded pack mules grazing on the river's edge and the heavy bundles of pelts and trade goods stacked under the sprawling ponderosa nearby. "You were headed somewhere today."

  "The Gulch," he answered. "I've got some skins to sell and I need to restock some supplies."

  "You could ride along with us." As he said it, Creed realized the idea had merit on more than one level, considering what had happened between him and Mariah. "If you can wait until tomorrow. I don't think Mariah's going to be up to any more riding today."

  Jesse slapped his knees and got to his feet. "Thanks. Maybe I will," he allowed, reaching for his rifle. "I think I'll go scare up somethin' for supper. I'm hungry as a bear. Get some rest yourself, my friend." He disappeared into the thicket of trees, heading toward the steep-walled canyon to the north.

  Creed was tired. Suddenly, very tired. He grabbed his rifle, threw a blanket on the ground beside Mariah, and stretched out next to her. He watched her eyelashes flutter in sleep, the way her lips curved up naturally at the corners, and the smooth, freckle-spattered curve of her cheek.

  Reaching out, he smoothed one finger down that softness and watched her lips curl up in an unconscious smile. But it was what she did next that made him draw back his hand as if he'd been burned.

  In her sleep, she whispered his name.

  * * *

  Mariah slept through the rest of that day and night, rousing only to partake of a small meal o
f roast rabbit Creed forced her to eat before putting her back to bed. By morning, she awoke feeling renewed and better than she had in days.

  Creed set a slower pace for them that day and the next, stopping frequently for short rests and pulling up for the night while there was plenty of daylight left. She managed on the second day to build a passable fire and, with some success, took over the cooking chore of roasting the brace of rabbits Jesse had shot.

  Of course, Creed kept the reins of the coffee-making and she endured his barbs about the toxic mud she'd managed to produce.

  They'd crossed at a shallow ford of the Dearborn River the second day and he'd insisted she ride double with him, even though only their feet got wet. Aside from that, he'd pointedly kept his distance, staying in the lead and speaking to her only if she asked him a direct question.

  Thank God for Jesse, she thought. He'd kept her company through the long days of riding, telling her stories about his travels or walking along beside her when she needed to stretch her legs. In the short time they'd known one another, they'd become friends.

  Mahkwi would disappear for long periods during their days, exploring higher into the slopes that paralleled their trail, following the unfettered instincts of her ancestors. Inevitably, she would come at Jesse's shrill whistle, loping toward them on her long, graceful wolf-legs. Her wildness seemed to give her boundless energy and she was rarely even winded when she came into camp.

  Often as not, she came to Creed for attention. She would lay her head in his lap and roll onto her back, demanding a scratch. The gesture of utter trust was one of the few things that brought a smile to Creed's lips. Mahkwi would send him a golden-eyed gaze, tongue lolling, basking in his touch.

  The wolf's infatuation with Creed was something Mariah understood. She, too, remembered the magic of his touch, the comfort of his smile.

  There were times when she'd caught Creed watching her when he thought she didn't see. A shiver of awareness would ripple through her at those times, as if she could almost feel the heat of his gaze. Yesterday, while they ate a cold lunch and Jesse entertained them with stories of grizzlies he'd known, she'd even dared to return Creed's stare. To her surprise, he hadn't looked away, but held her gaze for a long, heart-stopping moment.

  Thinking back on the longing she'd seen in his eyes made her knees go weak and her pulse thud at the base of her throat. Little things, like the way he tilted his head or the way his slender fingers smoothed the piece of wood he was whittling, reminded her of the way he'd held her that day by the river. There was no denying that something had changed, shifted unalterably between them.

  Mariah sighed, staring at his back as he trotted his horse ahead. As impossible as it seemed, her feelings for him were deepening. No longer could she look at him as simply a bounty hunter, an unscrupulous mercenary without virtue. Creed Devereaux was a complex man whose true depths she could only guess at. He was a man who needed more than he'd ever ask for, and one who'd doubtless given away more of himself than he'd ever admit.

  By late afternoon they'd come to a broad, low-running creek that threaded through a high-walled gulch. It was shaded by dozens of cottonwood and birch and hedged by a bank of rock-bound bitterroot and bright crimson stands of Indian paintbrush. Creed had gone off on his own, under the pretense of catching fish for dinner, leaving her and Jesse to set up camp. The wolf had, not surprisingly, tagged along beside Creed, seemingly tireless after the long day's romp.

  As Mariah had been doing for the past two days, she unsaddled Buck and Petunia, rubbed them down with handfuls of grass, and hobbled them near Jesse's stock. It was a chore she'd taken on voluntarily and she relished the time to be alone with her thoughts.

  When she was finished, she carried a bucket to the edge of the shallow, rock-dotted creek and settled it into the water. The sun was a pool of orange, just dipping below the horizon of the western peaks in the "V" of the canyon, casting them in a pink blush. "Beautiful," she murmured, half to herself.

  "It's called Wolf Creek," commented Jesse, who walked up beside her with an armload of wood, gazing at the setting sun sparkling on the water. "The Blackfeet have their own name for it. Mahkwiyi Istikiop."

  She smiled at the musical-sounding words. "What does that mean?"

  "'Where the Wolf Fell Down.'"

  "What a strange name."

  "Most of the rivers in these parts have two or three names. The ones the white men give them and the Indian names. They're usually given for a particular event someone witnessed or for a spiritual belief. The story goes that Wolf Creek got its name because a Blackfoot brave saw a herd of buffalo go right over those cliffs, followed by the unfortunate wolf who'd been chasing them."

  Mariah grimaced. "How gruesome... Mahkwi Asti—"

  "Mah-kwi-yi Is-ti-kiop."

  She pronounced it again and this time got it nearly right. "Well, it's quite beautiful when you say it. Mahkwiyi—that means wolf?"

  He nodded with a grin.

  She smiled, thinking of Mahkwi. "It's a perfect name for her. Where did you learn to speak Blackfoot?"

  He stooped to gather more wood beneath a cotton-wood. "A man can't trade with The People for as long as I have without learning to savvy their language."

  "Are you ever afraid, dealing with... with—"

  A frown creased his brow. "Savages?"

  She hesitated. "I've read stories about the Blackfeet. They say they're a brutal, warring tribe, guilty of many atrocities."

  Jesse dumped the wood near the circle of rocks he'd gathered. "You believe everything you read?"

  His question took her off guard. "I—well—"

  "I haven't got much personal experience with the stories myself," he admitted, arranging the wood in a pile with tinder he'd gathered underneath, "but from what I've heard, I'd advise against it, Mariah. Nobody can know a people from a thousand miles off or by sifting through what they leave behind. Those two-bit word-slingers who tell tales about the West have likely never been here and if they have, they've only looked at one side of things.

  "The Blackfeet are different from us in a lot of ways: the way they live, the God they worship, the way they dress. But they laugh, have young'uns, even love same as you and me. They've had their share of war and killing, but mostly it's with their enemies—the Crow, the Cree, or the Assiniboines. They go by their own set of rules that whites don't generally understand."

  He struck a match against the sole of his boot, cupping it in his hand against the wind. The tinder caught and flamed, licking the underside of the wood.

  "The world of the Blackfoot is a sacred hoop—in balance with all things," he went on. "They fight to protect what's theirs, to make sure they can feed their families. They're not so different from us in that way." He fell silent while he added wood to the fire.

  She handed him the last log. "I suppose I've never thought of them in that light. As people, I mean."

  Jesse smiled sadly. "You and the rest of the country. There's a lot about the Blackfoot way of life I admire. In fact, I think in some ways they're more civilized than we are. Does that shock you?"

  She considered it for a moment. "A few days ago, I might have been appalled," she admitted. "Now that I've gotten to know you a little better, I'm certain there must be some merit in what you say."

  "Careful, Mariah, you'll turn my head." A teasing glint sparkled in his light blue eyes. "You'll find things out here are rarely what they seem. Take you, for instance."

  "Me?"

  "You don't look like the type of woman who'd brave a trip alone to Montana, or one who'd have a burning desire to leave civilization for this." He gestured at the wildness around them. "But here you are, going across country with the likes of Creed Devereaux."

  "Yes, who could have imagined that?" she replied sardonically, inhaling the fragrance of wood smoke.

  He grinned and set his tripod over the fire. "I'd wager Creed's not exactly what you thought he was either."

  The good humor slipped from her
face. "Oh? And what's that?"

  "A bounty hunter. A killer."

  "He's both of those things."

  "Yes... and no."

  "What do you mean? I saw him gun down a man in cold blood. It happened right in front of my very eyes."

  "Oh, I'm not saying he didn't do it. But you don't know the whole of it."

  She hugged her arms. "Why don't you tell me?"

  His lips curved into a half-grin as he fed the fire several larger sticks. "It's not my place to do that. If Creed wants you to know, I reckon he'll tell you."

  Her shoulders slumped. "Creed doesn't tell me much about himself. In fact, if you've noticed, he's barely speaking to me. I don't really know him at all."

  "Not many do. Most folks who come out here are either runnin' from something behind them or looking for a future. Not a one of 'em wants their pasts turned over by someone else's spade. A man doesn't have to talk for people to know who he is. What a fella does counts for more than all the talking in the world."

  She absorbed what he'd said in silence, watching the flames gobble up the pyramid of wood. Jesse made a pot of coffee and hung it over the fire.

  "You've known each other for a long time," she said, breaking the comfortable silence between them. "Has Creed always been the way he is now? He seems... lonely, sometimes bitter."

  Jesse reached into his pocket for a packet of cigarette paper and his drawstring pouch of tobacco. "Not always. Life hasn't been kind to him and that's a fact. He's chosen a certain road and it's not an easy one. But like me, he's a survivor and I expect you're cut out of that same cloth."

  "A few days ago, I would have taken offense at that," she said with a grin, "but I'll take it as a compliment today."

  Jesse returned her smile. "So meant."

  They sat together watching the flames in silence, content to reflect on their conversation. The lid of the coffee pot rattled with the fragrant steam that mingled with the tang of wood smoke.

  Her thoughts turned to Creed, as usual. She wondered about what Jesse had told her. What was it that drove a man to become what Creed Devereaux had become? What forces in his life had made him choose the difficult road Jesse spoke of? He wasn't an ordinary man. At least, clearly, Jesse didn't think so. If she didn't miss her guess, there was a touch of hero worship in Jesse's eyes when he spoke of Creed. What did they share and how was it they were close as brothers, yet hadn't seen each other for years?