Renegade Bride

by Barbara Ankrum

  She glanced off in the direction Creed had gone, wishing suddenly he'd come back, miraculously healed of the bitterness that had settled like a mantle over him in the past few days.

  "He's fine, Mariah. He just needs some time alone, I expect," Jesse said, following her gaze.

  A flush crept up her neck at his perceptiveness. It was a bit disconcerting to realize she was so obvious. "He must have had to walk a ways to find a good fishing pool." She chewed nervously on her bottom lip. "It's starting to get dark. You... you don't suppose anything's happened to him, do you?"

  Jesse laughed. "Creed? He can take care of himself. Most of the time," he added under his breath. "By the time he gets back, we're gonna be hungry enough to eat the worms he's using for bait." Mariah laughed with him, glad to leave dismal subjects behind.

  From a short distance away came a sound neither of them recognized at first. As it came closer Mariah knew it was a man's voice singing:

  "Chante, rossignol, chante

  'Ow long, 'ow long 'ave I loved you?

  Never, never well I forget."

  "Who the hell is that?" Jesse muttered to himself, staring in the direction of the sound.

  "I can't see anyone through all the trees," she replied. "What's he singing?"

  "It's an old voyager's song, A La Clair Fontaine."

  "What?" Mariah stared at him in surprise. "What's wrong?"

  "Just to be safe. Keep quiet." He cocked his rifle.

  "Oh, for heaven's sake." Indignant, she glared at his back. The first person they'd seen in days, and Jesse was getting ready to shoot him!

  The resonant voice grew louder:

  "Now I 'ave lost my sweetheart, Wizzout any reason at all. Eet was just a bouquet of roses. Zat I forgot to geeve 'er. Chante, rossignol, chante 'Ow long, 'ow long have I lov—"

  The man's singing stopped abruptly as his horse entered the clearing and the stranger saw Jesse's rifle pointed at the opening of his colorful blanket capote. A large crucifix dangled from his neck on a thick silver chain. He was dressed like a trapper, she imagined, though she noted he had no pack horse loaded with skins like Jesse.

  His sharp, dark-skinned features gave her the impression he was a half-breed, but his smile was white-toothed and pleasant. Behind him a few paces, a squaw mounted atop a paint horse drew to a stop as well, her exquisite face devoid of any expression. A thick buffalo hide fell around her shoulders against the cold.

  The breed's obsidian gaze took in the entire campsite in a glance from beneath the brim of his hat; then he spread his hands wide to show he had no weapons. "Eh, mon ami, so unfriendly? You do not like my song?"

  Jesse's eyes narrowed. "I'm a cautious man."

  "C'est bien, monsieur. So am I. But I mean you no 'arm as you can see. We are just passing through."

  "Maybe you should just keep passin' then."

  Undaunted, the stranger nodded at the fire. "We could use some coffee. We 'ave traveled far." At Jesse's scowl, he laughed and added, "I will not seeng, mon ami."

  Jesse's gaze didn't waver. "What's your name, friend?"

  The stranger's eyebrows went up in mock affront. "Ees a personal question for such a short acquaintance, no? But because the smell of your coffee stirs my 'un-ger, I weel tell you. My name ees Bouchard. Marcel Bouchard. Thees ees Raven, my woman." The squaw's gaze slid apathetically between Jesse and Mariah. The dewclaws decorating her blue cloth dress rattled with her every breath in the eerie silence.

  "Surely we can offer them coffee," Mariah said quietly. "There's plenty. It would be rude to turn them away, wouldn't it?"

  "No one ever died of rudeness," Jesse answered in a low voice.

  "Don't be silly. They're just traveling like us," she whispered emphatically. "Where's the harm?"

  Jesse sighed deeply, considering the logic of what she'd said. He lowered his rifle and nodded toward the fire. "You're welcome to a cup. Mariah, see if the coffee is brewed yet."

  Pierre LaRousse smiled at the ease with which they'd accepted his lie. He dismounted slowly, leaving his hands visible to the pair. His gaze took in the man's blond, sunstreaked hair, his clear blue eyes and full beard. Something was wrong. Unless Downing and Daniels had been drunk when they'd seen the man called Devereaux, this wasn't him. Yet, he puzzled, he traveled with the woman. The one named Mariah. Jesu! He would slit Downing's throat if he'd sent him on a fool's errand.

  It mattered little. He would find out if this was the one and, if not, he would kill them anyway. From the looks of the packs stacked on the ground nearby, there was a winter's fortune in pelts inside.

  Motioning Raven off her mount, LaRousse's gaze went to the horses grazing nearby. Three riding horses and two mules.

  Three.

  His blood pumped harder. There was another one, but where? He swept the clearing with an intensive glance.

  "Are you headed south?" Jesse asked, pouring two tin mugs of coffee.

  Distracted, LaRousse swiveled his gaze back to Jesse. "East, to zee the Musselshell," he lied easily. "To my woman's people."

  Jesse squinted against the setting sun and studied the design of Raven's dress. He handed them each a cup of coffee. "She's of the Blood tribe, isn't she?"

  LaRousse took a sip, watching him over the rim of the cup. "You 'ave good eyes, mon ami."

  Jesse spoke to Raven in her own tongue. "I know some Bloods down on the Musselshell. Eagle Plume and his brother, Running Crane. Do you know them?"

  Raven's eyes widened and her whole body seemed to surge forward, though she didn't take a step. "Ah!"

  Before she could say more, Bouchard jarred her elbow and she splashed hot coffee down the front of her dress. Raven leapt backward, swiping at the elkskin and glancing up at the man in real fear.

  The look Bouchard gave her sent a chill down Jesse's spine. Swallowing hard, Jesse passed the squaw the towel in his hand to blot the hot liquid.

  "Are you all right?" Mariah asked.

  Jesse doubted the squaw understood, but a solicitous tone was solicitous in any language and the woman's dark eyes met hers almost gratefully.

  "Ah, she ees beautiful, no?" Bouchard said, lifting his hands in a gesture of futility toward Raven, "but clumsy, Gauche, c'est vrai, mon chou?"

  The squaw did not bother to respond, but stared intensively at the ground. Jesse noticed the dark bruise around her left eye and wondered if it was the mark of the Frenchman's fist. Something tightened in his gut at the sight.

  "Women," Bouchard went on. "A man must protect someseeng so beautiful so deep in ze mountains, no, monsieur?" Bouchard looked directly at Mariah. "You 'ave not told me your names yet."

  "My name's Winslow. This is Miss Parsons."

  Bouchard nodded, his eyes raking Mariah slowly from the toes up. "Ees a dangerous country for a femme with skeen the color of bleached antelope 'ide, no?" Taking in her unconventional clothing he added, "Even one as unique as thees."

  "I'm perfectly safe, Mr. Bouchard," she said, unperturbed by his tone. "Especially traveling with—"

  "How about a cup, Mariah?" Jesse asked, cutting her off rudely.

  She opened her mouth to say so, but snapped it shut again at his strange look. "Why... why, no, thank you. I don't drink coffee, you know that, Jesse." His blue eyes spoke volumes, but about what she couldn't imagine.

  "I meant me," he said.

  "Oh... oh, well, of course." With her hand wrapped in her over-long sleeve, she poured a steaming cup. Handing it to him, she tried to discern his unfathomable expression, but failed.

  "Thanks," he said, taking the cup. His gaze slid back to the stranger. Bouchard spoke sharply to the squaw in words Mariah couldn't make out; Raven got up and gathered the reins of the two horses, taking them to the stream for water. As she walked, Mariah noticed she seemed to be looking for something in the forest nearby. A flicker of warning skittered down her spine. She glanced at Jesse.

  His mouth was a thin line. Perhaps she shouldn't have interfered when he'd advised the pair to move on.
She didn't care much for the half-breed or the way he treated his wife and the tension between the two men was so thick it was nearly palpable.

  Bouchard gave an exaggerated sigh and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Ahh-h. Ze coffee, madame, eet ees good."

  "Then it should go down quickly," Jesse replied with thinly veiled hostility.

  The man regarded him with a cool, inscrutable smile. "I'm in no 'urry, mon ami," he replied. "No 'urry at all."

  Chapter 11

  Creed pulled the line up and examined the waterlogged earthworm dangling from the hook. The creature wriggled futilely against its barb. Creed cursed and tossed it back into the deep pool, tightening his fingers around the line. He'd hoped at least his bad luck could be explained by lost bait—even that excuse had failed him.

  He'd expected the fish to be biting at this time of day. A grandfather trout had been taunting him from the shallows, but had refused so much as a nibble.

  The wolf paced nearby, here and there investigating the burrow of some animal with her snout. Above, a jay squawked noisily, fluttering from branch to branch in agitation. Creed ignored it, concentrating instead on the concentric circles of water stirred by the fishing line. The ever-widening ripples shimmered in the half-light of dusk.

  He stared at his distorted reflection in the water and scowled, thinking how like those spreading circles his life had become. He was tired of running.

  For the first time in years, he was tired of being alone. For the first time, he pinned a name to the feeling... he was lonely. He hadn't imagined he would ever admit that, even to himself. But he'd been wrong.

  Mariah had proved him wrong.

  Creed slid his fingers along the smooth silk line absently, glad he was here and not back at camp watching her like the fool he was. Dieu. He couldn't seem to help himself where she was concerned. The past few days had been hell. Being near her, but unable to touch her. He'd watched her a thousand times a day—the graceful curve of her neck when she bent over the fire, her easy laugh at Jesse's rollicking tales, the still perfection of her face when she was lost in thought.

  She was the kind of woman who conjured up thoughts of settling—children, hearth, and home. Dreams he'd never dared to dream. She wasn't like any of the women he'd known, or ever imagined.

  He wasn't good enough for her. He knew that. It didn't matter. She possessed his thoughts during the day and stirred a fever in his body at night. Some nights he lay staring at the stars, his body hard and aching for her. Sleep was hard to come by and when he did find it, he dreamed of her. Dreamed of holding her and covering her mouth with his and—he closed his eyes—and more.

  Every day, he thanked God that Jesse had chosen to ride with them. If it weren't for him, Creed wondered how he would have kept away from her this long. He cursed the weakness of his body and his resolve. He was a bastard for wanting her and a fool for letting her come.

  That thought led inevitably to another more disturbing one—Seth. The thought of seeing his old friend again in only a few days gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. If Seth had survived his illness—and he prayed to God he had—he would be waiting for his bride. Trusting Creed to bring her safe and sound, and in one piece.

  He damn well would. He would give Mariah over to him and ride out of Virginia City with all due haste. He wouldn't stay around to see her married to his best friend.

  A cool wind stirred the conifer branches above, sifting through the arrow-straight needles. A sound, a low droning buzz, began in the air. Creed's whole body grew taut, alert. He glanced at Mahkwi who seemed not to hear it.

  The silk line gave a hard tug against his fingers, but he hardly noticed it. The buzz echoed in his head like the wingbeats of a thousand bees. He pressed a palm against his right ear to stop it. Straightening, he searched the darkening shadows of the trees, but knew with sudden certainty the sound came from within.

  The silk tugged again, more insistently, and Creed stared at his hand as if it were no longer part of him.

  Merde! He was losing his mind! It was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  He jumped to his feet, dropping the line in the water, and watched the grandfather trout escape like a ribbon of green into the dark shadows. Mahkwi flinched at his sudden movement and stared at him with ears pricked forward.

  Suddenly, he knew. Mariah.

  At a run, Creed scooped his rifle up and tore through the underbrush—following the river, ducking below branches, vaulting over rocks and fallen tree trunks in his path. Mahkwi shot by him in a blur, then stopped and waited for him to catch up, enjoying the running game.

  But it wasn't a game.

  Creed's feet skimmed the spongy ground with a rhythmic pounding, but he could only hear the rasp of his breath and the droning buzz of warning clanging in his ears. Mariah!

  How far had he come downriver? He tried to gauge it in his mind. A mile? Two? He couldn't remember. He'd been walking just to get her out of his head.

  Faster. Faster.

  Ahead he could see only trees and river—nothing that would confirm his fears. He restrained the urge to call out to her and Jesse to warn them. Of what? He didn't know exactly. But flashes of an image—obsidian eyes, an oversized silver cross—flickered through his mind the way a cloud's shadow dappled sunlit grass. His heart thudded.

  Mon Dieu, don't let me be too late.

  He ran for what seemed like hours, but he knew only a few minutes had passed. Suddenly Mahkwi slowed and stopped, silver mane and tail stiff with attention. Creed dropped down beside her next to the thick huckleberry hedge and forced the wolf down with a hand signal he'd seen Jesse use. A flash of red amongst the spindly trunks of lodgepole pine forty feet ahead was what had caught the wolfs eye.

  His breath came in harsh rasps, not as much from exertion as from fear. Tightening his hands around the stock of his Henry, he slid the safety off and cocked the trigger with a nearly silent click and peered over the branches.

  Crouched behind his cover, the man with his back to Creed wore a filthy red union suit, torn and patched at both elbows, and a pair of suspendered woolsey pants. His hat was tilted back on his head and his rifle braced casually against the ground. Creed shouldered his gun. He could kill him from here. One shot.

  As he took a bead on him, the man leaned over and spit a brown stream of tobacco juice and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

  When he did, Creed saw what the man was watching. Fifty feet beyond, Mariah and Jesse were standing in the campsite with two others. A squaw and a man. They were sitting drinking coffee like old friends! Creed couldn't make out their faces, but he knew. He knew who they were.

  Le Diable.

  Creed scanned the trees. A scant hundred feet from the first man was another and beyond him still another. God knew how many more hovered like coyotes waiting for the kill.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  He lowered the rifle. To use it now would mean instant death for Mariah and Jesse. No, he had to find a way to lessen the odds against them. Propping the rifle against the dense berry branches, Creed withdrew the knife from the sheath at his belt. He glanced at Mahkwi. A low growl rumbled in her throat.

  Creed placed a silencing hand over her muzzle. "Stay," he told her, but he had little hope she would. If Jesse was threatened, nothing short of death would keep her from him. Creed was sure of that. But he hoped she would give him the time to do what he had to. Then she might prove just the distraction he needed.

  He started toward the red-shirted man on silent feet. Tightening his hand around the deer horn grip of his knife, he emptied his mind of all thoughts but one.

  Revenge.

  * * *

  Through the smoke of the campfire, Mariah glanced at Raven, who hadn't touched her cup since she'd been scalded. She was surprised to find the girl watching her. Raven's eyes widened deliberately, then she flashed a look into the forest to her left. Mariah frowned and followed her glance at the dusky forest and saw nothing bu
t the thick timber surrounding them.

  Feeling uneasy, her gaze returned to Raven, but the squaw was staring at the ground again. Mariah twined her fingers together in her lap. Bouchard drained the last of his coffee and set his tin mug on the ground in front of him.

  "You are a trader, no?"

  "I do some trading," Jesse answered guardedly.

  "I am interested in some skeens. Per'aps you could show me what you 'ave. Eef zey are good, per'aps I buy."

  "These skins are spoken for."

  Bouchard frowned. "Zat ees too bad. My woman wants to make a winter robe for me from soft beaver pelts. From the looks of your packs, you 'ave what I want."

  "I said they're spoken for."

  "Ah, oui. So you said. You go to ze Gulch, mon ami, to sell to ze diggers of gold?"

  "Maybe."

  "Maybe." He chuckled. "A cautious man. I like thees een a man. One can never be too careful." He straightened the thick leather belt that circled his Hudson blanket coat. "Myself, I always like to know where I stand, what I am up against. So, I ask you, mon ami, where ees your companion?"

  Mariah felt Jesse go rigid beside her.

  "Companion?"

  The stranger tipped his head toward the cropping horses. "Three horses... three saddles... I seenk you are not alone 'ere."

  Jesse's face darkened and Mariah watched the possibilities flicker behind his sky blue eyes. "They're all mine," he lied. "I won the third one in a game of cutthroat up on the Marius, outfit and all."

  Mariah blinked at Jesse, wondering why he hadn't told the man about Creed. If, as she was beginning to suspect, this man meant them harm, why wouldn't Jesse tell him there was another man close by, ready to come to their aid?