Dangerous Waters

by Amy J. Fetzer

  "Don't call me that."

  He squatted in front of her. "Why?"

  She sighed, replacing the gun before he got too interested in the design. "It makes me feel like you care."

  His brows rose in surprise. "I do."

  She stared off to the side, at the setting sun. "Right."

  He knelt on one knee, yanking at blades of grass. Caesar nickered softly.

  "You don't believe me?"

  "I did. Last night." She met his gaze. "But the morning has a tendency to bring on a hard case of reality."

  He knew he didn't want to hear this, but asked, "And that is?"

  It feels too good in your arms, so good when you call me Tori, but it's not fair to either of us, she wanted to say, but instead said, "As much fun as that was, we can't start any­thing." She'd had all night to weigh her options and her own came up short. "It isn't worth the trouble." She stood, searching the ground for wood.

  "I'm a grown man, Victoria. I can judge for myself." His words were clipped with irritation as he rose and followed her.

  "I'm not sticking around long enough for it to matter."

  To hear her say it struck him in the chest and he stopped short. "Did I do it, last night? Did I drive you away?"

  Victoria moaned, dropping the wood in a pile. "No," came

  in a whisper. "I like you, Chris—" her gaze slid over his

  broad shoulders, his lean muscular form with obvious regret

  "—A lot. But I have to take him back."

  He didn't think the saloon owner was guilty of anything

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  except over-charging, but kept that to himself. She wasn' t going to listen. "You can return, afterward."

  "No." She swallowed thickly, staring at the kindling.

  "Never."

  She cut him out in those words and it sent fury rising like a storm inside him.

  "Nothing matters but the hunt, huh? Only the cash for a felon."

  She looked at him blandly, refusing to rise to his baiting. It was too dark to head back and she wasn't up to sparing with him until dawn. "I don't get paid the bounty, Marshal. The court gets it."

  He scoffed. "Since when?"

  "Well, where I come from, that's how it goes." She went to her satchel, blocking his view as she flipped the catch and opened it, quietly unzipping the backpack front pocket and digging past her Bic for some matches.' 'I work for a bondsman, Fat Jack Palau. He puts up the bond. I chase them down when they flee."

  "And Becket is supposed to have fled? When?" She returned to the wood stack, concentrating on lighting the blaze. "The day before you falsely arrested me."

  "Impossible," he said from across the fire. "I saw him the evening before and nearly every day prior."

  Victoria clamped her lips shut, fanning the flames and tossing on more wood. Damn. She should have said she'd been hunting him for months before, for revealing the circumstances was out of the question. "Not according to my paperwork," she muttered, hoping her slip would slide by.

  "Why don't we just wait until he gets back, on the morning

  train to confront him." *

  "No!" she barked, then glanced at him, her tone loosing its edge. "No. I'm not speaking with him, looking like this." She gestured to her face. "Not ever. Got that?" Her gaze bored into his, a silent battle neither would acknowledge. "And for the record, Marshal, I've never brought a defendent in that wasn't breathing."

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  She made his job sound like a dirty word and the secrets she still held from him, set his temper flying. "Christ, what pushes you to do this?"

  "Murderers running free isn't reason enough?"

  He scooted closer and she tensed. He tried to ignore how much the defensive move hurt him and concentrated on her. "Sure it is, but besides that you've got the wrong felon, I've never known anyone to go to such extremes."

  His tone prodded, but she wasn't going to relive that for anyone.

  "Look, Chris." She plucked off her hat and tossed it aside. "I told you. I do the get-ups to keep a low profile, if I want to live until the next case." Her tone turned bitter. "It's what's kept me alive for the past five years." And alone. God, I've been at this too long, she thought dismally. A Marine M.P., a U. S. Marshal for a couple years, then bounty hunting, and it all lead her here, to this time. She glanced at him. To this man? Or the one on the train?

  "You sound sick of it." His gaze followed as she stood.

  Her feet shifted, her gaze on her fingers, then with a jerk of her head, she tossed her head back and stared at the horizon. "I am." Her hair shielded her face.

  "Then why go on?"

  She sighed wearily, her deep voice tinny, fragile. "Because the killers don't sleep, Chris."

  And neither did she, he thought, rising and following her to the horses. She looked drained, physically spent, and Chris wondered how much of it was their brawl in the dirt or their encounter last night. Something's happening to her, he thought, ashamed that he'd pushed her. But God, she was one sexy female. She just didn't believe it. He wanted to crush whoever made her feel so unattractive, wanted to protect her from the haunts he witnessed constantly in her eyes. But she wouldn't let him in, shoving back when he got too close and they moved around each other in tight silence, avoiding the slightest contact. As he loosened the muslin sack and saddle bags, she was right behind him, removing the saddles and positioning them near

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  the fire, intentionally on opposite ends, Chris noticed—like he noticed everything else.

  Like how she never opened her pack when he was close enough to see inside, nor allow him a long enough look at her strange small gun. Or those little binoculars. He cast her a glance as he gathered enough wood to keep them warm through the night. She was rubbing down the black, the fire light making her hair look lighter, yet the shadows and the darker hair sur­rounding her face gave her the definite appearance of a lion in wait. For a fight. He rubbed his bruised chin, the rest of him still aching from her blows and he didn't want to give her the opportunity to test those claws on his hide any too soon. Pulling a cloth from his saddle bag, he rubbed down the gelding.

  She was humming, her hand smoothing over Caesar in a slow luxurious caress. It made him itch to feel those hands on him again. "Why did you take off the ... get up?"

  "It was hot as hell." A pause and then, "And Jake Farrell died today."

  He was confused and a crooked smile tugged at her lush lips.

  "I ripped his face off."

  Chris chuckled softly, shaking his head and the crackling tension eased a little. She scratched Caesar behind the ears and the big horse snorted his delight.

  "Betrayer," Chris muttered and Caesar hung his head sadly. "Look, he's sorry." Victoria never saw a horse pout, but swore he was. "Me too, Chris." He met her gaze and her tone cajoled. "I sort of talked him into playing hooky."

  "Forget it. If Caesar didn't want to run with you, no one could have climbed on that ornery piece of horse*hide." The last he said close to Caesar's ear.

  "See. Can't hang around me, boy," she said, grabbing the bridal and staring into the horses big black eyes. "I'll just get you grounded without oats."

  Chris paused in reaching for the muslin sack. "Grounded?" "Punished," she explained, then kissed the horse's black nose.

  "Hungry?" He peered into the sack.

  "Starving," she said without looking up. She and Caesar seemed to be having a private conversation. "Abigale left us a lunch."

  "How sweet of her,"

  Hiding a smile at the tightness in her voice, he settled to the ground, pulling a wrapped bundle out of a sack. "I needed a dip in the river, last night." He glanced up, her smile catching him in the chest. Then her gaze dropped boldly to the bulge in his jeans. He groaned, reaction swift and painful.

  "Good 'cause I lost my oh-so-glamourous job."

  "
I know. I'm sorry."

  "Saying that a lot lately, aren't you, Marshal?"

  He gazed up at her, seeing her with all the facets he'd discov­ered. "You humble me sometimes, Victoria."

  "That'll be the day."

  "Around you, half the time I feel—"

  "Condescending? Touchy? Bruised? What?"

  ''—inconsequential."

  Her expression went somber, her ghost of a smile robbing him of air. "Not a chance, Chris." Her voice was husky with emotion when she said, "A dunk in a cold river, huh?" If that wasn't great for her ego, she was asking too much. "That bad?"

  ' 'It still is,'' he muttered under his breath, then said,'' Abigale understood the dunking immediately and wanted to meet the cause of ... my discomfort."

  Abigale couldn't be his wife. "Your housekeeper?"

  "If that's all she was," he said, enjoying the jealousy in her eyes. She wasn't as unaffected as she claimed. Good. Neither was he. "I don't think I could live without her." He handed her a portion of the chicken and biscuits. "Or her incredible cooking and sunny smile. Or her thirty years of nagging me to wash behind my ears."

  "That's 'cause boys never wash there." She reached, grabbed his ear and checked, then smiled with approval. He grinned, making her insides dance.

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  " 'Course then there's her matchmaking . . ."

  "Excuse me?" she said, hating the snap to her words.

  He sank his teeth into a chicken leg, making her wait, adoring

  her eagerness, even though the telling would cost him his pride.

  She was worth it, he decided then and there. "Chris!"

  "Camille McCracken is my friend's sister. I called on her, we fell in love," his gaze faultered and his tone wore a touch of confusion "—or at least I thought I had. I was supposed to marry her next month."

  Her breath caught. Next month? "And you're not, I take it?" He finished chewing before he spoke, gathering courage and leaving his wounds out of the words. "She couldn't stomach the thought of marrying an Indian."

  Her features sharpened. "The little prejudiced bitch!" His brows shot up. "Victoria Mason!" "But that's so backward!" Like this century, like the women in the store, she recalled. "Jeez, what would they do if they found out I'm . . . let's see," she stared thoughtfully at the night sky. "English, Costa Rican, Scottish," she met his gaze, "And Blackfoot."

  "Blackfoot, hum?" He shivered dramatically. "Now I know where you get that mean streak." "I'm not mean."

  Her lower lip thrust out so adorably he wanted to kiss her. Boy, did he want to kiss her. "I have the bruises to prove it, darlin'." He made a show of coughing and rubbing his solar plexus.

  "That's self-defense." Her gold eyes flashed devilishly.

  "Did I hurt you?" *

  "Hell, yes."

  "Then you shouldn't have tried to stop me." Smug, edged with warning.

  "You shouldn't have stolen my horse." "Borrowed."

  "All right, all right, I give." He threw his hands up in defeat, the chicken leg sailing back over his shoulder somewhere into

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  the dark. He blinked at his empty hand, then her and she laughed, a throaty sound that stole through him like a stream of warmed honey.

  She offered him some of her dinner and he took it, sinking down on his elbow, the motion bringing him closer to her. She met and held his dark gaze, pushing a piece of meat into her mouth and Chris swallowed, his senses so alive with her he thought he'd roar with frustration. His gaze slipped over her face, the smoothness of her complexion, the golden color of it making him ache to strip the heavy shirt from her body and taste every supple inch. She inhaled softly, her attention on tearing tiny pieces from the biscuit, his on the opening of her shirt, the swell of breast hinting she wore nothing beneath the cloth. He swallowed, clenching his fingers to keep from touch­ing her.

  Then she looked up, her gold and black gaze searching his face before she leaned forward, tenderly cupping his jaw and covering his mouth with hers. He moaned, sinking his fingers into the cloud of hair as her lips rolled smoothly over his. Her mouth was like dark magic, stirring him to ungodly heights, her lips tugging at his, her tongue outlining the shape, sweeping his teetb before pushing inside. Her kiss grew wilder, and for the first time in his life, he felt helpless and wonderfully tortured. She was like desert sand, shifting and changing with the wind and elusive to the touch. He wanted to capture her—he wanted—a chance to love her.

  Was this all he'd ever have of her? A few kisses? Victoria drew back slowly, her breathing erratic, her thumb brushing over his lips. "I love your kisses," she whispered, her voice rich and sultry.

  "Kissed much?" he managed with his blood pounding like

  sledge hammer.

  The corner of her moist lips tugged. "Enough." "That sweet mouth of yours drive them crazy, too?" She flushed. "Not one." "Not even him?"

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  Her features went blank, like a slate wiped clean and she leaned back. "No."

  Chris sat up, part of him telling him not to spoil it and let the subject drop, yet the man who wanted her with him, the man who ached to get beyond this shield she held between them, couldn't.

  "How did he die, your husband?"

  She looked as if he'd shot her, pain streaking across her lovely face. Then, it was hidden, subdued. Carefully, she set the half-eaten biscuit on the cloth and dusted her fingertips, her words falling away like the dry crumbs. "He and my daughter were in a McDonald's. It's a restaurant," she clarified, her tone oddly detached. "Some crazy, drugged-up fiend with a rifle sprayed the place with bullets. Kevin and Trisha were the first to get it." Victoria swallowed, her vision blurring. "Trisha didn't know her Daddy was stealing her from me. See, Kevin didn't like my job. It disgusted him that to get the defendant, I'd hang out with the jerks he was trying to put behind bars. He'd insist I bathe and change before coming near him. After a while, it got so bad that he refused to touch me." Pain and humiliation wove through her words and Chris longed to comfort her. "He got this look every time I came back. Suspicious, Like / was one of the criminals."

  That hurt her the most, Chris realized, to have her honor questioned.

  "When he asked for a divorce, I didn't argue. But I wanted my daughter." Her voice hardened. "We fought over her, and when I was out on assignment, he stole her from her nanny." Her hands shook as she spoke and she clasped them tightly. "It took me two days to find them. When she saw me through the restaurant windows, she reached out to me, but Kevin held her back. It was mean and he knew it. She couldn't understand what he was doing to her," she moaned dispiritedly. "Then the junkie opened fire before I realized what was happening. I didn't have a gun." A single tear spilled, rolling softly down her cheek, and she looked at him, her lip trembling. "If he hadn't taken her—if I hadn't left my gun at home ... if I'd

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  thought—oh Jesus," she choked. "The bullets ripped right through her little body, tearing holes in my child like she was made of paper. But damn the bastard," she ground angrily. "She didn't die instantly—" she thumped her chest "—but in my arms, asking to go home in her sweet little voice. Oh God—" She swallowed and swallowed again, pressing down her grief, and Chris reached for her. She batted away his hands and started to rise, but he grabbed her, pulling her into his arms. She struggled briefly, then buried her face in his chest, sobbing helplessly. "Do you know what that's like? To see your baby reaching for you, begging for your help and you can do nothing! Nothing!" Her fingers dug into his arms. "Damn you. Oh damn you!'' she howled like a beaten animal. ' 'I could have gone a hundred years without remembering that!"

  "I'm sorry, shhh, I'm sorry," he soothed, leaning back against the saddle and cradling her in his arms. She wrapped her body around him, her face buried in the curve of his shoul­der, her legs entwined with his. And Victoria cried, her heart ripping from her chest and squeezing the last
of her blood. She cried for Kevin, and the love they once shared, for the special little girl they made. Her shoulders jerked, her arms clung and she sobbed out the pain of losing Cole, the anger of his foolish­ness and hers for asking him to help her. Then she cried for herself, pitiful lonely tears, and he held her, letting her cling to his neck, letting her pound his chest with her frustration and he sheltered her like something precious and fragile, absorbing her pain, washing it away with the smooth stroke of his hands up her spine. And years of smothered torment tore through her soul, shredding her guard.

  Her anguish clawed at his composure and Chris tightened his arms around her, a lump swelling in his throat. She was bleeding, and he cursed himself for opening the wound.

  And he prayed she'd forgive him.

  Again.

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  Chapter Fifteen

  Chris squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips to the top of her head.

  He'd never held a woman like this before, not as if he were her only lifeline. He wouldn't let her go until she wanted it, he promised. Time went on uncharted before her sobs faded into deep shuddering breaths.

  God.

  He'd wanted her to need to him, but not like this, not at this price. The heaviness of night fell quietly, punctuated by an occasional shifting hoof, a chirping cricket, and she was so still he thought sleep had taken away her pain.

  He looked down at her, pushing back her lush mass of hair. Her dark lashes swept up and the sadness in her eyes tore him in half. "God, Tori." He smeared her tears away with his thumb. "I didn't mean to make you hurt like that."

  "It's okay, Tonto," came in a quiet rasp and Victoria swal­lowed. "Not your fault. I'll live." But it will never be the same, she thought, gazing into his eyes. She'd done her worst to him and he was still here. No one stuck around beyond the initial greeting. Most men were either repulsed or intimidated

  by her. Except him, she thought, slipping her arm from around his neck and sifting her fingers in his soft black hair. She added pressure, drawing him closer, and Chris went willingly, her mouth warm and supple against his. Desire flared, heating her kiss, her sleek body shifting subtly along his own, sending a message he'd longed to receive. He trembled with need, a grinding that scraped roughly through his body and he savored the freedom he found in it for several moments, then reluctantly drew back. She reached for him again.