“Yeah.”
He was breathing rapidly, as though he’d been running for miles. His body was drenched with perspiration, his hands were shaking.
There was a sudden burst of light as Brandy threw a handful of kindling on the coals. “J.T.?”
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice hoarse.
It was in her mind to crawl back under the covers and let him fight his demons alone, but then she saw his face and knew she couldn’t do it.
Slipping out of the covers, she put some wood on the fire, then went to kneel beside him. He looked at her as if he didn’t recognize her, his dark brown eyes wild and feverishly bright.
“It’s all right, J.T.,” she whispered. Feeling somewhat hesitant, she drew him toward her, until his head rested on her shoulder. “It’s over,” she murmured soothingly. “Don’t think about it anymore.”
His skin was taut beneath her hand. She could feel him shivering convulsively, feel the sweat cooling on his skin. She ran her fingers through his hair, massaged his nape, let her hand slide over the broad expanse of his back. Gradually, she felt him relax. His head grew heavy on her shoulder and she urged him to lie down again, surprised when he rested his head in her lap.
He didn’t look like a killer now. In spite of the dark shadows under his eyes and the rough stubble that covered his jaw, he looked vulnerable and alone.
She had a sudden impulse to kiss his brow, to gather him into her arms and comfort him as a mother might comfort a frightened child. But J.T. Cutter wasn’t a child and she feared any such display on her part might be misinterpreted as more than just a simple desire to give assurance to a fellow human being.
“J.T.?”
He didn’t answer, and she realized he was asleep again. She drew the buffalo robe up to his shoulders, intending to return to her own bed, but, to her surprise, she was reluctant to leave him alone and so she stayed, cradling his head in her lap, one hand lightly stroking his brow, until she heard the camp stirring to life.
* * * * *
He knew she was gone even before he opened his eyes. For a moment, J.T. lay there with his eyes closed, remembering how the touch of her hand and the sound of her voice had chased away the remnants of his nightmare the night before. In all the years since his mother passed away, no one, male or female, had ever taken the time to soothe his fears. He had forgotten what it felt like to have a woman hold him in her arms for no reason other than to comfort him. It embarrassed him, how readily he had turned to her for solace, how eagerly he had sought shelter in her arms. He couldn’t recall a single time when he had wanted, or needed, a woman for anything other than a quick coupling. Out of all the women he’d taken to bed, he remembered only the first one.
But he would remember Brandy Talavera, not just because she had been kind, but because she had seen him at his most vulnerable. He felt an unexpected tenderness toward her because she had been kind and yet, perversely, he resented the fact that she had caught him at a weak moment.
And then he heard the sound of her footfalls and he forgot everything in the anticipation of seeing her again. A shaft of early morning sunlit sliced across the floor when she opened the door flap and stepped inside.
Brandy hesitated inside the door, wondering how much he remembered of the night past. And then she took a deep breath. She had to face him sometime. It seemed to take a great deal of concentration to put one foot in front of the other, to cross the floor to his bedside. “Good morning.”
“Morning.”
Her gaze slid away from his. “Are you hungry?”
“Does it matter?”
“If it didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Is that right? Last night you told me in no uncertain terms that you weren’t interested in seeing to any of my needs.”
Brandy flushed, embarrassed to be reminded of her uncharitable attitude. “I know what I said.”
“So what changed your mind?”
“Nothing.” She gave him a sharp look, puzzled by his gruff tone, his sullen expression. “I don’t care if you starve.”
J.T. muttered an oath under his breath, wondering why he was being such a bastard. She’d done nothing to earn his disdain, and then he realized he was just using the same surly attitude he’d always used to keep people at arm’s length.
“Brandy…”
“I want you out of here, now, today.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that! I married you, and now I’m divorcing you.” She turned on her heel and started toward the door. “Get dressed, and get out!”
“Brandy, wait!”
She paused, one hand on the door flap, but she didn’t turn around.
“I’m…” He swore under his breath. “I’m sorry.”
“You haven’t said those two words very often, have you?”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever said them.”
“Get dressed,” she said softly. “I’ll get you something to eat.”
J.T. took a deep breath. “I want to thank you for last night. And if you’re thinking I probably don’t say thanks too often, either, you’d be right about that, too.”
His soft-spoken words seemed to curl around Brandy’s heart. “Would you tell me something?”
“If I can.”
Slowly, she turned around to face him. ”You had that same nightmare once before, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“The last time, you said something about being promised a year. What did you mean?”
“Nothing.”
He was lying. She could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. “Get dressed. I’ll fix you something to eat.”
J.T. nodded. Like most of the Crow women, Brandy did the majority of her cooking outside. It must be quite a change for her, he mused, having to cook over an open fire when she was accustomed to a machine that cooked food in minutes instead of hours.
Getting carefully to his feet, J.T. put on the clothing she’d brought him. The buckskin shirt was incredibly soft against his bare skin. The breechclout covered his loins and not much else. The moccasins were a fair fit. He wondered fleetingly what his mother would think if she could see him now.
Brandy stepped into the lodge, and came to an abrupt halt, hardly aware of the soup that sloshed over the sides of the bowl onto her hands.
J.T. stood near the center of the lodge, his expression slightly sheepish when he met her gaze. ”So, what do you think?”
Brandy swallowed hard. What did she think? She could hardly think at all! Had he always been so roguishly handsome? Had his shoulders always been that broad, his legs that long? And why was she so tongue-tied? Every man in the village wore practically the same attire.
“Hey,” he called softly. “You all right?”
“Fine. Here.” She thrust the bowl into his hands.
J.T. stared at her, wondering at the sudden flush creeping up her neck.
“Sit down and eat,” Brandy said, her voice unaccountably brusque.
“Yes, ma’am,” J.T. replied, and sitting cross-legged on the bed of furs, he began to eat.
Brandy picked up the moccasins she had been working on and bent her head to the task. But she couldn’t keep her gaze from straying toward J.T., couldn’t help noticing the way the buckskin stretched over his broad shoulders and chest, the muscular length of his thighs.
Mercy, what was wrong with her?
“Brandy. Brandy?”
“What?”
“Would you like to go for a walk with me?”
“A walk?”
J.T. nodded. “I’ve been cooped up long enough. I want to stretch my legs.” He stood up and held out his hand. “Will you come?”
Wisdom, discretion, good sense, all told her to say no. But the memory of his voice asking for her forgiveness, expressing his thanks, tugged at her heart. She had the feeling that he hadn’t known much kindness in his life. And so, against her better judgment, she said yes and placed her hand in his.
At
the touch of his fingers closing over hers, warmth spread up her arm and wrapped around her heart.
He helped her to her feet, but didn’t release her hand.
Outside, he turned downriver, her hand held firmly in his.
“Pretty country,” Brandy remarked, needing to break the silence between them.
“Yes, it is.” J.T. paused beneath a tree and turned to face her. “You saved my life. I’m grateful.”
“I did it as much for myself as for you.”
“I know, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m in your debt.”
He gazed at her for a long moment, lost in the clear gray depths of her eyes. This close, he could smell the soap she had bathed with, the tangy scent of sage, the smoky odor of the fire. Her hand was small and soft. He had a sudden, irresistible urge to take her in his arms and kiss her.
And he did.
Gently, yet firmly, he drew her close, bent his head, and slanted his mouth over hers. He felt her stiffen, heard her gasp of surprise. And then her arms went around his waist and she was leaning into him, kissing him back.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the outline of her mouth in silent entreaty. On a ragged breath, she opened her mouth and he had his first taste of her sweetness.
“Brandy…” He murmured her name and then kissed her again. Her body was soft and pliable, her breasts warm against his chest. His hand slid up her back; he felt her shiver as his fingers caressed her spine and massaged her nape. He rained gentle kisses over her cheeks, her brow, the length of her neck, his fingers threading through the heavy fall of her hair.
“J.T…” Her conscience tried to swim to the surface, to break through the heavy drug-like haze that his kisses had spread over her senses. She knew she should make him stop, but her body refused to obey, refused to end the delicious sensations that were sweeping though her, making her heart beat fast, teaching her soul a new song.
When he took his mouth from hers, she felt lost, adrift.
Her eyelids fluttered open and she stared up at him, her lips bereft.
“Brandy…”
She made a soft sound in her throat, and J.T. swore under his breath. He’d done a lot of despicable things in his life, bedded a lot of women—bedded them and forgotten them—but Brandy deserved better.
Surprised at his own actions, he put her away from him. “Brandy, we’d better stop.”
She blinked up at him, knowing he was right. Knowing she didn’t want him to stop.
“Come on,” he said, and taking her hand in his once again, he continued walking downriver, his thoughts turned inward. In the eyes of the Crow, Brandy was his wife. He wished now that it was true, that he had the right to lay her down on a bed of soft grass and make her his. But it wouldn’t be right. She belonged in another time, another place, and he had only a year to live. Making love to her now would only complicate things.
They walked in silence until they came to a flat-topped rock located beside a bend in the river.
“You want to rest a while?” he asked.
“All right.”
She sat down, and he sat beside her, close, but not quite touching.
“What does the J.T. stand for?” Brandy asked after a while. “The history books didn’t say.”
“John Tokala.”
“Tokala?” Brandy frowned a moment. “That’s Lakota for fox, isn’t it?”
J.T. nodded. “My mother thought I should have a Lakota name to remind of who I was, so she named me after her grandfather.”
“Have you ever lived with the Sioux?”
“No.”
“So you never knew your maternal grandparents. What about your father’s family? Did you ever meet any of them?”
“No.
“I’m sorry.”
J.T. shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied gruffly. But it did.
“Have you ever wanted to find your mother’s people?”
“What for? I don’t know them, and they don’t know me.”
“Maybe your grandparents are still alive.”
“Forget it, Brandy. I don’t have time to go hunting for them.”
“Why not?”
Why, indeed, he mused bleakly. But he couldn’t tell her he was living on borrowed time, that the days were passing much too quickly.
Closing his eyes, he lay back on the rock.
Brandy smiled ruefully. Sooner or later, she’d find out what it was he refused to tell her.
Chapter Eight
As the days passed, J.T. found that, much to his surprise, he liked living with the Crow in spite of the fact that he couldn’t speak the language. They were a warm, generous people, readily accepting him because he was Brandy’s husband. Of course, they didn’t know he was a thief and a cheat. On occasion, he wondered how they would feel toward him if they knew he was half-Lakota, but there was no reason to tell them.
As his wound healed, his awareness of the woman whose lodge he shared grew stronger. When they were outside, she accorded him the respect and attention she would have given her true husband. Alone in their lodge, she was cool but polite, making it clear that he was not her husband in any way, shape or form.
He accepted her restrictions without complaint. After all, but for her intervention, he would have faced a cruel death.
Tonight, with his blankets spread across the fire from hers, he tried to concentrate on being grateful, but her nearness was a constant temptation. In the shadowy darkness of the lodge, he could see her curled up in her blankets, her back toward him, her long black hair falling over her shoulder. His memory of the kiss they had shared at the river replayed over and over in his mind, reminding him of her sweetness, her softness, the way she had melted in his arms.
If he crossed the lodge to her bed and slipped in beside her, would she scream and send him away, or would she admit she wanted him, too, and let nature take its course? And if they did make love, what then?
J.T. swore softly. He had nothing to offer her—no home, no security, nothing. Not even time.
Brandy sighed as she heard J.T.’s breathing soften into the deep, regular rhythm of sleep. She had been all too aware of him watching her in the darkness. She was, in fact, too aware of him too much of the time. During the day, while he rested and regained his strength, she wandered through the village, making friends, watching the women as they worked. There were no easy tasks. Everything the Crow required to survive had to be made from scratch.
If a woman needed a new dress, her husband had to kill a deer or an elk, then the woman had to skin the carcass, scrape the hide, soak it, tan it, cut out the pattern, and sew the pieces together. Cooking utensils were made from wood or horn, moccasins were made of buffalo hide, sinew was used for thread, a buffalo paunch was often used as a cook pot. Walking among the lodges of the Crow gave Brandy a new appreciation for ready-made clothes, for aluminum pots and pans, for stainless steel flatware, for toilet paper. She wondered if the people of the ’90s truly appreciated the modern conveniences they so took for granted.
She had no trouble filling her days. Like the other Indian women, she had to gather wood and water, cook and sew, clean her lodge. Apite helped her make a new dress out of doeskin bleached almost white, and then Brandy decorated the yoke with blue trade beads. It took hours, but it was easier to keep thoughts of home at bay when she was busy, better to think of the work at hand instead of the man who shared her lodge.
J.T. Cutter. He crept into her thoughts more often than she cared to admit, especially at night. She was all too aware of the man sleeping on the other side of the fire. She supposed it was only natural to have tender feelings for someone you had nursed through a bad time. After all, she had seen to his every need, comforted him. There was nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.
She turned over, staring at his broad back. Why, of all the men on earth, did she have to be attracted to J.T. Cutter? He wasn’t her type at all. He wasn’t even from her century! And yet every time he looked at her, s
he went all soft and fluttery inside. If only she didn’t find him so outrageously attractive. And yet, maybe that was only natural, too, since he was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen. If only he hadn’t kissed her! If only she could forget how good his arms had felt around her, the taste of his kisses, the heat that had unfurled within her.
He stirred in his sleep, rolling onto his back. In the dim light cast by the glowing coals, she could see his profile, as harsh and beautiful as a Montana landscape. A wordless cry escaped his lips and she wondered if he was having another nightmare. She had a sudden urge to go to him, to take him in her arms and rock him, as a mother might rock a child. Only J.T. Cutter wasn’t a child, and there was nothing maternal in her urge to hold him in her arms.
Forcing her thoughts from J.T., she wondered what was going on in Cedar Ridge. If she didn’t get back home soon, what would happen to her house, her animals, her job? She wondered if anyone had notified her parents that she was missing, and what they would think? And what about Gary? Good heavens, what if everyone assumed she was dead, the victim of foul play, and her parents sold her house! She had to get back home before it was too late.
Thoughts of going home immediately brought J.T. back to mind. Somehow, she knew he was the answer to getting back to her own time.
“What’s the matter, Brandy? Can’t sleep?”
“Can’t you?”
“No.”
“Is something wrong?” She sat up, concerned that his wound might be bothering him.
“No,” he replied softly, “nothing’s wrong.”
“Then why are you still awake?”
“Why are you?
She felt his gaze on her face, felt her cheeks grow warm as she recalled that she had been thinking of him only moments before. He was the real reason she couldn’t sleep, and it had nothing to do with her need to go home. He filled her with a strange restlessness, a yearning she didn’t dare acknowledge. But she couldn’t tell him that.
Slipping out from under the covers, Brandy tossed some wood on the coals. Pulling a blanket around her shoulders, she sat on the furs that served as her bed. “Why can’t you sleep?”
The Angel and the Outlaw Page 8
