by Janet Dailey
Chapter Two
WHEN THE RABBIT was eaten, the fruit of the prickly pear cactus was offered as dessert. With all the hunger pangs satisfied, Brandy sat beside the fire sipping hot, strong coffee from a tin cup. There was a desire to linger over the coffee, but since there was only one cup, she was sipping it hurriedly so the man could drink his.
"That was good," she murmured when she had drained the last of the black coffee from the cup and handed it back to him. "The whole meal was good. Of course, I was so hungry I don't think I would have cared what I ate."
The man simply nodded and filled the tin cup with more coffee.
Brandy tilted her head curiously to one side. "Do you eat this way often? I mean, taking food from the land?"
"Whenever I'm out on the desert," he admitted with an offhand shrug. "I don't like to be slowed up carrying supplies on a packhorse."
Yes, Brandy thought to herself, there were probably times when he had to travel fast to keep from being caught. It made sense to travel light.
"Are you out here often?"
He studied her across the fire for a long second. "Often enough," was his noncommittal reply. He took a large swallow of coffee, not giving any indication that it was as scalding hot as Brandy remembered.
She started to probe further into his answer, then she realized that he had deliberately not been specific. The less she knew about his activities, the less she would be able to tell the authorities. Maybe he didn't trust her to keep the promise she had made not to say anything about seeing him. Actually she wasn't positive she would keep it; maybe he guessed that.
He took another swallow of coffee, then dumped the dregs on the porous ground. Brandy watched with sudden wariness as he rose to his feet and walked to the western saddle that was sitting several feet from the fire, barely within its circle of light. A pair of saddlebags were hooked over the saddle horn. Crouching beside it, he opened one flap and removed a white box.
Curiosity got the best of her. "What's that?" she asked when he straightened with the box in hand, and started to walk back to the fire.
"A first-aid kit," he answered an instant before she saw the familiar red cross emblem on the top. "It's time those scratches you have were cleaned."
Brandy glanced at her forearms and the vivid red marks drawn on her flesh by the thorns that had barely broken the skin. She had been conscious of them smarting now and then, but none of them were deep, not even those that had torn her blouse. They looked sore, but they really didn't bother her.
"They don't hurt," she murmured, unconsciously protesting against the need for any first aid to be administered. "I hardly feel them at all."
But he was already squatting on his heels beside her, the wide-brimmed hat pushed back on his head. The box was opened and he was pouring antiseptic from a plastic bottle on to a gauze pad.
"You'll feel them if infection sets in," he said firmly.
Logically Brandy knew he was right. There was no telling what germs were on those spiky thorns, yet she was uneasy about having him treat her.
"I'll do it," she said to him firmly, and reached out for the gauze.
"It's easier for me." His fingers closed over the hand she had extended and he began cleaning one long welt on that forearm.
The firelight fully illuminated his face: this was the first time that she had been able to study him at close quarters. There was a ruthless strength to his powerfully defined features that reinforced her first impression that he was dangerous. The dark brown, nearly black, of his beard, eyebrows, hair and eyes was intensified by the sun-brown shade of his skin. The half-grown beard concealed what she guessed would be a strongly defined jawline and angular, lean cheeks.
Without the beard, she thought he would look handsome in an intimidating kind of way. She decided that he was growing it for a disguise. There was something vaguely familiar about him, too, which was silly, because she didn't know anyone who possessed that potent aura of masculinity.
The one thing about him that surprised her was his lack of a furtive air. He was so self-assured, so completely in command, not at all the way she expected a man to be who lived outside the law. Yet she wondered why with all that self-assurance and self-confidence, a man who had to be in his early to mid-thirties would become a cattle rustler. Admittedly, there was something of a throwback about him.
His attention had switched to her other arm where he was ministering to the cuts and scratches there. His hands and fingers were strong and brown, and did not bear any calluses of hard work. Surprisingly she discovered they were gentle, too.
With a start, she realized how lucky she had been to come off unharmed during the struggle she had had with him. He was very well muscled and could have broken a bone with little effort, or badly bruised her with a little more pressure applied. But he hadn't. The knowledge made her feel a bit safer in his company.
The last scratch on her arm was cleaned and disinfected. He tossed the gauze pad into the fire and reached for the box. The stinging sensation had left her skin.
"Thank you," She offered gratefully.
The sideways glance he gave her cocked a dark eyebrow. "Take off your blouse and I'll clean those scratches on your chest."
Brandy stared wide-eyed at him, noticing the fresh gauze in his hand and the antiseptic bottle. Automatically her hand moved defensively to the collar of her blouse, and his mouth quirked in dry amusement at her action.
"We've been through the hellcat routine," he said patiently. "Do you really want to waste all that energy fighting again? Either you take the blouse off or I will." It was no idle threat.
Her breathing became shallow. "Give me the pad and I'll clean them myself," she stated.
"You would have to be a contortionist to see what you're doing. It will be faster and more thorough if I do it." A wicked glitter of amusement entered his eyes when Brandy mutely shook her head in refusal. "A woman's body doesn't embarrass me. Pretend I'm a doctor."
"But you're not," she muttered in a frustrated protest.
"You're only going to make it more embarrassing for yourself by making a production out of this," he reasoned. "Put aside your modesty."
Reluctantly she admitted the truth of his statement, but it didn't stop her fingers from trembling as she undid the buttons of her blouse.
There had been a time in her first years as a teenager when she had been terrified that because of her slender build she would end up with a pancake bust-line, and she had been relieved when the rounded, full curves had arrived. Now she was unbearably conscious of them as she removed the thin blouse and held it nervously on her lap. Her gaze became riveted on the stitching around the collar of his suede vest.
The cool dampness of the gauze pad touched the scratch on her collarbone. Brandy held herself as rigid as a statue, knowing the lacy bra exposed much more than it concealed.
"You said your last name was Ames. What's your first?" he asked quietly, moving to another welt near her shoulder.
For an instant, Brandy was on the brink of refusing to answer his question. Then she realized he was only making conversation to put her at ease.
"Brandy." Her voice broke slightly.
"Brandy?" His gaze slid to her face in verification before it returned to the scratch on her shoulder. "It's a pity you don't carry around a sample of your namesake. I think you could do with a shot of it right now."
"Yes," she said with a shaky smile of agreement. "Wh-what's your name?"
He hesitated for a split second. "Jim."
No last name, just Jim. She knew he was concealing the rest of his identity from her. It was even possible that Jim wasn't his first name; he might have made it up for her benefit.
"I have to slip your strap down, Brandy, to get at this one scratch," he warned.
His fingers were already sliding it off her shoulder before she could form any protest. Her quick glance downward saw the red mark that slashed across the swell of her breast. Although prepared for his impersonal tou
ch, she still wasn't able to keep from inhaling sharply as his hand touched her.
His gaze flashed quickly to her face in concern. "Did I hurt you?"
"No," she denied quickly, and a swift rush of beet-red swept over her face.
His head bent again to his task, but the heat of embarrassment didn't ease. The sensation of intimacy was simply too strong for Brandy to be casually indifferent.
"How old are you?" the man who had identified himself as Jim asked.
"Twenty." Brandy glanced to his face with a slightly bewildered frown. "Why?"
A corner of his mouth twitched as he slid her strap back into place, a suggestion of laughter in the dark eyes that met hers. "You blush like a teenager," he murmured, "or a virgin."
New waves of scarlet flamed in her checks. She would have loved to deny his perceptive statement, but she had the uneasy feeling that he would know she was lying. Not that she hadn't done her share of necking and petting while on dates—she simply hadn't been sufficiently aroused or tempted to go all the way.
"You can put your blouse back on." While she had been mentally defending herself, he had completed cleaning the last scratch and was turning away.
Brandy quickly slipped on her blouse, fumbling momentarily with buttons. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Jim rise and walk to replace the first aid kit in the saddlebag. When he turned back to the fire, she self-consciously edged closer to the flame.
"Tired?" he asked.
She glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was nearly midnight. "Yes," she admitted uncertainly.
From the shadow of his saddle he picked up a bedroll and untied it, spreading it over the flat ground near the fire. It was small, big enough for only one person, and Brandy swallowed tightly.
"You can sleep here," he instructed.
"Where are you going to sleep?" she asked quickly as he moved back toward the saddle.
He flashed her a laughing look, his gaze swerving from her face to the thin white blouse. "Since you've put your modesty back on, I don't think you're going to offer to share the blanket with me even if it gets cold." He reached down and picked up a heavy lined jacket. "So I guess I'll have to sleep by the fire."
"You can have the bedroll," Brandy stated, "I can stay here by the fire."
"Get in the bedroll and go to sleep." His thumb arched toward the blankets spread invitingly on the ground. There wasn't any laughter in this tone, only command.
Reluctantly she obeyed, resenting the fact that if she didn't, he would probably carry her there bodily if necessary. She gave him an angry glare as she walked by, to let him see that she didn't like to be ordered around. But he appeared indifferent to her.
While he added more fuel to the fire, Brandy tugged off her boots and slipped beneath the blanket, cradling her head on her arm. She didn't feel the least bit sleepy. As she gazed at the fire that had begun to crackle brightly, she wondered if her parents had noticed she wasn't in bed. This very minute they might be organizing a search party for her. Somehow she doubted that they would miss her before morning.
Her gaze shifted to Jim. With that bulky jacket on, he looked even bigger and stronger than before. What would her parents think if they met him?
A crazy question, since her own reactions had fluctuated so extremely. One minute she was terrified by him, in the next she was admiring his strength and assurance that made her feel so safe and secure. Then she was embarrassed by his cynical mockery, or bridling at the way he ordered her around as if she were a child and not an adult. The only certainty in her emotions was that she wasn't indifferent to him. No one could be for long.
Blinking tiredly, she wasn't aware of having fallen asleep. Her eyes focused bewilderedly on the yellow haze that filled the sky. Where were the stars? It couldn't be morning already. A twist of her head found the golden globe of the sun just peeping over the horizon.
Sighing, she snuggled deeper in the bedroll, her muscles and bones stiffly protesting at the night they had spent on the hard ground. The air still held the night's cold, biting at her nose and cheeks, and she rolled sleepily onto her side to face the campfire.
There were no flames. No heat was radiated from the circle of gray-white ashes. And there was no sign of Jim. Stunned, Brandy propped herself up on an elbow and looked to where the saddle had been last night. It was gone, too.
Had he left her? Had he decided not to risk being caught by helping her back home? Or had he sneaked away in the pre-dawn hours so he could be far away from this area in case she didn't keep her promise and told the authorities about him?
The wild flurry of questions raced unanswered through her mind, and throwing back the covers, she scrambled from the bedroll. She reached hastily for her boots. As she started to pull on the right one a horse snorted behind her.
"You'd better shake those boots out before you put them on." The low husky voice came from directly behind her. "A scorpion might have decided to use one for a nest during the night."
At the sound of his voice Brandy turned, a faint twinge of relief going through her at the sight of Jim's familiar figure leading the saddled horse toward the fire. He hadn't deserted her after all! Meeting the enigmatic darkness of his eyes, she found herself at a loss for words.
Turning back, she wisely shook the boot to be certain no creature had crawled inside before putting it on. "You should have got me up earlier," she accused briskly.
"You were sleeping, and there didn't seem to be any point in waking you up sooner than was necessary,'' he replied smoothly. "The coffee should still be warm enough to drink. Prickly pear fruit is the breakfast menu."
He tossed her the tin cup which she nearly didn't catch. "Coffee is good enough."
The small pot was sitting in the ashes. After pouring herself what was left in the pot, Brandy huddled near the campfire. Her thin blouse offered little protection against the cold, so she made use of what dying warmth remained in the ashes. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Jim tighten the saddle cinch on the liver-colored sorrel.
"Did you sleep well?" His question was unexpected.
"Yes, why?" Brandy cursed silently for sounding so defensive.
"Just wondered." His wide shoulders shrugged indifferently as the stirrup hung freely again along the horse's side.
He walked to the fire and dumped the coffee dregs from the pot on to the ashes. With a stick, he stirred the charred coals to be certain that no live ember remained.
"Did you think I'd left without you? Is that what's bothering you?"
Her gaze flew to his face, meeting his mocking and all too perceptive dark eyes. "You could have," she pointed out with an airy toss of her head.
"Yes, I could have." He straightened, the empty coffee pot in his hand. "Are you through with the cup?"
Brandy quickly swallowed the last of the now lukewarm liquid and handed him the cup, watching as he stowed the two items in the saddlebags. There only remained the bedroll to be put away. A shiver danced over her skin at the wished-for warmth of the blanket to be felt again.
"Come on, sun," she thought as she gazed at the yellow disc that had gained another notch in the morning sky. "Come and warm your desert!"
Standing in one place wasn't making her any warmer. She walked over to her bed and picked up the tightly-woven top blanket, and when she had shaken out the dust, Jim claimed it.
"I'll take it," he said.
Hesitating for a second, she finally released her hold on it with an inward shrug. Maybe he didn't think she was capable of rolling it up neatly enough to suit him.
Picking up the thinner groundsheet, she gave it a quick shake, and her side vision caught a metallic gleam. She turned curiously in time to see his knife-blade make a foot-long slash in the center of the blanket.
"What are you doing?" she frowned in astonishment.
The knife was replaced in the leather sheath that hung from his belt. "It's going to be an hour or more before it gets anywhere near warm. You'll have turned into an ice
cube by then." Without further explanation the blanket, with its slit opening, was drawn over her head. "You can secure it around your waist with your belt."
For disbelieving seconds, Brandy stared at the blanket, now turned into a poncho. Already she could feel its warmth and the protection it offered against the cold.
Finally she raised her eyes to his face, and gently studied his expression. "You've ruined your blanket." A totally unnecessary observation, but she said it all the same.
"So I have," he agreed with a mocking twist of his male mouth.
To close the subject, he picked up the groundsheet Brandy had dropped. With a few expert flips he had it neatly in a compact roll. As he walked to the horse to tie the bundle behind the cantle, Brandy unbuckled her belt and drew it out of the loops of her denim jeans. She wanted to tell him how grateful she was, but she didn't know how to put it into words without sounding all gushy and artificial. And she sensed that he didn't require any spoken thanks.
Sighing, she secured the belt around the bulky folds of the blanket-poncho at her waist. She finished just as Jim completed smothering the ashen embers of the campfire. After a brief glance to make certain she was ready, he mounted his horse. Kicking his boot free of the left stirrup for Brandy to use, he grasped her forearm and helped her swing behind him on the horse.
"I know the general vicinity where your house should be," he said as she adjusted herself into as comfortable a position as was possible. "I imagine we'll meet up with a search party before we reach it."
Brandy agreed with him, balancing her hands on her thighs as Jim touched his heels to the horse's flanks. The sorrel started forward briskly, crossing their camp circle to head towards the north-east.
The gray ashes of the fire were covered with sand, and only their footprints gave evidence they had been there. Soon the desert would wipe away even that trace. Brandy found that thought to be sad—she wasn't exactly certain why.
Fresh and eager, the horse carried them effortlessly over the sandy ground, agilely skirting the thicker clumps of brush and cactus. The hush of the morning negated any need for conversation. The country around them was new to Brandy, although the far-reaching vistas were basically the same, viewed from a different angle.
