A thousand miles of dangerous country stood between her and an unwanted marriage, a marriage in which she would have no part. She watched him gather his belongings; then, when he turned his back to saddle his mount, she pulled a face at him. Let him plot and plan to his heart’s content, she thought. The moment they reached Saint Louis she would find a way to be shed of Jackson Broussard.
Chapter Four
Jackson and his reluctant ward set out that same morning, right on schedule. For more than a week they pushed Euripides, Jackson’s big-barreled bay, as hard as they dared over the rocky foothills and through the steep, barren valleys that lay to the east of the Shining Mountains.
Jackson was quieter now, almost distant. He rarely spoke during the daylight hours, except to grunt in answer to one of her frequent questions, or to issue an occasional command. Reagan couldn’t be certain what ailed him, but she had her suspicions, and they centered around two things: his return to Saint Louis, and his near seduction of her at the river the morning they’d departed the mountains.
The former remained a subject of great speculation during the long and arduous days; but it was the latter that kept her awake and tossing on her comfortless earthen bed each night.
Though each of them had been careful to avoid mentioning the event again, Reagan was uncomfortably aware that she was not alone in her inability to banish the incident from her thoughts. There was something in Jackson’s heavy-lidded eyes when he looked at her, a burning heat so intense she feared it would reduce the mannish garments that concealed her nakedness to ash, and which told her more poignantly than mere words could that he had not forgotten.
During the late afternoon of the ninth day, they reached the Platte River, a braided morass of trickling rivulets that snaked their way through the endless sea of undulating grass known as the Great Plains.
Perched on Euripides’ broad rump, Reagan clung to Jackson’s lean middle with one arm, shading her eyes with the other hand as she stared off into the distance.
Grass... there was nothing but grass as far as the eye could see... miles upon miles of it, violently tossed and churned by the ceaseless prairie wind, with only the rippling silver waters of the Platte to break the monotony.
Accustomed to the deep, dense woods and pine-shaded hollows of her native Kentucky, Reagan found the barren land vastly unsettling. If danger threatened in Bloodroot, there was always a hiding place handy. Here on the prairie there were no trees, no boulders, clefts, or hollows, nothing but the endless sea of grass stretching away to eternity.
For the most part, Jackson seemed far too intent upon pushing himself to the limits of his endurance, and dragging Reagan with him, to notice or be bothered by the changes in the landscape. His uncommunicative attitude gave her ample time to dwell on the nuptials he planned for her, and just how she could best avoid them.
For the time being, the rigors of the journey seemed to have taken precedence over all of Jackson’s concerns, for he had not mentioned his plans for her again, yet Reagan was not fooled. She was beginning to understand that Jackson Broussard was dogged when it came to getting what he wanted, and somehow she doubted that he had simply abandoned the crack-brained notion of palming her off on some potential husband, any more than she had given up the notion of satisfying her burning curiosity.
For nine days she’d studied him, learning to gauge his mood by his expression, speculating on the manner of demons that drove him to the edge of exhaustion in an effort to reach Saint Louis. As a result she knew little more about him now than when he’d first purchased her from Luther, other than what she’d been able to observe.
She had learned that he was frustratingly complex, an intricate, hard-to-solve puzzle, a study in obstinacy and compassion, darkness and light. Holding her hat with one hand against the insistent pull of the prairie wind, Reagan silently vowed that if indeed it was the last thing she ever did, she would come to know and understand him better.
It was her futile hope that through understanding and enlightenment she could lay this growing fascination for her tall and mysterious self-appointed guardian to rest.
Later that same evening Reagan sat alone by a small, smokeless fire made of buffalo dung, halfheartedly nibbling a blackened strip of Jackson’s seemingly endless supply of jerked meat and wishing for something more substantial. A few feet away, Josephine lay on her belly in the buffalo grass, placidly licking her paws. Every now and again Reagan broke off a small piece of her supper and cautiously offered it to the cat, who took it just as gingerly.
During the past nine days an uneasy alliance had been forged between Reagan and the mountain lion, and Josephine’s loyalties had gradually undergone a none-too-subtle shift. More and more she shunned Jackson’s society, choosing instead to lie close to Reagan of an evening, perhaps aware that eventually a portion of Reagan’s evening meal would come her way.
Tonight of all nights Reagan was especially glad for the company. Alone on the open spaces stretching for countless miles in all directions, she felt like a bug adrift on a vast, uncharted ocean.
The minutes ticked away, the yellow sky deepening to marigold. As the sun sank below the horizon, the undulating green sea turned dark and threatening. A few seconds of absolute brilliance and the colors slowly bled away, the hush indicative of twilight slowly descending upon the land.
Watching as the moon rose huge and white above the eastern horizon, Reagan could not suppress the involuntary shudder that ran through her slight frame.
Jackson had gone off to scout shortly after they’d arrived at this place, and there had been no sign of him since.
That seemed like hours ago, and Reagan was beginning to worry.
Dear Lord, where was he? Had he wandered too far and lost his way? Run afoul of a grizzly or stepped on a rattlesnake? Was he out there somewhere at this moment, in desperate need of assistance, wounded or dying?
Holding her breath, Reagan cocked her head to listen, hoping to catch the sound of a footfall, the sound of a human voice.... Yet there was only the shrill bark of a coyote calling to its mate somewhere in the near distance, and the low and mournful moan of the wind in the tall grass.
A wind that never ceased.
Day and night it kept up its endless wail, sweeping over the flatlands, scouring everything in its path. It was enough to drive a body mad.
Just when Reagan thought she could stand no more, just when she moved to cover her ears with her hands, Jackson emerged from the shadows.
His step was slow and leisurely, his every movement as carefully measured as if it had been thought out beforehand. Reagan was mesmerized, and watched in silence as he seated the Hawken rifle’s brass butt plate on the ground between his moccasined feet, then, folding his hands over the octagonal barrel, turned his ruined cheek to the light.
Reagan caught her breath. Constant exposure to the elements had turned his skin a deeper bronze, and the scar a livid red. Strangely she was not repelled by it. In fact, in that moment, with the wind rippling his blue-black hair and the firelight glinting off the pistols thrust through his belt, she thought she’d never seen such sinister beauty in a man, such lethal grace... and she could only wonder at how he could have come by the glaring imperfection.
“I thought perhaps you’d gotten lost,” she said after a time.
He shrugged. “I came across some Indian sign and followed it. It took longer than I anticipated.”
Reagan felt a surge of alarm. “Indian sign?”
Jackson reached down to scratch Josephine behind the ears, avoiding Reagan’s gaze. “It’s a day or two old, and nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure about that?” Reagan asked. She’d been born well after the Battle of Fallen Timbers and the subsequent Treaty of Greenville, which had signaled the end of the Indian wars in the East. Yet, memories were long in the hill country around Bloodroot, and Kentucky was still known as that “Dark and Bloody Ground.”
There were few families of her acquaintance—
including her own—that had not suffered the loss of a father, brother, or son to the Shawnee war ax, or grieved for the sisters, wives, or children carried away into captivity.
Reagan had cut her teeth on the worn wooden grip of her grandfather Ezra’s tomahawk, and had grown to adulthood listening to the hair-raising tales of the settlement years. Her background made her bone-deep wary; Indians, in peace or in war, were unpredictable, and she did not relish the thought of risking an encounter that could turn ugly in these wide-open spaces.
Jackson gave the cat’s head a final pat and, propping the Hawken against a rock, slowly sank down. “As certain as I can be.”
He sounded confident enough, cool and unruffled, yet Reagan couldn’t help but notice that since leaving the rendezvous encampment he’d been armed to the teeth, and took care to keep the rifle within easy reach. “I’d call you on that one, but I was taught it ain’t polite to call a man a liar to his face.”
“No, it isn’t polite,” Jackson agreed, “yet that’s never stopped you before. What keeps you from it now? A sudden overwhelming urge to placate me? Or perhaps you’re taking ill?”
Reagan attempted an irate sniff, and failed miserably. She did not know when or how it had happened, but her strength, her bravado, had deserted her, leaving her more alone, more vulnerable than she’d been in her entire life. She’d always scorned weeping, swooning, fragile females, and was appalled now that her eyes were pooling with irrational tears. Angry with her sudden weakness, she hurriedly averted her face, wiping the trickle of moisture that spilled over her lashes with the back of her hand, hoping with all of her being that Jackson would not see.
Yet seemingly nothing escaped his sharp green gaze. “Here, what’s this? Kaintuck?” he said uncertainly; then he broke off, and Reagan heard him swear softly. “Thunderation. What is it? Here, why are you crying?” Reaching out, he caught the point of her chin, turning her face toward the light. “Was it something I said? Can it be that you were really concerned about me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Frenchman,” she said, trying to push his hand away. But even the rejoinder sounded shaky and weak, uncertain.
As dogged as ever, Jackson beleaguered the point. “Will you tell me what’s wrong, or shall I hazard another guess?”
Reagan’s reply was as confusing as her conflicting emotions. “Everything—and nothing. It is this place, and this situation, the fact that the wind never stops. I just wish to God it would stop—” Breaking off, she stifled a sob with a hand at her mouth, then, unable to contain her roiling emotions any longer, concealed her face in her arms and wept her heart out.
She wasn’t quite sure just why she was crying, and never really knew in which moment Jackson lifted her up and onto his lap. She knew only that one moment she was huddled in a miserable lump and the next she was curled on his lap like a child, her arms wound tightly around his neck and her face buried in the curve of his throat.
Jackson stroked her tumbled tresses and kissed her burning cheek, her ear. “Cry if it helps,” he said in a low voice. “There’s no need to be brave any longer, and no one to hear you but me.”
She did cry. She cried until it seemed there were no tears left inside her, and then she sat, silent and drained, her flushed damp cheek pressed to Jackson’s scarred one. A moment passed, and another. His expression grave, Jackson pulled back far enough to peer down at her, to smooth the curling tendrils back from her face. “If it were within my power, I would stop the wind for you.”
She sniffed, snuggling closer. He was large and warm, and strangely, he made her feel safe, a new experience for Reagan. For as long as memory served her, she’d been looking out for someone else: the twins, and then her dying mother. There hadn’t been time to be selfish, and no one who cared enough to see that she felt loved or wanted.
“There is more, is there not?” he asked, and Reagan marveled at his tone, his caring. When had he become so gentle, so tender, this man who had bought her at auction, threatened her with the prospect of an unwanted marriage, clashed with and infuriated her at every turn?
“This land,” she said, her voice strained. “It’s so huge, so dangerous. It frightens me. So many things can happen, even to someone like you. You know the land; you’re prepared, cautious. But—”
“But your brothers and your stepfather are not?”
“I know it must seem crazy, my worryin’ about them after all they’ve done... but I just can’t seem to help myself.”
“It isn’t crazy,” Jackson said with a rueful smile. “It’s admirable, and they do not know how fortunate they are to have someone who cares about them despite their faults. Perhaps even because of them.”
“You don’t think I’ve lost my senses?”
“On the contrary. I am envious.”
“You, envious of Luther and the twins?” She sounded incredulous. “You’re makin’ sport.”
But Jackson was not laughing. He was envious—envious of the loyalty she so freely gave to her stepfather and half brothers, envious of that soft light that had come into her clear gray eyes as she spoke of her concerns for their welfare. And he couldn’t help but wonder if in his entire lifetime anyone had cared that deeply for him.
Aloud, he said, “I suppose that I am unused to such concern, such loyalty. It is exceptionally rare.”
“They’re still my kin,” she said, for all the world as if those four words explained everything, no matter what they’ve done. Of course I care, just like your kin care about you.”
“I’m afraid there’s no comparison,” Jackson said flatly.
She frowned at that. “How do you mean? You have family, don’t you? Are your parents still living?”
Jackson sighed. “My mother died shortly after I was born.”
“And your father?”
It was Jackson’s turn to frown. In his mind’s eye he saw the glint of sunlight on metal, felt the kiss of the blade as it bit to the bone. “He is living still... or at least he was when I left Saint Louis. I suppose that if that much has changed I shall learn of that happy circumstance when I arrive.”
Her frown deepened. “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?” Jackson snorted. “You don’t know my father.”
He’d hoped she would take the hint and leave off her questions. He didn’t want to talk about Emil, tonight of all nights, not when the supple curves concealed beneath the homespun shirt she wore were uppermost in his mind... curves he longed to explore. He’d hoped to kiss her until she was pliant, then tumble her here by the fireside, yet she remained as irritatingly persistent as ever.
“You don’t get on well, I take it? You and your pa.”
“My father loathes the very sight of me,” Jackson found himself saying, “and I am only too happy to return the sentiment.”
“I don’t understand.”
Jackson didn’t understand either. How could he be staring down into her upturned face, so clearly marked with concern, and entertaining such wicked thoughts?
Mother of God, he wanted so desperately to peel away the disreputable rags that covered her luscious body and worship her fragrant white flesh with his mouth and his tongue and his teeth. Wanted to test her resistance, to tempt and to tease, to promise her anything if she would just....
Even the thought was dangerous, and Jackson was appalled to discover that he lacked the will to simply set it aside. Appalled, yes, but not surprised. The tension had been building between them for days, ever since that first night, when he’d laid down a tidy fortune and mounted the dais to claim her.
As difficult as it was to countenance, he’d wanted her even then. Nothing had changed between them, however, nor was it likely to. There was no room in his life for Reagan Dawes, and a casual dalliance would only ruin her chances of making an advantageous match when they reached the city, a fact of which he was uncomfortably aware. Yet, no matter how valid the reason, how strenuous the argument, the inclination to follow his instincts was strong.
Irresist
ible, almost.
“Kaintuck, I—”
She leaned toward him. “Yes?”
Jackson started to pull back, to warn her away, but the words stuck in his throat. Something held him there, close to Reagan, yet not close enough... some intangible force that bade him to sample her sweet lips again, and this time he did not resist.
Reagan didn’t protest, didn’t speak. She was afraid to, afraid of breaking the spell she was under, certain this was some sort of waking dream.
It must be a dream. The sweet anticipation threading its way through her veins as Jackson pressed her back into the grass and claimed her mouth with his felt too good to be real... the pure persuasion in his kiss and the solid reassurance of his strong arms around her.
Persuasion, yes. His possession was beguiling, and she could no more have refused him in that moment than she could have willed a forest to sprout in this arid, empty land.
He spoke and she complied, willingly.
He bade her to open to him, and she parted her lips.
He deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth across hers, teasing her full lower lip with the tip of his tongue, then advancing. Reagan was shocked by his boldness, shocked to discover that she liked the playful caress of his silken member. Entwining her tongue with his, she sighed and settled closer, drawing him deeper, deeper into her mouth, wrapping her arms around his lean middle and reveling in his answering groan.
If she could have melded with him in that moment, body and spirit, she still would not have been close enough.
She wanted to possess him, wanted him to possess her. She wanted to touch him, to feel his flawless skin abrading hers. In all truth, she was not sure precisely what she wanted, except that she did not want this night, this moment, to end.
But it did end. Jackson left her lips, and Reagan moaned her disappointment, straining upward to brush her mouth against his, to tease and tempt, to renew the sensual play. Jackson kissed her soundly, once, twice, then touched a finger to her swollen lips to stay her. “Mother of God, you inflame me,” he said, “enough to make me forget all caution... everything save the sweetness of your response.” Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, he rained kisses across one cheek to the bridge of her nose, her lowered lids, her temple and ear.
Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Page 7
