by Sara Orwig
Michael wolfed down his lunch, and soon was up and wandering along the river, examining different rocks.
“Do you know how to swim?” the colonel called out to him.
“No, sir.”
“How about I show you a little about swimming?”
Claire looked nervously at the wide river nearby. It was swift and muddy, and the sight of it gave her chills. She had never learned how to swim, and her brother had almost drowned once.
She stood up swiftly. “Michael, you go on, I want to ask Colonel O’Brien about our plans this afternoon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Does he have to learn to swim?” she asked, suspecting she couldn’t change the colonel’s mind once it was made up.
“He’ll be safer if he knows how. As it is, he can drown. Do you know how?”
“No! and I don’t intend to learn.”
O’Brien shrugged. “Whatever you want, but I want Michael to know how. I won’t let him drown.”
“I know you won’t, but you might frighten him.”
“I won’t frighten him as much as he’ll be frightened if he falls in someday and doesn’t know what to do,” he answered firmly.
Here was another clash she could tell she would lose. And in a way, she knew that he was right. “Just remember he’s a little boy. He isn’t big and tough and fearless like you!” she snapped.
A hint of amusement flared in his eyes. “I’ll try to remember,” he said dryly, and she felt foolish.
He pulled off his shirt and hung it on a branch. Muscles rippled in his back as he untied his neckerchief, and she felt a strange, unaccustomed fluttering as she watched. He was fit and healthy, his copper-colored skin taut over sleek muscles. She looked at the crisscrossing of white scars across his back and wondered who had given him the whipping. He strode away, the gun belt riding low on his slender hips.
“Colonel O’Brien?”
He turned to look at her, and her eyes widened at the bare chest covered with dark hair, his flat stomach, the pants riding low on his hips. She jerked her gaze up, her face flushing. “Suppose Harwood rides up. I have no defense, no way to warn you.”
“Scream. I’ll be close enough to hear you.”
And you don’t care if he takes me prisoner, she thought angrily.
Colonel O’Brien walked away leisurely, as if they had no one after them. He had fought all through the war and was a high-ranking officer, so she suspected he was aware of the risks of stopping. She tensed as he led Michael out of sight. But then it dawned on her that they would be swimming in the nude.
She glanced at the river, wishing they would get back soon. Hot and alone, she sat down to pull off her black cotton stockings and her shoes, wiggling her toes and pushing a stray tendril of hair back in place in the braid wound around her head.
It was an hour later when she heard noises of someone coming. She stood up swiftly, her pulse speeding up.
“Mama!” Michael’s high voice carried clearly and she relaxed.
“Yes, Michael?”
He ran into sight. He was shirtless, his hair a tangle of wet curls, his eyes dancing with delight. “Mama, you should see me! I can swim!”
“No!”
“Yes, I really can. Next time come with us and watch me. Next time we’ll wear pants, and you can come watch. All right, Colonel O’Brien?”
“Yes, it’s all right,” he said lightly, striding up, watching her to see her reaction.
Flustered, she turned away and busied herself with packing up the last of her things. She wanted to avoid letting him see her blush as she thought about him swimming nude with Michael.
“We’re refreshed now. If you’d like to go down to the river, I can show you where it’s shallow and you can wash and cool off.”
She looked again at the wide, muddy channel and felt the old fears rise. At the same time, it was blazing hot.
His hand closed on her arm. “Come on,” Fortune said, lightly tugging on her arm. “You’ll feel better and it’s perfectly safe.”
“C’mon, Mama!” Michael said, tugging her other hand.
She nodded and walked between the two of them until Michael dropped her hand to run ahead. “You’re very good with him.”
“I love him,” he said quietly.
She glanced again at the river. “I’m afraid of water. Is this shallow?”
“Yes. There’s a place where it’s little more than ankle deep.”
“That’s what I want. I don’t like muddy water.”
“Yet you stepped in front of that snake without hesitation.”
“That was to protect Michael.”
He nodded solemnly as he studied her, his eyes full of speculation. Soon they stepped out of the trees. Sunlight sparkled on the water, and Michael danced on the bank. “Can I wade?”
“Yes,” Fortune answered easily before she could.
“Do you want privacy or will you feel better if we’re here?”
She looked at the water and shook her head. “I’d rather you’d stay for a few minutes. You’re certain it’s shallow?” she asked and watched as Michael pulled off his shoes, rolled up his pants, and waded into the river.
A familiar rush of fear engulfed her as she gazed at the brown surface. Michael waded with water over his ankles, splashing and running out into the middle.
“C’mon,” a deep voice came at her elbow. Colonel O’Brien took her arm, and she was instantly conscious of his gentle touch. He had pulled off his boots and rolled up his pants. He paused. “Take off your shoes.”
“They’re off,” she said, holding up her skirts. He glanced down at her bare feet and led her into the water. For a moment she panicked and clutched his arm, seeing the muddy water swirling around her. Still, the water felt blessedly cool and she relaxed. That’s when she realized how tightly she was holding him, and she released his arm at once. She blushed as she looked up at him. “Sorry.”
He looked at her seriously. “Will you be all right? We’ll leave you alone and you can wash.”
“I’m all right,” she said, still uncertain, as if with any step she would sink out of sight. “You’re certain all this is shallow?”
“Yes, as long as you stay right here. Michael, let’s leave her alone.”
When they were out of sight, she waded back and forth, relishing the cool water. Finally she slipped her dress off, wading out to pull off her underclothes and get back in the water to wash, wondering if she would be as muddy as the water. It was cool on her skin, and as she sat down in it, she tried to curb her imagination about what was below the opaque surface.
When she returned to camp, they mounted up and rode until long after dark. After eating roasted rabbit and settling Michael in for the night, she set about getting her own bedding ready. Finally she sat down on her blankets with her mending. Michael lay asleep between them, all of them near the dying fire with the horses picketed within yards.
As she sewed a tear in Michael’s denim pants, one of the horses whinnied sharply. All of them began snorting and pawing the ground. Dropping the sewing, she edged toward Michael while her pulse raced.
Colonel O’Brien yanked his revolver from the holster and started toward the horses. A black shadow shifted and she saw a raccoon. The colonel waved his hand, scaring it away, and it went lumbering into the darkness.
Her gaze shifted and she saw his rifle, the stock protruding slightly from beneath his bedroll. Claire yanked it up, swinging it up and cocking it as she aimed at him.
He spun around, the revolver still in his hand.
“Drop your gun,” she said softly.
He let it fall to the ground immediately. “You and Michael can’t get away from Harwood without me,” he said softly. “And I’m not going to let you take my son from me again.” He took a step toward her.
She raised the rifle higher to aim at his heart. “You stop. Stay where you are.”
“No, I won’t,” he said grimly. “You know I love him. If
you pull the trigger and gun me down here, you won’t be able to live with it. And he’ll see what you’ve done.” All the time O’Brien talked, he steadily advanced toward her.
Her heart pounded and her palms became damp. Now, when she had a gun, was the time to take Michael. This was her only chance. He continued toward her and she stood stiffly watching him, her finger on the trigger.
“Stop or I’ll shoot. It’ll be your doing. I’ll tell him you threatened me.”
Without hesitation, his blue gaze cold, Colonel O’Brien took another step toward her and another. Her pulse roared in her ears, but she could not fire.
With a sweep of his arm he hit the rifle, sending the barrel pointing skyward. His arms wrapped around her as he jerked the weapon from her. His face was inches away. “You can’t kill me. You know how much I love him, and you know he’s beginning to like me,” he said, grinding out the words.
“I wish I could shoot you,” she said, feeling tears spill over her cheeks. They stared at each other, both breathing hard. His gaze lowered to her mouth and the moment changed. The fierce struggle became another kind of clash, and she could feel it. His hard body was pressed against hers. His arms were around her. His eyes were filled with male curiosity. Heat blossomed on her cheeks, and she could barely get her breath.
“They said there haven’t been any men in your life,” he said in a hoarse whisper, studying her.
“There haven’t been!” she answered.
He bent his head. She tried to turn away because she didn’t want to be kissed. His arms tightened, and his mouth covered hers, his lips firm on hers.
Startled by the pressure, by the sensations he caused, she stopped struggling as much. His lips moved on hers, brushing hers lightly, rubbing over hers in a warm, sensual friction that vanquished her resistance. Her lips parted, and a drumming of her heart started as she relaxed in his arms. His tongue touched her lips, and she felt as if a flame had licked within her. Startled, she looked up to find him watching her through narrowed eyes.
With a silky wetness his tongue went into her mouth, an invasion that was more than physical, that seemed to shatter the wall of isolation she had kept around herself toward men, and she felt faint from the sensations that swept over her. She protested briefly, a slight moan that died in her throat. Her lashes came down and she closed her eyes, drowning in new sensations. This was what it was like to be kissed! She had been kissed sweetly by James Thornton one time when they rode together and once by Haskell Whitmarsh, and each time it had been chaste, lips barely pressed against lips. Never had it been like this, with his tongue probing deep into her mouth until she felt as if she would faint.
Heat started low in her body, flowing through her while her pulse drummed wildly. His tongue played over hers, sliding slowly over the inside of her lower lip. She moaned, barely aware she had made the sound, when her tongue touched his.
Finally he raised his head, looking down at her, his crystal blue eyes as unfathomable as ever. “You’ve never been kissed, have you?” he asked softly.
“No,” she answered, “not like that.”
He bent his head, his mouth brushing hers again and then settling on hers while he kissed her slowly, his tongue moving over hers. She should make him stop instead of letting him do whatever he wanted, yet she didn’t want him to stop.
With a quick movement he placed the rifle on the ground and shoved it away with his toe. He shifted his body, his arm sliding beneath hers, banding her waist to draw her up against him again, and she felt his manhood press against her with a shocking hardness.
She pushed away, stepping back, blushing furiously. “We should stop. I’m not experienced at that sort of thing.” She was embarrassed, her heart pounding violently, and underlying her uncertainty was the knowledge that she had liked his kisses, liked them more than she would ever have dreamed possible.
“You’ll take him from me and I can’t stop you,” she said, pushing past him and walking into the darkness, finally stopping to place her hands over her face and cry quietly. She was crying because she would lose Michael, because it no longer mattered whether she could get a gun or not because she would never shoot Colonel O’Brien and he knew it. And she was upset because she had liked his kisses. She wanted him to kiss her again.
She wiped her eyes and turned around to go back. He was seated with his back against a tree trunk, his rifle nearby, the revolver still buckled on his hip.
Flustered, more conscious than ever of him as a handsome man and aware of her disheveled appearance, she sat down cross-legged, the skirt of the calico billowing around her. She began to take down her hair.
“I’ve been thinking about Harwood,” O’Brien said. “If he comes in the night, you take Michael and run. He’s after Michael, and he won’t shoot you if you keep Michael right with you.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll stay and fight him.”
“What if I take Michael and get away from you?”
“I’ll find you,” he said, looking at her, and she knew he would.
She nodded. She felt more intensely aware of him since he had kissed her, wondering what he thought about her. She glanced at him, surprised to find him studying her. “Do you have relatives or parents in Baltimore?” she asked. “Does Michael have grandparents there?”
“No. My parents are dead,” he said flatly. “I have three brothers. My two older brothers, Rafferty and Caleb, are married. Rafferty lives in New Orleans and Cal lives in Memphis. Rafe is a cotton factor and Cal is a railroader. My younger brother, Darcy, divides his time between them. He hasn’t been with me much because of the war.”
“Were all of you born in Baltimore?”
“No, Ireland. My father gambled away everything we owned and my mother’s health was terrible, so we came to the United States, hoping it would be better for her. Off the coast the ship went down, and she drowned.”
“That’s dreadful,” Claire said, frowning as she studied him. Her fingers unwound the long braid pinned around her head. “My mother died of pneumonia when I was seven years old, so I know the loss hurts terribly. Were the rest of you picked up by another ship?”
“Yes, but different ships. We were separated in the storm when the ship sank. It was years before we got back together. I ended up in Baltimore and intended to go south to look for my brothers, but then I met Marilee and I had a good job in shipbuilding. Shortly after we married, we knew Marilee would have a baby, so I didn’t get to the South until after the war had started and I was fighting.”
While he talked, answering her questions about his family, he was assessing her. She had told the truth about never being kissed. She was an innocent. Knowing it shouldn’t really matter, but he was relieved all the same because he hated to think of Michael waking up to find different men in his mother’s bed all these years.
Fortune watched her comb out her hair with her fingers. Finally she shook her head, and the dark hair swirled across her shoulders. He drew a deep breath, remembering her lush curves against him, her soft mouth beneath his, the quick response to his kiss.
“Do your brothers have children?”
“Only Rafferty, who has a girl and a boy. Darcy isn’t married, and he works for Cal.”
“My brother and I aren’t very close. He’s twelve years older than I am. By now I’m certain he’s married. He probably helps Papa run our place. We raise cotton. Although the war may have changed everything at home.”
“Eisner didn’t say anything about your family being ruined by war and your father was able to hire Pinkerton’s, so he must have come through all right.”
“That seems so long ago. I don’t think about home often, and I’ve never missed it.”
A twig snapped somewhere nearby and Fortune stopped listening. He felt a prickle across the nape of his neck. He slid his hand to his revolver, his gaze searching the dark.
“I’d think you would have missed your home terribly when you first left it,” he said, lis
tening for any other strange sounds. The snap had been to her right, to the east. He kicked dirt on the last of the fire, and she looked up at him with a questioning gaze.
She leaned forward, watching him intently. He made a motion with his hand indicating he wanted her closer. She looked down at Michael, feeling O’Brien must think they were in danger.
“Michael may need a cover,” she said, moving close to him.
“Your childhood must have been happy,” O’Brien said casually, continuing their conversation.
“It was in some ways, in others, I was lonely. Roarke was older and we weren’t close,” she answered, trying to keep up the conversation. He slid his rifle to her and she looked up at him, surprised that he would trust her with his gun.
As his gaze drifted about, she felt a prickle on her spine. “My brother was always busy trying to learn how to run the place. We raised cotton,” she said, trying to continue to talk in the same tone. She glanced down at Michael, ready to throw herself over him to protect him. Remembering Harwood, she shivered with loathing.
When she glanced back around, she was startled to find Colonel O’Brien was gone.
Chapter 9
Trembling, she looked around. A harness jingled and she heard a horse snort. Someone was moving through the trees toward her. She yanked up the rifle and took aim.
Leading their horses, now saddled, the colonel came into view. His hat was pulled low and she couldn’t see his eyes. The horses swished against the brush, and their hooves made small thumps as he approached her. Letting out her breath with relief to see him, Claire lowered the rifle.
“Mount up. I’ll get Michael up with me,” O’Brien whispered, leaning close, his warm breath fanning on her ear.
She held out the rifle, and he placed it in the scabbard fastened at the rear of his saddle. He lifted Michael with ease and swung up into the saddle, placing the sleeping child in front of him and holding him upright against him. With her back prickling, she mounted, knowing how vulnerable they were. Every sound seemed magnified, yet the steady deep bass of frogs and chirp of crickets were reassuring sounds that made her feel no one was close.
