Montana Wildfire

by Rebecca Sinclair

  When he reached her ankle, Amanda noticed something else. Pain, and a lot of it. She winced and put her hands on his shoulders for balance. Her fingers curled inward, making deep grooves in his hard, unyielding flesh. She didn't cry out until she felt his fingertips probe her tender, swollen ankle.

  "That hurt?" he asked.

  "God, yes!"

  He sighed.

  She shivered, but this time entirely from pain.

  "All right. I'll try and be gentle, but... Jesus, lady, how the hell'd you get your foot stuck in a tree?"

  His voice was muffled from where his mouth pressed into the side of her waist. Amanda felt every movement of his lips. Oddly enough, that overrode the pain stabbing up her leg, as well as the disgust that was evident in his tone.

  She glanced down, intending to glare him into silence. The thought wilted when she saw the way they were entwined. The water licked at their bodies like a lover's caress. His arms were around her, pinning her intimately close. She could feel each breath rush from his chest. The way she was forced to either arch her hips into him or risk tumbling backward was... well, it was indecent. It was also shockingly nice.

  The tightening of his body said she wasn't the only one to think so. "I can't pull your ankle out—it's too swollen," he said gruffly "I'll have to cut the bark away. Think you can hold still long enough?"

  "Do I have a choice?"

  He pulled back only far enough to glance up at her. "You want to get out any time soon?" She nodded. "Then no, you don't have a choice. Hold still. It'd be a damn shame if I cut into all that sweet white skin of yours instead of bark."

  He shifted, and she caught a glimpse of what he planned to use for the job. The blade of the knife was shaped like a long, thick triangle, the metal shiny and razor sharp. In length, the blade alone rivaled the span of his forearm, and his forearm was not short. The sight of water dripping off deadly metal convinced her not to move a muscle—even when she felt his palm stroke hot paths up and down the back of her calf. His other hand, she noticed dazedly, was trying to work her free. He seemed to be in no great hurry.

  "I've got the fire started," Roger called from the bank, causing Amanda to start and glance up sharply.

  The man stiffened. "You get the blankets ready?"

  "No."

  "Christ, that kid's useless," he grumbled so only Amanda could hear. She fought a grin as, louder, he yelled, "What the hell you waiting for? Go get them. Come back when you're done."

  Amanda recognized the indignant lift to Roger's chin. She braced herself for the argument to come, knowing the stranger wasn't as familiar with the boy's obstinacy as she was.

  "And what, pray tell, will you be doing while I'm fetching blankets?" Roger called out.

  "I'll be tanning your backside if you don't get a move on, brat. If you want to sit down anytime in the next month, you'll do as you're told. Now!" The man shifted, glancing over his shoulder at the boy who stood, fists straddling hips, on the bank. While Amanda couldn't see the stranger's eyes at this angle, Roger's suddenly pale cheeks spoke volumes. For an unprecedented third time that day, Roger scurried away.

  The man bent back to his task. Beneath the churning water Amanda felt gentle tugs on her numb, swollen ankle... and a peculiar, scraping sensation when his free hand rose. Without permission or apology, he boldly skimmed the inside of her left thigh. His strokes were smooth, sure, and indecently high. The breath she had been inhaling clogged in her lungs. It pushed free in a rush when he released her and abruptly stood.

  "All set," he announced as, without warning, he bent at the waist and hoisted her into his arms.

  "Good heavens, what are you doing?" she demanded, even as her arms slipped around the thick trunk of his neck. She hadn't given her hands permission to do that. Then again, she hadn't given her body permission to snuggle into his hard male warmth, but she was doing that, too. And it felt rather nice, now that she thought about it. Amanda tried not to think about it.

  "What am I doing? Isn't it obvious?"

  "Well... yes." And, of course, it was. He was carrying her, plain and simple. Yet, there wasn't a plain thing about the firm, wet chest plastered tightly against her. Nor was there anything at all simple in the way her body automatically, willingly, reacted by curling trustingly into his.

  Amanda drew in a shaky breath. His earthy smell and furnace-like heat engulfed her, flooding her whirling senses. Her protests weakened under the sharp male onslaught. "Please, Mr... will you put me down? I can walk."

  "Not on that ankle, you can't," he said, and continued to splash through the water, carrying her as though she weighed no more than a wet kitten.

  He reached the bank and scaled the incline without upsetting his balance. Their waterlogged clothes seemed no hindrance to his innate agility. The grass made nary a crunch beneath his bare feet as he carried her to the miserly fire Roger had built. Then he knelt and lowered her effortlessly to the sun-warmed grass.

  His chin lifted, his penetrating silver gaze scanning the trees. His sigh of disgust felt hot as it rushed over her face and neck. "Where the hell is that good-for-nothing kid? He should be back by now."

  Her reply came from between chattering teeth. "You don't know... Roger too well. We'll be lucky if he ever comes back. And you... can forget the blankets. He won't bring them."

  His gaze sliced back to her, his expression one of slightly veiled surprise. And then he noticed the way she shivered, the cold eating at her from the inside out. His gaze narrowed. His oaths were vivid, long, and graphic.

  "I'll get the blankets," he growled, thrusting to his feet.

  Amanda watched him swagger away and again was reminded of a wolf on the hunt. She shivered, but even when she looked away, her mind was filled with his lean, wet back and the way his saturated hair swayed with each step.

  In all her life, she'd never known a man who dared to wear his hair so long. Funny, but, like the braid, on him she found the style oddly appealing. Flagrantly unconventional, wild and untamed... like the man himself.

  When he returned a short few minutes later, she was huddled into a tight ball on the ground, as close as she could get to the fire without being burned. The heat was insufficient. She was cold to the bone, and, to make an already bad situation worse, the numbness in her legs was gone. Not only did her bad ankle throb, but the rush of returning circulation made it sting unbearably.

  She was vaguely aware of something warm and heavy being tossed over her. She snuggled into the covering greedily, barely noticing when the blanket was tucked around her. A corner of her mind knew without looking that the hands slipping over her body would be big and strong and coppery.

  He didn't stop there. Amanda gasped when she felt his arms slip beneath her. He lifted her easily, shifted, then settled her atop the solid cushion of his lap. She stiffened, but his palm, cradling the back of her neck, coaxed her cheek to the firm pillow of his chest. His arms wrapped around her like steel bands, locking her into place against him.

  Amanda knew she should protest the way he was holding her—even if he was only doing it to share warmth. And she would have, had it not been for the way his virile heat burned away her chill. His inviting warmth made pushing him away just a brief, passing thought. One she barely considered, and didn't act upon.

  It took forever for her trembling to pass, but it was the most wonderful forever Amanda had ever spent.

  She felt a warm cheek graze the crown of her head when she nuzzled her head into the hollow beneath his shoulder. His heartbeat was a strong, steady tempo in her ears. That, combined with the draining excitement of the morning and this man's comforting warmth, lulled her into a deep state of relaxation.

  "Oh, no you don't. Don't you dare fall asleep on me now, Amanda Lennox," he grumbled hotly against her scalp. "We've still got some name-calling to talk out between us."

  The words were like a splash of cold water. Amanda went rigid in his arms.

  Chapter 2

  "I'm going to let
you in on a little secret here, princess. Not three hours ago I knocked a man's teeth down his throat for calling me a bastard. The guy apologized. So will you."

  "I will not, so you might as well get that thought right out of your head," Amanda replied, her haughty Bostonian accent now locked firmly in place. "I've done nothing to apologize for."

  Tension crackled in the air between them. Rather, it crackled in what little air managed to worm its way between them. He was holding her dreadfully close.

  His fingers tightened on her arms. While his grip was not painful, it threatened to become so soon. "You sure about that?"

  "Positive."

  "In other words, you don't think calling a man a bastard is something you need to apologize for?"

  Amanda pursed her lips. If she'd felt any fear, it was gone; replaced by a nice, warm surge of resentment. "Not if the man in question is acting like a bastard, no. And you were acting like one." You still are, she thought, but wisely didn't say. "No, I can't apologize to you."

  "Wrong, princess. You can, and you will. Nobody—and I mean nobody—calls Jacob Blackhawk Chandler a bastard and walks away intact. Not even a prissy little white snob who, I might add, could use a good lesson in manners."

  His voice had taken on a calm, deadly edge; the words were slowly and precisely drawled. Not spoken, drawled. Her resentment drained away as though she'd never felt it. Amanda couldn't have felt more intimidated had the man grabbed her, shook her until her teeth rattled, and yelled the threat in her face. Her cheeks drained of color. Rolling her lips inward, she bit back the cowardly apology that sprang to mind.

  The wall of muscles beneath her cheek flexed. She stifled a groan. Good heavens, the man was hard as a rock—every inch of him coiled muscle and strength. His grip tightened. She winced, though she knew he wasn't applying all that much pressure. Surely not as much as his whip-cord-lean body said he was capable of. Her newfound courage floundered.

  "I'm waiting." His hand shifted, his grip loosening enough for his thick, calloused thumb to stroke invisible circles over the sensitive inner curve of her upper arm. "Don't rush on my account. Can't say I'd mind holding you like this a while longer."

  "No? Well, I'd mind," she snapped, then instantly wished she hadn't. His laughter was short and merciless. The deep, husky sound rumbled in the chest beneath her ear and vibrated through her body like a bolt of heat lightning.

  The muscles beneath her cheek bunched and released, suggesting a careless shrug. "If my company offends you, feel free to get up and leave."

  Amanda fisted the damp blankets beneath her chin. She flexed her foot, and winced at the stab of pain. Circulation had returned with force; waves of it ripped up her leg. Without the icy water to dull it, the pounding in her ankle was excruciating.

  "You know I can't," she grumbled miserably.

  "That's right, I do."

  One thing she could do, however, was to give pushing him away a good try. Snuggling against his chest the way she was doing, drinking in his body heat and scent, was not appropriate. It suggested that his arms offered a security and trust that only a complete idiot would be feeling right now.

  Amanda wedged her fists between their bodies and shoved. Hard. The muscles in her arms screamed with the force she pooled into the action. She felt him ease back half an inch, no more. It was enough space to let the cool autumn breeze sneak between their chests.

  The warmth he radiated was intense. She didn't realize how intense until it was gone. Amanda shivered, scowled, and took a swift mental inventory of all the spots on her body where the chill originated. It was as she'd feared. The cold was most pronounced in the places where he had warmed her.

  That settled matters in Amanda's mind. Getting away from the confusing feel of Jake Chandler was now a necessity; one that seemed infinitely more important than her strong Lennox pride. Perhaps if she offered a compromise? As much as it went against her grain to do so, she reasoned that gaining her freedom had to be worth relinquishing a small amount of dignity.

  Could she do it? Could she say she was sorry when she knew deep down that she had nothing to be sorry for? Amanda didn't know, but she was willing to try it and find out. If it could make this man unhand her, it would be worth the effort.

  Her chin rose loftily, and her gaze clashed with piercing silver. "I have a proposal," she said. Her expression hardened when a flash of lewd suggestion flickered in his eyes. "Don't even think it! What I propose, Mr. Chandler, is that I thank you for freeing me from the river, and we can call the rest a draw."

  It was the "don't even think it" that aggravated the hell out of Jake. He saw the contempt shimmering in her eyes. While her expression remained cautious, her mood was easily read by a man who knew what to look for. Jake knew what to look for, and what he saw in Amanda Lennox's eyes, he didn't like at all.

  Scorn. Ridicule. Disgust. Those were the emotions he thought he saw swimming in her big green eyes. Jesus, she looked like she was afraid his dirty, half-breed hands would somehow contaminate her precious white skin. Oh, how that grated!

  "I don't want your thanks, princess," he sneered, "as you damn well know. And as for the draw...?" He shook his head, his grip on her arms squeezing painfully tight. "Hell, no. What I want is my apology."

  "You want me to lie, in other words." Though her tone was smooth, it was laced heavily with pretension.

  "Yeah, if you have to. That'd be fine by me."

  Amanda rarely got angry. It just wasn't in her nature. Few people had the power to arouse her slow-burning fury. Roger was one. Jake Chandler, for whatever reason, was another—and he seemed to know exactly how to use that power for optimum effect. His innate stubbornness stimulated her ire quicker and easier than anyone she'd ever known.

  "Fine?" she snapped. "With you, maybe. Not with me. Threaten me all you want, Mr. Chandler, but I won't lie and tell you I didn't mean what I said. I meant it." Her tone lowered until it was hard, icy, unfamiliar even to her own ears. "You, sir, are unquestionably a bastard."

  That did it! Jake had taken about as much of this woman's lip as he was going to.

  Lightning fast, he shifted. His fingers bit into her arms as he hauled her up hard against his chest. He angled his head until their noses touched. "I think it's about time you learned some manners, princess. For a white lady—an Eastern white lady—yours are atrocious."

  One brow slanted high in accusation. Her eyes narrowed, the green depths firing as they flung the insult right back in his arrogant face. "Is that so? Well I see some white in you too, buster, but I've yet to see anything in your manners to write home about."

  Uh-oh, she'd hit another sore spot. She could tell by the way the muscle in his cheek jerked and by the deadly glint in his eyes. If she hadn't been so mad, Amanda would have been concerned about that.

  Inky lashes hooded a gaze that narrowed to furious silver slits. His eyebrows were dark slashes in the rich copper of his forehead. They rode naturally low over his eyes to begin with. As she watched, they pinched into a frown that only emphasized the weathered creases between them—the ones that suggested a man who scowled hard and often.

  "You're getting on my nerves, Amanda Lennox," he growled, his lips barely moving over the words. His tone was menacing; it trickled down Amanda's spine like drops of melting snow. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

  Now that he mentioned it, no. She wasn't at all sure that was what she wanted to do. She was sure that angering him more than he already was might not be in her best interests. His seething gaze said it was already far too late.

  Unfortunately, it was also too late to back down, and Amanda knew it. She gave a toss of her head, her eyes sparkling with dark green challenge. "Are you going to deny you're part white, Mr. Chandler?"

  "Are you going to apologize, Miss Lennox?"

  "Are you going to let me go?"

  His heartbeat slammed beneath the heel of her palms, the rhythm fast and furious, beating out a tempo to match the wild glint in his eyes. Amanda'
s own heartbeat sounded just as frantic as it thundered in her ears. His fingers dug into her tender flesh. The thin cotton sleeves offered no barrier. She flinched but refused to beg for mercy. She had a feeling that, even if she'd asked, there wasn't an ounce of mercy in this man.

  "Looks like we've reached an impasse," he said, his voice tight and strained, giving unneeded evidence to his barely leashed temper. "I want my apology; you won't give it. Problem is, you see, I don't intend to leave until you do."

  "What?" Amanda glared at him, positive she'd heard wrong. She must have! "That's ridiculous. Of course you're leaving."

  His condescending grin didn't come close to reaching his eyes. They remained hard, shimmering like chips of silver ice. "Am I?"

  "Yes!"

  "You're sure?"

  "Yes!"

  "Guess again." He shook his head, and his damp hair flicked her cheek. Amanda pulled back as if she'd been slapped. "I've got nowhere else to go right now." A tension-riddled pause was followed by, "One thing you should keep in mind, though... I get bored easily. And when I get bored with you, Miss Lennox, I intend to drag that apology out of you in any way that leaps to mind. Willing or not, I'll hear you say it."

  In a way that was meant to convince her he fully intended to wait her out, Jake moved, redistributing her weight atop the solid cushion of his lap.

  The movement shifted the air around Amanda's face. She drew in a shaky breath, and found herself inundated with an aroma that was strong and sharp and flagrantly male. Her nostrils stung with the earth-sharp scent of Jacob Blackhawk Chandler.

  Courage. Had she ever had any? If so, it evaporated like steam the instant she let out that breath and drew in another. The meaning of bravery was suddenly foreign to her. The fear she'd only touched on before was strong, yet minor compared to the white-hot tingle of awareness that rippled through her now. Her breath clogged in her throat. Her heart clamored against her ribs, pumping hot surges of adrenaline into her bloodstream.

  She huddled deeply beneath the blanket, deciding belatedly that she would have been better off keeping her mouth shut; as always, it was getting her into trouble. Since talking reason to this man was like trying to converse with a stone, she decided instead to bide her time, wait him out. Surely he would tire of the game shortly. When he did, he would go. Wouldn't he? Of course. He must have better things to do with his day... like finishing whatever he'd been about before Roger had found him.