Montana Wildfire

by Rebecca Sinclair

  "H-he beat her?"

  "Nope. His sweet little girl had been taken advantage of by a filthy savage, you see. Wasn't her fault, of course." Jake gritted his teeth, and his breathing turned ragged and hard. "No, he didn't beat her. He beat me. Repeatedly. With a shovel... until I couldn't see, couldn't walk, couldn't goddamn think!"

  Jake saw a flash of sympathy flicker in her eyes, and his entire body hardened against it. There was something else in her gaze. A question. He answered her ruthlessly, knowing Amanda didn't ask because she was afraid of the answer. And wasn't that a shame? Because the fact was, she'd started this, and now dammit, he was going to finish it. It was vital she know how poisonous this situation could become if things ever got out of hand between them. "Her daddy didn't cut me, Amanda. She did."

  "What?" Amanda gasped and sagged weakly against the tree.

  "I made it back to the bunkhouse somehow, and planned to gather up my things and get the hell out. She was there waiting for me. The cut wasn't meant to wound, lady, it was meant to kill. You see, by that time Cynthia had realized just how big a mistake she'd made. She took it upon herself to rid the world of one more breed, and in the process rid herself of a problem that wasn't going away fast enough."

  "But you just said you were going to leave the ranch! Did you tell her that?"

  "Yup."

  "And she didn't believe you?"

  He shrugged tightly. "I don't know if she did or not. If so, she didn't care. She told me she had a reputation to protect, said no one would believe a word of her story if she didn't try to retaliate in some form or another."

  "So she tried to kill you?"

  "Tried being the operative word there. Of course, even if she'd been lucky enough to succeed, it wouldn't have mattered much. She was a good little white girl. I was the dirty breed who'd forced myself on her. She had every right, Amanda. I, on the other hand, had no rights at all."

  Her eyes misted with tears—for him, for his pain. Her voice cracked. "I... Oh, God, I'm sorry, Jake. I didn't—"

  "Don't you dare!" If his shout hadn't clogged the words in her throat, the molten fire in his eyes would have. That, and the way his grip on her jaw turned savagely tight. "Save your pity for someone who gives a damn, because I don't."

  When she flinched, he jerked his hand away from her. His voice harshened as he glared down at her. "I learn from my mistakes, lady, and I damn well don't repeat them. If you're smart, you won't ask me to again."

  Jake shoved away from the tree. He didn't go far, just far enough to put some needed distance between them. His lungs were filled with the flower-soft scent of her, while his mind was filled with the bitter memories this woman had made him dredge up. The duo was potent—it tore clean through him—and his reaction to it was unnerving.

  He pulled in a ragged breath and again felt himself being seduced by the clean, womanly smell of her. The way her scent merged with the piney aroma of the woods made for an erotic combination. It was a fragrance that Jake felt a sudden, overpowering need to run from—fast—or risk drowning in. And he couldn't do that. It wasn't allowed.

  Jamming his hands in his pockets, he spun on his heel. The uncertainty in Amanda's tone made him hesitate.

  "I'm not like her, Jake. I've never asked a man to kiss me before," Amanda said shakily. Until yesterday, men hadn't interested her. Then she'd met Jacob Blackhawk Chandler. His complexity fascinated her—she didn't know why, it just did. So did the passion his touch unleashed in her, the pain his grudging admission kindled deep in her soul. Pity was not the only thing she felt for this man—her respect for him was far stronger—but she didn't dare tell Jake that. She doubted he would listen even if she'd tried. "I... I just thought you should know."

  His hair curtained his face and shoulders as only his head came around. Though he studied her closely, Jake detected no telltale color in her cheeks. Her green eyes were dark, shimmering with a sincerity he found hard to look at, let alone believe she felt. Was she telling the truth? Jake didn't think she was capable of it—she'd lied to him so many times already—but it was a possibility. One of several.

  "Never?" he asked, agitated. She shook her head, and Jake felt his heart skip a beat and a small sliver of his pain fade. There was a part of him that didn't want to know the answer to his next question. There was stronger part of him that demanded he know. "But you asked me to kiss you. Why?"

  Admitting all this to Jake's back had been one thing. Admitting it while staring into those probing eyes of his was something else again. Her hands moved backward, and her palms stung when she pressed them hard against the gritty tree bark.

  She shrugged and looked away. "Last night, when you kissed me, you said it was to end the suspense, so we could get it off our minds and put it behind us. It—it didn't work. Not for me, it didn't. I—" She rushed on before she lost her nerve. "I can't forget what it feels like to kiss you, Jake. And I can't forget about how badly I want you to kiss me again."

  Jake's expression hardened. No, his entire body coiled tight, like a complicated knot he couldn't even begin to unravel. "Great," he growled. "Just great. There's one tiny problem, princess... one minor detail you seem to have forgotten."

  Amanda pressed herself harder against the tree trunk. The brooding look in Jake's eyes was frightening, yet it was also oddly intriguing. Mesmerizing. She couldn't tear her gaze away. "I don't think I've forgotten anything."

  "Trust me, you have. You've forgotten that I'm a half-breed savage. A bastard who isn't fit to polish your boots... let alone look at you. Or kiss you. Or touch you."

  She couldn't say it. She had to say it. Amanda made her lips form the words her mind was begging her to bite back. Words her heart was pleading with her to say. "But you want to." Then, much higher, much softer, she asked, "Don't you?"

  Jake didn't answer. He couldn't. If he said the words, he would have to acknowledge the truth in them. And what would be the point in that? Society had laid the ground rules before he'd even been born. Jake just played the game. There couldn't be anything between a man like him and a woman like the one he now turned his back on. He had the scar on his neck—one scar of many—to remind him, just in case he ever forgot. Which he never did.

  What he wanted didn't matter. What Amanda wanted couldn't matter. Jake wouldn't let it.

  When he finally forced his feet to start walking, he didn't stop. Nor did he look back.

  Amanda's rigid posture sagged. Her eyes stung with tears she refused to shed as watched him turn his back and walk away from her.

  She remembered the day her father had told her he was shipping her East, to Miss Henry's school. He'd wanted her to learn to be a lady, like her mother had been. Amanda hadn't wanted to go. Her father had refused to listen. Finally, he'd given her no choice. The day the train pulled out of Seattle, with Amanda on it, she'd felt heartbroken, rejected, betrayed and abandoned. Unloved and unwanted.

  She felt that way now, only this time the hurt cut deeper. She didn't think this wound would heal the way the last one eventually had. No, Jake Chandler's rejection would remain raw and open. It would always sting, a scar she could carry on her soul, just as Jake carried his on his neck.

  It was going to take extraordinary self-control to not let Jake see how badly he'd hurt her, but she didn't have a choice. As always, she would keep her pain to herself.

  She would rather die than let Jake get even a glimpse of it.

  Smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt, Amanda straightened her shoulders and stepped away from the tree. Her heels crunched loudly over the moss-covered ground as she retraced her way back to their camp. She was careful to keep a good distance between herself and Jake.

  Chapter 8

  When Amanda had agreed to compensate Jake Chandler for his services, she'd been sure she was paying an exorbitant amount of money for a minimal amount of work. Her original estimate about how much time it would take to find Roger had been a day if things went well, two if they went badly.

  Things
were going very badly.

  She and Jake rode all day, stopping only when absolutely necessary to rest the horses or answer nature's call. At midafternoon, Jake picked up the pace. Amanda wasn't sure, but she thought she'd heard him mumble something about Roger and his kidnapper being three hours ahead of them.

  That was an hour before he'd lost sight of the prints entirely. At least, Amanda assumed that was what had happened. There was, of course, no way she could be positive; Jake rarely spoke to her. Still, the way he noticeably started slowing the pace around four o'clock, stopping often to inspect the ground, said that was a very good possibility.

  He didn't spot the prints again until it was almost dusk, and by then it was too late to track them for more than an hour.

  Hate though she did to admit it, Amanda found a lot to admire in the way Jake milked every second of sunlight for all it was worth. He didn't give the sign they would be stopping for the night until darkness had completely enveloped them. By that time, her sore bottom was familiar with every inch of the hard-mold saddle beneath her. Her ankle throbbed and her head ached from gritting her teeth and worrying about Roger.

  That she was worrying about the little monster again, Amanda did not take as a good sign. Exhaustion would have to explain it. Truly, she'd never felt this sore and tired in her life!

  True to form, Jake led them into a tree-sheltered clearing, dismounted, then, without explanation or apology, rudely abandoned her the same way he had the night before. Amanda was again faced with the unsavory prospect of dismounting unaided. The rat!

  This time, she slung her leg carefully over the pommel and slipped to the ground very slowly and cautiously. Last night's incident was still fresh in her mind—her heartbeat stuttered with the memory, her blood warmed. After Jake's earlier rejection, she wasn't about to risk a repeat performance.

  Amanda frowned and glanced at her surroundings. She considered gathering up branches and sticks and starting a fire, but only briefly. She was still out of matches. While Jake had helped her build a fire last night, Amanda knew she couldn't accomplish the feat on her own. Besides, she was simply too tired and sore tonight to try.

  Her body aching, she limped over to a nearby tree. The hard, cold, lumpy ground made an uncomfortable cushion beneath her sore bottom, and the gritty bark nipped at her tender back when she leaned against it. Despite that, she appreciated the fact that nothing was moving, nothing was jostling her and making her cramped muscles and throbbing ankle hurt even more.

  Sighing, she closed her eyes and adjusted herself to as comfortable a position as she was likely to find. Of its own accord, her mind drifted down a sensual path lined with wet copper skin, long black hair, and piercing silver eyes.

  Amanda's heartbeat accelerated, and her breathing went choppy and shallow. She promised herself that this time, even if Jake never came back, she would not, under any circumstances, go searching for him!

  "Supper," Jake said and tossed something onto the ground near her feet, then turned and swaggered away.

  Amanda blinked hard. Her eyes were burning, and for the past half hour she'd been fighting a losing battle to keep them open. She seized on Jake's single word as a good distraction from her exhaustion. His gritty tone coursed down her spine like a drop of warm honey, awakening her senses, honing them.

  That one clipped word was the first real thing he'd said to her all day—except for occasionally cursing under his breath, he hadn't spoken to her directly since that embarrassing incident this morning. Amanda hadn't realized how greedy she was for the sound of his voice... until now.

  Supper. The first image to flash through her mind was of stringy jerky and tinny-tasting beans. The second was more appealing. Her stomach grumbled when she replaced the image with succulent pheasant smothered in tangy orange sauce. No, make that lobster sautéed in wine and butter, the tender white meat flaking away under the delicate application of a fork.

  "Supper," Amanda repeated, her mouth watering. Her stomach growled with unladylike vehemence. "What are we having?"

  "Snake."

  Her eyes widened, and the extra moisture in her mouth evaporated to shock. It took two full minutes for her thought processes to kick back in. At the end of that time, Amanda had convinced herself she'd heard Jake wrong. She must have. Surely she'd only thought he had said... "I beg your pardon?"

  Jake was kneeling beside his saddlebag, his big hands rummaging through its shadowy leather depths. He seemed to be ignoring her, but he wasn't. Jake was very much aware of the sharp edge of repugnance in Amanda's tone. It took effort to suppress his grin. "No need to beg, princess. All I'm asking is that you cook it."

  Was that amusement she heard in his tone? Amanda hoped for his sake that it was not. Her green eyes narrowed, raking his chiseled profile. There were too many shadows to see details, but in the flicker of moonlight she saw enough. Perhaps too much. There wasn't even a hint of a grin on Jake's lips. His expression, half-shielded by the curtain of hair that fell forward over his shoulder, was as unreadable as stone.

  Amanda's stomach twisted. Morbid curiosity, she supposed, would explain why her horrified gaze descended, seeking out the object Jake had so casually tossed to the ground in front of her. Unless her memory was faulty—oh, how she hoped it was!—the thing had made an unsavory thunk when it hit solid ground.

  It was a good thing her heart had lodged in her throat, or she would have screamed. She could feel the shriek building in her throat the way she could feel the grass break off in her fingers when she clamped handfuls of it in tight, trembling fists. Had her cheeks gone white? They felt cold, bloodless, and chalky, so she assumed they had.

  Jake straightened, and moved to stand in front of her. Amanda didn't hear his approach, but then, she hadn't expected to. She could feel his nearness, smell his earthy scent on the air. Pity none of that managed to shake her trance-like gaze from the carcass that curled over the grass near her feet.

  "Problems, princess? You look a might peaked."

  Jake's voice came from a point far above her head. Amanda barely heard him. The pounding in her ears was too loud and furious. "Th-that's a... a..." She sucked in a sharp breath and tried to get hold of herself. Unfortunately, that just wasn't possible. "That's a s-s-s..."

  "Snake," he said, hunkering down. Reaching out, he picked up the thing that Amanda was regarding with such abhorrence. The snake was about three feet long, thick and heavy. Its body draped over his palm, the head and tail ribboning over the ground like a limp piece of rope. "A diamondback rattlesnake to be precise."

  A rattlesnake, Amanda's mind echoed, dazed. Her stomach gurgled its displeasure. Hadn't she read that rattlesnakes were poisonous? Not that it mattered, she supposed, since the thing was dead as a doorknob. Poisonous or not, it wasn't going to be biting anything ever again. Not that she planned on getting close enough to have that theory proved out!

  "Don't look so worried, princess. Unless you're a bigger eater than I thought, there should be enough for both of us."

  She glanced up, glad for any excuse to stop looking at that... that snake. She was just in time to see Jake's steely gaze rake her. His eyes were hot, probing, and assessive. Unexpected heat trickled into her bloodstream, and it was just warm enough, just strong enough, to burn off a tiny bit of her repulsion.

  "Nah," he said, and tossed the snake back onto the ground. It made that revolting noise again. Amanda grimaced, her stomach rolled. "You're too skinny to eat much. Probably pick at your food like a bird."

  The simile was not lost on Amanda—she only wished it had been. Her mind filled with a gruesome image of beaks pecking at a dead snake's carcass. Her head felt suddenly light and dizzy. A bitter-tasting lump of nausea wedged in her throat. Swallowing it back took more effort than she'd ever admit to this man.

  "I have a healthy appetite for... normal food, Mr. Chandler," she said finally. Her voice sounded humiliatingly soft and strained. But that was all right; at least now she had a voice!

  "Nothing a
bnormal about eating a little snake now and again, Miss Lennox. Out here, you can't afford to be picky. Fresh meat is fresh meat."

  "And revolting is revolting," she snapped, her gaze shifting to the snake. A chill iced down her spine, and she immediately averted her attention. Meeting his gaze, she forced her chin to lift an imperious notch. "That is disgusting. I won't eat it."

  Jake shrugged. "Fine by me. Like I said, all I ask is that you cook it."

  "I will not!"

  "Wanna bet?"

  "All the tea in China, Mr. Chandler. All the tea in China."

  Jake scowled. Now what the hell was she talking about? They didn't have any tea—unless she'd brought it, and if she did... hell, he didn't care to know about it. Besides, they weren't talking tea here, they were talking nice juicy snake. Supper. Couldn't the woman follow a simple conversation? He decided her swift change of topic must be her ladylike way of relenting. Whatever.

  He pushed to his feet and glanced down at her. Her spine looked incredibly rigid, even for her, and her cheeks were ashen. He shrugged, thinking she'd probably just laced her corset too tight. Making a mental note to talk to her about that later, he turned away. Over his shoulder he said, "I'll get the fire started while you skin supper."

  He'd taken no more than a step when he heard "Ugh," then felt something large and heavy slam into his lower back.

  Years ago, self-preservation had honed Jake's reaction time to lightning speed. In a beat he'd spun on his heel; the knife slipped soundlessly from its sheath, the hilt cradled in his palm, the blade brandished threateningly, before he'd even completed the turn.

  Amanda gasped. The grimace wrinkling her nose faded, and the hands she was scouring on her shirt froze. A tremor that she tried to stifle, but couldn't, racked her shoulders. "Oh, no. Not again."