by Amber Scott
He meant to soothe her with his low voice, but she wriggled even harder against his hold, making so much shrill noise beyond his hand gag, he suspected they'd be discovered. He held his arms about her like a vise, pressing her face into his chest.
"Two very bad men are sittin’ at a campfire just past that cluster of trees. You don't want them to hear you. If they hear you, I'll have no choice but to claim you as a hostage. Now settle down, or you'll soon wish you were dead."
She went quiet but made up for the lack of noise with renewed thrashing of her limbs. Jesse stood, dragging her up with him. Damned feather-brained females. A man could spell a thing out, and still they did whatever fancied them. If it weren't for a certainty Joe and Mick would have some foul and ugly acts in mind for the beauty, he'd let her go and walk away.
He was certain. He knew Joe and Mick. While she struggled, his brain raced to piece together a way to get her to safety without risking either of their necks in the process.
Nothing. Not a damned thing came to mind. His name echoed through the dark. From Mick.
Jesse twisted the painted beauty around, wrapping his arm over hers, and couldn't help but notice her small waist and ample bust. Hell. Of all things to be thinking of. Jesse pressed his mouth near her ear. “Shhhh.” She fell still.
Was it Mick's voice that froze her up? Or were his words finally making sense to the girl? Either way, they had to get her hidden. Well, he had to. She likely wouldn't prove helpful.
He spun on his heels, swinging her around with him, and searched the shadows for safe cover. Mick called out again. Closer. Jesse considered calling back, but that would betray their position and probably wouldn't satisfy the man.
The best he could do was hide her, and the only place he could figure was behind the nearest good-sized sagebrush. If he hurried, cut off Mick and rebuked him, he might be able to keep the Irishman away.
That left only her. He had to be sure she wouldn't bring attention to herself or wander off and die, or worse, wander into camp. Could be she wasn't completely sound-minded.
"Hide here. I'm warnin’ you, don't you make a single sound. Not a sneeze, do you understand?” When she nodded her head against his palm, he realized he still had her gagged. He had to be sure, though, before he let her go. He turned her so as to see her eyes better. “They'll rape you, use you up and save you for more, and I won't be able to stop them."
Her eyes a clear blue, even in the shadows, filled with fright when she'd awakened, paled even more.
Satisfied, Jesse pushed her to the shrubbery, shoved down on her shoulders, making her squat, and pressed his finger to her lips. He bore his gaze into hers until she nodded her understanding.
Mick's voice reverberated within ten feet behind him but calling in the wrong direction. Jesse's chest tightened. He had moments, at most, to escape.
"I'll come back for you.” Slowly, willing luck to cushion his path again, he backed away.
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Chapter Two
Samantha shook. Panic prickled up and down her insides. Where in the hell was she? Better yet, how in the hell did she get here? Nevertheless, she stayed as still as a rabbit—albeit a scared one—in winter, like she was told. Her mind hunted for a plausible explanation for waking into what she no longer thought was a bad, scary, vivid dream.
If not for the fact that she felt cold sober, she'd blame the whiskey. Not even a trace of tipsiness or hangover fogged her brain. Could she have gotten so quickly drunk she'd blacked out? Passed out? Despite her focus on the present unexplained mess she'd landed in, images of her nightmare lingered. Swirling, pulling sand. Drowning but dry. Even now, she touched her hand to her throat and breathed, the choking feeling all too fresh.
The nightmare explained nothing, not without Freud on hand.
Had she sleepwalked? She'd heard stories of her dad sleepwalking all the way down to the train tracks on hot summer nights. In all her life, she didn't know of a single instance of her doing so. Not even talking in her sleep. (Or anything else for that matter.) She kind of credited those stories about her father as a well-spun teenager's lie, caught sneaking out, embellished over the years by supposed witnesses wanting to believe him.
"Oh, yeah,” Grandma Jean would say. “It was the darnedest thing. ‘Henry,’ I'd say to him and then give him a good shake when he just stood there. Once, I woke him up. He nearly pummeled me. Never do that. Sleepwalkers are in a deep sleep, like a trance. If you wake them up, you can give them a heart attack."
It had felt like a heart attack. Shards of glassy alarm had shot through her chest when she opened her eyes to a devilish face hovering above hers. Her first thought was of Charles, that one of his boy-toys had wandered into her room in the middle of the night, being nosy. She remembered she wasn't at home and saw where she was—wherever here was.
Peering about, Samantha recognized a stream, lots of scraggly trees of various types, most with speckled white trunks. She had to be miles from her father's home, which meant even farther from her own in California.
She huddled over and breathed on her shaking hands. It wasn't only the chill making them tremble. As the minutes passed, her mind delved deeper. Whoever that man was, if he was going to harm her, he would have by now. She was safe. She had to be. A person didn't get orphaned only to disappear and turn up murdered. That wasn't how life worked. Her rescuer was not a murderer. He had eyes too warm for killing.
Unless he was simply saving her for himself, a shrill interior voice scolded her. One of those creeps who made a victim wait, wanting her unsoiled for him alone. She'd seen those shows. She knew the kind of crazies out there. Not even a small town could protect a person from creeps.
All she had to do was calm herself, figure out which end was up, and go there. Or she could wait out the sunrise and leave then. Or maybe wait until the man's camp quieted long enough, and she could be absolutely sure they wouldn't hear her. Pick a direction and walk until she hit civilization.
Who was she kidding? She was going to stay right where she sat—squatting—and hope for the handsome stranger's help. Samantha blew a wisp of hair off her forehead and flexed her toes. Her legs were falling asleep.
If he was a real hero, coming back to rescue her, he'd bring a blanket and have a nice warm vehicle nearby she could climb into to thaw out her limbs before frostbite set in. Could frostbite occur in summertime? It certainly felt like it. At least she wasn't in pajamas. Now that would be embarrassing. The dark wool skirt and long-sleeved cotton blouse had been muggy in the funeral home. Now, she wished she could take off the skirt and make it into a teepee-shelter-blanket sort of thing. Should have kept on her hose. If not for the pinching control top, she'd be warm...
"Damn it, Dad. This is all your fault.” She blinked against the sting in her eyes.
The trees. Focus on the trees. The sound of the water. Breathing. Blanket.
The minutes crawled by. By turns, she carefully stood to get some feeling back into her legs then crouched back down until they fell asleep again. Maybe Handsome was no hero at all. Maybe he went to sleep or left her here to expire from terror. Maybe he was getting raped. Yeah, right. He didn't look like the kind of man anyone could take alive.
Oh, well. At least she wouldn't have to explain to him what in God's name she was doing lying in the dirt out in Timbuktu. He'd be weird not to ask. She'd ask. That blanket he'd be bringing along kept her going this long. Feeling like no one would come at all made her spirits sink like a stone in an icy lake. A very icy lake.
Figures. Leave it to any man to forget so easily about Samantha Hendricks, even when she clearly needed rescue, or at the very minimum, some decent and charitable assistance from a handsome stranger. He was handsome. Dark stubble, light eyes, a nice full mouth ... kissable.
Kissable? Where had that come from? Yes, the man's devilish features were nice, a little familiar, even, but kissable? The first symptoms of hypothermia must be setting in to have her thinking along s
uch lines.
If only it were a dream, and she were really lying in her father's bed in his bedroom. Yes. The creaky trailer letting in some cold air, and because it was such a lucid dream, she was somehow unable to wake up, to roll over and pull a blanket over her freezing cold—
"You all right?” His breathy whisper startled her, and yet she didn't jump. Though he'd come up from behind, she knew it was him.
All she could think about was the blanket. Quickly, she stood, spun, and faced kissable Handsome. She found him completely, utterly empty-handed.
Samantha gasped. No blanket? Her hands rose and fell to her sides. No blanket. No jacket. Not even a hand towel. Not even a friggin’ paper towel.
He hadn't even brought an article of clothing for her. What kind of friggin’ rescuer didn't notice a shivering girl, particularly one whose virtue he was supposedly keeping safe?
Samantha shook her head. “No,” she whispered, her teeth clenched to stop their chatter. “I'm not okay. I'm fucking cold."
He flinched, scowling, and shook his head, too. He turned away, and for a moment, she thought she'd pissed him off. Was he going to leave her freezing ass here where he'd found it? She regretted her tone and colorful vocabulary. Her mother's frown of disapproval flashed in her mind. If she talked that way, no one would ever take her seriously, and a woman needed to use every tool she had available in order to be taken seriously. The credo had been drilled into her from girlhood.
Samantha swallowed against the urge to spit out another expletive. If a man spoke that way, the words would enforce what he wanted. But out of the mouth of a pretty, young, blonde woman, the words screamed ignorant and trashy. Who wanted to rescue trash?
"I'm sorry,” she whispered.
He turned back around. “No, I'm sorry. Here.” His shirt suddenly unbuttoned, he pulled it out from his tight, dusty-looking jeans. Dustier cowboy boots peaked out beneath the jeans’ hem.
A cowboy, taking off his clothes to keep her warm.
Samantha balked, feeling a bit like a brat. “No, no. I can't.” She pushed out her hands. “I can't take the shirt off your back."
"Bullshit,” he said in a terse voice.
She thought she also detected some amusement. Or was it bemusement? As he moved to her, shirt in hand, ready to wrap it around her shoulders, his features were strained. Even his movements seemed stiff, and if Samantha didn't know better, she'd say this cowboy was uncomfortable. She had no doubt she was what made him so.
Warmth rushed through her. She blamed it on the thin flannel fabric, still warm from his body, he draped over her. As she tugged the flannel tighter over her arms and looked up, his spicy, earthy scent enveloped her, the faint, smoky, lingering smell of campfire somehow comforted her. In the moonlight, she couldn't miss his rigidly contoured, naked muscles. His skin prickled in goose bumps.
Another wave of warmth rushed through her, and this time she blushed, as well. He crouched down, and his abdomen rippled a washboard line like none she'd ever seen in person. Those hip handles right above the jeans’ waistline. Her mouth watered.
Samantha shook her head.
"What is it?” he asked.
She met his gaze. Moonlight showed light green eyes, heavy-lashed and brooding with something she'd never seen before. She couldn't name or describe it, but it made the warm rushing hotter.
Samantha shook her head again. She'd gone crazy; that was all. Not a smart thing to say to any would-be rescuer, shirtless and hot or not. So she said nothing.
His gaze searched her eyes, and his hand reached out. The world hung still for a moment, spellbound. Was he going to touch her? Prove he was more than a dream?
No. He pulled a twig from her hair, showed it to her, and tossed it. He didn't touch her cheek and let his finger glide down to her jaw, or stroke her chin. No, but she'd wanted him to.
This feeling seemed more dangerous than the two men back at his campsite. Never had she been so needy as to actually want a man to caress her cheek. Never. She was not going to start now.
Samantha stood up.
"Thank you for your help,” she whispered, ignoring his quizzical frown. “Can you please take me home?"
He eyed her a moment. “That depends. Where's home?"
"San Dieg—Winnemucca,” she corrected herself. “My father has a place on East Sunny Drive. Well, he did. I guess it's mine now."
"Don't know the place."
"It's off of Grass Valley Road. Not as far as Star City."
He shook his head, his eyes squinting. “I can get you close, but I can't take you all the way."
She almost demanded to know why not but remembered how acting spoiled and desperate probably wouldn't get her anywhere. Close would have to do. Besides, anywhere was better than this, even her dad's place. She couldn't even see a single city light. Well, town light. Strange. Even as small as Winnemucca was, there should be some sign of it.
How far did she sleepwalk?
It didn't matter, she supposed. The longer she spent with a vehicle's vents blasting hot air on her, the better. He'd be too busy driving to be caressing her cheek or doing any other of her speculative fantasies.
"Sounds good,” she said quietly, avoiding his eyes. “Lead the way."
He nodded, and after staring at her several long seconds (or did time just seem suspended that long), during which she glanced about, ever aware of his stare, he walked away.
When she followed, he stopped. With a finger to his lips and a stern look from those penetrating eyes, he warned her. She tip toed the rest of the way.
They came to a tall black horse, and Samantha halted in her tracks, scanning the dense foliage for a car. A truck? SUV?
No. But then, the terrain here wasn't clear enough for a vehicle, SUV or not. So they were going to ride to the truck. She could handle that.
She hoped.
* * * *
Torn didn't describe what Jesse felt when he found her again. Standing up, the moonlight outlining every slim curve, her long hair trembling in the breeze, lengths of skin exposed. The seductive—surreal—image of her struck him, and his body responded with a force he couldn't reckon with.
His heart beat faster, his palms sweated, and he nearly got hard in his jeans just looking at her. Jesse hoped he could withstand the ride down. One voice said, “Leave her.” Another said, “Seduce her, take her.” He'd denied both, his partners slumbering nearby more than enough motivation to stay focused. His focus didn't quiet the struggle.
He was not a man in any position to woo a woman proper-like. Even though she cussed like a miner and exposed her calves for all to see, he recognized her as a lady, gently reared and born. It showed in the proud, almost sophisticated way she carried herself, even as she trembled in the cold and showed her anger.
He should have brought a blanket. He'd found nothing of use that wouldn't raise brows or make a ruckus.
Though he knew the horse had scented them approaching, Jesse whispered reassuringly to Diamond. He retrieved the reins from the saddle horn. She'd have to ride astride and in front of him. As though she read his thoughts, she shivered.
Damn it, he should have grabbed his blanket, but if Mick or Joe woke and found it gone, they'd know he was and come after him. Thereby her, too.
This way, he hoped they'd see the empty blanket, figure he was taking a leak, and roll back over. Leastwise ‘til sun up. He didn't have a lot of time to get her back to wherever she'd come from and was surer every passing moment he didn't want to know how.
Sympathy would only feed the fire sparking his libido.
With thoughts about her long legs wrapped around his hips, it would be a hard journey, in more ways than one, and they'd both soon be suffering. She wasn't the dallying kind. Ladies like her expected vows. Life on the run left no room for promises.
Jesse laced and cupped his hands to help her into the saddle. The less they spoke the better, so he kept quiet, hoping his body would follow cue and do the same.
Shou
ld have known it was too much to ask. She got into the saddle fine, but her less than practical skirt (or was it a petticoat?) hiked up another four inches and exposed too much smooth creaminess than any man could be expected to handle.
He would. The idea of the two he'd left in camp laying eyes and hands on her gleaming flesh held him steady, and he got into the saddle behind her. Making swift and abrupt adjustments within seconds, he had her in his lap, pressed snugly against his groin.
She gasped, but didn't say a word either. He refused to look her in the eye, lest she see the effect she was having on him and want to bolt.
Trusting a stranger couldn't be easy for any woman, but as far as he could tell, she didn't have a choice. So he'd better behave.
He nudged his heels, letting Diamond walk away softly. The stallion did so without straining under the extra weight. Course she couldn't weigh much. She was tall, thin, but not too thin.
Her clothing revealed every perfect curve.
* * * *
If Jesse could have read Samantha's mind at that moment, it might have been his undoing. Half of her was trying to figure out if he had an erection; the other half was thinking of ways to give him one. She should have been focused on getting home. Maybe if she were still cold she'd have been able to keep her thoughts off his rippling muscles and tight jeans. The only thing missing was a cowboy hat and oil to make his smooth skin glisten like Adonis.
Heat rushed through her limbs again. Delicious heat pressing back the hollow inside her and filling its space. She couldn't resist. Surreptitiously, slowly, she adjusted her weight. She wiggled a bit, testing his body with her bottom. She let her muscles relax so their bodies drew closer.
She listened for sounds of approval, signs to keep going. They traveled along the stream's bank down the short hill, and the horse's walk made it easy for her. At the bottom, a small finger of water outcropped, forking and twining in front of their path.
Rather than going around, the horse jumped it. Samantha slid to the side and almost yelped. She'd been on only a handful of horses, and none had ever jumped.
