She wriggled free and took another swig of air. This time he caught her before she could make a sound, trapping her between his hands, one over her open mouth, the other behind her head.
But like a squirrel that's fought its way out of a basket trap more than once, she wasn’t giving up. She bared her teeth and chomped down hard on his palm.
It hurt like hell. His blacksmith’s calluses protected the meat of his hand from too much real damage. But her sharp teeth still managed to break open the skin where the barbed wire had already cut him. He released her like a hot poker, glancing in shock at his bleeding hand.
She spat on the ground, apparently averse to the taste of his blood.
Annoyed at his inability to control such a small creature, he snatched her by the front of her camisole and dragged her toward him until she dangled on her toes. Shards of gold shot through the serpentine green of her eyes, and her gaze still glimmered in rebellion.
He lowered his eyes. At the spot where he clenched her camisole, something peeped out above the lacy top—the yellowed pages of a book. He narrowed his gaze. What the hell was that?
Her eyes widened in panic. “No!”
Too irritated with her to consider the wisdom of his actions, he set her back on her feet, and then seized the corner of the book and withdrew it.
She gasped in disbelief, turning bright scarlet.
He scowled at the orange cover. THE TRAIL HUNTERS OR MONOWANO THE SHAWNEE SPY, it read. Under the title was a drawing of a native man holding hands with a white woman in the middle of a forest. The coincidence was unnerving.
With a disconcerted blink, he curled the soft-covered book and smacked the roll against his palm. "I only meant to let you get a drink of water." He sniffed. "But maybe I should just gag you again." He hoped she couldn’t guess that his threat was as full of holes as a maiden’s first basket. "What do you think? Do you think you can be silent?"
She swallowed hard. She might be stubborn, but her thirst apparently outweighed her desire to disobey him, so she gave him a nod of consent.
He waved her off and waited as she knelt beside the spring to get a drink. When she finished, her face and hair were wet, and droplets trickled down the front of her camisole.
"I'm going to drink now,” he said. “You stay quiet."
She only stared at him, her face faintly mutinous. He tucked her book inside his shirt, wound the end of the rope around his good hand to keep her on a short leash, and crouched beside the spring.
He was so thirsty and the water so sweet and cool that, for a moment, he almost forgot about the woman…until she spoke.
"They’re coming for you, you know," she said, making him freeze mid-swallow. Her voice surprised him. It was soft and yet somehow far more powerful than her scream. It tickled his ears the way a rabbit fur blanket did, making his head buzz, warming his flesh. He realized instantly—and too late—that he should have kept her muzzled.
"They’re coming for you, and when they find you," she gently reasoned, her voice a deceptively calm eddy over a current swirling with tension, "they’ll kill you."
He let the rest of the water fall from his hand back into the spring. She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. But it was the last thing he wanted to hear. He glowered, hoping to silence her.
Still she rattled on, desperate to get words out before he shut her up. "If it’s money you want, you won’t get much if I’m—“
"Hush!" He narrowed his eyes in clear warning, to no avail.
She kept talking. "And if you hurt me, he’ll pay you nothing."
This time he growled at her, using the snarl that sent his little sisters fleeing in terror.
She recoiled, but it seemed nothing would keep her quiet. "My father is not a patient man. The longer you keep me, the worse it’ll be for you."
The only word Chase heard was “father.”
"What?" He felt the hairs prickle at the back of his neck. "What did you say?"
"I said, my father is not a patient—“
"Your...father?"
"Yes. My father. Samuel Parker."
Chase suddenly felt numb.
Her brow creased into a puzzled frown. Then understanding slowly blossomed in her face. "You didn’t know I was…? You didn’t take me for the ransom? Then why..."
Suddenly the whole course of events struck Chase as a grand jest, like one Xontehl-taw, Trickster Coyote, might play upon a hapless hunter.
"Shit," he said, throwing his head back to stare askance at the treetops. He chuckled grimly, then blew out a long resigned sigh.
This was great. This was just great. The woman—no, girl—wasn’t Parker’s wife. She was his damned flesh and blood. And she figured he'd taken her for the ransom. He shook his head. The Great Spirit must truly wish for his death.
"You don’t mean to…” she said softly, blanching, “to kill me, do you?”
He furrowed his brow. Of course he didn’t mean to kill her. Then again, that had sort of been his intention when he’d carried her off in a drunken haze.
He shook his head. He must have been out of his mind to think he could somehow fix everything by taking a life for a life. Chase wasn’t a killer. Hell, he couldn’t even let his enemy’s daughter go thirsty.
Confounded by conflicting emotions, he turned away, burrowing his hand into the spring, scooping water up over his face as if he could wash the uncomfortable truth from his eyes.
"Let me go," the girl suggested. "I’ll say I...I took the horse and got lost. If you don’t let me go, my father will chase you to the ends of—"
He stood up. He’d heard enough chatter. Besides, her words were only echoing his own uneasy thoughts. He took the few steps to snatch up the discarded gag and hunkered down beside her.
She scrambled backward. "Please. No. I’ll be quiet. I won’t say a word. I promise."
He shouldn’t trust her. He knew that. In his experience, a promise meant nothing to white people.
Still, he was burdened by guilt. The girl’s fear made him feel like a beast. He supposed he should have been accustomed to that. People always expected him to be dangerous. It was partly because of his blacksmith’s build and partly because everyone compared him to his brother. Where Drew was a charmer, Chase always scared women. No matter how kind his intentions were, every frown, every growl, each too-rough gesture reinforced the misconception that he was a brutal man. It was his unfortunate curse.
And it was too late to fix that now. The girl had already decided he was a savage. He might as well act like one.
He twisted the bandanna in his hands and started toward her again.
Unfortunately, he made the mistake of looking into her eyes. In a matter of moments, the deed could have been accomplished, and they could have ridden on in silence. But when she gazed at him—her big eyes all dewy and helpless—he melted like an iron billet over the fire.
Counter to all common sense and his better judgment, he withdrew. He knotted the bandanna around his own throat instead, which was probably a fitting gesture, considering the noose he’d soon wear if he didn’t start using his wits.
"No more talking," he warned as he lifted her to her feet, fully knowing she’d be unable to comply. In his experience, no woman could remain silent for more than two breaths.
But to his amazement, as they rode on, she made not a peep. They traveled across increasingly wet ground, following the trickling spring until it disappeared underground and emerged again as a tiny stream. He tied the girl’s leash to a tree so he could pick creek lettuce, bracken fern, and wild onions. It was too dangerous to build a fire. He didn’t know for sure, but it was likely there were miners on the main creek who’d be able to spot their smoke. They’d just have to make do with what they could eat raw.
The girl didn’t like the food much. She wrinkled her nose as he hunkered down and tucked bites of fern and lettuce into her mouth. But true to her word, she didn’t complain. She even choked down a few wild onions, thou
gh they made her eyes water. It was a shame the blackberries weren’t ripe yet. She’d probably like those.
Damn. What was he thinking? He wasn't supposed to be making her happy. He was only supposed to be keeping her alive.
With a self-derisive snort, he scanned the sky. The sunlight was fading fast. What remained was obscured by a steel-gray blanket of ominous rain clouds. They’d have to wind their way through the gorge before the spring storm began and the trail turned into a muddy mire.
The girl shivered. The air didn’t seem that cold to him, but he came from a cooler clime. He also wasn’t a pampered white woman accustomed to living indoors. He supposed that thin wisp of a garment didn’t do much to keep her warm. She probably wasn’t even wearing anything under it.
The thought made his throat close.
He must have been staring at her, for the girl drew her knees in defensively. He cursed under his breath. They had to go now...before the squall struck...before darkness fell...and before he started thinking too much about all that delicate white skin.
Claire shuddered again, but it wasn’t from the cold. She’d seen something in the half-breed’s gaze, something perilous, like the flicker of a spark inside a black coal.
Not speaking was unbearable. Not knowing his thoughts, not understanding his intentions was sheer torture.
What did he want with her? He hadn’t even known she was Samuel Parker’s daughter, for heaven’s sake, so he must not have taken her for the ransom money. He’d seen to her hunger thus far, so he didn’t mean for her to die...at least not yet.
In her dime novels, the Red-Skins sometimes stole white women and children for the sport of it. But Claire had never thought that was very believable. Yoema had argued that the native people were too busy trying to keep food in their bellies to go riling up white men just for fun.
Perhaps he’d stolen her to be his servant. She’d read that Indians did such things, raiding neighbor tribes for slaves. If that was the case, he was in for a disappointment. She’d had maids all her life, and a cook prepared meals for the whole ranch. She knew nothing about keeping a house.
The strange glimmer in the man’s eyes, however, sent her thoughts coursing along an altogether different path. Maybe he’d abducted her to be his…wife. She gulped, trying not to think about that terrifying prospect.
Regardless of what she’d let him believe, she didn’t really expect her father to come riding to her rescue. After all, she’d left behind that confounded letter. Her father would assume she'd run away. He'd never guess she’d been kidnapped.
Gagging down the last wad of half-chewed fern, she tried to gather enough spit to wash away the nasty taste of the onion. She sure hoped the half-breed knew the difference between provender and poison. This couldn't be his usual fare. No man could grow shoulders that wide...arms that thick...a back that broad...feeding on weeds and roots.
Claire had assumed they were stopping here for the night, but her captor apparently wished to ride on. As he lifted her once more onto the horse, she bit back a groan. The flesh of her inner thighs, protected by only a single layer of cotton, was chafed and sore.
How much farther did he intend to ride? A storm was headed their way. If they didn’t find shelter soon, they’d be drenched.
She frowned, puzzled, as he began to ride northeast, straight into the canyon. He clearly wasn’t familiar with the territory or he’d realize that the deep gorges below Paradise were crawling with miners. Maybe she wouldn't need to be rescued by her father after all.
But the man was clever enough to ride under cover of the thick broadleaf trees that carpeted the valley and at a safe distance from the creek, where the dredging operations were. He also chose to follow the more westerly fork, which was less populated. The canyon walls rose higher and higher as they rode on. When the last of the sun’s glow faded from the silvery cloudbank and the first tenuous drops of rain spattered the rocky path, Claire spotted their destination. High up on the cliff wall was a row of niches like giant black spider eyes looking down upon them. Caves.
With a cluck of his tongue, the half-breed urged the horse tentatively forward across the uneven rubble until the rocks grew too large to navigate. He dismounted and lifted Claire down, then led the stallion slowly and carefully up the side of the steep mountain along passes no wider than the horse’s belly. So terrified was Claire along the perilous trail—with her hands bound behind her, her only lifeline a rope between her waist and the man’s fist, and the rain softening the ground to slick mud—that she noticed neither the cold nor the cuts on her feet.
Somehow they made it. Somehow, by the time the rain began to fall in earnest, bombarding the earth with punishing force, they reached a deep, dry cave, tall enough to shelter even the horse.
Heaving a sigh of exhaustion, Claire tossed her head, splattering raindrops everywhere. Her short hair was tiresome. It constantly fell in her eyes. It also afforded her no modesty, she realized, blushing as she realized the downpour had left her camisole completely transparent. Lord, she might as well be naked.
Desperately embarrassed, she tried to hide behind the horse. But the half-breed, annoyed by her incessant tugging on the rope, pulled her forward again.
His nostrils flared once, and though his gaze traveled over her swiftly, he missed nothing. That strange fire blazed in his eyes again, and she bit back an angry sob.
As quickly as it had bloomed, however, the menacing flame in his gaze was extinguished. The man looked away and, raking a hand roughly through his drenched locks, stomped the water from his boots. He pulled her waterlogged dime novel out from inside his shirt and tossed it onto the cave floor.
She closed her eyes, trying not to think about her utter helplessness. Somehow she had to get away from her captor. His strength, his savagery, and that dangerous light in his eyes spelled nothing but trouble for her.
She shuddered once, drawing his gaze again. This time he cursed, dropping his end of the rope. He spun her around and used his knife to cut her hands free.
She rubbed her numb wrists and turned to face him, shielding herself from his view as best she could with her arms.
The man’s mouth twisted. Muttering something unintelligible, he quickly unfastened the buttons on his damp shirt, wrenching it from his shoulders. He stepped forward, averting his eyes, and snapped the garment in front of her.
It took Claire a moment to understand what he was offering, partly because the last thing she expected from him was kindness and partly because she was reeling from the sight of his suddenly bare chest.
Thick ridges of muscle crossed his ribs and swelled his shoulders. No hair marred the sleek perfection of his form, and though the outside light grew pale, his skin seemed to glow golden. His arms appeared as if sculpted of dense clay, and the powerful breadth of his chest accentuated the narrowness of his hips, where his trousers hung low, revealing his navel.
A strange and sudden heat—not quite anxiety, not quite shame—suffused her. The breath caught in her throat, and her heart staggered a beat.
He impatiently snapped the shirt again, growling, “Turn around.”
She did. He dropped the heavy shirt over her shoulders. It was wet, too, but at least it afforded her some modesty. She slipped her arms through the sleeves, which hung far past her fingertips, and attempted to button the front, but her fingers were too stiff with cold to perform the task. Instead, she awkwardly tucked the shirt into the rope around her waist.
When she turned back, the half-breed was seeing to the horse, lifting the animal’s hooves to check for rocks. She swallowed hard. The muscles of the man’s back were as lean and solid as those of the prize stallion.
He glanced at her once, then again, and finally a third time. With a huff of exasperation, he let Thunder’s hoof down, sheathed his knife, and strode toward her. Undoing her sloppy handiwork, he removed the noose from around her waist, and then proceeded to fasten the shirt buttons from the bottom up.
She bit the inside
of her cheek as his naked torso filled her vision and his fingers brushed far too close to her person. It was incredibly bold of him to bare his chest in front of her. Not even her father’s ranch hands would do such a thing. It was improper. Indecent.
Claire held her breath. Despite the chill of the twilight, heat seemed to emanate from the man before her. She felt a flush rise in her cheeks. Finally, unable to abide staring at his chest any longer, she stole a glance up at his face. His chin was shadowed with stubble, and though his mouth curved downwards, it appeared softer somehow, less cruel. His cheekbones were high, his jaw was square, and his dark brows furrowed over deep-set eyes. In fact, except for his bristled jaw and the telling curl of his jet-black hair, he possessed all the features of native blood.
While she studied his face, his eyes lifted to hers. Suddenly, she stared into depths so fathomless and enveloping that she felt momentarily lost. Time halted as her soul was drawn into the circle of his eyes like a pail lowered into a deep well.
Then the horse whickered, and the moment vanished. The half-breed stepped away from her, collecting his rope. She wrapped her arms defensively about her waist, swiftly dropping her gaze.
The man guided Thunder away from the mouth of the cave, using the rope to tether the stallion to a sharp outcropping of rock.
The rain made soft music as it continued to pelt the ground, and its pewter curtain faded in the dying light. Soon it would grow dark. Claire scanned the jagged walls. She wondered if she was better off knowing or not knowing what else lived in the cave.
"Try to get some sleep."
She whipped around, startled again by the man’s unabashed half-nakedness. In her agitated state, the last thing she was prepared to do was sleep.
"May I speak?" she inquired.
After quick consideration, he dropped his gaze. "Nope."
"I won’t shout," she reasoned. "No one can hear us up here anyway."
Native Wolf Page 5
