by BJ James
Like the night, her silence was brooding, not sullen. Pensive, not reproving. She had accepted him as another of the inescapable burdens of this brief measure of her life. As one who traversed this part of the world must accept the threat of rock slide, or rattlesnake, and cactus spine. And in the pensive brooding lurked the curious air of sadness he’d sensed beneath the arrogant assurance.
With his gloved hand, he lifted the pot from the grill, judging from the heft of it that only one cup remained. One thick, thoroughly boiled, concentrated cup. Holding the pot poised over the fire, he spoke softly. “More?”
Responding vaguely, she looked at him through eyes blinded by her thoughts, not by fire.
“More coffee?” he offered again. “One cup left.”
Her brows arched down in concentration, as if she couldn’t draw her mind from its preoccupation. “One?”
“If you dare.” A deliberate move splashed liquid against tin in a hollow rattle and a billow of bitter steam. “The devil’s own brew, by now.”
“Coffee?”
“If you wish to call it that.”
She moved her head in refusal. “No, thanks.”
Rafe smiled, but only with his lips, as he watched her. “Wise choice.”
“I haven’t always made them.”
Hesitating in the act of rising, Rafe knelt on one knee. “A common human failing.”
“To those for whom failure is an option.” Her gaze settled again on the fire, avoiding his.
Rafe’s look swept over her, his scrutiny long and hard. “But not an option for you.”
Valentina nodded her agreement.
“And not this time.”
She was unresponsive for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. When she did, it was no more than a word, born on a breath slowly exhaled. “No.”
Climbing to his feet, he waited for more. When there was nothing, he moved to the stream to rinse the pot, readying it for the morning and the last time. The next night’s camp would be cold and dry, after a longer day on a trail even more grueling. Over the simple fare of dinner, she’d given this terse explanation for a short, acclimatizing first day. And in her tone there had been no hint of mercy for man or beast, or woman, in the trek ahead.
Mercy was the last thing Rafe expected, and far from his thoughts when he knelt by the stream. As he rinsed away the dregs, fallen leaves drifted by in the froth of icy water, brilliant and beautiful in the light of the moon. But he had no time for beauty as he lifted his eyes to the mountains.
Courtney was there, trapped in a squalid shack with a madman.
So far away. So far yet to go. So little time.
And only one hope.
Valentina.
She was laying out her bedroll when he returned from the stream. In base camp he’d noted an orderliness about her, with a place for everything, and everything in its place. He saw it now, even in the wilderness. Perhaps especially in the wilderness.
He wondered, not for the first time, how much of it was her nature, how much her training. One schooled by the commander of The Black Watch would never be caught off guard, never unprepared.
“Turning in?” A rhetorical question, given the obvious, but he made no apology as he tended the fire.
“We’ll be making an early start in the morning. At first light.” She looked up from her chore. “If you’re determined to go on.”
“I’ll be ready. First light.”
In the blink of an eye something changed in a subtle altering of her expression. He thought at first it was a small nuance of relief, but when she turned briskly back to making her bed, he knew he was mistaken. He’d seen only the changing of light, a softening of her features created by the flattering glow of the fire.
“Pity,” he muttered, not certain why, then covered the sound with his own preparations for the night. He worked first with the fire, making it ready for the duration. Next was his bedroll, spread across from hers by the pit. And, as was his nature, there was a place for everything. A panther from the bayous would no more be caught unprepared or unguarded than one of The Black Watch. While he worked, according to his nature and by habit, his thoughts were of Valentina.
She’d come, accepting the burden of the impossible. There would have been no other choice for her had she been given one. But there were others who had done the same with more humanity.
Cold. With quick glancing looks, he watched her, judging her as she moved with meticulous care, emotionally uninvolved, never concerned that a child was out there. A tiny girl, frightened and in danger, was business to her. An assignment, a job to be done, no more, no less. He questioned neither her ability nor her will to succeed. Only her compassion.
“An assignment, that’s all that matters. Not that it’s a child.” Anger surged black and corrosive as he slammed the pot on a stone by the fire. “Not that it’s Courtney.”
For all he knew he could have been shouting. But when he found her looking at him, a puzzled look on her face, he knew his furious words had been an unintelligible growl. She hadn’t heard, hadn’t understood.
“It’s nothing,” he snapped with strained patience when she continued to stare. Surging to his feet, needing to distance himself from her, with a brusque gesture he parried her concern. “Go on with what you were doing. I’ve a few things to see to before I bed down El Mirlo and then myself.”
“The horse is fine.” Her eyes were narrowed, her gaze still questioning. “I saw to him and Black Jack a bit ago.”
“The gelding allows very few people near him.”
“He let me.” There was no challenge nor arrogance in her tone. A simple statement of truth.
“I should have realized he would.” Rafe had begun to realize she shared a kinship with animals that verged on magical. He’d seen the first suggestion of her skill in the corral and the charming of Black Jack. Then more on the trail as the horse responded to her touch and her voice, taxing equine strength in answer.
She shared an astonishing rapport with the horse. Yet with the human animal she kept herself apart, feeling and caring little.
“He’s set for the night, but a familiar face in a strange place wouldn’t hurt.” She offered the excuse, perceiving Rafe’s need to get away. “Nor would a bit of praise from the one he’s tried most to please.”
“You think so, do you?” Rafe’s comment was as caustic as his mood. His face was a cynical mask in the weaving play of firelight.
Valentina sat back on her heels, her knees in the dust. With her fingers linked before her, there was a calm about her as she faced the brunt of his contempt. “An observation and a suggestion.” A slight shrug, and a tendril broke free of the orderly cascade of her hair. Swaying against the smooth line of her throat, it was silky and darkly fascinating in the absence of the many hues drawn from it by the sun. “My apologies, no interference intended, I assure you.”
He had no answer for his mood, no plausible excuse, no apologies of his own. And no inclination to accept her assurance or those she offered. “I’ll see to the horse.”
Stalking into the shrouding darkness, he wondered what the hell that little skirmish was all about. Why had a simple suggestion sent him into a rage and an apology made it worse? Was it simply that he didn’t like her?
No. Like or dislike had nothing to do with it. He’d learned long ago in his years with McCallum American, then McCallum International, that liking was never a prerequisite for working successfully with one or dozens of people.
Then why, he wondered again, and was no closer to an answer when El Mirlo lifted his head, whinnying a soft greeting.
Much later, having deliberately whiled away more time than any duty or communion with his horse required, he found the camp quiet and as he’d left it. The fire burned low in a bed of embers that would ward off the chill of the small hours. The coffeepot waited for the morning. With her saddle for a pillow, his traveling companion slept the sleep of an untroubled mind.
“Worry.” The hoarse
command was hardly a ripple in the calm of the camp as he scowled at her over the pale blush of the fire. “Toss. Turn. Feet. Care! Damn you, care!”
He wanted to shake her, make her hear and heed him. And he knew then he had the answer to his mood. He wanted her to feel, to become involved, to understand the desperation and face what she must do with more than dispassion. Rafe understood that she must be cool and poised, undeterred by clouding emotions. But he knew, as well, that she must care.
Courtney needed for her to care.
Rafe Courtenay needed for her to care.
Drawing a harsh breath, he shook his head wearily. He couldn’t in a million years explain to himself, any more than he could to anyone else, why he felt so strongly that caring would be the key to survival. Yet, even as he lacked the words, he was convinced that when she was balanced on that fine line between success and failure, caring could and would tip the scales in Courtney’s favor.
Was it simply that? That it was the extra dimension that made the impossible possible? Or was it more?
“Caring.” The word rang hollowly through the imperturbable peace of the canyon. With the echo of it resounding in his mind, and keenly conscious of every worn and tortured muscle, he stretched out on his bedroll. He would not bother with taking off more than his hat, for he would not sleep.
Not tonight, nor any night, until Patrick’s child was safe.
Lying with his head leant against his saddle, arms folded at the back of his neck, he stared at the sky and thought of the woman who slept within a touch of his fingertips. He puzzled over her, worried about her, and struggled to find the key to understanding. Perhaps then he could replace enmity with empathy, though he knew it was the last thing she would want from him.
Tracing patterns and paths of stars, as the world spun on its path through the night, he let himself drift. He had no idea how long he’d lain there—an hour, two, most of the night.
Perhaps it could have been nearly morning when he heard it—the sound. A ragged, nearly silent cry that made his blood run like icy sludge through his veins, and shivers scratched with ghostly claws at his spine.
There was a desperateness in the cry, and for all its softness, raw, bleeding anguish. In a frozen moment of sheer disbelief, mistrusting his perceptions, he wondered if he’d drifted into a somnolent trance, with this part of a waking dream.
But when he heard again the whispered lament, its pain telepathic, inescapable, he knew there was no dream. The cry of hidden grief torn from the unguarded mind of sleep was as real as life, as hopeless as death. And there was more as he lay listening, hearing when he didn’t want to hear. More than he could bear.
Valentina O’Hara was in agony. Private, secret agony. Heart-shattering, soul-destroying agony.
“No!” Denial rang clearly through her garbled mutterings. Harsher, stronger, as if she fought back an overwhelming tide. In that he was glad, for he wanted no more.
“I can’t,” she whispered again.
He stiffened, dreading.
“Oh, God! Please.”
Rafe knew then there would be more. And worse. Heart laboring, body clenched, he waited. A wait that would not be long.
“No-o-o.” She turned, tossing, twisting in her bedroll, trying to escape her own thoughts, her own mind. “Don’t! Don’t let it be. Please.”
Mournful plea descended to sobbing hopelessness. Cursing, Rafe bolted from his bed, scarcely aware of chilling sweat flooding like rivulets of heart’s blood down his chest. If the first was anguish, this was far more, far worse. He was witnessing a soul’s descent into hell.
Kicking away the light blanket he’d added to his bedroll, he skirted the edge of the pit. Kneeling at her side with no idea what he should do, he touched her forehead cautiously, half expecting he would find her burning with fever. Instead she was cold, her skin clammy, as she cringed from his touch.
“Valentina.” As he whispered he stroked her brow, seeking to quiet her troubled thoughts. Her eyes were open, dark with pain. The unseeing stare of a sleepwalker who walked only in the horror of her mind. “Shhh, Irish,” he murmured, and then again, as she quieted at the sound of his voice, “Shhh.”
The hand that clamped over his wrist was strong, stronger than it would ever be beyond the dream. “David?”
“No.” He brushed her hair from her face. “Not David.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“Sorry. So sorry.”
“He knows.”
“I couldn’t.” Her body writhed. “I tried. I really tried.”
Rafe had never heard such desolation. Nothing had ever torn at his heart as completely. When he took her in his arms, cradling her body in the curve of his, he wondered if it was himself he comforted in his helplessness or Valentina in her grief.
She was restive in his embrace. Every muscle taut, vibrating with tension. He spoke to her softly, a singsong of sense and nonsense. He stroked her lightly, as he did Patrick’s little ones when they were hurt and afraid. Degree by tiny degree she relaxed. So imperceptibly he was hardly aware until she sank deeper and more pliantly into his arms.
Holding her, he rocked instinctively, the gentle, rhythmic motion that had forever comforted the hurt. She stirred only once, muttering, denying herself even this small solace. “No.”
“Shh. You’re all right.” He countered her resistance, his grasp supporting, but unconfining. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“David?” Her fingers clasped at the collar of his shirt, seeking a lifeline in chaos. “I’m sorry.”
“He knows.” Rafe was sure that he did. As he was sure David was dead and Valentina blamed herself. “Wherever he is, David knows.”
Time became his ally, and with its passage the horror diminished. When she was quiet and at peace at last, he left her tucked warmly in her blanket and his own.
When morning came, she wouldn’t remember. Rafe Courtenay would never forget.
He’d wanted her to feel, to care. He’d learned that she did. Deeply, passionately. More than anyone he’d ever known. But he’d learned something of himself as he’d listened to her tortured whispers in the dark.
He’d discovered that he cared. More than was reasonable. More than he wished.
For Valentina O’Hara.
Five
A harness jangled, a horse whickered in the darkness. Both quieted by the touch of a steady hand.
“Ho, boy. Easy now.” Valentina’s voice carried softly through the barely fading gloom as Rafe looked up from his own tasks to watch. She moved deftly, the inborn skill lending to every gesture the illusion of slow motion. Without appearing to hurry, she accomplished a great deal effectively, precisely. Before the first ray of the sun shot over the rim of the canyon she had finished. By the time the second shaft of light beamed down on the canyon floor, she was mounted.
Swinging into the saddle, Rafe cast one last look over what had been their campsite. Only the most unrelenting observer would find signs of this interval in their journey. The fire had been smothered, the pit refilled and covered with branches from the deadfall. Supplies they no longer needed were stored within a crevice in a small landslide to be retrieved another time.
They traveled light out of necessity, with the trail ahead promising an incredible challenge. By day’s end the way would be too steep. Impossible for these best of mountain horses, yet only difficult for an experienced climber. From the dossier given him by Jim, in turn supplied by Simon, Rafe knew Valentina had done some rock climbing. As she’d done some of a number of things.
“Busy lady,” he muttered as he turned in his creaking saddle to find her watching him. Beyond a mumbled good morning over a cup of coffee, she hadn’t spoken. Dispatching it quickly, she’d rolled to her feet, stood by the fire as if storing heat against the chill of dawn, then walked away to perform whatever morning rituals she observed, leaving him to his.
They’d met again by the horses, two shadows moving silently in muted darkness.
With the coming of the sun, he saw she was dressed as she’d dressed before, jeans, boots, Stetson. A shirt of the same practical style, only differing in tint. The day before she’d worn white, the light color better to repel the heat. Now she wore pale blue, which, in the backlit radiance of dawn, made her skin seem dusky in contrast. A third shirt he’d glimpsed in her pack was ruddy brown, of a coarser, thicker material. The color the hue of the rocks. Camouflage. Protective coloration to guard against the chance of discovery. The sturdy fabric to guard against the rigors of their climb.
“Wise.”
“Talking to yourself Mr. Courtenay?” A tightening of the reins quelled Black Jack’s eager response to her voice.
“Thinking aloud.”
“About what lies ahead?”
“Maybe.”
“You can still turn back. If this should go wrong...” She stopped, reluctant to address the consequences of failure. When she spoke again her voice was low, more thoughtful than he’d ever heard it. “You needn’t put yourself through this.”
“Don’t I?” El Mirlo stamped and snorted, as impatient to be moving as Black Jack.
“Simon says Patrick McCallum is an exacting man.” Quietly she amended, “He says, as well, that there’s no man fairer nor more compassionate. If you go back now, he wouldn’t blame you.”
“I would.” Rafe’s retort was succinct, final. Wheeling El Mirlo about, he turned his bleak gaze to the mountain, then to Valentina. He stared at her through the gloom, seeing little evidence of her tumultuous slumber and no glimmer of memory. He could almost believe the night had been the dream he’d thought it—were it not for the half-moon brand of her nails on his wrist. Were he not an obdurate realist he might convince himself he hadn’t held her in his arms, if the soft heat of her body and the fragrance of her hair did not linger in his mind.
He didn’t presume to know the import of the night or its heartache. David was only a name called in the throes of despairing grief, a name linked with catastrophic circumstance. Beyond that Rafe knew nothing of this David who lived in a nightmare, neither who he was nor what he’d been to Valentina. Nor why Rafe Courtenay should care.
