Libby glanced back at Chase and caught his bewildered expression before he rolled his low-crowned hat back on his head. Clearly, he didn't approve of her going, but that didn't matter, she decided.
No doubt women where he came from were feminine and frilly and batted their eyelashes to get men to do what they wanted. It was a skill she'd never acquired, growing up out here where the land demanded a different sort of behavior from a woman.
Yet she felt a fleeting prick of envy for those pampered Eastern women who'd probably caught Chase Whitlaw's admiring eye. She fingered her plain golden braid self-consciously and turned away from him. She could only be who she was. No use wishing it was any different. Not for any man.
"How 'bout you two?" Early asked Chase and El. "I don't reckon you two done planned on a-fightin' griz when ya hired on, but we shore could use a couple extra pairs of eyes in the trackin'."
"I wouldn't miss it," Chase answered, tossing an unreadable look at Libby.
"I'm in," El answered, scratching the back of his hand where mud had caked and dried.
Libby allowed the tension in her shoulders to relax a fraction. She'd seen Chase Whitlaw handle a gun and was glad he'd be with them. But her reasons went beyond that. A ripple of excitement passed through her like an ill-blown wind at the thought of being near him for the next day or so.
Her curiosity was pricked by Chase the way Pandora's was by that little box in the myth. There would be nothing but trouble in it for her, she knew. But that didn't stop her from wanting to know what secrets he kept locked behind those troubled green eyes.
Libby looked toward the breaking pen to where Miguel's son, fifteen-year-old Esteban worked halter-breaking a stallion. "Tell Esteban to pack his gear. He'll be riding with us as far as the box canyon to meet Miguel," she said. "I'm going to go talk to Straw and Tad. I'll expect everyone to be ready to leave within the hour," Libby then strode off toward the house, not daring to look back.
Chapter 8
Tongues of flame licked the underside of the blackened graniteware coffee pot that hung on the hook over the fire. Libby fed the blaze a few cropped branches of fallen pine and listened to the sap sputter and pop as the heat met it. The fragrant smoke drifted up in a lazy spiral toward the star-crowded night sky. Beyond the circle of fire, all the men but Early, who had drawn the first watch, had spread their bedrolls out and long ago settled down to sleep.
They'd spent the day climbing higher over the volcanic black rock at the base of the Sangre de Christos. After finding the bear tracks Early had located with Bodine, they had turned up nothing more than a wallowed-out blue elderberry patch and a scuffed bear track that dead-ended at the foot of a rocky copse. The search had been as frustrating as it was fruitless. With the onset of evening, they'd made camp here, beneath a canopy of quaking aspen and pine, in a field of long grama grass. The heat of the day had given way to the inevitable high desert chill of the evening.
Libby heaved a sigh and dug the fine boar-bristle brush Lee had given her before the war out of her saddlebags. After gently loosening the tangle of hair from her braid, she pulled the brush through her tresses, and listened to the chorus of night crickets chirring in the darkness.
Shivering, she shrugged the woolen blanket around her shoulders and pulled it across her chest. She was weary, but not sleepy. Over the past few years, she'd discovered the very different meaning of those two words.
It wasn't a physical weariness that assaulted her now. She was used to the long days of riding on the back of a horse and working on the land. In truth, she admitted, it was out-and-out loneliness that invaded her soul now. It was an emotion she didn't allow herself often. But tonight, under the broad expanse of glittering sky, she felt it acutely.
The enormity of the task she'd taken on seemed overwhelming. There were times when she feared she'd made the wrong decision, but out of stubbornness she had refused to give up. Perhaps even Lee would have called her foolish for what she was trying to do. That thought cut the deepest, for it was his legacy she sought to save for their son.
A coyote howled mournfully in the distance as if he'd been privy to her innermost thoughts and another answered from a long way off. The tops of the nearby aspen and blue spruce rocked to and fro with the sibilant breeze that whispered against them.
Libby wished that, only for a few minutes, someone would take the burden from her; hold her tight and tell her that everything would be all right.
Her gaze roamed, as if of its own accord, to where Chase lay on his bedroll. Silhouetted by the fire-glow, he lay with his hands propped beneath his head and his booted feet crossed at the ankle. An unbidden rush of heat sparked deep within her as she stared at him. What would it be like to be held, caressed by a man like Chase? she wondered. What would his lips feel like on—?
Libby cut the thought off abruptly. Appalled by the direction her thoughts had taken, she stood and turned her back on the men. She couldn't allow herself to get carried away, wishing for things that should never be.
Pulling the blanket about her, she gathered up her rifle, and headed into the thicket of aspen to see to her private needs. The pine needles crunched beneath her boot heel, and branches brushed across her face. The stark, three-quarter moon, partially hidden by the trees, dappled the land with eerie blue shadows. She had always been blessed with a good sense of direction, and had no fear of getting turned around in the dark as she made her way to a sheltered spot out of sight of the encampment.
When she'd finished, Libby headed back the way she'd come. From a branch far above her, a great horned owl hooted in the darkness. With her eyes trained on the uneven ground, she picked her way carefully around fallen branches, squirrel holes, and rocks.
Without warning, she ran smack up against the solid, unyielding wall of a man's chest. She let out a small, gasping cry and heaved her weight instinctively in the opposite direction. His steely hand on her arm held her fast.
"Libby," the man whispered, "it's me. Chase."
Relief clamped her throat shut for a second, and she stopped struggling against him. Her whole body shook. He hadn't made a sound to warn her. How had he gotten so close without her knowing?
"Good Lord!" she whispered back when she found her voice. "You scared me to death! What are you doing out here? I thought you were asleep."
"Insomnia is my excuse. What's yours?" His voice, low and gravelly, sent shivers through her.
"I... well... I needed some privacy." She was grateful for the dark now, so he couldn't see the color flooding to her cheeks.
He released her arm, but made no move to let her pass. "Have you forgotten why we're up here? One wrong step and you could have blundered into some animal's nighttime digs."
"I wasn't far from camp."
He glanced at the rifle in her hand. "Far enough. At least you thought to bring a gun with you."
"Well, of course I did. You talk as if I'm some tenderfoot who's never been off the farm," she said, taking the small gun from his hands. "I know this country. Every nook and cranny of it. I've lived here for the better part of my life."
"Then you should know it's unpredictable as hell."
"You don't have to tell me that. I thought we'd settled this little argument."
"We haven't settled anything if you're foolish enough to wander off in the dark without anyone knowing where you are."
Libby had only heard one word in all that. "Foolish? What gives you the right to—"
"Libby, I'm only trying to protect you."
"Spare me your good intentions, Mr. Whitlaw," she retorted sarcastically. Her steamy breath battled with his.
"Next time, you tell me before you go off alone. I'll stay close enough to give you protection and far enough to give you privacy."
She practically laughed. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Libby"—Chase took her by the shoulders, his powerful hands nearly enveloping her—"you're a stubborn woman." His voice was gruff, and he held her a little too tightly.
"Yes, I am." The fervor in her voice matched his. "I have to be. Otherwise, I would have given up on this ranch long ago." She braced her hands warningly against the ridged muscles of his chest. Whether she did it to keep the span of distance between them or to close it, she wasn't sure. She felt his body go still at her touch, his heart thud heavily against her fingertips.
"Don't get me wrong," he said, "I admire that quality in a woman." He searched her face in the moonlight. "I admire it in you. You're a survivor. We have that in common, for whatever that's worth."
For whatever that's worth. What did he mean by that? The haunted expression she'd seen before in his eyes, now lurked in his voice, but his words had borne no trace of self-pity, only brutal honesty.
His thumbs, she realized suddenly, were tracing slow, possessive arcs across her shoulders, catching in the locks of hair that had fallen over his hand. The gesture was unmistakably sensuous. Unsettling. The shock of it traveled like sheet lightning down her limbs and curled low and unexpectedly in the pit of her stomach.
Instinct told her to pull away. Something else—perhaps an unaccountable craving for the human touch—held her there. His breath fanned across her face, warm, with a hint of the coffee he'd drunk earlier. When he spoke again, he softened the imperative roughness in his voice.
"Please, Libby," he went on. "Don't be stubborn about this. I don't want anything to happen to you."
"I'm a grown woman, Chase."
"That's obvious."
"I don't need watching over like some hatchling."
"Even grown women have needs."
Shocked into silence by his implication, Libby started to pull away, but he held her firm.
"You're only one woman. And you can't make the ranch work single-handedly. You'll dig yourself an early grave. I'm here to help you. All I'm asking you to do, is let me."
His hands slipped from her shoulders as abruptly as they had settled on them, yet his long, lean body stayed a whisper away from hers.
Belatedly, Libby let her own hands slip from his chest, where they'd found temporary haven. Disappointment warred with relief as she realized she'd been hoping he'd pull her closer rather than let her go. What was wrong with her, letting this man affect her so?
"All right," she relented grudgingly. "If it will ease your mind, I'll tell you from now on before I go off on my own."
"Thanks." He picked up his Henry from its place against the tree. "We'd better get back. I don't suppose you got much sleep the other night, not with that foal."
"No less than you, I suppose."
Chase glanced back at her and frowned, wondering how she could know that.
"I saw the lantern burning in the barn until late in the night," she ventured in explanation. "Did you find the haymow uncomfortable?"
"No." Chase shifted the rifle to his other hand and fitted his right hand into the crook of her arm as he moved toward camp. He avoided looking at her. "It was fine. I just don't sleep much."
Libby stopped and looked him in the eye. "You were serious about suffering from insomnia, then?"
Oddly, Chase had never thought of insomnia as something to suffer. Insomnia kept him sane. No, sleep was the enemy he fought on a nightly basis. Night sweats. Dreams of battle-ravaged bodies, the explosion going off in his—
Chase moistened his dry lips and tightened his grip on her arm. It was some kind of mental weakness that had come along with the physical one, when his leg had been damaged. Nostalgia. That's what that young contract surgeon who had treated him in the army hospital had called it. Said he'd seen it often enough in men who'd seen too much battle, too much death. It seemed a simplistic diagnosis, made by one who'd not been there in the thick of the grisly horror of battle.
Nostalgia. Personally, Chase reflected grimly, he called it hell.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pried," Libby offered when his silence lengthened.
"It's all right. It's just something that's been with me since the war. I don't talk about it." They had reached the campsite and Chase stopped at Libby's unfurled bedroll. "You'd better get some sleep now. We'll have a long day tomorrow."
Before she could respond, he turned and headed into the darkness beyond the fire, toward his own bedroll. The hitch in his step was back and she saw him rub his lean thigh absently as he walked. Was it pain that kept him from sleep at night, she wondered, or did it have more to do with the haunted look she'd seen more than once in his eyes?
Libby settled on the soogan that padded the hard ground beneath her bedroll. She rebraided her hair and pulled her blankets around her. The quiet sounds of the night did nothing to soothe the stir of emotions roiling inside her. She ran the palms of her hands slowly up her arms and squeezed her eyes shut tight. Damn him, she thought, for making me want more than I had learned to settle for. Damn him for resurrecting emotions I'd given up for dead so long ago.
* * *
A fine morning mist shrouded the mountains like a ghostly vapor, sending chilly fingers of dampness into Libby's bedroll. She cracked one eye open, trying to guess the time. The palest of pink tinged the midnight sky overhead through the fringe of pine boughs. Though the sun had not yet touched this side of the mountain, she guessed it was past six.
She shivered, wanting only to retreat into her blankets and sleep. Early was squatting near the fire, already pouring himself a fresh cup of coffee. Perhaps it was later than she thought. There was no sign of Chase or Bodine, but she could see by the top of Elliot's blond head, which poked through his blankets, that he was still asleep.
"Mornin'" said Early, sipping the steaming brew in his cup.
"Morning. Where is everyone?"
"Chase took the watch last night. I reckon he's still out there somewhere. Bodine..."
Before he could finish, Bodine staggered from an oak brush break, snapping his suspenders back into place over his shoulders. The jingle bobs on the rowels of his spurs jangled like bells in the thin morning air as he walked. Seeing Libby watching him, Bodine grinned as he rubbed his hands up and down the sleeves of his long johns.
"Cold as a witch's tit this mornin'," he muttered, squatting down beside Early. A small cloud formed as he blew into his hands. He poured himself some coffee and wrapped his hands around the steaming cup. "Ain't it, Miz Libby?"
Libby flicked the leather thong from the tip of her braid and began running her fingers through the knots. "I don't have any personal experience with witches' tits, Trammel," she replied causing Early to spray a mouthful of coffee into the fire as he tried to contain his laughter. "But I'm certain, if we had the slightest interest—which we don't—in witches' tits, you could enlighten us all."
Bodine's wily smile faded for a moment before it returned. Clearly he'd expected to ruffle her again and it gave Libby some small measure of satisfaction that he hadn't succeeded. He took a long, deliberate pull off his cup of coffee and redirected his attention toward Elliot's sleeping form. "Sleepin' Beauty still ain't come up fer air, I see." Bodine gestured with his cup at Elliot's form.
Libby pointedly ignored him, and began redoing her braid.
"Leave 'im be, Trammel," Early said with a grin. "You was a tenderfoot once yerself."
Trammel snorted disdainfully. "Can't remember ever bein' that tender. Hell, you could bait a hook with that one. I'm a-thinkin', all he needs is a good reason to get up." He set down his cup of coffee and crept over to where Elliot lay, his spurs jingling quietly. He grinned like a recalcitrant child as he bent over Elliot and got good and close to his ear.
"Roooaaaarrr!" he growled, sounding like an enraged bear, flinging the covers over El's head, before he stepped back to watch.
El's screamed expletive was an instantaneous response. Arms and legs flailed helplessly within his bedroll as he struggled against the tangle of blankets and tarpaulin. Finally he broke out of it, his face pale with fright. He staggered to his feet, dressed solely in his red long johns. In his hand was his Colt revolver, poised and ready to be fired at the beast
attacking him.
"Haw, haw, haw!" Bodine guffawed, slapping his knee with genuine glee. "I thought that'd get ya up, greener!"
"Sonofabitch!" Elliot yelled, kicking a puff of dust and pine needles into the air. "What the hell did you do that for?"
Bodine dropped to the ground, rolling in a fit of laughter. Chase chose that moment to wander back into camp, his rifle slung over his shoulder. With a look, he took in the situation and nonchalantly headed toward the fire.
Elliot clenched his jaw, realizing he'd been the brunt of Bodine's twisted idea of a joke. "Wh-what the hell is that?" he demanded. "Some kind of warped cowboy initiation rite? I could have shot you for God's sake!"
Bodine gasped for air and looked up long enough to say, "Inishi... What? Hoo-hoo-haa!"
Elliot stood with feet spraddled, wishing he could wring Bodine's scrawny neck.
"Any tinhorn"—Bodine fought his laughter long enough to talk—"sleepin' sound as you's bound to... bound to git his nose bit clean off by some wild animal. Mebbeeven... ol' Goliath. Ain't that right, Early?"
Early was too busy laughing to answer.
"Well, take my word fer it, pard"—Bodine chuckled—"I was just a-helpin' you out."
Elliot nodded impotently, wordless with anger. His scowl took in Libby's attempt to keep a straight face as she pulled the brush through her hair and Early's shaking shoulders as he hunkered down further by the fire. Only Chase seemed to find little humor in Bradford's trick.
"My name," El said at last, turning to Bodine, "is not Greener, nor is it Tinhorn, and by no stretch of the imagination am I your pard, Bodine. I'm Bradford, to you. And if you ever do that to me again, you're gonna lose more than just your nose. Believe me when I say, my intimate knowledge of the human anatomy could make my revenge an extremely unpleasant experience."
"I can vouch for that." Chase winked at El.
Bodine's eyes narrowed as if he hadn't quite caught all those five-dollar words, but he snapped back. "Gratifyin' to know yer good fer somethin', Buford. But if'n my human anatomy ever needs rearranging you'll be the last one I'd call. Haw, haw, haw! It's yer turn to unhobble the stock and bring 'em in. Best get to it, before they graze over the mountain."
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