by Unknown
Surely Warren knew all of this. Why he put Blair in that type of situation when he wasn't there to help her was absolutely foolish. But then, maybe he shouldn't judge Warren too harshly, especially not knowing the circumstances surrounding his original decision.
Surprised at the depths of his thoughts, Adam cleared his throat and again squirmed uneasily on the chair.
"Am I hurting you?" she asked, looking up at him anxiously.
"No, not a bit." He noticed in spite of her seemingly nonchalant behavior, her eyes glistened unnaturally and tears trembled on her thick, sooty lashes.
"Is the chair uncomfortable? Would you like a pillow for your back?"
"No, I'm fine." As soon as Adam spoke, he knew it was a He. He wasn't fine. It felt as though he had been hit in the stomach by a runaway train. His opinion of Blair had changed immensely. Without a doubt, she was an attractive, provocative female. Her face was beautiful, sensual and alluring. Her eyes held the promise of too much desire, framed as they were by arching dark brows and surrounded by thick, sooty lashes, they were too intriguing, too bold, too inviting for her own good.
The smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose would be a horror to a lady, but beautiful on a woman. Her skin looked as soft as satin and as warm as creamy velvet. Adam did not dare try to imagine what it tasted like. She smelled like she had just washed with a soap scented with lavender flowers. He wanted to bury his face in the bouquet of them.
But she was also his friend's sister!
Yet her sexiness came from more than a provocative face and sensual body. Regardless of their meeting, he had to admit being intrigued by her spirit, her vivaciousness. There was a wildness about her that begged to be tamed by anyone with enough courage to try. Her fiery nature was a challenge any man worth his salt would love to tangle with, if not to break, then to bend to his will.
Yes, she was his friend's sister, but one look at this sensuous woman was enough to drive a man right through the bounds of loyalty and allegiance. Who could think of friendships with a temptation like this so close at hand?
Without warning, Adam found himself reaching down and placing both his hands on either side of her face. Gently, he moved his thumbs under her lower lashes and brushed away the tears that clung to them. He could feel her chin tremble beneath his hands. He had to fight against the irresistible urge to take her in his arms and kiss away all of her pain.
"Don't take it so hard," he murmured softly. "Brothers and sisters argue all of the time." For some reason he could not take his eyes off her luscious mouth, even after she clamped her teeth on her bottom lip and pulled from his gentle grasp.
Blair backed away from him, willing herself not to cry. The argument with Warren had been devastating, but for Adam to speak to her as though she was a little child, it was not only detrimental to her pride, but to her confidence as well.
"Blair, what's wrong?" An odd twinge of disappointment ripped through him. This was not the reaction he wanted from her.
His courteous but patronizing tone of voice was too much for her to accept. Pressing a trembling hand against her mouth to stifle her cries, Blair ran from the room before she lost complete control of herself.
Chapter 10
Blair stood at the back door and watched the dawn break. A rose yellow was tinting the sky on the eastern horizon, and massive oak trees stood like tall sentinels in the distance, casting long, irregular shadows until they finally blended in with the darkness that still stretched across the land.
It had been three days since her argument with Warren, and she supposed it was quite fitting the inclement weather had not cleared until a few hours ago. Although badly needed, she hated dismal, rainy weather, always had and probably always would. She had always found it to be too depressing, too confining.
Smiling, she fluffed her heavy mane of hair with her fingers. Today, she was determined to escape from the prison the ranch house had become. As soon as she helped Tillie with the household chores, she planned to saddle the mare and go for a ride over to the falls. It had been so long since she'd been there, but it was such a magical place, she could picture it in her mind's eye. Abundant trees, carpeted with sweet thick clover, bees hovering over fragrant spring flowers, birds trilling, and the gentle roar of the falls as cascading water tumbled recklessly over rocks into the deep blue pool below.
There, in her own special place, she had always been able to shake off feelings of loneliness and find peace of mind. She had always been able to sort though and solve her troubles. And, without a doubt, she had been presented with plenty during the past few days.
Warren had not attempted to speak to her since their argument, but knowing him, she hadn't expected him to. Coy had not been fit company either; he left the house before dawn each morning and did not return until after dark. Where he went, no one knew, he did not even confide in her. Tillie . . . well, Blair could not talk to her about the problems she was having.
And Adam? His behavior was perhaps the most distressing of all. After she ran crying from his room that night, he changed. The difference was akin to daylight and dark. Instead of being friendly, he acted cool and aloof, and no longer spoke to her unless she asked a direct question. She could have sworn theirs was the beginning of a special friendship . . . maybe something even stronger and longer lasting. Although she did not believe in love at first sight and had no illusions that she was in love with him or he with her, the attraction between them was undeniable. Or, was the attraction just one-sided? No, she decided, something substantial had passed between them, but now, Adam was choosing to ignore it. Why?
Tillie's voice broke into her thoughts. She whirled about, unaware of anyone else's presence.
"What would you rather do, child, wash windows, or scrub the bunkhouse floor? Now, Ah done told you, you don't have to help with any of the heavy cleaning. Ah can always ask Mr. Warren to hire one of those little Ballard girls to help out. That's what he's been doing anyhow."
"I don't mind helping," Blair said, briskly rubbing her arms against the chill of the early morning.
"What do you want to do then?"
"I'd rather scrub the bunkhouse," Blair stated, fully aware she had chosen the more difficult task. Tillie was simply getting too old for such strenuous work.
"You sure? Ain't no telling what kind of stench and varmints I’ve there."
"I'm positive!" she said laughingly. "Miss Pettibone's favorite pastime was assigning windows for me to wash!"
"Well, all right. You go on and get dressed now while I start breakfast. We have a busy morning ahead of us."
Blair had just finished with the bunkhouse and was lugging a bucket, mop, broom, and scrub brushes back to the house when she saw Coy dismount, tie his horse at the hitching post, saunter up the walk, and sit down on the porch swing. She could hardly believe her eyes. It was only mid-morning and he was already home—or was he just coming in, she wondered. He had not been there for breakfast.
"Hello there. Would you like some company?" As badly as she wanted to ride over to the falls, it would be there tomorrow. The way Coy disappeared at times, it might be days before she saw him again.
He looked at her and grinned. "Sure, if you promise not to interrupt while I read the newspaper."
"I promise. Besides, it will take me that long to catch my breath. I haven't done work that hard in ... I don’t know how long." She pushed back several errant tendrils that had come loose from the chignon pinned at the nape of her neck.
"What have you been doing?"
"Scrubbing the bunkhouse."
"Oh, that explains it then." He returned his attention to the newspaper.
Blair rested her head against the back of the porch swing, letting the rocking motion relax her. Her feet were curled up beneath her skirt and the hem lightly swept the wooden porch floor. Coy sat beside her keeping the swing moving while he read Doughtery's Weekly Tribune,
> "Listen to this, Blair. It says here that crime is running rampant in Doughtery," his voice intoned a touch of sarcasm. "The blacksmith's shop was broken into, four bushels of corn were reported missing from the livery stable, three sacks of flour were stolen from Smith's Mercantile ..."
She grunted. "That sounds unlikely. How could anybody cart off three fifty-pound sacks of flour from under Mr. Smith's nose? If I remember correctly, he always watched everyone like a hawk. Or was it just us he kept an eye on because we were always staring at the candy jars?"
Coy lowered the paper. "That's right, you haven't been in the mercantile since you've been back. It so happens, the fifty-pound bags are now five-pound bags for almost the same price."
"Why, that is outrageous!" She bolted upright and leaned sideways to peer at the newspaper.
"Yep, I agree. It's been this way ever since the homesteaders started coming in, and it's not just flour, the price of everything has gone sky-high."
Blair threw her hands up in disgust. "I hope all of the local people remember which merchants and shopkeepers are responsible for the price-gouging. It would serve them right if they were driven completely out of business when all of this is over with."
"I agree, but I doubt if it will happen."
"Well," she sighed and shrugged. "At least the crimes are limited to minor pilfering, that's one consolation."
"No, it isn't either. I just read you that part because it's what made the headlines. The paper lists the unimportant news on the back page; one killing, four assaults, eight drunken brawls, and this," he indicated the newspaper, "is what happened last week. It has become much worse since then." His eyes darkened with emotion. "Do you remember old Choctaw Bill, who lived down close to the river?"
Memories of the old hermit came to mind. In spite of his name, no one knew whether he was an Indian or not. Some said he was a white man who married a Choctaw woman and when she died on the Trail of Tears, he was never the same. Nevertheless, he was an eccentric old man who never bathed, lived in a filthy hovel, hated children and was always threatening to put spells on them. How many nightmares had she had because of him? "How could I ever forget him? You used to frighten me half to death by claiming you could get him to turn me into a toad."
Coy's eyes were hard, unyielding. "It seems that he went fishing the other night and some men — probably three—tried to take the fish away from him. When he resisted, they killed him. But no one really knows when he died; if it was when they were stomping him, or if he died from shock while they were scalping him."
"My God!" she murmured, her face suddenly ashen. "Does anybody know who did it?"
"In all likelihood they were homesteaders. John Turner and a few of the others even have a good idea who they are. But there’s not really anything they can do."
"And why not?" she asked indignantly. "Isn't Mr. Turner still in charge of the Indian police in this area? Don't they have the authority to arrest people who commit crimes here in the Nation?"
He sighed heavily. "They do have the authority. But Blair, be sensible. There's only five of them and there are several thousand homesteaders camped in and around Doughtery, and more coming in every day. What do you suppose would happen if an Indian tried to arrest a homesteader? It wouldn't matter what kind of evidence John had. Just the fact that he was arresting a white man would be enough to . . ."
"You do have a point," she said slowly. Rising, she paced back and forth on the porch while trying to think of a possible solution. "What about federal marshals? Since the government is responsible for this mess ..."
He shook his head. "We've already thought about that. The way I understand it, marshals will have no jurisdiction until the land is officially opened."
"What's this about federal marshals?" Adam asked from the doorway. "I wasn't eavesdropping intentionally, but when I heard the words, ‘federal marshals' being bandied about, naturally it raised my curiosity."
Blair whirled about to face him. "I'm glad you overheard. Something has to be done before . . . before . . ."
"Maybe something is being done," Coy boasted. "There's talk among some of the men about forming a group of vigilantes to keep the peace until the government gets off its butt."
"Hold on a minute," Adam's voice rang with command as he stepped outside, letting the screen door slam behind him. "I realize I came in on the tail end of a conversation and missed part of it. So, what's this about vigilantes?" He limped across the porch and sat down on the swing.
"Tell him what is going on in Doughtery, Coy." Blair crossed her arms and tapped her foot against the wooden floor. "Just tell him!"
Adam's countenance remained immobile until Coy had finished, then his expression became almost somber. "There was speculation among the deputies something like this might happen," he said slowly.
"I'm damn glad it was at least speculated on! It makes me feel better already!" Coy's voice dripped with contempt.
"Look, I understand your anger, but no one really knew what to expect. Don't blame the lawmen. Hell, our hands are tied as much as the Indian policemen's are. If you want to blame somebody, blame Congress or President Harrison. They are the ones who pushed the bill through so quickly and signed it into law." Adam's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "When was it signed into law —March twenty-third? Today is . . . April the sixth, and they're opening the land to settlers on the twenty-second." He shook his head. "That's hardly enough time to get troops in here much less federal marshals. Who knows though? Maybe they planned it that way in hopes of avoiding too much confusion."
Coy snorted. "I doubt it! The way I see it, they figured the Nation was just Indian land so why give a damn. Well, there might not be anything we can do about them giving away our land, but we can damn sure do something about the bastards who are getting away with murder!"
"Listen to me, Coy." Adam placed a restraining hand on his arm. "I know you’re mad —you have every right to be, but don't do something foolish, something you might regret. Usually, men who form vigilante groups start out with noble intentions. Then they are joined by a bunch of troublemakers who won't listen to reason, who use the vigilantes as an excuse to throw their weight around, and in some cases, to carry out personal vendettas. Everything gets blown out of proportion and before anybody has a chance to realize what has happened, the vigilantes are worse than the original lawbreakers. I’ve seen it happen before and believe me, it is the innocent who pay."
"The innocent has already paid, Adam," Coy said coldly. "Old Choctaw Bill never hurt anybody." With that, he stalked angrily from the porch and ran to the hitching post where his horse was tied.
"I hope he cools down some," Adam said worriedly.
"I do too." She leaned against the porch railing, watching until Coy rode out of sight.
Adam looked at Blair uneasily. "I’m not asking this to pry, but is Coy usually so hot-headed?"
She joined Adam on the swing. "Under the circumstances, I don't think his behavior is too unreasonable." Her tone was defensive but not indignant.
"Basically, I don't either. Like I told him, I don't blame him for being mad. It's the vigilante talk that bothers me. Believe me, they are nothing but trouble." He turned slightly, placing his arm on back of the swing. "Usually, I try to stay out of other people's personal business, but if you have any influence over him, I suggest you use it if he starts talking about the vigilantes again."
"What makes you think he would listen to me?"
"I’m the type of man who notices people, their reactions, and their attitude toward others. Coy and I have talked some and he seldom mentions your other two brothers. Samuel and . . . Collin?" He peered at her to see if he had the names right. When she nodded, he continued, "Warren is so headstrong, he gives orders instead of asking, so if he talked to him, Coy probably wouldn't listen . . . out of spite if nothing else. So, that leaves you. I think the two of you are very close, and if he'd listen to anyone, it
would be you."
She studied him intently. "If some men do form a vigilante group, and if Coy joins, could he get into trouble?"
"Yes, and that's my honest opinion."
"Then I will talk to him." She sighed heavily. "Whether he will listen, though, is anybody's guess, because I've never seen him so furious."
Suddenly conscious of his arm resting on the back of the swing, Blair lowered her eyes, aware of the flutter of nerves in her stomach. I wish I knew how he really feels about me! I have to find out, but how? If only Miss Pettibone . . .
Startled by her thoughts, Blair's back stiffened. What made her think of Miss Pettibone? That old biddy's advice would be worthless where a man such as Adam was concerned. "Act coy. Act demure. Ladies, remember to lower your lashes and blink your eyes. Make him think you are helpless."
Why, after the impression she gave during their first meeting, Adam would think she had lost her mind if she suddenly behaved like a defenseless female. Perhaps the best way was to point-blank ask why he had been ignoring her.
She took a deep, shuddering breath and finally gathered enough courage to ask, "Adam . . . why are you angry at me?"
Confused by her abrupt question that seemed to come from out of nowhere, he tilted his head and looked at her uncertainly.
"I’m not. Why do you ask?"
"Because . . . well, it seems like you have been avoiding me the past few days."
He chortled. "The misery you’ve been putting me through, I’d like to avoid you! Do you have any idea how much that medicine you insist upon smearing all over my feet, stinks and burns?"
"Now you are avoiding answering me," she said softly.
Adam pulled his gaze from hers. He did not know he had been that obvious. The truth of the matter was, he had been avoiding her. He knew if she looked at him too many times with those huge green sensual eyes, or brushed against him, or allowed her hand to linger too long on his leg, or run her tongue over those sweet-looking lips, he would soon forget she was his friend's sister.
