Turner's Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  He stared her down, refusing to respond to her inquiry.

  Her eyes regarded him with caution and she held herself stiffly. “Trader?”

  “That’s none of your affair.”

  She lowered her gaze and sat in silence a moment. “Might I ask where you are headed?”

  “West.”

  Her mouth shaped a little O and a tiny line formed between her dark eyebrows. Funny to have hair so pale and yet lashes and eyebrows the same rich color as ground coffee.

  “But I have to go to Fort Lancing on the Bighorn, by South Pass. My father—well, he’ll be worried.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  Her shoulders slumped with relief. “I’m so glad. I do apologize for inconveniencing you.”

  “You haven’t.”

  She smiled and his heart squeezed, gathered in a noose. “You are a gentleman.”

  “I’m not that, either.”

  “But you are. Backtracking to deliver me to my father is very commendable.”

  “Woman, I’m not backtracking for you or any other. I don’t believe you’ll make it, but if you’re fixing to try, I won’t stop you. I also won’t accompany you.”

  That comment stunned her speechless. She blinked and tears rose in her eyes. He didn’t know if it was a trick or not, but he’d seen Helen do it this way. His lip compressed and he lowered his chin, preparing for the inevitable wail to follow. It never came. She only swiped at her eyes and stared.

  Impaled upon her gaze, he agreed with White Cloud. Her eyes were the strangest pale blue-gray he’d ever seen. Like fog or smoke. That was it, the steel-gray smoke from the barrel of a rifle. He had been on the receiving end of an aimed rifle. Somehow he thought Emma’s eyes posed the greater threat.

  Chapter Two

  Behind Emma Lancing lay twenty dead traders. The weight of her sorrow pressed her to the earth. Her heart hurt when she thought of those men—so young. She blinked trying to erase the images of her escorts falling—dying all about her.

  She had never felt more heartsick in her twenty-three years of life. Grit blanketed her skin. Her dirty clothes clung limp and damp from perspiration and she hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. That seemed an entire lifetime ago.

  Tears stung her cheeks as she stared at the coffeepot now emitting a wisp of steam. A broad callused hand reached for the handle, a scrap of buckskin shielded his palm. Her attention lifted to Jake Turner. His dress resembled that of many men she’d met who made their living in these mountains. The fringed leather shirt protecting his broad back from the elements was supple enough to reveal the powerful muscles sheathed beneath. His shoulder bag and powder horn crisscrossed his chest, falling beside his belt, which held his hunting knife and pistol, as well as several smaller dangling pouches. Leather leggings and calf-high moccasins completed his attire. Her father said trappers wore the wide-brim hat, not only to protect them from the elements, but also to distinguish themselves as white men so as not to be confused as an enemy by the Indians. This worked well with all but the Blackfoot, who hated whites and killed on sight.

  Jake Turner poured the steaming liquid into a horn cup. She did not smell coffee. As he extended the beverage, she accepted it, noting bits of dried leaves and twigs floating on the surface. She thanked him, not recognizing the contents. For an instant his gaze held hers and she felt the same breathless sensation she’d experienced earlier beneath his consideration.

  He’d refused to take her back. What would her father say when he discovered his new men dead and her missing? The thought made her palms damp. His rages had terrified her mother into nervous fits, sending her east thirteen years ago and leaving Emma the lone target of his domination.

  She glanced about at the dark shadows as the firelight flickered over unfamiliar branches and rocks. When she left Fort Leavenworth she prayed not to have to go to her father’s trading post. God played a trick, for now he granted her plea in the most terrible of ways.

  “You going to drink it?” asked the man.

  “Is this coffee?” she asked, praying it was not.

  “Tea. Make it myself.”

  His deep voice caused something inside her to tremble. This man had rescued her, but refused to take her to her father. He looked very strong and could overpower her with little difficulty. What were his intentions? She wondered if he was capable of rape. Perhaps she should flee. Her gaze shifted to the darkness all around her. Rustling sounds came from the under-growth beyond her vision.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Skunk, maybe.”

  That didn’t sound so terrible.

  “Or a wildcat.”

  Her breath caught. “There are wildcats about?”

  “Yup. And wolves and grizzly.”

  She sank down to make herself less noticeable to predators. Fleeing no longer seemed prudent. She trembled. Nothing could be worse than wandering about until a mountain lion or band of savages killed her. Then she realized that was not true. There were worse possibilities—living with her father again for instance.

  Think of something else. She watched the man drain his cup and pour another from the pot. How odd. Most trappers of her acquaintance lived roughly, but they all enjoyed coffee when they could get it. If he had just left the Rendezvous, he should be well supplied. Her father guzzled coffee, drinking cup after cup. She pushed the image aside and focused on the man before her as he sipped the hot tea.

  “Don’t you like coffee?” she asked.

  “You can smell coffee brewing from half a mile. Makes it easy to find a camp. Besides, it makes me twitch.”

  She’d seen his steely composure while speaking to those Indians and found it difficult to imagine that anything made him twitch. He looked as solid and invulnerable as the cliffs behind him.

  “Have you met my father?”

  “I have. Seemed like a sensible sort, not the kind to send his daughter out with only eight men.”

  Emma lowered her gaze.

  “We had twenty. I waited at Fort Leavenworth until he finished the outer wall. I didn’t want to come.” She glanced up to see his reaction to her admission and discovered not the least flicker of surprise.

  “Understandable. This is no place for a white woman.”

  Turner’s unchanged expression irked her. She straightened her shoulders preparing to face him. This man was not her father. She could stand up to him. If she didn’t get to the fort soon…her stomach clenched at the possibilities.

  “He’ll send a search party after me.”

  “No doubt.”

  Did he plan to abduct her? That possibility turned her blood to ice.

  “He’ll find me.” Her words made her shake with fear, knowing he would and then she would suffer. At least with her father she knew what to expect. This man was unknown to her.

  He laughed.

  She realized then he had no fear of her father and why should he? This man did not fall under his dominion. But she did. She must make Turner understand. “If you don’t take me back, you’ll answer to my father.” Her threat gained no reaction other than a confident stare. Oh, how she envied him. She shook just thinking of seeing her sire again.

  He smiled. “I’ve been considering that. Chances are about fifty-fifty I’ll never live to see him.”

  “You’re no better than the Indians, holding me captive.”

  “I am better. If they had you, you’d wish you were dead about now.”

  She swallowed hard as images of bonfires and howling natives filled her mind. With effort, she straightened. “We best head to Fort Lancing before you get into real trouble.” She thought her words sounded very sensible, not revealing the earthquake of uncertainty rumbling within her.

  His green eyes narrowed and he took a step in her direction. “That’s twice you threatened me.”

  Her throat closed and she couldn’t speak. A wave of panic broke. This man was a stranger, but he looked fierce. She backed down immediately.

  “
Won’t you please take me back?”

  He gave her a long sad look and shook his head. “Can’t.”

  She judged the compassion in his eyes as a sign of weakness. Despite her resolve not to challenge him, she could not stifle her tongue.

  “Won’t, you mean. I demand to be taken to the fort.”

  He faced her, his eyes glittering dangerously. She placed her palms beside her on the earth, preparing to spring away if he set upon her.

  “Listen here, you little blue coat. I saved your scalp back there. Woman or no, you’re dressed like a soldier.”

  “But I’m not a soldier. Colonel Leavenworth gave me this coat.”

  “That makes little difference to the Crow. They called you Blue Pony Woman, because of those ridiculous trappings, and considered you a warrior. That entitles you to a warrior’s death.”

  Her throat went dry and she found herself barely able to breathe the question. “A warrior’s death?”

  He stared her dead in the eye and answered without so much as a blink.

  “Torture.”

  Emma knew the stories of Indian torture. They made her stomach roll. She pressed her lips tight to keep from embarrassing herself as she drew long breaths of air.

  He snorted in disgust. “I saved your hide. Don’t make me sorry I did.”

  She recognized his angry tone and could not keep the torrent of tears from her burning eyes. He stood with both hands on his hips, towering over her as she lay in the dust at his feet. She recognized the posture from her father’s tirades. He always began like this. She recalled the day he discovered the gold necklace given to her by her mother before she left and shuddered. Why did he hate her so?

  “Damnation, I do not need a weeping, cringing woman in my camp. I will not be turned with tears. Leaving Leavenworth was your doing, not mine. It isn’t up to me to make it right.”

  That was true. This wasn’t his fault. She huddled before him willing the tears to cease as her breathing came in ragged gasps. She was trapped in the wilderness with only this hostile stranger to protect her.

  “I’m cutting for sign. Stay put.” Jake swung into his saddle.

  She rose to her feet to watch him go, and then sank to her knees, too heartsick to stand. What should she do?

  Jake backtracked far enough to be sure they weren’t followed and then a while farther. On the return trip resentment still ate at him. Spoiled brat, he knew the type, had seen enough of the officers’ daughters at West Point. She’d been coddled her whole life and made to think the sun rose and set on her. Well, it most certainly did not.

  Bringing her along would be the same as dragging a dead mule over the mountains. But she was a white woman. So he’d try and keep the little weeping princess alive, God help him. Likely she’d get him killed in the process. The woman jeopardized his mission.

  He tugged his hat from his head and slapped it against his thigh. Duchess, his horse, took that as a direct order and broke into a trot, bringing him back to Miss Emma Lancing, before his temper adequately cooled.

  He dismounted just short of camp and led Duchess along. The bay mare walked silently behind him as he approached downwind. His camp was well placed, the flame from the fire not visible from even this short distance. As he drew closer, he realized why and frowned.

  Couldn’t the little brat even keep a fire going? Of course not. She never had to lift a finger her entire life. There were grunts to do that work. He pictured Helen ordering her father’s cadets about at West Point. Sickening.

  He glanced around the clearing flecked by filtered moonlight. His eyes, accustomed to the dark, found her easily enough lying beside the glowing embers of the dying fire. He tossed several thick branches on the coals, but she did not stir.

  Best get things settled right off.

  He grabbed her shoulder and gave a shake.

  She startled, her arm raised to protect herself from attack. Upon recognizing him she sagged and her hand fell to her side.

  “You’re back,” she whispered.

  She sounded surprised. The forlorn quality of her voice cut into his heart like an arrow point. He pressed his lips together and hardened himself against her.

  “We need to parley,” he said.

  She struggled to a sitting position. The firelight turned her hair to copper as it danced in ringlets about her worried face. Oh, she was beautiful and she knew it. She wielded those misty eyes like daggers, cutting straight into an unsuspecting man’s heart. Well, not this time. He tugged at the hem of her jacket.

  “Why do you wear that?” he asked.

  “I have no other.”

  “Why not just pin a target on your shirt?”

  She blinked at him and he growled.

  “I’ve got business. It takes me west. Crossing the Rockies before the snows will be the easy part. Beyond that there’s a desert, then more mountains. I’m aiming for the Pacific. I don’t know the tribes there or if they’re hostile. If I make it, I’ll be crossing back sometime in the spring. I don’t want you along. You’ll slow me down and put me at risk.” Her eyes rounded at this. Long dark lashes curled like feathers. “But I won’t run you off, either, because I know your papa. I have no time to tarry or take you back. You understand?”

  She nodded.

  “So I’m leaving it up to you. I’m heading out in the morning. If you ride along, you’ll agree to follow my orders exactly, not bother me with your female curiosity and know that I’ll not be delayed. If you fall behind, I will leave you behind. If you decide to turn back, you best go in the morning. Perhaps going alone is less risky than coming with me. I’ll give you the horse you’re riding, two days supplies and I’ll draw you a map. You decide.”

  She tried to speak, but no words emerged.

  He squinted at her. “You hear me, woman?”

  Emma Lancing rose to her feet. She took a deep breath; her face seemed to mirror stunned incomprehension.

  “You are letting me decide?”

  He nodded and her mouth gaped in shock.

  She shook her head in disbelief and asked again. “You want me to choose—whatever I want?”

  “I just said so.” Was she addled?

  For a moment he almost thought he saw the shadow of a smile as she considered. Her expression sparkled with life, sending his heart thudding in his chest. Something inside him went soft and he gritted his teeth against it. The woman was a sight, prettier than new snow on a pine bough. He was just starting to realize a different kind of danger coupled with bringing her along when she spoke.

  “You offer me a devil’s choice—a choice between two equally bad options. I might die trying to find my father’s fort or on the trail with you.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “May I ask why you are heading into territory held by Mexico?”

  “No.”

  “To my knowledge no one but Lewis and Clark has ever been overland to the Pacific and they were far to the north.”

  “Shows what you know. Jed Smith did it in twenty-six, but considerable south of where I’ll be passing.” He’d spoken at length with the man at the Rendezvous, nearly convinced him to come along, but he said the Californians would skin him for sure if he ever came back.

  “If I go with you, I have some conditions.”

  He lifted his eyebrows and waited. The woman had gumption to dictate to him, when she lived or died at his mercy. Of course, manipulating men came as natural to a woman as swimming came to a beaver.

  “I expect you to behave as a gentleman.”

  He laughed. “I surely will not.”

  She frowned and he thought that made her look even prettier than before. His scowl deepened.

  “What I mean to say is that you will not touch me, Mr. Turner.”

  Understanding dawned. He scratched his chin as he considered her. She was a fine-looking woman, but the last time he tangled with one this pretty she’d nearly hamstrung him. This deal was best for them both. He doffed his hat and gave a mocking bo
w. “I agree not to molest your person. Anything else?”

  “If I do not survive the journey, you will send word to my father of my fate.”

  “If I live to do so, agreed.”

  She stared through the darkness toward the west as if seeing something invisible to him. If he didn’t know better, he’d say her expression seemed wistful. At last, she turned to him.

  “You really would prefer me to head south tomorrow.”

  He didn’t deny it.

  “But I shall be riding with you, Mr. Turner, into the unknown.”

  Chapter Three

  The next day Emma woke, rolled up her blanket and saddled her horse without a word of complaint, surprising Jake considerably. She had spent the night across the campfire wrapped in a gray wool blanket too thin for the mountains, but he’d deal with that when he got a chance. He had slept under a robe made of wolf skins, finding them warmer and lighter than buffalo.

  In the gray predawn they followed the Wind River beneath the Tetons. He never got tired of staring at the sawtooth appearance of these mountains, rising from the grassland with nearly no foothills at all. They were hellish to cross, but the most beautiful mountains on God’s earth.

  As morning wore on, he grew accustomed to the steady clomp of her horse’s shod hooves. The iron saved the animal’s feet but made a terrible clatter on rock. At midday he handed her moose jerky and nothing else, as she carried her own water.

  She accepted it without comment and her fingers brushed his. He felt the contact like a firebrand and yanked back his arm. Emma’s eyes went wide as she clutched the jerky. He couldn’t stare into those smoky depths, so he focused on the trail ahead. The woman stirred him up worse than a nest full of rattlers and she was considerably more dangerous.

  He had hoped to come across a straggler, late for the Rendezvous and foist Emma on him. But his luck held and he saw no one who could relieve him of his baggage.

  As the trail sloped upward through a grassy patch their horses startled several partridges from cover. He lifted his shotgun and took aim. The blast brought down one bird. The second shot, which came from behind him, brought down two.