Turner's Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  He spun around in his saddle to stare at her. She held her shotgun with the loose confidence born of experience. He had underestimated her, assuming the weaponry she carried was more decorative than functional.

  “You don’t fire out here unless I say so,” he admonished.

  She smiled. “You fired first.”

  That he did.

  “Where’d you learn to shoot?”

  “Colonel Leavenworth. At first he thought my attempts to learn amusing, until I could outperform his men. Then he forbade me from practicing. Said it demoralized his troops.”

  “Damn sure demoralized me.”

  He slid from his mount, collected the birds from the tall yellow grass and hung them on the back of his saddle. Again he considered his decision to tie the packhorses to Emma’s mount. That could be a mistake, if her horse shied. But he didn’t think the girl should eat dust behind two horses and a mule all day.

  He checked his animals and paused, glancing at her other firearms. She carried a standard issue Hall breech-loading rifle from Harper’s Ferry. A holstered pistol hung at her waist. “You as good a shot with those?”

  “Better with the rifle.”

  “What’s your pa say about it?”

  “He’s never seen me shoot. I learned after he departed, but I’m certain he’d consider it unladylike.”

  “So is dressing like a soldier.”

  Her smile made his insides tighten and a shot of anticipation hit his groin. His forehead furrowed at his lack of control. Already the chit had him undressing her. Damn her for tagging along.

  “As my father did not provide me with a coat, I was grateful to accept this as a parting gift from Colonel Leavenworth. I assure you, my father would heartily disapprove of my attire.”

  “Smart man.”

  Her expression turned sad and Jake fought the urge to comfort. Instead, he stepped away, resting a hand on the butt of his skinning knife. She said nothing further, so he mounted his horse.

  As they left the river and turned toward Union Pass, climbing beside boulders dwarfing the horses, Jake’s mind stayed fixed on the woman behind him. What made him so vulnerable to her sad eyes? Helen had tried that trick and it had nearly worked. But as Helen had never experienced an ounce of real pain in her twenty-one uneventful years, so her performance had lacked authenticity. Helen—the girl he had left behind, gladly. To think he once believed he loved her. Love that had allowed her to lead him like a bull with a ring in his nose. When she learned he planned to leave Jessup’s Cut, she led him to her bed. He swallowed every lie she had spun, even when he knew she didn’t come to him a virgin. When he discovered her deceit, she’d shown her true colors by turning from weeping waif to seductress in the beating of a human heart.

  He would never give a woman such power again. They misused it.

  His gaze returned to Emma. This woman had witnessed a massacre. He knew Helen would not have handled the situation with such courage. He thought again of the first time he saw Emma, sitting on her mount, dodging arrows.

  Something big hit his back with enough force to knock him from the saddle. His horse screamed and shied. Jake rolled clear to see a mountain lion perched on his saddle, one paw gripping a dead partridge as it coiled to spring. He drew his knife and rolled to his feet, just as the cat pounced. He raised his blade. A rifle blast split the air. The lion twisted, clawing wildly, then fell to earth shaking the ground beneath his feet.

  Dust settled and the cat did not move. Jake noted one bullet hole between the creature’s ribs. He nudged the cat’s carcass with his foot. Lifting his gaze to the woman, he found her reloading her rifle, the cork from her powder horn clenched in her white teeth. His jaw slackened in astonishment. She could not only reload on horseback, she could shoot on an instant at a moving target and hit it dead center. He gave a low whistle reassessing her. She was better with the rifle.

  Astonishment dissolved in a haze of irritation. The cat came from downwind, of course, but he should have sensed it, heard it. He realized he’d been attacked while thinking on the damned distraction riding behind him. Inattentiveness had nearly gotten him killed. His face heated as anger mixed with shame.

  He clenched his teeth trying to decide if he should shout at her or thank her. At last he settled on, “Nice shot.”

  She grinned, showing a beautiful smile. He felt the need to wipe it off her face.

  “How are you at butchering?” he asked.

  She wrinkled her nose and cringed. He smiled at that.

  “Don’t like the sight of blood, eh?” He laughed.

  She dismounted and glided toward him with feline grace. His stomach tightened preparing for a different sort of attack.

  “I have seen my share of blood these past two days. I confess no affinity for it.” Her hand rested tentatively on his shoulder and he tensed preparing to draw away. “You are bleeding, Mr. Turner.”

  She pushed aside the thick strap of his possibles bag. His head jerked as his gaze focused on a tear in the tanned leather covering his shoulder. The lion must have punched a hole in his skin. He never even felt it. Blood welled though the gap staining his shirt. Her hand swept over his shoulders sending a ripple of sensation down his spine. Next she examined his scalp. Her probing fingers raked his hair, sending waves of delight pulsing through him.

  He batted her hand away. “Leave me be, woman.”

  “You need bandaging,” she said, her smoky eyes steady.

  “What do you know about bandaging?”

  “I treated the sick and wounded at Fort Leavenworth.”

  He couldn’t think with her hovering about.

  “Check the horses.” He jerked his head in their direction and Emma moved away.

  Jake turned to the task of skinning the cat. She was a small critter, not more than seventy pounds and skinny. The lion had smelled the dead birds and wanted them enough to attack three horses. He noted the ribs showing prominently through the tawny hide. The cat looked to be starving. As his knife sliced between sinew and skin, he found Emma’s killing bullet had passed between the ribs and straight into the creature’s heart. There were damn few men that could make such a shot. Begrudgingly, his respect for her grew. Twice she had showed a cool head in danger and that went a long way toward surviving in this territory.

  Emma did as she was told and tended the horses. She found his mare trembling and stroked her head and neck, murmuring words of reassurance as the horse blew hot air from flaring nostrils. The painful thudding of her heart diminished as she drew comfort in the act of soothing his mare. The image of the big cat striking Jake ricocheted in her mind as she slid her hand down the horse’s front leg and then over the saddle. Deep gouges raked across the leather seat. She held her breath as she measured the cuts with the tip of a finger. Feathers littered the ground and a single partridge lay beside his mount’s hind feet. She scooped up the bird and retied the carcass behind his saddle. As she did so, her eye caught the moisture on the creature’s hindquarters. Two parallel scratches marred the dark shaggy coat, not deep, but they could do with some liniment. Her chestnut gelding eyed the butchering nervously as she approached, the smell of blood and cat making him dance.

  She lifted her hand and rubbed her mount around the base of his ears admiring his gleaming coat, marred only by the army brand. “Easy, Scout. That’s my boy.”

  From her saddlebag, she withdrew a tin of salve and brought the liniment to his horse. The mare’s skin twitched as Emma dabbed the ointment into the wounds.

  Once done, she allowed the horses to graze in their bridles, despite the mess they would make of their bits. Finally, Mr. Turner finished the skinning and butchering. When he approached carrying the meat wrapped in the hide, his horse’s mincing steps grew more pronounced.

  He called to her. “Duchess, settle down now. You carried a bear once.”

  The horse stood as he prepared to tie the load behind his saddle. Then he noticed the scratches, now buried beneath black ointment. His g
aze flicked to her as he carried the lion skin to his packhorse that seemed equally displeased to carry the load.

  The blood coating his hands did not concern her. Instead, she focused on the steady stream that ran in a thin line from his wounded shoulder down the front fringe of his shirt.

  “Will you let me tend you now?” she asked.

  He frowned and the muscles at his jaw clenched, but he nodded. He rinsed his hands and grabbed a hank of grass to dry them. She motioned him to sit on a rock that stood knee-high and broad as a saddle.

  “Pull off your shirt,” she directed.

  He hesitated, then gripped the hem of his garment dragging the soft leather over his head in one smooth tug. She froze, as the waves of awareness rippled through her. The air in her lungs seemed trapped as her breath failed. How many men had she tended at the fort—fifty? But there was no comparison. Those were boys with pale thin limbs and burned necks. They were hairless, all ribs and hollows.

  This man’s skin glistened golden in the sunlight. She stared at the heavy muscles of his chest and shoulders as her fingers itched to touch. A thick mat of dark hair curled over the front of his body, disappearing into the waist of his buckskin trousers. She trembled as some deep part of her responded to the raw male beauty of him.

  “What ails you?” Jake began to rise. “Are you fixing to faint?”

  She pressed her palm to his uninjured shoulder savoring the heat of his skin as he resumed his seat.

  He watched her with concern etched on his rugged features. “You said you tended injured men.”

  Emma nodded, focusing on his wound instead of the shaggy raven-black hair, worn long like an Indian, brushing his shoulder. Was it soft or coarse?

  “Do you have any whiskey, Mr. Turner?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Good idea.”

  He walked to his mule and rummaged a moment, as Emma watched the muscles of his back bunch. The two long cords descending on either side of his spine intrigued her. She pressed a hand to her own back finding only the smallest similarity between their anatomies.

  She recalled the trappers of her acquaintance. Jim Bridger looked like walking rawhide and Mr. Sublette carried no extra bulk whatsoever. These men lived in the wild and their bodies showed the same trim, wiry appearance and deeply tanned skin that marked them as surely as any branding iron. They also wore full beards. A quick glance at his face confirmed that this trapper was accustomed to regular shaving.

  She noted that the girth and power of his muscles resembled that of a lumberjack or blacksmith. He lacked the lean grace and burned skin common to men of the mountains. Neither did he stand or move like one. Trappers glided, silent as a stalking predator. This man’s stiff posture seemed vaguely familiar. Suspicion knitted her forehead and rooted deep inside. His erect carriage looked distinctly military.

  His strides were purposeful as he returned, echoing her misgivings. He sat before her; the blood dribbling down his chest seemed of no concern. He grasped the cork to the jug with his teeth and offered her the bottle.

  She lifted the container, unable to understand the sense of betrayal coursing through her. Her father had once been an army captain. His code of strict discipline and insistence that she obey orders unquestioningly came from that past. Of all the men in the Rockies, she did not want to be trapped with one from the military. She lifted the jug, opening the flap of skin over his wound and poured the golden fluid within.

  He shot to his feet, bellowing like a wounded bull. Finally, his wild dance ceased and he focused his glare on her. Her stomach tightened as she prepared to absorb his tirade, already regretting her rash actions.

  “Great God almighty, that hurts!”

  “It will stop infection.”

  He sighed and thumped to his seat. “Give a man warning.” He resumed custody of his jug, cradling it now like a lost friend and muttering. “Next time pour the whiskey into a hole where it can do some good.” He took a long swallow, then stared at her. “Well?”

  Was that all? Except for when the whiskey had burned him, he didn’t even shout at her. He didn’t tell her to use the brain God gave her or that the horses showed more common sense than she did. He didn’t call her a worthless no-account.

  “I’d like to use some ointment and then bandage you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Get at it then. We’ve got miles to go.”

  She worked quickly now, first dabbing the clear salve into his wound, then covering it with a bit of clean muslin. Her hands shook at each contact with his broad shoulder and she bit her bottom lip until the pain brought clarity. Using her damp handkerchief she washed the drying blood from his chest, finding his skin warm, his hair coarse and the muscle beneath hard as iron. He sat still as the stone, but when she lifted her gaze she found him staring at her with an intensity that made her insides quake.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “I used to think so.”

  He captured the cloth and removed the drying blood from his belly. She sighed in relief, wondering if she could have finished cleaning him without bursting into flames. What was wrong with her?

  “I have to bandage the wound to hold the dressing in place.”

  He clenched his jaw as if bracing for some pain.

  “This won’t hurt,” she assured.

  He gave her a look of skepticism, but said nothing as she wrapped the bandage over his shoulder and around the wide territory of his ribs. She could not quite reach about him without brushing his back. He twitched at the contact. At last she finished the knot and stepped away to observe her handiwork. No blood showed through the dressing and the bandage looked as if it might hold while he rode. Then she noticed the sheen of sweat covering his body. He trembled—no, that was not trembling. His body seemed to vibrate with tension. Were his injuries more serious than they appeared?

  “Mr. Turner?”

  “You done?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaped to his feet as if sprung from a trap and stalked away.

  She trailed behind, placing a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Are you sure you are well?”

  He shook her off and turned on her. “Don’t touch me ’less you need to.”

  Emma recoiled and stood suddenly awkward and unsure. “What did I do?”

  “I can’t think with you hovering about me. I missed that cat sneaking up on me. Know why?”

  His voice held irritation, but he kept his tone civil.

  Unable to speak, she shook her head.

  “’Cause of you! Damnation. I don’t need this. I don’t need a woman ogling me and stroking me, all the while telling me I can’t touch her. You’re a menace.”

  Her jaw dropped. Had she ogled him? Perhaps so. She wanted to touch him, enjoyed it in fact. Her hand sprang to her mouth.

  “Get on your horse and don’t speak to me until we make camp.”

  She nodded and hurried away. When the tears came she was on her horse and silent. Thankfully, he never turned around to witness her shame. They traveled along a ridge. Below, the Wind River flowed like a green ribbon in the wide valley. Ahead and beyond the menacing peaks of the high Rockies lay covered in snow. She felt the cold already in her heart.

  I never wanted to come here. If she had a home she’d long for it. But she had none. Instead she had a father who despised her and a hostile protector who called her a menace. My mother—does she even remember me? She longed for the love her mother had once given, before the illness. Her breath caught, as she realized no one in this world loved her.

  Her throat burned and her sides ached. Regret churned within her belly. Why had she agreed to come along? Why had she stared at him like that? Harlot, scarlet woman. That’s what Father had called Mother.

  Had that driven her mad? Emma felt the darkness, lurking just beneath the surface. She didn’t recognize this woman who stroked the bare skin of a complete stranger. The ideas in her mind terrified her. Emma bowed her head. How long until
she went the same way? She knew she could not survive again closeted in her father’s quarters under perpetual house arrest. She’d suffocate there. He would never let her go. Mother had escaped into madness.

  What was her escape?

  Her mother never replied to her letters. Father said she had grown much worse since leaving him. At least the sanitarium in Baltimore provided refuge from the dictator who was her husband.

  A west wind brushed her face, drying her tears. She looked again to the mountains and suddenly they seemed less forbidding than the life awaiting her to the east.

  Jake figured they had ridden nearly twenty-six miles today. Damn good pace considering the lion attack and all. She had not uttered a word since he had hollered at her. Guilt nipped like a dog at his heels. She’d only tended him, but it was easier to blame her than entertain the alternative. He was crazy as an elk in rut each time she touched him. He recalled the feel of her fingers dancing over his bare skin. Lordy, if he’d allowed her to wash his stomach, she would have had a surprise and no denying it. He ground his teeth wondering why fate had forced a lady on him? Why wasn’t she a squaw? Indian women understood a man’s needs. A squaw would crawl under your blanket at night and in the morning be gone. The perfect woman.

  White women were crazy. They ordered a man to keep clear one minute and stroked him the next. He remembered her intent gaze, how it locked with his, and for one instant he felt sure she wanted him, too.

  Did she know what she did to his innards when she turned those smoky eyes on him? If he had any say in it, she would never know. One touch and his skin burst into flames like tinder beneath a burning glass. It took all his willpower not to drag the woman into his arms and kiss her senseless. What would she have done if he had?

  The image of Emma, hot and willing in his arms, forced another unwelcome jolt in his gut. He shook off the notion.

  She’d slap your face, maybe, and she’d be right.