"All right."
But Mac had something he desperately needed to do before he turned around. He bent over and grabbed his trousers.
"What's he doing?” Roy demanded shrilly.
"He—he dropped something."
Roy didn't believe her. He began to walk forward just as Mac fastened his drawstring.
"He's coming this way!” Savannah whispered, horrified.
"Don't move. I'll cover you."
"What are you two whispering about?” Roy asked, stopping a few feet away. He craned his neck this way and that, trying to pierce the darkness and see around Mac.
"None of your damned business,” Mac growled, his fingers working swiftly to button Savannah's shirt. There was little he could do about the trousers around her ankles with Roy this close. “Now back away and give us some space."
The sound of Roy's strangled gasp made Mac groan inwardly.
"Miss Carrington ... are you—you naked?" The second gasp came louder, and obviously stemmed from embarrassment as Roy made a belated discovery. “Oh, Lord have mercy,” he breathed, slapping his forehead. “You two were—you two really are married, aren't you? Why didn't you tell me?"
Mac turned slowly around, continuing to shield Savannah. He was relieved to note that Roy had lowered the gun. “You never asked. You just assumed, in your arrogant wisdom, that we weren't."
Savannah frantically pinched his back, but Mac ignored her. He wouldn't have Roy thinking the worst about her, and it wasn't as if they hadn't played the game before, was it? Maybe she would see that it was fate that kept throwing them into the pretend role of husband and wife.
"Now, would you mind disappearing so that Mrs. Cord can make herself presentable?” Mac grated softly.
"Oh. Yeah, I can do that. Sorry.” Stumbling around, Roy crashed through the forest at a dead run.
Mac had a feeling that if faces could glow, Roy would have his own torch to lead the way. When he'd gone, he faced Savannah. She'd pulled up her trousers and was in the process of tying them. Regret, sharp and raw, streaked through Mac.
"I'm beginning to think we should get married,” Savannah said with a rueful laugh. “Then we wouldn't have to worry about telling lies and getting interrupted..."
Startled to hear her echo his own thoughts, Mac blurted out, “Why don't we?"
Savannah grew still, staring at him in a searching way that caused Mac's breath to hitch hopefully. He suspected he looked agonized as he waited for her response, but he couldn't seem to control his reaction.
Her sudden laughter knocked the breath from his lungs in a painful whoosh. He knew what she was going to say, then, before she spoke the painful words.
"Because we're friends, Mac."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Fourteen
Her body was exhausted, but her mind refused to rest. How could she when Mac lay only a few feet away in his bedroll?
So close, yet so far.
And Roy, bless his embarrassed little heart, had buried his face in his bedroll by the time they returned to camp; Savannah hadn't heard a peep out of him since. He'd learned his lesson all right, and a whole lot more!
She wasn't surprised by Mac's hasty, yet obviously sincere proposal. Mac was that kind of man, a responsible man who would do everything within his power to protect a lady's reputation. Especially a lady he considered a dear friend.
Which was exactly why she'd said no. Well, that and the agonized look on his face had prompted her refusal. She hadn't been able to see the expression in his eyes, but even in the darkness she had seen his features twist in a frown. Savannah knuckled a tear from her cheek and sighed. She loved Mac—and not just in a friendly way—she knew that now. Loved him so much that her body still tingled and ached from his love-making. But because of that love, she couldn't accept his proposal.
She would stick to her guns. She would not marry a man whom she suspected loved her money more than he loved her, and she would not marry a man simply for lust. She would also not marry a man because he felt obligated.
Not even Mac, whom she had grown to love in a most passionate way.
She was probably a fool for not taking advantage of the situation. But she loved and respected Mac too much. Oh, she figured he'd do his best to pretend to be happy if she had accepted his offer, but after a while he'd grow tired of pretending.
Savannah cringed to think what might have happened if Mac hadn't explained that a man could get aroused by any woman. She might have naively believed that Mac's desire was the result of love, instead of lust.
What a disaster that might have been ... if she didn't know differently, thanks to Mac. She clenched her thighs together as a tremor of desire arrowed through her.
Just thinking about Mac could do that.
He'd brought her pleasure, but she'd wanted more. She wanted to feel him inside her, to know the full glory of his loving. Maybe if she had that memory to have and to hold, she could survive the rest of her life, and perhaps find a small measure of happiness with someone else.
And maybe ... just maybe, she could convince Mac that she truly expected nothing from him afterward. No hasty offers of marriage, no obligation, and no regrets.
Call her brazen, and he just might think it—but she knew she wouldn't be satisfied until she and Mac could finish what they'd started in the forest.
Because she was afraid the memory would have to last her for a very, very long time.
* * * *
Dawn crept over the beautiful, rugged mountains, snapping Mac out of a light sleep. He rose and hunkered beside Savannah, studying her flushed, sleeping face in the pinkish light. Her long, golden lashes rested upon her cheeks, and her pouting lips were parted slightly. She slept with one hand pillowing her head, and the other tucked against her chest.
She was beautiful.
Casting her one last longing look, Mac moved to Roy's bedroll and gently shook his shoulders. The blanket flew from the boy's face, revealing his wide, alarmed eyes.
"What is it?” he demanded, glancing wildly around, still befuddled with sleep.
Mac shushed him, pointing to where Savannah slept. “I'm heading out. Can I trust you to look after her?” he whispered, then added sternly, “And to keep her here until I get back?"
Roy nodded, rubbing at his sleepy eyes and reminding Mac that he was just a boy. “Don't worry, I'll take care of her.” When Mac started to rise, Roy grabbed the sleeve of his shirt. “If I had known she was your wife, Mac, I would have tried harder to keep her in Cornwall."
"She's got a mind of her own,” Mac agreed, sharing a rare smile of understanding with the boy. The truth was, he was growing fond of the brat. There was something oddly vulnerable about Roy, as if he had suffered more than a boy should have at his tender age.
"I'll tie her up if I have to."
An image of Roy attempting to restrain a determined Savannah made Mac chuckle. Hopefully Roy's promise wouldn't be put to the test, or Mac would be nursing the boy's bruised ego upon his return.
"And Mac ... be careful, will ya?"
Mac nodded, bemused by the lump that filled his throat at Roy's obvious concern. Impulsively, he asked the boy, “Mind if I trade horses with you?"
Roy sat up, his gaze going to the cluster of horses grazing near the creek. He gasped when he spotted Cactus. “So you're the one that swindled me out of my horse!"
Grinning, Mac said, “What can I say? I made the man an offer he couldn't refuse."
"But he promised me that horse!” Roy argued in a loud whisper. “You just wait till we get back. I'm gonna demand my money back."
"Which reminds me. You never said anything about having money of your own."
"You never asked.” Roy's eyes glinted with mischief as he flung Mac's words back at him. “You just assumed that I didn't have any."
"A logical assumption, considering you stowed away on the train instead of buying a ticket,” Mac reminded him.
"There wasn't time to buy a
ticket."
"Hm."
"Well, there wasn't!" Roy repeated, angling his sharp chin in a way that reminded Mac of Savannah. “Besides, it's kinda hard to speak up with a gag in your mouth."
He had a point, Mac had to admit. Rising, he approached the horses. Cactus greeted him with a nicker, and the filly eyed him with curiosity.
Buckaroo tried to bite him.
Aware of Roy watching, Mac grabbed the horse's bridle and pulled him in for a close view of his determined face. “Don't mess with me, Buckaroo,” Mac growled softly. “Because you won't win."
The horse jerked free and nodded as if to assure Mac that he understood perfectly. Mac saddled him and mounted up, waving to Roy as he guided Buckaroo along the banks of the creek.
Twice the ornery horse tried to buck Mac from the saddle, thankfully out of sight from the camp.
Both times Mac anticipated his move and hung on, slapping the horse lightly around his ears with the tip of the reins. While it wasn't painful, it annoyed the horse. It didn't take Buckaroo long to figure out that Mac meant what he said; he wouldn't win.
* * * *
An hour later, Mac crouched at the top of a hill and looked down into the valley below. It was a breathtaking view. In the far distance, cattle grazed on the lush grass. Closer to the sprawling, well-tended ranch house, a dozen or so horses cavorted in a corral. A wide porch ran the length of the ranch house. Huge clay pots filled with flowers dotted the porch. A few chairs conjured images of lazy evenings and family gatherings.
Mac frowned. It wasn't the hideaway he expected to find. This ranch looked like someone's home, not a temporary hide-out for criminals and murderers—as Mason had implied. But why would the man lie? He wondered.
Time would tell.
As he settled into a more comfortable position, Mac's thoughts turned unerringly to Savannah and their disastrous ending to what had otherwise been an unforgettable encounter. What if Roy hadn't interrupted them? What if Mac had taken that plunge? Would Savannah have laughed at his proposal of marriage then? Mac shook his head, admitting that Savannah's lusty, enthusiastic response to his love-making left him baffled.
Perhaps it was wrong of him to be shocked by her behavior. Perhaps it was hypocritical of him to be both shocked and thrilled to discover that the woman he loved was fiery and passionate and unafraid to show it.
The part that shocked him was her casual indifference to commitment afterward. He'd told her the truth when he had confessed that men were more easily aroused, and he had meant to further explain that love-making should happen to two people who love each other. Yes, he'd planned to, but there hadn't been time. And then he'd gone and done it again.
Maybe he was the one that was naive, he mused. The women he'd known in the past either wanted money or commitment when they made love. He'd always known Savannah was different, which was one of the reasons he'd fallen in love with her. Yet, should he worry that after arousing Savannah's sexual curiosity, she might turn to other men to satisfy that curiosity?
It was a scandalous, jealousy-inducing thought, and Mac immediately felt disloyal.
Nevertheless ... the question lingered.
What if she had other friends like him? Savannah wasn't a child, true, but what if he was the reason for her sudden eagerness to explore her sexuality?
A burst of carefree laughter cut into Mac's agonized thoughts. He stiffened, focusing on the ranch snuggled in the valley below. It was a child, perhaps three or four years old, running hell-bent?-for-leather along the porch. An older child—a girl, Mac thought, noticing the long braids flying out behind her—chased the younger child.
His confusion deepened at the domestic scene; Sunset Ranch was a family home, filled with children and caring adults—judging by the condition of the ranch. He couldn't imagine finding a dangerous outlaw like Ned Barlow and his enterprising sister here. Still, it wouldn't hurt to mosey on down and introduce himself, ask a few questions.
Several yards behind him, Cactus whinnied a greeting.
Mac froze mid-way to rising. The hair at his neck prickled in alarm. He knew before he heard the voice that he was no longer alone.
"This old shotgun's a little contrary,” a deep voice began almost conversationally. “Sometimes it hits the mark with a clean shot, and sometimes it scatters. When it scatters it makes an awful mess."
"Mind if I turn around?” Mac began to move slowly even as he asked the question, holding his arms away from his body. He knew from years of experience that showing fear would gain him nothing.
"As long as you keep doin’ it nice and slow."
Mac had the presence of mind to hide his shock when he set eyes on the man. He was Indian, but he spoke like a white man. So well in fact, that Mac hadn't guessed beforehand. But he understood why he hadn't heard him; nobody could move as soundlessly as an Indian.
"State your business,” the man said, holding the shot gun steady. “And move away from the ledge. If I have to shoot you, I don't want my children to see it."
His children. Most likely his ranch, too. The pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Mac would bet his next bounty haul that the man's wife's skin was fair. It would explain the reaction of the townspeople to his questions.
"You're no murdering savage,” Mac stated boldly, testing his theory. The shot gun dipped a fraction—the only indication of the Indian's surprise. His face remained impassive. Mac noticed there were streaks of gray in the long braids hanging over his shoulders, and many lines around his eyes, as if he spent long hours in the sun.
From the looks of the ranch, he did.
"There are folks that might disagree with you.” The Indian jerked his head in the general direction of Cornwall. “If you came from there, you've met a few."
"I came from Cornwall,” Mac admitted. “And I heard talk, but I make my own judgements."
"Then why are you here?"
Mac allowed himself to relax—although the other man didn't. “I'm looking for Ned Barlow. I heard he came through this way."
"You got a name?"
"Mackenzy Cord.” Mac held out his hand, continuing in the same bold direction because it seemed to be working. “And your name?"
A tense moment passed. Mac held the man's fathomless gaze without fear. Finally, the man lowered the shot gun and took Mac's hand. He gave it a brief shake before he dropped it.
"My friends call me Eye of the Hawk. My wife calls me Hawk. I knew Barlow would bring trouble.” He spat on the ground as if the mere mention of his name left a nasty taste in his mouth.
"You know him, then?” Mac asked, tensing. Maybe he was wrong, maybe the peaceful serenity of the Sunset Ranch was just an illusion.
"He's a brother to my wife, Patricia, unfortunately. He was here, but he and that harlot of his left three days ago."
"The woman ... she isn't his sister?"
Hawk's lip curled. “If she is, they have a sickness for one another. My Patricia, she has a soft heart for her brother."
"And you have a soft spot for Patricia,” Mac guessed shrewdly.
A rueful smile flashed briefly on Hawk's face. “You are wise, Mr. Cord. May I ask why you search for Barlow?"
Mac hesitated. Although it was obvious Hawk harbored no love for his brother-in-law, Mac had to remember that blood was thicker than water. He chose to tell another truth instead, one he thought Hawk would understand. “There's a woman that I love as you love your Patricia. Barlow tricked her into believing he was a gentleman, and took her money."
"You intend to get it back,” Hawk concluded with a single nod of understanding. “You look thirsty. Come, we will share a drink and I will tell you what I know."
Assuming Mac's acceptance, he turned and descended the hill. As he passed Buckaroo, he reached out and yanked his tether free from the branch, then proceeded on without a backward glance. Without looking at Mac he said, “Don't worry, he will follow."
Mac chose his words with care. “Uh, Hawk? This horse may be a mite different than
what your.... “He trailed off in amazement as Buckaroo let out a fierce whinny and began to trot after the Indian.
"Well, I'll be damned,” Mac muttered beneath his breath as he too, followed the Indian.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Fifteen
Mac smelled baking bread when he and Hawk stepped onto the porch of the ranch house. His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he'd had little to eat the night before.
"Patricia, she cooks good,” Hawk said, holding the door for Mac.
Before either of them could step through, a young child came hurtling through the door and straight into Mac. Mac steadied her before she could bounce backward.
Only it wasn't a her, he realized on closer inspection. The child's long dark braids had misled him.
Hawk squeezed the boy's shoulder. “This is Sparrow—"
"Eagle,” the boy interrupted breathlessly. He shot a challenging glance at his father. “My name is Eagle, not Sparrow."
Hawk chuckled. “I told you, you have to earn a name like Eagle. Until then you will be called Sparrow."
Sparrow thrust his chin out. He was dressed in soft, handmade buckskins, and his face was painted with streaks of black and red. He was tall, but the fullness of his face suggested he was younger than he appeared. Perhaps six or seven years of age.
"Then I will go and earn the name,” Sparrow promised, attempting to rush by Hawk.
But Hawk caught him deftly around the waist and held him high. “And how do you plan to do that, my blood thirsty little brat?"
"By bringing you a prisoner.” Sparrow slanted a sly glance at Mac before he added, “A white prisoner."
There was a sharp, feminine gasp behind Mac. He turned around to find a woman standing in the doorway. Patricia, he presumed, looking furious and appalled. More amused than insulted, Mac smiled as he watched the domestic scene unfold.
He highly suspected Sparrow was about to get his wings clipped.
"Newton Oliver!” Patricia scolded, “Apologize to our guest and go to your room."
"Mama!” The boy groaned and struggled to get free, clearly embarrassed to be addressed by his Christian name. “I told you, it's Eagle!"
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