“That may be so, but we’re not going anywhere until tomorrow. At least. Now, finish your soup.”
“Tomorrow, then. No later.” Obediently, he drank the remainder of the broth. “I feel better already.” He grinned up into her face. “Wanna feel?” He raised his eyebrows.
She tried for a derisive snort . . . and failed. It sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “I was right yesterday. You don’t ever think of anything else!”
“Else than what?”
His words were a light caress sliding across her heated skin. Whether his voice was made soft and husky from pain, gratitude, or desire she wasn’t sure. She probably shouldn’t pursue that risky question.
“Lean down.” His eyes glowed with purpose, leaving no doubt what he was after. “And let me thank you properly.”
She shook her head warily.
“I just want to hold you a minute,” he said honestly.
She tried to hide her surprise . . . and her pleasure. “But you’re hurt.”
“A little bullet wound can’t slow me down. Not when I’m this close to a beautiful woman.” He tried to raise his hand to her cheek. The lazy appendage refused to obey his command. In fact, his whole body felt as if it were weighted down by the Rocky Mountains.
Stevie smiled and batted her lashes. “No, but all that laudanum I put in your broth can. It could fell a bull.”
As if to prove her words, Heath’s lids fluttered briefly, then slid down over his sapphire eyes.
Stevie released the breath she had been holding.
Early the next morning Heath awakened with a start. When he stood and stretched, he was sore, a little light-headed from his medication, but greatly improved. Stevie lay wrapped in a blanket close to where he had slept. He shook her gently by the shoulder. “Hon, wake up.”
She yawned and stretched like a lazy feline. “What is it?”
“A noise at the foot of the ridge. We may have to ride quick.”
She jerked awake instantly, jumped up, and began packing their saddlebags as Heath moved silently down the ridge. When he reached the edge, he saw just what he expected, Judge Jack’s men cutting for sign on the plateau below. There were seven of them, led by an Indian scout. “Damn! Two Paws.”
He returned to camp as quietly as he’d come. “It’s Jack’s men. They haven’t picked up our trail yet, but it won’t be long. Two Paws is leading them.”
Stevie had heard of the Mescalero Apache who was known for his uncanny ability to track anyone, anywhere. He was also known for his absolute ruthlessness. “That’s all we need,” she muttered, helping Heath break camp.
They doused the smoldering embers from the fire and strewed leaves and branches around, hoping to obliterate the campsite. Undoubtedly, Two Paws would spot it anyway.
“Ready?”
Stevie jerked a nod. “Are you sure you can ride?”
He gave her one of his heart-stopping grins. “Thanks to you, I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“I’ll bet.” When he mounted, she was glad to see that he showed little sign of pain.
With the soft jingle of harness and the muted thud of horses’ hooves against the sun-baked earth, they headed up into the mountains. They burst through the underbrush, plunging into a fast-running stream. Some three hundred yards upstream they came to a rocky bench that led off into a hollow.
“Follow in my tracks as closely as you can,” he called softly over his shoulder.
They walked their horses slowly down the bench. Then in single file they backed their mounts to the stream where, reentering, they continued upward. As they climbed the mountain they repeated this procedure six times. Finally they left the stream and continued the ascent through thick underbrush.
“Do you think that’ll shake Jack’s men?”
“No. At least not for long. Two Paws’ll figure it out.”
“You choose the darnedest times to be honest. A reassuring lie would be appreciated from time to time.”
He smiled and kicked his horse in a gallop. They rode hard and fast, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the men who were tracking them. They worked their way carefully from one slope to the next.
The majestic peaks of the Sangre de Cristoes were covered with snow above the timberline. The bright ball of fire overhead and the exertion of hard riding warmed Stevie. She didn’t need her coat, but noticed that Heath donned his. She hoped he wasn’t having chills. There was no time to question him as they pushed ahead.
If their circumstances had not been so dire, it would have been a beautiful trip. The scenery was breathtaking. Their only companions were the teeming wildlife that watched their passage with wary interest. Deer and elk, standing as proud sentinels, regarded them stoically. A host of smaller animals—squirrels, fox, raccoon, pika, and endless species of birds—scattered, squeaked, and chattered as they passed through their domain.
Periodically, Heath rested the horses. Stevie checked his wound each time. It was no longer bleeding, but there was an angry red ring surrounding it; as she feared, his skin was hot to the touch. She kept her concern to herself. The men chasing them posed a greater threat at the moment than Heath’s physical condition. Still, they would have to make camp soon. Neither of them could go on much longer in this high altitude.
When the sun passed behind the mountain, they pulled up for the night in a naturally formed hideaway. Vegetation was sparse, but their mounts grazed contentedly on occasional bunches of crabgrass.
Heath was freezing. Shivering, he started a small fire for coffee, confident that the distance between them and their pursuers was too great for Two Paws to see the smoke.
Stevie watched him from across the camp. He hunched down in his coat as if he were chilled to the bone. Cross-legged, he sat as close to the dancing flames as possible. As she feared, his eyes were glazed over with fever. Panic was a growing thing in her heart. She couldn’t let him die; she just couldn’t.
She squatted at his side. “Are you bleeding again?”
“Don’t think so.”
When he opened his coat, she ran her hand inside. He trembled, whether from chill or her touch neither knew.
“It’s dry.” However, the heat around the wound had intensified since the last time she checked. He shivered again, this time more violently. She closed his coat quickly, trying to preserve the warmth of his body. She buttoned his duster from top to bottom, then pulled the leather collar up around his chin. Without a word she retrieved the blankets from her saddle and made a pallet for him to lie on. “Roll over here.” She wrapped the remaining blanket around his shoulders. “Better?” she asked softly.
“Mmmm.”
Apparently, his temperature had not reached a dangerous level yet, for his shivering grew less. Stevie was greatly relieved. She was shocked at the depth of her concern for this man who was little more than a stranger. Was it the danger they faced together that drew them so close, so fast? she wondered.
Chancing a glance at his pale face, her heart lurched. He had lost a great deal of blood; he was sure to be thirsty. She retrieved her canteen, lifted his head gently, and placed the rim against his lips. After he drank his fill and murmured his appreciation, she moistened a handkerchief and mopped his face and brow, hoping to lower his temperature.
Finally, he fell into an unnatural slumber. Stevie tucked the blanket more tightly around him, then settled back to watch over him as he slept. Sometime after sunset he tossed the blanket aside. He awakened, his temperature down.
“Feeling better?” a soft voice came from his side.
“Much.” He started to rise. “I’m going to kill a deer for our supper.”
“At night? In your condition?”
“Be back soon.” He retrieved his weapon and planted a hard kiss on her lips, stunning her. Before she could pull free of the spell and physically restrain him, he left camp.
Shortly, the sound of his gun reverberated through the mountains and canyons. Two Paws probably heard
it, Heath thought. But he desperately needed something substantial to eat if he hoped to regain his strength.
He and Stevie were on the run. He was all that stood between the woman who had saved his life and scum like Two Paws and Sims. Now was not the time for him to turn into an invalid.
Smiling, he retrieved the deer that lay unmoving on the rock floor and made his way back to camp. He dropped the deer at her feet, looking like a caveman providing meat for his mate.
Unmoved by his offering, she scolded him for his foolishness. “You get over there and lie down before you fall down.”
Chuckling softly, he obeyed. Frankly, he wasn’t as strong as he had thought. He dropped down on the pallet. Lids half-closed, he watched her.
Not counting the noxious broth she had forced down his throat, apparently Stevie was an experienced cook. She cleaned a portion of the deer and prepared a roast as if she were accustomed to cleaning game and cooking over an open campfire every day of her life. She appeared domestic, in a rustic way.
He couldn’t help but mentally compare her to the women he courted on his rare trips to New York. Remembering the O’Hara triplets in particular, he smiled wryly. They were sweet girls. Wealthy, well-bred, not so educated that they would make troublesome wives, well versed on the ins and outs of high society. And they were extremely easy on the eyes: willowy, fair, blond, and blue-eyed. Rad and Chap had dated them during the war. The Turner twins had taken all three of the beauties to Lincoln’s second inauguration.
After his big brothers met Kinsey and Ginny—the women they eventually married—Heath had sort of inherited the triplets. He escorted them one at a time, however. Didn’t matter which one, most of the time he wasn’t even sure which sister was clinging helplessly to his arm. He just called the one he was with at the time “honey.” That was fairly safe. And they blushed and batted their lashes prettily when he said it.
Of course, he always acted the consummate gentleman with them. They were ladies, after all. He hadn’t been particularly tempted to do otherwise. There were two kinds of women: those you bedded and enjoyed and those you respected and married. It was the code proper gentlemen were supposed to live by, the code Heath had cut his teeth on.
But Stevie called that code into question. Brow furrowed, he stared at her more closely. He had never respected a woman more than he respected her. Nor had he ever wanted a woman more.
Before he met her he’d never found it difficult to be a gentleman—and all that that implies—around ladies. He took his pleasure with whores. Ladies, he charmed and escorted to whatever fashionable function they desired. And he always . . . always brought them home as chaste as the day they were born.
The hell of it was that he didn’t care. He was lusty, sure. But he had never met a virgin that he couldn’t live without. He liked his bed partners experienced. And he didn’t want entanglements once the passion cooled.
The fiery beauty leaning over the cook fire had changed all that. And the hell of it was that he didn’t mind.
Noticing his intense look, Stevie grew nervous. She began upbraiding him, telling him how foolish he was to run off into the woods as he had, informing him that she would shoot him herself if he moved so much as an inch from his place by the fire.
“Yes, ma’am.” He snuggled down into the blanket, a broad smile on his face. There was nothing nicer than a beautiful woman clucking about, worried about your health, a woman you wanted physically and emotionally, no matter the consequences. It was almost worth getting shot. The enticing smell of fresh coffee and roast deer filling his nostrils, coupled with his waning strength, lulled him into a restful sleep.
Stevie shook Heath’s shoulder gently. “Lucky. Wake up.” He opened his eyes and saw the face of an angel, her platinum halo limned by the smoldering fire at her back. “Have I died and gone to heaven?”
She raised her brow skeptically. “I’m not convinced heaven’s where you’d go.” An affectionate smile lit her face. “Are you hungry?”
He came to a sitting position. “Ravenous.”
“Then you’re not in heaven. I’m sure men aren’t hungry in heaven,” she teased, wondering at his strained smile.
He was in somewhat of a dilemma. His most urgent sensation at the moment was not hunger for food nor even for her beautiful body. It was the discomfort caused by a full bladder.
How did one tell a beautiful woman that he needed to relieve himself in the bushes before he sat down to supper? Campside etiquette was not a subject taught at the expensive boarding school Heath and his brothers had attended. Nor did the curriculum at West Point include a course on the matter.
Pity he didn’t have his copy of Arthur Freeling’s, The Gentleman’s Pocket-Book of Etiquette close at hand. Surely such problems were covered therein. Ah, well, one improvised. “You’ll excuse me for a moment?”
“Excuse you?”
“I need to take a short walk.”
Understanding his meaning, her face pinkened.
Heath rose, the blankets pooling at his feet. He swayed slightly from weakness.
Stevie steadied him with a hand to his chest. “Would you like me to go with you?”
Heath touched her flaming cheek with the tip of his finger. “I think I can handle things myself.” He thought he heard her mutter, “Pity.”
Surely not.
When he returned to camp, Stevie was standing stock-still, facing the far end of the clearing. Five mounted Indians wearing war paint stared back at her from the shadows.
Heath’s heart skipped a beat. His rifle was lying on the ground beside the fire, out of reach. He started to place himself between Stevie and the warriors. She waved him away.
For a long while Stevie and the Indians stared at one another. The braves made no attempt to raise their weapons. Stevie made no effort to retreat.
Just when Heath was sure he would yell his frustration, the warrior out front threw a lean, muscled thigh over his horse, slid to the ground, and walked briskly into camp. Stevie relaxed visibly. She met him halfway across the clearing.
Heath tensed, first in apprehension, then, when Stevie and the Indian embraced, in jealousy. How dare the half-naked warrior hold Stevie so familiarly?
The twosome spoke in quiet tones. Heath was unable to decipher their soft Comanche words. The affection in their eyes as they gazed upon each other was enough to incite his temper. Through the years many had called him an Indian lover, but at the moment there was one Indian he could do without. And it wasn’t Stevie.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my sun-haired cousin,” Black Coyote observed. As a young girl, Stevie had visited her mother’s people. Black Coyote and Jeff had been nearly inseparable. But as the Johns children grew older, they lived in the white world exclusively.
“A while.” Stevie nodded, wondering at the familiar feeling of guilt that she had somehow abandoned a people who had at one time abandoned her mother. Shrugging away the uncomfortable thought she pointed to his war paint. “Why the medicine, cousin?”
“Comacheros stole our horses.”
An Indian band’s survival depended upon its remuda. With that one avaricious act, the thieves had virtually sentenced every man, woman, and child in Black Coyote’s village to death. “I’m sorry.”
Black Coyote looked her full in the face. “Save your pity for the Comancheros. When we find the thieving dogs, they will pay.”
She nodded tersely. “Toquet, it is well.” She didn’t want to know what grisly torture awaited the thieves, no matter how well deserved their punishment. “You must be hungry.”
After a moment’s hesitation Black Coyote nodded.
“You and your brothers are welcome to share my fire and my food. But you are not to hurt my man. He has done nothing to you. He has been shot and is not well. I will protect him.” She told herself she referred to Heath as her man simply to protect him from the Indians. Liar!
Black Coyote met Heath’s sapphire glare. He knew a jealous man when he
saw one. Indian or white, men were the same when it came to their women.
The Indian turned back to Stevie and smiled knowingly. He caught the unguarded expression on her face. It was clear to him that his half-white cousin was as smitten as the man she protected. She looked like a she-bear protecting her cub. “We will not harm your man. But can you promise Black Coyote that your man will not hurt us?”
She cast a glance in Heath’s direction, pleased to see that he didn’t like her talking with her handsome cousin. Could he possibly be jealous? She turned back to Black Coyote and stood on tiptoe, placing a kiss on his cheek. Out the corner of her eye she saw Heath’s jaw tense. “You’re on your own.” She chuckled softly.
The action was so intimate, the sound so provocative that Heath was ready to commit murder.
“I think your man does not want to share Yo-oh-hobt Pa-pi, Yellow Hair, with Black Coyote.”
“You’re probably right. White men are funny that way,” she deadpanned.
She felt a slight sense of unease when she heard her Comanche name pronounced after so many years. It gave rise to feelings too complex to deal with at the moment. Pointing toward the meat, she told Black Coyote’s warriors they were welcome to eat.
They descended upon the venison as if they were starved. Their protruding ribs and gaunt frames caused Stevie’s heart to ache. At one time Black Coyote had been as big as Heath. Now Heath outweighed him by at least thirty pounds. Obviously, times were harder for the Comanche renegades than she realized.
Glad that the Indians were eating their fill, she took a plate to Heath, noticing how closely he watched the men.
They were renegade Indians on the warpath, Heath knew. But somehow they didn’t look very savage eating the meal Stevie had cooked, teasing her as if she were their kid sister.
But what surprised him most was Stevie’s wariness around them. She smiled at their good-natured jests. Yet somehow her smile seemed strained.
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