As if the agony of Pace’s arrest weren’t enough, she’d also been manhandled, followed, and spied upon. Never had she been so relieved to get on a train.
Now, perhaps she could relax enough to decide what to do once she caught up with Pace in Florida.
Her parasol and valise were on the floor beneath her forward-facing seat, the seat opposite her was empty, there didn’t seem to be a single drunk in the entire Pullman sleeper, and only three cigar smokers. Yes, maybe she would be able to relax.
She was bending down searching for an extra handkerchief in her valise with which to wipe the grime from the window beside her, when a big, tall pair of shiny black boots stopped in the aisle beside her. Army boots.
An escort? Would Miles sic another spy on her?
Of course he would.
Jessie refused to look up. Instead, she located the handkerchief, closed her valise and returned it to beneath her seat, then carefully straightened, keeping her face toward the window. He—whoever he was—still stood beside her. She could feel his presence like an approaching storm. The very air tingled and grew heavy.
What an odd sensation. She didn’t remember ever being able to feel someone’s presence before, yet she was as aware of this man as if he were touching her. And then she knew. Even without looking, she knew. He had touched her. It was him, the captain who’d had the unmitigated nerve to handle her so roughly.
She wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t acknowledge his presence. Determined to ignore the man and the unsettling sensation created by his nearness—hoping, praying he would just go away—Jessie reached for the window. But instead of cleaning it, as she had intended, she opened it. She seemed suddenly in dire need of extra air.
From the corner of her eye she saw a flash of dark blue coat, a bright yellow stripe down a sky-blue leg. A large, dark hand shoved a worn traveling bag beneath the opposite seat.
This, she could not ignore. She glared at him with barely controlled rage. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Captain Renard smiled grimly. “Watch me.” Then he was brushing past the hem of her skirt and taking the seat facing hers.
He was taller than any cavalryman she’d ever seen—at least six feet tall—with shoulders broad enough to take up nearly the entire width of the seat. Beneath the hat with the cavalry’s crossed sabers pinned to the crown, his hair was thick and black and wavy, and hung down over the edge of his collar in back. He was dark complexioned, with a faint scar down the length of one cheek. His brown-black eyes hinted at Latin ancestry and observed her with cool disdain.
What right did he have to look at her in such a manner?
She couldn’t believe he had the gall to inflict his presence on her.
She did wonder, however, that if he so obviously disliked her, as the look in his eyes indicated, why he chose to sit with her when there were other seats available.
Sakes alive, his legs were so long he had to spread his knees to keep from bumping into hers. That left her in the highly indelicate position of having her knees between his. And left her staring at his, well, his…go ahead and think it—it’s his crotch you’re staring at. At the silent admission, her cheeks burned. She blinked and forced her gaze away.
The man shifted, drawing her gaze once more to his dark face. His smirk told her plainly that he knew exactly where she’d been staring.
With a delicate sniff, just enough to let him know she appreciated neither his humor nor his presence, Jessie shifted herself on the padded seat until he was forced to remove his knees from around hers.
She was just starting to feel smug about outmaneuvering him when the train whistle blew. The engine chugged, the car jerked forward, and in through the window she’d just opened flew a piece of ash—straight into her eye. She cried out at the sharp pain and covered her eye with the hanky still in her hand.
In the facing seat, the captain, with a look of total disgust, muttered something about stupid women and closed the window. “Here.” None too gently, he pulled her hand away from her eye and took her handkerchief in his huge, hard hand.
Jessie was so busy trying to reconcile the sight of her delicate linen handkerchief with its embroidery along the scalloped edge, held in that dark, masculine hand, she didn’t even realize he was clearing the ash from her eye until he’d done it. One moment the pain was there, the next, it was gone. His touch was curiously gentle. So different from their earlier encounter, and at complete odds with the fierce scowl on his face.
He dropped the hanky in her lap and sat back.
Jessie retrieved the linen square and dabbed at the moisture on her cheek. “Thank you.” If her words sounded slightly ungracious, she really couldn’t help it.
He gave her an exaggerated nod and another sarcastic smile. “At your service, ma’am.”
“I somehow doubt that.” He seemed surprised by her response. Surprised, and even more angry than he had looked earlier. Jessie straightened and gave him a scowl. “By what right, sir, do you glare at me like that? Between the two of us, I am the injured party here. You have accosted me, manhandled me, watched me the better part of the day, and I don’t care for any of it. Now you deliberately force your presence on me when there are other seats available. I insist that you move, Captain. At once.”
Blake feigned astonishment. “You would have a poor, lonely soldier fresh from the field sit with the drunk two rows behind me, or the sheep herder at the other end of the car? Have pity, I beg you. I can smell the man from here. Why should I subject myself to such when I can sit and gaze at a beautiful young lady who smells like roses in spring and has hair the color of spun gold?”
Jessie refused to so much as acknowledge such gibberish. She was too busy fighting down the unaccustomed urge to scream. “Did Miles sic you on me?”
“Should he have?”
“I have a right to know if you’ve been ordered to follow me.”
The captain arched one thick brow. “Whatever my orders are, they are none of your business. While we are both headed to Florida, I assure you, Miss Colton, your name appears nowhere on my orders.”
Nothing he said made her want to relax. Jessie concentrated on keeping a frown from her face. She didn’t like this, not one bit. Why was he sitting with her? Why was he going to Florida? “It seems the ticket agent in Bowie has a loose tongue.”
“Your destination really wasn’t all that hard to figure out.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t. I certainly made no secret of it.”
“No, you didn’t.” The contempt in his voice and on his face puzzled her.
Jessie stared out the window at the passing scenery, glad for an excuse to look away from those intense dark eyes. There was anger there, both obvious and subtle. New anger near the surface; old anger buried deep, nearly hidden behind layers of contempt, ambiguity, and sharp intelligence.
The conductor came through the car taking tickets. After presenting hers, Jessie dug into her valise again and took out the copy of Ivanhoe she’d brought. Captain Renard, whom she did her best to ignore, raised a brow and smirked.
She settled down to read, hoping to distract herself from the man facing her. She alternated between reading and staring out the window. No matter what she did, she felt his gaze on her. In frustration, she closed the cover on the book and glared at him. “Would you mind not staring at me?”
The frown creasing his brow and pulling down on the corners of his mouth deepened. Without a word, he shifted his gaze to the window.
Jessie sighed in exasperation. “Since you know nothing about me other than my name and destination, I fail to see how you could have formed such a low opinion of me, but you obviously have.”
“I know all I need to know about you, Miss Colton.”
Stung by his biting response and the look of dismissal he tossed her, Jessie opened her book again and stared at the printed page. She couldn’t focus on the words for wondering why the captain disliked her so much.
Jessie had never been treated this w
ay before. People generally liked her. She was polite and friendly, even if she didn’t particularly invite confidences. She presented a neat appearance, did not gossip, and as far as she knew, had never purposely offended anyone other than a couple of drunks in Tucson one time who accosted her on the sidewalk and thought to have fun at her expense.
Perhaps…But of course. How naive of her to not realize. The captain was U.S. Army, and most of the U.S. Army hated Apaches with a vengeance. If truth were told, so did most civilians in Arizona and New Mexico. Not to mention the Mexicans and the Mexican army. And of all the Apache tribes, the Chiricahua was the most hated of all.
And Jessie, as a Colton, held well-known, close ties to the Chiricahua.
Jessie knew she had been shielded and sheltered from most of the prejudice and hatred because, despite the Coltons’ ties to the Apaches, her family was still highly respected by many.
There had always been talk, of course. Talk about her mother’s ties to Cochise. Talk about Travis Colton raising his wife’s bastard half-breed twins, Pace and Serena, as his own children. Talk about how, when the Apaches raided, somehow the Triple C Ranch never suffered any losses. But virtually none of the talk had ever been directed at Jessie, and very little even uttered within her hearing.
That, she knew was her father’s doing, and Matt’s, and Mama’s. Back before Pace and Serena, the oldest of the kids, were born, the Coltons had stood together and demanded respect. And they’d gotten it. There was still occasional talk, but few people had the nerve or stupidity to say anything direct. Jessie could, to her shame, go for months without remembering some of the ill feelings many had toward the name Colton.
But when it came to the U.S. Army, the Coltons didn’t mind the slurs. For the most part, the ill feelings were mutual. The Army cheated and lied and covered up things such as the number of Apache women and children it had slaughtered over the years. The Army never reported that the Chiricahua were dying of disease and starvation—and this, on the reservation where the government had promised to take care of them if they would lay down their weapons and live in peace.
No, there was no love lost between the Coltons and the Army.
There were exceptions, of course. Lieutenant Gatewood, for one; General Crook for another. Jessie’s father had hoped Miles would prove to be of Crook’s caliber, but had been quickly disappointed.
This man, this Captain Renard, appeared to be part of the vast majority of soldiers who hated anything to do with Apaches. And that obviously included her. He knew nothing of her, yet he acted as though he’d caught her in some despicable act. Drowning puppies, perhaps. Surely his attitude was because he’d seen her with Pace. Because she’d tried to help him.
If that was the case, the good captain could just go soak his head in the nearest trough. Face down. For about an hour or so. Jessica Colton had never apologized for her family, nor would she. Not ever. And she would never hesitate to defend any Colton who needed defending.
Pace, Pace, please be all right. Please don’t let your temper get you into more trouble than you are now.
When the train stopped at Lordsburg, Jessie kept her seat. Within minutes of taking on passengers and mail, the train pulled out again and picked up speed. By the time it chugged to a stop in Deming, New Mexico, for supper, Jessie was wishing she had taken the seat next to the sheep herder at the front of the car. Anything to get away from those eyes that kept straying to her, settling on her with occasional curiosity, but more often with contempt.
With the porter’s assurance that her valise would be safe beneath her seat, Jessie picked up her handbag. Keeping her gaze firmly away from the man in the blue uniform, she made her way down the aisle between the seats and out onto the Deming station platform. With every step she took toward the tiny restaurant that would serve supper to the passengers, she sincerely hoped a good, hot meal would sweeten a certain captain’s disposition.
Chapter Three
Captain Blake Renard was not in the mood to have his disposition sweetened. He was damn good and pissed off—at the world, at General Miles, at himself. He had every right to be pissed. He didn’t see any need to take a second look at his attitude.
His problem with the world and General Miles was simple. He understood that particular anger, that it came from Geronimo, from Blake’s inability to as yet wipe the bastard off the face of the earth.
His anger with himself was more complicated. Even admitting he was angry with himself had taken nearly the entire three and a half hours since leaving Bowie to admit, when in his mind the anger’s name was Jessica Colton.
The thought of such a young, beautiful woman carrying on with a half-breed sickened him. Miles had filled him in on her, and Blake just couldn’t figure it. She was from a wealthy family, had everything she could possibly want. Half the men in the territory were panting after her. Respectable men any woman in her right mind would be glad to drag to the nearest alter. And she chased after a half-breed Apache.
The thought couldn’t have disgusted him more if she’d taken up with Geronimo himself. And that was saying something, because in Blake’s book, not even a worm was lower than that butcher.
Yet despite his utter contempt for her, he hadn’t been able to stop the sharp tingle of excitement that ignited in his chest when he’d held her that morning.
His chest, hell. The excitement she stirred hit him considerably lower than his chest.
And that pissed him off but good. He was not attracted to her, would not be attracted to her. Not now, not ever. Not to Apache leavings, by God. Not him. No sir. No way.
As she walked toward the restaurant, he forced himself to watch dispassionately. He didn’t care that the evening sun turned her hair to pale gold, that the heat flushed her skin with a rosy glow. It didn’t matter to him in the least that he remembered her hands were delicate and graceful, her eyes the clear gray of a mountain lake at sunrise, her lips lush and tempting. His hands did not ache to close themselves around her trim waist or feel the gently curving flare of her hips. And his pulse absolutely did not pound with every twitch of her bustle.
The hell you say.
Damn. He wanted her, and hated himself for it. The wanting surprised him, and Blake didn’t like surprises. Surprises could, more often than not, get a man killed.
“Blake!”
At the sound of his uncle’s voice, Blake turned away from the fetching sight of Jessica Colton’s slender neck and proud shoulders to greet his aunt and uncle.
Lucinda and Phillip Sinclair had raised Blake since his mother’s death when he was a baby. They were, in essence, his only real parents, since his own father didn’t see fit to have anything much to do with him. Except, of course, when he needed money for more whiskey. Then Lucien Renard came around. It wasn’t to Blake he came, of course, but to his late wife’s brother-in-law, Phillip. When Lucien should have been paying the Sinclairs for raising his son, he instead mooched off them constantly.
For most of his life, Blake had never understood why Phillip put up with Lucien, why he kept giving him money. Only in recent years had he realized that Aunt Lucinda urged Phillip to help Lucien out of love for her late sister. Phillip went along out of love for his wife. And, so Phillip said, for Blake’s sake.
Hell, Lucien Renard hadn’t been able to get his newborn son off his hands fast enough. Why Uncle Phillip thought Blake cared one way or the other what happened to the old man was beyond him.
But Uncle Phillip and Aunt Lucy were good, kind people, if not overly affectionate. They’d done their best by Blake all his life, and he couldn’t fault them for anything, really. It wasn’t their fault that they couldn’t love the baby pawned off on them by Lucien all those years ago. Hell, it wasn’t really even their fault they had an asshole for a son. But then, Wade hadn’t been born an asshole. No, he’d had to work at it. He’d done a damn fine job, too. In fact, becoming a good, worthless asshole was about the only thing Wade Sinclair had ever excelled at.
Yet for
all that they had given Blake a roof over his head and were the closest things to real parents he would ever know, they and he both knew that Lucinda and Phillip Sinclair were not his mother and father. His mother was dead and his father was no father at all. Blake had never been able to stop hating the one person responsible for robbing him of his real family. He’d never even tried to stop hating Geronimo.
Had Blake been inclined to forget to hate, Lucien would never have allowed it. Every time he showed up—which admittedly wasn’t often—his first words, his only words for his son since Blake was in short pants, were always the same. “You killed that murdering red bastard yet?”
And every time, Blake was forced to tell him no, then listen to Lucien rant and rave.
Standing on the platform at the Deming depot, Blake slid his palm over the handle of the knife in his belt. The knife he’d never let out of his sight since he’d gotten it at age ten. The knife he planned to give back, one day soon. To the hilt.
“Next time, old man,” he muttered. “The next time you ask me, I’ll be able give you the answer you want. Maybe then you’ll—”
“Over here, son,” Phillip called.
Blake winced. Beside Phillip, Wade glared. Wade always glared whenever his father called Blake “son.” Not that Phillip or Lucy ever really treated Blake like a son—not a real son—but they used the word. For Wade, that was all it took.
Blake had tried to get Phillip and Lucy to stop calling him son years ago, tried to explain how much Wade resented it. Uncle Phillip and Aunt Lucy never listened. They told him he was imagining Wade’s reaction. Why, Wade loved him like a brother.
Yeah, Blake thought as he briefly met Wade’s hostile glare. Like Cain loved Able.
Blake reached to shake his uncle’s hand. Phillip Sinclair was a big man, tall and broad, with thin brown hair and solemn blue eyes. His grip was as strong at forty-five as Blake’s.
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