by Jenna Kernan
“Maybe I’ll just go along with him and see what it’s like to be a Flathead.”
Nash’s head snapped around and his gaze focused on her. Now she knew what a deer saw when sighted down the barrel of his long rifle. She shifted, suddenly uncomfortable at her challenge. He spoke to the chief in a calm voice. When he faced her, his eyes flashed blue ice. He dragged her up and away from the men. She found herself dancing along beside him as he strode to their wigwam.
“You crazy? He’ll have you cooking and carrying. He’ll work you from morning to night.”
“And that would be different from my current arrangement in what way?” she asked.
He scowled. “You know Flatheads take more than one wife?”
This seemed to be the fact he was sure would convince her, when all she wanted was for him to tell her not to go. She stared up at him, holding her breath. Then she sighed.
“A second wife, wonderful, I’ll have half the work to do.”
“Are you actually considering this or just trying to lather me?”
“What difference does it make to you? You’ll be able to keep your ten percent and you’ll have a hundred skins to boot. What’s stopping you?”
“Good Lord.”
“I was just remembering how you felt about my coming here.”
“I explained all that to you. I didn’t want to get involved with a woman again.”
“You still haven’t.”
“You’re talking crazy. What do you want me to say?” She knew then what she wanted and it frightened her to death. She wanted him to say he loved her. She opened her mouth to tell him, but he spoke first. “He’ll take you, if I let him. Damned if I know how to stop him if he decides to take you anyway.”
Suddenly her impulsiveness frightened her.
“You mean they might take me?”
“What do you think, this is some kind of game? We need a reason you can’t go, a damn good one. There’s eight of them. I might kill one or two but not eight.”
He was looking back at them now. She followed his gaze. Hunts Buffalo sat relaxed and patient beside his warriors. The men each carried a long knife and two had flintlock rifles.
Her skin felt as if she’d been dipped in ice water. Gooseflesh rose up along her arms.
“I’m frightened,” she whispered. Then she turned to Nash. “What are Flathead afraid of?”
“Not much, Blackfoot, maybe, and spirits.”
“What kind of spirits?” she wondered.
“Evil one, crazy ones, the ghosts of their enemies.”
A seed of an idea drifted into her mind. She considered and the seed took root.
“I know what to say.” She took one step and felt his broad hand restrain her.
“If you says no outright, they’ll be insulted. You has to—”
She interrupted. “I’m not going to say no.”
“Delia—”
“Trust me, Nash,” she said.
He studied her for a moment longer and nodded. “Let’s go.”
The sat together, across from Hunts Buffalo.
“Tell him I am forever grateful for his rescue.” Nash nodded and spoke to Hunts Buffalo, who smiled at her. “Tell him I agree to be his wife,” she said. Nash raised one eyebrow and shook his head.
“I ain’t telling him that, Delia. Damned if I will,” he growled low at her.
“Tell him I do not think my husband’s ghost will bother him, because he is an Indian.”
“What?” Nash said. “You sure?” She nodded and waited until Nash and Hunts Buffalo finished speaking.
“You hooked him, Delia,” said Nash. “He wants to know about your husband.”
“Ask him which one,” she said, smiling and nodding at Hunts Buffalo.
“What do you mean which one? You been married more than once?”
“No, now repeat what I say. ‘Which one?’”
He did. Delia watched the warrior lean forward, his eyebrows high on his brow.
Nash said, “He wants to know how many husbands you had. You sure got him interested, I’ll grant you that.”
“Tell him I have been married three times, all white men. My first husband was a jealous man. He died in a war. Before he left me, he told me he’d kill any man who touched me.”
Nash nodded. His direct gaze seemed to radiate approval. The icy fear within her melted and she warmed inside. Then he spoke to the group again. The men about Hunts Buffalo muttered to one another. One looked behind him at the forest. Their relaxed posture contorted into nervous tension.
“Hunts Buffalo wonders what happened to your other husbands?” Nash said, seemingly eager for the next installment of her story.
“It was very tragic. Roger drowned. I can’t understand it because he a very strong swimmer. And John, the finest hunter in Ohio, went hunting and never came back. Just bad luck, I suppose.”
“Delia, you’re brilliant,” said Nash. He turned to tell the men the bad news. Then he nodded and listened for a time.
“Delia, Hunts Buffalo has changed his mind. He does not want to disturb the spirit of your first husband. He thinks you survived the winter because of his protection.”
Delia nodded. That, at least, might be true. If such things were possible, John would have protected her.
“Tell him, I completely understand. I am sure he will always be my friend. Assure him, I remain in his debt and am grateful to him.”
“Delia, not only can you trap and shoot, you’re the smartest woman I ever met.” She basked in the glow of his words for a moment.
The warriors seemed in a sudden hurry to depart. Her invitation to stay the night met with hasty refusals. She waved to the group. They forded the cold stream and vanished into the wood.
Nash grabbed her about the waist and spun her in a glorious circle.
“Damn, Delia, you ran them off!”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I?”
He extended his arms and lifted her high in the air. Then he lowered her gently to the ground. Heat radiated from him through the soft hide covering her body.
His lopsided grin warmed her.
“You really foxed ’em. Ha! What made you think of it?”
“You did! You told me they were afraid of spirits. I just followed your lead.”
“The part about the drowning purely terrified them. And saying the man was the best shot in Ohio, that’s like being the best bookkeeper in the Rocky Mountains.” He doubled over, clutching his side in laughter.
The smile fell from her lips. She suddenly felt cold. John had won a shooting contest. It was one of the things that had convinced him to come west. He brought his Kentucky rifle along, sure he could provide for them. But it wasn’t big enough to stop grizzly or buffalo. She didn’t know that then and neither did John. So he walked over that hill one sunny morning, never came back.
Nash wasn’t laughing now. He watched her with cautious eyes.
“Delia? What’s wrong?” His hand rested on her shoulder.
She shook her head and pressed both hands to her lips. A swelling hot lump of pain rose up in her throat. Tears escaped the corners of her eyes, carrying her sorrow out to him. Then she was wrapped in the hard comfort of his arms.
“I feel so guilty,” she gasped.
“For lying to them fellas, hooey!”
“John won a shooting contest in Cincinnati,” she wailed.
“Oh, Delia, hush. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean no disrespect to him. I surely did not.” He rocked her. Her breath came in ragged gasps. His hand patted the center of her back. “I thought you made that up with the rest. I didn’t know. Hush now, you’ll make yourself sick.”
She quieted gradually, pulling back the pain, letting part of it wash away with her tears.
“I miss him still. I feel so guilty being here.”
“No reason to feel guilty for not dying.”
“Not for that.” She pulled away to look into the sympathetic blue waters of his eyes. “For starting to feel agai
n, for laughing with you while my John—”
“Don’t say it. Nothing good comes from these thoughts. That’s mean thinking that tears you down, makes you feel bad for living. You couldn’t do nothing to save him, Delia. The mountains took him. That’s all.”
She turned her back on him. Just looking into his dear face brought a fresh surge of emotion and pain.
He took her by the shoulders. She tried halfheartedly to shake him off, but he tightened his hold, drawing her backward into the comfort of his firm embrace. This is what she wanted—to be held by him. His body was as warm as a fire on a cold afternoon.
His breath brushed her ear as he whispered, “You can’t stop living, ’cause he’s gone. You ain’t buried with him. You’re here, with me. Would he want you to be miserable for not dying as well?” She made no reply. He squeezed the breath from her. “Would he?”
“No. He’d want me happy.”
“Course he would. Living’s hard, sometimes harder than dying. You have to keep trying and if you find some comfort, someone that brings you joy, don’t push him away. Maybe it’s only for a day or a year. That’s why you need to grab it, grab it with both hands.”
She turned to face him and gazed into the conviction shining clearly in his eyes.
“But it hurts so much to lose.”
“I know that. Do we dry up and never try again? That’s a coward’s way and we ain’t cowards.”
“I just what to run away and find somewhere safe.”
“I ran. Nowhere’s safe. The pain tracks you like a wolf after a sick calf. I half hoped I’d die. But no more, because of you.”
She turned to look into his eyes. His lips turned up into a sad smile.
“I don’t think I can do this, Thomas. I can’t be left behind.”
“I come with no guarantee, Delia.”
Cordelia needed some assurances that he would never leave her. A solemn promise that if death came, it would take her first and never, never leave her behind.
He held both her hands. “I know you think you need me. But is that all that’s between us?”
“I think you are an honorable man.” Her feelings were so muddled. The insistent tug of attraction still pulled. Her body tingled for his touch. The intensity of his stare made her tremble.
“Is that all?”
“You already know I need you to get out of here, that I depend on your wisdom and strength.”
His brows dipped low over his winter-blue eyes. The pressure of his grip changed.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want,” he said, stepping so close that his shirt touched her dress, “for you to want me as a man. I want you to feel what I feel.”
She could sense his desire now, like a beating heart. His hand reached up to clasp her single braid. Callused fingers removed the leather cord and combed her hair into blond waves about her shoulders.
“Your hair is so pretty, just like the mane of a palomino.”
“Your hair has always reminded me of mink.”
He cocked his head.
“Really?” She nodded. He slid his hands slowly down her back. She pressed her stomach and breasts against him and heard him sigh. “Put your arms around me, Delia. I need your touch.”
She lifted her arms and looped them about his neck, letting her fingers delve into his long dark hair. His eyes drifted closed and his square chin rose, relishing her attention. She drew one finger around the shell of his damaged ear. His eyes snapped open. Somehow his gaze made her breathing come fast. Her blood coursed through her body.
“How do you do it?” she asked. Her throat went dry, her words the merest whisper.
“What?”
“Make me want you with just a glance?”
He swept her roughly from her feet and strode to their sleeping pallet. She thought to stop him for a moment. This would change everything between them. She would stop him, she told herself, as soon as those piercing eyes left her.
The soft bearskin caressed her legs as she sat upon the hide. He knelt above her and drew off his shirt. She stared at the thick hair covering his wide chest. How many times had she wondered what it would be like to feel the muscle beneath his velvety skin? Her hands rose up to touch, reaching no farther than his stomach. At the contact of her fingertips, his muscles twitched and the sound of the intake of his breath reached her. She looked down to his leather breeches and saw the evidence of her effect upon him.
His hands were at the hem of her dress now. She stopped him.
“Delia, please let me see you. Until now, I only dreamed it.”
“You dream of me?”
“Nearly every night. You’re driving me crazy. I’ve never felt like this before.”
“Never?” Surely a married man would know this pulsing desire, this quickening.
“Not like this. Never like this.”
She wanted to please him. Anticipation surged through her as she considered his desire.
“You once said I looked like a boy.” She reminded him.
“Not anymore. Now you’re pure woman and driving me mad. Just let me look at you.”
His hand fell to her hip. She’d discarded her bloomers and leggings weeks ago in the warm weather. He was right. She didn’t need them. Her hand covered his and she rose on her knees and drew the dress away in one smooth stroke.
She watched him now. His mouth parted slightly. His gaze covered her breasts and then traveled down to the thatch of dark brown hair at the juncture of her legs.
Her skin seemed to hum; she could almost hear the vibration of her body trembling beneath his gaze.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. His hand reached out. She ached for him. Still some piece of her cried out in anguish. Images of her husband rose in her mind, comparisons and memories. John preferred the dark. He never looked at her in the daylight. He was not as beautiful as this man before her.
She grasped his hand before he could touch her.
“Delia, let me bring us back to life. Let me touch you.”
She nodded but held his hand firmly. “I want—I need this to be different from ever before.”
He nodded and she pressed him backward to the bearskin. Her fingers played along the sharp contours of his chest and stomach. She pressed herself against him and licked the shell of his ear. As she kissed him, her fingers slid beneath the edge of his breeches. Her fingers wrapped him tightly. He was warm and stiff beneath her touch. Never had she held a man this way, feeling the long length of him.
Thomas pressed himself against her palm. She let her hand glide up and down the length of him. He held himself still, as if movement on his part would break this spell cast about them. His desire must have grown too strong, for he rolled her to her back, struggling for the lacing of his trousers.
His large body settled between her legs, and he loomed above her. His hands covered her breasts. His mouth trailed close behind. He pressed hot kisses down her body, licking the curve of her navel. His touch sent a trail of fire over her heated skin. Her desire pulsed with each strong beat of her heart. His fingers moved toward her thatch of hair.
“No!” she cried.
He rose up above her.
“I just want to taste you.” He stared at her a moment. Her hands pressed ineffectively at his chest. “Delia, have you never—you’ve done this with your husband, surely.”
He said the words and the spell was broken. He was not her husband. Yet, she had let him touch her in ways even John never had.
She shook her head frantically now.
“Let me up, Thomas,” she begged.
“Delia, please, let me love you. I just want—”
“No, Thomas, you are not my husband.”
“He’s gone, Delia.” Thomas held her wrists above her head and stilled her squirming body with the weight of his own. “He’s gone for good. I’m here, alive and burning for you.”
“Thomas, I know you miss your wife. But I am not Elizabeth. Let me up.”
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nbsp; He rolled to his back. The air cooled her flushed skin. She reached for her dress and pulled it over her head, letting the soft leather cover her shame. He lay motionless with one arm thrown over his eyes. He clenched his teeth, showing the muscles at his jaw. She resisted the urge to touch his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean—I can’t do this.”
His arm slid away and his fingers coiled about one wrist. She met the intense gaze, feeling a flush bloom on her cheeks.
“You’re wrong. I don’t want a replacement for my wife, Delia. I want you.”
She shook her head in disbelief and tugged at her captured wrist. He rolled to his side and stroked her cheek.
“I pushed too hard. You’re still grieving him. I see that. I’ll give you time, Delia. You tell me when.”
He released her hand and she bolted from the little shelter, pursued by all the demons of her mind.
Chapter Ten
Nash lay on the hide for a few moments, thinking of her soft skin and the pink flush on her cheeks. Then he closed his eyes, rolled to her side of the pallet and inhaled the scent of her. A growl escaped him. He thumped the hides with his clenched fist and sat up. The pressure of his erection squeezed between the leather breeches and his body forced him back down again.
Why wasn’t she ready? She’d been months without the touch of a man. He’d told her he loved her, hadn’t he? He thought back to what he was feeling and doing nine months after Elizabeth’s death. He’d been living with the Flathead, alone. He’d had opportunities, but he still felt attached to his wife. Now he couldn’t quite see her face. How could you forget the face of the woman you loved?
He sat up again. Was Delia gun-shy or grieving? Maybe she just didn’t fancy him. Her journal said she did—so much it caused her guilt. The look of her, flushed and panting, confirmed his conviction. Her body, at least, wanted his.
He stepped out into the afternoon sunshine and looked about. She was gone. He drew on his shirt and grasped his Hawkins. She couldn’t avoid him for long. He debated whether he should search for her, then he decided to check his traps.
