“Noble?”
He didn’t answer. He must have slipped into a semiconscious state again. The pony walked tiredly onto the stony, moon-washed trail. After a second, Venice buried her face against Noble’s jacket and, overwhelmed with relief, sobbed her heart out.
Moaning, Noble turned. Heavy hands held him down, his left side hurt like hell, and he was suffocating. He was hot, sweaty. Which was odd since one of the last things he remembered thinking was that he would never be warm again. He opened one eye. He was in a tent, under a pile of blankets.
Venice.
He shot up, ignoring the rip of pain in his left side. He flung the blankets off and started to rise when he saw the pale strips of cotton wrapped around his chest. He sank back on his elbows, his memory returning. Venice had had something to do with that bandage and if she could take the time to bandage him, that meant she must be all right.
He glanced down. He was naked except for his still-damp union suit, and someone had peeled that back to his waist. Someone had cleaned his cuts. A neat job they’d made of it, too.
Venice again. He vaguely recalled her tearstained face, remembered telling her not to cry. An impression of hands shoving, pulling, and hauling him swam through pain-dimmed memories.
Somehow she must have found help. They weren’t that far from her uncle’s camp. She must have made her way there.
Moving gingerly, Noble crawled to the tent flap and poked his head out. He shivered. It was early. The tent had been pitched along a sheer wall, near a copse of young aspen. Both the flat rockface and white paper bark of the trees were washed with morning’s apricot glow.
Nearby a fire crackled in a neat stone ring, crisp curls of smoke drifting up through the trees. A kettle sat on the grate, the delicious aroma of coffee wafting toward him.
No one was in sight. Wondering where everybody could be, Noble straightened and immediately winced. Biting back an oath, he limped over to where his shirt and jeans hung from the lower branches of a young aspen. One look at his bloodstained shirt convinced him it was past its usefulness. He settled for wrapping a blanket around his shoulders and pulling on his stiff jeans—an exertion that left him pale and panting. Finally, walking stiffly, he made his way toward the fire . . . and the coffee.
Pouring himself a cup, he looked around. His hobbled pony was munching grass, its tail twitching away the occasional fly. It was the only animal in sight. With a dawning disbelief, Noble stared about the campsite.
No other tents. Just the one he’d crawled from. No packs. No gear. Nothing.
It hit him.
Venice had found him, bandaged him, and somehow gotten him here, all by herself. The enormity of the task struck him as did a sudden gut-twisting fear: Where was she now?
He wheeled around and the abrupt movement left him doubled over, gasping for breath. “You’re awake.”
He looked up. Venice stood just beyond the tent, a water bucket in her hand. Her black hair was wild about her shoulders. Her jacket hung open, revealing a dingy white shirt, stained russet with dried blood. Mauve shadows encircled her dark eyes. There was a waxy, drawn look to her delicate features. She looked a decade older than her twenty-two years. And she had never looked more beautiful to him.
“You’re okay, then?” she asked softly. Even from this distance, Noble could see the light catch her incredible silver eyes. He was a fool. His love for Venice was nothing more than an Irish lad’s moon-gazing dream. But Lord, to have her care so much that she would risk her life for him . . . It was almost enough to make a man believe in the impossible.
“You’ll be okay?” she repeated, as though she would not be satisfied until she’d heard a confirmation from his own lips.
“Yes. Where’s Reed?”
Her eyes narrowed and he saw the subtle tensing of a muscle along her delicate jawline.
“Mr. Reed has probably reached Salvage by now.”
“What?”
“He took the mule and went . . . for help.” Her last words sounded doubtful.
“But why—”
“I don’t know anything more,” she said in a voice that made it clear she didn’t want to answer any more questions about Reed. Fine. He felt woozy enough.
“Okay,” he said.
She nodded, setting down the bucket and turning away.
“Venice.”
She stopped. He went to her, moving gingerly, and touched her shoulder lightly.
“What you did for me . . . I . . . no one’s ever—” He fumbled to a stop.
She was watching him, her expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
She blinked. “You’re . . . welcome. I’m . . . I’m going to get some water. You had best rest.” She started walking away but paused a second and bestowed a smile on him before leaving.
He stood like a pole-axed steer, staring after her as she disappeared into the pines.
God help the men of the world, and most especially Noble McCaneaghy. Because when she smiled like that it made him doubt whether he’d ever find enough strength of will to keep away from her. And he had to keep away from her.
Because with a woman like Venice, once would never be enough. Not one kiss, not one dance, not one night. He could live with what he’d had with her so far; he could walk away and get on with his life. But what if they spent a night together?
There’d be nothing on earth that would keep him from her side.
What sort of future could he offer her, a woman used to everything?
He heard a faint lilting tune and cocked his ear toward the sound. Venice was whistling, a bright, off-key melody. A second later, she reappeared from the aspen stand, swinging the bucket.
When she saw him—exactly where she’d left him—a teasing smile lit her tired face. “Too sore to sit? Need a little help?”
He shook his head. She came up to him and, only half in jest, offered her arm. She looked infinitely appealing in her ragged clothes, with twigs in her ebony tresses. Too appealing. He grunted at her chivalrous offer and walked stiff-backed to the fire, easing himself down onto a flat-topped rock.
He watched her carefully hook the bucket onto a makeshift spit over the fire.
“Wherever did you learn to do all this?” Noble asked.
“Oh, I’m no ends resourceful. I have unplumbed depths.” Her voice was a purr, and there was a challenging gleam in her eyes.
Noble nearly fell off the rock.
She dimpled ingenuously and went back to stirring the embers beneath the bucket.
“I . . . I . . .” God Almighty, what was he supposed to say to that? ‘Cause if that was an invitation—and his body certainly seemed to want to take it that way since he was now as tight and tense as an elk in rut!—he’d best throw himself in the damn freezing river again.
“No kidding, Venice.” Damn it, he sounded like Reverend Niss, both sanctimonious and leering. “I mean it. Where’d you learn to make camp?”
“No kidding?” she asked, sounding disappointed. “Okay. No kidding. I spent a couple of summers as a kid with Uncle Milton.”
“You did? Here? ‘Cause I’ve run into Milton any number of times in these mountains over the last few years and he never mentioned you were with him.”
“No. Not in the recent past. When I was younger, a kid. He shepherded me around some of his archaeological sites. Egypt, Greece . . . Mexico.”
“You couldn’t have been more than—fourteen? fifteen?” Noble asked.
“Oh, don’t sound like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to charge in and save me from my wicked uncle.” He felt his cheeks flame and she laughed. “Not that I don’t appreciate your knight-in-shining-armor impulses,” she said, and her voice dropped, became gruff. “I do. I know you came after me because you were concerned for my welfare. I more than appreciate that fact, Noble. No one else has ever cared about me the way you do.”
He didn’t even try to deny it. “Yeah, we
ll,” he finally said dismissively, “looks like you’re the one who did most of the saving. You were going to tell me why Milt dragged you around the world.”
“Oh, yes. Mustn’t let anyone thank us, must we?” she said in a gently mocking tone. “All right. I won’t tease anymore. I believe the reason Uncle Milton dragged me about was that he thought I needed something to occupy my time.”
“And digging in the Sudan was the answer?” Noble asked incredulously. “Couldn’t you have taken up watercolors?”
“Oh, I loved it!” She laughed. “I’ve always loved it. Traveling about in unnamed forests, finding rivers no one has ever seen, identifying orchids. My father could never understand where I’d inherited my nomadic tendencies.”
“I bet he didn’t.”
Venice apparently didn’t hear the painful tightening of his tone.
“As for digging at Uncle Milton’s site . . . I was most certainly never trusted with a spade. I was his chief bottle-washer. He told me I had a definite future as a camp chef. I was, as you can well imagine, no ends flattered.”
“I had no idea,” he said admiringly.
“It was after you left.” The words were simple. The accusation that had been in the same words the first day she’d recognized him had vanished. Why? he wondered. Why now when they were alone, did she abandon the anger that might have provided some distance between them?
She had lowered her eyes and was twisting her hands together in her lap, a shy smile on her lips.
“Venice, I’m sorry about everything.”
She didn’t say a word.
“I acted like a prime ass back there in Salvage. And I haven’t any excuse ‘cept one; I was jealous.”
Her gaze shot up. “You were?”
He laughed. She looked so damn incredulous. “What, Venice?” he asked without thinking. “You just can’t believe I might be jealous of the thought of another man touching you? I know I haven’t the right to feel that way, but when does ‘right’ have anything to do with my feelings for you?”
He’d said too much. She was staring at him, wonder and something else alive in her expression.
Where the hell did he think this conversation was going? He was sore, aching, and growing weaker by the minute, alone in the middle of nowhere with the woman he loved. A woman he would never let himself have. He was amazed at his own self-restraint.
Awkwardly, he pushed himself upright. “You know, I think I’d better get some rest after all,” he mumbled.
She was beside him in a trice, linking her arm around his waist. Thank God the pain ripping through his side served to offset the tantalizing sensation of her arm pressing against him.
“Of course,” she said. “Lean on me.”
He did.
Chapter 17
“. . . Or to see ‘Mr. Seward’s Folly.’ Now that would be fun!” Venice said, her chin cupped in her hand as she stared into the flames.
Noble, who’d risen from his nap long since and was now sitting by the campfire, chewing the fry bread she’d made, stared at her. “You’re serious.”
“I most certainly am.”
“I don’t know any other woman who, when asked what she would most like to do in the world, would answer ‘Go to Alaska . . . for fun.’” He shook his head.
“That’s my answer and it’s not going to change no matter how much you sneer,” Venice returned saucily.
“I’m not sneering. Just skeptical. What do you know about Alaska? They say there are mosquitoes up there so large they can bleed a man dry in ten minutes.”
Venice shrugged. “So, I’ll go in the autumn after they’ve all died.”
“Autumn? Alaska doesn’t have autumn. They have ‘lots of ice’ and ‘a little less ice.’
She chuckled. “You explorer types love to exaggerate—to ensure you keep all the interesting places for yourselves.”
“Ever hear of something called frostbite, Venice?” Noble stretched his legs out, apparently enjoying their verbal sparring.
“Coward.”
“ ‘Scuse me?”
Venice snorted. “Letting a little thing like ice keep you from an adventure like that.”
He studied his hands, his brow furrowed. “Adventures can get you in trouble, Venice,” he said and she smiled at his bowed head, the soft fall of his long hair caught at the nape of his neck by a leather thong.
He loved her, she realized.
Oh, maybe not the fairy tale, ever-after sort of love. That didn’t exist. He loved her enough to be jealous of her; loved her enough to want to touch her, kiss her, hold her; loved her enough to follow her into the mountains so that he could make sure she was safe.
It was more than she’d ever had . . . or hoped for.
“Adventures are dangerous only if you don’t have a knight in shining armor standing by,” she said softly. “Once more, thank you for coming up after me, Noble.”
His gaze skittered away from hers and to her surprise he blushed. “Wasn’t any big deal,” he mumbled. “And it sure wasn’t like I had any choice.”
She tilted her head inquiringly.
“Oh, come on, Venice. Ever since you were in pigtails I’ve had this need—some less-than-kind folks might call it a mental aberration—to make sure you’re okay. Doesn’t look like a decade’s cured it.”
She laughed. “Fortunately for me.”
“You woulda been fine if Trees-Too-High and Crooked Hand had stayed.” His amber eyes glittered. “I haven’t any idea why they took off like that, but I intend to find out.”
“I’m sure they had their reasons.” It would be pointless to tell him of her suspicions regarding Cassius. Noble’s face had turned a dull, brick red already. Knowing how he already felt about Cassius, she thought he might use any excuse to punish the treacherous blackguard after they returned to Salvage. And she didn’t want him getting into trouble on that . . . person’s account.
“Still—” Noble glanced around. “You look like you could manage well enough without me. So, except for nearly getting myself drowned and obliging you to risk your life finding me, my tagging along didn’t really accomplish much.” Self-recrimination was rife in his voice.
“On the contrary,” Venice said. “You saved Mr. Reed’s life.”
He scowled. “Like I said, didn’t accomplish much.”
“Noble—”
“Saving Reed’s hide was that important to you?” he asked gruffly.
“Any—”
“No need to answer. That’s the way it should be. You’re both from the same city know the same kind of people, share what your father calls ‘social strata.’ ‘Course it’s important to you. I know yesterday you didn’t want to talk about him—”
“I was going to say,” Venice broke in calmly, “that I would have felt the same about anyone’s life. And I still don’t want to talk about Cassius Reed. Now or ever. We might share a similar address and have accounts at the same bank, but in no other manner, shape, or form are we the same.”
“But I thought you and he had an understanding.”
“No. We never have, nor will we.”
He smiled, a big, radiant grin. “Oh.”
For some reason that piece of information seemed to restore his appetite. He reached for another piece of fry bread and dipped it liberally into the tin of beans warming on a flat stone near the fire. She’d found that tin and a few hunks of dried beef among the small, loose sacks of flour, coffee, and dried apples at the bottom of his pack. Noble must have been in a hurry when he packed. There was little lard, no salt, and no sugar.
It was going to be interesting seeing how long she could make their supplies last. Or how long she would need to. At the rate Noble was devouring food, they’d be out of supplies by sunset tomorrow. She should be worried.
“So, what I want to know is why Alaska?” Noble asked, washing down yet another piece of bread with a mouthful of scalding coffee.
She arched a brow at him. “‘Cause it’s there and I
haven’t seen it and” —she dimpled triumphantly— “neither have you.”
He launched into an immediate rejoinder, which she countered right away, both of them relishing the verbal sparring.
And suddenly tomorrow just didn’t seem to matter.
Having stowed the rest of the cooking gear away and watered the pony, Venice dusted her hands on her pants legs. “I’m going to have a look at your side,” she said in what she hoped was a no-nonsense tone.
“It’s fine.”
“We’ll make sure of that.”
Noble made a disgusted sound. “It’s a scrape. It’s not even bleeding anymore. You’re making too much of it, Venice.”
“It’s a failing of mine. Indulge me.”
“As if I haven’t already—”
Venice didn’t wait to hear any more. Without another word she strode toward the tent.
She’d been trying to get a look at the wound on Noble’s side all day, and all day Noble had been putting her off. But she’d noticed that as dusk approached, he’d moved more and more slowly. The fact that he’d let her water the pony by herself told her a lot about how he was feeling.
Wrenching back the tent flap, she collected the whiskey flask and what was left of the shirt she’d sacrificed for bandages. Muttering under her breath, she marched back to where Noble stood.
“Take off your shirt.”
“That’s not a nice way for a lady to talk.”
“I am not going to be embarrassed, browbeaten, or coerced from my intent,” she said stiffly. “You can proposition me, swear at me, beg me, or threaten me . . . I’m not moving until I see your side.
Noble’s jaw grew mulish.
“What’s wrong, McCaneaghy?” she asked, sidling up to him. “I’ve seen your bare chest more than once in the past week. Seems to me you weren’t so modest standing at the trough out back of the Gold Dust—”
“Okay! Okay!” he said, turning scarlet. “If you’re so hot to see my weather-beaten hide, far be it from me to say no.”
Without another word, he unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging out of the heavy chambray and whipping it from his arms. His eyes locked with hers in a battle of wills.
Connie Brockway Page 20
