“Fornication?” Race had no idea in hell what that was.
“You have that look about you,” she informed him apologetically. “To someone of my persuasions, a rather dangerous look. Very worldly and—well, earthy. But if you’re as ignorant as I about bedroom matters I was obviously wrong.”
Race drew his hand from his chin to hold up a staying finger. “Whoa, there, darlin’. Don’t go barkin’ up that rope.”
“What rope?”
“The ignorant rope.” He turned, lifted the quilts, and slipped in beside her. “I’m a dumb jackass about a lot of things, but makin’ love ain’t one of ’em.” He propped his head on the heel of his hand to gaze down at her. “I was talkin’ about the virgin pain and your ma sayin’ it was tolerable. I don’t know nothin’ about that because I ain’t never been with a first-time gal. The ladies I been with, and there’s been a number of ’em, was all well broke to the saddle, if you know what I mean.”
The puzzlement in her luminous eyes told him she didn’t. “Well broke, Mr. Spencer?”
He traced the fragile line of her cheekbone with the back of a knuckle. “Never you mind. It ain’t important.”
Her expression grew troubled. “So you have considerable experience with…fornication?”
Race was beginning to glean the meaning of the word. Yet another highfalutin tongue waggler, compliments of his golden-haired angel. “I reckon I do.”
He smiled slightly, noting the rapid pulse beat at her temple when he pressed the backs of his fingers over the spot. The girl hadn’t lied. She wasn’t scared; she was plumb terrified. He decided then and there that he needed to hold off on staking his claim. Consummate, she’d called it. She had big words for damned near everything, even screwing. Fornicating? Jesus H. Christ.
Given the fact that it didn’t appear he’d be fornicating any time soon, Race decided he could send her off to sleep with something else that might comfort her in her dreams. “You disappointed in me, knowin’ I been fornicatin’ before I met you?”
She nibbled at her bottom lip as she considered the question. “Well, it is a sin, you know.”
For a young woman who said she was flat done with God and all that Bible-thumping stuff, she sure had strong leanings in that direction. Doing his best to sound surprised, Race said, “Fornicatin’ is a sin?”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Surely you know that.”
“Well, I know you ain’t supposed to do it outside marriage. Cookie explained that to me. But I can’t see how much of anything, no matter how wrong, is a sin. What’re you sayin’? That it’s my fault I fornicated?”
“Well, of course, Mr. Spencer. If not your fault, whose might it be?”
“God’s.”
That brought her to a sitting position. She whipped around to fix an incredulous gaze on him. “God’s? Where in heaven’s name did you get that idea? The wrongs you commit are your doing, and they are therefore your fault. How on earth can you lay the blame at God’s door?”
Race kept his expression carefully solemn. Looking stupid wasn’t a problem. He seemed to have a talent for that. “Well, because, darlin’. He’s my Maker, ain’t He? Accordin’ to how you believe, anyhow. I’ll tell you straightaway that I ain’t real up on the Bible. Not bein’ able to read, I just have to go by things I’ve heard, here and there.”
“God is your Maker, yes. But that doesn’t make Him responsible for your actions.”
Race settled in for a long wait while she launched into an explanation of how things worked, telling him the story of Creation and about God’s making man in His own image, but giving him free will and then a whole bunch of warnings about all kinds of things he shouldn’t do. “So you see, how you choose to live your life, and the things you decide to do while you’re living it are entirely up to you,” she concluded. “If not for free will, man would have no choices. As it is, he does. Therefore if he elects to do something wrong or terrible, he alone is held accountable, not God.”
Race assumed a bewildered frown. “Hm. That’s purely amazin’. All this time I had me the idea that when people done really terrible, horrible things that it was all God’s fault. And now you’re tellin’ me He don’t got nothin’ to do with it? That the folks who commit the act bear the whole blame? And I got black marks on my soul for all the wrong things I done?”
“Absolutely. We alone are responsible for our actions.”
Race gave her his best “gotcha” look. “Then explain me this one thing, darlin’. How come is it you’re blamin’ God for what them heartless bastards done to your people in the arroyo?”
Her face drained completely of color, and she stared at him for so long with a shocked, blank expression on her face that he almost wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He kept waiting for her to say something. Instead, little muscles in her face started to twitch, and it seemed to him her skin grew taut over the bones, making her look almost skeletal.
Then, before Race could anticipate what she meant to do, she leaped up, ran to the wagon gate, and jerked aside the flap. “Rebecca, come back here!”
In a blur of white, she vanished into the darkness. Cursing, Race strapped on his guns, grabbed his wool blanket from the floor, and rushed after her, half-afraid she’d venture a dangerous distance from camp and encounter the ruffians, whom he knew were following them. He was relieved when he found her kneeling beneath a tree just beyond the edge of camp. Upset the girl might be, but stupid, she wasn’t.
Tender of foot, he gimped his way to her over stickery evergreen needles, sharp stones, and twigs. As he drew up behind her, he heard her sobbing and saying in a broken voice, “Oh, God…oh, God…oh, God…”
He went down on one knee behind her, draped the blanket over her shoulders, and then folded his arms around her. She was shaking so horribly that he wanted nothing more than to beg her forgiveness for hazing her into a trap like that, but truthfully he wasn’t and never would be sorry. His little angel needed her God back, and if Race had to hurt her some to see that she found Him, he figured the end justified the means.
So he said nothing. Offered no apology or words of comfort. He just held her so she wouldn’t get cold and felt his heart breaking a little more with each one of the sobs that racked her slender body. When she had cried herself nearly out, she began to lean more heavily into him, turning slightly to press a damp cheek against his bare chest. Silence. Rubbing her arm through the blanket, Race gazed up through the pine boughs at the moon-silvery sky and the clouds that drifted overhead, like wispy layers of gauze between him and the twinkling stars.
God. Race had determined long ago that He had many different faces and as many different names, and that He showed Himself to people in different ways. Race believed—deeply. And he supposed that the God he did believe in was the same one Rebecca knew. But, by the same token, a lot of her ideas and convictions struck him as totally loco. He might be wrong, but it seemed to him there was little joy in her way of believing, that it was mostly trying to be impossibly good and following so many rules they were hard to keep track of.
Maybe it was the Indian in him, but Race wasn’t much on rules. To him, God was moonlight coming through pine boughs, the birth of a new fawn, the drift of a snowflake, the innocence in an angel’s blue eyes. His God was all beautiful. No hellfire and damnation. No lightning-bolt vengeance. Just love and goodness. To Race’s way of thinking, the only rule his God probably wanted him to follow, hard and fast, was to try his best to be a decent man. It made sense that if Race and everyone else would only work hard at being decent that all those other lists of rules would be unnecessary. Being decent sort of came with its own rule book.
“My parents, the others, they trusted in Him to protect them,” Rebecca whispered, her voice weighted with weariness. “They believed in free will, just as I explained it to you. Yet they also believed God was their shield. How is it that you can cut your way through all the intricacies of it, seeing so easily that it can’t be both ways, but well-educate
d Bible scholars like my papa and the other brethren could not?”
Race continued to massage her arm, his gaze fixed on the moonbeams. “Honey, I ain’t the one to answer religion questions for you. I ain’t got a lick of Christian learnin’ under my belt, and to tell ya the truth, the parts of the Bible I have heard tell of sound sorta farfetched.”
She followed his gaze to the silvery light coming down through the trees.
“I can tell you this, though, it bein’ somethin’ I’ve seen and noted.” He tightened his hand over her arm. “There’s men like me, who can’t read a word or write a lick, and we’re dumb jackasses, no arguin’ the point. But there’s also men that can read and write, who spend so damned much time doin’ both that they’re dumb jackasses in their own right.”
She stiffened and threw him an incredulous look. “Are you saying my papa was a dumb jackass?”
She sounded so indignant, Race chuckled. “Well, bein’s I call myself one, I reckon he’s in good company. I don’t mean dumb, I don’t guess. Ignorant, in my case. Confused, in his.”
“I’m amazed you know a word like ‘ignorant.’”
He sighed. “Now, see there? Start talkin’ religion, and you’re pissed off.”
“Your referring to my father as a ‘dumb jackass’ has nothing to do with religion. I would appreciate it if you would concede the point and retract the statement.”
Race met her gaze, which was fairly snapping. Her moods swung as violently as a sapling in a high wind. “Rebecca Ann, you wantin’ to fight with me?”
“If you’re going to besmirch my father’s memory, yes, indeed!”
“Then talk so’s I can understand you.”
Her small nose moved closer to his. “Say you’re sorry. Do you understand that?”
He chuckled. “I sure as hell do.” Then in a softer voice, he said, “I’m sorry. I only meant that it sounds to me like your papa read the whole damned Bible, and it’s a thick bugger. I don’t know what parts of the Good Book he found his beliefs in, but it stands to reason there was a helluva lot of readin’ betwixt one point and another. I think he plumb forgot readin’ about ‘free will’ by the time he read the part about God protectin’ him from all harm. The two don’t mix real good, and it’d be easy to get your facts muddled, takin’ them, one by one, from such a big book. You hear what I’m sayin’?”
“That my father didn’t have good sense.”
Race chuckled again. “That ain’t what I said. Your papa probably made great sense most of the time. He raised you, didn’t he? I gotta tell ya, that gives him a real high recommend in my books.”
She looked slightly mollified. “Thank you.”
“Ain’t nothin’ you gotta thank me for. I’m just statin’ the facts. As for your papa, I just believe he got his thinkin’ crossed on a couple of things and come up with some ideas that didn’t make much sense at all.
“I ain’t sayin’ all his thinkin’ was dumb. Take me, for instance. I think I’m a sensible man, most times. But here I am, kneelin’ under a tree with no shirt on and stickers in my big toe. That might make sense if I had me a lovin’ woman in my arms, but instead, I’m out here arguin’ with one.”
She smiled and rested her cheek against his chest again. “You know…having seen the things I’ve seen—those ruffians and the terrible things they did—and knowing heartless men like that have free will, I don’t know how I could have expected God to protect us from them. He can’t give free will to only the good people.”
“Do you feel some better, knowin’ He didn’t break a promise to you?”
“I feel bad for blaming Him,” she said softly. “And afraid, knowing He can’t protect me.”
“I ain’t sayin’ that. He can and He does. He can give you the strength you need to get through the windstorms, sweetheart. And sometimes, if you listen close, He can steer you clear of danger. I remember one time, gettin’ a crawly feelin’ on my neck and stoppin’ my horse. Two seconds later, a rock slide broke loose and hit right where I would’ve been if I hadn’t stopped. I reckon He protects us in all kinds of other ways, too. I’m just sayin’ I don’t believe he can stay a cruel man’s hand, that’s all.”
She lifted her gaze to the moonlit sky once more and didn’t speak for a while. When she finally did, she sighed. “This makes twice.”
“Twice for what?”
“The two worst weeping spells of my life, and both times you’ve somehow made me want to laugh instead of cry. You’re a good man, Mr. Spencer. For a fornicator.”
He grinned. “You make it sound like I done it every day and twice on Sunday. In truth, it wasn’t all that often that I went to town, and it’s a damned good thing, or I’d be broke.”
“Broke?”
He kept forgetting he needed to watch his tongue. He sighed and resumed gazing at the stars.
“What have you been studying up there?”
Race stared up through the pine boughs for a long while before replying.
“God,” he finally whispered.
Race.
His name became a gentle whisper in Rebecca’s mind over the next three days.
Since he spent most of each day driving the oxen with her on the wagon seat beside him, he decided to put the time to good use, and Rebecca found herself attending school, Race Spencer style. He spent hours patiently sharing with her his wealth of knowledge—teaching her how to tell her directions, showing her how to find water, telling her what to do if she became lost. He frequently stopped the wagon with no warning, tied off the leads, set the brake, and lifted her down from her perch for an impromptu walk.
“That there’s a wild onion,” he would point out one time.
When next he stopped the wagon, he would stand beside the trail, booted feet spread, hands at his hips, his black Stetson cocked to shade his eyes, and say, “Find me a wild onion, darlin’.” As Rebecca set off to do that, Race and Blue heeled behind her like a pair of faithful hounds. Unless, of course, she happened to point out the incorrect species of plant, whereupon the very tall hound nudged back his hat, jutted his squared chin, and said, “Rebecca Ann, that ain’t no wild onion!”
He didn’t seem to realize she was teasing him if she popped back and said, “It ain’t?” Instead of hearing the echo, he would get an exasperated expression on his burnished face, roll his eyes, and say, “No, it ain’t!” So much for her progress in cleaning up Race Spencer’s English.
He was quite successful in teaching her, however. Throughout most of the first day, he showed her edible plants that grew wild in that country and how to find them. On the second day, he made her collect those plants without his assistance, and that evening, he set himself to the task of teaching her how to make “starvin’ man’s stew,” a watery and not very tasty concoction that he claimed would keep her alive for days in the wilderness until she found better food or ran across people.
It didn’t take Rebecca long to determine that her “handshake” husband was trying, in the only way he knew, to shore up her self-confidence, which he had so eloquently likened to the roots of his injured fir tree. Though not entirely certain that knowing how to make “starvin’ man’s stew” was going to result in her feeling any less fearful, Rebecca appreciated the thought nonetheless. And since she enjoyed being with him so much, she decided the lessons couldn’t hurt.
Race. With each moment that passed, it became clearer to her that it wasn’t so much all the things that he tried to give her, but the man himself, that was the sweetest gift. His strong hand clasping hers. The ring of his laughter in the crisp fall air. The shine of sunlight on his hair. The comfort of his arms around her at night. The knowledge that, even though he desired her, he held back from taking her. A man could stand fast against his primitive urges if he had Race Spencer’s sense of honor and strength of character. Her mother had been very wrong to believe otherwise.
On the night of their “handshake” marriage, Race had asked her if she had no deeper feelings for him than fri
endship, and Rebecca had floundered in the tangle of her own emotions, uncertain how to reply. She had considered him her best friend, she’d told him, as if that bond somehow precluded a deeper, more meaningful one from developing. Not so, she was beginning to suspect now. It wasn’t impossible for a woman to fall in love with her best friend. It was simply rare that two such strong bonds might develop in tandem.
Their last evening on the trail before reaching his ranch, Race approached Rebecca where she sat by the fire and dropped some clothing on her lap. “Go put them on,” he told her.
Rebecca’s eyes filled with tears when she held up the jeans and small shirt, for she knew they had belonged to Tag. She threw Race an incredulous look. “I can’t wear these.”
“That’s pure silly, darlin’. He’d want you to get some use out of ’em.” He hooked a thumb over his broad shoulder toward her wagon. “Go on. Get ’em on. If the pants is too big, come back out and I’ll cinch the waist with rope.”
“May I ask why?” Rebecca had never worn britches in her life, nor any clothing that wasn’t solid black. She glanced at Pete, Johnny, Preach, and Trevor McNaught, who sat with her at the fire, sipping coffee. “It’s not a very appropriate ensemble for a lady.”
Race leaned down, the edge of his hat brim nearly touching her forehead, his twinkling brown eyes holding her gaze. In a whisper for her ears only, he said, “Rebecca Ann, mind your husband and do as you’re told before I warm your backside.”
She drew back to regard him with a narrowed eye. “Are you lookin’ to get your nose broken again, mister?”
“Only if you’ll let me have some fun first,” he whispered back.
Rebecca was still blushing when she returned to the fire a few minutes later, holding up the jeans around her waist so they wouldn’t fall in a puddle around her ankles. She was relieved to note that the other men around the fire were gone.
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