The Taming of Shaw MacCade

by Judith E. French

  Two horsemen, obviously more than a little intoxicated, appeared on the far bank, whooping and catcalling. Rebecca recognized them as two of the MacCade brothers just before a third rider reined in his mount on the brink of the bluff. The bay horse reared. Dirt rained down. Suddenly, the bank crumbled, throwing Bruce MacDuff and his gelding over the side.

  But Rebecca wasn't watching him. Instead, her eyes were riveted on the daredevil in the slouch hat and the high Indian moccasins just making down the tree roots into the water. He half swam, half waded across the creek, then paused when he reached the shallows. He straightened, yanked his hat down to shade his eyes, and surveyed the scene.

  Then Shaw's gaze met hers, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a wicked smile. He swept off his hat in an exaggerated gesture of respect and called. "Evening, Miss Raeburn. Nice night for a ride, wouldn't you say?"

  Chapter 10

  "Are you hurt?" Rebecca cried. The thought that he might have been killed by those ivory horns was chilling.

  "Can't say." He swayed slightly and gave her a roguish wink. "Either I broke something, or I'm too drunk to walk."

  Rebecca's pulse hammered. Waves of heat seared through her. She could feel the congregation's eyes on her. She knew there'd be hell to pay for speaking to Shaw, but she couldn't help herself. He'd risked his life to save her in the fire. She'd not be too cowardly to speak to him in public. "Too drunk to walk, but not too drunk to ride?" she accused.

  He grinned again, and she felt a quick surge of excitement. Even inebriated and battered, that long lean frame, those hard-muscled arms, and the roguish gleam in his eyes would tempt a saint to sin. Whatever else could be said about Shaw, he was all male and full to brimming with life.

  Shaw laughed. "Never too drunk to ride, Becca." He splashed toward her through the ankle-deep water and reached out his hand.

  She hesitated for only a heartbeat, thinking, it's too late to cast anchor when your boat's hit the rock. Her fingers closed on his, and he heaved himself up onto the bank and stood there triumphantly.

  Lord save her, she didn't know if she was relieved or disappointed that he'd survived the buffalo's attack. Shaw was a walking disaster. One sleeve was torn away, and half the buttons were missing off his shirt. A tear in the fabric of his trousers started at the knee and ran around the back of the garment, exposing a ten-inch length of tanned thigh. But his hat and Indian moccasins were intact, and other than a rising bruise on his cheekbone, a swelling lip, and skinned palms, Shaw seemed none the worse for wear.

  Another second passed before he said sheepishly, "Guess you folks were having a church service."

  "Baptisms." Rebecca dropped his hand as though it were a hot coal. "And you were... breaking buffalo to saddle?"

  He put one finger to his lips and tried to focus on her face. "Shhh," he warned mischievously. "The preacher might see us."

  "Oh, we needn't worry. I think they already have." Beyond Shaw, Rebecca glimpsed his cousin, still in the middle of the creek, still attempting to mount his horse. Each time Bruce tried to put his foot into the stirrup, the bay shied away. It seemed to her that Shaw hadn't been the only one to have a drop or two of spirits.

  "You should be ashamed—"

  "Rode that buff, didn't I?" A dimple flashed on his cheek as he slipped an arm around her shoulder to steady himself. "They bet me ten dollars I couldn't stay on him for—"

  "Becca!" Uncle Quinn called.

  She turned to see her father marching toward them. Two steps behind him came her red-faced uncle and one of the visiting ministers. Rebecca took a deep breath. "Get out of here, Shaw!"

  He grinned. "Not the first time we've seen trouble." Placing his dripping hat on his head, he cocked the brim to a rakish angle. "Time to go." He whirled and shouted to his cousin. "Bruce! You mind picking me up as you go by?"

  The bay gelding leaped up the creek bank, flinging stones and gravel from his back hooves. Bruce leaned forward over the horse's withers, whipping the animal's neck with the ends of the reins and struggling to thrust his right boot into the far stirrup.

  "Sorry I can't stay for services!" Shaw seared her mouth with a hard kiss and lunged to grab Bruce's hand.

  One minute, Shaw was swaying, seemingly too intoxicated to stand. And the next, he was vaulting up behind the saddle. "Maybe next time, Reverend," he called as Bruce set spurs to the gelding.

  Rebecca's father and the minister leaped aside. Uncle Quinn shook an angry fist. But the whooping riders galloped past, skirted the startled congregation, and made good their escape.

  Abruptly, without a word to her father or uncle, Rebecca hurried to where her grandmother stood. Pulling the muddy baptismal robe from Noah, she took it down to the creek to rinse off the dirt. Whatever the repercussions, she needed time to regain her composure. She had to think of what—if anything—to say in Shaw's defense.

  It was difficult enough to ignore the stares and whispers. And it was even harder to pretend to herself that Shaw's kiss hadn't affected her, that his touch hadn't stirred something deep within her. Oh, Lord, I should be furious with him, she thought. I should never want to lay eyes on him again. Instead, he stirred feelings, longings that no decent woman should have.

  Rebecca swallowed, trying to dissolve the tightness in her throat and rid herself of the bitter taste of copper. She could hold up her head and face down the gossips, but nothing could still the voice from deep inside. "I want him. Heaven help me, in spite of everything, I still want him."

  She'd been sixteen when she'd realized that what she felt for Shaw was more than friendship. They were too old to play childish games, but not too old to swim or fish together—or even to lie on a bluff on a lazy afternoon and watch the river roll past.

  Shaw still thought of her as a kid then. He teased her, treated her no differently than she supposed he did his younger brother. But he confided in her as well, telling her about the girls he liked or who liked him. She'd give him advice while all the while wanting to scream, "Look at me, Shaw. Aren't I as pretty? Haven't I always been here for you?"

  How many nights had she lain awake thinking about him? But he hadn't noticed—or hadn't let on that he did. They saw each other less and less as she'd turned seventeen and then eighteen. But when they did meet, or when he left messages for her in the cave, or if she saw him from a distance, the old fever still burned.

  One kiss was all she hoped for. She'd always known that she couldn't have him, that being with Shaw would mean giving up her family. She thought of him as her Romeo.

  In her mind, they were two tragic lovers destined never to be together in this world, just like the ones in Shakespeare's play—until that one afternoon when her dream had come true. Shaw had looked at her as if he'd never seen her before, and then he'd pulled her into his arms and kissed her full on the lips. That moment had been so sweet, so beautiful.

  Until Corbett shattered her fairy tale by pulling her aside later and telling her, "I saw you. I saw you with Shaw MacCade."

  "Don't tell Poppa," she'd begged him. "Please, don't tell."

  "If you try to see him again, I will," he'd threatened. "I'll tell Uncle Quinn. You know what he'll do. Uncle Quinn will follow him up into the hills, shoot him, and leave him for coyote bait."

  She'd believed Corbett, and she'd believed that her uncle was capable of murdering Shaw. So she'd broken off their friendship without telling Shaw why. She'd been so sure that she could be strong, that she could give him up to save him from certain death—until she'd caught him with her own sister.

  Then she'd learned that she wasn't as tough as she thought. She hadn't been able to face the truth, and she'd blamed him and Eve instead of herself.

  Now, Shaw was back, and she was caught in the old vise of loving him and knowing she couldn't have him. She didn't know if she could believe him about Eve's baby, and she had no idea if his intentions toward her were honorable or if he saw her as another easy conquest. And worse, Shaw had sworn to hunt down his brother's
killer and take his own justice.

  She would have given anything to have Eve here to confide in. She felt so alone, so helpless, and so confused. What was wrong with her that she couldn't stay away from Shaw?

  "Rebecca!" Her grandmother's voice broke through her reverie. "It's time to begin."

  With a sigh and a whispered prayer that Shaw would ride out of her life and never come back, Rebecca wrung the water from Noah's robe and walked back toward the others.

  * * *

  Later, after the baptisms, everyone gathered in the lantern-lit church for more preaching, music, and song. Since many of those in attendance had come a long way, the majority of the families would spend the night. They would camp out in tents or under their wagons so that they could enjoy Sunday services and another communal meal before returning home.

  Most families unhitched their canvas-topped farm wagons around a central campfire. The women served a late meal of soup, bread, and cold meat. Young children and the elderly soon curled up in blankets and drifted off to sleep while heartier souls prolonged the novelty of the evening by gathering to chat.

  Ed Bonwell began strumming his guitar, and voices joined in to sing a familiar hymn. Too restless to sleep, and unwilling to be drawn into conversation that might turn to Shaw MacCade, Rebecca drifted away from the fire to the church. She'd not gone more than a few yards when she came upon Jorgan Anderson and Nanci Jo Pratt.

  "Nice evening," Rebecca said. Earlier, Jorgan had had two opportunities to speak to her, but he hadn't. Now, a rigid mask of disapproval slipped over his plain features.

  "Miss Raeburn," he said stiffly.

  Nanci Jo, whom Rebecca had known since she was nine, only sniffed and tucked her arm through Jorgan's.

  "I'm sorry about what happened the night you took me to the dance at—" Rebecca began.

  But Jorgan cut her short. "Was for the best, what happened," he said. "You are not a woman I care to be seen with."

  "He's calling on me now," Nanci Jo declared.

  "Wonderful," Rebecca answered with as sweet a tone as she could manage. "I'm sure you'll be as well matched as two onions in a stew." Swallowing a sharper reply, she continued on her way.

  So much for Jorgan, she thought. Grandma will be terribly disappointed that I've let such a catch slip through my fingers. For her part, there were no regrets. In fact, she felt a weight lift off her shoulders, and her step was lighter as she walked down the shadowy path toward the church.

  The house of worship wasn't elaborate, just a simple log structure, thirty feet by forty feet, with an iron bell hanging over the door. The interior, whitewashed and equally plain, had been furnished with unpainted wooden benches, a handcrafted table used as a pulpit, and the organ. Rebecca slid onto a seat in the shadows near the entrance.

  Only a single lamp remained burning. A pale circle of light illuminated the table where John Jarrell, the regular pastor, and one of the visiting preachers appeared to be discussing Sunday's schedule.

  Then Rebecca heard the tread of boots on the sill and turned to see a tall, male figure fill the low doorway. Shaw! There was no mistaking him, even in the dim light. She held her breath, hoping he wouldn't see her, wondering why he had come here of all places.

  For a moment, he paused, seemingly without noticing her. Then he strode past her retreat to confront the preachers. "Gentlemen." Shaw creased the brim of his hat in one hand. "I think I owe you an apology."

  The two glanced up in surprise, and Reverend Jarrell chuckled good-naturedly. "It's a pleasure to see you here, Mr. MacCade. I'm sorry you missed the earlier service."

  Albright cleared his throat disapprovingly, but Shaw ignored him. "We didn't know you were having a baptism, Jarrell," Shaw said. "We were... Well, things got out of hand. I'm sorry if I broke up your baptizing."

  Jarrell laughed. "If that's what it takes to get a MacCade in my church, you can drive a herd of buffalo past it any day."

  Albright scoffed. "Don't you realize that someone could have been killed? You put women and children in danger! I've never seen a more sacrilegious—"

  "Said I was sorry," Shaw repeated. He didn't raise his voice, didn't move toward the visiting preacher, but Rebecca felt a breath of danger enter the sanctuary.

  Albright shrank back, clearly feeling the same threat, clearly afraid.

  "To make amends," Shaw continued, "I want to make a donation to the church." He dropped a tiny leather poke on the table. "This is prime dust."

  "Gold?" Albright reached for the bag. "Let me see that."

  "I didn't bring it for you," Shaw said. He plucked the little sack from the visitor's grasping fingers and tossed it to Reverend Jarrell.

  Still smiling, the balding minister nodded. "Thank you, Son," he said, offering Shaw his hand. "This will come in handy for our stained glass window fund. Your generous donation is greatly appreciated. As would your presence be at our worship services," he added pointedly.

  Shaw regarded him with solemn amusement. "You know what they say in the Bible about that one lost sheep, Preacher. I'm that black lamb that's trotted off into the wilderness. But you give your congregation my apologies, especially Miss Rebecca Raeburn."

  "You should be arrested," Albright grumbled. "Public drunkenness, creating a nuisance."

  "Oh, I don't think that's necessary," Jarrell said. "I don't think it will happen a second time."

  Shaw's deep chuckle echoed through the building. "I doubt it." He rubbed his backside with one hand. "I believe I've had enough buff riding to last me a spell."

  Not wanting Shaw to think she was spying, Rebecca slipped quietly out of the church. She'd gone only a little ways when she heard footsteps behind her. Feeling foolish, she crouched into the shadows of the trees and watched as Shaw sauntered past.

  She waited nervously for several minutes, hearing nothing more but the far-off hoot of an owl, then started back to the circle of wagons. She hadn't taken two steps when she heard Shaw whisper her name.

  "Becca?"

  Startled, she uttered a small gasp. Strong arms went around her. Alternate waves of heat and cold flashed under her skin, and her knees felt like jelly.

  "It's me," he whispered. "Didn't mean to scare—"

  "I'm not scared," she lied. She was terrified. When had he gotten so big? So powerful?

  Her breasts were clamped hard against his chest, and she could feel the heat of his legs and thighs through her garments. Pinwheels whirled in the pit of her belly, and she momentarily lost the power of speech.

  "Come with me," Shaw said. "I need to talk to you."

  His breath was warm on her face, and the familiar sound of her name on his lips had made her go all soft inside. "Leave me alone, please," she begged him.

  "Can't do that."

  "Why? You'll just make more trouble for me."

  "We can't talk here," he said. "They might come out."

  No, not here, she thought. But she was as giddy as a new-hatched chick. She couldn't put two words together to save her soul. She knew she shouldn't go a step with him. If she had any sense at all, she'd scream, run. But she couldn't stop herself. At that moment, heaven save her, she would have followed him to the gates of hell.

  Shaw took her by the arm, and her resistance melted. Firmly, he led her around the church and down toward the creek. "Watch your step. There are holes," he warned.

  When they were safely away from discovery, he stopped at a bend in the creek, took off his buckskin jacket, and spread it on the ground. "Sit," he ordered.

  She didn't argue.

  "I guess you heard what I had to say in there."

  He didn't sound drunk anymore, and she couldn't detect the scent of spirits as she had earlier. He smelled of soap and leather with the faintest hint of horse—all male odors, and none unpleasant. Shaw squatted beside her and touched her cheek affectionately with rough fingertips.

  She exhaled with a little sigh, and her thoughts came tumbling out. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she said too quickly. "I
just—"

  "No need for you to apologize." He trailed his fingers from her cheek to her lower lip. "I pretty much made a fool out of myself today, didn't I?" He settled beside her, slipping a superbly muscled arm around her shoulders.

  She didn't breathe, didn't blink an eye.

  "Well?" he gave her a squeeze. "Wouldn't you say I looked the drunken fool?"

  "Pretty much," she agreed. He was going to kiss her. She knew he was going to kiss her. She glanced around nervously, afraid that her father, uncle, or one of her brothers might come looking for her. "Shaw, we shouldn't—"

  "No." He put his fingertips over her lips. "Let me say what I have to."

  She trembled with anticipation. The weakness in her knees had spread, had become a heavy-limbed aching. Her stomach knotted. She felt as though her stays were suddenly laced too tight, making it difficult for her to draw in enough air.

  "I'm sorry," he said huskily. He continued his exploration of her face, gently stroking her cheekbone and the line of an eyebrow. "What I told Jarrell was the truth." Shaw was breathing harder, too. She could sense his trepidation, his tensing muscles, and she wondered if his heart was racing as fast as hers.

  "We shouldn't be together," she managed. "We can't be together."

  "This is important. I need for you to hear me out."

  "All right." Surely he could feel the growing tension between them. She strained to see his face in the moonlight. His features were all hard planes and rugged hollows, but she could make out the gleam in his eyes as he stared at her.

  "Bruce and a couple of my brothers and me got to drinking last night." He cupped her chin in his broad hand and leaned closer. "Oh, hell. We had no intentions of breaking up your church christening."