"No, this will be fine," Rebecca exclaimed. "And I insist on paying for my passage." She scrambled up to the flat deck and reached for the small sack of hard money she carried on a cord around her neck.
"Not a cent." Joe beamed. And then he dug deep in the pocket of his baggy trousers and produced a small pepperbox pistol. "You'd be doin' me a real favor, if you'd just carry this along with you to Saint Louis. I'd rather drop anchor in Injun country territory than walk down a Saint Louis street after dark."
"I can't take your gun. It's worth a lot of—"
"Just a loan. You kin give it back next time I see you." He flushed with pleased embarrassment and scratched his substantial stomach. "You'd be doin' me a big favor." He shoved the gun into her hand.
"Thank you, but I really don't think—"
"What the blazes?" Joe delivered a stream of curses that would have shamed a drover as another keelboat under sail came around the bend directly in their path.
Rebecca watched breathlessly as Joe threw his full weight on the steering oar and his roustabouts dashed to the port side to try to avoid a collision.
Muscles bulged, and sweat streamed from the oarsmen. Joe's keelboaters thrust their poles into the muddy river bottom and heaved in unison. At the last possible moment, the Kentucky Gal turned slightly and slid past the larger keelboat with barely an arm's length between them. Joe continued to hurl oaths across the muddy water.
The Kentucky Gal's sail remained furled due to the wind direction, and the oarsmen rowed and poled. Occasionally, eight or ten crewmen went ashore and towed the boat by means of a long rope tied to the mast.
Progress was slow, but Rebecca didn't mind. High bluffs bordered the river on the south, and the wooded shores were broken intermittently by farms. Sometimes hawks swooped overhead, and once she saw a pair of golden eagles. The Missouri River was alive with traffic ranging from smaller steamboats to flat-boats and canoes, but there was always something new and interesting around the next bend.
Getting away from Shaw and home had been just what she'd needed to clear her head. Everything had happened so fast since that foggy night she'd ferried Shaw across the Little Smoke. She needed to put distance between them. When she was close to him, when he kissed her, all reason flew out the window and she became that girl who'd loved him so desperately, years ago. She needed to decide if this overwhelming physical need she felt whenever he touched her was love or something baser.
As much as she wanted to believe that Shaw was innocent of fathering Eve's little boy, common sense demanded proof. If she'd been wrong in accusing him, then perhaps, just maybe, they might be able to find some way to reconcile the differences between the Raeburns and the MacCades. They might pick up where they'd left off, tell their families that they meant to see each other, and see where their relationship went.
After all, Shaw had been gone four years. She knew so little about what he'd done and who he'd become in that time. She needed to convince him that if he did discover who had killed his brother, he must let the law deal with the killer. They had no chance together if he was bent on revenge.
Rebecca steepled her fingers and sighed thoughtfully. She was a fool if she believed all those things were possible. Changing a MacCade was like trying to change the weather. All a sensible person could do was to take advantage of the sunshine and shelter from the storm. Her hopes were just that; empty wishes.
Eve, she could do something about. She would see her sister and reassure herself that what Poppa and Uncle Quinn had claimed was untrue. There was no way Eve could be a strumpet, selling her body to strangers. She would never believe such a lie. And somehow, she must convince Eve to come home and make her peace with Poppa. Naturally her father would be furious with her for running off, but he would forgive her if she could reconcile Eve with the family.
Rebecca dug in her money bag for her rose-colored arrowhead. She held it tightly in her hand and tried to reassure herself that she'd done the right thing. How could she think straight when everything was so mixed up? Besides, traveling to Saint Louis on her own was an adventure.
She nibbled her bottom lip and hugged her arms tightly against her breasts. Since she was fifteen she had loved Shaw. Nothing could change that. But only she could determine what she would do about that love.
Could she bear to trade Angel Crossing and everyone else she cared for, for a man who hadn't even said he loved her?
The wailing blast of a steamboat cut through her reverie. Rebecca shaded her eyes and stared at the westward settlers crowding the double decks of the side-wheeler. The wind was picking up, and the air pulsed with excitement. And if she tried hard enough, she could pretend that it was dust carried on the breeze that made her eyes tear up—simply particles of dust and not thoughts of Shaw and all she had left behind her.
* * *
Quinn lowered the rifle so that it pointed directly at Shaw's chest. "Give me one good reason, boy," he drawled softly, "why I shouldn't send you to a better place." Two snarling dogs backed him up, teeth bared, hackles raised.
Shaw kept his reins tight so that the Appaloosa stud arched his neck and pawed the muddy ground. A steady rain was falling, too light to be a downpour but substantial enough to help the crops. His jaw clenched, but he forced his tone to remain calm. "I'd be obliged if you'd let me speak to Becca," he said. "I didn't come here to pick a fight."
Her uncle's face was an uncompromising mask. "I don't mind doing the honors."
Quinn had stopped Shaw at the gate that led into the farmyard at Angel Crossing. Two days had come and gone since Rebecca had ordered Shaw out of her bedchamber. The first twenty-four hours he'd vowed never to see her again, but by today, he'd weakened. Maybe the sneaking around was what she couldn't take, he reasoned. Maybe if he faced down her family, they could brazen it out.
"How's Noah?" Shaw asked.
Quinn's eyes narrowed. Shaw kept his gaze on them. If Quinn meant to pull the trigger, his eyes would register the move first. If he did...
Shaw hoped he didn't. Becca wouldn't take kindly to his shooting down her uncle, maybe killing him. But he didn't mean to take a rifle slug himself, and if he had to fire quickly, it might be hard to aim to wound Quinn rather than take him out altogether.
"Noah's holding his own." One of the dogs, the biggest, inched closer to the gate, but Quinn brought him to ground with a wave and the low order, "Down, Jess."
"Good. My brother's on the mend. It seems a fair trade to me."
Quinn spat into the dirt. "Fair would be the MacCades moving on to California. Fair might be your pop giving up the claims to what's not his."
Shaw studied the older man, wondering if he'd been the one to bring Laird down. He'd been over the ground where his brother had died a dozen times. Too much time had passed for there to be any tracks, but he kept hoping for something—something to hang his hopes on. If Campbell hadn't shot Laird, it might have been one of the twins. He didn't believe Corbett had it in him to be a stone-cold killer. But Quinn... Quinn was another breed altogether. He'd seen plenty of men like Quinn in California. Rebecca's uncle would do what he wanted and the devil take the hindmost.
"I've been thinking," Shaw mused aloud. "Could be you're the man I've been looking for, the one who murdered my brother Laird."
Quinn tensed as he considered that statement. "You've got grit, MacCade, to insult a man holding a rifle dead center on your heart."
"Somebody hated my brother enough to back-shoot him."
"Could be Laird was where he didn't belong."
"That's a possibility," Shaw agreed. Tension crackled between them as the rain continued to soak his skin. Shaw waited, primed to duck and go for his own rifle if Quinn moved a muscle. "Becca's certain it wasn't her father."
"Nope, t'weren't Campbell. Campbell was with me that night. Hunting."
"A good alibi—for both of you."
"Convinced a jury."
Shaw nodded. "Depends on the jury."
An impish smile teased a
t the corners of the older man's mouth. Slowly he lowered the weapon. "Becca's not here."
A chill pierced Shaw's facade. "Where is she?"
"Gone."
"Gone where?" Shaw demanded.
"Best you talk to Mama about that." Quinn cradled the rifle in the crook of his arm and unlatched the gate. "You can ride in and ask her, but mind your manners. Corbett's in the house. He might not feel as neighborly as I do." He stilled his dogs with a sharp command and stood back to let Shaw ride past.
* * *
Jeanne Monro Campbell, Rebecca's grandmother, stared suspiciously at Shaw from the open doorway. Behind her, Shaw saw a neighbor he recognized as Dagmar Hedger, and the housekeeper Pilar.
Shaw removed his hat. "Mrs. Campbell. Ladies."
Rebecca's grandmother frowned and spoke to the women. "Noah could use some more of that willow tea. If you'd see to it..." They bustled away, and Jeanne turned back to Shaw. "I was afraid Becca had run off with you. It's what her father thought."
"I asked her to," he replied. He stood by the house steps, Chinook's reins in one hand and his hat in the other. Quinn and the dogs were back by the paddock. Shaw didn't know where Corbett was, but the prickling hair on the back of his neck told him that other eyes were watching him from the house.
"Thought you might." Jeanne Campbell looked every year of her age. Her single, good eye was heavy lidded, as though she'd gone without sleep, and she leaned against the doorjamb. "No good will come of the two of you," she advised. "There's a curse on our families. You young folk don't believe it, but the curse is real."
The rain was petering out. In the west, where the sun was going down, the sky was lighter. "Maybe we could beat that curse with a little help," Shaw suggested. "I didn't bring shame on Eve, and I won't on Becca. That's the truth, whether you believe me or not."
"Maybe, maybe not." A lump bobbed in the old woman's throat. Her neck was lined, seamed like old leather. "But Quinn told me what you did in the shoot-out at your place the other day." She hesitated and then went on. Her voice rasped as though each word might be her last. "She means the world to me, my Becca."
"And me," he said.
"If I tell you where she went, you've got to swear to bring her home. I have to see her—at least once more. Will you swear on your immortal soul, MacCade boy?"
"I will."
Nodding, she handed him the folded note Rebecca had left on her pillow. "She's off to Saint Louis. Campbell and the twins went after her, but they won't catch her. She's her mother's child. What she sets out to do, she does."
Shaw's eyes scanned the note. "Saint Louis," he repeated, almost to himself.
"You'll go after her?" Jeanne Campbell's look was almost feverish. "I'm afraid for her there. Afraid for what she'll find."
"I'll find her," he promised. "You've my word on it."
"And you'll bring her back to me?"
"I will."
"Follow the river," she advised. "Becca took a mule, so Campbell and the twins thought the two of you intended to ride to Saint Louis. They wouldn't listen to me. But I know my granddaughter. She has river water in her blood."
"All right," Shaw agreed.
"And one more thing."
He waited expectantly.
"If you see my granddaughter Evie, tell her I love her."
* * *
Rebecca opened her eyes to total darkness. For seconds, perhaps minutes, she tried to orient herself before remembering that she was nestled in a bed of furs in the cabin of the Kentucky Gal. The pelts of lynx, fox, and beaver that Joe Turner carried east from the upper reaches of the Missouri River were a valuable cargo. And they made a lovely bed. She stretched, enjoying the luxurious sensation of the furs against her bare skin.
But it wasn't the unaccustomed comfort of her bed that had pulled her from her sleep. It was the warmth of the naked man beside her and the sound of his heart beating beneath his wide, superbly muscled chest. "How did you find me?" she asked him. The blackness of her lair was Stygian; she couldn't see the chiseled male face nuzzling her hair, but she hadn't the faintest doubt who he was.
"Did you think I wouldn't?" The rich timbre of Shaw's soft Missouri speech sent shivers through her. "Ah, Becca... my Becca, I'd follow you to the gates of hell and back."
"Shhh." She covered his lips with her fingers. "They'll hear us... the oarsmen... Joe..."
"Do you care?" A callused palm cupped her breast. Long fingers stroked and teased until her nipples hardened and then tingled. She felt an unfamiliar yearning. For what, she wasn't sure.
"They'll think I—"
"They'll think the truth. That you belong to me. Now and for always." His mouth claimed hers. His kiss was hot and demanding. And she could no more have resisted than she could have taken wing and flown over the river. She welcomed his need, let it ignite her own.
Her head tilted back, cradled in his sinewy arm. He kissed her mouth, her throat, and the hollow between her breasts. The restless ache between her legs grew in intensity, and she wrapped her legs around his long, hard ones.
"Becca, my Becca," he groaned. "I love you." His mouth ground against hers, and blossoms of fire burst forth in her veins. Again, Shaw's kisses trailed lower, his tongue laving, his lips torturing the sensitive surface of her skin. Her breath became labored and she squirmed, thrilling to each new and exquisite sensation.
Then her eyes widened in the darkness as his warm, seeking mouth closed over her nipple, and she felt the rasp of his tongue against her tender flesh. "Ohhh." She had not known that a man could suckle at a woman's breast like a baby. But surely, this wasn't what a mother felt when she nursed her child. Instinctively, even in her innocence, Rebecca understood that this feeling was wildly different.
"I want you, Becca."
Each spot his fingers touched sparked a white-hot flame, and the flames spread to become a raging fire. "You shouldn't..." she managed. They were not man and wife. She had vowed never to let a man take liberties with her body...
But nothing in her life had prepared her for Shaw, and her shamelessness knew no bounds. Moaning softly, she arched against him, offering him first one breast and then the other. His lips caressed her, and the slow, sweet tugging drove her beyond reason. "Yes," she whimpered. "Oh, yes. That feels so good."
"You're mine, only mine," he said.
Flashes of heat scorched her skin. She clasped his heavily muscled upper arm, the strong, sinewy column of his neck, his powerful shoulders, reveling in the power of this man, drinking in the joy of his hands and mouth on her.
"You're beautiful," he whispered huskily as he stroked the curve of her back and buttocks. "So beautiful."
"I love you, Shaw," she murmured. "I've always loved you."
"Touch me."
She did not ask where. She knew. Wantonly, with trembling fingers, she explored the tumescent proof of his inflamed virility. And his rasping groans of desire added to her own throbbing need.
His hand slid lower, over her belly, to brush the springy curls above her most secret place. "Let me touch you," he said. The heat of his palm covered her mound, and she shuddered with delight. With a small cry, she opened for him, whimpering deep in her throat as one lean finger gently probed her moist folds.
Someone shook her. "Lady. Lady! You'll miss your boat."
Rebecca sat bolt upright in the bed.
"Put out that light!" the old woman next to her grumbled. "Honest folk are tryin' to sleep." The spinster's breath was sour, and Rebecca gasped, fighting back nausea.
"You wanted me to call you when the boat was ready to leave," the serving girl said. "The man come to the door. He says come now or find other passage."
Mind foggy, Rebecca scrambled out of the bed. Had it all been a dream? Where was Shaw?
"Lady? Are you goin' or not?" the maid demanded. "If you ain't, I'm goin' back to bed."
Cold reality settled over Rebecca. Shaw wasn't here. He hadn't been here. And what had happened... She felt her face flush with the
memories of what she had let him do—of what she had done in her imagination.
She rubbed her eyes and remembered the real events of the past few hours. She was no longer aboard the Kentucky Gal. She'd bid farewell to Joe and his crew late last night. But the river captain had insisted on finding her respectable lodging in the widow Murphy's house, where she could get a hot meal and a few hours' sleep before continuing her trip.
The pock-faced wench thrust her lantern close to Rebecca's face. "Make up your mind, lady," she grumbled. From the other bed in the room, another woman complained. A baby began to fuss and then to wail.
"I'm coming," Rebecca said. Hastily, she grabbed her shoes and stockings and her valise. She'd lain down fully dressed and now was thankful for it.
The lantern bobbed down the hall, around a corner, and down a flight of rickety steps. Rebecca followed. At the bottom of the stairs, she could smell cooked cabbage and the rancid scent of sour milk.
"This way," her guide said. She made her way through the shadowy kitchen and lifted the heavy wooden bar on the back door. "Turn right, then left, then right again. Go to the end of the street. The man said the flatboat's tied to the dock. Last one on the left, t'other side of the cattle boat. He said hurry."
Rebecca stepped into the foggy street. The door closed behind her, cutting off the light. She sat down on the stoop and put on her shoes and stockings. The mist off the river was damp on her face. The night was hot and still. She had no idea of the time, but it must be hours before daylight.
She wondered how long she had slept. And again, her throat tightened as memories of her dream came back so vividly that she could feel Shaw's mouth on hers.
Picking up her bag she started down the narrow lane. What was it the girl had said? Right, left, right. Go to the end of the street. That was simple enough. The street was dirt. Each footstep echoed in the fog. Rebecca dug Joe's pistol out of her case, straightened her spine, and strode off.
After two miscalculations and one dead end, she found the landing. A few boats bobbed along the dock. Rebecca turned left and stepped ankle-deep into a puddle of water. "Tarnation," she exclaimed.
The Taming of Shaw MacCade Page 15
