by Carol Finch
Damn good thing he concentrated on paying attention, too, he decided five minutes later. The coiling snake that Hanna disturbed—when she wandered off the beaten path to pluck up a colorful wildflower that caught her eye—would’ve given her a nasty bite. Cale’s knife cleared the leather sheath and swished through the air before he barely had time to register the need to act.
Horrified, Hanna leaped sideways when she saw the knife hurtling toward her. She didn’t realize its target until the six-foot-long snake curled around the blade that pinned it to the ground so it couldn’t strike her.
Cale tramped over to dispose of the snake and retrieve his dagger. He glared into Hanna’s peaked face. “And don’t even start with me about a proper burial, Miz Bleeding Heart,” he muttered. “Maybe you’re all-fired eager to experience life, but some things you really don’t need to experience to know they’re painful and unpleasant. Next time watch what the hell you’re doing. Got it?”
Scared speechless, she nodded and gulped.
“Good,” he said before he turned on his heels and stalked off.
Hanna listened carefully as Cale gave her instructions on the proper method of placing a circle of stones around the campfire to hold a skillet, and then listed various ways of preventing a fire from spreading rapidly to torch the tree-covered mountains. She silently marveled at all the survival skills he’d acquired, plus his ability to snare supper without firing a single shot.
Time and again Cale emphasized the importance of becoming attuned to their surroundings, to seek oneness with nature. While he’d taught her to clean the wild turkey that was roasting over the fire, he’d told her to watch the flight of birds, which could lead her to water holes and also alert her to the presence of unwanted intruders. He insisted that it was important to pick your battles, if at all possible, because there were some you couldn’t win if you were playing by your foes’ rules. Play to your strengths and use the element of surprise to your advantage, he’d said emphatically.
The instructions he’d given Hanna over supper left her head spinning, but she tried to absorb every tidbit of knowledge he imparted.
After she’d washed the utensils and plates and packed them away—according to Cale, you always had your belongings in proper order in case you needed to make a hasty departure—Hanna dug out a charcoal pencil and tablet from her sack. She was ready to try her hand at a landscape sketch of the mountains. She worked industriously while Skeet lay beside her, his broad head resting on her thigh. Cale sat across the camp, cleaning his Colts and sharpening his dagger.
Hanna could imagine herself setting up her easel somewhere in the Rockies—they were reported to boast some of the most awe-inspiring views Mother Nature offered—and committing the panoramic scenery to canvas.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked, holding up the sketch for his perusal.
Like a powerful panther, Cale rose to his feet and strode up beside her. He angled the tablet toward the campfire to take a closer look. Impatiently she watched him glance at her, scan the shadowy mountains silhouetted in the last rays of sunset, then stare at her sketch.
“Well?” she prompted when he remained silent.
“Well, what?” he asked.
“Do you think I have a potential talent for art? Keep in mind, of course, that it’s almost dark, so the shading needs some more work.”
“I’m keeping that in mind,” Cale mumbled as he handed the tablet back to her. “Um, it’s real nice.”
When he glanced away Hanna frowned. “Real nice? That’s a bit vague. I’m asking for your honest opinion here. It’s been my experience that I can count on you to tell me the truth without sugarcoating it. I want to know exactly what you think of the drawing.”
Cale squirmed uneasily. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, when it was evident that she was bound and determined to pinpoint and perfect her hidden talents. But a perception of height and depth were seriously lacking in the sketch. Cale never claimed to be an authority on art, but he figured a drawing of a mountain ought to at least look like a mountain.
“Tell me the truth!” she demanded impatiently.
“It’s…not very good,” he said reluctantly.
Her hopeful expression vanished.
“Maybe with some practice and training,” he added, wanting to make her feel better.
“What’s wrong with the drawing?” she asked, getting all huffy and defensive.
“It’s one-dimensional, for starters,” he said.
She bent her head over the sketch in profound concentration and worked quickly with her charcoal pencil. “Does this help?” she asked, holding the paper up to him.
Cale inwardly winced as he studied the drawing. It was worse, not better. “Um…no.”
Frustrated, she slammed down the tablet and vaulted to her feet. When she glared at him he flung up his arms in supplication and said, “Hey, you asked for honesty.”
“Fine, thank you very much.” She wheeled toward the tree-lined river. “I’m going to bathe. Surely I can do that right.”
“Keep an eye peeled for trouble,” he called after her.
“Damn,” Cale muttered under his breath. He’d already been testy with Hanna most of the afternoon. Now he’d trounced on her feelings when she’d set out on her first voyage of self-discovery. Given the mood he’d put her in, he sincerely hoped she wasn’t so self-absorbed in disappointment that she didn’t remain on constant alert.
Maybe he’d better follow her to make sure she didn’t get herself in trouble. He ambled after her, keeping his distance. He knew Hanna desperately wanted to become self-reliant, but she was a helpless tenderfoot and she needed a keeper and protector. He just didn’t have to let her know he was standing watch, but he would be close at hand to intervene if she encountered trouble.
While the full moon beamed down on Hanna’s pale blond head, Cale dogged her steps. He made a mental note to teach her to ease through the underbrush rather than thrash about noisily. Part of the present problem, he suspected, was that she was half-mad at him for hurting her feelings and was venting her frustration by slapping at the bushes.
His thoughts trailed off as he watched Hanna halt on the sandy shore to peel off her buckskin shirt. Moonlight reflected off the glistening river and her porcelain skin. Cale sank down in the underbrush before he fell down. Sweet mercy! Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He’d already been tormented to the extreme by erotic fantasies. Watching her undress wasn’t helping.
Although all he could see was that glorious tangle of silver-blond hair that tumbled down her bare back, his body clenched and hardened painfully. Breathing became a tedious chore. When she turned sideways to toss her shirt over a nearby bush, Cale’s riveting gaze settled on the full mounds of her breasts.
Aw, damn. He’d never be able to glance at her again without this tormenting vision dancing in his head. He was pretty sure the glorious sight of Hanna had been branded on his eyeballs. He should back away. Now. This very second. Should but couldn’t. He’d practically grown roots and became immovable. He just hunkered there, feasting his appreciative gaze on her satiny skin and tantalizing curves, wishing he could caress what his hungry eyes beheld.
And then she dropped her breeches and stood on the shore like some sea siren paying homage to the moon above—arms outstretched, head tilted upward, as if reveling in unhindered freedom.
Cale’s runaway heart thudded against his ribs so hard that he swore it would crack bone. He tried to gulp air and found none forthcoming. So much for his good deed of keeping vigil for Hanna’s protection! No good deed, it seemed, went unpunished. He was suffering the worst torments of the damned—seeing and having not—while Hanna ambled naked into the river. Ripples fanned away from her like waves of mercury.
He swore he was about to have a seizure when she sank into the water, then surged upward, regaining her footing. Water droplets, like star-studded diamonds, glistened on her skin. She was facing him, a smile of pure, unadulterated ple
asure on her face. He wanted to be the one who evoked that look from her. He wanted to take her on a voyage of sensual self-discovery and teach her things that had nothing whatsoever to do with survival in the wilds and everything to do with wild ecstasy.
Cale practically melted into a puddle of molten desire when he heard Hanna’s carefree laughter wafting on the breeze. She giggled; she splashed; she sent up a geyser of water that caught in the moonlight, giving the scene before him a mystical quality. Exactly like a fantasy. Only he was on the outside looking in, wanting to share this moment of obvious pleasure with her.
When Hanna lay back in the water, her breasts peeking at him above the shimmering surface, Cale was attacked by a fit of pure lust. His body tingled with need so intense he was shaking with it. He had to get out of here—pronto. He had to scan the area to ensure her safety, then he definitely had to get the hell out of here—now!
Either that or strip off his clothes and join her in the river. No, damn it! He’d made a promise and he’d vowed not to break it. Hanna trusted him, depended on him. As much as he wanted her—and there were no words to adequately describe how much he wanted her—he had to keep his distance.
Although it took every ounce of willpower he possessed, Cale rose silently to his feet, swayed on wobbly knees and reached out to brace his hand against a spindly tree. While Hanna swirled around, submerged, then burst to the surface, he inched backward until he could no longer see her. Not that it helped. He could still visualize her, and the sound of her laughter pulsated through him.
When she burst into song Cale chuckled quietly. He was sorry to say that singing wasn’t her strong suit, either. Even with his limited knowledge of music he knew Hanna was slightly off-key.
Cale waited an eternity for her to splash ashore, until it dawned on him that she sounded farther away than she should have been. He frowned, wondering what was going on down there, but was reluctant to venture closer for fear of being assailed by another tormenting lust attack.
He could hear Hanna talking to herself, and it registered in his muddled mind that she’d become disoriented and couldn’t see well enough in the dark to locate her clothes. It was an easy mistake for a tenderfoot to make in the descending night, along a river lined with overhanging tree limbs. Hanna couldn’t rely on the position of the moon to lead her back to her point of entry in the river. The moon was barely visible through the trees and it had shifted in the night sky.
This region of the mountain range was impossibly dense, with very few trails leading through it. Cale had come upon lost travelers often enough to know it posed a problem. The prospect of tramping down to retrieve Hanna’s discarded clothing and overtaking her before she became hopelessly lost tormented him. Considering the aroused condition he was in, it would be better if Hanna found her way back to camp without depending on him.
“Cale!” The canopy of trees muffled her voice, but his body was in such a state of alert that she might as well have been shouting at him.
“I’m coming,” he called, and scowled.
He thrashed through the bushes, signaling his arrival. Surely that would give her time to conceal herself in the underbrush. He reached out to snatch her clothes on his way down the beach.
“Where are you, Magnolia?”
“Over here!”
He glanced to the right, to see her head rising from a spindly bush.
“I got turned around,” she mumbled in exasperation.
“Next time try tying a string to your wrist and securing it to a tree,” he suggested, more sharply than he intended. “Damnation, Mags, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to save your fanny today.”
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble. I seem to be one huge disappointment and inconvenience after another, even to myself.”
Cale stomped closer, then hurled her clothes at the bush that served as her dressing screen. “I told you to pay attention, didn’t I?” he scolded her. “Didn’t I tell you this trek wasn’t a Sunday stroll in the park?”
“Yes,” she said, properly humbled. “I said I was sorry.”
Cale turned his back when she reached for her clothes. “Being sorry won’t keep you alive. You let yourself get distracted, and wham. Trouble is staring you in the face before you can blink. Mark your trail so you don’t get lost again.”
He sensed her presence as she ambled up behind him. She sank down to pull on the clunky boots he’d purchased for her, and he shot her an agitated frown. “And stop thrashing, Magnolia. You’re supposed to snake through the bushes, not slap them out of your way. It makes too much racket.”
“Anything else?” she said smartly. “I can’t wait to begin your lessons on behaving like a gentleman so I can criticize every move you make, Oh Great Wizard of the Wilderness. We’ll see how you function when you’re out of your element.”
“At least I’ll likely be alive to take instruction,” he countered as he led the way back to camp. “You, Magnolia Blossom, might not be around to give it, because you’ll have perished in one disaster or another—”
When Cale’s voice dried up and he stopped, dead still, on the edge of camp, Hanna slammed into his back. She peered around him to determine what had happened. If she hadn’t been alarmed to see two shadowy figures lurking by the trees, with Winchester rifles trained on Cale, she would have smirked at him.
Semper paratus, was he? By all rights he should be eating crow right now. Always ready, my eye! she mused.
“Well, well, got the drop on the legendary bounty hunter, did we?” called a taunting voice from the darkness.
“What’s-a-matter, Big Chief? Get distracted?” said a second teasing voice. “Now there’s a first. Glad I was on hand to see it.”
Hanna sensed the change that came over Cale. He’d gone from alert and braced for trouble to casually relaxed in the time it took to hiccup. Still, she wondered how he felt about the nickname that referred to his Indian heritage. Apparently he knew the intruders, for he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the campfire.
Two tall lean men, armed to the teeth, stepped closer to the fire. Their faces, which boasted several days’ growth of whiskers, split in amused grins.
“Frank Laramie came riding into camp yesterday to tell us that you’d gotten hitched. I nearly fell over when I heard the news.” The man gestured toward his companion. “Same went for Julius.” His teasing gaze swung to Hanna. “So you must be the bride. Deputy Marshal Pierce Hayden at your service, ma’am. This here’s Julius Tanner.”
Cale felt the nip of possessiveness when Pierce and Julius gave Hanna a thorough once-over and smiled in masculine appreciation. “This is Hanna. My wife,” he stated.
Pierce arched an amused brow at the emphatic tone of Cale’s voice. “Easy there, Big Chief. We just spotted your camp and decided to check it out. None of our business what you two were doing at the river,” he said, then grinned impishly before turning his attention back to Hanna. “The marshals have gotten in the habit of calling Elliot the last man standing. Wonder if that still applies.”
When Julius snickered, Cale flashed his colleagues a warning frown—not that it did any good. They seemed delighted to have caught him off guard, and wanted to rub it in his face. It was damn embarrassing, and he held Hanna personally accountable for his lapse in observing caution.
“Perhaps you would like some coffee and roast turkey,” Hanna offered as she ambled to the wagon to retrieve the food and utensils.
Cale muttered under his breath at his lack of hospitality. For certain, he had a lot to learn about proper etiquette before he could pass himself off as a gentleman shopkeeper in Texas.
“Thanks, don’t mind if we do. My stomach has been growling for hours.” Julius sank down cross-legged by the fire and smiled gratefully when Hanna handed him a tin cup. “We’ve been tracking the Markham gang,” he reported as he leaned out to retrieve the coffeepot that dangled above the fire. “Robbed a bank in Tulsey Town. Stole a herd of horses from a Chickasaw farmer and he
aded south. I’d watch my back if I were you, Elliot. These boys are nasty pieces of business.”
Cale nodded grimly. Just what he needed while he had the Great Distraction underfoot.
“Came across a couple of grave sites a ways back,” Pierce commented before he sipped the steaming coffee. “Must not have been your doing. Ain’t your style. You carry ’em back, draped over their horses.”
“That was Hanna’s doing,” Cale explained, tossing her a sour glance. “She insisted on it. We didn’t see any horses or supplies anywhere in sight, just empty holsters and ammunition belts. They looked like bad seed to me.”
“Probably clashed with the Markhams,” Julius muttered. “We have bench warrants for two other murderers and rustlers. Dark hair? One of ’em in his mid-thirties? The other one a dozen years older? Skinny as a rail?”
Cale nodded affirmatively. The description fit the victims perfectly. He sent Hanna a telling glance.
“Yup,” Pierce interjected. “Definitely bad seed. That makes a total of six deaths attributed to the Markhams. There’s two brothers and a couple of young, trigger-happy renegades-in-training, from what we’ve heard from the few witnesses who were left alive.”
“We’d be obliged if we could bunk down in your camp for the night,” Julius said as he finished off his coffee. “It’s a long ride back to the base camp and our chuckwagon.”
Cale knew most of the marshals worked in pairs or groups, and ventured off to scout the area where crimes had been reported. He’d never cared for that practice himself, but tonight he was grateful to have these two deputies underfoot.
After seeing Hanna disrobe and bathe, he definitely needed chaperons to ensure he didn’t give in to temptation.
“Of course you’re more than welcome to share our camp,” Hanna said generously.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Pierce murmured as his gaze slid over her for the forty-eleventh time.
“Always glad to be of help, sir.” Hanna strode off to grab her bedroll and toss another snack to Skeet—who hadn’t put up a fuss about the intruders because he’d known who they were.
