Bittner, Rosanne (11 page)

"We'll
stop here and you can bathe in the river," John told Tess. "I'm going
to do some circling around, keep an eye out for Apache or Comancheros. Soon as
you're cleaned up I'll do the same, and we'll reach that cave by nightfall.
We'll both take a day or two of rest there." He dismounted and reached
into his saddlebags, taking out a bar of soap and a towel. "Here." He
set them down in the grass and got back on his horse, then hesitated, noticing
she just sat on her own horse looking doubtful. "Hurry it up. We can't
waste too much time getting to that cave."

"I
can't just take off my clothes and take a bath out in the open like this!"

John
rolled his eyes and cast her a smirk of disgust. "Lady, there's nobody to
watch but maybe a few frogs and coyotes. If you think
I'm
going to
watch, why should I? If I wanted to take advantage of you, I'd have done it
yesterday in that wagon. If that doesn't prove you can trust me, I don't know
what does."

Tess
felt her cheeks going crimson. He was right about that, but his remark only
told her he had not forgotten what he'd seen, after promising her he had. Would
she ever get over this humiliation?

"Like
I said, hurry it up."

Tess
had to admit nothing sounded more wonderful right now than a bath, not just to
get rid of the dirt and perspiration, but to wash away the filth of the men who
had touched her. She untied her bundle of clothes and picked up the towel and
soap and ran to the river, hurriedly stripping down and splashing into the
shallow water, thinking how much better it would feel to take a hot bath, but
this would have to do. She glanced in the direction in which John had ridden.
His back was to her as he rode his horse up an incline. She told herself she
had no choice but to trust him, and she quickly lathered up, her body, her
privates, her hair, scrubbing vigorously, experiencing a sudden near-insane
need to wash and wash and wash, as though she couldn't get clean enough.

Get
rid of it! Get rid of the dirt! Get rid of the ugly filth Chino had left on her
and inside of her. She almost wished she could scrub off her freckles, scrub
off her very skin, somehow totally get rid of the old self that had been
touched by those men and bring out someone new. What if Chino had given her
some kind of disease?

She
scrubbed harder, in spite of her sunburn. More tears came, and she let them. It
was all right, as long as no one was close by to see. She washed her hair,
still sobbing. She had to let it all out before John Hawkins came back. She had
a feeling he expected her to be weak, to cry and carry on, to be totally broken
by this. That, by God, was not going to happen! She would get the crying done
with and go on from here. Where she would go and what she would do would be
decided a day at a time, but one thing was certain. She was not going to stay
with a prostitute!

She
dried off and dressed, looked around. She saw Hawkins nowhere. Fine. That gave
her time to get over the tears and splash some of the cold water on her face
again, wash away the tears and get rid of the puffy eyes they always created.
She ran her hands through her hair, and realized then she didn't have a brush.
She would have to do the best she could with her fingers, but her thick hair
was still going to be an unholy, tangled mess. She couldn't even put it up into
a bun because she had no pins for it. She so wanted to come back to El Paso
looking as prim and proper as possible. How else would anyone believe her story
that those men had not raped her? It was bad enough that she probably still had
bruises on her face.

Finally
the golden horse appeared at the rise over which Hawkins had first ridden. She
watched him approach, thinking for one flickering moment what a grand specimen
of a man he was, what a beautiful horse he rode. She turned away, refusing to
recognize anything good about any man right then. And this one had the same
dark, sinister, Indian looks of most of those who had abducted her. Not only
that, but she had a feeling the line of difference between John Hawkins and men
like Chino was very thin.

"You
can lay down in the grass and rest a few minutes," she heard him saying.
"I'm going to clean up myself now."

Tess
did not answer. She sat down in the grass, her back to the river. She wondered
for a moment how he had known exactly when to come back. Had he been watching
from somewhere after all? She sighed, rubbing at her eyes. What difference did
it make? He'd certainly seen everything there was to see. And, after all, he
had to make sure she was safe. That was what was so damn irritating, having to
admit that she felt totally safe as long as John Hawkins was nearby. Right now
she hated to have to give any man any credit for anything.

She
waited quietly, heard his splashing in the river. A little while later his
voice was behind her again. "Let's get going." She turned to see him
shoving dirty clothes into one of the saddlebags. He wore clean denim pants and
a blue calico shirt with a leather vest over it. "We'll eat tonight at the
cave. My better supplies are there." He mounted up and turned to face her.
"We'll follow the river again for a while. Saves leaving tracks for
anybody that might find those men back there, and we don't want any Apache
picking up our tracks either."

Tess
again was struck by a small flash of attraction. His shirt was open at the
neck, revealing a striking necklace made up of a simple rawhide cord on which
hung what looked like quills, or maybe some kind of claws. She wasn't sure.
They were painted in bright red and blue. It was the first time she had truly
looked at him as just another human being since he'd come for her yesterday.

Had
it really only been that long? How could so much have happened in one day? This
man had walked right into a den of thieves and murderers and had taken her out
of there. Now, cleaned up and dressed normally, he wasn't quite so intimidating
as he'd looked riding into that camp. She realized now he'd deliberately made
himself as unkempt and half naked as the rest of them so he would fit in. She
noticed he'd removed the bandage from around his head, and his wet, black hair
was pulled straight back into a tail that hung nearly to his waist. With his
hair that way, his face was much more noticeable, and again she was struck by
how handsome he was. He had dark, deep set eyes, high cheekbones, a nicely
shaped nose, full lips and a square jawline. Everything about him spoke of a
man of courage and skill in a land where those things were requirements for
survival.

She
turned and mounted her horse, ashamed and even angry that she had noticed him
as just a man, had even considered him handsome. "How is that head
wound?" she asked.

John
headed for the river. "Hurts," he called back to her. "I
couldn't brush my hair there or even wash it good. I'll have to wait until the
scabbing is gone." He thought to ask if she felt a little better now that
she'd had a good cry, but he suspected she would be angry that he knew. She was
a woman who preferred to cry alone, and he respected that. Besides, if he told
her he'd seen her crying, she'd know he'd been watching her, not for lustful
reasons, but simply because he couldn't let a woman bathe out here without
being watched. She thought he hadn't looked, so let her think it. His only
problem was he'd had a real yearning to go down there and hold her, especially
when he saw her scrubbing herself so hard he thought she might actually hurt
herself.

He
took his own floppy, leather hat from where it hung over his saddle horn and
handed it over to her. "Wear that. It will be too big, and it's been used
to water my horse at times, but you've got to protect that fair skin or your
nose will be burned right off by the end of the day."

She
took it hesitantly, not sure she wanted to plop the gritty-looking thing on her
head. "What about you? Don't you need it?"

He
grinned, and she felt silly for even asking.

"Men
like me are made for the sun," he answered. "I only wear it to keep
the heat off the top of my head, not for my skin. I'll get by for a couple of
days without it."

She
put the hat on, and it fell to just above her eyebrows. John couldn't help
grinning at the sight, and Tess was struck by his smile. He looked completely
changed when he smiled, like a regular human being. She couldn't help smiling
herself, knowing how silly she must look. It felt good to smile. It was
something she'd thought she would never do again.

A
shiver of doubt shot through her then, at the way he looked at her. She
reminded herself this man had seen all there was to see. She shouldn't be
smiling at him now. Maybe it would give him ideas. She looked away. "I
think you're the one who said we had to hurry," she reminded him.

John's
own smile faded. It was going to be very hard for this woman to ever be her
natural self again, and he was sorry for that. One thing was sure, though. She
was godawful beautiful, brave and feisty to boot. He'd never actually met
anyone quite like her.

"I'll
fix us something to eat." Tess rummaged through the extra supplies in the
cave, grateful for the cool retreat from the sun, which had pummeled them all
day.

"You
don't have to do that." John sat down on a blanket near the supplies.
"You need to rest. I'll—"

"I'm
fine! I don't want to rest. I want to eat. I need to keep busy." She
pulled a can of beans from the supplies, found a few potatoes. "Do you
have coffee?"

"First
we have to have a fire. I'll have to light a match and check the draft in here.
If it isn't right, we'll smoke ourselves right out of this cave. If things seem
right, I'll go scrounge up as much dry wood and weeds as I can. At least there
are a few pine trees around here. Dry pine burns good, and the sap in pine
makes it burn slower." He dug into a pocket of his denim pants and pulled
out a match, striking it on a rock. A draft blew it out almost immediately.
"Looks like the smoke would trail deeper into the cave. Let's hope that by
the time it comes out someplace else, it's dwindled some and won't be too
noticeable. I don't like making fires and advertising our presence, but we both
need to eat." He nodded toward his supplies. "There is a little black
fry-pan in that gear somewhere. Go ahead and slice some potatoes if you're so
bent on keeping busy."

He
left, and Tess found the pan and a small knife. Her head ached with indecision
over what she was going to do with herself now, but she forced herself to think
only about the moment, fixing something to eat. John had hobbled the horses
somewhere outside. The animals had already had plenty to drink for the day,
since they'd ridden through the middle of the shallow river for several miles.
At last she could truly rest for a while, somewhere out of the miserable sun.

She
took several deep breaths to keep her hands from shaking as she sliced the
potatoes. Just the sight of the knife, even a small one, brought back ugly
memories... She'd been threatened so many times with knives the last few days.
The vision of John Hawkins ramming his own big blade into Chino flashed before
her eyes, and she had to stop for a moment. She was traveling alone with a man
who killed as easily as he breathed. How strange to not be afraid of him, yet
sometimes she still was. She had never been so unsure of how she felt about
another human being.

John
finally returned, carrying an armful of wood. He said nothing as he made a
circle of rocks and got a fire going, then took out a pocket knife and opened
it. He plunged it into a tin can of beans and carefully cut around the lid. He
caught Tess watching tentatively. "What's wrong?"

She
swallowed. "I just... I hope you haven't used that smaller knife on a
person." She sensed a hint of anger in his eyes. She had apparently
insulted him again.

"This
little thing?" He peeled back the lid, then set the can aside and poured a
little water over the knife to rinse it. "I only use my
hunting
knife
to cut out a man's heart." He snapped the pocket knife closed. "And
sometimes I even eat the heart raw after I cut it out!"

He
turned and walked out, and Tess sighed, feeling like crying again. She didn't
understand men like John Hawkins. One minute he took something as a joke, the
next he was angry at something she said. How could she understand a man who was
as ruthless as Ranger Hawkins? Her father was kind and gentle, strong and
demanding sometimes, but someone with whom a person could reason, and he was a
Christian, forgiving man. Then there had been Abel, a meek, cowardly man. Neither
of them compared to someone like Hawkins.