Judith E French (11 page)

“You would do well to walk wide of those my nephew speaks of,” Mountain Calf said. “Men who have lost everything have nothing to lose. They would shoot you down like a rabid wolf.”

Ash nodded. “I value my scalp as much as you do, my friend.”

They stood watch until morning light turned the forest from black to a shimmering gray-green. Once they heard the puma cough, but it came no closer to the camp.

Later, he and Wrestler searched the far side of the stream. They found cat tracks, larger than Ash had ever seen, and they located a tree with shredded bark.

“The cougar wait there,” Wrestler said, pointing to a limb about ten feet from the ground. “She watched us.”

“She?” Ash questioned.

The Ute nodded. Crouching a few feet from the tree, he brushed aside the bushes to reveal fresh scat and stains of urine. “A female. In her prime. This man believes she craves the taste of horseflesh.”

Ash wondered. The puma had stalked Tamsin’s fire on the far side of the mountain, as it had here. It was unnatural behavior for a mountain lion and growing stranger all the time.

“Mountain Calf does not like this place,” Wrestler confided. “We had planned to go on north to trade with others of our own kind, but now …” He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Now I think we will take our trade goods and return to our village.”

Ash waited, certain that the Ute brave meant to say more.

“I think I am fortunate that you did not accept my offer for the woman.”

“My wife, you mean?”

Wrestler smiled with his mouth, but his hooded eyes remained cool. “The red-haired woman. I think she brings danger with her. You must not trust her too much, whoever she is. She has power, this female who talks to horses. And this man, for one, would not sleep easy with her at his side.”

“I slept easy enough last night. What did you put in that whiskey?”

A smile spread over Wrestler’s face. “Trouble is, white man, you no can hold liquor.”

Tamsin accused him of the same vice once the three Utes rode off through the trees. “We’ve venison and some sort of roots for breakfast, if you’re not too hung-over to eat. I traded Shadow a pack of sewing needles for enough food to last us through the day.”

Ash rubbed his forehead. “I’ll admit I had more spirits than I should have. I apologize for offending you last night.”

“In more ways than one.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“But you don’t believe I’m innocent. And now you’re accusing me of having an immoral attachment with someone that you say is an outlaw.”

He pulled his hat low on his brow. “Don’t talk to me about Cannon unless you can tell the truth. And hear it.”

“I didn’t know him that well. He came into the store where I worked and seemed pleasant. Mr. Cannon escorted me to a church social and to eat in a public hotel. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You’ve got my sympathy, lady. People keep makin’ up lies about you.”

“I’ve heard what kind of women you’re accustomed to associating with. Doubtless you’re used to their fabrications, but I can assure you that I’m not—”

“Peace, MacGreggor. Your yammering is hard on my aching head. We’d best talk about something else, if you insist on talkin’.”

“How can I convince you—”

“I’ll put the coffee on if you’ll tend to the cooking,” he said, ignoring her argument. “But stay close to the fire. That cat’s probably a long way from here this morning, but we can’t be certain.”

She rested both hands on her hips and stared at him through narrowed eyes. “The cougar? The cougar that you told me I couldn’t possibly have seen yesterday afternoon? Maybe it wasn’t a mountain lion at all. Maybe those prints you and the Indian found were deer tracks.”

“Maybe so,” he agreed. “But if it was a doe instead of a puma, it was one that could climb trees.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” she replied sarcastically.

Unwilling to continue a conversation that he was obviously losing, Ash went to check Shiloh’s injured leg. As he’d suspected, the shank was swollen. He untied the gelding and led him down to the stream to drink. To his disappointment, Ash saw that the horse was definitely limping.

“We won’t be breaking camp today,” he said to Tamsin as he fished his coffeepot out of his saddlebag. “Shiloh’s leg needs rest. The torn flesh is a little puffy. There may be infection, thanks to you and your riding.”

“We can lead him into the stream,” she said. “Running water’s good for swelling. And I’ve a little salve in my pack. He should be right as rain in a day or two.” She used a green branch to pull hot coals over the spot where she’d buried the roots to bake. Dusting ashes off her hands, she said, “I’ve never cooked roots. I hope they’re fit to eat.”

“If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat dog and fight to get it.”

“I doubt that.”

He shrugged, not bothering to answer her. He wished he hadn’t spoken of the bad times to Tamsin. He didn’t know why he had. It wasn’t something he liked to think of, let alone tell a woman.

The old memories chafed at his mind as he went to the creek to fill the coffeepot with water.

He’d used his daddy’s birthday knife to try to kill the half-Mexican Comanchero that gray Texas morning. But he’d not been a man yet, and he had a lot to learn about fighting a bigger opponent. First, the trader had beaten him half to death, and then he’d tied him across his daddy’s horse and led him a hundred miles back to camp.

These renegade Comanche made a living stealing from the Texans and selling horses, loot, and captives south to Mexico. But Juan Fat Knee, the man who’d shot Ash’s father, didn’t trade him away. He’d kept him, as a cross between a slave and a pet, taking perverse pleasure in seeing how much he could mistreat a boy without killing him.

Ash had eaten dog all right. He’d gnawed the blackened bones and chewed the skin. It had made him so sick, he’d prayed to die, but he hadn’t. He’d survived to relish a lot worse, including raw horse meat and lizard so rank that the camp curs wouldn’t touch it.

He’d survived two years with the Comanche marauders, and come away wondering if the Lord wouldn’t have done him a favor by letting him take that bullet instead of his father.

When Ash returned to the fire, he silently added coffee, noting that there was only enough left for one more pot.

“Were you in the war?” Tamsin asked.

He nodded, glad for the excuse to stop thinking about the past.

“I thought you must have, giving your horse that name.” She looked at him through thick dark lashes. This morning she’d pulled her hair into a single knot on the back of her head, but curling strands had come loose around her freckled face. She looked fine, he thought, fine enough to kiss.

He’d been drunk the night before, but not so drunk he couldn’t remember the taste of her mouth or the feel of her womanly body cuddled up against his. He was glad she’d stopped him. Getting involved with Cannon’s lady friend and a woman who would likely hang for murder wasn’t a smart move.

“What side were you on?” Tamsin asked. “In the war.”

“You feel a need to talk all the time?”

“I asked you a simple question. Are you ashamed of the answer? Did you fight for the North or South?”

“North. I don’t hold with slavery.” Couldn’t, he thought, not after knowing what it was like to be a slave … to be owned body and soul by Fat Knee.

“I never could stomach slavery either,” Tamsin said. “But my home was in Tennessee, and all my friends and relatives were for the Confederacy.”

She sat on a rock and offered him a faint smile. Her teeth were even and white, pretty teeth in a pretty mouth.

“My dead husband, Atwood, should have joined the army, but he kept finding excuses,” she continued. “Once, he even broke his own foot with a hammer to keep from going. He was a coward, of course.”

“Don’t sound like a man I could have much respect for,” Ash said.

“Me either. Not then, not now.”

When the food was ready, they ate. The deer meat was
good, the roots gritty and tough. His coffee, as usual, was strong enough to melt nails.

Afterward, Tamsin and he walked to the stream to wash. Then he pulled the handcuffs from his belt. “Arms behind you,” he said. “It’s lockup time.”

“What?” Her face paled. “Where am I going to go?”

“Don’t even bother. All the sweet talk in the world won’t help me if you decide to murder me when my back’s turned.”

“No!” She stepped away, then turned to run toward the horses.

He caught her in a dozen strides and wrestled her to the ground. “Lay still!” he shouted. Holding her without hurting her was like trying to pin a bee-stung badger with one hand tied behind his back. Tamsin kicked and twisted, pulling out of his grasp and crawling away.

He grabbed her ankle, and she kicked him in the chin with her other foot. Ash swore as he seized the hem of her skirt.

“Damn you,” she cried, rising up on her knees and planting a solid fist square in the center of his forehead. “You … you Yankee bully! Stop that!”

“You made the rules between us,” he answered grimly as he straddled her. “Now you pay the price.”

“No! Not again!” Tamsin cried.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” The blow to Ash’s chin and her last well-aimed punch had set his head to throbbing. Shame at having to manhandle a woman, any woman, this way fueled his anger toward her and sickened him.

“Please,” she begged. “Don’t put those things on me. What if the cougar comes?” Tears filled her eyes, but she was still fighting him with every ounce of her being.

“Be still, damn it!” He didn’t want to hurt her. But neither was he fool enough to let her murder him. “You’ll try something the minute my back is turned.”

“I won’t.”

She twisted and bit his arm, and when he let go of his hold on her to pull away, she balled her fist and punched him again. The blow glanced off his bad shoulder, sending a jolt of excruciating pain up his neck.

Anger dulled his chivalry, and he captured her flailing fist and pinned it roughly against the earth. “Don’t lie to me!” he flung back. “You’ll jump on one of those damned horses and ride out of here to find Cannon. And … And … I’ll have to hunt the both of you down.”

Tamsin’s breath came in hard, deep gasps, but she wouldn’t stop struggling. Face flushed, bosom heaving,
she strained against him, transforming his honest anger to something darker.

His knees clamped tighter around her hips.

Having her helpless beneath him shattered the barriers he prided himself on possessing. He shuddered, caught in a sudden rush of primitive lust that any decent man should keep in check. In vain he tried to smother a devilish urge to lift Tamsin’s skirts and drive himself between her warm, soft thighs.

The woman scent of her filled his head. He knew he was stronger than she was. He could have her here and now. Maybe she even wanted him to do it. Ash groaned and swallowed the sour gorge that rose in his throat.

Maybe he was no better than the scum he’d vowed to destroy—the outlaws who’d raped and murdered his wife.

The thought washed over him with icy dread. “I’ll let go if you keep your hands to yourself,” he managed.

She gritted her teeth and glared at him with green hellfire in her eyes. Suddenly, as if she realized what she was doing to him, she stopped squirming. A flash of terror crossed her face.

He felt like dirt. “Truce?”

“For how long?”

Frightened or not, she wasn’t cowed. “Today. Tonight,” he rasped. His loins ached with need. He had to take his hands away from her, had to put distance between them before he lost control.

“Until daybreak tomorrow?”

He nodded and slowly got to his feet, turning away to keep her from seeing his obvious arousal. He removed his gun belt and flung it across the creek. “Go for my rifle and you’ll regret it,” he said thickly as he dropped belly down on the rocky streambank. Melting snow from the mountain peaks fed the tumbling course, making the flow slightly warmer than freezing. Bracing himself for
the shock, Ash scooped up handfuls of running water and splashed his face and arms.

The frigid water couldn’t wash away his desire, but it did keep him from making a total bastard of himself. He glanced back at her to make certain she wasn’t stalking him with a rock. “You pack a mean right,” he said.

Tamsin’s freckles stood out starkly against milky white skin. “I’m sorry,” she stammered. Fear was still evident in her expression. She looked at him as if she expected him to tear off her skirts.

The hell of it was, he wanted to.

Ash dunked his entire head under the water and came up sputtering. Need churned in his loins. He wanted to see the shape of her breasts and bury his face between them. He wanted to taste her skin and feel her nipples harden against his tongue.

He stripped off his boots and socks and plunged into the stream. The water was only waist deep but swift, splashing over and around the mossy time-washed boulders that littered the ancient streambed. He submerged completely, letting the sting of the cold liquid wash away the evil from his mind.

He came up gasping for air.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” Tamsin demanded. She stood on the bank staring at him. Her clothes were dirty and disheveled, and her glorious red hair hung over her shoulders in wild abandon.

Ash took one look at her and dived under again. He might not be able to quell his growing attraction toward her, but he could cool his ardor. This time when he surfaced, he brought his sense of humor with him. “Come on in,” he dared. “The water’s fine.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

He laughed. “Probably.”

“You expect me to undress?”

He shook his head. “Hell, no. Come in like you are. What better way to wash your clothes?”

Tamsin glanced toward the horses.

“Don’t even think it,” he warned. “We’ve a truce, remember? You gave me your word.”

“Under duress.”

Goose bumps rose on his skin, and his teeth began to chatter. “Where’s your nerve, woman?”

A mischievous gleam danced in her eyes. “How do I know you won’t hit me with a rock?”

He laughed again. “If I didn’t finish you off after you punched me, you’re probably safe until dark. Then I mean to throw you to that mountain lion.”