Merline Lovelace (4 page)
Authors: Countess In Buckskin
So when the outsider threw back her shoulders and announced that she would take a pony in exchange for the price the fringe person had paid for her keep, the headman made only a halfhearted protest.
“You cannot follow where he does not wish to take you.”
“I can. I must.”
Re-Re-An’s hair ornaments tinkled as she shook her head in protest. “Ta-Ti-An, you know not the valley or the mountains. You will lose your way.”
The stubborn female ignored the caution. “The fringe person walks, does he not?” she inquired of Cho-gam. “Leading the packhorse you sold to him?”
At the headman’s nod, determination etched fine lines in her face. “You will give me a surefooted pony. One that will bear my weight. I will follow the tracks and be up with him within a hour.”
As troublesome as this female had been, Cho-gam would not hear of such foolishness.
“You shall not ride out of the village alone,” he stated with unshakable authority.
“But...”
“I will send an escort. He will stay with you until you are within sight of the fringe person. Then,” the headman muttered with heartfelt relief, “you become the outsider’s responsibility.”
Josh moved easily through the thin crust of snow that covered the valley’s floor, leading the shaggy little pony by a long leading rein. Despite the pounding in his temples from a long night of storytelling and too many gourds of bitterroot beer, contentment feathered at the edges of his mind.
This was his world. He felt at home in it. Almost at peace. The vast, profound quiet of tall trees and blue sky soothed his soul and made all else fade into insignificance.
If he’d stayed back East, he mused, he might have been a colonel by now. A major at least. Rank was hard to come by without a war to kill off the seasoned officers and open the door for lieutenants. But even in the peace that followed the British defeat more than twenty years ago at the Battle of New Orleans, Josh could have anticipated regular promotions. He’d proved himself at West Point, and had almost married into the family of the man who was now president.
But Catherine’s death had stripped the glitter from the sophisticated political world she’d introduced him to. Aching, Josh had taken his hurt west. Assignments to the frontier forts in Iowa and Missouri territories had kindled an urge to travel even farther west. The uncharted mountains that rose like silent sentinels, guarding access to the fertile valleys of California and the northwest territones, called to him.
He’d resigned his army commission to answer that call...or tried to. Catherine’s uncle, then a United States senator from New York, had convinced President Jackson’s secretary of war to keep Josh on the rolls as a scout and surveyor. For more than six years now the lieutenant had wandered where and when he would, charting rivers with no name and passes that only the fur traders and Indians knew of. A few weeks ago his wanderings had taken on a more urgent direction.
Inaugurated as president three years ago, Martin Van Buren was worried by rumors that the French, the British and even the Russians were eyeing the vast, unclaimed Oregon Territory for possible expanded settlement. If necessary, Van Buren was prepared to go to war to enforce the Monroe Doctrine, which sought to keep foreign powers from staking further claim to the American continent. Before he took such drastic measures, however, he’d ordered Josh to scout the territory for evidence of increased foreign activity. It was a mission the wanderer was eminently qualified for.
Josh squinted from beneath the floppy brim of his flat-crowned beaver hat at the high peaks ahead of him. The bright sun would speed a melting process that had already begun. Here and there he spied a granite outcrop poking through the blanket of white. Spruce and pine stood darkly green at the lower elevations instead of showing only their tips. With luck and some steady trekking, Josh would make it through the mountains before another late season storm blew up. Tugging his hat brim down to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare, he lengthened his stride.
Sunlight cut at sharp angles through the trees when he first sensed that he was being followed. Josh turned and swept the area he’d just passed through. Head cocked, he listened intently. The only sound that disturbed the stillness was the angry scold of a squirrel whose territory he’d invaded, but Josh had lived by his wits too long to shrug off the tingling sensation.
Sliding his Hawken rifle from the fringed sheath slung over his shoulder, he pulled the hammer back and gently seated a percussion cap. With the rifle at first cock, he performed the same procedure for the long-barrel flintlock pistol tucked into his belt. A twitch of his shoulders positioned the powder horn and bullet pouches slung around his neck within easy reach. His precautions complete, he trudged on, alert but not unduly alarmed. He’d had curious mountain cats and the occasional wolf trail him before.
When a muffled, indistinct sound carried on the thin air, Josh decided he’d best investigate. Tethering his packhorse to a low-hanging bough, he circled in a wide arc. His hide boots skimmed silently over the snow as he tracked through the shadows cast by the tall pines. With one hand, he pulled the hammer on his Hawken from first- to full-cock. Sturdy, reliable and simple to operate, the .50 caliber Long Tom could drop a buffalo in its tracks or knock a grizzly onto its hindquarters with a single long-range shot.
The sound of a long, shrill screech raised the hairs on the back of his neck. That cry wasn’t made by any cat. Lengthening his stride to a lope, he dodged through the snow-laden trees. Some moments later he burst into a small clearing, his Hawken at the ready.
A burly individual bristling with red fur was bent over an oblong shape in the snow.
“You want to tell me why you’ve been following my tracks?” Josh drawled.
The figure spun around, relief and wariness written plainly on her face. Josh gaped at the woman.
Damn Cho-gam. They’d made a deal!
“What in thunderation are you doing so far from the village without escort?” he demanded furiously. “And where’s your mount?”
“The so silly beast bolted,” she replied in disgust. “The basket falls and I stop to fix it, you understand. Then the...” She gestured extravagantly, searching for a word with both hands. “The creature with the great, mossy antlers and the long face, it comes out of the trees. When I make the noise to shoo it away, the horse, it runs, too.”
“A moose? You
shooed
away a bull moose?”
shooed
away a bull moose?”
Beads of sweat popped out on Josh’s brow. There weren’t many wild critters he’d go out of his way to avoid, but that was one of them. He’d once crossed the path of a bull hot on the scent of a rut and almost didn’t live to regret it. The idea of this female coming close enough to shoo off a thousand pounds of ornery, antlered male made Josh’s fingers go slick on the Hawken’s smooth stock.
“Where’s Cho-gam?” he snapped.
“In the village.”
“What the devil does he mean by letting you traipse off like this?”
“He does not allow me to do anything,” she declared loftily. “I choose to do this traipsing you speak of.”
She was using her countess tone again, the one that rubbed Josh’s fur exactly the wrong way. His own voice rumbled with anger as he closed the distance between them.
“And I thought I’d made it plainer than spit that I don’t ‘choose’ to have you with me.”
Her eyes locked with his. “I do not know this speet you speak of. I know only that you told me to think about what would happen between us when the night falls. I have thought, and I will come with you.”
Josh stared at her, poleaxed. Had she just said what he thought she’d said? Was this woman offering to share his blankets while they were on the trail? The idea sent heat spearing from his chest to parts straight south.
Elizabeth Jones had whacked enough respect for the female of the species into her son to make him ashamed of his instant animal response...but not enough to make him refuse the Russian’s astonishing proposition. Not immediately, at any rate.
“You sure you understand what you’re offering me?” he asked cautiously.
Her chin lifted. “I understand.”
For a few atavistic moments, Josh unleashed his thoughts. Raking the woman before him with a thoroughly male assessment, he considered the ways she could make the journey through the mountains a whole lot more enjoyable than he’d anticipated.
He savored the vivid mental image of the Russian lying naked in his arms for as long as he dared, then reluctantly surrendered it. He wasn’t the kind of man to make a woman pay for his protection with her honor, even if she offered it to him on a pewter platter. Just as reluctantly, he altered his opinion of the Countess Karanova.
She was one determined female. If Josh returned her to the Hupa village, he’d have to hog-tie her and stake her out in the snow like a buffalo hide ready for scraping to keep her there. He supposed he’d have to take the blasted female with him.
He didn’t intend to make the going easy for her, though. Neither one of them would survive if he carried her load and his, too. Uncocking the Hawken, he settled it into the crook of his arm and jerked his chin toward the basket lying in the snow.
“Get your gear. We’ve got a long trek ahead of us before we make camp tonight.”
Chapter Four
J
osh led the way to the tethered packhorse, setting a deliberately brisk pace. If the Russian couldn’t keep up with him, she’d best recognize that fact while she could still return to the village.
osh led the way to the tethered packhorse, setting a deliberately brisk pace. If the Russian couldn’t keep up with him, she’d best recognize that fact while she could still return to the village.
She didn’t ask him to slow. Nor did she request his assistance with her awkward bundle. But her breath rasped as she trudged behind him, dragging her basket through the snow. Josh closed his ears to the harsh, uneven sound. He’d done his damnedest to discourage her. He had no cause to squirm like a speared pike at the sound of each painful, gasping breath.
The little packhorse waited patiently under the lodgepole pine. Greeting the creature with a pat on its shaggy, rough-haired neck, Josh turned to his traveling companion. She struggled the last few yards, huffing. Sweat ran down her cheeks in silvery rivulets and dripped into the bushy fox-tail ruff that framed her face. When she slogged to a stop, Josh indicated her heavy cloak with a sweep of one hand.
“Take that off.”
Her head snapped up. “What is it you say?”
“Take off that fur blanket.”
Her face went from red to a sickly shade of puce. “You wish to...to...?” She mumbled a Russian word. “Now? Here?”
It took a few moments for her interpretation of his curt order to sink in. When it did, Josh felt himself turning as red as the woman before him. She thought he meant for her to strip off, lay herself down and spread her legs! Right here. In the snow.
He hadn’t given her any cause to think otherwise, Josh acknowledged with a spike of self-disgust Instead of refusing her confounded offer outright, he’d turned his back and trudged off, deciding to let her stew about it for a while. She’d stewed all right, and he’d once again confirmed her low opinion of him.
“What I wish,” he growled, no more happy with himself than with her, “is for you to shed a few layers before you sweat yourself into a chill. I won’t play nursemaid to you on this trip.”
“I do not ask you to play anything,” she retorted. “I ask you only to take me through the mountains.”
“Ask?” His lip curled. “As I recall, you did a sight more than ask, Countess.”
Her frigid silence told him she was regretting her outrageous bargain as much as he’d intended her to. Josh might have ended the farce then and there if her tilted chin and haughty stare hadn’t raised his hackles again. Damn, she could tear a two-inch strip off a man’s hide with a single look.
“Take off the damned cloak.”
Brushing past her, Josh reached for the ropes binding the basket to swing it between the crossed poles that held his packs in place. He grunted in surprise at the weight. Propping the bulky object up with one hand, he threw a question at her over his shoulder.
“What the devil is in this?”
“Only what I could save from the chest that washes me ashore.”
“You mean to tell me you’re hauling female foofaraws along with you? Not food, or trading goods?”
“I know not this foofaraws.”
“Fripperies. Fancy things.”
“No! Not fancy things. Only...”
“Only what?”
She chewed on her lower lip. “Only that which I must take with me on this journey.”
Josh jiggled the basket, gauging the weight it added to his already burdened pony. He shook his head. “We can’t take this. It’s too heavy.”
The flush faded from her face, leaving it suddenly pale. “We must!”
“No, Countess, we must not.”
He wrapped a fist around the ropes, intending to slide the added load off the pack. Before he got a good grip, she laid a shaking hand atop his.
“please!” Her plea was dry and hoarse, as if it choked her to beg. “This...this is all I have left from the ship.”
Josh glanced down at her hand. It lay against his tanned paw like a small, shaking bird. Calling himself two dozen kinds of a fool, he gave in.
“We’ll take it as far as we can. If the going gets too rough,” he warned, “or the pony flounders in the snow, we leave your precious basket beside the trail.”
That we will not, Tatiana swore silently. If she had to pull that long, evil-looking pistol from the American’s belt and put the barrel to his head, she would see that he did not leave the tsar’s treasure beside the trail.
Silently she watched while he settled the woven container securely and tied it in place. That done, he repeated his abrupt command.
“Take off your cloak.”
While she shrugged out of the heavy fur, her unwilling guide picked at one of the laces fringing his shirtsleeve and pulled loose a long, tough rawhide thong. With a swift economy of movement, he rolled the cloak and used the thong to secure it atop the basket.
Tatiana had already discovered the amazing durability and utility of the clothing she now wore. Impervious to damage from water and too tough to tear, the hide garments were yet soft and smooth against the skin. The fringes that decorated the side seams and sleeves of her dress provided a convenient supply of useful laces. The fringes also acted as a sort of a drain, directing rain away from the stitched seams. Even better, the loose tunic and leggings gave one an incredible freedom of movement. She would regret abandoning the comfortable clothing of the Hupa for petticoats and tightly laced corsets...assuming, of course, she made it though the mountains and returned to the land of petticoats and corsets.
Resting a palm on the pony’s flank, the American skimmed a final, critical eye over the long-sleeved jacket she wore with her dress.
“You could stand to shed another layer or two, but I expect you’ll find that out for yourself after a few miles.” His whiskey-colored eyes issued a challenge. “You ready to walk?”
“I am mady.”
“We’ll have to set a fast pace if we want to make it through the first pass before sundown.”
“I understand.”
“It’s a steep climb for the last mile or so.”
“I shall climb it.”
“The air gets thin the higher we go. You might feel dizzy, or...”
“Do we walk, or talk?” Tatiana demanded.
He reached for the pony’s lead. “We walk.”
As she paced behind the packhorse, Tatiana felt a brief, heady euphoria at having won her battle of wills. At last, she headed for Fort Ross. With luck and God’s favor, she might yet stay the ax that was poised above her head and that of her father.
Her resolve to reach the end of her long journey firmed with each step. She was young. Strong. Stronger even than before she’d left Mother Russia. Her stay with the Hupa had developed leg and arm muscles she’d never had to use before. She followed easily in the American’s footsteps, her stride loose.
True to his word, he set a hard pace. He didn’t stop to eat, nor did he pause to answer nature’s call. Tatiana sought privacy behind a tree when necessary, then scrambled to catch up. Around noon, she dug in her small bundle of supplies for some smoked salmon to still the rumbling of her stomach.
As she chewed, she studied the snow-covered mountains ahead. Their white summits thrust into a cloudless sky dominated by a bright, blazing sun. Tatiana knew well that the dazzling sun could burn and blister her skin at the higher elevations. She knew also that clouds could billow up seemingly from nowhere to obscure the peaks. For this moment, though, she dwelt only on the beauty and closed her mind to danger.
It was only after the sun began its slow descent that both the path and her spirits grew labored. Leaving the valley floor, the small party began to climb. Although Tatiana could see no evidence of a path, the American found a way across twisting ravines and tree-studded slopes. Gradually the trees thinned, as did the air.
Gasping, Tatiana stumbled around granite outcroppings and floundered through snow. In places, it rose as high as her knees. In other spots, it formed only a thin crust. The uneven snowfall surprised her, until she came to understand that the direction of the slopes had much to do with the amount of snow that clung to them. She soon realized as well that the American kept to the west-facing slopes as much as possible. Although this required a more circuitous climb and some backtracking, the lighter snow cover allowed a far faster pace.
When at last they reached a notch in the first line of peaks, her breath came in great, wheezing gasps. The thin air cut through her lungs like a sword blade. Thankfully, the American paused to water and rest the pony before starting the downward trek. Tatiana collapsed in a boneless heap right where she stood. Dragging a sleeve across her heated face, she looked up to find her guide standing over her.
“Are you all right?”
It was the first concern he’d shown for her state since their march began, and then it came only after he’d tended to the horse. With brutal honesty, Tatiana accepted the fact that the pack animal was more necessary to his survival than was she.
“I shall be fine, once the breath comes back to me.”
He nodded, then hunkered down on his heels and surveyed the steep descent that awaited them. His broad chest didn’t rise and fall like a farrier’s bellows, Tatiana noted with a touch of resentment, nor did sweat film his forehead. She glanced enviously at his buckskin shirt, a fantastically decorated garment with no buttons or laces. Quills and colored beads banded the collar and dangled from the fringes. The front pieces crossed one over the other, and were held at the waist by his belt. He’d loosened the front opening to allow the air to circulate and cool his skin during the climb.
Tatiana sighed, wishing most heartily that she could open the front of her dress to catch the air. She’d removed her jacket and tied it around her waist by its sleeves hours ago. Unfortunately, the Hupa wore no undergarments, and her tattered pantaloons and petticoats had long since disappeared. The best she could do was flap a hand to cool her heated face.
The movement drew the American’s gaze. “You’re getting burned. Don’t you have a Susannah packed in that basket of yours?”
“I do not think so,” she replied cautiously.
Grinning at her obvious confusion, he gestured to her wind-tossed hair. “A hat. A sunbonnet.”
Tatiana shook her head, too surprised by his unexpected grin to speak. This was the first glimpse she’d had of the smile that reportedly had lured so many Hupa women to his bed...along with his other masculine attributes.
Perhaps she could understand, just a bit, their attraction to this rough, unrefined woodsman. When the tanned skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled just so, and his mouth tilted in that rakish way to show fine white teeth, one could almost ignore the too-long beard and too-brawny shoulders.
“Here.” He tugged his ftat-crowned hat from his head. “You’d better wear mine or you’ll end up with a complexion the same color as a boiled beaver belly.”
Faced with that daunting prospect, Tatiana made no demur when he plopped the dish-shaped object on her head. Far too large, the beaver hat settled low on her brow and obscured everything but her view of his bunched, corded thighs. She tilted her head to peer doubtfully at him from under the broad brim.
His grin deepened. “Hold on. We’ll fix it.”
He worked another thong from the fringe on his sleeve and used it to anchor the hat. The wide brim bowed at the sides and rose in front and back, providing Tatiana with both relief from the sun and an unobstructed view.
“There, that’s better.”
His hands worked the ties into a loose knot under her chin. At the brush of his knuckles against her throat, a ripple of sensation darted down Tatiana’s spine. Startled, she jerked away from his touch.
She saw at once she’d made a mistake. The American’s easy grin faded. In its place came a hardness that sheened his eyes and reminded Tatiana all too forcefully of the snow-clad granite peaks.
“I forgot about your aversion to having anyone lay hands on the Countess Karanova.”
She took refuge from his mockery in a cool reply. “It is not done.”
“Is that right?”
His biting drawl grated on her...as it was intended to.
“Yes, that is right.”
With a male arrogance that set her teeth on edge, he let his gaze drift down her throat. His gold-flecked eyes lingered on her breasts, then rose again with maddening deliberation to her face.
“Just how do you figure you’re going to live up to your end of our little bargain without some laying on of hands?”
He was taunting her, she knew. Baiting her, just as the peasants baited shaggy brown bears at the fair. She set her jaw.
“I shall contrive.”
This time his smile held no trace of its earlier friendliness. It dragged down one corner of his mouth in a most unpleasant manner.
“You’ll have to do better than contrive, Countess. We’ve got a long trek ahead of us.”
“Then let us get on with it.”
He rose without another word and strode toward the pony. Tatiana fell into place at the rear of the small column. She barely noticed the steep descent or the rapidly cooling air. Her entire being focused on the man ahead of her, and on the night to come.
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