Montana Wildfire (45 page)

The man's gaze shifted back to her. His lips pursed with indecision, and his attention volleyed between her eyes and the gun—the aim of which was now steady and true. With a sly glance, he measured the distance between himself and the dining room door. The golden brow Amanda arched convinced him that she could squeeze off a shot before he had time to pick up one heavily booted foot.

Three hours,
Amanda thought as she watched the fat man wrestle with his decision. Jake was already at least three hours ahead of her. And counting. If this man didn't answer her soon she just might be tempted to put a bullet in him out of spite!

The clerk must have sensed her thoughts, for his expression became guarded. Plowing his fingers through his thinning black hair, he shook his head and muttered, "East. That breed of yours rode out heading East, just after dawn." His eyes shimmered a warning not missed by Amanda. "Now put that gun away and get the hell out of this hotel.
Before
I yell for help. I'll warn you, lady, the guys in Junction don't look kindly on white women who take up with breeds. They won't go as easy on you as I have."

Amanda thought of the two slimy men from last night. She shivered and, nodding, bent to retrieve her saddlebag. The gun stayed in her hand. She didn't uncock it. If Jake had taught her nothing else, he'd taught to be prepared for anything. He had also taught her not to trust anyone but herself; his leaving this morning without a word had driven home that lesson.

Her eye on the clerk, Amanda backed toward the door. The barrel of the pistol stayed trained on the him, though she was careful to conceal it against her side as she passed the door leading into the dining room.

It was awkward balancing the saddlebag and holding the gun while she turned the cold metal doorknob, but she managed it. A blast of cold air wafted over her back, stirring the wispy hair that clung to her neck and cheeks. The clerk, she noticed, hadn't budged an inch, but continued to watch her with a brooding glare.

"East," she said, as much to herself as to him. "Toward Montana?"

He scowled, and looked at her oddly. "Lady, you're
in
Montana. Have been for at least a week if you're on horseback."

"Oh," she murmured, backing over the threshold. "Of course. I knew that. How—er—how far away is Pony? And how do I get there from here?"

He shrugged tightly and in clipped, obviously reluctant words, said, "A day's ride. Two if it snows, which it will. As for getting there, just keep riding East through the valley. In seven or eight hours you'll reach a few small mountains. After that, another valley. Pony's about half a day's ride from where the land gets relatively flat."

Amanda nodded and, mumbling her thanks, slipped out the door. As soon as it had clicked into place, she uncocked the pistol and slipped it into her pocket. Her fingers, she noticed as she hurried toward the stable, had begun shaking again. So had the rest of her. Her heart was slamming against her ribs, and the cold morning air sliced into her lungs with each ragged breath she drew.

She hadn't been nervous while holding the gun on the fat clerk—she'd done what she had to do at the time. Only now that it was over did the shock set in. Had she
really
just held a gun on a man? Yes, incredible as it sounded she had, and twice in less than twenty-four hours! Astonishment—and, yes, a smattering of pride—rushed in to replace her newfound courage.

A month ago she wouldn't have had the nerve to do what she'd done last night and today. Thank God she did now, because a month ago she wouldn't have been able to find out where Jake was heading. A month ago she would have taken the clerk at his word, and would probably have ended up picking her way to Washington with her tail between her legs, feeling lost and defeated.

Amanda wasn't feeling defeated right now. What she was feeling was angry as holy hell. The focus of her fury was aimed at Jake Chandler's sleek black head.

He'd run out on her, the rat! After promising to help her find Roger, he'd rim out on her! Oh, how that hurt!

She thought it was a good thing he was heading East. That made it easier, since she was heading East, too. If she had to do it herself, she was going to find Roger Thornton Bannister III and return him to his father. And after she'd collected her hard-earned money...

Then
she was going to find Jake.

She didn't know how, but somehow she would do it. If it was the last thing she did, she'd see to it that the rotten bastard paid and paid
dearly
for abandoning her the way everyone else in her life had. He may not have died like her mother had, or pushed her away like her father had, but he
had
run out on her. And that made the hurt and disillusionment worse. It made the pain of waking up and finding him gone—no note, no nothing—unbearable.

Oh, yes. He was going to pay for that. Amanda swore it.

"Valley, mountains, valley. Half a day's ride," she mumbled over and over under her breath as she wove her way past the people milling on the boardwalk. The directions sounded identical to the ones she'd gotten in Virginia City... shortly before she and Roger had set out and become hopelessly lost!

The snow started falling just after noon. Large flakes danced from the sky, light and airy. Out of the mountains, the ground was warm, so the accumulation wasn't much. Yet.

Despite the weather, Jake made good time. The men he was following did not. He'd picked up their tracks an hour out of Junction. Since one of the horses had a nicked hoof, the prints weren't difficult to identify.

He rode hard, gaining ground. Dusk was painting the cloudy sky when he drew the white to a halt and slipped to the ground. After carefully inspecting the ground as well as leavings from the kidnapper's horse he decided he was only half an hour behind. Good. He'd made better time than he'd hoped.

He didn't set up camp. A fire could be spotted, and cooking food was easily smelled. A mistake like that would alert the kidnapper to his presence, and he didn't want to take that chance. Not when he was so damn close. If all went as planned, the kidnapper wouldn't know he presented a threat until it was too late to do anything about it.

He let the white drink from a nearby creek, then rubbed it down and tethered it to a pine. He settled himself down on the cold, damp ground and rested his back against the tree trunk. An unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

His eyes narrowed and he gazed unseeingly at the flurries being tossed about on the cool, evening breeze. Every muscle in his body felt itchy and tight, impatient to get this game over with. But he couldn't. Not yet. He had to force himself to give the kidnapper time to think he'd made his camp undetected—and that would take a few hours. Damn!

Jake shifted atop the hard, lumpy ground. He hated waiting. Always had. It gave a body too much time to think about things best forgotten.

His thoughts automatically shifted to a certain prissy Bostonian. He closed his eyes and saw her hair flowing like a curtain of raw gold silk down her back, over her bottom, the ends curling inward at the very top of her thighs. He heard her voice whisper on the breeze, the tone so soft and sweet.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Jake struck a match on the seam of his pants. Squinting, he cupped the flame, holding it to the tip of the cigarette. The burn of smoke in his lungs felt good, familiar, but it didn't come close to taking his mind off Amanda Lennox. Hell, no. A keg of dynamite could have exploded right next to him and it
still
wouldn't have dislodged the memory of her smooth white skin skimming beneath his open palm. He remembered her airy sighs of surrender, and he remembered how... ah, God, he remembered how good it felt when she wrapped her legs around his hips, arched up into him, meeting him thrust for hungry thrust.

From the first, there had been nothing proper about their relationship, nothing refined about their lovemaking. Nor was there anything ladylike in her response to either. Her passion, once freed, had been wild and untamed and demanding. For the first time in his life the desire he'd kindled inside a woman had
exceeded
that pumping inside himself. It was the last thing he'd expected from a prissy white woman—white
lady.
But then, Amanda was nothing if not filled to the voluptuous brim with contrasts.

Jake had always prided himself on being able to peg a woman on sight, but not Amanda Lennox. In fact, his first impression of her had been haughty and frigid. The type of woman who would make love only reluctantly—probably with all her clothes on—in a pitch black room—at
night
—and still not enjoy it.

Proving himself wrong had been both a delight and a curse. The contrast between how she behaved in his arms and how she behaved
out
of them intrigued him more than he cared to admit. Her uninhibited lovemaking had accomplished the exact opposite of what he'd hoped it would.

Instead of satisfying his thirst for her, each time he had her served to whet it. When she touched him, he forgot for a time who she was—who
he
was
—why
they couldn't be together. Remembering how it felt when her warm breath puffed over his skin made him want her more than he thought it possible to want a woman.
Any
woman. That was so damn dangerous for both of them.

Again
and
again.
That was what he wanted from her. Again and again... for a good long time. That was enough reason for him to want to run from her. Far and fast. Soon. Before he lost all sense of himself. Before she became a part of him that he couldn't live without.

Jake's gut twisted, and a strange tightness wrapped around his chest. He had a feeling it was too late to run from his feelings for her, but he
could
run from acknowledging them. The two white men he'd caught outside Amanda's door last night were still vivid in his mind. The incident had proved what he'd known all along. As long as she was with him, what happened last night would happen again. And again. Next time someone might get hurt. Next time, that someone might be Amanda.

Any white woman who took up with a breed was considered trash, fair game for ridicule and worse. Jake would rather die than let Amanda find that out the hard way. He would rather die than let her get hurt because of him, because he was too weak to put a stop to something that should have been stopped before it had even begun.

He took a deep drag off the cigarette, exhaling with a long, slow hiss. His gaze turned hard as he watched the curls of smoke waft on the air. They'd been apart less than a day, and already he missed her. His body hungered for her body, yet his mind demanded so much more! Jesus, if he felt like hell now, he could only imagine how he would feel when the separation was permanent.

With an angry growl, he hurled the half-smoked cigarette into the snow-dusted grass. The tip continued to burn hot and red; just like his thoughts.

Somehow...
somehow,
he was going to have to find the strength to walk away from that lady. No matter how much it tore him up inside.

The white gave a toss of its head and whickered. The sound trickled like icewater down Jake's spine. Cursing inwardly for allowing himself to be distracted—for allowing thoughts of
Amanda Lennox
to distract him—he reached for his knife.

A split second too late.

A damp twig snapped. Leaves rustled. No sooner had his fingers grazed the wooden hilt when he felt the cold metal barrel of a gun jab at his temple.

"Go ahead, breed. Try it," a gritty voice drawled in Jake's ear. The tone was low and menacing and rough as stone.

Gritting his teeth, Jake sucked in a deep, steadying breath and almost gagged on the stench of sour breath and rancid sweat that assaulted him. A quick glance from the corner of his eye revealed a large, shadowy form crouched close... but not close enough. The glance also confirmed what he had, until now, only suspected: the hand holding the gun was big and causally skilled; the thick index finger curled around the trigger was rock-steady, ready to fire at the least provocation.

The gun nudged Jake's temple. "Well? You gonna pull that knife or what? I don't know about you, but when it's a choice between a bullet or a blade, my money's on the bullet any day. Quicker, more accurate... and messy as hell. Especially at this range." A dry, humorless chuckle was followed by an equally dry, equally humorless, "But, hell, I'm game. Always did have a hankerin' to see if your kind bleeds red. Come on, pull that mean lookin' knife and satisfy this ole boy's curiosity."

The words were uttered with cold, hard precision... and reinforced by the click of a hammer being cocked. The metallic grind of chambers rolling to place sounded loud and grating. That, combined with the raw yet blasé timbre of the man's voice, convinced Jake to stay his hand. Temporarily.

Flexing his fingers, he cautiously moved his hand out of reach of the knife. Resting his open palm atop his thigh, and thinking of how very glad he was that he'd left Amanda behind, Jake drawled, "Your call,
ole boy.
The knife stays where it is. The question now is, is your bullet going to do the same?"