Montana Wildfire (50 page)

Amanda was tempted to look into Jake's eyes, to discern what that husky timber in his voice meant, but she resisted. To do so would mean she would have to move, and Jake's warm, solid chest beneath her cheek felt too good to surrender just yet, too comforting. The drumming of his heart was a steady, calming beat in her ear. "You won't l-leave me again. Will you?"

"I..." He knew what she was talking about. He didn't know precisely
how
he knew, he just did. Jake felt an unfamiliar stab of emotion in the region of his heart. It took a second for him to place it; it took even longer for him to admit it was guilt. "No, princess, I won't leave you."

"Y-you promise?"

"Yes." He stroked brisk paths up and down her arms, even as he angled his head and nuzzled her neck. Her hair smelled piney and fragrant. Her skin felt warm beneath his lips. Perfect. Holding her in his arms felt... ah, God, so damn perfect! Good and right and wonderful. How was he ever going to leave this woman? How was he ever going to let her go?

The answer came out of nowhere; it hit him like a rock-solid punch to the gut. He couldn't leave her. Not now. Not ever. Sometime during the last few weeks, this white woman had cut through the wall he'd erected around himself. Her easy smile and prissy ways had chiseled away his resistance, burrowed under his skin, snuck into his bloodstream. Somewhere along the line this woman had become an important part of him. Losing her now would be like losing a limb. No, that was wrong. An arm or leg he could live without. He could
not
live without Amanda.

A soft, muffled sob snatched Amanda's attention. She stiffened, and her head came up. For a split second, she wasn't sure what, or who, had made the noise. And then she remembered.

Roger. Dear Lord, with everything that had happened, she'd forgotten about the boy.

Swallowing a stab of guilt, she glanced up at Jake.

His jaw was tight, his gaze intense as he returned her stare. She wondered briefly what he was thinking. What had put that desperate glint in his eyes?

The moan came again, and the sound robbed Amanda of the chance to ask. "Roger," she whispered, and pushed against his chest. "Please, Jake, I have to go to him."

Jake's arms tightened around her. If Amanda had seen any emotion in his eyes a second ago, it was gone now. His gaze was narrow, unreadable. The muscle in his cheek jerked as he hauled her up against him once more. "The brat can wait."

"No, he can't. I... God, he must be terrified."

"So are you."

"I'm fine." Her chin hiked up a determined notch. Only her moist, trembling lower lip betrayed the lie. Something flashed in Jake's eyes, something that made Amanda remember all the other lies she'd ever told him, as well as her promise to never lie to him again. Sighing shakily, she amended, "I'm a little shaken up, but I'll be fine."

"Bullshit. Lady, you're shaking like a leaf."

"For God's sake, what do you expect? I'm in shock. I've never... k-killed a man before."

"Yeah, tell me something I don't already know. As far as I'm concerned, that's all the more reason you should stay put. I'll tend to the kid."

"No."

"Why the hell not?"

Why not, indeed? Jake was right, she
was
shaking like a leaf. Inside as well as out. But that was beside the point. "Roger is
my
responsibility. I insist you let me go to him."

Amanda struggled to pull away from Jake. She'd put barely an inch between them when she felt his palm against the side of her head. He muttered something—one of the curses he was so fond of, no doubt—and tugged her head down to his chest.

"You're beginning to annoy me again, Mr. Chandler."

"Jesus, lady, what the hell is with you? You just killed a man for me. You don't get much more intimate with a guy than that! Now shut up and sit still. You aren't going anywhere."

Amanda continued to squirm. "I want to go to Roger."

"I didn't ask what you wanted, princess."

"I'm telling you anyway. In fact, I'm demanding it. Now
let me go!"

"No. Your knees are still too weak. You stand up now, you're just going to topple over again."

Amanda's tone was haughty and very, very proper. "I will not."

"Will too."

"Not."

"Too!"

"Liar."

That did it! Amanda reached out and curled her fingers around Jake's forearms, intending to forcibly remove herself from his no longer welcome embrace. "For crying out loud, they're
my
knees. Surely
I
would know whether or not—"

Jake sucked in a sharp breath. The world spun dizzily around him. A wave of agony bolted all the way up to his shoulder. From wrist to elbow, his arm felt like it was on fire. He couldn't suppress the gasp that hissed through his teeth.

Amanda paled and snatched her hand away. It was too late. The set of Jake's jaw said the damage was done. She fought a surge of nausea when she felt the warm stickiness of his blood coating her palms. "Oh, God. Jake, I'm so sorry. Does it," she cleared her throat, forcing herself to continue, "hurt badly?"

"Hell no, I was gasping in pleasure," he growled, pushing the words through tightly clenched teeth.
"Of course it hurts!"
He hadn't meant to shout at her, and the second he saw Amanda's injured expression, he wished he hadn't. It took effort, but he softened his tone. "Take care of the kid while I tend this."

"If you want I could—?"

The inky brow he slanted at her said that no, Jake did not want her tending him. For some reason that wounded her. Amanda ducked her head so he couldn't see the sheen of tears in her eyes, and clambered from his lap. "Excuse me," she murmured with rigid politeness, even as she hurried away.

Through slitted eyes he watched her hesitate as she passed Tom Rafferty's lifeless body, watched her stiffen then continue on. He almost,
almost
called her back. He wasn't sure what stopped him, except maybe the instinctive knowledge that she needed time to digest what had happened. Come to think of it, so did he. Truthfully, he wasn't sure a dozen lifetimes would be enough time to come to terms with what Amanda Lennox had done.

Amanda Lennox had killed for him. A prissy white woman had put a bullet through a man's back—through a
white man's
back—to save the life of a half-breed. Did she have any idea of the danger she'd put herself in? Did she know what the law would do if word of what she'd done—and for
whom—ever
got out? Did she care? No, probably not. But she
should.

Shaking his head, Jake plowed the fingers of his right hand through his hair and sighed. He glanced at Amanda, watched as she sawed through Roger's ropes with the knife. Surprisingly, when the boy was free, she clasped him tightly to her chest. Even more surprising, Roger hugged her back with equal ferocity.

Jake's gaze narrowed, and his attention dipped to the long, creamy taper of her throat. His blood ran cold when he pictured a roughly knotted hangman's noose draping her regal collarbone, a place where, by all rights, the finest diamonds and pearls money could buy should rest.

Though he tried to shake it free, the image lingered for a long, long time.

The light of campfire flickered, breaking the night's darkness in a ring of muted orange light. An owl hooted in the distance. A chilly breeze stirred the ceiling of leaves.

Jake saw and heard none of it. Sitting with his back propped against a boulder, he studied the soft, deerskin toe of one of his moccasins as though it held untold mysteries. But... Jesus, he didn't see that either. What he
did
see—much too clearly, even though he wasn't looking—was Amanda Lennox.

She was sitting on the other side of the fire, huddled from chin to toe beneath a threadbare blanket.
His
blanket. The firelight touched off reddish highlights in the hair wisping around her face. Her cheeks looked whiter than normal. Her gaze was huge, haunted and intense, piercing the distance that separated them.

The distance wasn't really so much. So why, Jake wondered, did it feel like it stretched on for miles?

Amanda had been great with the brat, Jake could find no fault with her there. While he'd buried Tom and Henry Rafferty, he'd heard her crooning to Roger. The kid had sobbed on her shoulder. Amanda hadn't complained, she'd soothed. Jake had found himself wishing she would hold him in her arms like that and help ease some of his own torment. Unfortunately, being in Amanda's arms was what had
caused
his torment in the first place, so he figured that probably wouldn't work.

It wasn't until after Roger had fallen asleep that Amanda had fallen apart, in her own way; quietly, with dignity. She'd retreated to the other side of the campfire with a cup of coffee she'd yet to take one sip of—Jake knew, since his gaze had rarely left her mouth—and she hadn't spoken a word.

Neither had he.

And that, Jake thought, was the worst part. This brooding silence that crackled with a tension that seemed louder than thunder somehow. The silence made the distance between them seem greater. In the past they'd made love, they'd fought... but rarely had Amanda ever been this goddamn silent. He had been, many times, but never her. It was...
annoying.
Grating. It shouldn't be, but it was.

Gritting his teeth, Jake yanked the small leather pouch out of his shirt pocket and, ignoring the pain to his injured arm, rolled himself a smoke. His gaze was still on Amanda; his fingers performed the chore by a mixture of memory and habit. He stuck the cigarette into one corner of his mouth and lit it, squinting against the brightness of the flame as well as the sting of smoke in his eyes. His lungs burned with the first, deep inhalation; it was a familiar, welcome distraction from festering thoughts.

"Amanda—"

"Jake—"

Their words tripped over each other. Both snapped their mouths shut and exchanged nervous glances for the other to continue. Neither did.

Jake exhaled through his teeth, puffing a stream of grey smoke into the air. He rested his head back against the rock and closed his eyes.

Amanda bent her legs and tucked her knees beneath her chin. She smoothed the blanket primly over her shins and gazed at the snapping flames of the campfire. "You know we're going to have to talk about this eventually," she said, her voice soft, as though she was speaking to herself as much as to him.

"Yeah, I expect we will. Eventually."

Her gaze lifted, trailing slowly up Jake's body. Past firm calves and thighs, past lean hips and taut stomach, past broad shoulders and bruised copper throat. His eyes were still closed. Even at this distance she could see the thick, sooty lashes flicker against the sculpted curve of his cheek.

The muted light cast his straight hair an appealing shade of blue-black. The red bandanna he'd knotted around his forehead to hold the strands back from his face looked unusually bright. The flickering shadows defined the hollows beneath his cheeks, made the already hard line of his jaw look granite-hard.

"Why do you do that?" she asked. They were the first words that came to mind, and Amanda said them only to break the tension that was threatening to drive her loony.

His brows lifted, but he didn't open his eyes. Instead, he put the cigarette to his mouth, leisurely puffed until the tip glowed hot and red, then released the smoke in a long, slow hiss. "Do what?"

"Wear your hair so long? Wear a bandanna like a headband?" Her gaze dipped to the sheath at his belt. "Carry knives instead of a gun like normal men do?"

"Are you saying I'm not normal, princess?"

Amanda squirmed and thought that maybe the silence, tense as it was, would have been better after all. Less condemning. Of course, it was too late now. "No, Jake. I'm saying you aren't like... well, like other men."

"White
men, you mean."

She bristled. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." This time when Jake lifted the cigarette to his lips, he didn't draw on it. Instead, he pinched it between his index finger and thumb and frowned. His arm throbbed a protest when he flicked it away. His eyes opened, and he watched the glowing tip arch through the night. It sizzled out on the snow-dusted grass outside the circle of firelight. "Lady, when the hell are you going to get it through that stubborn-as-all-hell head of yours that
I'm. Not. White.
Wishing my skin was lighter won't change the fact that it isn't."

"And wishing won't make my skin any redder," she countered tightly. "Have you ever thought of that, Jake?"

Her response—or maybe it was the firmness of her tone—seemed to take him by surprise. The force of his gaze snapped to her, making Amanda fidget. She saw his eyes narrow, saw the way he raked her face and neck and hands—every inch of white skin he could find—in a way that seemed almost condemning.

His voice was hard, edgy. "I've never wanted to change the color of your skin, Amanda."

"Never?" she asked, surprised.

"No."

"I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood. Maybe it isn't the color of my skin you'd like to change. Maybe it's the color of
yours."