Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (30 page)

She pulled away. "I'll manage. I'm used to handling jackasses," she replied, getting up and dusting off her breeches, anything to escape his touch. How well she remembered those long, callused fingers caressing her bare skin, the heat and scent of his body pressed to hers—no! She would survive this drive, one day at a time and not think of the past.

After they made camp that night and ate supper, Sky climbed into the wagon to sleep with Fawn. Max spread his solitary bedroll on the far side of the campfire. No one commented on why husband and wife did not share blankets. But everyone knew something was seriously amiss between them.

The next morning, Max's prediction about Sky's shoulders came true. Rolling over in the wagon, she bit her lip to keep from crying out and awakening the sleeping child. The pain was horrible and when she tried to raise her right arm, it simply refused to do her bidding. She felt the burning muscles quiver, then let the arm drop uselessly.

"I have some of the salve Dr. Torres gave me. Perhaps it will help," Fawn offered. She had awakened and sat quietly behind Sky, watching her friend struggle.

"That heals skin, Fawn, but I don't think it will help with muscles. I'll just have to work out the pain." Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself up and began to don her buckskins. She was sweating by the time she finished the simple task.

Fawn, too, had put on one of her new loose shirts and slid into a pair of boy's pants, securing the waistband with a length of rope. The store had no belts small enough for her. "I will cook breakfast."

"You're not strong enough," Sky admonished. "Just set out the cooking utensils on the wagon gate for me. I'll start the fire."

The men, who took turns watching the herd and sleeping under the stars, were awake and hungry. By dint of sheer will, she managed to light the fire and stir up a batch of biscuits before putting on the coffee.

"Mmm, smells good, ma'am," Bronc said as she pulled a tin of golden brown biscuits from the hot coals at the side of the fire and replaced it with a skillet filled with sliced bacon strips.

"I think the coffee's done. Will you test it, please?" she asked the old man. As he did so and gave her a thumbs-up, she asked, "How did you get the name Bronc?"

He laughed. "Come out West from Illinois. My folks was farmers 'n I wanted to be a broncobuster. Seen 'em in a traveling rodeo that passed by our town when I was a tadpole. Read all them penny novels 'bout cowboys 'n such." He stopped and chuckled.

"What happened then?" Fawn asked from the wagon gate where she was arranging a stack of tin plates.

"Oh, I bluffed my way into a job bustin' wild horses, right 'nough. Busted legs, my collarbone 'n an arm, too. 'Fore I had to give it up, I done busted everything but my peck—, er, pardon me, ma'am," he said, red-faced.

When Sky only smiled, he continued, "That's when I got the handle, 'Bronc.' My being so bad at it, bronc bustin' was plumb hazardous for my health. Then I heard about a big cattle drive from Texas up to Montana Territory. Signed on. By that time I could sit a horse right well—long as someone else broke him first. Been drovin' beeves ever since, but the nickname stuck."

"We're grateful you agreed to help us," Sky said with a smile, offering him a jar of honey to go with the biscuits she'd piled onto a plate.

"I'm gettin' too old to take them Montana winters. Texas is hot as—'pardon, again, ladies," he interrupted himself, blushing once more. "Let's just say it's hot. But I'm fixin' on spending the rest of my life hereabouts. Drovin' beeves to the railheads in Kansas is as far north as I'll ever ride."

"You are a fine rider," Fawn said solemnly. Good horsemanship was a matter of honor among her people.

"It takes more than good ridin' to make a drover. You got to think like them beeves. Keep one step ahead of 'em," Bronc replied.

"It would appear that I am incapable of thinking like a steer," Max said wryly as he walked into camp. "I spent half the night chasing down strays with insomnia."

"What is in-insomnia?" Fawn asked him, faltering over the new word.

"Not being able to sleep," Sky supplied, as she and Max exchanged an understanding glance. Perhaps it was a good thing he stayed awake on night turn, rather than face his "dark warriors" once again and awaken the whole camp.

He seemed to understand her thoughts, for he quickly returned his attention to Fawn. "I hope you slept well in the wagon."

"Oh, yes, thank you. But Sky did not. I heard her tossing and trying to find a way to rest that did not hurt her shoulders. They are very painful," she said, watching Sky struggle to lift a large iron skillet from the fire.

Max nodded as he stood up and quickly walked over to Sky, wrapping his larger hands over hers and helping her with the simple task. "I told you this would happen."

"I'll manage. I was raised doing camp chores far more arduous than cooking," she replied, relieved when he removed his hands from hers and stepped back.

"You never drove mules," he argued.

"You never drove cattle," she countered.

He snorted. "That is readily apparent to everyone...with the possible exception of my young admirer," he added with a rueful chuckle.

"She commented on it this morning, too," Sky volleyed back.

"Her infatuation does have its merits. She gave away how badly you're hurting. Let me drive the bloody wagon. I can do the cooking and you, according to Grandfather, learned to drive wild ponies when you were a girl in Dakota Territory."

"How on earth..." Her voice faded away. It was true. "I imagine there's no point in asking him how he knows that," she said.

"None whatsoever," Max replied cheerfully.

"You can barely make coffee. I'll drive the wagon." Her voice indicated the discussion was closed.

Max gave up when True Dreamer dismounted from the fine buckskin gelding he had "inherited" from Johnny Deuce. "Try talking some sense into her hard Sioux head," he said to the old man, then walked over to his horse and began rubbing it down after the night's exertion.

The Cheyenne only chuckled slyly and helped himself to bacon and biscuits. "You are a fine cook, Daughter." As he made the comment, he watched Max curry the buckskin he had ridden with strokes hard enough to rub the hair off the restive animal's hide.

* * * *

Later that morning, they drew in sight of a shallow, rocky stream similar to the one with the pool above Wichita Falls where Sky and Max had bathed and made love. Sky was too exhausted even to think about that passionate interlude. She tugged on the reins as the mules smelled fresh water and picked up their normally desultory pace. "Whoa! You wretched, stubborn, ugly—"

Her diatribe was interrupted when the lead mule yanked its reins from her hands, causing the wagon to careen on two wheels, then bounce wildly across the sagebrush and rocks toward the water. From behind her Sky could hear Fawn's pained cry as she was slammed against the side of the wagon, but Sky could not spare time to look back. She had to get the team under control before they overturned the wagon.

Max saw the team bolt from a distance, but the lowing of the cattle drowned out Sky and Fawn's cries for help. He yelled to the other men, then turned his horse as he kicked it into a full gallop to head off the mules. If only he could grab the leader's reins—or, if need be, jump on its back and yank the bit directly until it stopped.

Then his mouth went dry and a cry froze in his throat as he saw his wife preparing to leap from the bouncing driver's seat onto the mule. "No Sky!" he yelled as loudly as he could.

She could be trampled! He whipped his reins across his horse's neck frantically, leaning low as he closed in, praying she would hear him before she did something suicidal. Then her head jerked suddenly around and she saw him a second before jumping. He could see her call his name as he raced beside the team. Reaching out, he wrapped his fist around the lead mule's harness and yanked so hard that the headstall and bit cut through his heavy leather gloves and drew blood.

"Hold on tight!" he yelled to Sky and Fawn.

His painful grip did its work. Gradually, the wild team began to slow. By the time Bronc and True Dreamer reached them, Max had the wagon stopped. He kept his agonizing hold on the headstall where it joined the bit, having the satisfaction of seeing he was not the only one bleeding. The dumb brute had cut its mouth before giving up the crazed dash.

Without relinquishing his hold, Max walked the team to the water and allowed them to drink. Then, he dismounted and looked up at Sky and Fawn, peering from behind her. "Are you injured?" he asked.

"Oh, Stalker, we are not hurt. You are the one who is bleeding!" Fawn cried.

But Max and Sky did not hear her. Their gazes were locked on each other. Both of them were pale and frightened. He spoke first. "Now, will you let me drive these damnable animals?"

Prying her fingers from their death grip on the remaining set of reins, Sky tied them to the brake and set it, then climbed down. "Thank you for saving our lives," she said quietly. "Now, let me see your hand. I'm certain that's a nasty cut. It'll require stitching."

"Which you will doubtless enjoy," he replied with a fleeting grin that turned into a grimace when he removed the glove and blood poured across his palm.

"I can't see how you're going to handle those mules with your hand in this condition," Sky said as she prepared to stitch the deep cut across his palm.

"I've had worse and fired a rifle," he replied.

Both of them were acutely aware of each other, afraid to touch, yet knowing that they had to do so. They could feel everyone watching them as she laid out the medical supplies and struggled to thread the needle. Max could see her hands tremble, but she finally succeeded in hitting the eye and tied off a knot on a foot long piece of thread.

"I hope that's more thread than you'll require for a couple of stitches," he said as True Dreamer poured the stinging disinfectant over his hand. He stifled an oath of pain out of consideration for Fawn, who sat nearby, watching her brave "Stalker."

"Would you rather I had to stop before the cut's closed and rethread the needle?" she asked crossly.

"Here. Drink this. For pain," the old Cheyenne said, handing Max a small vial of some horrid-smelling liquid.

"Thanks just the same, but I fear the pain of tasting it would be worse than the pain from the needle." He thrust out his hand toward Sky. How soft and gentle those small, golden hands were. How well he remembered their feel against his skin. He focused on those erotic memories to blot out the sharp stabs and tugging of flesh he knew were coming.

Sky bit her lip in concentration, forcing her hands to be steady. He was a man who survived by using a gun. Without his right hand, he would be helpless. She could not afford to be clumsy. The wound must heal completely. Now that Grandfather had washed away the worst of the blood, she saw that the cut was not as long as she had first feared. Three, four stitches, perhaps five. She extended his arm across her knee and set to work.

Fawn watched his stoic acceptance of the pain in awe. "He is so brave, Grandfather," she whispered. "I would be content to be his second wife," she added hopefully.

"Hush, child. He does what he must...just as his warrior-woman does. And she will not share him," he added sternly, although he hid a faint smile from the girl. She, too, was brave, surviving the weasel-snake as she had. Her spirit remained strong. He thanked the Powers for that great blessing.

Now all he had to do was make certain the foolish English and his equally foolish woman recognized that their love was fated to last.

* * * *

They spent the afternoon by the stream, resting their horses and the mules. The following morning, they set out once more, this time with Max driving the supply wagon with Fawn in the back. After his encounter with the Englishman, the lead mule's sore mouth made him somewhat more tractable. Considering how wickedly his hand throbbed, Max was grateful. He wore the heaviest pair of leather gloves they had with their supplies and a heavy pad over his palm, but it took all his concentration to hold the team steady.

No wonder his slender wife had not been able to control these powerful beasts. It took considerably more upper body strength than she possessed, and Sky was hardly a fragile belle. He watched her ride, admiring the way she cut off a steer before it could stray far from the herd. She was a natural on horseback and skilled at herding. She was skilled at many things, he thought. There was no way he could lose her and bear it.

So, he simply resolved that somehow he would find a way to prove that he loved her. He could renounce the title, but that would do no good. Max would be left offering her the prospect of living a dangerous and uncertain life as the wife of a bounty hunter. Scarcely an appealing prospect—or any way to help her people. After everything he had learned about the plight of the Ehanktonwon, not to mention the other tribes in the Nations, Max wanted to use his uncle's vast wealth to benefit as many as he could.

Fawn broke into his reverie, asking, "May I sit on the seat beside you, Stalker?"

He looked over his shoulder at the girl's hopeful face and sighed. "Are you certain you won't injure yourself? Dr. Torres said to wait another day or so."

"I am fine," she pronounced with the resilience of youth. "It has been a week since the weasel-snake hurt me."