Sunset Embrace (21 page)

"He 'peared to be a mean sonofabitch. His eyes were shifty-like, know what I mean, like nothin' escapes his attention. Pulled a Colt out of a holster quick as lightnin' when he thought somethin' had happened to his lady. Kind of a dark and broody type, he was. Didn't say much, that one, but didn't miss anythin' either. I wouldn't want to tangle with him."

The other man was listening intently, still staring at the opposite shore.

"Had a fine string of horseflesh. Knew what he was doing with 'em too. One sound, one hand motion, and they responded. Spooky-like, it was, to watch the way those horses listened to him. 'Course he left them in the charge of a kid when his woman went flyin' into that wagon like all the devils of hell was after her. Never seen anybody so scared of the river."

The grin the other man turned on him was demonic. "Scared of the river, was she?" His scratchy laugh made shivers run up and down the ferryman's spine. "But she ain't his woman, she's mine."

"Might have a hard time convincin' him of that." He spat again. "It was me, 1 think I'd let him have her, fine piece of womanflesh though she be, 'fore I'd fight him."

"Well, I ain't you, am I?"

The ferryman shrank from the maniacal calculation in the other's eyes. "You gonna cross now?" he asked nervously.

"Tomorrow. I got some supplies to buy first." He began to walk away before he turned back. "Any hints where they was headin ?"

"All I heard was Texas."

The man nodded, glanced toward the western shore, grinned, and started back toward Memphis on foot, a happy whistle sifting between his tobacco-stained teeth.

"Mornin\ Mrs. Coleman." Winston Hill tipped his hat to the young woman driving the team of horses as he rode up beside her wagon. He could appreciate her good posture, dainty figure, and lovely profile. Most of all he could appreciate that she didn't realize how lovely a picture she made.

"Good morning, Mr. Hill."

"When will you start calling me Winston?"

"When you start calling me Lydia."

"Do you think your husband would like that?"

Lydia sighed, keeping her eyes forward as her shoulders lifted and then lowered gradually with the soft expulsion of breath. Her husband approved of little she did. One more transgression, real or imaginary, wouldn't matter. Besides, she was tired of trying to please him.

"If I give you my permission, there's nothing Ross can say about it," she said defiantly and flashed the young man a smile. She was unwittingly flirtatious and Winston's heart leaped inside his chest at the brilliance of her face.

Reaching inside his saddlebag as he maneuvered his mount with one hand, he said, "I brought you something."

"Something for me?" Lydia asked, pleased.

"You called attention to the book I was reading the other night when you were strolling with Lee around the camp. Remember? You stopped to eat some of Moses's apple pie—"

"Only because he acted like he'd be hurt if I didn't," she interrupted.

Winston laughed. "He would have been."

Ross had been furious when he came upon the happy scene a few minutes later. He had all but dragged Lydia back to their wagon, his whole body tense with anger. Sometimes she wished he would shout at her, anything except fume and stew silently like a kettle about to blow its lid off.

Winston was saying, "I saw you looking at the book I'd been reading." He took it out of his saddlebag and stood in his stirrups, reaching to set it beside her on the wagon seat. "So I'm loaning it to you. Keep it as long as you like."

She flushed hotly, embarrassed and grateful at the same time. "Mr. . . . Hill . . . Winston," she stuttered. "I did admire your book. I only wish I could . . . read it."

He was silent for a moment as he stared at her averted face. What a ghastly error he had made. The other night, she had eyed the book with such longing that he was certain she could read and didn't indulge for lack of time or reading material. It had never entered his head that she couldn t read at all.

"Forgive me, Lydia. I didn't mean to give offense. I assumed you knew how to read."

"I did once," she said slowly, shyly. "Mama was teaching me to read when Papa died and . . ." Her voice dwindled away to nothingness with sad, heart-wrenching memories. "Anyway, she didn't teach me anymore after that and I never went back to school. I still recognize the letters and I might be able to read some. I don't know. I haven't seen a book in ... a long while."

Winston's eyes lit up brightly. He was about to speak when a coughing fit seized him. He coughed wrackingly into his spotless linen handkerchief before he could resume the conversation. "I'll bet you remember more than you think you do. Please take the book, read what you can, and if you have any trouble, ask me for assistance."

"I couldn't. It would be such a bother and—"

"No bother. I would enjoy it." He would enjoy talking to her for any reason. He didn't like being in love with another man's wife. His feelings offended his code of honor. And if the situation weren't hopeless on that account, it certainly was on another. Until he knew he could survive in a warmer, drier climate, he couldn't think of subjecting any woman to the aggravation of his illness. He was sick, but he wasn't dead yet. He was still a man. He loved looking at Lydia, listening to her quiet way of talking, enjoying her innocent charm.

"Lee might not give me much time to read. And I have my duties to my husband."

Now it was Winston's turn to blush hotly as he mistakenly assumed what duties she was referring to. "Of course, I didn't mean to imply that you weren't busy with . . . with being a wife and . . . and mother. I only thought that if you had some spare time, resting time, you might enjoy the book."

Lydia gazed down at it longingly. She could remember the room where Papa used to sit and read. It had been stocked with books. She had liked the way that room smelled, of Papa's pipe tobacco, of ink, of aged paper and dusty bookcovers. She hadn't thought of that room in years and now the memory was piercing and poignant. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Winston. Maybe I will have a chance to read it, if I can. I hope so. I don't want to be ignorant the rest of my life."

"I'd hardly call you ignorant, Lydia," he said softly.

Just then Ross came thundering up on Lucky. Like the man, the horse always seemed impatient for motion and he pranced arrogantly when Ross reined him beside Hill's horse, who respectfully gave the stallion room.

"Mornin' Ross. Got some rabbits, I see," Winston remarked with a friendly smile.

"Winston just stopped by to say hello," Lydia said nervously as she pulled on the team's reins. "He brought us a book to read." Maybe if Ross thought the loaned book had been for both of them, he would let her keep it.

"Yes," Winston picked up smoothly. "I brought a whole box of books with me. No sense in them going to waste."

"Thank you kindly, Hill," Ross said.

"I wonder if I might go hunting with you one morning? I'm a fairly good shot," he said with a certain wistfulness. "My daddy and I used to go hunting all the time together. Before the war."

"Sure," Ross said. God, he wanted to hate the man, but Hill never did anything one could hate him for. He even made a big fuss over Lee. Ross couldn't hate anyone who admired his son. "I usually leave as soon as the train pulls out."

"Let me know the next time you go. I'd like to accompany you. And thank you for helping Moses with the team. I knew they were good horses, but until you showed him how to line them up so they weren't pulling against each other, they were giving him trouble."

"I didn't mind," Ross said, shrugging. He glanced at Lydia and wished he hadn't stressed sitting straight on the wagon seat when he was teaching her to drive. Her posture detailed her proud breasts to the havoc of his senses, and he imagined to those of any man who happened to ride by. Hill included, "Lydia, I'll hang these rabbits on the back of the wagon and dress them when we stop at noon."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. Dressing game was one duty he usually delegated to her, though he knew the process made her stomach queasy and that she hated doing it. "Thank you, Ross," she said softly, staring at him solemnly for a long moment before he snatched his eyes away and wheeled Lucky toward the end of the wagon.

"Have a pleasant day, Lydia," Winston said, tipping his hat and riding off.

"You, too, Winston. And thanks for the book," she replied absently, her mind still on Ross and his strange behavior. Just when she thought she had him figured out, he did something unexpected that made her think she didn't know him at all.

During the past two weeks, ever since they had decided to stay together until they reached their destination, he had successfully been teaching her to drive the team. At first she had been terrified and awkward. But, by following his brusque instructions, she began to get the hang of it.

After the first day, when he had cursed her ineptitude and the futility of teaching her, he had ridden into the nearest town and bought a small pair of leather gloves.

The camp had settled for the night and most fires had already been burned down by the time he stepped into the wagon. Lydia was lying on her bedroll, but wasn't asleep. She had left the lantern on, turned down low. He tossed the wrapped package at her. "You'll tear your hands to ribbons if you don't wear these," he said before turning away to pull off his shirt and boots. Her hands were red and hurting with water blisters and abrasions but she didn't know he had noticed.

She peeled the wrapping away, and when the buttery soft leather gloves fell into her lap, tears came to her eyes. "Thank you, Ross."

"You're welcome." Without looking at her, he turned out the lantern and slid onto his own pallet.

"Does this mean that no matter how bad I was today, you'll still try to teach me to drive?"

"I reckon today was the worst. You're bound to get better."

It wasn't much, but it was a step up from his frowning and cursing at her awkwardness. The next morning she was wearing the gloves when he climbed up beside her on the wagon. She loved them, not only because they felt good against her hands but because Ross had given them to her. And he had picked them out himself.

They were getting along better each day, sometimes in the evenings laughing and talking together like normal married couples. Then something had happened that brought that dreaded frown to his mouth and that deep, stern cleft between his thick dark brows.

One evening Scout had warned the drivers about a ravine they would have to cross the next day. "It's deep, but dry," the young man had told the group collected around him. "No one will have trouble as long as you take it slow and easy. The ground is soft and you won't have much traction. It's shallow on the other side, so getting out will be no problem."

Despite Scouts cautioning words, one of the drivers hadn't ridden his brake enough and his team had been given too much rein. They had run upon the wagon in front of them on' the steep decline, causing a potentially dangerous situation and a commotion that frightened both teams. Ross had been sent for to help get the horses calmed.

He was still trying to quiet them and get them lined up on the other side of the ravine when Lydia's turn came. She drove the Coleman wagon to the lip of the steep ravine. The height was dizzying as she looked over the brink. She didn't want Ross or anyone else to criticize her for holding up the rest of the train. Taking a deep breath, she clacked her tongue and slapped the reins against horseflesh and urged the leads to take that first plunging step.

She was about halfway down when she felt the wheels beginning to slip on the soft earth. She gradually applied the brake but nothing happened. Pulling on the reins only seemed to confuse the team and they began to balk at her command to slow down. Anxiously she glanced over her shoulder to see that Lee was sleeping in his crate just inside the wagons opening behind her. Even that short break in her concentration was enough to make the horses become more skittish. She pulled up on the reins sharply.

"No, Lydia," Ross shouted. He had led Lucky down beside the wagon and sensed the trouble immediately. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him swing one leg over his saddle horn and leap onto the wagon. With a piercing whistle he gave his mount a command to get out of the way.

"Don't saw the reins, pull in gradually."

The muscles of her arms and back and shoulders ached as she tried to regain control of the team, but they only became more fidgety and the wagon gained momentum on its rolling descent to the rocky floor of the ravine.

"Here, let me," Ross said. He put one arm around her back to take her hand under his and covered her other hand as well. "Easy, easy." He was speaking as much to her as to the nervous team. His cheek was so close it almost lay against hers. She heard his words, felt his breath in her ear.

Her hands followed his whispered instructions. "See? Give them just a little. You're still in charge, easy, easy, don't jerk the reins, just a steady, strong pull. That's it, Lydia, that's it. Good girl. Just a little farther."

When they reached the bottom without mishap, she turned her head to him with a triumphant laugh. "I did it! I did it! Didn't I, Ross?"

The brim of her hat tipped his and slipped off the back of her head. The mass of hair she had piled beneath it came tumbling down over her shoulders. The heart that beat in the breast pressed by his forearm was rapid and irregular with excitement.

The face that was tilted up to his was animated and eager and possibly the loveliest he had ever seen. It was surely the most alluring face, with its rare combination of innocence that a new sprinkling of freckles enhanced, and a blatant sensuality that could never be acquired but was innate. Her smiling mouth looked soft and moist and kissable. And God, how he remembered its sweetness melting beneath his lips.

In the sunlight her eyes were of a color that was indefinable, hovering somewhere between brown and gold. He saw reflected in them a man hypnotized. A man starved for the taste and touch of her. He saw a lonely man wanting a woman, not just any woman, this woman. A man craving the solace that her soft voice and lush body promised.