The Western Dare (Harlequin Heartwarming) (7 page)

“My husband didn’t have a backbone, either. He got himself into jams all the time, only with married women.” Her voice shook. “He said if I didn’t provide him with alibis, he’d divorce me and his folks would see he got custody of the kids.” She hauled in a deep breath. “I feel sorry for Brittany, so I’ll help—this once. But hereafter, Campbell, stay away from me.” She slammed her cup down and hurried past him.

Camp latched on to her arm. “I don’t need an alibi.” He spun her around. “Believe it or not, I’m concerned about Brittany’s reputation. And her self-esteem. No one at home cares.” Releasing Emily’s arm, he shrugged. “Okay, I admit finding the kid in my wagon threw me a bit. But mainly I thought if
you
talked to her, she’d be less embarrassed.”

“Oh.” Emily felt like a fool. She was glad of the darkness. What must he think of her after all the things she’d revealed about her marriage?

“Believe me, Emily, I’m open to any suggestion if you have a better one.”

She clasped and unclasped her hands. “I’m...sorry I blew up like that.”

“Not to worry,” he said lightly. “I’ve had students with crushes before. But never to this extent. I shouldn’t have let her come. Hindsight is always 20-20.” He sighed.

“I’ll talk with her, of course. If it were Megan, that’s what I’d want. I, uh, left a couple of flashlights on the log, if you want to take a long walk.”

“Thanks, but no. Once you have her out, assuming she’s decent, I have a few things to say. I certainly don’t want any repeats of tonight.”

Emily handed him a flashlight and took one for herself, sizing him up as she slipped past. Twice she glanced back, expecting him to have vanished. He trod silently at her heels. She fought an unexpected rush of emotion heating her cheeks. Oh, dear...she didn’t want to have these feelings for
any
man.

The minute they reached the back of his wagon, Camp cupped his hand for Emily’s foot and boosted her inside. He listened to the murmur of voices, steeling himself for fireworks that never developed. In a very few minutes Brittany emerged, followed by Emily. The girl wouldn’t look at Camp and refused his help down. Once out, she crossed her arms and hunched her shoulders, face sullen. He was relieved to see her wearing jeans and a respectable cardigan.

Forcing her to look up, he said sternly, “Brittany, we need to talk. Emily and I will walk you to your wagon.”

“We don’t need
her.
”

“You may not, but I do. It isn’t my intention to make mockery of your feelings, Brittany. I’m flattered. Any man my age would be. But that’s my main point—age. Had I married at the age my peers did, you’d likely be a classmate of my daughter’s.”

“I don’t care.”

“Maybe not now, but you would in a few years when I’m gray or bald and you’re still young and beautiful,” he said with a touch of humor.

“You think I’m beautiful?” Her gaze flew to his, hope blossoming.

Camp floundered. He flashed his light on Emily as a plea for help.

She thought about letting him deal with his own problem. But over all, he deserved an E for effort. Taking pity on him, she slipped an arm around Brittany’s shoulders. “Honey,” she said as they walked toward Sherry’s wagon. “Mr. Campbell’s talking ten years from now. He’s trying to say that most women reach their full beauty at thirty, while at fifty men start going to pot.
Ev
ery
thing
starts to decline....” Without spelling out details, she boosted Brittany into the wagon. “Hit the pillow, hon. Maizie plans to make fifteen miles tomorrow.”

The minute Brittany disappeared, Emily swung toward her own wagon.

Camp fell into step. “You enjoyed saying that about men going to pot, didn’t you?”

Her lips tilted up at the corners, but she said nothing.

“For your information, I don’t expect my
everything
to decline until I’m ninety.”

Throwing her head back, she stopped and laughed out loud.

A husky, pleasant sound that got Camp’s attention and made his palms sweat. And made him want to kiss her lips. Fortunately for him, they’d reached her wagon, which brought a return of Camp’s sanity.

“If you’re ready to turn in, I’ll see to your fire,” he said stiffly. “It’s the least I can do to repay you.” Almost formally, he handed back the flashlight she’d lent him.

“No thanks needed,” she said, suddenly as brusque as he. “Keep the torch. I have others.” Vaulting gracefully into her wagon, she yanked the drawstring, closing Camp out. Emily didn’t move or breathe for a minute, knowing he still stood where she’d left him, probably hurt by her abrupt dismissal of his gratitude. But she could ill-afford to crack the door on friendship. Considering her bills, her unhappy kids and the problems with her in-laws, Emily had all the trouble she cared to handle. Hadn’t she learned her lesson about men?

CHAPTER FOUR

Men’s version of taming the West leads us to believe it was easy—all in a day’s work—and even kind of fun. What a crock of lies.

—Gina Ames. Entry on data sheet following the first day on the trail.

A
N
OBNOXIOUS
CLANGING
penetrated Camp’s sleep. His eyes flew open, only to encounter darkness. Then he remembered rule number two. Maizie’s version of reveille was an old-fashioned triangle dinner bell.

Stifling a groan, he rolled from his back to his stomach. Every muscle in his body protested. Inch by inch he climbed to his hands and knees. At first he tried rocking back and forth to gain leverage enough to stand. “Those pioneers must have been one big callus by the end of a trip,” he gnashed between grunts and moans. He’d thought he was in fair physical condition from all the manual labor he did on his house! Wrong. And if
he
had this kind of trouble, imagine how the women must feel.

Lumbering like a giant sloth, Camp crept to the front of his wagon. There, after two attempts, he managed to heave himself onto the slab seat. Yesterday’s aches were minor by comparison.

This was an indecent hour to get up. No respectable rooster even crowed before dawn. “Tell yourself this is fun, Campbell,” he chanted, recalling the pointed observation on Gina’s data sheet. Uncorking his canteen, he poured cold water over his head. “Brr.” His teeth chattered so hard, he clung to the canvas water bag, wondering how long till he could safely lather up and use a razor blade without danger of draining his life’s blood.

“You sure look scummy today. Didn’t you bring clean clothes?”

Camp set the canteen aside and scowled down at Mark Benton, who wore saggy pants that ended midcalf and a shirt five sizes too big. “Someone who buys his clothes at the Salvation Army reject store has no room to talk.” Seeing his remark hadn’t fazed the kid, Camp said, “A lot of pioneers only owned one set of clothes, you know.”

“Gross. It probably still stinks in Santa Fe. Me and Mom hauled water from the river about an hour ago so we could wash. So did your sister and the others.”

Camp refused to be baited. “What’s on the morning agenda? More chores?”

“Nope. Mom says we have half an hour to fix and eat breakfast and fifteen minutes to hitch teams and roll.”

Shapes began to materialize around fires that sprang to life along the meadow. A whiff of coffee and something cinnamony drifted in on the cool breeze, sending Camp’s stomach into a cramped tailspin. He should have buried his pride last night and begged Emily for the rest of her biscuits. Hunched over the canteen, Camp sincerely doubted the truth of what he’d read about Kit Carson—that he’d survived a week on two slices of beef jerky. “Get lost, kid. I think I hear your mother calling.”

Mark shook a mahogany sweep of hair from in front of coolly assessing eyes. “Mom said to ask if you needed help starting your fire.”

“Certainly not!” Camp jumped down from the wagon, and nearly collapsed when he landed hard. “But...” he gritted his teeth. “It’s nice of her to ask.”

“Her asking don’t mean nothing, understand,” Mark informed Camp. “She’s always helping strays.”

Camp declined comment. Whether aware of it or not, Emily Benton was partly responsible for his condition this morning. After they parted last night, he couldn’t seem to stop dreaming about her. He hadn’t slept two hours straight. At first he’d tried to write, but her name cropped up far more often than the others in his study. He’d tossed the tablet aside in disgust and crawled into his sleeping bag. He’d continued to dwell on the things she’d let slip about her marriage. Half the night he’d mulled over why a woman with two academic degrees had stayed married to the piece of work she’d described. Surely no judge would give child custody to a sleazebag like that.

Automatically, his eyes sought Emily’s dark shape. Sometime before sleep had claimed him, he’d begun to realize she possessed more strength than he’d first given her credit for. So why hadn’t she flown the coop with her kids? Money? The way Mark and Megan talked, they didn’t have any. “Hmm,” he muttered to himself. “With her earning potential?” There had to be more to it. Some piece he’d missed.

“Here.” Mark extended several scraps of paper. The raucous tune on his mp3 player assaulted Camp’s ears. Did that kid have an endless supply of batteries?

“Well, take ’em,” Mark drawled. “They won’t bite. Mom wrote down her biscuit recipe, and one for potato soup. Maybe a couple others. You musta asked her. I sure didn’t tell her you wanted ’em.”

“Th-thanks. Thank her.” Camp all but knocked the boy down grabbing for the papers. The top recipe she’d scribbled on the back of an envelope. How to make campfire coffee. In capital letters, Emily had written: GRIND COFFEE.

Camp struck his forehead with a flat palm. At home he had a small electric grinder. He’d been so rattled at the time he bought supplies, he’d forgotten that he always ground his gourmet coffee beans before he poured them into his expensive, easy-to-use coffeemaker. So, grind them. But how? Tie the beans in a clean handkerchief and smack it hard with the flat of an ax? Okay. That’d work. Quickly he leafed through the remaining sheets. Soup, biscuits, corned beef hash were a few of the recipes he saw. “Tell your mom she’s saved my life...again,” he said, belatedly recalling the help Emily had given him with Brittany last night. Man, did he need these—even though he hated being called one of Emily’s strays. Was that how she saw him? The pitiful professor? His jaw tightened.

“How’d she save your life before? And when?” In the manner of a young tough, the boy removed the old Saint Louis Cardinals baseball cap he wore and reset it on his head backward.

Either Mark was deadpanning or dead serious. In the dim light, Camp couldn’t tell which. It didn’t much matter; he wasn’t about to explain the saga of Brittany. “That’s just a figure of speech, Mark. Your mom, ah, loaned me a flashlight.” Camp rubbed a hand gingerly over his stubbled jaw, congratulating himself on fast footwork. “It was after you and Megan had gone to bed. I never thought to buy a flashlight.”

“Yeah, well she’s good at stuff like that. It’s what moms are for. I bet you wish you had one.”

“I do. She and my dad live in Columbia. In fact, she’s keeping an eye on my house and taking care of my dog.”

“I meant...I bet you wished you had one on this trip,” Mark snickered. “Megan told me how you took your sister’s dare. Not smart, dude. They’ll whip you.” The kid disappeared into the shadowy dawn, leaving Camp’s sputter hanging on the smoke-laden breeze.

Why let a half-pint kid get his goat? This trip wasn’t a contest between him and the women. It never had been. Well, maybe that was how Sherry saw it. Surely Emily didn’t. Or was that why she ran hot and cold? Tonight when he collected the data sheets, he’d set the record straight. Right now he’d better scare up something to eat.

Striking a match to the tented kindling, Camp blanked his mind, pulled out a couple of Emily’s recipes and went about gathering utensils.

Again it seemed as if he was two steps behind everyone else. Emily and the teachers in the wagon behind her were cleaning up as he sat down to eat. So what? Everything had gone like clockwork today and he intended to enjoy every last morsel. His biscuits and fried potatoes looked perfect. Coffee had never smelled so good—even if he
had
ruined a brand-new monogrammed handkerchief. Part of a set his mother gave him for Christmas. Well, Mom would understand.

Twice, he tried catching Emily’s eye to thank her personally for the recipes. She never once glanced his way. He paused, slathering honey on his first biscuit. Strange code Emily Benton lived by. It was all right to do a man favors, but not be his friend.

Oh, well, to each his own.
Her own,
he amended, all but moaning after taking the first bite. Camp sneaked another peek in Emily’s direction. Couldn’t tell where she was. Uh-oh, why was Maizie Boone bearing down on him? He’d seen that look before—the day he showed up late. Camp couldn’t imagine what he’d done to displease her today. He wasn’t late...yet. Didn’t intend to be. So what had put a bee in her bonnet this time?

The closer she came, the more evident it was that she had something serious on her mind. However, Camp didn’t care to be flayed on an empty stomach. He deliberately filled his mouth with fried potatoes and eggs, only rising politely as her smelly boots came to a grinding halt four inches from his own cleaner pair.

“Renegade took a powder during the night.”

Camp plunked his plate down and vaulted the fire, dashing to the edge of the meadow. Sure enough, Goliath, Little Lizzie and Spike all grazed where he’d left them. But not the tobacco-colored Belgian—the one that’d fought him yesterday.

His breakfast turned to rubber sliding down his throat. “How...how far could he roam, do you suppose?”

“Who knows?” Maizie pulled a new packet of chewing tobacco from her pocket and gnawed off a chunk. “Find him,” she ordered after she’d softened up the piece and spit a stream into Camp’s fire.

“Me? Do I look like the Lone Ranger?”

“If you end up saddle-sore, you’ll double-check your hobbles from here on out. It’s rul—”

“Rule fifteen,” he broke in. “Yes, I know.” Camp thought he had rechecked the hobbles. Obviously not well enough.

“Sooner you start, the better. We ain’t waitin’, mind you. Follow Renegade’s tracks from where you staked him out. Once you nab him, hitch your wagon and head out. Pick up our tire tracks and follow us, fast as you can. We’ll be burnin’ up the miles today.”

“What if I don’t find him?” Camp had no worry about being able to follow the tracks left by the balloon tires they’d installed on the wagons before leaving Boonville. That was child’s play. Horse tracking was another matter. How did you tell one hoof print from another?

“Reckon you’ll find him by and by. He’s big as a buffalo. Pretty hard to mistake him for a jackrabbit. The land hereabouts is flat as a flitter ’cept for these few trees.” A rumble Camp took for laughter shook Maizie’s squat frame.

“It’s more a worry over some farmer mistaking me for a cattle rustler that concerns me,” he said. “So which of these horses do you recommend I ride for the search?”

“I’ll saddle my pinto gelding while you put out this fire. Throw the rocks from your fire ring and any extra wood into your wagon. It’ll save repeatin’ chores tonight. The pinto’s name is Mincemeat, by the way. I bought him from a down-and-out cowboy. Guy wanted everyone to think his horse was a mean one. But I guarantee he’ll be fine tied behind the wagon. Just see that you tie him tight.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Resigned to finding his strayed horse, Camp couldn’t help but gaze longingly at his first decent meal in two days—now stone-cold. Again he dumped out his potatoes and eggs. He decided to wrap the biscuits and take them along—in case finding Renegade took him longer than Maizie thought.

Telling himself there was no excuse for delay, he set to work doing exactly what she’d outlined, trying to sort out the various horse tracks.

Gina’s wagon pulled out, followed closely by the couple from Philadelphia. One by one the others fell into line. Camp climbed aboard Maizie’s saddle horse, then just sat. The string of wagons made quite a sight leaving the meadow. Matched teams stepped in unison as chalky canvas ballooned against a deep-blue sky. Today the sky was the exact shade of Emily Benton’s eyes. A subtle blend of lavender and cobalt, like the wisteria trailing over his porch at home.

Rather than moon over eyes that refused to seek him out, Camp knew he should get under way. If he found Renegade soon, he might even catch up with the train before they took their first break.

Even so, he waited until Emily, now the last wagon in line, left the clearing. Her hair sparked in the rising sun, reminding Camp of his vision last Saturday, when he first saw the wagons. But instead of a long, flowing pioneer dress, she wore faded blue overalls over a creamy T-shirt. In place of the imagined sunbonnet, a battered Kansas City Chiefs cap failed to restrain her curls.

Try as he might, Camp couldn’t seem to turn away. Not until Emily’s wagon became a speck in the distance. “Okay, Mincemeat,” he murmured to the restless pinto, “let’s find that truant horse.”

Renegade’s tracks weren’t hard to follow. He left a hoofprint the size of a barn door. But the benighted creature had covered a lot of ground. He’d crossed the river and meandered through a field of wheat. It was nearly noon before Camp ran him to ground, and then only because the lead line had caught on a spindly bush—one of many red-leafed shrubs dotting the knoll.

“Without these bushes, this miserable piece of dog food would have walked all the way to Colorado.”

Camp had to cut away woody branches to free Renegade. The sun beat down unrelentingly, so it was lucky for both of them that Camp had remembered to bring a canteen of water. While the horse drank deeply from the baseball cap, Camp checked to see that the animal hadn’t sustained any injury. Renegade was fine. He must have dragged the entire length of rope behind him.

“Why couldn’t you have stumbled into this patch sooner?” Camp grumbled as he hacked away the last twig with his dull pocketknife. “Come on,” he muttered as the rope pulled free. “Let’s move. At this rate, it’ll be dark before we meet up with the others.”

The big horse turned and gazed at Camp with unblinking brown eyes. He trudged obediently after his rescuer, even going so far as to nuzzle Camp’s neck. “So you missed me, did you, you big lug?” Camp laughed and patted the soft nose.

On the return trek Renegade didn’t display any of the spirited nonsense Camp had put up with yesterday. As they retraced the route, only man and his beast, Camp experienced a curious satisfaction at having successfully carried out a task that must have been routine to his pioneer brothers. Maybe the ability to hunt and track was passed down through a man’s genes. Hmm, it was certainly something to consider.

He wasted no time hitching his team after arriving back at his lone wagon. Once they stood ready, he unsaddled Mincemeat and double-knotted the reins through a metal ring drilled into his tailgate for that purpose. Camp imagined Sherry would be crowing if he came back empty-handed. Well, she was in for a surprise. He felt pretty smug about his success.