The Western Dare (Harlequin Heartwarming) (9 page)

As she wrestled with her conscience, Camp charged out of the water and shook like a shaggy dog. Moonlight spilled over his dark hair and broad shoulders, gilding water droplets that slid down his chest. Emily held her breath. Her mind stalled there as she felt his eyes discover her. “I, ah, I...” She struggled to speak—to lower her gaze.

Cold though he was from his swim, the minute Camp saw her wide eyes, so dark they looked purple in her moonlit face, the itch numbed, as did his thoughts. In truth he was far more embarrassed than she appeared to be. “Sorry about that. But you might have cleared your throat,” he said, snatching up the towel.

Suddenly overcome by jitters, she whirled around.

Realizing that she was shaken, too, Camp gave a lick and a promise with the towel and struggled into his cutoffs. “There, I’m decent,” he said, slinging the towel around his neck. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you brought me something to relieve this itch.”

Although his voice sounded light and relaxed, Emily was slow to turn back. She was afraid a vision of how he looked emerging from the water would be forever emblazoned in her mind. As she gathered her nerve and finally faced him, her tender heart reacted to his angry rash. “Ouch! Camp...a...a homemade concoction of soda and vinegar works on poison oak and ivy. I’ll go mix some.” Sweeping by him, she snapped off her flashlight.

“Hey, leave the light on. I’m barefoot.”

She hesitated, a dark figure in the moonlight. “Where are your boots? This dry buffalo grass will cut your feet.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She tensed again. “Apparently
someone
needs to watch out for you. Have you eaten today?”

“Only what the Good Fairy left at the Blue River ford.”

“Oh.” Emily hadn’t meant for him to know she’d left the food.

“I’m not complaining. And I’ll sure accept the soda treatment. How is it you know how to mix some old-fashioned remedy?”

Happy to have her mind off the river incident, Emily explained as they walked. “Trail rides in the wilderness with my dad and his horsey pals. I didn’t realize how much I missed those outings until this trip.”

“Why didn’t you continue the tradition in your own family?”

“My husband—” She broke off, pointing to her wagon, and touched a finger to her lips. “I’ll see if I can find what I need without waking the kids. Meet you at my fire. I’ll mix the paste and bring it. Oh,” she called softly after his retreating form. “In the top section of my Dutch oven there’s some leftover stew. It may still be warm.”

Camp tried to thank her again, but she’d climbed nimbly over the wagon’s tailgate. He dumped his bundle of dirty clothes into his wagon. As he ladled himself a bowl of stew, his thoughts remained on Emily. However, the heat from the smoldering coals soon increased his itching. By the time she returned, he’d sought refuge on his own wagon tongue.

Peering around, she finally spotted him. “There you are.” She waved a container. “Come into the light and I’ll pat this stuff on.”

He set the bowl of stew aside. “Aren’t you afraid of catching the rash? Everyone else is.”

She shook her head. “On one of our outings, my little brother dismounted in a patch of poison oak. I slathered this stuff on him five times a day or more, and I never broke out. This stuff doesn’t hurt. My brother said it felt good.”

“I wasn’t worried about me. I wouldn’t wish this miserable stuff on a dog. But if you’re not afraid, have at it.”

No sooner had she dabbed the first patch than Camp wished he could retract his words. He hadn’t counted on the soft glide of her fingers over his bare skin causing him to become flustered.

Emily had started on his back. Too quickly she moved to his legs. “I’ll do the rest,” he said gruffly as she rose from her kneeling position and stretched toward his stomach. Her touch was bad enough, but when she stood, she left a trail of some sweet perfume.

“Don’t tell me you’re ticklish?” she teased, coming at him with hands covered in white paste.

He opted for the easy out she offered. “Yeah, I am. Here, do my arms. Stay away from my ribs.”

“Chicken.” Clucking, she drizzled white goo down his arms. “How about your face? Is your face ticklish underneath that beard?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. And you’re enjoying torturing me far too much, Mrs. Benton. Give me that.” Camp nearly upset his cooling stew as he grabbed at the plastic container.

Emily didn’t let go. She landed on the ground. Camp put his arms around her to steady her, then abruptly snatched them back. Their eyes met, his darkening with emotion. Hers, surprised at first, then pleased, then wary as she released the bowl and scrambled up.

“Look, I wasn’t trying...” She clasped her hands tight to stop their trembling, and started again. “I’m not looking for involvement. And I don’t do one-night stands. I’ll write down the ingredients for the paste. When we reach Council Grove, I suggest you buy a book on outdoor survival.”

Denial that he wanted either a relationship
or
a fling hovered on Camp’s lips. However, she was gone before he acknowledged that it would have been a lie. Apparently his heart knew something his mind refused to admit—since the day Emily Benton blundered into his life, he’d been barreling full-speed toward involvement. Question was—what, if anything, should he do about it?

He hissed into the velvety darkness. “I’m not looking for one-night stands, either.”

If Emily heard, she didn’t reply.

CHAPTER FIVE

“Our national folklore romanticizes the adventure—the male adventure—of conquering the West.”

—Sherry Campbell’s data sheet.
With elaborate doodles drawn around this statement.

C
AMP
SAT
OUTSIDE
the circle of heat from Emily’s fire and picked out various constellations in the star-littered sky. He’d long since finished a second bowl of stew. Now he marked time while his dishwater heated.

After the dishes were washed and the fire out, he applied another coat of the soda paste to the areas he could reach. He’d just climbed into his wagon when a movement near the tailgate of Emily’s Conestoga caught his eye. At first he thought maybe she’d had second thoughts, but in the bluish beam of the moon, he saw that it was Megan. Curious. A bathroom run? If so, where was her flashlight?

He watched her glance furtively around, then haul something from beneath the coach. A day pack. What the...? A chill snaked the length of Camp’s spine.

The girl shrugged into the pack and set off with purpose. Before she slipped out of sight, Camp made the decision to follow her.

He expected her to head for the highway, even though it was a five-mile hike. But she didn’t. She’d disappeared. Camp panicked. His heart jackhammered until Maizie’s string of saddle horses began to wicker, and he glimpsed Megan tiptoeing among them.

“Where’s the ruckus, boy?” Camp nearly jumped out of his skin as Maizie’s raspy whisper struck him. Wheeling, he blankly took in her frazzled gray hair and a ratty old sheepskin coat she had buttoned over a long flannel nightgown.

“Megan Benton,” he murmured. “She may be running away. Look there. She’s nabbed herself a getaway horse.”

Maizie chuckled. “The kid won’t go far on Dumpster. Robert’s hoping to unload that nag in Santa Fe. What’re you waitin’ for? I reckon you’ll catch her at the river.”

The rapidly fading hoofbeats spurred Camp to action. “Wake Emily. Tell her I’ll bring Megan back.”

The wagon mistress nodded.

Camp dashed off, thankful for the moonlight and the stillness of the night that let him follow the sound. Breathing hard, he added a burst of speed as he heard the horse snort and whinny, then falter. Obligingly, the river bank sloped gently. Not so much danger of the horse breaking a leg.

At last Camp saw Megan urging her mount into the water. He cupped his hands to yell and saw the horse slow. The animal pranced a bit, then abruptly sat down in the middle of the stream. A bright moon provided Camp with a ringside view. Megan lost her grip on the mane. Inch by inch she slid down the broad back, over the rump, and hit the water with a loud splat. She bobbed immediately to the surface, gasping and flailing her arms. The horse arched his neck and trotted blithely back to shore, uncaring that he’d left his rider behind, bobbing like a cork.

Camp had one boot off and was tackling the second when Emily stumbled through the tall grass, followed by Maizie, who puffed like a steam engine.

“What happened?” Emily’s face was pasty white.

Shaking his head, Camp splashed into the river after Megan, now drifting downstream.

Maizie finally caught her breath. “Told you,” she hollered at Camp around a chortle. “Trait of that horse is to sit every time he lands up to his knees in water. It’s why he’s named Dumpster. Hope the gal swims.” She sobered, peering at Emily.

Still not comprehending, Emily nodded dumbly.

Cold water lapped at Camp’s chest as he carried the coughing, sputtering girl to the bank.

Dumpster shook his head and danced out of reach. Maybe it was a trick of the moon, but Camp swore the roan’s lips peeled back in a grin. Camp wasn’t smiling, though, his eyes glued to Emily’s stricken expression.

“Why?” she asked in a shaky voice, stripping Megan of her soggy pack.

The teen glared defiantly. “I was going to town...to call Mona. This trip sucks. It’s hot and sticky, and the mosquitoes are as big as helicopters.” Huddled in her wet clothes, she burst into tears.

Camp figured Emily would crumble in the face of Megan’s crocodile tears. He pictured all three Bentons leaving the train in Council Grove.

“I’m sorry you’re unhappy, Megan.” Emily’s voice held an edge of steel. “I chose this outing, and I make the decisions for you and Mark until you’re of age. Your grandparents have no say in the matter. Now dry off and go to bed. Apologies can wait until morning.” Emily’s stiff gaze skimmed Maizie and Camp briefly before she grasped Megan by the arm and marched her off.

“Un-huh.” Maizie sounded satisfied. “Well, don’t just stand there, sonny. Rub that horse down and give him an added measure of oats.” She waddled off, avoiding the swish of Dumpster’s cold, wet tail.

Rub
him
down? As if Camp himself wasn’t soaked. Obviously, the whole incident had amused Maizie. All along she’d known the outcome. But as his unplanned dip had washed off all his soda paste, Camp was not amused.

Once he sat in his wagon again, dry and slathered with paste, he felt more benevolent. He supposed it was funny that of all the horses Megan might have swiped, she’d picked that one.

Poor Emily. She fought an uphill battle with those kids.

Wide-awake now, Camp decided to compile the data sheets Sherry had collected. He pulled out Gina’s. She’d devoted a half page to the invasion of giant mosquitoes at Neff’s Tavern. With uncharacteristic wit, Gina stated that at one point she had to fight them for possession of her camera. Camp shuddered. It was just as well he hadn’t stopped. It hurt to imagine mosquito bites on top of sumac poisoning.

Sherry grumbled about Brittany’s petulance. In between doodles and snide comments, she wrote that she was sick of the same scenery. Camp expected similar criticisms from Emily. Instead, she described the prairie in terms of rich colors and unending vistas. And she wrote eloquently of the sorrow she’d felt visiting the Neff family cemetery, because they’d lost so many children in infancy. Camp imagined tears in Emily’s lovely blue eyes as she poured out her heart.

He tapped his pencil to his lips. Clearly he was going soft on Emily. And he shouldn’t. For the sake of his paper, it was imperative that he remain objective.

An admirable plan, but Camp’s dreams that night and the next were far from objective. Still, Emily’s sympathetic smile and the memory of her soothing touch kept him plodding through the days; her homemade concoction offered him relief from the terrible itch during long, sleepless nights.

The day before they were due to reach Council Grove, Camp noted how everyone’s spirits seemed to lift. He felt it, too. His rash had subsided enough for him to shave at last. This morning, he felt almost human. All in all, Camp thought things were finally looking up.

Mark Benton had quit bugging him and had started hanging out with Jared Boone. Brittany and Megan cloistered themselves each evening, trading books and teen magazines. A much subdued Megan, Camp noted.

His mind still on the youngsters, Camp circled to the rear of his wagon to dispose of the water he’d used for shaving. He startled Mark, who guiltily thrust a stack of shiny metal objects behind his back—so suddenly, that he dropped one.

“What do you have there, Mark?” Camp inquired offhandedly. “Are you and Jared collecting coffee can lids to use as slingshot targets?”

Mark grabbed for the fallen items, and in the process dropped two more. Camp saw they were cut in shapes—like road markers. Rusted stakes protruded from each.

He set his shaving kit and basin aside and went for a closer inspection. Being less encumbered than the boy, Camp bent easily and retrieved two that still lay on the ground. His gaze lit on green Conestogas etched on a white tin background and stenciled letters that said: Santa Fe Trail. They were markers. Shooting the boy a glance, Camp saw that he was poised for flight.

Camp stopped him with a look he reserved for students cheating on a test. “Mark, the historical society spent a lot of time and money placing these markers along the trail route. Removing them is a serious matter.”

“I found them,” Mark said, but he also licked his lips nervously.

“Found them where? The dirt on some of these stakes is fresh.”

Mark dumped the markers he still held at Camp’s feet. “Take ’em. I don’t even want the stupid old things.”

“You need to put them back where they belong, Mark. When did you start this collection?”

The boy’s color drained. He backed away. “Yesterday. But what difference does it make? Nobody but us’ll see ’em.”

“A lot of tourists visit the trail. Besides, it’s stealing. This trail is under federal protection. There’s a fine attached to taking markers—if not a stiffer penalty.”

“Then I’ll call Toby from town. He’ll pay the dumb old fine. So it won’t do you any good to run and squeal to my mom.”

“I’m not going to tell her, Mark. You are.” Camp’s voice remained calm as he stared coolly into Mark’s mutinous eyes.

The boy hunched his shoulders and kicked at a rock. “It’s Megan’s fault. She wanted one for her bedroom.”

“Did Megan take some of these?”

“No,” Mark admitted with a sniffle. “I can’t put ’em back. It’s a long way, and I’m just a kid.”

“You’re old enough to be responsible for your actions. I want you to go tell your mother and Maizie what you’ve done. If you do, I’ll help you return the markers. But I won’t cover for you.”

Mark scraped at a lank fall of hair. “Okay, but I don’t know why you’d help me.”

Camp arched a brow. “I recall getting into a few scrapes at your age.”

“You? But you’re a teacher.”

“I wasn’t born a teacher.” Camp’s lips quirked in a smile. Sobering quickly, he said, “We all make mistakes. The trick is to learn by them and try not to repeat any.”

“Toby says you shouldn’t ever admit to making a mistake.”

Camp shied from touching that statement. On the other hand, someone needed to. “It takes a big man to admit to being wrong. And it makes sleeping easier.”

“I guess I know what you mean. I didn’t sleep so good last night. I was scared my mom would see ’em.” He nudged the markers. “I wish I hadn’t done it.”

“That’s the spirit. I’m proud of you, Mark. Your mother will be, too. Say, can you ride a horse?”

“You bet,” the boy bragged. “I’ve ridden lots of times.”

Camp smiled in relief and the two went off in search of Emily.

“What?” she exclaimed after Mark had stumbled through his confession. Closing her eyes, she rubbed her temples. “Honey, whatever possessed you? How will we put them back where they belong?”

Mark jerked a thumb toward Camp. “He said he’d help.”

Emily acknowledged Camp for the first time. “How?” she asked, frowning. “We’ve traveled at least five miles.”

“If Maizie agrees, I thought Mark and I could saddle two horses and ride back. We can make it in half the time it took the wagons. Less if we push. I’ll ask Robert if he’ll allow Jared to drive my wagon until we catch up.”

“Yes. I suppose it’s the only way.”

Because she nibbled worriedly on her bottom lip, Camp cleared his throat. “I could go faster alone. It wouldn’t teach him as much. But it’s your call, Emily.”

Considering what Camp had said, Emily glanced up and caught Mark’s hopeful smile. “No,” she said decisively. “That’s the Benton way out. He did the fiddling—now he needs to pay the piper. I’ll go with you to talk to Maizie, son, after you thank Camp for doing this.”

After a few false starts, Mark managed a passable thank-you.

“If you leave now,” Emily asked Camp, “will you be back before dark?”

“Run that question by Maizie. She may know a shortcut. Otherwise, I guess we’ll have to take bedrolls and more in the way of food.”

An unexpected smile lit her face. “We know you won’t run into the Good Fairy who left you food at the Blue River ford.”

Camp grinned as she curled a hand over Mark’s shoulder and walked him toward Maizie’s wagon. His smile faded as soon as Megan parted the canvas and climbed onto the wagon seat, blowing on newly painted fingernails.

“My brother is such a dipstick.”

“Why do you say that?” Camp braced a hand on a wagon bow.

The girl smirked. “Because Toby would hire someone to put the markers back. Why should Mark get saddle sores?”

Camp tucked three fingers of each hand into his back pockets. “Guess you didn’t listen to your mom. Comes a time guys and girls need to stand on their own two feet to look at themselves in the mirror.” Leaving it at that, Camp walked away. He met Emily and Mark cutting between their two wagons. Emily’s eyes were grim, Mark’s downcast. Something in his demeanor made the boy appear younger to Camp. Younger and more vulnerable. His heart gave a little crunch. Maizie could deliver a blistering rebuke; he knew that for a fact. Had he done right, making Mark fess up? After all, he didn’t have children and he worked mostly with young adults. He’d handled it the way he thought his father might. Maybe there was a better way.

Emily stopped in front of him, her hand resting lightly on Mark’s neck. “Maizie read us the riot act.” Absently, her fingers smoothed her son’s shirt collar. “What he did was wrong. I’m not trying to make light of his transgression. I just wish the couple from Philadelphia hadn’t been there at the time. Harv Shaw made it sound like a capital crime. Said kids who’d steal government property would burn flags and...and become traitors.” She pulled Mark close as he began to sniff against his sleeve.

Camp felt a surge of anger, soon replaced by an odd feeling of protectiveness toward this mother and child. “Shaw’s mouth is bigger than his belt size, which is saying a lot.” Kneeling, he forced Mark to meet him eye to eye. “You knew all along it was wrong. Now you’re making restitution like a man.” Camp gave him a friendly nudge on the arm. “Hey, I see Maizie’s bringing our horses. Stuff those markers in a saddlebag and let’s be on our way.”

Mark edged closer to Camp, his wide eyes on the approaching horses. “Wha...what if a guy hadn’t ridden a horse lots of times like he said?”

Camp heard the quaver in his whisper. “You mean,” he said, “you’ve ridden only a few times?”

Shuffling his feet, Mark hitched up his belt but said nothing.