Lynna Banning (18 page)

Her tired eyes widened, then shone with renewed life. “Really?” She sent him an unsteady smile. “Ben, I promise you, you won’t regret it.”

Ben groaned inside. Oh, yes, he would. He regretted it the instant he uttered the words. At the thought of spending another night alone with her up here in the high country, the unsatisfied gnawing in his gut returned.

He shot a glance at her. The pleased, little-girl look on her face reminded him of his cat, Shiloh, lapping up a saucer of cream.

He untied his bedroll, rolled himself in a cocoon of tan wool and closed his eyes. “Get some sleep, Jess. Tomorrow’s not going to be any picnic.”

She made no reply. He heard the swish of liquid, then the bean-and-coffee container thunked onto a rock. A breath of air whooshed over his face as she unrolled her
own blanket. With a soft sigh, she stretched her body out beside him.

Ben clenched his jaw. He could reach out and touch her if he wanted. They were high up in these ancient, silent mountains, far from civilization, away from cares and the small daily events of life.

And, he acknowledged as his groin tightened into an ache, they were completely alone.

Ben worked to keep his mind off Jessamyn, focusing instead on the night sounds around their mountain campsite. The fire snapped sporadically. Far off in the hills, two coyotes called to each other.

He laced his hands behind his head and gazed up at the stars overhead, brilliant as gems. How simple life seemed in the wild. He’d learned much from his years dealing with Black Eagle, things that had steadied him after the war, given him something to hold on to when his bitterness threatened to overwhelm him.

He closed his eyes, remembering. Those years had been instructive. Not only were the Indians—Klamath and Modoc alike—treated badly by the government, the tribes themselves fought each other with vicious efficiency. Then, despite all Ben’s efforts, the captured members of rival tribes had been sent to the same reservation—a bungled move, if ever there was one.

Still, those years had been lifesaving for Ben. Black Eagle had been both friend and surrogate father. But one thing the wise old chief had not taught him about was being with a woman. Not just any woman, but a woman of depth and substance. A woman of value. A woman like Jessamyn.

Ben closed his eyes, listening to the gentle sound of her breathing beside him. He knew she wasn’t asleep. He wondered what she was thinking.

As if in answer to his thought, her drowsy voice came to him over the rustle of night birds in the pine branches above. “Ben?”

He kept his lids closed. “Yeah.”

“Are you awake?”

He chuckled. “Have I ever talked in my sleep?”

A soft laugh escaped her. “As a matter of fact, you have. That night in the tipi. You said ‘Stop, damn you,’ and mumbled a woman’s name.”

Ben said nothing. He didn’t want to know any more. But he knew it was true. Jeremiah always claimed that he muttered things in his sleep. Ben didn’t mind if Jeremiah overheard him—there were few things his deputy and lifelong friend didn’t know about him. Jessamyn, however, was another matter. His mind recoiled against feeling exposed, vulnerable, to another human being.

“Ben?” she whispered again.

“Yeah.” The tight feeling in his groin spread to his chest.

She waited a long minute before speaking again.

“Ben, why did you kiss me that day at the river?”

His lids snapped open. God almighty, he wished he knew. “I guess because I thought I’d like it,” he said without thinking.

Another long silence.

“Did you? Like it, I mean? Is that why you kissed me again at the newspaper office?”

He thought a minute. “Jessamyn, why are you asking this?”

“Just tell me—did you like it?”

Ben swallowed. “I did. Quite a lot, as a matter of fact.”

Silence. Then in a very soft voice she said some words that turned his heart over.

“I’d never been kissed before. Not like that, anyway. Before, back in Boston, it was…different. A man—even a beau—didn’t…” She hesitated, groping for words. “Didn’t…well, it didn’t mean anything.”

Ben attempted to translate. “Are you saying it wasn’t a serious thing back in Boston?”

“I guess so.” She waited three full cycles of coyote calls before continuing. “It felt…serious with you.”

Ben jerked.
Serious!
It was all of that and more. He’d been downright awed. Not only had he been surprised at his action in the first place, he was appalled at his gut-level reaction. And hers, as well.

A burst of purely masculine pride warmed his chest. He’d bet Jeremiah, for all his uncanny insight, didn’t know
this
about him!

“Well, were you?” Jessamyn prompted. “Serious, I mean?”

“Hell, yes. And scared to death halfway into it,” he blurted.
My God! What is it about her that goads me into opening my mouth and letting the truth escape like so many pebbles?

“Oh,” she breathed.

Ben’s brain tumbled over itself trying to make sense of their conversation. Over the past week, he and this unlikely, unpredictable Northern lady had somehow become friends. Maybe more than friends. Never before had he longed to possess a woman—even Lorena—as desperately as he wanted Jessamyn. Lord God in heaven, what was happening to him?

If you don’t know,
said a voice inside his head,
you’re a damn fool!

Oh, hell, he knew, all right. She’d given him a flick of her petticoat and a glimpse inside the genuine person behind the facade of starched lace and good manners, and he’d fallen like a sack of potatoes.

Goddammit, he was in love with her!

After a long, long silence, he heard her voice again. “Ben?”

“Go to sleep, Jessamyn,” he growled.

“But—but I wanted to ask—”

“Jessamyn?” His voice came out gravelly.

“Y-yes?”

Ben rolled toward her, reached one arm around her middle and pulled her, blanket and all, back against his chest.

“Shut up,” he whispered against her temple. “Just shut up and go to sleep.”

Jessamyn awoke to a cold rain pelting her face. Instinctively she ducked her head, pulling the scratchy wool covering up to her eyebrows, and snuggled her backside toward Ben’s warm body.

He wasn’t there. She popped her head up and gazed about the campsite.

Ben turned away from the horses and came toward her in long, graceful strides. He’d saddled both mounts, she noted. Already his saddlebags were loaded and tied in place. She groaned. No breakfast, then. Just more riding.

She watched him pack up his bedroll and return to the horse. He tied the blankets behind the cantle with quick, careful fingers, taking extra time to murmur some words to the gelding and smooth his hands over the animal’s dark hide.

She respected Ben, she acknowledged. He was remote, even brusque at times, but she sensed something else beneath his impassive exterior—a courageous heart and a depth of spirit few men she’d ever known had had. She trusted him. And she liked him. A lot. So much, in fact, that when his mouth had touched hers, a part of her had come alive, a part of her she’d never been aware of before. She’d given herself up to him, accepting him as a man, acknowledging herself as a woman.

The feeling of his lips on hers was unsettling. In all her twenty-six years, she’d never felt that way about a man.

Slowly Jessamyn slid her aching limbs out of the warm blankets and stood up.

Ben kept his back to her. “Weather’s turned,” he observed without looking in her direction. “Mount up.”

* * *

They rode all day as rain poured out of the thick mass of gray clouds hovering above them. After the first few minutes, Ben unpacked his poncho and pulled it over Jessamyn’s rain-soaked hat. In silence he settled it around her shoulders and draped the folds over her knees. Then he shrugged the collar of his sheepskin jacket up to his ears and remounted.

Behind him, Jessamyn watched beads of water roll off the gelding’s rump. In her effort to keep up, she followed so close behind the other horse that occasional switches of the gelding’s wet tail sprayed stinging droplets into her face.

She gritted her teeth and said nothing. She was cold and hungry and wet. But, she vowed, she would not deter Ben from whatever he had to do. Not even if she drowned in the process.

She flicked the mare’s reins, urging her slow-footed mount forward.

What was it Ben had said he was looking for? An old miner’s cabin?

She gazed at the terrain around her. Sparsely forested mountainsides rose around them, broken by outcroppings of black rock and tree stumps split wide by lightning. An occasional rocky canyon opened up between peaks that disappeared into the clouds and mist overhead. Hardly a likely location for a shelter.

Jessamyn shivered under her rain gear and pressed the mare onward. The trail descended, then climbed again. Now they were exposed on the rounded crest above the timberline.

Thunder boomed over her head. The mare jerked her neck up, then lowered it and plodded forward. “Good girl,” Jessamyn crooned. She herself had lifted out of the saddle at the earsplitting sound. She tried not to let the horse sense her fear.

The sky darkened to an ominous charcoal gray. Lightning flickered over her head, followed immediately by a
deafening clap of thunder. Jessamyn’s ears rang. She cried out, but the sound was swallowed up by another thunderous crash. An odd, sharp odor filled the air.

In the next instant the entire sky lit up as a jagged bolt of white light stabbed downward. Directly ahead of Ben, a sugar pine exploded and crashed into another tree on its way to the ground.

Ben twisted in the saddle and shouted something, but pounding rain obliterated his words. He dismounted and slogged back along the muddy trail toward her. “Get down!” he yelled. “Get off your horse!”

Frozen with fear, Jessamyn stared at him.

Ben grasped the mare’s bridle, then hauled Jessamyn out of the saddle. Steadying her against his shoulder, he shouted into her ear.

“Can’t ride,” he rasped. “Too dangerous. Walk your horse and keep your head lower than the saddle.”

She nodded. Icy rain slashed against her cheeks. “How far?”

Another lightning bolt, closer this time, followed by rumbling peals of thunder.

“Don’t know,” Ben yelled. “Can’t be far. I found it once before, but it was years ago.”

He gestured ahead with one hand. “Down there, maybe.”

Jessamyn peered down into a dark canyon thick with vine maples and tangled brush. It didn’t look promising as a cabin site.

The rain gusted, blew under her poncho, soaking her shirt and jeans, and she shivered. Even the canyon looked safer than the exposed trail they followed.

“Let’s go!” She screamed the words into his ear over the whine of the wind. “Even a cave would be better than this—I’m wet to the skin!”

He gave a short nod, laid the reins in her hand and pressed her body close to the horse’s shoulder. Striding
away from her, he started on foot down the long series of switchbacks leading to what she prayed was Copperblossom Canyon.

J
eremiah lifted his high-crowned felt hat and combed restless fingers through his hair. The deputy’s bones told him something was up. Ben’s secretiveness about his visit to Black Eagle’s summer camp, the rock heaved through the window of the
Wildwood Times
office this morning—none of these things augured at all well.

A long, worried sigh hissed out between his teeth as he locked the
Wildwood Times
door behind him. Yessir, Mr. Ben and Miss Jessamyn were two of a kind—smarter than most and twice as stubborn. Resolutely he tramped across the street to the sheriff’s office to go through the mail.

Toward evening, Jeremiah settled his muscular frame onto the battered oak chair on the plank walkway outside, tipped it back and propped his boots on the hitching rail. His nerves on edge, he smoked one cigarette after another, watching the dusty street from under his drooping hat brim. His throat was dry and scratchy from answering the townsfolks’ questions all day long. He longed for a shot of whiskey. But in Ben’s absence, he was on duty.

Charlie’s Red Fox Saloon was unusually quiet except for the piano player, idly plunking out a made-up variation of “Aura Lee.”

Jeremiah shut his eyes. “Aura Lee, my Aura Lee, maid of golden hair…”

His throat closed. A man was fortunate to have had a sweetheart once in his life. He always wished he’d been the kind of man Ben was, a gentleman, born to land, educated to rise above common folk, to marry a real lady like Miss Lorena. But even if he, and not Ben, had been born in the big house, would it make a difference now?

He thrust the thought away. What woman with all her senses would look twice at a scarred-up old gunfighter like himself? Miss Jessamyn, now—she treated him real nice. Miss Jessamyn saw the person beneath his rough manners and uncultured speech.

But to everybody else, it seemed he didn’t count for much, really. Most of the time he felt invisible next to Ben, a mere shadow of his lifelong companion. Except for the sheriff, and maybe some of Black Eagle’s bunch, half the time people acted as if he wasn’t even there. “Tell your deputy,” they’d say to the sheriff with Jeremiah standing a scant arm’s length away. “Tell your deputy…”

“Love and light return with thee…” He hummed a snatch of the melody. Yessirree, a man was lucky to have a woman, even for a short while.

A horse stepped slowly up the street. Jeremiah didn’t move, didn’t even open his eyes. Instead he tipped his hat over his face and concentrated on Charlie’s piano music.

The hoofbeats came closer. Almost opposite him now. And then they stopped.

A footstep so quiet he had to strain to hear it sounded on the hard-baked street. Then another, the rhythm uneven. He sucked air into his lungs. He knew that step. With one careful finger he pushed the Stetson up off his face and cracked open his eyelids.

Walks Dancing.

Jeremiah ground out his smoke and rose to meet her. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to get his breath. “Ben’s not here,” he managed at last.

“It is not Iron Hand I seek,” the Indian girl replied. “It is you I have come to speak with.”

Jeremiah swallowed. “Come.” He gestured toward the sheriff’s office. His Yurok was so rusty he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Instead, he stepped into the street and grasped Walks Dancing’s elbow. He let her move at her own pace, but when she reached the sidewalk step, he dropped behind her, placed both hands at her waist and lifted her up onto the plank walkway.

She limped toward the door. Jeremiah turned the knob, pushed it wide, then followed her inside. Shooing the cat out of the desk chair, he pulled it toward the laboring girl and gestured for her to sit. He snagged another chair, pulled it around and seated himself opposite her. The sleek feline leaped into his lap.

Walks Dancing watched his hands smooth the purring animal’s fur. “You are a good man, Horse Talker,” she observed quietly.

Jeremiah’s heart skittered to a stop.

“That is why I have come.” Her fine, black eyes looked straight into his. “My father, Black Eagle, wishes me to marry. To bear sons.”

Jeremiah’s hand stilled. He knew it! That crafty bastard Black Eagle might marry her off before Jeremiah could ask for her. He clamped his jaw shut so hard his teeth ached.

“Marriage,” Jeremiah began, working to sound matter-of-fact, “is a fine thing.”

Walks Dancing shook her head. “I do not wish this.”

He studied the girl’s delicately chiseled face, let his gaze drop to the small, capable hands clasped in her lap. “Who is the man?”

“Four Moons. I do not like him. He is unkind. He mistreats his horse. He will mistreat a wife, as well.”

“Black Eagle is your chief, as well as your father. Can you refuse?”

She hesitated. “If I refuse Four Moons, I must leave the tribe.”

Jeremiah found he could scarcely draw breath. “Could you marry another?”

Walks Dancing remained silent so long he. imagined he could hear ants scratching beneath the wood floor.

“My life has been torn apart,” she said at last. “My body, as well. Because of this, I must do as my father asks. Four Moons will pay the bride price. He will kill any other man who claims me.”

Very slowly Jeremiah lifted the cat off his lap and set it on the plank floor. “My momma always said when your life is cut in two, you gotta fill the split with good things.”

Walks Dancing’s dark eyes shone with tears. “I cannot.”

“Yes,” Jeremiah said, “you can.” He stood up. “Four Moons will not have you. And he will kill no man. You will marry me. Black Eagle and I have spoken on it.”

Amazed at himself, his heart hammering against his ribs, Jeremiah waited for the Indian girl to speak. He had loved Walks Dancing since the day he first saw her. She had been more dead than alive the night he and Ben had found her, her limbs mangled and broken. They had carried her to Black Eagle’s camp. Crazed with pain, she had opened her eyes once and gazed up into Jeremiah’s face and smiled. He had loved her ever since.

Now, afraid to breathe, he waited for her answer.

“You are a good man, Jeremiah,” she said at last, her voice quiet. “I will be your wife if you wish it. As long as I live, I will hold you in my heart.”

His thoughts tumbled about his brain like loose grapeshot. He would not send her back to Black Eagle. He knew what Black Eagle wanted—weapons. The bride price. If he just kept his head, maybe he could get the old chief what he wanted.

Jeremiah bowed his head. Dizzy with happiness, he dared not utter one word. He held Walks Dancing’s slim hand in his own and stared at her in a haze of joy, afraid he would wake up any moment and find he was dreaming.

On foot, Jessamyn led her mare through the steep switchbacks zigzagging down the mountainside into a seemingly
bottomless canyon. Needles of icy rain stung her face as the wind gusted, buffeting her chilled body. The mare whinnied nervously. Step by halting step, Jessamyn guided her mount down the wide, mud-washed path. It must have been a wagon trail once, though she couldn’t imagine how a miner’s buckboard would make the tight turns.

Her descent was agonizingly slow. At each twist in the trail, the normally surefooted animal hesitated, placing her hooves with maddening care on the slippery surface. Jessamyn had to tug hard on the bridle to make any headway.

Ahead of her, moving with steady, sure steps, Ben walked beside the gelding, his body hunched forward, the collar of his sheepskin jacket turned up to his ears. An hour ago he’d tied a bandanna over his Stetson to keep it from blowing off. Jessamyn tried to do the same, but at each attempt, the blustering wind snapped the kerchief out of her hands. At last she gave up and stuffed the sodden hat into her jacket pocket.

Water sluiced across her forehead, down her neck. Strands of wet hair plastered themselves across her face, blearing her vision. In vain she worked to brush it out of her eyes, but the hairpins securing the soaked bun had begun to loosen. The heavy knot of hair drooped lower and lower, then at last broke completely free. Flying dark tendrils slapped against her cheeks.

Merciful heaven, she was so cold! Inside the leather gloves, her fingers stiffened until she could no longer feel them. At each step, the toes of her right foot stung. They had to find that cabin soon. She couldn’t go on much longer.

Ahead of her, the gelding’s dark rump rocked steadily forward. Jessamyn concentrated on counting the animal’s steps. When she reached two hundred, a hoarse sob escaped her, and she lurched to a stop. She was at the end of her strength. She clung to the bridle while her body shivered uncontrollably.
Dear God, don’t let me die like this!

A shout reached her, the sound muffled and far away.
Another shout, closer this time. Then Ben’s arm around her shoulders, pulling her forward.

“Just ahead,” he yelled near her ear. “Cabin.”

Cabin!
Had he really said that? She tugged on his sleeve to get his attention. She couldn’t make him hear her voice over the’ shriek of the wind, so she pointed ahead, hoping he would understand.

He nodded at her, a grin splitting his water-washed face.

“How far?” she screamed.

He nodded again, and the rich sound of his laugh rolled over her. She caught just one word. “Safe.” Her chest squeezed so tight she thought she would burst.

Safe.
Alive!

Desperate to keep her numbed feet moving, Jessamyn gritted her teeth and plodded on. She counted fifty steps, then another eighty, then…

Ben gave her shoulder a squeeze and gestured with his chin. A squat wooden structure nestled between two thick stands of pines on the side of the canyon wall. A blackened metal stovepipe jutted at an angle from the split-shake roof.

Tears stung, spilled over her lids and down her cheeks. She’d never seen anything so beautiful in her entire life! With renewed determination she bent her head and moved forward.

The cabin looked smaller than Ben remembered it. Thank God it had been deserted for years. He didn’t fancy the idea of negotiating for territorial rights in the middle of a freezing rainstorm.

And, he added as an afterthought, with a woman on his hands. A wet and very cold woman, from the look of her. The shuddering of Jessamyn’s slight frame had increased in the past half mile. She needed to get out of her wet clothes and warm herself up, fast. Already her movements were lethargic, her limbs stiff-looking and uncoordinated.

He prayed she wasn’t one of those women with weak lungs. Thad, he remembered, claimed he had never sneezed in his life. Still, he’d seen strong men succumb to pneumonia
in warmer weather than this. Hurriedly he pulled both horses down the hillside to the leeward side of the shack, out of the wind, and tethered them to a post. He’d return and give them extra rations of oats when he’d gotten Jessamyn inside and built a fire.

He didn’t waste time picking the padlock on the cabin door, he blew it off the hasp with a well-placed bullet. Shoving the wide pine plank inward, he half dragged, half carried Jessamyn inside.

Damn, she was cold! Her straggling hair dripped icy water onto his wrists. He yanked off her wet poncho, tugged off the leather gloves and dropped them in a pile on the floor. Her fingers looked abnormally white and she had trouble flexing them.

“Strip!” he ordered. He turned away toward the stove. A waist-high stack of split dry logs stretched the length of one short wall. Kindling filled a box by the crude kitchen table.

Ben’s heart stopped. Someone was using the cabin. The cast-iron stove was stone cold, but the kindling smelled piney. Freshly cut, he guessed. Less than a week ago. Pitch oozed from the stacked logs.

A prickle zinged up his spine. He prayed whoever it was would not return tonight. Or tomorrow, for that matter. The storm outside showed no signs of letting up. Until it did, he and Jessamyn were stuck here.

He piled kindling and small logs onto his arm and strode toward the stove. Jessamyn stood in the center of the small room, unsteady on her feet, the puddle of water beneath her boots spreading. Ben brushed by her with the load of wood.

“I said strip, dammit! You want to catch pneumonia?”

He knelt before the stove, yanked open the iron door and laid dry sticks and small branches on the bed of ashes. He touched a match to the dry pine needles, and the fire flickered to life.

He heard Jessamyn’s waterlogged jacket smack onto the
floor behind him, followed by the plop of a lighter garment—her shirt, he guessed.

He straightened and turned to face her. Her damp camisole stuck to her skin, revealing the outline of her breasts underneath the thin material. She seemed unaware of his perusal. Very slowly she bent to remove her boots, fumbling at the slick, wet leather with cold-stiffened hands. Finally she gave up with a shrug.

Ben sucked in his breath. She acted confused, disoriented. He had to get her dry and warmed up in a hurry.

He moved toward her. “Hold on to me,” he barked. Dropping to the floor, he tugged off one boot, then the other, while she steadied herself against his shoulder.

“Now undo your trousers.”

She gazed at him, her eyes distant.

“Jessamyn, help me! Take off your—”

“Can’t,” she said, her tone dull. “Fingers won’t…” Her voice trailed off.

Ben reached up and undid the metal button at her waistband. A glance at her face revealed the whiteness around her mouth, an odd, removed look in her eyes. She was drifting.

He’d have to do it for her.

“Jess, come over here.”

When she obeyed, he laid his hands on her hips and rotated her body so her back was close to the stove. Her hands dangled idly at her sides. He lifted them to his shoulders. When she could stand without wobbling, he began to undo the buttons at her fly.

Her frame shook, whether from cold or fear he neither knew nor cared. He did know that if he didn’t undress her this minute and warm her up, she was a dead woman.

Two buttons free. Then three. He heard her breath hiss inward, but he did not look up.

Four. She exhaled in a shaky sigh that unnerved him. Heat pounded into his chest, his groin. Behind her, the stove crackled and spit as the pine pitch heated.