by Candace Camp
“You don’t have to cook,” he told her. He saw the touch of fear in her eyes that had not been there before, and it unsettled him. He felt a need to reassure her, but he didn’t know how. He was mean as a rattlesnake, that was something everybody knew; he didn’t know how to convince her otherwise. “We can’t risk a camp fire. It would lead them right to us, like a beacon. So we don’t cook.”
“Oh. I see. I didn’t realize.” Amy’s voice dropped, and she looked down at her hands. “I didn’t think. He’s right. I’m not very smart.”
Brody scowled. “Purdon’s an idiot. He’s angry ‘cause I took him down earlier. He didn’t mean anything by it. He was just trying to get back at me.”
Amy smiled a little, her good humor quick to return, as always. “Then he’s even more stupid than me.”
Brody glanced at her, startled, then grinned. “You ain’t dumb, lady.” He gazed at her for a moment. “You’re just different. What’s wrong with that? Who’d want to be like most the people in this world, anyway?”
“That’s a sad way to think.”
“Is it?” He reached out and ran his forefinger down her smooth cheek. His skin was dark against hers, and he was suddenly aware of how dirt-stained he was. That was the way he was inside, too, he thought. He’d leave a streak of black on her soul.
The thought bothered him, and he dropped his hand. Amy bit off a hunk of the tough meat and chewed, watching Brody’s profile in the pale wash of the moonlight. He didn’t speak to her like other people did, even Victoria and Uncle Edward, as if she couldn’t understand anything. He talked as if she were normal.
They sat for a moment in silence, eating and drinking warm water from the canteen. After a while Amy grew bold enough to say, “I don’t know who you are.”
“What? Oh. I’m Brody.”
“Brody what?”
“Sam Brody.”
“Sam. That’s a nice name.”
He felt a funny sad twist in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him Sam.
“Oh! I’m sorry.” Amy looked embarrassed. “That’s not right, is it, to call you by your first name?”
He chuckled. “You think you should call me Mr. Brody?”
“I guess.”
He shook his head. “Call me Brody or Sam. No mister.”
“Then I shall call you Sam. I like Sam.” She held out her hand. “My name is Amy Stafford.”
He took her hand. “Amy.”
The dangling chain from his manacle brushed against her wrist. Amy tapped it. “This must bother you. I’m sorry you couldn’t get it off.”
“I can live with it until we get back home.”
Amy’s face brightened. “I have an idea.” She turned up the bottom of her skirt, exposing the ruffle of her petticoat. Part of it had already been torn off, and she ripped another section from it, then tore that piece in two. She slid the ruffle through the top link of the chain, wrapped the cloth around his arm, and tied it so that the metal links no longer dangled. “There. Does that feel better?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled and repeated the procedure on the other arm. Brody watched her. “Why do you do these things?”
Amy glanced up from her work. “What things?”
He gestured with his free hand toward the chain. “Helping kinds of things. Tying up the chain so it won’t get in my way. Ripping up your petticoat for Jimmy’s wound.” He paused. “This morning, when you wrapped my wrists.”
Amy looked perplexed. “Your wrists were hurt. And that boy was bleeding.” She couldn’t understand why he asked. “Don’t you want these chains tied up?”
“Of course. Just like I wanted your help this morning. It’s only—well, most people wouldn’t have.”
“I know. I could tell Victoria was upset with me.”
“Who’s Victoria?”
“My cousin. I’ve lived with her and my uncle ever since I can remember. She’s the woman who was with me this morning.”
“I didn’t notice her much.”
Amy stared. “But she’s beautiful!”
“Is she?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Not as beautiful as you.”
At his words, a glow started in Amy’s stomach and spread outward. Could he really think she was more beautiful than Victoria? She shook her head, smiling, and her cheeks turned rosy. “No. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Then you ought to look in a mirror.” Brody sat and watched her. She had taken off her bonnet, and the moonlight glittered on her pale hair. Her skin was smooth and white, her eyes huge dark pools. She seemed embarrassed, yet pleased at his words. Brody didn’t understand why. She must have heard the same things a thousand times from men. She was so lovely it made him hurt.
Brody cupped her cheek, and Amy shivered at his touch. He frightened her, he knew, and he wished, for just a moment, that he was a different kind of man, the kind whose touch Amy would welcome, not shy away from. He stroked his thumb across her smooth skin. It was like caressing the petals of a rose. He wanted to touch her all over. He wanted to take down her hair and sift it through his fingers. He wanted to explore her with his mouth and tongue. He thought of how her eyes would widen with fright if he did.
Brody stood up abruptly. “We better get to sleep. We’ll ride early in the morning.”
He spread out the thin blanket that he kept tied in a roll behind his saddle. Amy watched him uncertainly. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. The other three men were watching her, and it made her uneasy.
Brody nodded toward the empty land behind them. “You might want to go out there behind those rocks, but don’t go far. I don’t want to have to come after you.”
Amy stared, fear clutching at her lungs. “You mean to sleep? By myself?”
She looked so taken aback that Brody couldn’t suppress a chuckle. “No. To take care of—you know, woman things.”
“Oh. Thank you.” She stood up and started in the direction he’d indicated.
“Amy.”
“Yes?” She turned.
“You sleep here. Next to me.”
Amy nodded. She was glad. She would have been scared to death by herself. She hurried off behind the rocks, grateful that Brody had suggested it. She had been embarrassed to ask.
When she returned, Amy saw that Brody was already lying on the blanket on his side, his revolver within easy reach. She wondered what sleeping next to him meant. She knew that an unmarried man and woman never slept together. So it was then that it must happen, the kissing and things that led to babies. Did Sam expect to do those things to her? Would it be awful—or exciting?
She knelt beside the blanket and folded her hands.
“What are you doing?”
Amy lifted her head, surprised. “Praying. I do it every night.” Praying was one of the things she enjoyed most. Her God was a warm and gentle presence, and she worshiped him with a simple, happy faith. She loved the songs in church, and she loved talking to God at night. She knew He understood her thoughts and the feelings in her heart, thought she couldn’t express them right to other people. She knew He loved her without doubt, pity, or reservation, and there was no fear in talking to Him. “You’ll let me, won’t you?” she asked, worry touching her face.
“Sure.” His voice sounded hoarse.
Brody watched her. She was the essence of purity, kneeling there with her head bowed. He knew that he would dirty her, corrupt her. Hurt her. He guessed it was an indication of exactly how low he was that looking at her in that saintly pose made him swell and pulse with desire. God, he wanted her. He ached to taste her sweat and hear her moan with pleasure. He yearned to watch that purity melt into womanly hunger, to look at the lady she was in the day and know that at night in his arms, for him, she was as hot and wild as the loosest woman.
Brody rolled onto his back, throwing his arm across his eyes. He heard the rustle of
Amy’s skirts as she lay down on the blanket beside him. He didn’t move or look at her; he couldn’t.
“Good night, Sam,” she said shyly.
“Good night.”
***
Slater turned his horse onto the road to Austin, the direction in which he had seen Brody and his gang disappear. His wound burned, and his head pounded, and when his horse first started moving, he thought he might have to stop and empty his guts again beside the road. But after a few minutes his stomach settled down, and though the pain in his head and arm didn’t go away, he was able to concentrate on his task—or he would have been, if that blasted woman hadn’t been following him. He turned around every few minutes, and there she was, still riding along easily behind him.
He had to admit that she had good taste in horseflesh. The horse she’d bought was the only decent one in the livery stable. She sat in the saddle like someone who’d been born to it, too. But he still couldn’t let her accompany him. The last thing he needed on this trip was a woman, even if she could ride. She was crazy. Why wasn’t there a man looking after her? Perhaps he’d finally given up on trying to control her. Slater could understand how a man might reach that point.
He did his best to ignore Victoria. Most of the time he managed it, keeping his eyes on the sides of the road to find the tracks where the gang had turned off it. But he couldn’t keep himself from craning around to look back at her now and then.
Victoria was amazed at how well Slater did. She knew he must feel terrible, but he never stopped or failed to keep up his meticulous search of the roadway. Finally, after about thirty minutes, he turned his horse off the road. When Victoria followed him, she saw that the tracks of several horses left the road there, too. Excitement flared in her. Maybe Slater really would be able to find Brody’s gang. If they could trail the gang to its hideout, she’d be able to lead her father and his men to it. She hated the thought of her cousin remaining with that scum so long, but she was realistic enough to know that she would have to wait for reinforcements. A one-armed, weakened man couldn’t rescue Amy…even if he was a Ranger.
Slater moved faster now, since the hoofprints they were following were the only ones and easy enough to spot. Again Victoria was impressed. Slater was tough, all right. She knew how trotting must jar his injured arm.
He didn’t stop until dusk fell and he was no longer able to see the prints well. When he reined in and dismounted, Victoria pulled to a halt her usual distance behind him. She unfastened the saddle and bridle and pulled them from her horse, then hobbled the animal for the night. About thirty yards away from her, she could see Slater struggling to carry out the same tasks one-handed. Victoria smiled to herself. He was certainly stubborn. Well, he’d find out that she was, too. She wasn’t about to help him until he asked for it.
Slater watched Victoria out of the corner of his eye. His head felt twice its size, and his arm was just as bad. He couldn’t do anything that wasn’t clumsy, and it irritated him to see Victoria competently performing the same tasks he was fumbling over. He leaned against a large flat rock. He was as weak as a kitten and sweating far too much for the things he had just done. He uncapped one of his two canteens and drank from it. He would have liked to have poured it all over his head, but he knew better than to waste the water. The water was warm from the sun, but it tasted delicious.
He pulled a stick of jerky from his saddlebags and sank down to the ground to eat it, leaning back against the rock. He wasn’t really hungry, but he knew he had to keep up his strength. He would need every bit of it to track and capture someone like Brody, especially with one arm out of commission.
Slater glanced in Victoria’s direction. It had become completely dark now, and he could see little of her except the shadow of a movement now and then. That irritated him, too. Why did she stay out there by herself? Any normal woman would have been scared by now and come over here seeking his protection. Slater looked down at his arm, and a wry smile twisted his mouth. Maybe she didn’t consider him much protection, the shape he was in.
He continued to eat his salty food while his mind worried over the problem of the woman who was following him. He didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t see her. What if someone sneaked up on her in the night? What if she woke up and was scared? It went against all his instincts to let a lady fend for herself. He’d led a rough life the past few years, but he’d been reared to be a gentleman. Besides, defending others was his work, his life. It was his sworn duty—and the oath he’d taken hadn’t made an exception for annoying females. He felt guilty for not making camp beside her, where he could protect her.
On the other hand, he had sworn that she would be on her own if she followed him. He had to stick to his threat. If she spent a night by herself, maybe tomorrow she would be willing to return to Santa Clara. But if he took pity on her and moved over there, she would think she had won and would insist on accompanying him the next morning. Then what would he do? He couldn’t take a woman with him on a manhunt for one of the most dangerous criminals in Texas.
Slater’s thoughts went around and around like a lion in a cage, and with every passing minute he grew more irritable. He saw a glow in the area where Victoria was, and a moment later, it flickered into a fire. That, he thought, was the last straw. He pushed himself up to his feet and marched over to her.
Victoria heard the crunch of his boots and realized that Slater was coming toward her. It surprised her. She hadn’t expected such an early capitulation. She was relieved, however; much as she hated to admit it, she felt nervous sitting alone in this vast emptiness. She had slept outdoors many times—on roundups, on a cattle drive, on a camping trip to the springs on the northwest quarter—but she had never been alone. Her father had been there, or the foreman and several ranch hands. She found it a trifle eerie sitting under the black arch of the sky with nothing but a horse for company. That had been the main reason she had made the camp fire. She didn’t need it for the warmth or to cook a meal; she had the small bundle of cold food the hotel restaurant had sent with her. But the fire would keep away wild animals. And it was comforting.
She continued to brush out her hair as if she had never felt a twinge of uneasiness, prepared to accept Slater’s surrender graciously. She was startled, therefore, when he stepping into the ring of firelight and kicked dirt over the fire, dousing it.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Victoria jumped up, furious and dismayed—more by the depth of her disappointment that he wasn’t coming there to stay with her than by his action. “It took a lot of work to build that fire!”
Victoria’s hair swung as she moved, falling softly around her shoulders and down to her waist. It was thick, and as black as the night. Slater wanted to touch it; he’d wanted to all the way over, as he watched her brush it out in the firelight. That fact increased his exasperation.
“What I’m doing,” he repeated her words bitingly, “is making sure you don’t provide a signal for Brody to find us by.”
“Brody! He’s long gone.”
“Maybe. But he’s crafty. He might decide to circle back and jump me before I can find him. I don’t want to take the risk just so you can keep your feet toasty.”
“I wasn’t ‘keeping my feet toasty!’”
“No? Then you won’t miss the fire, will you?”
Victoria clenched her teeth. She had no answer for him, and that was more infuriating that anything else. She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared down at them.
Slater lingered uncertainly. He’d accomplished what he’d come for, and now he didn’t know what to do.
“Well?” Victoria asked in an icy tone. “What are you standing here for? Shouldn’t you return to your camp?”
Slater began to turn away, then stopped, sighing. “What can I say to get you to go back to Santa Clara?”
“It’s a little late for that, I’m afraid.”
“You can start first thing tomorrow morning. Look, I’ll make
camp here beside you, and at dawn you can—”
“Oh.” She jumped to her feet. “You mean in return for your precious presence tonight, I have to agree to get back to my sewing and let you do the real work?”
He stared, momentarily flummoxed. “I didn’t say anything about sewing.”
“But that’s what you meant, wasn’t it? I’m not good enough to do anything difficult. I should stick to women’s work.”
“I didn’t say that, although I don’t know what you have against ‘women’s work.’”
“You would if you’d ever done it. I was raised to run a ranch, not sit and twiddle my thumbs while others did my work for me.”
“It’s not your work,” he said. “It’s mine.”
“If Amy’s involved, it’s my concern.”
“If you want to help her, stay out of it. If you come, you’ll get in my way.”
“I can help you,” Victoria argued. “I saw you struggling with your saddle. I know I’m not a lawman or a tracker, but I can follow orders, and—”
Slater snorted. “If you could follow orders, you would have gone back to town hours ago.”
“You have to have some help! You can’t do it alone. One wounded man against, what? Five desperate outlaws? It’s absurd.”
“I know what I’m doing,” he said through clenched teeth.
“So do I. You’re assuring yourself of failure.”
“I’ll get Brody.”
“When? In a few months? A year? That won’t do Amy much good.”
Slater sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. The irritation that had motivated him earlier had drained away, leaving him exhausted. “Look, you’re not doing anyone any good with this, least of all yourself. Don’t you know what it will do to your reputation to spend several nights alone with me?”
“I suspect it will ruin it.”
“Don’t you care?”
Victoria shrugged. “Other things are more important to me. I wouldn’t give a flip for what other people said about me if I could get Amy back.”
“Damnation! Why can’t you leave it alone? How can I do my job if I have to worry about you?”