by D. V. Berkom
Harry glanced at her. “You did that in your head just now?”
Claire almost rolled her eyes but stopped short. “What if I did?”
“Nothin’,” he said with a shrug. “I ain’t never met a woman who could do sums that fast without a pencil and paper.”
“Can’t you?” Claire’s husband, Josiah, had been good at math, but he always let her take the lead in anything to do with multiplication since she was so quick with the answer.
“Well, of course I can.”
Claire studied him for a moment, trying to decide if she should explain to him that a woman’s brain was just as good as a man’s, but decided to let it go. Let him figure it out on his own.
“Think the box would survive sliding down the hill?” Claire eyed the route they took up the rise, thinking about the wear on the desiccated wood.
He dusted off the box. “The case ain’t exactly built to specifications.” He pointed out the crudely joined oak slats. “Wells Fargo reinforces the corners and edges with metal. This is just wood. And dried-out wood, at that.”
“Then we’ll have to carry it down.”
“Possible, but I’ve got a better idea. Wait here.”
Harry made his way down the hill back to camp and returned a short time later, carrying his oilskin coat. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath before he laid it out on the ground near the box.
“Help me lift the box onto my coat.”
Claire did as he asked, and they heaved the box on top of the rugged material. Harry dusted off his hands and gestured to the bottom of the rise. “I’ll hold on to the edge and pull—you push from behind. Plenty of loose shale for it to ride on to the bottom.”
It took a bit of pushing to get things started, but his idea worked. Aside from getting dirty and acquiring a small tear where one of the box’s corners dug into the fabric, Harry’s coat was still presentable. They each took a side, lifting from the bottom, and walked the box back to camp. Peters watched them like a hawk tracking prey.
“Guess the map was right,” he said. “Whatever you found is mine, fair and square.”
Harry and Claire ignored him as they brought the box next to one of the willows and set it down.
Harry squinted at the sun on its way to the horizon. “We used up most of the day—don’t make no sense to leave now. We should turn in early and get a good night’s sleep. We can load the bars in the morning and be on the road by sunup.”
“Sounds good. What do you say we build a travois so we can transport the whole thing to Tucson?”
“It’ll slow us down some.”
“Agreed. How far is it? Can we travel it in a day?”
Harry nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’d reckon we could get there before the assay office closes.”
“Perfect.”
Harry cut several willow branches and Claire helped him lash them together. By the time they’d finished it was late afternoon. Claire gazed downstream, lost in thought.
Harry followed her gaze. “What?”
Claire shook herself from her reverie and smiled. “I was thinking about how nice a soak in those hot springs would feel right now.”
Harry arched an eyebrow. “Do tell. You go on ahead and do whatever you need to. I’ll see to supper.”
“Really?” Claire grinned, happier than she’d been in months. Without thinking, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. He smelled of sweat and grime and warm, sunburned skin. She stepped back and said, “We can take turns, if you want.”
He avoided her gaze and nodded toward the springs. “Get along.”
She gave him another grin, then reached inside her saddlebag for a face flannel. It would have to do. Of course with the afternoon still warm she’d dry off in no time, even without a towel. She grabbed a clean shirt and made sure to bring her canteen.
Without a backward glance Claire raced downstream, her heart light in anticipation of the relaxing bath ahead.
Chapter 21
Claire rinsed out her underthings and laid them on a warm rock to dry, then washed her face and body. The pool depth was perfect—when she sat on the rocky bottom the hot water came up to her chin, completely covering her.
Maybe I can sleep here tonight, she mused, and giggled at the thought.
The pool was big enough that she could stretch out on her back and gaze at the sky as she floated. White, puffy clouds scudded across the wide expanse of brilliant blue, then disappeared behind the walls of the canyon. She closed her eyes, savoring the quiet. Everything else disappeared—she didn’t care at all where she might be headed after Tucson.
Oddly enough the thought of delivering Peters to the marshals and saying goodbye to Harry brought a twinge of regret. She’d come to respect Harry despite his gruff pigheadedness and would miss him and his steady ways.
If he asked her to, would she stay?
True, he enjoyed moving around and experiencing new things, but his stubbornness would likely make him hard to convince of anything that he didn’t already think was true. She’d had enough of that kind of silliness from her father. She wished he was more like her husband, Josiah, had been. He’d a quick mind and would reconsider his views if there were enough facts to support them.
On the other hand, Harry had a stable job, which was definitely a consideration. It wasn’t as though outlaws were going to disappear anytime soon. There’d always be a need for bounty hunters.
Would she be happy with a job like that? Always on the road hunting bandits and the worst of the worst? Now that she thought about it, it did sound kind of fun. Interesting at least. She leaned her head back and took a deep breath, exposing her chest and stomach to the warm desert air.
Rocks skittered behind her and she quickly sat up, swiveling in the water to see what had made the noise.
She caught a glimpse of Harry, partially concealed by a willow about five yards away. He ducked out of sight but not before she got a look at his expression. It was a mixture of guilt at being caught and something else—a look she hadn’t experienced since her ill-fated night with Doc Holliday.
Claire stifled a smile and pretended not to see him, partly so she wouldn’t cause him further embarrassment but also because she’d decided she was going to do her best to tease him.
Turning her back to him she lifted an arm from the water and ran her hand along its flesh, caressing her shoulder and tilting her head back in a show of pleasure. She thought she heard a sharp intake of breath but couldn’t be certain.
The ability to do something daring and not have to confess it—for she would surely not admit to trying to arouse Harry for fear of him thinking her a loose woman—gave her a little thrill. She ran her fingers through her hair and arched her back, then sank below the surface, astonished at her brazenness.
You had better be ready to answer for your actions, Claire Whitcomb, she chided herself. What had come over her? She shook her head at the thought. Living out West had certainly changed her. In polite society her actions would be construed as wanton and base.
And what’s so bad about that? The thought spiraled through her mind, unbidden. Who will even know? Her reputation was already questionable. What more could she lose?
Why, Claire Whitcomb—you little tart. She smiled to herself.
Time to end the teasing. Keeping her back to Harry, she floated to where her clothes dried in the sun. She slowly rose from the water to give him ample opportunity to take his leave without being seen. It wouldn’t do to give the man heart failure.
When she deemed he’d had plenty of time to depart she exited the pool, dried off, and put on her clothes, feeling one hundred percent revived. She took her time walking back to camp, enjoying how relaxed she felt after days in the saddle and living rough. Right before she reached camp she piled her hair up under her hat to continue her pretense of being a man for Peters’ benefit.
She stopped to stow her things in her saddlebag and walked over to where Harry sat in the shade of a willow
, cleaning his gun.
“Have a good bath?” Harry asked.
She stifled a smile at his studied nonchalance.
“It was wonderful. You really must have a turn.” She nodded toward Peters who sat slumped against the tree. “It appears our guest is napping. Now would be a good time for you to go before it gets dark. I’ll keep an eye on things here.”
Harry finished putting the revolver back together, slipped it into his gun belt, and stood. “As long as you’re comfortable watchin’ him.”
Claire smiled. “Why so solicitous, Harry? You’ve never had a problem leaving me alone with him before.”
“No?” Harry gave her a look that sent a flutter of excitement through her. “Well, then, I’ll take my leave.” They locked gazes for a brief moment before he touched the brim of his hat and said, “Ma’am.” He walked to his bags and pulled out his shaving kit and a flannel, then made his way downstream, whistling.
Claire had never heard him whistle. Come to think of it, she hadn’t ever seen him act lighthearted. She watched until she couldn’t see him anymore before heading to her saddlebags, intending to repack her things.
“You smitten with him or somethin’?” Peters asked, a look of revulsion on his face.
Claire pulled out some items and redistributed them, making more room. “Why, you want him?”
Peters scoffed at her rejoinder. “Funny, ain’tcha? Nah, I prefer women. The loose, willing kind.”
“Well, I can understand that, Peters, bein’ as that’s the only kind that’d want you.”
“Says you.”
Ignoring him, Claire continued to pack her things. She unwrapped the tomahawk and took a moment to admire its handiwork, happy that she hadn’t had to give up all of her gifts from Thomas.
“Whitcomb.” There was an edge to Peters’ voice.
Annoyed, Claire turned to see what he wanted. His eyes were as wide as saucers and he appeared unnaturally stiff, kind of like rigor mortis had set in. “What?” she asked. A jolt of concern flickered through her.
Peters rolled his eyes and puffed out his cheeks with short breaths. Beads of sweat rolled down the sides of his face.
The tomahawk still in her hand Claire stood, concern pushing through her dislike of the outlaw. “Are you having some kind of fit?”
Then she saw the snake.
Coiled in an undulating pile not two feet from him, the distinctive brown and white diamond shapes along its scaly body would have been enough to identify the deadly rattlesnake. As if to emphasize its lethality the tip of its striped tail rattled in warning.
The snake moved, shifting into a strike position.
“Do something,” Peters hissed.
Claire hurled the tomahawk at the snake. The blade landed with a thud, embedding itself in the ground and severing the snake’s head from its body. The tail shivered before falling lifeless on the remaining coils.
Peters let out his breath in a rush. “Damnation.” Breathing heavily, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I could’ve died right then and there.”
Claire walked over to the snake and pulled the tomahawk free. “I hear they taste good.” She slid the blade under the rattler’s body and lifted it off the ground.
Peters stared at her in disbelief. “I almost died and all you can think of is supper?”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so melodramatic. Besides,” she added, “it’s not like you’re long for this world. Personally, death by rattlesnake sounds a whole lot better than death by hangin,’ don’t you think?”
Peters clapped his mouth shut and glared at her.
She smiled sweetly and walked back to the saddlebags with the rattler. “You’re welcome, by the way,” she called over her shoulder.
Peters didn’t give her any more trouble, and she completed her task of rearranging her saddlebags. Then she saw to the horses and Harry the mule. Finished with that, curiosity got the better of her, and she went downstream to see what could possibly be keeping Harry so long. In her experience men didn’t take their time in the bath like women did.
Not wanting to scare the daylights out of him, Claire crept up behind the same tree she’d seen Harry use when he was watching her bathe and peered around the trunk. He was floating on his back the same as she’d done, staring up at the slowly darkening sky. She was about to turn around and leave him be when he stood up.
She caught her breath at the sight of him. There was no indication under his shapeless, everyday clothes of the fine male physique presented to her now. Unable to tear her gaze from his lean waist and well-muscled arms, broad shoulders and shapely buttocks, she wasn’t prepared when he turned.
Their eyes met. Her heart hammered in her chest, but she didn’t turn away. He’d shaved his beard, giving him the appearance of a much younger man. She wet her lips and he smiled.
She clapped her hand over her mouth as the realization hit her. She’d just done the exact same thing as he had earlier. A warm flush of embarrassment wound its way to her cheeks. Mesmerized by the intensity of his gaze she found herself staring right back at him.
You’d best stop now, Claire. If you keep staring at the man he’s going to think it’s an invitation.
Well, what if it was?
Claire made her decision. Without breaking eye contact she stepped from behind the tree and slowly walked toward him. He remained hip deep in the pool, watching her approach. She unbuttoned her shirt and cast it aside, then stopped and removed her boots, placing them on a flat rock next to the pool. His eyes grew dark and her heartbeat quickened. She unbuttoned her dungarees and slid them and her underthings off. His gaze moved along her body, giving her a delicious thrill.
With a quick movement she waded into the pool and walked toward him with single-minded intent.
Chapter 22
“Where in tarnation’ve you two been?” Peters’ plaintive whine greeted Claire and Harry when they returned to camp. “There mighta been another damn snake for all you cared.”
Harry gave Claire a puzzled look and she shrugged. “Long story—no need to worry about supper, though.”
Peters studied them both. His annoyance turned to suspicion and his eyes widened. “What the—if I didn’t know better I’d say you two got to know each other in a carnal sense.”
Claire hid her grin but not before Peters saw it.
The fugitive’s shocked expression said it all. “That—that ain’t—”
“Shut up, Peters.” Harry’s sharp tone brooked no argument. The outlaw snapped his mouth closed. “Now, what was this about supper?” Harry asked Claire, ignoring the outlaw’s obvious astonishment at what he thought were two men having a love affair.
She pointed to the dead rattlesnake hanging on the tree branch where she’d left it. “I’ve never cooked a snake before but heard they’re good eating.”
Harry removed it from the branch, inspecting it as he did. “Pretty good size. How’d you kill it?”
“Tomahawk.”
Harry nodded as though Claire killing a rattler with a Ute tomahawk was the most natural thing in the world. The thoughts floating up through Claire’s mind took her by surprise. She studied Harry as he set to skinning the reptile, wondering again what it would be like to work side by side with the bounty hunter.
Stop it, Claire. You slept with the man once. It isn’t like he asked you to marry him.
She shook her head to rid herself of the silly fantasy and got busy searching for wood to build a fire.
After they’d eaten their fill and were relaxing near the fire, Harry went to his saddlebags and returned carrying a bottle of whiskey. He took a swig and offered some to Claire.
“You’ve been holding out on me.” She smiled and had a drink, enjoying the warm sensation in her belly.
“That was some fine rattlesnake.” Harry tipped the bottle to Claire in a toast. “May your tomahawk always be at the ready when a snake is nearby.”
Peters had evidently gotten over his shock at h
is captors’ apparent love affair and was particularly talkative. “You shoulda seen him, Harry.” Unable to use his hands, Peters snapped his head forward to mimic a chopping motion. “Bam! That snake’s head came clean off, quick as you please.”
Harry gave Claire a sidelong glance. “Not only are you good with a gun and a bow and arrow, but you can throw hell out of a tomahawk.” He shook his head and took another drink. “I stand by what I said before; I ain’t never met anyone like you, Whitcomb.”
Claire smiled and took the bottle. She held it up and said, “Same to you, Harry,” then handed it back. “What was Peters talking about earlier? Something about a massacre?”
Harry gazed into the fire. “He’s dead wrong.”
“No I ain’t,” Peters protested. “You was one of them bushwhackers under Bloody Bill. I should know. I was there too.”
“Shut up, Peters. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” He took another swig. “I left for Texas when Bill Anderson ordered the murder of them unarmed Union soldiers.”
Peters scoffed. “Then you’re a coward.”
“What he asked was a bridge too far, Peters. The war was pretty much over by that point anyway.”
“Bullshit. You was the only one who lost their nerve, you know that? Remember Jesse? Guess what he’s doing now?”
“Robbing banks and stages. Him and Frank are the reason I became a bounty hunter.”
“Jesse James?” Claire asked.
Harry nodded. “He was one of the worst in a band of cutthroats. He enjoyed killin’.”
“I’ve heard stories of the war—how brutal it was.” Claire placed her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”
“Aww,” Peters growled. “Keep it to yourselves, wouldja?” He tipped his chin up and asked, “Why don’t you send a little of that firewater my way?” When neither Claire nor Harry responded he added, “C’mon. Grant a dyin’ man his last wish?”