She tried to step back. “I’m all right, Captain. I can stand on my own now. Her gasps for air were short and rapid, matching his own labored breathing.
But Blade didn’t release her. He pulled her nearer. His mouth was warm and gentle as it brushed her lips, then moved across her wet cheeks and eyelids. “Theodora,” he whispered into her ear, his voice thick with desire, “don’t push me away. Let me stay with you. Let me comfort you.”
Her heart thundered beneath her ribs. She knew what he wanted. She wanted it herself. As of their own volition her arms moved around his neck and she raised her lips to his. It was wrong, but she needed him. His strength enveloped her, promising her a haven of warmth and security from the frightening world that threatened to engulf her.
“Blade, I—”
“Shhh, don’t talk,” he commanded. His finely molded lips came down to meet hers.
Through the stillness that surrounded them, Wesley Fletcher’s Georgia accent sliced with biting clarity. “Is everythin’ all right, Miz Gordon?”
The embracing couple stopped, their mouths frozen a fraction of an inch apart. They turned their heads in one simultaneous motion. Fletcher stood in the open entrance, illuminated by the yellow glow of the lantern light.
In her shock Theodora would have leaped back from Blade, but he held her tightly to his chest.
“What the hell are you doing here, Fletcher?” The captain’s deep baritone was an ominous growl.
Fletcher looked from one to the other, a tawny eyebrow lifted in judgment. “I was merely checkin’ t’ see if there was anythin’ the lady needed.” Then his gaze took in the snake pinned to the sagging wall of the tent. “Good God!” He walked over to the reptile and whistled in amazement. “It must be six feet long!”
Blade at last allowed Theodora to move away from him. “We haven’t had a chance to measure it yet, Lieutenant.” His clipped words conveyed an unspoken warning. Going over, he brushed Fletcher aside, lifted the snake with one hand, and withdrew his knife. The muffled shake of the rattles was like the sound of drums in a funeral dirge.
The captain carried the snake to the opened tent flap and hurled it across the grass. “Lieutenant Haintzelman!” he shouted. “On the double!” He turned back to Fletcher. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, Lieutenant, I’m sure you have pressing duties to attend to while I escort Miss Gordon back to the safety of the fort for the night.”
The next morning Zeke charged into Blade’s tent. Outraged, he waved a burlap bag he held clutched in one hand.
“Lookee hyar, Blade,” he said in disgust, and threw the sack on the dusty floor. “I found this down by the river, shoved under some rocks. Only the lily-livered varmint who done it didn’t quite git it covered up. Must’ve been in a pow’rful hurry to have left it only partly hidden.”
Blade reached down and grabbed the bag, his curiosity high, for Zeke seldom raised his voice. He opened one end, which had been tied together with a leather thong woven through slits in the burlap, and immediately understood Zeke’s outrage. The sack had been used to transport a very large snake. Part of its rattles had broken off and remained caught in the folds of the coarse material.
A fire raged through Blade. “The son of a bitch,” he snarled savagely. “When I catch that bastard, he’s going to beg me to kill him.” He wadded the sack in his fist and shook it at Zeke. “Was there any sign of who left this?”
“Yep, and this time the polecat warn’t so smart.” The eagle feather in Zeke’s hat bobbed as he shook his head. “Thar was a heel mark in the dirt. It were a soldier’s boot that made it.” Blade tossed the bag on his bedroll and headed for the tent’s entrance. “Let’s go take a look,” be said, his rage threatening to demolish his usual composure.
Zeke grabbed his sleeve. “Whoa now, Blade. ’Tain’t no use in announcin’ this to the whole world. Whoever done it is sartain to be watchin’ us. Let’s jest mosey down to the riverbank, nice and easy. No sense in givin’ the ornery rat a chance to skeedaddle.”
But their caution was in vain. Whoever had left the sack had tried to retrieve it and, finding it gone, had removed all trace of boot marks around the rock. This time they found the soft imprint of a moccasin instead. Blade and Conyers carefully questioned each mountain man and dragoon, but no one recalled seeing anyone near that part of the riverbank.
The long, upward incline of the high plains became apparent beginning the seventh week of the journey. The sojourners, refreshed from their two-day stay at the fort, traveled northwest along the divide between the Laramie and North Platte rivers. Groves of cottonwood dotted the open prairie, and pine trees grew on the higher slopes of the streams that fed into the Platte. The news of Miss Gordon’s near brush with death had swept the camp the night it occurred, and Lucien Fontenelle had insisted that she sleep in a room in the fortress. Shaken, Theodora had gratefully accepted his hospitality.
She remembered with nostalgia the small cell in Fort Laramie’s northeast bastion, with its heavy wooden door and its tiny bed, no more than a crude platform nailed to the wall. Through a window slit she’d seen the light cannon that stood guard beyond it, and for the first time since leaving Fort Leavenworth, she’d felt truly safe.
“Why not wait here at Laramie, Miz Gordon?” Lieutenant Fletcher had asked the next morning. “Y’ can go on back t’ Leavenworth with the supply wagons that’ll be comin’ from Green River after the rendezvous. Y’ wouldn’t have t’ stay more’n a few weeks at most, and then you’d be headin’ for home. Fontenelle would be delighted t’ take care of y’ till the fur traders come through.”
The regard on Fletcher’s attractive features touched her. It was clear he had only her best interest at heart, for he’d made no secret of his enjoyment of her company. She touched his blue sleeve in an effort to convey her gratitude. “As much as I’d like to remain in this friendly haven, Lieutenant,” she told him with regret, “I have to continue the journey west. Staying at the fort will never get Tom’s name on the maps and journals that will be published once we return to the East.”
“I think you’re makin’ a grave mistake, Miz Gordon. After all that’s happened, I’d feel much better knowin’ y’ were safely on the way back t’ your father.” Fletcher lifted her fingers from his arm and squeezed them gently. “Think how he’d feel if he lost not only Tom, but you as well. I doubt any parent could survive such a double tragedy. Let Roberts worry about the topographical work. That’s not your responsibility.”
Theodora was troubled by the thought of causing her father more grief, but in the end she knew she had to fulfill the obligation she’d taken upon herself, regardless of the pain involved. And though he’d been clearly disappointed in her decision, Fletcher had accepted it with his unfailing courtesy. Never once had he mentioned the compromising position he’d found her in the night of the rattler’s attack—no doubt believing that she’d fallen into Blade’s arms in sheer terror. She was thankful for the lieutenant’s tactfulness and reassured herself that he was at least partly correct. It’d been fear that had propelled her into the captain’s arms. But an entirely different emotion, one she refused to examine too closely, had kept her there.
Baptiste Lejeunesse rode beside her now. The burly French Canadian had been her shadow for the last five days. Directly behind her was Lieutenant Haintzelman; up ahead, she could see Fletcher in his impeccable uniform. Captain Roberts rode in his usual place at the head of the column, ramrod straight in his fringed buckskins and dusty cavalry boots.
Yes, she admitted to herself, Fletcher’s assumption had been correct: she’d fallen into Blade’s arms in fright. But both she and the handsome captain knew that was only the beginning of what had happened between them. Blade had never mentioned her willingness to surrender to him that night. Since the incident, he’d been as discreet as the gentleman he was supposed to be. Perhaps he’d belatedly remembered his promise to Colonel Kearny to protect her virtue. Or perhaps he regretted his attempt to seduce her once he realized wha
t an easy conquest she’d be.
Theodora clenched her teeth. Shame on you, an engaged woman, for kissing another man, she scolded herself. For wanting another man.
She bit her bottom lip as the image of Martin Van Vliet rose before her. She hadn’t thought of her fiance since before Tom’s death. When she’d accepted Martin’s proposal, she’d been certain that she loved him, that he would be the perfect helpmate and companion. But she had never felt with Martin the deep, all-encompassing need that Blade aroused within her.
She was aware of his every movement, even though she forced herself to keep her gaze averted. She was afraid he would read in her eyes her deep longing, the driving need to beg him to take her into his arms once again and finish what had been left so frustratingly incomplete that night at Fort Laramie.
They rode in a fine, misty rain that had plagued them since leaving the fort. The mornings had been unseasonably cool and foggy for July. Conyers had assured them that this weather wouldn’t last, for the trail would soon lead them into a rocky desert. In the distance an approaching dark spot from the north signaled the arrival of buffalo at the river.
When the travelers encamped that afternoon, they were soon surrounded by an immense herd. Since the bivouac was downwind, the animals left only the immediate land around the campsite empty in their push to reach the water. Some of the shaggy beasts stood in the sluggish current up to their knees. Others slowly moved across to the southern bank. Theodora decided to get a closer look at the Bison bison, for Conyers had informed her that it would probably be the last great herd they’d encounter.
“I’m going to do some sketching,” she told Peter, who was about to carry her packs into her tent. “I’ll be on that rise over there.”
Haintzelman peered through his spectacles in the direction of her pointing finger. A raised hillock not far from the camp ground provided an excellent view of the bison. “Okay. Just be careful, Teddy. The captain doesn’t want you out of eyesight.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle Gordon,” Baptiste agreed. He’d been checking the anchor pins of her tent and looked up when she spoke. “I’ll go along with you. I would like to see you put those great hairy beasts down on paper.”
Gathering her sketch pad and pencils, Theodora smiled a welcome to Lejeunesse. She knew the captain had ordered the voyageur to keep a close watch on her, and she appreciated the good-hearted way he’d given up his position in the advance party and taken on the responsibility for her welfare. Immediately after the horrible fright she’d been given by the rattlesnake, she’d needed to know someone was within call. “Come on,” she invited him. “I’d enjoy the company.”
Side by side, they trudged up a grassy rise that separated the camp from the grazing buffalo and sat down on the hillside. Lejeunesse sprawled on his back in the thick prairie clover with a relaxed grunt and pillowed his head on his cupped hands. He placed one heel on a bent knee. With a bright purple flower tucked behind his ear, he grinned in satisfaction at Theodora. “Ah, mon Dieu, mafille. We have to work so very hard, n’ est ce pas?”
She shook her head in mock reproach at his loafing and inhaled the sweet perfume of the Petalostemum purpureum. “You really don’t have to follow me everywhere I go, Baptiste. I’m no longer frightened of everything that moves in the grass.”
“The bourgeois says to watch you, chérie. Who am I to dispute such a wise capitaine?”
Theodora laughed at his teasing and looked around for the right scene to sketch.
To the north of them the bison milled quietly, some lying down chewing their cud, some grazing on the open plain. The calves, in the center of the herd, were a light sandy color, the yearlings darker. Spike bulls, the four-year-olds whose horns had smooth, clean points, wandered in and out of the clumps of cows. Many approached near nudity, for their thick wooly hair had been shedding in the heat of mid-summer. The shaggy, uneven patches of hair, ranging from blond to dark brown to black, made the bulls look even more ferocious. Conyers had told her that a ten-year-old bull could weigh just short of a ton and stand six feet high at the shoulder. From muzzle to rump he would be ten feet long. The sheer bulk of the huge animal was awe-inspiring.
At the edge of the herd a large bull and a small calf were nibbling the grass side by side, and Theodora eased slowly closer, moving bit by bit, until she reached a large boulder. Then she perched on it and started to draw.
The morning’s drizzle had cleared while they were setting up camp in the late afternoon, and now white, puffy clouds scuttered across the deep blue sky. The pastoral setting, with its rolling green plain stretched out beneath her, dotted by the dark brown and black of the placid buffalo, was idyllic for sketching, and Theodora worked on her renderings of the peaceful scene in deep concentration. For the first time in many, many days she felt a small measure of contentment.
“Where’s Miss Gordon?” Blade demanded of his aide-de-camp, who was vigorously currying his horse.
Peter looked over the mare’s back. He grinned and jerked his head, apparently amused at the worry his commanding officer’s voice betrayed. “Right over there with Lejeunesse, Captain. She’s drawing the buffalo. Though why anyone would want a picture of those ugly beasts is beyond me.”
Blade looked where Haintzelman indicated and spotted the sparkle of her golden hair in the sunshine. Not far from her lounged Lejeunesse. Standing beside War Shield, Blade absently slid his reins through his hands as he took in the scene of the lovely woman bent over her sketch pad in total absorption. A scowl creasing his forehead, he pulled on the lines and, leading his stallion behind him, headed for the rise.
The uneasiness that had plagued Blade since Fort Laramie remained with him as he walked toward Theodora. He’d issued orders that she was never to be out of Baptiste Lejeunesse’s sight, even though it had meant removing the French Canadian from the advance hunting party, and thereby announcing to the would-be killer that someone—possibly a soldier—was under suspicion. Not even Lejeunesse knew why he’d been instructed to watch over her, but he’d accepted his new responsibility with bawdy enthusiasm. He’d even slept outside her room at the fort, his enormous bulk sprawled on the splintery wooden floor like some great hibernating bear.
Approaching the rise, Blade could see him close by Theodora now, his long curly black beard spread across his chest, his white teeth gleaming in a self-satisfied grin that was visible even from this distance.
Suddenly there was a sharp crack. From the corner of his eye Blade saw a gray blanket flap on the far side of the herd.
As the sound shattered the still afternoon, the buffalo rose in one giant wave. A calf bawled in fright. A huge bull pawed the ground and snorted .
Blade leaped on War Shield as Lejeunesse rose to his feet, his long rifle in his hand.
In a mindless mass, the buffalo milled outward in a large spiraling circle. Then one old bull pulled in front and headed directly toward the couple on the hill. Behind him, at a dead run, followed the herd.
In her concentration Theodora barely heard the noise that disturbed the buffalo, but in an instant Lejeunesse was running to her.
“Mademoiselle,” he called. “Come quickly with me.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her beside him. They flew across the grass, heading for camp. But they were no match for the bellowing, frightened herd. “Wait here,” he shouted as he pulled her to an abrupt halt. “I’m going to try to turn them.” Theodora stood frozen in terror as Baptiste raced back toward the approaching buffalo. Then he knelt on one knee and fired at the lead bull. It staggered, righted itself, and continued to come straight at him. Baptiste was reloading when the herd overtook him. Theodora strained to keep his dark head in view, but the blur of horns quickly blocked out all sight of him as the hurtling mass of buffalo crushed him beneath its hooves. The sound of approaching death was the roar of bedlam.
The buffalo were so close she could hear over the thundering hooves the hollow clatter of their horns as they bumped against each other in their crazed flight.
There was no chance to outrun them. She didn’t even try.
Death wouldn’t be easy, but it would be quick.
Then some instinct made her turn, look over her shoulder, and understand Blade’s unspoken command. In an instant she readied herself. As he rode by, she grabbed his outstretched hand, put her foot on his boot, and using the power of his arm, vaulted up behind him. Suddenly, the buffalo were all around them, carrying War Shield forward by the sheer force of their momentum. Theodora clung to Blade’s waist and locked her hands in his belt, her face pressed against his back. Clods of dirt sprayed around them. Mile after mile they rode at terrifying speed in the vanguard of the closely packed animals. The great stallion strained ahead as he strove to outrun them, his eyes wide and bulging from the exertion, his coat lathered and slippery. He stumbled once but caught his balance.
Theodora closed her eyes. The thought of being trampled under those deadly hooves made her clutch Blade so tightly she could feel his ribs beneath her forearms. Her heart pounded in rhythm with the galloping horse.
The ride was endless. Over hillocks, through gullies, down steep ravines, into wooded coulees—as by instinct the buffalo made for terrain too rough for a horse to cross. Theodora knew she would never forget the ghastly sound of their clattering horns.
If she survived.
She realized that War Shield was coming to the end of his endurance. He was snorting for breath and bathed in foam. The mighty horse raced with all his heart, but even he could not possibly match the stamina of the buffalo.
Then, as suddenly as the stampede began, it slowed. Clusters of buffalo began to spread apart and a clearing around the great stallion opened up. Using this small space to his advantage, Blade wheeled his tired mount down an empty gully. As the horse came to a halt, Blade threw his leg over War Shield’s neck and slid to the ground. Reaching up, he lifted Theodora from the horse’s back .
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