Jace turned to Kyla. “This is Many Braids. He’s a Nez Perce medicine man, and an old friend of mine.”
Hiding behind Kyle’s bravado, she nodded at him and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “My name’s Kyle Springer.”
With limber dignity he dropped to sit cross-legged next to the fire. He studied her with black, unwavering eyes. Light from the flames turned his face deep copper. Kyla forced herself to stare back, but his gaze felt as though it flicked over her heart and soul, looking for secrets.
“You are the woman I have heard about,” he said finally. “Men are looking for you.”
She set her jaw to hide her suddenly pounding heart, aghast at his prompt recognition of her gender. Her bulky coat and the sling hid her breasts, so she knew her shape hadn’t given her away. And she wasn’t about to own up to it. “I ain’t no woman,” she retorted with a scowl.
“It is a very good disguise. A brave one. But you are a woman.” He spoke with simple finality. “My people would call you Winter Moon, because you change your appearance and show different faces.”
Seeing her reaction, Jace tipped her another quick grin. “You might as well give it up, Kyla. Many Braids knows more about nature and people than any man I’ve ever met. You can’t fool him. I should have had him with me when I met you.” He gave the Indian a cup of coffee.
Kyla pressed her lips into a tight line and moved the plate from her lap. The medicine man unnerved her. How much could he divine? What else did he know? She had posed as a boy many times, and no one had ever seen through her masquerade. Now in the course of only a few days, two people had figured it out. She felt even more vulnerable than before. She was wounded and tired, and had nowhere to hide.
Jace’s voice broke in on her thoughts. “Kyla was married to Hank Bailey. We’re looking for the man who murdered him.” To her distress, he went on to tell Many Braids about the Vigilance Union and Hardesty taking her ranch. Kyla flashed him a cold look. Why on earth didn’t he just take out an advertisement in the newspaper and tell the whole world?
Many Braids nodded, making the beads on his braids click softly. “I know of these men. Their hearts are dark.”
Jace handed him a joint of roast rabbit and sat down. After giving him a chance to eat, Jace asked, “What have you heard in the last few days? Do you know if we’re being followed?”
“There were two men outside of Cord—one of them shot you,” Many Braids replied, looking at Kyla. “They chased you till the sun was gone, Jace Rankin, but you are cunning like the coyote. Even I had trouble finding you. And those men were lazy and gave up easily. They would rather drink whiskey than work.” He stood, unfurling his tall body as smoothly as he’d folded it to sit. “It is a good thing for you.”
“Why?” Kyla asked suddenly, worried that some other danger lurked ahead or behind.
Many Braids considered her again, looking down at her from his full height. “You are injured and will need time to heal before you meet your enemies again.”
She had the uneasy feeling that the shrewd old medicine man could see into her thoughts with no trouble at all. But that was ridiculous, she told herself. It was an act, just as she pretended to be Kyle.
“You don’t need to go back out into this weather, Many Braids. Share the fire tonight,” Jace said.
Kyla shot him a wide-eyed, silent objection but he ignored her. That was the last thing she wanted, to have this big Indian here all night, scrutinizing her.
“No, but thank you, Jace Rankin, for the food.” Many Braids turned to her then. “The men you rush to meet are much more dangerous than I am, Winter Moon.” She felt her face get hot. “I will find you when you need my help. It will be soon.”
With that final cryptic remark, he faded back into the brush.
“What did he mean by that?” Kyla asked, her voice fading to a rough croak. The night had grown cold and she fought another shiver.
Jace tossed away the remains of his coffee and stowed the tin cup in his gear. “It’s hard to say. Many Braids pretty much roams free and tends to show up where he’s least expected.” He began laying out his bedroll next to the fire.
“Aren’t you afr—I mean, can you trust him?”
He stopped what he was doing and looked at her. His eyes were like pale agates. “As much as I can any man. You’re one to talk about trust. Up until yesterday, I thought you were a boy.”
“I told you why I did that,” she snapped, her brows rushing together. Even now she was conscious of rounding her shoulders and pulling in her chest.
The corner of his mouth turned down. “Well, I’ve never let Many Braids worry me. But then, I’ve never had anything to hide.”
Kyla doubted that. Everyone had something to hide.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tom Hardesty sat at the kitchen table at the Springer ranch and watched Mayella Cathcart finish putting together his supper. He appraised her straight back and soft fullness. She wasn’t a bad-looking little thing, he decided. Not bad at all, considering that she was just fifteen years old. Hell, fifteen could be called a woman in his book and anywhere else in the world. Girls that age got married and had babies. She wasn’t quite finished growing yet, but a lot of promise was packed into the sweet curves that were beginning to emerge. And like icing on a cake, she had big brown eyes and long, corn-silk hair that brushed her waist. Yessir, she was a pleasing young woman.
She turned from the stove and brought his plate to the table. “I hope you like it, Mr. Hardesty,” she said, a bit timid. He liked that. She treated him with proper respect, not like that fire-haired she-devil who tormented his dreams and most of his waking moments.
“Say, there, Mayella, where’s your dish? You aren’t going to make me eat alone, are you?” He teased her mildly—no point in spooking her just yet.
He felt her eyes flick over his face, treading lightly on the healing wound the she-devil had carved. Anger at Kyla rumbled in him again, then settled down.
Mayella colored a little and she glanced over her shoulder at the yard beyond the kitchen screen door. “M-my pa will be coming for me any minute now. He said I was only to cook for you, Mr. Hardesty, and then I have to come home and do my own chores.”
He pushed out a chair invitingly. “Aw, come on, Mayella,” he coaxed. “I know he wouldn’t expect you to go hungry. The least I can do is offer you some of the supper you cooked.” He leaned over the plate and inhaled deeply the aroma of steak and fried potatoes. “It smells too good to pass up.”
So did she, he thought, with her faint, innocent scent of vanilla. It gave him an abrupt, fierce appetite for more than just food.
She looked toward the yard again. “No, really, my ma would wear me out if she knew I ate with—if I don’t have supper with the family. I’ll just wash up these dishes in the sink while I’m waiting for Pa.”
“Well, maybe tomorrow night, then,” he pressed, and smiled at her. A nervous half smile crossed her mouth, then she sidled around the table and went back to the sink.
Being a well-placed member of the Vigilance Union had its advantages, Tom reflected as he cut into the steak. His housekeeping predicament, for example. When he had explained it in just the right way to Abel Cathcart, the man had obligingly agreed to send Mayella over to cook for him. Oh, he’d been reluctant at first. He’d squirmed around and said it wasn’t proper for a young unmarried girl to be alone in a man’s house. During the conversation that took place over Abel’s fence, Tom conveniently recalled that Luke Jory was assessing a little charge on all the ranchers in the area. The money would ensure that no mysterious midnight cattle rustling would occur. Abel hadn’t yet paid, had he?
Mayella’s services suddenly became available.
And the girl did a good job. She had even put some wildflowers on his table, the last ones of the year. He stared at the flare of her hips under her plain gingham dress and felt a familiar heat build.
Mayella might not be the one he hungered for, he thought. But she’d do j
ust fine till Kyla Bailey was where she belonged—in his bed and under his thumb.
* * *
“We’ll make Misfortune by this afternoon.”
Walking the few steps to the stream, Kyla nodded without turning to look at Jace. His voice came from behind her as he poured hot coffee. She recognized its scent and the sound of the enameled pot clanking against the rocks of the fire pit. A blue jay on a nearby outcropping squawked as if to complain about the noise.
She lifted her head and scanned the sky. At least it had stopped raining sometime before dawn. Now thin sunlight filtered through the clouds and mist trailed along the ground as it began to dry out.
The horses were already saddled but they were getting a later start than they had the last couple of mornings. Maybe Many Braids’s information about McIntyre and Lem had convinced Jace that they were safe for the moment. It was silly of her to think that perhaps Jace was trying to make it easier for her. He was a hard man, a coldhearted killer, who was not inclined to make things easy for anyone. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw him polishing the barrel of his rifle with an old piece of flannel and long, slow strokes. The blue-gray metal gleamed dully in the morning light.
“I’d think a man in your line of work would want a newer rifle, like a Winchester,” she commented, searching her pants pocket for a handkerchief. “That thing must be thirty years old.”
“And it works just fine. I can trust this Henry—it’s never let me down.” He caressed the rifle as if it were a lover. “That’s more than I can say for a lot of people I’ve known,” he added.
Kyla frowned. There was something wrong with that kind of reasoning, but she wasn’t up to analyzing it. Crouching on the gravel next to the stream, she dipped the hankie into the icy water and washed her face. Her hand shook and her cheeks were so hot she almost expected to hear the wet fabric sizzle on her skin. She must have a fever, she though, but there was nothing to do except press on to Misfortune. She had come too far to give in to an injury.
Leaning over to dunk her hankie again, she avoided looking at her reflection. The water was clear and slow-moving, and made a perfect mirror. Kyla had never thought of herself as a vain woman, but if she looked as bad as she felt, she didn’t want to know.
She hadn’t bathed in a tub since escaping from Blakely. She had been able to wash her clothes a few times, but they were old and thin when she first put them on. Except for the night in the hotel, she had camped in the open for more than a month. To sleep in a real bed, or even in a barn, out of the wet and cold, might perk her up. She hoped so, anyway—she had no more use of her arm this morning than she had had for the last two days.
“Come and get a biscuit,” Jace said from his seat by the fire. “You didn’t eat anything last night, and if you get weak you won’t be able to keep up.”
Tired and worried, the admonition only gave voice to her own fears. “Just get us to Blakely. I’ll keep up all right.”
Rising unsteadily, she walked back to the fire on legs that felt as if they ended just below her knees. It was a frightening sensation but she did her best to ignore it. Tucking the wrung-out handkerchief into her gear, she looked at her gun belt lying next to her bedroll. When she picked it up; the leather was cold and hard in her hand, and it seemed so heavy this morning. How on earth would she buckle that thing again? It would be a monumental task, and she didn’t know what to do.
She was determined not to show Jace the weakness he was waiting for. It wasn’t only pride that drove her—a moment of defenselessness, of being unprepared, could be a person’s undoing. No one knew that better than she did.
She looked at the top of his head where the sun picked out deep red highlights in his dark hair. He looked up, too, and for an instant the gun belt in her hand was forgotten. She stood engrossed by blue eyes, by the strong jaw, by a wide mouth that was neither thin nor full. The odd flutter in her stomach had nothing to do with hunger or fever—she could not identify it, but it unnerved her.
Now that he knew her true gender, everything felt changed between them. He didn’t act differently, but she saw a powerful awareness in his gaze that had not been there before.
Quickly she turned her eyes and tried to flap the buckle end of the gun belt around her hips. It clanked against her body, probably leaving a bruise every time it struck.
Jace watched the struggle, faintly amused. With her arm in the sling, she made him think of a goose trying to take off with one wing tied. Hot color filled her face and she panted with the effort. Laying aside the rifle he put on his hat and rose from his place by the fire.
“You’re going to beat yourself to death before you get that gun strapped on.” He seized the belt in midswing. “Hold that other end.”
“I can manage—” she said stiffly, trying to step back.
He gripped the buckle, preventing her escape. “You’ll manage to stand there for the rest of the morning and still not have this belt on.”
She smelled of wood smoke and sage. Not exactly like a typical woman rinsed with rose or lavender water. But given the circumstances, the scents suited her. At any rate, she was hardly a typical woman.
Before she could pull away again, he shot out a hand to grip her waist. It was a mistake. Through the fabric of her thin shirt he felt an unexpected supple warmth against his fingers. If her appearance belied her gender, her softness did not. Thinking of the ample curves that swelled under her clothes, he didn’t have to work hard to imagine the potential beauty hidden beneath them.
The reminder brought him up sharply. Glancing at her flushed face he saw panic in her turquoise eyes, and she jerked away.
“Quit pawin’ me like that!” she snapped in Kyle’s voice.
He released her, feeling as though his thoughts were stamped on his face for her to see. “Jesus Christ,” he barked back, “I’m not pawing you. But how the hell am I supposed get this damned thing buckled if you keep moving away?”
“I don’t like to be touched!”
“That must have made marriage hard.” Hell, women didn’t usually work that hard to get away from him, he thought, feeling a bit insulted. He narrowed his eyes as he considered her. “I told you I’m not interested in unwilling females, Kyla. But if you were the one I wanted, I’d make you feel too good to tell me no.”
"Yeah, right." She glared at him, tight-lipped.
“Come on,” he said gruffly, “let’s get going.”
She held still long enough for him to cinch the leather around her slender hips, but he felt her edginess. Hell, he even felt his own tension, a gathering tightness in his groin. It didn’t matter how many times his head told his body that this was business, and that his craving to touch her, to hold her, was just wrong-headed. His head didn’t have much say in this.
“Do you even know how to fire this thing?" he asked, needing to interrupt the awkward silence. A woman wearing a gun certainly wasn’t unheard of in the West. But he didn’t come across it every day, either.
“Well enough to shoot McIntyre in the hand,” she replied smugly and turned to roll up her bedding.
Jace’s brows flew up and he resettled his hat. “You think you’re the one who shot him?”
“Yes, I do.” Her back was to him and he tried to avoid looking at her rounded hips, but failed.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or get mad. She was challenging him again. “Well, think again, Kyla.”
She faced him and he thought she sighed. “Shall we go?” She still looked unnaturally flushed and the spark in her eyes had faded to a funny glazed look.
He stopped himself from gripping her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. If . . . if you could just give me a hand up.” She reached to grip the pommel and put her left foot in the stirrup. But when she pulled herself up, she didn’t swing her leg over the saddle. Instead she hovered there as if suspended, swaying drunkenly on horse’s flank, her foot wedged in the stirrup while the dun danced sideways.
�
��Whoa, steady Juniper,” Jace called to the gelding, bounding alongside, worried that Kyla would fall. He threw out his hands, and she tumbled backward into unconsciousness and into his grip. Her battered hat fell off and wheeled into the stream, carried on a stiff breeze.
He lowered her to the ground and clamped his hand under his arm to pull off a glove. When he touched her small face, the heat he felt there scared him.
“God, girl, you’re burning up.” But the words were lost on her—she didn’t stir. He picked her up and carried her to the edge of the creek to splash a little water on her fevered face. Her lashes formed dark crescents on her red cheeks. She remained limp in his arms. He could feel the heat of her fever even through her clothes.
She hadn’t admitted how sick she was. She wouldn’t let him look at her wound, and he had only guessed that she might not be doing very well.
He held her limp body closer and looked around, gnawing worry filling his chest. If desolation was a place, this was it. Surrounded for miles by scrub and yellow-grassed emptiness, this was nowhere to be stranded with a sick woman. The nights were already cold, and the days were losing their warmth, too.
Damn it, he should have asked Many Braids to tend her arm when he’d had the chance. The old medicine man might have been able to clean it up better than Jace had. Kyla would have squawked like a wet hen; now he worried that she might not regain consciousness.
They had to get to Misfortune, to Doc Sherwood. He had originally estimated that they’d be there by this afternoon. That was before this happened.
After tying Juniper to his own pommel, he lifted Kyla to his saddle. He held a hand on her to balance her there until he could jump up behind her. Then he settled her against him, with her warm back pressed to his chest.
A feeling of protectiveness came over him, a feeling as reluctant as it was surprising. He was startled by the unexpected pleasure of this human contact. Tentatively, he rested his chin on the top of her head and felt the softness of her butchered hair.
Desperate Hearts Page 7