by Amy Sandas
Though she had inherited her father’s eternal optimism and his stubborn refusal to accept defeat, both became difficult to maintain as the sun started to dip toward the horizon and Alexandra realized she would be spending the night alone in the wilderness. Panic threatened again at that point, but she held it at bay while she searched for a good place to make camp. Without a fire, she would not only be vulnerable to the colder temperatures of night, but she would also have no way to ward off wild animals who might come near.
Feeling helpless and exhausted, she sat down beneath some trees and almost gave in to the despair welling inside her. She thought of her father in Montana—so close yet still so far away. Why on earth had she though it a good idea to leave Boston? How could this trip have gone so wrong?
Tears burned behind her eyelids, but she refused to let them fall.
She would not give up. Somehow, she would make it through the night and tomorrow and the next day. She had to.
Lifting her chin, she watched as the last rays of the sun slipped beneath the horizon. Then she tipped her head back to gaze up at the darkening sky as stars slowly appeared. She had no idea how long she sat like that, but when she looked down again, darkness surrounded her, and for a flashing moment, she forgot where she was.
But the sounds of nature at night quickly brought her back to her full senses.
She was alone in the middle of nowhere.
Then again, maybe not. Suddenly, in the distance, she saw a flicker of orange light. It was small and very far away, but as she held her breath and watched, the light grew a bit bigger. Big enough for her to determine it was a campfire.
She was on her feet before she finished the thought. Fire meant heat. It meant safety and people. Relief made her steps swift and light as she crossed the darkness, but as she neared, her pace slowed, and she quieted her steps. For all her stupidity in trusting Lassiter, she was not inclined to repeat the lesson. So, she crept carefully up to the edge of the firelight, hoping to spy a glance at the manner of person occupying the small camp.
Five
By the time Malcolm bedded down the first night out of Rock Springs, he was hungry and ornery, but more than that, he was damn tired. After making only a basic camp, he chewed on some of the jerky he had in his pack before he reclined against his saddle and tipped his hat over his face.
He was nearly asleep—the halfway awake, still-listening kind of sleep he had gotten accustomed to since taking up the mantle of bounty hunter—when he heard a twig snap in the underbrush not far away.
He made no move at the sound. His horse only briefly lifted his head, more in curiosity than fear, so he suspected it was a creature of the two-legged variety rather than a predator on the prowl for a meal.
That didn’t mean the person creeping slowing toward Malcolm’s camp wasn’t dangerous and wouldn’t be treated as such. He had developed the habit of sleeping with his gun in hand and was grateful for the weight of it resting atop his thigh beneath his palm.
He waited, giving no sign he was aware of the intruder or that he was awake at all.
And he listened.
Light steps. Slow and deliberate. Hesitant, but curious.
His caution turned to irritation. He doubted the newcomer was a threat, but that didn’t mean they were welcome.
“Show yourself,” he said, subtly shifting the gun until it was pointed toward the source of the noise.
Though he kept his voice low, the words still hung in the air like a challenge.
Silence was the only response. Whoever approached his camp had stopped moving when he’d spoken. Without shifting from his relaxed position, he tipped the brim of his hat up by an inch or so. Enough for him to scan the brush and shadows that extended past the reach of his low-burning campfire.
Nothing stirred.
“Come on out or I’ll come looking for you,” he added tersely.
More silence. Then what sounded like a slow inhale followed by a long exhale.
“I will be happy to join you, Mr. Kincaid, if you will please first holster your gun.”
“Son-of-a-bitch.” Malcolm did not holster his gun, but he did shift the direction it was pointing to one less threatening as he glared at the shadows, waiting for Miss Brighton to make her appearance.
She did so slowly. Her focus was trained on the weapon resting on his thigh as she emerged.
The woman was still dressed in the Eastern getup she’d had on the day before. Her blue skirts were dusty at the hem, but the shirt beneath her matching jacket glowed white in the night. She no longer had the ridiculous hat perched atop her head, and some wispy strands of dark hair had slid free of the twisted-up arrangement to brush against her face. Aside from that very slight bit of dishevelment, she looked as though she were stepping into some high-styled drawing room, rather than a one-man camp in the middle of the Wyoming wilderness.
Keeping a sharp and wary gaze on his Colt, she stepped up to the fire and extended her hands to the modest flames. It looked like her fine gloves had gone the way of her hat.
“Good evening, Mr. Kincaid.”
Malcolm curled the corner of his mouth as her formal tone struck a chord somewhere between aggravation and amusement. The amusement surprised him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She shifted her attention from his gun to his face. “I saw your fire and hoped it belonged to someone generous who might be willing to share the hospitality of their camp.”
Malcolm was pretty sure he heard a note of censure in her tone—as though she was trying to say his hospitality left much to be desired. “I don’t like company.”
The woman flicked a sharp glance toward his gun, still in hand and resting atop the thigh of his outstretched leg. “So I gathered,” she stated in clipped tones.
There was some sass in that reply. Malcolm narrowed his gaze. “Where’s your escort?”
A pause. Then, “Gone.”
Malcolm tensed. “Gone where?”
She looked back to the fire and straightened her posture before answering. “I don’t know where. They left.”
He took a moment to be sure he’d heard that right, but there was no mistaking the words for what they were. “They left,” he repeated.
The fancy Miss Brighton executed a gesture halfway between a dismissive shrug and a frustrated sweep of her hands. “Yes, Mr. Kincaid, they left,” she repeated. “This morning, while I took a few personal moments to myself, Mr. Lassiter, his brother, and his brother’s wife—though I have some serious doubts those two were married or that they were any relation at all to Mr. Lassiter—decided to take possession of my meager belongings and left me at the side of a creek a few miles from here.” She paused then to lift her gaze back to meet his. “Does that clarify my situation enough for you?”
It did.
It was not a surprising tale. Her vulnerability had been obvious to anyone who’d seen her enter the saloon yesterday. She was lucky she hadn’t been shot, though it probably would have been a better fate than being left to die in the wilderness.
That an Eastern lady like her had managed to survive the whole day on her own was unexpected. That she barely looked worse for wear was practically unbelievable. That she appeared more angry than terrified was proof of the woman’s pure ignorance.
Malcolm propped his thumb under the brim of his hat and lifted it a bit more. “You’ve been out here—alone—all day?”
“Not by choice, I assure you.” Her reply was muttered from between tightly clenched teeth. The woman wasn’t angry—she was damned near furious and doing her best not to show it.
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
That brought her gaze sharply back to him. “You think I don’t know that?” she snapped.
Malcolm didn’t think a reply was necessary. He could feel the woman winding up for a tirade. Seeing no point in trying to stop
her, he eased back into a more comfortable position to wait it out.
She swept her arm out to encompass the expansive darkness around them. “Those…those cowardly thieves left me to die out here. For what? A handful of traveling money, some clothing, and a few personal possessions that won’t matter a whit to them.” Though she didn’t shout, each word got more and more weighted with her fury. “If they expected to find a wealth in jewels or sacks of cash hidden in my valise, they’ll be sorely disappointed. Still, it was all I had. I can’t believe I was such a fool to trust them. And you,” she added sharply, swinging her bright eyes back to him. “This all could have been avoided if you’d just agreed to escort me yourself.”
Malcolm took a deep breath. The woman’s wrath was something to behold, not unlike a summer thunderstorm sweeping in from out of nowhere, but he was not about to stand for having it directed toward him.
“What makes you think you’d be any safer with me?”
Her eyes widened at the hint of menace he purposely inserted into his voice. She folded her arms across her chest in a protective gesture, but then she lifted her chin and met his shadowed gaze with a defiant stare.
“If you intended to…attack me”—her voice caught on the phrase before she powered through it—“you’ve already had plenty of opportunity.”
Malcolm slowly curved his mouth in a smile. “Maybe I like my women warmed up a bit first.”
She glanced toward the fire in front of her. It was just a brief flick of her gaze. In less than half a second, she was back to staring at him. “You wouldn’t,” she declared quickly, but her weight shifted in preparation for flight.
Malcolm waited long enough to see the wariness spread across her pert little features before he replied, “I might.”
Six
Alexandra was frozen in place.
Five years was a long time to be away from the lawlessness of this land where she had grown up, but it was not so long that she’d forgotten how some men tended to take what they wanted when there was no one around to tell them they couldn’t—and often, even when there was.
She was proud of having managed to keep from being totally incapacitated by the sight of the gun in his hand when she’d first stepped into his camp. Her unnatural reaction to his Colt was something she needed to get past. Her rational mind understood that, at least, but memories tied to terror had a way of getting past rational thought. She had to be stronger than her past. That she’d managed to speak through the fear that had gripped her was progress and had been possible partly because she hadn’t believed Kincaid had any intention of harming her.
At first, she hadn’t recognized the man by the fire as Kincaid. All she had seen was a large man reclining against his saddle, looking as though he were familiar with life on the trail. It certainly wasn’t enough to determine if he was an honorable character or not. Although, considering her recent experience, she wasn’t too sure she should trust an opinion based on appearances anyway. She’d stood in indecision, debating whether she should back away and take her chances alone, when he’d spoken in that low, growling voice she recalled from the saloon. Her immediate reaction had been one of immeasurable relief.
Now standing at the fire while he stared at her from the shadows beneath his wide-brimmed hat, his threatening words still hanging between them, Alexandra couldn’t move. Not to look away, not to run, not even to speak.
Though Kincaid remained on the ground, reclining in a deceptively lazy fashion against his saddle, there was nothing restful in his manner. One leg was bent, with his boot planted firmly in the dirt, the other outstretched. His right hand still held his gun atop his thigh. Her attention fell to the Colt, getting caught for long seconds on how the firelight flickered over the hard metal, before she forced her gaze away.
She shifted her attention cautiously up along his torso. The strength across his chest and in the width of his shoulders was not the slightest bit muted by his thick leather coat. A physical readiness emanated from his person. He could be on his feet and within reach of her in a second if he chose to.
His head was tipped at a casual yet arrogant angle as he waited for her to finish her assessment. He had visited a barber since she’d seen him the day before. His hair still brushed past his collar, but his face had been shaved clean. Without the thick beard, the harsh angles of his face stood out even more. He didn’t look a whole lot more civilized without the scruff of beard. Maybe even less so. It was an impression that was enhanced by the unexpected smile that curved his wide mouth.
Another wave of fiery heat rushed through Alexandra, making her belly swirl uncomfortably and her skin grow flushed.
No.
She would not be intimidated.
That’s what he wanted. It’s what he was trying to do with his dark, muttered threat. But Alexandra Brighton was made of sterner stuff than that. Her father had made sure of it before he’d sent her away.
Malcolm Kincaid was a dangerous man. There was no doubt he knew exactly how to use that Colt, and had done so frequently. His size and strength and raw masculinity were frightening in the extreme, when Alexandra had gotten so used to the refined physicality and controlled manners of Boston’s upper class. This man disturbed her in a way she had never experienced before…but she did not believe he would hurt her.
She wasn’t sure how she knew that. She just did. Some instinct inside her whispered that she could trust this man.
She decided to call his bluff.
“You won’t,” she finally replied and was pleased to hear her voice come out strong and confident.
His smile slid away, and his mouth straightened into a harsh line. The swift shift in his expression sent another trickle of caution across her nape. “You take a mighty big risk, lady.”
“It seems I have no choice, Mr. Kincaid.”
Everything about him was hard and unwelcoming as they stared at each other in tense silence. Though her body buzzed with anxiety and impatience, Alexandra refused to speak first.
“I’ll take you to the next town. That’s it.”
Her relief was overwhelming, but she responded with only a short nod of her head.
Clearly deciding that was the end of the conversation, Kincaid slid lower against his saddle, leaned his head back, and drew his hat down over his face. The hand holding the gun still rested atop his thigh.
Alexandra found her gaze ensnared by the weapon once again as her thoughts grasped unbidden on a vision of red soaking through faded denim. She heard ragged gasps for breath and saw accusation, pain, and fear glittering from pale eyes. An icy chill swept down her spine, but she forced herself to continue staring at the gun, pushing past the terrifying memories. She reminded herself that out here, the gun was a tool of survival, not a promise of violence.
But still, it took several long minutes to bring her fear back to the point where she could look away. She suspected Kincaid had used that gun more than most people. He was a bounty hunter, an extension of the law, so it would make sense for him to possess an exceptional level of comfort with his gun.
Except he looked more like a gunfighter than a lawman, and she wasn’t sure whether or not that was a good thing.
Either way, something had led her back to him, and it felt an awful lot like fate.
Finally warmed to the point that she was willing to step away from the fire, she settled down near enough to still benefit from its warmth and light. Propping her back against a tree, she brought her knees up against her chest and tucked her skirts securely around her ankles.
She doubted she would sleep much, but the rest itself would be welcome after walking as far as she had that day.
She glanced over at her reluctant companion, her gaze drawn to him against her will.
There was nothing at all soft or gentle about Malcolm Kincaid. He was made up of tough sinew and quiet, seething strength. She could see it even
now. She had met men like him when she had been young. Men shaped by the land and by hardships and challenges no one from the East could ever fathom.
Though her father had grown to manhood in the luxury and comfort of his family’s Boston mansion, he had been re-formed by his experiences out West. And he had raised his only daughter to appreciate a man and woman’s ability to adapt and change and strengthen.
Randolph Brighton had faced unrelenting hardships as he carved out a new life for himself and his daughter. Yet he had always made a point to learn from his failures and never lost his idealistic optimism and love for adventure. Kincaid’s manner suggested his experiences, whatever they may have been, had affected him very differently.
Rather than being molded by the environment, she fancied he had instead taken on its very characteristics. He looked to be made of the same hard, unforgiving elements that shaped the Rockies. He was as cold and distant as the starlit sky. In just the very brief interactions she’d had with him, she knew instinctively that he possessed a relentless devotion to isolation. She suspected his harsh exterior was designed specifically to preserve that.
She understood that desire. The need to retain a certain amount of distance from others.
Alexandra rested her head on the arms folded atop her knees. She watched the steady rise and fall of Kincaid’s chest until her eyelids drifted over her gaze.
One thing was certain: he was not a man to do anything he didn’t expressly choose to do, yet he had—reluctantly—agreed to see her to the next town.
She’d have to convince him that wasn’t enough.
* * *
Malcolm waited until the woman was asleep before he shifted his position to one that was more comfortable.
Her quiet surprised him. He’d expected to hear an unloading of complaints once she’d gotten his agreement to help. But she never once asked for the use of his bedroll, or for food, or anything else. She just took a seat against the tree and settled her wide blue eyes on him until she couldn’t keep them open anymore.