Susan Johnson

by Susan Johnson

  His tribe must have gold to buy guns, supplies, migrate if necessary to land still secure from the white man’s greed. He was sending the gold back by messenger, keeping very little for himself, and if he was right, he had a very good chance on claims 1014–15 to mine the future security of his clan. He had great respect for the power of the spirits and the efficacy of great medicine and prayer, but when it came to winning against the encroachment of the white man, Hazard preferred relying on the power of persuasion in a million or so dollars of gold. He stood very still, staring self-critically into the afternoon sunlight, prosaically sure gold would win in the end, over yellow eye’s promises.7

  So. He meant to keep this claim, risking all for duty and compassion, while his own good sense of preservation suggested that Miss Braddock was perfect insurance for him to keep what Buhl so badly wanted. And, not to be forgotten, there was the lady’s very responsive nature in bed. Very soon, they should get to know each other—better.

  All in all, the next few months should be interesting, Hazard told himself, shaking off his fatigue. If they lived. Bāc‘dak’ K’ō’mbāwiky [While I live, I carry on], he fatalistically mused and turned back to his new and very beautiful companion.

  Chapter 6

  When the evening star appeared in the sky, after a quiet if heated discussion, Hazard tied Blaze to him in two places, at waist and wrist, then lay down on the narrow bed and, exhausted, slept through the night for the first time in five days.

  Lying very still, Blaze listened to Hazard’s even breathing, until the slow, easy rhythm seemed part of her own respiration, until the warmth of the large man pressed close to her stole into her senses with an inexplicable rush of pleasure she could neither control nor deny. Cautiously she turned her head a millimeter in his direction, waited, then, observing no change in the deep, resonant breathing, slowly eased her glance around until he was fully within her gaze.

  It came over her suddenly, as it always did—his unbearable beauty, the magnificence muted now in sleep to mere splendor. She watched him while the fading pastels of twilight disappeared into the void of night. Watched the play of light over the stark cheekbones, visually traced the perfect symmetry of finely chiseled nose. His sculptured mouth was prominently sensual—no austerity there, she noted. No, definitely not austere. And only with effort did she restrain herself from outlining that sensuous mouth with her fingertips. Even his brows were like delicate winged creatures, dark silky creatures that whispered to be touched. Blaze clenched her fingers tightly against the overpowering urge. And when his thick lashes fluttered suddenly, she caught her breath, fearful the sharp black eyes might open and find her own gaze transfixed. But he only sighed lightly, his fingers unconsciously tightening on the braided rawhide coiled around his hand.

  As she observed him, taking in the sight and sound, the sage-sweet scent so much a part of these mountains it clung to everything, she suddenly saw, through unclouded vision, a different Hazard Black. Not the sensual, seductive man, as she had seen him, not the ruthless killer, as others saw him, not even an “Indian from an alien culture.” She saw only a man, seeming as vulnerable as a child in his sleep. A man, beautiful beyond words but, transcending his physical perfection, beautiful in spirit, imbued with an indomitable courage, fearless against overwhelming odds. Odds any practical man would have refused. Jon Hazard Black had set himself against one of the most powerful mining cartels in the world. And he intended to stand his ground.

  But later, in the roil and tumult of chaotic half sleep and black dreams, her logic and emotion at war, she felt the return of her initial outrage and resentment at his monumental arrogance at taking her hostage. How dare he, she thought with renewed vigor. How the hell dare he!

  “You can’t keep me here!” he heard her hiss as the first light of dawn appeared. Grunting softly, he rolled over, still half asleep, and the braided leather rope binding them tightened. The movement brought her hard against his back. He vaguely heard a quiet gasp and felt her stiffen. Then silence. Blessed silence, he thought, recalling her volatile temper.

  She repeated the phrase in a scathing whisper. He opened one eye briefly, casting a glance over his bare shoulder, and encountered snapping blue eyes. “Sorry,” he murmured truthfully, for he knew already that his life had become endlessly complicated because of one Miss Venetia Braddock.

  “Sorry? You’re sorry?” she muttered incredulously. And then proceeded to read him the riot act until he exasperatedly answered in his own rush of temper, “Enough!”

  But she wouldn’t stop, the words tumbling out, furious and hot with defiance, like clubs beating and flailing at his head. He had to kiss her to arrest the torrent of abusive rage. A hand over her mouth might have worked as well, he admitted as his lips covered hers, but logic relinquished the field hastily to an unexplained desire to quiet her in a more pleasurable way.

  She tasted sweet and welcoming, he thought, settling himself in an unconsciously fluid maneuver between her legs. How warm she was … and soft. Loosening the coiled rope from his hand, his fingers tangled in the silk of her hair, holding her like a precious gift, while his lips and tongue explored the luscious interior of her mouth.

  He couldn’t help himself. Didn’t want to. She was here, his for the taking. And in a flashing second he realized how much he’d missed having a woman near. She felt like homecoming and rapture and soul-deep solace. When he raised his mouth the idyll was shattered.

  “You … you … animal,” she sputtered, her head turning fitfully in his grasp, her eyes glowering. “You odious, abominable—”

  “… savage,” he finished softly and took her mouth again. This time in a hard, possessive invasion that put to use all the expertise acquired so pleasurably over the years. When he lifted his mouth a second time, long minutes later, his slow, sure skill had left her trembling and breathless. The sputter, modified, was now more like a sigh.

  “This … will … never …”

  “… get any gold mined,” Hazard whispered, a smile curling through the words. “You’re right, sweet bia … and I’ll try to get you into the kitchen very soon”—his smile widened—“so you can make me breakfast. Are you ready to begin earning your keep?” He tugged her closer with the rawhide still tied around her waist.

  She didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to. Didn’t know her own mind. But his fingers slipped between her thighs and slid upward like devil’s sorcery, very slowly at first, tantalizing, waiting for her to ask for more. And when she arched her hips in response, his slim fingers eased into her sweetness. She cried out and reached for him, her arms twining tightly around his neck.

  He raised himself slightly against the pressure of her hands and, looking down at her exquisite, flushed face, asked again, “Are you ready to earn your keep?” His fingers continued to stroke languidly and she moaned softly with each delicate movement. Bending near, his lips hovered in a whisper above hers. “Say yes, little rich girl.” His fingers drifted deeper and her nails dug into his shoulders. “Say you’ll cook for me.”

  His obliging movements stopped and she quickly whispered, “Yes.”

  “And clean for me.”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “And do anything else.”

  “Oh—please, yes.”

  His fingers slid free and he moved over her gently.

  “Now,” she cried.

  “Soon,” he said and eased his body down.

  The next half-formed plea died in a breathy moan as he glided, hard and long, into her urging womanly warmth. How could she, he thought with pleasure, feel so excruciatingly fine?

  How could he, she thought, with a shameful thrill, arching against his spearing invasion, know I want him so?

  An hour later, when the rawhide shackle had long since been untied by gentle fingers, and when Jon Hazard Black had given in to his hostage’s demands as many times as any able man would, he kissed her one last time, rose from the shambles of the bed, and said, “I�
�m going to bathe in the stream behind the cabin. Would you care to join me?”

  “Is it cold?”

  “Brisk.”

  “I know mountain streams. No, thank you.”

  He smiled. “Suit yourself. Breakfast in ten minutes?”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “Not exactly. Call it … a diplomatic request.” He could see the stubborn set of her jaw begin to form. “Very diplomatic,” he cajoled, reaching down to touch her pretty mouth with a placating finger. “Relax, Boston, I’m no ogre. I’ll help.”

  “Then let me go,” Blaze said in a hurried rushing breath, fearful of staying with him for reasons that had nothing at all to do with mining claims.

  Hazard’s half-lowered eyelids covered eyes so dark they were unreadable. “I wish I could,” he said quietly, “but the battle lines have been drawn. I’m afraid it’s too late.”

  “You’re serious.”

  Hazard paused a moment before answering. “You’ve led a sheltered life, Boston,” he finally said. Tossing a towel around his neck, he continued in a moderate tone, as though discussing the merits of calling cards as a social gesture. “They’re out to kill me. I consider that serious. That’s why you’re here. And that’s why you’re staying.” A sudden flash of white teeth seemed to discount the undercurrent of danger. “I like my eggs soft-boiled.”

  He was gone in a noiseless tread, and she lay there stunned for several minutes. People didn’t actually kill each other over a small section of mountain land, did they? Certainly not her father and his friends. Did they? For the first time a quiver of doubt intruded.

  Wrapping the sheet around her, Blaze walked to the window and, looking out, glimpsed Hazard half screened by a clump of pines. He was swimming in a small pool contrived by damming up a portion of the rushing mountain stream. The sunlight shone off his sleek wet hair. Then he submerged, only to reappear moments later long yards away, shaking his head, droplets of water spraying like crystals from his streaming black hair.

  When he started back to the cabin, all slender grace and hard rising muscle, Blaze went to the door, intending to meet him as a friendly gesture. After all, if she was truly a hostage—and it appeared the case; there was never equivocation when Hazard spoke, no matter how quiet the tone—she might as well be gracious about it. She pulled on the door latch. The door didn’t respond. She tugged more determinedly. Nothing. She swore. Damn his untrusting soul. He’d locked her in!

  HAZARD glanced at the empty table when he entered the cabin, then dressed with an economy of motion and clothing in buckskin leggings and moccasins. “Would you mind making breakfast?” he said to the stiff-backed woman silently staring out the window.

  She didn’t move.

  “It needn’t be anything elaborate,” he added in the same quiet voice.

  “You locked me in!” Blaze sputtered, spinning around, her cheeks flushed with anger, the sheet clutched defensively across her breasts.

  “I can’t take chances with this claim,” he explained. Someday, maybe, he could explain to her just how much was at stake here. Depending on how their … friendship developed. “It’s nothing personal. Rules of warfare, that’s all.”

  “Now could I impose on you for breakfast?” The words were polite but firm.

  “And if I say no?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “I wish I weren’t a hostage.”

  “Square one, again, ma’am,” Hazard said prosaically. “Your move.”

  “I can’t cook, I already told you!”

  “And I said I’d help you,” he patiently replied, his stance relaxed, his expression tolerant.

  “I don’t know what to make,” she conceded.

  “What do you usually have for breakfast?” he asked, all polite forbearance. “I’ll have the same.”

  “Hot chocolate and strawberries,” she replied, as if it should have been obvious.

  “Every day?”

  “Every day!”

  “Even in the winter?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

  “Daddy imports them. Do you mind?” she pugnaciously replied, a sensation of unreality flooding her mind. How had it happened that she, Blaze Braddock, was carrying on this incredible conversation at this ungodly hour of the morning with a virtual stranger who’d spent his entire life living out-of-doors. This dark Indian, however courteous his tone and accent, was badgering her to cook for him. She didn’t even know how a stove worked, and last night’s slight attempt at supper should have made that obvious.

  Profoundly unexcited, he said, “No, not in the least. I expect your upkeep contributes a tidy sum to Boston’s economy. Hot chocolate’s fine with me,” he added, as though the matter were settled to both their satisfactions. “As for strawberries, I’ll see if Jimmy can find some this afternoon. In the meantime, use raspberries, if your sensitive palate doesn’t object.”

  Blaze looked up, her eyes glistening with tears.

  “Care to try?” Hazard coaxed, not surprised that a beautiful woman of her background wouldn’t be a competent homemaker.

  Blaze nodded, responding to the kindness in his voice.

  “Good. You try the eggs. I’ll fetch the milk from the stream, and we’ll get this show on the road.” He grinned.

  She couldn’t help but smile back. “Where’s the chicken?”

  He laughed. “That’s McTaggert’s problem. I don’t even ask. The eggs are in the tin pail by the sink.”

  He had to teach her how to start a fire, show her where the water was kept, explain the finer points of his food storage system, and finally, distracted beyond bearing when the sheet she’d tucked around her fell open again when she forgot to clutch it tightly shut, he ordered in a voice tight with forced control, “Put some clothes on, Boston. I’ll finish breakfast.”

  They filled up on bread and butter since the eggs turned out lamentably underdone.

  “Oh, dear,” Blaze murmured apologetically.

  “Never mind,” Hazard replied chivalrously, and reached for another slice of bread.

  “It probably won’t be for long,” Blaze hurriedly interjected.

  When Hazard’s eyebrows rose inquisitively, she added, “I mean the cooking. Daddy will convince the others, I’m sure.”

  “Good,” he said, but privately thought otherwise. There was an enormous amount of money involved—or the distinct possibility of an enormous amount of money. He’d seen men like Yancy’s gang rate expediency over sentiment more often than not when a fortune was at stake.

  Hazard rose from the table. “Thank you for breakfast. I’ll be back at noon for lunch.” Halfway to the door, he hesitated, turned back, and said, “Do you … that is …” He lapsed into Absarokee, the sibilant words softly exasperated. Returning to English, he went on, “… Would you care to, ah, ease yourself before I leave.”

  “So you can watch?” she demanded indignantly.

  There was a momentary pause before Hazard flung back his damp head and laughed. “Is that,” he asked when he’d regained control, “some Boston fetish I’ve overlooked, Miss Braddock? I could, of course, if you like,” he said, a shadow of amusement lacing his voice.

  Blaze’s gaze was glacial. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not a comfortable one,” Hazard said tenderly.

  She flounced by him, convincing even without flounces, in black twill slacks.

  He stayed discreetly inside, but cautiously began counting. If she wasn’t back by two hundred, he’d have to go out and look for her. Now that the hostage idea was under way, it seemed a damnably simple solution.

  He was on 193 and beginning to strap on his gun holster when he heard her step on the gravel north of the cabin. His swiftly moving fingers stopped, leaving the leg tie undone. And the adrenaline already anticipating a possible chase downhill was put on hold. But his voice when she entered the small room betrayed none of his mistrust. “Did you enjoy my outside facilities?”

  Blaze looked at him sharply. Was he m
ocking her? The expression greeting her glance was warmly diffident, the trace of a smile, sincere. She relented in her ill-humor. When on his best behavior, Hazard was impossible to stay angry with. “The view’s magnificent.”

  “I hoped you’d like it. We Absarokee call it ‘Baré ráce ítsiram matsá-tsk,’ literally translated ‘Our hearts are joyous.’ It does that to you, the view from these mountains.”

  Hearing the softly muted inflection, melodic as a hymn, she tried the sounds on her tongue. “Bara raice …”

  Steeling himself against the warmth invoked by Blaze’s childlike repetition of the words, mispronounced in a pretty confusion on the last three syllables, Hazard shakily reminded himself of his vow.

  “Now if you can learn to say ‘yes’ as prettily,” Hazard said with a trace of a drowl, “we’ll get along famously.”

  Blaze’s face clouded over. “Must you always be so damn provoking,” she acidly inquired.

  “For a woman,” Hazard confronted her, his libido more comfortable with her adversarial posturing, “you’re much too used to having your own way.”

  “For a woman—for a woman,” Blaze sputtered, sparks beginning to ignite in her eyes. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Only that, like you, I’ve traveled quite a few miles across this continent and you may have noticed, Miss Braddock,” Hazard blandly declared, taking down a buckskin shirt from a peg near the door, “it’s a man’s world.”

  He was out the door before the tin cup hit the pine door jamb. She had a remarkably good throwing arm, he noted in retreat. The thud of the striking cup was within inches of where his head had been short seconds before. “Lunch at noon,” he called back to her, fastening the latch into its locked position, his dinnerware crashing against the wall in rapid succession now.