Chapter Twenty-Five
FOR A CHANGE, THERE was no conversation with their quick midday meal. Max didn’t try to change that because she was too busy with her own thoughts and castigating herself for falling under a complacent spell. She tried to blame it on the lake. It was so pleasant here and she wished they could stay longer. But it was all Degan. The man fascinated her. He made her feel too many things she shouldn’t be feeling. He made her get all girlie and bashful and—hot. But she had to stop thinking about how handsome he was and how much she’d enjoyed kissing him. And he’d been so nice, giving her one of his fancy shirts so she wouldn’t get sunburned.
That was another problem. She had to stop thinking that he was nice and remind herself more often that he was her captor, that he might still turn her over to the authorities. As much as she was coming to like him, she couldn’t completely trust him.
A breeze finally showed up when they got back on the road. It wasn’t a cool one though. It floated in as if an oven door had just been opened. It made the mugginess worse for a short while, but finally it seemed to break the heat wave, blowing off the worst of it.
When it stopped feeling as if she were sucking in heat with every breath, Max got around to mentioning, “You’ve been glancing behind us an awful lot today. Do you hear something I don’t?”
“No.”
“But you took care of Reed, or are there more men like him actively looking for you?”
“Probably every fast gun in the country.”
She had a feeling that was his way of making a joke even though no smile came with it. “I don’t mean ones that want to outdraw you so they can crow about it. I meant actual enemies that want to kill you any way they can.”
“You can’t do what I do and not make enemies. That’s one reason I keep moving forward, never back.”
“Aren’t you backtracking right now?”
“How would you know that?”
She laughed. “Told you, fancy man, you’re big news. Even I heard you were in the territory east of here—before you decided to be a thorn in my ass. And you know about the rivers up ahead, so you’ve crossed them at least once.”
“I did a job in Nashart.”
Her eyes widened. Had he really just volunteered something about himself when he wasn’t eating? “Will we be stopping there?”
“No, the train won’t be there long. Maybe on the way back.”
Back? Back to what? Had he already decided what to do with her? Back to a jail for her, or back this way so he could capture another outlaw, which would make three? That was if he captured Willie Nolan in Dakota, who would be number two.
Thoughts like that really put a damper on her good mood, so she said no more for the rest of the afternoon. She’d already spotted several rabbits, a possum, and just barely made out the antlers of a buck sleeping in the brush, animals she wouldn’t normally have hesitated to kill for her dinner. She was pretty sure they wouldn’t be reaching the next town today, so they’d need to make camp.
Before it got dark, she suggested, “If you’ll hand me my rifle—loaded—I can get us some fresh meat for dinner before it gets too dark.”
He was back to not answering her. He must have more food in that sack of his. Why couldn’t he just say so? But ten minutes later without warning he drew his weapon and fired it. Max had her hands full trying to calm Noble, who danced around in a full circle before she could settle him down.
Degan had already dismounted and left the road to fetch the rabbit he’d just shot. He came back and tied it to the back of his saddle, then mounted again, all without a word.
Max laughed. “Bet you’ve never skinned one.”
“You’d win that bet. I’ll leave the skinning to the experienced hunter.”
He probably didn’t realize he was giving her a compliment, but she took it as one. She was back to grinning to herself; her good mood returned. But he continued to glance over his shoulder every so often, and he still hadn’t explained to her satisfaction why he was being unusually wary today.
She finally asked again, “Who are you expecting to ride up on us?”
“Someone took a potshot at me in Helena. If it had been Reed, there would have been a lot more bullets. It was more like a warning shot.”
“And you think whoever did it just wanted to run you out of town so they could kill you without witnesses?”
“That’s one possibility.”
“Or it could have just been a stray bullet.”
“That’s another possibility.”
But he obviously leaned toward caution and being prepared for the worst, which would limit surprises. But she wondered if he’d even be worried about it if he were alone or if her presence made him extracautious. Then he stopped his horse and turned it around. Max pulled up and glanced at him.
“Now what?”
“I thought you might want to take a moment to watch the sunset. Women seem to like doing things like that.”
Oh my God, he was being nice again! She hadn’t even realized the sky behind them was filling with orange and pink already. It was pretty, but she wondered how he knew women might appreciate such a lovely view—and why he would stop so she could enjoy it.
They didn’t pause long, but she still felt warmed by the gesture. The man continued to amaze her with facets one wouldn’t expect to find in a hardened gunfighter. It had to be a throwback to the way he was raised, before he took up a gun. She wished she could have met him then. A debonair gentleman? Maybe carefree? Maybe even charming? No, not Degan. She simply couldn’t imagine it.
It was dusk before they crossed the first of the three forked rivers, and full dark when they crossed the second one, where they made camp close to the riverbank. A few trees were in this area and a lot of scrub grass, some of it butting up to the water, but they found a patch of bare ground. Max got a fire going while Degan unsaddled and rubbed down the horses.
She paused to watch Degan as he worked. The muscles in his back and shoulders rippled through the damp, thin fabric of his white shirt as he brushed the horses. When he bent down to check one of the palomino’s hooves, her gaze moved down to his tight butt and muscular thighs. When it dawned on her that she was watching him instead of getting anything done, she berated herself. She had to stop thinking about how attractive he was. She had to stop liking him! Nothing had changed. She was still his prisoner and she had to keep that firmly in her mind and stop getting so easily distracted by him.
She got what she needed out of her saddlebags: her pan, the iron griddle with short legs, her small pouches of herbs, which she’d been replenishing anytime she found them growing wild. She found a long stick for roasting the rabbit over the fire and a couple of large rocks on which she could brace it. Then she skinned and gutted the rabbit and rubbed it with herbs before setting it over the fire. She watched it for a few minutes to make sure the flames flaring up from the dripping juices wouldn’t burn it.
She washed her hands in the river before starting the next chore, washing her clothes. Degan had sat down by the fire, leaning back against his saddle.
“What else is in your sack?” she asked.
“Bread, cheese, condiments, sandwiches, fruit. There might even be something for dessert.”
She stared at him. “So we didn’t need fresh meat?”
He shrugged. “Not really—but your rabbit smells good.”
She looked inside his sack, then shook her head. “If you’re going to raid kitchens before leaving towns, you should get yourself a picnic basket to keep the food separated, so it doesn’t get all mashed together.” Picturing this notorious gunfighter riding through a town with a picnic basket made her laugh. “Never mind. That would so tarnish your reputation.”
He didn’t see the humor in that. “And I prefer to eat at a table.”
Yes, of course he did, just as he preferred to sleep in a bed. But they were probably a good thirty miles from the next town, so he was flat out of luck in that regard tonight.<
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The air had cooled after the sun had set, and she knew from experience that the temperature would dip further during the night, but it was still warm enough to wash in her usual fashion. She could sleep in the shirt Degan had loaned her.
She draped the first set of clothes she washed over a few bushes to dry before she glanced back at Degan and offered, “I can wash yours while I’m at it.”
“We’ll reach Bozeman tomorrow. I can wait.”
He wasn’t watching what she was doing, was just staring at the fire. She glanced back at the slow-moving water, which looked so inviting. She’d feel so much better if she could wash her hair and get the dust and sweat off her body. She went behind the horses to remove most of her clothes, leaving on just her chemise and bloomers, then shook Degan’s shirt and left it to air out on the nearest bush. Stuffing the bar of soap down the front of her chemise, she went into the water with the pouch of creamy stuff and dunked her head in before she lathered her face and head, then tossed the little pouch back on the shore to scrub down with the bar of soap.
“It’s not a good idea to sleep in wet clothes,” Degan said behind her.
So he had been watching her after all.
She replied without looking back at him, “I’m going to put your shirt back on as soon as I’m done. I’m not trying to annoy you, you know. I usually bathe in more clothes than this.”
“There’s one more clean shirt in my valise that you can use to sleep in.”
“I will, thanks.”
When she finished washing herself, she left the water and grabbed his valise, taking it with her behind the horses to change. When she opened the valise, she saw the Colt. She picked up the kid’s gun and opened the chamber to take out the bullets and put them in her Colt so she could swap the two weapons. But there were no bullets in the kid’s gun. She almost laughed. Degan must have removed them at the lake when she was in the water and not watching him. So much for thinking he was starting to trust her.
She had to dig deep into the valise to find his last clean shirt. Her fingers touched more metal, and she was curious enough to pull the object out to see what it was. She definitely wasn’t expecting to see two iron rings connected to a short, rusty chain.
She lifted the shackles and stepped around her horse to demand, “What the hell is this?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
MAX WAS FURIOUS THAT Degan would consider shackling her now, after she’d helped him this morning in Butte. But obviously he could. Obviously, he had to protect his interests. She was like money in the bank to him that he didn’t want to get robbed of by her trotting off without him while he slept.
She threw the shackles at him when he didn’t answer her immediately. And missed hitting him, damnit. She stepped back between the horses to change. It took her a moment to unclench her fists.
Then she heard, “I’m not going to use them—if I don’t have to.”
“But you thought you would?” she snarled over the back of her horse.
“I thought I would.”
The day had been eventful enough to make him change his mind about shackling her. She still wasn’t mollified, not even close.
Wearing just her boots, with her socks pulled up several inches above them, Degan’s large, white shirt that fell to her knees, her gun belt strapped low over it, and her vest, she knew she looked ridiculous. But no one was there to see her except Degan, and he didn’t count. So why did she suddenly wish that she’d left home with at least one pretty nightgown? She’d never thought of that before, and for good reason. Alone on the trail, she had to be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice, not bed down as if she were safe at home.
She was still bristling when she came back to the fire. She spread out her horse blanket to sit on and draped her coat over her legs so she could sit cross-legged as she finished preparing the meal without being accused of tempting Degan again. She’d even buttoned his shirt up to her neck. She’d had to roll up the sleeves. Even with the cuffs buttoned, they hung down over her hands. She could feel his eyes on her, though, as if he were waiting for her to continue railing at him. Instead, she pretended he wasn’t there.
She moved the rabbit away from the fire so it would cool, then rummaged in Degan’s food sack and took out a few things, including a couple of peaches. She sliced the bread in her hands, accustomed to working without a cutting board. She could tote only so much around with her, and a cutting board was just too bulky. She laid a few pieces in the pan to warm and crumbled a little cheese on top of them.
She used to have a tin plate to eat from, but these days she usually ate right out of the pan. Like her fishing net, her plate got left behind one night when the sound of a twig’s breaking had made her pack up and leave fast. Not used to being alone and camping outdoors, she had been jittery for the longest time. She’d had to force herself to overcome those fears by taking reasonable precautions and adopting a come-what-may attitude, but she hadn’t counted on someone like Degan coming her way, thwarting her at every turn, too perceptive to fall for her tricks. Yet the snap of a twig wouldn’t bother her in the least with him around. She felt protected, completely protected, when she was with him.
Now that was an odd thought, considering that he’d kissed her and she’d liked it. She wasn’t going to let that happen again. Like hell she would. Kissing a man who had tied her up, who would have chained her up? He was lucky she didn’t throw her knife straight at his heart.
“Stop pouting.”
She tossed the knife toward him. “You better take that back before I find another use for it.”
He raised a brow. “Shall I take back the gun you’re wearing, too?”
She snorted. “When you already removed the bullets? You might as well.”
He shrugged. “I believe you said that you wanted the weight of the gun for balance. And I’m well aware that a gun, with or without bullets, can be a deterrent that you might need on this trip—just not against me.”
She did recall telling him that she missed the weight of the gun. And he’d glanced behind them enough times today for her to know he was expecting trouble. He even made it sound as if she’d be doing him a favor by continuing to wear the gun, as long as it contained no bullets. Because he didn’t trust her. Because she was, after all, his prisoner.
He didn’t reach for the knife she’d tossed to him. But he did pick up the leg shackles on the ground behind him and throw them in the river. “You had just eluded me for two days in Helena. Don’t question my motives again.”
For an explanation, that sure was brief. Then again, since he didn’t usually provide one, she realized that was a lot. But something had definitely changed between them. Apparently, he wasn’t going to define what had changed. Maybe he didn’t know.
But she pointed out, “I don’t see you tossing your ropes away.”
“Ropes have other uses.”
Was that his way of saying he wouldn’t tie her up anymore either? It was time to back down, yet she pushed her luck. “Will you still shoot me if I take off?”
“Walk away and we’ll find out.”
No absolute yes this time? She supposed that was an improvement. She was mollified, quite a bit actually.
She ripped the rabbit apart and handed him the bigger piece. For the second time that day, he wasn’t initiating a conversation while he ate. For once, she was.
“You never did say how many men you’ve killed.”
“No, I didn’t.”
He just wasn’t going to admit what his death count was up to. Maybe he didn’t know. That was possible. He’d said he’d wounded a lot of men, that he’d lost count of how many. So maybe he didn’t stick around to see if the wounds he’d caused healed.
“You never said how long you’ve been solving other people’s problems, either.”
“You never asked.”
She almost rolled her eyes. He was damn good at not answering questions about himself, either with his annoying silence or just simple ev
asion. “I’m asking now.”
He shrugged. “For around five years.”
“You weren’t born in the West, were you?”
“I grew up in Chicago, attended the finest schools, was groomed to take over my father’s business.”
Her eyes flared at that much personal information, even though it came out in such a cold tone. “Then what the hell are you doing out here?”
He didn’t answer. She waited a few minutes in case he was figuring out how much to say, but he still didn’t get around to answering. He was probably annoyed with himself for saying as much as he did.
She tried a different approach. “So you were just a drifter to begin with?”
“I set out to see the country. You could say I’m half-done.”
“Been to Texas yet?”
“No, I was saving that for last.”
She almost laughed because she could figure that one out. Texas was huge. It could take years to see all of Texas.
Impulsively she asked, “So maybe I can hire you to clear up that mess for me in Texas?”
“You’re rich?”
She chuckled. “Told you I’m broke, but I’ve got other assets,” she teased.
He started to get up.
She gasped and scrambled to her feet, quickly saying, “I was just messing with you, fancy man. I’m not trading favors for freedom or anything else.”
He ignored her. He had only moved closer to the fire so he could reach one of the slices of bread. If she could have kicked herself right then, she would have. She should not have reminded him about trading favors. But at least he wasn’t going to rip apart what she’d just said. But then he did.
“I recall you intended to do just that.”
She managed not to blush, even said cheekily, “That was before you started liking me enough not to turn me over to a sheriff.”
He didn’t agree with that assessment, merely said, “I told you why.”
Yeah, he did, that he hadn’t decided yet, and he obviously still hadn’t decided, or he would have said so right then. She sat back down near the fire to finish the meal in silence. She was already feeling the drop in temperature. It never failed, no clouds during the day, cold at night. But she had her coat and the horse blanket, and her hair was dry already, so she wasn’t worried about being uncomfortable tonight.
Wildfire in His Arms Page 16