If he peeled off his clothing and slipped beneath the covers, could he stop himself from touching her? No, he could not, Jamie decided. Just the thought of sleeping beside her made his gut clench and his heartbeat quicken.
Perhaps if he just stripped down to his undergarments? No, the risk would still be too great. Miranda might awaken during the night. Her mind fuzzy with sleep, her passions might rise, and they might end up doing something she would regret in the morning.
Satisfied he was demonstrating some of that chivalry Miranda set so much store by, Jamie stretched out beside her on top of the covers. He closed his eyes, then opened them and rolled over to his side. If sleep failed him, he might as well enjoy looking at Miranda.
* * *
Miranda pushed closer to the bulky warm object beside her but some obstacle prevented her from tucking comfortably against it. She gave her hips a wiggle on the mattress and inched forward, fumbling to wrap her arms around the thing. Something restrained her. Another wiggle of her hips. Another fumble with her arms. But she never got closer, because that lovely, warm presence slid away each time she advanced toward it.
“The bed too small for you, Princess?”
Her eyes flared open. She blinked away sleep. Gray eyes met hers across the pillow. Jamie lay beside her, but he was on top of the covers and she was under them, his weight trussing her into a parcel beneath the thick quilt.
Miranda craned her neck to glance past him. They were right on the edge of the bed. She must have been doing that for hours—edging forward on the mattress, in an effort to cuddle up against Jamie, unaware that the bedding created a barrier between them.
“One more shove and I’ll hit the floor,” he warned her.
“Do you always sleep with your boots and clothes on?”
“You think an outlaw will stop and wait for me to get dressed?”
Instead of replying, Miranda yawned and stretched beneath the covers. The room was toasty warm. The balcony curtains stood open. The clouds had cleared and sunshine sparkled on the grassy meadow outside and gilded the mountaintops on the horizon.
“Heavens,” she said. “I only intended to lie down for a minute after my bath but I must have slept right through the night. I didn’t hear you come in, or the train go past.”
She turned back toward Jamie and studied him, marveling at the transformation. His hair was not as short as most men wore theirs, but it was cut in a conventional masculine style. Still a bit too long, it fell to his collar in neat layers. A few coal-black strands flopped across his forehead. She detected a spicy scent, some kind of barber’s soap.
“You don’t look Indian anymore,” Miranda said, startled at how much his native appearance had been a mental suggestion, triggered by his long hair. “You just look foreign. Papa had business partners. A Greek gentleman, and another one who was Creole. You look a bit like them, although they wore ruffled shirts and fancy neckties.”
“Don’t expect to see me dressed like that.” Jamie pushed up to sit on the edge of the bed and raked his fingers through his hair. The layers settled neatly around his head. His features looked less fierce now, without the straight curtain of hair to contrast with the sharp angle of his cheekbones. He looked very, very handsome, Miranda realized. And women all over the world would think the same.
“Did Aggie see you when you got back?”
Jamie glanced over his shoulder and nodded, amusement glittering in his eyes.
Miranda frowned. “Did she comment on your haircut?”
“No,” Jamie replied with a grin. “But she pursed her lips into a circle and blew out a long, slow whistle as I walked in through the saloon doors.”
Miranda picked up a pillow and hit him with it. Jamie snagged it from her hands and hit her back. For a moment, they tussled like two children. Then Jamie tossed the pillow aside. He gripped Miranda’s wrists and eased her down on her back, pinning her arms against the mattress. He leaned over her, his eyes searching hers with an unspoken question in them.
Tension knotted in Miranda’s belly. Her breathing, swift from the pillow fight, came to a complete halt. He would kiss her again. Anticipation tingled on her lips, thrummed in her body.
But then a door slammed in the corridor outside, breaking the morning quiet. Footsteps thudded past their room. A male voice called downstairs for hot water.
Cousin Gareth!
Miranda flinched. The image of him invaded her mind, ruining the moment.
Jamie spoke in a low voice. “Something wrong, Princess?”
“No...nothing...” Her tone was strained.
For a long moment, there was only silence. Something flickered in Jamie’s expression, something dark and closed and hard. In a sudden motion, he released her wrists and swung up from the bed. He eased back a few paces and stood there, watching her through narrowed eyes.
“Decision time, Princess. A month of rough traveling. Cold and rain and bad food and being turned away from hotels because no matter what I’ve done to my hair, I’m still part Indian, and I’ll never deny the fact. The alternative is a railroad ticket. Comfortable travel, with warm rooms and beds like this.”
“But alone.”
Jamie’s mouth tightened. “If it’s important to you, Princess, I’ll escort you to San Francisco. Or even all the way to Gold Crossing, and hand you over to your sister and her husband.”
Miranda hesitated. Jamie seemed cool and withdrawn now. And yet there was a current of attraction between them they had yet to fully explore. A month on the trail would give her the chance to get to know him, to see if there truly might be a chance to make their marriage real. And boarding a train would mean losing that chance.
“South,” she told him. “On horseback.”
“South it is, Princess,” Jamie replied, his gaze intent on hers. “But be clear on one thing—I expect you to obey orders. I’m experienced in rough living. You’re not. I know outlaws and desperate men. You don’t. I can kill without remorse. You can’t. After we ride out of this two-bit town, my word is the law. Do you understand?”
Miranda wanted to roll her eyes. What was it with men? Why did Jamie feel compelled to make a big speech about something he’d been doing all along anyway?
“Aye, aye, Captain,” she told him. “Your crew promises not to mutiny. Or at least the human element of it does,” she added. “I can’t vouch for the horses or the mules.”
“Fine.” He picked up his hat from the nightstand and put it on. “I’ll go and order breakfast while you get ready.”
* * *
Miranda munched on a piece of bread slathered with honey and tried to concentrate on the tattered map Jamie had put down on the table between them. The saloon was crowded, mostly with men in rough clothing. It must have been noisy after the train arrived, but she’d slept through it all.
“This is the choice of routes,” Jamie was saying. He traced his finger along the map. “The problem will be getting across the Grand River—Colorado River, some call it. It runs through a maze of canyons for hundreds of miles along the border between Utah and Arizona.”
He tapped his finger on the map. “Here. Canyons, like huge scars in the earth. Or we could go this way.” His traced another line. “Both routes have waterless stretches. We should be all right, though, with the two pack mules. I’ll try to buy a small water barrel before we leave.”
“Uh-huh.” Miranda was only half listening, trying to strain her ears to hear what Cousin Gareth was saying. He was sitting at the next table with a uniformed man who looked like a railroad conductor. She wondered if they kept records of people who’d been caught traveling without a ticket.
“I’m not sure which route is better,” Jamie went on. “I’ve asked around about ferries, but no one seems to know for sure. Because we don’t have a wagon, we could swim across if the current is not
too strong.”
“Uh-huh.”
He looked up. “You can swim, can’t you? You grew up by the sea?”
Cousin Gareth shot a look in their direction. Blast and damnation. He’d been listening, just as she had been listening to him. She needed to get away from him, as fast as possible. Miranda got to her feet, drained the last of her coffee standing up. “I can swim. Let’s go and pack.”
Jamie folded the map and put it away in his pocket. “We’ll take the western route, through Utah into Arizona.” He rose from his seat, propped his hat on his head. “You get started. I’ll go and see if I can buy a water barrel.”
Miranda nodded and hurried toward the stairs. She had barely started up when the clatter of footsteps chased after her. “Miss Fairfax.” She turned to see Cousin Gareth standing at the base of the stairs, head tipped back, his expression pleading.
Miranda darted a glance in the direction of the batwing doors. Jamie had already gone out, the doors swinging in his wake. “Mrs. Blackburn,” she amended. “I’m married now.”
“Of course,” Cousin Gareth replied. “I heard you talking to Aggie yesterday. You introduced yourself as Miss Fairfax and it stuck in my mind.”
Her hand tightened over the balustrade. “What is it, Mr....?”
“Wolfson,” he supplied. “Gareth Wolfson. I’ve settled on Wolfson, because of the wolf’s head on my walking stick. And that is what I wanted to ask you about.” He climbed the few steps that separated them and halted beside her.
Again, the transformation in him struck Miranda. The slackness was gone, not just in his facial features but the flabbiness in his body. The peacock blue frock coat draped elegantly over his wide shoulders. His complexion was tanned, his eyes clear and alert. Still young, in his early thirties, he was an attractive man.
A flurry of memories unfurled in Miranda’s mind, going back to when she and her sisters were small and Gareth a teenager. He had been a welcome visitor at Merlin’s Leap then, one who taught them card games and magic tricks. What had gone wrong with him? What bitterness had poisoned his mind?
“How can I help you, Mr. Wolfson?” she asked.
“It is about my walking stick. You said you thought you had seen one like it before. Did you know it has a hidden compartment? Look.” He gripped the silver wolf’s head, pressed a hidden catch beneath and twisted up the handle to reveal a hollow space inside. “Had you seen something like this before?”
Miranda shook her head. “No. I had no idea.”
The hope in Gareth’s eyes died. “I spoke to the railroad official. The walking stick was clasped in my hand when they found me. It was the only thing of value the robbers left me. I’m certain it has always belonged to me. I found the hidden compartment. There was money there, banknotes rolled into a tight bundle, but no documents. Nothing to shed light on my identity. I thought perhaps, if you’d seen a similar walking stick before, you might know where it had been obtained and I could investigate. There can’t be too many of these made.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wolfson. I know of no other such walking stick.”
“Well.” Gareth gave a wistful smile. “It was worth asking. I bid you good day. And good luck for your journey. And congratulations on your marriage. I understand it was recent. He seems a fine man, your husband.”
With those parting words, Cousin Gareth turned around and went back to his table, where the railroad man was tucking into his breakfast. Miranda scampered up the stairs. She had to get away from him, before Gareth regained his memory, or before she let compassion and honesty brush aside the instinct for self-preservation and told him who he was.
Chapter Eighteen
You are a fool, Jamie told himself as he pointed Sirius back north, the pack mules and Miranda following him. He should feel nothing but frustration that Miranda had refused to board the train, and yet the sensation that filled him seemed dangerously close to relief.
Why had he gone to the trouble of getting his hair cut? Was it because he liked it short, or had he really done it to show Miranda he could fit into her world? That he could be a husband worth keeping, as she had so innocently suggested? Judging by her behavior in the morning, he had succeeded in making her understand how impossible the idea was.
From now on, whatever feminine nonsense she threw at him, he’d do better at resisting temptation. He was an escort to get her safely from point to point, nothing more.
Jamie halted his horse, waited for Miranda to catch up. “Are you happy with the route I’ve chosen?” he asked. “West and then south through Utah into Arizona.”
Miranda glanced back toward the railroad where the cardsharp from the saloon was standing outside the livery stable, inspecting the horses for sale.
“It’s fine,” she replied. “Can we keep going?”
“There are forded crossings and a ferry across the Colorado River. We can decide how to cross when we get there.”
“Fine.” Miranda flapped one hand to usher him along. “Let’s go.”
Jamie frowned as he nudged Sirius into motion. Something was wrong, something more than what had taken place between them. Miranda had been edgy since they came into town. At first he’d assumed it was the railroad, the tension of making the choice that committed her to the long overland trail, but now she seemed more nervous than ever. It bode ill for the journey.
* * *
Miranda seemed to have snapped out of her anxiety, but some kind of plan was germinating in her mind, Jamie could tell. She was too eager to learn, too ready to obey his commands. Instinct warned him that when a stubborn woman suddenly turned meek, it was merely a smoke screen for some outrageous demand she intended to spring on him the instant she considered him adequately primed.
Traveling was pleasant now. Sunny autumn days with blue skies and a cool breeze. In the sky, migrating flocks of geese headed south. The trail meandered across the Sweetwater River, crossing it nine times in all, but the fords were easy, the current light.
They stopped for the night by Independence Rock, a huge gray boulder, like a giant turtle. Two decades ago, it had been a landmark on the Oregon Trail. Scratched names and initials covered the surface. It was said fifty thousand migrants had left their mark.
After they finished clambering over the rock, studying the history recorded there, Jamie left Miranda to light a fire and walked off to shoot a rabbit for supper. When he squatted to gut and clean the carcass, eager footsteps pounded across the grassy meadow toward him.
“Show me how to skin the rabbit.”
Jamie slanted a sideways look at Miranda, who’d crouched beside him. Easier to let her stay than to order her to leave. He pulled out his knife, sliced the rabbit from throat to tail and shook out the entrails. If he was not mistaken, he heard gagging sounds.
“Your face has gone green, Princess.”
“I...am...all...right.” The words came between clamped teeth.
“Leave this to me. Oil my saddle instead. The leather is drying up.”
“I want to learn how to prepare a rabbit for supper.”
“You can’t learn with your eyes closed.”
Jamie waited for Miranda to open her eyes again. He poked at the entrails with the tip of his knife. “This is the kidney. Best part of the rabbit. This is the liver. That’s good, too. The rest of the bits inside you throw away.”
Beside him, Miranda rocked forward in small, sharp jerks, accompanied by strangled sounds. “Go away,” Jamie ordered. “Some things you are not meant to handle.”
“I...can...learn.”
“Maybe, but it will have to be another time. I’m hungry, and I don’t like the idea of having to shoot another rabbit if you throw up all over this one.” He jerked his chin toward the camp. “Go put the coffee on.”
Miranda scrambled to her feet, hurried off. Jamie follow
ed her with his eyes. She made ten yards before she came to a halt and doubled over behind a bush. He shook his head. Stubborn was not a strong enough word but he couldn’t think of a better one.
He reckoned he’d figured out what outrageous demand she planned to spring on him. She had aspirations to be a bounty hunter. Of course, it was impossible. Just as impossible as the idea of making their marriage real.
And yet there was no mistaking the attraction between them. It was there, in the quickly snatched looks. In the long, emotion-filled silences. In the accidental brush of hands that left a tingling in its wake. In the way she asked him to help her into the saddle and in the way he held on to her longer than was necessary as he fulfilled her request.
He had no regrets about escorting her on the journey. He’d enjoy her company while he could and after their parting he’d cherish the memories. It was good for a man to have a woman to dream about when he rode the lonely trails.
Jamie finished preparing the rabbit, pierced it with a skewer from a piece of hickory and returned to the camp where he set the carcass to roast over the flames. When the meat sizzled, he cut a piece and offered it to Miranda. She shook her head. Her throat moved in a frantic swallow, accompanied with one of those gagging sounds. Jamie suppressed a rueful smile. Rabbit might have to remain off the menu for some time to come.
He pushed up to his feet. “I’ll get you dry biscuits. They’ll settle your stomach.”
He went to rummage in the saddlebags, found the tin of biscuits. Back at the fire, he made coffee, added a few spoonfuls of sugar.
“Here.” He handed her the mug, then paused to massage the small puckered mark on his palm. It had been itching today, for the first time in years.
Miranda had recovered enough to speak. “What gave you that scar?”
Jamie sat down, looked up into the sky where a million stars glittered. If he hadn’t been feeling so guilty about letting her watch while he gutted the rabbit, he might have kept his silence. But talking seemed an easy way to make amends.
“I got it when I was a kid. We went to school in town for a year. Me and Louise. They didn’t take Indians, but we didn’t really look Cheyenne, so our mother thought we might get away with it. Of course, we didn’t. Some kids guessed, and I got into a fight. The other boy picked up a piece of timber from a woodpile and hit me with it. He didn’t realize there was a nail sticking out of it, and when he swung it, he nailed my hand to the schoolhouse wall.”
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