She glanced over her shoulder again, but could see nothing except the dust raised by her own horse. Damn! She’d been scared the night before, awakened by every sound, every breath of wind, but now she was terrified. The man following her could be a renegade Indian, an outlaw on the run.
Her hand closed over the rifle. Could she take a life to save her own?
Her horse reached the tree line and Brandy gave the pinto a sharp kick when it started to slow down. She rode like one possessed, her gaze darting left and right in search of a place to hide.
She caught a glimpse of the low hanging branch just before it knocked her off the back of her horse. A startled cry erupted from her lips and then the ground was rushing up to meet her, driving the air from her lungs. A sharp pain stabbed at the back of her head, and then everything went black.
* * * * *
J.T. sighed as he reined his horse to a walk. It was almost full dark now, time to bed down for the night. And yet something drove him onward.
His gaze lifted toward the darkening sky. In all his miserable life, he had never uttered a prayer, not even when he was standing on the gallows. Now, for the first time in his life, he felt the need, but had no idea what to say.
“She’s alone, Gideon,” he said fervently. “If you can hear me, I’m askin’ you to keep her safe.”
He waited, listening, but no answer came to him. Darkness settled over the land, a lonely, empty darkness, silent save for the soughing of the wind and the distant cry of a coyote.
“It’s useless,” J.T. muttered. “Like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
And yet he kept going, ignoring his horse’s labored breathing and his own weariness. Just another few minutes, he decided, and then he’d bed down for the night. But every time he thought of calling it a day, he imagined Brandy spending another night on the prairie, alone. Damn the woman, he was tired and hungry and more worried than he wanted to admit, and when he found her, he was going to wring her fool neck!
Muttering an oath, he pulled back on the reins, felt a sharp tug, as though someone was trying to jerk the reins out of his hands.
“What the hell?” J.T. pulled back on the reins again, only to feel the same sharp tug.
“Gideon?” He cocked his head to one side, listening, but all he heard was the sighing of the wind.
J.T.’s eyes narrowed as he caught a whiff of bacon and coffee. Shifting in the saddle, he glanced at the trees barely visible in the gathering darkness.
She was there. He knew it.
He rode slowly across the open ground, his eyes and ears alert for any movement, any sound. At the edge of the timber, he dismounted. Tethering the bay to a sturdy branch, J.T. crept forward, his moccasined feet making no sound as he ghosted through the trees, following the tantalizing scent of fresh coffee.
Crouching behind a tangled mass of service berry bushes, he studied the camp. He knew a quick moment of relief when he saw Brandy. Thank God, she was alive.
And then he noticed the dark bruise on the side of her face, the way she sat on the felled log. Hardly breathing, she kept one arm wrapped around her middle as if every breath caused her pain. Even in the dim light cast by the fire, he could see the scared look in her eyes.
With an effort, J.T. tore his gaze from Brandy and studied the man sitting beside her. He was a big man, dressed in stained buckskin pants, a faded chambray shirt, moccasins, and a battered hat. Greasy blond hair fell to his shoulders. A long scar cut across his left cheek; he wore a patch over his left eye. A brand new Winchester repeating rifle was propped up.
J.T. swore under his breath. Of all the men in the world, why did he have to run into Cougar Johanson? The man was a rum runner, a man without scruples or morals, hated by the whites and feared by the Indians who traded furs and hides for rotgut whiskey.
He wrinkled his nose as the wind shifted, carrying the stink of Johanson’s unwashed body. The thought of the man touching Brandy with his filthy, calloused hands made J.T.’s stomach clench.
Slowly, silently, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder.
Thou shalt not kill.
J.T. blew out a sigh of exasperation. “Dammit, Gideon,” he muttered, “you’re gonna get me killed.”
Lowering the rifle, J.T. took a deep breath. “Hello, the camp!” he called.
Johanson sprang to his feet, his hands fisted around the rifle. “Who’s there?”
“J.T. Cutter.”
“Cutter!” Johanson uttered a colorful expletive. “I heard they hung you back in Cedar Ridge.”
“They tried,” J.T. said, stepping out from behind the bushes. “It didn’t take.”
“What you doing out here?” Johanson asked, his voice heavy with suspicion.
“Headin’ north, toward Canada.”
Johanson grinned. “Leavin’ the country, huh? Well, can’t say as I blame ya. Where’s your horse?”
J.T. jerked his head to the side. “Left him tethered a couple yards back.” He smiled conspiratorially. “Didn’t want to ride in until I knew who you were.”
Johanson grunted. “Smart.”
“All right if I help myself to a cup of that coffee?”
“Sure. Use my cup.”
“Thanks.” J.T. slid a glance at Brandy as he knelt beside the fire and reached for the coffeepot. When she started to speak, he shook his head, warning her to remain silent. It wouldn’t do for Cougar to suspect they knew each other. Cougar had staked his claim to the woman, and he wasn’t likely to give her up without a fight.
Hunkering back on his heels, J.T. sipped the coffee. It was hot and black and strong enough to float a horseshoe. “Who’s the dame?”
Johanson shrugged. “Don’t know. Some runaway squaw, from the looks of her.”
“What are you gonna do with her?”
A sly smile spread over Cougar’s face. “What the hell do you think?”
Disgust roiled in J.T.’s stomach. “Have you…?”
“Not yet.” Johanson scratched his crotch. “You wanna crack at her?”
“I might.”
Johanson looked thoughtful. “It’ll cost ya a sawbuck.”
J.T. nodded. “Sounds reasonable. But I don’t want your leavin’s.”
“Then it’ll cost you double.”
“All right by me.” J.T. drained the last of the coffee from the cup, then rose to his feet. “I’m gonna go get my horse and my bedroll.”
Brandy stared after J.T., wondering what he was up to, wondering if he was actually going to bed her in full view of the vile man sitting beside her. She closed her eyes, wishing she had a couple of aspirin to ease the dull ache in her head. Wishing this was all a bad dream, and that when she woke up, she’d be back in her own bed, safe in her own house, in her own time.
She squeezed her eyes to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. She wouldn’t cry! She was a woman of the nineties. She was supposed to be strong and self-reliant. Independent. Able to leap tall buildings with a single bound. But she didn’t feel strong or independent. Only very, very afraid. She remembered the mind-numbing panic that had engulfed her when she opened her eyes to find the Incredible Hulk towering over her. When she’d tried to scramble away, he had grabbed her by the hair and backhanded her across the face, hard. So hard it had brought tears to her eyes and made her ears ring.
A thousand times since then she had berated herself for leaving the Crow camp. At least with her mother’s people, she had been safe, respected. Protected.
She jerked her head up as she heard the sound of hoof beats, and then J.T. rode up. She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life, until he had agreed to buy a half-hour of her time.
He dismounted with fluid ease, then tethered his horse apart from the other two. Removing the blanket from behind the cantle, he draped it over his shoulder, then swaggered toward the fire.
He looked dark and dangerous in the light of the flames. His long near-black hair framed a face made up of harsh planes and sharp angles. The rifle c
radled in his left arm looked to be a part of him. The long fringe on his shirt sleeves danced back and forth as he reached into his pocket, withdrawing the crumpled bills she had retrieved from his trousers when they were first captured by the Crow. He counted out ten dollars and handed the money to Johanson.
Brandy stared up at J.T., truly afraid of him for the first time. Desire smoldered in the depths of his dark brown eyes as he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her to her feet.
She jerked away when he placed a wet kiss on her cheek.
“C’mon, honey,” J.T. murmured, “let’s go get acquainted.”
Johanson took a step forward and laid a restraining hand on J.T.’s arm. “Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?”
J.T. glanced pointedly at the hand resting on his arm, then fixed his gaze on Johanson’s face.
A muscle worked in Johanson’s jaw, then he dropped his hand. “I don’t want you out of my sight.”
“Then forget it,” J.T. said with a shrug. “For ten bucks, I want some privacy.”
Johanson weighed that for a moment, his shaggy brows drawn together in a frown. “Leave the rifle here. And don’t go too far.”
Face impassive, J.T. tossed his rifle to Cougar Johanson. ”Just don’t come spyin’ on me.”
Johanson stared at J.T., then nodded. “Half-hour, Cutter. One minute over, and it’ll cost ya another sawbuck.”
J.T. grunted. Wrapping his hand around Brandy’s arm, he dragged her into the darkness.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Brandy hissed.
“I’m trying to keep your virtue intact, what the hell do you think?”
“Then you’re not going to…to…”
“No. Just keep quiet.”
Keeping a tight grip on her arm, J.T. guided Brandy through the darkness, pausing now and then to listen for any sound that would indicate Johanson was following them.
He swore under his breath when he heard the faint but unmistakable sound of muffled footsteps. Damn the man! Throwing his blanket on the ground, J.T. sank to his knees, dragging Brandy down beside him. Wrapping his arms around her, he eased her down on the blanket, covered her body with his, and began to kiss her.
“What are you doing?” Brandy gasped.
“Fight me.”
“What?”
“Do what I say. Fight me. Kick. Scratch. This has to look real.”
Hearing the urgency in his voice, Brandy began to struggle, weakly at first, but then, as J.T.’s hands grew rough and his kisses grew brutal, she began to fight in earnest. It was all his fault that she was here, in this place. She had touched him, and been catapulted into the past, away from everyone she knew, everything that was familiar. Resentment surged through her, and she raked his cheek with her nails, pummeled his back with her fists, heard him grunt with pain when her knee caught him in the groin.
“I want to go home!” she cried. “Damn you, I want to go home!”
“Brandy, that’s enough. Brandy! Dammit, stop!”
Breathing hard, she stared up into his face.
“He’s gone.”
She blinked up at him, then took a deep breath as reason returned. ”Now what?”
“I’m gonna try to sneak up behind Cougar and knock him out. I want you to make your way to the horses. If anything happens to me, you take the horses and ride like hell for the Crow camp, you understand?”
“But…”
“We don’t have time to argue, Brandy. Just do as I say, all right?” At her nod, J.T. rolled off her and stood up.
Taking Brandy by the hand, he helped her to her feet. He looked at her a moment, his knuckles caressing her cheek, and then he stepped away. “Go on.”
Moving quietly, J.T. made his way around behind Johanson. Cougar was sitting with his back against the log. He had a cigar in one hand, a coffee cup in the other.
J.T. glanced longingly at his rifle, but there was no way to reach it without being seen.
And then he decided to brazen it out. Fumbling with his fly, he stepped into the firelight.
Johanson looked up. “Done already?”
“I was anxious.”
Cougar fixed J.T. with a single-eyed stare. “Where’s the woman?”
“Cleanin’ up.” J.T. laughed. “Don’t worry, she ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“Long as you’re done, I guess I’ll just go take a turn myself.”
J.T. nodded. “Try to keep it quiet, will ya? I’m gonna get some shut-eye.”
Cougar stared at him hard for a moment, then picked up his rifle and headed for the darkness beyond the trees.
As soon as Johanson’s back was turned, J.T. dived for his own rifle, rolled to his feet, and jacked a round into the breech. “That’s far enough!”
Johanson whirled around, then went suddenly still. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” he demanded, glaring at J.T..
“I’m taking the woman. She’s mine.”
Johanson grunted. “One quick bang in the dark don’t make her yours.”
“I mean she’s my woman. We’ve been living together. We had a fight, and she ran away.”
“Well, hell,” Johanson said affably, “why didn’t you say so before?”
J.T. leveled the barrel of his Winchester at Cougar’s broad chest. “Drop the rifle, Cougar. And shuck that knife you keep tucked inside your left moccasin.”
Johanson smiled expansively, showing a mouthful of yellow teeth, as he shifted the rifle in his hands, his fingers inching toward the trigger. “There’s no need for this.”
“Humor me.”
Johanson hesitated a moment more; then his jaw clenched, he dropped the rifle. Keeping one eye on J.T., he pulled the knife from the sheath inside his moccasin and tossed it toward the fire.
“That’s better,” J.T. remarked pleasantly. “Now, turn around.”
“You gonna back-shoot me, Cutter?”
“Maybe.”
Face dark with rage, Johanson turned around. Taking a firm grip on the rifle, J.T. struck Johanson across the back of the head, no easy task, since the man was a good four inches taller than he was.
Cougar grunted softly, then pitched forward.
“He looks like Goliath,” Brandy remarked, stepping out of the shadows.
“Yeah.” J.T. rummaged through Johanson’s saddlebags until he found a length of rawhide, which he used to tie the man’s hands behind his back. That done, he poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee, drank it down, then refilled the cup for Brandy. She took it reluctantly, hating to think that Johanson had used it, but a cup of strong coffee was just what she needed. She sipped the bitter brew slowly, watching while J.T. saddled the pinto. He took Johanson’s saddlebags and both of his canteens, but left the man’s rifle and horse.
“You ready?” J.T. called.
Brandy nodded.
“Bring the coffeepot and the cup.”
Minutes later, they were riding away from Johanson’s camp.
“You should have taken his horse,” Brandy remarked.
“I know.” J.T. shook his head ruefully. He should have killed the man for daring to put his hands on Brandy, but even as the thought surfaced, he heard Gideon’s voice echoing in the back of his mind, the words ringing loud and clear:
Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not kill.
J.T. swore softly as he urged his horse into a lope. Having a guardian angel was no picnic.
Chapter Ten
“Where are we going?”
J.T. glanced at Brandy. They had spent the night in a shallow draw and now she rode beside him, mounted on the stolen pinto. Her doeskin dress was hiked up to mid-thigh, revealing a pair of well-shaped calves encased in knee-high moccasins.
“You still wearin’ that fancy black underwear?” The question sent a slow flush creeping up her neck and stained her cheeks with crimson, giving him all the answer he needed.
“You didn’t tell me where we’re going,” Brandy remarked. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him.
“You didn’t answer my question, either.”
She felt his gaze sweep over her, hot and intimate. “Of course I’m wearing it!” she snapped. “It’s all I’ve got. And stop looking at me like that!”
J.T. glanced away, his imagination running wild as he pictured her reclining on a big brass bed wearing nothing but those two scraps of black lace and a come-hither smile.
“I’m gonna try to find my mother’s people,” he finally replied in answer to her question.
Brandy turned to stare at him. “The Sioux?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you think? The Crow and the Lakota have been enemies for as long as anyone can remember. Besides, I want to go home.”
“Let’s not argue about that again.”
“You said you’d never spent any time with your mother’s people,” Brandy remarked. “You said you didn’t want to spend any time with them, that they didn’t know you, and you didn’t know them.”
“Do you remember everything I say?” he asked irritably.
“Pretty much. So, why this sudden urge to go looking for your progenitors?”
“My what?”
“Your ancestors.”
J.T. shrugged. “Call it a lark.”
But that’s not what it was. Spending time with the Crow had stirred J.T.’s curiosity about Lakota. If he was ever going to pay a visit to his mother’s people, it had to be now, before it was too late. Spending a few precious weeks of whatever time he had left with the Lakota, perhaps finding his grandparents, suddenly seemed important.
“I don’t want to go visit the Lakota,” Brandy said. “I want to go home.”
“Not now.”
“They won’t want me there.”
“Your people accepted me well enough.”
“Yeah, but you never told them you were Lakota.”
J.T. shrugged.
It was useless to argue with him, she thought irritably. Useless to point out that the Lakota might not want him there, either. After all, in spite of his ancestry, he was a stranger. She had always been told the Sioux were a blood-thirsty tribe, making war on just about everyone they met. What if they didn’t give J.T. a chance to explain who he was? What if they just killed them both out of hand?
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