Texas Passion

by Sara Orwig

  “To’nsadal.”

  She was hanging upside down over the warrior’s shoulder and couldn’t see what was happening, but she recognized Dan Overton’s voice speaking the strange language. He sounded friendly, confidant, and her fear was replaced by shock. Who was Dan Overton? Why was he friendly with savages?

  Suddenly she was set on her feet, and the warrior looked into her eyes and said something she couldn’t understand. She turned to look up at Dan Overton. His dark eyes blazed with fury, pinpoints of sparks deep in brown irises. As he faced her, she felt all her apologies melt away in defiance. She did not have to obey him; she had done what she thought was best for her family. She raised her chin.

  “We were hot, and it’s been hours since you told me not to stop. I didn’t know if you had gone off and left us,” she explained defensively. He inhaled and turned to the warrior.

  “Ta’ka’i, talyi.” Dan jerked his head in the direction of camp. The two men strode ahead, and she followed. The warrior handed her rifle to Dan who kept it. How much difficulty would she have getting the Winchester back from him?

  To her amazement her father stood with Indian warriors. He held a bandanna to a wound on his temple and he was holding something out in his hand. Ten warriors clustered around him to study it. As she drew closer, she saw the object was one of his old watches. He offered it to a warrior who accepted the watch and held it to his ear, dangling it by the gold chain.

  Dan turned to her. “Get food,” he ordered, his voice taut with fury. “You build a fire, and we’ll feed them.”

  She nodded, knowing she hadn’t heard the last about stopping when he warned her to keep going. He moved to the circle of men where he and her father sat on the ground with the others while they tried to teach her father a few words of their language.

  As she worked swiftly with Abigail to build a fire and start dinner, Josh sat near the wagon and watched Lissa. When Rachel knelt by the fire to stir stew in the iron pot, she glanced at the men and felt a mild jolt of surprise.

  Dan Overton sat between two warriors and laughed, gesturing and talking in their language. He had shed his coat and shirt, as bare-chested and muscular as the warriors around him. His hat was gone and his long hair was as thick and black as the warriors’. He blended in with them, looking as if he were one of their own. He was full of animation, his laughter deep and rich and inviting. He looked different, relaxed, appealing, not harsh and dangerous and challenging. His white teeth showed when he laughed, and he was an incredibly handsome man.

  She felt more threatened, because she realized if he wanted to charm, he could be devastating. Could she hold out against him if he decided he wanted her? Would she want to resist? She was older now and there were moments she longed for what she had missed because of the war. She longed to be loved, to know a man intimately, physically, to have her own child. Were spinsters supposed to have such feelings? Abby seemed to think it was natural that Rachel didn’t want to dance or go to parties.

  He glanced across the camp and met her gaze, and she felt as if she had brushed against the fire. Flustered, she looked away, feeling a flush rise in her cheeks as she stirred the stew.

  By the time they finished eating, perhaps Dan Overton’s anger with her would diminish. She stirred the thick stew and watched it bubble. The aroma was mouthwatering. While the warriors sat talking with Dan Overton and Pa, they didn’t seem as fierce. After supper when dark settled and the men sat around the dying campfire, they let Josh join them. He sat beside Dan and listened while the men talked and shared a long-stemmed pipe.

  Even her father seemed more his old self. He laughed and tried to converse in halting, uncertain words. Most of the time he sat listening while Dan talked to them. And watching Dan with the firelight flickering on his prominent cheekbones, she could see resemblances between his features and the warriors. Did he have Indian blood? How did he know them so well? When and where had he learned their language? Who was he? And the most worrisome question that plagued her constantly, why was he traveling with her family? He was too fast with his rifle, too hard and dangerous to be staying out of the goodness of his heart. He wanted something. Was it money or Pa?

  She retrieved her boots and stockings from the bank and climbed into the wagon. The hour grew late, the fire died to ashes, and still the men sat around and shared a bottle of whiskey Pa had brought from Mississippi. She thought of the metal box of their hoard of precious gold tucked beneath bedding. Could she go to sleep and trust they would be all right by morning?

  Or was this the chance Dan Overton had been waiting for?

  The thought of facing his anger wasn’t a choice she relished either. She took a deep breath. Damned if she would be afraid to face Dan Overton! He had come unwanted into their midst, taking charge, disrupting her life. She would not allow him to make all their decisions. While her thoughts and emotions churned, she looked around.

  Josh was stretched asleep on his blanket. Lissa and Abigail were both sleeping near the wagon and Rachel had extinguished the lantern when Abigail went to bed.

  Climbing into the wagon, Rachel unbraided her hair and brushed it out. She felt exhausted and apprehensive because she remembered the fiery anger in Dan Overton’s eyes. The moment he gave an order, she bristled. She had never been that way with Pa. She curled up on the cot and dozed, waking and hearing the men talking. Finally she stirred and stared into the darkness. Horses milled around and men’s voices were raised, Dan’s deep voice speaking words she didn’t understand.

  The warriors were going. She got up and moved to the wagon seat, hearing Pa tell Dan good night. Pa would sleep beside Josh at the back of the wagon. Taking the Colt, Rachel climbed down from the wagon and turned around to face Dan Overton.

  “I want my rifle back, Mr. Overton.”

  He stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at her. His gaze went to the Colt and he reached out, his hand closing over hers. She gripped the Colt tightly.

  “Give me the damned revolver,” he said in a quiet voice laced with fury.

  “It’s mine. You have one. And I want my rifle.”

  “I don’t want to talk to an angry woman who has a loaded revolver in her hand,” he said, giving a deft twist and taking the Colt. She grabbed for it and bumped him.

  His arm closed around her and her heart thudded violently as he yanked her up tightly against him. His eyes were dark, holding her gaze. She couldn’t get her breath and she felt hot, too aware of his strength and his long, hard body. Each clash with him brought her closer to an edge. She felt his manhood press against her, and she knew he desired her. She felt the danger and she suspected Dan Overton could be as ruthless in taking what he wanted as Lyman McKissick.

  She had no place for her hands. She didn’t want to place them against his chest or on his shoulders. He released her, and she stepped back, breathing as raggedly as if she had run a race. She pushed her hair away from her face and raised her chin in defiance.

  “Fortunately, I have Kiowa friends or your pa and maybe Josh wouldn’t have lived to see the sunset,” Dan Overton said quietly in a chilling voice, and she suspected he was right. His furious gaze stung like a lash.

  “Everyone was hot and needed to stop. We had ridden almost all day and nothing happened. We can’t keep going to San Antonio without a halt, and you just disappeared. How did I know you would ever be back!”

  “I wasn’t far away and I was keeping watch. I knew someone was trailing us and I couldn’t get a glimpse of them.”

  “If I hadn’t stopped would it have made any difference? You know it wouldn’t have!”

  “It would have made you less of a target.” He leaned closer. “Why can’t you take orders?”

  “You don’t have any authority for giving them!” she snapped emphatically in a low voice, facing him and refusing to let him intimidate her.

  “You don’t want to obey me. Red, you’re fighting a male who wants you,” he said, a gleam coming in his dark eyes, the words tak
ing her breath.

  She felt hot as she faced him. “Yes, I’ll fight you. This is one time, Dan Overton, a woman isn’t going to fall in a heap for you.”

  “Part of you wants it, Red,” he said even more softly, his voice changing to a slow, lazy drawl filled with self-assurance, making her feel as if every nerve were raw. The night was sweltering, her pulse pounding while her body felt on fire. She had never reacted this way to a man before, never felt tingly and aflame, faint and disturbed all at the same time.

  “I don’t want you riding with us! How are you friends with them? Are you part Kiowa?”

  “Does it matter?” he asked in cynical tones, leaning away, his voice becoming cold. She saw the change come over him, the aggressive male transform to a dangerous enemy who seemed to be controlling banked anger.

  “I’m curious how you know the language.”

  “Most Southern belles won’t associate with a half-breed. My mother was Kiowa and my father is white. With your southern upbringing, I know how you’ll feel about traveling with a halfbreed.”

  “I don’t remember ever knowing one before,” she said, frowning, wondering who had hurt him in the past.

  “Let’s get the fire out and get away from camp where I can see what’s going on around us.” His words were clipped and his expression shuttered and harsh. Without waiting for her reply, he moved away.

  What had happened in the past to make him so bitter? Questions swirled in her mind. How did his Kiowa mother meet his father? Puzzled, Rachel followed him into the darkness, hurrying to catch up with his long stride. The night had raised more questions about him than it had answered. He was a halfbreed, hurt in the past. He knew his Kiowa brothers, yet from all appearances he led a white man’s life. Who was he?

  He crossed to a slight rise that was high enough ground they could see any approach to the wagon.

  He withdrew a thin cheroot and struck a match. She looked at his features highlighted in the flame. A slight dark stubble showed on his jaw, and he tilted his head to draw on the cheroot. The thick fringe of eyelashes was lowered, a shadow above his cheeks, as he looked down at the match in his hand.

  “Is that safe? Anyone can see us if you smoke.”

  “I won’t smoke after this one, but the warriors are close enough that I don’t think anyone else is around.”

  “You have the stubble of a beard while your Kiowa friends are beardless.”

  “Probably my father’s blood; and the Kiowa will remove any facial hair.”

  “How did your father meet your mother?” she asked, her curiosity overcoming her animosity. He gave her a long level look, and she realized she had intruded on something he didn’t want to discuss. He shifted and looked away, drawing on the cheroot and exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

  She felt rebuffed, angry with him, yet still curious about him, but she kept her silence. Time passed, and finally he glanced at her.

  “My father lived briefly in Santa Fe and didn’t like it. He decided to return to Baton Rouge where he had worked for three years. On the way across the plains his stage stopped at a way station. Soldiers had encountered a band of Kiowa and had taken captives. My father met her then and bargained for her, buying her and taking her back to Mississippi with him. Against the advice of his family, he married her because he loved her. In spite of his success as a banker, she was never accepted into Baton Rouge society.”

  His sketchy answer brought more questions, because he had left so many things unsaid. Why had his father been that attracted to his mother at a chance encounter?

  “How did you get to know your mother’s people?”

  Again he turned his head to give her a long look, and she had the feeling that he didn’t want to discuss his past. He kept barriers around himself, and she wondered what had made him so solitary and tough.

  “When I was eighteen, I wanted to know them. I came out here, searching until I found them and told them who I was.”

  “You found your mother’s relatives?”

  “Yes, it wasn’t difficult. The Kiowa are not as large in numbers as some tribes. Her parents were no longer alive.”

  Silence lengthened between them. She was prying and pushing him, yet she was curious about him. “And the tribe accepted you?”

  “Not at first.” He turned and exhaled, blowing out a stream of smoke, his profile to her. “I almost lost my life, but the chief accepted me. I rode with them one year.”

  “Will you ever go to live with them again?”

  He turned to look at her again. “Why do you care about all this, Red?”

  “I’ve never met anyone like you,” she answered solemnly.

  With a sardonic lift of his eyebrows, he turned, stubbing out the cheroot on the rock and tossing it away.

  “You’re very good with your guns,” she said.

  He slanted her a cynical look. “Out here if you’re not good, you’re dead.”

  “Teach me some words of Kiowa.”

  “Eb and Josh learned some tonight. Ta’ka’i. It’s a word for whites.”

  “Ta’ka’i,” she repeated and he corrected her pronunciation.

  “Their language isn’t easy for us.”

  “Do you have a Kiowa name?”

  “To’nsadal. It means, ‘I Have Legs.’ I was on foot and not riding a horse when I met them.”

  She locked her arms around her knees and propped her chin on her knee, turning her head to look at him. Her hair spilled over her shoulders. “When I would go near the fire, I heard them say the same word and look at me.”

  “A’daltem guadal. Your red hair.” He reached out to catch a lock, and let it slide through his fingers, and she felt her scalp tingle. “I like your hair down,” he said, his voice changing, losing all its harshness, becoming husky and as sensual as a caress. In response to his remark as he gave another faint tug on her hair, she felt a warmth kindle inside. In spite of the clashes between them, she was drawn to him and she knew she shouldn’t be. His streak of ruthlessness, his arrogance, were reasons enough not to allow him full control.

  “My friend wanted you. I told him you’re my woman.”

  Startled, she faced Dan, looking into his dark eyes that were in shadow. His words fueled the heat in her. She knew she was a challenge to him, he had conveyed that to her. She didn’t want to match wits with him, to combat his efforts to charm her, because she suspected he could dazzle her easily. She waved her hand at him. “He could see my ring. Do they know this means marriage?”

  “Yes. They grow wiser in the ways of the whites.”

  “I’ve heard so many tales of savages.”

  “Both sides can be savage.”

  “Do they scalp people?”

  “Yes. If you had looked at the waist of one of the warriors, you would have seen a scalp. This isn’t their territory—we’re too far south. That was a war party. They’ve ridden with their Comanche friends against Navaho who raided a Comanche camp. There’s a small band of Kiowa to the northwest of here following the buffalo herds.”

  She remembered her terror at the creek. “I suppose he wanted my hair.”

  One corner of Dan Overton’s mouth curled up in amusement. “He wanted you, not your hair.”

  She blushed and looked down at her hands. “I should apologize and thank you. If it hadn’t been for you twice now—”

  “You probably would have managed some way,” he said lightly. He stretched out his long legs, his spurs jingling as he crossed his feet.

  You probably would have managed some way. She was astounded by his answer. Did he really think she could have taken care of herself and her family against a Kiowa war party? She didn’t realize she had earned his respect enough to have him make a remark like that, and it made her feel better.

  “You’re riding a long way for a poker game.”

  For a moment he looked blank as if he had forgotten telling her he was a gambler, then he shrugged. “I like to travel and I like it out here. After a time civilization gets
to me, and I want space.”

  “Abigail wants to go back. She’s worried about getting married, and I didn’t think of that.”

  “She won’t lack suitors. A pretty woman is a rare treat on the frontier; men will do anything to win her hand.” Dan shifted on the rock. While Rachel sat forward, he leaned back on his elbows so he could watch her.

  He was still shaken by the Kiowa ambush. If it had been Comanche, she would be a captive tonight. He fought his temper with her; when he had seen the wagon pull into the draw and disappear, he knew they had stopped and his temper had soared. She wasn’t going to take orders from him even if it put her life and her family in jeopardy. Most Southern women Dan had known were docile and obedient. They were strong, Lord knows they were strong, but they did what their men told them to do. And maybe that was the difference. She wasn’t his woman. Was she as much of a wildcat with the man she loved? Or was there any man? He looked at the mass of curls that cascaded over her shoulders. There had to be a man somewhere in her life.

  “What’s Elias like? I knew an Elias Johnson during the war. Where did he fight?”

  “He fought at Chicamauga under Braxton Bragg and he fought in the Wilderness Campaign.”

  “Where was he when the war ended?”

  “He lost a leg and he came home. That’s when he headed west, because we didn’t have anything at home. Atlanta was gone. Nashville was torn apart early in the war. Vicksburg was a shambles. Where did you fight?”

  He caught a curl in his fingers again. It was silky, wrapping around his fingers, sliding through them. He wanted to wind his hands in its softness and pull her back into his arms and inhale her sweetness. What would it be like to kiss her? Curbing the impulse, he looked away from her, staring into the darkness. In a moment he twisted a curl through his fingers again.

  Rachel was aware of the faint tugs on her scalp, aware he was touching her even though it was only a long lock of hair and she could barely feel anything. “Where did you fight?” she repeated, knowing his sense of hearing was keen and sure he had heard her question. His dark eyes met hers squarely.