If he was aware of her nearness, he gave no sign. “I rescued the bread and bacon,” he said, and resting on his elbows began to pull the load he held apart with strong fingers. Picking a curled slice of thick bacon from the fast-congealing grease in the pan, he put it on the chunk of bread and offered it to Serena. When she took it from him, he stretched to reach the cup and pot of hot coffee he had set just outside, and poured that for her also.
Overhead, the rain splattered against the canvas with wet violence. The overhang of the low lean-to tent shelter flapped, spattering drops of rain in upon them. By the light of the dying fire, Serena could see the horses with their backs turned to the storm, stoically accepting the blowing downpour that washed over them.
It was close inside the shelter, but it was also dry and warm. The food smelled delectable, especially the coffee, since she had not troubled to make a fire and brew any for herself that morning. She would eat first, and worry about the position in which she had landed herself later.
With a stiff smile, she thanked her host. Avoiding his watchful eyes, she lowered her lashes and bit into the crusty bread.
3
The fire sank to dark, smoking coals. The man beside Serena became no more than a warm presence in the dark. The rain continued, urged by a wind that seemed to sweep in on them with a cutting edge of ice.
Serena polished off the last of her bacon and threw the rind out into the night. With slow enjoyment, she savored the last of her coffee, enjoying its reviving heat. It was only as she drained the last swallow that it occurred to her that she alone was drinking. Thinking back, she could remember seeing only one tin cup.
“I took your cup, didn’t I? I never thought. If you have water I will be glad to rinse it for you.”
“Never mind,” he said, a trace of amusement in his voice for her stiff self-consciousness. Tipping the coffee pot, he took the cup from her and filled it, then drank from the same place her lips had touched.
That gesture with its suggestion of intimacy disturbed Serena. She stared out into the darkness, and as unobtrusively as possible, tried to ease away from him. She thought he turned, staring in her direction in the dimness, but she could not be sure. For no reason that she could explain, she felt her heartbeat quicken.
“Finished?” he queried. At her agreement, he reached to set the frying pan and his empty cup out into the rain. There being nothing left of the bread, Serena brushed away the crumbs that littered the blanket on which they lay, and the clearing of their repast was done.
“Lie down,” the man so close beside her said. “You may as well make yourself comfortable.”
“I would rather get my own quilt.” She kept her voice steady only by sheer strength of will.
“By all means, if you want to get wet. There’s no room for it under here. Of course, I could offer to let you occupy my blankets alone.”
“No, I couldn’t do that,” Serena said hastily.
“I’m glad to hear you say it,” he answered, his tone dry. “I will admit it seemed unnecessarily gallant of me, too, under the circumstances.”
“I — don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, come, don’t be coy. There is no need. I’ve known more than my share of women who live by their wits, taking money from men stupid enough to think they can be bought.”
“I’m not! I never—”
“Why keep denying it? I’m not likely to think any less of you, not in my position. The main thing I object to is your trying your tricks on me. If you want to survive at this game, my dear girl, you are going to have to learn to pick your targets better. Not all men are so green as to be taken in by a lovely face and a sad tale.”
The patronizing sound of his voice was galling. “I see,” Serena said, anger making her careless of the impression he gained. “How kind of you to tell me. I am much obliged.”
“You should be. I could have sent you about your business, and probably should have. Next time, don’t try to pull the wool over anybody’s eyes with that story of being thrown off a wagon train for defending yourself against a sleepwalking old man. It just won’t stand up. Everybody around here knows the Saints are strict about such things. If you were the innocent you pretend, they would have prayed over the old bastard and strung him up at daybreak. Since you got the bad end of the bargain, it’s even money you had it coming. They would never have left you alone out here without reason, and for them the best one is behavior they consider immoral.”
“Much you know of it!” Serena returned in bitter rage. “Though why I should expect you to believe me when no one else did, I can’t imagine. But one thing is certain, there’s no reason why I should stay here and be insulted. I would rather be wet!”
She rolled to one side, trying to push herself to a sitting position. Before she could begin, he clamped his arm across her waist, pulling her against him.
“You don’t get away that easily,” he said, his voice grim.
“You ought to be glad to let me go,” Serena answered, all too aware of the quick rise and fall of her breasts against the hard surface of his chest, and the strained and silent clash of their wills.
“Now what gave you that idea?”
“If you — if you believe that I am from the wagon train, then you must be convinced that I am alone, that I have no friends to pose a threat to you. That being the case, I am no more than an inconvenience, one you can be rid of safely enough.”
“Safely, maybe, but not comfortably.”
“You mean—”
“I mean I find having you here very convenient indeed.”
His grasp tightened. He lowered his head and his lips touched hers. Warm, firm, their pressure increased, tasting, exploring the tender curves of her mouth with a growing demand. For long seconds Serena was still, stunned by the sudden assault upon her senses. Never had she been kissed like this, never had she felt this burgeoning excitement allied to sweet languor. The glow of pleasure expanded inside her, and yet in its spread there was a bright, cutting edge of fear.
She brought her hands up, pushing away from him, twisting her mouth free. “No,” she cried, though the word had the sound of a breathless plea.
He did not release her. “Why?” he murmured against her hair. “It is as good a way as any of passing the time.”
“Please, you don’t understand.”
“I need you, and for now, you need me, need what I can give you. What else is there to understand?”
His voice was low, persuasive. Was he suggesting that she accept his embraces to assuage her own need, or for the sake of a bite of food and a warm refuge from the wild weather? How could he think she would agree? It was not possible for her to be so misjudged again. Still as she floundered in disbelief, she felt the scalding demand of his mouth upon hers once more.
She turned her head from side to side, shoving at him, trying to kick, but she was held tight against him, so hampered by the weight of blankets and heavy canvas that she made little impression. Her struggles caused the tarp to flop back and forth, showering them with cold rain. The man who held her gave no indication that he felt it. He gathered her closer, catching her wrists, pressing her to her back. His lips trailed fire from the corner of her mouth and across her cheek to the vulnerable curve of her neck. He pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat, dropping lower as he sought the limits of the bare skin exposed by the V-shaped opening of her dress. His breathing quickened and he slid his hand from her wrist along her arm to the soft fullness of her breast. His fingers touched the buttons that held the taut material across them.
“No — no, you can’t. I’ve never done this. I’m—”
Her words were drowned in the sudden change of the sound of the rain around them. It increased a hundredfold, rising to a roar, drumming with stinging weight on the canvas, rattling, pounding against the ground.
They went still. The man stiffened, lifting his head. He shoved himself upright.
“Hail!”
For one brief ins
tant, Serena thought the word he uttered was a curse, then as he flung back the blanket and whipped open the lean-to flap, she recognized the bouncing fall of hailstones. It came down around them with hard-striking fury, bringing with it a freezing chill that made the air difficult to breath. The horses, tormented by the flailing balls of ice, whinnied, plunging on their lead ropes.
The hailstones seemed to gather light in their white descent, making the night less dark. The maddened horses could be seen backing, rearing, dim shapes plunging, bucking stiff-legged as they were pummeled by the slashing storm of ice. Then, even as their owner ducked from the shelter and surged to his feet, the rope that held one of the horses parted. The animal wheeled, lowered his head, kicked up his heels, and broke into a run.
This time the oath was plain. The man dived for the other mount, jerked the lead rope free, and flung himself up onto the back of the horse. In an instant mount and rider had disappeared into the night after the other horse. The sound of was drowned in the drumming of the hail.
Serena pushed herself erect. She shivered as the cold penetrated the warm cocoon of blankets. The canvas over her was growing heavier with its weight of ice. It swayed under the ceaseless pounding and the sweep of the wind.
How far would the loose horse run before it could be caught? Was there any chance of finding and coming up to it with the drawback of darkness and its pain-crazed fear. The thought of the man out there without protection from the driving hail sent a shudder over her. The necessity for it was clear enough; even discounting the animal’s value, it was needed to carry gear. Moreover, Serena could not ignore the fact that the possibility of her obtaining a ride on into Colorado Springs would come to nothing if the horse could not be run down.
As abruptly as it had begun, the hail stopped. The marbles of ice shifted and clattered together as Serena emerged from the lean-to tent. The rain had come to an end also. The night was still and cold. Nothing moved, there was no sound. The hail lay in piles of white, thickly covering the ground. The sky to the north was clearing; there was the glitter of a star hanging in the hollow blackness.
Serena stood for a moment, a set look coming into her fine-chiseled face. Swinging around, she located her trunk and threw the oilskin that covered it aside. She opened the lid and took out her quilt, then closed it again. With the oilskin in one hand and the quilt in the other, she kicked a space of ground clear on the opposite side of the blackened firepit from the tarp lean-to. That done, she put down the oilskin, wrapped herself in her quilt, and lay down upon it.
At first the thick cover felt damp and chill, then as she lay motionless, it began to take and hold her body heat. Her eyes closed. She did not know what the man would do when he came back and found her there. The thought troubled her but she did not know what other course to take. Running would be of little avail. She could not leave the wagon trail for fear of becoming lost, of wandering on the trackless plains until she dropped. And as long as she kept to the well-worn wheel ruts, she could be easily overtaken by a man on horseback. Added to that was a belief, not too firm but persistent, that the hard stranger who had shared his food with her would not press his attentions upon her against her will, not when she had made her reluctance plain in this manner. She had been given little reason to form such a belief, quite the reverse, if anything, and yet the strength of it allowed her to acknowledge her tiredness and drift into sleep.
She came awake with a rush. The gray light of dawn smudged the sky. Beside her came a crackling sound, and the smell of smoke was strong in the cool air. Turning her head, Serena saw the man crouching on one knee, kindling the morning fire. His face looked drawn with sleeplessness in its orange light, and there was a dark stubble of beard on the lean planes of his cheeks. Beyond him were patches of hail on the sodden ground, though much of it had melted. The bruised and flattened buffalo grass was slowly rising once more, releasing a fresh scent. The horses, both of them, cropped at the tough blades from the end of their ropes, their tails switching in contentment in sharp contrast to the terrors of the night.
“You caught your horse,” Serena said, her voice quiet.
“Finally.” Intent on what he was doing, he glanced up only briefly. Reaching for the coffee pot, he dumped the old grounds, sloshed water into it by way of a quick rinse, then filled it with water and fresh coffee. He set the full pot near the flames, then looked once more toward Serena as she levered herself to one elbow.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, irony edging his tone.
“Yes, thank you.” Her answer was given with a lift of her chin.
“Since I am to have the pleasure of your company for breakfast, if for nothing else, I suppose I should know your name.”
Serena gave it to him.
He flicked her a strange glance. “That sounds remarkably real.”
“Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Most women in your position aren’t so free with that information.”
“What do you mean?”
“Out here, women like you prefer the privacy of a moniker that’s simple but easily forgotten. It’s not a bad idea, especially in the gold camps. Miners and cattlemen are an irreverent lot; if you don’t give yourself some kind of handle they may do it for you, and the results may not be to your liking. Naggy Nell or Sloppy Sal, for instance.”
“Two ladies of your wide acquaintance?” Serena gave him a brittle smile.
“Hardly ladies, but real women for all that.”
“You, of course, are qualified to know the difference?”
His eyes narrowed in recognition of her sarcasm. “I think so,” he agreed.
“I take leave to doubt it.”
“Do you,” he asked, a fine shading of something near contempt in his green eyes as he surveyed the tangled mass of her hair, the frayed and worn quilt that made her pallet, and the too snug dress she wore. His gaze rested on her neckline and glancing down, Serena saw she had not refastened the buttons of her bodice undone in their struggles. The creamy swells of her breasts looked ready to strip the other buttons from their holes.
A hot flush of embarrassment and remembrance rising to her cheekbones, Serena snatched the cover higher. “It takes a gentleman to recognize a lady, and you are certainly not that!”
“No. For all the Dunbar name, I am not, but then I don’t pretend to be.”
“Dunbar?” It was a distinguished surname along the Mississippi River. The Dunbars of Natchez not only lay claim to some of the most fertile and productive acres around that city, they numbered a former governor and several other legislators among their ancestors. Their holdings extended to property in New Orleans, and they were always prominent among the plantation families who came to the Crescent City for the winter season.
“Ward Dunbar, at your service.”
“Of the Mississippi Dunbars?”
“No,” he answered, his features hardening. He pushed the coffee pot nearer to the fire, then drew back from its glowing heat.
He obviously wanted to close the subject. It pleased Serena therefore to keep it open. “Odd. I could have sworn your accent was from that region.”
“You are mistaken.”
The more he denied it, the more certain Serena was that he lied. “Am I?” she queried, tilting her head to one side.
“I am a citizen of Cripple Creek, Colorado, the proprietor, with my partner, of the Eldorado Saloon and gambling hell, nothing more.”
“A gambler?” She could not keep the blankness out of her voice.
“Just so.”
“Not for long, I think. I was under the impression the gold strike in Cripple Creek was under three years old.”
“That can be a long time.”
“Surely before you came here you lived somewhere else?”
“No,” he said, a single, uncompromising syllable.
“I see. Can it be that it is not only a certain type of female who finds a change of name expedient in Colorado?”
He sent her a
shuttered glance, his green eyes dark. “No,” he said shortly. “Stained or unstained, the name is mine. I have no need of any other.”
With a lithe movement, he came to his feet. He turned to his gear and took out a nosebag and a sack half full of feed. With them dangling from his hard fingers, he moved off to feed the horses.
Serena threw back her quilt and stood up, trying to shake the wrinkles from her dress. It did little good. They were pressed into the material by dampness and her restless turnings in the night. In her trunk was a hairbrush, and she longed to use it to bring order to her tumbled curls, but she refused to give Ward Dunbar, if that was his name, the satisfaction of thinking she was trying to improve her appearance for the sake of his good opinion. With the increase of daylight it was possible to see a small sinkhole of water a short distance away, half hidden by a swale in the gently rolling prairie. She bent to retrieve her shawl from where it lay tangled in her quilt, swung it around her, and started toward the water.
When she returned, Ward had bacon sizzling in the pan. He looked up at her approach.
“How good are you at mixing flapjacks?” he asked.
“Passable,” she replied.
“Good.” He nodded in the direction of a can of flour.
They finished eating and wiped out the utensils with sand before rinsing them clean. Serena folded her quilt and packed it away, and shook out the oilskin that had protected her from the wet ground. With swift, competent movements, Ward was packing his gear. Folding the oilskin, Serena stepped around the smoldering fire and handed it to him. He flicked her a quick look as he took it from her, but said nothing.
Serena clutched at her shawl, half turning to look at her trunk. Her gaze moved to the long, winding wagon trail and the distant line of the mountains shimmering in the sun. To one side stood the horses, one of them saddled. They stomped to dislodge a cloud of clinging gnats, blowing through their noses at the delay in getting started.
Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2 Page 91