Christie searched frantically for the rifle, then spotted it leaning against the boulder where she’d left it.
Terror clutched her.
She forgot to breathe.
Then, self-preservation took hold. She remembered the derringer. She slid her hand inside the pocket of her cloak, fumbling for the gun.
When he edged his horse closer, she was ready.
She raised the derringer and leveled it at his head. “Don’t come any closer!”
He showed no surprise. Instead, a broad grin spread over his face. He spoke to her in perfect English. “Nat was right, you are a little spitfire.”
Relief washed over her like cool water. “You’re a friend of Mr. Randall?” she blurted.
He gave a curt nod. “He sent me to fetch you.”
“Oh!” Her cheeks suffused with the heat. He’d come to help her and here she was staring at him as though he was a monster. What must he think? “What about my cousin? Is he with him? Is he alright?”
“I expect he’ll be fine.”
She took a great gulp of air. After being starved for air for so long, the fresh rush of oxygen made her head spin. She lowered the gun with a shaky hand. Her legs felt like rubber. It was all she could do not to sob with relief. If her father were there, she’d have thrown herself against his big barrel chest and hugged him hard until the feeling went away. But he wasn’t there. She was alone, so she had to be strong. He would want her to be strong. ‘Only ninnies blubber,’ he’d say. So she never did.
“I’m not a ninny,” she whispered. Then why are you talking to yourself? A little devil voice whispered back as she slipped the gun back into her pocket.
When she raised her head, the man was looking at her with interest. “You should sit down. You look a bit peaked.”
She squared her shoulders and forced a small, polite smile. “I’m quite fine, thank you. Please, take me to my cousin.”
He nodded.
Christie wasted no time hoisting herself up onto Blossom’s back, feeling an urgent need to see Leigh and know that he was alive.
Nat’s friend took the black gelding’s reins.
Christie followed behind.
As they picked their way down the hill, it struck her as strange that Nat hadn’t come himself. His friend said Leigh would be fine — not that he was fine. Had he been injured? The closer they got to the shack, the more anxious she became.
By the time Nat’s friend pushed opened the rickety plank door, she was bristling with impatience — ready to take charge. She squeezed by him before he could get through the door.
A crimson pool on the floor brought her to a stumbling halt. She’d never seen so much blood. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air.
Someone had been shot.
Her anxious gaze darted about the small shack. When she spotted Leigh, her heart beat in frantic relief. He sat by a small table on a crude bench with his arm in a makeshift sling.
Christie rushed forward to throw her arms around his neck. “Leigh! Are you alright?”
He groaned in protest, but brought his good arm up to give her a reassuring pat. “I’ll live.”
“He just threw his shoulder out of joint,” Nat drawled. “Though you’d have thought he’d been shot the way he was hollering when I fixed it.”
“You might have warned me before you did it!” Leigh shouted over her shoulder. “You loco bastard!”
Christie swung round to give the bounty hunter an accusing glare.
Nat shrugged, then sent a sidelong glance to his friend. “Holt throws his shoulder out all the time — pops it right back in himself.”
“Holt!” Leigh gave a loud snort. “What kind of a name is that for an Indian?”
Holt’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “The kind my white father gave me when I was born.”
This information caused Christie to give him a closer look. Though his features were slightly exotic, he looked more white than Indian in the soft glow of the lantern-lit room. His eyes were hazel, not brown, and his hair wavy, rather than perfectly straight. If you were to cut his hair and put him in a frock coat, he could easily walk the length of any drawing room in Boston without anyone blinking an eye.
“Don’t let him kid you.” Nat gave a low chuckle. “His father’s more of a savage than his Cherokee mother ever was.”
Christie turned to Leigh with her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you know who these men were? You might have been killed.”
“Like I told Randall, they had me over a barrel.” Leigh’s voice held a hint of a whine. “I didn’t have any choice. It was the only way I could repay my gambling debt.”
Christie stared at him aghast. “Why would you gamble with men like that in the first place?”
“They didn’t give their names, and I didn’t ask. They said they were just killing time until the post office opened. I didn’t know they were planning to rob the place!”
Christie shook her head, not knowing whether to believe him or not.
“I’m telling the truth!”
She raised her eyes heavenward and heaved a great sigh. “We need to get you home.” She was weary of intrigue. Right now she didn’t care if he was lying or not. All she wanted was to crawl into a nice warm bed, where she could pretend she was still in Boston — safe from outlaws and gunfire. “If you gentlemen could help him up on my horse, we’ll be on our way.”
“That little mare can’t carry you both,” Nat said with a note of irritation.
“I don’t mind walking,” she said stoutly.
“You can ride with me.” He didn’t sound pleased.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.
Again, he ignored her as if she hadn’t spoken. “We’d best be on our way. I’d like a few hours of shut-eye before we set out.”
“Fine chance of you catching up with them now.” Leigh’s voice was laced with disgust. “They’ll be half way to California before you can shake out your bedroll.”
The bounty hunter sent him a look that could freeze water. “They won’t get far in the dark, not with one of them wounded.”
When Leigh opened his mouth to reply, Christie glared him to silence. These men saved his life. The least he could do was to maintain a respectful civility. As far as she was concerned, these bounty hunters were the next best thing to outlaws. The blood on the floor gave evidence of that. She had no wish to rile them.
She helped Leigh to his feet, trying to ignore his winces of pain.
He shrugged off her arm to stumble to the door by himself. Fortunately, he made it to the horses without incident, other than a low grunt of pain that slipped passed his lips when Holt boosted him up into the saddle.
Christie was past offering any words of sympathy. She was too busy worrying about her own predicament. The thought of riding in the same saddle with Nat Randall made her legs go weak.
To avoid any unnecessary contact, she put her foot in the stirrup to mount before he could offer his help. But the gelding failed to co-operate. He snorted and stomped, moving sideways so that she was forced to hop on one foot to keep from falling.
“Steady, Diablo, she’s with me.” Before she knew what was happening, Nat grabbed her around the waist to plunk her in the saddle. He swung up behind her, then, with a click of his tongue set the horse in motion.
Trapped between the reins and his hard body, she forgot to breath. Something quickened inside of her. She sat stiff and straight, her eyes focused directly ahead. But with nothing to see in the darkness, her awareness of him only increased. The smell of gunpowder and leather stirred her senses, making it difficult to relax.
Eventually, the rhythmic gait of the gelding soon mended her frayed nerves. Bone tired and wracked
with cold, she longed to slump against Randall’s warm chest and sleep. But pride and years of breeding kept her upright in the saddle.
Despite her good intentions, eventually her lids grew heavy and her head began to nod. She lost track of time and place. If not for the sound of splashing water, she’d have drifted off completely. She blinked into the darkness, attempting to clear her foggy brain.
Nat had stopped by the river to let his horse drink.
She looked around for Holt and Leigh, but they were nowhere in sight.
They were alone.
That should have alarmed her — she should have offered some form of protest, but just then, she was too tired and hungry to care. The memory of a little chimney of steam rising from the overstuffed potpie Mrs. Tilley had delivered before she’d left sprang to mind. Christie’s stomach growled.
“Hungry?”
“No!” She lied.
“Here.” He reached into his saddlebag then thrust a piece of beef jerky into her hand. “Eat this.”
His impatient tone grated. If she wasn’t so hungry, she’d have handed it right back. But that would be foolish. Giving into her pride might douse the flames in her cheeks, but it wouldn’t fill the hole in her belly. She bit down on the hard strip, imagining it was him she was sinking her teeth into. It had the texture of an old shoe, but tasted surprisingly flavorful. She wondered how closely Nat Randall fit the same description.
She swallowed the last of it then smiled into the darkness. This was the first time she’d likened a man to beef jerky. Well, if the shoe fit … Laughter bubbled up in her throat. She closed her mouth tight to stifle it, but it turned into a loud hiccup.
“Try holding your breath. That usually works for me,” he whispered close to her ear.
Rather than calming her, it had the opposite effect. Another spasm wracked her. She hiccupped even louder. “It must have been the beef jerky.” She took a long breath of air then held it.
He gave a grunt. “I’ve never heard tell of that.”
She let out the air she’d been holding in a loud whoosh, then hiccupped all the louder.
“Here.” He handed her his canteen. “Take a drink.”
She did.
She handed back the canteen, then hiccupped again.
He took her by the shoulders, turning her in the saddle. Before she could protest, he’d drawn her tight against him. A second later, his mouth was covering hers.
The gentle pressure of his smooth lips held her spellbound. She was too startled to think. A sweet sensation of pleasure shot through her like a bullet. A slow heat uncurled deep inside her belly. Sparks like tiny fireflies licked over her skin. The longer the kiss lasted the more befuddled she became.
Then he lifted his head.
It was over.
She felt bereft without the exquisite feel of his lips — strangely shattered.
It took a moment to restore her equilibrium, and another full moment to realize her hiccups were gone.
“Mr. Randall!”
“No need to thank me, ma’am.” He chuckled. “My pleasure.”
“Thank you!” she said with a sputter. “I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself!”
“Just trying to help.” Humor edged his words, as though he’d taken special pleasure in shocking her.
Christie raised her hand to end his cocky mood.
He grabbed it before it reached his face. “Now you don’t want to go and do that.”
“Oh yes I do!”
“Are you sure?” He said in a gentle but firm tone. “How do you know I won’t slap you right back?”
Christie gasped. “Then you are no gentleman, sir!”
He chuckled. “No, ma’am, I’m not. You best remember that.”
She jerked herself free, though her hand still itched to connect with his cheek. But she didn’t relish a long trek home in the dark, nor did she trust him not to carry out his threat. He seemed to delight in galling her.
Her back remained stiff with indignation as he steered Diablo from the water’s edge.
The rest of their journey passed in silence, giving her time to fret and brood.
No man had ever kissed her like that. Not even Robby. His kisses were sweet and gentle, not demanding or inflaming. They seemed chaste when compared to Nat Randall’s. His kiss had been more like an assault — like riding a bolt of lightning or flying down a wild river in a boat with no paddle.
Everything about him seemed wild. He wasn’t like any other man she’d met. Perhaps that was why he intrigued her — excited her, even.
Which had to be very wrong.
Heavens!
She shouldn’t have allowed him to kiss her. She’d betrayed Robby’s trust. Not purposely, but betrayed it just the same.
There was no promise between her and Robby. But she felt certain there would be, if she wished it. In fact, she was counting on it. If worse came to worst, he’d surely save her. They’d always been fast friends.
And she didn’t want anything on her conscience if that important moment finally came. Robby was the only thing standing between her and her father’s plans. Not that he need ever know about Randall kissing her. After all, it had been done for medicinal reasons, to end her hiccupping. It didn’t mean a thing.
It was only a kiss.
Of no consequence.
None at all.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Something piss in your coffee?”
Nat slashed Holt a dark look from where he stood by the fire. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation. They should have been saddled up by now! The dim light of dawn was edging over the horizon. But Nat answered just the same. “The way you make coffee, it’s hard to tell.”
Holt didn’t spare him a glance; he just kept tying his bedroll. “Fine thanks I get for making your breakfast.”
“You’ll make somebody a good wife some day.”
“Ungrateful bastard,” Holt muttered as he rose to his feet.
Nat chuckled at his sulky tone. “No, you’re the bastard, remember. I’m the prodigal son who’s been disowned.”
“Well, if you weren’t such a bastard,” Holt threw over his shoulder on the way to his horse. “Maybe you wouldn’t have been disowned.”
“Can’t argue with you there.” That’s what his father called him — a stubborn bastard. Nat took another swig from his tin mug, then tossed the rest of the coffee on the fire. Yup, no doubt about it, it was going to be a long day. He hefted Diablo’s saddle over his shoulder, resisting the urge to groan. He hadn’t felt this stiff since they were pinned down all night behind that outhouse in Virginia City. He strode to the stand of pines where the horses stood munching grass, dreading the long day ahead.
After a night spent sleeping on the hard floor of the abandoned shack, every muscle ached. Holt slept outside under a cottonwood. If he’d had any sense he would have joined him, instead of giving in to a sudden uncharacteristic urge to have a roof over his head. For once, Holt’s snoring would have been a welcome distraction. Nat usually did his thinking in the saddle, but last night his mind just wouldn’t rest.
He had Christie Wallace to thank for that. If she’d stayed in Murdock and minded her own business, he’d have gotten a damn sight more sleep. Easterners! They were more trouble than they were worth.
But he had to admire her pluck. She was a feisty bit of fluff, all cream and honey one minute and sharp claws the next. And she tasted as good as she looked.
Damned if she didn’t.
Just thinking about her made him go hard. He swung up into the saddle then shifted his position to accommodate the bulge in his trousers. He should have thrown her down in the grass and taught her what happened to unprotected virgins in the west. It would have made for a more comfortable ride this morning.<
br />
A pretty thing like her wouldn’t last long around here — so slender and elegant, like a new stalk of wheat. But she had a way of looking down her perfectly straight nose at you, lips half parted, as though she was waiting for something — as though daring you to touch her. Then, when he did, she wanted to slap his face.
The way she’d lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eye had stuck in his mind, robbing him of sleep — that, and the prospect of answering his father’s letter. He hated to put it off again. He’d like nothing better than to go home and have it out with the old man — put the past behind them once and for all. But that wasn’t possible right now.
Well, there’d be plenty of time to think about it in the hours to come. At least he’d had a good breakfast — thick slices of bacon, eggs, and biscuits. He’d made a point of relishing every mouthful. It was the last hot meal he’d eat for days. Once they closed in on the Everetts, there’d be no more fires. With any luck, they’d have the Everetts in their sights come nightfall.
Then, maybe the nightmares would finally end.
“They’re headed north,” Holt said, bringing his mustang, Caliber, up beside him. “Tracks stop a mile up river.”
“Their Aunt Bess runs a boarding house in Virginia City. My bet is they’re taking Hank there.”
Holt lifted a brow. “If he makes it that far.”
“I only winged him,” Nat said, attempting, but not quite succeeding, in keeping the irritation from his voice. “He’ll live.”
Holt continued in the same bland tone. “What happened to bringing them in alive?”
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”
“Makes no difference to me how we collect the reward.” Holt shrugged. “But if you kill them, you won’t have the satisfaction of watching them hang.”
Nat’s mouth flattened. “We tried that once before, remember? They killed the only witness we had left.”
“Well, now we’ve got us another,” Holt drawled.
Nat’s blood went hot. “I told you, she’s not testifying.”
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