by Pam Crooks
“If I return home, these past days will have been a total waste of time, and it may be too late already, and--”
“Carleigh, the decision has been made for you.” Signalling an end to the conversation, he removed the rope from around her. “Now get Spencer and put him in here.” He opened his leather bag, tied with a bedroll behind the cantle.
Her glance settled on her dog. She lifted him up and tucked him gently into the bag. He took to his new quarters without complaint, and within moments, his eyes closed for a nap.
Trig looped the lariat and re-hooked it to the saddle horn, then shifted, making room for her. He waited.
Moments passed. She folded her arms tight about her. Her glance skittered away.
“I can’t do this,” she said finally.
“What? Ride with me?”
“Yes.”
He thought of the night just passed, of the passion which had exploded hot and fast between them. He thought of how he’d wanted her as soon as he entered their hotel room, an unplanned and fierce need to strike back at Judge Chandler where he’d hurt the most. But she’d been so hauntingly beautiful, so gut-wrenching vulnerable, the tables reversed beyond his control and he’d wanted her just for himself.
He thought, too, of the pain that passion and need had caused her. The cost of all she’d given him.
“We can’t change what happened between us, Carleigh. Nor would I want to,” he said. “But if it’s any consolation to you, I’ve never bedded a woman on the back of a horse.”
A blush sprang to her cheeks. “There’s no need to be crude, Mr. Mathison.”
“I’m just telling you how it is, plain and simple.” He slid his foot from the stirrup. “And if I have to tell you one more time to get in the saddle with me, I’ll haul you up here myself, if I have to drag you by the hair to do it.”
She huffed a breath, lifted her chin in a show of that indignant pride he’d come to recognize in her. “All right, then. But heed me well. I’m no meek little lamb. Regardless of what my father wants, I still have every intention of finding my mother. I’ll not make this trip easy for you.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “You haven’t so far, have you?”
“One more thing.”
Keenly aware of her dawdling, of her need to lay a few ground rules, he said nothing and listened.
“Do not touch me. Anywhere. You’d best behave like a gentleman or I’ll—I’ll--”
“You’ll do what, Carleigh?” he taunted softly.
She swung her head. “You don’t want to find out.”
Irrational annoyance shot through him. He doubted she had a plan of any kind against him, but obviously the thought of him touching her repulsed her so much she felt compelled to threaten him with one.
“You didn’t mind me touching you last night,” he purred, compelled to do a little reminding of his own. “In places a hell of a lot more private than what we could do on this horse.”
She sucked in a breath, her cheeks blazing again. “What an awful man you are! How could Papa ever think to hire you?”
“I told you. I’m good at what I do.”
Her lips thinned. The double innuendo had not been lost on her, and Trig took satisfaction from it.
But she made no further comment and swept aside her skirts, jabbed her foot into the stirrup and lifted herself onto the horse. She flounced into the saddle with a cluck of her tongue, an indication of the pique which simmered inside her.
Trig reached for the reins, his chest pressing against her back. She stiffened and leaned away from him.
“You’re going to wear yourself out fighting me all the time, Carleigh.” He laced the leather through his fingers, pushed his foot into the stirrup again, and settled in for the ride. “Once you accept the way things have to be, life will be easier for both of us.”
She angled her head toward him and tossed him an impertinent glance. Her hat, a busy contraption of ribbon and tiny silk flowers, bumped him in the chin in the process.
“I have no intention of making your life easy through any of this, Mr. Mathison.”
It rankled she still addressed him formally when he rather liked the sound of his name rolling off her tongue, as it had last night. He lifted a hand to the top of her head, plucked out her sequined hat pin, and sent both pin and hat sailing toward the side of the road.
Her hand flew to her hair, and she gasped as the hat dropped to the dirt. “How dare you! That’s one of my favorites!”
“Damn thing’s in the way and serves no purpose. We’ll get you a wider brimmed one when we get back to Visalia. You’ll need something to shade you from the sun.”
She pouted at the loss, but seemed to understand his reasoning.
Grateful for one of life’s little victories, Trig turned the gelding northward and set his sights for San Francisco.
Carleigh awakened slowly and clawed her way through the lethargy. Warmth soaked into her, surrounding her, lulling her. Awareness crept in of the body she leaned against, the solid chest at her back, the hand in her lap, holding the reins.
Her lashes fluttered open. She had fallen asleep against him. Her head was nestled at his shoulder near the curve of his neck. His jaw touched her temple now and again, whenever the rocking of the horse’s gait prompted it. Her feet dangled near his booted ones, snug in the stirrups.
It had never been her way to awaken from sleep quickly, and she resisted waking fully now. She was far more content to remain just as she was. Comfortable. Warm. And safe.
She’d been so tired. Her mind wearied of the worries of finding her way to Mexico, and she nodded off more than once. Had it been Trig who pulled her gently against him? Or had her own body betrayed her, seeking the strength of his?
Evidently, she’d slept for several hours. Dusk had already fallen, and they were miles from civilization. She couldn’t see light from a single farmhouse, let alone a town.
They would have to stop soon, she knew. The night would steal away what little of the dusk remained, and the gelding needed to rest.
The scent of tobacco hovered in the air. Trig’s arm moved, and he flicked a cigarette butt into the deepening dusk. Carleigh’s gaze followed the tiny glow, her head turning against his shoulder as it descended somewhere in the distance.
She sensed his glance upon her, his realization she no longer slept.
“I was just going to wake you,” he murmured. “We have to make camp.”
His mouth was but an inch or two away from the tip of her nose. Their close proximity reminded her of her demands that he not touch her, but here she was, relaxed against him.
And liking it.
“Yes.” She dragged her gaze away and sat up so she wouldn’t touch him anymore.
He pulled up near a stand of oak and aspen trees, then dismounted. She moved to follow, but his hands were at her waist before she could prevent it, and he swung her down to the ground. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and his grasp tightened on her waist, steadying her.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she lied. “I’m fine.”
“After you move around a little, the stiffness will work itself out.”
“Of course it will.” She detested her weakness when he seemed completely unaffected from being in the saddle so long. “I’m fine. Really.”
Needing to prove it to him, she stepped away with as much dignity as she could manage. He kept a hand at her waist as though to assure himself she wouldn’t stumble, and when she didn’t, he released her. He kept a wary eye on her as he led the gelding from the road toward the trees.
He probably worried she would try to escape him again, Carleigh thought, peevish. But the time wasn’t right.
Not yet.
She followed him, and as he predicted, her muscles loosened. He halted in a small clearing and tied the horse’s reins around the trunk of one of the oaks.
Carleigh swept a glance around the area and frowned. “This is where we’ll stay tonight?”
“Yes.”
Her head tilted back. She studied the thick foliage of the branches overhead; her scrutiny lowered to the ground, scattered with pine needles and oak leaves, bits of wood and a sparse growth of weeds. Her frown deepened.
“Ever sleep outside before?” he asked, still watching her.
“Never.”
“Not even when you were a kid?”
“No. Papa wouldn’t have allowed it if I’d asked. Which I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
She considered him. “Why would I? A bed is much more comfortable than the hard ground. And it’s often quite cold at night.”
He grunted, as if amazed she’d never done such a thing. “Feels good to sleep out in the open and breathe in fresh air. Staring up at the stars can help clear a man’s head. I’ve solved my share of problems over the years just by looking at starlight.”
Her mouth pursed. His words did little to salve her apprehension.
“Consider this an adventure,” he added drily.
“An adventure.”
“My brother—.” He stopped. “Never mind.”
For reasons of his own, he decided against saying whatever he intended to say and dipped into the leather bag behind the saddle instead. He scooped Spencer out, balancing the white, furry body in the palm of his hand, and extended his long arm toward her. “Here’s your dog.”
Carleigh took her pet and cuddled him close.
“What a good boy you are,” she whispered and dropped kisses to the top of his silky head. He yawned and stretched, then licked her chin.
“Take him by the trees to piss.” Trig unfastened the bag and tossed it to the ground. “He’s been cooped up awhile.”
A tiny burst of rebellion went through her. She didn’t need Trig Mathison to tell her when or where Spencer should relieve himself.
She sniffed haughtily. “‘Piss’ is such a crass little word.”
His brow rose. “And ‘pee-pee’ is better?”
She stiffened at his mockery of the term she’d used with Spencer ever since he was a puppy. To a man, she supposed, it would sound less than, well, masculine.
“It’s what he’s accustomed to,” she said finally. “He responds to it.”
“Call it whatever you want. Just make him go.” Trig loomed before her, tall and powerful, and her heart skittered with a fast beat. He stood so close, he forced her to look up at him when every fiber of her being warned to keep as much space as possible between them.
But she stood her ground and met his taunting gaze with her own.
“And while you’re at it, Miss Chandler, you might want to give yourself some privacy as well. I promise I won’t watch.”
She rolled her eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
She’d not thought of what she’d have to do in that regard. Her appalled gaze flew to the shadows of the aspens and oaks. How was she supposed to . . . ?
“You’ll figure it out,” he murmured.
She’d never done such an uncivilized thing in all her days. What would Luann think?
Or Papa?
A lavatory had never been a luxury until this moment. She’d taken them for granted her entire life. Even the primitive outhouses used at the stagecoach relay stations were preferable to nothing at all.
But if Trig took their lack of facilities in stride and without embarrassment, then she would have to as well.
“When you’re through, gather up some of these dead branches lying around here,” Trig said, moving away to untie the bedroll and remove it from the back of his horse. “I’ll build a fire. It’ll be pitch dark soon.”
Carleigh set Spencer down and hurried him through his duty. Thankfully, she had no need of her own to answer nature’s call, and she was only too happy to delay the venture until later.
Spencer frolicked in the clearing while she collected the wood, her protective gaze straying to him often. He showed no inclination to leave them for adventures beyond his boundaries and seemed happy enough to dart back and forth, his curiosity boundless in all he saw.
But it was Trig he favored most of all. Jealousy nipped at Carleigh that her cherished pet paid so little mind to her, when Trig only seemed to nudge him away whenever he got too close.
She set the last of the twigs and branches on the heap she’d already gathered. Trig indicated the bedroll behind her.
“There’s a blanket with a canvas tarp rolled inside. Spread them out next to that tree and sit on them if you want. It’ll take a few minutes to get the fire going and heat up some beans for supper,” he said.
He cleared an area of dried leaves and brush, then scraped the surface of the soil into a circle several feet in diameter. With the efficiency of a man who had done the task many times over, he arranged the tinder and a few sticks of kindling into a cone shape. He took a match from his shirt pocket, struck a flame and fired the cone’s center. Before long, the fire hissed and snapped, and the golden glow reached out toward her, chasing away the growing chill of the evening.
But not thoughts of him. He seemed at ease with the land, with all nature offered, and he used them with skill. Clearly, he’d spent many nights outside.
Why?
Did he have a wife who waited for him? Children? Did he have a home of his own?
He had a father. That she knew. And a brother, too, evidently.
How had Papa become acquainted with him? And why, other than to hire him to bring her back to San Francisco?
Carleigh arranged the bedding and sank on top of the wool blanket, as he’d bidden her to do. She rested her chin on her drawn-up knees.
“Who are you, Trig Mathison?” she asked quietly.
He paused, a tin of beans in one hand. “Does it matter?”
“If I’m to be alone with you like this, then, yes, it does. Very much.”
He set the tin down, took another from his leather bag. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Should I be?”
He unsheathed a bowie knife from his waist, plunged the gleaming blade into the top of the can, wrenched it open. “No.”
A wild vision of him sinking that knife into her reared ugly and vivid in her brain. She hid her alarm.
They were out in the middle of the California wilderness. No one would hear her screams if he tried to kill her. She wouldn’t have a chance against him.
Not a single, pathetic chance.
“You’re safe with me, Carleigh,” he said, opening the second can the same way as the first. “So long as you do what I tell you.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s the truth.”
“But I wasn’t safe with you last night, was I?”
The soft-spoken words were out before she could stop them. In the glow of the campfire, his shadowed gaze glittered over her.
“Don't expect me to apologize. I don't regret what happened between us,” he said.
Did she? He’d revealed to her the intimacies a man shared with a woman. The bone-melting pleasure of them. She recalled the taste of him on her lips, the gentleness of his hands upon her body.
The truth of it rang clear in her mind. He had been gentle, and she’d felt incredibly safe, as much then as this afternoon, when she’d fallen asleep against him on his horse.
“Might as well get one thing clear, Carleigh, since you brought the matter up,” he said, setting the beans near the flames to heat. “There’s only one bedroll. And you’ll be sharing it with me. You’d best get used to the idea now so you’re not fighting me on it later.”
All her trepidation flooded back in a rush. Her head lifted. “I can’t sleep with you. I refuse. I’ve done everything else you’ve demanded of me, but I will absolutely draw the line at that.”
“You don’t have a choice. Not if I’m to keep an eye on you. Besides, it’ll be a hell of a lot warmer for both of us. Nights get cold this time of year.”
Her pulse pattered at the thought of him crowded next to her beneath a bla
nket.
Until she reminded herself of her plan to escape him. And relief swarmed through her.
She wouldn’t be sleeping with him, after all.
He’d find that out soon enough.
Chapter 6
Evidently, he took her silence for her agreement.
He couldn’t have been more wrong. Carleigh simply knew when she should voice her objections and when she should keep her mouth shut.
And now was definitely the time to keep it shut. Let him think she accepted his announcement of sleeping arrangements as if they were no more than casual lovers.
Well, they had been. Last night. But no more. Not ever again.
“You got anything for your dog to eat?” Trig squatted on his heels before the fire, one muscular arm draped across a knee.
His question pulled her from her reverie; she emitted a soft moan of dismay.
“His food is in my satchel,” she said, the vision of the Wells Fargo leaving her behind still too fresh in her memory. “I only have a few pieces of biscuit left in my coat pocket.” Her worried glance touched on Spencer, sniffing around the cans Trig had opened.
Trig pulled him back when he ventured too close to the fire and sent him scampering toward Carleigh with a firm nudge on his back end. He handed her a thin can. “Give him some sardines, then. He’s hungry.”
“Thank you. Poor baby.” Carleigh shifted to her knees and accepted the tin. She took the small pocket knife she always used to break up Spencer’s food, as well as the last of the biscuits, from her pocket. She cut the sardines into bite-size chunks, added the biscuits, and Spencer dug into his meal with relish.
“Have you eaten since you left the hotel?” Trig asked.
She thought of those frantic moments after she slipped away from their room, of how she’d stolen into the public lavatory and changed from her wrapper into her dress, of how she’d hidden the room keys deep in the soil of the nearest potted plant and dashed outside to the stagecoach office to wait for the Wells Fargo.
And how afraid she’d been that Trig would discover her gone and come racing after her.
Eating had been the farthest thing from her mind. She couldn’t have managed it if she tried.