In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “No,” she said.

  He took the can of beans from the fire, wrapped a bandanna around the hot tin, and handed it to her, along with a fork. “They’re not fancy, but they’ll stick to your ribs.”

  She peered into the can’s contents. Though they did little to tempt her palate, the beans held more appeal than the fare she’d been forced to down at stagecoach relay stations this past week. She took a forkful right from the container and swallowed them down.

  She noticed he took none of the beans or sardines for himself and halted, her fork in mid-air. “Is there nothing more in your leather bag to eat?”

  Trig pulled out a small paper-wrapped bundle and withdrew a piece of dried meat. After wadding up the paper and throwing into the fire, he bit off a piece.

  “This is it, Carleigh. The last of our supplies.”

  He didn’t seem particularly concerned with the dilemma, but new seeds of worry sprouted inside her. What would they survive on?

  “I see.” She experienced a twinge of guilt that she ate when he had so little. The jerky couldn’t possibly fill his male stomach. “I’ll share the beans with you, then.”

  “There’s barely enough there to feed you, let alone me. Eat ‘em.”

  “But--”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  She eyed him with doubt, but he was emphatic. She said nothing more and reluctantly took another bite.

  Still hunkered by the fire, he regarded her for a long moment, and she wondered what he was thinking.

  “You’re good at locking a man inside his room,” he said finally. “How did you learn to tie a lashing like you did?”

  “A friend taught me.”

  Actually, Pierre had been an adventurous seaman in his younger days. He worked as groundskeeper for her father, a position he held since shortly after she was born, and she loved him more than anything. As much as Luann.

  Her heart ached thinking of them. They’d both be beside themselves with worry about her.

  “If I was so good at locking you in, how did you get out?” She forced her thoughts back to the conversation.

  “Shot the lock off. Not as clean as using a key, but effective nevertheless. Imagine my frustration when the door still wouldn’t open.”

  She peeped at him through her lashes. “I hope I didn’t inconvenience you overmuch?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “And the sconce?”

  “Pulled the damn thing right off the wall.”

  Her eyes widened. “I’m sure your fellow guests didn’t appreciate your disorderly behavior.”

  “The proprietor appreciated it even less than they did. Threatened to have me arrested unless I took care of the damages. Called the sheriff in to make sure I did. Of course, since you’d stolen my money, paying for anything was hard to do.”

  “And then?” Carleigh asked, intrigued in spite of herself.

  He took another bite of jerky. “A wire to your father took care of the matter, but he wasn’t happy to learn you’d escaped me.”

  “I’m sure not.” Carleigh shivered. Papa’s wrath could be formidable at times.

  “So now you’ll understand why I didn’t buy supplies.” He rose to his full height, and Carleigh’s head tilted, following him up. “The beans will hold you over until I get back, but we need more food to eat. I have to hunt for game.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.” He strode over to the gelding, unhooked the rope from the saddle horn. He squatted next to Spencer, trotting right behind him, and knotted one end of the rope through his leather collar. “I’m tying him to you so he doesn’t run off.” He stepped toward her, unrolled the hemp and brought Spencer with him as he went. Taking the can from her, he grasped her wrists, tied them together and did the same to her ankles, working so quickly she was too shocked to think to resist. “And I’m tying the both of you to this tree.” He pulled her back against the oak’s trunk and looped the rope snug around her shoulders and waist. After he moved somewhere behind her, the rope went taut.

  Her shock flamed into outrage. “How dare you!”

  He appeared in front of her again. “Insurance you’ll stay put until I get back.”

  “How dare you!” She writhed, pulled, kicked, but the more she fought, the more the bindings burned against her skin.

  “I’ve learned a few knots myself, Carleigh. You’re lashed to the tree tight. Save yourself some trouble and just rest until I get back. You won’t be going anywhere until I do.”

  Her plan to escape him flashed in her brain. How could she leave when he’d trussed her like a slab of meat in a smokehouse?

  “I won’t be gone long,” he said, swinging up into the gelding’s saddle. “And I’m not going far. Your dog’s with you. The fire will keep you warm, and it’ll keep stray animals away.”

  He pulled his rifle from the scabbard, swept one last look over her and left. Disappeared beyond the trees into the darkness without a single good-by or backward glance in her direction.

  Stunned, Carleigh stared after him, her ears strained to the sound of hoof beats fading in the distance. Spencer stared, too, his tail wagging, his stance hopeful of Trig’s sudden reappearance.

  She was alone. Carleigh sagged backward against the tree. He’d given her the perfect opportunity to escape him.

  And now she couldn’t.

  Despair washed over her. The battle to find her mother was never-ending. She hovered on the edge of tears from the futility, the frustration. The failure.

  Trig was a formidable warrior. Her enemy. How could she ever win over him? One skirmish won resulted in two more she had to fight. Her cosseted upbringing had never prepared her for combat, left her unarmed and vulnerable for defeat.

  She’d never known a man so hard. Or determined.

  Blinking frantically at the moisture gathering beneath her eyelids, she peered upward through the branches to the snippets of star-studded sky.

  But then, Trig had as much at stake as she did. The realization sailed into her self-pity. Because of Papa’s blackmail. Trig was driven by his need to return home to his father. He worried for his welfare. What kind of man would he be if he didn’t?

  What kind of son?

  Why would Papa blackmail him? Why was it so important she be kept from her mother? Why did he victimize Trig and his father to ensure it?

  She had no answers, could think of no reason worthy enough for the treachery, and she would never forgive Papa, no matter what.

  Anguish burned and swelled within her. How could she continue her flight to Mexico without hurting both of the Mathison men? And yet . . ..

  And yet, if she didn’t go, she might never see her mother. Ever. Trig had known his father his entire life. Carleigh had only known her mother for the span of minutes it had taken to read her letter.

  She had to go.

  She had to continue her way whether Trig came after her or not, and she strained against the rope with renewed vigor. Trig would only despise her all the more for her selfishness, and most likely the elder Mathison would, too, but God forgive her, there was no help for it. She could only hope and pray Trig’s father would not suffer further because of her decision.

  Yet where her resolve surged strong, the rope remained as unyielding as ever. Carleigh’s desperate glance swept the ground around her for a piece of tin, a sharp stick, anything to cut through the hemp.

  The firelight glinted off her pocket knife. She’d forgotten it completely, but there it was, right next to the can of sardines, half-hidden in the dirt and leaves and in the same place she’d left it when she fed Spencer.

  It looked hopelessly out of reach. She wriggled her body around on the blanket, stretching her legs out as far as the rope would allow. Her wrists and ankles felt on fire from the hemp’s bite, but she groaned and gasped and stretched until she caught the knife with the toe of her shoe. Holding her breath, she managed to nudge it closer, then closer still, until she could sit up and reach it with her tied
hands.

  Her fingers closed around the metal in triumph. With Spencer curious beside her, she positioned the blade and slid it back and forth against the bindings on her wrists, dropping it repeatedly but picking it up again and again, until at last, at last, the strands split apart, and she was free.

  Carleigh’s breaths came in quick pants. She was frantic that Trig would return now, after all she’d done to free herself, and her fingers clawed, tugged, pulled at the rope around her ankles, loosening it so that it sagged limp to the ground.

  Carleigh dropped the knife into her pocket and bolted to her feet. Keeping the length attached to Spencer’s collar for a leash, she swept him into her arms and dashed out of the clearing, past the trees, and into the darkness, leaving the glow and warmth of the campfire behind.

  She ran. As far and as fast as she could through the tall grasses, up swells of bluffs and around shrubs of mesquite. She ran until she couldn’t catch her breath, until her legs threatened to give way, until she simply couldn’t go any further.

  She stopped, sucked in great gulps of air. Spencer barked and wriggled in her arms, a protest at how tightly she held him. Clutching the rope which would keep him at her side, she set him down to sniff voraciously at their new surroundings.

  Carleigh stabbed a glance behind her. There was no sign of Trig. Not the slightest sound broke the silence except her own frantic breathing. She swiped at the sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

  She did it. She’d escaped him. Again.

  Her gaze sought the black sky, the full moon and the bright speckles of starlight surrounding it. She searched for the Big Dipper with its pair of stars pointing to Polaris, as Pierre had taught her to do. The North Star. With that as a focal point, she would find her way south.

  Not daring to linger, she picked Spencer up and took off again, sprinting over the uneven ground, avoiding the road and keeping to the shadows. She would run all night, if she could. She didn’t want to spare a single minute to rest.

  But, too soon, fatigue began to take its toll. Neither her strolls in the garden nor her leisurely walks in the San Francisco parks could have prepared her for a desperate flight into the rough terrain of the California wilderness.

  Carleigh simply had to rest. A few minutes, she told herself. No more. Just long enough to ease the fire in her lungs and soothe the ache in her legs.

  She stumbled to a halt. She hardly had the strength to hold Spencer any longer. She lowered him to the ground and crumpled to her knees beside him.

  Her tongue felt dry in her mouth. She would have to find them water to drink, as well as food. Just as pressing, they needed some place to sleep where Trig wouldn’t find them.

  Trig.

  Carleigh didn’t want to think of him, of what he’d do when he discovered her gone. And she didn’t want to think of the meat he would have brought back with him, of how her belly could be full and satisfied right now if she hadn’t escaped. She’d be warm, too, from the fire he built. No longer thirsty. And safe.

  Carleigh couldn’t help not thinking of all those things.

  Her gaze swept the darkness behind her. He was somewhere out there, she knew. Determined to find her. She wondered how close he might be, how soon until he came upon her.

  She had to keep moving. No matter how many miles she’d come so far, it wasn’t enough, and she had so many more to travel before she arrived in Mexico.

  She dragged herself to her feet, tugged on her dog’s leash, and urged him forward. She forced her muscles to move, even though they moaned and creaked from the effort. The thin soles of her shoes proved a poor barrier against the rocks and pebbles beneath them, but she ignored the discomfort and started walking again.

  Even before he rode into the clearing, even before he saw the rope hanging limp and abandoned on the oak tree, Trig knew she was gone.

  Alerted by the stark silence, his instincts kicked in while he was still a short distance from camp. That dog of hers should have started yipping as soon as he caught wind of Trig’s approach.

  His blood ran cold. He spurred the gelding into a faster lope, and they burst through the stand of trees. Trig pierced a sharp gaze into every shadow cast by the campfire and found no sign of her.

  The first bite of fear gnawed into him. She hadn’t taken anything with her, not even the half-eaten can of beans. His leather bag sat on the ground, right where he’d left it. Didn’t she even think to steal his bedroll to keep herself warm?

  He dismounted and broke camp quickly, gathered his few belongings and doused the campfire before he re-mounted. His mind warred with the anger of her escape and his own inability to prevent it. He underestimated her need to find her mother; he failed in fathoming the depth of it.

  Trig had no tolerance for mistakes. Especially his own. The very real possibility Carleigh could be lost, or hurt, scared the hell out of him. He would be responsible.

  Finding her this time wouldn’t be easy. Not with the loss of daylight and the ability to track her flight. She could wander out in the wilderness for days before he found her, and by then, it might be too late.

  Closing his mind to the threat of wild animals, to the deepening cold and her inexperience, he dug his heels into the horse’s ribs and tore southward into the California night after her.

  Carleigh’s foot dropped into a burrow, and she cried out.

  She hit the ground hard, scraping her palms against the rocks in the dirt. Pain flashed in her ankle, and she rubbed at the injury with a gasp.

  She prayed a bone wasn’t broken. Oh, God, what would she do then? The thought horrified her, but a tentative test of the joint indicated she most likely sprained it, and she released a slow breath of relief.

  Still, the fall convinced her she had to stop for a few hours. Exhaustion dulled her mind; the cold numbed her toes and fingers. Dawn couldn’t be too far away, could it? She would find a sparkling stream to drink from far better in daylight. Maybe even a small town in the distance. But given the rumble in her stomach, she’d settle for a single farmhouse, one where she could beg a simple meal.

  The thought sobered her. Carleigh had never begged for a thing in all her life. She would offer payment, of course, and a promise to send compensation when she could. Her pride would take a beating, but she had little choice.

  The plan gave her direction. Hope and focus.

  A portion of her worries dissipated. Spencer growled, and they all hurtled back again. Fine hairs rose on the back of Carleigh’s neck, and her alarmed gaze probed the darkness.

  She froze.

  Three menacing coyotes glared at her. The breeze ruffled their gray coats; their tongues dangled from their mouths. Though they kept their distance with no apparent inclination to attack, she searched frantically for some type of weapon to defend herself in case they did.

  She spied a sturdy stick, several feet long, and she scrambled on her hands and knees to grab it. Spencer growled again, and she grabbed him, too, clutching his quivering body tight against her.

  She stared where he did. In the chaparral. The faint moonlight caught the bead of a pair of eyes watching her.

  Carleigh whimpered in renewed fear. She scooted backward, carefully, wary this new predator might attack if she moved too quickly. She inched her way toward the protection of an aspen, and when she felt its prickly, low-lying branches against her, she scurried beneath them and huddled against the trunk.

  The foliage banked much of the moonlight. An even deeper darkness than before surrounded her, but at least the haven provided a barrier against an assault. Her fingers held her weapon in a taut grip, her senses acute to movement or sound.

  A horde of birds sharing the tree squawked in protest at the intrusion. Wings flapped and snapped above her. Carleigh jerked her head to see them, but after a few moments, they were gone. She eased back against the trunk.

  One of the coyotes howled, an eerie, warbling sound. Another answered, and this one sounded closer. Or did it? She strained to see through the l
atticework of branches. Whatever beast hid in the chaparral must have left for more interesting quarry. Even Spencer had quieted against her.

  Still, Carleigh couldn’t relax, and for the first time since she escaped Trig, she began to realize she’d made a foolish mistake in leaving him.

  Leaning over the side of his horse, his eyes to the ground, he studied the tracks in the early morning light. Two sets, twin in their direction. One made by a small foot, the other so faint he could hardly discern them.

  But Trig held no doubt they belonged to Carleigh’s dog. He followed their trail until one set disappeared, and it was there, he knew, she stopped to carry him.

  Trig dismounted, squatted next to the markings. By gauging the short distance between her prints, he could tell she was exhausted.

  Little wonder. She’d come a hell of a long way. His fingers traced the shape of the print in the sandy soil. The ground had been slightly damp when she walked on it and had given way fairly easily. Now, with the sun rising higher in the sky, burning off the moisture, the print was more firm. He poked the dirt, noted the remaining dampness and figured she’d been through several hours earlier.

  He straightened. Her course remained constant in its southern direction. He’d give her that much.

  But she’d chosen damned difficult terrain to walk over, when anyone else would take a road as the obvious—and easiest—course. She’d gone to great lengths to ensure he didn’t find her.

  Grimly, he re-mounted the gelding and reined in the worry plaguing him. Well, he would find her. Soon. And he could only hope she was still alive when he did.

  Carleigh forced herself to come awake, to shake off the drugging fatigue and regain her senses. Sunlight peeked in through the aspen’s branches, and she remembered where she was and why.

  Thank God it was morning.

  The night had been a frightening mix of cold and unfamiliar sounds. A thousand times, she wondered if she’d survive. A thousand times more, she questioned the wisdom of what she’d done. But she had only to think of her mother, of getting to Mexico as fast as she could, and the fear and discomfort lessened.