In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  “Thank you.” She blew delicately, then took a small bite, her little finger in the air as if she drank from a fragile teacup. “It’s very good.”

  He resisted a mental picture of her in an elegant dining room, seated at a table laden with silver and china, drinking expensive wine and dressed in some gown with a price tag that would make most people choke.

  It was where she belonged.

  Then why did she have to look so damned beautiful in nothing but his cotton shirt eating opossum off a tin plate with her fingers?

  He shook off the thought, grunted at her compliment and reached for the rattlesnake he’d killed. “You ever eat snake before?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  His brow arched. He hadn’t expected an affirmative response. “Rather primitive for high society, isn’t it?”

  She appeared offended at his mockery. “I even know how to skin one. I’ll show you.”

  Setting the plate on the grass, she knelt beside him and took his bowie knife. After making a shallow cut near the tail, she ran the blade along the length of the belly to the neck, then slipped her finger beneath the skin and pulled downward. She cut off the tail, then sat back on her heels in triumph, the skin and meat two separate pieces.

  “I’ll be damned.” She’d done the task with such speed and skill, Trig couldn’t help staring. “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “Luann taught me.” She wiped her hands on a damp rag.

  “Luann?”

  “The woman who raised me. The mother I never had.” Once again, she refused to look at him. “Whenever Pierre would find one in the gardens, he’d bring it to her. Luann considers snake a delicacy. The three of us would have a feast afterward. Of course, Papa never knew. He would have forbidden it.”

  Trig frowned. “Why?”

  “Luann is Chinese. Even though he entrusted her with my care almost from the moment I was born, he did not abide her people’s customs.” Carleigh hesitated. “She was forced to abandon many of them because of me.”

  “You’re not to be blamed for your father’s demands on her,” he said firmly. “Why would you think you should?”

  She shrugged. “In his mind, I suppose, he had given her the privilege of raising me. In return, she was given a comfortable life and the prestige that went with being employed by a powerful judge. He wanted her to be more like me—and less Chinese.”

  Disgust churned inside Trig at Chandler’s ability to control innocent lives. From the glimpse Carleigh had given him of hers, he guessed Luann was as powerless against him as Pa had been.

  And Nathaniel.

  Grim-mouthed, Trig began cutting the snake meat into chunks. “When he discovered you missing, would he have held Luann accountable?”

  Carleigh bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

  “She must be worried sick about you.”

  “Do you think I haven’t thought about that?” Carleigh moved away from him and rose to stare beyond the creek. His gaze slid down the length of her legs, slim and shapely beyond the hem of his shirt. “No matter how selfish you must think I am, Trig, I truly believe Luann understands how important it is to me to find my mother.”

  “I don’t think you’re selfish. And of anybody, I reckon Luann would understand best, having raised you from the beginning.”

  Carleigh took a breath, let it out again. “You may as well know, too, that I have every intention of continuing my journey to Mexico. Granted, the bobcat and the rattlesnake gave me the scare of my life but I’ll crawl on my knees if I have to--.”

  “I’ll take you to Mexico, Carleigh.”

  “I know you’ll only come after me as you’ve done before, and you can tie me to every tree--.” Suddenly, her jaw dropped, and she whirled. “What did you say?”

  “I said I would take you to Mexico. I figure that’s the best way to get you there without you getting yourself killed.”

  Her fingers pressed to her mouth, pink against the paleness of her skin. “Why? I—I mean, I wouldn’t have expected you—are you just telling me this to fool me or—or something, because if you are and this is just some cruel trick--.”

  “I wouldn’t say I’d take you if I didn’t mean it.”

  Maybe it had been the gut-wrenching fear that went through him when he realized she’d escaped into the California wilderness last night.

  Maybe it was commiseration from the loss of his own mother only a few months ago, whom he hadn’t seen in several years and now never would again.

  Or maybe it was defiance against her father and fierce disagreement that he would deny his only child the love of the woman who had given her birth.

  Trig didn’t know the exact moment when he made the decision, only that he did.

  “What of Papa?” Carleigh asked in a voice hardly above a whisper.

  Trig rose then, too. Met her eyes with his.

  “He’ll just have to accept that I changed the terms of our deal for your sake. But understand, Carleigh, if he harms my father in any way while we’re gone, I’ll kill him for it.”

  Her throat moved, ever so slightly. “I see.”

  “I hope you do.”

  “Papa wouldn’t do such a thing, surely. He--.”

  She halted at the dark contempt Trig couldn’t hide. Confusion flitted across her face, but he could find no words of reassurance.

  She would learn soon enough what a bastard her father was, and the truth wouldn’t be easy for her.

  Her gaze faltered. “Regardless of your low opinion of Papa, I’m truly relieved and grateful you’ll accompany me to Mexico. Thank you.”

  Trig frowned. “You can thank me when we get there. The trip will be damn hard.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “We’ll head out after we eat and ride as long as we can before we have to stop for the night.”

  “Of course.”

  “When we reach the Mojave, we’ll switch. Sleep by day. Ride by night. It’ll be cooler that way.”

  “Certainly. Whatever you say.” She nodded seriously, accepting his plan without argument.

  “That’s right. ‘Whatever I say’.” He narrowed an eye in grim warning. “We make this trip my way, Carleigh. I call the shots. You fight me on it, we turn and head right back to ‘Frisco. You hear me?”

  Her chin lifted. “Just keep heading south, and I won’t fight you at all.”

  He tossed her a skeptical glance before indicating the tin plate lying in the grass. “Your dinner’s getting cold. Eat up.”

  “Trig.”

  He turned back toward her.

  “I know you’re worried about your father. And I know you’re reluctant to be away from him any longer than you already have been.”

  She reached out, as if she intended to touch him. Trig held his breath, anticipating it, but she drew back again, closing her fingers into a fist and crossing her arms over her breasts.

  “I’m sorry to be keeping you from him like this,” she said, the words quiet.

  Her regret, the genuineness of it, touched Trig instead.

  “I figure he’s able to take care of himself well enough, as long as your father holds up his end of the deal,” he said roughly.

  “I’m certain he will.” Her head cocked in curiosity. “What is his name? Your father, I mean.”

  “Seth.”

  “Seth Mathison.” A small smile touched her lips. “A fine name.”

  “He’s a fine man.”

  But a grieving one, Trig thought soberly. And sick from all the pain Judge Reginald P. Chandler had caused him.

  “Perhaps I’ll get to meet him some day. To tell him all his son has done for me.”

  Trig couldn’t think of the future, of Carleigh, once they returned to San Francisco.

  He had to concentrate on getting her to Mexico instead.

  Spencer barked, drawing their attention. Having just awakened from a nap near the fire, he scampered toward her, one end of his leash still attached to his collar, the other
tied to a stake Trig had driven into the ground.

  “Well, look at you, you sweet thing!” Carleigh cooed in amazement. “You’re all clean again.” Scooping him up for a hug and kiss, she glanced at Trig in surprise. “You bathed him?”

  Trig frowned. “He needed it. Stitched him up, too.”

  “You did?” Her fingers probed in the white fur. “I want to see.”

  Trig moved closer, his head lowering near hers, one fingertip finding the gash inflicted by the bobcat’s paw. “He’ll be good as new in a week’s time.”

  She crooned in sympathy, her gaze fastened on the tender skin and Trig’s handiwork. “Poor baby.”

  The scent of her soap reached him. Roses. And woman. Fresh and alluring, and he breathed in deep, in spite of himself.

  She tilted her head back to look at him. Mahogany tresses spilled over her shoulders and down her back; damp curls framed her face.

  “It seems I’ll have one more thing to tell Seth Mathison, doesn’t it?” she said.

  The provocative blue in her eyes warmed Trig. Seduced him. He braced himself against the effect she had on him.

  “Like I told you, you took damn long in the creek. I figured I might as well sew him up to give myself something to do.”

  Spencer yipped and twisted toward him, the little body straining against Carleigh in his desire for Trig to hold him instead. Trig ignored him and stepped toward the snake meat he’d been cutting.

  “Eat,” he said. “It’s getting late. And feed your dog, too. We have to get moving.”

  Nonplussed at the curtness in his tone, Carleigh complied. She sank to the grass and took the tin plate into her lap again. She spoke animatedly to Spencer as if he understood everything she said, telling him of Trig’s decision to take them to Mexico after all.

  Trig watched her coolly. Or at least he tried to. The purity of her innocence pulled at him. And while his knife’s blade worked the meat, his mind struggled to understand one thing.

  How could someone as harsh as Judge Chandler sire such perfection?

  Given the fast pace of his horse down the dusty California road, he almost missed it.

  The woman’s hat, lying in the dirt.

  Liko Kwan jerked hard on the reins and turned his mount to backtrack to where the feminine contrivance laid. He dismounted stiffly, his muscles unaccustomed to so many hours in the saddle, and picked it up.

  The hat was hers.

  He recognized the label inside the brim, knew she’d purchased it from that fancy millinery shop in downtown San Francisco. And when. He knew just about everything there was to know about the lovely Carleigh Chandler.

  What he didn’t know was where she was. Or if Mathison was with her.

  His gut instincts, however, told him he was getting close. He had to be, if the hat was any indication.

  Reginald was furious when he received Mathison’s wire. The clipped message said only that Carleigh escaped the Central Hotel. Mathison demanded settlement of the damages incurred when he discovered her missing, but nothing more.

  Liko smirked. She’d outwitted him. He was proud of her for that.

  But the judge only worried the more for her welfare and had sent Liko out after her. Insurance to bring his daughter back if Mathison failed.

  Liko knew Mathison never failed. Ever.

  Still, if he hadn’t found her yet, then she’d be traveling alone, dangerous for even the most skilled of men.

  If he had found her by now, well, that was even better.

  Liko gently brushed the dirt off the royal blue velvet. He straightened one of the satin ribbons, readjusted a tiny bow.

  He was on the right track. Just keep heading south, and he’d find her.

  And then she’d be his.

  Chapter 8

  A storm was brewing.

  From astride the palomino, Carleigh studied the churning, cauliflower-shaped clouds.

  “We have to stop,” Trig said, studying them, too.

  “Now?” She frowned at him from beneath the brim of her battered straw hat, the last of her gifts from the farmer’s wife.

  “We don’t have long before the rain hits. We need to find shelter before it does.”

  They’d left the valley only a few hours ago and rode onto the northern edges of the Mojave Desert. Carleigh had hoped for another hour or two of travel before calling it a night. Now, the impending storm forbade it.

  Trig searched the desolate wasteland around them and spied a pair of Joshua trees, their trunks twisted but sturdy. Gesturing to her to follow, he rode closer.

  “We’ll hole up here for a while. Find me some sticks, six inches long or so.” He dismounted and untied the bedroll from behind the saddle. “And a couple more smaller than that.”

  Carleigh nodded and hurried to comply. Trig uncoiled the rope hooked around the saddle horn and strung it waist-high between the trees. By the time she returned with the stakes, he’d draped the canvas tarp over the hemp and was ready to secure it to the ground.

  “Tether the horses,” he commanded, checking the threatening thunderclouds again. “Hurry. The rain is almost here.”

  The wind kicked up, nearly plucking the wide-brimmed hat from her head; only quick reflexes kept it from blowing away. “You want me to unsaddle them, too?”

  He glanced at her. “Sure. Throw their blankets inside. I’ll give you a hand when I’m done here.”

  After she took his leather bag with her dog tucked inside and put it near the opening, she tended the horses, then proceeded to unbuckle the cinch on the palomino. Rain began to fall, and she blinked at the drops pelting against her face as she struggled with the heavy gear. She managed to get the saddle into the shelter while Trig finished staking the tarp. He attached the smallest sticks on each side, then went to help her with the gelding’s saddle.

  “Get inside,” he ordered. “I don’t want you getting wet. We won’t be able to light a fire to dry you out.”

  “What about you?”

  “Go.”

  The rain fell harder. Worried that he’d catch a chill, she hesitated, but finally slipped through the opening, taking Spencer and the leather bag with her.

  The wide brim of her hat brushed against the sides of the tent, and she removed it, tossing it aside. She had to crouch on her knees to arrange the horses’ blankets in the tiny quarters. Afterward, she dragged her saddle to the other end, making as much room for them to move around as possible.

  Trig crawled in and hefted his saddle next to hers with far less trouble. He consumed what little space remained, crowding her as he shifted his long body to sit beside her.

  Carleigh eased away, giving him what little space she could. He pulled off his Stetson and raked a hand through his hair.

  “The storm moved in fast,” he said. “We barely made it in time.”

  Her head tilted to peruse the canvas surrounding them. “This is rather ingenious. We’ll stay quite dry, I think.”

  “Ingenious?” He seemed surprised she thought so. “My brother and I used to sleep under a tarp when we were kids, just for the fun of it. Rain or no rain.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” His dark eyes lingered on her. “Too bad that father of yours never let you do things kids are meant to do.”

  “He had his reasons, I suppose,” she said, feeling compelled to defend him. “He was always protective of me.”

  “He cheated you out of a normal childhood.”

  “That all depends on your perception of ‘normal’.”

  “I’ll bet you never got dirt under your finger nails when you were young, did you? Tear your dress from climbing a tree? Dig your own worms to go fishing?”

  She pressed her lips tight and shook her head.

  She’d done none of those things.

  “A shame, Carleigh. A damned shame.”

  In light of his contempt for Papa, Carleigh would have expected Trig to point out their differences, but she wasn’t sure she liked being enlightened as to all she
might have missed in her childhood.

  Obviously, his growing up years had shaped him to be the man he was now. A survivor. A man who had learned to live with the land and all the hardships that went with it.

  Carleigh drew her knees up and hugged them to her chest. She pondered his words and recognized the truth in them. Only a week ago, she would have been horrified at the prospect of escaping a spring storm beneath a tarp in a California desert. Now, the crude shelter was a godsend, and she was happy to be inside.

  “Where’s my canteen?” Trig twisted, looking for it.

  She found the container next to his leather bag. “There’s not much water left.”

  “I know.” He changed position, bumping her shoulder, and reached toward the opening.

  “What are you doing?” She strained to see around him.

  “I’m rigging the canteen to catch the rain.” He indicated the small stick attached to the rope. “This is called a ‘dripstick’. Keeps the rainwater from running down the rope into the tent and getting us wet. The water will drip into the canteen instead.”

  She made a sound of amazement. In the downpour, it wouldn’t take long for the container to fill.

  “So now you know what a dripstick is,” he said, settling back onto the blanket. “And how to catch rainwater with it.”

  She reached into his leather bag, pulled out his towel and handed it to him. “Yet another thing I’ve learned from you.”

  He whisked the linen across his forearms and hands. “I don’t mean to imply you’re not knowledgeable, Carleigh. Our lessons in life came from different teachers, that’s all.”

  “I don’t feel very knowledgeable,” she said, rueful. “At least, not out here.”

  His glance rested on her. “You can tie some damned fine knots when you get a notion to keep a man in his room.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t count.”

  “I’ll bet you can dance a minuet or a waltz with the best of them. And you know the difference between a cabernet and a chardonnay wine.”

  “All that won’t do me any good out here, will it?”