by Pam Crooks
“That’s why I’m here, then. To get you through the things you don’t know about.”
His words touched her. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt this way, that—with him—everything would be all right. He made her need him.
Needing him unsettled her.
He tossed the towel toward his bag and laid his lean length back with a loud sigh, his head pillowed on his saddle. “No telling when the storm will pass. Might as well catch some sleep until it does.”
But Carleigh didn’t follow suit.
She couldn’t.
Beads of rain splattered against the canvas, a steady staccato of tap-tap-taps she might have found soothing under different circumstances.
Normal circumstances.
Circumstances without Trig, masculine and strong and sprawled much too close to her in a tiny tent.
Minutes ticked by. She stared at the thin stream of water flowing into his canteen, then peered through the tent’s opening at the darkening sky. Thunder rumbled. A spunky breeze yanked at the canvas, a constant reminder of where they were. And why. Even Spencer provided no diversion, preferring to stay snuggled dry and warm inside the bag instead of entertaining her.
“Carleigh.”
She started at the sound of Trig’s low voice behind her.
“You need to sleep,” he said.
“I can’t.”
“You haven’t tried.”
“I’ve never slept with a man before,” she blurted.
A moment passed. Lean fingers found her elbow and tugged; she landed on her back with an exclamation of surprise. Trig rolled to his side and loomed above her, his features shadowed in the gathering dusk.
His scent enveloped her, an arousing mix of leather and tobacco, of horse and rain. Of danger and sensuality, and Carleigh’s pulse pounded.
“So I get to be the first,” he murmured.
She turned away, her nose only inches from the canvas. “I can barely keep from touching you, there’s so little room.”
“What if I don’t mind if you touch me?”
An image flashed in her mind of them sleeping together, the intimacy of it, as if they were man and wife. “It’s not proper.”
“That’s not what you thought back in the hotel at Visalia.”
She swallowed. “Trig, please.”
“So what are you going to do? Sleep sitting up?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
He took her chin, forced her to look at him. “Both of us have had damned little rest the past two days. We have to sleep. Both of us. Together. In this tent.” He paused, his gaze roaming over her face, lingering over her mouth. “You might like it.”
Is that what she was afraid of? Liking sleeping with Trig Mathison? Would that be one more need he brought out in her?
He drew away. She sensed his impatience at her reluctance to agree.
“I won’t touch you since that’s what you’re so afraid of. At least, I’ll try not to. But like you said, it’s cramped quarters. I can’t promise anything.” He shifted to face the other side of their shelter, giving her his back and managing to keep a few inches between them.
She lay very still.
She was much too aware of him beside her.
With the stormy clouds, night had fallen early. The mud-slick hills would be too treacherous to travel. As the minutes dragged by, Carleigh knew they wouldn’t be going anywhere until morning.
Cool, damp air crept inward from the openings near her head and feet and inspired a new round of worries. She thought of the bobcat. The rattlesnake.
Spencer.
“Trig?” she whispered.
“What?”
“Something could wander inside here.”
He peered at her over his shoulder. “Like what?”
“A wild animal, maybe.”
“It’s possible, but not likely.” He shifted onto his other side and appeared above her again. “Are you afraid?” he asked, his voice quiet against the falling rain.
“No. Of course not,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
“I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I know.”
“So why haven’t you fallen asleep yet?”
Her teeth found her lower lip; she couldn’t tell him of all the things that kept her awake.
“You’re thinking too much,” he said.
Her head swiveled at his perception. She peered up at him in the near-darkness. “Then why aren’t you sleeping?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Maybe I’m thinking too much, too.” Before she could contemplate his meaning, he moved closer. “Roll over.” He gave her a firm nudge. “That way you won’t have to look at me. I’m going to put my arm around you.” He pulled her against him, her back to his chest. “That ought to remind you you’re safe. Okay?”
“Trig, this is hardly appropriate.” The words sounded much too breathless.
“Yeah, well, just go to sleep.”
She lay rigid next to him. The weight of his arm draped over her waist was not unpleasant, and she couldn’t bring herself to push him away. Not yet, anyway. Besides, the warmth from his body chased away the chill creeping into their shelter.
She folded an arm to pillow her head. It wouldn’t hurt to lay with him like this for a little while, just until she got used to being with him. Then, she would scoot away.
The thought had no sooner formed in her head when fatigue seeped in. Her lids grew heavy.
And she finally slept.
Trig awakened, every sense alert.
He raked a glance about him, his mind working to identify what brought him out of a deep sleep.
The rain had stopped. A stark silence surrounded him, broken only by Carleigh’s gentle breathing. He withdrew his arm from around her and sat up.
Sometime during the night, her dog had crawled out of Trig’s leather bag and burrowed against his back. Annoyed, Trig lifted him and settled him next to Carleigh.
Careful not to wake either one of them, he slipped through the tent’s opening and studied the area around him. His ears tuned to the slightest noise; his eyes sharpened for any sign of movement.
Somewhere in the distance, a horse nickered. Or did it? The sound was so faint he could have imagined it. Was it only his unease that fabricated the sound?
He waited long moments. Hearing nothing more, he squatted on his heels, withdrew a cigarette and match from his shirt pocket. He lit the tobacco and drew in deep.
Sound would carry on a night as still as this one. No telling how far away the source might be. But whatever he might have heard had evidently moved on. The night was so quiet, a man could hear the weeds growing.
Trig finished his smoke; with a flick of his wrist, he sent the stub sailing into the darkness. He re-entered the tent and shook out his bedroll, spreading half over Carleigh.
She looked small beneath his blanket. Fragile. She had no business being out in the California desert, with or without him. She wasn’t suited for it. He shuddered at the memories of the bobcat and rattlesnake, refused to think what would have happened if he hadn’t gotten to her in time.
But she endured it all to find her mother. Not as a wealthy young woman accustomed to getting what she wanted, but as a daughter denied a lifetime of a mother’s love. A need too great, too basic, to deny.
And yet, that’s exactly what her father intended.
Trig didn’t understand why. Nor did he care to. But he figured Carleigh deserved to see her mother before it was too late. Even at the cost of keeping him away from his own father.
Resentment should have surfaced at the knowledge, just as it always did when he worried about Pa. But this time it didn’t, at least not as much.
Maybe the prospect of helping her overshadowed the resentment some, the chance to thwart the imperious judge’s selfish plans. To beat him at his own game.
But more likely, it was the anticipation of being with her a little longer.
Trig didn’t attempt to de
fine the reasoning for it. He was too damn tired for that. Instead, he pulled the blanket over his shoulder. Even though Carleigh was no longer apprehensive and afraid, even though she slept soundly and there was no need for it, he curled his arm across her waist and pulled her closer.
She stirred. His fist rested near her breast; her hand slid over his and stayed there, the gesture feminine and gentle, unrealized in sleep.
Strange the way it affected him. Like something akin to contentment. Not giving it another thought, however, he closed his eyes and slept, too.
Carleigh stared at the rolling sand dunes of the Mojave Desert in awe.
“They’re beautiful,” she breathed.
Trig had never thought of them that way. A nuisance, maybe. Dangerous, at times. And always so damned hot.
But seeing them through her eyes, with the morning sun turning the grains a pale gold, he conceded they did have a certain appeal.
He leaned on the saddle horn. “I gather you’ve never been this way before.”
She shook her head. Her gaze moved over the mounds slowly, as if she didn’t want to miss a single one. “Not so far south.”
“It’s said this part of the desert used to be the floor of an inland sea. Now, all that’s left is the sand.”
“Really? How fascinating.”
He didn’t claim to be an expert, but a few times through taught him respect for the area. He’d be glad when they reached civilization again.
“Would you mind if I walked a bit?”
“Go ahead,” he said, declining to remind her the day was getting hotter by the minute, that their nocturnal schedule indicated it was past time to call it a day. If she wanted to walk, he could see no harm in it.
Carleigh dismounted and bent to scoop a handful of sand in her palm, then watched it sift through her fingers. She walked forward, each footstep left behind in a perfect print; she broke into a run away from him, her hems billowing at her ankles.
Trig ran a glance beyond the dunes, his mind thinking ahead to the shelter they’d need, to the game he’d have to hunt for dinner. With the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas in the distance, neither should be too difficult.
Something glinted from within the mountain range, snagging his attention. A flash of light. He waited, half-expecting it to appear again. Vague unease filtered through him. His instincts gave him no reason for it, yet his logic stated anything innocent could have been the cause.
The flash didn’t appear again. He dragged his gaze from the hills, surveying the dunes in a cautious sweep, and detected a swirl of dust coming at them.
He swore.
“Carleigh! Get down!” he yelled.
She pivoted toward him, clearly taken aback by his order. “Why?”
A quick check assured him her dog was safe enough in the leather bag. He slid from the saddle. “A duster is coming.”
“A what?” She turned in the direction he pointed, her curiosity overtaking any inclination to obey. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and watched the swirling cloud of sand dance over the mounds.
Trig sprinted toward her. An abrupt gust of wind came up, yanked at her skirts, and knocked her off balance. She fell back with a squeal of surprise. Hanging onto her hat, laughing, she tried to get up again.
The miniature tornado spun toward them, but she didn’t seem to notice, her struggles intent on getting to her feet when clawing fingers of wind worked to prevent it.
Trig reached her just in time to tackle her to the ground before the duster hit. He shimmied over her, covering her body with his own. Grains of sand pelted them; the whirlwind sucked at their clothes. Carleigh gasped and burrowed her face into his neck. Trig slipped his arm beneath her, one hand clutching his hat, his eyes closed to the stinging wind.
The duster passed over them, gone as quickly as it arrived. He lifted his head to find her suffused in giggles.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded.
“Us. This. Oh, my, that wind!”
“You’re delirious from the heat.”
“I’m not.” She shook her head, laughing harder.
“Sandstorms can last for hours. Days, even. Men have been known to lose their way in them.”
“Oh, Trig. Must you be so serious?” She took a deep breath, an attempt to get a hold on her merriment. “It was nothing. Hardly more than an oversized dust devil flexing its muscles. It was fun.”
“You think so?” Maybe he had over-reacted after all. He frowned.
“I do.” She peered up at him, and her laughter faded. “You’re protective of me, just like Papa. I’m not as fragile as you think.”
“I’m responsible for you. And don’t compare me to your father.”
“It’s the truth.” She brushed a hand across his cheek, his chin. “You have sand all over your face. It’s everywhere on you.”
Perspiration dampened the fabric of her dress, sticking it to her skin. The ground beneath them was hot; he should move off her so she could get up, but her womanly softness stirred his blood, and he delayed it.
Even as she fussed over him, the blue of her eyes held him transfixed. Blue, like diamonds, shimmering and bright.
Blue, like her father’s.
He thought about it less, these days. Carleigh being Judge Chandler’s daughter. But sometimes those eyes of hers reminded him too much of all that awaited them when he brought her back to San Francisco.
Grains of sand clung to her lower lip, and he ran his thumb across to wipe them away. So warm, that mouth. Incredibly soft.
Memories of her lips moving beneath his hurtled into a sudden rush of desire to feel them again. To make love to her beneath the blazing sun. Lose himself in a frenzy of soul-destroying kisses and passion.
She stopped brushing the sand off him.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered. “And you mustn’t.”
“I mustn’t what?” What his lust so obvious? In growing amusement, Trig let her worry through it.
“You want to kiss me.”
“So why can’t I?” He tucked wind-tossed strands of hair behind her ear. Her honesty was unexpected. Refreshing.
“Because one kiss will only lead to another, then another. And we both know what will happen next.”
“Then you’ve been thinking of kissing me, too.”
She pushed against his chest. “I haven’t. Not at all.”
Her honesty was slipping a little. “If you haven’t been thinking about it, a little one won’t matter, will it?”
“I don’t believe a man like you is capable of a little kiss without--.”
“Without wanting more from a woman like you?” he taunted softly.
“And taking it.”
His amusement deepened.
“Now please move off of me so I can get up. I have to check on Spencer.” She pushed against his chest again.
He debated continuing the conversation to persuade her to his way of thinking, but thought better of it. After what their lust had cost her back in Visalia, he didn’t blame her for being wary of him.
“All right, then. You win. It’s too hot to be out here anyway.”
Trig stood, extended his hand and pulled her to her feet. She batted at the fine grains covering her dress. Spencer barked, and Carleigh strolled toward him, cooing his name as she always did.
Trig slapped his Stetson against his thigh, loosening the dust collected on the brim. He speared his fingers through his hair before replacing the hat, his thoughts once more focused on finding shelter and a hot meal. He took a step toward his horse.
A glint of light stopped him.
The flash, like sunlight winking off metal, appeared from the same direction as before.
Something was out there.
Someone.
They stood out in the open. A pair of sitting ducks on the dunes. Fleetingly, Trig thought of his rifle in its scabbard, of getting Carleigh away.
But before he could act, a shot rang out. Fiery pain erupted
on his shoulder. The force of the hit spun him to his knees.
He spat an oath and toppled to the ground.
Chapter 9
Carleigh nearly had heart failure seeing him thrown into the sand.
“Oh, my God. Trig!” She bolted toward him.
“Get on your horse!” he yelled, rolling to his feet again. “Run!”
Immediately, she whirled and hurried into the saddle. The mare darted forward, spraying sand in her wake. The thunder of hooves revealed Trig was right behind her.
Carleigh had never ridden a horse so fast. Nor had she experienced such raw terror. They fled deep into the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas until Trig decided they were safe enough, that whoever shot at him hadn’t followed, or, at the very least, appeared to have lost their trail.
For now.
They pulled up near an outcropping of rock. Carleigh helped him erect a shelter to shield them against the sun; afterward, they tended the horses, then gathered several joints of beavertail cactus for use in treating his wound.
Blood soaked into his shirt. He sat beneath the canvas lean-to and pried the fabric from the injury, then shucked the garment and tossed it aside.
“I’ve never heard of using a cactus on a gunshot wound,” Carleigh said with a frown. She cut the bluish-green flesh open, pressed the pulp to his skin and held it in place with a clean strip of cotton.
“You never heard of a duster, either, until you found yourself in one,” he said. “A Panamint Indian chief taught me the beavertail species is powerful medicine. His people eat the whole plant, one way or another.”
She eyed him doubtfully.
“It’s true.”
“You need a doctor. Not a cactus.
“It’s just a graze. I’ll heal.”
“Infection could set in. You need stitches, too.”
“Could’ve been a hell of a lot worse than it is.” He tested his shoulder with a grimace.
“Does it hurt much?” she asked, drowning in sympathy.
“Some. But the pain won’t last long.”
She sat back on her heels and regarded him. “Who would want you dead?”
He avoided her gaze. “I’ve made a few enemies over the years. I don’t know. I’m still thinking on it.”
“You don’t know.” She strove to keep her voice calm. “Are you saying that there are so many of your . . . enemies, you don’t know which one it could be?”