AnUnlikelyHeroAmazon

by Cindy Nord

Smoke spiraled before him in thickened tendrils, a fitting framework for his discomfort.

  He nodded and wished he were healed. Wished he were anywhere but in the presence of her smile. The longer he confined himself in this cave with this minx, the more he wanted her, which blasted helped nothing. His job was to deliver her to the fort, unharmed – bedding her didn’t play into the plan.

  “Upon my marriage, I shall become a peer of the English realm and assume the title of countess. I shall assist the earl in the running of his estate, plus aid the Dowager Countess in whatever way I can.”

  He shifted his gaze back to her. “Dowager Countess? What is that? Some kind of a pet?”

  Alma smiled. “No, you silly man. A dowager is an honorary title bestowed upon the earl’s mother after he takes a wife. She still lives, but his father died several years ago. As the only child and a son, Lord Green inherited his title, the holdings, and the estate bestowed upon his lineage years before by the royalty.”

  Her intended may be a noble, but could the well-titled bastard do a better job at protecting her than him? He doubted it. Dillon’s stomach tightened at the thought. “Sounds complicated as well as stuffy. Just give me a few acres and some horses and I’ll be a happy man.” Marriage, an English title, and a swift-sailing schooner bound for England waited upon this woman’s arrival at the fort, but after everything they’d endured, how could he so easily let her go?

  Her eyes flashed at him from the opposite side of the fire, their intense brightness squeezing his heart.

  He moistened his lips and again tasted hers.

  The pinch inside his gut tightened. Dillon cleared his throat. Her tenderness and caring for him these past few days…Hell’s fire, even her curiosity about his past made everything inside him ache. He’d disclosed way too much about himself and his wicked ways. Hell’s fire, coming from such a mollycoddled world he’d been surprised she hadn’t gone screaming from the cave in fear.

  Regardless of his begrudging admiration of her, she belonged to another…and he had a job to do. Besides, he figured he’d live now, so they would strike out for Tucson in a few days.

  Dillon took another swig of coffee and glanced out the entrance.

  In the far distance, mountain peaks shimmered in the light.

  The Sangre de Cristo Range.

  Which meant they were holed up somewhere in Dikes Mountain south of Pueblo. If he could sit a horse, he could damn well track his way through La Veta Pass, and head south through Colorado to Fort Garland.

  He grimaced as he thought of the events over the past week and a half. Things weren’t adding up. Too many years of looking at signs and finding trouble told him something different.

  Why did the bandits keep her alive, yet not defile her? A striking woman like this innocent beauty? Only one thing made sense.

  For money…yes. But why? And whose?

  ***

  The next day, Alma placed the empty coffee pot by the pile of supplies, then settled onto the ground beside Dillon.

  “What do you mean, shoot it?” She followed his gaze out the cave. Nothing moved except the flickers of sunlight upon the water and the frilly evergreen boughs that swayed in the afternoon breeze. “Shoot what?”

  Dillon angled onto one elbow and shoved the weapon in front of her. “Here,” he ordered, still staring outside. “Take the rifle.”

  Fear tore through her and she shifted back. “Absolutely not. I want nothing to do with guns.”

  He scraped his gaze from the entrance and locked on her wide-eyed glare. “Damnit, Alma…there’s no time to argue. If I could do this myself, I would.” She cringed at the hard snap in his voice. “Unless you want to keep eatin’ beans, which is mostly what’s left of our supplies.”

  A lump rose in her throat. The gritty floor dug into her palms as she scooted sideways another few inches. “I’ll choose the beans.”

  With a curse, Dillon leaned higher onto his hip and shoved the weapon into her right hand. “Take it.”

  Heart pounding, her fingers curled around the cool steel barrel. Unprepared for the Henry’s weight, she nearly toppled forward.

  Panic roughened her words. “But…I don’t want to shoot anything.”

  “I’ll shoot,” he snapped. “Now scoot over here. And quietly…don’t want her scared away.”

  Her? Alma pressed her lips together and shot him a pleading glance. “Please don’t ask me to do this.”

  “You just hold the rifle steady. I’ll do the rest.”

  She shook her head, shuffling further away. With a surprising burst of strength, Dillon rolled forward, grabbed her wrist, and stopped her in mid-shift. An easy jerk tumbled her toward him.

  Alma gasped as she landed face-first against his hip. Rolling sideways, she hissed, “How dare you maltreat me in such an uncouth–”

  “Stop it,” he growled, his words searing her already flushed cheeks. “We don’t have time for this foolishness.” He twisted her around and resettled her in front of him, his belt buckle pressing against her lower back. The heat from his chest radiated through the fabric of her bodice and sent a mind-numbing tingle over her skin, intensifying their intimate alliance.

  With a mumbled oath, he propped the rifle before her, then placed her hands to hold the weapon. Leaning down, Dillon pressed his temple against hers, his mouth resting near the curve of her ear. “See that cluster of boulders near the stream?” he whispered, pointing down the steel-blue barrel.

  He smelled like the great outdoors and leather and the teasing tang of man. She swallowed, striving to ignore her heartbeat drumming in maddening thumps against her ribs.

  “Do you?” he repeated, the pithiness in his voice causing her to jump.

  Alma nodded, “Y-Yes. I see them.”

  “Good. Now angle the Henry toward ‘em while I sight down on the animal.”

  With shaking hands, she raised the weapon, moving the muzzle as he’d directed. She drew air into her lungs and blinked back an onrush of tears. Without warning, Dillon slid his arm around her waist.

  A tight squeeze, and he hauled her even closer, rasping, “Okay, Princess, now brace yourself.”

  Brace myself? Oh dear…no. The thought of killing any innocent creature severed her heartstrings. She blinked fast to tamp back the tears

  His head dipped lower. Another whisper branded her ears, “And don’t regret this kill. Though small, the doe will feed us for days.”

  She strengthened her fingers on the barrel as the truth of his words speared through her. He was right. They weren’t in the dining room of her palatial Boston estate where food was provided in bounty with a mere snap of her finger. He was injured. Had almost died saving her. They needed this meat to survive.

  “That’s my girl. Now real slow, I need you to lift the weapon. Yes, that’s it.” She focused on his calm words. “Now even out your breath,” he whispered. “And keep the muzzle steady when I fire.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed, and nodded. Inhale. Exhale. In pace and intensity, their breathing matched, as did the thumpa thumpa beating of their hearts. Tensed seconds passed.

  Then, an ear-splitting blast shattered the stillness.

  Propelled by the weapon’s recoil, Alma slammed into Dillon’s injured shoulder, the acrid stench of gunpowder filling her breath.

  He gave a muffled grunt, “Well done, Princess…well done.”

  Her ears rang from the rifle’s sharp report, but his satisfaction with her performance overrode any discomfort. Alma opened her eyes. The expression seemingly imprinted across his face spoke of approval and admiration and relief. Her gaze fell to his lips. A smile kicked his mouth sideways, etching the sun-carved crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Disconcerted, she broke their connection, skimming her attention to his shoulder.

  Fresh blood darkened the cloth and slammed sanity back in a rush. Horrified, Alma set aside the rifle and laid her palm atop his broad shoulder. “Oh no…you’re bleeding again.”

  “It’ll stop,” he
rasped. “Right now, we need to haul the carcass back to the cave before the wolves scent the kill.” A weak smile touched his mouth. “Don’t want ‘em stealing dinner after we’ve worked so hard to get it…now do we?”

  “We?” She snorted. “You can’t go down there. You can barely walk.”

  “I never planned too. You’ll go.”

  She was afraid of that. “How am I supposed to haul that poor creature up here?”

  He gestured to the line-tied horse on the opposite side of the cave. The animal had wandered into the clearing earlier this morning, and Dillon had promptly ordered her out to retrieve it. “Take a rope and the bay. Once you reach the doe, tie her back legs together and then secure the other end of the rope to the saddle. The horse will do the heavy work.” With a sigh, he rolled onto his back and rested an arm across his forehead. “And when you return, you’ll need to butcher the doe and then smoke and dry the meat. I’ll talk you through all that, too.”

  Butcher the doe?

  The detestable act had Alma nearly gagging as she shoved to her feet. He locked an apathetic gaze upon hers and arched a brow. The barbarian! She’d had just about enough. Pursing her lips, she glared down at him. “I’ll have you know I don’t like this whole skinning and drying thing one wretched bit. It’s…it’s purely disgusting.”

  “Oh, you don’t mind eating the food, you just don’t want to see where it comes from. Is that it?”

  She glared at him, then turned and skirted the fire in three strong strides. Head high, back ramrod straight, she stormed toward the horse.

  Two steps more, with temper flaring, she whirled back and jammed her fists upon her hips. “And let me also add that I can only try to do your bidding”

  Dillon held her glower, the humor of moments before fading. His features slid into a frown. “As long as you’re with me in my world, Princess, simply trying is not enough. You’ll learn quickly how to do things right…the first time I tell you. Understand?”

  Her mouth gaped open. Deafening silence followed. The nerve of the insufferable pig.

  And after everything I’ve done for you, too!

  “If I had a choice, Mister Reed, I’d rather not be in your world at all.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Her back ached. Her arms ached. Even the muscles in her face ached. In her entire life, Alma had never worked as hard as she had during these past three hours. Once she’d tied the deer to the horse, it’d taken nearly an hour to drag the carcass up the hill.

  Revulsion swept her.

  Yet, instead of a kind word about her achievement, instead of encouraging her to sit down and rest a bit, Dillon had demanded she pick up the knife and begin the task of skinning and gutting the doe. He denied her any weakness. No clemency. No understanding of her delicate womanhood or her social standing. His words held an undertone of control, tinged with methodical patience. Never had she seen so much blood. Even as she screamed at him vulgar words she’d never dared utter before, even as she proclaimed him a vile monster, that she’d had enough of this butchery…even as she struggled to hold back her need to wretch, he remained resolute in his purpose. Time and again, he guided her back to the loathsome task. Until finally, after removing a bucketful of entrails and gore and tossing them outside the cave, Alma completed the job.

  Exhausted, every muscle in her body screaming its outrage, she shoved to her feet. With uneven steps, she stumbled from the cave and into the waning light.

  A cool breeze brushed her face.

  Her fingers aching from holding the knife for so long, she curled them into fists at her sides, and then strode down the incline toward the creek, tired, disgusted, and needing to wash away the blood-spattered evidence of carnage.

  At the water’s edge, she unlaced her boots, and then tugged them off. Next, she reached under each leg of her pantalets, yanked free the pink ribbons that secured her stockings. With the grosgrain clasped in her hand, she stripped each legging away. Barefoot, she lifted her skirt to her chin and jerked hard on the string around her waist. In an irreverent swish of cotton, the steel-ringed bustle collapsed into a heap at her feet. Wasting little time, she unbuttoned the pearl discs on her bodice as she stared at water. With a shrug, Alma sent her top to the ground behind her, and then released the waistband of her skirt, shoving yards of billowing brocade downward.

  Her corset followed, and in a whoosh of pale-blue satin, the constricting piece tumbled to the pile.

  A heavy sigh fell from her lips.

  Clothed in the camisole, crotchless pantalets, and her underslip, the hem now stained red with blood, Alma stepped her way over boulders and around fallen logs until she sank straight down into the cool rush of water.

  Shivers climbed her arms and back and sucked away her breath. As the current surged around her, she pressed her hands to her trembling lips. Moisture welled behind her lashes and her eyes squeezed tight against the sting.

  If only she could wash away this nightmare. If only she could wake up back home in her bed. If only she hadn’t killed that innocent creature.

  A sob broke free followed by a hiccupping flood of tears. I will most likely go to hell for what I’ve done. She stared at her hands stained with blood. Its throat and chin were so soft, the insides of the ears as white as snow. And its eyes black with death. Another shuddering sob tore through her, and she splashed her face to wash away the doe’s image.

  Needing to clean every last ounce of her body, Alma tore free dark-green clumps of moss, then set about scrubbing her skin until all traces of the gory butchering was gone. Next, she tugged the pile of garments into the stream, repeating the scouring process on every single piece.

  Once she’d cleaned and draped her clothing across the closest fallen tree, Alma pulled out her treasured hairpins and piled them atop her skirt. With a gulp of air, she dipped backward into the water, raked her hands through her tangled tresses, and scrubbed the strands until they, too, were clean.

  As she lifted her arms and reached back to squeeze the excess moisture from her hair a prickling awareness swept through her. Slowly she turned, scanned past tree trunks, then over the clearing.

  Nothing.

  A movement near the cave caught her attention.

  Her gaze scrambled upward. Arms crossed, Dillon leaned against the stony entrance. Shadows from the nearby trees spilled over him in mottled patterns of darkness and light. He’d donned his shirt, but the careworn cambric hung open to reveal his chest and the white bandage that peeked from beneath one side.

  Alma blinked, unable to look away from him. If he’s able to stand then why didn’t he help her skin and gut the deer? Tension coiled deep inside, a slow anger that left her floundering. She knew why…he wanted me to do it.

  She refused to acknowledge him.

  Refused to search deeper her acrimony. Instead, Alma sank back into the water, the current slapping hard against her cotton-covered breasts. Her nipples hardened. He didn’t turn away. The truth excited even as it terrified, sending a jolt of pleasure through her veins.

  His dark eyes narrowed, then he turned and slipped back into the cave.

  How could she face him now? When he’d surely seen her…what? Nothing. He’d been much too far away to even comprehend her conflicting anger or her response to the mere presence of him.

  She would ignore him. The plan give her comfort.

  An hour later, still clothed in her undergarments but with her now-dry hair twisted into a knot once again atop her head, Alma stood near the campfire, staring into the flames. Being clean had calmed her nerves, as did listening to the crackling of the burning wood.

  Memories of Dillon watching her, however, still left her unsettled.

  A lump formed in her throat as she recalled her return to the cave. When she entered, he scanned her still half-dressed body in a much-too-intimate way. How dare the oaf pass judgement on her without uttering one single word? The flood of emotions she’d felt in the creek returned to swamp her: anger and confusion and
…a conflicting pleasure she refused to explore.

  The logs popped, sending sparks upward, drawing Alma’s thoughts back to the present.

  She glanced toward the horse and a crudely strung clothesline between the gelding and their supplies. Draped over the limp line, her skirt and bodice glistened in the firelight. Still damp, the brocade shimmered in different shades of green.

  They’ll be dry come morning.

  She glanced at the scout. His eyes were closed, which suited her fine. The last thing she wanted to do was converse with him anyway. Near her feet rested a bucket, part of the kidnappers gear, which she’d filled with creek water earlier this morning. She’d use the liquid as base for the stew the scout wanted her to make for their dinner.

  Venison, that’s what he’d called the deer meat.

  She headed toward their supplies. Anything was preferable to gutting a wild animal. Rummaging through the sacks, she found myriad dried vegetables and beans. These would make a good addition to the stew. How she wished for the skills of her three cooks back home.

  If only they could see me now.

  The humor she found in the moment surprised Alma as did the eagerness with which she gathered the foodstuffs. Working quickly, she concocted the meal, and then suspended her filled-to-the-brim stewpot from the S-hook on the parallel bar. Pleased with her effort, she stood and dusted her hands. If only there were some crusty bread to serve with her repast.

  With a sigh, she glanced to the remaining pile of deer meat. The chore of smoking the venison remained. Tamping back another shudder, she tossed a fresh log onto the fire beneath the stew. With a sizzling hiss, copious flames shot upward, licking the bottom of the pot.

  “Too much wood,” Dillon said in a thick voice, startling her. “Lower heat cooks the meal and prevents the grub inside from sticking.”

  Makes sense.

  So, he wasn’t asleep after all. Feeling a bit foolish, she nodded. Using another log, Alma pushed the just-added piece from the fire. “And what about…those?” She angled her head toward the raw meat.