by Cindy Nord
“Need to hang ‘em over the fire. Your goal is to dry out the strips.”
She drew her brows together. “There’s too much to remember.”
He chuckled. “Welcome to life in the wilderness.”
A sense of affinity passed between them as warmth climbed over her cheeks.
He motioned to the three extra iron rods leaning against the cave wall near the supplies.
“Add another stand to smoke the venison.”
“But why smoke venison? Why not just cook it in the stew, like the other pieces?”
“Smoke preserves the meat so we can eat it later…since we’ll be heading out soon.”
She blinked at him. “How soon?”
“A few days, maybe less.” Now that he deemed himself healed enough to travel, an odd melancholy about leaving swept her. As quickly, her sadness disappeared. If nothing else, by the time this traveling westward nightmare ended, she’d be proficient at several things besides dancing, social entertaining, and rose gardening. Would Lord Green be pleased about how well she’d learned these survival skills? She chewed on her lower lip and doubted the Earl would find any amount of pleasure in her acquiring knowledge about how to gut a deer.
A half-hour later, with her stew bubbling in the pot and the delicious aroma wafting within the cave, she settled onto her heels and surveyed her work. Glistening, ruby-red strips of raw venison draped the additional bar.
“You know,” Dillon said, tucking his arms behind his head, “With a bit more practice, you’d make a fine mountain woman one day.”
An unexpected pride skimmed through her. Then she chuckled. “I shall learn to be the finest pioneer woman possible only for the length of time needed to survive in these mountains.” She rose and checked her skirt. Still damp. A few more hours ought to do. “But I shall most certainly return to the niceties of life that make me happiest, have no worry about that, sir.” She pivoted on her heel to face him. “And there’s nothing wrong with doing so, I might add.”
His laughter filled the cave. “Happiness is fleeting when you bind your pleasure to society’s ways.”
“Don’t preach to me.” She scoffed, waggling her finger at him. “Remember, you’re the one who can’t deal with progressiveness in any form.” She lowered her hand, burying her fist inside the linen folds of her underslip. “Life is changing. You should learn to appreciate society’s conducts instead of scorning those who understand and embrace its proper ways.” His gaze narrowed, and she smiled. “I-I could help you try if you’d let me.”
Like I helped him with his waltz? With the unwanted thought, the moment shifted. Need slammed through her with a bewildering burn. Shaken, she forced herself to hold his gaze, praying he’d not witnessed her desire and shame.
“Nope. I’m happy the way I am.”
She dropped to her knees and stirred the stew. “But why? I mean, look at you. Unkempt. Unapproachable. Will living in this manner bring your brother back?”
His jaw tightened. “Let’s just leave Caleb out of this, all right?”
“But he’s why you’re here isn’t he? I mean, not here here, but rather why you’re at your present station in life. Isolated and all alone.” Another stir of the tantalizing broth settled her tightening nerves. “If you relaxed a bit and allowed yourself, you might actually enjoy society’s culture. A little of it, at least.”
“You’re telling me to relax?” Dillon gave a cold laugh. “In my world there is no relaxing, Princess. I’m a hard man. And untamable. And I like it that way.” He flipped back the flap on his saddlebags and pulled out his flask. He lifted the small metal vessel in her direction and smiled. “If you had any sense in that pretty little head of yours, you’d stop stirring up things with that society stick you’re leanin’ on.”
Society stick? She swallowed, staring at him.
A howl from beyond the cave, much closer than those she’d heard before, shattered her baffling thoughts. She surged onto her knees. The extra wood chips in her hand drifted to the floor like so many falling leaves.
The yowls grew in volume, drawing closer.
Trembling, Alma stared out the entrance.
Blackness of night loomed.
My imaginings are getting the best of me.
Nonetheless, she scooted backward several more feet, halting beside the pile of meat. Her nerves on edge, Alma worked quickly, draping strip after strip into place until the bar glistened like shards of blood-red Christmas tinsel…minus the Nativity scene.
“Estincele,” she proclaimed, catching Dillon’s gaze as she waved toward her creation. At his perplexed expression, she added. “I’m afraid that French for sparkle does not hold true for venison.” She moved to add the last piece of meat in her hand, when a deep growl rumbled from the cave’s entrance.
Alma whirled.
At the edge of the light, two enormous yellow eyes stared back at her.
Behind her, the horse snorted, then whinnied, stomping his hooves into the dirt as the bay shuffled closer to the pile of supplies.
Fear tore through her.
“Don’t move,” Dillon whispered, capping the flask as he edged toward his saddle bags.
The wolf at the entrance stood three-feet tall and well-over five feet long. A grizzled, gray back, light cream under parts, and a broad, bushy tail dappled in the shadowy light.
Beneath the piercing glare Alma’s courage wavered. A scream bubbled upward as the wolf edged closer into the cave. Firelight fell over its mottled coat. The horse in the shadows behind her snorted even louder, then squealed.
Her heart pounded hard against her breastbone. Never in her life had she seen anything so terrifying.
“Stay still. And don’t look at it,” Dillon said, his tone much too calm.
Alma tried to obey, but hypnotized in her fear, her gaze locked with narrowing yellow slits. The wolf laid its long ears against the sides of its head. Another growl rumbled through the cavern. The animal then lifted a black nose high, sniffing the air. With a deep snarl, it lowered its muzzle, revealing a row of razor-sharp teeth. Twenty feet separated her from certain death. Panicking, Alma heaved the strip of meat clenched in her hand toward the animal. Dust puffed up as the venison plopped in the dirt inches from the beast.
The creature snatched up her offering and swallowed the strip in one gulp. Another snarl rumbled in the wolf’s throat as he crept forward. She closed her eyes just as a deafening blast erupted. She lifted her eyelids in time to see the ground spray into an arc of dirt across the wolf’s face.
With a yelp, the animal turned and bolted into the darkness.
An eerie silence fell within the cave as gunsmoke mingled with the pungent stink of the animal and the rich and hearty bounty of Alma’s stew. Catastrophe averted, she drew in ragged breaths to calm her pounding heart.
Her ears still rung from the sharp report of gunfire.
“You can rest easy now. I’ve scared him off,” Dillon said with a chuckle as he spun the chamber of his revolver to check his ammunition. “Won’t be back, knowing what awaits him.”
“Good,” she whispered, staring out of the cave into the darkness. An odd sense of victory smothered her earlier terror. She shifted onto her knees. “And stay away too, you mangy beast.” Unsure of what Dillon had made of her unladylike bellow, she glanced at him.
Surprise had creased his face, then a deep laugh rumbled from him.
With hands on hips, she glared. “And if I may ask, what is so blasted amusing?”
“You, Princess,” he said, shoving his pistol into the holster. “As daring as that was, you feeding predatory wildlife doesn’t fit into our survival plans.”
Chapter Seventeen
One horse.
And two of them.
Alma sighed. How was he going to make that work? Only five days had passed since Dillon’s fever broke. Was he certain he could travel? She turned from the now-cold fire pit.
Surely, the man knew best.
A sudden stab o
f reluctance pushed through her at leaving the makeshift quarters. She squelched her silly foot-dragging, and turned to shove the tinware and remaining supplies into a bag. With a heaving grunt, Alma slung the canvas across her shoulder and headed toward the gelding. The items inside the cumbersome sack clanked together, whacking hard against the back of each brocade-covered leg.
In her other hand, she clutched her travelling valise.
Dillon stood near the cave’s opening, his uninjured shoulder angled closest to her. “Here, I’ll take those,” he said, relieving her of the bags. “Thanks for gathering up the gear.” He draped the bundles across the horse, then set to tying them into place.
As he bent his head, several errant strands of too-long hair slid over his face. She stared, her fingers tickling at the remembered softness of his disheveled locks.
His gaze caught hers and she flushed; a tiny curl lifted his mouth.
For one maddening moment, she wanted to stand on tippy toes and kiss him. Frustration shimmied through her, and her heart rattled inside her chest.
“We’re wastin’ time.” He jammed a gloved hand through his hair, then settled his hat into place. A quick tug leveled the brim. “I’m gonna need every bit of daylight to find my way off this mountain.”
“And back to another stagecoach, right?”
His smile faded into a guarded scowl. “There’s no more stagecoaches for us, Princess.”
“What?” She followed him out to the ledge. He led the horse around and Alma sidestepped out of their way. “I thought we were going to find the closest swing station. And from there catch another stage south.”
He sighed and draped an arm across the saddle, his gaze drilling into hers. “The bandits took you for a reason. There might be others waiting to pick up where those bastards failed.” He straightened, and then reached below the gelding’s belly, pulling the saddle’s girth tight. “I’m not taking any more chances with your safety. From now on, we’re traveling my way.”
Her brows drew down as she let out a shaky breath. “And what does that mean…exactly?”
“Light and fast, sweetheart.” His gaze slid back to hers. “We’re heading for Fort Garland.”
“I see.” Her mouth tightened. Regardless what she thought, when push came to shove, Dillon Reed would always win. Time and again he’d proven that to her. “Which is on the other side of the Rocky Mountains, correct?”
“Sort of. We’re actually going to skirt through the lower range on a continuous southwest heading. And to get there, we’re passin’ through Ute territory.
“Ute? What type of animal is that? Nothing like a wolf, I hope.”
He chuckled. “Utes are Indians. More specifically, the Caputa band, near the headwater of the Rio Grande. They’ve welcomed me into their camps before.”
Indians! Oh no. No…No.
All the stories she’d heard about the murdering savages out west tumbled into recall. She swallowed hard. “But…d-don’t Indians scalp people?”
A flash of ire appeared in his eyes. “Yes, some do, like the Chiricahua Apache’s outside Tucson. But, most don’t, not much anymore at least, including the Utes.” He stepped closer. Towering over her, he cupped her chin. “You need to trust me.”
She dared not blink. Nor breathe. Yet, his gaze never altered, nor did his hold loosen as he awaited her response. His demand that she believe in him melded with the kick of excitement, exhaustion, and fear already swirling inside her. Where he touched, her skin burned, her lips quivering on the edge of a frown.
And still he waited.
Her belly fluttered.
On an unsteady breath, Alma nodded.
He gave her chin a gentle squeeze, and then his hand slid away. Leaning sideways, he retrieved the rifle resting against a rock. “They’re the oldest inhabitants in the region, by the way, and call themselves, Nuu-ci…the people.” He slipped the Henry into a leather holder resting alongside the saddle. “And a few months ago, President Grant signed a peace treaty with their primary leader, Chief Ouray, so they’re much more accepting of the white man now.” The admiration in his voice reflected his respect for these people. “But, as everywhere else, more of us are moving onto lands set aside for them despite the agreements.”
Alma gave him a level look. “If you think it’s safe to cross their land, then I’m ready.” She pointed south, regaining her composure as she plastered an uncertain smile on her face. “After all, we are burning daylight.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said with a laugh. He then pointed to her skirt. “Now, drop the bustle.”
She blinked in surprise. “What?”
“You heard me. We’re sharing a horse, and I’m not ridin’ all the way to Tucson with that damned gadget poking me in my gut.”
“But…” She stepped backward, her hands sweeping around to clutch the swell of her recently donned travelling ensemble. “I cannot leave this particular apparatus behind, Dillon. It is an important part of my trousseau.”
“I don’t care. Drop it.” He stepped closer. “Or I will.”
Shock slid through her. “Y-You wouldn’t dare.” She retreated another step.
And he followed. “I would.”
First, no stagecoach.
Then the threat of Indians.
And now…now he demands this of me? Her manner of dress, her comportment? She glared at him. Her gown and accessories gave her hope as she wallowed through this miserable nightmare. Did the tyrant not understand this fact?
Resentment smothered any remaining logic. She’d had enough! Alma straightened and rammed her chin higher, her words rumbling out with indisputable rebuke. “Must I remind you, again, that I am not one of your tavern wenches, you…you toad? Nor will I ever be. This bustle will come with me, and you will somehow make that work.”
His eyes narrowed.
She swallowed, yet held her ground.
Morning sunlight streamed across his hat brim, casting his features into shadows. He took another step closer.
Don’t give in. Stay strong.
With hands still covering her brocade-covered derrière swelling in fashionable glory behind her, Alma took one more step backward. Pebbles beneath her foot shifted, sending dirt and debris pattering down the incline.
And then…horror crashed through her as she felt her body tip.
She released the steel bands and arced her arms forward, grasping out for air as she struggled to right herself. Despite her best efforts, her body fell back. With a scream building in her throat, she closed her eyes and awaited the bone-breaking tumble down the ravine.
“Alma!” Debris crunched beneath Dillon’s footfalls. Prickles of awareness returned as his strong hands slid around her waist. A quick tug brought her back from disaster and up against his chest. “Jeezus, you almost fell.”
She couldn’t breathe. Shaken by the near-mishap and his closeness, drawn for a reason she refused to acknowledge, Alma wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled herself deeper into his embrace. Her eyes widened, her gaze locking with his, its dark depths soft and luminous. A tremor flounced through her, then another. “Y-You saved me.”
***
The heat of her perfect body fused Dillon to her.
His breathing quickened, matching hers, as she stared up at him, her eyes a damnable mix of innocence and need. Hunger flashed through him in a scorching rush. He cursed himself, damned her, and tipped his head closer. As his mouth paused over hers, she closed her eyes, her chin lifting, waiting for…for…
What the hell am I doing?
With a sharp oath, Dillon pushed backward.
Her eyelids flew open, and she stared at him in confusion. Then, red crept up her face, and she looked away. Damn it. He turned on his boot heel and strode back to the horse. “Let’s get moving.”
***
Need spiraled through Alma, and she resigned herself to the truth. She wanted this man…this army scout who lived a hard, uncouth life on the ragged edge of civilization. A m
an who did not fit at all into her well-cast, society-filled life.
She fell in love with the wrong man. Did the same fate that had befallen his mother now rule her heart? Alma stared at Dillon as he reshifted the packs behind the saddlebags. I am such a fool.
He swung to face her, and she caught her breath. “If you’ll just remove the bustle so we can ride together, I’ll tie the damned thing behind the saddle.”
She stifled her unrequited yearning, focusing on his surprising offer. “Y-You promise?”
The muscle clenched in his jaw.
Stubborn troll. She arched an eyebrow, and added, “I’m not moving a step ‘til you do.”
“Good God, woman.” His eyes narrowed on an edgy huff. “Fine. I promise.”
Victory! With her gaze locked on his, she yanked up yards of emerald brocade, and made short work of untying the bustle. The piece rattled to the ground and she stepped from the cotton circlet. “You may take this now.”
He stalked over and swept up the crinolette. Another oath followed as he squashed together the flexible bands and headed for the horse. He secured her apparatus to the back of the saddle…where it promptly sprang back open over the gelding’s rump presenting a distinct image of a fashionably bustled horse.
Alma giggled.
And Dillon’s mouth flattened into a hard line. He smacked the seat of the saddle. “Get the hell over here right now,” he snapped, his voice ice, “before I decide to leave this contraption and you behind.”
Laughter welled in her throat, but she smothered the urge. She’d pushed him and had won. With a nod, she walked over.
***
The ride downhill was covered in complete silence.
Nestled in front of Dillon on the horse, Alma held herself rigid in the saddle, aware of each brush of their elbows, every tap of their knees, and his countless commands to the horse as he worked to take them safely down the mountain.
She kept her focus on her ire at the impropriety of straddling the horse, but she wouldn’t push her luck by demanding other seating arrangements. Her victory over the battle of the bustle had served to stoke his temper, one she refused to push further. She did however regret the lack of her parasol, currently folded and stowed away in her traveling bag, to block the intermittent sun.