by Ana Leigh
“Which part do you think Clay is?” Rebecca asked impishly, then regretted it. The last thing she wanted Scott to think was that she and Clay weren’t loving newlyweds.
Clay picked up on it immediately. “It would have to be the head. How else would you have roped me into marrying you? Right, sweetheart?” He grabbed her and kissed her, then gave her a light swat on the butt as she ducked away.
Scott laughed. “I envy you, Clay. A beautiful wife with a sense of humor.” Turning to Garth, he said, “Bet these two keep you amused all the time, don’t they?”
“That’s no lie,” Garth said. “It’s like being around a couple of kids when they’re together.”
“Ah, newlyweds. It’s enough to make a man think about marriage himself.”
“I’d think good and long about it, Scotty,” Garth replied.
Rebecca lowered her head to hide her grin, but not before Clay saw it. Men actually believed that only they made the decision whether or not to wed, that women had no say in that matter. Ha! As if she needed any man to do her thinking for her. She needed a man for the same reason she needed a mule—the strength of his back. She sure as heck didn’t need a man for his brain.
As soon as the three men rode off, Rebecca packed up and was ready when the train moved on. Shortly after, Etta came over and climbed up beside her. The companionship helped to pass the time.
Late in the afternoon Thomas Davis joined them and offered to drive the team. Rebecca gladly accepted the offer, even though she suspected the young man had only done so to be with Etta. But that was fine with her. She enjoyed observing the course of true love.
And maybe, she thought, picking up a buffalo chip and putting it in the wood sling, deep down, she yearned for such a relationship.
Aches and pains accompanied her return to driving the team. By the second night the pain seemed even more severe than the first time she’d driven the team.
“What’s wrong?” Clay asked after dinner when a groan slipped out as she bent down to pick up the heavy spider skillet.
“Nothing,” she said.
Clay came over and packed the skillet away.
“Where’s the ointment?”
“I don’t need any ointment.”
“Dammit, Rebecca, you’re not surrendering your independence by asking for a helping hand. I took an oath as your husband to take care of you. I can hardly sit on my ass reading a book while you hobble around in pain.”
“I am not hobbling.” She turned on her heel and strode away. When she started to climb into the wagon, though, she suddenly winced with pain.
“Okay, that’s it.” He swept her up in his arms and laid her on her pelt. “Where is it?”
She nodded toward a box in the corner. He was back in seconds with the tin of ointment.
“Let’s get that dress off you,” he said.
Rebecca unbuttoned the gingham gown and he helped get it over her head.
“Are you able to roll over?” Clay asked.
She shifted painfully onto her stomach. Then she closed her eyes and let those marvelous hands of his work their magic.
His hands felt warm and strong as they pressed into her flesh, seeking and soothing the aching tendons of her shoulders. As the pain disappeared, she became aware of his touch in a very different way, and a moan escaped her. Then he turned her over, and his long, tapered fingers caressed the taut muscles of her neck and hollow of her throat. A responsive quiver surged through her. Her breath quickened, and the ache in her body now had a far different cause.
Passion spiraled through her, arousing excitement she fought to restrain. She cast a wary glance at Clay; his eyes were hooded with arousal.
The divine pressure of his hands cupped her neck as he leaned forward, his voice a seductive murmur. “I’m sorry for kissing you the way I did at the river the other night, Rebecca. But I don’t apologize for this one.”
His mouth swallowed her gasp as his lips pressed to hers. Sweet ecstasy surged through her, and she gave herself up to it with a response as hungry as his.
He slipped the straps of her chemise off her shoulders and pushed it down to her waist. The cool air on her breasts was quickly replaced by the moist warmth of his mouth. She arched in response and pressed his head tighter to her breasts as his tongue teased the turgid peaks.
“Anybody home?” Etta called out.
With a shuddering breath, Clay raised his head and stood up as Rebecca quickly replaced the straps of her chemise.
He moved to the rear of the wagon and stepped down. “Hi, Etta.”
“Is Becky here?” she asked.
“Yes, she’ll be out in a moment. I was just putting some ointment on her. She’s pretty sore again.”
“I know,” Becky said, her eyes warm with compassion.
“Tommy said he’d drive the wagon for her tomorrow.”
“Good,” Clay said. “I appreciate that. I’ll go and tell him so.” He hurried away.
As soon as Etta left, Rebecca went to bed. This time she slept inside the wagon. She and Clay had come so close to making love—too close! Now the tension between them would be worse than ever. It had felt so wonderful… but she had to put it out of her mind. She wanted that annulment, and it would ruin everything if she gave in to a weak moment. Somehow, despite the growing desire between them, she had to resist him.
Clay stayed away as long as he could. By the time he returned, the fire had burned out and Garth was asleep. He peeked through the flaps of the wagon to make sure Rebecca was okay, then crawled into his own sleeping roll.
It had taken him a long time to get over that abrupt ending to their lovemaking. They had come so close. She had been so ready. And now he knew she was responsive.
Despite her resolve not to consumate their marriage, he had an ally in that delightful, quivering little body of hers. He tucked his arms under his head and gazed up at the starry sky.
An annulment? Never—he’d taken a vow, and Frasers always honored their vows.
You picked the wrong man to play games with, Rebecca Fraser.
Clay’s mouth curved in a wry grin. But it was a damn sorry state of affairs when a man had to scheme how to get his wife into bed with him.
Scott had told them it would take six or seven weeks to reach Fort Laramie, but Rebecca had lost track of how long they’d been on the trail. The days passed slowly, one as uneventful as the other. She became stronger and very skilled at driving, and no longer ached as she had before.
And she loved testing her cooking skills. Game was plentiful, so there was always fresh meat to eat or trout in the streams.
And of course, buffalo! Thousands and thousands of buffalo. Big, lumbering, hairy, smelly buffalo—the dumbest dumb animals on God’s earth. They had no instinct for self-preservation. A hunter could shoot one down and it wouldn’t trouble the others next to it. They’d continue to graze or plod along, oblivious to what was going on around them. At least cattle had enough instinct to run when startled. But not buffalo!
Promptly at six, Scott called a stop. Rebecca reined up and climbed down from the box. She glanced in dismay at the buffalo herd that was grazing a short distance off the trail. There were thousands of the gargantuan creatures. The train had encountered the grazing herd early that morning and still hadn’t left them behind. She saw Clay riding in, and knew he’d bring some buffalo chips with him, so she waited to start the fire. Their droppings were the only good things she could say about the beasts. Since the plains were treeless, the buffalo chips made a good source of fuel. And they were odorless.
“Pity the same can’t be said about the beasts that dropped them, Cleopatra,” she murmured to the mule she was unharnessing.
Since they were in Indian territory, Scott had ordered the wagons circled in the evening, with the tongue of each wagon shoved under the wagon next to it. The horses were corralled inside the circle. Since the Indians had no use for oxen or mules, they were set out to graze with guards riding nightherd. The arra
ngement made for very close quarters, but created a tight barricade in the event of an Indian attack.
Another good thing came out of the close quarters: It forced her and Clay to talk pleasantly to each other, despite the simmering sexual tension between them. There were too many ears within hearing distance for them to carry on their running argument, so they’d fallen into a forced truce. More often than not, the Garson family and the VonDiemans joined them in the evening meal, so the three families had become very attached to one another.
And with fresh meat and four females doing the cooking, many of the bachelors and widowers on the train suddenly found reasons for dropping in around dinnertime.
Rebecca had the mules turned out to graze by the time Clay arrived. As she anticipated, he emptied a pouch of buffalo chips into the sling. In a short time the others joined them, and while a couple of the men built the fire, the women set to cooking. Rebecca had never had any close female relationships, and she got special pleasure out of these evenings, sharing laughter and jokes as the women prepared the meal.
Later, as Rebecca and Helena were finishing the dishes, her attention was drawn to the campfire, where a heated discussion had ensued among the men regarding guard duty.
“Ain’t right we hav’ta stand guard at night,” complained Jake Fallon, one of the bachelors who often joined them for supper. “It’s Scott’s problem,” he continued. “He should have hired more riders.”
“It’s only fair that we do,” Howard Garson said, drawing on his pipe. The scent of the pipe tobacco was a pleasant change from the pungent odor of the buffalo that carried downwind to them.
Unlike Howard, who took everything calmly in stride, Fallon constantly complained about one thing or another, and was considered by all to be a shirker who often came up with an excuse to get out of guard duty when it was his turn to serve.
“There’s always the danger of an Indian attack,” Otto VonDieman added.
“Bullshit!” Fallon said. “You seen any Indians? I ain’t seen one redskin since we crossed the Kansas.”
“Mike Scott knows what he’s doing, Fallon,” Clay said. “I trust his judgment.”
He never tried to disguise his dislike for Fallon, and it was one of the few issues where Rebecca agreed wholeheartedly with her husband.
Fallon had served in the Union Army during the war and always wore a scabbard that almost touched the ground because he was so short. He claimed to be a carpenter by trade, but she’d never seen him raise a hammer or nail to help out when a wagon needed repairing.
She disliked him even more so from a female point of view.
Clay was always friendly and polite toward any woman he spoke to. Both Helena Garson and Blanche VonDieman clearly worshipped him. In fact, Rebecca was willing to bet that she was the only woman on the train who didn’t think the sun rose and set on Clay Fraser.
But she never felt comfortable around Jake Fallon. His disrespect for women was evident, and his ferret eyes seemed to undress them when he looked at them.
When the little man stalked away in a huff, the conversation broke up and the others returned to their wagons early. Rebecca found herself alone with Clay for the first time since the night he’d kissed her.
An awkward silence developed between them. She couldn’t concentrate on her cookbook, and he appeared to be having the same problem with the novel he was reading. Often, when she looked up, she found him staring at her.
She finally asked, “Do you think we could play a game of backgammon without arguing?”
Clay closed his book. “I suppose we could give it a try.”
Rebecca got the board and box containing the dice and counters. “I hope you’re a good loser, Clay, because I intend to beat the pants off you,” she teased.
“Interesting choice of words, Rebecca. Any particular reason why you want my pants off?”
She blushed furiously. “It’s just a phrase.”
“Oh, really? Well, the prospect of beating the pants off you is becoming more appealing by the minute.”
“You don’t have a prayer, Clayton. I’m a master at this game.”
“Time will tell, Becky.”
She looked up, surprised. He rarely called her by name, much less a nickname. His gaze locked with hers, and she became aware of how beautiful his eyes were when he wasn’t scowling. Their dark brown was rich with warmth and a gleam of deviltry that was dangerously seductive. She hadn’t forgotten the thrill his kisses had generated, and it looked as if he hadn’t, either.
Now, Clay’s relaxed chuckles and impromptu comments brought her time and time again to laughter or giggles of delight. She soon discovered he was a good sport when he lost and a colossal tease when he won. And both of them were enjoying playing out their rivalry with a board and dice instead of nasty words. By the time they finally called a halt, no clear victor had materialized.
That night, after bedding down, Rebecca lay gazing contentedly at the stars. She had gotten into the habit of sleeping outside when there was no danger of rain. It was so much cooler than the stuffy wagon, and the stars seemed so close, she felt she could reach up and touch one.
“Clay, how long before we reach Fort Laramie?”
“Probably in another couple weeks,” he said, climbing into his bedroll a few yards away.
“Is that the halfway mark?”
“Close to it, according to Scotty,” he murmured in a voice husky with drowsiness. “Good night, Becky.”
“Good night,” she replied, and closed her eyes.
It was the first time they’d ever exchanged the felicitation.
The sandstone hills had gradually become higher, the terrain a little rougher, but the going still wasn’t too difficult. They’d been following the south side of the Platte and had reached South Fork, where the river split and forked off south toward Colorado, or north toward Wyoming. In the morning they would cross back to the north side.
Rebecca and Henrietta were sitting side-by-side listening to several men who’d been entertaining them with songs, Thomas Davis among them. In a pleasing tenor voice he began singing the haunting ballad “Shenandoah.” One didn’t have to be from Virginia to feel the poignancy of the words.
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you,
Far away, you rolling river.
Oh, Shenandoah, I’ll not deceive you,
Away, we’re bound away,
Across the wide Missouri.
Rebecca stole a glance at Clay and Garth, and felt a stab of sympathy for them. Homesickness and heartache were written all over their faces as they listened to the moving words.
“Hey, don’t you know somethin’ different?” Jake Fallon yelled out. “I heard all I wanna hear of that Reb song. Do you know ‘Marching Through Georgia,’ boy?”
Thomas shook his head. “No, Mr. Fallon.”
“You ought to: We Yankees sang it enough times as we whupped your asses, when we marched through the damn South. How about ‘Rally’ Round the Flag?’ Let’s hear it, boy.”
Fallon began singing, “ ‘The Union forever. Hurrah, boys. Hurrah.’ ” He paused when no one joined him, and his face twisted into a snarl. Drawing his sword out of its scabbard, he pointed the weapon threateningly at Thomas. “You heard me. Start singing, Reb.”
“I like the song he was singing, Fallon.”
Rebecca turned around in surprise at Clay’s voice.
Etta gasped and clutched Rebecca’s arm when Clay stepped forward. “Uh-oh, Becky. This looks like trouble,” she whispered.
Fallon waved the weapon at Clay. “Then how about you volunteerin’ to sing what I wanna hear, Fraser?”
Garth stepped up next to Clay. “My brother said he liked the song the boy was singing. So do I.”
“Don’t cut yourself in on this, Garth,” Clay said. “I can handle this weasel alone.”
Fallon snorted. “I killed enough of you Rebs during the war. A couple more of ya ain’t gonna matter none.”
“Must have been becaus
e their backs were to you, Fallon,” Garth said.
Fallon’s black eyes glowed with rage. “I’m gonna enjoy running this sword through that gut of yours, Fraser.”
“Fallon, sheath that weapon at once,” a stern voice demanded. All eyes turned to Mike Scott, who had arrived on the scene with several of his riders, rifles in hand.
With a glare at Garth, Fallon replaced the saber in the scabbard. “I wouldn’t have hurt ’em,” he grumbled.
“You’ve got that right,” Clay said.
“What went on here, Clay?”
“Just a difference of opinion in the choice of music, Scotty.”
“I made it clear in Independence that there was to be no refighting the war. And Fallon, if you ever draw that damn sword again on anyone here, you’re off the train. Now get the hell back to your wagon.” He turned to Rebecca and Henrietta. “My apologies, ladies.” He gave Clay and Garth a stern look. “I’d appreciate you boys staying out of trouble.” Then he and his entourage departed.
The scene had spoiled any further desire for entertainment, so everyone returned to their wagons and bedded down for the night.
Rebecca was too disturbed over the confrontation with Jake Fallon to fall asleep. If Mr. Scott hadn’t shown up, that horrible man probably would have used that sword on Clay or Garth. The thought was horrifying. Despite their differences, she certainly didn’t wish Clay—or Garth—any harm. Both of them put their lives on the line every day when they rode out alone, not knowing what they might encounter. Besides that, she owed Clay her gratitude for saving her life.
She sighed and rolled over. Even though she didn’t understand it, she knew her feelings for Clay had nothing to do with gratitude. Despite all their posturing toward each other, there was something between them. And maybe, whether they admitted it or not, they’d begun to take their spouse roles to heart.
11
By the following morning, word of the incident between the Fraser brothers and Jake Fallon had spread through the camp. Until then there had been a feeling of cheerful camaraderie among them, but this morning everyone appeared more subdued.