Montana Wildfire

by Rebecca Sinclair

  "I said 'for starters' Last question. Where are you from that you talk so prissy? And why the hell aren't you on a stage right now, the way any woman with a lick of sense would be?"

  "That's two questions." The glare he shot her told her not to argue, just to answer. "I'm from... Boston" It wasn't really a lie, she told herself. She'd come from Boston, just not originally. Originally, she was from Washington. She saw no need to elaborate about that. It was none of his business.

  "Boston?" He shook his head. "That figures."

  The way he said the word made it sound more like the vilest of curses instead of the prospering city it was, but she ignored the outburst. "Roger and I did take the stage to Virginia City, Mr. Chandler. Before that we were on a cramped, smelly, dusty, dirty railroad car. And before that—"

  "The stage runs right through Pony. You know that, right?"

  "I was informed of such."

  "Yeah? So why aren't you on it, Miss Lennox?"

  Amanda shrugged, as though the reason wasn't important. But it was. Even now, she fumed over the incident that had happened almost two weeks before.

  "Well?" Jake pressed impatiently.

  "Roger hid the tickets."

  Jake grumbled something under his breath. Since his tone was gruff, she presumed it was one of the graphic swears he seemed so fond of muttering. "Now, lady. Why aren't you on a stage now?"

  She scowled. "I just told you. Roger hid the tickets. We missed the stage. Since I knew Pony wasn't too far away, and since the next stage wouldn't come through until the next morning, I rented two horses and... well, you know the rest."

  She didn't add that she'd made the decision impulsively, and only because the thought of being shackled to Roger Thornton Bannister III for even twenty-four hours longer than was necessary was more repellent to her than eating live worms. She'd wanted to unload the little monster on his father as soon as possible and be rid of him. She hadn't counted on getting lost in the thick, mountainous woods of Montana. No, she corrected herself with a mental shiver... Idaho.

  "You rented horses?" Jake asked, and he rubbed a palm down his jaw as though he couldn't quite comprehend her reasoning.

  "Oh, yes." She grinned brightly. "It seemed fitting, since Roger hates to ride. Do you have any more questions before we leave?" He had decided to help her, hadn't he? She eyed him closely. His chiseled copper face was as readable as a stone, his steely gaze narrow and guarded. There was no deciphering him. He could be thinking almost anything.

  "You rented horses," he muttered again, telling Amanda he hadn't gotten past that point in her story. "Jesus! I've never heard of anyone doing anything so pompous—not to mention hairbrained stupid!—in my life. Not knowing where you were going, or how to get there, you and the brat just put your noses in the air and rode right out of town. Then promptly got lost."

  "We did not 'promptly get lost!' " Amanda wished her ankle didn't hurt so badly. She would have loved to show this man in deed, not words, how much his statement grated... because what he accused her of was exactly what had happened. Except for the 'promptly' part. It had taken two good hours after they'd left Virginia City for her to figure out they were hopelessly lost.

  "How long have you been wandering around out here?"

  "Three days," she lied. It was closer to two weeks. A technicality he didn't need to know about, she decided.

  "Three days?" Jake gave a derisive snort and shook his head. There was no way she could have come so far in so short a time; which meant he'd just caught her in her first lie. "Yeah, I'd say you're lost all right. In good weather it's less than a day's ride between The Virgin and Pony."

  "All right, so we got sidetracked," she admitted grudgingly, then promptly changed the subject. "I've answered your questions. Now, are you going to help me find Roger or aren't you? And if whoever took him left tracks, shouldn't we be out there following them before they get cold, or blow over, or do whatever it is hoof-prints do?"

  We. Amanda thought it was the "we" that brought that sudden tension to his chiseled face and steely eyes. Her poor choice of words implied she assumed he would help. His tight expression said that Jacob Blackhawk Chandler didn't appreciate anyone assuming anything about him.

  In the time it took Jake to make up his mind, Amanda, born with a gift for worrying, had thought of countless thousands of hideous fates that might have befallen poor Roger. Each was more gruesome than the last. She didn't dare mention any of them to her stone-faced companion, since most involved bloodthirsty savages, razorsharp knives, and unattached scalps...

  Her gaze dropped to the sheathed knife cradled against his taut hip. She remembered the long blade, the metal as cold and as sharp as Jake Chandler's eyes. She thought of the way he'd expertly wielded the weapon, as though it was an extension of himself; something deadly, but precious all the same.

  Didn't real Indian's carry knives like that one—and use them with the same degree of lethal accuracy? Yes, they did. And why hadn't she thought about that before? But Amanda knew why. Everything about him—his clothes, his speech, his attitude—had blinded her to his heritage. Until now. But facts were facts. This man was part Indian, part savage. He'd already proven his disposition to be more wild and dangerous than most, his temper easily leashed, but just as easily aroused.

  Amanda called herself all sorts of a fool for offering the man money to help her. Obviously, the situation had clouded her judgment. But she was thinking clearly now... and what she was thinking was that spending time alone in this man's company might not be wise. Or healthy.

  "I'm leaving," she said suddenly, and pushed awkwardly away from the tree. She hadn't thought it possible for her ankle to throb more than it already did. The second she put weight on it, she knew she was wrong. God, that hurt! Pain edged her voice, making her tone sharp. "With or without your help, Mr. Chandler, I am going to find my cousin."

  All of her training at Miss Henry's Academy for Young Ladies was called upon to walk with dignity out of that clearing. Her ankle throbbed mightily, her temples ached from gritting her teeth. She was wet and chilly, and her damp skirt kept twisting around her legs, trying to trip her. A lady did not let such obstacles overcome her. A lady was proud and dignified. A lady did not, even when provoked, say the words Amanda wanted so badly to say as soon as she was out of Jake's range of hearing.

  What a lady thought, however, was her own business. Inwardly Amanda cursed him with a vengeance.

  She hadn't convinced Jake to help her. She couldn't say she was surprised. From the first, he hadn't struck her as the type whose services could be bought—at any price, for any reason unless it was his own. Now that she thought about it, she'd probably offended him by offering the money in the first place.

  Amanda was now left in the unpleasant position of having to find Roger herself. She would have laughed, had she seen anything to laugh about. There was nothing.

  After taking a dry skirt and blouse from her saddle bag, she quickly changed, then scrambled atop the chestnut mare. Climbing into the saddle proved even easier than she'd hoped it would be. Following the tracks of whoever had taken Roger was going to be infinitely more difficult.

  It was as she was studying the ground from her perch in the saddle, trying to decide what looked like hoof-prints and what did not, that Amanda had the unsettling feeling of being watched. Closely. A tingle of... something raced up her spine and pricked the golden wisps at the nape of her neck. She stiffened, and her gaze snapped over her shoulder.

  Jake Chandler was sitting astride a striking white palomino horse that, on closer inspection, had a handwoven blanket thrown over its back, but not the befitting saddle. Despite the lack, his seat was straight and perfect.

  Their gazes met and held. Green silently asked a question of granite-hard silver. Silver answered, reluctantly.

  Amanda sat back in shock. Her head still reeling with surprise, she saw Jake reach up and—could it be?—politely tip his hat to her. So, she'd convinced him to help after all.
Now why didn't she feel relieved?

  "I'll warn you now, I'm no great tracker," he said as he leaned back and studied her. "You should know that up front."

  "That's all right," she replied cautiously, "neither am I."

  "And I'll want my money as soon as the brat's been found."

  She nodded, still unable to believe she'd convinced him to help her; still not sure whether she should be glad she had. "Yes, of course."

  "Once my job's over, once you have your cousin back, I ride out. No questions asked."

  "All right."

  He sighed, and crossed his hands over the white's sleek neck. "You'll do as I tell you, when I tell you to do it?"

  "I..." Oh, why not? It was too late to stop lying now. "Yes."

  "You won't argue or complain?"

  "Rarely." Well, she thought it only fair to warn him about that. While she might be a coward, she wasn't meek and mild. When her hackles were raised, people knew it. Now that she thought about it, that was one of the reasons Miss Henry had politely asked her to leave the Academy—before the last term was over.

  Jake nodded. "Good enough. Well, don't just sit there, princess. Come on. The tracks lead this way."

  "But I thought you said you didn't...?" Her mouth snapped shut. It was too late. Jake was already guiding his horse through the woods. If he'd heard her, he gave no sign.

  Amanda reined in the mare, and, with a gentle flick of her wrist, began threading her way past the trees, following in Jake Chandler's wake.

  Try as she might, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just made the biggest mistake of her life.

  Chapter 3

  It was an hour past dusk when Jake gave the signal to stop.

  Amanda glanced at his upraised arm. Her cynical gaze snagged on the way he inclined his head and nodded to the small, moonswept, oval-shaped clearing bordered by pine trees, which their horses had just stepped into.

  Apparently this was where he'd decided they would make camp for the night. Of course, she was just guessing about that. The only way to know for sure would be if he'd stopped to consult her about where she thought they should stop, and when. He hadn't. Jake had decided the matter for himself. And that annoyed her.

  Her gaze narrowed as she glared at the back of that large copper hand. In one sweeping glance she assessed the arrogant set of his shoulders and the casual way his body swayed atop the glistening white horse he was reining in.

  He pulled his mount to a stop, then slid lithely to the ground. Not once did he look and see if she was doing the same. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten her presence entirely as he led the white over to a low-hanging branch, looped the reins around it, then swaggered—not walked, swaggered—into the thick, rustling coat of underbrush.

  Amanda glared at his back. She watched him saunter out of sight; if looks could wound, Jacob Blackhawk Chandler would have landed on his knees. Exactly where he belonged. The man's self-assured attitude said he never doubted she would obey him. His confidence irked her, and for a split second she entertained the idea of continuing on without him, just to defy him.

  What would his reaction be when he came back to the clearing and found her gone? Would he be angry or, as seemed more likely, relieved to be rid of her? She wasn't sure. Nor was it likely she'd find out. The urge to spite him was overridden by another, stronger demand: the need for sleep.

  She was exhausted. Worrying about what had happened to poor Roger—dear Lord, she was thinking nice thoughts about the little hellion again; she must be tired!—had given her a headache. Concern for the boy's safety, as well as her own should his father find out what happened, had tapped more of her energy than she would ever admit to the man who'd just rudely deserted her.

  Shifting her weight in the saddle, she was quick to discover that her head wasn't the only thing that hurt. Everything hurt. Muscles she didn't know she possessed were sore from spending so many hours in the saddle. With Roger, she'd stopped often to rest. Jake Chandler didn't allow stops—they ate in their saddle. At least, she did; he didn't have a saddle. And he never seemed to miss having one or to tire.

  Her ankle throbbed from the jostling of the chestnut mare beneath her. Waves of pain radiated up her leg, sliced through her hip and rippled higher. The ache was dulled only by the weariness through which she perceived it.

  As much as she wanted to continue searching—the sooner she found Roger, the sooner she could deposit him on his father's doorstep and collect her fee—Amanda knew how pointless it would be to continue looking tonight. The tracks were vague in daylight; they would be impossible to see in the muted light of a quarter moon. Though it was embarrassing to admit, she knew that had they ridden on for even half a mile further, she would have fallen asleep in the saddle. Even now her eyelids felt weighted and scratchy as she forced herself to blink.

  Stifling a yawn, she gave a tug on the reins and guided the mare close to Jake's palomino. The two horses, while not really at ease with each other, were at least familiar with each other's scent. Their protests at being forced into close proximity were weak and mostly for show. The soft whickers and stomping hooves halted soon enough.

  Good. That was one less problem to deal with. Trying to dismount and still retain some dignity... now that was going to be a lesson in coordination! Her wounded ankle screamed a protest when Amanda lifted her right leg over the saddle horn and got ready to dismount. Just the idea of putting weight on that leg made her cringe.

  Rotten bastard, she thought, and she glared at the shadowy spot where Jake had disappeared. Damn the man! He knew she was hurt. Would it be asking too much for him to stay long enough to help her dismount? Apparently so. He'd probably left the way he had for the sole purpose of forcing her to swallow her pride and call him back. In her sour disposition, she didn't put such underhanded treatment of a woman past a man like that.

  Amanda's chin tipped defiantly. Well, if that had been his plan, he'd have a long wait. No matter what he thought, she knew she wasn't some elite "princess" who couldn't slide off a horse's back—wounded ankle or no wounded ankle. She would get down herself. Then, when Jake returned, she would gloat about her triumph—if she hadn't swooned from the pain by then, of course.

  The idea of holding something over the man's black head to gloat about lifted Amanda's spirits somewhat. Now all that remained was trying to figure out how to get down. Her choices were limited. Actually, her choices were nonexistent. There was only one way to get off of a horse without assistance: slip off of the saddle and onto the ground.

  Her seat was precarious. All the mare needed to do was sidestep and Amanda would tumble to the ground. That in mind, she tightened her fingers around the saddle horn. Her left hand curled around the grooved leather edge of the seat.

  Pursing her lips, Amanda took a second to bolster herself for the collision of her feet hitting hard-packed earth. If she thought her ankle hurt badly now, it was nothing compared to how it would feel when she put weight on that leg.

  "Do it." The shaky sound of her voice was less than comforting. "Just do it and get it over with." Amanda glanced down as she spoke. And instantly wished she hadn't. The pain must be distorting her perception, because the ground looked unnaturally far off. It also looked hard and cold. Unwelcoming.

  The horses must have sensed her tension. The palamino's nose came up, the wide nostrils flaring as the stallion snorted, then sniffed the air. She felt the mare tense, a split second before it also snorted... and took a panicky step away from the other horse.

  The world tilted.

  The saddle melted out from under her. Amanda wasn't quick enough to stop herself from sliding. With a strangled cry, she flung her hands outward, ready to break the inevitable fall.

  There was a racket to her left, but she had no time to look to see what it was. The ground was closing in fast.

  Rescue came in the form of familiar copper hands. Strong arms encircled her thighs, tightening possessively. Before she could draw a breath, she felt the front o
f her hips being crushed against Jake Chandler's unyielding chest.

  Their position was awkward. He'd been quick to catch her; perhaps a mite too quick. She'd barely left the saddle before he'd hauled her up against him.

  She could feel the shelf of his shoulder cutting into her stomach. The hand she'd thrown out to steady herself was now trapped between his shoulder and her hipbone. The heel of her right fist ground into his other shoulder. Muscles bunched beneath his shirt as he took on her weight easily, realigning her body and molding her into the firm planes of his.

  The sound of crickets chirping receded to the chaotic beat of Amanda's heart slamming against her ribcage. She sucked in a gasp. The pain in her ankle dulled until it felt like nothing so much as a harmless mosquito bite. It took an extraordinary amount of concentration, but she forced her breathing to regulate. Instead of deep, ragged gulps, she sucked in shallow, rapid ones. Her heart continued to race, pounding an erratic beat in her ears.

  Distance. She needed distance, and a lot of it! Arching her back, Amanda put enough space between them to glance down at the top of Jake's head. She thought it was a good thing he was holding her right then, because otherwise she might have collapsed. Her knees went weak and watery.

  His hair, only a few tantalizing inches away, was cast an appealing shade of bluish-black by the moonlight. There was no part, she noticed. The strands fell where they might; and the tousled way they did it was quite eye-catching.

  Her fingers curled inward. She bunched his cottony shirt in her fists, fighting the urge to pry her fingers loose so she could bury them in that luxuriously dark mane. Would his hair feel as soft and sleek as it looked? And how would that defiant braid feel when she traced it with her fingertip? Amanda decided she must be more exhausted than she'd thought, because she was warring with an unreasonably strong urge to find out. Lord, what was wrong with her?