Montana Wildfire

by Rebecca Sinclair

  Amanda knew she should be used to the grueling pace he set. She wasn't. Her routine at the end of each punishing day varied only slightly. First, she would clamber awkwardly from the saddle, her muscles sore, her body stiff and aching. Some nights she was too tired to do more than gulp down a quick meal, then fall instantly asleep. Most times she skipped the meal. Baths in icy mountain-fed lakes or rivers were confined to the early hours of the morning, when her energy was at a premium.

  Jake, on the other hand, appeared not to suffer at all from the endless hours of riding. If he was sore, if his back ached from so much time spent straddling a horse, he didn't show it. If he was tired from scouting the woods well into the night, long after Amanda had fallen asleep, he didn't show that either.

  Each night Amanda had studied him critically in the firelight. Her reaction was always the same. Disgust—with herself, with him. She'd yet to see him look as bone-weary as she always felt. Just the opposite; the expended energy brought a healthy flush to his coppery cheeks. The daily exertion seemed to already be filling out muscle tone that, in her jaded opinion, couldn't stand much more improvement. It was frustrating that he could look so good, while she felt like a wrung-out dishcloth.

  What had started off as a cool but sunny autumn day soon turned sour. Shortly after noon clouds began rolling across the sky. The dimming light made finding Roger's trail almost impossible. Almost, because Jake did somehow manage to locate the prints. Amanda was beginning to think he was a better tracker than he'd let on, and that only confirmed her belief that she'd picked the best man to help her locate Roger.

  Roger.

  Amanda shivered and hugged the cloak she'd tossed over her shoulders. It didn't help. While the thick black wool kept some of the cold afternoon air at bay, it did nothing to soothe the chill inside of her. What, she wondered, was happening with Roger?

  Though she'd been struggling to keep her fears to herself—what good would sharing them with Jake do?—they still ate at her. And now that Jake was no longer talking to her, Amanda found herself with endless hours to think, to dwell on the situation, to worry. What had the kidnapper done to Roger so far? What horrible things would he do to the boy in the future? How was Roger faring? Was he cold? Frightened? Did he think she'd abandoned him? Better yet... who had taken him and why?

  Her mind whirled, yet she came up with no concrete answers.

  Ignoring Amanda Lennox as best he could, Jake followed the tracks. He pushed onward even when the storm clouds began to look ominous. It wasn't until a rumble of thunder echoed in the distance that he grudgingly slowed the pace. Though the storm was brewing a good distance off, it was coming. He could no longer hope it would blow past them.

  The breeze picked up in the late afternoon. The thunderclaps started coming closer together, louder, reverberating over the densely wooded mountains, making the ground tremble.

  Sighing with aggravation, Jake reined in the white.

  Instinctively, Amanda knew Jake was stopping because of her. A quick glance confirmed the suspicion. His rigid seat said that, had he been alone, he would have continued, impending rain be damned. His uncompromising posture bespoke an aversion to all things weak and feminine—especially those hailing from Boston.

  Amanda's jaw ached and her temples pounded from gritting her teeth throughout the day. It was the only way she knew to contain her anger. What was the man's problem now? she wondered crossly. Did he think she would melt if a little rain splattered on her? That she'd drown in tears from a good dousing? Not likely! She was made of stronger stuff than that—at least she hoped she was. And that, Amanda decided hotly, was a lesson about her that Jake Chandler sorely needed to learn. The sooner the better.

  She maneuvered the mare up close to the white. The horses had long since grown used to the smell of each other; neither shied from the enforced proximity, nor did they give the other more than a curious glance, "Why are we stopping?" she demanded.

  He shrugged. It was a tense, frustrated gesture. "In case you haven't noticed, princess, it's going to rain."

  "Hard as this may be for you to believe, storm clouds and that distinct, acidy aroma are indigenous to all parts of the country before a storm. And thunder sounds the same no matter where you are." Her fingers tightened on the reins, and her chin tipped up a haughty notch. Amanda thought it a pity Jake didn't glance her way and therefore missed her subtle show of defiance. "I know it's going to rain, Mr. Chandler. What I don't know, but what I'd like for you to explain to me, is why we are stopping."

  Jake kept his gaze riveted to the top of the hill they were only minutes from cresting. His voice, when it came, was low and gritty. "There's a cabin at the bottom of this hill. It's small, not what your used to, not by a long shot, but it's warm and dry. If you hurry you can probably reach it before the storm starts."

  "Why?"

  His gaze narrowed. Cold and piercing, his attention lit on her briefly, then moved quickly away. "Why what?"

  "Why are we stopping? If you can keep going, I certainly can. Contrary to popular belief, a little rain won't hurt me."

  Jake kept his opinion on that to himself. He figured that swallowing the words back would, in the long run, be less trouble for them both. The last thing he wanted was to argue with this woman... again. They didn't have time to fight. The storm was closing in quickly. Experience said that once the rain began it would come down hard and furious and cold. For some insane reason he wanted Amanda Lennox someplace warm and dry before that happened. He didn't want her caught out in a lashing downpour, and he definitely didn't want her caught out in one with him!

  Jake told himself his motives were purely selfish. Logical. Intelligent, even. If Amanda got wet, she, a woman with such a delicate constitution, unused to such harsh weather, would catch a chill. If she caught a chill, she would get a fever. A fever was only one of the many things he wanted desperately to avoid.

  What in God's name would he do with a prissy little white woman who also happened to be sick? He'd nurse her, of course. He wouldn't have much choice. Unfortunately, nursing Amanda Lennox wasn't something Jake wanted to do. Ever. It would mean having to bathe the heat from her creamy white body. It would mean having to touch her, to soothe her, to...

  Don't! his mind screamed. Don't even think about it!

  And he didn't. At least, not consciously.

  Jake forced his thoughts onto a safer path. If Amanda took sick, by the time she recovered Roger's tracks would be long gone. If that happened, Jake would never find the brat, and his obligation to this white woman couldn't be fulfilled. That would never do. He wanted—needed—to get this unpleasant chore over with quickly. That was the only way to be rid of her. If not for the brewing storm, he might have been able to do that. The tracks said Roger and his kidnapper were only a few hours ahead of them. Unfortunately, the storm was only an hour away, two at the most.

  Jake had been caught out in enough early winter storms to not be overly concerned at the prospect of being caught out in this one. What he damn well was concerned about—damned concerned about—was the idea of Amanda Lennox being caught out in it with him. He was concerned for reasons other than the obvious; reasons he couldn't let himself think about; reasons he thought about anyway... far too frequently and far too hard.

  Wet.

  The way her rain-soaked blouse would mold to her luscious white curves was not Jake's reason for deciding they'd be a hell of a lot better off if she weathered the storm somewhere warm and dry, somewhere as far away from him as she could get. No, no. He made sure the idea never crossed his mind. The concentration it took to keep his thoughts from wandering in that direction was staggering. The effort made him grumpier than usual.

  "How friendly are the people back East?" he asked irritably.

  Amanda scowled, and shifted in her saddle. She shrugged, confused. "As friendly as any, I suppose. Why?"

  "I don't know what you folks do in Boston, but around here people take in travelers." He nodded to the crest of t
he hill. "There's a young couple living that cabin. They'll give you a bed and a hot meal. You don't have to ask for it, just show up on their doorstep and look needy." He turned toward her, one inky brow cocked high. "Think you can manage that?"

  Amanda pulled herself up straighter in the saddle, no longer slouching, no longer tired. Exhaustion channeled swiftly into a hotter, more turbulent emotion. Indignation was the closest she'd come to naming the feelings roiling inside her.

  Eight years of Miss Henry's diligent tutelage was evident in the lofty tone of her voice and in the way she glared down the pert length of her nose at Jake. "Mr. Chandler, I've never appeared needy in my life!"

  "Is that a fact?" His gaze slid hotly over her. "No, I guess you haven't."

  Jake studied what he could see of her casual skirt and shirtwaist. The cloak hanging from her shoulders was made of thick, practical wool. Damn, but the outfit looked wrong on her somehow. All wrong. It wasn't the material or cut of the clothes that bothered him so much as the way she wore them. On her, cotton passed for taffeta, calico for yards of watered silk, tailored in the latest Parisian fashion. Her regal bearing modified plain wool, turning it into expensive sable, and...

  Those were the clothes a woman like Amanda Lennox should be wearing. Not practical cottons and ready-made dresses. Hell, no. She deserved better. She deserved finely tailored outfits cut from the most exquisite fabric money could buy. Nothing bright, nothing flashy, just something... classy. That was the word Jake was looking for. Classy. Like the lady herself. She was born to it.

  Amanda shifted uneasily. Why did the heat of Jake's gaze remind her of the way his fingertip had stroked her breast? She didn't know, but it did remind her of that morning in the woods. Vividly. Graphically. His gaze traced her stomach, caressed the flair of her hips and the turn of her calf revealed by the hiked up hem of her skirt. Her flesh burned, and a fragile spark of desire pooled in her stomach. Her gaze lowered to his lips. With breathtaking clarity she remembered how it felt to need—really need—that mouth covering, devouring her own.

  Except for erotic dreams, her desire for Jake Chandler had been suppressed, forced to lay dormant for days and torturously long nights. But, as he'd so effortlessly proved—and her strong, hungry response confirmed—while her passion had been carefully concealed, it hadn't by any stretch of the imagination been abolished. One hot glance from him, one lazily drawled innuendo, and desire flamed to smoldering life.

  Jake's lips burned under the caress of her eyes. His gut twisted. Against his better judgment, he did some painful remembering of his own. He came to the abrupt conclusion that bringing up the word "need" with this woman, in any way, shape, or form, was a mistake. It brought too clearly to mind his body's fierce demands.

  His attention skimmed the full, ripe breasts he'd yet to forget the tantalizing shape and feel of. His jaw hardened, and his fingers curled into tight fists around the reins. His grip was so tight his fingers actually hurt. That was fine by Jake. He was tempted, so goddamn tempted to reach out and touch her, to stroke her, to feel her creamy white skin coasting beneath his hand the way he'd wanted so badly to do these last few days. These last few hellishly long nights.

  Amanda's heartbeat skipped, her blood heated. Her skin felt warm and tingly, as though it was his fingers stroking and caressing her, not merely his eyes. She was surprised by how quickly, how effortlessly, this man could spark passion in her. She was shocked to the core by how deep-rooted that newfound passion ran. It warmed her, consumed her. Desire—hot and sharp and alive—flamed inside of her, burning away the indignation she could have sworn she'd felt only a few moments ago.

  "Can you do it?" Jake repeated, his voice as harsh as his expression.

  "Do what?" Amanda asked breathlessly.

  "Can you show up on that doorstep and look needy?"

  Oh, that! Her wayward thoughts had made her lose track of their conversation. Amanda cleared her throat, and tried to make her reply sound haughty. It wasn't easy. The blood surging through her veins, pounding in her ears, inhibited the anger she should have been feeling, but wasn't. "I'm not a total incompetent. I—I think I can manage to look needy."

  "Good. Then do it." Forcing his gaze from hers, Jake gave a flick of his wrist that turned the white around. He started back toward the woods, in the direction they'd just come. From over his shoulder he said, "Meet me back here after the storm passes. Tomorrow, probably. The day after at the latest."

  Amanda rocked back in the saddle as though he'd just clipped her jaw. Her lips parted in mute shock. She blinked hard, and filled her vision with his proud, swaying back. Where the hell was he going? Hadn't he just told her they would be stopping at the cabin for the night? Yes, he certainly had. So why—?

  Her mouth snapped shut. Her lips compressing in a thin, angry line when a thread of realization wound its way down her spine. Meet me back here...

  He was trying to get rid of her. The bastard! Not only did Jake have no intention of accompanying her to the cabin, but she had an uncomfortable feeling that, if she let him ride off now, he wouldn't come back for her. Not in one day's time, not in one year's time!

  "Damn him," she muttered under her breath, shocking herself. To curse inwardly was one thing, to do it aloud meant she must be extremely upset. And she was... with Jake Chandler, the beast who was deserting her. Well, she wouldn't tolerate it, and that was that. Deciding she would not allow him to ditch her so easily, Amanda swung the mare around and hurried after him. It took less than two minutes to catch up.

  Jake heard her pursuit. Drawing in a resigned breath, he released it by letting it hiss slowly through his teeth. The muscle in his cheek throbbed, his fingers tightened on the reins. Those were his only outward signs of annoyance.

  "Now what?" he growled when she guided the mare up beside him. Too closely beside him, the sudden burn in his left thigh screamed. "Thought I told you to get to that cabin before the storm breaks."

  "You did," she snapped, her tone as annoyed as his. "But at the time I agreed to it, I thought you were going with me."

  He didn't look at her. He didn't dare. The memory of his fingertip following the lush curve of her breast was still too fresh in his mind. If he looked at her now, and saw in her large, expressive green eyes just how disturbing that same memory was for her... worse, if she saw how much the memory kept eating at him...

  Jake drew himself up short. The tantalizing memory wasn't just eating at him, he realized. Hell, no. At some point during the last seventy-two hours his hunger to possess this woman had blossomed into a gut-grinding need. A full-blown obsession.

  He felt the heat of her invade the tough denim encasing his leg. Her warmth penetrated his skin, seeped into it, stole into his bloodstream. A cool breeze blew fragile puffs of her sweet, sweet scent his way. Jake damned the brewing storm for that almost as much as he damned the feminine aroma itself. The smell of her flooded him, threatening to drown him, as it lent a seductive undertone to the acidy tang of imminent rain.

  He sensed Amanda's agitation, felt her confusion as though it was his own, and it... well, dammit, it bothered him. More than it should have. More than was safe. For either of them. Because with the knowledge came the need to reach out and touch, to reassure. He countered the urge, but just barely.

  "With you?" he said finally, her words just now penetrating his distracted mind. He scowled, his steely gaze flashing with annoyance. "I never said I was going with you, princess."

  "No, but you implied it."

  "No, you misunderstood."

  "But I thought—"

  "Wrong. As usual, lady, you thought wrong. I, on the other hand, think you'd better get yourself to that cabin before you get caught in a downpour."

  If he'd been looking at her, Jake would have seen the spark of fury in her eyes. Frustration, not entirely due to his irksome stubbornness, was gathering inside Amanda. It had been brewing for days, fueled first by rejection, then by flagrant neglect. It was whipping itself into a frenzy. Am
anda gritted her teeth and thought that the storm gathering inside of her promised to be much more violent than anything the overcast sky could lash down on this arrogant man's head.

  It was only when she saw Jake make ready to tug the reins and move away that the fragile thread on her temper snapped. She didn't think about what she was doing, she just did it. Leaning to the side, Amanda grabbed Jake's reins. She didn't waste time questioning her motives, but instead jerked the white to a halt.

  Jake hadn't been prepared for that. The strips of leather slipped from his fingers before he could snatch them back. The second time he reached for them, the prissy little witch held them out of reach. His gaze narrowed, spearing into her. The way she held her delicately shaped chin loftily high annoyed the hell out of Jake. The way her huge green eyes met his glare with a level stare of her own infuriated him.

  Three days, he thought sourly. For three agonizingly long days—and nights; Jesus, don't forget the nights!—he'd kept his distance from this woman, kept his desire firmly leashed. It hadn't been easy. The strain had cost him, but he'd done it. Now, he found himself praying for one more day, one more hour. If he could check his anger until Amanda was settled inside the cabin, he knew he'd be all set. If...

  His gaze sharpened on the slender white hand fisting his reins. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

  "That all depends on where the hell you think you're going!"

  The first drop of rain, heavy and thick from having gathered on an overhead leaf, splattered on top of Jake's head. It felt mildly cold as it soaked into his hair and scalp. It was frigid compared to the emotions cooking inside him.