Montana Wildfire

by Rebecca Sinclair

  His thoughts refused to leave a certain second floor hotel room. He couldn't stop thinking about the lady—the white lady—he'd left behind.

  He told himself the separation would be short. This time. With any luck, the outcome of what he was about to do would be successful. What he couldn't understand was why, if that was true, he felt an unfamiliar squeeze in the region of his chest—an inexplicable, painful sensation that seemed to increase with each step that carried him away from Amanda Lennox.

  Jake didn't analyze the feelings pumping through him—he pushed them aside and buried them. He concentrated on the sound of his denim pants legs brushing together, on the jostle of wagons or the muted voices in doorways. He concentrated on anything to take his mind off wondering why leaving Amanda hurt so badly.

  The answer was there—simmering inside of him, just beneath the surface—but it was an emotion he wasn't ready to feel, let alone acknowledge. Not now. Not for a white lady. Not ever... if he was smart. That was half the problem. Because Jake had been questioning his intelligence ever since he'd taken his first step into that icy river days ago. Since he didn't like the answers he was coming up with, he wondered instead what Amanda's reaction would be when she woke up and found him gone.

  "Gone? What do you mean he's gone?"

  "Jesus, lady, don't you understand English?" The rotund, middle-aged clerk who was standing behind the desk didn't glance up from the three-week-old newspaper he was reading as he spoke. The limp paper rattled as he turned the page and, in an annoyed tone of voice, added, "Last time I'm going to say it. Your—er—friend's gone. Checked out. Left-the-hotel."

  A shiver of alarm coursed down Amanda's spine. As always happened when she was upset, her tone lifted and took on a haughty pitch. "Obviously, there's been some mistake. Jake wouldn't leave without telling me. He—well, he just wouldn't."

  One corner of the newspaper sagged. A dark, bushy brow slanted high in the clerk's forehead as his gaze raked her from head to toe. The grin that curled over his lips was condescending and cold. "I hate to be the one to point this out to you, honey, but obviously he did."

  "When?"

  "How the hell should I know?" The clerk sighed heavily, snapped the paper closed, and slammed it down on the scarred oak desk with his fist. "Early, would be my guess. He was gone by the time I got here, so it would have to have been before eight."

  Her eyes widened. Before eight? But that was three hours ago! Jake could be miles away by now, heading in who knew what direction. While she might not be trail-smart, Amanda wasn't stupid. She knew the chance of her catching up with Jake were questionable at best—and her chances of finding him decreased with every minute he was gone... and she remained in Junction.

  If she'd been alarmed before, it was nothing compared to how she felt now. Gripping her saddlebag in trembling fists, she glared at the middle-aged man. No, more correctly she glared at a three-week-old headline, for he'd picked up his paper again and was ignoring her.

  Amanda gritted her teeth and cleared her throat. When the man didn't so much as glance at her, she stepped to the side and glared at him. He didn't even blink, the scum. Finally, she said in her loudest, most intimidating voice, "Excuse me...!"

  His lips puckered with annoyance, but he continued to read.

  Left with no alternative, Amanda snatched the newspaper from his hands. That got his attention! Too much of it, if his quivering jowls, angrily slitted brown eyes, and tightly clenched fists were anything to judge by. She tipped her chin high, and smiled a contemptuous smile that would have made Miss Henry beam. "I don't suppose you could tell me where Mr. Chandler went?"

  The clerk was unimpressed. "I don't suppose you're going to give me my goddamn paper back?"

  He reached for the paper, but Amanda held it out of reach. His growl of annoyance was almost feral. She tried not to cringe. "I'd be happy to... after you tell me where Mr. Chandler went."

  The clerk planted his huge fists on the scarred oak desk and leaned toward her. His expression was hard and threatening. Amanda's resolve weakened, and she took an instinctive step back. His grin made her blood turn to ice.

  "I don't know where he went, lady," the clerk said slowly and precisely. His meaty jowls shook with each tightly uttered word. "Nor do I give a rat's a—er... nor do I care. What I do care about is reading my paper. You've got five seconds to give that newspaper back to me. If you don't, then I'm coming around this desk after it."

  He wouldn't dare. Would he? Lord, Amanda hoped not. And was it her imagination, or were the man's voluminous cheeks redder than normal? His eyes narrower and brighter? Yes, yes they were. Uh-oh.

  Amanda swallowed hard and hugged both her saddlebag and the clerk's newspaper to her chest. Her innate cowardice was telling her belatedly that perhaps pushing this man wasn't in her best interest after all. Of course, the paper she crunched in her quivering fists said it was too late for second thoughts now. Not that she could afford to entertain any. She had to know where Jake went. She had to! And this obnoxious clerk was the only person who could tell her. Or so she hoped.

  "Three... two..." He pushed away from the desk. "Better move quick, honey."

  "Please, Mister..." Amanda hesitated. The man hadn't told her his name and, judging by his hard, tight expression, he wasn't going to. She quickly changed tactics. "It will only take you a minute to tell me where—"

  "One. Time's up." He moved around the desk. For a big man, she thought his gait unusually agile. His boot-heels made loud thumps atop the plank floor, like reports of gunfire echoing through the small foyer, echoing through Amanda.

  He rounded the corner and stalked toward her. She smelled him—the sour, chickeny odor of days-old sweat—long before he drew close. Her gaze dropped to the meaty fists he clenched at his side. Unless she'd horribly misjudged the man, he was at that moment giving strangling her serious consideration.

  Amanda's throat constricted. The paper crinkled as she clutched it tighter still. "If you don't know where Mr. Chandler went, then perhaps you know of someone else who does?"

  "Give me back my newspaper, lady."

  "I told you, after you—"

  "What? Strangle you? Yeah, keep pushing me and I might do exactly that. The paper..." He was six steps away. Five.

  The saddlebag tumbled from Amanda's suddenly slack fingers. It fell to the floor at her feet with a heavy thump. Any courage she may have felt evaporated like steam when she saw this large, burly man stalking toward her. In her life, she'd never seen a sight so menacing. The hand not clutching the paper lost all its strength, and dropped limply to her side.

  And that was when she felt it.

  Her heart stuttered, her breath caught. Six months ago, she wouldn't have believed herself capable of contemplating what she was about to do next. She was contemplating it now, though, and contemplating it hard. She was also shaking like a leaf. But that was something she would have to get over in order to find Jake. And she had to find him. Surely this man could tell her where he'd gone, or tell her someone who could—or, at the very least, give her a hint as to what direction Jake had set out in! She was sure he could. That knowledge pumped through her, bolstering her courage. Not much, but a bit.

  He was four steps away her now. Three. In a fraction of a second, he would be almost on top of her.

  There was no more time to think. As it was, Amanda barely had time to react. Tossing the crumpled newspaper to the floor, she slipped her hand inside the pocket of her skirt. Her fingers wrapped around the butt of the pistol. Her arms felt liquidy as she aimed it—accurately, she hoped—at the man's barrel chest.

  The clerk froze. His eyes narrowed until the angry brown depths were barely visible in the meaty folds of his face. Of course, there was no need for Amanda to see his eyes to know where his gaze was resting: on the pistol. She could feel his attention perk, feel the fury rolling off of him in tangible waves.

  Though the gun trembled in her hand, her aim never wavered. She was glad the clerk's che
st was so big; it gave her more of a target. At this distance, she would have to work to miss him. He must have been aware of that fact as well, for he didn't move an inch.

  His gaze shifted past her, scanning the small foyer. Though noises sifted out from a room off to the right, the foyer itself was empty. No help would be forthcoming unless he hollered for it, and he didn't want to do that. It would be embarrassing to be caught on the business end of a pistol as it was; it would be downright humiliating to have anyone see that the pistol in question was being held in the hands of a woman!

  His hands came up, meaty palms out. "Listen, lady, I don't want trouble. Put that thing away."

  "After you tell me where Mr. Chandler went."

  His tongue darted out to moisten his fleshy lips. "I already told you. I-don't-know."

  "And I'm telling you, I-don't-believe-you." It was true. Amanda hadn't believed him from the first; she believed him even less when she saw the way his cheeks took on a splotchy red hue. He was lying, she was positive of it. Goddamn him! He knew which direction Jake had headed out in. He knew! Yet he wasn't telling her. Well, she'd just see about that! A surge of anger tingled through her. It felt nice and warm and soothing as it overrode her fear and fueled her determination.

  "Which way did he go?" she asked, surprising even herself at the calm, demanding tone that echoed in her ears. Her voice was low. It didn't shake, didn't waver. It was amazing what a little desperation did to a body. "You saw him leave. I know you did. All I want to know is what direction he was heading in."

  The man's hands dropped to his sides, his palms slapping his thick hips as he shrugged. "Why do you care? Christ, lady, the guy's a breed. A nice white woman like you shouldn't care—"

  Amanda stared at the man, stunned. Good God, she thought, how did Jake put up with this everyday of his life? What gave complete strangers the right to judge him on sight and deem him lacking? It was annoying, frustrating, infuriating. It was so damn unfair! The anger pumping through her was reflected in her tone. "You bastard! That... breed, as you call him, is more man than you'll ever be. And I care where he went—enough so that I'll do whatever it takes to find out what direction he rode out in." The click of the hammer being jerked back was loud and ominous.

  The lump in the man's throat, almost concealed beneath the layers of sagging flesh that spilled over his collar, rose and fell in a dry swallow. He glanced at the dining room, frowned, then returned his attention to the woman. "I... well, yeah, I... tell me something, honey. Do you—er—know how to use that thing?" He nodded to the pistol.

  Amanda's smile was cold and forced. The gesture didn't reach her eyes, which remained frosty and determined. "No. But I'm a quick study. And I think you'd make a nice, big target to practice on. Don't you agree?"

  "Hell, no!"

  "Then tell me which way Mr. Chandler went!"

  The clerk clamped his teeth together and glanced guiltily away. Grudgingly, he said, "I can't. He paid me not to."

  "And I'll pay you with a bullet... somewhere, if you don't. It's your decision." Her pause was short and tense. "Just so you know, I doubt I'll be able to kill you with my first shot."

  The man's gaze shifted back to her. His lips pursed with indecision, and his attention volleyed between her eyes and the gun—the aim of which was now steady and true. With a sly glance, he measured the distance between himself and the dining room door. The golden brow Amanda arched convinced him that she could squeeze off a shot before he had time to pick up one heavily booted foot.

  Three hours, Amanda thought as she watched the fat man wrestle with his decision. Jake was already at least three hours ahead of her. And counting. If this man didn't answer her soon she just might be tempted to put a bullet in him out of spite!

  The clerk must have sensed her thoughts, for his expression became guarded. Plowing his fingers through his thinning black hair, he shook his head and muttered, "East. That breed of yours rode out heading East, just after dawn." His eyes shimmered a warning not missed by Amanda. "Now put that gun away and get the hell out of this hotel. Before I yell for help. I'll warn you, lady, the guys in Junction don't look kindly on white women who take up with breeds. They won't go as easy on you as I have."

  Amanda thought of the two slimy men from last night. She shivered and, nodding, bent to retrieve her saddlebag. The gun stayed in her hand. She didn't uncock it. If Jake had taught her nothing else, he'd taught to be prepared for anything. He had also taught her not to trust anyone but herself; his leaving this morning without a word had driven home that lesson.

  Her eye on the clerk, Amanda backed toward the door. The barrel of the pistol stayed trained on the him, though she was careful to conceal it against her side as she passed the door leading into the dining room.

  It was awkward balancing the saddlebag and holding the gun while she turned the cold metal doorknob, but she managed it. A blast of cold air wafted over her back, stirring the wispy hair that clung to her neck and cheeks. The clerk, she noticed, hadn't budged an inch, but continued to watch her with a brooding glare.

  "East," she said, as much to herself as to him. "Toward Montana?"

  He scowled, and looked at her oddly. "Lady, you're in Montana. Have been for at least a week if you're on horseback."

  "Oh," she murmured, backing over the threshold. "Of course. I knew that. How—er—how far away is Pony? And how do I get there from here?"

  He shrugged tightly and in clipped, obviously reluctant words, said, "A day's ride. Two if it snows, which it will. As for getting there, just keep riding East through the valley. In seven or eight hours you'll reach a few small mountains. After that, another valley. Pony's about half a day's ride from where the land gets relatively flat."

  Amanda nodded and, mumbling her thanks, slipped out the door. As soon as it had clicked into place, she uncocked the pistol and slipped it into her pocket. Her fingers, she noticed as she hurried toward the stable, had begun shaking again. So had the rest of her. Her heart was slamming against her ribs, and the cold morning air sliced into her lungs with each ragged breath she drew.

  She hadn't been nervous while holding the gun on the fat clerk—she'd done what she had to do at the time. Only now that it was over did the shock set in. Had she really just held a gun on a man? Yes, incredible as it sounded she had, and twice in less than twenty-four hours! Astonishment—and, yes, a smattering of pride—rushed in to replace her newfound courage.

  A month ago she wouldn't have had the nerve to do what she'd done last night and today. Thank God she did now, because a month ago she wouldn't have been able to find out where Jake was heading. A month ago she would have taken the clerk at his word, and would probably have ended up picking her way to Washington with her tail between her legs, feeling lost and defeated.

  Amanda wasn't feeling defeated right now. What she was feeling was angry as holy hell. The focus of her fury was aimed at Jake Chandler's sleek black head.

  He'd run out on her, the rat! After promising to help her find Roger, he'd rim out on her! Oh, how that hurt!

  She thought it was a good thing he was heading East. That made it easier, since she was heading East, too. If she had to do it herself, she was going to find Roger Thornton Bannister III and return him to his father. And after she'd collected her hard-earned money...

  Then she was going to find Jake.

  She didn't know how, but somehow she would do it. If it was the last thing she did, she'd see to it that the rotten bastard paid and paid dearly for abandoning her the way everyone else in her life had. He may not have died like her mother had, or pushed her away like her father had, but he had run out on her. And that made the hurt and disillusionment worse. It made the pain of waking up and finding him gone—no note, no nothing—unbearable.

  Oh, yes. He was going to pay for that. Amanda swore it.

  "Valley, mountains, valley. Half a day's ride," she mumbled over and over under her breath as she wove her way past the people milling on the boardwalk. The direction
s sounded identical to the ones she'd gotten in Virginia City... shortly before she and Roger had set out and become hopelessly lost!

  Chapter 20

  The snow started falling just after noon. Large flakes danced from the sky, light and airy. Out of the mountains, the ground was warm, so the accumulation wasn't much. Yet.

  Despite the weather, Jake made good time. The men he was following did not. He'd picked up their tracks an hour out of Junction. Since one of the horses had a nicked hoof, the prints weren't difficult to identify.

  He rode hard, gaining ground. Dusk was painting the cloudy sky when he drew the white to a halt and slipped to the ground. After carefully inspecting the ground as well as leavings from the kidnapper's horse he decided he was only half an hour behind. Good. He'd made better time than he'd hoped.

  He didn't set up camp. A fire could be spotted, and cooking food was easily smelled. A mistake like that would alert the kidnapper to his presence, and he didn't want to take that chance. Not when he was so damn close. If all went as planned, the kidnapper wouldn't know he presented a threat until it was too late to do anything about it.

  He let the white drink from a nearby creek, then rubbed it down and tethered it to a pine. He settled himself down on the cold, damp ground and rested his back against the tree trunk. An unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

  His eyes narrowed and he gazed unseeingly at the flurries being tossed about on the cool, evening breeze. Every muscle in his body felt itchy and tight, impatient to get this game over with. But he couldn't. Not yet. He had to force himself to give the kidnapper time to think he'd made his camp undetected—and that would take a few hours. Damn!

  Jake shifted atop the hard, lumpy ground. He hated waiting. Always had. It gave a body too much time to think about things best forgotten.

  His thoughts automatically shifted to a certain prissy Bostonian. He closed his eyes and saw her hair flowing like a curtain of raw gold silk down her back, over her bottom, the ends curling inward at the very top of her thighs. He heard her voice whisper on the breeze, the tone so soft and sweet.