Sucking in a sharp breath, Jake struck a match on the seam of his pants. Squinting, he cupped the flame, holding it to the tip of the cigarette. The burn of smoke in his lungs felt good, familiar, but it didn't come close to taking his mind off Amanda Lennox. Hell, no. A keg of dynamite could have exploded right next to him and it still wouldn't have dislodged the memory of her smooth white skin skimming beneath his open palm. He remembered her airy sighs of surrender, and he remembered how... ah, God, he remembered how good it felt when she wrapped her legs around his hips, arched up into him, meeting him thrust for hungry thrust.
From the first, there had been nothing proper about their relationship, nothing refined about their lovemaking. Nor was there anything ladylike in her response to either. Her passion, once freed, had been wild and untamed and demanding. For the first time in his life the desire he'd kindled inside a woman had exceeded that pumping inside himself. It was the last thing he'd expected from a prissy white woman—white lady. But then, Amanda was nothing if not filled to the voluptuous brim with contrasts.
Jake had always prided himself on being able to peg a woman on sight, but not Amanda Lennox. In fact, his first impression of her had been haughty and frigid. The type of woman who would make love only reluctantly—probably with all her clothes on—in a pitch black room—at night—and still not enjoy it.
Proving himself wrong had been both a delight and a curse. The contrast between how she behaved in his arms and how she behaved out of them intrigued him more than he cared to admit. Her uninhibited lovemaking had accomplished the exact opposite of what he'd hoped it would.
Instead of satisfying his thirst for her, each time he had her served to whet it. When she touched him, he forgot for a time who she was—who he was—why they couldn't be together. Remembering how it felt when her warm breath puffed over his skin made him want her more than he thought it possible to want a woman. Any woman. That was so damn dangerous for both of them.
Again and again. That was what he wanted from her. Again and again... for a good long time. That was enough reason for him to want to run from her. Far and fast. Soon. Before he lost all sense of himself. Before she became a part of him that he couldn't live without.
Jake's gut twisted, and a strange tightness wrapped around his chest. He had a feeling it was too late to run from his feelings for her, but he could run from acknowledging them. The two white men he'd caught outside Amanda's door last night were still vivid in his mind. The incident had proved what he'd known all along. As long as she was with him, what happened last night would happen again. And again. Next time someone might get hurt. Next time, that someone might be Amanda.
Any white woman who took up with a breed was considered trash, fair game for ridicule and worse. Jake would rather die than let Amanda find that out the hard way. He would rather die than let her get hurt because of him, because he was too weak to put a stop to something that should have been stopped before it had even begun.
He took a deep drag off the cigarette, exhaling with a long, slow hiss. His gaze turned hard as he watched the curls of smoke waft on the air. They'd been apart less than a day, and already he missed her. His body hungered for her body, yet his mind demanded so much more! Jesus, if he felt like hell now, he could only imagine how he would feel when the separation was permanent.
With an angry growl, he hurled the half-smoked cigarette into the snow-dusted grass. The tip continued to burn hot and red; just like his thoughts.
Somehow... somehow, he was going to have to find the strength to walk away from that lady. No matter how much it tore him up inside.
The white gave a toss of its head and whickered. The sound trickled like icewater down Jake's spine. Cursing inwardly for allowing himself to be distracted—for allowing thoughts of Amanda Lennox to distract him—he reached for his knife.
A split second too late.
A damp twig snapped. Leaves rustled. No sooner had his fingers grazed the wooden hilt when he felt the cold metal barrel of a gun jab at his temple.
"Go ahead, breed. Try it," a gritty voice drawled in Jake's ear. The tone was low and menacing and rough as stone.
Gritting his teeth, Jake sucked in a deep, steadying breath and almost gagged on the stench of sour breath and rancid sweat that assaulted him. A quick glance from the corner of his eye revealed a large, shadowy form crouched close... but not close enough. The glance also confirmed what he had, until now, only suspected: the hand holding the gun was big and causally skilled; the thick index finger curled around the trigger was rock-steady, ready to fire at the least provocation.
The gun nudged Jake's temple. "Well? You gonna pull that knife or what? I don't know about you, but when it's a choice between a bullet or a blade, my money's on the bullet any day. Quicker, more accurate... and messy as hell. Especially at this range." A dry, humorless chuckle was followed by an equally dry, equally humorless, "But, hell, I'm game. Always did have a hankerin' to see if your kind bleeds red. Come on, pull that mean lookin' knife and satisfy this ole boy's curiosity."
The words were uttered with cold, hard precision... and reinforced by the click of a hammer being cocked. The metallic grind of chambers rolling to place sounded loud and grating. That, combined with the raw yet blasé timbre of the man's voice, convinced Jake to stay his hand. Temporarily.
Flexing his fingers, he cautiously moved his hand out of reach of the knife. Resting his open palm atop his thigh, and thinking of how very glad he was that he'd left Amanda behind, Jake drawled, "Your call, ole boy. The knife stays where it is. The question now is, is your bullet going to do the same?"
"Shit. I figured you'd say that, but can't blame a guy for trying, can you?" The man sighed heavily. Jake heard the damp leaves shuffle, and knew the man had shifted his weight. "Tell you what, breed. I'm sporting What say I give you one last chance to pull that knife?"
"Nope."
"No?"
"No."
"Well, guess that settles it then."
Jake tensed, readying himself for when the gun wavered. It was a short wait. The second he felt it shift, he pounced.
The intruder had been expecting such a move and his big body reacted faster than Jake had hoped. The man dodged to the side. Jake lunged in pursuit, his aim not completely off. He felt the fatty waist give, and heard a nice, satisfying grunt of surprise.
Unfortunately, the intruder's surprise burned off quickly. Too damn quickly, Jake thought, as he watched the big man pivot and start to fall backward. Jake didn't see the trunk-like arm lift, didn't see the gun spin expertly in his hand so the meaty fingers were gripping the barrel instead of the butt... until it was too late.
Hand and gun arched down with lightning speed. Jake lifted his arms to deflect the blow, but he wasn't quick enough.
He heard the thump of metal hitting bone a split-second before thunder exploded in the base of his skull. A wave of white pain radiated outward from that core, spreading through his head and slicing down his spine. The earth swam dizzily. Darkness edged his vision, but he blinked it away, fighting desperately to retain consciousness.
A groan—his?—rumbled in his ears. The strength drained from his arms and legs. His eyes rolled back; he seemed to have no control over it. The pounding in his head faded as he felt himself crumple onto the snow-dampened ground.
Everything went black.
"A lady is quietly, elegantly resourceful," Amanda muttered as, for the third time in as many minutes, she leaned to the side and studied the snow-dusted ground from her place in the saddle. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but she was positive that, whatever it was, she'd know it when she saw it. Of course, there was always the chance that she was wrong.
An icy breeze snuck beneath her hood. Shivering, Amanda pulled the cloak about her and nudged the mare on in what she hoped was still an eastward course. Of course, there was no way to be sure of that, since thick clouds blotted out the sun. She refused to consider the possibility that she'd set out from Junction three h
ours ago... heading in the wrong direction.
Then again, she couldn't not consider it, could she? What if she had? What if she was traveling away from Roger instead of toward him? What if...
"A lady never curses aloud, no matter what the provocation." She thought of Jake's seemingly constant, always imaginative swears. Then she thought of the way he'd left her. Her voice lowered, her jaw tightened. "No matter how badly she might wish to curse a blue streak, she does not do it."
The thin layer of snow covering the ground made the land wet and slippery. The jostling of the horse aggravated her aching body. The rhythmic clump of hooves, crunching through the snow, was the only sound to reach her ears.
The sounds going on inside her head were something else again. Her thoughts were loud and chaotic, much like the rumble of a brewing thunderstorm. Though it may waver, the focus of her concentration returned again and again to the arrogant half-breed who'd had the gall to desert her when she needed him most.
"A lady never, never, never strikes a gentleman." Amanda's lips twitched with a humorless smile. Since Jake had proved—no, admitted—to being no gentleman, that particular rule did not apply. Surely under the circumstance even Miss Henry would understand a temporary slip from grace...
Because the next time she set eyes on Jake Chandler's hard copper jaw, Amanda intended to slap him hard enough to make her palm sting, and his head reel. With each snowy mile that passed by her, her anger and sense of betrayal grew. Repeated instructions as to the benefits of turning the other cheek faded, overridden by the sharp sting of fury. In this instance only, Amanda was willing to overlook her lessons. Because if ever a man deserved a good hard slap, that man was Jake Chandler. And she fully intended—needed—to see that he got it.
But first she would have to find him.
And before she could do that, there was the problem of finding Roger Thornton Bannister III.
Her breath misted the air when she sighed and again glanced down and to the left. So sure had she been that she would see nothing out of the ordinary down there, that she almost missed seeing the faint hoof-prints embedded in the newly fallen snow.
With a jerk of surprise, she reined the mare in. The horse tossed its head and snorted, protesting the pressure to its sensitive mouth. Mumbling a quick apology, Amanda dismounted.
Heart racing, she crouched and ran her fingertips lightly over one of the indentations in the snow. Her smile was wide and proud. "Well, I'll be damned." She gulped, but continued to smile broadly. "Ooops."
While Jake hadn't taught her much during their time together, by constantly watching him, she'd inadvertently learned enough to get by. Many nights of watching him taught her how to light a campfire without matches, and watching the way Jake constantly glanced at the sky had taught her a bit about how to use the sun as a gauge for direction. And, by glancing at the ground whenever he did, she'd learned how to recognize clear hoof-prints when she saw them.
While not exactly clear, these were definitely hoof-prints!
Amanda frowned. Yes, they were hoof-prints, all right. No doubt about it. But whose? There was no way to tell. Jake might know how to differentiate between one horse's tracks and another's; Amanda had yet to learn that. Nor was she sure how one went about deciding how old the prints were. Unless...
She lifted her head and stared thoughtfully at the breeze-tossed snowflakes dancing from the sky. One golden brow slanted as she again glanced down at the ground. She smiled. Could it truly be that simple?
What wouldn't be as simple was following the prints through before they were obliterated by either the snow or the breeze. While it was still only flurrying, the flakes were starting to accumulate. The breeze occasionally gusted into a bitter cold wind. If she didn't hurry, she would lose all sight of the tracks. And once lost, she knew she would never be lucky enough to pick them up again!
A heartbeat later she was back in the saddle. In two, she was moving. Unless she missed her guess—and a guess was really all it was—the kidnapper was still hours ahead of her. Only if her luck held would she find him by nightfall.
With a bit more luck, by this time tomorrow she would have Roger Thornton Bannister III back. Amanda thought it a sorry state of events to think the prospect of having to endure that little monster's company again actually excited her.
"Christ, Henry, I swear there are times you're so stupid I start wondering if I'm really related to you." Tom Rafferty glared at his brother. He had to leash in his anger when all Henry did was grin, shrug, and continue securing the rope that held his "prize" to a thick tree trunk. "You listening, Henry? Henry!"
The big man glanced up, his brown eyes as narrow and vague as his expression. His thick fingers continued tying complicated knots at the breed's wrist as he drawled, "I heard you fine, Tom. I'm just ignoring you."
"Then you're a fool. What the hell were you thinking to bring him back here? We got enough trouble, yet you gotta bring us more?"
"Nope. I wasn't thinking that." Henry rocked back on his heels and shrugged. "I was thinking I'd rather he'd pulled his knife on me, and I was wondering why he didn't. That's what I was thinking. Why?"
Tom grunted and dragged his narrow palm down his stubbled jaw. He shook his head, eyeing his brother sadly. "It was a rhetorical question, Henry. Don't you know anything? You don't have to answer a rhetorical question."
"Huh?"
"Never mind." Tom jerked his chin at the unconscious man now bound to the tree. "What are you going to do with him?"
"Haven't decided. But don't worry, I'll think of something fun."
"That's what I was afraid of," Tom grumbled. His brown eyes narrowed, and his gaze shifted to the boy who slept soundly, huddled beneath a dirty, threadbare blanket. As far as he was concerned, putting up with the brat day in and day out was about all the "fun" he could handle.
Only the top of the kid's head was exposed, and that was dusted with snow. Beneath the melting flakes, the once shiny blond curls were dark and matted and badly in need of washing. Tom didn't need to look beneath the blanket to know the rest of the kid could use a good scrub, too. There was no help for it. They couldn't let the brat bathe by himself because he might try to escape, and neither Rafferty was willing to do the chore himself. It would be too big a temptation to keep the kid's head under water, if only to shut his arrogant little mouth for a bit. It went without saying that they wouldn't get a plugged nickel for toting a dead body into Pony, tempting though the idea was.
Tom turned his attention back to their second captive. As if they didn't have enough problems, Henry up and brought this breed back to camp with him. God only knows why! And what, Tom wondered, were they supposed to do with the guy now?
Well, there really wasn't much of a choice. They'd have to kill him. If they let the breed go, they'd risk him being able to describe them. Not that anyone was likely to believe a breed, of course, but there was a chance someone might. That was too big a risk to take, especially when they were so damn close to Pony, so damn close to ransoming the brat and getting their money.
Nothing was going to stand in the way of that!
There was only one problem as far as Tom Rafferty could see. Even unconscious and hog-tied to a tree, that breed looked wild and savage and vengeful. Relentless. And that knife Henry had showed him before looked downright dangerous.
Tom fingered the lock of long, scraggly brown hair resting against his shoulder. If given half a chance, that breed would lift their scalps without a second's pause. He shivered, and his hand dropped limply to his side. "Tonight," he told Henry, who was skinning the rabbits he'd caught for supper, and doing it with his normal, unnatural glee. "If you don't take care of that breed tonight, Henry, I will."
Henry didn't glance up. "No rush, Tom. We're still two days ride from Pony. Think of all the fun we could have in two days."
"And you think about all the teeth I'm going to knock down your throat if you don't do what you're told. Tonight, Henry. I mean it."
He
nry pouted. Eventually, grudgingly, he nodded. "All right, all right. But it won't be as good, I tell you. Won't be near as good."
"Maybe. Then again, it'll be worse if he gets loose. He saw you, Henry, and as soon as he wakes up, he's going to see me. He can describe us, for Christ's sake!"
"So what? Who's he going to tell, Tom? And even if he did, who'd believe a breed anyway?"
"Maybe nobody. But it's a chance I won't take." Again, Tom fingered the greasy hair that fringed his shoulder. Again, he suppressed a shudder—but just barely. "Not only that, but... shit, Henry, the guy's a breed. He'd track us to hell and back."
Henry scowled. "You think he can track that good? I don't. We've been covering our prints all along, and no one's found us yet."
"Yet," Tom agreed. "Then again, who's looking?" Henry opened his mouth to answer, but Tom overrode him. "She don't count. That prissy little thing would get lost following her own trail. In fact, I figure she got lost right off, and probably gave up days ago. Trust me, Henry, this fella wouldn't give up so easy, and if he wanted to find us, he would. I don't know how I know it, I just do. Hunting and scalping and tracking are in their blood. Injun's are born with it, like copper skin and savage tempers. Like you said, we're two days out of Pony. We don't want to screw things up now."
"All right, all right. I said I'd do it tonight, Tom," Henry said, and turned his attention back to the rabbits he was skinning with the knife he'd taken off the breed. It was a nice, big knife; it felt real good in his big, capable hand. He turned it this way and that, admiring the way the carved hilt warmed to his palm, the way the muted sunlight glinted off the long, thick, razorsharp blade.
Mesmerized, he wondered if it would cut through copper skin as easily as it cut through the rabbit's hide. Well, he'd know soon enough. Tom said it had to be done tonight, and Henry was starting to think that maybe that wasn't such a bad idea after all. He was curious to see if a breed's blood was red. He'd heard it was so, but he was curious. He wanted to see for himself. Tonight, he would.
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