"Not half as much as it's going to bother you when I plant my fist down your throat, Amanda."
A sliver of cowardice curled down her spine, but she was surprised by how little effort it took to shove the emotion away. Perhaps it was having killed two men earlier that made the threat of being roughed up a bit lack its sting? Shrugging, she rested her chin atop her knees and averted her gaze to the fire. "You won't hurt me."
"You sound awful sure of that."
Though his tone was antagonistic, as though he wanted for her to fight with him, Amanda refused to oblige. She kept her voice dignified, controlled. "I am."
Prissy. That was the tone of voice Jake heard, the one that scratched down his spine like fingernails on slate. But, unfortunately, that was secondary—because what really grated, on him was knowing that she was right. He wouldn't hurt her, couldn't even if he'd wanted to. And he didn't really want to.
"I'm going for a walk," he snapped, and spun on his heel. He'd no more stepped into the shadows where the warmth of the fire didn't reach when Amanda's voice rang out behind him, stopping him cold.
"Run all you want, but sooner or later you re going to have to stop and face the truth."
"And what, exactly, is the truth, Amanda?"
"That you're never going to be all white, no matter how much you may want to be."
"Dammit, woman, I don't want to be white!"
Amanda's voice lowered. "And you call me a liar!"
Well, that comment had Jake retracing his steps in record time. He didn't stop near the boulder, but instead stalked past it, his cat-silent steps angrily rounding the campfire. He stopped only when the toe of his moccasin threatened to make contact with her outer thigh. Hands planted solidly on hips, he stood glowering down at the top of her golden head. "I don't lie, Miss Lennox. Ever."
"You just did."
"Yeah? Then that's something I must have picked up along the way. I had a damn good teacher. You." He reached down and banded his fingers around her upper arms, dragging her to her feet. He barely noticed the pain that shot through his arm as he hauled her up roughly against his chest. The feel of her breath whooshing from her lungs wasn't as satisfying as it should have been, but Jake was too confused to notice.
A question had been circling around them for the last four hours. He hadn't asked it. And, whether or not she saw it glinting in his eyes every time he looked at her, she hadn't answered it. Now, feeling her body crushed against him, Jake surrendered to an overpowering need to know.
"Why?" he asked roughly as he lowered his head so their noses almost touched. He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in her eyes. He hated the face staring back at him—his face. It was unrecognizable; a ruthless, furious savage hell-bent on tormenting a poor, quivering little white lady. Jesus, he'd sunk pretty damn low these days!
"Why what?" Amanda countered breathlessly. She couldn't help the shaky quality of her voice, of her body. Being this close to Jake did that to her. It weakened what little resolve she'd ever had. The feel of his hands on her, of his breath scorching her upturned face, flooded her with memories... and initiated a fire in her blood that she'd learned weeks ago she was powerless to douse.
"Why'd you do it, princess? Dammit, why?"
She could have asked, "Do what?" but it would only have stalled an answer, not avoided it. Amanda knew what the question was, just like she knew it had been only a matter of time before one of them came right out and asked it. Should she tell him the truth, even knowing she'd risk opening herself up to a world of pain that far outstripped anything she'd felt in the past? On the other hand, could she lie to him—again?
Yes, she realized suddenly, she could lie to him if forced. But she wouldn't. If she did, she wouldn't respect herself for it. And Jake would hate her. Because it would be yet another in a very long list of little "white" lies.
The fingers banding her arms tightened. He turned and maneuvered her backward, until the gritty trunk of a pine tree was biting into her back. And Jake's hardness was molding into her front.
They met thigh to thigh. Hip to hip. Soft, feminine curves to lean male hardness. She felt the breaths sawing in and out of his lungs. Their ragged rhythm matched her own.
"Tell me, Amanda. Why? I... dammit, I need to know."
Not half as much as she needed to say it, Amanda realized abruptly. Her hands came up, splaying his chest. Her fingers curled inward; she gripped his worn flannel shirt in tight, trembling fists.
Her gaze was trained on the inky hair that fell over his shoulder, on the braid and the small feather that rested against his chest. Slowly, her attention lifted, scanning his neck and noting the bruises Tom or Henry's hands had left behind.
She met Jake's gaze unflinchingly, she wasn't sure how, and was reminded of the first time she'd ever seen him. Those silver-grey eyes of his had had the power to shake her world even then. Now, they had the power to break her in two with just one glance.
"Why, Amanda?"
Her gaze lowered, locking onto the tight line of his mouth. She released the breath she only now realized she'd been holding. Her lungs burned when she dragged in another. So did the tips of her breasts. Every breath she drew put her into sizzling contact with the solid planes of Jake's chest. "I..."
"Say it," he growled. Was it by intent or accident that his hips moved, crushing her against the tree? And did it matter? No. Either way, her response was the same... breathless, hot, nerve-shattering sensation. "Tell me, damn you! Why the hell did you—?"
"Because he was going to kill you!" The high, panicky, and sharp voice, that echoed in Amanda's ears was barely recognizable as her own. The enormity of what she'd just said, what she'd almost admitted, hit her like a slap. Her reaction was three times more devastating. She'd been shaking before, mostly on the inside. Now, her entire body began quivering with a force that stunned her. Her knees felt weak, watery. If not for the tree—and Jake—she would have collapsed.
Amanda would always wonder where she found the courage to continue speaking. It didn't matter that her voice came out as a hoarse whisper; one she could barely hear herself. The bands of muscles she cushioned beneath her fingertips rippled when she spoke, telling her that while Jake might have to strain to hear her, he was absorbing every word. "He was going to kill you, Jake. I couldn't let that happen. It would have... "
"What?" he asked, his voice low and raspy, filled with an emotion that it took supreme effort to keep out of his eyes and his expression. He stared down at her, stared into her, as though willpower alone could drag the words from her creamy white throat. "What would it have done?"
"It would have killed me," she admitted softly, and her chin lowered, her voice weakened. "A part of me would have shriveled up and died right along with you."
Jake's pause was long and tense, filled with the crackling of the campfire and the give and take of two equally ragged breaths. "Because you love me?"
His gritty tone made the words more a raw statement of fact than a question.
Amanda answered him anyway. She had to. "Yes, because I love you."
"Son of a bitch."
The response, uttered through gritted teeth, surprised her. It wasn't what she'd expected, wasn't at all what she'd wanted to hear. But then, what had she expected? That Jake would say he loved her, too? That he couldn't live without her? That he'd do whatever it took to keep her by his side. There was no denying that was what she wanted to hear... just as there was no denying that Jacob Blackhawk Chandler wasn't the type of man to say such a thing. Not to a white woman. Not ever.
He leaned closer and rested his forehead against hers. Both were beaded with nervous perspiration. Jake's eyes were pinched tightly shut, as though there were emotions swimming in his gaze that he didn't want Amanda to see and that he was having the devil's own time controlling.
"What's between us..." he said finally, hoarsely, "it won't work, you know. It can't. They won't let it."
"They? Meaning other white people?" A drop of ange
r warmed Amanda's blood. She focused on it as though it was a chunk of driftwood and she was drowning. In a way, she was. Only not in water. She was drowning in the ache of rejection. Again. "What people—no, what white people—think of you is very important to you, isn't it, Jake?"
"Yes." The pained way he said it told her this was not only the first time he'd made such an admission to another person, it was also the first time he'd confessed this to himself. His body tightened beneath her hands, humming with furious confusion. Amanda had a feeling Jake had surprised even himself. He surprised them both when he added huskily, "You don't know what it's been like for me, lady. You have no idea, couldn't even begin to understand…"
"Then explain it to me, Jake." Her fingers uncurled from around his shirt. She wasn't aware of when her hands traveled up his chest, over his shoulders. She was, however, excruciatingly aware of when her fingertips grazed, then traced, the puckered scar on the back of his neck. "Make me understand."
"No."
"But—?"
"No." His hand came out of nowhere, his fingers manacling her wrist, yanking her hand away. He moved back far enough to settle her arm between them and then he pressed in on her again. His body molded into hers; the fit was perfect. The feel of his hard, muscled length pressing her back against the equally firm tree hit Amanda like a wave of white heat. "Leave it alone, princess. I put that part of my life behind me years ago."
She could feel him pulling away from her. Not physically, but mentally. She let him go, because she had no choice. He needed time to deal with everything that had happened, with what they'd both just confessed. She was smart enough to acknowledge that she needed time too. Oh, not to deal with having killed Tom and Henry Rafferty—she was shocked to realize how quickly she'd come to terms with that. She'd done what had to be done at the time. One of them had been about to kill her, the other had been about to kill Jake. She'd stopped them. It was that simple.
No, what she needed time for was to come to terms with the fact that her confession had been humiliatingly one-sided. She'd given Jake a chance to tell her how he felt. He hadn't taken it. He hadn't admitted feelings for her, and she was starting to believe the reason was because he didn't have any. The idea was devastating, yet the sooner she faced up to it the better off she'd be. Jake Chandler did not love her. And he never would.
"How much longer before we reach Pony?" she asked softly, breathlessly. It was either change the subject, or cry. The latter she refused to do. She didn't want Jake to see how badly he'd hurt her. Her pride couldn't take a blow like that; it had sustained one too many as it was.
Jake lifted his head and looked at her oddly. While his gaze registered surprise at the swift change of topic, he didn't argue it. If anything, he looked relieved. "Another day if it doesn't snow again," he answered cautiously. "Why?"
"I think you know."
You'll get your cousin back if it kills me. And I'll get...
What? What will you get. Jake?
My money. Every last cent of it... the sooner we get the brat back, the sooner I can be rid of you.
The remembered words hung in the air, thicker than the charred scent of wood surrounding them. The brat was back. In two days, Jake would be rid of her. Forever. Did the idea please him? There was no way to tell. His expression was as tight and as unreadable as ever.
With a growl, Jake pushed away from Amanda and spun on his heel. She tried not to notice the sudden chill that blasted over her in all the places his body had warmed her. Tried not to, but did. The question was, did Jake? If he made the observation, it didn't affect him enough to stop him from leaving.
"I'm going to take that walk," he grumbled over his shoulder, his long, silent steps never breaking stride.
Amanda watched him meld with the shadowy trees—the white bandage wrapped around his arm stood out in stark contrast. Her gaze blurred with unshed tears, and a lump of emotion wedged in her throat, clogging his name there. She didn't realize she'd taken a step to follow him until she felt the support of the tree behind her melt away.
Given the chance, would she have swallowed her pride—bitter tasting though it was—and chased after Jake? The question would forever remain unanswered. She'd taken no more than a step when Roger tossed fitfully in his sleep and called out her name.
Amanda felt a weight of responsibility settle over her like a lead blanket. Though her gaze wavered between the boy and the spot where she'd watched Jake disappear, there was never a question in her mind as to what she had to do.
She'd been hired to take care of Roger. No matter that her life was falling apart. No matter that her insides felt ripped and shredded. She wasn't being paid to indulge in self-pity, she was being paid to get Roger to Pony. She hadn't done a very good job so far, but her job was still days from being over.
As she turned her steps to the child huddled beneath her blanket, Amanda realized that she needed to see this job through to its end much more than she'd originally thought she would. Not for the money—though she needed that too—but to help heal her battered self-respect. She'd rarely finished anything she'd started in her life, but this time she would. She needed to prove to herself that she could do it, and...
Oh, who was she kidding? She needed to prove it to Jake, no one else. He thought her a silly Bostonian princess—hadn't he said it often enough? She needed to prove that she wasn't... not anymore, thanks to the time she'd spent with him.
Since it was inevitable they would part company—he'd made that painfully clear—Amanda wanted to sever the ties between them completely and cleanly, in the way they'd originally agreed upon. She would get Roger to Pony, and she would collect her hard-earned salary from Edward Bannister. Then, she would pay Jake the money she owed him. Immediately and in full. Only in that way could she prove to them both what she doubted Jake even now believed. That, when she set her mind to it, Amanda Lennox was a woman of her word.
Chapter 24
"Stop it, princess. You look fine."
"I look awful."
"No, Miss Lennox, you don't," Roger said. "Honest. You look fine. Besides, I think my father is going to be looking at me more than you anyway."
The trio had reined in their horses at the very outskirts of Pony. Amanda, positioned between Jake and Roger, barely glanced at the small but busy mining town. If she'd had time to think about it, that would have told her something; it would have told her that boardwalks, false-fronted stores, and numerous tawdry saloons were becoming all-too familiar sights.
She cast a quick glance at Roger and was again stunned by how much the boy had changed. Bad dreams had kept him awake most of the last two nights, but he was easily comforted by Amanda's soothing touch and voice. More often than not, he clung to her until he found his way back to sleep.
By day he'd been sullen and introspective; not only wasn't he as quick to ridicule, but he was also not quick to talk at all. He rarely spoke of his time in captivity, and he never mentioned the Raffertys. When he talked at all, it was to voice his eagerness to be reunited with his father.
There were physical changes in the boy as well, the primary one being that he was noticeably thinner. The baby fat that had once rounded his cheeks and stomach was gone; his time with the Raffertys had melted it away. His arms and legs, hidden in the laughably large folds of Jake Chandler's clothes, now looked gangly and awkward.
Roger's rumpled attire reminded Amanda of her own. She sighed, and a scowl puckered her brow when she glanced down. The yellow muslin dress wasn't as bright as it had been when she'd bought it. The sun had faded the color from daffodil to watery butter. The fabric itself was wrinkled from having been crammed into her saddlebag.
Roger, she noticed with a touch of sarcasm, wasn't the only one who'd shed a few pounds. Last night she'd convinced Jake to return her corset. After weeks of freedom, the contraption felt tight and confining. Lord, she could barely breathe! She hadn't had to work the laces very tightly, however, and her bodice still felt loose, telling her that s
he had lost weight as well.
Her gaze had settled on her wrinkled muslin lap. She realized it only when a big copper hand inserted itself into her view and settled heavily atop her thigh. The imprint of those thick, familiar fingers burned through the cloth, branding like hot iron into her skin. A shiver rippled down Amanda's spine, reminding her to the second of how long it had been since Jake had touched her. Too long, the sizzling jolt of sensation that shot through her said. A surge of desire clawed at her, and that bizarre emptiness reasserted itself. Both left her feeling breathless and shaken.
"You look fine, Amanda," Jake repeated gruffly.
"I do? Really?"
"Uh-huh. All cool and refined and... princess-like." Untouchable, was the word Jake added to himself, because it fit her better. She looked poised, regal, cold as ice. Dignified. Ladylike. White.
Jake's hand reluctantly left her thigh. Like his gaze, his fingers strayed to the golden bun she'd knotted at her nape. He stroked the tight twist of hair; it felt like spun silk under his fingertip. His gut kicked, and it was all he could do not to tug the knot free and bury his hands up to the wrists in all that flowing, fragrant softness. He wanted to nuzzle his face in her hair, to suck into his body the sweet, sweet scent that clung to every sunlit strand.
He didn't do it, of course. It had taken her so much time to pin the thick, heavy tresses up, and she'd probably have a fit if he pulled it all down now. But the urge was there, and it was damn strong. When it came right down to it, he preferred die thick gold braid she usually wore; it made her look more human, more accessible, less prissy and refined.
Pain shimmied up his arm when Jake pulled his hand back. His calloused fingertips brushed that sensitive spot behind her ear. He saw her shiver, and knew she wasn't as unaffected by his touch as she wanted him to believe.
"I, um, suppose we should find Edward Bannister now," Amanda said, and the saddle creaked beneath her when she fidgeted. She chided herself for being silly; she felt nervous as a cat, but it couldn't be helped. Jake's touch did that to her. One glance, one touch—no matter how innocent—went through her like lightning. She couldn't think of a time when it hadn't. She didn't want to think of a time when it hadn't. But she was going to have to. Soon now, whether she liked it or not.
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