"You that anxious to get your money, princess?" Jake asked softly, so Roger wouldn't overhear.
What? What will you get, Jake?
My money. Every last cent of it. The sooner we get that brat back, the sooner I can be rid of you.
Amanda sucked in a sharp breath. "No, what I am is anxious to pay you."
His eyes narrowed, yet even through the shadows cast by the wide brim of his hat she saw his gaze sparkle dangerously.
"For services rendered, Miss Lennox?"
The way his gaze fed hungrily on her lips told Amanda that finding Roger was not the service Jake was referring to. Her cheeks paled, then flooded with color. Before she realized what she was doing, her hand lifted. Her open palm arched toward his cheek.
Jake's smokey gaze flashed with knowledge. He knew what Amanda was going to do before she knew it herself. He had plenty of time to deflect the blow if he wanted to. He didn't.
The slap was harsh and stinging—to them both.
Jake's head whipped back with the force of it. He turned back toward her almost immediately, and Amanda blanched to see the red imprint of her hand outlined against his deep copper skin. The muscle there ticked erratically. His jaw was tight and hard.
She made to snatch her stinging hand back, but Jake didn't give her time. His arm throbbed as, lightning quick, he grabbed her. His fingers banded around her slender wrist in a grip just shy of painful.
"I owed you that one, princess. But only that one," he growled, his gaze burned into her.
Amanda's breath caught when she remembered that first night. The fire. Jake's body molding into her back as he taught her how to whirl a stick in just the right way to start a spark. And then she thought of the match that he'd had all along, the way he'd tricked her. Remind me to slap you tomorrow. Oh yes, she remembered it, all of it. Dear God, how could she ever forget?
The fingers around her wrist tightened. "Don't ever slap me again, lady. Like you've said often, and I've always agreed, I'm like no... gentleman you've ever met. Next time, I will slap you back. Hard enough to make your prissy little head spin."
He released her so abruptly that Amanda had to grab the saddle pommel to keep from falling off the horse. She opened her mouth to apologize, plain and simple. For a split second she'd forgotten that nothing was plain and simple when it came to Jacob Blackhawk Chandler. Not only did he complicate seemingly everything, but he also gave her no chance to utter a sound.
"I'll check around, see where Bannister's at. Sooner we get this over with, the better," Jake said over his shoulder as he jerked the reins and started guiding the white toward Pony's only street. "Wait here."
A few minutes slipped tensely past before Roger glanced over at Amanda. "He will come back, won't he?"
Amanda shrugged. She was trying to fight the feeling of desolation—and failing miserably. "Does it matter?"
Roger shrugged, and turned his gaze back to the swinging door of the false-fronted saloon they'd both seen Jake disappear inside of. "I guess not. Well, Miss Lennox, it seems the next logical question would be, do we wait for him?"
As it had for the past two days, Roger's oddly mature tone surprised Amanda, Except for the timbre, there was no similarity between this voice and the whiny, petulant one that she was used to having taunt her. She answered him question for question. "Do you want to wait for him?"
"Not really, but... well, to be honest, there's something about that man that scares me. I don't trust him, yet I don't distrust him, either. Does that make sense, Miss Lennox?"
"Yes. I feel the same way."
Roger sat forward, eyeing her quizzically. "Do you think he'd be mad if he came back and found us gone?"
"Very." And a mad Jacob Blackhawk Chandler wasn't a man Amanda ever wanted to see again. Once had been more than enough, thank you. She shivered, remembering his icy hatred that night in his sister's cabin, the piercing glares that had looked right through her, his rough-to-the-point-of-violent touch.
Roger squirmed. While he was riding better these days, and seemed to have gotten over his sudden, unnatural fear of horses, Amanda couldn't help noticing how uncomfortable he was to be astride one. Surprisingly, he hadn't voiced a single complaint about it. Perhaps he'd sensed it would do no good? After all, horses were the only way to get to Pony.
"Do you want to wait for him, Miss Lennox?" Roger's tone said he would if she insisted, but that he'd rather not. Amanda knew that being this close and not being able to go on must be eating at him. He seemed every bit as impatient to put this god-awful journey behind him as she was.
"I don't see what harm scouting around for your father would do," she said finally. "And if we find him..." she shrugged, "well, I don't see what harm that would do, either." Except maybe to make Jake think she planned to collect her money without him seeing, and run off without paying him. His mistrust of her was strong enough to fuel such a conclusion, but she wouldn't let that stop her. Amanda knew she had no intention of leaving Pony until she'd paid Jake in full, and that was what really counted.
In the end, it took surprisingly little time to find out which house Edward Bannister lived in. Amanda simply stopped the first miner she passed and asked. He'd eyed her warily, but he told her what she wanted to know. And once he had, she realized she should have guessed on her own. What other house would Edward Bannister live in, except the biggest and best?
As she and Roger made their way toward the sprawling ornate structure, Amanda found herself wondering why Jake hadn't found out the information himself and returned by now. She was still wondering about that as she slipped from her saddle and tethered her mare to the porch railing.
The front door was flung wide open. It crashed against the outer wall of the house with a resounding slam.
The sunny day cast the porch—and the man standing in the open doorway—in shadows. Amanda didn't need to see all of the tall, thin man to know he was Edward Bannister. The resemblance between him and Roger was stunning; Roger had inherited the Bannister curls, the haughty tilt of chin, and the light blue eyes. Then, of course, there was the way Roger bounded up the stairs and catapulted himself into the man's arms. And the way the man in turn crouched down to wrap the boy in a tight hug.
"Over," Amanda whispered beneath her breath as she watched father and son embrace. "It's finally over."
Her thoughts turned to Jake. And, just as automatically, she felt the claw of desperation in her belly. Her smile faded as, once again, the emptiness and desolation closed over her like a cloying, oppressive blanket.
She took a little comfort in knowing that all wasn't completely over with Jake. She still had to pay him the money she owed him—after she'd collected it, of course. The thought brought her only a moderate surge of relief. It wasn't over with Jake yet, but it might as well be. He'd be out of her life soon enough, and once he was, she would be free to...
What? What would she be free to do? God, she didn't know anymore! Her original plan had been to get to the property her father had left her, but she'd lost sight of that goal long ago. It reasserted itself now, but weakly. Of course, she would still go to Washington—she had nowhere else to go—yet the thrill of achieving what she'd set out to do wasn't as fulfilling as she'd expected it to be.
Or was it the achievement that was lacking? Maybe not. Maybe what was lacking was her life. It was a life that now stretched out endlessly in front of her like the stark, lonely prairies she'd crossed. A life without Jake Chandler in it. Yes, Amanda thought, stark was an apt description, because—
"Miss Lennox, I presume?"
"I what? Oh, yes." Startled, Amanda glanced up into pale blue eyes set in a thin, sharp face. It took her a second to realize Edward Bannister had extended his hand, and another second for her to take it. His fingers felt cool and thin as they clasped hers.
Amanda tried not to compare his hand to a big, strong copper one of recent memory, but she couldn't help it. Comparisons were inevitable. It seemed like Edward Bannister, that any man,
was going to fall short in her mind when compared to Jacob Blackhawk Chandler. Because in her mind, there simply was no comparison.
"Please, Miss Lennox, come inside," Edward nodded over his shoulder to the open doorway through which Roger had already disappeared. "It's almost lunchtime. The least I can do is feed you before you set out again."
"And pay me, Mr. Bannister," Amanda added, with an impudence that would have appalled Miss Henry. Odd, but the thought of appalling Miss Henry had Amanda fighting a smile. Jake's corrupting influence had no doubt done that to her. "Don't forget that."
Apparently Amanda wasn't the only one surprised by her boldness. Edward Bannister looked shocked, too. His pale blue eyes widened slightly, and she saw an uncompromising hardness in his expression that she'd missed before. But then he smiled, and the tension that had sparked the air was abruptly smoothed away. "Yes, of course, your money. I haven't forgotten, Miss Lennox. I'll get it as soon as we're inside. Then you can decide whether or not to stay for dinner. How does that sound?"
"It sounds wonderful," Amanda said, because it really did. The thought of any food besides jerky, beans, and canned peaches was superb—any food, she reassessed with a shiver, except snake. And the thought of sitting in a real chair, and dining at real table with a linen tablecloth and silverware was very appealing. Now, if she could also wheedle a long, hot bath out of the man, she really would think she'd died and gone to heaven!
Years of training made her automatically curl her fingers around the crook of Edward Bannister's elbow. Sending the man a radiant smile, Amanda allowed herself to be guided into the cool shadows of the house.
Jake glared down at the glass of bourbon in disgust. There had been a time when he'd been a drinker, but that time was years ago. He hadn't touched the hard stuff in a long, long while.
Until he'd met Amanda Lennox.
Now, for the second time in less than a week, he was sitting in a saloon, trying to get drunk. Because of Amanda. Everything he did and thought these days was because of her.
Yup, just one prissy white lady, Jake thought derisively. That's all it took to shove Jacob Blackhawk Chandler back in front of a bottle. Christ! He'd been so sure he would only take up drinking again if something catastrophic happened. Apparently he'd been wrong.
Then again...
His wounded arm stung as, with a scowl, he swirled the potent-smelling liquor around, watching as it coated the smudged sides of the glass. A shard of sunlight streamed in through the saloon's dirt-streaked window. The light hit the glass in his hand and split into a rainbow of color—one of which reminded him of Amanda's eyes, another of her hair.
The image that sprang to mind prompted Jake to down his drink in one fiery swallow. It was his third. The bourbon didn't cut as it passed his throat, but slid down nice and easy. He waved for the barkeep to refill his glass. The fat man did so reluctantly, but promptly. Jake wondered if the good service was in no small way prompted by the knife he'd set atop the chipped walnut bar before he'd even taken a seat.
In a flash, Jake remembered the barkeep's beady eyes, the way they had rounded when they'd fixed on the knife. The man's cheeks had reddened, and Jake could almost hear every word about "not serving his kind" scamper right out of the big man's mind. While the knife had kept Jake's glass full, his savage scowl had kept the other men in the saloon at a safe distance. They may not want him here—hell, he could feel their resentful glares crawling all over his back—but Jake had made damn sure they had no say about it. He needed a drink too badly.
No, what he really needed, badly, was to get the hell away from Amanda Lennox. The woman touched him, disturbed him in ways no other woman of any goddamn color ever had or ever would. Maybe with some time, some distance...
Nah, probably not. Jake figured he had about as much chance of forgetting his prissy white princess as he had of being crowned King of England tomorrow. While he could leave her—and he would, damn soon!—that didn't change the fact that he'd never be able to forget her. A part of her would always be inside of him. He had an uneasy feeling that an even bigger part of him would be left behind. With her. Always.
His scowl darkened. How long had he been in the saloon? A half hour? An hour? He didn't know. The ruckus of his thoughts had made him lose all track of time. Had Amanda waited for him like he'd told her to? And if she hadn't...?
Jake reached into the inside pocket of his vest for a couple of coins. What he found instead was the white linen handkerchief he'd forgotten he'd put there. He tried to ignore the way the cloth seared into his fingertips. With a sigh, he reached past it and retrieved a couple of coins, which he tossed onto the bar. He then picked up his knife and shoved it back into place. The sheath slapped his outer thigh as he stalked toward the saloon's double doors.
He'd no more swung one of the doors open when Jake felt something else. Something as familiar as it was unwelcome.
Every eye in the place was on him. He knew it without looking, could feel the stares boring into his rigidly held back. Their gazes felt like crawly things on his skin. Some of the gazes were hostile, others were cautious, others merely curious.
Not a single one was friendly.
Jake was used to attracting attention wherever he went. It had ceased to bother him years ago. So why they hell was it bothering him now?
While he tried to overlook his resentment as he pushed through the doors and stepped onto the sunlit boardwalk, Jake knew damn well where his discomfort stemmed from. Amanda Lennox had planted a seed in his mind, and without his permission—Jesus, without his knowledge!—the blossom had flourished.
From the start you've told me that all white people, even without knowing you, automatically label you a savage. Hasn't it ever occurred to you that you go out of your way to give them that impression?
Did he? No, of course not. At least, he didn't do it consciously. It was just that... well, it was hard for a man to walk in two different worlds. One, the Indian's world, he'd decided long ago he didn't belong in; the other, the white man's world, had made that decision for him. Amanda didn't know anything about that. She may think she did, but she didn't, couldn't. Not really.
But was she right?
Jake narrowed his eyes against the glare of sunlight as he picked out the white, tethered to a post in front of the saloon. Compared to the other horses tied there, the one without the saddle looked out of place. It attracted attention. So did the knife at his belt, the moccasins on his feet.
Unconsciously, he fingered the strand of long black hair that fell forward on his shoulder. He felt the thin braid graze his wrist, felt the tickle of the small brown feather against his skin. He hadn't tied the bandanna around his forehead today, but he might as well have.
He could see by the looks he was getting that he appeared every bit the ruthless savage these white people had him pegged for.
Was she right?
Jake gritted his teeth and stalked toward his horse. And he thought that... yes, Goddammit to hell and back, Amanda was right! So what? It didn't change a thing!
Except maybe the way he looked at himself. The problem was, Jake had always taken great pains to never look at himself too hard or too often—and he was doing both now. Damn. Maybe this realization changed a hell of a lot more than he'd thought.
Distance, he thought as he untethered the white and vaulted lithely onto its back. Yes, distance. All he needed was some time away from Amanda Lennox and everything would be fine. His sense of perspective would come back. He'd start to look at himself in the same light he always had. He'd...
Oh, who the hell was he trying to fool? Himself? If so, it wasn't working. He wasn't stupid, and he wasn't drunk. He knew damn well that nothing, nothing would ever be the same again. Everything had changed the second that prissy Bostonian princess had waded into his life—or, more accurately, the day he'd waded into hers. Damn, but she'd turned his world inside out!
Jake guided his horse in the direction he'd left Amanda and the kid. He knew before h
e'd reached the spot that they were gone. He wasn't surprised. It wasn't as though she'd ever done a thing he'd told her to. Right from the start, she'd opposed him. He would be lying if he said that wasn't one of the first things that had attracted him to her, the spunk he sensed beneath the cowardice, the passion beneath the ice.
It didn't take a lot of brain power to know where they'd gone. He'd learned the whereabouts of Edward Bannister's house his first two minutes in the saloon. Bannister was the richest miner in Pony. His residence was hardly a secret.
With a reluctant sigh, Jake turned his mount around and picked his way toward the house that sprawled out over what looked like the entire north end of town. The closer he came to it, the more uncomfortable Jake felt. That the house was an eyesore—so out of place it was laughable—didn't seem to matter. That a man had the wealth to build such an eyesore in the first place did. Compared to the rickety, clapboard buildings lining Main Street, that house was a mansion!
The hell of it was, it was too damn easy for Jake to imagine a woman like Amanda Lennox gliding through those spacious, expensively furnished rooms. He groaned and thought he could almost hear a silk hem rustling around her shapely legs as she walked, could almost smell exotic bath oils—the names of which he couldn't even pronounce—clinging to her forbidden white skin.
Oh, yeah, she belonged in a house like that, all right. She'd been born to it. She deserved to wear the kind of clothes a man like Edward Bannister could give her, to live in the kind luxury only a man as wealthy as Bannister could afford to keep her in. She deserved the best and...
Hell, Jacob Blackhawk Chandler certainly wasn't that!
"Again, Mr. Bannister, I thank you," Amanda said, and held out her hand to the man.
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