“Put the shirt on...unless you want me to hold you down and wrestle you into it.”
Her eyes widened. His narrowed. Finally, deciding his threat was genuine, she donned the shirt.
Chase knew she was tired, but they had to keep moving. He pulled her to her feet, tugging her after him like a dawdling child.
As they hiked into the mountains, the pines thickened, and cedars scented the woods. Though they traveled parallel to the main deer trail, the foliage was dense now. And so far, there were no visible signs of pursuit.
They drank from the springs and tiny streams threading through the rocks. Once he saw her catch her reflection in a small pool, and she fingered her snarled and ragged locks in useless vanity. By afternoon, she dragged along at a snail’s crawl, every step looking like her last. At this pace, they would never outdistance their pursuers.
Finally she sank down onto the ground, unable to go any farther. He hunkered down beside her and rubbed the back of his neck, considering his options.
Long ago, Chase's mother had told him the story of how she'd met his father. Mattie had injured herself in a fall, and Sakote had carried her for miles on his back, seeing her safely home. Under the current circumstances, Chase thought it seemed like a practical way to travel.
He reached out toward Claire, seized the front of the shirt he’d loaned her only a few hours ago and began unbuttoning it.
She instinctively grabbed his hands to stop him. “What are you doing?”
“I need the shirt back.”
She cast him a puzzled glance.
Then her face fell, and she blanched. “I’m slowing you down. You’re leaving me here, aren’t you?”
Before he could reply, she slapped his hands away and began unfastening the shirt herself.
Fine,” she said, her voice crackling with anger. “Go. But Yoema would be very disappointed in you. Very,” she said, tearing the shirt from her body, “disappointed.” She hurled the shirt at his chest.
He scowled. He supposed it was natural enough for her to assume he’d abandon her in the wilderness. But she was wrong.
“I’m not leaving you.”
He whipped out the shirt by its sleeves, swirling it over her head and enveloping her in the flannel. Ignoring her stammers of confusion, he pulled the sleeves forward beneath her arms. Then, before he could change his mind, he turned around and hefted her quickly onto his back, tying the sleeves of the shirt around his neck.
The woman sputtered in surprised outrage as he caught her hindquarters in the bottom half of the shirt, securing the sling around his waist in a knot. He boosted her up once to settle her into place with her arms clinging to his shoulders and her knees resting on the bones of his hips. Then, hooking his thumbs under the makeshift straps to keep the sling from choking him, he stood up and started down the path again.
She was lighter than his first xonsat, the young buck he’d shot with bow and arrow and packed home on his back when he was eleven winters old. But she was a hell of a lot more trouble than the deer he'd killed. She struggled against him, making noises of indignation, and her body—warm and soft next to his—stirred and distracted him.
He trained his eyes on the path ahead and tried not to think about that part of him that liked this new position all too well. He focused instead on how much deeper into danger he traveled with each step.
Chapter 8
Claire was so mortified she could scarcely draw breath, clinging to the savage's back like some overgrown papoose. When she finally managed to gasp in a lungful of air, she could find no words equal to her humiliation. So she simply spluttered like an over-boiling teakettle.
The way she was bound, she had no choice but to embrace him for fear of falling. Her legs were draped around his hips as brazenly as a saloon girl's. And she was pressed so tightly against his bare flesh that they shared sweat.
The half-breed didn’t seem bothered by any of it. He proceeded down the trail, smoothly and effortlessly, as if carrying a woman splayed across his naked back was something he did every day of his life.
Of course, she mustn’t let him continue, no matter what a relief it was to her stinging feet. It was completely indecent, and she couldn’t let him compromise her in such a fashion. She’d never allowed any man such liberties, not even Frank.
Heavens, she hadn’t let her fiancé so much as kiss her on the cheek. Frank was always the perfect gentleman, politely distant, never overstepping his bounds despite his status as her husband-to-be. He never threatened her or offended her in any way. In Frank’s company, she always felt absolutely safe.
This savage, on the other hand, was rash, rude, and completely uncivilized.
Finally she gathered enough wits about her to speak. “Put me down, sir.” Her voice cracked as she felt the sleek skin of his back slide across her inner thighs.
He plodded on, ignoring her.
"I said, put me down.”
He only jounced her again into a more comfortable angle, bringing new heat to her face, and continued on.
Her jaw dropped. "I insist you put me down this insta-"
"Insist?" he said with a bark of laughter.
Her ruffled feathers made her brave. "I can and I do insist," she proclaimed. "This is improper and untoward, and I won’t endure it. When Frank hears what you’ve—“
He stopped abruptly. "Frank?"
"My fiancé," she announced smugly, even though that was technically no longer true, now that she’d broken things off. In case he didn’t recognize the French word, she added, "My intended husband."
He didn’t respond with the shocked gasp she expected, nor did he apologize and set her down. Instead, he shook his head, made a rueful sound reminiscent of a chuckle, and pressed onward.
"Stop!” she cried, incensed. “Stop it this instant! I have my reputation to consider."
“Your reputation,” he growled, “is the least of my troubles.”
“Oh!” she groaned in frustration. But she supposed he was right. A half-breed stealing a white woman would be hanged before he could utter a syllable in his defense. His neck was of far more concern to him than her propriety.
Still, his familiarity chafed at her, figuratively and literally. His lean hips rubbed at the insides of her knees with every stride, and her petticoat bunched higher and higher, threatening to expose her unmentionable parts to the curve of his spine.
It stretched the limits of her endurance. Her body began to respond to the ill treatment, stiffening and flushing in places it should not. It took all her will to draw her mind away from the sensation of his damp flesh upon her. She must think of something, anything, to keep her sanity about her.
Perhaps she could force him to reason. For the moment at least, she was alive and relatively unharmed. Perhaps he’d listen to her if she spoke calmly and rationally. Maybe she could make a fresh start with Yoema’s grandson and convince him he was making a huge mistake.
She cleared her throat, steeled her nerve, and, despite the ludicrousness of her present position, donned her best sitting room manners.
"If we’re going to be…traveling companions,” she said evenly, “I think we should at least be properly introduced. My name is Claire Parker."
“I know.”
She waited for an appropriate response. None was forthcoming.
"And you?" she prompted. "What’s your name?"
He didn’t answer.
"You know," she informed him patiently, stifling her temper, “it’s considered common courtesy to exchange names."
“To your people,” he told her. “My people consider it bad manners.”
She forced a polite chuckle, as if he’d made a clever joke. "Don’t be silly. Your people. My people. If you’re one of the Two-Sons, you’re half white, for heaven’s sake."
The man released an irritated sigh and tromped along even more heavily than before.
She tried again. “If you don’t tell me your name, how will I know how to address you?”
“Who else would you be talking to?”
She compressed her lips, striving to be civil. “I suppose I could call you Mr. Half-Breed,” she murmured. “Or One-Son. Or Yoema’s Grand-“
“Kisan-yiman-dilwawh," he grumbled over his shoulder.
"Is that...your name?"
He grunted.
"Ah." Now she was getting somewhere. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr....Kisan...yiman..."
"Dilwawh."
"Dilwawh." What a long and difficult name. She wondered what it meant. She’d learned from Yoema, whose name meant Little Flower, that most Indian names came from nature. "How do you do?"
He didn’t reply. She couldn’t blame him. After all, "how do you do" was a rather inane expression, difficult to translate and hard to answer.
"Claire is a French name. It means bright," she offered. "What does your name mean?"
"Kisan-yiman-dilwawh?" He sniffed. "He Who Beats Chattering White Woman."
The hopeful smile she’d pasted on her face fell flat, and on impulse, she smacked the back of his head with the flat of her hand.
“Ow!”
“I am not chattering. That is an ungentlemanly thing to say. Yoema would be very disappointed—“
He stopped in his tracks. “Will you stop saying her name?”
Claire would be damned if she’d let the savage dictate to her what she could and could not say. The words tumbled from her lips in a rush of childish passion. "Yoema! Yoema! Yoema!"
She regretted her impetuousness almost at once, for he spat out a long string of words she was sure were epithets.
"Stop it!" he threatened, "Or maybe I will beat you."
Claire acquiesced, not because she believed him—he was proving to be all bark and no bite—but because she could see he was as stubborn and strong-willed as his grandmother when it came to getting his way.
Still, his insistence on silencing Yoema’s memory disturbed her. How could he forbid Claire to speak the name of her Konkow mother? How could he deny his own kin’s existence? How could he allow Yoema to fade from the world unnamed and unremembered?
Chase wondered if Xontehltaw, Coyote, was laughing at his empty promise. He might make Claire ride on his back. He might compel her to eat food not to her liking. He might make her wear his shirt and force her to sleep on the hard ground. But he’d never raise his hand against a woman.
Turning back to the path, he grimaced in self-scorn. Some avenging savage he was. The woman was right. He was half white. And at the moment, he felt every civilized drop of that white blood.
Hearing his grandmother’s name sent a superstitious shiver along his spine. But that wasn’t the only reason he’d scared the woman into silence.
Each soft word she uttered chipped away at his honor and made him regret his mistake in kidnapping her even more. Her beautiful wide eyes reminded him that she was a virtuous young woman and made him feel like a poor excuse for a man.
Honestly, he didn’t want her to know his name. He didn’t want her to acknowledge him at all. He’d just as soon she forgot all about him. A proper young lady like Claire had no business carrying on with a savage like him. He wished he’d never made the mistake of stealing her. He wanted things to go back to the way they were before he’d met Claire Parker.
Which made him all the more angry when his body, responding to the seductive sensation of warm feminine flesh on his back, started behaving as if it would like to get to know her better.
By the time the sun had crossed the sky and hovered on the crest of the western hills, Chase was dead tired. It wasn’t his burden that made him that way. A blacksmith’s back was as solid as a tree trunk, and the woman was no heavier than a down quilt. No, it was his mind that was exhausted. His thoughts had run in circles all day.
For the sake of his grandmother, he should loathe Claire Parker. In deference to his tribe, he should despise the whites, who had stolen everything from the Konkows. But feeling the woman’s smooth, long limbs wrapped around his hips filled him with emotions completely unlike loathing.
Here he was, in the midst of mortal peril, hunted like an animal, walking a thin path between life and death. Yet his body still responded to its natural cravings, undaunted by the danger. And at the moment, more than food, more than water, more than shelter, he craved the woman.
He let out a ragged sigh, hoping and yet dreading that her heel would slip a little lower.
Such thoughts were wrong. He knew they were wrong. Still...
He clenched his jaw and trained his eyes on the trail ahead. It was far too pleasurable, all her silky warmth upon his skin. And it wasn’t hard to imagine tossing up her skirts and seeking relief in her lovely body. He nearly groaned aloud at the idea.
But Chase was no savage, no matter what she believed. So he decided he’d better stop for the day while he could still heed the voice of reason.
A posse was unlikely to travel in the dark through the mountains. Chase figured he could risk building a fire to cook the rabbit, now that the sun was going down. A crevice in the rock wall ahead formed a hidden half-cave, a good spot to lodge for the night.
Eager to unburden his soul as well as his back, as soon as they reached the recess, he loosened the shirt sleeves and let the woman slip to the ground. She gasped in pain as her tender feet contacted sharp stones, and he winced at his own carelessness.
“Sit,” he ordered, then amended, “if you want.”
She lowered herself onto a flat rock.
He slipped the shirt on, leaving it unbuttoned. The flannel was warm from her body. It smelled like her—soft and sweet and womanly—and he had to fight to keep his mind on the most important task at hand, starting a fire and getting them fed.
But as he stacked the kindling, his eyes wandered again and again to the ragged soles of Claire’s bare feet. The sorry sight made him feel like a monster. He wished he’d noticed before. He would have offered to carry her sooner. He might have even given her his boots, except that they were several sizes too big.
He settled for dragging a broken chunk of log in front of her, patting the top of it and mumbling, “For your feet.”
Claire didn’t dare meet his eyes. She’d had the most troubling thoughts for the past several hours, and she feared they might be written all over her face.
She quietly propped her heels on the log and pulled her petticoat down over her knees and shins. Not that it mattered. She’d been riding with her legs wrapped around the half-breed’s bare waist for the past several hours. Her modesty was beyond repair.
So were her nerves.
She’d had a long time to think as he packed her through the canyon, and she was shocked by the direction of her thoughts. She should have been frightened by his threats of vengeance, concerned about his dishonorable intentions, and worried about what was to become of her. Instead, all she could do was think about was how much he reminded her of Monowano, the handsome Indian hero of her favorite dime novel.
This Two-Son wasn’t quite as uncivilized as the Red-skins in her books, of course. He wore denim trousers instead of buckskins. He had no feather headband or bear claw necklace. And rather than a flintstone, he carried sulfur matches, which made starting a campfire much easier.
Once it was going, she stole a glance at him across the flames. He really was magnificent. Firelight haloed his head and flickered in his black eyes, transforming him into a dark angel, dangerous and intriguing. It illuminated the angular planes of his face and the muscular contours of his chest. And to her morbid fascination, his unbuttoned shirt kept gaping open, exposing his delicious golden skin and reminding her of how warm his body had felt against her thighs.
A delicious shiver went through her bones.
Heavens, what was wrong with her?
He turned the spit, and a whiff of roasting rabbit made her mouth water.
Maybe she was only delirious from hunger.
No, he was definitely doing something to her insides that had nothing t
o do with her appetite...and it felt curiously pleasant.
It was absurd, of course. He’d kidnapped her. How could she possibly find him attractive? It went against everything she’d ever read. In her novels, heroes were heroes, and villains were villains. Things were always black and white.
The half-breed was distorting her perceptions of good and evil. He spoke of revenge, yet his compassion betrayed him. He seemed obliged to punish her for her imagined crimes, but he grappled with guilt over doing her harm. He was big and brooding and brutal in appearance, yet there was a gentleness about him that belied his stormy countenance. And more than any fictional character she’d ever encountered in a book, he was utterly fascinating.
Was he friend or foe? She wasn’t sure anymore. Perhaps he wasn’t sure himself. All she knew was when he looked at her...like that...she felt it all the way down to her toes.
Chase grimaced. For a woman who had good reason to wish she’d never laid eyes on him, she sure was staring at him a lot. Maybe she was just half-starved. She did have kind of a hungry look in her eyes. And now and then, when she caught the appetizing aroma of the roasting meat, her tongue slipped out to lick her parched lips.
It was hard watching her suffer, knowing he was to blame. She reminded him of the story of his grandfather on the march, wasting away in the name of grief.
Chase wasn’t used to being watched like that, and under her scrutiny, he almost dropped the skewered rabbit onto the coals. Thankfully, he snatched it from the fire, and his callused fingertips scarcely felt the heat. He pulled off a hunk of seared meat, blew gently on the morsel to cool it, then extended it to Claire, relieved to discover that she seemed to like rabbit.
He tore off his own portion with his teeth. The meat was succulent and smoky. He thought he’d never tasted anything so delicious. But then he’d never been so hungry.
They ate in silence. The only sounds were the smacking of their lips, the gently crackling fire, and the tentative chirps of crickets. He offered her another piece when she was done, and then another. Truthfully, he could have eaten the entire rabbit himself. He regularly polished off three whole rabbits at one sitting. But every time he looked up at her and saw the shadows under her eyes and her sunburned cheeks, guilt spoiled his appetite.
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