by Janet Dailey
"No, some were set by Yankee torches."
Susannah stiffened, recognizing Rans Lassiter's voice behind her. "I didn't know." She tried to pretend she wasn't surprised that he was there.
"It's easier to blame us Johnny Rebs. But the Yankees have their night riders. And then there are the others . . . bushwhackers like Quantrill. You can never be sure which side they're on. It usually depends on what there is to be looted."
"Quantrill was one of the men who led the attack on Independence, Missouri, in August, wasn't he? I read about it in the papers."
"He's somewhere in Arkansas now, but the way he drifts in and out of the territory, you can't be sure. If a man ever rides up on a black stallion, dressed fancy, with a plume in his hat, you keep that derringer handy, Miss Gordon. It's said he has an eye for the ladies."
"I appreciate the warning."
"This is good coffee, the first we've had in a long while." He swirled the liquid in his tin cup, then drank it down. "Only two things I know that could beat it—a bottle of good whiskey or a beautiful woman. A man could get drunk on either." The way he looked at her made Susannah feel warm all over, but this time not from embarrassment. He pulled his gaze away. "You and the reverend better get yourselves a cup before we drink it all."
He turned and walked back to the fire, pausing on the edge of the circle and listening to the talk, but taking no part in it.
"He seems lonely," Susannah murmured.
"And young," Reverend Cole added. She glanced at him in questioning surprise. "He can't be more than twenty-six or twenty-seven."
"He has to be older than that. His eyes—"
"His eyes are old from all he's seen . . . the things he's gone through. I saw the same look in the eyes of some of the young Cherokee men who walked that long trail from Georgia. His eyes don't have that bitterness though, just the soberness of hard experience. He still knows how to smile. That is precious, Susannah. There was a time when I thought your father would never smile again. So many didn't."
She had heard the stories of the suffering many times, but Reverend Cole made it seem real. Maybe because he looked so sad ... so sorry. She slipped a hand into the crook of his arm. "Let's get some coffee."
"Yes, before they drink it all." He deliberately repeated the lieutenant's words in an effort to lighten the atmosphere.
The rebel called Kelly pulled a harmonica out of his pocket and began playing "Dixie." Three soldiers jumped to their feet and began dancing, sashaying around each other, lifting their feet high, and laughing while the rest clapped hands in time with the music and sang.
The instant the hymn of the South ended, the man struck up another lively tune. A scrawny red-haired man grabbed Susannah's hand and pulled her into their makeshift circle. In the next second, another hooked her arm in his and swung her around, passing her on to the next.
Rans watched her as she swung from partner to partner, skipping, swirling, laughing, her skirts flying and revealing her ankles—and the inch-and-a-half high heels on her boots. She wasn't as tall as he'd thought. And he already knew she wasn't as skinny as she looked. He had felt the fullness of those high breasts against his chest, breasts that would more than fill his hand.
He silently cursed the direction of his thoughts and looked down at the coffee dregs in his cup, but the attempted distraction didn't work. He had to watch.
Why didn't he admit it? He was jealous. There she was dancing with his men, supple and graceful in their arms, the gold in her eyes glittering with happiness. Yet, when he had held her, that gold had been fire sparks and her body had been as rigid as a stone statue, but a statue with perfume on her neck. And the perfume wasn't the cheap kind a whore used to smother the smell of her sweat and another man's semen. Rans knew the difference.
Susannah Gordon was a lady, and he was tired of the bar whores and camp followers.
This war hadn't turned out to be what he thought when he first joined up. There had been little glory in the battles and skirmishes he'd fought, only a helluva lot of blood and desperation.
For him, the war had been mostly patrols like this—rides that amounted to burning and looting. Their orders were to cut off the enemy's supplies, destroy their hay and grain fields. He was supposed to make it impossible for them to grow food for themselves or for their animals; he was to make it impossible for the enemy to forage.
Perhaps he hated Quantrill and his ilk so much because he hated himself. After all the fighting and killing, he wanted to feel good inside. She could help him do that.
He heard her peal of laughter, all throaty and warm. It twisted through him, knotting him up into one big ache. Several of his men were singing. He hadn't paid much attention to the song Kelly was playing until he heard the words to it.
... The sun so hot I froze to death.
Susannah, don't you cry.
Oh, Susannah, oh, don't you cry for me.
He swore again and rubbed the knotted muscles along the back of his neck. When he brought his hand away, Rans accidentally brushed his jaw and felt the sharp stubble of beard growth. He hadn't shaved in three days or bathed in anything other than river water in over a year.
What was the matter with him? Instead of standing around like some damned schoolboy resenting the fun everyone else was having, why didn't he go over there? He wanted to dance with her, hold her in his arms. What was stopping him? He was Ransom Lassiter. His family owned one of the biggest damned ranches in Texas.
He set his cup on a log and walked around the fire ring to the dancers as the song ended. He flashed one warning glance at his men. They stepped back, leaving the path clear to Susannah, their laughing eyes turning silently speculative and knowing. At first she didn't see him, then she turned, the full light from the fire falling on her.
For an instant, Rans could only stare at her smiling lips, parted as she drank in air. Her eyes sparkled with life and her cheeks glowed with high color. A few curling wisps had escaped the neat chignon during the spirited dancing. He liked the hint of dishevelment it gave her. It crossed his mind that she would look that way after he had made love to her, only her lips would be swollen from his kisses.
When he saw her smile start to fade, he made a mock bow. "I believe this is my dance, Miss Gordon." She pressed a hand to the base of her throat as if it would help her to breathe. He wished to hell she hadn't. The action pulled his glance to the deep rise and fall of her breasts, and the material of her gown straining to cover them and succeeding instead in outlining their jutting roundness. "Make it a waltz, Kelly, so the lady can get her breath back." He knew she wanted to plead exhaustion, but he didn't give her a chance.
His hand was at the back of her waist before she could raise an objection. On the very first note, Rans spun her away, the pressure of his hand smoothly guiding her through the steps. Susannah tried but she couldn't seem to break contact with his compelling gray eyes. They held her captive, half-veiled as they were by his sooty lashes and smoldering like hot charcoal.
Around and around, they whirled. With each turn, she was spun closer and made even more aware of the brush of his legs through the thickness of her skirts. Yet she had to hold on to him. She had the impression he knew that. Did he also know all the crazy things she was feeling—like the curious fluttering in her stomach?
"I'm not altogether sure you want me to catch my breath, Lieutenant," she accused, conscious that it was still coming in a shallow rush. "I think you're trying to steal it."
"Could I?" His softly drawled question was like a lover's caress. Her pulse accelerated at an alarming rate.
"Lieutenant, I—"
"Rans. We aren't too formal in Texas."
"I see." She swallowed, trying to rid herself of the tension that strung her nerves on a thin thread.
"Do you?" His glance went to her throat, reminding Susannah of the perfume she had automatically dabbed behind her ears this morning—the perfume he had remarked on earlier. "I don't think you realize how tempted I am to for
get you're a lady."
She looked away, suddenly noticing how far they were from the fire. Darkness was all around them. "That isn't something a gentleman would say." He was no longer spinning her in graceful circles. They were practically dancing in place, going through the motions of the waltz steps, but barely moving at all.
"No? The gentlemen you've known must have been fools. Or else they were blind."
"I don't think—"
"Good. I don't want you to think. I only want you to dance with me."
Again Susannah was guided into another sweeping turn. She stepped on something. It rolled, throwing her off balance and twisting her ankle. She stumbled against him. Immediately, both of his arms went around her to catch and steady her. Susannah found herself again literally face to face with him; only this time their lips were actually touching. It was like a lightning bolt jolting through her. Looking into his eyes, she couldn't make herself move in any direction.
"You don't need to be afraid of me, Susannah." He whispered the assurance, his lips moving against hers to form the words. She hadn't realized her own lips were so sensitive, yet she could feel every feather-light touch against them. "Don't be afraid."
A warmth—a pressure spread over her mouth. Dear God, he was kissing her, and she was afraid—afraid of the things she was feeling. She pushed away from him and took a quick step back. She gasped at the sharp twinge of pain that shot from her ankle.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes." Tentatively she put her weight on it, testing its strength. Luckily, she felt nothing more than an achy soreness. "I turned my ankle. That's all." Suddenly, he scooped her off her feet and cradled her body in his arms. "What are you doing? You can't intend to carry me?" Didn't he realize how big she was? At five feet eight, she was no lightweight.
"That is exactly what I'm going to do." There was a splash of white in his dark beard when he smiled at her. "Put your arms around my neck."
There really wasn't anywhere else to put them. But when she felt the rippling bulge of his shoulder and neck muscles, Susannah wasn't too sure this was a good idea, although she had to admit he didn't seem to be struggling under her weight.
"This isn't necessary," she murmured. "I can walk."
"But I don't want to find out you can," he drawled, his gray eyes glinting with mercuric brightness. "I'm enjoying this too much."
"Stop it." Susannah knew he didn't mean it, not really. Anything in skirts would look good to him.
"Susannah, are you all right?" Reverend Cole hurried forward to meet them.
"I turned my ankle. If the lieutenant would put me down, I could walk it off. But he is too busy playing the gallant and chivalrous Southern officer to listen."
The lieutenant's jaw tightened, his mouth disappearing altogether in the shadow of his dark beard. He stopped abruptly and let her feet swing to the ground, his eyes changing back to the hard gray color of flint. Aware he was angry, she moved away, walking gingerly but without difficulty.
"My men and I will bed down over there in the trees for the night, Reverend. I've thrown out a picket so you and Miss Gordon should be safe here in camp. I would put out the fire, though. No sense advertising where you are to any bushwhackers who might be roaming around." His glance flicked briefly to Susannah. "In the morning, we'll escort you home."
"Thank you, Lieutenant."
"We owe you for the food and the coffee." He turned on his heel and walked away, followed reluctantly by his men. Susannah watched him, conscious of the strong regret she felt at his leaving.
"A man's pride is a fragile thing, Susannah." Reverend Cole came over to stand beside her. "Sometimes it is the only protection he has. But it can be easily wounded. Men may appear insensitive—invincible even—but I assure you, my dear child, we aren't."
"You think I was churlish."
"Nothing cuts the ground out from under a man quicker than a woman's tongue." He walked over to the fire and began scattering the coals.
15
The next morning, they rose at first light. After a cold breakfast, Susannah stowed their camp equipment and bedrolls in the wagon while Reverend Cole harnessed the team. Finishing her chores before he did, she went over to help. Then she saw Lieutenant Lassiter crossing the small clearing toward her. He looked different in the daylight. Then she realized why. He had shaved.
Last night he had looked like the roughest kind of outlaw. This morning he looked like a man of purpose and pride.
She stared at his hard, lean features, finding not a hint of softness in them. Last night she had sensed the strength in his face. Now it was positively potent.
When he reached her, Rans took off his hat and raked a hand quickly through his hair. "If my actions offended you yesterday evening, Miss Gordon, I apologize. I—"
"You cut yourself." Without thinking, she reached up and wiped the small trickle of blood from the nick along his jaw, at the same time letting the rest of her fingers lie against the side of his neck near the pulsing vein.
In the blink of an eye, he grabbed her hand and roughly jerked it away from his face, then continued to hold it, his fingers digging in, nearly cutting off the circulation to it. "I wouldn't touch a man like that again, Miss Gordon."
"Why?"
"Why!" The word exploded from him.
A second later her arms were pinned to her sides and her lips were crushed against her teeth by his mouth. And yet she felt no pain, only searing pleasure. His lips didn't stop moving over hers and rolling back, nuzzling, coaxing a reaction Susannah could never have anticipated.
This wasn't a suitor's awkward busing. This was a lover's kiss. She had always wondered what it would be like. Now she knew. Inside, she felt all molten and raw.
He broke the kiss long enough to say gruffly, "That's why." Then he pulled her against him, rubbing his mouth over her cheek, breathing hard, and trembling. "I wanted to kiss you like that last night. Hell. I wanted to do more than that, Susannah. Remember, I warned you that a man could get drunk on a beautiful woman. And when a man is drunk, he forgets the niceties of courtship. There isn't the time to woo a woman in the middle of a war. Do you understand?"
"This is insanity," she whispered, breathing in the soapy smell of his cheek. "I don't even know you." She turned anyway, finding his lips once more and kissing him. If it was insanity, she wanted more of it, much more.
"Lieutenant!"
They quickly moved apart at the sound of the shouted call and pounding hooves. Kelly rode into the clearing, leading a saddle horse. "Chavez is back. Said it's all clear. We're ready to ride as soon as the preacher is." At that moment Reverend Cole led the harnessed team of horses into the clearing.
"Be right there." Rans turned back to Susannah and smoothed the crumpled brim of his hat, then set it on his head, holding her gaze all the while. "The name is Rans. Ransom Lassiter, and don't you forget it."
"I won't." The promise was easy to make. Susannah knew she would find it impossible to forget him.
On the way to Oak Hill, Susannah's thoughts were divided between concern for her mother and an awareness of the man on the zebra dun riding alongside the wagon. He rode with the ease of a man who had spent most of his life in the saddle, balanced and relaxed, moving with the horse, not against it. Looking at him, Susannah could almost believe this was nothing more than a pleasant morning ride for him—if it weren't for that watchful air he never lost, one that said if trouble came, he would be ready for it. And Susannah suspected his reaction would be as swift and deadly as the situation demanded. The thought should have frightened her, but it didn't.
A dozen times she had considered what might have happened last night if Rans Lassiter had been a different sort of man. He and his band could have stolen the wagon and all its supplies, terrorized and abused them, and neither she nor Reverend Cole could have stopped them. They had both been at their mercy. Yet, never once had Rans Lassiter or his men acted in a way that was deliberately threatening. Almost from the outset she and Reve
rend Cole had been treated with a rough sort of respect.
She was grateful for that. But it wasn't gratitude Susannah felt when they stopped at midmorning to rest the horses and Rans lifted her from the wagon. Gratitude didn't heat the blood or make her breath catch in her throat. His glance held hers for a long second before he moved away to attend to the horses.
Not until he had sentries posted and the horses watered did he return to the wagon where Susannah was helping Reverend Cole water the team. "We'll move out in about ten minutes, Reverend."
"We'll be ready."
Susannah felt Rans's attention focus on her as the stoutly muscled gray horse lifted its nose from the leather water bucket she held for it. "I'll carry that for you," Rans said when she lowered the bucket.
The bucket was far from heavy. Susannah knew his offer was an excuse for him to linger. "Thanks." She waited while he emptied out the little bit of water left. "We keep the buckets tied back here by the water barrel." She walked over to the wagon to show him. "You mentioned you knew my brother-in-law, Captain Stuart—"
"Major Stuart," Rans corrected as he fastened the leather bucket in its place. "He was promoted six weeks ago."
"I hadn't heard," she admitted. "I was wondering . . . if you know him, perhaps you know his son, Elijah Stuart, as well?"
He nodded, his mouth twisting in a smile. "Lije and I have shared a campfire before." He pulled the knot tight, then turned, a touch of amusement in his inspecting glance. "You don't look old enough to be his aunt."
"I'm not." She smiled, remembering the way Lije always teased her about it. "How are they? My sister will want to know."
"They were fine the last time I saw them." His glance centered on her lips for one tantalizing instant, then came back to her eyes.
Again Susannah felt warm all over and turned her face into the crisp breeze that warned of winter's approach. "Where are they? Do you know?"