Warrior's Prize (Panorama of the Old West Book 15)

by Georgina Gentry

  “Yeah,” Keso said, “Cleve, she’s right. Why don’t you go in the house with the ladies and I’ll get Cherokee to finish your share.”

  “I can do this,” Cleve insisted and kept swinging. Every time the axe came down, Wannie prayed he wasn’t going to take his foot off.

  Wannie turned and ran into the house. “Silver, do something! Keso’s working Cleve into the ground out there.”

  Silver’s lips quivered with a smile. “Men. They can be so stubborn.” She picked up a pitcher of milk and a platter of fresh-baked cookies and went out the door with Wannie behind her. “Hey, fellas, knock off awhile. I’ve got cold milk and sugar cookies.”

  Keso looked up from his chopping. “We’re just getting started.”

  “Keso,” Silver said, “that’s an order. Stop and have some cookies. You, too, Cleve.”

  “Well, I’m game for another rick or so,” Cleve gulped, “but I wouldn’t want to insult you, Mrs. Evans.” He stumbled over and collapsed on the porch step, taking a cookie and a glass.

  Silver gave Wannie an encouraging nod and returned to the house. At least, the cookies had taken their mind off their fierce competition.

  “When we finish up this rick,” Keso gulped his milk with satisfaction, “we can start on next winter’s supply.”

  “Why don’t you people just buy wood like we do?” Cleve said as he sagged on the step.

  “From where?” Keso said. “There’s no stores up here.”

  Cleve didn’t answer. He was staring at his palms in horror. “Look. Oh my God, blisters!”

  Wannie sat down beside him, taking his hand in hers. “It’ll be all right, dearest—I’ll put some liniment on it.” She stroked his hand and cooed to him, knowing Keso glared in the background. She couldn’t understand why her brother was so determined to show Cleve up. Maybe he wanted revenge for the discomfort he’d felt among Cleve’s social set.

  “I could certainly use a bath,” Cleve sighed.

  “Hey, we’ll do better than that,” Keso promised, “we’ll go swimming in the creek.”

  “Keso,” Wannie protested, “that water will be ice cold. I think what sore muscles need is hot water.”

  Keso shrugged. “Well, if Mr. Brewster’s too tired to go swimming—”

  “I’d love a good cold swim,” Cleve said as he stood and glared back at him.

  “See, Wannie? Be a good girl and get us some towels.”

  She started to protest, then decided she was wasting her breath arguing with stubborn men and went inside for towels.

  “What are they doing now?” Silver looked up from her sewing.

  “They’re going swimming,” Wannie sighed.

  Silver raised her eyebrows, opened her mouth, seemed to think better of it, and shook her head.

  Wannie carried towels outside and tossed them each one.

  “How cold is the water?” Cleve asked her.

  “Cold,” Keso assured him with a grin.

  “It is, Cleve,” Wannie said, “it’s melted snow coming down off the mountain.”

  “Just—just the way I like it.” Cleve stood up, his mouth grim. “Oh, I forgot. I can’t go swimming—I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

  Keso grinned. “We can skinny dip. Wannie, you stay up at the house.”

  “I will not!” In her mind, she saw this horrible image of Keso holding Cleve under in the creek.

  “Wannie!” Cleve’s blue eyes mirrored shock.

  “I meant, well, you two have a good time and don’t get cramps in that cold water.”

  They each took a towel and strode away into the forest. After a long moment, she heard a splash and Keso’s voice, “Hey! Feels good. Come on in, Cleve.”

  A long pause.

  “Well, Cleve, if it’s too cold for you, I can understand if you don’t want—”

  A loud splash, followed by Cleve’s agonized shriek. “My God, that’s ice water!”

  “Yeah, doesn’t it feel great?”

  No answer except a long, agonized gasp.

  Oh, God. Wannie had a sudden vision of her brother holding Cleve’s head under the icy stream.

  She crept through the brush toward the creek. The two men really were swimming naked in the cold mountain water. She knew she shouldn’t watch, but she couldn’t resist staring and she clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from exclaiming at what she saw. The two were such a contrast; Keso’s hard-muscled, dark body and Cleve’s slender frame with skin as pale as a frog’s belly. She looked away, her face aflame. Somehow she knew that tonight’s dreams would once again feature a dark-haired lover!

  THIRTEEN

  It occurred to Wannie that she ought to feel ashamed of herself for watching the two swim naked. Properly brought up young ladies, especially graduates of Miss Priddy’s, did not spy on naked men. Worse yet, they might catch her at it.

  It was difficult to tear herself away, but she forced herself to creep back through the woods to the cabin. She sat in the porch swing, pretending to do needlework, but in her mind, all she could see was Keso’s body. Just remembering him naked made her heartbeat quicken and her face flush.

  In a few minutes, the men returned, water still glistening on their skins. At least now they had their pants on. Cleve’s pale skin had turned a distinct blue.

  “Cleve,” she said, “you don’t look so well.”

  “I’m fine,” he mumbled and collapsed on the porch steps.

  Cherokee came around the corner of the cabin. “You all right, young fellow? I’d say you need a little nap.”

  “At 10:30 in the morning?” Keso said as he sauntered across the yard to join Wannie in the porch swing. “Why, the day’s still young. Hey, Cleve we could cut another cord of wood before dinner.”

  She gave Keso a murderous glare. How could he deliberately make Cleve’s stay so miserable?

  Cleve was staring at his hands again. “Blisters,” he muttered, “I’ve got blisters just like common working men, and my ancestors were aristocrats.”

  “We’re very democratic in sharing the work around here,” Keso said and leaned back in the porch swing, looking very pleased with himself.

  Cherokee started to speak, then shook his head and went into the house.

  Cleve wiggled his fingers and winced. “Do you suppose I could have some of that liniment?”

  “You aren’t tired, are you, Cleve?” Keso asked. “I was thinking we might go on a long hike this afternoon.”

  “You mean, walk?” Cleve looked askance.

  “You do know how, don’t you?”

  “I think we should play cards or something,” Wannie said.

  “Maybe we could go into Denver for a few days,” Cleve said. “Is anyone giving a ball or a social?”

  “I understand the Utes have a ceremonial Bear Dance every spring, but there’s not much else,” Keso answered.

  “Maybe a picnic,” Wannie said, wondering just how she was going to entertain this sophisticated gentleman for such a long visit.

  Cleve brightened and she smiled at him, already picturing a romantic tryst in the forest.

  “Yes,” Cleve smiled, “a picnic would be nice.”

  “I wouldn’t go off on a jaunt anywhere in the woods without a gun,” Keso said ominously.

  “Oh, Keso,” Wannie dismissed him, “there’s no wild animals this close to the cabin.”

  “I was just wondering if Packer was still locked up or if he might have escaped.”

  “What is a Packer?” Cleve asked.

  Cherokee came out on the porch just then. “Packer? You all talkin’ about the cannibal?”

  “Cannibal?” Cleve blinked. “Oh, I get it—it’s a joke, isn’t it?”

  Cherokee shook his head. “Nope. Alferd Packer got stranded in a Colorado snowstorm back in ’73—ate four or five of the men with him to survive.”

  “Good Lord!” Cleve gasped.

  “You two stop it,” Wannie demanded. “Packer’s in jail.”

  “I reckon,” Keso
said, “but whenever I’m out in the woods, I stay alert just in case he’s escaped.”

  Cleve swallowed hard. “Maybe a picnic is not a good idea. Does anyone play cards?”

  “How about poker?” Keso suggested, “and just to keep it interesting, we’ll make a few friendly bets.”

  “Cleve,” Wannie cautioned, “don’t play poker with my brother—he’s learned from the miners and the trappers.”

  Cleve drew himself up proudly. “I’m pretty good myself—those Princeton and Harvard lads were regular card sharps.”

  “Great!” Keso beamed. “After lunch, we’ll play a few hands.”

  By mid-afternoon, Wannie found herself sitting morosely watching the two men attempting to best each other once again. What had happened to her romantic ideas about walks in the woods and kisses in the porch swing? She’d hardly had a minute alone with Cleve since he’d arrived.

  As far as she was concerned it was a long day watching the men play poker. Cleve lost hand after hand, his pale face getting grimmer, his blue eyes like ice as the afternoon progressed. Once, she would have sworn she saw him slipping cards from the bottom of the deck, but decided her eyes had been playing tricks on her. An honorable man like Cleve Brewster wouldn’t cheat at cards. He lost anyway.

  Tomorrow, she vowed, tomorrow I’ll find some way for Cleve and me to be alone. Maybe they would pack a picnic or go for a horseback ride—anything to spend some time alone with her fiance and escape from her watchful chaperon.

  However, the next morning, Cleve moved like an old man. After breakfast, they sat around the table drinking coffee.

  “So Cleve,” Keso said, “what would you like to do today?”

  “What is there to do?”

  “We could cut some more wood.”

  “I have plenty,” Silver put in. “Maybe Cleve would just like to take it easy today.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a croquet set?” Cleve asked.

  “No, and no lawn tennis, either,” Keso said. “We could go hunting.”

  Cleve brightened. “Pheasant or fox would be exciting, if you’ve got good dogs.”

  “If you want excitement,” Keso said, “we might cross the trail of that old grizzly we see now and then. He’s stolen a few chickens.”

  Wannie glared at Keso. How could he be so infuriating? “I don’t think Cleve needs that much excitement.”

  “Well, it’s the best I can do since we don’t have a croquet set,” Keso said. “What about horseback riding?”

  “Egad. That sounds invigorating. As you know, I’m an expert rider.”

  “Now this will be Colorado style,” Keso warned him, “no fancy red coats and English saddles.”

  “I can do that. Sound like fun, my dear?”

  “Uh,” Wannie hesitated, wondering if Cleve were up to it after yesterday.

  “Wannie,” Cleve implored, “let’s do go riding. You promised to show me the country.”

  “All right. I’ll change clothes. Keso, saddle our horses, will you please?”

  “Sure,” Keso said.

  Silver went into the kitchen. “I’ll pack a picnic,” she offered.

  “I got chores to tend.” Cherokee went outside, leaving the two men staring at each other across the table.

  “I just love picnics,” Keso said. He wasn’t about to let this big city dude get his beloved Wannie off alone somewhere.

  Cleve favored him with a cold stare. “I meant a ride and picnic for me and my fiancée.”

  Keso grinned. “You’ll need a guide. Wannie really doesn’t know all the trails.”

  “We weren’t planning on riding all that far,” Cleve said.

  Keso fixed him with a meaningful glare. “I know what you planned, Mister.”

  Cleve took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t dream of—”

  “Not unless you got the chance.”

  Cleve glared back at him. “What is your problem, you big hick?”

  Keso grabbed him by the shirtfront and half-dragged him across the table. “No unscrupulous bastard is gonna break Wannie’s heart.”

  Cleve managed to pull out of his grasp. “As a gentleman, I assure you my intentions are honorable.”

  “Gentleman,” Keso snorted, “I saw you cheating at cards yesterday.”

  Cleve’s face blanched. “I ought to challenge you to a duel for besmirching my honor.”

  “Duel?” Keso blinked. “Did you say duel?”

  “I wouldn’t expect a ruffian like you to understand how gentlemen settle grievances, but we stand back to back and then pace off a hundred steps—”

  “I know what a duel is,” Keso snapped, “but I thought they went out with velvet knee breeches. Go right ahead with your duel,” Keso dared him. “I shoot well enough to blow your damned head off.”

  Cleve’s eyes widened. “Don’t waste your breath telling Wannie about the cards—she’d never believe you.”

  “I know that.” He snarled at Cleve, remembering that he hadn’t told her about Cleve’s tryst with the red-haired maid, partly because he didn’t think she’d believe Cleve would do something so dishonorable.

  Cleve grinned, but his eyes were as cold as blue ice beneath the fine yellow hair. “I’m going to marry her and bed her, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’ll go change. See you in the barn.” Cleve dismissed him as if Keso was a stable boy.

  Clenching his fists to keep from slugging the arrogant dandy, Keso turned and strode to the stable to saddle the horses. Killing Cleve or even beating him within an inch of his life wasn’t going to help. Somehow, he was going to have to make innocent little Wannie see what a rotten bastard Cleve Brewster really was, but she was blinded by love and glamor. How could a rough Indian with no social graces compete? He couldn’t, but he wasn’t going to give up yet.

  Keso had Wannie’s bay filly, Dancer, and Spirit saddled when the young dandy strolled leisurely into the stable, dressed in fine riding clothes, tall boots, and carrying a whip. “Good horses,” he commented. “I’ll take that black stallion.”

  “I reckon you won’t,” Keso said. “That’s my horse, Spirit—he doesn’t let anyone ride him but me.”

  “I’ll bet with a whip and a good pair of spurs, I—”

  “Just try using a whip on my horse,” Keso said through clenched teeth.

  Cleve blinked and stepped back as Keso led out a gray gelding. “Brewster, old Blue will do for you—Silver usually rides him. There’s the saddle.” He nodded toward the tack room.

  “Saddle my own horse? I don’t usually—”

  “Then it’s time you learned. I’ll saddle for ladies, but I’m no Ian O’Hearn, the faithful family servant.”

  “But we don’t need a third horse,” Cleve protested.

  “I thought I might ride along,” Keso grinned at him over old Blue’s withers.

  “Now, see here, Evans—”

  He hushed as they heard Wannie’s singing. She came into the barn. “What a lovely morning for a ride.”

  Cleve had been saddling Blue but now he froze, staring at Wannie’s costume. “Good Lord, you aren’t going out like that?”

  Wannie looked down at herself. It was her typical riding outfit: a shirt and pair of pants that Keso had outgrown. “As a matter of fact, Cleve, this is what I usually wear riding up here in the mountains. It’s terribly practical.”

  “Pants? But what will everyone think?” he protested.

  “Everyone? No one’s going to see us except maybe a passing trapper or a few deer.”

  “Here’s your horse, Wannie.” Keso led the bay filly up.

  “Why, that’s a regular saddle,” Cleve said as if daring anyone to deny it.

  “That’s why I wear pants,” Wannie shrugged. “I do hate a sidesaddle.”

  “But that’s positively scandalous,” Cleve protested. “My dear mother would faint if she could see you.”

  “Well, she’ll never know. Don’t behave like
an old maid aunt, dearest,” Wannie replied, more than a little annoyed over Cleve’s fussing.

  “Wannie,” Cleve drew himself up to his full height, “I forbid you to ride astride like a man.”

  “Forbid?” Wannie’s voice rose as did her anger. “Forbid? Please remember that we are not married yet and you have no right to order me about. Keso, give me a hand up, please.”

  A slight smile played about the Indian’s lips as he offered his hands to her booted foot and lifted her up to her saddle. Then he mounted himself. “Coming, Cleve?”

  Cleve made a noise of indignation as he finished saddling the gray gelding. “Wannie, I’m seeing a side to you I never saw before.”

  “And I’m seeing a side to you I never saw before.” She kept her tone icy. “Lead out, Keso.”

  The three of them rode from the barn and Cherokee and Silver came out to see them off, Silver handing the picnic basket to Keso. “There’s lots of good things in there—deviled eggs and fried quail.”

  “I hope you saved some for me,” Cherokee said, slipping his arm around her. He waved to the riders. “Now, you be back before dark, hear?”

  “Don’t worry, Keso assured him, ”I’ll see the dude doesn’t get lost.”

  “I won’t get lost,” Cleve informed him, “I don’t intend to get that far from the house with Wannie wearing that ridiculous outfit. Someone might see us.”

  “You’re right,” Keso nodded in agreement, “and they might tell Mama.”

  “Oh, stop it, Keso,” Wannie snapped, “let’s go.” She was angry with both men as the trio rode out. Keso had been a horse’s rear ever since young Brewster arrived and Cleve was not being a very good sport about his visit. She was torn between loyalty to her adopted family and the thought that her society fiance might be laughing secretly at the hicks and their primitive lifestyle.

  As they rode along the trail, she began to regret the outfit she wore—she had not meant to offend her fiancé. She knew he was right; back East, no society debutante would have dared to wear men’s trousers. Why, just the idea of women wearing bloomers that showed under a shorter hemline had caused scandals in proper circles. She looked down at the big diamond on her hand and decided that she would apologize to Cleve later and promise to conduct herself more modestly in the future, although she loved the relaxed freedom of wearing Keso’s old jeans.