by Anita Mills
Using the soap itself like a rag, she went over her entire body. Before she rinsed the rest of her, she cupped her hands and splashed her face, making sure that the precious water went back into the pan. It felt unbelievably good. She hesitated a moment, then picked up her discarded drawers and put them into the pan, where they soaked up most of the water. Working the soap over them, she washed them thoroughly, wrung them out, and tossed the scummy water. Refilling the pan with another inch or so from the canteen, she rinsed the drawers as best she could. Then she used them for a cloth, wiping the soap off of her.
The dress was wrinkled but clean. She pulled it over her head and straightened it against her damp body. Without the bustle pad and the starched petticoats, the skirt just sort of hung around her legs. He’d saved the jacket bodice, but not the waist beneath it, so when she finished buttoning up, there was a deep cleavage showing, and try as she might, she couldn’t quite get it covered.
“Do you have a handkerchief?” she called out to McAlester.
“No.”
“A piece of cloth?”
“Just the one I use for washing the pots.”
“Can I have it?”
Yeah.”
He could see the skirt beneath the blanket, so he knew she was dressed. He picked up the cloth and walked around to give it to her. “Here,” he said. A flush crept up her face as his gaze dropped to her breasts. “Yeah—well, you’d better use it there,” was all he could think of to say.
“I am.” She snatched the square of cloth and turned around to arrange it beneath her jacket. “Well, I guess it’s better than nothing,” she decided.
“Good. Let’s eat, so we can get on the trail.”
She tossed the rinse water, then followed him, combing the tangles from her hair. She felt a whole lot cleaner and cooler now, but she was extremely hungry-
“If you don’t want to get your dress dirty, you might want to sit on a blanket or one of the saddles.”
“Do you need any help?”
“You’re a little late for that.” He removed the green-stick spit and pulled off the chunks of meat with his fingers onto a flat tin pan. “Hope you don’t mind, but we’re going to have to share the plate—I don’t carry much extra around with me.” Using the spit, he jabbed among the ashes, then pulled out the yeps, deftly dropping them next to the meat. “Want coffee?” he asked, looking up.
“No … uh, thanks.”
As she sank down onto the blanket she’d slept on, he handed her the plate and a knife. “I was going to boil some hardtack, but I didn’t have room on the fire.”
“Not knowing what hardtack is, I’m sure I won’t miss it,” she murmured.
“Flour and water biscuits,” he answered. “You might as well go ahead and get started while I get my coffee. I figure we’ll be leaving in about half an hour.”
She studied the evil-looking knife, then the food. She was beyond caviling now, she decided as she speared a chunk of the meat. She bit off a piece and began to chew. It was sweet and smoky, but tough.
“How is it?” he asked, coming back.
“Good—but it must have been quite an old hen.”
“Probably. Tried the yeps yet?”
“No. I’m still chewing on the meat.” She swallowed, then reached for the canteen. After taking a swig of water to wash it the rest of the way down, she observed. “It’s got some kind of sauce on it, doesn’t it?”
“Honey. That and mesquite in the fire give it the flavor”
“Well, it’s got a good taste to it.” She stabbed at one of the blackened balls in the plate, then held it up dubiously. “How do I get the ashes off this?”
“Blow them off—or eat ’em.”
“Yes, of course. Silly me—why didn’t I think of that?” she murmured wryly.
“Probably because they don’t have yeps in Boston.”
“Probably.” She carried it to her mouth and nibbled on it. It didn’t have much taste, or if it did, it was obscured by the ashes.
“Like ’em?”
“I can’t tell.” Afraid of hurting his feelings, she relented. “Actually, they’re not bad. Aren’t you having any?”
“When you give me back my knife. I told you—I travel light.”
“I’ll say.” Before she gave it up, she used it to get another piece of the meat. “How come you took this off the bone?” she asked.
“It cooks faster.”
Once he began eating, he was all business. It wasn’t until he’d washed down the last of the meat that he spoke again. He looked over the rim of the cup.
“Sure you don’t want any coffee?”
“Positively.”
“It’s not as strong as the last time.”
“Does that mean it hasn’t eaten the cup?”
“Something like that.” He leaned back, resting his shoulders against his saddle, regarding her lazily. “Anybody ever tell you you’re funny?”
“Odd or amusing?”
“Both.”
She considered for a moment before answering. “Well, Mr. Donnelly disparaged my ‘propensity for levity,’ as he called it. But certainly nobody called me odd to my face.”
“Then it’s probably a good thing that you didn’t marry him,” Clay decided. “There’s not enough humor in this world as it is.”
“That’s odd—coming from you, I mean. You don’t even smile very often, and when you do, it can’t be seen in your eyes at all. Ramon said you had killer eyes.”
“He’s probably right. Hap calls ’em dead eyes.”
“You could change that, you know.”
“A man can do damned near anything if he puts his mind to it, I suppose.”
“But he has to want to.”
“I’ve never wanted to. A cold eye and a steady hand win every time. Puts the fear of God in every man I face.” He drained the last of his coffee, then spit out the grounds that had escaped the straining cloth. “Time to go,” he announced, rising. “Need to make a visit to the trees while I pack up?”
The hateful flush crept into her cheeks again. “Yes.”
His hand grasped hers, pulling her up. For an instant she was but inches from him, and the clean scent of lye soap was nearly as heady as perfume. She heard the sharp intake of his breath, and time stood still for a moment There wasn’t a single fiber of her being that wasn’t acutely conscious of him. She didn’t move, afraid he was going to kiss her again, even more afraid he wouldn’t.
He released her, breaking the spell. “I’ve got to water the animals and saddle up,” he muttered, turning away.
Telling herself she ought to be grateful that he hadn’t presumed, she walked toward the trees. It didn’t take her long, and she wasn’t inclined to tarry very far from him. At the sound of a coyote’s lonely howl, she almost ran back.
Then she saw the skin, its pattern bold and striking, its string of rattles still attached. She stared at it for a moment, realizing she’d been bamboozled. Chagrined, she was determined not to let him think he’d gotten by with it entirely. He was tightening a cinch as she marched up to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was rattlesnake?” she demanded. “Why did you have to lie to me?”
He straightened up. “Would you have eaten it if you’d known?”
“No—of course not.”
“There’s your answer.” He walked around the Indian pony, making sure the cinch held. “It’s all ready for you,” he announced.
“You know I’m never going to trust you again, don’t you?’
“I probably won’t lose much sleep over it.”
“What are we going to eat tomorrow?” she asked tartly. “Scorpions? Rats?”
“Whatever crosses my path. Otherwise, there’s always buffalo jerky.” He collected the empty water pan from beneath Hannibal’s nose, ducking a nip. “Next time, I’ll leave you in the quicksand,” he warned the mule.
It didn’t take him l
ong to finish breaking camp. He had it all down to the point where it actually looked easy. Despite her irritation with him, she couldn’t help admiring his efficiency. “Do you do this all the time?”
“No—-just when I stop to sleep.” This time, when he turned around, he was actually smiling. “Need a boost up?”
She had the word no on her lips, then changed her mind. “Yes,” she decided. Then she remembered. “Just a minute—I’ve got to go back for my … for something.”
“If you’re looking for your drawers, I tied ’em on top of Hannibal’s packs. I figured they’d dry better there.” He cupped his hands for her to step on, then waited until she braced her hand on his arm before he threw her up. “What would your Mr. Donnelly think now?” he wondered as she settled into the seat.
“Well, if he saw me, he wouldn’t be offering a wedding ring, I’m sure of that. I must look like a trollop.”
“No. None that I ever met, anyway.”
His hand was resting on the deerhorn pommel of her saddle, his face upturned toward hers. The glint in his blue eyes was anything but ice. She felt her breath catch, her body go hot. She dropped her gaze to his hand. It was strong, masculine. She had to close her eyes to hide before he saw what he could do to her. He leaned close enough to brush against her leg, then straightened to put the reins across her palm. His fingers closed hers over them.
He could see her swallow, and he could feel the heat of her hand in his. He looked up, seeing her flushed face, the dark, almost black fringe of lashes above her cheek, the rich auburn hair that curled thickly against her neck. His eyes moved lower, taking in the rounded swell of her breasts beneath the piece of dingy cloth. There was no doubt about it—if he had the time and she the inclination, he’d be riding a different saddle tonight. But neither circumstance existed. Reluctantly, he released her fingers, then ran his hand down the Indian pony’s neck. “Guess I’d better mount up,” he said, his voice almost thick.
“How far do we have to go?” she managed to ask him.
“Until I come across a sign, one way or the other.”
“How are you going to see it at night?”
“With these killer eyes.” He put his foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over, then eased his body back until it fit his saddle. “They haven’t failed me yet,” he assured her.
“Don’t you have any weaknesses at all?”
“Not many,” he replied. “I can’t afford them.”
“You’re a strange man, McAlester.”
He shrugged and nudged the paint mare with his knee. As the animal moved, he caught the mule’s lead rope. “Is that as in odd or funny?”
“Both,” she answered. “Sometimes I actually like you—but not always,” she hastened to add.
But part of him wanted more than that. “I thought we had an understanding—I thought you wanted me to keep my distance.”
“You haven’t done a very good job of it.”
“Have you?” he countered.
“No.”
“Then I guess we’re about even.”
His horse moved out in front, leaving her to fall in behind the pack mule. She considered catching up and riding abreast with him, then decided against it. If she didn’t keep her distance, she was going to give herself a whole lot of grief. It was one thing to be fascinated by a dangerous man like Clay McAlester, quite another to he in his arms. A truly strong man, her mother said, didn’t make a good husband because he never really needed anyone, and he never settled down. That had been her argument for marrying Gregorio Sandoval—he was handsome and courtly, but never strong. Clayton Michael McAlester, on the other hand, wasn’t courtly at all. He was just strong.
She caught herself, jolted by her own thoughts. It didn’t make any difference to her—it couldn’t. A man like McAlester, even if she’d have him—which she wouldn’t—would never settle down. He’d already told her so.
It was almost two days before he found what he was looking for. “Somebody’s ridden this way lately,” he told her.
“How do you know?”
“I can see the signs. Look at how the grass is bent here. By nightfall it’ll be standing up again, so that tells me we’re not far behind them.”
She looked to where he knelt over a clump of grass, seeing nothing. “Indians?” she asked uneasily.
“No.”
“You mean there are more than two foolhardy Anglos out here?”
“Mexicans.”
“How can you tell?”
“The way the hooves are shod.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“You don’t have to.”
He stood up, frowning, then walked to where Hannibal chewed determinedly on a sparse clump of grass. Loosening one of the packs, he took out the all-purpose pan and poured water into one of the canteens. The mule drank it dry. Repeating the process, he offered some to his paint mare and the Indian pony.
“I could use a drink myself,” she said.
As he handed the nearly empty canteen to her, he told her to go slow with it. Wild China Pond, the place where he’d expected to find water was dry. Flat Rock Ponds probably were also. And it was a long way to the Mustang Ponds. That left only a small canyon stream at the bottom of one hell of a hole in between here and the mustangs.
“Do you really know where we are?”
“Uh-huh. Over there’s New Mexico—and this way’s the Llano Estacado,” he added, pointing eastward. “Back there are the Castle Mountains.”
She sipped the tepid water, holding it in her mouth before swallowing it. Handing the canteen back, she dared to ask, “How much farther are we going today?”
“Until we catch up to them.”
“You think it’s the Comancheros?”
“Well, if it is, there’s no sign of a wagon. On the other hand, Comanches don’t have much use for any other kind of Mexican, and unless I’ve missed my guess, these tracks are headed straight for Quanah.”
“Why would they do that if they haven’t brought anything to sell?”
He shrugged. “They may just be going to set up a meeting for the actual trade. I still think it’s probably going to happen somewhere around Big Spring. The way I see it, Quanah’s offering either stolen horses or cattle—maybe both—and while he can hole up in the Llano with them, the wagons can’t come in. So he’ll have to take them someplace where there’s both water and access to a wagon trail before he can trade them.”
“But why Big Spring? Why not go back across the Pecos?”
‘Too risky. It’d be too hard to take a herd the way we came—it’s too narrow at Castle Gap. And if they try to go around, there’s at least a sixty-five-mile stretch where there’s nothing to drink. So I figure they’ll be wanting to start out from a place like Big Spring.”
“What are you going to do if you find Quanah Parker first?” she asked uneasily.
He didn’t answer. He’d mulled that over in his mind himself and reached the conclusion he would have to lie. If he got caught at it, Quanah wasn’t likely to for give him. And if that happened, he’d be a traitor, and being one of The People wouldn’t save him.
“I’m pretty attached to my hair, you know,” she said finally.
“I’m not worried,” he lied. He stowed the pan in the packs, then swung back into the saddle. “Come on—the longer we linger, the closer they get to Quanah.”
Resigned, she looked across the broad, high plain and she shuddered at what she saw. On the horizon big black birds circled the sky, waiting for something to die.
“Do you see that?” she asked McAlester.
“Yeah—buzzards.”
“Maybe that’s your Mexicans. Maybe the Comanches found them. Maybe they weren’t Comancheros.”
“No. If I had to guess, I’d say something’s dying of thirst. Sometimes when I’ve come this way, I’ve seen bones and carcasses strung out for miles, and not all of them were animals. But I wouldn’t wor
ry about it—we’ve still got a water paunch.”
“All the canteens are empty?”
“Almost.” He looked across at her. “Sorry you came?”
“No. At least you speak English.”
He’d give her one thing—once she got through that first day, she’d kept up with few complaints. Last night, when he’d fixed supper, she hadn’t even asked what it was. He found that rather ironic—the first time she didn’t want to know, he’d fixed a stew of jackrabbit, wild onion, beans, and yep that she would have eaten anyway.
She was also a lot stronger than he’d expected, and she seemed determined to carry her own weight. While he’d cooked yesterday morning, she’d fixed up the day’s shelter, and when they woke, she’d gathered firewood for him, both without being asked. When he’d cleaned his new Colts, she’d watered the animals. It was as though she were trying to show him that she was neither useless nor helpless.
They’d lingered too long over his stew, getting a late start on the night, but he wouldn’t have traded the time for a hundred miles on the trail. After supper, they’d sat there, roasting hackberry balls over the fire, comparing Chicago to Boston. It had been, oddly enough, one of the best times of his life. Until he’d clasped her hand to help her up. Then it had taken every ounce of will he had to quell his desire for her.
No, if he had any complaints of her, the problem lay within him, not her. She was in most of his waking thoughts and all of his dreams now, and nothing he did seemed to change that. One glance, one touch, and there it was—aching within him. And the worst of it was that at times like those, he could almost believe it possible to possess her again.
He’d always been a man in total control of himself—cold, calculating, disciplined to the point that he believed he could endure anything. Except the nearness of Amanda Ross. He could cross the broiling desert, climb the mountain, swim the river, and survive the worst mother nature threw at him. But he couldn’t shake the hold she had on his mind and body. He was, he reflected wearily, as consumed by desire as a lovesick youth after his first time with a girl.