Chapter 33
Quinn waited for her to accept his offer to help her down and flinched when she ignored his outstretched hands. She climbed down using the stirrup. It was almost as if she pushed him away. He clamped his foolish impulse to help her aside. Damsel or not, she didn't want him or his help any more than another man’s.
"The current ain't real strong here. Will ya be okay if I leave ya?" Leaving her alone was the last thing he wanted to do. The feeling of riding behind her, her body safe in his arms lingered. How vividly he remembered the velvety smoothness of her skin at the bath shack. He wanted to wrap her in his arms again and ravish her… this time with the hungry tenderness he felt for her and without his knife at her neck. He would never have really hurt her with the blade. He'd taken great care to hold the dull edge to her skin, but she would never know that. It had been a stupid ruse and now he'd missed his opportunity to do more than simply question her.
Blast his mother and her teachings to always be a gentleman. A gentleman always finished last and never with the woman in his arms for long. "I'll stay close." He dropped the reins, ground tying the horse and turned to leave.
"Okay," she stammered.
"Ifn' ya need me, just holler." Quinn walked away from her, wishing things were different. At the mahogany tree he veered right. Maybe he could work his way back to the flat rock to keep a watchful eye on her. He'd have to break trail through the berry bushes with their thorns, but at least she would be safely within his view. He stopped short.
The current bush showed signs of breakage. Alarms thundered in his head. Why would an animal crash through such wicked foliage? There were easier ways to get to the water. Could it be possible that his pond wasn't as protected from danger as he'd believed? He examined a broken branch. This was a trail leading from the swimming hole, not to it. He wet his finger, testing the wind. It was possible that a deer or an elk had wandered to the pond for a drink. The thicket would be a good place for either to bed down, unless a grizzly caught their scent.
Quinn turned back, hurrying to his horse for the rifle he kept in his scabbard for protection from wolves, bears, and occasionally to hunt. Reaching the horse, he could hear Trish. She quietly sang while gently splashing but she didn't sing one of the songs she belted out over the drunken din of the saloon. This melody was distinctly different. The notes flowed smoothly, the melody enchanting with its poetic strains. He wouldn't disturb her and yet he needed a higher vantage point to protect her from danger. He hiked through the foliage to the flat rock that overlooked the pond. From this vantage he could survey the surrounding area. Slowly, methodically, he scanned the trees and bushes searching for a predator.
"Quinn," she called from the water below. "What are you doing? If you didn't…" her voice caught, changing abruptly. "What are you doing with a gun?"
He casually lifted it, his hand wrapped around the barrel. "I thought this would be a good place to keep an eye out."
"For what?" Was it just his imagination or did she sound frightened? How would she react if he told her the truth? He watched her search the bushes, treading the water.
"Just a gut feeling. Wouldn't want a varmint to scare ya." He shrugged, trying to sound unconcerned.
"If you are concerned about my being scared, I'd feel much better if you were down here… and without the gun." She paddled to the far side of the only bush stretching its branches across the water. He could no longer see her completely.
A wicked grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The damsel in distress again," he drawled.
"Yes, but not the way you think."
He watched for her to return to where he could see her. She'd grown silent.
"Trish?" No answer. "Trish, you alright?"
A shadow crossed the water, disappeared, changed direction. He started and set the rifle down. Something was in the water. Would it harm her? He pulled at his boot, hopping on one foot. Splashing from the end of the pond near his horse drew his attention. He turned to see a flash of bare skin disappear behind the bushes.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, grabbing the rifle. He hurried down the trail, rifle in one hand, boot in the other. He found Trish struggling to dress, the dry clothing dragging at her wet skin.
She turned to face him, her skirt on. Her hands stilled at her bodice, protecting her heart with nothing more than a layer of fabric. "I didn't kill him," she said, shaking her head.
"Kill who?" Quinn stopped, bending to lower the rifle to the ground, butt first. "Trish, ya aren't thinkin' that I… Woman, I would never." He stood, leaving the rifle on the ground at his feet and lifted his hands as if in surrender.
"You brought me here." He could hear her ragged breathing as it whipped across her teeth, fear etched lines on her face.
His attention lingered on her parted lips. "Hurting you is the last thing I would ever do. You have to believe me. I saw a trail leading away from this here pond and thought it might be that of a predator. I got my gun to kill 'em ifn' they're still here or at least scare 'em away."
"Protect me. You mean like you did this afternoon with your knife to my throat? I told you what happened. Don't you believe me?"
Did he believe her? It didn't matter whether he did or not. He could never hurt her. He loved her. If only he could tell her. If only she would believe him.
"My knife blade was never at your throat."
"Right. And you didn't have that rifle in your hands, either."
"I did, but…" Her narrowed eyes told him volumes. She didn't believe him. Slowly, he reached for his knife. She backed away, her foot slipping in the mud. She nearly lost her balance. One hand flew away from her breast to right herself.
"This pond makes a nice place for a murder." She clenched her jaw. "I guess it wouldn't help for me to beg for mercy. But I promise, if you let me go, I won't tell anyone and I'll leave. I'll leave right now and never come back. I promise."
"You don't need to promise."
Her blue eyes darted to his side, the hilt of the knife secure in his hand. She sucked at the air, taking another step back. Her skirt floated briefly, capturing air under it before dragging in the water. She looked like a Tennessee belle, her collarbone bare and velvety smooth except for the silver chain shifting with her every breath. Wet hair hung in a confusion of heavy curls on her shoulders.
He flicked his wrist, flipping the point of the blade to the heel of his hand and back again. She flinched.
"The blade is deadly sharp. I could cut a generous lock of your hair, even though it's wet with a flick of my wrist, but Trish, I didn't put this blade to your throat. I wouldn't, I couldn't. Here, you can check it for yourself. But be careful, it is very sharp." He offered it to her, showing her how to slide her thumb against the blade without cutting herself. Another flick of his wrist and the blade disappeared in his hand, the hilt toward her.
She shook her head, a sniffle belied her composure. "Then why? Why did you threaten me?"
"I had to know. Albert was my brother. Someone killed him. Sheriff Tuckett is a no good, low down of the worst sort. He ain't gonna find the murderer. If I don't, the murderer will get off. I can't let that happen. I'd rather die than hurt you. Trish." He stuffed all the emotion, all the feeling he could into his words. "I believe you when you say he was already dying, that there was nothing you could do. You don't have to prove it to me."
Trish shivered.
He flicked his wrist, returning the knife to its sheath and stepped toward her. "You're cold."
She swallowed, nodding. "It feels good. But Quinn…" her words faded as she sagged.
Quinn reached for her, barely catching her. He stood in the mud of the pond, her limp frame in his arms. He glanced around to find a place to put her down. Finding a dry place free of branches and thorns, he lowered her to the ground. Her head rolled against his shoulder.
"Damn lucky for both of us there ain't no stairs."
The Talisman - Crisscross Page 42