One thing Will hadn’t kept secret—his feelings for her. Those he couldn’t have hidden under a ten-gallon Stetson. She had seen love in his eyes, felt it in his touch. But was love enough?
That night, lying on the same soft bearskin where she and Will had lain together, Priscilla tried in vain to luxuriate in the wonder of their lovemaking, but her joy was dulled by an overwhelming sense of loss.
Loss for something she’d never really possessed. She wondered what it would be like to really lose someone. To be married and have that person die. To be a mother and have your child leave.
She thought about Will, whose father had died. Had the loss of his father hurt so badly, he couldn’t allow himself to love again, not even a woman? She had no answers, only questions. Something was holding him back, and for the first time since she met him, she understood that it had nothing to do with her.
Yet her sense of relief was hollow, for in the end, if he wouldn’t discuss the situation, she had no way of fighting it.
During the long night, when concern for Victorio’s poor displaced people, or worry over losing Spanish Creek to the Haskels should have occupied her mind, Priscilla could think only of Will. She tried to convince herself she was better off without him, but that was the most difficult of all. Impossible. At least for the time being.
Sometime during the sleepless nighttime hours, hope emerged the victor. If Will’s anguish sprang from some hurt in the past, she might, given time, be able to help free him to love again.
And that’s exactly what she had been given—time. Since Victorio had ordered Joaquín to travel to Mexico with The People, she and Will would have several days alone on the trip back to Spanish Creek.
And what wonders couldn’t a woman perform with several uninterrupted days in the mountains? Will couldn’t run off and leave her. For one thing, he wouldn’t know where to go. He was, after all, basically a greenhorn. And for another, he was too much a gentleman to leave her alone to fend for herself.
Priscilla awoke to a din of activity the following morning. Nalin had already arisen and was outside dismantling the wickiup. Pulling on her britches and shirt, Priscilla stomped into her boots and peeked out the doorway. All down the hillside, the camp bustled with women at work breaking camp.
“Lucky I woke up,” she teased Nalin. “You might have taken the roof down over my head.”
“We take only the hide and skins,” Nalin explained. “When we leave camp, we burn the frames.”
“Burn the frames?” Priscilla stared around in amazement.
“We can leave no lodging for evil spirits.” Nalin spoke as if her statement held all the logic in the world, and indeed, it did, for the cihéne.
Shouts erupted from the clearing below. A vedette scrambled from his post; a rider splashed across the river. Nalin perked up.
“My son. My first born has returned.”
José Colorado. “Surely the Haskels didn’t follow us here,” Priscilla worried.
Nalin was quick to read the mood of those below. “All is well. If he carried a warning, there would be silence and much action, instead of greetings.”
Then Priscilla spied Will working his way up the hill through the gathering crowd. Her pulse raced at the sight of him. Memories of their night in each other’s arms brought warmth to her cheeks and a swelling of passion in the lower regions of her body. Her heart filled to bursting with joy, and she knew suddenly that no matter how many years they had together, she would be as smitten on the last day as she was at this moment.
A battle unrelated to the Haskels loomed ahead of her, that was for certain, but it was a battle worth fighting. Already she had made plans.
Will kept his eyes on her until he came close enough for her to read his expression, then he turned his attention to Nalin, addressing her in Spanish. “Your son says the way is clear for us to leave.”
“When?” Priscilla asked.
“As soon as you’re ready.” Still Will didn’t look at her, a fact that dismayed her. They were still several days away from Spanish Creek. He’d said nothing about ignoring her before they arrived. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but he interrupted, speaking in English.
“Joaquín is drawing me a map.”
“A map? I know how to get to Spanish Creek.”
Will looked at her then, rather, he looked toward her. He didn’t make eye contact. She fought down her concern by reminding herself that this kind of behavior was nothing new from Will Radnor.
“We can’t go straight in,” he was saying. “José Colorado counted a dozen men camped in the hills west and south of the ranchhouse.”
Priscilla blanched.
Will’s expression softened, but still he didn’t meet her eye. “It’s all right. He didn’t see activity. Said they appeared to be standing guard.”
“They’re waiting for us.”
“Looks like it.”
“I wonder if Bart made it.”
Will shrugged. Nalin spoke to Priscilla in Spanish. “Tell your man to bring the horse. I will lash the history behind your saddle.”
Her man. Priscilla’s cheeks burned. She trained her eyes on the rolled piece of hide, hoping Will hadn’t understood. But of course he had. He spoke Spanish like a native.
“What’re we hauling back?”
She nudged the hide with her boot. “This.”
His eyes darted to the wickiup, then back. “It’ll slow us down.”
That was all it took to snap the short leash her anger was hitched to. “How could you suggest leaving such a…such a…” At last, his eyes held hers. Her insides fluttered, like she’d eaten butterflies for breakfast or some fool thing. “It’s important.”
He brought the horses without further argument, but Nalin insisted on lashing the hide to Priscilla’s horse, by herself. While they watched the old woman work, with fingers made awkward by years of toil, a change came over Will.
“This might not be such a bad place to live, after all,” he quipped in English. “I wouldn’t mind having my responsibilities limited to hunting and making war.”
Priscilla figured he was trying to make amends, but she had no intention of letting him off so easily. “Then it’s fortunate you’ve decided not to marry, greenhorn. I don’t know many women who would readily take on the life of a workhorse. Unless you’re interested in taking an Apache wife.”
Speaking, she watched his jaws tighten. A muscle in his neck twitched. Good. The more she prodded him with his true feelings for her, the better.
For no matter how hard he tried, Will Radnor could never convince her that he didn’t feel something deep and passionate and wonderful—for her. Not after last night. Strange, how that one night of lovemaking had already begun to change her. She felt stronger, somehow, more mature, wiser. Pray God she was, for it would take all that and more to break through the barrier Will was so good at erecting between them.
Once the hide was lashed to Nalin’s liking, the old woman hurried inside and returned with a pack which she handed Priscilla. “Food for your journey. Stop at the river and fill your canteens.”
Priscilla hugged her. “Thank you, Mother. Be careful on your journey to Mexico.”
Nalin stroked Priscilla’s blond hair. “Once your mother’s hair brought good fortune to my wickiup. Your hair will bring good fortune to us now.”
Priscilla stepped into her saddle. “Vaya con Dios.”
Nalin pressed her lips over toothless gums and stared stoically as first Will, then Priscilla, turned their mounts and headed down the hill.
At the bottom, Joaquín came forward. He handed Will a map drawn on ledger paper. Together they went over the details, then Will folded the paper and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.
“Priscilla can help me decipher this,” he said. “She knows this country a damned sight better than I do.”
Joaquín extended his hand. “Gracias, white eyes. If I ever need a lawyer—”
“You’ll need a lawyer when you return t
o New Mexico.”
“Maybe I will stay south of the border.” But he looked at Priscilla when he said it, and she could see in his eyes where his heart was, even before he spoke the words. “Take care of Spanish Creek, Jake.”
“Come home when you can,” she whispered. But that was the wrong thing to say, she saw immediately, for the new Joaquín wasn’t more than skin deep. At her words, his eyes narrowed, his shoulders bowed, and he glanced sharply away.
“Adios,” Will said, and Priscilla nudged her mount behind his.
“Vaya con Dios,” she called to Joaquín.
Are you my brother? her heart cried.
Will spread a map Joaquín had drawn over the boulder. Rays from the setting sun splashed across the sky like a spilled vat of molten copper. In the glare he could barely see the map. But that wasn’t the reason he’d come out here, away from the camp Priscilla was busily setting.
They’d ridden all day in amicable, yet distant companionship, if there was such a thing, he thought. He’d found it relatively easy to keep their conversation neutral while they were on horseback. But when they stopped for the night, the first sight of her on the ground, within reach, sent him off to the edge of the precipice for safety. If he kept his distance, he’d be all right. And he had to keep his distance.
Two days, three at the most, they’d be back at Spanish Creek. Two to three days hence, he would confront Charlie. Two to three days and he would be out of Priscilla’s life.
The hopelessness that had haunted him all day, gnawed at his gut. Truth be known, it’d worried him like a saddle burr ever since he left Priscilla alone in the wickiup the night before. He’d tried to squash it with firm resolve; when that hadn’t worked, he’d tried to close off every thought of her, dispel every image that drifted through his brain like steam from that infernal Apache sweat lodge.
Later, he could think about her, he assured himself. Later, he could recall their night together. Later, with the safety of distance. Get back to Philadelphia, then it would be safe to think about her. But until then—
“Will?”
He jumped.
She laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t shove you over the edge.”
He glanced downward, toward the bottomless canyon floor. In his present state it wouldn’t take much. “When did you gain a conscience where greenhorns are concerned?”
She laughed again. But instead of the retort he would have received a few days ago, she squatted on her heels beside him and turned her attention to the map. Obviously she wasn’t as affected by his presence as he was by hers, for while he was trying to gain control of his brain, she studied the map.
“What’s this?”
Joaquín’s ink drawings swam before Will’s eyes; his mind was on the woman by his side. He flattened his palms on the warm boulder and held them there, silently defying himself to lose control.
“Billy the Kid’s hideout,” he responded.
“Billy the Kid? Why would Joaquín think—” Then quickly, as if she’d just thought of the answer, she added, “To show off in front of his white-eyes lawyer, I suppose.”
Will grunted. He’d almost laughed at her cynicism. But he knew her well, and to laugh with her was to lose himself. “Joaquín doesn’t trust the Haskels. He thought we might need those outlaws’ help if the Haskels come—”
“They won’t.”
Will stared out over the distant vista. He was beginning to wish they hadn’t stopped for the night. It had been his idea. The terrain they traveled was unfamiliar, and they couldn’t afford to break a horse’s leg or take off down the wrong canyon.
“I haven’t been around long enough to say what the Haskels will do,” he admitted. “If they’re guarding the ranch—”
“If they’re guarding the ranch, they haven’t taken it,” she cut in, rising to her feet. “I knew Pa could hold out. He’s used to dealing with unsavory characters. And if Bart’s arrived…”
While she talked, Will turned his attention to the map, struggling to concentrate on the trail Joaquín had drawn for them to take the next day.
“Supper’s ready, Will.”
His heart contracted. “Go ahead. I think I’ll…I’ll just sit here awhile.”
He heard her leave. At least he thought he did. He heard the jangle of her spurs. But suddenly her hands touched him from behind. She clasped his shoulders; her thumbs anchored like hot tongs at the base of his neck. He shuddered.
“I’m glad we have a few days alone, Will.”
He tightened his shoulders, but instead of moving her hands, she began to massage him.
“I told you, Priscilla—”
“I know. I understand. But we can be friends, you’ll see. In the next two days I’ll show you—”
“I told you, Priscilla—”
“I don’t mean friends like…well, like I suggested before.” Now she was kneading his shoulders. “Man to man. That was foolish. I didn’t understand what you meant until last night.”
When he attempted to shrug off her hands, she moved them higher, encasing his neck with strong fingers, massaging his neck, running her fingers behind his ears. Like she knew what she was doing, he thought. She didn’t, of course. She couldn’t. But if she didn’t stop…
She didn’t stop. She kept right on massaging his taut, tired muscles and talking in that damned seductive voice of hers.
“With you living in Santa Fé,” she was saying, “and me at Spanish Creek, we have to learn to control our emotions. The way I see it, by the time we get home we’ll be the best of friends. Comfortable with each—”
“I’m not staying in Santa Fé.”
Her hands stilled on his head. He felt her fingers grip his scalp. He envisioned her face tightening, too. Suddenly she turned him lose and sank to her knees beside him. When she spoke, her lighthearted tone gave no hint of distress.
“That’s even better. Where will you go?”
“Back to Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia? Wonderful.” Together they stared at the reflected glory of the coppery sunset. “All the way to Philadelphia. Surely we can be friends from that distance. You can write me.”
“Pris—”
“And I’ll write you. I’ll probably marry Red before the year’s out. Mama’s getting anxious to have grandchildren running around the house. And Pa’s anxious, too.” She said it with the tone you’d use to relate the market price for cattle. “So you see, there’s nothing to keep us from being friends.”
Will held his tongue.
“I like you so much, Will. I want us to be friends.” She laughed. That soft, seductive laughter, like she didn’t have a care in the world. It trilled down his spine and made a fist in his gut. “Never thought I’d be saying all this about a greenhorn.” She placed a hand on his sleeve. An innocent gesture in itself, but if he’d needed reminding that he couldn’t be friends with Priscilla McCain, that was dead proof. His pulse skyrocketed.
“For a greenhorn, you’ve come a long way, Will—”
He rose, shrugging off her hands. “Let’s go eat. What’ve you fixed for supper, fried rattlesnake?”
She rose, dusted off her britches with both hands. And she laughed again. This time it settled around his heart and squeezed real hard. “See,” she said. “I knew we could be friends.”
“Friends don’t feed friends coffee made with dirt,” he commented halfway through the meal, which, fortunately Nalin had prepared for them: ground corn cakes, roasted acorns and piñon nuts, and some sort of dried meat—he attempted to occupy his mind by trying to identify it. Of course, he wasn’t successful. Thinking about dried dog meat couldn’t hold a candle to thinking about Priscilla.
She cocked her head and perused him in silence. “Out here the number of tricks you play on a man is a measure of how much you like him.”
There she goes again, he thought, man to man. But although she sat on the other side of the campfire, she still fired his blood. He knew she always would, even after she l
earned to hate him.
Priscilla had spread their bedrolls back off the cliff under the protection of a grove of liveoaks. Will perused them, wondering how he could sleep so close, yet keep his distance. Not over a foot separated the blankets, but he supposed he should be grateful for that much space.
He finished eating and carried water for coffee, while she put away the food and banked the fire. Time to retire. His racing heart told him he was in for a sleepless night, fighting back his need for Priscilla.
“There’s no snake skin in it, if that’s what you’re wondering.” She’d already taken off her boots. Now she knelt on her bedroll and began fussing with the covers.
So, he thought, she’s particular about the way her covers are turned down. To take his mind off the difficulty, he lifted one corner of his own bedroll, wishing he had the gumption to move it to the other side of the clearing or to the other side of the mountain. “Humm, grass. We should have worked out this friendship earlier.”
She snuggled down and pulled the blanket up to her shoulders, as though oblivious to his presence. White moonlight sprinkled through the oak leaves and dotted their bedrolls. It glistened from Priscilla’s hair like gold coins, and for a moment Will was lost in the desire to cuddle up next to her and bury his face in it. She seemed totally unaffected.
“’Night, Will. Blow out the light, when you come to bed.”
He laughed, captivated by this new, playful Priscilla. “I could try, Miss Priss, but I’m afraid Charlie’s the one who hangs the moon for you.” He took off his boots and crawled into his bedroll.
She didn’t reply, and after a while he figured she’d fallen to sleep. He tried to settle down, but before he succeeded, she spoke, right in his ear, so near he was certain she’d crawled under the covers with him. Before he could stop himself, he rolled his head toward her. She was still in her bedroll, but had risen on an elbow. Her chin rested in an open palm. She was staring down at him with big, hollow eyes.
“I need to talk to you about something, Will.”
Her plaintive tone alarmed him. “What is it?”
Reluctant Enemies Page 21