by Stacey Kayne
In the three years they spent traveling between the Rocky Mountains and the Sierra Nevadas they'd had their enjoyable moments, but in all that time, she'd never been truly happy with him. Jed was certain he had loved Malika. He respected her courage and strength. He'd spent three years trying to prove his worthiness of her love, as she proved that all the passion in the world couldn't penetrate a heart betrayed by fate.
Despite the passion they'd discovered in one another, he wasn't the brave she'd pledged her love to, the brave who'd died trying to protect her the night she'd been abducted. She'd reminded Jed of that fact until her very last breath.
He wasn't a man who had to learn a lesson twice. He'd offer his soul to the devil before opening his heart to another woman.
As frustrated and angry as he was about his current situation, Jed couldn't ignore Rachell's hunger. She wasn't any happier about the unexpected turn of events. Unlike his marital tie to Malika, his marriage to Rachell could be easily severed.
He reached back into one of his saddlebags and pulled out an apple. "Here," he said, holding it out.
Rachell stared at the green fruit for a long moment before glancing up at him. "You've had this all along," she accused before snatching it.
"You're not starving to death. But don't worry. You'll be having meat for supper." Her green eyes lit up, bringing the start of a smile to Jed's mouth. "Didn't those bad men feed you, Imp?"
"My name is Rachell Carlson."
"Actually, sugar, your name is Rachell Doulan."
Her eyes widened, and Jed laughed out loud.
"You don't seriously think-"
"Calm down. We'll get an annulment as soon as we reach California."
She shifted, taking a loud bite from the apple as she turned her back to him.
Unable to fight his smile, Jed knew his lack of sleep was affecting his mind. He should still be steamed over Widell's underhanded courtroom shenanigans, but Rachell's flashing green eyes and stricken expression at his announcement of her new last name had somehow taken the edge off his anger.
This woman didn't care for him one bit, which suited Jed just fine. The wide stretch of land between them and Nevada required an aggressive spirit. Judging by the glint in Rachell's eyes and the rigid set of her spine, she planned to fight him like a cornered mountain lion the whole way.
Chapter Three
The afternoon sun glared overhead as Jed reined in his horse. Rachell felt him pluck his black hat from her head, where he'd placed it hours earlier, saying her fair skin didn't need any more sun. The man's dark mood and harsh tongue certainly contrasted to his unexpected consideration and gentle touch, which continued to catch Rachell off guard.
"Sage is done for the day," Jed said, lifting Rachell from his lap. "We'll make camp here."
She managed to suppress a groan as he eased her to the ground. Her body ached from head to toe. She was tired, hungry and, after not having had a bath for days on end, she was filthy. Hearing the distant sound of rushing water, her mood began to brighten. A bath would improve her spirits considerably.
"Mr. Doulan-"
"Damn it, woman," he said as he slung out of his saddle. "My name is Jed."
"I prefer to call you Mr. Doulan, thank you." Rachell thought it best to keep as much formality as possible between herself and her temporary spouse. The slow smile etching across his lips reaffirmed that decision. Calculating gray eyes warmed as he gazed down at her. Not with merriment, but pure mischief.
Rachell tensed. He had no right to be so almighty confident, and dreadfully good-looking.
"Suppose I prefer to call you Mrs. Doulan?"
"You will not." She fumed as his smug smile widened. A single black eyebrow arched high into his forehead.
Blast it all! She did not like this man. "Fine," she conceded. "Jed, do you have any soap? I've been collecting trail dust for over a week and wish to clean up a bit."
He studied her for a long moment. "If you'd like to wash your hands before we eat, sure. If you're askin' to lather some all over your smooth ivory skin, the answer's no."
"Very well," she said in a light tone, refusing to show her disappointment. It took no small effort. She'd not had a decent bath in two weeks, but she would make do with the fresh water. "Do you have a cloth then?"
He reached into his saddlebags, pulled out a white rag and tossed it to her. "Don't be all day about it. We have a camp to set up. I'm not your damned servant. And don't be splashing about like a duckling," he called after her. "You never know who or what might be in the area."
"Thank you," she chimed, walking away.
As Rachell approached the river's edge, listening to the rush of the rapid current, watching the white caps of water twisting and slapping against the rocks, her heart began to thunder in her chest. Spotting a shallow cove a few yards down, she continued downstream. She stopped at the edge of the clear, still pool and stared at the rocks beneath the cold water.
She hated rivers. She also hated being filthy. She sat on a nearby boulder to remove her boots, then slowly approached the shallow pool. Three feet deep, four at the most, she told herself. Not enough water to go above her head.
She knew how to swim, but so had Andrew. Rachell hadn't been in a river since she was nine and watched her twelve-year- old brother slip under a deceptively calm veil of water and never resurface. Luke and Isaac, her older brothers, had frantically searched the water for him, but they couldn't save him from the river.
This small cove was beyond the reach of the deadly current. There was no undertow to hold her under. She sucked in a deep gasp of air as she took another step toward the edge, striving to shut out the sound of the deadly rushing water only a few feet away.
Rachell glanced at the white cloth in her hand. A sponge bath was not going to do the job. She reached for the bottom of her waistcoat. There was no sense in wasting time on the buttons. The garment hung on her like elephant skin. She whipped it over her head, tossing it aside then quickly dropped the large skirt which barely clung to her hips. She paused as her toes met the ice-cold water.
"You can do this, Rachell." Drawing another deep breath, she hurried to the center of the shallow pool. Air rushed from her lungs and she sank into the freezing water. Shivering, she briskly ran the cloth over her body. The number of dark bruises marring her arms stunned her. No wonder she was so sore. She was a mess!
Cringing from the very thought of dunking her head, she sucked in another deep gasp and went under, digging her fingers into the dirt-filled tangles. Rachell sprang from the water, her teeth chattering as she hurried toward her discarded clothes.
After wringing the water from her hair, she reached for her dress. As she carefully pulled the skirt over her black-and-blue hip, she thought of Jed's gentle hands. Jed was a mountain of muscle, yet whenever he stopped to rest or water his horse, he was always careful not to bump her hip. His large hands continually handled her with extreme tenderness.
Unexpected, given his temperament.
Shivering, she picked up her boots and hurried back to their campsite barefoot. She was overjoyed to find a fire burning when she returned. A pot of water sat on a grate above the flames and a bedroll had been spread out beside the fire. But Jed was nowhere to be seen.
Chilled to the bone, she didn't hesitate as she slid under his blanket. Once she eased her chill, she'd be ready to help with supper. She sighed with relief as she pulled the thick wool over her cold body, surrounding herself in its warmth, and a surprisingly pleasant masculine scent.
Dear God, what have I done to deserve this?
Jed froze at the sight of his young bride sleeping soundly in his bedroll.
Why did I have to look downstream?
He suppressed a groan while trying to push the tantalizing image of her perfect, pint-size body from his mind. Crouching beside his pack, he pulled out a cast iron skillet and dropped in two fish. He reached into a deep pouch on his saddlebag and pulled out his last lemon. Cursing his short temper, he
carried everything to the fire. He should have taken the time to buy more supplies. What he had left wouldn't last long, and he surely wouldn't be finding any fruit trees until he reached his ranch in California.
As he seasoned the fish, his gaze kept wavering to the vision across the fire. He'd been doing his job, he reasoned. Aftei watching her approach a shallow pool of water, he'd scouted a decent perimeter for any signs of danger. Satisfied that all was clear, he'd returned to the river's edge to catch some trout foi supper. Rachell was still standing on the rocky shoreline, staring into a calm pool of water.
And then, before he'd realized what she was about to do, she was as naked as the sunrise, with all its shimmering splendor. The sight had knocked the air from his lungs and all the sense from his head. He couldn't pull his eyes away from her ivory skin and long auburn hair that radiated in the sunshine. She'd shocked him again by slipping into the frigid water, completely submerging herself. Only then did he find enough sense to step back from the river's edge.
She must have been desperate for a bath. He wasn't against bathing in cold mountain streams, and had every intention of bathing later this evening, but most women would go without, rather than endure the bite of the cold water. He almost felt guilty for not allowing her to use his soap.
Almost. The last thing he needed was for this woman to be more enticing. Even his bitter lye soap would be too sweet a scent on her soft skin. His gaze skimmed across her pretty face before he forced himself to look away.
Blazing hell, but he'd never before had so much trouble controlling his wayward thoughts. This little bit of a woman, who'd done nothing but glare and shout at him, was making short work of the disciplined control he usually executed over his mind and body.
Lord save him if she actually tilted those delicate pink lips upward and flashed him a smile.
Deciding not to disturb her sleep, he prepared their food and finished his meal in peace before he went to wake her. His hand barely grazed her shoulder when her arm shot out, fast as a striking snake to combat his touch.
"Jed," she said, releasing a slow breath as she sat up.
"Good thing you don't wear a gun," he said. "Or I'd surely have a hole between my eyes." He wasn't sure she'd heard him. Her wide eyes had fastened to the plate he held in his hand, her hunger as transparent as her pale skin.
"You caught fish-biscuits!" She dragged her eyes away from the plate, which he imagined hadn't been easy for her, and glanced up at the pink-streaked sky behind him.
"Gracious! I didn't mean to sleep so long." Guilt-filled eyes met his gaze. "Sorry."
He couldn't fight his laughter. "Don't worry," he said, handing her the plate. "We'll find a way for you to earn your keep."
He read her startled response before she said the words.
"I am not a-"
"That's not what I meant. You're Elizabeth's sister for cryin' out loud. Just what kind of a bastard do you take me for?"
"I just-"
"Thought I'd take advantage of a woman stuck in my care. Well, sugar, I'm not in the practice of badgering women with unwanted advances."
"I didn't intend to be insulting," she said. "But I know you don't believe me. I'm not a prostitute."
Jed held her angry gaze, wanting to press her with questions about the man chasing her, but now wasn't the time. She didn't trust him. And at the moment, her word didn't carry a whole lot of weight.
"Why won't you believe me?" she demanded.
"Did you lie to your sister about living in Kansas?"
"Only because I was-"
"Did you lie to her about running a boardinghouse?"
"Yes, but-"
"If you'll lie to your own sister," he continued, talking over her, "why should I expect you to be truthful with me? I read your letters, Rachell."
That seemed to surprise her. "Your sister thought the information may be of some use, but we both know those pieces of paper were full of nothing but fabricated stories."
He saw the anger growing in her eyes, but continued anyway. "I'll tell you what I do know. You dress like a saloon girl, you admit to working in a saloon, and you're on the run from a man who either believes you belong to him in a personal manner or views your absence as a profit loss. Now, you can shout innocent songbird all you like, but I say.. .if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck-"
"I am no more a duck than I am a prostitute!"
"Fine. Sing for me."
Her eyes popped wide. Her posture stiffened. "What?"
"You say you're a songbird. Prove it. Let's hear the voice that drives a man to send a posse across the country just to keep you in his saloon."
Seemed a fair enough request to him, but judging by the
burning rage in her glare, she didn't agree. The three words that exploded from her mouth confirmed that notion.
"Go to hell!"
He didn't need this aggravation. "Eat your supper. You have dish detail. There's water on the fire." He turned away, grabbed his saddlebags and slung them onto his shoulder. Reaching into one of the pockets, he pulled out one of his shirts and tossed it onto the blanket next to her. "See about working that into some sort of bonnet. Your nose is already starting to peel." He dropped a rawhide pouch on top of the ivory shirt.
Stunned by his sudden change from hateful to considerate, Rachell watched him grab his rifle and head toward the river.
Now, why did he have to do that? She didn't want to accept anything from a man who thought she was a liar. Her stomach churned loudly as she eyed two fish fillets, three biscuits and half an apple. More than she'd eaten in a week. That too surprised her.
Most folks attempted to starve her, judging her appetite by her size, but she was certain Jed had given her exactly half of all the food he'd prepared. The succulent aroma tortured her senses. Hungry enough to eat her boots, she broke off a piece of fish and popped it into her mouth. She shuddered from sheer delight. He'd seasoned it-with lemon juice and salt.
After spending a week eating mostly dust and a bit of dried beef, she was certain no finer tasting food had ever touched her tongue. The man knew his business when it came to cooking. She wondered if there was anything he couldn't master. The probable answer to that question sent a frown sliding across her face.
Pompous know-it-all.
For all his skill and know-how, Jed Doulan was positively infuriating.
After eating and doing the chores he'd assigned her, Rachell sat by the fire, stitching the fabric she'd cut up with the shears she'd found in the leather pouch, and intermittently looking at the bedroll spread out on the other side of the low flames.
I don't need his lousy blankets, she told herself, trying to ignore the cold shivers shaking her body. She and Titus had slept outdoors without such comforts plenty of times in the past five years, although, she'd been smart enough to keep her hair dry and had been wearing more than one thin layer of cotton.
Things just seemed to keep going from bad to worse.
Her life had been a downward spiral since the age of eleven, the day her father had stuck her on an eastbound train. His departing words often played in the back in her mind.
For once in your life, Rachell, try to do as you're told and stay out of trouble.
Good advice she hadn't quite mastered. Here she was, in the deepest trouble of her miserable life. Miss Abigail had depicted her future as one of a penniless spinster. A wide smile of satisfaction would surely stretch the old woman's wilted lips if she could see her now. Her headmistress had been nothing short of elated when she'd informed Rachell that, due to her father's untimely death, she was being sent back to Louisiana, straight into a war.
Had it not been for her second cousin and childhood friend, James Carlson, she would have been arrested for treason the moment she was escorted off the train by two Confederate officers. Instead, she'd been pulled into James's arms and kissed flush on the mouth.
The tension she saw behind his dashing smile was enough to keep her from questioning his stra
nge welcome. Only when they were alone, after a rushed wedding ceremony, did she learn that her father had been hanged for treason after her brothers had joined the Union army, and she was suspected of conspiring with the north, passing them information. James had vouched for her, insisting she'd been his loyal intended.
The following day, James had taken her to see another old friend. Titus.
Rachell choked on a sob as the vision of his dashing smile flashed in her mind. Tears scalded her cheeks. She could still feel his strong embrace closing around her as she leapt into his arms. In that moment, she'd felt a true sense of homecoming. James instructed Titus to take her back to the Carlson estate and watch over her until he returned, warning them that the news of their marriage hadn't been well received.
James had severely understated his family's animosity toward her. They'd merely tolerated the presence of a Yank's daughter. James had only managed two brief visits over the next year, until his older brother Malcom had returned home, informing her that her husband was dead. Both of her older brothers had already been reported as casualties to the North. A week later, Malcom cornered her in the stables, claiming he would take over James's husbandly duties. Titus came to her aid, knocking him out with the back of a shovel.
They had to leave.
They'd stayed constantly on the move. Singing had always paid far better than the seamstress work she sometimes took, and though Titus hated her being in the saloons, he couldn't deny they needed the money. If she hadn't been in those saloons, she never would have found her sister.
It was their plan to go to California, but progress was slow. They'd been saving to purchase supplies for the trip. When she took the job with Maxwell Sumner, she'd hoped it would be her last. They'd been so close, intending to leave within the week. But they had stayed too long and Titus paid for their mistake.
Pain surged through her as she remembered his strong body sprawled on the back stoop of the apartments, his blood pooled around him. She must have been in shock, or she never would have allowed Maxwell to lead her into his private upstairs office. In the four months she'd worked at the Nightingale Saloon, she'd never been up there. Her attention had immediately fixed on an enormous portrait hung behind his desk. A woman with auburn hair, green eyes and pale skin lounged on a green velvet couch. Her scarlet dress resembled the gowns