"Here now," he said, pulling her into his arms, " it's all right. Shhh. I'm fine, just a little bruised and sore." He settled her across his stretched-out legs and held her close to his chest.
Nellie could not stop sobbing. The thought of what might have happened filled her thoughts, to the exclusion of all else. Without him, without his calm reason and appeasing speeches to Uncle, their little party would fall apart. They would have to go back, their expedition unfinished, wasted.
Without him... A vast desolation filled Nellie at the thought of life without this man. This shootist. This man whom she both feared and...and was fascinated by.
Yes, that was it. She was fascinated by him. He was so different from any man she had known before. So dangerous, yet so gentle.
He caught her bonnet ribbon and tugged, loosening the bow.
"What are you doing?" Was that her voice, that hesitant, hopeful tone?
"Taking that dad-blamed hat off of you. I need to see your face. Your eyes."
She let him remove the bonnet, lifted her chin and looked him straight in the face when it fell behind her. Let him see what an ugly face she had.
His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb moving gently over the place she knew was white as snow, except where delicate blue veins showed their tracery. "You are lovely," he said, his voice little more than a whisper.
"Oh, no!"
"Oh, yes! Your eyes remind me of the gentians I saw once, in a high meadow. There's no other blue to match them. And your mouth..." He touched her lips, traced his finger lightly along the fullness of the lower one. "Your mouth begs for kisses."
He lowered his head, then hesitated. "May I?" The words were the merest of breaths across her mouth. "May I kiss you, Miss Sanders?"
Nellie's eyes drifted closed and her body turned to jelly. "Oh, yes," she sighed. "Please."
Chapter Nine
"Look at 'em, Buttercup. Pickin' flowers, like a bunch of girls." Gertie scratched behind the cat's ear, but he didn't even twitch. His belly was full and he was more interested in napping than in watching a bunch of crazy folks. "Grown men! You'd think they'd be 'shamed."
She wondered why the fancy old feller never got off his horse, 'cept to eat his dinner. And then the other two spread his rig and laid it out, like he was some kind of king or something.
The little feller with the fancy hat carried something over to where the old man sat like a sack of puddin' atop his horse. He handed it up, then pointed down toward the river.
Gertie sure wished she could hear what they was sayin'. Was there some flower or other that told where gold was? She'd never heard of none, but then there was a lot of stuff she'd never heard of. These folks didn't hunt, 'cept for food, so they must be lookin' for gold.
She wished 'em luck. Her man had looked just about everywhere there was to look in this accursed valley, and hadn't found enough to buy a good drunk.
Neither had any of the other prospectors who'd come in later. She'd about made up her mind that there wasn't gold to be found here, and now these folks was lookin'. With all the gear they'd packed in, they must have a pretty good idea they'd find enough to make it worth their while.
Gertie eyed the fancy old man again. And licked her lips.
* * * * *
"Bring me one of the boxes labeled 'tobacco', Nellie. I've need of something to ease my aching bones."
She knew he still had an ample supply of tobacco in the tent, for she'd seen it just the other day when looking for his hand lens, which he had mislaid. But Uncle brooked no argument when he was feeling testy, so she went to the common tent where their extra supplies were stored.
There were two of the boxes, each about two feet long and a foot square. She remembered how Mr. Bradley had commented that they seemed awfully strong and heavy for transporting tobacco. Moving several lighter items, she lifted one of the boxes. Or tried to.
It must weigh thirty pounds. She took a better hold on it and this time picked it up.
Murphy Creek was just coming toward the tent as she exited. "Let me take that for you, ma'am."
She relinquished it happily. The crate was splintery and she'd not thought to bring her gloves. "Thank you, Mr. Creek. If you'll just deliver it to my uncle's tent, please."
"Happy to oblige." He grinned down at her. "You ought to have called me. No need for a little thing like you to be liftin' heavy stuff. Not when there's a bunch of men about."
Nellie did not take offense, despite her dislike of being thought small and helpless. "You are very kind, Mr. Creek. Next time I will call." She pushed the flap aside and let him precede her into Uncle's tent. "Thank you."
He set the crate on the floor. "Anytime, ma'am. Need any help openin' it?"
"We'll manage, Creek," Uncle said. "That will be all."
As soon as he had left, Nellie said, "Uncle, there is no need to be rude to Mr. Creek. He is a very helpful, polite young man."
"He's an Indian, and not to be trusted. Why I could tell you--"
"You have," she interrupted, "but I cannot believe that Mr. Creek would ever behave like those savages who attacked your party along the Missouri."
"Well, of course he wouldn't. There is only one of him, and Bradley keeps an eye on him. But none of them is to be trusted. They're all uncivilized savages, no matter if they do dress and talk like white men." He handed her a small claw hammer. "Be careful opening the crate. Don't damage its contents."
Nellie worked one of the narrow metal binding strips loose, then pried the side from the crate. Inside was not the waterproof package of tobacco that should have been there, but a cask which fit tightly inside the wooden box. She looked up. "Uncle?"
"Brandy," he said, crossly. "That fool Franklin advised that we not bring alcohol, but I chose to ignore him. A gentleman sometimes needs a sip to calm his nerves."
"I believe that what Mr. Franklin said was that packing in enough alcohol for five men would be difficult, so he asked that you refrain from bringing any. It does not seem fair that you should be the only man in the party who has the benefit of strong drink for five months."
"Pissh! I'll warrant that old fool, Willard, has a cask of his own. Young Ernst, too. I'd swear I smelled whiskey on his breath the other night when he was being so argumentative."
Privately Nellie thought that Mr. Ernst probably was far more deserving of a sip of brandy than her uncle, but she said nothing. "If you have no other need of me, Uncle, I have notes to make concerning today's collections."
"Go on, go on." He made shooing motions with his hands.
She was half through the tent flap when he spoke again.
"Wait. You didn't tell me if you've found anything of importance. What have you collected? Where have you been?"
"I've collected nothing but some branches of the trees hereabouts," she assured him, "just as I told you a few days ago. I've found some possibly interesting herbs, but none of them are in flower yet."
"Perhaps you're not going far enough afield."
Biting her tongue, on which hovered a reminder that he himself had commanded that she stay close to camp, Nellie said, "I have explored the margins of both lakes, as far as I could without climbing the ridges. And I've been all the way to the mouth of the creek. Did you know that salmon travel up it to the lake? Mr. Willard says they are often very large."
"Fish are not important," he said. "Are you keeping a journal?"
"Yes, Uncle. I write in it every night."
"Good. Good. You'll learn to be an adequate field assistant yet." He waved. "Go on, now. I'll see you at supper."
Nellie went. If she had stayed, she might have said something she would later regret.
When she reached her own tent, she did not, as instructed, write in her journal. Instead she sank upon her bedroll and lay prone, chin propped in her hands.
The strange sensations she had felt this afternoon deserved careful consideration. Nellie was not ignorant of the interactions between men and women. She had, after all, a solid gro
unding in biology, despite having never formally matriculated. Until now, that knowledge had seemed purely academic.
Desire! She had actually experienced desire. And, if she was not mistaken, Mr. Bradley had not been unaffected. When he had kissed her, she had been firmly seated upon his thighs, with her body against his. Even through her petticoats and the thick wool of her skirt, she had felt the increasing turgidity of his penis as his arousal made itself physically apparent.
That had been almost as thrilling as his kisses.
A man had actually desired her.
A handsome man, who, in a more populated place, might have caught the eye of any woman with a thought to sexual dalliance.
Oh! Oh, no, I cannot bear it!
Of course. How could she have not guessed? She was the only woman for perhaps a hundred miles. Mr. Bradley was simply reacting as any man who had been deprived of sexual release. Hadn't she sometimes overheard the young men at Epimedion College discuss how painful it was to go without for an extended period?
* * * * *
Something was out there. A critter. Big. Hungry. Malachi could feel its hunger, could sense its bold curiosity.
Not that he could blame the critter. Here was a pen full of easy pickings--two dozen mules, seven horses, an ass and a juicy milch cow. All easier to catch than a deer, less dangerous than a moose.
He turned the far corner of the corral, stopped and stared out into the night. Dark as the inside of a well, it was. The waning moon he'd seen a few nights ago must be set by now, and the stars were hidden behind low, thick clouds. The air was warmer tonight, well above freezing. Although it hadn't rained since morning, the smell of damp soil and wet pines was strong.
He sniffed, wondering if he could smell the critter as well as it smelled him. But the only scent his nose detected was a faint whisper of honeysuckle.
Honeysuckle? Wait a minute! He strode along the fence, to the side of the irregular circle of crude fencing closest to camp. "Miss Sanders," he called, his voice low.
A rustle of cloth, then she appeared, a lighter patch in the impenetrable darkness. "Good evening, Mr. Bradley."
"What are you doing out here? It's the middle of the night."
"I...I couldn't sleep." She fell into step beside him as he started another circuit of the corral.
"You ought to be tired, after all those logs you pushed around this afternoon." He still couldn't get over how she'd gone right ahead and rescued him from his own carelessness. Maybe saved his life. Any other woman would have run screaming for help.
"I am. Just not sleepy."
They passed the boulder that roughly marked the halfway point around the corral. Again Malachi stared outwards, wishing for even a small sliver of moonlight. He tried to listen, but all he could hear was the near-silent rustle of her skirts. Even without looking at her, he could see her, dark shawl, dark skirt, midnight black hair loose across her shoulders, like a silken cape falling to her waist. He could even see her gentian blue eyes, staring questioningly at him, as if she still hadn't quite figured him out.
Pay attention, man! It's still out there.
"What are you watching for?" She spoke quietly. Her voice would not have carried ten feet.
"Nothing in particular," he said, not wanting to alarm her. Then he remembered her excited comment. I've never been prey before! She'd been more excited than scared. "Something's watching us," he said. "Something big. Something hungry."
"The bear?" Again that overtone of excitement, for all that she spoke at little more than a whisper.
"I doubt it. Probably a cat." He'd seen how a grizzly hunted and it wasn't with this patience, this careful stalking. "A panther, or a bobcat with big ideas."
"Will it attack?" She didn't sound worried. More like curious.
"Depends on how hungry it is. This one's interested, but not hungry enough yet to make the effort, I'd say." He stopped walking and sniffed again. Her honeysuckle scent dominated the night air, and he caught no other smell. "Another night he might decide cow sounds like a real good dinner."
She made small sound, almost like a giggle. After a moment she said, "Uncle would not be pleased."
"Neither would I. Not after all the trouble that consarned cow's given me."
"Mr. Bradley," she said, laying her hand upon his arm, "I must apologize. I never dreamed that bringing a cow safely into this wilderness would be such an undertaking. I would rather have vexed Uncle than cause you so much extra work."
Her face was a pale oval, with dark smudges for eyes and mouth. He could just imagine her expression, slightly pursed lips, the faint double lines between her eyebrows that always formed when she was being serious about something. Reaching out, he touched her cheek lightly, wanting her to smile. "I've kind of got used to cream with my coffee, so don't give it another thought. Just as long as you didn't insist on chickens too, I can't complain."
The almost-giggle came again. "Well, as a matter of fact, Uncle did mention eggs."
"You're joking?"
"No, I'm perfectly serious. He said that since we were going on a completely supported expedition, that he expected we would not have to live as roughly as they did on his earlier explorations. I dissuaded him from asking for chickens, but he was adamant about the cow."
"You have my undying gratitude, Miss Sanders. I hate chickens." Shifting his rifle to the other hand, he offered her his arm. She took it and they resumed walking. Malachi pressed his elbow against his ribs, feeling, even through the thickness of his sheepskin coat and her woolen mitten, the warmth of her hand.
After a complete and comfortably silent circuit of the corral, she said, "Actually, I came out to ask you a question. Now I'm not quite certain how to phrase it."
"Ask away. I'll answer if I know how."
"This isn't--" She cleared her throat. "This isn't about--"
A long silence, during which he felt the tenseness in her body.
"Mr. Bradley," she said at last, her voice no louder, but somehow sounding strained and thin, "would any woman have caused your...ah, your physiological reaction this afternoon, or did you..."
He heard her swallow. And waited.
"Did you desire me?"
Well, shoot fire! Now what do I say? If he answered honestly, she'd not understand. And if he lied, she'd still not understand. Desperately Malachi sought the right words.
She turned away. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "That was a brazen question, wasn't it? Please, don't answer."
Malachi pulled her against him, laid his head against her hair. "It's a tough question," he admitted. "One of those that doesn't really have a right answer." Inhaling her scent, he regretted, more than he ever had before, the direction his life had taken. He wasn't fit company for a fine woman like Nellie Sanders, and if he was any kind of a man, he'd push her away before he just had to taste her again.
"I really should go to bed," she said, as she tried to pull free of his embrace. "It's very late."
The smart thing, the right thing would be to send her off to her tent, thinking him too craven to answer her question. Or to tell her that any woman would have brought him to aching readiness today.
Even as a little hellion, Malachi Breedlove hadn't pulled the wings off of butterflies or dipped little girls' pigtails into inkwells.
"There aren't many women in the kind of places I've been," he said, speaking quietly, "so when a man gets a chance to kiss a pretty woman, he naturally feels a need. I guess the answer to your question is both yes and no."
The wordless sound she made this time was more of a question than anything.
"Yes, I have to admit that just about any woman younger than a grandmother would probably have affected me like you did, sitting on my lap like you were."
If possible, she stiffened even more.
"No, I wouldn't have wanted just any woman. I wanted you, Miss Sanders."
Unable to help himself, Malachi leaned forward, burying his face in her silky hair. "There's wanting and there's wantin
g. I'm not sure I can explain the difference." He was careful to keep his embrace loose, so she wouldn't notice his painfully hard cock. She wasn't for him, not the only way he could have her. In a little while, he'd release her, send her back to her lonely bed. And when the kid came to relieve him at watch, he'd go to an equally empty, lonely one of his own.
A long silence, then she said, with a small tremble in her soft voice, "Can you try?"
Seeking the right words, he said, "A man's at the mercy of his body, sometimes. No matter what his head tells him, his body only feels the needs. Hunger. Thirst. Desire. It does its best to satisfy them."
"Like any animal," she agreed, nodding.
"That's right. I reckon it's no difference for a bull, or for that critter out there. Eat when hungry, drink when thirsty, ah..." He wasn't quite sure how to say it.
"Mate when aroused." She turned in his loose embrace. "Of course. I should have seen it. What happened was merely a physiological response to a stimulus."
Malachi heard disappointment in her words. He tipped her chin up so he could see that her eyes were wide open. "That was the first wanting. But it wasn't the important one," he told her, knowing he was making a mistake. "The other wanting, the one that came from my heart and my head, that was the important one.
"This afternoon, when you were sitting on my lap. I wanted you, Miss Sanders. Not just any woman. You!"
She ducked her head, murmured something.
"What's that?"
"I said, Mr. Bradley, that since you have admitted that I am the object of your desire, it might be appropriate for us to dispense with formality. My name is Nellie."
Releasing her was just about the hardest thing he'd ever done. He had to, though. For her sake. Malachi stepped back. "No, ma'am, I don't think that would be proper." If being formal with her was the only way he could keep her at a safe distance from now on, that's what he'd do. A safe distance for her, anyhow. If he had his druthers, he'd hold her close as he could, show her again how much he wanted her.
"I think it's time you went to bed. I'll walk you to your tent."
"But the stock? Will it be safe?"
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