Bound for Temptation

by Tess LeSue

  23

  EMMA HAD GIVEN it a lot of thought, and she couldn’t in all good conscience let Tom pay for the folks they’d bought in Devil’s Hollow. She felt guilty when she remembered how gracefully he’d suggested the plan and how he’d counted out his money into the traders’ sweaty hands. She hadn’t thought to buy Winnie’s freedom, and she was carrying a fortune on her very person. He was a better person that she was. His plan had been carefully considered and peaceful. He’d been calm and he’d been controlled and he’d put everyone’s welfare first.

  He was just so good, she thought as she watched him trying to talk to the Serrano chief. The only language they had in common was Spanish, and the chief only had a patchy grasp of that, judging by all the miming Tom was doing. Black Horse had disappeared with Two Moon, and Spear Fisher had fallen asleep in the shade, leaving Tom to manage the discussion on his own. The few Serrano she could see were wary and whispering behind their hands as they sized up their strange guests. Black Horse hadn’t been wrong; they weren’t what you’d call overdressed. There was a lot of bare skin. Emma envied them, as the late-afternoon sun was fierce.

  She fanned herself with Anna’s gardening hat as she waited to talk to Tom. She had to keep to the shade of the junipers, or her fuzzy scalp would burn. She paced and fanned herself and waited. There wasn’t much else to be done. Calla was fine on her own, soothing the untethered captives. Emma had done her share on the ride here. There was a lot of relieved weeping, some laughter, a touch of hysteria; they were a mixed bunch, with not much in common except they’d been taken captive. Emma had no idea what they were going to do with them all. They could hardly leave them out here in the wilderness, with no horses, no food, no water. The Serrano village itself, with its woven grass dwellings, was small, and she wasn’t about to dump their problems on the tribe. They’d already imposed on them. There were only a handful of people in the village, and they didn’t look pleased to see the white people. Black Horse said his people had suffered on the missions, and many had died of the pox plague when he was a boy, leaving the clans sparsely populated. Emma supposed that those who had survived the pox had then been forced to face the Californian indenture laws. She couldn’t see too many young people around. She wondered how many of them were slaving away at Gran Rancho de Gato. That place certainly didn’t seem so heavenly anymore.

  The elder Serrano women had given Anna use of one of the huts, and she’d retreated into the willow-framed dwelling with Winnie. It was best to leave the two of them alone. Winnie trusted Anna, and Anna doted on the girl like she was her own. Emma was confident the child was in the best hands. Lord knew Emma hadn’t been able to get a response out of her. The kid was like a turtle all gone back into its shell.

  But now Emma was alone, with nothing to do. As a guest, she couldn’t very well barrel in and start cooking. The Serrano had welcomed them with acorn soup, venison and flatbreads; it would be rude to cook straight after their hospitable meal. But cooking was the one thing that calmed Emma down. What she wouldn’t give to get her hands into some dough and knead her feelings away. Instead, she was loitering here, waiting to catch Tom so she could pay him. As she waited, she practiced speeches. Thank you for your gesture. It was noble. It was generous. Because of you, these women and children are free; they have a chance at a life; they won’t have to face a future of toil and abuse. She got herself a bit teary devising ornate ways to thank him. But when the time came to actually say the words, she botched it.

  “Here,” she blurted, thrusting the money at him.

  She caught him as he left the chief, stepping in front of him and coughing the word up like a house cat coughing up a fur ball. Hell. What had happened to her grand speechifying? Why did he make her so nervous? Goddamn it, she’d known hundreds of men. She’d trekked thousands of miles across untamed land. She’d run businesses. She’d managed whores so contrary they could turn a blue sky red. Not to mention that she’d spent weeks with this man already; he was familiar to her. So why was she suddenly as awkward and tongue-tied as a green girl?

  She didn’t like it. In fact, she hated it. The only thing she hated worse than being tongue-tied was being vulnerable. And right now, she felt as vulnerable as a goose the day before Christmas. Damn it. And damn him for making her feel this way.

  “What in hell is that?” He looked just about as cranky as she felt as he looked at her open hand and the dull shine of the nugget it held.

  “What does it look like? It’s gold.”

  “Real gold?”

  “Of course real gold. Why would I offer you fake gold?”

  “Why would you offer me any damn gold?” he growled, brushing past her.

  “I’m paying you back!” She stalked after him.

  “For what?” He looked genuinely confused.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the captives and dropped her voice. “For them.”

  “Look, Sister, I’m tired. I haven’t slept more than an hour at a time for the last few days. I just want to go sleep. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

  Why in hell did her heart pinch when he called her “Sister”? What was wrong with her?

  “We don’t need to talk about it,” she snapped. “Just take the gold and it’s done. We’re even.”

  “Even for what?” He’d reached his saddlebags and began unpacking his bedroll, moving to the shade beneath the junipers to escape the blazing afternoon sun.

  “I can’t let you pay for Winnie. Or the others.” Why did it come out sounding so ungrateful when she felt anything but?

  “I already did.” He sat down on his bedroll with a tired groan. “I really want to take my boots off,” he sighed, “but I don’t dare. I know the minute I do, one of your posses will come through, looking to shoot me.”

  “My posses?” She felt like a bump on a log, standing here, holding out her gold. “What about your posse?”

  “I don’t have a posse,” he said. “Deathrider has a posse.” He considered his dusty boots. “Ah hell, who cares if they shoot me while I’m bootless? At least if I’m dead, I’ll get some rest.” He wrestled with his boots and then yanked his socks off too. He let out a groan of sheer pleasure as he wriggled his toes.

  “I want to pay,” she said. She chafed against a feeling of . . . she didn’t even know what. “Please, let me pay.”

  “I can’t take money from a nun.” He squinted up at her.

  Hell. She wasn’t a nun. “I have more,” she said defensively. “You won’t be disadvantaging me. And . . . I feel ashamed.” That was a touch too honest. To her horror, she found herself on the edge of tears.

  He sighed. “This sounds like a big conversation, Sister. And I don’t want to brush you off, but I’m cooked. I ain’t got so much as a whimper left in me. Can I promise you we’ll discuss all this when I wake up?”

  The rejection made the tears multiply. It was appalling.

  “Honey, I think you’re as tired as I am.” His green river-ice eyes were full of kindness.

  Honey. For heaven’s sake, since when did a single word have the power to undo her? The tears went tumbling down her cheeks. She dashed them away.

  “You know what you should do?” he said. “You should sit down and take your boots off too. Have a rest.” He pointed to the wagon. “Go get yourself a blanket, lie down and get some shut-eye. Everything looks better after a sleep. That’s what my father used to say.”

  She did as he suggested, but only to give herself time to regain her equilibrium. She scrubbed the tears away angrily. Crying made you look weak, and she wasn’t weak. But she was tired. He was right about that. She was heavy limbed and scratchy eyed and fuzzy-headed with it. But not so fuzzy-headed that she didn’t make a plan. She’d store the gold nugget in Tom’s saddlebags when he was asleep. That’s what she’d do. Then she’d tell him later. In the morning, if he was to be believed.

  Tom was yawnin
g when she got back. He looked plenty tired. Shattered, in fact. “I swear we’ll talk tomorrow. But I ain’t getting up till then.” He stretched out full length on his bedroll and put his hat squarely over his face.

  Emma stood there, feeling a weight of exhaustion land on her. She’d been a ball of nervous energy for weeks now. When he’d looked at her all kind and called her honey, he’d undone her. She had nothing left, she realized. Not one thing. She didn’t feel capable of so much as unrolling a blanket. Oh God, there went the tears again. She didn’t even have the energy to swipe them away anymore.

  “Come on.” Tom’s voice was muffled by his hat. His hand patted the ground next to him heavily. “Stop thinking and get some rest.”

  The damn tears just kept leaking out of her as she unrolled the blanket on the ground next to him. She hadn’t planned to sleep close to him, but he’d patted the ground like it was an invitation, and God help her, she craved his comfort right now. Just being next to him was soothing. He was so solid.

  “Take your boots off.” His muffled voice was thick with sleep. She had a feeling he wouldn’t be talking for much longer.

  She collapsed onto the blanket and picked at her bootlaces. They were crusted with dirt and solidly knotted. The tears that spattered on the leather made patterns in the filth.

  Blindly, he reached out and gave her arm a pat. He must have heard her sniffle.

  “Come on, honey.”

  Ah. Ouch. Why did his tenderness hurt? It was like he’d poked a deep black bruise. She ripped a nail getting the laces undone, but she got there. She couldn’t believe the tears wouldn’t just stop. Generally, she didn’t cry. She just didn’t. But the last two days, she’d been through storms and leaks and just general weepiness. It made a body tired.

  She pulled the boots off, and he was right—it was a release. Once she was barefoot, she felt immeasurably better. Even though it was still hot, the air felt fresh against her sweaty feet. She sighed. His hand kept patting her heavily, slowing with each pat. She took a deep shuddery breath. He was right. Everything would feel better in the morning. And if it didn’t, at least she’d have the energy to face that too.

  * * *

  • • •

  EMMA DIDN’T REMEMBER the last time she’d slept so well. Her slumber had been deep and dreamless, and she woke slowly, feeling like she was swimming through water. It was only as she went to stretch that she registered the weight against her. For a minute, she couldn’t remember where she was and her heart jolted. She thought she was back in the whorehouse, and she went hot and cold with horror. But then the weight squeezed her a little closer, and a familiar voice mumbled senseless sounds of reassurance.

  Tom.

  She went slack with relief. It was just Tom Slater.

  Day hadn’t yet broken, and everything was hushed and dim; the sky was growing pearly, but it was dark enough that the stars were still bright as diamond chips. There was only just enough light to see by; everything was shades of gray. She was on her back, and Tom Slater was pressed close against her, his arm thrown over her chest and his leg over her hips. His head was close by her ear. She could feel his breath on her skin.

  They were snuggling.

  She couldn’t move. If she moved, he might move, and she didn’t want that. She liked the weight of him. Damn that. Not just the weight of him; she liked all of it. She lay there, still as she could manage, her heart kicking up something fierce. He felt good. And was that . . . oh yes, it was. Against her hip, she could feel that he was enjoying this too. Very much. But then, men were prone to waking up happy, weren’t they? It might not have anything at all to do with her.

  She managed to turn her head slightly, so she could look at him. He felt her movement and gave a deep sigh. Lord, look at him. The man was just too astonishingly gorgeous to be true. In sleep, with the anger leached out of him, he was damn near pretty, he was so fine. His lashes were thick and black and curling, and he had the most beautifully arched black brows. She had such an urge to trace them with her fingertip. His beard had grown in while they were on the trail, and it accentuated his high cheekbones and angular jaw. And that mouth. His upper lip had a narrow but perfectly formed Cupid’s bow, while his lower lip was plump and pouty. Even poutier in sleep than usual. As she watched him, he frowned. He looked like an abandoned little boy, on the verge of utter heartbreak. Her heart hurt for him. What was happening to him in his dreams?

  She couldn’t stand to see him look so sad. She put her hand over his, where it rested on her ribs. The touch seemed to soothe him. His face relaxed, and his hand turned over beneath her palm, his fingers twining with hers. He sighed again and burrowed closer, until his face was pressed against her neck. She felt a stupid stab of jealousy. Was he thinking about a woman? One who made him sad? Was he burrowing into her because he thought she was that woman? Was he making up with some other woman in his sleep? Was the other woman the reason for the hardness pressed against Emma’s thigh?

  What was she like, this other woman? Beautiful, obviously. Men like these Slaters could have any woman they wanted. They didn’t need to settle for whores.

  She scowled and pulled her hand away from his. He made a small sound of protest.

  She’d be some sweet and pretty little town girl. Someone like his brother Matt’s wife; Georgiana was about as fancy and pretty and proper as they came. But she also had wit and pluck. She bet Tom’s girl had pluck too. She bet when Tom looked at her, he got that same dazed look Matt had when he looked at Georgiana.

  Not like the way he looked at Emma. Half the time he looked at her like she was soft in the head, and the other half he looked at her like she was a rogue bull about to charge him. He might be attracted to her, but attracted wasn’t the same as . . . as what he felt for that woman he was dreaming about. The one who made him heartbroken in his sleep, and then happy again, when he thought she’d come a-cuddling.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” she snapped, her ire at the imaginary woman getting the best of her, “you mind taking your morning glory elsewhere?”

  He startled awake and, realizing he was draped all over her, jerked back like he’d been hugging a rattlesnake. That really pricked Emma’s temper. So she wasn’t good enough for him, was that it? Obviously, she didn’t compare to whoever it was he was dreaming about.

  She rose to her feet and brushed herself down, like she was offended by his touch and not secretly dying of shame that she didn’t measure up to his dream woman. And why would she measure up? She was a goddamn bald nun.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, blushing the shade of fine Spanish wine.

  “Don’t,” she said shortly. She couldn’t bear him apologizing for his distaste at finding her in his arms. It reminded her too much of the way Luke had apologized all those years ago. Only, at least Luke had just been a customer she’d fancied herself in love with, while Tom . . . Hell. She didn’t even want to think about what Tom Slater was to her.

  Nothing, she thought firmly, snatching her blanket and boots and stomping off to her wagon. He was nothing to her except a way to get safely to Mexico.

  24

  IT TOOK THEM eight days to get to San Diego. Tom felt like the Pied Piper as he slogged through the baking-hot days, a line of women and children snaking behind him, raising a cloud of dust into the silver-blue sky. Most of them were on foot. The smallest children sat in the wagon, along with one of the women, who was pregnant. Two Moon and Spear Fisher had stayed back at the village with Black Horse, even though neither of them was Serrano. They didn’t fancy spending any more time with white people, and Tom didn’t blame them. He hoped they managed to stay free of the Dons, and free of the authorities. As he walked away, he raised a hand in farewell. Only Two Moon waved back.

  He’d given his horses to the exhausted captives, as had the nuns. They managed to get a woman and child on each horse and then established a rotation so everyone got
a day riding and a rest from walking. Even so, it was a hell of a long way, more than a hundred miles, and it involved a thankless amount of walking.

  “I don’t see why you couldn’t have picked somewhere closer,” Sister Emma griped at him on the seventh day. It had taken her the whole week to speak to him again. Tom just about shriveled with embarrassment every time he saw her. He couldn’t believe he’d been grinding against a nun in his sleep.

  Not that she’d looked like a nun at the time. She’d been wearing those riding breeches, which looked just about painted on and revealed the incredibly long, shapely legs that she normally hid under the drab black habit. He didn’t know a body could even have legs that long. And then there was her rear, which was outlined in all its plump glory by the buckskin. Not to mention the fact that she’d been wearing his shirt. For some reason, the fact that his shirt was close against her skin turned him on no end. It was an old shirt of much-washed cotton and clung to her every swell and curve, and she sure did have some impressive swells and curves.

  She even made a clipped head look sexy. It made her seem like a bobcat or a vixen, all pointed chin and big eyes. The sight of her standing over him, flushed and outraged, her impressive chest heaving, her tawny eyes snapping, was a constant memory, swirling to mind at the most inappropriate moments.

  No wonder he’d been having such bewitching dreams. He didn’t remember the details, but he sure did remember the sensations. He had a vague feeling he’d been dreaming about being back at de Gato, in that enormous cloud of a bed, as she sponge bathed him until he was hurting with wanting her.

  Waking to find her in his arms, her hip rubbing deliciously against his hard cock, her breasts stretching his cotton shirt and filling his vision, was astounding.

  He’d molested a nun. That was all he could think as he watched her stomping away. He felt lower than a bug about it. She’d immediately changed back into her hideous black sack and then proceeded to cold-shoulder him for the next week. If she wanted to talk to him, she sent a message through Calla. When Calla threw a tantrum and said she didn’t know when in hell she became the translator for everyone, Sister Emma simply switched to sending messages through Anna instead.