Turner's Woman

by Jenna Kernan

  Emma held power over him, whether she knew it or not. That made her dangerous. If she had moved, twitched even, he knew he would have been all done. How had he gotten to such a frenzy?

  Because he wanted her first time to be wonderful. He wanted her to know the pleasures a man could bring his mate, so she would want to be his woman. More than that, he wanted to possess her, claim her as his own. The truth rocked him.

  He stilled as another thought flashed through his brain like lightning. She was not his. He had not claimed her, but only took from her what was not his to take, the gift she should have brought to her husband and in the process proved his lack of restraint. Seeing his actions as purely selfish, he bowed his head in shame. He wanted her and so, took her, damn the consequences.

  Playing with fire—the danger of his actions haunted him. He glanced across the dying coals to where she rested. She beckoned even as she lay curled in her bed. His body ached to touch her again. How he longed to fuse their bodies and souls until they came together. That nearly happened. If it had, there would be no recourse—he would have to marry her.

  They still needed to talk. He dreaded the conversation. He must make her understand that this could not happen again, even as his body stiffened with desire at the thought of loving her.

  Now he wished they were not here alone in this world of grass. He needed to be away from her, if only for a few hours to clear his thinking.

  The excuse of finding breakfast brought him up and to his saddle. She woke as he prepared to ride.

  “I’ll be back.”

  She blinked at him. He thought she looked pale and tired. The circles beneath her eyes spoke of a restless night. He felt much the same. Turning Duchess, he left the forlorn sight behind.

  Guilt pierced with sharp claws, but he shook them off, reminding himself that she’d been willing and he was a man. It was bound to happen. Alone with a beautiful woman for months, what could he expect? He was not a saint.

  Although he had avoided other beautiful women, even ones set on seduction. What made Emma different?

  He didn’t know, but she was. She sat apart from any woman in his experience. He glanced about the open plain feeling as lost as a greenhorn without a compass.

  Wild turkeys gobbled from the thicket by the river and he drew his shotgun bringing down a fat tom. Dismounting, he retrieved the bird.

  Soon he would be too busy with the Spanish to worry about the mess he’d created with Emma.

  A thought stopped him. Women were emotional creatures. His actions might have changed her willingness to help him with his mission. Also, such a relationship made women think they had ownership of a man. She didn’t and it was best she understood that right off.

  He grasped the limp turkey and wheeled toward Emma.

  Emma readied the bedding for travel, busying her hands and trying to ignore the stiffness between her legs. She waited until Jake was well gone before heading to the river to wash. Striping all her garments from the waist down she stood in her buckskin shirt, thinking the cold water might soothe her.

  When she glanced down she froze as she took in the dried blood streaking her thighs. It was too early for her monthly flow. She remembered the quick stab of pain when he entered her. Had he torn something inside?

  She checked and found no fresh blood. Whatever the source, the flow seemed to have ceased. She squatted and washed away the signs of their meeting, wishing she could so easily remove the memories from her mind.

  She deserved what she got. Hadn’t she welcomed him? When he’d given her a chance to retreat, she’d rejected it. The desire to feel him inside had overtaken all her caution and good sense.

  Was it worth it? She sighed. His lovemaking had been wonderful. Even as her muscles ached, she knew she would do it again if given the opportunity. That frightened her.

  He’d asked her to trust him and she had. But he’d come within a hairbreadth of losing his seed within her. A sharp pang of fear pierced her and she lay her hands over her flat stomach. Never trust a man. Must she write it out or have it branded on her forehead?

  She could not allow him to touch her. That was when her mind went fuzzy. His nearness turned her will to corn mush. The intelligent thing to do was to pretend it had not happened and keep her distance from him. He was like liquor, a pleasure at the time, but a mighty headache the next morning.

  Yes, that would help. Just think of him that way. She returned to camp and laid the wood for a fire, but did not know if she should light it, so she waited. Before long she heard Duchess’s hooves falling on the hard-packed ground.

  He carried a fine fat turkey.

  “Shall I strike the fire?” she asked.

  He nodded and she hit the flint with steel until a spark landed in the dry birch fungus cradled in her palm. Then she transferred the ember to the dry grass tinder and blew. First she coaxed a wisp of smoke and then a flame.

  Jake plucked most of the feathers and singed away the rest. Then he dressed and staked the bird for roasting. With the task complete, uneasy silence fell between them. She thought he made an effort to keep things just the way they had been, but they were not. Last night had changed them and pretending to the contrary did not make it less true.

  She waited in vain, for he made no mention of their encounter. Finally she raised it.

  “I have considered my foray into lovemaking and decided it was a mistake.”

  His head snapped up and his eyes narrowed. “Do you? Why’s that?”

  “Not that I didn’t enjoy the experience. Parts of it were…quite marvelous.” His mouth quirked at that. “But now I realize the danger. I am not anxious to bear a child, especially here in the wilderness.” His expression turned hard and his eyes glittered dangerously. Still she pressed on. “I am not finding fault. I was as much to blame in the matter as you, more perhaps, because it is a woman’s job to deny such advances. In any case, I think it best if we continued on as we were—singly.”

  At that Jake leaned against a downed log and his mouth gaped.

  “Don’t you have anything to say?” she asked.

  “You don’t expect me to marry you?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  He raked a hand through his hair, giving it a tug. The sharp sting of pain convinced him he wasn’t dreaming. What was happening? He was going to lay down the law, not the other way around. She’d stolen his thunder. Now he found himself annoyed that she didn’t want to be his woman. He’d never been on the receiving end of a rejection and found he did not like it one bit. Perhaps he misunderstood.

  “You do not want to share my bedroll again?”

  “Now you understand.”

  A pang of regret vibrated inside him. “Did I hurt you, Emma?”

  She lowered her gaze and he felt like the blackest heart in the West. Of course he’d hurt her. That was the way with virgins.

  “There is always some pain for a woman the first time and some blood.”

  Her head snapped up. Had she found blood on her thighs as he’d found her virgin’s blood smeared across his belly like a brand of shame?

  “The next time you lie with a man, there will be none of that.”

  “Thank you, but I shall not do that again.”

  He did not understand the ache her words caused him. He should be happy, relieved. She did not want him shackled. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  “What about my mission?” he asked.

  She met his gaze. “None of that has changed. I consider it our mission and will play my part to my best. I think I should be rather more convincing as a widow now that I have some small experience.”

  Small indeed and one she regretted. He blamed himself for his eagerness to take what was not his.

  “I’m sorry, Emma.”

  She held his gaze a moment and then glanced away and nodded as if unable to speak.

  The tension between them that had been so unbearable before the coupling, now dissolved into uneasy silence steeped with
regret.

  He found the turkey barely palatable and his appetite vanished. Still he forced the food down, knowing they had a hard day’s ride.

  When they finished, he kicked dirt on the coals and tied the bedding onto the mule. For his mind, they could not reach the Spanish settlements soon enough.

  But it was three more days and nights before they saw their first Mexicans.

  The men rode over the ridge, reining in their horses. Jake could not make out much beneath the oversize sombreros. One man wore a brightly striped serape, the other a short cowhide jacket. They leaned together in obvious conversation as Jake made slow progress in their direction.

  At some signal they rode at a full gallop, their horses eating up the ground between them. Jake halted, his stomach tightening. He extracted his sextant from his pouch and then drew his rifle.

  “What are you doing?” asked Emma. “They aren’t attacking.”

  “I have to hide this.”

  He pressed the release button at the front of the stock and twisted the metal covering the butt end, opening the hidden chamber. Then he wrapped the sextant in a bit of leather and slid it into the hole. In an instant he had the lid closed and locked down.

  It had begun.

  The two rancheros turned out to be neophytes, Christianized Indians. The men spoke Spanish and flanked Jake and Emma as they escorted them toward San Jose Mission. As they rode he gathered information on the rivers and mountains to the north and south. Neither had crossed the Sierra Nevada but their knowledge of the coast was useful.

  Jake gazed out at the herd of cattle. Not since he’d left the buffalo on the Great Plains had he seen such numbers.

  “How many head, brother?” he asked in fluent Spanish.

  “Over twenty thousand on our count last spring.”

  They rode on through the dust raised by the milling herd. The cows ambled out of the way as the horses cut through the center like a hot knife through tallow. Behind them, the gap closed as the cows continued to munch the rich grass that remained green even though it was nearly November.

  “We also raise wheat, barley, lentils, oats, corn and have the finest muskmelons in California.”

  The men rambled on about the mission and its riches. Jake collected each word. By the time they reached the wheatfields he knew the layout including church, store, workrooms and living quarters. The Christianized Indian laborers lived in grass huts nearby.

  They drew near the mission, sighting the adobe church. Several brothers in gray habits gathered in the yard to greet them.

  Before the group stood a florid-cheeked man with sparse gray hair that nearly matched his robes. His smile welcomed and he stepped forward as they dismounted.

  “Roberto, Angel, you have brought us guests.”

  “Yes, Padre Duran. These are Americans.”

  The missionary’s mouth gaped in surprise and Jake noticed his teeth were stained. Another jittery coffee drinker, he supposed.

  “Americans, surely not.” He extended his hand to Jake. “I am Padre Narciso Duran.”

  “Jake Turner. I’m happy to meet you, Padre. We are sorely in need of your hospitality.” He shook the man’s hand, reserving any show of strength, in favor of warmth. “This is Señora Emma Martin. Unfortunately she does not speak Spanish.”

  Emma smiled at the priest and offered her hand. Duran clasped hers warmly and nodded. “Welcome, my child. Come in out of the sun. Angel, see to their belongings.”

  They were ushered into a courtyard. Father Duran led them to a room buzzing with activity as many neophytes came and went carrying trays of food. Jake spied the first bread he had seen since his departure from St. Louis, two years earlier.

  Emma’s eyes widened at the bounty presented. Figs and fresh peaches, grapes, sliced roast beef, cool sliced melon and cooked pumpkin lay before them.

  Duran bowed his head and gave thanks then smiled broadly. “Eat, my friends.”

  Jake tried to eat sparingly, but found himself devouring an entire loaf with sweet butter. He sliced a peach and sticky juice ran down his fingers.

  Father Duran was the perfect host, waiting until after Jake pushed away from the table before asking a single question. The old priest filled their goblets with wine. Jake clasped the delicate blown glass, marveling at the riches here.

  “A toast to our new friends from America,” said Father Duran. The three other priests seated before them raised their glasses and drank.

  Jake followed suit, rising to his feet. He glanced at Emma, who held her glass aloft waiting. She looked thin beside the group of men and he realized that she had lost much weight over their travails. Looking at her, it would not be difficult to imagine she had suffered greatly on the journey, for so she had.

  “Praise God for leading us to our salvation,” said Jake.

  The men beamed and drank.

  Jake’s backside had only just hit the seat when Duran cleared his throat.

  “Perhaps you could enlighten us as to how you two came to be in our company.”

  Jake launched into his tale pausing only to answer questions.

  The Father gave Emma a critical stare and seemed to find her the picture of a wretched survivor. Jake realized to his dismay that little of that was acting. He had put her through hell. He hoped to make it up to her, but he had no idea how.

  “But the mountains of chalk—you crossed them?” asked Duran.

  Jake kept his expression earnest. These Mexicans hugged the coast like seagulls. They had not even ventured far enough east to see that the white on the mountains was snow, not chalk and he would not enlighten them.

  “Yes, Padre. Very arduous. A most inhospitable country. Only the knowledge that we would find Christians here in California kept us alive.” He left out telling the men about the fertile valleys high in the Sierra Nevada range or the streams full of trout and meadows overflowing with elk, deer and buffalo.

  “Like the Israelites of old, you have found the land of milk and honey and may now take your ease.”

  “We are most grateful to you all,” said Jake.

  Satisfied at last, Father Duran clasped his hands together and rubbed vigorously. “Please tell the señora that we will say a mass for her husband and all the others in her party, if you will give us the names.”

  “I will.”

  “And you know I must alert the governor of your arrival in our country. A formality.”

  “Of course.” He spoke directly to Emma, pausing to allow Jake time to translate. “Now, my child, you must rest. We have prepared a room.”

  Jake relayed Duran’s words and Emma smiled.

  “Thank you, Mr. Turner.” She rose and nodded stiffly to Jake. Her formality irritated him and he wondered if it was for the benefit of the others or as a way to distance herself from him.

  She rose with all the majesty of an exiled princess and followed Father Duran from the room. She was no more loquacious at dinner than lunch and she retired immediately afterward.

  Jake found he did not like that she could come and go as she pleased. He most especially did not like sleeping in the friar’s quarters beside the snoring Father José.

  Penned in beneath the tile roof and surrounded by walls for the first time in several years, he felt as if he slept on an anthill. Breathing became difficult and the creak of men moving in their rope-strung beds kept him awake.

  How did Emma fare? She had a private chamber, a converted storage area off the workrooms, with a window to the courtyard. Did she miss him?

  Finally, he fell into a restless sleep. He woke several times reaching for Emma. When the brothers rose to the bells, he felt as if he’d been pummeled all night.

  At breakfast he found Emma, her skin shining from a good scrubbing and her hair tucked neatly into a bun. He scowled at the formal style, preferring the central braid she wore on the trail.

  “How did you sleep, Señora Martin?” asked Father Duran.

  Jake translated and waited for her to answer.
/>   “Never better. What a joy to rest on a mattress once more.”

  Jake ground his teeth together. She enjoyed her comforts, like every woman. Why had he thought her different? The fact that she slept well irritated him after his restlessness. Hadn’t he woken many times to search for her? Then he noted the circles beneath her eyes and paused. The ridiculousness of his resentment hit him, replaced by guilt. No one deserved a bit of comfort more than Emma and he begrudged her even that. His scowl deepened as he relayed her thanks to the missionary.

  Emma smiled as Father José poured coffee into her ceramic mug then leaned forward to inhale the aromatic steam.

  “Hmm, heaven.” She added honey and stirred. Then glanced at Jake.

  Over the next week Jake and Emma enjoyed the brothers’ hospitality before receiving escort to Santa Clara de Asis, some thirty miles west. This mission had more vineyards than cattle. The whitewashed walls of the church topped with a red tile roof reached two stories. Here Father Ignacio Martinez took charge of them for two days until a letter arrived instructing them south to Monterey to meet the governor.

  Father Martinez graciously escorted them to the mission at Santa Cruz. Here Jake caught his first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. He sat on his horse on the gentle slope of a hill surrounded by the largest pines he had ever seen. The monstrous trees would take four men to reach around them and were covered in thick red bark.

  He heard the surf first. Below the ridge, waves rolled into a perfect tube before crashing upon the beach.

  When he turned to Emma, he found her eyes dancing with delight as she sat silent upon her horse. Their gazes met and held. She understood the meaning. His map to the Pacific was complete.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and wished he could take her in his arms again. The happiness inside him seemed to spill out and he found it hard to sit his horse.

  “Have you ever seen the ocean?” asked Father Martinez.

  “Only the Atlantic and there the beach is flat and the water a dirty green, not this magnificent blue.”